begrimed urchin again until she had walked through the doorway. Although it took Grayson a moment to recognize the demure young girl as the pistol-wielding pup of the night before, he had had no doubts once he looked into those eyes. Luminous eyes, they were like none he had ever seen, serious and clear. Guileless. Lovely.
Enthralled, Grayson had made a feeble attempt to question her before giving in to the lust that seized him in a grip that was truly remarkable, considering his recent injury. But all thoughts of his shoulder had been forgotten when he took her mouth. She tasted of mint and sweetness and delight, with an underlying passion that took him by surprise. He shuddered to remember the first bold forays of her tongue. She had ignited him effortlessly, and he had wanted nothing more than to feel her breast beneath his palm again, without a layer of boy’s clothing to cover it More than that, he had wanted her naked beneath him, small and slender and…
Hearing the rapid rise of his breathing, Grayson pushed such images forcefully from his mind. It must be his condition, he decided. Never before had he let himself be carried away by the thought of fondling a female. He was a skilled lover, but he never lost his head. Nothing disgusted him more than a supposedly intelligent man who made a cake of himself over the latest fashionable female.
But Kate was neither, and Grayson knew he had been extremely careless to let himself be so distracted from his situation. He was lucky to find himself a victim of mistaken identity, rather than at the hands of someone truly dangerous—though he had an odd suspicion that the inimitable Kate could be dangerous enough, in her own way.
Who was she? Although her speech and bearing proclaimed her a woman of quality, her gown was faded and ill-fitting. And despite her eventual response to his kiss, it was obvious that she was an innocent. As beautiful as she was, Grayson thought she must have lived a protected existence to remain so pure and unaffected, but what sheltered female would dress up as a boy, break into a nobleman’s study and shoot him? He knew a few women who could handle a pistol, but none who could have succeeded in besting him.
And how had she become the leader of this odd trio? If her sister truly had been ruined, why was a male relative not seeing to her welfare? Instinctively Grayson knew that the rough-looking Tom was not a part of the family. Yet why was he treated as an equal, rather than as a servant?
And what of the sister’s alleged seducer? Had the man truly claimed to be Wroth, or had the girl concocted the story to placate her sister? She would not have been the first to claim that a nobleman, and not the traveling tinker, had sired her child. And, if so, she would not be happy to have her ruse exposed.
Really, the whole business was more entertaining than the theater. From the identity of the players to the country home that formed the backdrop, it was a fascinating puzzle, and Grayson could not wait to begin putting all the pieces together. Not’surprisingly, he no longer felt the suffocating press of ennui that had plagued him for months, and the realization made him release a sigh of relief.
Hell, if it were not for the bullet hole in his shoulder, he would be enjoying himself thoroughly.
Grayson lifted a brow in contempt when Tom came barging in with his breakfast tray. The old man was the worst excuse for a servant Grayson had ever seen, plopping down his burden with total disregard for the tea that sloshed over the rim of the cup. Obviously, Tom was not accustomed to waiting at table.
Eyeing the spill askance, Grayson wondered if Kate and her cohorts were hiding him from the rest of the household, for he had yet to see a maid or serving girl. He was determined to investigate later, but right now he was hungry. He watched, amused, when Tom pushed the food at him, as if begrudging every bite, then stepped back and hitched his trousers in an irritating manner.
Situating the tray neatly on his lap, Grayson glanced at the man, who was glowering at him. “Is there something else, Tom?” he asked.
“That there is, my lord,” Tom answered, drawling the address as if he did not believe Wroth to be himself. “Kate’s a bit kindhearted, but I won’t have her suffering for it.” His thick, peppery brows drew together. “Fair warning. I’ve got my eye on you.”
“Do you now?” Grayson asked, undisturbed.
“That I do,” Tom growled, as if taking exception to Grayson’s attitude. “And I’m thinking that maybe you’re Wroth and maybe you ain’t.”
“And maybe you’re an extremely incompetent servant or simply a kidnapper who botched my murder,” Wroth said, calmly spreading thick country jam upon his toast.
When he glanced up, Tom had paled significantly. Frowning at the reminder of his criminal activities, the old man slunk out of the room with a disgruntled expression that entertained Grayson enormously. He settled down to eat with a slight smile.
When he had finished, Grayson set the tray neatly on the floor, annoyed at himself for missing his phalanx of servants and the French cook he kept at his country seat. Although edible, the meal had been small and simple, certainly not the elaborate fare he was used to in homes such as this. Which brought him back to one of the myriad puzzles that he had yet to solve.
Slowly easing his way out of bed, Grayson winced at the pain in his shoulder. The meager breakfast lurched in his stomach, and he was thankful it had been small. Obviously he was not up to his old self, as yet, but he gritted his teeth and rose to his feet. He did not care to be bedbound.
More importantly, he needed to do some investigating, not only to satisfy his curiosity, but to protect himself, as well. Although his hostess was both intriguing and appealing, Grayson had nothing except her assurances that these people did not mean him harm. He intended to make sure they were as innocent as they pretended before closing his eyes again.
Pushing the bed pillows into the shape of a body once more, Grayson slipped to the door and silently turned the handle. Outside, the hallway stretched before him, the carpeting elegant, if a little worn, and the silence palpable. The quiet spoke for itself, for he had never been to a country home where servants were not bustling to and fro and guests were not idling in their rooms or gathering for cards and entertainment.
Not here. Grayson did not meet a soul as he prowled the upper rooms. Indeed, the first few he entered appeared as though they had been empty for some time, a thin layer of dust making him wonder again about the mettle of the staff. When he finally came upon some signs of occupation, Grayson lifted a brow in surprise, for clothing and hats and gloves littered a crowded collection of furniture that looked to have been taken from other suites. Surely, no selfrespecting servant could endure this mess.
Lifting a silk gown of bishop’s blue to his nose, Grayson drew in the cloying scent of gardenias. Not Kate’s. He let the dress fall to its place, draped over a chair-backed settee, and glanced around. A large mirror rested on a vanity where a number of perfume bottles and a quantity of other female paraphernalia could be found. Lucy’s, he suspected, remembering the auburn-haired chit with the grating voice. Although it was cluttered, there was nothing really unusual about the place. He went on.
A connecting door led to another room that was obviously Kate’s. Grayson knew its owner at once, because it reflected the somber, clear-eyed girl. Neat and spotless, without the romantic trappings and lace-trimmed pillows of her sister’s boudoir, it housed little more than a bed, a dresser and cupboard, a chair and an inlaid writing desk. The mirror that lay atop the pristine dresser top was small, part of an ivory-handled set of brush and comb that spoke of necessity, not vanity. No perfume. The
