Kasey Michaels - The Anonymous Miss Addams

Caroline Addams, not knowing that she had been treated by Pierre to a greater degree of friendliness than almost every other female in England, was also without knowledge of Pierre’s reputation. She only knew that he was extremely handsome, curiously reticent and maddeningly intriguing.

Like many of her sex, she wished she could somehow peel away the world-weary facade Pierre wore and get to know something of the real man that lay beneath the polished exterior. She wanted to see him react—whether in anger or passion she did not know. He was so cool, so controlled, so very perfect. His perfection, she had found, was the most annoying thing about him, and she longed to see him ruffled, on edge.

“Human,” she said aloud, walking into the drawing room. “That’s what I want to see. Some sort of human emotion. I want to see him off his stride. And I want to be the one who causes his dishevelment.”

Kasey Michaels is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of more than sixty books. She has won the Romance Writers of America RITA Award and the Romantic Times Career Achievement Award for her historical romances set in the Regency era, and also writes contemporary romances for Silhouette and Harlequin Books.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Ellen Edwards, who patiently midwifed

the longest labor in publishing history.

Thanks, friend!

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

EPILOGUE

“AND I SAY she has to die! Damn it, can’t you see? Haven’t you been forever telling me that she has to go? It’s the only way out, for both of us!”

“Not necessarily. You could always marry her,” a female voice suggested. “You’d make a wonderfully handsome groom. And, please, my dearest, don’t swear.”

“Marry her? Marry her! Are you daft? Have you been sipping before noon again? How many times must I tell you? I’d druther shackle m’self to an ox—it would be easier to haul a dumb animal to the altar. Besides, the chit don’t like me, not even above half.”

“Can’t hold that against the girl. You never were so popular as I’d like.”

“That’s nothing to the point! We’re talking about her now. The only answer is to do away with her.”

“All right, be bloodthirsty if you must. Boys will be boys. That leaves only the question—who and how do we handle disposing of the wretched girl?”

“That’s two questions. I don’t know how to do it, but I do know who. I’ve thought this out most carefully. We both do the deed. That way neither of us is apt to cry rope on the other.”

There was a short silence while his co-conspirator weighed his latest suggestion. “You really believe that I’d be so mean-spirited as to lay information against my own—oh, all right. Don’t pout, it makes nasty lines around your mouth. We both do it. Now—how do we do it?”

“An accident. It should look like an accident. The best murders are always made to look like accidents.”

“That does leave out poison, firearms and a rope, doesn’t it? Pity. I do so favor poison. It’s so neat and reliable. A fall, perhaps? From the top of the tower? No, on second thought, that would be too messy. Think of the time we’d have cleaning the cobblestones. I suppose we must find another way.”

“A riding accident, perhaps.”

“That’s brilliant! You were always so creative. A riding accident is perfect! She’s always out and about somewhere on that terrible brute she rides. I’m more than surprised she hasn’t snapped her neck a dozen times already, more’s the pity that she hasn’t. All right, a riding accident it is. Now, when do we do the deed?”

“She reaches her majority the tenth of October. The ninth ought to do it.”

“That’s cutting it a slice too fine, even for such a brilliant mind as yours. Something could go amiss and we wouldn’t have time for a second chance. I would rather do it the first of the month. That way we won’t have to waste any of her lovely money on birthday presents.”

“Yes, why should we throw good money away on—I say! What was that?”

“Where?”

“Over there, behind the shrubbery. I saw something move. Blast it all, someone’s been listening! Look! She’s running away. Let me pass. I’ve got to catch her before she ruins everything!”

“Be careful of your breeches!” his companion cried after him. “This is only the second time you’ve worn them.”

IT WAS A ROOM into which sunlight drifted, light-footedly skimming across the elegant furnishings, its brightness filtered by the gossamer-thin ivory silk curtains that floated at the tall windows.

The ceiling was also ivory, its stuccoed perimeter artfully molded into wreaths of flowers caught up by ram’s heads, with dainty arabesques and marching lines of husks terminating in ribbon knots, while the walls had been painted by Cipriani himself and boasted tastefully romping nymphs, liquid-eyed goddesses, and a few doting amorini.

The furniture boasted the straight, clean lines of the brothers Adams—Robert and James—the dark, gilded mahogany vying with painted Wedgwood colors and the elegant blue and white satin striping of the upholstery.

To the awestruck observer, the entire room was a soul-soothing showplace, an exemplary example of the degree of refined elegance possible in an extraordinarily beautiful English country estate.

To Pierre Claghorn Standish, just then pacing the length of the Aubusson carpet, it was home.

“Oh, do sit down, Pierre,” a man’s voice requested wearily. “It’s most fatiguing watching you prowl about the place like some petulant caged panther. I say panther because they are black, you know. Must you always wear that funereal color? It’s really depressing. You remind me of an ink blot, marring the pristine perfection of my lovely blue and white copybook. It’s jarring; upon my soul, it is. Look at me, for instance. This new green coat of mine is subdued, yet it whispers of life, of hope, of the glorious promise of spring. You look like the dead of winter—a very long, depressingly hard winter.”

Pierre ceased pacing to look at his father, who was sitting at his ease, his elbows propped on the arms of his chair, his long fingers spread wide apart and steepled as he gazed up at his son. “Ah,” André Standish said, his handsome face lighting as he smiled. “I do believe I have succeeded in gaining your attention. How wonderful. I shall have to find some small way in which to reward myself. Perhaps a new pony for my stables? But to get back to the point. You have been here for three days, my son, visiting your poor, widowed father in his loneliness—a full two days longer than any of your infrequent visits to me in the past five years, seven months, and six days. I think we can safely assume the formalities have been dutifully observed. Do you not believe it is time for you to get to the point?”

Pierre looked at his father and saw himself as he would appear in thirty years. The man had once been as dark as he, although now his hair was nearly all silver, but his black eyes still flashed brightly in his lean, deeply tanned face. His body was still firmly muscled, thanks to an active, sporting life, and he had not given one inch to his advancing years. Pierre smiled, for he could do a lot worse than follow in his father’s footsteps.