Deborah Simmons - Tempting Kate

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 mysterious Kate had smelled faintly of mint—or had she simply tasted that fresh and inviting?

Grayson frowned. He pulled open drawers and cupboards, but could find nothing except a rather pitiful wardrobe that included some boy’s clothing, like that she had worn into his study. Incredibly, he was seized by an odd agitation at the possibility that a husband or other male might be in residence here with Kate.

He shook his head in denial, and the room itself seemed to spin. Reaching out for the bedpost, Grayson steadied himself and took several deep breaths. No, he would swear that the girl had never even been kissed before. And there were no signs of male habitation, except for a few shirts and trousers, which made him wonder where Tom slept.

Grayson realized that puzzle would have to wait. Although the dizziness seemed to have passed, he did not care to test his endurance and come up wanting. Regaining his feet, he moved silently back to his own room.

As it was the largest and most comfortable, Grayson wondered why neither of the girls used it. Perhaps they were poor relations who had no choice of housing, or mayhap the occupant of this particular bedroom was away. Many people spent more time in London than in the country. He had noted several blank spots on the walls where paintings might have hung. Had the owner of the home fallen on hard times? That would explain the dearth of servants, but how, and why, were the girls living here?

Grayson felt an ache in his head to match the one in his shoulder, and he pushed the pillows aside to lie full length upon the bed. He needed to get his strength back—and soon. Scowling at his own weakness, he closed his eyes. At least he had found nothing suspicious in the upper rooms. It confirmed his gut instinct that Kate, her sister and their grizzled companion were as harmless as they professed to be. And common sense told him that the obnoxious Tom wouldn’t be so anxious to send him packing if there was a reason for keeping him imprisoned.

Yes, they were an innocuous group, two young girls and an old man, and none of them truly dangerous, if he ignored the fact that they had broken into his town house and put a bullet hole in him. The abduction, he suspected, had been Kate’s way of making amends.

Grayson woke to a persistent pounding. It seemed to be a part of him, throbbing through his head, his shoulder, his dry throat and his eardrums, deafening him. He opened his eyes and stared at the figure of an old man. One of his grooms? No. He shook his head and swallowed as he recognized those thick, peppery brows, drawn down in disapproval.

“If you think to cozen them into letting you stay by keeping to your bed, I’m here to tell you it won’t work,” Tom said, in an excessively loud and unpleasant voice. “And I’m not waiting on you anymore, either, my lord or not. Here’s your shirt,” he said, tossing something at him. It lay on Grayson’s chest like a lump of rags. “It’s been washed and mended as best it could be, so you can dress for supper. We keep early hours, so see that you’re down by seven o’clock.” With a scowl, he hitched up his trousers and marched to the door.

Grayson blinked. Even his eyelids hurt. Damn, but he could not recall ever feeling this bad. With a groan, he sat up and grabbed his discarded garment. Once the finest money could buy, it now sported a new seam along the shoulder. He shuddered, aware of just how close he had come to taking his last breath.