He searched delicately for the right word.
“Injury?” supplied Sebastian. Without waiting for Lowther’s nod, he continued. “Suffice it to say, your tracking down the Woolcotts at Montfort was much appreciated. Faron has been at a loss for many years, unable to determine their whereabouts.”
Lowther did not fail to notice that Sebastian had not answered his initial question. “Faron has demanded that Strathmore furnish proof of Julia Woolcott’s death. Clearly, he is serious about the matter.”
“Without doubt,” agreed Sebastian tersely. “At least when he is lucid, Faron knows the measure of a man.” He paused deliberately. “You may count on it—Strathmore will not disappoint.”
Alexander Francis Strathmore, the younger son of the Earl of Dunedin, gave Julia Woolcott an hour to prepare.
Procrastination was not in his repertoire but for some reason he preferred to ignore the evidence of the entertainment underway in Wadsworth’s opulent halls below. The subdued hum of crystal and china hung in the air, a backdrop to the troop of silent servile feet making their way through polished hallways. Dinner had been served unfashionably early, to ensure plenty of time for the main course the assembled guests were slavering for.
Not that Strathmore gave a damn. Whatever Wadsworth had planned would hardly be shocking to a man of his experience. Boredom was the more likely enemy. He loosened the unfamiliar tightness of his cravat, shot his cuffs, and hovered in front of the heavy oak door, behind which Julia Woolcott stood prepared. Bloody hell, it was like serving up the proverbial sacrificial lamb to the angry gods. Embarrassingly easy.
Worldly, Miss Woolcott was not, despite her self-proclaimed bookishness. Damned irritating, that. He’d never liked bluestockings or whatever they called women who spent more time with their heads in dusty volumes than was wise. That was it—on the shelf. He wondered whether the term was still in use. It had been some time since he’d observed his own culture, whereas he could discourse at length on the sexual practices in Somalia, the politics of the Sufi order, or the geologic formations underlying the Nile.
Strathmore paused again, crossing his arms across his chest, straining the superfine of his evening coat. What the hell was going on with him? He’d made a life out of being a rakehell, exploiting his unhealthy curiosity and unsettling ability to learn exotic languages and dialects, to scale mountains and cross deserts, to absorb more by living in a place for one month than others would perceive in years. He’d been summarily exiled from Oxford and dishonorably discharged from the East India Company. He was more at home on an expedition disguised as an Afghani physician than at a country house weekend, for God’s sake, saddled with a spinster with nerves as thin as parchment.
Yet something nagged at him. Why had Faron chosen Julia Woolcott? There had to be a reason, though he was damned if he knew. Or if it even mattered. Miss Woolcott was a small price to pay. He allowed images of staggering mountains, cobalt rivers, and sultans’ palaces to shimmer in his mind’s eye, effectively overriding any lingering and inconvenient spasms of conscience.
He gave the door a sharp knock and, not waiting for a response, pushed it open. He took two steps, then stopped. Julia did the same, reaching blindly for her discarded nightshift, crumpled at the foot of the bed. But Strathmore had already received an eyeful, taking in the startling length of slender white thighs, delicately turned calves, as well as the full, lower curve of her buttocks. Her unbound hair fell like a shimmering curtain into a tumble that reached clear to her hips. Arms as slender as reeds clutched the nightshift to her breasts. Her violet eyes blazed beneath raised brows.
It was then he knew that he would not kill her. The realization was as blinding as the sun at high noon in the Kalahari desert.
“This,” she seethed, gesturing violently from her neck to her hips, “is impossible!”
He knew exactly to what she was referring. The midnight blue silk of her gown, if one could call it that, fell in a diaphanous array around what was a totally and unexpectedly lush female form. The acres of gray wool and the muslin shift of the night before had done little justice to the long slender legs and narrow waist now displayed to his eyes. Desire, as unexpected as an oasis in a wasteland, shot through him.
Julia’s eyes widened and her lips emitted deep gusts of outrage. “No shift, no petticoats, not even a corset,” she hissed at him, turning and affording him a magnificent view of her backside. He had thought her too thin, and she was, except where she wasn’t.
He took a moment to consider. True, he hadn’t had sexual relations since his return to England but celibacy didn’t trouble him, at least not since his time in a monastery in Tibet, a transformative experience during which his mind had been trained to rein in an unruly body. So what was it, precisely, that caused him to hesitate?
His eyes slid up her body to her elegant face, which save for the generous mouth, had hardly hinted at such erotic beauty. She eyed him expectantly over one pale, exposed shoulder.
“That’s the idea,” he said, making his voice pleasant. “A certain dishevelment is what’s required. Although I can absolve myself from guilt—I had no hand in choosing your garments.”
“Then who did?” Her reproachful expression indicated her notice that he was thoroughly clothed.
He felt the pull of his black evening coat across his shoulders—a trifle too small. Since he was no longer accustomed to full evening regalia his London valet had done his best to outfit Strathmore in a short time.
For some reason he found himself staring at Julia Woolcott’s lush full mouth, as he stood stiffly, legs braced wide and thighs tensed, just inside the door. Incapable of moving and feeling like an intruder was not at all what he’d intended. He had never claimed to be a gentleman and had long ago made peace with the hypercritical and largely illogical societal standards of his class. It could not explain why he was suddenly undone by the outraged histrionics of a nervous female who should have at least five children and was instead staring at him as though he was the very devil. Which he was, in fact.
Faron. The name pulsed silently through Strathmore’s mind. The assignment was relatively simple for a man who had crossed a desert on foot, had lived for six months with a tribe of Bedouins, and could recite the Lord’s Prayer in Sanskrit. More than anyone, Strathmore knew the random nature of life and death. He needed to distill his goal to its essentials. He parsed it out to himself. Ensure that Julia Woolcott met a spectacularly sordid end. Earn Faron’s trust and gain entry to his inner circle.
But he would not kill her.
There was no time to examine his motivations. “No doubt Wadsworth’s hostess for the evening chose your gown,” he said finally. Before she could protest further, he offered her his arm. She looked as enthusiastic as a cat approaching a tub of water.
“The hostess is not his wife, obviously,” she said. “I can’t be seen in public like this.”
“Then you’ve changed your mind.”
She slowly turned to face him, her arms covering her breasts. Her lips met in an unforgiving line. “I didn’t say that exactly. What I would require is at least a chemise. My own is soiled and would not fit beneath this garment.” He saw the problem—the sheath she was wearing was so tight it wouldn’t allow but the finest layer underneath.
In fewer than thirty minutes, it wouldn’t matter. Because she would be naked anyway. But Strathmore didn’t think it was the right time to apprise her of that eventuality. He recalled that Miss Woolcott could be surprisingly volatile. Keeping her calm and compliant would make his task all the easier. In a fluid motion and before she could dissent, he slipped off his evening jacket and placed it over her shoulders.
It enveloped her instantly and he bit back an expression of regret. He’d enjoyed the sight of those slender legs outlined in silk the color of midnight. He did not want to begin to imagine her breasts. It was a disturbing juxtaposition, the elegance of her face and the sumptuousness of her body.
Startled, Julia clutched the lapels of his jacket.
“Better?”