Page 7 of Traitor in Her Arms (The Scarlet Chronicle 2)

“Good evening, my lord,” his butler said. Pierce was eighty if a day and had lived in the house from the hour the servant was big enough to toddle about, fetching and carrying. Pierce held out a hand for Ramsey’s walking stick and hat. Ramsey relinquished them and started for the stairs. “Would you like assistance with your toilette, my lord?”

“Where’s Silsbury?” Ramsey employed a reasonably good valet, but unlike Pierce, Silsbury hadn’t been in residence since the valet was in short pants.

“You gave him the evening off, my lord. A sick mother.”

“Hmm.” He had a vague recollection of this now and thought the gaming tables rather than an ailing mama were what called Silsbury.

“I can see to myself. Good night, Pierce.”

“Good night, my lord.”

Ramsey’s bedroom was little better than the rest of the house, though he’d managed to put his own mark on it in small ways. He’d had the heavy draperies and tapestries put in storage along with the frowning portraits of a long line of Earls of Sedgwick. He’d replaced the portraits with art he enjoyed from a scattering of Renaissance painters. He’d acquired all of them legitimately, which meant there wasn’t a Titian to be found.

Too bad. He’d appreciate it much more than Madame Fouchet. She’d most likely sold it to the highest bidder, some wealthy fop who didn’t understand its true worth.

Not that Ramsey was any art aficionado. But he knew what he liked, and he’d educated himself in the arts.

Ramsey poured himself a glass of brandy and stripped off the silk evening clothes he wore. They were the height of fashion, but damned uncomfortable. He’d lived for many years without servants and didn’t mind tending his wardrobe. He could remember years when he had no wardrobe, save a rough shirt and trousers. Now he had a dressing room to accommodate all of his clothing. He wanted to laugh. And at one point—a long time ago—hehadlaughed.

But he wasn’t laughing now.

And he doubted he’d be laughing when Madame Fouchet sank her claws into him once again. What would she want this time? Another painting? More jewelry? A statue?

He lifted Cleopatra’s necklace from the bedside table, where he’d placed it when folding his suit. Now, standing in ruffled shirtsleeves, he lifted it and studied it by candlelight. It was exquisite. Truly. And to think Queen Cleopatra had once worn it, had once rubbed her hands over the lapis lazuli as he was doing now.

But it wasn’t the image of Cleopatra that came to his mind when he thought of fingers stroking the piece. It was Gabrielle. The lovely Gabrielle, his best friend’s widow. He hadn’t thought of her in months, and then only when he caught a glimpse of her at some rout or other. She was always with her friend Diana, the clever daughter of the Duke of Exeter.

But not tonight. Tonight she’d been alone—and trying to steal Cleopatra’s necklace.

Ramsey crossed to a safe he’d hidden behind a painting by Domenico Rinaldo. He secured the necklace, locked the safe, and finishing the brandy, reclined on his bed, hands behind his head.

Gabrielle, Lady McCullough…

George hadn’t known what to do with her. Ramsey had watched his friend court the lovely Gabrielle and knew the fellow would never understand a woman like her. But Ramsey understood her. He knew what she wanted—and it wasn’t some idiot who wasted his time and blunt at the gaming tables.

A woman like that wanted passion and adventure. It ran in her blood. Apparently, tonight she’d found an outlet for it. And once again, his mind circled back to the question of why Gabrielle was stealing Cleopatra’s necklace. Hell, how did she become such an accomplished thief? She’d picked the door and the clothespress locks with a finesse he’d rarely seen. Even he wasn’t that smooth. But then she had those long, slim, aristocratic fingers, and his hands were better suited for farm labor.

Still, she hadn’t seemed to mind having his hands on her in the past. Before her engagement to McCullough. He didn’t want to remember that summer night now because it would plague him all evening and he’d toss and turn. Better to read a book and go to bed than to think too much about the lovely Gabrielle.

But it was too late. His mind was already drifting back.

He’d been in the greenhouse at the Duke of Exeter’s country estate. The duke had hosted a house party, and they’d all been invited—Gabrielle Newton and Mrs. Newton, McCullough, himself, other ladies and gentleman of theton. Gabrielle and George had spent the afternoon taking a turn about the park. They’d danced together after dinner. Ramsey had stood back and watched the courtship develop. If she wanted George, let her have him. But he wouldn’t make her happy.

Ramsey didn’t know if he could make her happy either, but he knew when he looked at her, his thoughts turned to marriage. No other female had that effect on him. He might have pursued her, but marriage was a dangerous proposition. Even in those halcyon days, he wasn’t carefree enough to forget that. And so he kept his distance.

He had walked down to the greenhouse alone and stood among the orange and lemon trees, allowing their pungent citrus scent to float over him. He’d plucked a waxy orange, and held the firm fruit in his hand before peeling the skin back and tasting the fruit.

When the first ripe section was in his mouth, she’d opened the door and walked in.

He knew right away she hadn’t sought him out. Her expression was the perfect picture of surprise…and pleasure.

“Oh, I’m sorry, my lord. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“No interruption at all, Miss Newton,” he said, bowing formally. At that point, one of them should have left. He was the gentleman and should probably have ceded the greenhouse to her. But she had intruded, and by all rights, she might be the one to take her leave.

Neither moved. Neither looked away, and after a moment Ramsey was aware of orange juice dripping down his wrist and gathering in the ruffles at his sleeve. He held out the fruit. “Orange, Miss Newton?”

She didn’t even glance at his hand. “Yes, thank you.”

---