Part 29 (2/2)

The first taste told him something was wrong. The second a.s.sured him of it. He spat into the gla.s.s and was slamming it down when he saw Mac preparing to drink.

The wine never made it to her lips. Most of it soaked the front of her bodice as he swatted the gla.s.s away, and the rest stained the fine imported carpet at her feet.

She stared at him in shock. Genuine shock, not in the least feigned. She hadn't known the wine was drugged.

With frigid, bitter calm he handed her an embroidered napkin.

”Get yourself cleaned up, Mac,” he commanded. ”It's over.”

Over.

His brain was pounding to that infernal word, just as it had all night. It was limned in blinding light that burned through his lids. He opened his eyes a crack, winced, and tried to roll over. The solid bulk of an Irish wolfhound trapped him in place.

”Norton,” he groaned. ”Get off the bed.”

A tail thumped against his arm with enough impact to encourage a more rapid recovery. His mouth tasted abominable. He couldn't remember a b.l.o.o.d.y thing since last nighta had it been last night? Since Caroline had walked in on him and Mac.

Liam groaned again and cursed into his whiskey-scented pillow.

”Mr. O'Shea?”

Even Chen's soft speech rang like a struck anvil in Liam's ears. He propped himself up on his elbows and glared at his servant. ”What time is it?”

Chen bowed and set the tray with tea and morning paper on the table beside the bed. ”Three o'clock in the afternoon, Mr. O'Shea.”

Liam ma.s.saged the skin between his brows. h.e.l.l, he'd lost most of a day. He was wearing the same clothes he'd had on last night at the Poodle Doga”everything but his shoes, which Chen had probably removed.

”When did I come in?” he asked.

”Just before dawn.” Chen lifted his sleeve and poured a cup of hot tea. The smell of ita”green tea with herbs, which Chen insisted was good for a hangovera”was already beginning to clear Liam's head.

Before dawn. It was starting to come back. The fiasco at the Poodle Dog, the way he'd numbly flagged down a hack for Mac and watched her drive off, his determination to go in exactly the opposite direction. A night of riotous dissipation along the Barbary Coasta”the details of the latter remained blessedly obscure. It'd been some time since he'd gone down to the dives and h.e.l.ls of the Coast.

Chen cleared his throat discreetly. Mr. O'Shea, you asked me when you first returned to inquire as to Miss Gresham's well being.”

Liam didn't remember, but he was glad he'd had that much sense. He paused to fight off a wave of dizziness and threw his legs over the bed. ”And?”

”Miss Gresham is receiving no callers. Mrs. Hunter was quite adamant. I told Mr. Biggs to make certain that Mr. Sinclair has no access, should he reappear.”

Thank G.o.d for Chen. ”You think of everything when I can't think at all. Thank you.”

”You honor me, Mr. O'Shea. There is more. Mrs. Hunter gave me this note to deliver to you.”

Liam recognized the perfume and the fine paper. Caroline. He shook his head to clear it and tore open the envelope.

The delicate, careful hand was indeed Caroline's, but the note was brief and almost lacking in feminine flourish.

The meaning, however, was manifest. She wanted him to come to her house, tonight. She wanted to resolve matters between them. She was giving him another chance.

A strange, heavy feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. It felt like disappointment, and that was sheer madness. He had to set things right.

But as he rose from the bed he felt as if he were about to march to his death on the gallows, to be hung on a rope made of lace and blond curls and acres of petticoat.

He drove the phaeton to the Gresham's in a state of complete mental blankness.

Mrs. Hunter answered the door. Biggs was nowhere in evidence.

”I've come to see Caroline,” Liam said tersely.

”I know.” She pursed her lips and let him into the house with obvious reluctance. Her att.i.tude struck Liam as ironic; she'd done a poor enough job of watching over her charge.

If she hadn't been in on last night's fiasco with Perry. She would have to be questioned, but now was not the time.

”Where is she?” he asked.

Mrs. Hunter tilted her chin toward the stairway. Her disapproval burned into his back as he climbed the stairs. The house was eerily hushed. He reached Caroline's sitting room door and knocked, expecting to find her waiting. There was no answer.

”Liam?”

He turned to face the open door of Caroline's bedroom.

She was waiting for him, sure enough. Waiting in a sheer wrap that barely concealed the lacy white chemise she wore beneath. A chemise that revealed the thrust of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, the roundness of her thigh sliding under satin. Her feet were bare, and her hair hung loose around her shoulders.

”Good G.o.d,” he choked. ”What the h.e.l.l are you doing?”

Her voice was lowa”too low, forced into a register that made it sound like a parody of Mac's husky alto. ”Waiting for you.”

Liam felt his face flame, but his body was chilled through. ”Cover yourself,” he rasped.

”Why? Don't you think I'm beautiful?”

Oh, yes, she was beautiful. Perfect. Any man would want her.

Any man but the one with her now. In the dim light he thought he saw the shape of a phantom standing behind his ward; taller, red-haired, tragic in spite of her gaiety. Siobhan.

They were not alike. Nothing alike. But Caroline might have been his sister standing there, ready to give herself to a man, with no idea of the consequences, because it seemed daring and grown-up anda no, not a way out of poverty. Not for Caroline. She'd never known want, and never would.

”I know youa”want me,” Caroline said, stumbling over the word, as if she only vaguely guessed what it meant. ”You were going to ask me to marry you.”

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