If she couldn't have Cord's love, perhaps she could have his child. She prayed a son or daughter would soon be growing in her womb.

Then she thought again how remote he had become, how he had even begun to stay away from her bed, and sighed to think that even the gift of a child might be denied her.

Cord stared out the window of his carriage as it rolled through the crowded streets. An hour ago, he had received a message from Jonas McPhee, requesting a meeting at his earliest convenience. Cord had replied that he would be there at eleven o'clock.

More than a week had pa.s.sed since his journey to Lemming Grove and his wife's midnight rendezvous, if that was what it had been. Time enough, apparently, for McPhee to have done his job.

Anxious to reach the runner's office, Cord swore at some sort of delay. Turning his gaze to the window, he saw a regiment of soldiers marching past, decked out in scarlet-and-white uniforms. A dozen cavalry officers, mounted on high-stepping blacks, accompanied them, temporarily blocking the street. Watching them pa.s.s, Cord couldn't help thinking of Ethan, wondering if he had been returned to the prison he had escaped from or been moved somewhere else, wondering if his cousin even still lived.

And if he did, would they ever find a way to free him before this long, b.l.o.o.d.y war was over?

But Ethan slipped to the back of his mind as the carriage again rolled toward Bow Street. Cord had prepared himself for his meeting with Jonas McPhee. Still, he was filled with dread as McPhee opened the door to his small, cluttered office and invited Cord to take a seat in front of his desk.

"I am afraid the news isn't good, my lord." With his balding head and wire-rimmed spectacles, Jonas McPhee looked little like a man who spent his days hunting criminals, delving into the darker side of London. But his shoulders were muscled and his hands knotted and scarred, reflecting the dangerous work he often did.

"Whatever you have to say, say it."

Seated behind his battered desk, McPhee glanced down at the sheet of papers in his hand. "In regard to the first incident you asked me to look into, your wife's supposed visit to Harwood Hall. According to the servants, her ladyship was never there."

His chest constricted. He had told himself he was prepared for whatever news McPhee had to convey. Now he realized he wasn't prepared at all. "I take it you spoke to more than just one of them."

"That is correct." He looked down at the paper. "Specifically, a housekeeper named Greta Simon and the butler, Samuel Sims. I spoke to one of the chambermaids as well."

"And the baron? Where was he when you called?"

"Lord Harwood is still in London."

"Any chance my wife could have been in the house and no one knew she was there?"

"The servants seemed very certain, my lord."

He told himself to stay calm. He knew how clever Victoria could be. "What else did you find out?"

"You mentioned a man named Julian Fox in connection with your wife. I did some checking. Fox owns a town house in Mayfair. I located his residence and spoke to one of his footmen, greased his palm a bit, you understand. I'm sorry to tell you that the footman said that sometime round midnight of the night in question, Mr. Fox picked up a lady a few blocks from Berkeley Square, the location of your residence. The woman's description matched that of Lady Brant."

Cord's stomach balled into a painful fist. "Go on."

"The coachman was instructed to carry the two of them down the alley behind a house in Greenbower Street. Mr. Fox and the lady departed the coach and went in through the rear of the house. They were inside for more than an hour. Afterward, Fox ordered the driver to return them to Berkeley Square. The lady left the carriage and disappeared into one of the houses down the block, presumably yours."

His chest squeezed. There were other questions he wanted to ask, but he couldn't bear to hear the answers. "I presume you have all of this down in your report."

"Yes, my lord."

"And a bill for your fee is included as well?"

McPhee nodded and handed over the file.

"I'll have a bank draft sent over first thing in the morning."

"Thank you, my lord. I wish the news had been better."

Cord's fingers tightened around the file. "So do I."

Turning away from the runner, he forced himself to walk calmly out of the office. As soon as he gained the privacy of his carriage, he dropped down heavily on the seat, his head in his hands. His wife was involved with another man.

She was having an affair with Julian Fox.

Despair and loss washed over him. They had only been married such a very short while and already he had lost her. His eyes burned. He hadn't understood until that moment how much she meant to him. How could he have let down his guard? How could he have been such a fool?

Then the anguish and grief he was feeling began to change direction, turn into a simmering rage and a feeling of bitter betrayal.

How dare she! He had been faithful to Victoria since the day they were wed. b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, since the night he had stormed into her belowstairs bedchamber, he had never had the least desire for another woman.

And she had wanted him, too. Victoria was a vibrant, pa.s.sionate young woman. He had introduced her to pleasure and she had enjoyed every d.a.m.ned minute.

Then Fox had come along. Cord itched to call him out, to shoot the man for stealing his wife. Victoria was his! She belonged to him, dammit! But Fox had been handsome and charming, flattering her and- Cord paused mid-thought. Flattering her and paying her attention. Squiring her all over London, to the opera, the theater, escorting her to lavish b.a.l.l.s. Fox had danced with her and dined with her and laughed with her, while Cord had been holed up in his study, thinking of ways to avoid her. He couldn't even manage time enough for a single game of chess.

The knot in his stomach twisted. Knowing Victoria as he did, he knew with certainty this wasn't a casual affair. Her affections had to be involved-Victoria had to be in love with Julian Fox.

He thought of the months since their marriage. Never once had she told him she loved him or said anything that remotely implied she felt that kind of affection for him. Perhaps if he'd had the slightest suspicion how deeply his feelings ran for her....

But he hadn't known then. At least he hadn't admitted it to himself. Not until now. Not until it was too late.

For the first time it occurred to him that, in truth, he was the one who had insisted they marry. He had forced Victoria to wed him. First he had bullied her, then he had tricked her. He had always had a way with women and he knew Victoria desired him. Aside from that, she needed him to protect her. It never occurred to him that he was pushing her to do something she really didn't want to do.

All the way back to the town house, he considered his options. Victoria was in love with another man. Fox was Percy's cousin, nephew to the marquess of Kersey. The family had plenty of money. Fox could take care of her.

Acid swirled in his stomach. Victoria was everything to him. He couldn't imagine life without her. Still, it wasn't fair to keep her locked in a marriage she had never really wanted.

Cord leaned back in the carriage seat, his chest aching, his stomach tied in knots. It was blazingly clear he had committed the unpardonable. He had allowed himself to fall in love.

It was a stupid, idiotic thing to do.

The only thing worse would be to stay married to a woman who didn't love him in return.

Chapter Twenty.

Victoria hadn't seen Cord all day. Supper was over and he still had not come home. She was beginning to worry. A storm was coming in and she didn't like the idea of him being out in the rain. Then she heard masculine footfalls in the entry and felt a wave of relief.

She walked in to greet him, noticed the hard look on his face, and her relief turned into a sharp stab of fear.

"What is it, Cord? What's wrong?"

"I need a word with you. Perhaps upstairs would be best."

Her heart was beating oddly. She had never seen quite that look on his face. She climbed the stairs ahead of him, went into her room, and he followed her in and closed the door. She searched his eyes for any sign of what he might be thinking, but they remained shuttered and hard.

"You might want to sit down."

He didn't have to ask twice. Her legs were shaking. Something was dreadfully wrong and she couldn't imagine what it was. She walked over to the small settee in the sitting room and sank down onto the seat.

"I've been to see a man named Jonas McPhee, an investigator of sorts. I've worked with him a number of times before."

"I believe you mentioned him...the man who discovered that Claire and I were Miles Whiting's stepdaughters."

"That is correct."

"Why...why did you go see him?"

"There were things I needed to know...things I hoped Mr. McPhee would be able to find out for me."

Dear G.o.d, had he discovered that she had broken into Sir Winifred's town house? Had McPhee found out she had been with Julian Fox? She told herself to stay calm, perhaps that wasn't it at all.

"What sort of things did you wish to know?"

Cord walked over and poured himself a brandy. "Would you like one? You're looking a little pale."

She moistened her lips. "I am fine." But she wasn't fine at all.

Cord took a drink of his brandy, swirled the amber liquid in his gla.s.s. He was so calm. Unnervingly so. Her fear inched up another notch.

"I had some questions about my wife."

"Your wife," she repeated, barely able to force out the words.

"Yes, and in that regard, McPhee was very helpful. To begin with he informed me you were never at Harwood Hall."

Her stomach turned completely over. "That isn't true!"

"Isn't it? Jonas spoke to the butler as well as the housekeeper and one of the chambermaids. You were never there, Victoria."

"The servants...th-they are my friends. They were sworn to keep their silence."

He swirled his brandy. "And then there was the matter of the night I was away in Lemming Grove. You were gone that night, as well."

She fought to draw in air. How had McPhee found out? How could he possibly have known? "I can explain."

"Really? Why don't you, then?"

Why wasn't he shouting? Why wasn't he raging at her, telling her how he meant to throttle her or at least lock her up in her room? This deadly calm was worse than anything she had ever faced before.

She took a deep breath, released it slowly. "This is all very easily explained. When I was at Harwood Hall, Greta-that is the housekeeper you mentioned-she said something about the town house my family once owned in London. She said that perhaps Mother's journal might still be somewhere inside."

"Ah-the elusive journal. I should have guessed."

"The town house is in Greenbower Street, which isn't all that far. I knew you wouldn't approve, so I decided to go by myself. I left here just before midnight." She looked at Cord.

Should she mention Julian Fox? If she did and he didn't already know, he would be even more upset than he was already. Her mind spun, trying to think if McPhee could have somehow found out, thinking she owed it to Julian to keep her silence.

"I-I walked the few blocks to the town house and I was lucky enough to find a window open behind the house." She tried to smile. "My stepfather sold the place to a man named Sir Winifred Manning, but Sir Winifred was out of town. I made a search of the residence, but-"

"But again, unfortunately, you came up empty-handed."

"Yes."

"That's a shame, Victoria. Perhaps if you'd had someone along to help you, you would have been successful. Someone, perhaps, like Julian Fox."

She nearly swooned. For an instant, dark circles swirled in front of her eyes. Maybe for a moment she did swoon, for when she opened her eyes, Cord was pressing his gla.s.s of brandy against her lips.

"Take a drink, Victoria. In a second or two, you'll feel better."

She swallowed, felt the quick burn of the liquor as it raced down her throat. "This...this isn't what you think. Julian and I-we met simply by chance. He lives in Mayfair, you see, and he was in his carriage, on his way home. He saw me on the street and he wouldn't leave until I told him what I was planning to do and then he wouldn't let me go alone."

"I'm sure Mr. Fox is extremely protective."

"Yes, he is. We are friends, after all. He didn't want anything untoward to happen to me."

He was standing over her, dark and imposing, looking down at her as if she were someone he barely knew. She had to reach him. She couldn't stand the remote, completely unreachable expression on his face.

She closed the distance between them, took the gla.s.s from his hand, reached up and slid her arms around his neck. The fragrance of his cologne drifted over her. His dark hair teased her fingers. She pressed her face into the hollow between his neck and shoulder and felt the rapid pulse beating there.

Not nearly as calm as he seemed.

"I'm sorry I lied to you," she said. "I shouldn't have done it. I should have told you the truth but I was afraid of what you would say. I knew you would be angry." She leaned toward him, pressed her lips to the side of his neck, raised on tiptoe and kissed him. Cord made no response, just stood there unmoving, his hands hanging limp at his sides.

It was frightening.

Terrifying.

She kissed him again, coaxed his lips apart and slid her tongue over his. She pressed herself more fully against him and felt the rea.s.suring hardness of his arousal. He wanted her. Just as he always did.

"Victoria..." he said, and there was anguish in his voice. Dear G.o.d, what had she done? She hadn't meant to hurt him. She loved him. Somehow she had to make amends.

"I'm so sorry, Cord." She pressed small b.u.t.terfly kisses to the corners of his mouth, kissed him deeply again. Using the little erotic tricks he had taught her, she slid her tongue over his, teasing him, urging him to respond. "I should have told you the truth. I wish so badly that I had. I won't ever lie to you again. I swear it."

He seemed not to hear her. His body remained rigid and unyielding. She thought he meant to push her away.

Her hands were shaking. Frantically, she slid his coat off his shoulders, worked the b.u.t.tons on his silver waistcoat, pushed it off and tossed it away. Capturing his face between her palms, she dragged his mouth down to hers for another scorching kiss.

Still, he seemed reluctant. She tugged his shirt from the waistband of his breeches and hastily unfastened the b.u.t.tons, desperate to touch him, to break through his terrifying calm. He wasn't helping, but he didn't resist when she pulled off his shirt and pressed her mouth against the bare skin just above his heart.

She could taste the salty tang of him, feel the ripple of muscle and sinew when he moved. He was breathing hard, his wide chest heaving in and out. She ran her tongue around a flat copper nipple, used her teeth to nip the end.