She took the journal from Charlotte, flipped it open to the last written page, held it at arm’s length, and peered at it. Her frown of concentration quickly melted to an expression of delight.
“Aha. Here we are. An entry dated just three nights past. ‘Distressing news at All Things. It’s rumored that Payne will propose to D. The vile, deceitful man. After all he promised me last summer. I cannot allow it.’ And then, a few days later is her last entry. The day after the dancing, my dears.” Mrs. Highwood arched a brow. “ ‘Payne now convinced. Plan sealed with kiss. We leave on the morrow.’”
She flung the book to the table, rattling the crystal. “There you have it, Diana. Your sister is a scheming, cunning temptress. She stole Lord Payne from right under your nose, and she’s been plotting it since last summer. From the very first. Imagine.”
“He was never mine to steal.” Diana blushed. “I’m sure it’s not how it sounds.”
“Perhaps not,” Kate said, trying to wrap her mind around the idea of Minerva Highwood as a shameless seductress—and failing utterly. “But I think we can safely conclude that wherever Minerva went with Lord Payne, she went of her own accord. She certainly wasn’t abducted.”
“Devious thing.” Mrs. Highwood spooned a large bite of syllabub into her mouth. “When did this happen? She never showed any interest in men. I wouldn’t have dreamed Minerva knew a kiss from a carbuncle. And now . . .”
“Oh,” Charlotte breathed, suddenly freezing in place and staring rapt at her spoon. “Now. Just imagine where she must be now.”
Kate choked on a laugh.
Diana squeezed her eyes shut. “Charlotte, please. Let’s not.”
Chapter Twelve
For the second time in as many nights, Minerva woke to tortured groans.
This time, they weren’t Colin’s.
When she jolted awake, she found him sleeping peacefully at her side. Through the wall, however, horrid noises reached her ears. Violent thumping and desperate cries.
“Colin. Colin!” She shook his arm. “Wake up. Someone’s being murdered.”
“What? Who?” He sat bolt upright in bed, and his head bashed against the sloping rafter. “Besides me, you mean?”
She laid a touch to his arm and gave a meaningful tilt of her head. “Listen.”
He closed his eyes.
The sickening sounds of violence continued. She heard a woman’s shriek.
“Well?” she prodded, growing frantic. “Shouldn’t you dress, and quickly? Ring for the innkeeper, at least? We must do something.”
He sighed and rubbed his face. “That is not murder you’re hearing. No one’s dying. Except in the French way.”
“What? What can you mean, ‘the French way’?”
“Copulation,” he said, flopping back on the bed and flinging his wrist over his eyes. “They’re not fighting, whoever they are. They’re having a grand time indeed.” Under his breath, he added, “Curse them.”
“Is it always so loud?” she asked.
“Only when it’s good.”
“Good?” Minerva frowned, listening. Nothing about that sounded good. The poor woman was even crying out to God.
“How is it you’re so curious and educated, and yet so naïve? You do understand copulation, don’t you?”
“Of course I do. The science of it, anyhow.” A shriek pierced through the wall. She clutched his arm. “Colin, are you sure . . . ?”
“Yes.” He covered his face with a pillow and groaned into it. “And here I thought bedding down alone would be the keener torture.”
The rhythmic banging grew louder, faster. A low, masculine bellow joined the woman’s shrieks.
And then it stopped.
“There,” Colin said, propping the pillow back under his head. “They’re finished. Now it’s over, and we can get some sleep.”
Several minutes passed.
“You’re not sleeping,” he said.
“Neither are you.”
“Can’t. Deuce it. My body’s too suggestible.” He rolled to face her, and his fingertips caught the edge of her sleeve. “Perhaps yours is the same? Are you aroused?”
She didn’t know what to make of her body’s warm flush. Nor the way his thumb caressed her arm.
She said, “I mainly feel confused.”
He laughed softly. “I won’t believe you’re that innocent.” His hand swept down the side of her body. “You do understand there’s pleasure in the act?”
“I’ve gathered as much, yes. But if that’s the case, why doesn’t it sound more pleasant?”
“Because the act of love is not civilized. It’s nature at its purest, most basic form. Primal and wild. You ought to understand a little, if you’ve ever . . .” She could all but hear his eyebrows shooting up. “Wait. Don’t tell me you haven’t. You, the woman of science, who can recite the logarithm that defines the precise shape of an ammonite’s shell. Don’t tell me you don’t understand the workings of your own body.”
“I’m not telling you anything.” Her breath grew shaky.