But the documents had clearly been written by Father. It wasn’t just his handwriting—it was his manner of speech, his use of certain words. And Edwin didn’t dare turn to anyone for advice, for fear the news would get out and the family’s name be dragged through the mud.
There was only one way out of this. Clarissa wouldn’t like it, but he must do his utmost to convince her to marry him by special license before he met with Durand again. Short of telling her exactly what Durand had found out about his father, of course. She was skittish enough about marrying him; if she knew there was a small chance she could be cut off from society, she would dig in her heels.
And this must be handled quickly. Even if Durand was bluffing about his threats to expose Father’s spying, the very fact that he was so adamant about marrying Clarissa was cause for alarm. The Frenchman might even attempt abducting her. Plenty of men did that with heiresses.
But not on Edwin’s watch. He would see Durand hang before he let the bastard harm one hair on her head.
Twelve
Shortly after sunset the next day, too early to dress for dinner and too late for a nap, Clarissa lounged about her room. Should she wear the lace pelerine or the net fichu with her dinner gown? Edwin was unlikely to care either way. As long as her attire was presentable, he probably wouldn’t even notice.
No, he only noticed when her bosom was half-bare.
Her eyes narrowed. Very well, no pelerine or fichu at all. Because tonight she wanted to make him notice her—to make him see her for herself, with all her flaws. To make him understand that she really wasn’t the sort of woman he wanted to marry.
Although that hadn’t worked last night. It had only made him randy, something she would never have expected of the staid Edwin. And if she flaunted her bosom at him, he might look at her with that piercing stare that made her shiver all over, and then she would forget her purpose. Which was to very kindly but firmly refuse to marry him.
Yes—that was her plan and she must hold to it, no matter how much he growled in that oh-so-enticing rumble that half negated whatever he was saying. Even if he took her aside privately and gave her one of his luscious kisses that went on and on and on. Even if Mama, in her foolishness, left them alone again, and he tried to kiss his way down into—
Fichu. Definitely a fichu. And while she was at it, perhaps a nice suit of armor to keep him from being tempted and her from giving in.
A clatter sounded against the French doors that led out to her balcony. What on earth? Another rattle sounded. And another.
Hurrying out onto the balcony, she peered into the garden below, which was faintly lit by the gaslights from the mews in the back. And there, dressed far too informally for dinner, was Edwin.
She gaped down at him. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I need to talk to you privately. Now. It’s urgent.”
“Then come in the front door like a civilized person and ask for me.”
“I can’t. I don’t want your mother involved. I don’t even want the servants to know I’ve been here. Come down. We can talk in the garden.”
Alone in the garden? Not likely. The very idea made a thrill course down her spine. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m in my dressing gown.” She turned for the door. “Come back for dinner—that’s soon enough to talk.”
“Very well. I’ll just have to come up.”
What? She rushed back to the balcony in time to see him scaling the tall, spindly beech that rose too far away from her balcony to be of use to him.
“Edwin!” she hissed. “Stop that at once! It won’t hold your weight.”
He ignored her and kept climbing.
She watched with her heart in her throat. “What do you mean to do? Leap through the air? It’s too far!”
If she raised an alarm, that would put an end to it . . . but something held her back. Curiosity? His expression of grim determination? Her worry that if anyone came out and distracted him, he might fall?
“Edwin,” she whispered as he reached the level of her balcony. “Oh, do be careful. Don’t even think about jumping.”
Already, visions of his body broken on the garden paving stones below haunted her. But curiously, he kept climbing. The tree started to bow with his weight, and he shifted to the side nearest her balcony. When it bowed even more, she had to bite back a scream.
Then the tree bent just enough to set him down right before her.
When he released the beech, it sprang back into place. Then he dusted off his hands and trousers, as if he climbed onto balconies so deftly every day.
She wanted to throttle him. “Are you mad? You could have killed yourself!”
He blinked. “Nonsense. I knew precisely what I was doing. I calculated the circumference and height of the tree against my weight and the pull of gravity, and figured it would be fine.”
“Figured!” She poked him in the chest. “If you had figured wrong, you would have broken your neck!”
He grabbed her hand, his eyes glittering in the faint candlelight from the room. “You were worried about me.”
“Of course I was worried about you!”
“Then you should have come down,” he said very matter-of-factly.