The Valet Who Loved Me - Valerie Bowman Page 0,46
beneath the bed and even inside the man’s spare set of shoes before admitting defeat.
Damn. Damn. Damn. Beau stood in the center of the bedchamber for a moment thinking. He would have to get Mr. Wilson to write something. But how?
Beau didn’t know how, but he knew who he would have to ask to help him.
Chapter Twenty-Two
After finding absolutely nothing of import in Mr. Wilson’s room, the day had gone steadily downhill for Beau. Clayton had found him to inform him that Worth was out in the stables packing to leave, intending to forfeit their bet.
Kendall had already forfeited, of course, given the fact that the man had tossed his wig into the soup in front of the entire party. But if Worth, that competitive bastard, was forfeiting, something was seriously wrong.
Beau had marched out to the stables to see if he could talk some sense into the duke. But that had ended in nothing but frustration. Beau was completely unsuccessful at getting Worth to tell him why the bet no longer mattered to him.
Beau suspected it had something to do with Lady Julianna Montgomery, an old flame of Worth’s who was attending Clayton’s house party. Worth hadn’t admitted a thing, but his reaction when Beau had mentioned Lady Julianna’s name told him everything he needed to know. Beau had been forced to leave the stables, knowing Worth was returning to London. A damn shame.
Beau shook his head. It seemed both of his competitors had got involved in some messy dealings with ladies since this house party had begun. A good thing he wouldn’t follow suit. What he had with Marianne wasn’t messy in the least. It was quite tidy actually, up to and including the fact that they didn’t even know each other’s real full names.
He may be the winner of a substantial amount of money as of this afternoon, but the win didn’t feel satisfying in the least. Both of his friends were heartbroken. How had such a simple-sounding bet become so troublesome?
He sighed. One word explained it: Women.
Well, he had no intention of allowing his dalliance with Marianne Notley (or whatever her name was) to bring him to his knees.
Beau waited until he was in bed with Marianne late that night before he asked for her help. He’d decided to ask her after giving her yet another orgasm.
“If I ask for your help with something,” he said after their breathing had returned to rights, “will you promise to ask no questions about it?”
A soft laugh came from the pile of bright red hair that was still splayed over Marianne’s face. “No. Not at all.”
He frowned. “Why not?”
“Because I’ll almost certainly want to know what you’re up to.”
“But what if I can’t tell you the details?” he countered.
“Can’t, or won’t?” she shot back, clearly remembering the question he’d asked her about her brother’s death.
“Well-played,” he replied with a smile, pulling her close to him again and kissing her delectable bare shoulder. “Marianne, sweet Marianne. I could stay here in bed with you forever.”
She laughed again and swiped her hair from her eyes before sitting up against the pillows. “I somehow believe you’d get bored eventually. Besides, how do you see this ending between us?”
He wrapped an arm around her waist. “Must we talk about the end?” It was the last thing he wanted to talk about. They had four more days. Four more days in which they could pretend to be something they weren’t. Strangely. He usually enjoyed pretending to be someone he wasn’t; this time, it just made him feel melancholy, thinking about the end.
“You know it must end,” she replied. “And I for one would like to know who you really are before it does.”
“Oh, now you want to know?” He laughed.
“I’ve always wanted to know. But as the days go by, I want to know more.”
“I want to know who you are, too,” he replied. They stared at each other, both with a stubborn set to their jaws for several minutes.
“Will you be leaving before we return to Lord Copperpot’s house?” she finally asked.
“Probably. Or at least soon after.” He might as well tell her that much. He fully intended to find the Bidassoa traitor before this house party ended, distraction or no.
She frowned. “You don’t know?”
“Not yet.”
“That’s a strange thing to say.”
“Here we are again. Do you want to tell me who you are, and why you’re not using your real name?”
“Does it matter?” she replied, leaning back against the pillows and pressing her