Susan Johnson - Sexy As Hell

“A few. Enough.”

“Come then,” Oz said, Sam’s competence never in question. “We’ll talk to Grover. He knows the neighborhood better than we.”

Grover rose from behind his desk the moment Oz walked into his office. “Thank you, sir. I’ve been waiting for you to come downstairs.”

“Sit.” Oz waved him into his chair, and he and Sam took chairs on the other side of the desk. “Tell us what you know. Start at the beginning.”

“The grooms were riding through the village to the downs for the horses’ morning gallop and saw Frederick big as life walking from the inn.”

“With others, Sam said,” Oz prompted.

“Three thugs and a man in a suit.”

“Where were they going?”

“To the livery stable it appears. Naturally, the grooms turned back to warn me.”

“Has he entered the property?”

“Not as far as we can tell.”

“You have men who can handle a weapon, I presume,” Oz said.

“Every man jack hunts, sir. Miss Izzy allows shooting and snaring on her land-for the cook pot. It keeps the rabbits in check.”

“I’m going to have Sam organize your men and send them out with mine to patrol the property. I would prefer Compton be on his way back to London before the end of the day.” He glanced at Sam. “Is that possible?”

Sam nodded. “We’ll find him.”

“Compton’s been listening to his mother’s praise too long. He actually thinks he deserves more than he does.” Oz softly exhaled. “My little chat with him in London apparently wasn’t sufficient, so we’ll move on to other options. Here’s what I’m thinking.” Briskly sketching out his plan, Oz added at the last, “There’s no point in waiting to see what Compton’s planning. Whatever it is will prove unpleasant for Isolde. At base, he seems unwilling to accept our marriage.” Oz didn’t mention Compton’s possible eavesdropping at the reception. It was irrelevant. He wanted Compton well away from Isolde, and to that purpose he was willfully disposed. “If the knave behaves, he can come back to England later.” Once Isolde was remarried. “Now, for the solicitor. Is he going to be a problem?”

Sam shook his head. “I expect he can be bought off for very little. Or so our sources tell me. The man lives on the fringes of the legal world.”

“Then do it,” Oz crisply said. “See that the man understands he’s not to so much as whisper a word about Compton. Take the two men back to London separately so they won’t plan something nefarious. Pay off the hired ruffians as well. I expect they don’t care who pays their fee. Then see that Compton ships out tonight. Hatch is ready to sail. There’s no reason for you to go into London, Sam. Send Jimmy and his crew. As for Isolde, I’ll find a way to tell her”-his brows lifted-“some reasonable story when Compton’s disappearance becomes known.”

“His flight won’t surprise anyone,” Grover pointed out, flat and direct. “Not with the state of his finances.”

“It might surprise his mother. Although a note from her son should mitigate any alarm. Have Davey arrange it, Sam.” Oz suddenly smiled. “The way I see it, we’ve done a service to the community… and more specifically to Isolde-which is the point. Thank you, Grover,” Oz said, “for your attentive staff. Give your men a bonus; Sam has funds.” Oz came to his feet. “Are we all agreed?”

“I know I speak for the entire household when I offer you our thanks, sir,” Grover said with a soldierly straightness to his shoulders and a lift of his chin. “The blackguard should have been struck down long ago.”

“Nevertheless, he’ll have money enough to live abroad, Grover. I don’t want him on my conscience for Isolde’s sake. Having said that, you’re more than welcome for my help in seeing him off on a lengthy journey beyond England’s shores. If everyone could remain silent, though, until I find the appropriate time to tell Miss Izzy, I’d appreciate it.”

Grover was smiling broadly at Miss Izzy’s new husband, who’d calmly contrived to see to his wife’s comfort. “Rest assured, sir, no one will say a word.”

“Excellent. Now, if you want to gather your men and meet Sam at the stables, our plans will be translated into action.”

A few moments later, Oz and Sam watched Grover hurrying down the hall.

“I want Compton alive,” Oz quietly said. “Because Isolde would wish it. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir. Although it goes against my better judgment.”

“Alive, Sam,” Oz gruffly said. “No excuses. Swear on whatever god you honor.”

Sam met his gaze and nodded. “I swear.”

Oz’s smile was instant. “As for yourself,” he said with a friendly slap on Sam’s shoulder, “what would you like for seeing this mess through for me? A house? One of my race-horses? A new commission in the Queen’s army? I am as you can see, extremely grateful that Compton will be going on holiday. Any possible stress on my wife will disappear and-”

“She won’t be distracted-”

“From my hot-blooded pursuits,” Oz softly finished.

Sam met Oz’s sardonic gaze; this was not a man in love. “A house for Betsy, then. Nothing grand.”

“Buy whatever you wish. Let Simms know.” Oz reached out and gripped Sam’s hand. “I’m indebted to you as usual. Might we be hearing wedding bells for you soon as well?”

Sam shrugged. “Who knows.”

“At the moment I highly recommend it.”

“Talk to me in a month,” Sam said, humorless and knowing. “As I recall you quickly grow weary of sameness.”

“True. Perhaps it’s the fresh country air,” Oz replied, his voice mild.

“Until the weather turns,” Sam remarked, his gaze mildly ironic. “You’ve spent days with various lady loves, testing the limits of your cock more times than I can remember, and never had any problem leaving.”

Oz grinned. “Go. You’re ruining my mood.”

EXPLAINING COMPTON’S DISAPPEARANCE turned out to be a simple matter.

Simultaneously with news of Frederick’s absence from London, a rumor surfaced that he’d been seen boarding a ship bound for Australia with Beresford and Huxley. Since both men had talked of little else in the clubs the last many weeks, Compton’s addition to the party was entirely plausible. Shortly after, Lady Compton received a note from her son in which he explained that the increasing pressure from his creditors had prompted his spur-of-the-moment flight. Lady Compton, of course, put forward that her son was off on an Australian adventure-the dear boy so loved to travel.

Davey had arranged the rumor and note.

Both had adequately served their purpose even while there were some who chose not to believe Lady Compton’s story. But for those of a more cynical bent, gamblers escaping abroad to elude their creditors was so common as to raise little comment.

Three days later, Isolde leaned back in her chair at the breakfast table, wide-eyed and smiling. “Is he really gone from England? Are you sure?”

Oz handed her the message from Davey. “Read for yourself. Davey checked out the rumor and found it authentic. Apparently your troublesome cousin accompanied two friends to Australia.” Oz lifted his shoulder in a faint shrug. “I expect his creditors may have had something to do with his sudden decision.”

“He’s truly gone?” A note of cheer rang in her voice.

“Without a doubt,” Oz said, reaching for his coffee cup. Indeed, Sam’s men had carried him aboard the Sea Mist. “His gambling losses were considerable if you recall.”

“But you paid them,” she murmured, quickly scanning the brief note.

“Knowing him, he ran up more losses.” A polite lie.

She looked up. “So we may thank Frederick’s incompetence at the gaming tables for this peaceful interlude.”

He swallowed and set down his cup. “It appears so.”

Her eyes lit with delight, Isolde grinned. “Tell me, how long does it takes to sail to Australia and back?”

“A long time, darling,” he said, his answering smile tender. “There’s always numerous ports of call along the way.” More than ever this time, nor was the voyage routed through the Suez Canal. “I could have Davey find out the particulars from the shipping line if you like.”

“No, no, don’t bother. However long he’s gone will be divine.”

“Speaking of divine…”

“Oz! We just came downstairs!”

Laughter stirred in his eyes and something splendidly provocative as well. “Can I help it if your dressing gown is revealing an enticing amount of cleavage? Although, I’m more than willing to wait until you’ve finished eating.”

“How very kind,” she sardonically murmured.

His smile was lazy and assured. “I’ll be even kinder upstairs. Or would you like to test the softness of the window seat over there?”

“You’re impossible.” But she was smiling, too.

“And you’re a darling to put up with me.” Leaning back in his chair, he pushed his coffee cup aside and reached for his perennial brandy bottle. “Take your time.”

THE MONTH THAT followed was as close to paradise as an earthly existence allowed. Oz and Isolde spent their days in a free and easy companionship unique to two people who’d lived alone for so long. When Isolde asked Oz once whether he was bored with their lack of entertainments in the country, he’d said, “You’re my entertainment.” His long lashes had lifted then and their dark seductive gaze surveyed her serenely. “You may exhaust me at times, sweet Izzy, but no one could accuse me of being bored.”

They rode every morning regardless of the weather because it was Isolde’s custom and Oz willingly indulged her. The rare Urdu book had been sent for, and Oz continued his translation while Isolde often curled up on the sofa and read as he worked. He sat in on her daily meetings with Grover, occasionally offering a suggestion on farming that no longer surprised her; his interests were cosmopolitan, his expertise varied. In addition to his banking and shipping interests, she discovered that he administered several plantations in India via telegraph and surrogates.

Davey sent messengers from the city, coming himself at times with the most pressing of Oz’s business affairs. One time when Davey had delicately inquired whether Oz knew when he’d be returning to the city, Oz had glanced at Isolde, smiled, and said, “Not just yet.”

Achille took great pleasure in offering the newlyweds superb delicacies that Isolde’s chef was beginning to master-no grievous competition there. And of course, inspired and beguiled by gluttony of another kind, the young couple made love with unfettered license. Here and there and everywhere.

The servants learned to knock loudly before entering a room when formerly, Isolde’s casually run household had required no such prudence.

The first time the pair had been surprised in the library, Isolde had turned ten shades of red and Oz’s impatient gaze had driven the servant out without a word. Later that day, Oz had spoken to Lewis; no further unannounced entrances ensued.

In time, Oz even consented to call on the neighbors with Isolde. His agreement to so public a display of their connection pleased her and didn’t displease him so far as he’d admit. As to the rest-why he did it at all-he chose to ignore. Like so much during this idyll in the country, he was operating on instinct alone.

The first time he accompanied Isolde to a hunt breakfast, he’d been admiring a Stubbs painting of a stallion from racing history when he was distracted by a thin, plain woman who came up beside him. She was staring at him with such narrow-eyed attention he was tempted to say, I’m not for sale.

“We haven’t met. I’m Lady Fowler,” she crisply declared as he turned to her.

Ah, the heiress; poor Will, he thought, with a connoisseur’s eye for beauty. “A pleasure, ma’am,” he answered with an exquisite bow. “I’m Oz Lennox.”

“I know who you are.”

He found himself being scrutinized again-with a cool arrogance this time as though he were being measured against some lofty standard and found lacking.

“You’re in shipping, I hear. How interesting.” It was meant to belittle, her words, the sneer in her voice marking him as inferior. To be involved in trade was considered a failing by some in the peerage.

“I understand your father made his fortune in coal. An equally interesting business,” Oz blandly replied.

“The coal is on our lands.”

“I have ruby mines on my estates,” he pleasantly remarked, ignoring her direct stare. “A hazardous occupation, mining. How do you manage your workers’ safety? We’ve instituted various safeguards and haven’t had an accident in years.”

“I have no idea,” she said with a sniff. “Miners’ safety doesn’t concern me.”

“A shame,” he answered, polite and unperturbed. “Production and profits are directly related to working conditions.”