Sleepless at Midnight Read online

  He flipped another page. And stared. At the detailed sketch of a man. A very naked man. A man who was…not ungenerously formed. A man who, based on the letters printed along the bottom of the page, was named Franklin N. St

  —

  She gasped and snatched the sketch pad from his hands and closed it. The sound of the pages snapping together seemed to echo in the air between them.

  Matthew couldn’t decide if he were more amused, surprised, or intrigued. Certainly he wouldn’t have suspected such a drawing from this mousy woman. Clearly there was more to her than met the eye. Could this have been what she’d been up to last evening—drawing erotic sketches? Bloody hell, could this Franklin person who’d modeled for her sketch be someone from his own household? There was a young man named Frank on the groundskeeping staff…

  Yet surely not. She’d only just arrived! He tried to recall the man’s features, but as best he could remember from his brief look, his face was shadowed and indistinct—the only part of him which was.

  “Friend of yours?” he drawled.

  She hoisted up her chin. “And if he is?”

  Well, he had to give her points for standing her ground. “I’d say you’d captured him quite well. Although I’m certain your mama would be shocked.”

  “On the contrary, I’m certain she’d take no notice at all.” She stepped away from him then glanced in a pointed fashion at the opening in the hedges. “It was lovely chatting with you, my lord, but please don’t let me keep you any longer from your morning walk.”

  “My walk, yes,” he murmured, feeling an inexplicable urge to delay his departure. To look at more of her sketches to see if he could discover but yet another layer of this woman whose personality, in such a short period of time, had presented such contrasts.

  Ridiculous. It was time to leave. “Enjoy your morning, Moorehouse,” he said. “I shall see you at dinner this evening.” He made her a formal bow, a gesture she responded to with a brief curtsy. Then, with a soft whistle to Danforth, he departed the small clearing with the dog at his heels and headed down the path leading toward the stables. Perhaps a ride would help clear his head.

  Walking at a brisk pace, he reflected on his meeting with Miss Moorehouse, and two things occurred to him: first, the woman’s in depth knowledge of horticulture might be of use to him, provided he could glean the information he wanted from her without her realizing his reasons for wanting it—a challenge, given her nosy nature. He’d attempted to get such information from Paul, but while his head gardener knew a great deal about plants, he did not possess a formal education such as Moorehouse clearly did. In having her as a guest, he might have stumbled upon the key to finding the missing piece to his quest.

  And second, the woman had very effectively, albeit very politely, dismissed him from his own bloody garden! As if she was a princess and he a lowly footman. He’d not made an issue of it, as departing was precisely what he’d wanted to do. Bloody hell. He couldn’t decide if he was more annoyed or fascinated.

  Both, he decided. Miss Sarah Moorehouse was one of those annoying spinster women who peered out windows when they should be sleeping, always turned up in spots where you didn’t wish them to be, and tended to see and hear things they shouldn’t. Yet the dichotomy of her bookish, plain appearance and her erotic nude sketch intrigued him. As did her knowledge of plants. If she could prove to be of some use to him in his quest, well, he’d simply find a way to suffer her company.

  For he’d do anything to end his quest and get his life back.

  And if, by some chance, she’d followed him into the garden last night, he intended to see to it that she did not do so again.

  Sarah clutched her sketch pad to her chest and stared at the opening in the hedges through which Lord Langston had just disappeared. After several long seconds, she released a lengthy breath, one she hadn’t even realized she’d held.

  Heavens, there was no denying his lordship was an exceedingly fine-looking specimen. Indeed, as far as appearances were concerned, he could easily qualify for the title of Perfect Man. When he’d stood next to her, her pulse had misbehaved in the most unsettling, confusing, and unprecedented way, a way she hadn’t liked one bit.

  Had she?

  She pushed up her glasses with an impatient gesture. No, she hadn’t liked it. Because as outwardly attractive as he might be, appearances in this case were deceiving, and his handsome features clearly masked the soul of a scoundrel. The man purported to be an expert on plants and flowers? Ha! Based on their conversation and the comments he’d made while looking at her sketches, she was convinced he didn’t know a compost heap from a carnation. If he’d been returning from tending to night bloomers when she saw him from her window last night, why, she’d eat her bonnet. Not that she was wearing a bonnet, but by God, she’d retrieve one from her collection so she could eat it. Which once again begged the question: What had Lord Langston been doing with that shovel late last night?

  Her imagination immediately conjured lurid images of Frankenstein, and her lips compressed. Whether or not her host’s actions were sinister, they were suspicious at best, and she intended to discover what he was up to—especially as he might well be intending to court one of her friends. If he was up to no good, Julianne and Emily needed to be warned.

  And Lord Langston needed to be stopped.

  Chapter 4

  After a vigorous ride that indeed helped clear his head, and a change of clothes, Matthew made his way to the dining room. He found himself wondering if he’d find Moorehouse seated at the polished mahogany table. And then further wondering why the thought inexplicably quickened his steps. When he arrived, however, he found the dining room empty.

  “Has anyone been down to breakfast?” he asked Walters, as the footman poured him a fragrant, steaming cup of coffee.

  “Just one of the ladies, my lord. Can’t recall her name. Thick spectacles, she has. And a hearty appetite. Was particularly fond of Cook’s scones and raspberry jam.”

  “Ah. Clearly a woman of excellent taste,” Matthew murmured, reaching for his china cup. An image rose in his mind, of Moorehouse biting into a jelly-laden scone, her dimples winking as she chewed, a dab of raspberry clinging to her plump bottom lip. Of him, leaning slowly toward her, her doe eyes widening as he flicked away the bit of jelly with a leisurely swipe of his tongue.

  His cup halted halfway to his lips and he blinked to dispel the unsettling—and utterly ridiculous—image. Good God, perhaps getting caught in the rain last night had adversely affected his brain. Infected him with some manner of fever. Either that or he’d simply been without a woman for far too long. Yes, that explained it. For there could be no other explanation as to why he’d harbor the least sensual thought about a woman who was not in the least bit sensual. And certainly not at all the sort of female to inspire such thoughts. A nosy, bluestocking spinster—just the sort of female he normally avoided as he would a bad rash.

  Still, something about Moorehouse had captured his interest. Something besides her knowledge of plants and penchant for staring out windows…

  Again her image materialized in his mind’s eye. It was those damn dimples, he decided. And those huge, golden brown eyes, magnified by her spectacles. Behind their intelligence they’d looked…vulnerable. In a way that had grabbed him by the throat. In a way he neither understood nor particularly liked.

  With an effort, he shoved the woman from his thoughts, and after his solitary breakfast he entered his private study. Refusing to dwell on his impatience for Daniel’s return from the village, he spent several hours going over the estate’s accounts. When he finished, he set down his pen and rubbed his tired eyes. In spite of his best efforts to economize, over the course of the last few months his financial situation had deteriorated to a dangerous level. His path was clear. And inevitable.

  A knock sounded at the door, and with a sense of relief at being interrupted from looking at the depressing accounts, he called, “Come in.”

  The
door opened and an immaculately attired Tildon appeared. “Lord Surbrooke requests to see you, my lord,” the butler intoned.

  Finally. “Thank you, Tildon. Send him in.”

  Matthew closed the account books, slipped them back into the desk drawer, then locked the drawer. He’d just pocketed the key in his waistcoat when Daniel Sutton breezed through the doorway.

  “So this is where you’ve hidden yourself,” Daniel said, crossing directly to the decanters. “You’ve missed all the fun.”

  “Fun?”

  His best friend nodded. “Whist and backgammon in the drawing room.”

  “What the devil were you doing in the drawing room? I’ve been awaiting your report from the village.”

  “I went to the drawing room in search of you, to give you my report. You weren’t there, which was quite unsociable of you, by the way. One thing led to another and I ended up playing both whist and backgammon.”

  “You detest whist and backgammon,” said Matthew, joining Daniel near the fire, where his friend had settled in an overstuffed brocade chair with a generous brandy.

  “That was before you filled your house with an array of beautiful women.”

  “In case you’ve forgotten, those beautiful women are supposed to be here for me,” Matthew said dryly.

  “Well, someone has to keep them occupied and watch out for your interests while you’re hidden away. Especially since you saw fit to invite both Berwick and Logan Jennsen, not to mention Thurston and Hartley. All notorious charmers, you know. What in God’s name were you thinking?”

  “That it would appear damn odd if my house party guests were all female. I’d actually only planned to invite you and Jennsen, but Berwick sent a note last week hinting he’d like to visit, as he’d be traveling through the area. As I thought it would be churlish to refuse an acquaintance of such long standing, I extended the invitation.”

  “What about Thurston and Hartley?”

  “They tagged along with Berwick.”

  “Well, the lot of them were circling your female guests like vultures around carrion.”

  “At least they’ll entertain the ladies, which allows me some time to do what I must.” A cynical sound escaped him. “As I have the highest ranking title amongst all of them, I’m not overly concerned that I’ll lack for a willing bride. The title of Marchioness of Langston is a powerful lure.”

  “True. Still, I managed to keep the vultures from swooping in and instantly issuing marriage offers. You can thank me later. As your oldest and dearest friend, I am, as always, pleased to assist you.”

  “You are, indeed, the soul of helpfulness.”

  Daniel shook his head and made a tsking sound. “I detect sarcasm in your voice, Matthew, and can only say you shall be sorry after I tell you that I’ve spent my game-playing time well, digging up information for you. In fact, my inquiries will greatly narrow down your search.”

  “Excellent. Anything that will save me time is welcome. But first, I want to hear what you learned in the village. Did you speak with Tom?”

  Daniel shook his head. “No. I went to the smithy only to find it closed. I then went to the Willstone cottage where I spoke to Tom’s wife. Willstone said she didn’t know where her husband was. Based on her pale face and reddened eyes, it was clear she’d been crying.”

  “When had she last seen him?”

  “Yesterday evening, just before he left to take a walk. Willstone said Tom suffers from headaches and the cool night air helps. When he hadn’t returned by the time the storm hit, she supposed he’d taken refuge somewhere to wait out the rain. Said it wouldn’t be the first time such has happened. Even so, he’s always home by morning, rain or not, to open the smithy.”

  “But not this morning,” Matthew said.

  “Correct. She’d just said that she couldn’t imagine where he was when her brother entered the room. His name is Billy Smythe and I subsequently learned from further inquiries while in the village that he’s a former soldier who recently moved into the Willstone cottage and started working in the smithy with Tom.”

  “And was Billy able to shed any light on Tom’s whereabouts?”

  “He certainly offered an interesting theory. According to Billy, Tom was out chasing a lightskirt. And he did not sound happy about it. Didn’t like that his sister was worried and that he’d been left to do all the work at the smithy.”

  “He told you this in front of his sister?”

  “Yes. She insisted Billy was wrong, and he insisted she was being a fool. Said he’d arrived in Upper Fladersham nary a fortnight ago and had already heard the rumors about Tom. He then went on to promise that when Tom finally drags his arse home from this last dalliance, he’ll be made to understand that it was just that—his last dalliance.” Daniel swirled his brandy around his snifter. “Can’t say I blame him.”

  “Nor I. Did either of them say anything else?”

  Daniel shook his head. “Under the guise of you wanting to hire Tom for some intricate ironwork, I extracted a promise from Willstone to have him contact you here as soon as possible. I then spoke to a few other shopkeepers, none of whom had seen Tom since the previous day.”

  Matthew nodded slowly, staring into his brandy, then raised his gaze to Daniel’s. “Thank you for doing that for me.”

  Not a trace of pity showed in his friend’s eyes, but Matthew knew it was only because Daniel would keep his expression purposefully blank. Daniel knew why he never ventured into the village, and he was a good enough friend to never mention the reason. “You’re welcome. Based on what I’ve told you, do you think it was Tom’s presence you sensed last night?”

  “I suppose so. I felt, very strongly, that someone was nearby, and he was there.” Matthew supposed he should have been satisfied with what Daniel had discovered—that apparently Tom’s reason for being out last night was no more sinister than a walk to relieve a headache, and perhaps an ache of a different sort.

  Yet something didn’t sit right. It was odd that Tom hadn’t returned home, especially since he’d been heading in the direction of the village when Matthew had seen him. Perhaps he’d stopped somewhere else? Another cottage in another village? Perhaps he’d had a horse nearby and traveled a greater distance?

  With no ready answers, he had no choice but to do as Willstone was doing—wait for Tom to return home.

  His thoughts were interrupted when Daniel said, “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “Don’t you want to know what else I discovered, with regards to your houseguests?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Clearly satisfied that he once again had Matthew’s attention, Daniel said, “Before I tell you, I wish to hear your impressions of the lovely ladies you invited to your house party—which, by the way, would be more of a party if you actually joined in the festivities.”

  Matthew shrugged. “They’re all…acceptable.”

  “But surely after spending the evening with them you must have formed some opinion. What about Lady Emily?”

  Matthew considered for several seconds, then said, “She is very pretty.”

  “And Lady Julianne?”

  “Very beautiful.”

  “Viscountess Wingate?”

  “Stunning.”

  Daniel studied him over the rim of his snifter. “That’s all you have to say?”

  Matthew shrugged. “I discussed the weather with Lady Emily. She doesn’t like the cold. Nor the rain. Nor too much sun—she freckles dreadfully, you know. Lady Julianne and I discussed Dinstory’s annual musicale, which we’d both attended last Season. She enjoyed it thoroughly, while I fell asleep and nearly concussed myself when I leaned sideways in my chair and clunked my head against the wall.

  “The viscountess and I began a more promising discussion on the merits of household pets, although she prefers the sort of tiny yappy dogs that cause Danforth to look at me with his most long-suffering gaze.”

  He stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles. �
��So, as I said, each of them are acceptable. None grabbed my attention more than the other. So certainly tell me if you have information that could tip the scales one way or another.”

  Daniel nodded. “Very well. But first let me begin by saying that you’ve gone about this in entirely the wrong way. You want a wife—”

  “Correction. I need a wife. A very specific sort of wife.”

  “Precisely. You need an heiress. Which is why, instead of inviting all these lovely young ladies here, the sort who can deplete a man’s patience and strength, you should have invited some older heiresses. Much older. The sort who don’t require new gowns every half hour. The sort who are grateful for whatever attention you give, rather than pouting when they feel neglected. In my expert opinion, if a man must have a wife, then the perfect wife is one who is one hundred years old and worth one hundred thousand pounds. And if she doesn’t speak English, so much the better. And don’t worry about her less than stellar, wizened appearance. Remember this, my friend: beauty is only a few blown-out candles away. All women look the same in the dark.”

  After casting that last pearl of wisdom, Daniel raised his snifter in salute, then downed the contents in a single swallow.

  “Unfortunately, a one-hundred-year-old bride won’t do, as I need to provide an heir,” Matthew said lightly. “And I had no idea you were such an expert on the subject of choosing a wife. Especially as you don’t have one.”

  “Just because I don’t have a wife doesn’t mean I don’t know the characteristics of a good one. Believe me, you will not be happy with some chit who expects you to dance attendance upon her.”

  “I’ve no intention of dancing attendance upon anyone. I need money, a great deal of it, and I need it quickly. My intention is to simply choose the least troublesome heiress I can find, one who will not disrupt my life. Then, after the nuptials, I’ll embark on the monumental task of settling the estate’s debts and making it profitable once more.”

  “I’ve told you that I’ll make you a loan—”