To Kiss a Thief Read Free Page A

Street, and I had a man’s blood on my hands. I felt it would be best if I left for a time.”
    It had seemed like bravery to call out a man of considerably greater experience and skill. It was what dishonored husbands did. But as he had faced Brice across a misty field in the uncertain light before dawn, St. John’s sword had trembled in his hand.
    â€œI did not take you for the jealous type, Fairfax.”
    St. John had cultivated a pose of studied indifference to the world for so long, he had forgotten that something might still lie beneath it. But he could not deny the truth of Brice’s taunt. A duel was not the act of an indifferent man.
    So when the duel was over, he had left, not out of fear of the law or of Brice, but fear of himself, of the strength of his reaction.
    And he had stayed away until he was sure he felt nothing for his wife.
    Nothing at all.
    Not even regret at the discovery he need never have left.
    â€œWell, even so,” his stepmother clucked, “I certainly cannot fathom why you ran off to the West Indies, of all places.”
    â€œI had little choice in the matter. Ganett drove me to the docks. There was a packet in port bound for Antigua.” The ship’s destination had sounded interesting, exotic. The sort of place that offered just the escape he sought. It had been all of those things.
    And none of them.
    â€œI was . . . fortunate to secure a place,” he concluded.
    â€œBut to stay away so long—?” She shook her head and patted the settee in invitation. After almost twenty years, his once-obnoxious behavior toward her had settled into a sort of cool politeness, but she seemed determined even now to pretend there was real affection between them. Reluctantly, St. John left his post at the window to sit beside her.
    As she studied his face in the afternoon light, she raised one hand to trace her fingers down his left cheek. “I do not like to see a gentleman so brown,” she chided. What bothered her most, he knew, was the curling scar left by Brice’s blade, silvery-white against his tanned skin. “Although the color in your face sets off your eyes rather handsomely. Miss Harrington remarked upon it to me after dinner yesterday.”
    St. John covered his stepmother’s hand with his own and returned hers to her lap. “She is most kind.”
    Her desire for him to court Eliza Harrington was almost a palpable thing. And he had to admit, it had been something of a shock to find Eliza still unwed after all these years. But he was the very last man to do anything about it. She was beautiful, yes, but an old friend, nothing more. Besides, it was impossible to imagine his own thoughts straying toward marriage again. Especially after—
    â€œIs there nothing more you can tell me about Sarah’s death?”
    His stepmother stiffened. “Honestly, Fairfax. It’s hardly a fit subject for a lady to discuss. Everything was a blur—Sarah disappeared, you went missing. Lord Ganett refused to reveal where you’d gone. Then the constable came to the door and announced that a woman’s body had been pulled from the Thames. You’ll have to speak to your father if you want the gruesome details—he identified her. Though after five days, one imagines it was difficult to be certain.”
    Despite her protests, she told the story with a certain relish.
    Had he been in town when Sarah drowned, he would have been called upon to do the grim task his father had performed. Now, after so much time, he could no longer call her face to mind. He remembered mousy brown hair, gray eyes, and an upturned nose. But try as he might, the collection of features would not be formed into a whole.
    Perhaps that was for the best. He had seen firsthand what heat and water could do to the human body. Although he had no intention of engaging the man in conversation about either the matter or the manner of his wife’s death, when he