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“Would you care to complete the task, my lady?”

With a disbelieving scoff, Caroline crossed her arms about her breast and fell back against the squabs, glaring pointedly out the window. “You’re shameless, Henry. Absolutely shameless.”

“You’re sure you don’t want to give it a go? My shirt, that is.”

Caroline rolled her eyes. “No, thank you.” And fought an enormous smile.

Twenty-two

H
enry was in love with her.

It happened as he helped Caroline down from the carriage. The conviction hit him squarely in the center of his chest, like a bullet shot straight through the heart; a sudden, shocking thing, though later he would recognize it had been there along, this feeling, and only then, in that moment, had she knocked it perfectly into place. Like an obstinate dead bolt, coaxed at last into its lock by the proper key.

It was the warmth of her hand in his, the dark wisps of hair that caressed the back and sides of her nape, the bloom of embarrassment (and arousal, he’d like to think) staining her cheeks. The intelligent, and censorious, gleam in her eyes as they met his.

He liked teasing her. Mostly because he adored making her smile in the midst of all the doom he’d brought to her doorstep. It was hardly decent of him, playing at getting naked in her brother’s carriage, but then when had either of them—Henry or Caroline—ever wanted to be decent?

Decent
was boring. And Caroline Townshend (she would always be Townshend to him) was anything but boring, even if she refused to indulge in a bit of midafternoon nudity with him.

She turned to him and smiled. For a moment he couldn’t breathe.

“Careful,” she said, and reached for his shirt. She slid the top button into its tiny hole. The tip of her first finger brushed his throat. “I daresay I am the only woman in London immune to your chest hair.”

Oh, heavens. He was
very much
in love with her.

He smiled, an enormous thing that hurt his face. They were standing close. Too close, considering all of Hanover Square could see them.

“I’ll have you know I’m rather proud of my chest hair. Took me thirty years to grow it.”

She laughed, a high, delighted sound. “Quite the accomplishment.”

Henry glanced over her head at the stern façade of her brother’s house. On cue, the front door swung open, the earl’s palm wrapped tightly about the brass knob as he moved out onto the front step. His eyes were black and hard as they took in Henry.

Henry’s smile faded a bit. As if he didn’t have enough enemies with which to contend; he’d almost forgotten how much Caroline’s brother loathed him.

He stepped back. Reading his face, Caroline glanced over her shoulder.

She turned back to Henry. “I should go.”

The light was fading; during their ride back to London, the sky had cleared, and now it was bare, a darkening blue too late for sun, too early for stars; the surrounding buildings blocked a view of the sunset.

Caroline’s skin shone in the soft light, and a small breeze tickled the wisps of hair at her neck. It was spring.

And Henry was in love.

He looked at her a moment too long. He was tempted to reach out and take her hands, but Henry had no doubt the earl would challenge him to a duel if he so much as
looked
at Caroline the wrong way.

Henry stepped back, clearing his throat. “Right. I don’t want to keep you. Good evening, my lady.”

He strode out into the street in a daze, his pulse racing, thoughts whirling. The floral note of her perfume lingered in his nose; he imagined he could taste it.

It was the one thing he swore he wouldn’t do, falling in love
with Caroline. He swore he’d stay away from her, from London; he swore these things to keep her safe.

He’d left her twelve years ago, to keep her safe.

And now her life—his, too—was in danger.

He closed his eyes against the panic that sliced through his chest.

He was in love.

And he was in trouble.

He made a sharp turn into a narrow lane; the evening traffic on Regent Street was distracting, and Henry needed to think.

Soon, very soon, Woodstock would lose patience. He’d hunted Caroline for more than a decade; his revenge would not wait. Henry would not let him kill her. Not while he still had breath in his body.

More than once Henry contemplated holding a gun to her scalawag brother’s head, demanding he hand over the diamond. But that would mean bringing more violence to Caroline’s doorstep; and doubtless the earl, being the cocky man he was, would assume Henry would not dare shoot him.

And he’d be right. Which meant Henry would be forced to tell Harclay about Woodstock. All hell would break loose, and someone—all of them, probably—would end up dead.

No, he would not confront the earl. Not yet. Henry’s plot with the acrobats was still in play; if he could get the French Blue without having to threaten Harclay himself, it would be best for everyone.

He would have to wait. And keep watch over Caroline.

He couldn’t bear the thought of her coming to harm—again—on his account. Her, the woman he loved.

The woman who, knowing his luck, he’d end up hurting all over again.

Still.

He
loved
her. He’d been an idiot to think falling for her again was anything but inevitable. It had taken him all of an afternoon to fall in love with her a decade ago; an afternoon of bright yellow sun, laughter, and a promise to meet her in the garden the next day. He kept that promise, and met her by the secluded folly on her father’s estate; he met her there the next day, and the next, and the next, always in the morning, always early, so eager to see her, and laugh with her, and tease her.

She was an earl’s daughter; she came with a ten-thousand-pound dowry. He was a third son, with no position, no money, and nothing to offer.

Now, ten years later, Henry could boast of a position, and a good one, an honorable one, but serving king and country was hardly a profitable affair. He had very little money, and less to offer a lady like Caroline, who, as a dowager countess, was accustomed to a lifestyle that Good Queen Bess, his fellow feisty ginger, wouldn’t scoff at.

Even if Henry could somehow defeat Woodstock, and save Caroline’s life; if the earl stopped being a jackass, and handed over the diamond; if Henry negotiated successfully with the French, and in so doing helped end the war; even if all these things came to pass, what did he hope would come of his affection for Caroline? That she would forgive him, and forget about the widowhood she so fiercely defended, and love him as he loved her?

They had nowhere to live. He couldn’t retire. Agents like him had no choice in the matter; most died young. He wouldn’t subject Caroline to the horrors of his life as an agent; he’d already put her life at risk, and he’d been in London only a week. He wanted better for her. She deserved better than he could give her.

He was in love with her.

But he would be damned if she fell in love with him. It wasn’t fair. It was dangerous.

He would protect her, even if it killed him. He would focus on the diamond, and his duty, and head back to Paris, where he belonged.

Henry blinked, realizing he’d walked farther—and faster—than he’d intended. He stood at the end of a barrel-ceilinged walkway that led out onto a small, nondescript square. It was prematurely dark here, the buildings lining each side of the square blocking what little light was left.

The hair at the back of his neck prickled to life. Henry turned his head, slowly; he peered over his shoulder; the passage behind him was quiet, eerily so.

That’s when he smelled it.

A musky scent, masculine, like burnt wood.

Labdanum.

Woodstock. He was here.

Henry’s pulse rushed cold. He turned this way, then that,
hoping to catch something, the edge of a coat, someone disappearing into the hedge, but the square met his wild search with silence.

“Show yourself,” Henry growled.

Still nothing.

He held up his hands. “Show yourself,” he repeated.

Henry turned toward the quiet rustle behind him. A man emerged from the shadows of the passage, sweeping the beaver-skin hat from his head and tucking it into the crook of his arm. He was of medium height, medium build; fair skin; with a mop of close-cropped hair that was neither blond nor brown, but both. His eyes were brownish-hazel-green-yellow; he wore breeches and a coat of nondescript quality and color. He looked like a middling barrister, minus the wig.

Conspicuously inconspicuous.

Which meant, of course, this man was anything
but
a barrister. He was an agent.

And while that was hardly comforting, at the very least he wasn’t the Marquess of Woodstock. Henry let out a silent sigh of relief, his arms falling to his sides.

“You’ve been following me,” Henry said, and turned to face the man.

“Yes.” His accent was scrubbed clean of any inflection, any quirk that might mark him, tie him to a place. “I understand you have—or
used
to have—something that might be of interest to me.”

Henry arched a brow. “To you?”

The man smiled. “To me. And my superiors.”

The man reached inside his jacket and produced a neatly folded newspaper, which he handed to Henry. Henry held it open between his thumb and last finger and glanced at the latest headline detailing Hope’s missing diamond.

Lake looked up at the agent and passed back the paper.

“Are you the thief who stole it from Mr. Hope’s party? The French Blue?” the man asked.

“Depends.” Henry crossed his arms.

“Depends?”

“What will you give me?”

The man stuffed the paper into his coat. “The French Blue rightfully belongs to the Republic. It was stolen from us twenty years ago. We shouldn’t have to give you anything.”

Henry grinned. “But you will.”

“We are willing to negotiate, yes.”

“Willing to negotiate.” Henry scoffed. “Don’t play coy, good sir, for I know your
superior
would trade his bollocks for the missing crown jewels.”

The man blinked. “We shall discuss terms when you produce the French Blue. It is our wish to conclude this business quickly. If you do not have the jewel, we will find out who does, and negotiate with him.”

He flicked his wrist and a small, thick-edged calling card appeared between his fingers. He held it out to Henry. “My solicitor. He knows how to contact me.”

Ducking into his hat, the man bowed and said, “Please make it known His Majesty the prince regent has France’s wish for continued good health.”

“How lovely. Except we both know Prinny drank away whatever health he had back in the nineties. Nevertheless, I shall pass your wishes along.”

The man turned and disappeared into the passage’s gaping darkness. Henry watched him go, trying not to wince at the sudden, fierce ache in his leg.

As if Woodstock’s threat did not place Henry under enormous pressure already; now this, a reminder of what he would lose should he find the diamond, and trade it to the marquess. All those men—his men—fighting for England on the Continent; Henry would not be able to negotiate with the French for their lives.

They would lose—even England could lose—if the French Blue went to Woodstock in exchange for Caroline’s safety.

Nothing—nothing—mattered more than that. Her. Caroline.

Tugging a hand through the hair at the back of his neck, Henry limped into the deepening twilight. How to keep both his promises to England and to Caroline, to himself—that was the question. A question that, at the moment, didn’t seem to have an answer.

Henry let out a sigh of frustration. Even Hamlet, in all his ghost-seeing grimness, wouldn’t envy Lake’s current debacle. He’d faced
madame guillotine
, master swordsmen, but facing the fact that he had to betray his country to keep her alive—that he would leave her again, after falling for her once more—

That was too much to bear.

Twenty-three

The Next Day

H
er usual afternoon stroll in Hyde Park interrupted by a bout of foggy drizzle, Caroline was ducking into her carriage when she heard a voice, sickeningly familiar, ring out behind her.