A Lady's Revenge (26 page)

He rubbed his hands over his face, realizing what he must do and not liking it one whit. At least this way he could keep an eye on her and continue to assault her senses.

Guy sighed. How did she manage to turn the tide of control to her advantage with every encounter?

Pushing himself into a sitting position, he shook his head and relived her graceful exit. How did one glide in a pair of breeches? He recalled how her silken
pai
jamahs
had molded over her rounded bottom and swished around her long legs. She had managed the feat somehow, and damned if his body didn’t stir just thinking about it.

Cora closed the drawing room door with a trembling hand and an explosive anger that threatened to break free of her iron grip. She stared at the oak panel for several seconds, certain her fury would burn a hole in the thick wood.

Damn
the
man!
How could he turn a battle of wills into sexual longing? She briefly considered storming back inside and giving the idiot earl a swift kick in the ribs for making her want him while she was mad at him. Barely recovered from their last wondrous night in the country, she did not need him to remind her of how quickly their bantering could turn into hours of intoxicating pleasure.

Oh, such pleasure
, she thought and then scowled upon remembering she was supposed to be angry with him.

Instead of damaging his ribs, she headed for the grand staircase and scrambled up two flights of stairs until she reached her bedchamber. She darted inside to grab a couple items from the trunk at the foot of her bed before proceeding up another flight of stairs. After a few more strides, she stood before the attic door.

Fond remembrance surrounded her, quelling her anger to a low simmer. She turned the knob and eased her way in, and then waited for her eyes to adjust to the gloom of the enormous room filled with decades of memories.

At the far end, moonlight streamed through an oval window, providing a small amount of illumination. She weaved her way through a mountain of trunks and various types of furniture until she found Winnie. Nostalgia clenched the deep recesses of her throat when she lifted the Holland cover to find her old friend.

She smoothed her hand over the velvety fabric of the faded red chair and braced herself for the wave of remembrances to hit. The chair had belonged to her father, who had refused her mother’s constant urgings to dispose of it. When Somerton came to collect her and Ethan all those years ago, he’d had to pry her from the depths of Winnie’s bosom. A few days later, her brother had brought her to the attic and presented her with this quiet alcove of her own, compliments of their guardian.

Not everyone would appreciate such a gift, but for Cora, it was perfect.

She slipped around to the front and eased into her old friend’s embrace. “Hello, Winnie.” Why she gave a chair a name, she could no longer recall. It was one of those pieces of memory that had faded with time.

She made a table with her lap and placed in the center the small lacquered box she had plucked from her room. Made of sturdy, fine-grained walnut from the Orient, the beautiful box was decorated with an ivory overlay that depicted a Siberian tiger hunt scene. With reverence, her fingers skimmed across the familiar pattern, an image that made her feel alternately happy and sad. The artist had spent a great deal of time on the hunt scene. The level of detail carved into the ivory still amazed her, even after a decade of admiration.

If not for Dinks, she would have lost her most treasured gift. At the first sign of trouble in France, her thoughtful maid had packed this box and her mother’s necklace, knowing Cora would mourn their loss if left behind. A kindness Cora would never be able to repay, but it was always thus with her friend. Dinks had always given selflessly of herself for Cora’s benefit. Like following her mistress to a country full of war-hungry men, whose avaricious eyes were constantly cast toward England.

Unhooking the brass clasp on the box, Cora raised the lid to find three equally beautiful throwing knives. A stinging sensation pierced the backs of her eyes when she recalled the day Ethan had bestowed them on her at the tender age of eight.

Her family had visited the Bartholomew Fair in London that year. Their day had started out dreary, but by luncheon the sun had cut through the thick layer of gray clouds to illuminate the vendors’ displayed goods to their best effect.

Otherwise, she might never have seen the flash of metal.

Without bothering to tell her parents or brother, she had dashed away from her family and made straight for the shiny object. Seeing her wide-eyed fascination, the vendor, garbed in bright, loose-fitted clothing, motioned her over for a better look at his wares. The knife set had held her enthralled until her brother had finally tracked her down and dragged her reluctantly away. After leaving the booth, she had nattered on for the rest of the day about the artist’s craftsmanship. On her next birthday, much to her mother’s dismay, Ethan had presented the precious gift to her.

Leaning back in the cushioned chair, she removed one of the knives. Moonlight sparkled off the silvery blade as she rotated it in a circle. The handle displayed an intricate carving of a wingless dragon with an enormous tongue, its slender scaled body twined intimately around the handle. The carved relief was menacing and, at the same time, utterly captivating.

Her fingertips wandered down the flat sides of the blade, stopping a few inches above the tip. She closed her eyes, allowing her inner eye to guide her. Drawing back her arm, she sent the knife flying across the room. It landed with a solid
thwack
on the opposite wall. The other two knives followed in rapid succession.

Cora strode over to the wall and was pleased to see all three knives protruded from the center of the crude target she and her brother had designed many years ago. Although Ethan was quite skilled at the sport, he had not spent the time needed to perfect his technique. Cora, on the other hand, had devoted hours to the craft.

Walking back to the chair, she retrieved the second item she had filched from her room. Strapping the specially made leather belt around her waist, she then secured the knives in their holders. The belt fit around her trim hips perfectly, and the knives were set at the precise angle she needed for smooth, efficient access. Just as she had designed it.

How she wished she’d had the ensemble when facing Valère at Herrington Park. She had not thought to bring them during their unexpected flight to the country. She had not had time to think of many things before being shoved out of Somerton’s front door. But thankfully, she always carried a less ornate set in the lining of her reticule. An agent can never be too careful.

She moved to stand in front of the target again. From various distances, she repeated the exercise several times, adjusting her aim when a throw would go wide. During those shots, she could almost hear her brother’s voice, teasing her, telling her that she was losing her edge, and then the boom of his laughter when she proved him wrong. Tears pricked behind her eyes.

She wouldn’t allow Guy to closet her in this house. If he wouldn’t share his information, then she would have to gather her own. One knife after the next hurled against the target, each one becoming more exact.

The calm focus she had been waiting for finally settled over her, and she began assembling her own plan. One that would free her brother and Grace, protect Somerton and her servants, and drive Guy away forever.

Sitting on a white bench in Somerton’s rear garden, Cora curled a long blade of grass around her index finger while Dinks, who sat beside her, replaced the tattered forest green trim on a straw bonnet with a bright, cheery ribbon the color of marigolds.

Another dull, tedious beginning to a new day. After three such mornings, Cora worried she would not have the resilience needed to wait out Valère. She held back her deep sigh that begged to be heard and gave the vane of grass another whirl around her finger.

It was only a matter of time before Valère struck again. Unfortunately, she had no way of knowing when that moment would come. Her contacts had failed to supply her with anything of substance, and all her knowledge of the Frenchman’s likes and dislikes had gained her nothing but wasted time. But she knew he would come. He had promised.

Come
to
me
when
I
call.

Well, she was waiting for his bloody calling card. He had always had a penchant for theatrics. Why should her kidnapping be any different?

“If you jiggle this bench any faster, I’m sure to get a case of… What do the Frenchies call seasickness?
Mal
de
muke?
” Dinks grumbled as she secured one end of the yellow ribbon.

Cora stopped bouncing her knee. “
Mal
de mer
.”

“That’s right. Pluck some more grass or rip apart one of those pretty flowers to calm your nerves,” Dinks suggested. “Preferably the yellow ones.”

Cora glanced down at Dinks’s slow progress. “Why don’t you have Maddie do that? She loves working with such fripperies, and I know how much you dislike taking care of my wardrobe.”

“A lady’s maid who doesn’t look after her mistress’s clothes?” Dinks replied in feigned affront. “I’ll do no such thing.”

“You are more companion than maid, Dinks. You always have been.” Cora’s gaze skimmed their surroundings. “Why you insist on acting the lady’s maid, I do not know.”

Dinks made a snorting sound. “As a maid, I can run about the house—
any
house—with nary a glance from its occupants. Not so as a companion. Besides, all they do is sit, talk, read, sleep, and walk. I like to stay busy. Can you imagine what would become of my hips if I did nothing but keep you company? Bah!”

Cora chuckled, unable to stop her gaze from slashing down to Dinks’s ample hips. It hadn’t always been so. Years ago, when Dinks first arrived at Somerton’s, her tall, svelte figure moved with catlike precision and her voice purred with velvety undertones. As the years ticked by, her façade—the one she had dedicated years to hone—had melted away until the real Dinks felt safe to appear.

In a way Cora was only now beginning to understand. She had connected with this woman, had sensed a kinship in her that Cora had experienced with only one other individual in her life. A dark-haired, fire-beneath-his-feet boy. Both had made her smile, both had felt like home.

Dinks’s reasoning for taking on the role of lady’s maid penetrated her reveries. Sly girl.

While Cora roamed the ballrooms of Paris, listening for morsels of intelligence, Dinks had prowled below stairs of the homes they had visited. Cora had always marveled at the seedy gossip Dinks had collected on society’s most influential and powerful members but never paused to consider the maid’s methods. From the first days of their acquaintance, Dinks’s knowledge was something Cora had relied on, even expected. Something that just
was
. And when they left England for France, the maid’s
on
-
dits
never ceased.

Cora studied the older woman’s face. Indeterminate years left their mark in a spray of lines around her brown eyes and deep brackets framing her full mouth. Never had Dinks bemoaned her circumstances or sought pity for her difficult past. She greeted each day like a courageous frigate determined to survive the endless battering waves of a midsummer storm. Did she never tire of the constant struggle? Did she never wish to share her burdens with the right man? “Your life could be one of leisure instead of toil. Don’t you think you deserve a little rest, Dinks?”

The older woman’s lips thinned. “Now is not the time to be reclining in my frilly bed and sipping on my hot chocolate, Miss Cora. Plenty of years to do that later.”

Guilt pierced Cora’s heart. Dinks and the others should never have been this involved in government affairs or been dragged into Cora’s personal mission to find a killer. Gathering and sharing information was one thing, but participating in a war with the enemy was quite another. “I’m sorry, Dinks. This situation with Valère will soon be over.”

She kept telling herself that, praying it would come true. If only one of their sources would come through with the Frenchman’s location, pointing them in the right direction.

Valère’s suspicious mind, dislike of people, and dependence on finer things likely had him holed up at a large estate not far from the city’s borders, or possibly at a luxurious town house in an area like Grosvenor Square. A rustic cabin in the woods or a small flat over the bakery—with no access to servants, silk sheets, or expensive wine—would not do for the Frenchman’s sophisticated tastes. No, he thrived on decadence, pampering, and an army of staff at his command.

Dinks straightened and cast Cora an unhappy look. “Now what nonsense do you have bashing around that too active mind of yours?”

“Too active?” Cora wanted to smile, but the muscles in her cheeks felt heavy and leaden.

“You’re not feeling responsible for those two scapegraces and me again, are you?”

Cora’s gaze shifted to the sliver of grass coiled around her finger. “Of course not. Why on earth would I feel responsible for those in my employ?”

“There now, someone’s been sipping the vinegar this morning.” Dinks smoothed the ribbon in place. “If we’re going to get particular about the issue, those two muttonheads and me receive our wages from Lord Somerton.”

Cora refused to take the maid’s bait. With her mood already gray, her musings had taken her to a dark place, one filled with melancholy, longing, and regret. She was not a particularly patient person, and Valère’s silence was fraying the edges of her taut nerves. And no matter who paid their wages, Cora would always take care of her little family, as they had her.

Dinks sighed and stopped fussing with the bonnet. “I’m a woman grown, Miss Cora, quite capable of taking care of myself. You needn’t place that kind of burden on your wee shoulders.”

The image of Dinks fighting her captor’s hold while commanding Cora not to give in to Valère’s petty need for vengeance flared bright in her mind. “Valère could have killed you.”

“I’ve got nowhere else to be, little mite. Here, I have purpose.” She nodded her head beyond the garden’s walls, toward the city at large. “There, I have nothing.”

Cora covered her friend’s work-worn hand and blinked back the sting of tears. Kinship. And devotion. How she loved this sharp-tongued woman.

Dinks had inadvertently touched on a very real fear of Cora’s. A fear she strove to ignore, even though she had felt the first nick of its deadly claws a few days ago. What would she do when Valère no longer terrorized her and she no longer hunted a killer? It’s not as though she could go husband-hunting or produce a brood of children. Would she continue working for the government in some other capacity? Would she retire to the country, a spinster? She simply didn’t know, and her inability to see into her future haunted her present.

Dinks sniffed. “Well now,” she said, her words rough with emotion. “How much longer are we going to wait for that Frenchie to make an appearance?”

Cora cleared her own throat. “Another quarter hour, and we can begin Act II.”

Since Guy and Somerton had made only a cursory attempt to take her into their confidence, she had devised her own strategy. Contrary to their wishes, she left the safety of Somerton’s house every day, visiting old acquaintances, the museums, the theater, and even a ball or two. She became predictable, visible, and made herself appear vulnerable.

The bruises on her face had faded to the extent that cleverly applied powder covered the rest. The jagged scar running down her cheek drew less attention than her cropped hair. Although an oddity, many of the women loved the style and bemoaned their own cumbersome locks. Oddly enough, she noticed several men sending appreciative looks her way—Guy noticed, too.

As with everything, her forays back into society came with a price. A tall, too-handsome-to-ignore price. A Guy price.

Without invitation, he would appear on her doorstep, ready to provide escort. He had obviously wheedled her schedule out of Dinks. It would not have taken much convincing on his part, though. Dinks considered Guy’s constant presence a boon, not a hindrance.

Never before had the maid gone against Cora’s wishes. Cora found the other woman’s covert actions endearing and irritating at the same time. The pesky devil inside of her brain tried to view Dinks’s endorsement of Guy as a slow-moving fracture of her loyalty, of her shift to Guy’s side. Of her first horrid step to leaving Cora.

No matter how much she wished an easier existence for Dinks, she didn’t want to move through this life without her. The thought of losing her friend—her confidant, her anchor—was intolerable. In many ways, the maid had picked up the fallen maternal reins of Olivia deBeau and in her mother’s absence, helped guide Cora down her unusual path.

Reflecting on their years together, Cora realized she had learned as much from Dinks as she had from Somerton. Her former guardian had taught her how to protect herself, how to peel off layers of intrigue to get to the juicy, sweet middle. How to hide her emotions.

Dinks had educated Cora on how to survive as a woman, how to use her wits, and how to laugh when faced with insurmountable adversity. Because Dinks knew a thing or two about adversity. She had lived with it her entire life. Had pulled herself out of the stews of London’s East End, dusted herself off, and used her assets to learn about the world around her and build a better life. One of her own making.

Dinks was a survivor, and she had given Cora the tools to become one, too.

She sent her companion a sidelong glance. “I should warn you, Madame Matchmaker, that I am on to your underhanded tactics.”

The older woman’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you? What cunning thing have I gone and done now?”

“In a wily attempt to keep Guy and me in each other’s pockets, you have turned traitor by sharing my schedule with him.”

Dinks’s lips twitched. “You’re lucky to have such a handsome, capable man offering you his protection. Besides, you needed an escort, and his lordship was happy to oblige. Seemed perfectly straightforward to me.”

“He obliged because he wants to keep me under his thumb.”

A wicked smile rent across the maid’s face. “Not a bad problem to have, as long as the thumb is pressed in the right spot.”

“Dinks!” Cora couldn’t keep the pink from sliding into her cheeks. Her inner muscles clenched at the mere thought of having Guy’s strong, warm hands on her
anywhere
, but most especially on the sensitive spot that throbbed with anticipation with little more than a hint of his approach.

She didn’t want a few marvelous moments with him; she wanted them all. Every aggravating, breathtaking, joyous, grief-stricken moment of his life, and the realization terrified her.

In truth, the part of her that was female to the core didn’t mind his being by her side. His supporting hand at her back allowed her to walk into any room with her head held high and a secretive smile on her lips.

But the harder, more determined, more ruthless part of her knew his constant attendance placed them all in danger.

His nearness muddled her mind and made her careless. She foolishly imagined a gentler, less world-weary version of herself in a future drenched with images of Guy.

So instead of skimming ballrooms for any sign of her enemy, she stole glances at Guy from the corner of her eye. Instead of checking behind every tree and shrub for Valère as they dashed along Rotten Row in Guy’s curricle, she gazed with envy at fresh-faced debutantes smiling shyly up at their chosen beaux. Instead of slicing through crowds to lose her brooding escort, she slowed her step so she could feel his subtle strength at her back.

Yes, Guy was a danger, on levels she had yet to comprehend.

She dropped the shredded blade of grass and bent to pluck a new one, inhaling the earthy green scent. Her daily routine began here, in Somerton’s garden. She selected the location for its visibility and also to give her a spot of solitude before the day’s carefully planned theatricals began.

A breeze collected a profusion of scents as it glided over herbs, roses, and scores of perennials. Cora lifted her nose and filled her lungs, cleansing her mind in the process. She glanced around, as she did every morning. Everywhere she looked, her vision was assaulted by color. Dazzling shades of heartsease sprinkled the borders of the gravel walking path, and hardy spires of foxglove bugled and swayed in the distance, while a cluster of forget-me-nots wove their gentle petals between thorny, white rose blossoms.

Here, among all this beauty and peace, she waited for Valère to make his move, waited for him to follow through on his threat to come for her. The submissive role was punishing for one whose success stemmed from her ability to act decisively, without waiting. By keeping her in a constant state of anticipation, Valère controlled their high-stakes chess game.

She wished she could share her plan with Guy, yearned for the use of his clever mind and reassuring companionship. Although he was never far from her side, their views on her involvement in this mission had chiseled an enormous chasm between them. She held fast against her urge to look over her shoulder. Would she find him in his usual place—standing guard in one of the upper windows, scanning the garden’s various outbuildings and entrances? Or would he be strolling the perimeter and checking the many walking paths?