A Lady's Secret Weapon (10 page)

Sydney’s mind raced like lightning shooting across the sky. What plausible excuse could she give him for concealing her identity from Abbingale’s staff? Then she hit upon a possible solution, one that held a deep kernel of truth. “At the Hunt Agency, I’m in a position to help many people. Some have come to see me as a savior, of sorts, and because of this they bring an assortment of concerns to my door.” She paused to organize her thoughts.

“Interesting,” he said, “but how do your clients’ disturbances relate to your use of an alias?”

“One of Abbingale’s former maids is cousin to a client of mine. After witnessing some rather harsh disciplinary treatment of the boys, the maid gave notice, even though she could ill-afford to lose her position.”

“I suspect you were able to assist in that area.”

“Thankfully, yes.”

“Miss Hunt, what is your true purpose for touring Abbingale Home? I take it Mrs. Henshaw, the wealthy benefactress, is nothing more than a means for entrée?”

“Yes and no.”

“You do not intend to leave it that way, do you? Not after I admitted to not needing a new butler.”

Because of her unconventional means of gathering information, she had become cautious in her actions and her speech. This particular part of her ruse did not require such secrecy, however. “
Yes
, occupying the feather-brained demeanor of a wealthy merchant’s wife provided me with the perfect excuse for viewing the inner workings of Abbingale.
No
, because I do not intend to simply walk away after satisfying my investigation. I will provide assistance to Abbingale—whether it will be financial or operational still remains to be seen.”

He began toying with her hair again. “I find the complexity of your mind as stimulating as your beautiful figure.”

Heat rippled through her veins and pooled in her womb. Her inner muscles clenched around tiny arrows of pleasure. She shot to her feet, unwilling to give his declaration any more power. “My lord, it is not necessary, nor even advisable, to spout out whatever comes to one’s mind.”

He sighed. “So I’ve been told.”

“Perhaps it would be best for us to reconvene our meeting tomorrow. Or, better yet, Mrs. Cartwright might be a more suitable liaison for you from this point forward.”

Her new vantage point provided her with a modicum of relief from his nearness, until he unwound his large frame to tower above her, crowding her even more than before.

“I’m sure it would be no hardship to work with Mrs. Cartwright.” He cradled her face between his palms, and Sydney’s breath caught. “But I would prefer that we continue on as before.” His thumbs brushed over her cheeks. “Well, perhaps not exactly as before.”

Warm, humid air fanned over her skin a moment before his mouth covered hers. Without thought, her lips molded with the soft contours of his, allowing him to guide her into each hungry nip and taste, while her brilliant mind scrambled to gather up its loose wits.

But it was no use. Desire forced all her logic and will into a far alcove of her mind, protected by thick bars of long-suppressed need. All she could think of was the decadence of his kiss, the delight of his scent, and the joy of his attraction. He was a master at this, she thought. Making women feel special and desirable. A gentleman like him would know all about a female’s pleasure points and how to use them to his advantage. A means to an end.

His kiss changed, deepened. A sense of urgency now tinged his breaths. Then he changed. Releasing her face, he slid one arm around her waist and the other into the valley between her shoulder blades until his fingers cupped the base of her skull.

A burst of lush heat blanketed her, followed swiftly by a keen sense of vulnerability. Her back stiffened, and he halted their kiss. Flattening her palms against his inconceivably massive chest, she gently, but firmly, applied pressure until he uncoiled his body from around hers.

She stepped back. His breaths seesawed with hers in an oddly rhythmic dance. Until finally, her passions cooled enough for her logic to reemerge. And her humiliation.

Dear God, she wanted nothing more than to cover her flushed face and run, long and hard, to the safety of her private apartment above the Hunt Agency. She could do none of this, not without enduring even more mortification beneath the viscount’s avid regard.

“Did I frighten you?”

How could she explain the volatile mix of emotions paralyzing her? “I’m not afraid of intimacy, my lord. But I’m not comfortable with being… crowded.” She cringed.
Crowded
wasn’t the right word, though it was the only one that came to her muddled mind.

“My apologies. I’m quite aware that my size can be overwhelming to women. However, with you in my arms, everything felt right.”

Sydney reached out to touch his arm, then thought better of it. “Your size had nothing to do with my reaction. It’s more a matter of control.”
So
I
don’t feel backed in a corner, held against my will, unable to escape
.

“I see.”

From the tone of his voice, Sydney worried he saw too much from her simple explanation.

He waved his finger toward her head. “Your coiffure is in need of mending.”

Sydney’s gaze shifted to the lock of hair dangling near the corner of her left eye. “Drat it.” She grabbed the irritating skein with one hand and searched for a pin with the other.

“Allow me.” He batted her hands away and lowered them to her sides. Loosely clasping one of her hands in his, he brushed the wisp of black hair behind her ear. “As soft as the finest silk,” he murmured. “As dark as the purest obsidian.”

His featherlight touch sent a delicious, racking shiver along every one of her nerve endings. She tried to absorb the dangerous beauty of the moment, even while she slowly leaned out of his reach. No gentleman had ever touched her with such familiarity since Philip. Handsome, attentive Philip. Her angel, her savior. The talented physician had made her forget, for a time, the cruelty of men. Their three-month-long courtship had been rich with adventure and filled with laughter. Never had she felt so free from her devastating past.

So, on one lovely spring day, when Philip whispered words of love in between drugging kisses, Sydney knew the time had come to tell him the truth. A truth, as it happens, that even an angel could not forgive.

“My lord,” she said in a voice she didn’t recognize. “I’ve made it a practice not to become intimately involved with my clients.”

“I adore your unusual height. Never will I develop a stooped posture with you around. I feel more youthful already.”

His attempt to make her smile almost worked. Before he succeeded, she retreated two more steps. “You are talking nonsense, sir. It is time for me to go.”

“Very well.” He gave her hand a squeeze of assurance before releasing it. “I look forward to our trip to Abbingale. When do you plan to return?”

“I told you—”

“That you did not have time to visit all six. You presented no objection to Abbingale.”

Sydney knew debating the point with him would be senseless. He would merely lurk outside Abbingale until she arrived and then attach himself to her side. Besides, until she fully understood his motive for contacting her, she thought it best to keep him near her side. “If you insist, my lord. We will collect you at eleven on Sunday. Please be ready.”

He bowed. “I will take special care with my toilette, so as not to embarrass you.” When he straightened, his eyes twinkled with mischief.

Sydney’s smile broke free. His playfulness poked at a deep-seated need she didn’t fully comprehend but yearned to explore. “Good day, Lord Danforth.” When she made to open the door, a large hand swooped in to grasp the latch. She glanced at him with an inquiring brow.

“One more thing, Miss Hunt.”

“Yes?” Annoyance crackled her tone.

“Thank you for taking care of me in the warehouse.”

The study and all its furnishings disappeared, as if a large hole had opened beneath their feet and everything tumbled over the edge into a great abyss. Everything, but her and the viscount.

This was the moment Sydney had dreaded since Mac had first uttered Lord Danforth’s name yesterday. All she had worked for now teetered toward the same crevasse that had swallowed Sydney’s world seconds ago.

“Warehouse? I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

I
won’t be this helpless forever, little maid.

A sharp rap on the door startled Sydney, and she choked back a scream.

“Yes?” Lord Danforth called, not taking his disturbing gaze from Sydney’s face.

“Mrs. Cartwright and I have concluded our business, sir,” came the butler’s muffled reply.

“A minute, Tanner.”

“Yes, sir.”

Relief spread into Sydney’s every pore, and the interruption gave Sydney enough time to shake off her devastating paralysis and retrieve her composure. “Lord Danforth.” She nodded toward his hand on the latch. “Do you mind?”

He studied her features as if looking upon a precious gift. Brushing a finger along her jawline he said, “Keep your secrets. For now.”

Tanner’s voice carried through the wooden panels. “My lord, there is a rather large gentleman here to see Miss Hunt.”

“Thank you, Tanner.” To her, he asked, “One of your shadows?”

“Most likely.” More softly, she said, “Mac won’t wait long.”

He bent forward and pressed a devastating kiss to her cheek before moving away.

Emotion clogged Sydney’s throat, and she raked her hand down her skirts to keep from reaching for him. Squaring her shoulders, she opened the door. Mac took one look at her face and motioned to someone in the corridor before putting his body between Sydney’s and the viscount’s.

Mick appeared. “Come, Miss Hunt.” He held out a hand, and Sydney slid hers into his, taking comfort from the warmth of his palm and the strength of his grip. He coaxed her from his lordship’s study.

“I will see you Sunday, Miss Hunt,” Lord Danforth said.

Sydney did not stop, glance back, nor reply. Her body quaked with desire, humiliation, vulnerability, and a repulsive weakness she had not had to face in many years. Not even during her courtship with Philip. She allowed Mick to guide her away, leaning on him the slightest bit for the first time in their short acquaintance.

At the end of the corridor, Mick handed her over to Amelia and then fell in behind them. Once they were settled in the carriage, her assistant asked, “Did I do right by calling for Mac and Mick?”

Sydney met the other woman’s worried gaze and nodded. Words were beyond her. Everything—breath, tears, bile, her voice—seemed to be lodged in a bitter knot in the center of her chest. The year her mother had spent in Ridgway’s employ was the darkest of Sydney’s life. In many ways, those weeks of living in dread and terror had molded her into the independent, careful, and strong-willed woman she was today. Those days also had laid the foundation for unexpected bouts of anxiety, hours of melancholy, and periods of intense self-hatred.

She never, ever allowed her mind to return to those bleak days. How had her six-year-old thoughts slipped by her immovable shields? Today? Why with this man? Her mind remained too rattled to form an answer.

But that did not stop her from trying to piece together her conversation with Ethan deBeau. He had recalled something from his recuperative stay in the dockside warehouse. She had taken special care with her maid’s disguise to prevent future discovery—worn, dirty clothing; ash smeared on her face and hands; hair in need of several more pins and covered by a threadbare cap; and a voice soft and submissive. What had she said or done to give herself away?

Sydney clenched her hands together in her lap and squeezed. She would have to face him again in a few days, with the knowledge that he knew a dangerous part of her secret and that he had witnessed her crumble beneath the weight of her insidious past. The situation sickened her even more. Besides the O’Donnells, she allowed no man to observe her in such a weakened state. Men preyed on vulnerability. She would be no one’s prey again.

Somehow she must rid herself of the viscount. She no longer wished to keep him close at hand. His reasons for seeking her out were no longer a mystery. Too much damage could be done by him poking around in her business for no other reason than to assuage his gentleman’s honor.

Amelia brushed a lock of Sydney’s hair away from her downcast face. The gesture elicited an awful thought, followed rapidly by full realization. Every time Sydney had tucked the same troublesome lock of hair behind her ear, Lord Danforth’s features had slackened for a moment before his gaze sharpened. With each thoughtless action, she had sparked a memory of his recovery, until he finally patched it all together. Or, at least, a good portion of the mystery.

She closed her eyes, cursing herself for a fool and vowing to cut her errant hair.

“Fine afternoon to you, Amelia. These are for you.”

Mac O’Donnell swiveled his head toward his brother’s voice. As with many of the rooms at the Hunt Agency, the library had been converted into twin workspaces, separated by a seven-foot, double-sided bookshelf and private doors leading from the corridor to each area. One end of the bookshelf connected with the wall, leaving a three-foot gap on the other end for easy passage from one domain to the other.

Currently, his brother was on one side with Mrs. Cartwright while Mac sat alone on the other, brooding.

“And to you, Mick,” Mrs. Cartwright said. “The flowers are lovely. Thank you.”

“They’re not much, but the old woman selling them assured me a bit of water would bring them back to life.”

The assistant’s side of the library could use some cheering up. While the O’Donnell side housed a desk and two chairs, a map of London affixed to the wall containing numerous markings, a small table holding two half-full decanters, a chessboard on another table, and an empty gold-wire birdcage standing in the corner, the Cartwright side held a desk and chair, a cabinet with multiple drawers, and a small stepladder in front of the wall of books. That was it.

The O’Donnell side bespoke of comfort and home, while the Cartwright side denoted a rather discomfiting lack of commitment. Even after four years. Only in the last twelve months or so had Mac noticed the stark difference in their workspaces, about the same time Mick joined the agency. Before that, Mac had spent most of his time avoiding his area, thereby avoiding his employer’s assistant. When they did share the same breathing space, he tapped into every bitter memory he possessed, keeping his anger and disappointment alive. The tactic ensured they developed no greater bond than a thrice-removed acquaintance.

“You’re a kind man, Mick O’Donnell,” she said. “I’m sure your patronage saved the woman from going hungry today.”

Mac’s jaw set. His kind brother’s patronage was nothing more than a cover to retrieve information, though Mac suspected the scapegrace paid more than he should have.

“How is it you never confuse me with my brother?”

Mac had often wondered the same. He leaned closer.

“Quite easily.”

“It’s the scar, isn’t it?”

“What scar?”

A moment of silence. “You’re telling me that you haven’t noticed the scar on the blighter’s face and you can still tell us apart?”

“Of course.”

“How?”

Silence again; longer this time. Then a sigh. “You wished me a good afternoon.”

“I wished you a good afternoon,” his brother repeated, as if doing so would make more sense of her answer.

Mac heard paper shuffling and then her chair made a high-pitched squeak, as it normally did, when she rose. On occasion, he had considered fixing the telltale sign of her departure but always decided against it. He liked being able to track her movements. He liked knowing when she was near.

“I told you,” she said. “Quite easily.” More shuffling. “I’m ready to continue interviewing our clients when you are. Shall I meet you downstairs in ten minutes?”

“Aye,” Mick said. “Remind me to share with you what I learned from Gabby-the-flower-girl.”

Feminine heels pattered across the floor, and Mac tried to envision what Mrs. Cartwright might be wearing today. A soft green to match her eyes or a somber blue to reflect her mood?

“Do you not even exchange pleasantries with the woman?” Mick asked, striding through the opening between the bookshelf and wall.

A muscle jumped in Mac’s jaw. “We discuss what we need to, when we need to.”

“So, no. What do you do when you pass her in the corridor or see her for the first time in the morning?”

Mac said nothing, for no words could explain the complicated emotions he experienced every time he came into contact with Mrs. Cartwright.

“Dammit, man. Have you forgotten all your manners?”

“How I communicate with Mrs. Cartwright is none of your concern. Leave it be.”

“Take your own advice.” His brother waved his hand toward Mrs. Cartwright’s side. “Whatever you found in the girl’s background is just that—in her past. She’s done nothing to hurt you or anyone at the agency.”

“Nothing we know of.”

Disappointment trod over his brother’s righteous anger. “In all our years, I have never seen you treat the fairer sex the way you do the assistant. Does this have something to do with our no-good mother?”

A rapid arrangement of scenes flashed before Mac’s eyes. He tried to stop them, but somehow they always found a crack in his mental barriers. Raw fury burned through him like the glowing tip of a new sword. “Fine, she’s an angel.”

“Yet you will still treat her like she’s the devil.”

“I’ll do no such thing.” Mac shot up out of his chair and paced the small confines of their shared workspace. “I can respect her dedication to the agency without being her damned friend.”

Mick moved to the door. “What are you afraid of, brother? That you might come to care for her? A young, beautiful woman who made a horrible blunder and is now working diligently to correct the mistake?” Mick shook his head and turned the latch. “If I didn’t know you any better, I would think you had traipsed through the last twenty-six years on a golden cloud of fairy dust.”

Mac slashed his hand through the air, ending the conversation. “Make sure Sydney knows about your conversation with Gabby-the-flower-girl.”

Mick sent him a mocking salute. “At once, Admiral O’Donnell.” He stepped into the shadow-ridden corridor. “Know this, brother. If you won’t have her, I will.”

Blood pounded behind Mac’s eyes. He pressed his thumb and forefinger into the burning sockets, rubbing. How had it come to this? He could think of a dozen more qualified individuals to deliver a lecture on manners than his guttersnipe brother. But the bastard had found a raw nerve and then proceeded to draw a knife over it, again and again.

Mac wasn’t discourteous to Mrs. Cartwright.
Amelia
. He simply avoided her until he could not. His need to evade her company had increased in the last few months, as had his awareness of her every move.

He let his hand fall to his side and strode to the opening. He studied Amelia’s workspace for several minutes. Such a dismal space—stark, cold, utilitarian. By no means was this an appropriate environment for a young woman to spend hours at a time, alone and without companionship. No wonder she never smiled. His mood darkened just standing here.

The only spot of color in the whole room was the sad arrangement of yellow flowers Mick had given her. His brother knew her well, for he even brought her a small vase of water to stow them in.

Glancing over his shoulder, he located the empty birdcage. The large wire-framed cage once held an armada of warbling canaries of various colors. He had toted the birds from one apartment to the next, where they provided him with hours of company and beautiful music. His neighbors had rarely appreciated their symphony, but Mac had. So much of his early life had been scarred by the sights and sounds of greed and poverty that he never knew such beauty existed.

And then his avian friends began dying, one after the other, until there were none left. For two years, the cage had sat empty. Mac simply didn’t have the heart to replace his birds, nor could he discard their cage.

He swiveled his gaze back to Amelia’s workspace. His was not the only life lacking beauty.