Dangerous to Kiss (7 page)

The other occupant of the room was Lord Hartley, their brother-in-law, who had married their older sister, Gussie, nine years before. Hart, a sober-looking gentleman, was in his late thirties, dark haired and dark complexioned. Though he was fond of his brothers-in
law, he was a little in awe of them. He considered himself a slow, plodding sort of fellow, while they were as changeable as quicksilver. Sometimes, in conversation with them, he found it hard to grasp their train of thought. A lesser man, not wishing to appear stupid, wouldn’t have troubled himself, but Hart was nothing if not persistent. For some time now, he had been mulling over Gray’s plan of action and he was not satisfied that he understood all the implications of it.

“I suppose,” he said, “this is the best way to handle things?”

“Meaning?” Nick gathered the cards that were on the table. “My trick, I believe?”

“What? Oh yes. What I mean is this. Wouldn’t it be simpler to hand Miss Weyman over to the authorities?”

“You heard Gray. Magistrates and constables are sworn to uphold the law and must follow a set procedure. That takes time. Besides, Gray won’t make a move that might tip the hand of the traitor at the Foreign Office. That’s why we are doing this in stealth.” There was a twinkle in Nick’s eye as he waited for the next question.

Hart looked at the cards in his hand and rearranged them. At length, he said, “And Gray is no nearer to discovering who this traitor is?”

“You heard him. He has set dozens of traps without result. Not one bite. Not even a nibble.”

“What do you make of it?”

“That our spy is either very cautious, or he has given up the game. Perhaps he’s waiting for something big, something connected with Miss Weyman and the boy.”

“Is it possible that Miss Weyman is the traitor?”

“Oh no,” said Nick. “Quite impossible.”

Though Hart was relieved to hear it, he said carefully, “Why is it impossible?”

“Because Miss Weyman did not have access to the information that was passed to the French. The only way she could have known anything was if Gil told her, and he was hardly likely to do that.”

Hart frowned down at his cards. “None of it makes
sense to me. No one suspected her. Why would she suddenly run with the boy when she arrived in England?”

Nick sighed. “Hart, you will just have to accept that some questions cannot be answered until Gray has questioned Miss Weyman.”

For the next few minutes, they played out their cards in silence. Nick was not surprised when he won the next hand. Hart had that expression on his face that told him his thoughts were elsewhere.

When Nick began to shuffle the pack, Hart said, “I don’t believe she murdered Gil.”

“Oh? Why not?”

“Because,” said Hart, “Miss Hare could not recommend her highly enough, and Gil named her as Quentin’s guardian. That does not sound to me as if she were capable of committing murder.”

“No, but she might know who did. And there’s no getting round the fact that she abducted Quentin. She must be guilty of something, Hart, or why did she take the boy and run?”

But Hart had no answer to this and stared glumly at his cards. When a door suddenly slammed, both gentlemen looked up. They heard Gray’s quick stride in the hall, then a moment later the door opened to admit him. He hardly spared them a glance as he strode to the table with the decanters and glasses. Having poured himself a small measure of brandy, he took a long swallow, then swung to face them.

“You are to leave at once for Wells,” he said. “You will be happy to know that everything went off without a hitch. Miss Hare trusts me. The girl trusts me. So you see, we are well on the way to success.”

Nick’s brows had risen. “Gray, what the deuce has happened? You act as if Miss Weyman had flown the coop.”

Gray’s smile was arctic. Hart could feel the chill of it on the back of his neck. Raising one hand, he absent-mindedly smoothed the fine hairs into place.

“What has happened,” said Gray in a voice that matched his smile, “is that I am perfectly sure I shall be
able to break Miss Weyman in a matter of days, if not hours.”

His words were met by silence. Nick and Hart exchanged a quick look, then Nick said carefully, “But that’s capital, Gray, and if that’s the case, perhaps there’s no need to, um, go on with the charade.”

Gray bolted the dregs of his brandy and set down the glass with a snap. “Use your head, Nick. Miss Weyman has proved that she is a clever, resourceful woman. I have every confidence that I can break her, but only when pressure is brought to bear.”

Hart, who had a vision of thumb screws and boiling oil, swallowed convulsively. “I say, Gray, old fellow, don’t you think—”

Gray’s voice lashed out like the crack of a cat-o’-nine-tails. “Don’t be a fool, Hart. I won’t harm her, not in any real sense.”

Though the words were hardly comforting, Hart lapsed into silence.

Gray looked from one gentleman to the other. “Then I shall see you in Wells before the week is out. And Hart, remember what I told you. I don’t want you getting into conversation with the girl. You are to look grim and say as little as possible. You are too nice for your own good, that’s your trouble. Just think of Jason,” he went on, referring to Hart’s eight-year-old son. “Think how you would feel if he were abducted.”

Hart looked very grim indeed, and Gray nodded. He turned to Nick. “Nick?”

“I know my part. I’m to be her friend and savior.”

“Just see that you remember it.”

His hand was on the doorknob when Nick called out, “I say, Gray, aren’t you going to tell us something of your interview with Miss Weyman?”

“What do you wish to know?”

“Well … what is she like, for a start?”

“Frightened. Vulnerable. Unsuspecting. Does that answer your question?”

“I suppose, but … do you still think she may have murdered Gil?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Well … do you?”

Gray turned away with an impatient oath. “I’d be a fool to let myself be deceived by a pair of huge, innocent eyes and those taking ways of hers. And I am no fool.”

“I see,” said Nick, mystified.

“Fine. Now, if you will excuse me?” and Gray left his companions staring at a closed door.

Hart cleared his throat. “I’ve never seen him in this mood.” He spoke in an undertone, as though eavesdroppers might be lurking on the other side of the door.

“Neither have I,” said Nick.

“What do you suppose has got into him?”

“If I didn’t know better …” mused Nick, then trailed to a halt.

“What?”

“It can’t be.” Nick was still staring at the closed door, his brow knit in a perplexed frown. “No, I must be mistaken.” A moment later, he was smothering a laugh behind his hand.

“I wish you would share the joke,” said Hart, not bothering to hide his annoyance.

A wicked light kindled in Nick’s eyes. “Poor Gray!” With an expression of arrested surprise, he turned to face his brother-in-law. “Do you know, Hart, I’ve never said those words before.”

“What words?”

“‘Poor Gray.’”

Hart was wishing that he was in the bosom of his family in Kent. His wife might be a Grayson, but at least she was comprehensible. Throwing down his cards, he got to his feet. “We’d best do what Gray says.”

Nick rose also. “What we’d best do,” he said, flinging an affectionate arm around the older man’s shoulders, “is tread very carefully around Gray until this is over.” He was still laughing when they left the house.

The journey to Mr. Gray’s villa was made in the most dismal weather. There was a steady drizzle, and a fine mist had blown in from the Bristol Channel. As a consequence, the coachman held his team at a snail’s pace. These small aggravations were offset to some degree, in Deborah’s opinion, when, just out of Radstock, Mr. Gray chose to relinquish his mount and travel in the coach with her.

“Filthy weather,” said Gray, and settling himself on the opposite banquette, he vigorously brushed raindrops from the collar of his cape. Angling her a smile, he said apologetically, “Pray forgive the intrusion, ma’am, but my horse has no more taste for a drowning than I do. That’s the trouble with these Thoroughbreds—they are too fastidious in their notions. Jupiter balks without fail whenever he steps in a puddle. Lord, one would think I was asking him to swim the English Channel.”

Gray eased into the corner of the coach, one arm resting negligently along the back of the banquette. He was careful to keep the smile of apology in place. His thoughts were not nearly so pleasant as his expression.

The last place he wanted to be was in the intimacy of the coach with Deborah Weyman. He cared nothing for the elements, and neither did Jupiter. What he wished to
avoid was any softening in his attitude toward the girl. So long as he kept his distance, he felt relatively safe from all her unconscious appeals.

Circumstances beyond his control had frustrated him. What Miss Weyman did not know, thankfully, was that on their way through Radstock, as they were passing the White Hart, he had been recognized and hailed by Lady Pamela Becket, one of Helena’s particular friends. Until that moment, it had slipped his mind that the Beckets’ country place was on the road to Wells. It was entirely possible that her husband, the marquess, was there now for the hunting season with a party of guests. He therefore judged it prudent to travel in the obscurity of the coach.

Deborah hastened to put him at his ease. “Come now, Mr. Gray, you are not responsible for the rain. You could not have foreseen …” Her voice faded as it occurred to her that there had been no change in the weather for the last two days. He must have known that it was folly to ride a horse that would balk every time he came to a puddle.

Correctly reading her mind, Gray said: “But you see, I did know. It was Farley, my old valet, who convinced me that the weather would break almost before we left Bath. His lumbago is something of a barometer, you see. I’ve never known it to fail before now. And … well, I knew I should not ride in the coach with you. You see how it is?”

She liked him. She really liked him, and she most particularly liked his gentlemanly conduct toward herself. There were hot bricks for her feet, and a traveling rug draped across her knees. In addition, his very evident reluctance to travel in the coach with her, as though this small disregard for decorum would blacken her name, both amused and warmed her. Mr. Gray had that happy knack of making a female feel safe and cherished. She thought his sister must be the most fortunate of girls.

Leaning across the distance that separated them, she said earnestly, “No one could fault you for coming in
out of the rain. My advice to you is to put it out of your mind.”

His look was long and inscrutable, and Deborah eased back, increasing the space between them. As that look lengthened, her heart skipped a beat, but when he smiled, it gradually steadied itself.

Gray made a note of the distance she had set between them and he was seized with the temptation to pounce on her. In all ignorance, the woman was rousing the primitive in him. He did not know how much longer he could go on playing the part of a gelding. He did not know why she wanted him to, but it was one of the things about Deborah Weyman he was resolved he would find out. But all in good time.

“Had I been thinking properly,” he said, “I would have asked one of Miss Hare’s maids to accompany us, to act as chaperon.”

Teacherlike, she clicked her tongue. “You may believe, Mr. Gray, that I am beyond the age of requiring a chaperon. I am no green girl.”

She gave her trust too readily. That was her fatal weakness, and without scruple, he had used it against her. He should be pleased that matters were progressing just as he had hoped they would. Instead, he felt, not guilt, but a faint distaste. And regret. Losing patience with himself, he brushed his misgivings aside. Quentin, and only Quentin, must be his first consideration.

Seeing that some response was expected of him, he said carelessly, “I take leave to doubt that,” and turning his head, he stared out the window.

Deborah accepted his response for what it was, an unthinking commonplace, and her spirits sank. It was so depressing. To him, she must appear as well on the way to her dotage. As for herself, she had never met a man she liked half as well.

Once again, she found herself longing to confide in him. He had such a kind face, such an unselfconscious grin, and his marked attention for her comfort went well beyond common courtesy. She dared not say a word. She was Mrs. Deborah Mornay, and for Quentin’s sake,
Mrs. Mornay she must remain until she had got the boy safely away.

When her train of thought made her suddenly shiver, he put out a hand, then quickly withdrew it. “What is it?” he asked softly.

She lifted her shoulders and tried for a laugh. “Nerves, I suppose. I’m always like this when I take up a new position.”

He held her eyes in a searching stare, then he smiled. “I’ve seen you in action, Mrs. Mornay. I’m counting on you to hold your own.”

It was an odd thing to say, but it soothed her just the same. “Thank you,” she said, and lapsed into silence.