Shirley Kerr (26 page)

Hermione cleared her throat.

Lord Q gave a guilty start. “But I’m sure you didn’t come calling here today to reminisce about your family with me.”

“No, I…”

“Have you come to discuss a date with Charlotte?” Hermione looked as eager as if she were to be a bride. “If we are to make all the necessary wedding arrangements, we will need to set a date. Soon.”

“Date? Right. Yes. Yes, I came to discuss things with Charlotte.” Alistair ran his finger between his neck and cravat, as though it were suddenly too tight.

Oh, blast well-meaning relatives. “Shall we go for a turn about the garden?” Charlotte didn’t even look to see if Alistair followed.

She didn’t need to see, as she could feel his presence behind her like a physical thing. Almost as tangible as his presence had been in front of her, last night, up on the roof.

Not wanting any maids or footmen to overhear their conversation, they were silent on the trip to the back of the house. And just because they would be alone was no reason to lose her head. She needed to stay focused on the snuffbox. Tonight presented a perfect opportunity, too good to pass up or allow herself to be distracted, yet again, by Alistair.

Walking with Charlotte at his side, Alistair debated the best way to broach the subject of their betrothal. Convincing her that they should marry because he had compromised her had already proven unsuccessful. Even after their interlude on the roof last night, he doubted she would see things any differently.

Perhaps it was a simple matter of bribery.

Not with jewelry. Even though his grandmother’s sapphire betrothal ring was a dainty thing of beauty, perfectly suited for Charlotte’s petite hand, and currently tucked away in a jeweler’s box in his coat pocket, jewelry was not the way to her heart.

Not with social ranking, and its accompanying wealth and power. Becoming his viscountess, with the prospect of becoming a marchioness and eventually a duchess, was not the lure to Charlotte that it was to the likes of Miss Hewitt. Charlotte’s life in France, so soon after the reign of terror, had inured her to such trivialities.

No, the way to her heart was through her mind and body. She was a woman who craved excitement, who needed to take action rather than wait for others to do so. She needed—and deserved—respect and acknowledgment for the unusual skills she’d cultivated and put to use. And she was most definitely a sensual creature, who had taken great delight in physical pleasure last night.

All he had to do was go along with her being a spy, and remind her that last night had been a mere taste of the veritable buffet that awaited her in the marriage bed.
Their
marriage bed.

Once they stepped outside into the garden, Alistair reached for her hand, then thought better of it—too many windows overlooking the garden—and tucked it into the crook of his arm.

He was searching for the proper words to begin this all important conversation when Charlotte tugged him to the farthest corner of the garden.

“We have to go to Lost Wages tonight,” she said, her voice low and urgent.

“We do?”

She nodded vehemently. “Steven and Gauthier have been wrong on every guess as to the whereabouts of the snuffbox. Tonight they’re going to search Sir Nigel’s lodgings, but I believe Toussaint has moved the box back to Lost Wages. He killed Kolenka last night, or had him killed, but Toussaint knows someone else was trying to break into the study the same time Kolenka was there, so he won’t keep the snuffbox at his home. We need to—”

“Stop. Back up. Who’s dead?”

“Kolenka.”

She appeared reluctant to elaborate, so Alistair gave her a “go on” gesture and waited patiently, schooling his expression to hide his growing horror.

“He’s one of the Darconian emissaries sent to retrieve the snuffbox. He was killed in what was supposed to look like a robbery, but it happened too near Toussaint’s gaming hell to be a coincidence.”

“And how do we know he’s the one who broke into Toussaint’s study?”

“I recognized him.” Her voice had gone quiet, but she threw her shoulders back and lifted her chin. “I went down to the coroner’s office with Steven and Gauthier this morning and…examined the corpse. It was him, the same man I saw in Toussaint’s study.”

He was impressed by her bravery, and completely horrified by what she’d gone through.

“So we need to search for it at Lost Wages. Tonight, while he still thinks no one suspects him of being the blackmailer.”

“We? You’re including me? Willingly?”

She had the grace to look embarrassed. “I just told Lord Q a few minutes before you arrived about how well we work together. If you don’t want to go, I’ll understand.”

He was getting dizzy from the succession of revelations, like a mouse being batted back and forth by a cat. “Sir William is Lord Q? And you told him that we’ve worked together?”

Alistair needed a moment to reconcile his preconceived notion of a spymaster with the image he’d had all these years of his father’s friend. Hmm. Sometimes he’d wondered if Father was really as drunk as he appeared to be.

Then he took a moment to ponder the implications of his father’s friend being aware that Alistair was acting as a spy. Q certainly wasn’t going to tell Father. “Whatever gave you the idea I wouldn’t go? I told you, Charlotte, I will always be with you.” He caressed her cheek under the guise of tucking back a stray lock of hair, knowing she reacted to such a stroke the way other women did to a much more intimate caress. “If I didn’t, you’d simply go anyway, by yourself.”

She closed her eyes briefly, fighting an almost visible battle between pleasure and determination as he trailed his finger down her throat. She blinked at him. “Well, of course I would. Steven has stopped listening to me, and
he’s even less likely to listen to me now that he knows our engagement is a fraud. Since he won’t search Lost Wages, I have to.”

He dropped his hand to his side. “You told him about the engagement? Thank you—now I understand why he gave me such a scathing look when I arrived.” Alistair ran his fingers through his hair. This had all been entirely too much to take in during such a short stroll through a garden. “I take it Aunt Hermione has not been disabused of her illusion?”

“About us? It’s going to break her heart, but no, I haven’t told her the truth yet.”

He fingered the ring box in his pocket. “We don’t have to break her heart, you know. We do work well together.” He made sure that Charlotte was looking directly at him, and deliberately stroked his index finger along his upper lip.

Her sudden indrawn breath proved his reminder of last night had not been too subtle. He would much rather have given her a kiss, but his instincts screamed that they were being watched.

Charlotte jerked his arm as she started walking again, racing an unseen foe around the garden’s perimeter. “The most unobtrusive way for us to get into Lost Wages is for you to be a young buck out on the town for the night, and me to be your mistress.”

“My
what
?”

“Well, what other sort of woman could accompany you to a place like that? It makes perfect sense. You’ll have to make a show of being there to gamble. Not too large a
purse, though, or you’ll be too tempting a target for thieves. The coin won’t be a problem for you, will it?”

She went on, planning their foray for the coming evening with great enthusiasm and excitement.

Tomorrow, with the snuffbox in their possession, would be soon enough to finish the conversation he’d intended.

Tonight they were going to search the office of a man known to have killed at least once already.

The ring could wait.

A
s they’d agreed, Alistair called for Charlotte that evening in a hackney, picking her up at the same corner as before their attempt to break into Toussaint’s study.

Had that only been three nights ago?

Then, she’d been dressed in demure dark gray, her blond curls concealed by a bonnet. Tonight she wore a blood red cloak over a matching scarlet gown cut low enough that her charms were in danger of spilling over the top. A curly black wig completed her disguise.

As she walked toward him, into the swaying light of the coach’s lantern, it also became apparent she was not wearing stays. Rouge darkened her cheeks and eminently kissable lips. His groin tightened. No one would recognize the proper Miss Parnell in this costume.

Charlotte, with her blond curls and fresh beauty, was
the picture of innocence, while this creature was temptation on two legs. He wanted both versions. In his bed.

“Promise me you’ll burn this dress after we’re done tonight,” he said as soon as she settled beside him on the bench and the carriage was on its way.

“You don’t like it?”

“I like it very much, and I like what it lets me see. Problem is, I don’t want anyone else seeing.”

She laughed. “That’s the point. Men look at this,” she waved in the general direction of her exposed décolletage, “and don’t see this.” She pointed at her face.

“And why is that a
good
thing?”

“Because, silly, they won’t remember my face, or notice if I’m looking at them or across the room. It’s perfect.”

Perfectly distracting. She had a point. “And that is all we are doing tonight—looking. If we find the snuffbox, Lord Q can send somebody else to take it out of there. Toussaint has already killed once. I don’t want him aiming at you.” He didn’t want Toussaint in the same country, let alone the same building, as Charlotte.

She shifted on the bench. “He already aimed at me once, and didn’t exactly miss.”

His heart contracted painfully at the memory. He rested his hand possessively on her knee. “Don’t give him a second shot. If he’s there, we’re leaving. Is that clear? I won’t take the chance that he might recognize you, even in this getup.”

She gave a murmur in response that he chose to interpret as acquiescence.

They rode in silence for a bit, Alistair’s hand still on her knee. The single lantern inside the coach cast enough light for him to see the growing excitement on her face. He could almost feel it thrumming through her body, just as it was thrumming through his. The adventure, the anticipation—heaven help him, he craved it just as much as she.

She cleared her throat. “Are you prepared for the way we will have to act tonight?”

He noted she still had not clearly acknowledged or agreed with either of his directives. At least she hadn’t disagreed, either. “Act what way?”

“As though we are love—as though I am your mistress.”

He grabbed her around the waist, eliciting a squeak of surprise, and gently settled her on his lap, careful of her stitches. “Like this?” He wrapped his arms around her, to steady her against the sway of the coach.

She had applied more perfume than usual tonight. He nuzzled her neck just beneath her ear, where he knew it made her quiver with delight, and inhaled attar of roses, much heavier than the light rosewater she generally favored. It had become his favorite scent. He had become intimately acquainted with all of her scents, especially the delicious musk of her arousal. Just thinking about it was sending his blood south.

She kept her back straight as a poker. “Do you normally have your mistress sit on your lap?”

Since he’d never kept a mistress, he almost laughed, but realized in time what a mistake that would be. “The
only woman I want on my lap is you,” he whispered in her ear.

She might be keeping her back stiff, but she couldn’t hide the shudder that coursed through her as his lips brushed her skin.

Last night she had been incredibly responsive to his touch. It would be so easy to repeat the experience, right here in the coach. Just slide his hand beneath her skirts, up her silken thigh…

This was a monumentally bad idea. The motion of the coach had Charlotte coming into contact with parts of his anatomy that had no business having any contact with her until after their wedding. Sweet torture.

He should move her back to the cushion, but couldn’t bring himself to end his delightful torment.

“It’s all right,” she suddenly said. “I know it’s something men don’t have a great deal of control over.”

Ah, damn, she had noticed. “Boys may have little control,” he said, pulling her closer. If she didn’t bend, she was going to break. “But as a mature man, I assure you, the only time this occurs is when I’m with you, because I want so desperately to…be with you.” He nuzzled her ear again, remembering how she had shuddered in response. He knew exactly where and how to touch her, to elicit which sort of reaction. After they were married, he’d take her where she could be as vocal as she wanted, unlike last night when they’d both struggled to be quiet, to not draw attention.

She sighed and snuggled into his embrace.

A moment later she surprised him by nuzzling his ear,
sending an unexpected shiver down his spine when she whispered against his skin, “Don’t cry out.” She nibbled on his earlobe, snaked an arm around his waist, and dipped her fingers just inside his breeches.

He grinned at the remembered admonition, and reflexively tightened his grip around her waist. Her dark red velvet gown invited his touch, exploration. He wanted to pull off his gloves and slide his bare hand over the soft fabric, caress the gentle curve of her hip, cup her breast, slide the low neckline even lower, and…

Just as he was about to toss aside all his good intentions and toss her skirts, the coach rocked to a halt.

He shut his eyes and drew upon the dregs of his willpower. “We’re there.”

“No,” she whispered, and kissed him just beneath his ear. “We still have a long way to go.”

Damn reading the banns, he was going to carry her straight to Scotland, marry her over the anvil, and have their wedding night above the blacksmith’s shop.

Just as soon as they retrieved the snuffbox, or she’d never forgive him.

He’d never been so reluctant to remove a woman’s arm from his waist. “Time to go to work, Charlotte.”

“What?” She sat up so quickly she almost tumbled to the floor. “Oh.”

He assisted her to her feet before he climbed out. The driver had stopped right by a mud puddle, so Alistair lifted Charlotte out of the carriage and carried her to the stone steps leading into the tavern, shouldering aside the people clustered about the entrance. He heard a few ribald comments directed their way, and overheard one
woman negotiating fees and services with her customer. He wanted to cover Charlotte’s ears. She, however, was eavesdropping.

He paid the driver, tucked Charlotte’s arm in his, and sauntered into the raucous, smoky interior, feeling an altogether different sort of excitement from just a few minutes ago.

He loved astronomy, and had been studying the night sky most of his life. But no matter what secrets of the universe he unlocked, none of it made a difference in anyone’s day-to-day life—at least, not in any tangible, practical way. Getting back the snuffbox, and the damning letter hidden inside, was tangible. Would make a difference.

This was exactly the type of seedy tavern his father was likely to patronize, one that the duke would never enter. Serving wenches hurried to and fro in the taproom, ale and other beverages sloshing out of the tankards they carried, nimbly avoiding the occasional pinch or slap from the crowd of disreputable-looking male patrons. Several men had platters of food on the table in front of them, a doxy sitting on their lap, or both. Most of the women wore gowns that made Charlotte’s look positively prudish.

“This way,” she whispered, and guided him through a doorway in the back. They passed the kitchen, where steam and the savory scent of food wafted out, past the door to the keg room, and down a dimly lit hall. Soon, the clatter of coins being tossed amidst more raucous laughter became audible.

Under the guise of nuzzling her ear, Alistair stopped
just inside the doorway of the main gaming room, which was filled with tables, chairs, gamblers, and more serving wenches. “The snuffbox is not likely to be in here.”

“No, it’s more likely to be in the office, the wine cellar, or even the kitchen. And there are rooms upstairs that can be rented.”

“All of which, I’m sure, were thoroughly searched by Steven and Gauthier. What do you propose to do differently than they did?”

“Succeed.”

Alistair threw his head back and laughed. “Shall we begin, my dear?” he said loudly, and staggered toward the nearest table with an empty chair.

Charlotte slipped into the role-playing without missing a beat. “By all means, my lord, let’s spend your coins.”

Her giggle was pitch perfect, but she didn’t need to sway her hips quite that much.

Once he was seated, she stood behind him, carding her fingers through his hair as he gave a cursory greeting to the other men at the table and ordered a glass of wine each for himself and Charlotte.

“Fresh blood,” said the white-haired gent to Alistair’s right.

“More import’ly, fresh money,” said a man with an enormous red nose to Alistair’s left. He hiccuped.

A third man, who looked young enough to still be at school, rapped his knuckles on the table. “Deal again, damn you!” Beads of sweat stood out on his upper lip.

Alistair placed his bet, and the dealer, a buxom, heavily rouged woman who might still be in her thirties, dealt him into the next hand of
vingt et un
.

Over the next hour, he won as much as he lost, which required more concentration than he had known he was capable of, what with Charlotte toying with his hair, whispering in his ear, and at one point even perching on his knee.

Thanks to his friend Nick’s tutelage back in their school days, Alistair was able to spot the markings on the cards, which almost made the game fair again. The other three men continued to drink as heavily as they played, and the number of empty bottles on the table grew. Alistair sipped at his one glass.

The noise level in the room rose concurrently with the quantity of alcohol consumed and the lateness of the hour. More than one man slipped out of the room, a giggling
fille de joie
on his arm. Some didn’t even make it all the way out the door before reaching into the girl’s bodice or under her skirts.

“That’s Mr. Jennison, the manager, buying stolen goods,” Charlotte whispered in his ear. She tilted her head, pointing out a man with three chins and just as many fobs hanging from his garish green waistcoat, who sat down at a table in the back corner.

As Alistair watched, Madame Melisande entered and sat down opposite Jennison, and spread her fan out on the table. The two launched into a spirited conversation conducted in low tones, until Jennison pushed a few coins across the table.

Leaving her fan on the table, Melisande got up and moved to a gaming table, sitting directly beneath the chandelier. Alistair had never before noticed how similar her build was to Charlotte’s. His fiancée might have
modeled her daring dress and glossy black curls on the French courtesan’s, but Charlotte could never mimic the hard look that marred Melisande’s once-beautiful features as she scowled at Jennison, or the avaricious gleam in her eyes as she cast her wager.

Setting them apart even further, Charlotte had chosen a luxurious scarlet silk cape to go with her dress, rather than the more cheaply made black cape adorning Melisande’s shoulders.

Jennison tucked the fan into the cabinet behind him and turned his attention to the young man who’d just sat down and pushed a fob across the table.

Alistair nuzzled Charlotte. “Looks like he’s begun his night work.”

“Now would be a good time to take a look at his office.”

At the end of the next hand, Alistair made a show of stretching, and patted his belly. “Time to get rid of some of this wine, eh what?”

Charlotte obligingly clung to him as he staggered out of the room and into the hall.

“The men’s necessary is in there,” said one of the serving wenches, pointing over her shoulder. She blew a strand of red hair out of her eyes. “Or them’s rooms upstairs, what can be had for a shilling an hour.”

“Thank you.” Alistair didn’t have to fake the lurch to the side, as Charlotte stepped behind him the instant she’d spotted the wench, almost knocking him over.

As soon as they were alone in the hall, Alistair backed her up against the wall, planted his hands on the stained wallpaper on either side of her face and leaned in as
though for a passionate encounter. “What’s going on?”

“That was Ginny. When I talked to her here last week, I was wearing this same costume, but told her I wasn’t in this line of work.”

“And you didn’t want to disappoint her, let her know that you’ve become a fallen woman?”

As he’d hoped, Charlotte laughed. “She’s already threatened to throw me out on my arse once.”

“Well, we can’t allow that to happen. It would hurt considerably more now than it would’ve last week.” He glanced up and down the still deserted hall. “Which way to Jennison’s office?”

“This way, I think.”

Several doors opened out onto the corridor in which they stood. When Charlotte would have opened them, Alistair pulled her back, shaking his head. He peeked into what turned out to be a storage room, the men’s water closet, and a private gaming room, before finding Jennison’s office. Several other doors, farther down the hall, went unexplored.

The office was devoid of people but far from deserted. The usual accoutrements of desk, chairs, sofa, and cabinets were cluttered with what looked like the contents of an entire town house. There was a narrow path to a massive oak desk, past trunks overflowing with china and silverplate. Dozens of candlesticks, from simple to garishly ornate, some even with candles, covered every available surface. Several glass-fronted cabinets lined the far wall, their shelves filled with everything from marble busts to diamond brooches glinting in the candlelight.