A Lady's Secret Weapon (17 page)

Ethan expected something more along the lines of
they’re flush in the pockets
or
they
can
barely
keep
their
larder
stocked
. “Are you this thorough on every project you undertake?”

She stilled, and he could almost see her protective barrier sliding into place.

“I can’t afford to make mistakes.”

“So, your answer is yes.”

Her breasts rose on a deep inhalation, testing the limits of her corset. “Yes.”

The urge to shake her free of all constraints overwhelmed his good sense. “My question was meant as a compliment.”

“Was it, indeed?” She strummed her fingers against the brocade of her portmanteau.

He tried again. “Why is it that any time I remark upon you or your agency’s procedures you take a defensive stance?”

She closed her eyes briefly. When she reopened them, they glinted like steel blades before a battle. “How do I explain my situation to a viscount? A man. A gentleman born into wealth and privilege and a secured future. How do I explain to one such as you that I must monitor my every syllable and weigh my every action? That I must do twice the work in order to fend off any small amount of criticism? Because if I fail at any one of those endeavors, I’ll lose my only chance to—”

Ethan leaned forward. “Chance to what?”

Swallowing hard, she whispered, “It’s nothing.”

He lifted the portmanteau from her lap and set it aside. When he made to grasp her hands, she eased them closer to her body. Instead of chasing her, he placed one hand palm up on her lap, and waited. The gamble was dangerous. If he failed to win her acceptance now, when she was most vulnerable, he held little hope of ever breaching the barriers of her reserve.

Ten seconds later, he felt his chest cave with dread. What past atrocity had shaped her ugly view of men and, in particular, men of his station? He recalled the warning her sister had delivered the previous evening.
Sydney’s association with men will never go beyond friendship… So, you need not send your friend dagger looks for making her smile.

When his pride could take Sydney’s reticence no more, he started to pull away. And that’s when he noticed her pulse lashing against the side of her neck. So fast. Too fast. Perhaps she wanted to reach out but was inhibited by wariness of the unknown. She knew little of him, and what she did know was veiled in secrecy and suspicion.

“Nothing in there will bite you, lass,” he said, hoping she would recall the enticement he used with shy Arthur Rhodes.

The corner of her sweet mouth curled into a reluctant smile. “I’m not so sure.”

“You have my word.” With his hand still outstretched, he waved his fingers in a coaxing motion.

Her shoulders lost some of their stiffness. Then, with aching slowness, she cupped her fingers over his and held on as if she had never felt anything so stable.

“Tell me,” he said.

“You cannot understand.”

“Let’s say you are correct. My privileged male mind could not possibly grasp your torment.” Using his free hand, he skimmed his knuckles down her jawline until he reached the underside of her chin. With gentle pressure, he nudged her head up until she met his eyes. “Would it not ease your mind somewhat to discuss what’s troubling you?”

“Do not take offense, my lord. But if I wished to bare the scars of my mind, I would do so with someone whom I have known much longer than four days.”

“You might find this a bold statement,” he said, unable to stop the damning words behind his teeth, “but there are times when I feel as if I have known you my whole life.”

He’d shocked her. He could tell by the slight lifting of her brow and by the intense way she studied his features. But soon, her shock transformed into disbelief and, perhaps, even distaste. “A statement, I’m sure, you’ve made to many unhappy or vulnerable women.” Her grip on his hand slackened.

The sight of her disbelief, followed by her scathing comment, quashed the tempest of emotions fluttering in his chest. Never had he felt such a strong connection to a woman. Not only was she beautiful and desirable—despite her prickly nature—her strength and intelligent conversation made him want to stretch out naked with her on a fur throw and discuss all manner of topics while sipping wine and sampling an assortment of bite-size delicacies. He wanted to entwine his limbs around her long, curvaceous body and pour his soul into her waiting arms. He wanted to share everything with her, between heated kisses and soft whispers. He simply wanted to be with her.

But any time he got too close, she narrowed those discerning eyes on him as if he were a diseased whore. The thought might not have bothered him so much if it hadn’t cut so close to the truth.

“That’s where you’re wrong, my dear.” He sat back and fixed his gaze on the passing scenery.

“I cannot help but be suspicious of men who use their charm to get what they seek.”

Smart
girl
. “Normally, I would agree with you.” He appreciated her frank honesty, though it still rankled. “But in this instance, I only wanted to ease your mind, not secure a place in your bed.” He slanted her a glance. “That last sentiment will not stay true for long.” Why he felt the need to prod at her sensibilities, he didn’t know. All he truly recognized at that moment was a masculine need for her to understand the depth of his interest.

“Then I owe you an apology.”

“Save it. Given my history, I’m certain to say or do something entirely inappropriate and it will be me begging for your forgiveness.” He quirked his eyebrows up and deliberately gave her his most charming rogue’s smile. “Then we will be even.”

She shook her head. “I haven’t the slightest idea of what to do with you, my lord.”

“You are not alone. How about we start off by dispensing with the formalities, shall we? I would very much like for you to call me Ethan.”

“Ethan suits you.”

When she did not invite him to do the same, he said, “Sydney is a strong and lovely name.”

“Is it, indeed?” she asked with a knowing smile. “I suppose you are right. One shudders to think of the looks I would have received had my parents named me Poppy.”

Ethan pressed his lips together, for he could not conceive of such an ill-fated pairing. Notwithstanding her unusual height and voluptuous body, the woman before him exuded confidence, strength, and a keen sense of independence—everything the name Poppy did not.

“All too well, I’m afraid.”

“Beast,” she scolded, though her lips quivered. “Where did your silver tongue go? You were supposed to convince me that I could carry any name with elegance.”

“Ah, you see? I must apologize already.” He draped an arm over the back of his seat. “Now that we have determined you’re as prickly as a hedgehog and I’m a charming cad, I wonder if we might return to Abbingale’s finances?”

“By all means, my lord cad.”

“Careful, hedgehog.” He allowed his gaze to drop to her mouth. “I shall have to polish my silver tongue again.”

Instead of being overcome by desire, she chuckled. “Your danger to women—at least to some—lies in your kindness, not your glib tongue.”

Since no one in memory had ever praised him for being kind, he could only assume that he would never be a danger to Sydney Hunt. A rather gloomy realization. “Did you actually see the list of donors and subscription holders?”

“No. Amelia sifted through Abbingale’s annual reports.”

“Did she copy down the names?”

“More than likely, or she might still have the reports. Once I return to the agency, I’ll inquire. Are you looking for someone in particular?”

“Yes.” Once again, he was faced with a decision of what to tell her. Based on her earlier comments, she—or her assistant—had obviously investigated him. It wouldn’t have taken a lot of digging to unearth his reputation with the ladies of the
ton
. His title, his prowess in bed, and his continued bachelorhood had drawn women to him like a lighthouse beacon calling to ships in the storm. Most of the time, the beacon guided ships to safety and, other times, to death. Either time, the beacon looked the same.

“What name, Ethan?”

Despite the seriousness of their current discussion, he took a moment to enjoy the sound of his name on her lips. So few people used his Christian name. Because of that fact, her use of it made the moment seem all the more intimate.

Like before, Ethan knew he must extend to Sydney another piece of his trust. If her assistant’s paperwork provided another clue to the mystery surrounding Giles Clarke, he would be that much closer to finishing this mission. Before the full implications of that thought took shape, he handed Sydney another secret. “Latymer.”

“Latymer?”

“Lord Latymer, to be precise. Do you know him?” He heard the timbre of his voice deepen, not quite threatening, but menacing nonetheless.

“It is possible I’ve come into contact with him. The name is familiar.”

He studied her face for several heartbeats, almost praying he would find a sign of deception. It would make it so much easier when the time came to walk away. But he detected nothing, not a single flicker of guile or guilt. Releasing a long, even breath, he tried to force the tension from his body, but the bastard’s claws curled deeper.

Mac O’Donnell glanced at his timepiece for the hundredth time. No longer did it rest in his fob pocket; now it lay dead center on his desk.
Where
was
she?

Although no specific time had been set, he had expected Amelia—
Mrs. Cartwright
—a quarter hour ago. At the end of the day yesterday, she had suggested they begin compiling their bits and pieces of intelligence on Abbingale’s staff and try to make some sense of it all. He had been looking forward to this moment ever since.

Where
was
she?

Like his timepiece, Amelia was unfailingly punctual. Every morning at eight, he would hear the soft pad of her arrival and the muffled squeak of her chair. Every morning.

Except this one.

Eight twenty.

Sweat beaded along his hairline. He stared at the bookshelf separating their two rooms, as if he could see the crimson-draped surprise he’d placed near her desk a half hour ago. Words chanted in his head—
fool, blockhead, simpleton, dolt, idiot
. They all vied for position, each one elbowing its way to the top of the list.

“Enough!” He pushed out of his chair and thundered into her work area. Halfway to the crimson-draped item, he heard a sharp intake of breath. Ice coated his skin, freezing the sweat trickling from his temples and locking his muscles. Then a searing wave of panicked heat swept up his neck and into his cheeks.

As he spun toward the sound, time slowed to an unbearable half beat. Framed in the doorway stood Amelia Cartwright, looking unbearably pretty in a serviceable blue morning dress. Her surprised gaze jumped from him to the object on the tall table near her desk to him again. “What are you doing, Mr. O’Donnell?”

“Correcting a momentary slip into lunacy.” He strode to the table, intending to put this humiliating situation behind him. Quickly.

“Wait. What is this?” She skidded to a stop in front of him, her hand extended in a staying gesture. “May I take a look?”

A foot smaller than him and about half his weight, she had no chance of preventing him from removing the evidence of his weakness. But something inside him wanted to see her reaction when she uncovered his surprise, while another part of him would rather eat a sack full of splinters.

“Perhaps it would be best if you don’t.”

“After all the trouble you’ve gone through to surprise me? I think not.”

She twirled around, and Mac sensed her excitement as she stared at the crimson cover. Almost lovingly, she ran her hand over the thick material before splaying her fingers wide to learn the contours beneath.

“I know what this is,” she said in an awed whisper.

“You’re so certain?” He stepped closer.

She nodded. “Why would you do this?”

Another step. “Because everyone needs beauty in their life.” His throat closing, Mac struggled to get the words out. “Some more than others.”

The crimson coverlet bunched together beneath the force of her grip. She began pulling. Faster and faster, until the coverlet slipped free. Three canaries hopped from perch to perch, canting their heads this way and that to inspect the intruders.

Seeing the abandoned cage hopping with bright life again filled him with happiness. Yesterday, after another long day of fact finding and sifting through mounds of ledgers in Amelia’s stark room, he swore not to spend another minute in such a cheerless place. He strode straight to his side, pulled out the birdcage, and then set about cleaning away two years of dust and decay. An hour later, he’d found himself in a shop that specialized in the sale of exotic animals. Birds, snakes, lizards, monkeys, and an assortment of four-legged rodents that many would kill on sight had peppered the small establishment. After a great deal of deliberation and haggling over price, Mac had selected one yellow, one pied, and one cinnamon canary.

With Mrs. Cartwright’s back to him, he couldn’t gauge her reaction. Did she like them? Had she expected something grander like one of those talking parrots? He edged around until he stood near the metal-framed cage and could see her face. Still clutching the red coverlet to her chest, she stood there with silent tears running down her cheeks.

“Forgive me.” His voice was guttural. “I did not mean to upset you. I’ll relocate the cage immediately.” He reached for the cover, and she stepped back, shaking her head.

“No.” She stared at the birds. “Tell me about them.”

“This particular type is called Border Canary.” Mac kept his voice low. “After their breeding location along the English and Scottish border. Besides the yellow, cinnamon, and pied—or variegated—colors you see here, they also come in blue, green, and white.” He held out a handkerchief.

The white linen seemed to snap her out of her spellbound state. She blotted her eyes and wiped her cheeks. “Do they sing?”

“Yes. They don’t carry the prettiest of tunes, but they’ll keep you amused with their chatter and antics.”

“Thank you, Mr. O’Donnell, for the thoughtful gesture. It’s been a very long time since someone surprised me with a present, especially one so lovely.” She folded the handkerchief carefully and then returned the square to him, along with the coverlet. “But I cannot accept it.”

The hand holding the coverlet lowered, and crimson pooled at his feet. “Why?”

After giving the birds another long look, she turned her back on them and moved to her desk. “I would like to, truly I would. But I must speak with Miss Hunt.”

Unable to bear the joyous cacophony gaining momentum behind him, he tossed the cover over the cage. All went quiet, except for the stray perplexed tweet. “What has Sydney to do with any of this?”

She settled onto the edge of her chair and dragged a stack of mismatched papers closer. “Nothing. At least, not directly. Until I speak with Miss Hunt, I cannot fully explain why I’m declining your kind gift.” She met his gaze. “I’m sorry, Mr. O’Donnell. I know that’s not helpful, but it’s the best I can do at the moment.”

Her use of his surname momentarily distracted him from the hurt of her rejection. “Call me Mac, dammit. You certainly don’t have any problems using my brother’s Christian name.”

“Pardon?”

“Forget it.” He raked his fingers through his hair. Why the hell had he made such a pathetic statement? His brother had always had an easier way with women. It was one of the characteristics that defined them as individuals. Mac had never cared before, because he had never been without female companionship when he had need of it.

Clearing her throat, she said, “This morning, I met with Lizzie Ledford.”

He welcomed the change of topic, though their discussion was far from over. Grasping the back of a chair he’d brought in for their frequent conferences, he placed it near the side of her desk but found he hadn’t the stomach for sitting. So he paced. “The seamstress?”

“That’s correct.” She followed his progress about the room. “Our conversation took longer than expected, which is why I’m late this morning.”

She was out collecting information, while he sat at his desk fuming over her absence. The realization produced a sour taste in his mouth.

“Did Lizzie have anything to add to our investigation?”

“Possibly.” She disengaged the small reticule from around her slender wrist. Pulling it open, she withdrew a folded sheet of paper. “Lizzie’s sister is good friends with a maid at Markham’s Boardinghouse. Do you know it?”

“The name is familiar, but I can’t place it at the moment.”

“Perhaps it’s familiar because of its location. The boardinghouse sits across from Abbingale Home.”

Mac searched his mind of the area surrounding Abbingale. Much to his shame, he could not recall seeing a sign or any indication of a boardinghouse, though he knew many populated the city. “I’ll have to take your word for it.”

“Annie, the maid, mentioned to Lizzie’s sister that she was preparing one of the empty rooms on the second floor last night, when a great clatter began on the floor above.”

“Clatter?”

“Fisticuffs. Annie heard a door crash open, raised voices, furniture skittering across the floor, heavy thumps against the ceiling above her, a door closing, and then a deathly silence.”

“Did she hear any of their conversation?”

“Only bits and pieces, I’m afraid. She said their conversation quieted after the initial shock.” She referred to her notes. “Annie thought she heard three distinct voices. One was their lodger, a Mr. William Townsend, the second was a brutish-sounding man called Jones, and the third was someone by the name of Roosh.”

“Jones we can forget. The name is too common and is likely not his true surname anyway.”

“Agreed.”

“What did Annie have to say about Townsend?”

“Very little. He’s been there only a couple days. Tall, dark-haired, handsome, keeps to himself.”

“Roosh is an odd name, isn’t it? Do you think it’s short for something?”

“I do.”

The quiet confidence in her voice drew his attention. “You have a theory.”

She nodded. “Annie also mentioned one of the men spoke funny.”

“As in with a lisp or an accent?”

“Based on her attempt to mimic this Roosh, I would say a cultured, foreign accent.”

Mac’s thoughts shot around at lightning speed.
Roosh. Roosh.
Then it hit him. “French?”

“I believe so.”

“LaRouche. The schoolmaster.”

“That would be my guess as well.”

“From what little Annie heard, she got the impression that Roosh—or LaRouche—wanted something from Townsend.”

“Of course he did,” Mac said absently. “Most beatings are nothing more than a physical show of power. A way of giving one’s enemy a sample of what’s to come if they don’t deliver—whatever it is they have failed to deliver.”

“You sound as if you know this from experience.”

Mac’s jaw clenched. “I know a great many things from experience, Mrs. Cartwright.”

“Amelia,” she said in a defiant voice. “If I’m forced to use your Christian name, then you must use mine.”

An unexpected warmth settled in Mac’s bones. Her commanding comment was perhaps his purest glimpse of the true woman beneath all the layers of reserve. Layers he never cared to peel away until recently. Now, he was plagued with an almost maniacal need to strip them off, so he could see if the very center of her reflected her outer perfection.

She continued, “We must now discover what would induce a schoolmaster to use brute force against a neighbor of Abbingale.”

Mac pried his mind away from the feminine mystery before him and refocused on their more dangerous problem. “Either Mick or I will pay the lodger a visit.”

Nodding, she made a few notations, then stopped mid-stroke. Her eyes rolled up to meet his. “Has Mick mentioned his bones?”

Fury slammed into him. What did she know of his brother’s ability to sense danger? After their mother’s abandonment, his brother had hid his ability from everyone but Mac. Or so Mac had believed.

Something of his inner turmoil must have registered on his face, for she said, “Please don’t be upset. He did not reveal his ability.” When Mac’s expression did not change, she blew out a breath. “I should not have said anything.”

“If my dear brother did not tell you, how do you know?”

“I’m not supposed to say.”

Of their own free will, his eyes panned down to her mouth. When her lips rolled between her teeth, his gaze locked with hers. “Do not force me to do something ungentlemanly.”

“You would have to have an ounce of gentleman in you first.”

He stepped forward, and she held up a hand. “Stop.”

“Tell me.”

Her expression became murderous. “I found him.”

Unease stirred deep in his center. “What do you mean, you ‘found him’?”

“On the floor. Writhing in pain.”

What had awakened the violent side of his brother’s special ability? The ability passed down to Mick from their father’s mother? Some within their family had breathed a sigh of relief when neither of the twins had shown signs of having what many termed
bad
bones
.

But when the first vicious episode struck Mick at age ten, the superstitious side of their family wanted nothing more to do with him and, by extension, Mac. So, unbeknownst to their father, their mother and her two sisters made secret arrangements to send the ten-year-old twins to London, a world away.

Exhausted and scared, he and Mick found themselves on the filthy pavement outside Lindlewood Home for Disadvantaged Children. They stayed in the hovel for exactly eleven months and fourteen days before fleeing from the constant beatings. When they fled, they changed their names and then spent the next five years surviving the streets of London. Barely.

How long had it been since he had witnessed one of his brother’s violent attacks? So long ago that he had thought Mick had learned how to control the pain. But if Amelia saw one, then he’d had a fit within the last year. Shame burned in his chest like the hottest ember.

Again, she sensed his mood. “You didn’t know about his attacks?”

“He used to have them when we were younger. I didn’t know—” The ache in his throat became too much; he sat down. “I had no idea he still suffered them.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No need. My brother hid the truth well.” But why? Why would Mick shield his condition from him? Mac traced back through time, to conversations they’d had, especially when they were young lads huddled together, terrified, confused, wretchedly sad. Then he remembered, and the guilt that wedged between his lungs would have buckled his knees had he been standing.

Not long after they had been dumped at Lindlewood Home, his brother had doubled over in pain in front of the biggest, meanest boy there. Believing Mick to be an invalid, the mean boy had tried to thrash his brother. Although smaller than the other boy, Mick was stronger and faster. His brother had taken control of the fight—and that’s when four of the boy’s mates entered. He and Mick had made a good show of it, but in the end, they both lay senseless and bleeding on the dormitory floor.

Mac had not reacted well. Within a short period of time, they had lost their family, friends, and any chance of living safely in their new home. He recalled yelling at his brother, commanding him to get his bloody curse under control or he would leave him behind when he escaped Lindlewood. Mac swallowed back the bile of remembrance.