Most Eagerly Yours (28 page)

“Me ‘of all people’?” He raised his eyebrows in a show of innocence.

“Yes, you,” she insisted. “What is your interest in their actions?”

“I could ask you the same. Do you wish to explain your inclination to follow me, not once now, but twice?”

Oh. Drat him for turning her inquisitiveness around on her like that. “No,” she said, then attempted to turn the tables again. “Do you wish to explain why you went to Avon Street in disguise the other day?”

“No. Do you wish to tell me why you wore yellow when you should have been in black?”

She threw up her hands. “That again.”

“Yes, the impasse we cannot seem to breach.”

They glared at each other. With a groan, Aidan pushed up higher onto the pillows. He grasped her hand and gave it a light tug. “Sit. Please.”

Wary, she perched at the edge of the bed.

“Truce?”

She narrowed her eyes.

He destroyed her composure utterly by pressing her hand to his lips, then turning it over and nuzzling her palm. His lips were warm and moist and softly persuasive, with the power to make her fall into his arms and tell him everything he wanted to know.

Almost.

The touch of those lips also delivered a sobering dose of reality. She had secreted a man in her room all night long, a man presently lying in a scandalous state of undress in her bed, with her sitting close beside him. True, she had exchanged her evening gown for a muslin day dress rather than a nightshift, but that would not prevent tongues from wagging should they be discovered. Somehow, she must find a way to convey him away from Abbey Green without anyone seeing. She must. . . .

His tongue swirled over the tip of her middle finger, sending a tingling wave of heat up her arm.

Then, abruptly, he froze, his mouth stilling over her finger. His eyebrows knotted as he breathed in through his nose.

His gaze rose to meet hers. “Powder. I can smell the traces of it. You fired the gun that drove off my attackers.”

“Yes, I explained that last night.” Laurel pulled her hand away and gripped it with the other in her lap.

“You mentioned it, but you explained nothing.” He sat up straighter, until his considerably taller frame loomed over hers. “I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me why a lady feels the need to carry a lethal weapon?”

“No.” She got up from the bed and retreated to the window, only to hear him in halting pursuit behind her. Although his infirmities slowed him down, by the time she turned around, he was there, inches away.

“I’m afraid denials will no longer do, Laurel.” A strange menace rode his murmur and sent a ripple of warning down her back. “The stakes have become dangerous.”

“Aidan, I—”

“No more lies.” He reached toward her, but his arm dropped as a grimace claimed his features. Laurel gripped his shoulders and guided him into the chair.

“You aren’t well. I wish you would allow me to send for Dr. Bailey.”

“There isn’t much a physician can do for bruises and a broken rib.”

“What about the authorities? Will you report the attack?”

To this, too, he gave an adamant shake of his head. “They’ll call me a fool for wandering along the riverbank alone at night. And they would be correct.”

“So the events must remain cloaked in secrecy.”

“Indeed they must.” Without warning and with surprising strength considering his condition, he spanned her waist with his hands and pulled her down onto his lap. He winced again. Between gritted teeth he said, “I hereby swear you to secrecy.”

“Oh, but I’m hurting you.” She started to stand up, but he wrapped his arms around her. As though she were balm for his injuries, he held her in place and leaned his forehead against hers.

“Will you swear?”

In his condition, how could she deny him anything?

“Of course, if you wish it. I swear.” Reaching her arms around him, she held him close and gently rocked him as she had once rocked her sisters.

But no, this was vastly different. Mingling with the heat of the rising sun against the windowpanes, the heat of their contact filled her with contentment edged with a sensual promise . . . a promise to be kept once he had recovered. For now, however, this closeness was enough. It made her happy as she had never dreamed possible.

Outside, only the birds twittering in the massive oak broke the silence of Abbey Square. From the streets beyond the square came the thumps and jangles of shops opening for business. Laurel wished the city would never awaken, never intrude upon their quiet, pleasurable companionship. She wished she could remain in the circle of Aidan’s arms, against his formidable chest, forever.

Aidan’s head came up, his eyes holding her in their indigo depths, his generous lips parting. “What’s wrong? Why did you just flinch?”

“Did I?” She knew she had. Heaven help her, she was tumbling irrevocably in love with the Earl of Barensforth, and the knowledge shook her to the core.

It was knowledge she would hold close to her heart, to hoard and protect as she did all her other secrets. Though Aidan might not be the rake Victoria had warned her of, and while she believed he desired her, love was another matter entirely, one wrapped in vulnerability and uncertainty. She could afford none of those risks, at least not until she had fulfilled her promise to Victoria.

Seizing upon a change of subject, she said, “About today’s luncheon with Melinda. You had something important to speak to us about. Do you wish to tell me what it was?”

His shoulders bunched beneath her hands, and his expression turned somber. “The elixir, Laurel. I believe it is dangerous, capable of making people do things they ordinarily wouldn’t. And shouldn’t.”

A blaze climbed to her cheeks at the memory of their carriage ride following the picnic. A sinking dismay filled her that he would attribute their passion to unnatural influences, rather than mutual desire. No outside force could have propelled her into his arms if she hadn’t wished to be there.

He, apparently, believed differently. Thank goodness, then, that she had given no hint of the direction her thoughts had taken moments ago.

Breaking free of his arms, she slipped from his lap. She began pacing the room, pretending to tidy up by opening drawers needlessly and shutting them again. All the while, she fought a quelling disappointment that pinched her throat. “And to what properties do you attribute our untoward behavior?”

She felt his gaze upon her. “Are you angry? I thought you would be relieved to discover there
was
a cause, and that we hadn’t simply lost our heads.”

“Relieved. Yes. Wildly so.” She slammed a cupboard door. The sharp sound fractured the tension that had built up in the room and made her realize how absurd she was being. The tidings Aidan had imparted were vital in nature and deserved her focus.

She paused to collect herself. “I am not angry with you. But if your suspicions are correct, then Rousseau has been deliberately drugging people.”

“To help persuade them to part with a sizable portion of their money, yes.”

“How beastly. But if it is true, the Earl of Munster is in on it. He all but admitted to me that he and Rousseau are in collaboration.” Excitement sent her back across the room to stand before him. This might not be the treason Victoria feared, but a crime of fraud perpetrated by a member of the royal family against prominent citizens would cause the queen untold embarrassment and perhaps significantly weaken public support of the monarchy.

Aidan watched her intently. “He admitted his complicity with Rousseau?”

“Yes . . . well, more or less. He was in his cups at the time and later denied it, but his actions last night seem to confirm it. Where do you think he and Rousseau were going? Do you believe Lord Devonlea and the others who left the Guildhall are involved? If so, we must find proof of their guilt. Perhaps if we—”

Aidan startled her by pushing himself out of the chair. Though pain tightened his countenance, he didn’t miss a beat as he grabbed her, drew her against him, and pressed his mouth to hers. His kiss forced her lips open and his tongue entered her mouth, submerging her in a sensual abyss that blotted out the room and all but the pleasure he sent sizzling through her.

Breaking the kiss suddenly, he left her breathless and trembling with desire for more of him. That was clearly not his plan, for he turned away and retrieved his collar and cravat from the bureau upon which she had placed them.

His nonchalance as he fixed his collar to his shirt put her out of sorts. Frowning, she ran her fingertip over her tingling bottom lip. “What was that for?”

“To shut you up, of course.” He threaded his neckcloth beneath his collar. “If there is any proof to be had,
I
, and not
we
, shall see to it. Sneaking about is dodgy business and no task for a lady, not even one who wields a gun.”

“I did save you last night, didn’t I?”

“You did indeed, and while I am exceedingly grateful, I see no reason for you to continue putting yourself at risk.”

“I believe that is for me to decide.”

“Is it?” In two long strides he returned to her and kissed her again until the floor seemed to fall away from her feet and she felt in danger of plummeting. Steadying her with a hand at her elbow, he smiled down into her eyes. “Here is a bit of intrigue for you. If anyone else in the house is up and about, go and create a diversion so I can slip away on the sly.”

“You are going home to rest, I trust.”

“Ah, it is not important that you know where I am going, Laurel.” The pad of his thumb made a sensual sweep of her lower lip, while the simmer in his eyes set her skin aflame. “As long as you understand that you have not seen the last of me.”

H
is ribs protesting, Aidan sucked the sharp morning air into his lungs. He had made it out of Laurel’s lodging house undetected, thanks to her asking the maidservant to prepare her morning tea and toast a half hour earlier than usual.

But for the delivery carts, the streets were still relatively empty. He had attempted to restore respectability to his appearance by camouflaging his bruises with a bit of Laurel’s dusting powder, but he still garnered a few looks from shopkeepers sweeping their front stoops. Ignoring them, he headed back to the bridge, convinced that last night’s attack had been no random occurrence. Even with the firing of Laurel’s gun, any experienced thief would have managed to grab his victim’s watch fob or cravat pin before scrambling away.

So if they hadn’t been thieves . . . what
were
they?

Last night, the fog had swallowed up Fitz’s and Rousseau’s forms, and they might very possibly have proceeded across the bridge to the other side. For all Aidan knew, Rousseau lived somewhere on the river’s eastern bank.

Every instinct, however, sent him back to the steps that led down to the boat slips. An assortment of small river craft bobbed up and down in the current. Aidan made his way along the narrow pier, questioning the boatmen as he went. Had any of them conveyed two gentlemen downriver last night? If anyone had, no one admitted as much. But that didn’t mean Fitz and Rousseau hadn’t hired a craft to meet them here at a specified time, just as those ruffians might have been hired to ensure that no one followed them.

He remembered the words of the dockworker he’d met down on Broad Quay.
Ol’ Will Shyler wandered over there one night to take a piss and never came back. Someone found ’im next morning with his face all smashed in.
That suggested that someone had been guarding the place.

A guarded warehouse and a guarded entrance to a pier were too much of a coincidence for Aidan’s comfort. Micklebee had told him to find Rousseau’s secret laboratory, and every instinct told Aidan he would find it inside, or somewhere close to, the derelict warehouse on Broad Quay.

A coal ferry, small enough to navigate this section of the river, appeared ready to put out. Aidan hailed the helmsman.

“Going on to the quay?”

“That I am, sir.”

“May I hitch a ride?” He flashed a silver coin.

His face shadowed by a low-slung cap and a dark growth of beard, the man eyed him curiously but shrugged. “As you like, sir.”

The ferry navigated beneath the bridge’s middle arch and then skirted wide around the horseshoe weir that controlled the river levels. Along the way, Aidan considered what he had learned so far.

He had come to Bath expecting to yet again exonerate the man who had been both quarry and friend these past several years. Time and again, the Home Office had suspected George Fitzclarence of conspiring against his country, and time and again Fitz had proved them wrong. Oh, he engaged in the usual run of victimless crimes such as the illegal purchase of smuggled brandy and tobacco, or fueling rumors to help drive up the price of specific stocks.

This time however, the subterfuge involved more than money. A member of Parliament lay dead and the well-being of some of England’s most notable citizens had been put at risk, both their purses and their health.

For Aidan this case went deeper, had become more personal, than any before. Melinda had been coerced into giving away valuable property. And Laurel . . . his chest tightened. Laurel might have been killed last night.

He still couldn’t claim to know much about her, not who she really was or why the blazes she owned a pistol. But from everything he had observed so far, he was pretty damned certain she posed no threat to anyone except for unwitting thieves and . . .

Himself. His heart. His work for the Home Office.

A woman like Laurel made a man susceptible in more ways than one. She distracted him and turned his priorities upside down. She brought out fears and furies he never knew existed inside him. The thought of her following him last night, of being in the same vicinity with fiends who would have spared her no mercy, wrenched his gut into knots and made him itch to commit murder.