Shirley Kerr (12 page)

M
oncreiffe’s blank expression made it seem as though he still hadn’t heard her.

A carriage swept past, and the gelding whinnied a protest at being kept standing by the side of the road. Moncreiffe calmed him down.

Charlotte tried again. “I’m going to get the snuffbox, and complete the assignment while Steven is losing money at the gaming tables.”

“That’s what I thought you meant.” Moncreiffe pulled off one glove and pinched the bridge of his nose.

It had to be a sin for a man to have such beautiful, elegant fingers. Charlotte compared her own much shorter, rather pudgy fingers. At least her nails were neat and smooth, now that she’d stopped biting them. She’d had no choice, what with Aunt Hermione threatening to soak her fingertips in vinegar while she slept.

Moncreiffe lowered his hand. “Telling you that your idea is madness, not to mention incredibly dangerous, would only goad you into attempting to steal the box on your own, wouldn’t it?”

“Well, of course I’m going to steal it on my own. I just explained why I’m not going to involve Steven. He wouldn’t listen to me anyway.” Honestly, all the men in her life lately were proving to be incredibly dense. “And it’s not madness. It makes perfect sense.”

She repeated his last statement in her head. Oh, blast. Perhaps she was the one being dense. “You’re actually willing to help me?”

He looked askance at her. “I’m certainly not going to let you try it on your own.”

She stiffened her spine. “I’m perfectly capable of sneaking in and retrieving a small object on my own. I do not require your assistance, my lord.” She folded her arms.

“Oh, don’t poker up on me. I meant no insult to your skills as a burglar.”

If he brought up her failed attempt to climb down to Melisande’s hotel room balcony, she wouldn’t be responsible for the consequences.

“I would worry the entire time you were embarked on your mission. Not for your own safety, of course, but for that of anyone you might encounter.”

She looked at him from the corner of her eye.

“I’d be especially worried for any sailors who crossed your path. We aren’t that far from the Thames, you know.”

Blast those earnest blue eyes of his. They seared straight through her, whether brimming with concern
or twinkling with humor, as they were now. She dropped her hands to her lap.

“Much better. I concede you have more extensive experience at breaking and entering than I do. What is your plan?”

A hackney driver shouted an obscenity at them as he drove past. He came so close, the phaeton rocked in the other coach’s wake.

“May I suggest we get going, and I’ll tell you along the way?”

Moncreiffe started the horse, and they joined the steady flow of traffic.

“Steven and Gauthier are expecting to meet their contact at the gaming hell shortly after ten tonight. That is our best chance for Toussaint to be there also, and since he’ll be gone, his servants are likely to be lax in their duties. Sitting around the table in the kitchen, or helping themselves to his best claret, for example. It will be simple to sneak in, grab the snuffbox, and sneak out again.”

“Not so simple. Do you know exactly where he’s keeping the box? I doubt very much it’s in plain sight on top of his desk.”

Charlotte gave a negligent wave of her hand. “Men are boringly predictable when it comes to hiding their valuables. I shouldn’t need more than a few seconds to locate it.”

At half past nine that night, Alistair climbed out of his hired hackney four doors down from Miss Parnell’s town house, as they had agreed.

A shadow detached itself from the shrubbery. In the
swaying light cast by the hackney’s lantern, Miss Parnell stepped toward him. She wore a dark gray velvet dress and matching pelisse that absorbed what little light there was, and her black bonnet hid any hint of her blond curls. Her soft-soled shoes were silent on the cobblestones. “Good evening, sir.”

“Good evening, miss,” he said, glancing at the eavesdropping driver, and handed her into the coach. He shut the door and banged on the roof to give the signal to start. The coach rocked into motion, rattling Alistair’s teeth as the poorly sprung vehicle bounced across every uneven cobblestone.

He rubbed his eyes. Had he really agreed to help his fake fiancée break into a gentleman’s home?

Ah, but Toussaint was no gentleman, and Miss Parnell was determined to go through with her plan, with or without his help. He could not, in good conscience, allow her to undertake such a risk on her own. Nor did he have a snowball’s chance in June of talking her out of it. She’d left him no choice but to assist.

And to be brutally honest, he could not quite quench the flutter of anticipation in his stomach, reminiscent of the thrill of finding and tracking the Great Comet five years before.

It was excitement, or he should have skipped the roast lamb at dinner.

He heaved a sigh. “You’re certain you still want to go through with this?”

Miss Parnell responded by slipping her hand into his and giving it a slight squeeze. “Is this not the most marvelous feeling?”

He squeezed her fingers in return.

When they’d entered into their false betrothal, he hadn’t considered how much they would touch each other. Her years on the Continent made her different from the other London lasses—bold in many respects, and very tactile. He’d noticed her reaction when he pretended to nuzzle her neck in the alley—more affected than she’d likely admit. Which seemed only fair, since the way she kept touching him was having an effect as well. If he wasn’t careful, his enjoyment of their contact would endanger his bachelor status.

“The anticipation, the excitement. I’ve missed this.” She squeezed his hand again. “You must be at your best, most observant and quick-witted, or the other party will gain the upper hand.”

“I’m worried about the other party doing more than raising their hand. You’re breaking into a man’s home. Men tend to frown on that. They protect what’s theirs.”

“Oh, pish.” Her other hand fluttered to rest on his knee.

Any other woman would do such only as part of a seduction attempt. Miss Parnell was simply conveying her excitement, he reminded himself.

“We will go through Toussaint’s garden gate, and be in and out of his house in less than three minutes. The snuffbox will be mine, without Steven’s assistance, and Lord Q will finally have to—”

“Lord who?”

Miss Parnell slipped her hand free of his. In an uncharacteristic show of discomfort, she cleared her throat and smoothed her skirts with both hands.

“Who is Lord Q?”

“He is the one who gives Steven his assignments.” She let out a sigh. “Like most men of his generation, he believes women are best suited for looking pretty or giving birth. He has chosen to remain ignorant of my contributions to Steven’s successful completion of his assignments. I intend to give the old goat irrefutable proof.”

“So all this—this subterfuge—is just to prove an old gentleman wrong?”

“Of course not. It is vitally important that the snuffbox be returned to its rightful owner.”

“And if you happen to benefit from being the person to retrieve said snuffbox, that is merely a delightful bonus.”

“Nothing wrong with that, is there?” He heard the broad grin in her voice, even if he hadn’t seen the flash of teeth.

Her excitement was contagious. They probably should reserve a room for him at Bedlam, but he found himself looking forward more and more to their adventure. The other night on the roof, he’d felt her need to
do
something, had felt it himself when he saw the snuffbox being stolen as they watched. Sometimes one had to stop observing and take action.

In the dimness of the carriage, Miss Parnell shifted on the bench seat. He missed her warmth at his side, but she had turned at an angle so their knees pressed intimately together. “I worked and trained with Steven for five long years. I know how to do this work. It’s what I know best. It’s what I
want
to do.”

She rested her hand on his knee again. “You are at the beck and call of your father and grandfather, but eventually you will be free of their tether. Can you not
understand why I want to have some measure of control over my own destiny? As a wife, I would be subject to my husband’s will, even as I am now subject to my brother’s will.”

“And you think your path to freedom lies in working for Lord Q?”

“It’s my only option.” Her words were uttered with quiet conviction.

So, she’d misled him on at least one bit—she didn’t plan to marry later, as she’d said, didn’t intend to marry at all. With the tether that his grandfather and father kept him on, he did understand her dilemma. Working for Lord Q was her only hope at an independent life.

He folded her hand in both of his and gave her a reassuring squeeze. “Then tonight we will retrieve the snuffbox.”

Her hand slid up his arm and to his cheek, and she leaned forward to drop a butterfly kiss on his jaw. “Thank you,” she whispered against his neck.

Would she dare initiate such intimacies when they could see each other? Or was it only the darkness that made her so bold?

He inhaled the barest hint of her warm, rosewater scent, and felt the urge to gather her into his arms and discover just where she had applied the single dab of scent. Explore her lush curves.

The coach lurched to a halt, precluding any such explorations, or a test of his willpower.

Alistair climbed out and paid the driver. He turned to assist Miss Parnell, but she already stood on the sidewalk
beside him. With a crack of the whip and jingle of the harness, the coach pulled away, and the two of them stood alone in the stark reality of the dark street.

Everything was the same as it had been this afternoon, yet looked different in the dark. Every shadow took on sinister overtones. He was aware of every sound, every echo. Even tracking the Great Comet hadn’t stirred his pulse this way.

Doubts had plagued him all afternoon and into the evening, thoughts of all the things that could go terribly wrong. “Are you absolutely certain you want to go through with this?”

In answer, Miss Parnell tugged on his arm, heading toward the alley behind Toussaint’s town house. He squelched his instinct to take the lead, understanding her need to do so. He stayed alert, ready to face whatever they encountered, do whatever necessary to keep her safe.

“I told you, we can’t involve a third person, and we can’t very well leave your gig and horse unattended. When we’re done, all we need do is walk two blocks in that direction, and there will be any number of hackneys we can hail.”

Alistair looked in the direction she pointed. True enough, traffic in the streets that way was still bustling, even at this hour, and likely would be until well after midnight. Three blocks in the opposite direction lay the waterfront, where the activity level depended on the tide, not the clock. He imagined he could even smell a hint of wet hemp and day-old fish wafting their way.

They hurried through the darkness, clinging to the
shadows down the alley. Miss Parnell paused as they reached the carriage house, her head cocked to one side as she listened. Alistair did the same, and heard nothing, not even horses in their stalls.

But of course—Toussaint would have been driven to the gaming hell, leaving the carriage house and stables empty.

She darted forward and tested the latch on the garden gate, which was locked from the inside. Before Alistair could even think to offer her a boost, she hitched up her skirts, found a foothold, and gracefully vaulted over the gate.

Once on the ground on the other side, she turned back to look at him, her eyes just visible over the top of the gate.
Coming?
She mouthed the word, keeping the silence they’d held since entering the alley.

With a glance back at the direction they’d come, he easily climbed up and over and dropped quietly to the ground beside her.

Rosebushes lined the graveled walk from the terrace door to the garden gate. Miss Parnell stayed on the grass, almost doubled over as she scurried toward the hulking black shadow of the town house. A sliver of light escaped from around the door leading down to the kitchen, but otherwise the house was shrouded in darkness.

Moments later, his heart pounding, Alistair pressed against the wall beside Miss Parnell, feeling the cold grit of the brick against his hands.

“You stay here, and whistle if anyone comes,” she whispered.

“What are you—”

Before he could finish the sentence, Miss Parnell tucked the front of her skirts into the belt at her waist, revealing a pale strip of her thighs above her black stockings.

His breath hitched at the sudden, unexpected delight.

She would probably have slapped him, and rightfully so, had she noticed him staring, but she was intent on finding her first handhold and foothold on the rough brick wall, and then a second, and she kept climbing. She ignored the fragile-looking rose trellis and instead found handholds and footholds in the uneven brick.

His breath caught again, this time because her foot slipped. For an endless moment her leg swung in the air, far above the hard ground. He stretched up as though he could catch her. But she found another purchase and continued her ascent.

What seemed like hours later, she slithered over the balcony railing and disappeared from sight. Sweat pooled at the small of his back, and he was breathing as hard as if
he
had been the one climbing.

A rustling sound in the back of the garden caught his attention. He pressed his back against the wall and searched the shadows, straining his eyes and ears. Probably just a cat hunting its dinner.

Hunter and prey. Bad imagery to conjure up at the moment.

He squinted, hoping the excellent night vision that allowed him to see faint stars would enable him to separate the shadows in the hedge along the back fence.

Something larger moved. A dog, perhaps?

Up above, a candle flared to life.

“Run!” Miss Parnell’s pale face appeared as she leaned over the balcony railing.

Like hell. He wasn’t leaving her behind.