Shirley Kerr (19 page)

“News concerning his part of the investigation?”

Charlotte nodded. “That would be my guess.”

“Then let’s not keep him waiting.” Alistair began walking, heading back to the house.

Since their hands were still linked and Alistair showed no inclination toward letting go, Charlotte had no choice but to try to keep up.

“Oh, sorry.” He slowed down.

“You should know that I told Steven about my attempt to retrieve the box last night, but I may have left out a few details.”

“Details, such as the fact that you got shot?”

“And I may have omitted the bit about your partici
pation in the night’s events.” She winced, and tried to read his expression.

He gave a small smile. “How did you explain away your limp?”

“Told him it’s a bruise. Does this mean you’re with me rather than against me?”

“I will always be with you, Charlotte.”

A
listair followed Charlotte into the drawing room, where her brother was in the process of requesting a tea tray. Another man paced before the fireplace, his enormous Roman nose presented in profile. He was dressed in a similar fashion as Blakeney—barely respectable—and had used half a bottle of Macassar oil to hold his overlong, dark hair in place. Upon noticing Alistair, the stranger raised his nose and eyed him with the same disdain one generally reserved for a mosquito.

Alistair felt just as welcome, but had no intention of leaving Charlotte’s side.

Apparently realizing none of the men would sit unless she did so first, she perched on the edge of a straight-back chair, doing her best to hide a grimace of pain. Alistair pulled up a nearby chair.

“What is the news?” She leaned forward.

Steven and the stranger said nothing, pointedly staring at Alistair.

She gave a huff of impatience. “Alistair knows everything,” she announced.

“Everything,
ma petite
?”

“Yes, Gauthier. Oh, I’m sorry, you two haven’t been properly introduced. He is a friend of Nick’s, so you can speak freely.”

Alistair was slightly affronted that she hadn’t referred to him as her fiancé. Perhaps she still hadn’t accepted their betrothal was real? Clearly he had more work to do.

“News?” she prompted her brother.

Steven scowled at him, then handed Charlotte a piece of paper. “This is a copy of the note that was delivered to Lord Q’s office a few hours ago. They tried to track down the author but could get no further than the street urchin who delivered it. Lad couldn’t be more than nine or ten, and claims he was paid a shilling by a well-dressed toff. No reason to doubt his story.”

She held it to the side so Alistair could read over her shoulder.

It went on to describe where and when the money should be delivered, in three days’ time.

Alistair gave a low whistle. “Doesn’t want much, does he?”

“And we all know twenty thousand is just the beginning.” Steven held his finger up for silence when the maid knocked and entered with the tea tray. He gestured for her to bring it to the table in front of him, sparing Charlotte the need to play hostess.

“I don’t understand,” Charlotte said as soon as the maid had curtsied and left again. “Is Lord Q giving you a new assignment before the other is completed?”

Steven shook his head. “Lord Q left out a few details when he gave me the assignment. Apparently this letter was hidden inside the snuffbox.”

She tossed the scrap of parchment onto the table. “Why would the Home Office or the prince care if the contents of this letter became public knowledge? He already lives a life so scandalous, no one should be shocked by anything he’s written, or that was written to him.”

“
Ma petite
, that was another detail. Your Prinny, he gave the box to someone else. It is not his letter, not his secret that has fallen into the wrong fingers.”

“Hands,” Steven corrected absently.

Charlotte accepted a cup of tea from her brother. “Then whose secret is it? Who was the original recipient of the blackmail note?”

“We haven’t been made privy to that information.” Steven sat down again. “What matters is that we can’t
allow the contents of the letter to become public knowledge.”

Charlotte took a sip. “Whoever he is, I wonder if he’s the one who sent those two men to retrieve it? I thought they were from Darconia, but perhaps not.”

Alistair noted that Steven had not offered him a cup of tea. “Dar—What?”

“Darconia,” Charlotte said. “You need a magnifying glass to see their country on a map of the Continent. One of their female dignitaries recently gave the snuffbox to Prinny as a token of her affections, but it turns out the box was part of their equivalent of the crown jewels. Our plan was to get back the box, make a duplicate of it for Prinny, and return the original to the Darconians. Then everyone would be happy, Prinny and his paramour none the wiser, and an international incident averted.”

Alistair got up and poured his own cup while Charlotte explained. He let her words sink in while he stirred the sugar into his tea. “Except the Darconians are an impatient lot, aren’t they? Or they simply didn’t trust that you would give them back the original.”

She frowned at him. “Why do you say they’re impatient?”

“Who else would have an interest in breaking into Toussaint’s study before we got there last night?”

Gauthier had been lounging by the fire, leaning an elbow against the mantel, but he straightened at this. “You were with
ma petite
last night?”

Steven pinned Alistair with a glare. “And you couldn’t stop her?”

Alistair rolled his eyes. “Are we talking about the same female who followed you through Paris alleyways in the middle of the night when she was still young enough to have belonged in the schoolroom?”

He waved his hand. “Right. What was I thinking?”

“I’m getting bloody tired of people talking about me as if I’m not in the room.”

Ignoring Charlotte’s indignation, Steven marched over to Alistair’s chair. “Just a moment. You were with her last night?” His tone was deadly soft, deceptively calm. “All night?”

Having his bride forced to the altar by her irate brother was not the best way to begin a marriage. Alistair was going to have her, but he wanted her to come willingly. “We spent the night on Nick’s ship, yes.” He stood up.

Steven did not back away.

They stood nose to nose. “It was late when we left Toussaint’s, and it was safer for her to pass the night on the nearby
Wind Dancer
than travel through neighborhoods that even during daylight hours are dangerous at best. Nick had her stay in the captain’s cabin. That’s the usual procedure when she’s stayed on board, I believe?”

He was quite proud of the fact that all of what he’d said was absolutely true. His future brother-in-law didn’t need to know about the omitted details.

Steven harrumphed and returned to his chair, but didn’t sit down.

Gauthier was still standing at attention, staring at Alistair with suspicion. “How is it you know this Nick, this schoolboy who played at being spy?”

Charlotte rapped her knuckles on the table. “Gentle
men, can we stop all this silly posturing and return to the important subject at hand? The letter?”

A few heartbeats passed before Steven and Alistair sat down and Gauthier resumed his negligent pose, leaning on the mantel.

She nodded. “Does this attempt at blackmail really change anything? We still must reclaim the snuffbox. We just have to be certain to retrieve the letter that’s inside it as well.”

Steven crossed one ankle over his knee. “Getting it will be a damn sight harder now, since Toussaint knows people are after it. Did he get a good look at you or the Darconians?”

She shook her head. “I was in the dark, on the balcony. But he may be able to recognize the Darconian who was in his study.”

“The other one stayed in the back of the garden,” Alistair added. “Impossible for Toussaint to pick him out of a crowd. I was on the ground, much closer, and still couldn’t see his features.”

“Well, what shall we do now?” She looked expectantly at each of the three men in turn. “Steven, you and Gauthier could distract him, lure him out of the house tonight, and I could make another attempt to break into the study.”

Steven shook his head. “He’s probably already moved it to a new hiding spot. I’d wager a year’s income that it’s no longer in his town house.”

Alistair wanted to check Charlotte’s forehead for fever—she couldn’t possibly be thinking of making another attempt. At the very least, it might pull out her stitches, undo all his work. Cause a scar. He leaned
toward her and kept his voice low. “You’re in no condition to climb.”

She smacked him on the knee.

Steven’s head jerked up. “You know how she got the bruise?”

“Going over the garden gate,” he said without missing a beat. “The second time proved to be more problematic than the first.”

“My bruise is of no consequence. Do you think Toussaint would hide the box at Lost Wages?”

“It’s possible, poppet. Gauthier and I plan to go back to the gaming hell tonight and have a better look around. You, meanwhile, should stay home and rest, and perhaps take a long hot bath with Epsom salts.”

Alistair tried not to wince.

“That would certainly be good for a bruise. Thank you for your concern, Steven.”

“I’ll let Aunt Hermione know you won’t be attending the musicale with her tonight.” Steven paused. “You’re not faking this in order to get out of going to hear all that caterwauling, are you?”

She smiled and batted her eyelashes.

Charlotte chafed at her inactivity the rest of the day. She wanted to be doing something, anything, to get the snuffbox back, but reluctantly agreed with Alistair’s logic in taking a day of rest to let her body heal. It pained her greatly to admit that he was right, and she was in no condition to climb a balcony tonight because of the royal pain in her backside. At least, the indirect cause was a royal
article. The throbbing ache when she moved had increased to the point where she considered drinking brandy straight, and skipping the pretense of having tea in her cup.

At the least, she could distract herself by gathering intelligence, so the time was not entirely wasted. The footman she’d sent on an errand just before lunch had returned from Hookham’s Lending Library with an armload of books on astronomy, as requested. Since she needed to lie still, she would put the time to good use and study up on the subject so important to Alistair.

Unfortunately, the footman hadn’t been able to find a single book that even mentioned Darconia, so she’d have to rely on what she already knew about the country to try to predict what the smoking men would try next.

She’d been unable to conceal her injury from her maid, Molly, who’d noticed the tiny new bloodstains on her shift. She’d had no choice but to take the maid into her confidence about some things, after reminding Molly that she was the one who actually paid her wages, not Steven or Hermione.

On a positive note, she discovered that Molly’s mother was a healer and had taught her daughter several useful recipes, including one for a poultice that Molly promised would draw out much of the soreness from Charlotte’s wound. It was worth the indignity of lying on her bed and having the poultice applied continually throughout the afternoon and evening.

“Your surgeon did a bang-up job, my lady.” Molly wrung out the cloths from the concoction in the kettle that had been heating on the hearth, and used them to
replace those on Charlotte’s posterior that had cooled. “Even me mum’s stitches aren’t this neat. You’ll have hardly any scar a’tall.”

Thankfully, Charlotte was beyond blushing at that point.

If she had to get shot, why couldn’t it have been someplace more heroic, and less personal? Like in the shoulder, or even just a few inches farther down, on her leg?

Scar or no, Alistair was never going to see the results of his handiwork. Molly was perfectly capable of removing the stitches when the time came. The man had a warm body and a cool head in trying circumstances—not to mention being a fabulous kisser—but their relationship was going to end soon.

Charlotte thought back on her emotional conversation with Alistair in the park. He wanted her to abandon her quest, but failing that, insisted on helping her.

That would be fine, if that was as far as he went. How could she dissuade him from following through with the rest of his plan? They would never suit as husband and wife, not really.

For a moment, she allowed herself the indulgence of picturing the fantasy life he had described for her. She had never been to the Lake District, but had seen enough paintings and read enough descriptions to know she would love it there. Mountains and lakes, nights under the stars spent with Alistair. Shopping and riding, and more time spent in Alistair’s company. Being his wife, and all that entailed.

Hearing the rich, mellow timbre of his voice. Watching him talk, his elegant long fingers and expressive
hands—without them, he’d probably be speechless. Staring into his brilliant blue eyes, like a patch of clear sky after weeks of endless rain. They’d turned darker than sapphires when he’d kissed her this afternoon.

And, oh, how the man could kiss. Without dislodging any of her clothing or his, he’d managed to kiss away any vestige of her intelligence, kiss away all her resistance, and he hadn’t even used his tongue. She’d overheard conversations, knew about such types of kisses. Until this afternoon she’d never thought they would be all that appealing. Now she thought differently.

If he brought that weapon to bear, she’d be sunk. She did not dare allow him a chance to even try such a tactic. An intelligent man such as Alistair would wait until he had her mindless with passion, lost to sensation, and then renew his attempts to convince her that life in the country, being his wife, was exactly what she wanted.

But such a settled life was not for the likes of her.

She’d spent the first fifteen years of her life living in the same house, in the same quaint town of Bath, and had never traveled more than a few miles from her birthplace. After her mother’s death, she’d been taken in by her aunt, who lived just down the street, and who had recently lost her own husband.

And then Steven had sent for her.

The five years since that fateful day had been filled to bursting with one adventure after another. She’d crossed the English Channel several times, had sailed on everything from fishing smacks to Dutch galliots, and once even an eighty-four-gun brig of war. She and Steven had traveled through at least eight countries and stayed in
several dozen different lodgings, their accommodations ranging from exquisite country estates to the most abject hovels where the rats were big enough to saddle and ride. Through it all she remained free, untethered, no ties to bind her to any one place.