Shirley Kerr (28 page)

“Thank you, sir.”

He refolded the paper and tucked it back inside. “I assume you had something to do with this also, Moncreiffe?”

Alistair shook his head. “I take no credit whatsoever for its recovery.”

Her stomach plummeted to the vicinity of her shoes. “Oh, but I couldn’t have done this without your help.” She glanced over at Lord Q. “He was an invaluable partner.”

Lord Q shifted his gaze between the two of them, perplexed.

“I’m afraid its recovery was not without incident,” she explained. She swallowed a lump. “There was a…casualty. Toussaint fired at me, but his bullet struck someone else. A Frenchwoman, Madame Melisande.”

“She’s dead.” Somehow, Alistair’s flat, wooden tone was even more disturbing then his controlled anger of earlier.

“Toussaint shot her, eh?” Lord Q pushed aside what turned out to be a false bookcase, revealing a safe. He quickly opened it, tucked the snuffbox inside, and concealed it again. He dusted his hands off. “Well, I’ve always been of the opinion it was simply a matter of time before one of them turned on the other.”

Alistair whipped his head around to stare at Lord Q. “Turned?”

“We’ve been aware for some time that she was feeding him information, eavesdropping at parties to gather intelligence.”

“I thought she was just a thief, supplementing her income from being a mistress.” Reflecting on all the times she’d watched Melisande when the Frenchwoman had the snuffbox, Charlotte now saw her actions in a whole new light.

“Well, there was that, too.” Lord Q poured three glasses of brandy from the sideboard. “Our operatives had to take care that she didn’t pinch their valuables when they were letting her overhear their conversations.”

Alistair accepted the glass. “You were feeding her false information, which you knew she would then give to Toussaint?”

“Brilliant strategy, if I do say so myself.” Q handed a glass to Charlotte, and kept the last for himself. “But it couldn’t have lasted too much longer. Toussaint would have added up his misfortunes, each of his plans gone awry, and come up with the common denominator.”

“Information from Melisande.”

“Precisely.” Lord Q gestured at Alistair’s cravat. “That’s her blood, I presume?”

Charlotte had missed seeing it until now—his once-snowy linen marred by crimson splotches.

Merde
, he had been standing close enough when Melisande was shot to be splattered with her blood? Her chest hurt from the stab of guilt.

Alistair glanced down with a look of disgust and shook his head. “Toussaint suffered a nosebleed after he shot Melisande. Possibly a broken jaw.” He rubbed the knuckles of his right hand. “Probably a concussion, too.”

Lord Q murmured his approval, while Charlotte looked at Alistair, really looked at him, and saw a different man. Not the staid scholar, not the playful lover or the passionate astronomer, but a man more than capable of defending himself.

He was tall, with a trim but muscular build. For all the sedentary hours he spent observing the night sky, it was obvious he spent an equal number of hours engaged in physical pursuits—she’d felt the muscled contours of his chest and thighs. When he’d carried her to Nick’s ship, she was the one panting for breath, not Alistair.

And he’d injured Toussaint, thinking she’d just been killed.

Would he ever forgive her?

Lord Q tugged on the bell pull, and requested his carriage be made ready. He came back to the center of the room and raised his glass. “A toast, to the successful completion of your first mission without your brother. May it be the first of many.”

Charlotte forced a smile in return. Lord Q saw her as an operative in her own right, not as her brother’s assistant. She’d achieved her goal.

The brandy burned like acid going down her throat.

Alistair did not drink.

It wasn’t her fault that Melisande was dead. Engaged in the line of work that she was, such a fate was always a possibility, and Melisande had to have known that. Just as Charlotte knew she had risked mortal danger in getting back the snuffbox.

“If you don’t mind my asking…” Alistair began.

Lord Q raised his eyebrows.

“Just what is so damn important about that letter?”

She glanced at Lord Q, who nodded. “It’s a
billet doux
, from a man.” She set down her glass.

“Men in love are idiots. What is so remarkable about this particular love letter?”

At his harsh words, she turned to the fireplace so he wouldn’t see her wince. Was he referring to the letter writer being an idiot, or was it more personal?

Did he regret their time together? Perhaps he was even now cursing that day on Bond Street when she’d hooked his arm with hers.

But if it was personal, that meant…She glanced back at his proud, handsome profile, and felt the color drain from her face. She had not meant to engage Alistair’s emotions when she’d suggested their mock betrothal. But if his emotions were
not
involved, would he have been as tender and passionate last night when he’d coaxed her to the heights of sensual pleasure?

Even more disturbing, would she have responded so
willingly, with such intensity, if her own emotions were not equally engaged?

Oh, this was going to muck everything up. Even worse than it already was. She dropped onto the sofa with an unladylike thump.

Lord Q sat on the other end of the sofa and crossed an ankle over his knee. “The recipient is also a man.”

Alistair blinked. “Unusual, but since neither the writer nor the recipient was the Prince Regent, I fail to see how this endangered the monarchy.”

“The punishment for sodomy is death. The letter’s recipient is…well, let’s say he holds high office, and leave it at that.” Q took another sip of brandy. “If his preference in companionship were to be bruited about, even as a rumor, he would be forced to resign amidst a scandal that could jeopardize the stability of our government. Incidents like the machine-smashing at the mills in Loughborough this summer could become commonplace. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of lives could be lost in such unrest.”

The butler tapped on the door. “Your carriage is ready, my lord.”

Lord Q nodded, and the butler left. “It’s been a very long evening for you, Charlie. The excitement will soon wear off, and you’ll be wanting to seek your bed. My driver is at your disposal.”

Still dazed by her personal realizations, she stood and murmured something appropriate.

Alistair scrubbed the heels of his hands over his eyes. “I’ll see that she gets home safely.”

“Very good of you, Moncreiffe.”

Moments later, Alistair helped her into Lord Q’s elegant coach. His touch was polite, and completely impersonal. None of the lingering caresses or touches that she had come to expect, come to crave.

Other than issuing her direction to the driver, he remained silent. Seated on the bench opposite, he wouldn’t even look at her in the dim confines of the coach, but stared out the window at the blackness beyond, broken only by the occasional street lamp.

Steven would have begun shouting at her the moment they were alone. Her brother might see a different future than what she envisioned for herself, but she always knew where she stood with him.

Finally, she could stand the silence no more. “Speak to me. Chastise me, rail at me for going against your wishes, blame me for Melisande’s death, just say something. Anything.”

“I love you.”

Her mouth fell open.

He looked at her then, more pain in his blue eyes than she had ever before seen.

“I love you and respect you, and wanted to be your partner. I wanted to make our betrothal real. Get married. Grow old together. But your actions tonight made it clear that you do not feel the same way.” He leaned forward to tilt her jaw shut with one finger, and sat back. “You don’t want a partner. You don’t respect me. You only wanted me as a distraction. I do not want to be used in such a way, any more than you wanted your brother to use you.”

His words hung there between them, like an extremely low cloud that had moved in, made the air too thick to breathe.

The devil of it was, he was right. She had been guilty of treating Alistair with the same callous disregard that made her want to throttle Steven. She shrank back into the squabs, wincing, struggling for the words to say that would make things right between them again.

She had pictured their life together in the Lake District, and known it was not meant for her. She was independent, untethered. She had already made the decision to be alone. There was no reason for her heart to ache, to feel a raw pain in the back of her throat that she knew was the prelude to tears, just because he had been the one to utter the words aloud, with such finality.

“I’m sorry.” Sorry that she had caused him anguish, sorry for the future they would never have.

“I know.” He returned to gazing out the window.

His words continued to echo in her thoughts, each accusation pummeling her like a physical blow.

“Now that you’ve succeeded in your quest, I’ll expect to read the notice in the papers day after tomorrow.” He addressed the windowpane. The anger had drained from his voice, leaving it as flat as the glass.

“Notice?”

“Announcing the end of our betrothal. That’s been part of your plan from the beginning. No need to change it.”

His calm acceptance only made her feel worse.

The coach stopped, and Alistair helped her out. He followed her to the brick column beside the path to the town house door, deep in the shadows, and spun her to
face him. He brushed the backs of his fingers down her cheek in a familiar gesture, achingly sweet. Tears stung her eyes.

He leaned forward and kissed her, tender and gentle, then straightened abruptly, as though he hadn’t intended to kiss her. “Good-bye, Charlotte.”

She tried to speak but couldn’t force the words past the lump in her throat. She cupped his strong jaw and ran her thumb along his lush lower lip. One last time, a memory to last the rest of her life.

Then she turned on her heel and ran up the steps and into the house before he could see her tears.

The night seemed to go on forever.

Farnham had informed her Steven had not come home yet, so she couldn’t even share the evening’s high point with her brother, to distract herself from the incredible low.

She tossed and turned, even tried counting sheep. But instead of sheep, she saw stars. The same stars she’d seen on the rooftop with Alistair. Remembered his whispered endearments, the touch of his hands, the warmth of his kisses.

Gone from her world forever.

She must have fallen asleep at some point, because she awoke to sunlight streaming across her room. She rolled over, giving the sun the cut direct.

There was no reason to jump out of bed. She had accomplished her mission. Now she need only wait until Lord Q gave her another assignment. If she wanted to lie abed all day, that was her business.

She spotted the stack of astronomy books on the floor beside her bed, and squeezed her eyes shut.

Sometime later, there was a scratch at the door, and Aunt Hermione leaned into the room. “Charlotte, dear, aren’t you coming down to breakfast?”

She poked her head out from under the blankets. “Not hungry.”

“Hmm. Steven hasn’t come down yet, either. I wonder if that naughty boy stayed out all night again?”

The door clicked shut, and Charlotte pulled the blankets back up over her head, blissfully alone once more.

She threw them back and sat up. Sir Nigel had not been at the gaming hell last night. Had he been home when Steven and Gauthier were searching his town house?

Spurred by her worry, she got up and dressed.

This was a good day, she told herself as she dragged a brush through her hair. A great day, even. Last night she had attained the dream that she had worked toward so hard, for so long. The empty feeling inside had to be hunger.

Time to rub her success in her brother’s face. Surely he had come home by now? She forced a smile and went downstairs for breakfast. She was going to eat kippers and eggs, and Steven was going to eat crow.

But Steven wasn’t there.

“Still haven’t seen him yet this morning,” Aunt Hermione replied when asked. She peered at Charlotte over the rim of her teacup. “Are you feeling quite the thing? You look a little peaked.”

“I may have stayed up a little too late last night. I’ll have a lie down this afternoon, and be fine.”

“See that you do. We don’t want you run ragged before your big day.” Her eyes sparkled. “When is the big day? That is what you were discussing with Moncreiffe yesterday, was it not?”

Charlotte winced. She could delay no longer. It would only hurt worse. She rested her hand on Hermione’s forearm. “I’m so sorry to have to tell you, but…”

“Yes?”

She couldn’t do it. Bad news should not have to be digested before lunch. “We haven’t set a date yet.”

The butler entered just then. “This message just arrived for you, miss. The delivery person said it was urgent, but did not wait for a reply.”

“Thank you, Farnham.” She took the folded vellum and glanced at the seal, half hoping it was from Alistair. The
T
in a fleur de lis made her blood run cold.

“A love note from your intended?” Aunt Hermione batted her lashes, her smile teasing.

Charlotte forced air in and out of her lungs, and pasted a smile on her face. “If you’ll excuse me…”

“Of course, dear.”

She forced herself to walk, not run, and shut herself into the drawing room before she broke the seal.

Toussaint had signed the note with just an elaborate
T
.

She paced the length of the room. She’d left her heart in Lord Q’s coach last night, but had left nothing behind
at the gaming hell except her cloak. She certainly didn’t wish that to be returned, so to what could Toussaint be referring?

She pounded up the stairs and threw open the door to Steven’s bedchamber.