Shirley Kerr (3 page)

The apparition crept closer to the edge of the neighboring roof.

Alistair blinked. Her fair hair and light dress appeared almost white in the faint starlight, but that was definitely Miss Parnell peering over the edge. He leaned out, and saw what she must be looking at—three balconies, of which the middle one was just below her and a little to the right.

The two buildings were close together, scarcely six
feet apart, and only a low hedge separated their gardens. Thorny bushes, if he recalled correctly, and they were a good four stories down.

Miss Parnell got down on her knees and leaned over. Suddenly she was swinging in the air, fingertips clinging to the edge, reaching out with one foot.

But she had misjudged the distance. She clung to the edge of the roof by her fingers, four stories up, the balcony just beyond her reach.

Blast. No wonder she had always left the breaking-in part to Steven—doing so in a dress was nearly impossible. Not to mention dangerous. Foolhardy, even. As Charlotte dangled by her fingertips, four stories up, she tightened her grip on the roof tile and looked over her shoulder, toward the balcony that had seemed to be right
there
.

Perhaps she should have waited a little longer for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, after the bright lights in the ballroom next door. But the window washer’s ladder leaning against the hotel wall had been easy enough to climb. And no telling how soon Aunt would start looking for her, or when Steven would return. The rat. How dare he leave her behind, after all the work they’d done together?

Charlotte swung her left leg out, reaching for the balcony railing. Still too far. The breeze picked up again, swirling around her skirts, chilling her in places that had no business feeling a breeze.

She had just as much right to chase after the stolen snuffbox as Steven did. More, in fact. Hadn’t she been the one to collect most of the information when they worked in France? All she had to do was bat her blue eyes, show a
little décolletage, breathlessly hang on their every word, and most men became blithering idiots, blathering their deepest secrets. Or she chatted up maids, collecting servants’ gossip.

Steven had no right to insist she stop serving her country and start serving a husband instead. And how dare he so cavalierly dismiss her theory that Madame Melisande was responsible for stealing the box?

She gritted her teeth and inched her left hand along the edge, then the right. When Madame Melisande had left the ballroom, heading upstairs with a paramour, she realized this might be her only chance to search the widow’s room at the hotel next door to the Argyle Rooms. It was too good an opportunity to pass up.

Her fingers slipped on the roof tile. She scrabbled for another grip and tried to catch her breath. Her new maid had laced her stays too tight again. It took hardly any exertion to make her breathless, and she worried about spilling out of her gown altogether.

Annoying for her, but it had an amazing yet highly predictable effect on the male of the species. Suited her purposes, though, especially when she noticed that the viscount had noticed. He had the sense of humor to go along with her this afternoon, but he also had predictable male reactions to female charms.

And he had muscles. She’d bumped against him to gauge his reaction, but had been unprepared for her own response to contact with his tall, lean body.

Her breathless state was due entirely to her tight stays, not his flat abdomen and hard thighs and toned calves that owed nothing to padding. With all her silliness, surely she
had put to rest any suspicions he might have had about her behavior, and convinced him she was just as empty-headed as any miss prowling the marriage mart.

She inched her hand to the left again, then the other hand. She reached out her left foot, searching for the railing, but encountered nothing but air. She had to be getting close.

Her dancing slipper slipped off her foot. It landed with a faint
thwap
on the stone patio, four stories below.

This could all go terribly wrong, terribly fast. Her arms were trembling from the strain. Her hands hurt and her fingertips were likely bleeding by now. How could she have misjudged the location of the balcony from the roof so badly?

More sounds. The rustle of fabric, a soft thud. Had someone inside noticed her climb past a window? No lights filtered through the curtains on any of the three balcony doors. She reached again for the railing with her foot.

Something warm grabbed her ankle. She stifled a scream and tried to shake it off.

“Miss Parnell,” came a hoarse whisper. “Stop trying to kick me.”

Viscount Moncreiffe? What in the world was he doing out here? The viscount’s bare hand slid farther up her leg beneath her skirt, holding the back of her knee, above her stocking. His other hand slid up her right side, all the way to her hip. Her mouth fell open in surprise. She heard the crunch of his boots on the balcony as he shifted position, the clink of his fob banging against the iron rails as he reached farther over the railing. He patted her hip. “I’ve got you. Let go.”

“What?” Nothing but space—a vast, wide open, empty space—stretched out beneath her.

“I’ll catch you. Let go.”

She heard confidence in his whispered command, felt the strong grip he had on the back of her left knee. What could happen?

Worst case, she’d end up hanging upside down, arse over teakettle, skirts over her head, and give him a fine view of her nether regions before he let go in shock.

If that happened, immediate death on the flagstones below was an acceptable option.

With one last shallow breath—her stays were too tight for a deep one—she let go.

Wind whooshed past her ears but her fall was mercifully brief.

Moncreiffe hauled her into his arms and up against his hard chest. He grunted upon impact and staggered back a step, but quickly steadied. She wrapped her aching arms around his wonderfully broad shoulders and buried her face against his neck and the cool linen of his cravat. She wasn’t on solid ground yet, but this felt even better.

“Are you injured, Miss Parnell?”

She felt the rumble in his chest as much as heard the quiet question. “I’m fine, thank you,” she managed between panting breaths. She inhaled his comforting scent, a mellow mix of spice, tobacco, and a hint of musk.

She lifted her head enough to look over his shoulder. The safety of the balcony floor was still a long way down.

Tall men, and their long arms, could be quite handy. “Not that I don’t appreciate your assistance—I do, by the
way—but why are you here? I thought you were still at the ball.”

“I could ask you the same question.”

His grip shifted, and Charlotte became aware of his right arm around her shoulders, the left under her knees. Her skirts had bunched up in her lap, revealing her stockings and bare knees. Was anything else bare? Well, it didn’t really matter, since there was no one else around. Moncreiffe held her out from his chest, just far enough to look at her face, though in the darkness his was a pale blur.

Light flared behind the curtain next door, and suddenly the other balcony door swung open.

An older gentleman, in his late fifties at least, stood there, holding up a candelabrum, his arm wrapped around the waist of a woman wearing too much rouge and not enough clothing, clearly a member of the demimonde, a Cyprian.

“Father,” Moncreiffe said with a nod, rather calmly.

Father? Charlotte squeezed her eyes shut, but not before she saw the wicked gleam in the other woman’s eye.

“Alistair, my boy! If I’d known you wanted a room, I’d have—”

“No! No, that’s quite all right, we, ah, just wanted a moment of quiet for, ah…”

The older man chuckled. “The bed’s in there, not out here.”

Moncreiffe coughed. He cleared his throat, then seemed to suddenly remember he was still holding Charlotte aloft in his arms. He set her down gently and gave her skirts a
slight shake into place, then straightened to his full height.

Charlotte tucked her shoeless left foot behind her right, hoping no one would notice her missing dancing slipper.

He cleared his throat again. “No, we are not in need of a, ah, bed. We just—”

“Up against a wall can be good, too, but at your height, it’d be a lot easier with a Long Meg.” He turned his broad grin on Charlotte. “Not that you aren’t a most charming pocket Venus.” He winked at her.

Charlotte felt her cheeks flood with heat.

“Sir! Miss Parnell is no lightskirt! She’s…Ah, she…”

Both Father and Charlotte turned their gaze on Moncreiffe, while the Cyprian snickered into her hand. In the flickering light cast by the candles, Charlotte saw Moncreiffe’s blue eyes gazing at her intently. They suddenly widened, just for an instant. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and turned back to his father, his chin high in the air.

“Miss Parnell has just done me the great honor of accepting my marriage proposal.”

C
harlotte felt light-headed.

“Married? At your age?” Father’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t be ridiculous. Bed the wench and be done with it.”

Charlotte would have gasped, had she been able to draw a deep enough breath.

Moncreiffe tucked her against his side, his hand around her shoulder. “I’ll thank you to speak more respectfully of my intended, sir.”

Father held the candelabrum higher and leaned toward them over the balcony railing, examining Charlotte. Moncreiffe held his ground, and his grip on Charlotte. She stayed perfectly still, chin up, hardly daring to breathe.

At last the older gent backed up. With a harrumph, he grabbed his companion, who was obviously cold in her thin dress, and retreated back into their room, muttering
imprecations about “that damn stiff-rumped duke’s doing” as he slammed the door.

Charlotte had grown roots. Couldn’t move if she tried. Never in all her years of working on the Continent had she found herself in such a situation.

Moncreiffe cleared his throat and took a step back, leaned over the railing as though judging the distance to jump to the ground. Finally he faced her. “I most humbly beg your pardon, Miss Parnell.”

Her mouth fell open.

“I don’t know what came over me. I just couldn’t give him the satisfaction of thinking that I, that you and I, er…”

“Had a carnal relationship?” She had the satisfaction of seeing his Adam’s apple bob, even above his cravat.

“Er, yes. He keeps telling me to, ah, sow wild oats, as it were. And I would
never
, er, not that you’re not appealing, but…”

She folded her arms over her chest. “Keep digging. You’re well on your way to China.” His discomfort should have increased hers, but instead had the opposite effect. Her breathing almost back to normal now, she saw the humor in the outrageous situation.

He ducked his chin, his blue eyes sparkling, his full lips twitching as he held back a smile. Her stomach fluttered.

“The good news is, I doubt Madame Cyprian, whoever she was, will tell anyone of our encounter, and my father certainly won’t. The last thing he wants is for me to become engaged. That would make my grandfather far too happy.”

Sounded like a family situation she should stay far away from.

“I appreciate you playing along like that. You’re very quick on your feet.”

At least he hadn’t made the mistake of saying “light” on her feet. She was trying to think of something brilliant and witty to say when Moncreiffe rested a hand on the railing and leaned toward her. “But I must confess to a great deal of curiosity as to why you were hanging from the rooftop.”

Oh. About that. Hmm. She tossed the question back to him to stall. “And I am curious how
you
came to be out here, with such propitious timing.”

Moncreiffe hadn’t moved away. “I was preparing to make some astronomical observations from the roof next door when I saw a more earthly body in a precarious position.” His teeth gleamed in the semi-darkness as he smiled. “And you, Miss Parnell?”

She gulped. His hand rested on the railing at her back. He stood close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body, remember the feel of it next to hers, inhale his scent. She could not let that distract her. Men became insensible, talkative creatures around her—not the other way around. “You’re sure your father won’t speak of our encounter?”

His lips twitched, silently acknowledging her diversionary tactic. “Certain of it.”

“Then we should leave before anyone else discovers us and reaches the wrong conclusion.” She ducked past his arm and reached for the door handle. She’d used several extra pins to hold up her hair in case she needed one to
pick a lock, but fortunately, Madame Melisande was a trusting person, or just careless, and had failed to lock it. Charlotte hurried inside.

“You don’t seem the usual type of burglar,” he said, his voice barely audible.

She hadn’t heard him follow her in, yet felt his presence at her side as strongly as if he were still holding her. They stood stock-still in the shadowy room, with the only light coming from the faint glow of the dying embers in the fireplace.

“We can’t be seen together,” she whispered, ignoring the urge to reach out and touch him again. “I’ll wait a few minutes after you’re gone, then go downstairs, just like the other hotel guests.”

She walked toward the door but paused, feeling the heat and weight of his hand on her shoulder, and tingled as he leaned down to whisper in her ear. “I sincerely hope the rest of your evening is less eventful, Miss Parnell.” He gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze before moving away.

The balcony door curtains fluttered as he passed. She heard the faint
clang
of his boots on the iron railing, and then he was up and gone from view, back the way he’d come, just as quick and agile as Steven when it came to climbing about on roofs. Gratifying to know her initial assessment had not been proven incorrect.

Charlotte stood frozen, staring at the empty balcony, reliving the moments in Moncreiffe’s company. The encounter with his father could prove problematic. He did not wish Alistair to marry, but apparently the duke did. Too bad she didn’t know the viscount’s thoughts on the subject.

She gave herself a slight shake. What on earth was she doing, thinking about Moncreiffe and marriage, when she had gone to such lengths—not to mention risk—to be here, now, to search Melisande’s room?

She made sure the hall door was shut and locked, did the same for the balcony door, then lit one candle from the glowing embers and began going through the courtesan’s belongings.

Half an hour later, she sat back on her heels with a sigh of defeat and closed her eyes. No, she would not give in. Of course it wouldn’t be this simple. She got up and made certain everything was back in its original position. She had found plenty of evidence if she were inclined toward blackmail—at least a dozen gentlemen would pay handsomely for the return of their tokens of affection. Melisande collected paramours the way other women collected shoes or gloves. But there was no sign of the object Charlotte was after.

Perhaps Melisande carried such a valuable item in her reticule, or on her person?

She’d have to bribe a maid, find out Melisande’s schedule, follow the courtesan. Go to the same social functions, get close to her.

If she went alone, it might raise suspicion, not to mention possibly causing a scandal if she came to the attention of some busybody stickler for propriety, and Aunt Hermione and her gout were only good for a couple outings per week.

She’d need an escort. Steven was out of the question, obviously. He’d only be interested in finding her a suitor, and would ditch her while he went off on his own search,
conveniently forgetting all about their successful partnership. The rat.

Suitor. Hmm. Marianne had been squired about by Lord Glavin to all sorts of events and outings while they were engaged. A husband was still out of the question, but a fiancé might be just the ticket.

She went still. Viscount Moncreiffe. He’d already brought up a fake engagement.

How could she let him know she would like to continue his charade, without him thinking it a ploy to actually lure him into parson’s mousetrap?

“You sly puss,” Steven said with a grin two days later, tossing the morning’s paper onto the table in front of Charlotte. He waved dismissal to the footman stationed by the sideboard, so they were alone.

She swallowed her bite of egg on toast. “Beg pardon?”

Steven stabbed an article halfway down the page that contained all of the social announcements. “When were you going to tell me you snagged yourself a viscount? One that’s heir to a dukedom, no less.” He ruffled her hair. “Nicely done, poppet. Mama and your papa would have been so proud.” He pulled out a chair and sat across from her. “Though to be proper, shouldn’t they have come to me to discuss marriage settlements before making the announcement?”

Charlotte’s fork clattered to the floor, unheeded, as she snatched up the newspaper. There it was, printed in black and white for all the world to see.
The Duke of Keswick announces the engagement of his grandson, Alistair,
Viscount Moncreiffe, to Miss Charlotte Parnell of Bath.
It went on to discuss the two families, including Moncreiffe’s father, the Marquess of Penrith, and listed information about her pedigree of which Charlotte had only a vague recollection.

“But marrying you off to the heir to a dukedom! I suppose we can forgive them their little oversight.”

“I…we…it’s not like that. We barely—” Charlotte gave up on an explanation at the sound of the door knocker. It was still far too early for any of Hermione’s friends to come calling, even with this juicy tidbit to discuss.

The butler appeared in the doorway moments later. “A gentleman caller, miss,” he announced, proffering the silver tray with a lone calling card.

Steven snatched up the card. “The bridegroom comes!” He pulled Charlotte’s chair back from the table. “Where did you put him, Farnham, the drawing room?”

“Yes, sir, but the gentleman asked specifically for Miss Parnell.” His disdainful sniff conveyed his opinion of the impropriety of calling at such an early hour.

Charlotte snatched back the card from Steven. “Surely you’ll allow me a few moments of privacy with my fiancé?” She flounced out of the room without a backward glance.

“Five minutes,” Steven called. “Then I’m coming in, and I’m not going to knock.”

Alistair paced before the empty fireplace in the drawing room. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He should never have lied to his father, or at least not that particular lie. He should have known Father would confront Grandfather, believing
it was the duke’s influence that made Alistair inclined toward matrimony at the tender age of twenty-five.

He plowed his fingers through his hair, wishing yet again the two men would choose someone else to be the rope in their decades-long game of tug-of-war.

Because his father couldn’t keep quiet and Grandfather couldn’t resist rubbing success in his son’s face, now all of London was privy to a private conversation. A conversation regarding a fake engagement. How did one go about asking a gently bred miss to declare herself a jilt?

Why, why couldn’t he have thought of a better reason for being alone on a balcony in the dark—the balcony of a hotel rumored to be a favored setting for assignations—with Miss Parnell?

And why had she been dangling above said balcony in the first place?

He turned at the sound of the door opening. Miss Parnell stood still for a moment, as though reluctant to share the room with him. No sign of a chaperone. The footmen in the hall were stationed on either side of the drawing room doorway, their backs to him.

She was dressed for staying at home, in a modest sprigged muslin gown, her hair pulled up in a simple but elegant chignon instead of a mass of ringlets. He had been worried she might not even be up yet. After spending almost until dawn at his telescope, he was awake this early only because of his father’s outraged roars upon seeing the newspaper.

Miss Parnell came forward slowly and gestured for him to be seated.

Alistair waited until she had settled on the sofa before taking an armchair across from her. “I do apologize for my early arrival, but I wanted to warn you—”

“About the announcement in the paper?”

Damn. “You’ve already seen it?”

“As has my brother. He’ll be joining us in a few minutes, by the way. He was a bit affronted you did not approach him about the marriage settlements before sending off the notice.”

Alistair pinched the bridge of his nose. Good thing he loved his father and grandfather so much, or he’d have murdered them both in their sleep long ago. He lowered his hand to his lap and leaned toward Miss Parnell. “I don’t know quite how to say this, but—”

“Allow me to guess. Your father and grandfather had a row, your father let slip what you told him, and Grandfather sent off the notice without anyone else’s knowledge, and now you want me to cry off.”

This might prove easier than he thought. “The thing is—”

“Are you promised to someone else, Moncreiffe?”

Alistair shook his head.

“Are your affections engaged elsewhere?”

“No, but you see—”

“Do you wish to be married, my lord?” She was leaning forward now, hands tightly clasped, her expression intent. He could almost see the wheels turning behind her blue eyes.

He tried to choose his words carefully. “Eventually, yes. It is expected of me, part of my duty. But I had hoped that would not happen for several years at least.”

“But your grandfather wishes for you to marry sooner rather than later?”

He nodded. “He thinks that would help ensure I do not become a loose screw like my father.”

“Might your engagement make him just as happy as an actual marriage, at least for a while?”

Alistair leaned back in his chair. “What are you getting at, Miss Parnell?”

“My brother wishes for me to marry. Like you, I do plan to marry, but I hope to make it later rather than sooner. An engagement would please him much in the same way it would please your grandfather.”

Alistair felt some of the tension leave his neck and shoulders. “Are you suggesting we indulge in a bit of subterfuge, Miss Parnell?” He held back a smile at the confirmation of his suspicions. This was no empty-headed miss before him, regardless of what she may have wanted him to think.

She batted her lashes. “At the end of the Little Season, our plan is to remove to my aunt’s home in Bath for the winter. By then I think you and I will have spent enough time in each other’s company to find we don’t really suit after all.” She rose to her feet, her hand extended. “Are we in accord, Moncreiffe?”

He grasped her petite hand in his. “I believe we are, Miss Parnell.” They shook on their agreement. Alistair allowed himself to smile, for the first time in days.

Their hands were still clasped when the door burst open and a familiar, tall blond man entered.

He quickly shut the door behind him, depriving the
footmen of the chance to gawk at the proceedings, and stood there with his hands on his hips. “I thought the name in the announcement seemed familiar.”