Shirley Kerr (5 page)

She nodded, unable to form a coherent thought, mesmerized by the sight of his fingertip tapping his full lower lip.

He abruptly lowered his hand and clasped his fingers together. She cleared her throat. What had they been discussing? Oh, right. “See if you can find out who else Sir Nigel might be spending his time with.”

Moncreiffe nodded. “See if he’s had any unusual contact with people in positions of power?”

Charlotte kept her expression carefully neutral. Moncreiffe couldn’t possibly know what was at stake.

He kept looking at her expectantly. She had the feeling he was baiting her, trying to trick her into revealing more than she intended. Wasn’t that exactly what she had done, on so many occasions, to so many men?

She’d have to ask Steven to look into Moncreiffe’s past. Much as it galled her to admit it, there were things that a single young man could do in London society that a woman could not. Although it wouldn’t be too out of the ordinary for a newly engaged woman to make inquiries about her husband-to-be. Though, as Aunt Hermione had said, those things were generally done
before
accepting the offer of marriage. Not after.

Steven wended his way through the crowd just then and took the empty chair on the other side of Aunt Hermione.

“How is your friend?” Hermione asked, patting Steven on his knee.

“My what? Oh, ah, he’s fine. Yes. Just did a bit of
catching up. Hadn’t seen each other since Cambridge, you know.”

Aunt Hermione soaked it up, obviously believing every word. Charlotte ground her teeth. The musicians struck up a waltz. She leaned forward, to see around her aunt. “Steven, I believe this is the dance you promised me tonight.”

“I did? Yes, of course. If you don’t mind, Moncreiffe.”

Moncreiffe waved his hand in a magnanimous gesture, his blue eyes twinkling. How annoying that after such short acquaintance he saw right through her subterfuge, when her beloved blood relative, Aunt Hermione, accepted every word as gospel truth.

Moments later, Charlotte and Steven took their place among the dancers. “Enjoy your chat with Gauthier?” she said, pleased that her voice remained neutral.

“Don’t be angry, poppet,” he said, expertly leading them to the least crowded section of the dance floor.

At least Steven had the grace to not deny it. She fought to keep the anger out of her voice. “How could you leave me out of an investigation, after all we’ve done together? Haven’t I proven myself enough?”

He looked pained, even though it had been several years since she’d last trod on his toes. “I’ve already explained, it has nothing to do with your skills and ability, or any supposed lack thereof.” He took a deep breath and stared into the distance for a moment, as though hoping to draw inspiration from the potted palm in the corner. “Being back in England, watching Marianne get married, I realized I’ve been unfair to you.”

“Unfair? Bloody right you have. I’ve put in my time, figured things out that had even you stumped, and yet you
dismissed my theory about Madame Melisande out of hand. That hurt, Steven.”

He shook his head. “I’m not talking about the case, poppet. It was selfish of me to bring you to France after Mother passed away, wrong to involve you in my work. Now the war is over, we’re in London, you should have a chance at happiness. Lead a normal life, like Marianne.”

She started to stutter a protest, but he forestalled her by tilting her chin up with one finger.

“You shouldn’t be involved in dangerous work. I’d never forgive myself if harm came to you.”

He hadn’t seemed so concerned when he’d brought her to his tiny flat overlooking a Paris alley five years ago, or when he’d shown her five different escape routes to three different bolt holes. He’d been only too delighted to hear the news she gleaned from maids, mistresses, and shop girls.

She had thrown herself into their work, devoting herself to ferreting out every snippet of information, using her French lessons in a way that would have shocked her teachers speechless. Work had distracted her from her grief over losing her mother, and given her life purpose. Her existence had meaning, made a difference, like her father had. Much as she loved her mother, Mama had been a butterfly, flitting about society, pretty but accomplishing little.

Steven was still talking. “You should marry Moncreiffe and have babies. Be happy.”

Charlotte almost groaned in frustration. “We’ve had this conversation before, Steven. What will it take to convince you that this work is what makes me happy?
Chasing clues, solving puzzles…
this
is a normal life for me.” She wanted to continue to serve the crown, not get married. A husband would only get in the way.

But Steven’s chin was set, her passionate plea falling on ears that had gone deaf as soon as they’d come to London, at least where her future was concerned.

She could be just as stubborn. “Did Gauthier have any new information?”

He let his breath out in a sigh. “You won’t leave it alone, will you?” He meant his tone to be harsh, but Charlotte heard grudging admiration. After pausing long enough she thought he wouldn’t answer, he spoke. “We think the…item…has been moved again. Tomorrow we’re going to make some more inquiries. If I keep you informed about our progress, will you try pretending to be a typical London miss?”

She’d done nothing
but
pretend since coming to London. She pretended to enjoy endless shopping excursions on Bond Street with Aunt Hermione and paying morning calls that took place in the afternoon. Even her engagement was pretend.

She beamed. “I can agree to that.”

And now Steven was going to keep her informed about his investigation. Perfect. However, she didn’t trust that he’d tell her
all
his progress, so she’d keep an eye on him, just the same.

The next morning, Charlotte rummaged through the trunks in her room, deciding which outfit to wear for following Steven. Should she choose a maid’s uniform, or housekeeper’s? A shop girl’s? Didn’t really matter, so long
as it was the attire of someone who could walk the streets without an escort, without raising any eyebrows or drawing attention.

She poked around the assorted wigs and garments until she banged her knuckles against something hard, long and narrow. The cane. She’d have to return that, along with the wig and dress she’d borrowed from the modiste’s shop, before the assistant who’d helped her had the cost deducted from her wages.

Charlotte smiled at how she’d given Moncreiffe the slip that first day they’d met, walking right past him when she exited the shop’s front door. He’d even tipped his hat, in deference to what he’d thought was an old crone.

Such a polite chap. How fortuitous that he’d paused to peer through a shop window when she’d thought someone was following her.

Only once before had she accosted a man on the street. The suspected traitor she’d been following down a Paris side street had suddenly doubled back. She’d hooked her arm with a beefy fellow just stepping into the street and sauntered right past her suspect.

As soon as they’d turned the corner into an alley, the fellow developed six hands, and it had taken her knee to his nether regions to convince him that
No
meant not in his lifetime.

She doubted she’d ever have to resort to such means with a gentleman like Moncreiffe. She sat back on her heels, the cane clutched to her chest. To be brutally honest, she doubted she’d offer even a token protest. The thought of his hands, roaming over her body…

Good thing their engagement was completely ficti
tious, merely for mutual convenience, so that kind of situation would never arise. Her ability to resist him, or rather inability, would never be tested.

She quickly dressed in a maid’s uniform, scraped her hair into a tight bun and covered it with a mob cap, then gathered the costume to be returned, threw on an old cloak, and headed down the back stairs, out the garden gate, into the mews.

Steven was still eating breakfast, but she knew where he was likely to meet Gauthier. She had just enough time to drop off her burden at the modiste’s shop before eavesdropping on them.

A
listair slouched lower in the armchair and raised his newspaper higher as Sir Nigel walked past him at White’s the next afternoon. As soon as he was out the door, Alistair shoved the paper aside, retrieved his journal and pencil, and recorded the names of the men with whom Nigel had exchanged more than banal pleasantries.

He’d never before tried to conceal his observations, if one didn’t count deceiving the teachers at school when he was supposed to be studying something other than the night sky. Subterfuge lent an air of excitement to an otherwise tedious activity.

An extra guinea slipped to the waiter who brought Alistair’s wine confirmed that all of the men with Nigel were his usual cronies. Also as usual, the waiter quietly added, Nigel had graciously allowed someone else in the group to pay for his meal and drinks.

If the man was expecting to come into money soon, he was being very circumspect about it. He hadn’t even entered anything in the betting books in over a month.

Alistair checked his watch. Just enough time to go home, change clothes, have his phaeton readied, and take Miss Parnell for a drive, as they’d agreed last night at the ball, so they could discuss what he’d learned. Or the lack thereof, since he didn’t think the information he’d gathered so far would prove to be of much value.

Even so, he was going for a drive in the park on a beautiful day with an intriguing woman—the perfect opportunity for intimate conversation to get better acquainted with his mysterious miss.

He picked up his pace.

“Let me take the reins,” were her first words upon stepping out of the town house and seeing his high perch phaeton.

Alistair exchanged a knowing grin with the groom holding the horse. “Perhaps some other time.” He gave her a hand up, admiring the way her dress clung to the curve of her hip as she climbed up to the seat before she sat and settled her skirts.

“I’m considered a dab hand,” she said with the same eager tone as soon as he was seated beside her.

The bench was narrow, requiring that their legs touch. He had a bit more space on his side and could move over a tad, but decided he preferred the contact with Charlotte’s rose-scented body, however incidental. He also liked the way the folds of her sprigged muslin skirt bunched up against his buckskin breeches.

Alistair nodded to the groom to let go the horse, then gave the reins a slap and pulled out into traffic. “I wasn’t aware driving lessons were part of a lady’s education these days.”

“Steven taught me. Said one never knows what skills may come in handy.” Her smile hinted there were a great many unusual skills that had been part of her education.

Alistair returned her smile, eager to explore the extent of her unorthodox learning.

Before traffic became any heavier, he shared with Miss Parnell what he’d learned so far about Sir Nigel. He spared a glance to witness her response to his findings, and had to force his attention back to his driving, away from her finger tapping her lush lower lip.

“Perhaps my theory is all wrong, and has been from the beginning.” She let out a sigh big enough that he felt it against his side. “Sir Nigel has nothing to do with the object, and last night we were simply witnessing nothing more sinister than a lover’s quarrel.”

They turned into the park and down Rotten Row, joining the slow parade of vehicles. “It’s early days yet,” Alistair said, disliking the sound of defeat in her voice.

“No,” she said, her voice laced with dejection. “Steven was right, and I was wrong. I should leave it alone, and just play at being a milk-and-water miss, like he wants.” She let out another sigh that brushed her rib cage against his, her downcast gaze focused on the ground passing beneath the phaeton’s wheels.

He had a hard time believing she would give up so easily. Even on their brief acquaintance, this seemed out of character for her.

Then he remembered how she had played the vapid miss when they first danced. He hid a smile. “It’s a good thing you have no intention of treading the boards, Miss Parnell.”

She gave him a wide-eyed innocent stare, which he returned.

After a few moments she gave him a rueful grin. “Too much?”

“If you really wanted to drive, all you had to do was say so.” He did a quick check to make sure traffic was still flowing as slowly as usual through the park.

She opened her mouth, no doubt to argue that she
had
said so, but closed it when he thrust the reins into her hands. She sat up straighter and adjusted the reins in her grip, her teeth flashing in a smile. “He has such a sweet gait, does he not?” She pointed her chin at the bay gelding in the traces.

“Maxwell does, and he has a tender mouth, as well.” Alistair forced his hands to stay flat on his knees so they wouldn’t snatch back the reins. Everything was fine so far. No children or dogs playing nearby that could startle the horse, no reason to expect Miss Parnell to drive them into the Serpentine.

“I shall take extra care, then.” The reins adjusted to her apparent satisfaction, she settled back in the seat, seemingly prepared to continue driving for the rest of their outing.

They rode in companionable silence for several minutes. Alistair tried to look everywhere at once, to spot anything that might upset Miss Parnell or the horse, and at the same time keeping an eye on her. Two little boys
chasing a dog, shouting and barking, ran toward the carriage. Alistair tensed, ready to take back control, but she kept the horse steady with just a flick of the reins. The dog suddenly doubled back and chased the boys away from the vehicles.

“Please try to relax, Lord Moncreiffe. I’ll have you know I haven’t overturned a cart since I was ten.” She flashed him a quick grin, then returned her attention to the crowded road ahead.

Alistair did not relax his vigil, but he did allow some of the tension to leave his shoulders. They continued along the crowded path, nodding at acquaintances, returning a waved greeting now and then. The looks of disappointment on several women’s faces, misses and matrons alike, were almost comical. When he’d decided to bring Miss Parnell for a drive, he’d only thought of it as a chance to talk without being overheard, rather than it being a public outing with his fiancée.

While he was accustomed to women staring at him, he was surprised to realize two men on the path behind them were staring at Miss Parnell. Were they disappointed suitors? They were dressed well enough to blend in with the park crowd currently on parade, but something about them seemed a bit off. Like they’d be more comfortable in the company of Nick, or Miss Parnell’s half brother, Steven.

But Nick had sailed on the midnight tide just before the newspapers printed the engagement announcement. Alistair shouldn’t be surprised that her brother had set someone to watch over him with Miss Parnell, as a chaperone of sorts. If he had a sister, he imagined he would be
quite protective, too, if she had just become engaged to a stranger.

Perhaps his imagination was simply being overly suspicious, thinking they were being watched. But the men had stayed just behind them, within one or two carriage lengths for the last complete round through the park, past all of the park gates, and had not paused to speak to anyone.

Then again, neither had he and Miss Parnell.

So focused on his thoughts, Alistair was startled when he heard his name called. Up ahead, two riders were threading their horses between the carriages, coming closer to the phaeton.

Clarke hailed him again. Miss Parnell slowed the horse and edged to the side of the path.

“Moncreiffe, well met,” Clarke called as he and his companion reined in their mounts beside the phaeton. “See, I told you that was him,” he said in a loud aside to the other man. “Dorian here didn’t believe that was you, letting a woman drive your carriage.” His fatuous grin showed far too many teeth.

“My fiancée was demonstrating her technique,” Alistair replied.

“So the rumors are true,” Dorian said good-naturedly. “Snared by parson’s mousetrap. And so soon.”

“But Dorian, lad, can’t you see why?” Clarke doffed his hat and held it over his heart. “Moncreiffe, had I seen her first, I vow I would have fought you for the lady’s favor.”

From the corner of his eye, Alistair watched Miss Parnell’s reaction. Judging by the amused smile on her lips, she didn’t seem to mind the interruption.

“Well, Moncreiffe, don’t keep us pining away any
longer.” Dorian removed his hat as well. “Introduce us to your lovely bride-to-be.”

Alistair cleared his throat. This was the first time in his life he’d made this particular introduction. “Miss Parnell, may I make known to you two friends and fellow astronomers, Mr. Clarke and Sir Dorian. Gentlemen, my fiancée, Miss Charlotte Parnell.” He was proud his voice remained calm.

It was amazingly easy to refer to the attractive, mysterious woman at his side as his fiancée.

“Charmed, Miss Parnell.” Clarke lifted her hand to drop a kiss on her gloved knuckles. He continued to hold her hand longer than necessary.

Alistair cleared his throat. Twice.

Clarke finally took the hint and let go. The twinkle in Miss Parnell’s eye told him she hadn’t missed his little display.

Dorian was not to be left out. “So pleased to meet the charming miss who stole Moncreiffe’s heart,” he said, just before bestowing a kiss on her knuckles as well. At least he let go promptly.

Miss Parnell took the attention in stride, gracefully acknowledging their tribute, without the preening he might have expected. She simply adjusted the reins in her grip again as soon as her hands were free.

Plenty of women had aspired to be his viscountess, banking on his future prospects, which would make his wife a marchioness and eventually a duchess. Somehow Miss Parnell seemed immune to such concerns.

But was she, really?

Or was this just more of her playacting, and she had no
intention of crying off by the end of the Little Season? He had considered that possibility when they’d first entered into their agreement, but decided Miss Parnell was in earnest about outwitting her brother and had no designs on becoming a viscountess.

It was too late to second-guess himself. “I hate to be rude, gentlemen, but you’re cutting in to unchaperoned time with my fiancée.”

“And precious time that is.” Dorian set his hat back on his head.

“Aye,” Clarke seconded. “To be sure, I would not let two brigands such as ourselves waste a moment more of it.” He shoved his hat back on, bowed toward Miss Parnell from his seat in the saddle, and nudged his horse away from the phaeton.

“I do hope we’ll see much more of you in the future, Miss Parnell,” Dorian said, just before he followed Clarke back out into the crowded path.

A few carriages rumbled past the phaeton, then there was a break and Miss Parnell gave the reins a light slap, and Maxwell plodded on.

“Well, then,” Alistair said, stretching one arm along the back of the bench, not quite touching Miss Parnell’s blue velvet spencer. “What do you want to do next?”

“Wh-What do you mean?” Her fingers tightened just a bit, her thumb restlessly rubbing the leather rein.

“About Madame Melisande and Sir Nigel.”

Her fingers stilled.

“If you truly think he has nothing to do with the missing object, are you going back to following her around, or have you another plan?”

“I’m not certain yet. I haven’t had time to formulate a strategy.” She spared him a sidelong glance, her blue eyes sparkling with good humor. “I’ve been a bit distracted.”

Alistair leaned closer and lowered his voice. “I do my best,” he whispered in her ear. He was inordinately pleased with the goose bumps that instantly rose on the exposed flesh at her neck, the tiny hitch in her breathing. This close, he caught a hint of her rosewater perfume. If he were to nuzzle her neck, kiss her just there, beneath her ear, he’d be surrounded by her scent.

Not wishing to draw undue attention from any passersby, he reluctantly leaned back. He couldn’t help glancing at the road behind them as he did so. He froze. The two men on horseback were still there, two carriages back. They should have passed by while Clarke and Dorian had been annoying him.

“I don’t wish to alarm you,” he said, leaning close again. “But I think two men are following us. They seem far more interested in you than in me. Is there perhaps a jilted or unsuccessful suitor in your past, someone you’d like to tell me about?”

“Blast.” Miss Parnell kept her eyes on the road ahead, her expression neutral. “Would one of them happen to look like he’s borrowed the clothes he’s wearing, and have curly black hair desperately in need of a wash?”

Under the pretext of adjusting his sleeve, with his arm still resting on the back of the bench, Alistair took another look behind. “An apt description. Friend of yours?”

“Only in that he’s the reason you and I bumped into each other that first day.”

“He’s followed you before?” Still no cause for con
cern, Alistair reminded himself. Blakeney was exactly the sort of person to set someone watching his sister and not tell her about it, especially given his clandestine profession.

“I turned down several streets and went in and out of three shops to make sure I wasn’t simply being unreasonably suspicious. I didn’t become concerned until the second fellow joined him.” Her gaze darted to Alistair, then back to the road. “I knew they wouldn’t come any closer if I was with another man.”

He took his eyes off the road ahead to stare at her. “Are you saying I was the lesser of two evils?” He was uncertain if he should take umbrage at her assessment of him being safe.

“When faced with the choice of devils or angels, I think it most wise to associate with heavenly hosts.”

Alistair coughed. Was an angelic comparison worse than an unintentional insult, or better?

“I consider myself fortunate that you had stopped to peer through that shop window. By the way, what was it you were looking at?”

“An eyepiece for my telescope.” He glanced over his shoulder. Both men were still there, two carriage lengths back, deep in conversation, as though they cared not a whit about Miss Parnell. “They seem to be distracted. Turn here, now! Let’s see if we can get rid of them altogether.”