Shirley Kerr (6 page)

“You’re willing to let me drive out on the open street?” She turned the horse, leaving the park.

“Is there a reason I should not?” He itched to take back the reins, but forced his hands to remain on his lap. This exit was on the far side from where they had
entered the park, which meant they would have to negotiate even more of London’s clogged streets to get Miss Parnell back home.

“Steven wanted me to know how to drive, but he’d never actually let me do so in traffic if he were with me.”

Alistair hoped he sounded convincing. “I trust you to know your limits, and that you will give back the reins before taking any foolish risks with me, my carriage,” he spared her a smile, “or poor Maxwell.”

Her quiet reply was lost in the clatter of a mail coach lumbering past in the opposite direction and the call of an orange vendor. It sounded suspiciously like “bleedin’ miracle,” but he couldn’t be sure.

His heart only stopped two or three times, certain they were about to be killed, but each time Miss Parnell kept the horse and phaeton under control. He managed to keep his hands to himself as she made a few unnecessary turns, making sure they were not being followed, before driving unerringly to her town house. He was too tense to engage in idle conversation on the journey, and did not wish to risk distracting her, so his comments were limited to informing her that they seemed to have given their two followers the slip.

After what seemed like hours, she reined Maxwell in at the front of the town house. Alistair jumped down and jogged to the other side of the carriage, beating the footman so he could be the one to assist Miss Parnell in descending to the street.

Lifting her at the waist instead of just offering her a hand down was not forward behavior for an engaged couple, even if he did let his hold linger and slide across
a tad more of her velvet-covered curves than absolutely necessary.

His friends thought him oblivious to his effect on the fairer sex, when in truth he was merely circumspect—he had no wish to raise unwarranted hope in any maiden’s thoughts by responding to her flirtatious overtures. With Miss Parnell, however, there was no risk of her reading unintended meaning into his actions, since they were engaged in subterfuge together.

And to be successful in their deception, they had to act the part of a betrothed couple. She demonstrated her unspoken understanding of this by the way she rested her hands on his shoulders, letting her fingers slide through the hair at his nape.

By the gleam in her eye as he set her on her feet, and the way she patted the phaeton, he realized he’d made a grave mistake that afternoon. She would now expect to be allowed to drive his carriage again.

He almost groaned.

She said something, too softly for him to hear, so he bent down and turned his head, the better to hear her over the noise of the traffic.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and kissed him on the cheek.

Stunned, he didn’t immediately pull back. He wished he’d taken the time to shave again before their outing, worried her tender lips might have been scraped by his stubble. Her soft, delectable lips, currently curved in a sensual smile.

The footman cleared his throat.

They sprang apart. Alistair straightened to his full
height and offered his arm to escort Miss Parnell up the steps. He waited until they were exactly halfway to the door, out of earshot of the footman, groom, and the butler holding it open, before speaking.

“I’ve been invited to the Eccleston’s rout this evening.”

Miss Parnell raised her brows in polite query.

“Their town house is one square over from the hotel where Madame Melisande is staying. The view from their roof offers an excellent line of sight to her balcony.”

“And you know this because…? I thought astronomers gazed up at the night sky. Now it turns out you’re a Peeping Tom?” The late afternoon sunlight hit her teasing eyes at just the right angle, making them bright and clear. Bottomless pools of blue, deep enough to drown in.

Alistair gave himself a mental shake. “Knowing what view is afforded by the host’s roof is how I decide which invitations to accept.”

“Wouldn’t it be simpler to just stay home?”

He shook his head. “And deal with the displeasure of both my father and grandfather? That way lies madness.”

Miss Parnell patted his arm with her free hand. “But how does the view from the Eccleston’s roof help us, if you have to attend the rout?”

“Lord Eccleston is a member of The Royal Society. He’ll not only give me permission to take my telescope up to his roof, he’ll
expect
me to do so.”

“So you make a grand public appearance, appease your relatives, then escape up to the rooftop?”

“I don’t know about ‘grand,’ but yes, that’s the general idea.”

Miss Parnell gave a slight shake of her head. “Sir
Nigel may not be involved after all, but I still think Madame Melisande is very much in the thick of things. Rather than spying on her, I think it would be more productive if I searched her room again. She doesn’t carry the item in her reticule.”

Alistair felt his hair practically stand on end at the thought of Miss Parnell dangling from the roof. But he already knew her well enough to know that forbidding her to do so would be a waste of breath. “May I suggest a compromise? Tonight I will watch her, observe her schedule and that of her servants. Perhaps she will even take the item from its hiding place in order to gloat. Once we know her household’s schedule, we’ll be able to determine the safest time to search her lodgings.”

He watched the warring emotions flit across Miss Parnell’s delightful face, the urge to act
now
, versus the logical approach he’d presented.

She nibbled on her bottom lip and glanced out at the street. “Very well, then.”

Good girl. Logic was always the best approach. Alistair nodded. “I’ll see what can be seen tonight, and we’ll discuss it tomorrow afternoon on another drive. I think we’ll skip Hyde Park, however.”

She gave him a small smile.

Just as they turned to go up the steps, a horse clattered up and the rider jumped down. Steven swept off his hat and the two men exchanged greetings before Steven turned his attention to his sister. “Have a good outing, poppet?”

“Delightful, thank you.” She glanced between Alistair and her brother and back, a silent message in her bright blue eyes.

Right. No need to hang around and give Steven the chance to ask awkward questions, like plans about his sister’s future.

Alistair bowed. “Until tomorrow, Miss Parnell. Good day, Blakeney.”

“Tomorrow, my lord.” She gave him a slight wave, and took her brother’s arm to lead him indoors.

Alistair folded his legs and leaned his back against one of the chimney stacks of Eccleston’s town house, blowing on his chilled fingers. He should have worn an extra shirt—there was more of a nip in the air at night this late in September.

He’d made his requisite appearance at the rout downstairs and participated in at least two dances, with very respectable, very married matrons.

Now that he was engaged, social events seemed far less crowded, with fewer women making demands on his time. It had been at least three days since anyone tried to trap him into a compromising situation. He hadn’t realized how much the attempts had dimmed his enjoyment of social outings until he found himself actually joining in the laughter while dancing the energetic Roger De Coverly with Lady Eccleston. The only thing that would’ve made it more enjoyable would be dancing with Charlotte.

Even so, he had a purpose in attending tonight that had nothing to do with dancing, and he was eager to get to it. He’d paused downstairs long enough to prevent his father from upending the punch bowl over his grandfather’s head—an attempt to interrupt the duke’s soliloquy on morals—and forestalled further conflict by pointing out a
widow making cow eyes at Father, which made Grandfather stalk off in a huff, before Alistair decamped to the roof. Lord Eccleston had personally escorted him through the attic and out the tiny door.

Now he sat, telescope at the ready, open journal on his knee, pencil in hand, his gaze focused slightly lower than the starlit heavens above.

The balcony curtains were still open in Melisande’s room, and at least one candle lit. A maid had come in to turn down the blankets and add fuel to the fire, and left just a few moments ago. Perhaps he’d be in luck and Melisande would call it an early night, reveal whatever she had to reveal about the trinket Miss Parnell was so interested in, and he could get back to his observations. Much as he was enjoying the diversion with Miss Parnell, there would only be a few more nights of observing before the moon would rise too early and cast too much light.

He could always do as Dorian did, and get up in the predawn to search the skies after the moon had set. Alistair snorted. The only dawns he’d seen were those for which he’d not yet gone to bed.

To his left, the roof door opened, spilling a wedge of light onto the tiles. He rose up to a crouch. The door quickly closed again, and whoever had stepped outside stood there, motionless in the dark.

Lord Eccleston knew exactly where he was, and wouldn’t need to let his eyes adjust to the darkness before moving.

The wind shifted, and a hint of the newcomer’s scent wafted past him.

Rosewater.

“Over here, Miss Parnell,” he called softly. He should have known she’d not be content to wait until tomorrow afternoon for his report. And he should have listened to his instinct that said to bring an extra blanket, to keep her warm.

He heard a soft rustle of fabric, her dancing slippers silent as she crossed the tiles. By the time he’d stood up and feeling had returned to his legs, she was at his side, one hand tentatively resting on his arm.

“See anything of interest?” she whispered.

Her face was but a pale blur in the darkness, her curves concealed by the folds of a dark cloak. “Can’t see a thing,” he replied without thinking.

“Beg pardon?”

He coughed. “No, nothing of interest has happened so far, but I have hopes that Melisande will be turning in early tonight. See how her chamber has already been prepared?” He set his hands on her shoulders and pointed her toward the window he’d been watching.

Charlotte quashed the tiny thrill at his touch and forced herself to focus on the task at hand, the real reason she was five stories above the ground, on a roof in the dark, again. With a handsome viscount. Even though said viscount still had his arm slung around her shoulders and stood so close his chest brushed her arm with every gentle inhalation.

Ahem. Task. Even when she squinted, she could barely make out the window in question, among so many others that also had a candle or two lit. She took in the view available, realizing how high and isolated they were atop
London’s skyline. Exposed. “We shouldn’t be standing in the open like this.”

“I’m set up by the chimney stack, over there.” He took her arm. “Mind the tripod. See the feet?” Following the blur of his hand, she saw three evenly spaced spots on the ground, glowing in the dark. “Phosphorous,” he added.

They quickly settled on a blanket spread at the base of the chimney. Charlotte tucked her skirts in around her folded legs, careful to keep her light yellow gown covered by her dark cloak. Moncreiffe sat beside her, close enough she felt the heat radiating from his body. This was even better than the close confines of the bench seat in his phaeton—no horse to control, no hordes of prying eyes in the park to worry about. No men following her every time she set about following Melisande.

At least, she hoped there were no prying eyes.

Just hers and Moncreiffe’s.

“Want to take a look through my telescope?”

“Yes, please,” she said, ignoring the weight of her own spyglass tucked inside her cloak. She heard the rustle of fabric as he shifted, and the glowing spots moved closer.

“There,” he said. He ran his hand from her shoulder down to her hand, then lifted it to the cold metal tube.

She leaned forward, closed one eye, and peered through the eyepiece. “It’s a bit blurry.”

“Must have bumped the focus ring. Not to worry.”

She started to lean back, to grant him easier access, but he reached one arm around her shoulders, holding her in. His hand found hers again and guided it to the ridged knob so she could focus for herself, while he held
the telescope steady with his other hand. She allowed herself a moment to enjoy the secure weight of his arm around her, the warmth of his hand on hers, though his fingers were a bit chilly. Then she bent to the task at hand.

“The view is amazing.” Much wider field of view than her spyglass, she almost added. She could even read the time on the ormolu clock on Melisande’s mantel. And since the scope was mounted on a tripod, her arms would not grow weary from holding up the spyglass.

“Does this make you a Peeping Thomasina?” She heard the smile in his voice. Moncreiffe still had one arm around her, and was so close when he spoke that she felt the warm puff of his breath against her ear.

She shivered. “Not at all. If I were gazing into some other window for my own entertainment, possibly. But I’m doing this for the prin—the principle.”

“Ah. The…principle.”

Blast. “Of course. We can’t let Melisande get away with stealing the trinket. I have to get it back.”

Stupid, stupid, stupid. She’d slipped up twice, and she was certain Moncreiffe hadn’t missed either of them. There was no
we
in this investigation. There was just her, with a little assistance from Moncreiffe to disguise her actions, to serve as a distraction.

Problem was, he was proving to be more of a distraction to
her
.

Moncreiffe moved back a fraction, though he kept his arm around her. It helped ward off the breeze, which had been welcome when she first left the overheated ballroom but now seemed to come straight from the heart of
winter. This high up, there was nothing to interrupt its flow, nothing to slow it down. Her fingers were growing numb, holding the chilly metal of the telescope.

This was good. Physical discomfort helped her concentrate. She moved the scope around a bit, looking through other windows in the hotel. Few of the curtains had been drawn against the darkness. The housekeeper was giving a dressing down to a cowering maid in the drawing room on the first floor, while a footman trimmed the candles in the ground floor salon’s chandelier. Another maid and footman were visible in the doorway of a bedchamber’s dressing room upstairs, doing…Oh, my. That didn’t look comfortable at all.