Shirley Kerr (7 page)

Charlotte leaned back from the eyepiece and cleared her throat.

“Something of interest?”

“Not really, no.” She coughed again, to clear the squeak.

Moncreiffe leaned in and peered through before she could move the telescope. He chuckled. “They’re going to hurt themselves if they keep that up. Er, keep doing that. I mean—”

“I know what you mean.” She was glad of the concealing darkness, since her cheeks must be flushed bright red. She’d seen people do that before, of course—couldn’t be helped in her line of work. One occasionally saw things one didn’t intend while conducting surveillance. But she’d never witnessed it in mixed company. She gave Moncreiffe a light smack on his arm, which was still slung around her shoulder. “Stop watching them.”

“I’m not. I moved it back to Melisande’s room. See?”

Charlotte leaned forward, too quickly, as Moncreiffe wasn’t out of the way yet. They bumped heads.

“Are you all right?”

“Ouch. Yes, I’m fine.”

“Let me see.”

“See what? It’s completely dark up here.”

He removed his arm from around her shoulders, leaving a cold void. She barely had time to register that when she heard the sound of his hands rubbing together, and then they were upon her face.

The friction had warmed his flesh, almost scorching against her chilled skin. His touch was light, tentative at first, one hand on her jaw, the other landing on her ear before moving to her cheek. “Where did I hit you?”

She guided his fingers to her brow. “It’s nothing. I’ll be fine.” She didn’t lift his hands away, though.

First his fingertips probed her forehead and the surrounding area. She closed her eyes.

“There doesn’t seem to be any blood.”

“Of course there isn’t. I told you, it’s nothing.” There was no reason for him to react in such a way to a minor bump. It was as if he was simply using it as an excuse to touch her.

Oh.

She sat perfectly still so as not to dislodge him.

He flattened the palm of his hand to her forehead, moved around a tiny bit. “I don’t feel a bump forming, though it’s probably too soon to tell.” He kept one hand on her forehead, but the other slowly trailed down her cheek and cupped her jaw. The pad of his thumb ghosted over her mouth.

Her lips parted in surprise.

His other hand slid to one side, cradling her head, while his thumb continued to sweep back and forth over her bottom lip, ever so lightly, gently.

This was highly inappropriate. Very improper. She should tell him so.

She kissed his thumb.

The sudden inhale she heard was not hers.

She sensed him move closer, felt his breath on her cheek. He was going to kiss her. Replace his thumb, pleasant as it was, with his lips, which would be ever so much better. Those gorgeous, full but oh-so-masculine lips, were finally going to be on hers. She’d know how they felt, what he tasted like. She kept her eyes open, hoping details of his features would become visible in the darkness once he got close enough.

A tiny orange light appeared on a rooftop a few houses over, just beyond Moncreiffe’s shoulder.

She stiffened.

So did Moncreiffe.

“We’re being watched,” she whispered.

“W
hat?” His tone held a growling hint of frustration. “What makes you think we’re being watched?”

“Someone just lit a cigarillo, two roofs over. See?” She turned Moncreiffe’s jaw away from her, toward his left shoulder, where the outline of a few chimney stacks was visible beyond because of the void it made against the stars in the sky.

There, by one of the voids, it came again. A faint orange glow that flared and then faded just as quickly.

“Could just be a spark from the chimney.”

Reluctantly, she let go of his chin. “Would a spark fly back up like that?”

The smoker raised his cheroot, the orange light flared as he took another puff, then it swung down again, as he probably held it by his side.

“Wonder who he is.” Moncreiffe turned back to Charlotte. “This afternoon I thought those two men in the park might be someone your brother had instructed to keep an eye on you—well, on us—but now I don’t think so.”

“What made you change your mind?” Of course Steven would not send someone to spy on her. He knew that she could fend for herself—he’d been the one to teach her.

“If your brother distrusted me to that extent, he would have insisted on accompanying us himself, or refused to allow you to go with me. There’s also the fact that Melisande was riding her gelding in the park this afternoon, and she was shopping on Bond Street the day we met.”

“You saw her back then?” Charlotte hadn’t told Moncreiffe she’d been spying on the French widow when she realized there were two men following her.

“She entered a milliner’s shop farther down the street, shortly after you took my arm.”

So, even the grandson of a duke was not immune to the courtesan’s charms? Charlotte gave him a pointed stare, the effect of which was, unfortunately, lost in the complete darkness.

The breeze carried the sharp tang of tobacco smoke after the smoker took another puff.

Amateur. Anyone who’d done any spying at all would know better than to do something so obvious, so stupid, that would give away their position.

Come to think of it, she’d seen Sir Nigel out on the balcony at one of the balls earlier this week, smoking a cheroot. Perhaps he was involved after all? She kept the excitement out of her voice. “Perhaps it
is
one of the men
we saw this afternoon, and the smoker is doing the same as we are—watching Madame Melisande.”

“Well, that would give more credence to your original theory about the theft.” Moncreiffe shifted beside her, and a muffled thud came from the tripod as he moved it to a better angle for pointing the telescope at the other rooftop. “And it’s highly unlikely anyone knew we were going to be up here.” His voice grew more distant as he spoke while looking through the eyepiece. “You didn’t tell anyone, did you?”

She tried not to be insulted. Moncreiffe was quite new at the spying business and could have no idea of her degree of experience in the field. “Of course not. Aunt Hermione thinks I’m lying down in one of Eccleston’s guest rooms because of a headache.”

“You don’t have one, do you?” He sounded a bit worried, sincere rather than merely being polite.

She was touched. “Never had one in my life. But I often excuse myself because of them.”

He chuckled. “I shall endeavor to remember that.” His voice faded again as he bent back to the telescope. “I can’t tell for certain if they’re the same men from the park, but there are definitely at least two of them over there. They’re passing the cigarillo back and forth.”

“How disgusting. Let me look.”

Once again Moncreiffe guided her hand to the eyepiece. This time she didn’t try to adjust the viewing mechanism—there was nothing to see but the orange glow, still tiny even when magnified. No way to tell if it was in focus or not.

She straightened. “There could be a dozen men over there, for all I can tell. How can you see anything?”

“Sometimes it’s what you can’t see that tells you what’s there. They’re both standing, and from this angle, they’re blocking part of Scorpius.”

“Standing? They aren’t trying to be surreptitious about this at all.” Hmm. Maybe there was no
need
for them to be surreptitious. “How can we be sure they’re not simply astronomers like you?”

“Well…” She pictured him tapping his chin in thought. “I know a member of the Society who lives close by here, but don’t recall the exact location of his house in relation to this one.” She heard him move the telescope back to its original position. “I suppose all we can really do is what we came here for. Watch for Madame Melisande.”

They settled in again, waiting and watching, keeping an eye on Melisande’s room as well as the smokers on the nearby roof, who seemed to have brought an endless supply of tobacco for their vigil.

After a while Charlotte realized Moncreiffe was not disturbed by the long silences between conversational gambits. In her experience, most men were in love with the sound of their own voice, or felt the nervous need to keep a dialogue going in mixed company, even if the topics were inane. “You spend a lot of time alone, don’t you?”

“Not as much as I’d like to.”

Her back stiffened. “Perhaps you should go, then. I can keep watch by myself.”

“What? No, no, that’s not what I meant.” Even in total
darkness he talked with his hands, making them a ghostly blur as he gestured, occasionally touching her knee or arm to help make a point. “I spend so much time doing what other people want—and I’m referring to my father and grandfather, not you—it takes away from the things that are important to me. In accompanying them back to town, I missed being able to watch most of the Perseid meteor showers.”

Fabric rustled as he unfolded then re-crossed his legs. “I suppose I became spoiled this summer, when I went on a two-month walking tour of the countryside. Observing is much more productive when you can get away from cities and their gaslights, and away from relatives.”

She pictured him, his telescope carrying case balanced on his shoulder, a solitary figure walking a lonely dusty road by day, seated beneath the cold sky at night. “You were alone all that time?”

“Not at first. My friend Tony set out with me, but when we reached the Devon coast, he became enamored of a lady smuggler and stayed behind to woo her.”

A female smuggler? How intriguing. “Your friend intentionally set out to seduce her? Not much of a gentleman, is he?”

“Tony may have
thought
that’s what he intended, but deep down he’s a good man. I attended their wedding last month.”

“So he became a smuggler, too?” All the smugglers she knew were dependably undependable.

“For a short while, but they’re both disgustingly respectable now. He helped her find a legal means for her
gang to earn a living, and now the whole village has adopted him as one of their own. They make the most marvelous cheese.” He patted her knee. “If they come to town, or we go down there, I’ll introduce you to his bride. You and Sylvia would get along famously.”

Sylvia the smuggler. Scratch that—Sylvia the
ex
-smuggler. Yes, they probably would get along, like two peas in a pod. Except Sylvia had left the pea pod and become respectable. Married.

Such a dire fate would never befall her. She wouldn’t allow it.

But what was Moncreiffe thinking, suggesting he and she might travel together to Devon? Their engagement was a sham. They were only going to be together until the end of the Little Season or until she completed her mission, whichever came first.

She must be hungry as well as cold, given the sudden turmoil in the vicinity of her stomach.

Time to shift the conversation to more neutral territory.

“Steven taught me how to locate Polaris, to help keep me from getting lost at night, but I haven’t paid attention to much else up there. What is it about astronomy that fascinates you?”

He took his time before replying. “As an adult, I’m trying to find proof for my theory that Ceres and Pallas are asteroids, not planets.”

Planet or asteroid, comet or moon, did anyone but astronomers really care? Then the significance of his phrasing hit her. “And as a child?”

The odd huffing sound was Moncreiffe, blowing on his
fingers. Charlotte realized hers were icy, too, and tucked her hands under her arms.

“As a child, I was looking for heaven.”

Heaven? She blinked. “Why?”

“Because I was a child.” His tone was flippant, but there was a hint of pain beneath its surface.

She stretched her hand out. She was aiming for his knee but found his thigh instead. She spread out her fingers and softened her voice even more. “Why did you need to find heaven?”

His leg muscles contracted beneath her hand, as though he was preparing to flee rather than answer her query. When he finally spoke, there was a wistful note in his voice. “It was where the grown-ups told me my mother and elder brother and little sisters had gone, after they died in the carriage accident.”

To lose so many loved ones, all at once…Her father had died when she was eight, her mother seven years later. The pain of each loss had been suffocating, a physical ache that still threatened to overwhelm her at times. She would not have survived losing both at once. “So you spent night after night up on the roof or out on the lawn, searching the skies, staring up at the stars. Wondering which one was heaven.” She gave his leg a squeeze, admiring his strength of character. “How old were you?”

“Five.”

Her heart contracted even further for the grieving little boy.

“My nurse was a Scotswoman, very practical. When she realized she couldn’t persuade me to stay indoors on clear nights, she gave me a picture book of the constella
tions, and insisted my father buy a telescope for me. My first.”

“Of many, no doubt.”

“Not really. He consulted with William Herschel about the purchase and made an excellent choice. I’ve merely had to keep the lenses and mirrors polished, and change or add eyepieces over the years.”

“So this is it, the telescope you’ve had since you were a boy?”

“No, I bought this one last year. My main telescope is at home in Keswick, in the Lake District, with an equatorial mount on the rooftop viewing platform. Doesn’t travel well, I’m afraid.”

He said some other things about angles and axes, and by the time he mentioned elliptical orbits, Charlotte’s head began to swim. His tone was mesmerizing, though she understood little of what he said. The passion that crept into his voice betrayed the importance of the topic. She had better do some research if she was going to keep up with him. Being able to discourse about his passionate interest would make it easier to distract him from probing into hers.

“When we’re done with your project and the Little Season is over, I’ll finally be able to go back to Keswick. Will you be returning home to family in the countryside as well?”

“I’m not sure. Most of my family lives here, in London.” Which was not exactly a lie. Aunt Hermione had rented the London town house, using Steven’s funds, and they were her only family now.

Thinking about the losses they had each suffered, it
occurred to her this was something else she had in common with Moncreiffe—both had channeled their pain into a new endeavor. He had delved into astronomy, and after her mother’s sudden death, she had found purpose in joining Steven in his occupation.

Traveling to Paris with Steven, joining his life and work there, had been a rebirth of sorts. If she had stayed in England, she’d probably be as sheltered and single-minded as her cousin Marianne.

Well, at least she didn’t object to having the singled-minded part in common. Marianne had wanted to find a husband, but Charlotte wanted to find something a little bit smaller.

She peered through the telescope again. No sign of new activity in Melisande’s bedchamber, though the footman and maid were still engaged. He must be a strong fellow indeed, holding her up against the wall like that for so long.

She blinked and cleared her throat. “Tell me more about the viewing platform you built, what it’s like living in the mountains.”

“You really want to know about me, beyond my usefulness in reaching your objective?” His tone held no bitterness or reproach, just a matter-of-fact statement that she was using him.

She disliked the thought of herself being cold and calculating. Then she remembered he was benefiting from their arrangement just as much as she.

Charlotte spoke slowly. “We should learn more about each other, as a betrothed couple would, because if any
one sees through our subterfuge, the jig will be over. My aunt asks questions about you, and I usually don’t know the answer. Soon she’ll become suspicious.”

“Then I suppose we’ll just have to spend more time together. Get better acquainted.”

The words sounded innocent, but combined with the images she was viewing through the telescope, and given his close proximity and husky voice, they formed an altogether different connotation. She moved the telescope a few degrees to one side.

“What sorts of questions is she asking?” He’d turned his head, and his warm breath stirred the hair at her temple as he spoke.

She shivered. “Your favorite dessert, for one.”

“Hmm. ‘Tis a difficult choice, to pick just one. Can I tell you later, after I’ve had time to properly ponder?”

She almost laughed. “Yes, I think that would be acceptable.”

The mention of Aunt Hermione reminded Charlotte that soon she’d have to make another appearance at the rout downstairs, before her aunt came looking for her. Much more time out on the roof, her cheeks would become ruddy from the cold, if they hadn’t already, and Aunt Hermione might worry she had a fever.

Tucking her hands under her arms wasn’t enough. She blew on her fingers, just as Moncreiffe had done earlier.

“Breeze has a bit of a bite, doesn’t it?”

She heard the rustle of fabric again, then felt a rush of warmth as Moncreiffe wrapped his arm around her shoulders, this time enfolding her in his coat. She forgot to
breathe. She felt his rib cage expand and contract against her side with his every breath, the silk of his waistcoat sliding against the back of her bare hand.