The Earl's Complete Surrender (20 page)

“Looks like quite a feast,” James said. “Shall we see if that bread is as fresh as it appears?”

Lady Newbury offered him a roll before selecting one for herself. As she bit into it, she closed her eyes, her expression one of pure bliss. Hiding a smile, James took a bite as well, savoring the warm and fluffy texture that lay hidden beneath the harder crust. The cheese was delicious as well, and so was the ham.

“What did you tell Will?” Lady Newbury asked when she was done eating.

Unable to open the wine bottle, she handed it to James who managed to remove the stopper. “I asked him to deliver a message to one of my contacts in London—­a precaution in case we're followed.” He offered her the bottle, unable to look away while she drank. God, how he wanted . . . he would not think of that. Not now when there were more important matters at hand and when he wasn't even certain that she would appreciate his advances.

“You're planning a diversion?” She gave the bottle back to him so he could drink as well.

He took a lengthy sip, appreciating the rich flavor that the wine had to offer. “Something like that.” His gaze met hers directly. “We've a good two hours ahead of us still. If you would like to rest, now is a good time.”

“As if I could possibly sleep after everything that has happened today.”

He had to consider that while today's events weren't all that extraordinary to him, they'd offered Lady Newbury far more excitement than she was accustomed to. “I think you'll find sleep closer at hand than you expect for precisely that reason. And don't forget that the day isn't over yet. We still have much to accomplish before nightfall.”

“You're right,” she said, looking suddenly exhausted—­as if what he'd just said had sapped her energy completely. “Perhaps I'll just close my eyes for a few moments.”

“By all means,” James said, encouragingly. He watched as she settled back against the squabs and leaned her head against the corner. A few minutes later, her expression relaxed, as did her hands. Contrary to her own expectations, Lady Newbury had fallen fast asleep.

S
tartled by a sharp jolt, Chloe opened her eyes, surprised to find herself sprawled across the bench of the carriage and with her head . . . oh dear heaven above! Her head was lying in Woodford's lap and he was holding her against him. She inhaled deeply, unable to stop herself from reveling in every nuance the moment had to offer.

Immediately, her concerns regarding their unconventional relationship returned. At Thorncliff, it had been fun. No promises had been made and although she'd begun to fear for her heart, she'd known that it would be temporary. Once they found the journal and they each knew the name of the ­people who'd killed their loved ones, the authorities would be informed, the villains apprehended, and Woodford would leave Thorncliff while Chloe remained behind with her family.

But that wasn't what had happened. Instead, she was now going to be completely alone with him for the foreseeable future. Circumstance would force them to live together, allowing for many more opportunities in which to be tempted with kissing and . . . Dear God, she hadn't slept with a man since Newbury and that had been a very long time ago. Six years, to be precise.

The thought of being so intimate with Woodford was far from unpleasant—­indeed, part of her longed for it very much—­but would she be able to do so without falling in love with him and having her heart broken when he failed to reciprocate her feelings? Distressed by her ever-­increasing fondness for him, she moved to get up, finding no resistance in the effort as Woodford's hand slipped away from her waist. “I hope you'll forgive me,” he said, “but the road was bumpy part of the way and I feared you might fall off the seat.” Immediately, he returned to his side of the carriage, assuring her that he would do as she'd asked and forget that there was anything more than friendship between them.

“That sounds reasonable enough.” Raising her hand to her head, she immediately stilled.

“You didn't look very comfortable with your bonnet on,” he told her seriously, his dark eyes assessing . . . searching . . . for what, she did not know. “So I took the liberty of removing it.” Raising his hand, he untied it from where it hung against the opposite window.

He handed it to her and she returned it to her head. “That was very considerate. Thank you.” She did not want the complication of falling for this man, and yet his actions, not to mention the heat that he stirred within her, prompted her to wonder if perhaps she should give him more of a chance.

No. Instinct warned her against it. Especially since he did not seem inclined to offer deeper emotion, as had been the case since they'd found the journal in the attic. It was understandable of course. He was a professional spy and was likely trained in setting aside his personal feelings in favor of the greater good. If she was going to help him, she'd have to at least try and do the same—­to the best of her abilities.

“We'll be there at any moment,” Woodford said, bringing her out of her reverie. “When we arrive, I suggest you keep your head down as we enter the shop.”

“To what avail? If we are being followed, they will know who I am anyway.”

“Yes, but I would still prefer it if they don't see too much of your face, just in case our pursuer happens to be someone who hasn't seen you before.”

Agreeing with his reasoning, Chloe did as he asked when she alit from the carriage ten minutes later and entered Mrs. Dunkin's shop to the tinkling of a small bell. Immediately a young woman with a pretty face and lovely blonde hair came hurrying toward them. Chloe noted that she couldn't possibly be more than five and twenty, and when she greeted Woodford with a broad smile that spoke of great familiarity and he looked equally pleased to see her, Chloe felt her stomach contract in a most unpleasant way. So much for indifference!

“I was ever so anxious when Will arrived with his message,” the woman, who'd been introduced as Mrs. Dunkin, said. “What a relief that you are finally here.”

Chloe stared at her stiffly while attempting to gauge the extent of her relationship to Woodford, against her better judgment.

“I trust you are prepared?” Woodford asked as he placed his hand against Mrs. Dunkin's waist and steered her toward the back of the shop.

Chloe bristled, especially when Woodford looked back over his shoulder at her as if to determine whether or not she was going to follow. She had a good mind not to until she became aware of how irrational she was being. She had no right to be jealous and even if she did, her jealousy would be misplaced since there was surely a Mr. Dunkin somewhere. Except she knew firsthand that not everyone adhered to their marriage vows. Her husband's had certainly been spoken lightly.

Still, this was about the book and about seeking revenge for the death of her grandfather. She had to stay focused and could not allow herself the distraction that Woodford offered on an almost-­constant basis. Somehow she would have to remain immune to him.

Determined to do precisely that, Chloe hurried after him and Mrs. Dunkin, arriving in a small room that contained little more than a door concealed by a heavy curtain. “Here are the clothes you'll be needing.” Mrs. Dunkin handed them each a bundle. “Just leave the ones you're wearing on the floor and tell Gordon to come on over once you reach the other side.” She then left them alone together, pulling at another curtain that closed them off from the rest of the shop.

“Would you please explain what's going on,” Chloe said as she turned toward Woodford. A mistake, considering the man had already removed his jacket and waistcoat and was presently in the process of unraveling his cravat. She looked away while her ridiculous heart skittered around in her chest.

“I thought Mrs. Dunkin made it very clear. You're to change into the clothes she gave you so we can escape unnoticed.”

“But I . . .” Of course she'd understood. She just hadn't imagined that the woman had actually been serious or that Chloe would have no choice but to disrobe in front of Woodford and with nothing to shield her from his view.

“You'd best make haste if we're to pull this off without arousing too much suspicion. Here, allow me to help.” His fingers brushed against her back, unfastening buttons with impressive dexterity.

It took every ounce of control Chloe possessed not to run from the cramped space at that moment, because in spite of the danger lurching beyond the curtain and the heart-­wrenchingly painful experience she'd had with Newbury, she could not help but respond to Woodford's closeness, to crave his touch and wish . . . wish for so much more.

“There. That ought to do it,” he told her gruffly and with that low rumble that seemed to melt her insides.

With a hesitant glance over her shoulder, she saw that he'd turned his back to her, but his own back was bare, revealing strong muscles that flexed with every move he made and well-­defined arms suggestive of a lifestyle more active than most. For a moment she simply stared, unable to help herself. In truth, she'd never seen anything quite so beautiful before in her life, even though there were scars.

“I suggest you stop looking at me and get yourself ready,” he said as he began lowering his breeches over his hips.

Catching herself on a gasp, she spun around, embarrassed to know that he'd been aware of her perusal. Her cheeks heated, but she did as he asked, removing her gown with haste and slipping the one Mrs. Dunkin had given her over her head. Thankfully, she did not require Woodford's assistance again, since it fastened in the front. At present, she wasn't sure she'd survive his touch—­her nerves already too frayed by the sensations he stirred to life within her.

“Follow me,” he told her crisply a moment later as he opened the door, revealing a steep staircase. His tone was professional to a fault, leaving no indication of what he might be thinking or feeling. It left Chloe with a strong urge to shake him. How could he be so indifferent toward her after the kisses they'd shared and their more recent closeness in the dressing room?

Biting back her frustration, she followed him silently into the cellar where stacks of boxes stood neatly against each wall while a shelving unit at the far end appeared to contain smaller surplus items like ribbons and feathers, buttons and scraps of lace. Woodford marched toward it while Chloe looked around. She could see no way out, which made her wonder about their purpose in this room and Woodford's overall plan. “What are we doing?” she asked.

“Leaving,” he said as he grabbed one of the shelves in the shelving unit and proceeded to pull the entire piece of furniture aside. It swung back without protest to reveal a corridor beyond. “In you go.”

Chloe stared, speechless for only a second before springing into action and hurrying through the exit to the cellar. Woodford followed, pulling the shelving unit shut and blocking out all light. “Stretch out your arms,” he murmured from somewhere behind her. “You'll feel the wall. Allow it to guide you.”

Ignoring the shiver that traced her spine in response to his closeness, Chloe did as he suggested, locating the uneven brick of the passage. With hesitant steps, she started walking until she felt a firm hand upon her shoulder and caught her breath, stunned by her body's response to his touch. “Twenty paces. That's far enough,” he said. Lowering his hand to her waist, he moved her gently aside before stepping past her. Heat rushed to the pit of her belly, her skin tingling with little sparks where his hand had just been. Ridiculous!

Light suddenly washed over her and she realized that Woodford had pushed aside another piece of furniture that stood at this end of the passage. He offered her his hand, which she accepted, allowing him to lead her through to another cellar before concealing the passage once more. “This way,” he said, starting up the stairs.

They soon arrived inside what appeared to be the foyer of a house. “Gordon?” Woodford called out while Chloe glanced around, remarking on the lack of pictures on the walls or other embellishments.

“Right here, my lord,” a man said, entering through a door on the right.

“Is the hackney ready?”

“Indeed it is,” Gordon said. He was a man of a similar height and build to Woodford, and with the exact same shade of hair worn just as long as Woodford's.

“Are you ready?” Woodford asked Gordon.

“As always,” Gordon replied.

“Good luck then.” Holding out his hand, Woodford offered it to Gordon, who shook it before leaving the way Chloe and Woodford had just come. Crossing to the front door, Woodford eased it open a notch and peered out. “Let's go,” he said, opening it wider.

Chloe didn't hesitate and was soon seated inside the awaiting hackney. She heard Woodford issuing instructions to the driver before climbing in and taking a seat across from her. “I have to say that I'm quite impressed by your methods,” she said as the carriage started on its way. He looked somewhat pleased by that statement, so she allowed herself to ask, “Is Gordon your only double, or do you have others?”

“I'm afraid I cannot reveal that,” he said. He must have noted her disappointment, because a moment later he added, “It's one of the rules I've set myself—­helps keep everyone safe.”

She nodded. “And Mrs. Dunkin, will she be pretending to be me?”

“Yes. She and Gordon will leave her shop at any moment, leading anyone who might have been following us on a fool's errand to nowhere.”

“But what if they decide to check the shop? They'll find it empty, or perhaps even discover the secret passage?”

“There's a hidden locking mechanism for the cabinet which Gordon will have used. It won't budge if someone tries to push it, at which point they'll likely assume that they must have missed the shopkeeper leaving. But I doubt they'll bother with the shop at all until they realize their mistake. Don't forget, their prerogative is to retrieve the journal.”