The Harlow Hoyden (31 page)

Then Waldo was off her and was sailing across the room. His thick body landed against the wall with a dull thud. He returned quickly to his feet and dug into his pocket for his pistol, but the Duke of Trent was too fast for him. Another swing of the duke’s powerful arms and he was down again. The duke was on top of him, this time before he could rise. He didn’t
even try to retrieve his gun. All he could do was protect himself from the duke’s powerful punches, which was an ineffectual tactic against so potent a force. The last thing Windbourne saw before he blacked out was the Duke of Trent’s blazing hunt-you-down-and-kill-you eyes.

Trent slapped Windbourne once to make sure he was out, then stood. As soon as he regained his feet he was almost toppled
again by Emma. She was in his arms in a second and being devoured by him another second later. His lips came down on hers with such power that he feared hurting her, but she returned the kiss with equal intensity. She seemed no more capable of treating him gently than he was her at that moment. For the last seven hours he’d had no thought that hadn’t centered around her, had passed no minute that
wasn’t consumed completely by worry for her. Some part of him—the only sane part left—knew that this was folly. The enemy might be down, but they had no idea for how long. Their passionate reunion could wait until they were safe, completely safe. But instead of pushing her away, he pulled her closer. Instead of thinking clearly, he immersed himself in sensation. When Emma groaned, he lifted her
up and wrapped her legs around his waist. He ran his fingers through her hair, along her back, under her dress, his lips never breaking contact with hers. The kiss lasted five minutes.

Emma drew back first. “Your grace,” she said, gasping for breath, “we must warn the authorities—”

Trent wasn’t ready to talk yet and covered her lips again with his own. Since thought had returned, he was gentle
this time. He brushed sweet kisses against her top lip and ran his tongue along her bottom lip. He lowered her tenderly to the ground, sliding her against his body so she could feel his desire. Despite her concern for the future of England, Emma found herself being drawn deeper and deeper in his all-consuming web. She could not resist this man. She had no idea why she ever thought she could.

“Trent,” she said, her voice husky, “we must talk.”

“I know,” he said, tucking her head against his shoulder and hugging her with all his strength. “I know we must talk.”

“The authorities must be alerted, and we must capture the awful man with the scar, for he is a spy, too. And Philip, how is Philip?” she said, all in a great rush. Her heart was still racing and her breath was still short,
but she knew someone here had to be sensible.

“Philip is well, at least he was when I left, which was not two minutes after you,” he answered, his breath a soft breeze against her neck. He knew that they had to see to Windbag and the unconscious man near the horses, but there was something he needed to do first. He could not live another minute without apologizing. “Emma, dear darling Emma,
I’m sorry, so sorry.”

Surprised by the abject remorse in his voice, she pulled away. “As well you should be, sir. Do you see what sort of trouble you’ve made? When you burst into that room and tackled me, I thought I’d never forgive you.”

The duke nodded. He expected nothing less from Emma. He’d behaved foolishly and put her life at risk. Not only that but because of him she’d suffered through
a terrifying ordeal. He did not know the events that lead up to this evening’s brawl, but he didn’t need to. Her life had been within seconds of ending. Had he been a minute later it would have all been over. He didn’t know if he could forgive himself. He lowered his arms, stepped away from her and looked at Windbourne. Something had to be done with him.

“Not so fast,” Emma said, catching an
arm and tugging her toward him. “Although nobody credits me with any sense, I happen to have a great deal of it. You entered a room and saw the Harlow Hoyden pointing a gun at the man she detests. I loathe the conclusion, but I understand why you drew it. Most men would have thought the same thing.”

Although her words were meant to make the duke feel better, they in fact did the opposite. Yes,
most men would have thought the same thing, but Trent did not think of himself as most men. He loved her, and the damnable thing was that he should have believed in her. He knew Emma better than anyone, except perhaps Vinnie, and he should have trusted her to behave in a rational manner. His conclusion had been the logical one, but a man in love wasn’t supposed to be logical. He was supposed to
have faith.

“I think I’d prefer your ire to your understanding,” he admitted ruefully. “When one has made such an egregious error as I, one wants to be cursed and raged at. Your easy forgiveness leaves me feeling worse.”

“Please, your grace, you think I don’t know that?” She smiled, revealing a dimple. “I did warn you that I have a great deal of sense.”

Trent was unable to resist her dimples
and brought his head down for yet another kiss. It was short-lived this time, and the duke retained a clear head. It would not do to lose control again. “Enough of that. We have much to do before we rest. Come, let’s tie up Sir Windbag and the man outside. Then you will tell me all that has occurred since the last time I saw you.”

Emma walked over to Windbourne and relieved him of his pistol.
She also found extra rope in his front pocket. “There is not much to tell. I’ve had a very tedious day. All I did was sit in the carriage and plan my escape.” She wrapped the cord tightly around his wrists several times, sighing in satisfaction. There were no rough metal bed frames to aid him in his escape.

“No, I do not mean all that has happened today, although I am particularly interested
in the events leading up to the scene I interrupted, but all that has happened since Lord Northrup’s ball.” He watched her tie a sailors knot with ease and wondered at her skill. “It seems you have been busy.”

“Not really, sir. It has only been the last two days.” She cut the rope with a knife that had been lying on the table and handed the rest to Trent. “For the man outside. If you wouldn’t
mind? I’d rather keep my eye on Windbourne in case he wakes up. We need to find out more about the scarred gentleman.”

Trent did mind, of course. He didn’t relish the idea of leaving her alone with Windbourne, albeit a trussed-up, unconscious one. He would never forget the terror he felt upon coming through the door and seeing that round man on top of Emma. He had realized instantly that she
was still alive from the frantic kicking of her legs, but from the almost purple color of her face he knew she couldn’t hold on much longer. Luckily she didn’t have to. “I’ll be right back,” he said, walking out but leaving the door open so that he might hear her if she called out.

Emma stared at Windbourne, wondering when he was going to wake up. It was just like him to be so disagreeable. Now
that she was ready to talk, he was out cold. Emma lamented the lack of smelling salts at her disposal and decided to toss a pitcher of water on his face. That sometimes worked.

Windbourne was sputtering and cursing when the duke returned. “Just in time, Trent,” said Emma, well satisfied that her trick worked, “Sir Windbag and I are about to have a little talk. He was going to tell me all about
his spying, and I was going to tell him all about Newgate. It seems like an even trade of information. And if he is shy, I thought I might peel off his fingernails one by one.”

“Peel off his fingernails one by one?” asked the duke. “Where does a gently bred lady such as yourself learn about such things?”

“I don’t recall where specifically, but I must have read it in a book. Perhaps
The
Mysteries
of Udolpho
or
The Castle of Otranto
.”

“Such useful information to be had from gothics, and they say reading corrupts the female mind,” observed Trent with twitching lips.

“You can’t let her do this, your grace,” said Windbourne, his face pale. “You are a gentleman and cannot condone such brutish behavior.”

“Funny you should say that, Sir Waldo,” said the duke with careless amusement. “Before
this afternoon’s incident, I would have agreed with you. But there’s something about the memory of your gun to Miss Harlow’s head that makes me feel brutish.” He turned to Emma and raised an eyebrow. “My dear, would you start with the left hand or the right?”

“I suppose the right because that is the hand most people use to hold a quill. That would be the most inconvenient, don’t you think?”

Windbourne blanched, and before Emma even got to ask a single question, he confessed all. “The man who was here earlier is René Le Penn. He poses as a dispossessed count and has entrée to all the local soirées, but he’s a French spy. He will take the information I gave him and bring it to France. I have been operating as a spy for two years. I need the money to pay off my gambling debts or else the
moneylenders will repossess my home, which has been in my family for 300 years. I was recruited by an Englishman, one who is very high up in the government. It was he who gave me your brother’s name and told me to watch for the communiqués, which would arrive in the form of harmless weather reports. The idea to court your sister was his, but I had always intended to do the honorable thing toward
her,” he said earnestly, as if this would redeem him a little in Emma’s eyes. “I did not want to harm your brother, but he was in danger of passing along vital information that would have hurt the French cause.”

“Roger’s accident was your doing?” Emma asked in a low, soft voice.

“Did I say that? I didn’t mean to say that,” babbled Windbourne as sweat trickled down his cheek. From the chit’s
expression at this news, he feared once again for his fingernails.

“You are lucky that Roger didn’t die,” she said, “or you surely would now in this mouse-infested hovel outside of Dover. As it is, you will spend the rest of your worthless life rotting in Newgate, if they don’t decide to hang you first. Come, Trent, we must warn the troops and capture this Le Penn. Shall you drag the prisoner
or shall I?”

“I’ll take him,” said the duke, pulling the injured man to his feet. “We’ll put him in the carriage with the other man. By the way, that’s quite a fierce bump you’ve given him. I don’t expect he’ll wake up for hours.”

“Really, Trent?” she asked, flushing with pleasure. “I did fear that I had barely knocked him over. The shovel was so heavy and he so tall.”

“Never doubt yourself,
my love. You are an Amazon.”

They were outside now, and Trent considered the problem of seating arrangements. He did not want to put her in the carriage with two dangerous traitors, even with shackles and a pistol, but neither did he relish the idea of her driving the coach in the dark. Deciding that the latter was the least of all evils, he handed his gloves to Emma. “Take it slowly and be careful
to avoid potholes. We are in no rush.”

Emma was very much inclined to differ, but she restrained herself for the duke’s sake. There were indeed in a hurry, and once she had the horses in hand, she would waste no time in getting to Dover. But for the moment she just nodded, to the duke’s great relief. Of course, she didn’t blame him for his nerves. Few people were as good with the reins as she.

Since the moon was bright, the ride to Dover was swift. Emma negotiated the road with little trouble, and, except for one instance, an aberration, really, in which she took a sharp corner a shade too quickly, without incident. Once they entered the city limits of Dover, Trent instructed her to stop at the first respectable hotel they passed. Emma was instantly suspicious of this request, but since
she could not imagine where else to go—how did one find the commanding general of the army barracks if one did not ask at a hotel?—she complied.

The duke disappeared inside the hotel for a minute and reappeared with a heavy-set man in tow. “Emma, you can come down from there now,” he said, offering her a hand. “Mr. Jones is going to drive us to Colonel Rivington’s house.” He helped her into the
carriage, where Smithers was still unconscious and Windbourne was tied to the door. Trent had put a handkerchief in the man’s mouth so that he couldn’t cry out for help.

When they arrived at the colonel’s house, they discovered that he and his wife were hosting a route. The duke seemed disturbed by this, but Emma thought it was exactly the sort of thing one should expect when one showed up on
a colonel’s doorstep with two prisoners. They used the back entrance so as not to frighten any guests with Smithers’ unconscious form, which Mr. Jones obligingly carried. The were shown to the study and instructed to wait. The duke took one look at Emma’s pale face and requested that a plate be made up. The servant returned almost instantly with a repast of lamb, chicken and fish.

As soon as
the housemaid had left, Emma fell on the plate. She was ravenously hungry and didn’t care that her manners were unladylike. Windbourne was a traitor, Smithers was out cold, Mr. Jones was a stranger to her, and Trent already knew she had no manners. What use was there in pretending? After several savory bites, she recalled that Trent had also been on the road all day and offered to share her dinner.
He accepted with a pleased smile and that was how the colonel found them, sitting at a table by the fire eating supper.

The interview with the colonel did not go smoothly. He was skeptical of their story and asked the same questions over and over again, as if expecting the details to change. It was clear to her that the only reason he listened to them at all was out of respect for the seventh
Duke of Trent. She realized then that had she shown up there alone, she would have been denied entrance and England’s safety would have been breached. She was very thankful for the duke’s presence.