To Catch an Earl--A Bow Street Bachelors Novel

by Kate Bateman

  Her eyes widened at the gruesome tale. “And guess what? They found the diamond in the servant’s stomach. He’d swallowed it to prevent it from being stolen!”

  Alex grimaced. “I hope it’s been thoroughly washed.”

  She grinned. “It ended up in the possession of Cardinal Mazarin, who gave it to Louis XIV.”

  She held up the pink stone in her other hand. “This is the Hortensia diamond, from India, named after Hortensia de Beauharnais, Napoleon’s stepdaughter. Napoleon used to wear it on the fastening of his epaulette braid—until Father stole it from the Ministry of the Marine.”

  “Amazing,” Alex muttered, and he wasn’t sure if he was talking about the treasure or the woman in front of him. Her joyous spirit was infectious. He loved the way she was always game for an adventure. She was one of those women who would follow their man anywhere, even into battle, like the wives and mistresses who’d followed the drum around the Peninsular and even to the fields of Waterloo. He wanted to catch her up in his arms, swing her around, and kiss her.

  She dropped the jewels back into the tin with a clatter and dusted the soil from her hands, then glanced over at him with a mischievous grin. Alex looked down to see what was so amusing and groaned inwardly at the state of his clothes. He’d absentmindedly wiped his muddy hands on his thighs. His breeches were covered in grass stains from where he’d been kneeling, and his boots were never going to be the same. His bootmaker, Hoby, would be horrified.

  Her teasing laughter bubbled up. “What a sight! The illustrious Earl of Melton, covered in mud like a pig in a sty!”

  Alex narrowed his eyes and feigned indignation, but all he could think of was how good she looked. Her skin was flushed, her pelisse molded to her figure in the most provocative way, and his body warmed despite the evening chill.

  He took the box from her lap, placed it beside her on the grass, then took her hand and helped her to her feet. A sudden blast of wind shook the trees, and the first fat raindrops spattered around them, bouncing the leaves. Alex barely noticed. Her face was turned up to his, her lips parted invitingly. The impending storm hung in the air between them like a static charge, and anticipation made the hairs on his arms stand up. His gaze dropped to her mouth.

  Her smile faded as a new awareness filled her face, a recognition of the fact that they were alone in the middle of the forest, with no one around for miles. She licked her lips and took a step back toward the cover of the trees.

  He followed.

  “We’ve had terrible weather recently,” she murmured, and Alex almost smiled at the sudden nervousness in her voice. “They’re calling it the year without a summer.”

  He closed the gap between them. She gave a little gasp as her back hit the trunk of a huge horse chestnut tree.

  “Is that right?” he asked lazily.

  She nodded, eyes wide. He regarded her from beneath his lashes and enjoyed the flush of pink that crept up her neck to her cheeks.

  “Stop looking at me like that,” she said breathlessly.

  “Like what?”

  She shook her head and gave another flustered laugh. “As if you’ve just come to a decision.”

  “Do I look like I want you?” His boots touched her skirts. “Do I look like I’m thinking of all the depraved things I want to do to you? Because I am.”

  Her mouth dropped open in surprise, and he would have laughed if desire hadn’t been riding him so hard.

  “I’ve wanted to join you in that carriage all day,” he admitted, ruthlessly holding her gaze. “I wanted to climb in there, push you back on the seat, and make love with you again.”

  He leaned in, so his chest touched hers and he could feel her little pants of arousal. “I want to see you. All of you. I want to see my hands on your skin. Your nipples wet from my mouth. I want to see the look on your face when you come.”

  * * *

  Emmy could barely catch her breath. The way Harland was looking at her made her heart hammer against her ribs and heat pool between her legs. She’d been fighting her attraction for him all day. It was impossible to watch the grace and power of his movements and not imagine the weight of him on top of her.

  His eyes were the same blue-grey as the clouds above them. Thunder rumbled overhead, as if someone were rolling barrels over the flagstone floor of heaven. Another gust of wind shook the trees, and the rain started in earnest, a steady hiss pelting the leaves and hitting the ground.

  A matching wildness rose up inside her. She loved storms, the ferocity, the drama. She reached up, caught the lapels of his coat in her fists, and raised herself on tiptoe.

  It was all the encouragement he needed; he kissed her, deep and openmouthed. It was hard, almost bruising, and it released a flood of dark hunger so intense that Emmy shuddered against him. She could taste the anger in him, the frustration. The desire that matched her own.

  She groaned into his mouth at the forbidden pleasure of it. Her knees buckled, and she clutched his coat in her fists just to stay upright. His hands pulled up her skirts with rough urgency, and she gave an excited whimper of assent.

  A deafening crash of thunder sounded directly overhead and both of them jumped. The panicked whinnying of the carriage horses echoed through the woods.

  “Bollocks.”

  Harland released her with unflattering speed and Emmy bit back a denial as her skirts fell decorously back around about her ankles. He bent to retrieve the box of jewels from the ground and sent her a look she found impossible to interpret.

  “We have to see to the horses. Which way is the carriage?”

  Her heart was still pounding, her lips still tingling, but she managed to gather her kiss-dazed wits. “This way. Follow me.”

  She lifted her skirts and ran back the way they had come, careful not to trip on the sticks and rocks that littered the ground. The trees provided some cover, but they were still pelted with water droplets and by the time they reached the ruins they were both soaked to the skin. The rain streamed down, unpleasantly cold, and Emmy cursed as her feet were completely submerged in a puddle of muddy water.

  When she finally spied the carriage through the trees, she let out a cry of dismay. The horses had been spooked by the storm. Even though Harland had tied them both, one had broken its strap, then either fallen against or kicked the side of the carriage. There was no sign of the animal, but the vehicle was tilted drunkenly to one side. The front axle was clearly broken, the spokes of the right wheel shattered.

  Harland approached the remaining horse, making soft crooning noises to the terrified animal. Its eyes rolled back in its head, and he had to sidestep several times to avoid its plunging hooves before he managed to grab its halter and calm the beast by stroking its quivering neck.

  He glared through the rain toward the entrance of the lane, seeking the missing horse, but Emmy suspected it was long gone.

  “Bugger,” he muttered. “Looks like we’ll have to walk.”

  “Back to Stamford?” Emmy groaned. “It’s miles.” She dropped her sodden skirts against her legs and indicated the listing carriage. “Can’t we just shelter in there until it passes?”

  She tried to ignore the blush that rose in her cheeks as she remembered what he’d said about doing to her in that carriage.

  He glanced crossly at the sky. “No. This doesn’t look like it’s going to stop anytime soon. I’ve spent far too many nights getting rained on and sleeping out in the open during the war, thank you very much. If I’m going to die of pneumonia, I’d just as well do it in a bed. We passed an inn a mile or two back, didn’t we?”

  Emmy sighed. “The Bertie Arms. But it has a dreadful reputation. No one of any consequence ever stays there. It’s probably full of highwaymen and thieves.”

  “Then we’re not likely to see anyone we know,” he countered reasonably, “and you’ll feel right at home in such company.” He wheeled the horse around and started to trudge away down the lane.

  Emmy scowled at his broad back. “We can�
�t just leave the carriage here. What of my things?”

  He shrugged, and carried on walking. “You can bring your bag if you like. And you might as well have my greatcoat. I’m already drenched.”

  With a sigh of defeat, Emmy reached up into the coach and pulled out her bag and his coat. The sheer weight of the heavy woolen garment almost brought her to her knees, but she managed to shrug it over her shoulders. The sleeves fell way past her hands and the hem dragged in the mud when she started after him.

  His scent wrapped itself around her, infused in the fibers of the coat, and the musky, wet-pine scent made her insides curl. What would have happened if they hadn’t been interrupted? Would she have let Harland take her up against that tree? On the ground in the mud and the rain? Her stomach gave a little flip. Most probably. She still ached for him.

  She hastened to catch up. It was only a couple of miles to the inn. She could manage that. She wasn’t a sensitive hothouse flower, like most of the young ladies of the ton.

  Chapter 33.

  The rain turned into a biblical downpour during the last agonizing mile. Emmy trudged alongside Harland and the horse, her shoes squelching in the puddles, her teeth chattering with the cold.

  Darkness had fallen swiftly over the countryside, and there was little moonlight to help show the way. She followed them almost by sound, by the suck and splash of the horse’s hooves in the mud, cursing the ache in her legs and the fact that the thin soles of her stupid slippers provided almost no protection against the rocky ground.

  Her stockings were soaked, her sodden skirts a heavy encumbrance that made every step more difficult. She was so hungry, she was almost faint with fatigue.

  No other travelers passed them on the road. No one else was foolish enough to be out in such weather. Emmy blinked through the teeming rain, which seemed to be going sideways rather than straight down, driven by a blustery, malevolent wind.

  Harland’s voice floated back to her. “It rained like this on the morning of Waterloo. It was miserable. But the rain might have been what won the day for us. The French cannons got stuck in the mud. They left them behind when they retreated, and we were able to capture most of them.”

  One such cannon had injured him. Emmy sent up a brief prayer of thanks that he’d been spared. However miserable he was now, at least he was alive. Able to savor the rain on his skin. Able to harass poor innocent criminals like herself.

  The higgledy-piggledy outline of the Bertie Arms finally came into view, and she let out a sigh. It was even worse than she remembered. Torrents of water streamed from the low-pitched roof and the timber-framed facade barely looked capable of supporting the upper floors. The entire structure seemed to be held up by a wish and a prayer.

  Harland’s features became more distinct as they staggered into the inn yard, lit by a feeble lantern flickering valiantly against the gusty wind. Emmy’s stomach dropped at the thought of spending a night in such a place, but anywhere was better than being out here in the dark and the rain. Even if the place had fleas, rats, and cobwebs, at least it would be warm and dry.

  A scrawny youth scurried out of the barn and led the horse away, and Harland headed for the ramshackle front door, which looked as though it was barely hanging on by its hinges.

  “We’ll pose as man and wife,” he muttered. “We’ll share a room.”

  Emmy scowled, but didn’t argue. Whether it was for her protection, or simply because he didn’t trust her not to run, she didn’t care. She was too cold and too miserable. She clutched her travelling bag to her stomach.

  In very little time, the greasy-haired landlord—no doubt having ascertained the quality of Harland’s clothing in one practiced glance, despite the mud, and identifying a wealthy patron—had shown them past a crowded taproom and up an unreliable set of stairs to what he proudly told them was “the best room in the inn.” He clearly didn’t believe Harland’s introduction of them as “Mister and Mrs. Brown.”

  Harland took charge, ordering a warm brick to be placed in the bed, and a hot bath to be sent up immediately. Warm soup, bread. Candles—beeswax, not tallow.

  The landlord touched his forelock respectfully. “Yes, sir.”

  The man had probably never had a member of the aristocracy under his roof before. Emmy kept forgetting that Harland was an earl in his own right, as well as the second son of a duke. Even without using his title, he had a natural air of command that elicited almost universal respect. It must be a result of his army training.

  She exhaled in relief when she saw the fire in the hearth. Harland strode forward and kicked it with his foot to rekindle it, then added two more logs, and she held her hands out to the feeble warmth, pathetically grateful.

  The room was small, with one canopied bed, a single drop-leaf table flanked by two chairs, a washstand, whose broken front leg was propped up with a gilt-edged Bible, and a rickety-looking chest of drawers that lacked all but two knobs.

  Harland let out a deep sigh, then turned and extended his arm out toward her. “Grab hold of my cuff, would you? There’s no way I can get this jacket off without assistance.”

  Emmy was still shrouded under his greatcoat, clutching the edges with fingers that seemed frozen in place. Her hair was wet through, the ends dripping mournfully down her back, and her skirts were making a puddle on the threadbare rug beneath her. Bracing herself for the rush of cold air, she shrugged the coat off her shoulders and let it fall to the floor in a sodden heap along with her bag, then grabbed Harland’s sleeve and tugged hard as he pulled first one arm, then the other, from the wet garment.

  He tossed it onto one of the chairs, then unknotted the rumpled cravat from around his neck and laid it aside.

  “You need to get out of those wet things. You’ll catch your death. Sit near the fire and dry your hair. I’ll see about something hot to drink.”

  He left before she could frame a response.

  Emmy sank onto one of the hard chairs. She’d never been so cold, nor so despondent. This storm was a disaster. Danton had only given her until tomorrow evening to get the jewels, and they still had a good six hours to travel in the morning—assuming they could procure a new carriage. She didn’t want to imagine what would happen to Luc if she didn’t get back in time.

  Nausea racked her body. Could she persuade Harland to hire a horse and take the jewels back to London without her? Could she trust him to send them to Danton, so that he released her brother, before he set his trap to catch the Frenchman?

  It was probably a moot point. He wouldn’t leave her here alone and forfeit his capture of the Nightjar. He wanted both her and Danton.

  Her teeth began to chatter, either in fear or cold, and she hugged her arms around her waist in misery. What she wouldn’t give for a nice cup of tea. Her head was pounding, her fingers and toes aching now they were warming up again.

  Harland was right. She couldn’t stay in her wet clothes. With a grimace, she managed to undo a couple of the buttons at the back of her dress, then tugged the sopping gown over her head. Cotton ripped, and buttons bounced across the floor, but the thing was ruined anyway, so what did it matter? She stripped off her wet petticoat, stays, and chemise, and sent up a grateful prayer that she’d brought a change of clothes.

  Fearful that Harland might come back at any moment, she pulled on a dry chemise and wrapped herself in the blanket that draped the bed. It covered her from shoulder to ankle.

  The door opened, and she glanced up to see Harland with a maid behind him, carrying a tray. The girl set it on the table and lit a candle on the corner of the dresser. “Your bath’ll be up shortly, ma’am.”

  Harland nodded, and she bobbed a curtsey, and left.

  He gestured toward the tray. “I got you tea,” he said gruffly. “With milk and sugar. And soup. I hope that’s all right.”

  Emmy almost scowled at him for being so kind. She was used to high-handed, imperious, Harland. Thoughtful, solicitous Harland was so much harder to keep at bay. Tears prickled her e
yes, and she blinked them away. She hated crying. Weakness. She was just at a low ebb, that was all.

  Thankfully he’d already turned away and didn’t see her shameful lapse. The bed creaked as he sat on the edge and removed his boots with great difficulty, leaving him in shirt, breeches, and stockings. Emmy averted her gaze from the way his wet breeches clung lovingly to his legs.

  “Drink the soup,” he ordered.

  Against all expectations, the stew was hot and delicious. Emmy felt better with every mouthful. Harland took the chair across the scarred table from her and made quick work of his own bowl, and Emmy had the strangest thought that this was what it would have been like if they really had been married: Mister Brown and his wife, sharing their meal in quiet companionship.

  Harland looked so approachable, so human. In his open-necked shirt, with his hair damp and tousled, he could have been a rugged laborer fresh from the fields, instead of one of the most elevated members of society.

  A feeling of regret, of wistfulness, slid over her as she watched him eat. If she’d been an ordinary girl instead of a criminal, able to choose her own destiny, she would have wanted something exactly like this: a husband, a family, a home. Her stomach clenched in misery. This was a cruel glimpse into a future she could never have.

  She wanted a man she could trust with her secrets. Someone with a quick wit and a wicked sense of humor. A contradiction of a man—strong shoulders and gentle hands. A man who wouldn’t bore her, or belittle her, or mock her, except to tease in a loving way. A good-hearted man who would open doors for her and was kind to dogs. A man like him, who would give up his coat and shiver just to keep her warm.

  She trusted him. She loved him. She was an idiot.