Under the Mistletoe
Page 8
“Oh, but you have something that no other man in England has,” Carmichael said with calm conviction. “And it’s something she desperately wants.”
Will stood and walked to the fireplace, where he leaned his forearm on the mantel. “What could I possibly have that Lady Lucinda Grey would desire?”
He had a clear view of Carmichael now and easily read the satisfaction on the man’s face.
“King Solomon’s Mine.”
Will was confused. “Why would the richest woman in all of England want my horse? She could buy a stableful of champions.”
Carmichael moved around the desk to stand in front of Will. “King Solomon’s Mine, as you well know, was bred in Oxfordshire on the Whytham estate, which borders Lady Lucinda’s Bampton Manor.”
“But why would a woman want a horse merely because he was bred next door?”
“You know women. They’re softhearted creatures with minds of steel. And once those minds are made up . . . well,” Carmichael shrugged, “there’s little that can be done to change them. Our intelligence tells us Lady Lucinda was present at King Solomon’s Mine’s birth and she spent much time thereafter with him. Apparently, she developed a fondness for the colt and considered him her special project. That is, until you won him.”
Will had a brief, swift flash of memory. The look of sheer disbelief on Whytham’s face when he realized he’d lost the son of Triton’s Tyranny had made it a truly unforgettable hand of cards.
“That’s all well and good, but what does my owning the horse have to do with Lady Lucinda allowing me into her company?”
“Rumor has it she enjoys a challenge,” Carmichael answered. He glanced at his engraved watch and frowned before abruptly tucking it back into his waistcoat pocket. “You’re a resourceful man. I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
Carmichael’s tone worried Will. He’d known the man too long to be fooled by his seemingly casual words. “Surely you don’t expect me to offer her Sol in a wager of some sort?” He didn’t add he’d rather lose a limb than the stallion. The comment would only serve to confirm Carmichael’s suspicion that Will had a much softer heart than he would ever admit.
“As I said, you’re a resourceful young man.”
Will would have pressed further, but the look on Carmichael’s face stopped him cold. “There’s something you’re not telling me. Come now, old man, what is it?”
“It’s Garenne.”
Will froze. “What do you mean?”
“He’s involved.”
“No.” Will shook his head, refusing to believe it.
“That’s impossible. He’s dead. I saw the body with my own eyes.” The night the Corinthians had taken the French assassin down on a nondescript Parisian street was seared into his memory. The organization had breathed a collective sigh of relief with the death of Garenne.
Carmichael cleared his throat. “What was it you called him—the Chameleon?”
“He had a gift for disguises, that much is true,” Will said brusquely. “But the man’s size, his clothing . . .” He wanted to convince Carmichael, wanted to convince himself. “We received intelligence. It guaranteed that we had the right man.”
“We’ve confirmed sightings of him in Paris,” Carmichael said quietly. “And two recent killings of Corinthians involved his calling card.”
Will felt his stomach roil at the thought of Garenne’s signature. The sadist left each of his victims with a fanciful letter “G” carved into his left breast, the knife strokes revealing the victim’s heart, left exposed by the crude cuttings of a madman.
Will flexed his hands before curling them into fists, slamming one and then the other onto the polished top of the massive oak desk.
“He’s rumored to be working for Fouché,” Carmichael added.
“Napolean must be trying to stick his bloody fingers in every pie on the Continent,” Will said tersely.
“I’m afraid keeping up with Joseph Fouché’s political loyalties is an exhausting task indeed,” Carmichael answered. “No, it seems the man now supports the House of Bourbon. They’ll stop at nothing to secure control of the Continent—perhaps England as well.”
Will looked up at Carmichael, whose brows were knit together in concern. “I suppose you’ve a starting point for me, then?” he said, carefully resuming his air of insouciance.
Carmichael took a pasteboard card from his breast pocket. “I suggest turning yourself over to Smithers. The Mansfield ball is this evening and we’ve confirmed that Lady Lucinda will be in attendance.” He offered the invitation to Will and walked to the door, pausing to look back. A wry smile tilted his mouth as his gaze flicked to Will’s bare toes and back up to his face. “A shave might be in order. She likes her suitors properly turned out. And breeches. Do not forget the breeches.”
Will moved to the window and looked out at the garden. The sight of hyacinths, pansies, and a whole host of other flowers that he could not name did little to soothe the growing doubts in his mind. Corinthian business was never a neat and tidy affair. Subterfuge demanded an often skewed view of right and wrong—something that had heretofore suited Will’s less-than-traditional view of life.
It’s not as if I’ve never lied to a woman before, he thought as he turned from the window and rested his shoulder against the heavy velvet curtain. It wasn’t something he was proud of, but to live as he did and to be an effective agent for Carmichael often made the truth more dangerous than any lie ever could be.
No, it wasn’t the lie that bothered him, but perhaps the intent. To court a woman for the entire ton to see—Will paused mid-thought, nearly shuddering as he steadied himself before crossing to his desk. For a man to engage in a series of activities with the believed goal to be matrimony . . . Well, that was a different animal altogether.
Carmichael had spoken the truth when he reminded Will of his expert acting skills. He picked up a cutcrystal paperweight and addressed it in Hamlet-like fashion. “The woman doesn’t stand a chance.”
Will knew it. Carmichael knew it. The only individual involved in their scheme who was ignorant of this fact would be Lady Lucinda.
Gently replacing the weight to its proper place, Will straightened his dressing gown and reknotted the silk sash. Could he win the heart of an honorable woman? Could he do so with the knowledge that he would, in the end, break it?
Of course he could. A man in his position couldn’t afford a conscience. Why his conscience had chosen this particular moment to come to life, he didn’t know.
In truth, to leave the woman to the likes of Garenne was unthinkable. He’d rather slit his own throat than allow the madman another chance to kill. “Bloody hell,” Will swore, padding across the thick Turkish rug with a newfound resolution. “It’s the horse that has me worried,” he said to no one in particular as he opened the door. “He really is a fine horse.”
About the Author
A native Northwestern with the pale skin to prove it, Stefanie Sloane credits her parents’ eclectic reading habits—not to mention their decision to live in the middle of nowhere—for her love of books.
A childhood spent lost in the pages of countless novels led Stefanie to college, where she majored in English. No one was more surprised than Stefanie when she actually put her degree to use and landed a job in the book industry, where she’s been working happily ever since. Stefanie lives with her family in Seattle.
Find Stefanie online:
www.StefanieSloane.com
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