He harshly muttered something beneath his breath about Russians, brothels, and Sir Robert Peel that she didn’t understand and stiffly slipped out the window.
“Wait!” Impetuously, she ran to the casement and leaned out into the night. “That kiss—” She drew in a ragged breath. Doubts and longings all churned inside her, so fiercely that she couldn’t find any words of explanation. Except… “I’m sorry.”
He slipped his hand behind her nape and pulled her halfway through the window toward him. His mouth came down upon hers in a kiss so heated, so filled with raw desire that she whimpered.
He drawled wickedly against her lips, “I’m not.”
Then he was gone, vanished into the darkness.
She stared through the open window after him, lifting her hand to her kiss-hot lips and trying futilely to sort through the riot of emotions flaming up inside her. How could it be possible that the man who uncaringly bedded society widows and foolishly gambled away his allowance could be the same one who saved her at the tavern, the same one whom the general thought so highly of? The same man who kissed her with so much tenderness yet so much longing that he set her head to spinning?
Christopher Carlisle… Who on earth was he?
The door opened behind her. Heavens, his departure had been close! Taking a deep breath to gather herself, she slowly lowered the sash and turned to greet the guests—
A hand clamped over her mouth. Beneath the noise of the exploding fireworks, no one heard her scream.
Chapter 8
Kit strolled casually through the dark garden to rejoin the party, taking the long way back in order to give himself enough time in the cool air to collect himself. The very long way. But overhead, blue and red flashes boomed into the sky. He snapped out a curse at the fireworks, at the men who had chosen that perfectly wrong moment to set them off, and at all of China for inventing them in the first damned place.
But the flashes of light and noise reminded him of cannon fire from his days in the army, which worked wonders in tamping down his lust. So did his chagrin over kissing Diana.
Again.
Just as she’d warned, the crush of partygoers had spilled outside to watch the fireworks, along with a small army of footmen who were carrying trays of champagne for the guests to toast Britain’s recent victory when the fireworks ended. They were all smiling and pointing at the sky, except for those few couples who had already used the excitement to slip away unseen into the dark recesses of the gardens for a few stolen moments. Most likely none of them had even given the drawing room a single thought as a place to view the fireworks. Most likely that had been nothing more than an excuse by Diana to send him away.
He didn’t blame her. Whenever he was around her, he behaved no better than the scoundrel he worked so hard to convince the world he was. Why she hadn’t slapped him yet, he had no idea. But if she kept letting him kiss her like that, the pleasure would be well worth the pain.
Grimacing at himself for his loss of control, he strode inside through one of the open doors framing the ballroom and made his way down the hall to the front stairs that twisted in gracefully carved mahogany up toward the first floor, where the general kept his study. He knew this house well, having studied it for hours tonight through the windows before he’d slipped inside to join the party, until he knew the location of every main room and hallway, every way out, and every guest who went in. He’d planned for all contingencies tonight.
But he sure as hell hadn’t planned on her.
Driven on by his frustration, he took the stairs three at a time to the first-floor landing, then hurried down the hallway toward the study. The floor was empty. Good. With his wits dulled by Diana’s kisses, the last thing he needed right now was another distraction.
Of course, it didn’t help that before he’d entered the party, he’d watched from the garden as she’d danced with one of the officers, how she’d given the man friendly smiles at his flirtations and moved gracefully in his arms. It might have been her third London season, with the gossips blathering on about how she was rapidly approaching spinsterhood, yet she was still an Incomparable, still coveted by society gentlemen across England.
He hadn’t been able to fathom the sensation he’d experienced when he’d watched her dance, but now he recognized it. Jealousy. And he felt like a nodcock because of it.
Concentrate, damn it! He had to get into the study, get the diary, and then get the hell out. And stop thinking about Diana.
Replaying that mantra ceaselessly in his head, he cast a glance over his shoulder to make certain no one had followed him and opened the study door.
Inside, the room was lit by the glow of a lamp and the dying coals of a fire. Two half-filled glasses of port sitting on the desk and the lingering odor of cigar smoke told him that the room had recently been used, most likely by the general in some private conversation with one of his fellow officers. It also told him that he had to hurry so he wouldn’t be caught in a room that was off-limits to guests. That—coupled with his lack of invitation in the first place—would bring down a fierce interrogation by the general that he had no intention of experiencing.
Kit scanned his eyes around the room, searching for the cabinet where the general kept his papers, where he would most likely also find the diary.
He bit back a curse. He’d arrived too late.
He crossed to the tall hutch, with its glass doors holding stacks of books on the shelves above and rows of drawers with their brass locks forming the base below. Rather, what had once been brass locks but were now broken and wrenched from the front boards, the letter opener that had been used to stab and twist at them lying discarded on the rug. The drawers had all been ripped open, and now half of them dangled, warped and splintered, from being sprung open. Books had been knocked to the floor, with sheaths of paper strewn around them. The general’s manuscript pages. With all the noise and music from the party below, no one had heard the destruction.
“Damn it!” He began to open each drawer and tray, searching them all to see if the diary still remained.
“Raise your hands where I can see them.”
The heavily accented voice stopped him cold. The Frenchman.
Every inch of him tensed instantly, ready to fight. With all of his senses on edge and his skin prickling, he slowly raised his hands as he turned to face the man. “No need for—”
He froze.
Diana stood in front of the Frenchman, a knife pressed to her throat.
Diana tilted back her head to keep her throat from pressing against the sharp blade and whispered, trembling with fear, “Christopher…”
Across the room, his face grew hard as every muscle in his body visibly stiffened, like a coil tightening to spring, including his hands, which drew into fists at his sides. Yet he ignored her, his icy gaze fixed over her shoulder at the Frenchman standing behind her. No emotion showed on his face, but his eyes blazed.
“I want the diary.” The Frenchman jerked her back against him, eliciting a startled gasp from her as his arm clamped around her chest to hold her still. “Give it to me, or I will slit her throat.”
Christopher slid a glance at the wrecked cabinet, then back to her. Where is it?
She could read the pleading question in his eyes, but she couldn’t tell him—she didn’t know!
“It was you who broke into the cabinet,” Christopher directed at the Frenchman when she couldn’t answer, as calmly as if he were discussing nothing more important than the weather. But every bit of him was alert and ready to lunge. The air between them crackled with tension. “So you should have found it yourself.”
“It was not there.” The Frenchman’s breath fanned hot across her cheek, and Diana flinched, her stomach roiling. “You know where it is. Give it to me. Now!”
Christopher held up his hands in front of his chest, empty palms forward. “If it’s not in the cabinet, then it’s somewhere else in this room. Most likely there.” He nodded toward the other side
of the room. “Did you search it?”
When the Frenchman turned his head to look where he’d indicated, Christopher’s hand dove beneath his jacket and pulled out a small coat pistol. He pointed it at the Frenchman and cocked back the hammer with a loud click.
“If you harm her,” he threatened in a low, menacing voice, “you’ll be dead before you reach the door.”
With a snarl, the Frenchman grabbed Diana by the hair and yanked hard, jerking back her head and bowing her neck to press the blade against her throat. She caught her breath with a soft cry of terror.
“I might die, Englishman, but I will take her with me to hell.” He made a show of sliding the knife back and forth across her throat. “And I know exactly how fond you are of her.”
Sheer murder glinted in Christopher’s eyes, but he didn’t look at her, not even to flick her a second’s glance.
“Give me the diary,” the Frenchman repeated.
Christopher’s jaw clenched. “Let her go.”
Another yank at her hair, his fingers twisting into her locks so hard that tears of pain blurred her vision. “You are not in a position to be making demands.”
“If you hurt her, you’ll never get the diary.”
“If you give me the diary,” the Frenchman countered coldly, “I will have no need to harm her. You have my word.”
Worthless! As worthless as the man uttering it. Only terror kept her from laughing at that.
Yet Christopher stared at the Frenchman for one long, painfully silent and still moment, then eased down the pistol’s hammer and lowered the small gun to his side. “All right,” he said quietly. “It’s in the desk.”
“No!” she cried. He couldn’t—surely he wouldn’t hand over the diary! Not when they didn’t know for certain where Garrett was, not when that diary might still be the only way to find him and deliver him safely home. “You can’t!”
The two men ignored her cries, with Christopher’s narrowed gaze not leaving the Frenchman and the Frenchman only tightening his hold around her to keep her still, the blade pressing unyieldingly into her throat. Her eyes and nose stung as she watched Christopher pick up the letter opener from the rug and slowly cross the room to her father’s large desk.
The man rotated her in a half-circle, keeping her in front of him and his eyes on Christopher. “Slowly—no sudden moves.”
“Of course not,” he drawled. “I wouldn’t dream of doing anything that might result in you getting shot.”
Placing the pistol on the desktop yet still within easy reach, he moved the chair out of the way to give him access to the center desk drawer and its small brass lock. He jammed the point of the opener into keyhole, and with a prying twist, he broke the lock with a loud snap.
He opened the drawer and reached inside, searching through the contents. Then he slowly withdrew a book.
“Is this what you want?” He flipped through the pages, scanning them, and confirmed with a decisive nod. “The general’s diary.”
“Bring it to me.”
“No!” Diana cried out desperately, twisting futilely in the man’s grasp. “Please don’t! We’ll never be able to save Garrett if you—”
Christopher shot her a quelling look that ordered her to be quiet as he circled around the desk and walked slowly toward them. His eyes not leaving the Frenchman except to dip a glance at the knife still pressed to her throat, he stopped an arm’s length away and held up the diary.
She could feel the man’s breath stutter at her ear. With one hand still holding the knife near her throat, he grabbed for the diary with the other, snatching it out of Christopher’s hand.
Christopher lunged. But instead of hitting the Frenchman, he slammed sideways into Diana, who was ripped out of the man’s grasp and shoved safely away from the knife. Too startled to scream, she rolled under him as he tumbled with her onto the floor.
He sprang to his feet and put himself between her and the Frenchman. A slender blade flashed in his hand in the lamplight. The letter opener, wielded like a knife and sharp enough to stab into the man’s gut—
A dull thud echoed through the room. The man spasmed violently, then dropped to one knee.
The general stood behind him, the iron poker from the fireplace in his hand.
The Frenchman bit out an enraged curse and grabbed at the poker. With his other hand, he landed a hard punch into her father’s stomach.
“Papa!” she screamed.
He doubled over in pain, but summoned just enough strength to twist the poker from the Frenchman’s grasp, raising it to strike again.
“Bâtards anglais!” The man put up his arm to fend off the glancing blow, then snatched up the diary and raced unsteadily from the room, blood dripping down his face from the cut on his scalp.
Dropping the letter opener, Christopher reached for Diana. “Are you all—”
“General!”
She pushed his hand away and climbed to her feet, to dart past him to her father’s side as he crumpled against the wall, breathing hard to catch back the air knocked from his lungs and doubled-over from the pain of the punch. She sat at his side as he slid to the floor, unable to remain on his feet. Dear God, his heart!
“Diana, he’ll be fine,” Christopher said reassuringly, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.
She shoved him away.
“This is all your fault!” she shot over her shoulder at him, then turned away to cup her father’s face in her hands. His eyes were closed as he struggled to gain back his breath. She tore at his collar to loosen it, to make him as comfortable as possible. “The French, Garrett’s disappearance, that damnable diary—you brought all of this down upon us!”
Her father shook his head as he opened his eyes and gazed solemnly up at her. “He’s not the enemy, my girl,” he rasped out hoarsely. “Far from it.” Then he looked past her to stare grimly at Christopher. “Carlisle’s a hero.”
Chapter 9
“Good God,” General Morgan muttered two hours later when Kit finished telling him what he knew about his son’s disappearance.
Good God, indeed, Kit thought as he leaned back against the desk in the study.
He’d finished sharing with the general everything he could about Garrett Morgan, but he’d been careful to avoid all mention of the Home Office and to heavily censor details about Diana. If the general ever discovered what liberties he’d taken with the man’s daughter, he’d be more than a rogue agent. He’d be a dead one.
Around them, the house was finally quieting down. Excuses had been made for the host’s and hostess’s sudden disappearances from the party, with the Duke of Hampton stepping in for the general to make the toast once the fireworks had died away. The party had ended shortly after, and the property had been cleared of all guests—and then thoroughly searched by the servants per the general’s orders. The staff had been told that they were on the hunt to find any guests who might be lingering in dark corners with lovers or who had fallen asleep. In reality, they were confirming that the Frenchman had gone and the household was no longer under threat. Although Kit feared it wouldn’t be for good.
The general eased himself down onto the settee beside Diana. She reached over to cover his hand with hers as he rested it on his knee. Only his fingers, drawn up into a tight fist, revealed any traces of his surprise and anger.
“Is that all?” General Morgan demanded.
All Kit planned on sharing, anyway. So he gave a cut nod and pushed himself away from the desk to cross to the card table in front of the window and the tray holding several glasses and decanters filled with liquor, put there for the party.
“You truly had no idea that your son’s been missing?” Kit pulled the stopper from the decanter of whisky and splashed the golden liquid into two crystal tumblers. “Or that the French want your diary?”
And wanted it badly enough to threaten Diana’s life.
At that dark thought, Kit glanced up at her. Still in her blue ball gown, she sat straight-spined nex
t to her father, possessing the same disciplined military bearing. She’d fixed her hair, putting back into place the golden tresses that had come down in the fight, and her delicate lips and cheeks had regained their color.
Anyone who saw her would never have suspected what she’d gone through tonight. But she couldn’t hide the worry that lingered on her beautiful face, or the tension that gripped her shoulders, that even now made them stiff as stone.
The general shook his head. “I came looking for Diana because it was time for the toast, and she wasn’t in the ballroom. I knew she wouldn’t want to miss it. That’s when I found all of you in the study.” His eyes grimly met Kit’s as he handed the general one of the glasses. “Thank God you knew to distract him by drawing his attention to the desk so that I could grab up the fireplace poker.”
Diana’s gaze darted to Kit. “You did that on purpose?”
“Yes.” The way she stared at him made him feel as if she’d never truly seen him before. Damn unsettling that, given the way he’d embraced her earlier.
But he didn’t blame her. After all, she had no idea the man he truly was.
Yet she could also never find out. She’d already been placed into danger. To reveal any more to her would simply amplify the risk.
“I had no idea that’s what you were doing,” she mumbled. Her surprise over his ruse turned into visible chagrin. “You saved my life again.”
“Again?” The general leveled a glare at Kit so fierce that it shook him to his boots.
Diana squeezed her father’s hand, to draw his attention back to her. “It was my fault, general,” she admitted guiltily. “I’ve been keeping secrets from you.”
Quietly, she told her father about the ransom note and the meeting at the inn, then softened the details as she described the fight and how Kit had rushed after her, to keep her from being hurt.
After the Spy Seduces Page 9