The Greatest Challenge of Them All

by Stephanie Laurens

  Her home lay a mere fifty yards or so from his, and he didn’t have anything more planned for tonight.

  And there was enough challenge in her eyes to make the thought of retreat unappealing.

  He nodded, gripped her fingers, and handed her up, then with a mental shrug, followed. Why not?

  He shut the door, then sat beside her on the leather seat. He leaned back as the horses took up the slack in the traces, and the carriage rolled smoothly forward.

  Within a minute, he’d realized that there were, in fact, several reasons why walking home might have been the better option. Sitting beside Louisa in the dark dimness of the carriage, aware of her satin skirts sliding against his trousered leg. Inhaling the subtle scent that screamed her in a shadowed, quiet, private place perfect for…

  He drew breath, with effort hauled his mind from that track, and desperately seeking distraction, voiced the first words that came into his head. “Neville—why the devil didn’t you marry him?” He crossed his arms and sank into a brooding sprawl. “Or Chifley, come to that.”

  Louisa blinked. She managed not to turn and stare, but really? He’d kept track of her suitors—including, apparently, the few who’d refused to accept her subtle dismissals and had insisted on bringing matters to a head with a formal proposal. Which, of course, she’d refused.

  Before she’d decided how best to respond, Drake grumbled, the sound seeming to come from the depths of his chest, “Or Carris, even, although I suppose I can understand that. And Morffet was no great prize.”

  She pressed her lips together in an attempt to stifle her laugh, but his disgruntled tone defeated her, and a chuckle broke free.

  The sultry sound feathered over Drake’s senses, made him hold his breath, made much of him grow predator-still while other parts hardened.

  Eventually, through the dimness, he cast his bane a dark glance. “What’s so funny?”

  “You.”

  He couldn’t make out her expression, but her tone suggested she found him distinctly amusing.

  “You’re trying to sound like—trying to cast yourself as—a big brother. Like Sebastian.”

  He realized she wasn’t wrong. He’d instinctively reached for a guise, a façade he’d assumed would keep him safe. He hesitated, then asked, “Is it working?”

  “No. Not at all.”

  He sighed, uncrossed his arms, and straightened in the seat. “Just as long as you understand that that’s the only relationship that can exist between us—and as we’re together alone at night in this carriage, that better be our pseudo-relationship.”

  He wasn’t sure what response he’d imagined that declaration would elicit, but it certainly hadn’t been an unsettlingly calm, “Ah. Is that what’s behind your pantomime?”

  An offhand “Of course” seemed the safest response.

  Louisa tried hard not to snort. After a minute of cogitation—of defining her best avenue of attack—she said, “After that dance…you do realize it was only the second dance we’ve ever shared?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well,” she said, flicking out a fold in her skirt, “I started this evening not knowing whether the attraction I’ve always felt for you was reciprocated.” Beside her, he stilled, but if the gloves were going to come off between them, she was only too ready to oblige. “Given you’ve assiduously avoided me for the past nine years, I really had no clue—I was seventeen when we last waltzed and hardly an expert in what I was feeling, let alone able to read you. But after tonight’s dance, and even more after what you’ve just revealed…” Tipping her head, she slanted him a glance. “You do know that pretending a fundamental reality isn’t real never actually works?”

  Several seconds passed, then, through the shadows, he spoke—from the sound of his diction, she suspected through clenched teeth. “You would do well to accept that although an attraction might be there, I am not going to act on it.”

  She let a heartbeat pass, then in her most provocative tone, purred, “Are you sure?”

  “I am not, ever, going to find my way to your bed.”

  “Well, of course not. What use would that be?”

  Drake felt as if she’d swung him around and around, and he’d lost track of the conversation. He debated the wisdom of asking for clarification. Confusion was not a state with which he was comfortable, but caution suggested that any continuing exchange might be fraught with imperfectly perceived dangers…

  The carriage drew up and rocked to a halt. He glanced out of the window and confirmed they’d reached St. Ives House in Grosvenor Square. Feeling unexpectedly grateful—knowing escape from her irritating, annoying, unsettling presence was mere seconds away—he reached for the door handle, swung the door open, and stepped down to the pavement. He drew in a deep, somewhat freer breath, then extended his hand to help her down.

  She gripped his fingers, and he supported her as she descended the steps to the pavement.

  Her hand still in his, he led her to the steps leading up to the porch before the St. Ives House door. And unbidden, unscripted, the words slipped out. “What did you mean by ‘what use would that be?’ If not that, then what?”

  With one hand clutching his and the other raising her voluminous skirt and petticoats, she started up the steps. Her eyes on the stone, she calmly stated, “What I meant is that there would be no sense in you coming to my bed. Far more to the point, I fully intend to join you in yours.”

  They gained the porch, and he halted. Her reasoning blazed clear in his mind. He looked down and met her as-ever limpid gaze. “No.”

  He made the negative, the denial, as forceful, as absolute, as he could.

  Instead of deflating, she smiled, apparently delightedly, up at him. “Oh, Drake.” He was still holding her hand. She gripped his fingers and stretched up—he thought to kiss his cheek, so he didn’t draw back.

  At the very last second, she shifted to face him, and her lips brushed—tantalizingly, alluringly, in the very lightest of caresses—over his.

  His pulse leapt. His senses surged. Every instinct he possessed reared up and shrieked at him to seize.

  Struggling to hold against the tide, he felt himself sway.

  Throughout, in the faint light falling through the fanlight, she held his gaze—saw what he fought to suppress, to contain.

  Her lips still curved, she murmured, “It’s never wise to fling down a gauntlet you don’t want someone to pick up.”

  Before he could reply—before he could find breath or master his tongue—she slipped her fingers from his hold, reached for the latch, opened the door, and with a last, deliberately provocative glance, one filled with steely promise, she swept inside and softly shut the door.

  Leaving him frozen, utterly in thrall, but whether to his desire or hers, he couldn’t have said.

  Beyond the door, he heard the fading click of her heels on the tiles.

  Finally—finally!—the vise clamped about his chest eased, and he managed to fill his lungs.

  That broke the spell. He shook his head as if to free his mind of the lingering remnants of her enchantment, then he turned, went quickly down the steps, and strode for the safety of Wolverstone House.

  WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 30, 1850

  CHAPTER 4

  A t nine o’clock the next morning, Drake arrived outside the building in Kennington that housed the London Working Men’s Association. On his descent from the hackney he’d caught in Grosvenor Square, the first sight that met his eyes was a suspiciously familiar plain black town carriage drawn up by the curb fifteen yards farther along.

  Somewhat dourly, he paid off the jarvey, then stalked toward the other carriage. He didn’t waste energy wondering how Louisa had known the Association’s location and that he would be there at that hour; he didn’t doubt she had her ways.

  Before he reached the carriage, the door swung open, and she leaned out. “There you are.” Imperiously, she held out her hand.

  He told himself there was no point seizing her h
and, pushing her back into the carriage, and slamming the door. Her coachman wouldn’t take orders from him. Lips compressed, he grasped her gloved fingers and assisted her to the pavement. “I suppose I should have guessed.”

  “Indeed, you should have.”

  She was wearing a fashionable walking dress in twill the color of a forest at midnight; the very dark green accentuated the luminous, much paler green of her eyes.

  After briskly shaking down her skirts and settling her reticule on her wrist, she looked at the building before them.

  Built of red brick, it was substantial, but lacked any ornamentation. The double front doors were set in a plain wooden frame, white-painted, as were the window frames.

  “Very utilitarian. Appropriate, I daresay. Shall we?” Without waiting for any response, she swept forward.

  She always swept or glided rather than walked like other mortals… Drake started after her, rapidly lengthening his stride.

  She reached the door first, tried it, and when it opened, swept boldly in.

  He swallowed a curse, caught the door, and followed at her heels.

  The large room they walked into was set up as a general meeting area. Men of all sizes and shapes were gathered in groups, some about tables, others in chairs, some standing, all chatting—or rather they had been. The opening door had drawn all eyes, and the vision that had entered had stilled all tongues.

  The rumble of conversation died, and silence took hold as every last man turned to stare at Louisa. They noticed Drake, too, but without exception, their gazes deflected back to her.

  She halted and smiled brightly. Her gaze swept the gathering, then she noticed a long window in the side wall that formed a partition between this room and the next. Beyond the window lay a counter, and shelves full of ledgers lined the far wall. Wooden cabinets formed an orderly rank against an inner partition.

  Drake spoke before she could. “I’ve a letter from O’Connor.” Moving unhurriedly, he reached into his coat pocket and drew out O’Connor’s letter, in which the ultimate leader of the Chartists directed the London chapter of the organization to render all assistance to Drake as Lord Winchelsea. “If someone could direct me to whoever’s in charge?”

  The men exchanged glances. Some shifted their feet.

  Drake wondered at the reaction. True, they would have picked him for an aristocrat; he hadn’t considered it necessary to approach in disguise. He glanced briefly at Louisa, but she was simply standing beside him, her expression serene, her eyes observant and watchful, but definitely not challenging. The men weren’t being made nervous by her.

  The sound of a throat being cleared—nervously—reached him. With Louisa, he glanced at the window to the office, which had silently slid open. A tall, thin, not to say gangly man leaned over the counter. “I’m the association secretary. I…er…believe that, at the present moment, I’m the…ah…most senior man here.”

  Drake moved to the window. To his relief, Louisa drifted by his side.

  The secretary reached for the letter. “I’m Mr. Beam.”

  Drake handed him the missive and waited as Beam unfolded it and read. Beam wasn’t any poker player; his expression had appeared troubled even before he’d started to read, and the farther down the letter his eyes tracked, the more transparent his anxiety became.

  Behind Drake and Louisa, Drake was aware of the other men congregating and edging nearer, but none came close enough for him to consider them a threat.

  Finally, Beam lowered the letter. “This, um, appears to be genuine.”

  Drake couldn’t stop his eyebrows from faintly rising. “It is—I received it from O’Connor himself.”

  Beam blinked. His gaze rose to Drake’s face. “In Liverpool?”

  “No.” Drake didn’t appreciate being tested. “In Leeds. Or rather at Tamworth Grange, O’Connor’s house just outside the city.”

  Beam looked suitably chastened. “Ah—yes, of course.” He glanced again at the letter. “It says here that we—meaning the London Working Men’s Association—should answer whatever questions you have and render all possible assistance…” He paused, as if weighing the necessity of uttering what came next, then continued, “Because you are investigating a matter that threatens the entire Chartist cause.” Beam looked at Drake, then straightened. “O’Connor says you’re Winchelsea?”

  Curtly, Drake nodded. The silence from behind them was absolute; every man there was listening for all he was worth.

  “So…um, what do you want to know?”

  “I need the names of your three militia leaders.” Drake glanced around. “Are any of them here?”

  “Ah…no.” Beam’s expression grew even more troubled.

  “In that case, I’ll need their addresses as well.”

  “I’m…ah… If I might ask, why do you need that information?”

  Drake considered Beam. The man had been unsettled even before they’d arrived. “Is something wrong?”

  “Well…”

  One of the men behind Drake and Louisa spoke up. “It’s just that we’re unused to having your sort come in and ask for our leaders—not without there being some trouble following close behind. Trouble for us, that is.”

  Drake shifted so he could keep the men in view. “There’s no trouble following us. Quite the opposite—it’s likely the trouble is already here. As O’Connor wrote, I’m investigating a situation where some conniving soul is trying his damnedest to use your cause, your association, as his scapegoat. I need to speak with your leaders to warn them, and if they have been drawn in, to help them pull their men back from any further involvement in this plot.” He paused, then, continuing to speak more to the gathered men than to Beam, added, “It’s the mastermind behind this plot who’s a danger to the Chartists, not me.”

  Silence reigned for several seconds, then the men exchanged glances again. Their resistance to the notion of trusting him with their leaders’ whereabouts was palpable.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Louisa’s voice cut through the tension. All heads swung her way, and she blithely rolled on, her haughty, duchess-like tones effortlessly carrying superiority along with imperious command, “You can’t seriously imagine that Lord Winchelsea would be here, waving a letter with Mr. O’Connor’s signature”—with a flick of her hand, she gestured at Beam—“a signature your secretary has verified as authentic, if Mr. O’Connor, your ultimate leader, didn’t believe that cooperating with Lord Winchelsea is in the Chartist movement’s best interests.”

  Drake had already said as much, albeit not in such a forthright way. Yet as he glanced around, he noted that the men were regarding Louisa as if she was some strange, exotic species, one who stated the obvious truth and, most telling to their minds, as a female, could have no possible connection with Whitehall or the authorities.

  She swayed them.

  Beam sensed the change in the atmosphere. “Ah—I’ll just write down the names and addresses.”

  None of the men made any move to stop him.

  When Beam handed over the single sheet, Drake perused the information, then glanced at Beam. “One thing.” He swept his gaze over the gathered men, including them in his inquiry. “Did a gentleman call here, perhaps last week, asking to meet with these three leaders?”

  Beam glanced at the others, then looked back at Drake and nodded. “Yes, a man called. A gentleman, but not like you, begging your pardon, my lord.”

  “Did this gentleman have a scar running from the corner of his lips to his ear?” Louisa demonstrated on her own face. “Like that?”

  “Yes, miss. Ma’am.” Beam looked uncomfortable having to speak to a lady of such degree. “It was him who called.”

  Drake took back the reins. “And your leaders met with him?”

  Beam grimaced. “I wasn’t keen—he said he had a message from O’Connor, but he didn’t have a letter.” Beam nodded at the letter he’d laid on the counter. “Not like yours.”

  The man who’d spoken earlier shifted.
“The other gentleman said as he had some secret message from O’Connor about some action O’Connor and the others wanted taken. That was all he would say.”

  “Just that, and all three of your leaders went to meet with him?” Drake tried hard to mute his incredulousness.

  The men shuffled.

  Beam coughed. “I warned them they were leaping in, but they said things had gone too quiet, and the men were restless, so they would go and hear what he had to say.” Beam spread his hands. “So they went.”

  Drake glanced at the men. He was getting a bad feeling about this. “When was the meeting?”

  “Last Thursday,” Beam replied.

  “And you’ve seen your three leaders since?” Drake asked.

  Nods came from all around.

  He fought not to narrow his eyes. “Are they expected today?”

  And there it was—shifty, uncertain looks all around. Drake inwardly sighed and bluntly asked, “What is it?”

  Beam sent a helpless look at the other men, then said, “We’ve seen none of our leaders”—he nodded at the list in Drake’s hand—“since Saturday. Their wives were around here on Monday, and again yesterday, asking after them, but they—our three leaders—haven’t come in since Saturday.”

  Drake exchanged a look with Louisa; he didn’t need to ask to know what she was thinking. The odds were good the three leaders were dead. Drake met Beam’s gaze and nodded. “If I learn anything about their whereabouts, I’ll let you know.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” Beam hesitated, then asked, “Is there anything else?”

  “This is all I require at the moment. If I need more information, I’ll be back.”

  Beam held up the letter. “I’ll keep this on file.”

  Drake nodded and, gathering Louisa with a gesture, turned toward the door. The gathered men fell back, breaking into various groups. Their talk was now hushed; worry etched their faces.

  Louisa led the way outside. When she paused just beyond the door, Drake urged her on with a hand at her back. “It seems,” he murmured, “that the London Chartists were ripe for the plucking. I wonder how Chilburn—or even the mastermind—knew?”