The Greatest Challenge of Them All

by Stephanie Laurens

  When he tried to ease back from the kiss, to retreat by degrees, she took it as an invitation to seize the reins and drive them on.

  When he tried to straighten and physically break the kiss, she flung off his restraining hands, wrapped her arms about his neck, flung herself against him, and clung. She nearly overbalanced him with her enthusiasm.

  Nearly brought him to his knees as she pressed her body full length to his.

  Flickering panic drove him to wrench his lips from hers and hiss, “Louisa!” in, as he thought, his sternest, harshest voice—the word came out sounding like a gravelly plea.

  Her lids rose, revealing eyes darkened to spring green and burning with an almost-incandescent passion. “What?” she murmured in a husky, breathless whisper.

  The rumble of male voices in the library next door reached them. He seized on the excuse like a drowning man—and given the inevitable effect of having her naked to the waist in his arms, crushed against him, that was precisely what he was, seconds away from sinking under passion’s raging sea.

  He managed to grasp some vestige of control, metaphorically tightened his grip, then licked his lips and forced out the words, “We have to stop. Now. It’s…late.”

  Slowly, she blinked; in her fabulous eyes, he could almost see the wheels of her wits turning. Could almost make out her thoughts as she wondered why he was insisting, then recalled that in this sphere, she was a novice while he was not, and finally decided that he must know what he was doing.

  Thank God! Relief flowed through him, but did little to cool the fire in his blood.

  Her arms slackened from about his neck. “Oh.” She blinked again, then looked down at the mounds of her bare breasts, pressed against his chest. “I suppose…”

  He didn’t wait to hear more. He forced his arms to ease their compulsive hold on her and let her slide down until her feet were once more fully on the floor. She swayed, and he steadied her, then without waiting for any discussion, he swiftly redid her corset laces before stepping around her and rapidly refastening her gown.

  She grumbled and wriggled, resettling her breasts within the corset and tight bodice, now even tighter. “I barely fit anymore.”

  He tried not to think about the bounty of her full breasts; they’d proved a surprisingly lush handful, the fine skin like peach satin… He wrenched his mind back to the buttons and fastened the last.

  “Where’s my reticule?” She glanced around and spotted the small purse lying on the floor near the door.

  While she walked over to collect it, he resettled his coat, smoothed the lapels and the shoulders where she’d clutched, then he saw a mirror and, with quick fingers, rearranged the rumpled folds of his cravat into passable neatness.

  He turned to see her standing in the middle of the parlor and frowning at nothing—as if endeavoring to get her wits working again so she could think through what had just occurred.

  He crossed to her, grasped her arm, and steered her to the door. He didn’t want her thinking too much.

  In what was, for her, a strange and unaccustomed daze, one she was having trouble shaking off, Louisa found herself all but propelled into the corridor, to the stairs and down, directly to the front hall. When she tried to suggest they divert into the ballroom and take their leave of Lady Ferris, lips set, Drake shook his head, mumbled something about it being too late for that, and steered her inexorably on.

  The butler hurried to fetch her cloak. Drake commandeered it and draped it over her shoulders.

  She held the cloak’s velvet folds close, grateful for the warmth as they stepped onto the porch, and the November night sent chilly fingers brushing over her still flushed and sensitized skin.

  Then her carriage was there, and Drake escorted her down the steps, opened the carriage door, and helped her into the dimness within.

  She settled on the leather seat and heard him confirm that the destination was to be St. Ives House.

  He was standing on the pavement, framed in the carriage doorway. She looked at him, but he made no move to climb up and in. Instead, he stared at her for a second, then he nodded curtly and stepped back. “I’ll walk.”

  With that, he shut the door, tapped the panel, and the carriage started to roll.

  What?

  The unexpected outcome jerked her to fully functioning awareness. The hazy veil induced by their sensual encounter evaporated. She blinked into the darkness. “What just happened?”

  The answer came in a dozen mental vignettes, all loaded with feeling and underlying insight.

  Somehow, between the moment when he’d followed her into the antechamber and the moment he’d towed her through the library and into the little parlor, their roles vis-à-vis each other had reversed. Previously, she’d been the hunter, and she’d been hunting him. But now…

  She quelled an evocative shiver and leaned back against the squabs.

  Tonight, he’d become the hunter and she his prey.

  Wide-eyed, she stared unseeing across the carriage as the implications rose and rolled through her brain.

  Her lips set. “Damn him,” she muttered. “We can’t go that way.”

  She’d pushed him—she acknowledged that—but she hadn’t expected him to react by changing the rules. By, it seemed, reverting to his true nature, dropping all civilized screens, and simply seizing!

  If he took that line, used that as his means of dealing with her—and she wasn’t fool enough to think he hadn’t done so with deliberate intent—then given who he was and who she was, the result would inevitably be marriage.

  Admittedly, that was her goal, but if it came about like that—as an outcome driven by the twin imperatives of lust and social acceptability—how would she ever know, ever learn, if he loved her?

  For her, love was an absolute requirement for marriage.

  For him…she had a strong suspicion that avoiding all mention of that emotion ranked high on his list of life’s desires. She knew far too many men like him—she was related to too many—to doubt that.

  She’d taken a certain route to test what lay between them, and he’d turned the tables on her and diverted them down his preferred path.

  “Well,” she stated to the empty carriage. Her eyes narrowed; her chin firmed. “We’ll see about that.”

  CHAPTER 26

  L eft standing on the pavement before Ferris House, Drake watched Louisa’s carriage roll away.

  He could have gone with her, except that he no longer trusted either him or her in such a setting, in the cloaking dark, alone, even though Grosvenor Square was only blocks away.

  Besides, walking and letting the chill of the night douse the heat still coursing through his veins would do him good.

  He crossed the pavement and started pacing in the same direction in which the carriage had gone.

  Normally, he would have used the minutes of relative peace to review his position, both personal and with respect to any mission. Tonight, however, he really didn’t have all that much to dwell on.

  The mission was proceeding as fast as they could drive it; they all knew what they needed to do tomorrow, and there was no point wracking his brains until they had more information. All they’d learned from Chilburn’s brothers and cousin was that the family understandably feared a scandal arising through the search for Chilburn’s killer.

  Mission-wise, all he could do was hope that their endeavors tomorrow would get them further.

  On the personal side…to his mind, all questions regarding Louisa were now settled.

  He’d expected to be able to drag things out, to avoid her and the potential situation for several more years, but she and the exigencies of the mission had conspired to force him to deal with her now.

  So he had. In the instant he’d realized they were teetering on the brink of social exposure—being seen engaging in a heated kiss by three gentlemen was nowhere near the transgression being discovered even more engrossed by half a ballroom would have been—his true self, already in charge c
ourtesy of the kiss, had taken over completely.

  In exactly the same way as Louisa, when faced with a challenge, his instinctive reaction was to take decisive action to meet that challenge and win, rather than allow circumstance any chance to interfere with or influence him.

  And where she was concerned, his protective instincts, perhaps unsurprisingly, knew no bounds; between one heartbeat and the next, he’d acted to get them out of there, out of danger. No real thought had been required.

  Of course, in the aftermath, those same instincts, by then very much in control, had insisted he claim her.

  So he had, at least as far as circumstance had allowed.

  He knew what he’d done. Had known in the instant in which he’d made the decision to accept the inevitable and stop fighting it.

  He knew what his consequent actions had set in train.

  Somewhat to his surprise, as of yet, not the slightest regret had surfaced.

  As he turned into Grosvenor Square, he considered that—considered, too, that contrary to his expectations, allowing Louisa to contribute to the mission had resulted not in any detrimental battle of will against will, but rather with them both focused on the same goal and their wills conjoined, in a greater degree of energy, a greater drive.

  Offering a commensurately greater chance of success.

  What if a similar effect occurred when they came together on a personal level?

  That thought occupied him all the way to the Wolverstone House steps. As he climbed them, he let himself think of Louisa, of meeting her again—and realized that what he felt at the prospect was expectation and not a little impatience.

  He couldn’t decide if he should be wary of that or not.

  SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 2, 1850

  CHAPTER 27

  L ouisa was determined not to allow Drake to sideline her from the mission; after their previous night’s interlude, she wouldn’t have been the least surprised had he attempted to do so. Consequently, she was somewhat mollified and appeased—and also suspicious—when he called for her as arranged at eight-thirty and, with nothing more than a mild “Good morning,” took her gloved hand and escorted her outside and into the carriage.

  She felt no awkwardness over their evening’s activities, and she seriously doubted he did. Indeed, if anything, she was looking forward to the next time they had a chance to indulge in that fashion. With luck, next time, they would be in a more amenable setting…

  Hauling her mind back to the day, to the moment in hand, she reluctantly set aside all salacious thoughts and turned her mind to the mission.

  Their conversation during the drive to Kennington ranged over the lack of anything noteworthy in the discussion they’d overheard between Lawton’s relatives, and their prospects for the day, first at the Working Men’s Association and, later, at Scotland Yard.

  Perhaps unsurprisingly, she discovered that her awareness of Drake had shifted to a new and quite novel plane. It appeared that the minor intimacy of the previous night, rather than leaving her nerves leaping even more sharply, had assured and, to some degree, calmed them—as if the engagement had reassured her inner self that with respect to what lay between them, her desired resolution, if not immediately imminent, was nevertheless certain.

  She assumed that any adjustments between them—any getting used to things—would affect him as much as her and deemed that fair enough. Just one of those things couples had to work through—how to interact in public after interacting in private.

  When the carriage drew up outside the Association building and Drake descended and handed her down, she was ready and willing, even eager, to forge ahead with the investigation.

  Drake opened the building’s door for her, and she led the way in. He followed in her wake, unconcerned as long as she remained near, within arm’s reach. Indeed, he was feeling more relaxed over her, about her, than he’d anticipated after a night spent tossing and turning.

  Possibly his inner calm was due to the certainty that his time would come and, what’s more, relatively soon.

  Just as soon as they put paid to this infernal plot.

  As Louisa approached the office, Mr. Beam appeared at the window.

  Predictably, she smiled at Beam, although the effect was commiserating, and her expression remained serious. “Good morning, Mr. Beam. We’ve come to let you know about our investigations at the Phoenix Brewery.”

  The previous day, when they’d returned from the morgue with Beam, his ledgers had revealed Mike Jones and Cecil Blunt’s workplace and had sent Drake and Louisa tearing off to the brewery.

  “Sadly, Beam”—Drake halted beside Louisa—“we have to inform you that two more of your members—a Mal Triggs, a driver, and Jed Sawyer, a cooper’s apprentice, both of whom work at the Phoenix Brewery—are also missing.”

  Beam’s expression turned mournful. “The sergeant of their group said he hadn’t been able to find them at the brewery, but we’d hoped…” He blinked, hesitated, then asked, “Are they…that is, should we presume they’re dead?”

  “We fear so,” Drake said, “but anything’s possible. They might be alive, but in hiding. They, like Jones and Blunt, haven’t reported for work, in their cases, not since Wednesday.” He gave Beam a moment to digest that, then said, “We’ve also come to inquire whether you or your members have learned of any other men missing.”

  Beam’s morose expression lightened a fraction. “At least we’ve had good news on that score.” He met Drake’s gaze with more confidence. “Our militia sergeants were waiting for me when I opened this morning. They’ve finished checking with all the men on their lists and have found no one else missing.”

  “They’ve spoken with every man?” Drake asked.

  Beam nodded. “Them or one of the other members who helped. Face-to-face took more time, but we decided it was the only way to be sure.”

  Drake inclined his head. “Please thank your sergeants and their helpers for their thoroughness. It seems we can all rest easy that no more of your members have been—or, we hope, will be—dragged into this.”

  “We managed to get Mr. Triggs’s and Mr. Sawyer’s addresses from the brewery.” Louisa was hunting in her reticule. She drew out a folded sheet, consulted it, then glanced at Drake. “We might believe both are likely to have been murdered, but we need to check. We can’t afford to overlook any possible clue, and if one of the men managed to avoid the garrotter—”

  “That man might well know enough about the plot to help us.” Drake tipped his head to her, then looked at Beam. “We’ll let you know if we learn anything more about Triggs and Sawyer.”

  Beam allowed that he and the members would appreciate that.

  Drake escorted Louisa out of the building. They halted on the pavement beside her carriage. “Where to?” he asked.

  “Bermondsey.” Looking up, she read out the two addresses to her coachman.

  He nodded. “Aye, I know those streets.”

  Louisa held out her hand to Drake. He helped her into the carriage, then followed.

  They were silent as the horses clattered up Kennington Lane. As they rocked and rattled along Lambeth Road, Louisa murmured, “There’s not much hope for Triggs and Sawyer, is there?”

  Drake considered, then replied, “No. But you’re right in insisting we check. In situations like these, one never does know.”

  As it transpired, there seemed to be little hope entertained at the first address they called at—that of the driver, Triggs.

  His son, a young man of about twenty, answered the door. His face pale, he responded to Louisa’s gently put question with a shake of his head. “He hasn’t been home since Thursday morning. He left for work at his usual time—’bout six-thirty. But his mates at the brewery told us he didn’t turn up there.”

  The youth paused, then added, “We heard ’bout the others—the two who were found strangled-like. Me dad went out on some special job with the pair o’ them on Monday night. He was right as rain, happy as a lark the ne
xt day, so all seemed fine. But now…” He sniffled and passed the back of his hand beneath his nose. “Me mam’s expecting to have the constable around telling her to come to the morgue any time.”

  Louisa murmured appropriately soothing words without, Drake noticed, giving any most likely false hope. A man with a steady job and a family—a wife and son at least; it was hard to imagine such a man just vanishing with no word.

  They returned to the carriage. Louisa paused beside it to allow him to open the door. As he reached past her, she caught his eye. “If Triggs had escaped an attempt on his life, or if he’d grown sufficiently suspicious after Jones and Blunt unexpectedly disappeared, he would have warned his family before going into hiding. That lad wasn’t pretending. He and his mother truly are expecting the worst.” She sighed and gripped his offered hand. “So Triggs is most likely dead.”

  Drake handed her up. When the coachman asked if they still wanted to try the other address, Drake nodded, then joined Louisa in the carriage. He sat and used the relative quiet to think, but much as he might wish it was otherwise, Louisa’s reasoning was sound.

  Sawyer lived in a small, neat house only two long blocks from the brewery. On answering the door, Mrs. Sawyer, a small, tidy, and quite young woman, stared at them, round-eyed. Her hand gripped the edge of the door tightly—very tightly—but when Louisa introduced them, Mrs. Sawyer appeared to relax. She let go of the door and bobbed a curtsy. “Ma’am—my lady. My lord.” She nodded gravely to Drake, then returned her gaze to Louisa’s face. “What can I do fer you?”

  “We’re here because we’re assisting the Working Men’s Association over the disappearance of some of their members.” Louisa found it curious that Mrs. Sawyer—several years younger than Louisa herself—should be so relatively composed. “We wondered if you’d had any word from your husband?”