Her Majesty’s Scoundrels

by Christy Carlyle

  Mr. Teague shot her a narrow-eyed grimace.

  “I’ll find him whether you assist me or not, but a little help is always appreciated.” Tavia tried for a charming smile. Shockingly, the effort seemed to work.

  The old man sniffed and his face softened before he lifted an arm and pointed toward a vine-covered cottage off a narrow side lane. “Went to fetch Doctor Evans for the missus, so he did.”

  Before she thought better of it, Tavia leaned over and pecked a quick kiss on Teague’s grizzled cheek. “Thank you. Just stop here,” she said before scrambling down from the cart and starting toward the doctor’s cottage. When she looked over her shoulder, Mr. Teague was still staring at her in dumbstruck shock. She grinned and waved back. Though the cottage wasn’t far, Tavia favored her sore ankle and took the path slowly. A few paces from the vine-covered door, she stopped in her tracks.

  In the distance, along the village’s high street, she spotted a man with long dark-blond hair, broad shoulders, and the confident gait of a former soldier stepping into a shop. The duke may have come for the purpose of visiting the doctor, but it seemed he’d decided to purchase a few goods before returning to Finsbury Hall.

  Before following him, Tavia waited for Teague to depart. After recovering from her burst of affection, he’d turned the pony cart around and started off toward the estate. She’d asked him not to wait for her, since she had no notion how long her search for Graves might take. She also didn’t want the duke to spot Teague and realize she hadn’t been deposited at the station as he’d directed.

  Raising the edge of her skirt for easier movement, she attempted a limping sprint toward the high street. Her ankle protested, but she kept on, ducking under the awning of the shop and craning her neck to see if she could spot the duke. The shop he’d entered seemed to be a haberdashery, and he stood amid a few other customers perusing its wares.

  A moment later, he emerged and strode toward another shop down the high street. Tavia counted to ten and started to trail him, but another man blocked her way. He’d stepped out of the same door as Strathmoor, watching him with the same hawkish attentiveness as Tavia did. When the duke stepped into a second shop, the man followed him inside.

  Ahead of her, a thin middle-aged gentleman approached down the pavement at a rapid clip. He cast his gaze toward the establishment Strathmoor had entered but hung back. Like her, he seemed to be searching for a place to conceal himself, finally taking up a spot near a tobacconist’s doorway. Tavia watched as the man scanned the high street, his gaze finally snagging on her. As their gazes locked, he stepped forward, closing the distance between them.

  “Would you like to earn a few pence, love?” he asked when he stood inches away from her.

  “No.” Tavia attempted to move past him, but the man crowded closer, blocking her way.

  “I only seek a few answers, and I’m willing to pay.” His eyes were dark, the darkest brown she’d ever seen, nearly black. And they were empty. She’d learned to read people in the past year, searching for any hint of emotion of deception in their eyes and movements. The thin man was blank, with hollow eyes and an expressionless face. His nearness sent a shiver skittering down her back.

  “Excuse me, sir.” Tavia bent her arm, employing her elbow to push past him. “Good day to you.” She started away from the shops, down to the quiet end of the village, where cottages crowded around kitchen gardens. Without looking back, she picked up her pace and ducked down a tree-lined lane that veered off to the right. At the foot of an enormous oak, she stopped. Resting a hand against the trunk to catch her breath, she willed her ankle to stop throbbing.

  Behind her, the hedgerow rustled, and she snapped her head around to find a young man emerging from a trellised garden. He was the same gent who’d followed Strathmoor into the shop. The one she’d thought sure was trailing him, but now it seemed perhaps the man was trailing her. Young, golden-haired, and handsome, he shot her a warm smile. “Hullo, miss.”

  “I’m sorry, is this your tree?” Tavia gazed at him over her shoulder. “I only stopped to catch my breath.”

  When he stepped closer, Tavia darted past him, ignoring the twinge in her ankle, and started back toward the village shops. After only a few steps, he rushed up behind, her, wrapped one hand around her waist, and clamped the other over her mouth.

  “If you’re quiet, love, no harm will come to you.” He pulled her back toward the tree. She wiggled and nipped at his fingers as he dragged her into the trellised garden he’d exited. The vines were so thick, the two of them were hidden from view. “Stop biting me, you little fool. Now when I lift my hand, you keep mum. Understood?” The man peeled his fingers from her mouth slowly, one by one, testing her.

  Tavia clenched her hand, spun to face the young man, and reeled back to strike. Catching her fist in midair, he lashed his fingers around her neck. After digging into his pocket, he yanked out a revolver and pointed the barrel at her cheek.

  “You bloody fool. Do you think you’ll get away if I don’t wish you to?” He snorted and shot her an arrogant sneer. “No one slips my net, love. Ever.”

  She clawed at his fingers where he clenched her neck, cutting off her air.

  “You might be useful to us.” He released her suddenly, dropping his revolver back into his pocket. “Boss wants to do this quietly.”

  Tavia gasped for air and reached behind her. Damn! The knife was gone. She’d discarded the sheath and blade with her skirt the previous night, not taking care to retrieve them in her haste to chase after Strathmoor. She’d been so eager, she’d left her satchel in Mr. Teague’s cart too.

  “What do you want?” Her voice emerged hoarse and raspy.

  “Lead us back to the hall and let us inside.”

  Tavia began shaking her head, and the young man gripped her cheeks between his thumb and forefinger.

  “You don’t get to say no to us, love.” He pinched her face harder. “We’re watching his every move. We know you’re lodging under his roof. Boss doesn’t want no fuss. Quiet, he said to me. That’s how this is going to go. Get one of us inside. I can take him myself. Tell Graves I’m your brother, your husband, your lover. I don’t bloody care. Just get me inside.”

  Tavia glared at the man and offered a single curt nod. His mouth broadened into an arrogant smirk.

  “Good girl.” He finally released her face. “Now go back to the estate. I’ll call later, after the sun has gone down. You can either make up a story to explain my arrival or feign surprise when I call…”

  As he continued rambling, Tavia rubbed at her cheeks and considered how best to bring the bastard to the ground. He wasn’t particularly tall or broad, though he was surprisingly strong. The beauty of the martial art her father taught was the ability to take a larger opponent off his feet with a few calculated moves.

  The man had stopped talking and stood staring at her expectantly, a self-satisfied grin causing his cheeks to bulge.

  “Agreed,” Tavia said, having no real notion what he’d just told her. She reached out as if they ought to shake hands to seal their arrangement.

  The man stared at her palm a moment, arched one golden brow, and lifted a hand to take hers. Tavia seized his wrist, pushed her body weight against him, and pivoted to twist his arm behind his back. One swift knee to his side and he doubled in half. Ignoring his growls and yelps, she reached for the tail of his coat and yanked the fabric up over his head before releasing his arm. Lifting one leg, she planted her boot on his backside and kicked forward with all the force she could muster. As the man thudded to the ground, she lifted her skirt and sprinted toward the high street.

  Past window after window, she ran until spikes of pain shot up from her ankle.

  “Octavia!” Killian’s shout rang out behind her.

  Tavia stopped and closed her eyes for the briefest moment in relief. Hobbling toward him, she insisted, “We have to go.”

  His palm was cool against her face, and the concern in his eyes made her belly fli
p-flop. She’d never been so relieved to see anyone in her life, but she had no time for tenderness.

  “Please, Killian.” She reached for his hand to pull him along. “They’re watching you. We must get back to Finsbury Hall.”

  Before she could say another word, he’d ushered her inside the shop she’d seen him enter when Teague deposited her in the village. He gestured to an older man behind the counter. “May we use your back room?” Without waiting for a reply, Killian led her into a snug, tidy space lined with shelves straining under enormous bolts of fabric.

  “Now breathe and tell me what’s happened.” He was still touching her, one hand stroking soothing ribbons along her arm, the other clasping her hand.

  “Two men. One outside this shop. The other near a garden at the other edge of the village. One of them demanded my help to get him inside Finsbury Hall.” Tavia was talking so quickly, she bit her tongue and winced at the taste of blood. She’d come to retrieve Killian Graves and return him to London. She suspected the two men she’d encountered never intended for him to step outside of Finsbury Hall again.

  Killian grew quiet.

  “You seem unconcerned.” Shockingly so. His calm, when her pulse was thrashing wildly through her veins, unnerved her.

  “I’ve been followed before.” He cast her a pointed stare. “Let them come for me. We’ll go back and await them.”

  Tavia frowned so fiercely, her head began to ache. “I don’t think they’re planning a cordial visit.”

  The man had the boldness to chuckle at that. Then he saw the thunder in her gaze and swept a hand across his beard.

  “No, not pleasant, but if they intend to come, let them. We’ll be ready.” It was his turn to frown. His forehead rippled into lines under a fall of overlong bronze locks caught behind one ear. “What I meant to say is that I will be ready.” He glanced up at a clock on the wall. “If you catch the nine o’clock train, you can be back in London by teatime.”

  Tavia sputtered. She was, for the first time in her life, completely speechless. No thought, no word, would form on her tongue. He was the most virile and attractive man she’d ever met in her life, and, without a doubt, the most vexing. His audacity knew no bounds.

  “I was assaulted, manhandled, and threatened.” She leaned toward him, planting a finger in the center of his—very hard, very warm—chest. Through clenched teeth, she added, “And as I’ve said, I’m not going back to London without you.”

  He was looking at her that way again. As if he wanted her. As if she was all he’d ever wanted. As if he might even need her. Then his brow crinkled, and he swept his fingers gently along the edge of her jaw. “Are those bruises?” He tipped her head left and then right. He tsked disgustedly at whatever he saw. “I’m going to have to kill them for this.”

  Tavia swiped his hand away but didn’t want to let go of the steadiness he offered. She pressed her palm to his, and he immediately responded, interlacing his fingers with hers, as if they were a lock and key that fit together.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she told him. “We’re not going to kill anyone.”

  “No,” he agreed. “Not until we find out who sent them, anyway.”

  Chapter Seven

  Fatigue was winning, though Tavia continued to fight. Trying for a repressed ladylike yawn with her lips pressed firmly together, she failed entirely. Though at least she’d lifted a hand to cover her gaping mouth.

  “You should go upstairs and get some rest,” Killian said from his spot in a wingback chair in the estate’s entry hall. High backed and covered in worn leather, the chair hid most of his body from her view, except for the long stretch of his legs and the butt of a rifle balanced across his thighs.

  Together, he and Mr. Teague had assembled a small arsenal of knives, pistols, gardening implements, and a nasty-looking cudgel that Mrs. Teague proudly produced from the kitchen. Tavia didn’t dare ask what she used the rough-hewn weapon for.

  After Mrs. Teague had plied them all with fresh baked bread and a rich stew, Mr. Teague had taken his turn in the chair, watching the front door of Finsbury Hall. Killian had shooed the old man off to bed hours ago, just after the fall of midnight.

  “Perhaps they’ve changed their minds,” Tavia offered from the slippery settee she’d been sitting on for hours. The furniture piece was one of the prettiest she’d ever seen, covered in peach-hued damask with ornately carved scrollwork around the frame. However, her experience as an investigator had taught her that looks could be deceptive, and that was definitely true of the lovely but unyielding cushions of the Finsbury settee. The padding was unbearably stiff, as if she was the first to ever perch on top. Still, the parlor was situated just off the main hall and gave her a good view of Killian.

  For obvious reasons—and some she was not prepared to ponder—she wasn’t willing to let the man out of her sight.

  “I’ll go up to bed if you do.” She gulped the moment the words were out. Though she was willing to use almost any means to gain his trust and convince him to return to the city, she’d never played the role of seductress in her life.

  She wasn’t at all certain she could pull it off now.

  Leaning forward in his chair, he cast her a wicked grin. “That is, without a doubt, the finest offer I’ve ever had.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that.” Tavia waved her hand at him and stood. She went to the window, as much to move her aching muscles as to avoid his heated gaze. Tucking a finger between the heavy drapes, she peered out into the field that led toward town. Vast emptiness stared back. Night was just beginning to ease into dawn, though a mist hung over the fields, obscuring the thin glow of light on the horizon. With no lanterns outside the hall and few rooms lit within, the field ahead stretched out in a boundless fog-shrouded blanket. Those men could be waiting. Watching. Planning heaven knew what.

  If only he’d agree to accompany her, they could leave for London immediately. Now. This very night.

  Killian moved behind her. She heard his footsteps cross the parlor threshold. Turning, she found him watching her, his forearms hooked over each end of the rifle he’d balanced across his shoulders. He was as comfortable with guns as her father had been. Only years of his patient tutelage in their use had allowed her to shed her fear of the deadly weaponry he collected.

  “You never told me,” she said, still staring out into the darkness.

  “Told you what?” He was just at her back. She could sense the heat of his much larger body. Dangerous, Lord Cecil had called him, and yet she felt strangely comforted when he was near.

  “How you knew my father.” Turning to face him, she caught a bleakness in his gaze before he shuttered himself and shot her a blank expression.

  “We…worked together for a time.”

  “Impossible.” Her father, it seemed, was the real puzzle to be solved. “My father was a dealer in art and antiquities. A collector.” And a man who served the queen in some mysterious fashion.

  “Yes.” A flash of white ghosted across his mouth in the briefest of smiles. “He was a collector, all right.”

  “So you, in addition to your career in the army, were a dealer in art? Antiques? Weaponry, perhaps?” Tavia stepped forward and lifted a hand to run her finger along the polished wood stock of his rifle. A bolt-action piece with two barrels. She imagined how it would feel in her hands, remembering the years of shooting practice with her father in the fields behind their home.

  “Honestly, Octavia, go up and get some sleep. I’ll keep watch.” He was avoiding her question regarding her father, and avoiding her gaze too.

  Since he wasn’t watching her, she took the opportunity to study him. His gold-brown hair had a natural curl, his shoulders were far broader than his waist, and his chest bulged as if he’d spent a good deal of time carrying heavy loads. With his brawny arms stretched out, his buttons were in jeopardy of losing hold of their thread. His shirt stretched tight across his chest, revealing every muscle. The hard planes and tantalizing shadows
fascinated her, and where his shirt and buttons strained against each other, she got a glimpse of light bronze hair sprinkled underneath.

  “Why don’t we both retire?” Tavia suggested.

  He looked as exhausted as she felt. Sleep seemed a reasonable suggestion. If the men had been watching and waiting for a quiet way to gain entry to the house, would they really wish to mount an assault when they might be seen in the early light of dawn?

  Killian seemed to take her suggestion to mean something more than sleep. He was smiling like a cat that had just been presented with a fresh bowl of cream.

  “I’m sure there’s more than one bed in this house,” she said a little too loudly. “Just point me toward one, and I’ll sleep there.”

  “Might be other beds.” He tipped his gaze toward the ceiling overhead. “I’ve never actually explored every room. I only use the one bedchamber. Mr. and Mrs. Teague have the run of the downstairs.” Flicking his wrist to indicate the room where she’d done her sentry duty, he added, “I didn’t even know this parlor existed until yesterday.”

  “And how long have you lived here?” Tavia recalled notes from the dossier, but the mundane reports and vague letters seemed far less intriguing than the living, breathing man a few footsteps away.

  “Months.” He shrugged when her eyes rounded. “When you wish to disappear, there’s little reason to make anyplace a home. A man only needs one bed.”

  “It’s a very large bed.” Tavia couldn’t help wondering if he’d ever shared the soft, lumpy mattress with a woman. Or several women. Ladies he’d exchanged kisses with, as heated as the one they’d shared.

  “You’re the only lady in England who would know,” he quipped, as if reading her thoughts.

  “So you’ve spent an unspecified number of months languishing in that sooty room upstairs? Alone?” She took a step closer, and he licked his lips. Another step and she heard the hitch of his breath. A little buzz of anticipation rippled through her, the spark of desire she felt whenever they were close to each other. The strange sense of comfort his nearness evoked. She shouldn’t feel so at ease with a man she’d known for two days, and yet she did. As if somehow, with all his mysteries, he wasn’t a stranger at all.