“A welcome that has yet to be successful in Delborough’s case,” Alex coolly pointed out.
“We didn’t have our usual complement of men available when Delborough arrived, but with a man inside his household, and the good colonel dallying in London with his mystery lady, we’ll succeed.” Roderick paused and once again glanced at Daniel, then Alex. “Regardless of retrieving all four letters, we should ensure that the couriers—all four of them—do not escape unscathed.”
Alex smiled coldly, a chilling sight. “I agree entirely. We wouldn’t want anyone to think we’d lost our fangs.”
Three
December 13
Grillon’s Hotel
They gathered over breakfast in the sitting room. The suite, Deliah admitted, was a strategic advantage for which Del had foreseen the need. They had to meet with Tony and Gervase to discuss their plans, but wanted to avoid being seen in public with their secret guards.
They quickly decided on their program for that day.
“Some of Gasthorpe’s lads will be assisting,” Gervase said, “so don’t be surprised if they join in any fight.”
“How will we know who they are?” she asked.
Tony smiled. “They’ll be fighting on our side.”
She would have made some retort, but Gervase quickly went on, “Gasthorpe sent word—a message from Royce.” He nodded at Del. “You are the first one home, but Hamilton’s reached Boulogne—he’s expected to cross the Channel in the next few days.”
“That’s good news.” Del felt a quiet relief knowing Gareth had made it that far unscathed.
“All is, we’re told, in place for him to be met when he sets foot on English soil, but as usual Royce has omitted to mention where that will be.” Gervase smiled resignedly. Del and Tony did, too.
Deliah asked, “Did this commander of yours say anything further?”
Gervase pushed his empty plate away. “Only that we should proceed as planned and draw out the cultists in London.” He glanced at Del. “The letter’s safe?”
Del nodded. “It’s never left unattended.”
“Right, then.” Tony rose, gave his hand to Deliah and gallantly assisted her to her feet. “Let’s get cracking. First stop, Bond Street.”
“It’s been years since I was here,” Deliah said.
As she was standing with her nose all but pressed to the window of Asprey, Jewellers to the Crown, and had spoken without lifting her gaze from the sparkling display, Del had guessed as much. Her arm in his, she’d all but towed him down Albemarle Street, into Piccadilly and around the corner into Bond Street. Pretending to be dragging his heels hadn’t been difficult.
Yet it was amusing—and revealing—to realize that the part she was playing, that of a provincial lady fascinated by and determined to enjoy all the typical London delights, wasn’t all pretense.
She finally dragged her bright gaze from the scintillating array and looked further up the street. “There are more jewelers, aren’t there?”
He pointed out Rundell & Bridge, further along on the other side of the street; all bustling determination, she towed him over. Given the entertainment, he had to make an effort to look suitably bored. They halted before the well-known jeweler’s windows; while she examined an arrangement of necklaces, he glanced at her face.
No pretense; she coveted the sparkling gems as much as any other lady. He started to wonder what else might be revealed when, as per their plan, they continued on to the Bruton Street modistes.
His attraction to her hadn’t waned, which he found rather strange. She was domineering—or would be if he let her be—opinionated, wasp-tongued and a great deal more willfully independent than he was comfortable with, yet she’d become a part of his mission—unwittingly and through no fault of her own—and was now assisting, a contributing player in the game, and somewhere beneath his reluctant resignation, he was grateful. Grateful it was her, with all her innate confidence, and not some wilting, shrinking, typical genteel young miss, who would cling and require constant reassurance, effective lead in his, Tony’s and Gervase’s saddlebags.
Holding to his ennui, he cast an idle—in reality acute—glance back along the street. Without hurry, he returned his gaze to the window. “We’re being followed, by locals.”
“The two men in brown coats back down the street?”
He hadn’t seen her look, much less notice.
She shifted and pointed, apparently through the window. “I think he—the man in a shabby bowler behind us—is watching us, too.”
Del focused on the reflection in the big window. Decided she was right. “They won’t close in along here—there are too many people to make any attempt on us.”
“Bruton Street should be much less frequented at this hour.”
Del made a show of sighing, then tugging on her sleeve. When she turned, he pointed further up the street. She shook her head, and instead pointed to Bruton Street, off to their left. Pantomiming resigned frustration, he reluctantly escorted her that way.
They turned into Bruton Street. The man in the bowler crossed the mouth of the street, then also turned down it on the opposite side.
Deliah walked along, studying the plaques announcing various modistes and the gowns displayed in narrow windows alongside—watching the bowler-hatted man trail them.
Beside her, Del murmured, “The other two have just turned the corner, so once again we have three.”
“I wonder how they think they’re going to blend in in this neighborhood.”
“I suspect they think we’re oblivious.”
She humphed, then stopped before the next modiste’s window. “I’ve been away for so long, I have no idea which modiste is in favor. I don’t even know what the latest styles are.”
“There’s no point looking to me for assistance.” After a moment, he added, “Didn’t you see any of the latest fashions in Southampton?”
“I wasn’t paying attention—I was just filling the time.”
“By shopping?”
“What else was I to do? Inspect ships?” Recollecting, she added, “Perhaps I should have—ships would undoubtedly have been more interesting.”
“I thought all ladies shopped whenever the opportunity presented.”
“I shop when I need something—I generally have better things to do.”
It wasn’t so much the comment as her tone that jarred Del’s memory. He’d never met her before Southampton, but he had heard of her. Heard tales of her when she, and he, had been much younger. She’d been the local tomboy, the bane of her mother’s existence, as he recalled.
She’d noticed his abstraction. “What?”
He glanced at her, met her eyes. “Did you really tie a bell to Farmer Hanson’s bull’s tail?”
Her eyes narrowed, then she looked ahead. “I wondered if you would remember.”
They walked on to the next modiste’s window.
“So did you?”
“Martin Rigby dared me to, so yes, I did.” She frowned at him, waved at the window. “You really have no recommendation—no preferences?”
He glanced along the street. The salons lining it were all similar. “None.”
“In that case, I’ll just pick one.” She walked on, then halted before a window showcasing a simply cut but stylish gown of blue silk. “No ruffles, no frills, no furbelows. And a French name. This one will do.”
Reaching for the door beside the window, Del read the brass plaque fixed to the wall beside it. “Madame Latour.” He opened the door, held it.
As she passed through, Deliah murmured, “I haven’t caught sight of our guards or their helpers.”
“I suspect they’re a trifle more expert in the art of unobtrusively trailing people. Don’t worry—they’ll be there.”
A bell had jangled overhead when the door opened. Finding herself facing a narrow set of stairs, Deliah started to climb. A young assistant appeared at the top, smiling and bobbing in welcome.
“Good morning, m
a’am. Sir. Please.” The girl waved them through an open door. “Go through. Madame will be with you shortly.”
It was barely ten o’clock, unfashionably early, so it was no great surprise to find no other patrons gracing the salon.
What was a surprise was Madame herself. She emerged from behind a curtain, a slim young woman, pale-skinned, with brown hair sleeked back in a tight bun and large hazel eyes. Madame was young—younger than Deliah. And after her first words, a heavily accented greeting, it was obvious Madame was no more French than Deliah was, either.
She pretended not to notice. “Bonjour, madame. I have this week returned from a prolonged sojourn overseas and am in dire need of new gowns.” Gently reared young woman impoverished by harsh circumstance was Deliah’s assessment of Madame. “I liked what I saw in your window. Perhaps you could show me what else you have?”
“Absolutement. If madame would sit here?” Madame gestured to a satin-covered sofa, then glanced at Del. “And monsieur your husband, also?”
Deliah glanced at her escort. “The Colonel is an old family friend who has kindly consented to accompany me north.”
She sat, and watched Del amble across the salon.
He smiled, charmingly, at Madame. “I’ve agreed to assist and lend my opinion.” So saying, he sat beside Deliah, elegantly at ease, and looked inquiringly at Madame.
Who stared back as if unsure just what she’d invited into her salon.
Deliah couldn’t blame her. He was large, and although he was wearing civilian clothes, nothing could cloak his military bearing, that dangerous, suggestively rakish aura that hung about him.
Thus far she’d managed to keep her skittering nerves within bounds and her reactions to him hidden. She’d even managed largely to ignore them, or at least not allow them to dominate her mind. Now…whether it was the heightened contrast of having him beside her, large and so brashly masculine in such an intensely feminine setting, she didn’t know, but she was suddenly highly conscious of the tension that rode her, compressing her lungs, distracting her senses and setting her nerves flickering.
Still, as long as he didn’t realize….
She gestured to Madame. “Pray proceed.”
Madame blinked, then bowed. “Ma’am. I have a number of styles available, suitable to be worn from morning to evening. Does madame wish to start with the morning gowns?”
“Indeed. I need gowns of all types.”
With a nod, Madame whisked behind the curtain. From where they sat, they could hear a whispered conference beyond.
Still too aware of the hard heat beside her, Deliah glanced at the windows. “Those look over the street.”
“True, but it’s too soon to check. If they see me looking out all but immediately, they’ll get suspicious.”
Madame chose that moment to reappear, two gowns on her arm. Her little assistant staggered in her wake, bearing an armload of garments.
“First,” Madame said, “I would suggest this.” She held up her first offering, a plum-colored morning gown in soft cambric.
What followed was an education. Del relaxed on the sofa and watched. Watched Deliah respond to Madame’s designs, and Madame grow steadily more confident. The youthful modiste presented each gown, holding it aloft to recite and display its features. Deliah would then either accept or decline to allow it to be added to the pile for her to try on. She asked questions, most of which were a mystery to Del, but apparently made excellent sense to Madame. Within minutes, Deliah and the modiste had established a rapport.
Regardless, it wasn’t until they reached the evening gowns that Del realized Deliah was sincere in her intention to buy a number of Madame’s creations. She’d already added to her pile for further consideration a sleekly simple gown in pale green silk that even he could tell would look stunning on her, and was debating between a gown of soft gold satin and another of a delicate shade of sky blue.
“Try them both.”
Madame shot him a grateful smile.
Deliah looked at him, faintly shocked.
“If you’ll come into the dressing room, ma’am, we can see if these selections will suit.”
“An excellent idea.” Del couldn’t resist adding, “I’ll be waiting to give you my views on each.”
Deliah’s eyes narrowed. She flicked a glance toward the windows. “Shouldn’t you be keeping an eye out for our friends?”
“It’s too soon yet to look for them.”
She wanted to argue, but with Madame hovering, she rose and allowed herself to be shepherded beyond the curtain.
Del sat back and prepared to enjoy himself. Tony and Gervase, supported by the legendary Gasthorpe’s men, would be in place outside by now, but waiting a trifle longer would give the Black Cobra’s minions time to grow bored and careless.
The curtain rattled back, and Deliah came out arrayed in a morning gown of some pale gold material with small emerald green leaves liberally sprinkled over all. She looked like Spring personified. With nary a glance for him, she walked to the corner of the salon where four mirrored panels were arranged to allow ladies to view the gowns they wore from several different angles.
Deliah turned this way and that, her gaze following the lines of the gown, from the tightly fitting bodice to the trim raised waist, to where the skirts caressed her hips before falling to sway about her very long legs.
Del’s gaze followed hers. Lingered. Appreciatively. “Very nice.”
She stiffened, glanced at him in the mirror.
Then she turned to the hovering modiste, nodded curtly. “Yes—I’ll take this one.”
Without again glancing his way, she stalked past him and back behind the curtain.
The parade that followed left Del questioning his sanity in remaining to view it and simultaneously pleased he had. While the more rational, logical side of his brain continued to insist she was nothing more than a female his aunts had thrown in his path, someone to be smiled at courteously and deposited safely back with her parents in Humberside, another, more primal side was far more viscerally interested in her on a personal, not to say primitive, level.
Of course, he couldn’t resist giving her his opinion on her appearance in the various gowns. Couldn’t resist giving himself the excuse to run his eyes down her evocatively feminine length, from her nicely rounded shoulders, bared by the evening gowns, over the womanly swells of her breasts, the subtle curve of her neat waist, her sweetly rounded hips, and the fascinating length of her long legs.
The sum of her made his mouth water.
He would have suffered in relative silence had she not reacted. Had she not, after the first faint blush rose in her cheeks, decided to torment him. After modeling a carriage gown, to which, admittedly with his gaze fixed on the tightly fitting frogged bodice, he’d given his verbal stamp of approval, she’d shot him a look, whisked back behind the curtain, a definite tinge in her cheeks, then minutes later swanned back out in a gown of flame-colored silk and a temper equally fiery.
The fabric clung to every curve like paint. Man of the world that he was, that wouldn’t, normally, have affected him all that much.
She, in that gown, in a mood part anger, part reaction, and all challenge, did. She swished, she swanned, she glided and pirouetted. Played to the mirror, to her gaze, and his. Then, over her shoulder, she glanced at him and brazenly asked his opinion.
He met her gaze and equally brazenly gave it. “Revealing. You should definitely indulge in that one.” As he had no wish to shock Madame, he didn’t specify exactly what he was recommending she indulge in, yet Deliah comprehended his meaning.
Her eyes glittered, then she looked back at the mirror, shamelessly twirled some more. Then she nodded decisively. “Yes, I believe I will.”
With that, she swayed back behind the curtain.
Deliah let the silk gown slide down her body, felt its caress like a lover’s hands, and knew responding to his blatant interest was madness.
A madness she hadn’t felt for ye
ars. No—a madness beyond anything she’d felt before.
There was…something in the way he looked at her. Something that made her feel heated. Wicked. Wanton.
She’d known from her first sight of him that he was dangerous. That he could connect, draw forth, lure her—the real her—from the cavern she’d hidden in for seven long years. She hadn’t told him why she’d gone—been sent—to Jamaica, that an old scandal had been to blame. That she’d been seduced, then betrayed, by a viscount’s son on a repairing lease. That, innocent and wantonly passionate, she’d given her heart as well as her body, only later to learn that for him it had all been merely a challenge, a way to fill the time.
Her parents had railed, her father especially, church elder that he was. She’d had it drummed into her, in so many ways, that her inner self was bad. That she had to hide it, subdue it, suppress it at all costs.
She’d been packed off to Jamaica, and she’d never felt that inner self stir again. She’d thought it had died—of shame, of rejection.
Of imprisonment without succor.
Thanks to Colonel Derek Delborough, she now knew otherwise.
But while part of her rejoiced, the wiser, more cautious side of her foretold disaster.
Yet she was sick, so sick, of being only half alive.
So she let Miss Jennings—Madame Latour as she’d styled herself—slip the next gown, the gold satin evening gown, over her head. It fell with a soft swoosh over her limbs. She surveyed the effect in the mirror, as Miss Jennings, with pins between her lips, nipped and tucked.
The Untamed Bride Plus Black Cobra 02-03 and Special Excerpt Page 10