by Emily Larkin
Charlotte fumbled with her chemise, pulled it over her head, and let it fall to the floor.
Last night, being unclothed had been mortifying; tonight it wasn’t embarrassment that made her heart beat so fast.
Cosgrove pulled back the counterpane and took her hand again. He drew her down to lie alongside him on the bed. The sheets were cool and his body hot, his skin scorching hers.
The world contracted, became just the bed, candlelight and shadows, and Cosgrove. He touched her as he had last night, stroking, caressing, laying trails of pleasure across her skin. Charlotte clenched her fingers around the sheet as he teased her nipples with his tongue, as he nipped lightly. She managed to stifle a sound of pleasure, managed not to beg him to do it again.
His hands roamed lower, across her belly, her waist, her hips. The feverish heat built in her body. She gripped the sheet more tightly, not bold enough to return his caresses. Even naked, he was still an earl, his status vastly superior to hers.
Cosgrove trailed his fingertips up her inner thigh, making her shiver. His fingers slid inside her.
Charlotte’s body moved of its own accord, her hips lifting as if inviting him inside her, her inner muscles squeezing around his fingers. Cosgrove made a low sound of satisfaction. “No pain?”
“No,” she said breathlessly.
Cosgrove withdrew his fingers. He settled himself between her legs. She was acutely aware of the heat of his skin, the solid weight of his body. His fingers were at her entrance again—and then she felt the head of his cock.
She tensed, bracing instinctively for pain.
He slid an inch inside her and halted. His body trembled, as if he held himself in check. “Does it hurt?”
“No.”
Cosgrove took a breath as ragged as her own and thrust deeply.
Charlotte gasped, stiffened, clutched the sheet.
“It hurts?” His voice was strained.
“No.” Having him inside her wasn’t invasive tonight, wasn’t painful. Instead, it touched off pleasure in every nerve in her body.
Cosgrove withdrew, and thrust back into her. Charlotte’s body responded eagerly, her hips rising to meet him.
Cosgrove slid an arm around her waist, gathering her closer. Rhythm built between them. His heat was her heat, his ragged, panted breaths were her own. The rhythm became more insistent. Rising urgency consumed her. Her body was striving towards something. She didn’t know what it was; she just knew she wanted it desperately.
The pleasure, when it came, was more intense than anything Charlotte had ever known. It spilled through her in waves. She cried out, a breathless sound, clutching Cosgrove’s arm. He didn’t halt; if anything, his movements intensified.
The pleasure went on for endless seconds, and then Cosgrove’s body jerked in helpless spasms. She heard him groan as his seed spilled inside her.
They lay panting, entwined. Charlotte tentatively placed her hand on his back. His skin burned. His heartbeat reverberated inside her.
A surge of tenderness rose in her, so intense it closed her throat and brought tears to her eyes.
The earl pulled away. “Better that time?”
Charlotte nodded, not trusting her voice.
“Good.” Cosgrove laid a kiss on her brow—not a formal salute, not a loving caress, but something in between—something kind—and rose from the bed and crossed to where his clothes were piled on a chair. Perspiration gleamed on his skin. “Here.” He returned to the bed and handed her a handkerchief.
“Thank you.”
Charlotte clutched the handkerchief tightly, watching as he dressed. Drawers and breeches and stockings, shirt and waistcoat.
Cosgrove pulled on his boots and shrugged into his coat. “You’re not dressing?”
“I . . . I think I’ll have a bath.”
He nodded and raked a hand through his dark hair, glancing at the door. He was already thinking of other things.
Charlotte scrambled off the bed and picked up her chemise, holding it against her body, concealing herself. “I hope tomorrow goes well for you. With the Smiths.”
Cosgrove’s gaze snapped back to her. “Yes.” He looked at her, then past her, at the bed. “Would you, er . . . like to meet again tomorrow evening? So I can tell you how it went?”
Would I?
Yes. Desperately.
Should I?
No.
“If you would like to,” Charlotte said.
The earl smiled. His gaze on her was intent. Right now, he was thinking of her; not the Smiths, not whatever other plans he had for this evening. “Seven o’clock again?”
She nodded.
Lord Cosgrove picked up his hat. He bowed to her. “Good night, Miss Brown.”
“Good night.”
The door shut after him.
Charlotte stood motionless by the bed, staring at the blank, closed door. I love you, sir.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
October 24th, 1805
Grosvenor Square, London
Eight windows were broken overnight and the contents of a nightman’s cart deposited on the front steps, but these two events failed to ruffle Marcus’s good mood. He worked on his speech, humming beneath his breath. The words were flowing this morning.
The longcase clock in the entrance hall chimed noon. Marcus laid down the quill. He was ravenous, hungrier than he’d been in a long while.
It occurred to him that Albin was rather subdued. “You all right, lad?” he asked, stretching his arms behind his head.
Albin glanced up from the ledger he was working on. “Perfectly, sir.”
“Not anxious about this afternoon?” Anticipation tingled in his blood. In three hours he’d meet Abel and Jeremiah Smith—and discover who had hired them.
Albin frowned. “How do you plan to proceed, sir? Shall we take some footmen with us?”
“Footmen? Why?” Marcus lowered his arms. Every muscle in his body was marvelously relaxed. His thoughts slid to Miss Brown. Last night had been unexpectedly pleasurable.
“Because there are two of them, sir.”
“And two of us.”
“But I can’t fight as well as you, sir.”
“It won’t come to a fight. I’ll offer them money.”
Albin’s eyebrows quirked upward. “But . . . don’t you want them arrested, sir?”
“Not today. Today I want the name of their employer.”
“But . . . it was probably the Smiths who attacked you the night before last. They could have killed you! They should be arrested.”
“We’ll gain more information by appealing to their mercenary instincts than by violence or threats of arrest.”
“But—”
“If they’re the men from St. James’s Park, I’ll lay information against them.” They’d half-killed Lionel. For that, they deserved whatever punishment the magistrate laid down. “But what I want today is the name of whoever hired them.”
“Oh.” Albin considered this, his brow furrowed in a frown. “But don’t you think it would be wise to take some footmen, sir? Just in case? They might have cudgels.”
“In daylight? No.” Marcus leaned back in his chair, amused. “Afraid, lad?”
Albin flushed. “I don’t want you to be hurt, sir.”
“I’ll take a pistol with me.”
“And a footman?”
“No.”
“But, sir, what if—”
“Do you always argue with your employers? Or is it just me?”
Albin’s cheeks bloomed scarlet. He looked down at the ledger. “I beg your pardon, sir.”
Marcus stood. His stomach was telling him it needed food. Lots of it. He crossed to Albin’s desk and gripped the lad’s shoulder. “I’ll take two pistols. One for each of the Smiths. Will that set your mind at rest?”
* * *
They took possession of the Honest Sailor’s private parlor at two thirty. Marcus assessed the room. A table and four chairs. A winged armchair. A sideboard.
He crossed to the window and peered down at High Holborn Street. “Does the door lock?”
“From the outside, sir. There’s only a latch on this side.”
“Is the key there?”
“No, sir.”
It wasn’t ideal—he’d feel better if he held the key—but with the door latched, no one except the landlord would be able to enter. Marcus shrugged. It will do. “Run downstairs, lad, and fetch up four tankards of ale.”
He rearranged the furniture, dragging the armchair to the other side of the fireplace, so its back was to the door, placing two straight-backed chairs opposite. He sat in the armchair when Albin returned. “Can you see my face from the door?”
“No, sir. Just the top of your hat.”
“Excellent.” Marcus stood and examined the room again. It looked cozy and welcoming—the fire burning in the grate, the tankards of ale on the table. “Once they’re inside, latch the door so no one else can enter. Offer them those seats—” he pointed, “and give us all an ale. Then sit at the table. Watch, but don’t say anything.”
“You have the pistols, sir?”
“Yes.” Marcus glanced round the room one last time: chairs, ale . . . everything was in place.
“And you’re sure they’re loaded?”
“Yes.”
Marcus sat in the armchair, crossed his legs, and steepled his hands. Anticipation hummed inside him. Soon I’ll know. Albin didn’t sit; he paced the room, fidgeting with his cuffs, with his neckcloth, with the buttons on his waistcoat, endlessly checking his pocket watch.
“Lad, will you sit,” Marcus said, finally.
Albin flushed and muttered an apology. He pulled out a chair at the table and sat. After a moment he began to straighten the tankards, lining them up neatly.
Marcus decided to ignore it. He glanced at his watch. Almost three o’clock. He fingered the banknotes in his pocket. Whose name would they buy him? Phillip? Monkwood? Brashdon and his cronies?
A knock sounded on the door.
The anticipation in his blood changed to exultation.
Albin stopped rearranging the tankards. He glanced at Marcus.
Marcus’s smile felt as sharp-toothed as a wolf’s. “Invite them in.”
* * *
Charlotte wiped her palms on her breeches, took a deep breath, and opened the door. Two men stood in the corridor, hulking shapes in Benjamin coats, with hats pulled low and mufflers wrapped around their lower faces.
She swallowed. Did those bulky coats conceal cudgels? Knives?
“Misters Abel and Jeremiah Smith?” Nervousness pitched her voice slightly high. “Come in and meet my employer.”
The men entered. Charlotte caught a whiff of gin and old sweat. She gestured to the chairs opposite Cosgrove. “Please be seated.” She latched the door; no one else could enter. “May I offer you some ale?”
“Thank’ee,” one of the men said.
Cosgrove sat with his legs negligently crossed and one hand cupping his chin, his eyes shadowed by the brim of his hat.
The Smiths took their seats, moving with a slow animal wariness, loosening their mufflers, scanning the room, eyeing Cosgrove. Charlotte examined them as she crossed to the table. Were they the men she’d seen boarding the post-chaise in Tewkes Hollow?
It was difficult to be certain. There was nothing striking about either man’s appearance. Eyes, nose, brow, jaw—all were unremarkable.
Charlotte picked up two tankards.
“Gentleman.” The earl lowered the hand concealing his mouth and chin. “Thank you for coming.” His voice was smooth, courteous. “Which of you is Abel?”
“I’m Abel,” the man on the left said. His eyes narrowed. He pushed to his feet. “You’re Cosgrove!”
Charlotte’s heart kicked in her chest. Ale sloshed over the side of one tankard.
“I am.” The earl seemed unconcerned that he’d been recognized. He pulled several banknotes from his pocket. “Allow me to thank you for razing my conservatory. It’s something I’ve been wishing to do for a long time.” He unfolded one of the banknotes. “In fact, I’m so grateful that I’d like to compensate you both for your efforts.”
Abel Smith sank back in his chair. He exchanged a glance with his brother. “You would?”
“Yes.” Cosgrove unfolded a second banknote, his movements unhurried. “And I’d like to offer you further compensation. In return for some information you possess.”
“What information?” Jeremiah Smith demanded.
“A name.” Cosgrove unfolded a third banknote, and a fourth. He held the notes carelessly between his fingers “Who hired you to burn down my conservatory?”
“How much is you willin’ to pay?” Abel Smith asked.
Cosgrove smiled. “How much would you like?”
The two brothers exchanged a glance. Charlotte saw Jeremiah lift his eyebrows fractionally, a silent Why not? She remembered the tankards she clutched. “Your ale, gentlemen.”
The two men seemed to recall her presence. Jeremiah scowled.
Charlotte crossed to the fireplace and handed them each a tankard. As she turned away she heard a low whisper: “—do it now? Or wait until—”
She walked back to the table, turning the half-heard question over in her head. Do what now? She picked up Cosgrove’s tankard.
Abel Smith took a long swig of ale. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
“We’ll give you ’is name,” Jeremiah said.
“You will?” Cosgrove uncrossed his legs. “Excellent.”
The Smiths erupted into movement, shoving up from their chairs. Jeremiah Smith lunged at Cosgrove, Abel Smith swung towards Charlotte, arms outstretched, coat flaring.
Terror squeaked in Charlotte’s throat. She threw the tankard.
It hit Abel’s shoulder, spraying ale, not slowing him. He caught her in a bear hug and knocked her to the floor, crushing the breath from her lungs.
Charlotte tried to buck him off, tried to kick, tried to draw enough breath to shout.
Abel’s knee jabbed her groin.
Her body curled in on itself in helpless agony.
A fist struck her head, then Abel heaved off her. Through pain-slitted eyes she saw him turn towards the fireplace.
Cosgrove and Jeremiah wrestled on the floor, battling for dominance. She saw Cosgrove’s face, his teeth bared in a snarl, saw the flash of a knife in Jeremiah’s hand.
Terror flooded her. Charlotte struggled to her knees, wheezing.
Abel Smith reached beneath his coat and drew a knife.
They’re going to kill him!
Charlotte tried to scream a warning, but there was no breath in her lungs. She lurched to her feet, holding onto the table.
Abel swung back to her. His expression hardened, intention stark on his face.
A bear! A bear! A bear! a voice shrieked in Charlotte’s head.
Magic roared through her. She fell to hands and knees. Her skin seemed to split open, her bones to swell and shatter.
Charlotte lifted her head. She shrugged the table aside and charged at Abel Smith, her mouth open in a roar. He screamed, a high-pitched sound, and scrambled backwards, slashing with his knife.
Jeremiah and Cosgrove froze in their battle on the floor. Their heads turned towards her, mouths open, eyes stretching wide with disbelief.
Charlotte smelled blood. Cosgrove’s blood. Rage surged through her. She swung at Abel Smith with a paw the size of a skillet. The blow lifted him off his feet. He hit the wall with enough force to shake the room.
Charlotte turned to Jeremiah Smith. The men broke apart as she advanced.
She swiped at Jeremiah.
He ducked, her claws slicing open his cheek, and scrambled backwards on hands and knees.
Charlotte followed, head lowered, herding him into a corner.
Trapped, Jeremiah held his knife out towards her. The blade trembled. Charlotte smelled his fear, as pungent as the blood streaming down his face, heard his panicked, almost sobbing, br
eaths.
I could kill him. It would be easy.
Charlotte clouted Jeremiah with her paw, knocking the knife spinning. She heard the crack of bones breaking in his arm. He gave a choked scream of pain, cowering from her, trying to cram himself further into the corner.
She turned back to the earl. How badly was he injured?
Cosgrove crouched beside the knocked-over armchair, grim-faced and disheveled, a pistol aimed at her, as if he expected her to attack him. But it wasn’t the pistol that riveted her attention, it was the blood staining his neckcloth.
Charlotte changed back into Albin. “Sir! You’re injured!”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Marcus blinked and shook his head. I’m hallucinating.
His secretary hurried towards him, stark naked.
Marcus leveled the pistol.
Albin brushed the weapon aside. “You’re bleeding, sir!”
“I’m fine.” His voice sounded normal, but nothing else was. What the hell had just happened?
“No, you’re not.” Albin ripped Marcus’s neckcloth off. “Let me see how bad it is.”
“I’m fine!” His view of the Smiths—one huddled whimpering in the corner, the other slumped half-dazed on the floor—was obscured by Albin’s shoulder. Marcus rose to his knees, raising the pistol.
Albin pushed him down to sit and pressed the wadded-up neckcloth to Marcus’s throat. “Hold this, sir.”
“Damn it, I told you—”
Abel Smith crossed the room at a lumbering run. He wrestled with the latch, jerked the door open, and lurched out into the corridor. His brother followed, stumbling, cradling an arm to his chest, his face a scarlet mask of blood. The door slammed shut.
“God damn it!” Marcus shoved Albin aside. He scrambled over the tipped-up table and wrenched open the door, pistol in hand. The corridor was empty in both directions.
He ran left, plunging down the stairs to emerge in the busy taproom. There was no sign of the Smiths, no stir as if two injured men had pushed their way through the patrons.
A dog yipped behind him.