He desired her more than he’d desired any woman before, and he hadn’t even spoken more than a hundred words to her. And what would she say if he decided to confront her with what he knew?
Sighing, he set his tumbler down and stared into the amber liquid that seemed set afire by the blazing in the hearth behind it.
“Who are you really?” he asked the vision of her in his mind’s eye.
“What were you after in the earl’s study?
“Why were you wearing a disguise?
“Why did you not kill me when you had the chance?”
And that last question bothered him the most. She’d pressed a dagger to his gullet and threatened to hurt him if he spoke of seeing her in the study. But would she have gone through with it? Was she capable of taking someone’s life? There hadn’t been a second of hesitation in her movements, nor a glint of fear in her eyes. If she were a soldier, she would have cowed the most fearsome of the King’s men.
He tipped his head back and thought of the woman he’d seen that afternoon.
She’d been dressed in a becoming deep green walking dress, her black hair pinned up most fetchingly, and her skin as creamy and luxurious as fresh milk. When she’d spied him, her soft pink lips had parted in an O that was much too quickly erased, replaced with a flat line. He wondered what it would take to turn that line into a pout of pleasure, one he’d wrought with his own lips. His own hands…his own body.
He groaned, his belly tightening, his blood burning through his veins.
No, he knew very little about Victoria Daring other than that it took some daring to do what she’d done. Would it really hurt to pry, just a little? No one would have to know what he knew…unless she truly was doing something diabolical. Then, as a man of honor, he would be bound to seek justice on the earl’s behalf.
A smile slowly formed on his lips; he’d enjoy learning all there was to know about Victoria. He just had to figure out how to do it. How did one go about questioning a noblewoman about her not-so-noble activities?
After spending a sleepless night staring into the shadows cast by the waning moonlight, he sat down at breakfast the next morning with newspaper in hand and sipped at the black coffee Mrs. Liddons, his landlady, had brewed. It was bitter, acrid stuff, but it was exactly what he needed to rid his mind of all the swirling thoughts he couldn’t dispel.
Why would an earl’s daughter need to break into Banebridge’s study? Is Victoria in some kind of trouble? All night, questions such as those racked him, tearing him from the land of Nod like a tiger would a fresh piece of meat. And what if she were in trouble? Perhaps she’d been forced to break into the earl’s study. Perhaps she’d been forced to commit other crimes as well.
Grunting, he pushed away his plate of coddled eggs, ham, sausage, and dry toast, and picked up the morning newspaper.
Third Break-in This Month. The Viscountess Of Devonton Left at Death’s Door.
The words of the headline surged through him, making the coffee as tar in his belly, and unbidden thoughts began pealing into his head.
Had Victoria committed other crimes? Was the earl just one in a long line of victims?
There was nothing for it; he had to find out what she’d been doing in the earl’s study.
Yes, he’d followed her that first night out of curiosity— He’d been bored and was tired of being so. She’d intrigued him from his doldrums and added some life to his graying soul. But now that it was clear that his silence could have allowed the harm of another, he was honor-bound to uncover the entire truth.
“Dammit,” he growled, knowing full well that asking Victoria Daring anything at all would be a risk. On the street corner, surrounded by her family, she’d been as fire and ice in one delectable package. But that night in the earl’s study, she’d pierced him with a single glance; he knew, from the bottom of his being, there was little he could do to her that would make her give up her secrets. Unless…
Another smile broke over his features, and his heart thudded rather rapidly in his chest. He was a fool to not think of this before: Victoria was a woman. He was a man. He would simply charm the truth from her. How difficult would it be, really? Of course he was arrogant; he knew he was handsome, had his share of torrid affairs before the monotony of it all had settled in, so he knew his looks and charm could be a formidable weapon against Victoria’s impressive iron wall.
To charm the lady with a smile, to earn a kiss for my trouble…
And it would be one of the most exciting experiences of his life— He had no doubt.
…
Quietly seated next to Verity and across from Honoria and Love, Victoria stared at the man striding into her father’s study and wondered if, perhaps, she should have worn something more…colorful. It galled her to think what it would take to dress as brightly as Miles Leigh, Lord Leavenson, did. He was resplendent in vibrant yellows, oranges, and pinks. Like a dessert cake dressed as a middle-aged man.
“Miles. Good to see you, man. There is much to discuss,” her father said, taking the flamboyant man’s hand and shaking it heartily. “Sit. Sit. Victoria has quite the tale to share.”
Leavenson flicked his gaze over her siblings, smiling softly, but then he leveled piercing brown eyes on her, making her all the more aware of her lack of color. She was wearing a gray dress with gray lace, and she hadn’t bothered with her hair. It was in a simple chignon—no frills, no fuss. That’s how she liked it; she’d rather be in Zhejiang, where no one cared if she wore trousers or skirts.
“Lord Leavenson, it is a pleasure,” she said, standing and offering a practiced curtsey—as was expected. Verity and Honoria followed suit, and Love simply crossed one leg over the other and gave a curt nod.
Leavenson bowed at the waist, and a lock of his silver hair fell over his broad forehead.
“Lady Victoria,” he began. “I have heard much about you from your doting father, and from the sight of you, I can tell you there was little exaggeration,” he remarked, taking the hand she had not offered and kissing the knuckles. Victoria looked to her father, who seemed curious about his longtime friend’s actions but didn’t speak a word about it.
“Thank you, my lord,” she murmured, hiding her distaste behind a smile made of lies.
“And you, Misses Verity and Honoria, I have never seen two such lovely mirror halves,” he drawled, eyes straying to where Vic sat, holding her hands still by pinching her palms.
“Young Lowell,” Leavenson continued, speaking to a bored-looking Love, “I see that you have grown into a fine man.”
Love grunted, but at their father’s narrow-eyed glare, he offered, “Thank you, my lord.”
After requesting a drink of brandy and a tea tray, Lord Leavenson seated himself on the settee, and Victoria sat on the chaise opposite. Her father chose to stand, which wasn’t a surprise, considering how anxious he’d become of late. Her sisters remained where they’d been when Leavenson entered the room, their twin gazes raking over the man most acidly.
No one liked him—except Father, who liked everyone—but they had no choice in whom they liaised with. Theirs was a peculiar agency, built to serve the Crown against the Crown’s own, for the Crown’s sake.
“So, my dear, what can you tell me about your discoveries at Lord Banebridge’s estate? Your father sent word that I should meet with you with the utmost expediency.” And yet it had taken him more than a week to deign to meet with them. Victoria fought the urge to tell him exactly that, forcing a polite smile on her face instead. She’d already told her sisters and brother about what she’d overheard between the earl and his man of business, and her utter lack of evidence, so she only needed to give a concise report without her siblings’ nattering questions.
Her smile faltered a moment, but she recovered quickly.
Brushing her hands over the practical cotton on her dress, she met Leavenson’s gaze.
“While attempting to enter his study, I overheard a conversation between the earl and his man of
business, Reynolds. He spoke of a blackmail letter, sent to him by persons as yet unidentified. It demanded two hundred pounds, to be delivered to a specific address within forty-eight hours.”
“And did you happen to overhear the address?” Leavenson asked, his brows flattened, his lips pinched. Finally, the man was all business.
“No. And the earl burned the letter before I could read it,” Vic replied, suddenly feeling a fool for not having such an important piece of information in her keeping. “But I do know the blackmailer is using some of the countess’s letters to her paramour, a groom, as fodder for his criminal intentions.”
Her father began pacing, adding a regular tattoo of boot beats to the growing tension in the room.
“Do you know what the countess’s letters contained? Perhaps the jilted paramour is seeking revenge,” her father queried.
Vic shook her head. “No. The letters weren’t there. And I picked the locks on his desk and checked every drawer— I even looked for levers or other hidden mechanisms that might open a secret compartment,” she admitted. “But there was nothing of interest anywhere.” That last bit took more than a little effort to utter. She didn’t want her father or Leavenson—God help her—believing that she’d offered nothing in the way of usefulness.
“What do you think, Vic…?” Verity finally spoke, her tone coaxing. “Do you believe Lord Banebridge is deserving of his place on the Prince’s list?” The list of conspirators. Of blackguards. Supposedly unscrupulous men who were suspected of stealing information from well-connected lords, and using that information to blackmail them for the money to fund their criminal enterprise. There had already been ten such cases before they’d even set foot in England— It was one of the reasons the Prince had recalled them from China, ordering them to assemble as a covert agency at his command.
Finally, she remembered she’d been asked a question. “I believe Banebridge is one of the lords who’ve been targeted, and therefore not a part of the greater conspiracy.”
Leavenson stilled, his eyes pinned to her face. Her father stared as well, but his eyes were warm…a flickering of pride hidden within the dark blue depths. Her heart swelled, thrice over.
“I see,” Leavenson intoned, rubbing at his wobbling chin. “I daresay we can remove Banebridge from our list of suspects— He would not very well blackmail himself.”
Her father nodded in agreement. “What do you say, Victoria?”
Catching her father’s gaze, she offered him a slight nod. “I agree with Leavenson’s statement. While hiding in his study, I overheard nothing that would cast suspicion on the earl. He seems undeserving of our attentions.”
Leavenson’s thin brow rose, his already thin lips disappearing into a frown. “Undeserving, you say?” He acted as though she’d personally wounded his pride.
“Yes,” she replied, her tone flat. She would not apologize for her opinion on the matter. Especially to Leavenson.
Leavenson laughed—he had the audacity to throw his head back and laugh at her. She balled her hands into fists, slowing her breathing and her heart, lest she act on her impulse to make him choke on his mirth.
“My dear, there is not a single man alive who is as pure as the driven snow— Any man worth anything has something worth blackmailing him over. Surely you have heard that all men are sinners—” His gaze landed on her, skating over her with an intensity she felt to her toes. “And women, too, I daresay.”
Vic straightened, annoyed at the man’s beady-eyed stare. He looked to be dissecting her, pulling back layer after layer of flesh and blood, seeking out a weakness.
He’ll find none here.
A knock on the door kept Vic from ringing a peal over the peacock’s head, and they all turned to see her mother walk into the room.
“My dear,” her father called, his smile brilliant. “What can I do for you?”
Vic knew her mother would rather drink her weight in vinegar than spend a moment discussing her husband’s business, so her arrival in the study during a meeting with Leavenson was a curious event.
Lady Gadstoke smiled at her husband, then turned her attention to Vic. “I have come for Victoria. Victoria, my dear, you have the most curious delivery awaiting you in the parlor.”
Surprised, Vic could only stare. “Delivery?” she asked. “From whom?” And why hadn’t her mother simply waited for the meeting to adjourn before telling her about it?
Her mother shook her head. “You know it is not like me to pry, dear. Though, there is a card included—but I would not read it. It is your delivery, after all.”
Watching her mother’s face turn pink told Vic that she had sneaked a peek at the card and was bursting at the seams to ask Vic about it. Biting back a laugh, Vic rose to her feet, turning toward her father and Leavenson.
Love remained in his seat, picking at his fingernails, but Verity and the strangely quiet Honoria rose from their seats, making their way toward the doorway where their mother was still standing.
“Go on, girls. Go and see what has your mother so excited.” Her father grinned, though it did not reach his eyes.
Victoria, despite being torn between staying and listening to what else Leavenson had to say and seeing what had her mother so pink-cheeked, followed her siblings from the room…a growing uncertainty nipping at her heels.
Chapter Nine
Victoria blinked down at the thing in the box. “Good heavens, what are they?”
Verity, then Honoria, then her mother all giggled. Her mother giggled. Victoria nearly fell over in shock.
She looked up at the faces of the gathered mob of Darings and waited for one of them to answer.
Faith broke the silence with a dramatic sigh. “What does it look like, Victoria? Obviously, it is some kind of jest. Who dyes perfectly good roses such an unnatural color?”
Her mother sniffed. “I would not know, but I must say I am curious about why they would purchase roses then go through the trouble of making them look so unlike roses.”
Vic reached into the flower box and retrieved one of the dozen long-stem roses, staring at the brightly colored petals, which bore a striking resemblance to her eye color.
“It really is an interesting color, is it not, Victoria?” Verity asked, leaning closer to sniff the blooms. “At least they still smell like roses…. Curious.” She hmmed and stepped back, a puzzled look on her face.
“Well, what does the note say?” Grace chirped, grabbing the small, off-white envelope. She’d begun to tear into it when their mother plucked it from her grasp and handed it to a still-bewildered Vic.
Replacing the rose in the box, she opened the envelope and extracted the small card.
I wanted you to have something that reminded me of you.
It was left unsigned. But Vic didn’t need a signature to know who sent them.
Devil take you, Richard Downing!
She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from exclaiming that aloud, but not before a grunt of displeasure escaped.
“What does that mean? And why are you so upset over it?” her mother asked, concern etched into her usually ageless features.
Unable to conjure an adequate answer, Vic could only stare down at the masculine scrawl on the card, her heart beating a strange cadence in her chest.
“I am upset because it is a terrible thing to do to such lovely flowers,” she finally answered, the falsehood thick on her tongue. Truly, the blooms were remarkable, if a little obvious—to her, at least.
Verity eyed her suspiciously, her lips drawing into a pout.
Honoria laughed, waving off a curious Grace, who was reaching for the card.
“Yes, a true tragedy. Do you know who might have sent them?” Verity asked, tilting her head in the manner that told Victoria she was in for a thorough questioning later.
She’d been a fool to think she could keep something like this from her most perceptive sister, the one who made it her life’s work to crack even the most genius of codes. She’d broken Vic�
�s code with a single look. Her annoying, brilliant sister knew she was lying.
“I cannot say,” she intoned, meaning exactly that. She knew, she just could not say. Not then, not with Honoria, Faith, Grace, and their mother standing there, watching their suddenly tense exchange.
“Well then, Victoria, I had hoped these were from a prospective suitor, but since you cannot fathom who would send such a thing, I suppose we should dispose of them. They cannot be displayed—what would Her Grace say upon seeing them this evening?” And just like that, her mother stole whatever hope Vic had left that her day wouldn’t be an utter disaster. How could Vic have forgotten that her mother had invited a duchess to dinner?
“What would you have us do with these…flowers?” Lady Gadstoke pursed her lips at the bouquet.
Sucking in a breath, Vic replied, “You are correct, we cannot display them, but… I wouldn’t mind their fragrance brightening up my bedchamber.”
…
“Out with it,” her sister barked as soon as Vic’s bedchamber door had clicked shut. Vic knew her sister would demand answers, and she should have used her cunning to avoid Verity—at least until she could think of what to tell her—but her crafty and persistent sister dogged her steps all the way up the stairs, not giving her a single chance to slip away. And where would she have gone anyway?
Sighing, Vic placed the crystal vase containing the newly trimmed blue roses on her escritoire, then she sat on her bed, pulling her legs up under her. “You might as well come sit,” she said, patting the lavender-colored counterpane beside her.
Verity kicked off her slippers and jumped onto the bed, nearly toppling Vic in her eagerness to get comfortable. Once they were both settled, Verity pinned Vic with a glare that left her no room for prevarication.
“Richard Downing is a blasted nuisance,” Victoria exclaimed, then went on to tell Verity about her run-in with the man at the party at Clouster Hall, his catching her in the study, their conversation, their confrontation, and his recognizing her the day before.
A Lady Never Tells (Women of Daring) Page 8