She fought the shudder that began in her belly and tilted her face up to greet him.
Forcing a smile, she chirped, “Lord Richard, I am so glad you could come.” Was that her voice? So syrupy?
His mouth curved upward on one side, stealing her breath.
“Are you?” he asked, his deep voice low, almost conspiratorial.
Keeping her smile in place, she nodded. “Of course. We are all honored to have you and your family here for our first official dinner party.”
“Are you?” he asked again, his lips twitching. Biting her tongue, she just kept from snapping.
You are supposed to be beguiling. For all her training with LaMagre, she should be better at this. But Richard wasn’t supposed to be part of their operation at all, and yet, here he was, staring at her with laughter in his eyes. Never in her life had she felt so out of sorts. She could render a man unconscious with her bare hands, and yet this man seemed to disarm her with a single look.
“Yes,” she hurried to answer, forcing the words from her mouth. “And it has been an enjoyable evening.” Truth. While she would rather not have to deal with Richard, she had enjoyed spending time with his family—his aunt and cousin especially.
“I must admit, the evening would have been far more enjoyable if I could have spent more time with you,” Richard drawled, and Victoria felt the heat rise into her cheeks.
Be beguiling. Dropping her chin, she looked up at him through the fan of her lashes, which she fluttered like a butterfly, as Honoria had so often demonstrated. “Oh, but the evening is not over yet,” she simpered. “There is still time…”
His gaze dropped to her mouth.
“Time? For what?”
She purposefully pouted. “Well, I was hoping to learn more about you, Lord Richard. From what my father has told me, you are quite the Corinthian.” She fluttered her eyelashes again, hating how silly she felt.
He arched a golden eyebrow. “Lady Victoria, is there something in your eye?”
“What?” she blurted. “Oh, no, there’s nothing.” She tried laughing to hide her acute humiliation at having made a fool of herself. “I am simply attempting to flirt.”
Good Lord, she hadn’t said that, had she? What was it about him that made her act the fool?
His lips curled up into a wicked smile, and his golden-hazel eyes darkened.
“I assure you, I am more than willing to be flirted with. There’s no need to attempt with me,” he quipped.
She huffed, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin to look him straight in the eye.
“Attempting because I have had no use for flirting in the past,” she admitted.
“Are there no men in China?” he asked, his tone teasing.
Victoria cocked a slow, deliberate smile. “Oh, there are. But I would ask the same about England.”
His burst of deep, rumbling laughter made Vic’s heart jump. She could feel everyone turn to look at them.
“My dear Lady Victoria…” he began, but then his smile disappeared. “I can personally attest to my own manhood. In fact, I could prove it to you…”
Heat blasted through her, causing something wicked to simmer beneath the surface. The devil. She would not let him win.
“With strenuous exercise?” she asked.
Richard tensed, the power in his frame all the more evident by the flexing of the muscles in his jaw. Something in his eyes flickered, but it was too quick for Vic to catch it.
“And what of you, Victoria? What activities do you find most strenuous?”
“Landscape painting and embroidery,” she replied flippantly. She needed to finish this before she really showed herself the fool by reaching out and running her finger along his jaw and down the cords of his neck to where his immaculate cravat was tied.
His skin would be hot, taut; her fingers would skate over every line, plane, rise of his chest, his arms…
A shudder shook her, and his dark gaze caught the tremor, piercing her with his intensity.
“For some reason, those activities do not seem to suit you,” he murmured.
She lifted her chin a fraction higher. “Oh? And what does suit me?” she snapped, her restraint wearing thinner by the second.
His smile returned then, slow and wicked and devastating.
“Lock picking.”
Chapter Twelve
The man’s hands trembling, his body tense, he tapped on the glass of the window just beside the back door. It was pitch black inside the townhouse, but he knew someone was awake. It was the someone he’d paid to be awake, to answer the knock and allow him entry. In the dead of night. In the silence and stillness he required to do his work.
The Cards’ work.
He sneered and pulled his collar up around his ears and his hat brim down over his eyes. He wasn’t a fool; he hadn’t told the servant who he was, only that he was interested in procuring a few select times from Lady Manderby’s home.
During all of his Black Jack activities, he’d taken pains to hide his identity, though few who met him in the dark corners of London would ever recognize him. The servant, one he’d followed for two days before approaching, had been eager to earn a few extra coins, not caring a whit about who he was or why he was interested in this house in particular. Apparently, her ladyship was a close-fisted wasp. Too bad she wasn’t as stingy with her favors; her own brother had fathered her bastard son, and all because she’d allowed her sibling to rut between her thighs.
It was utter luck that he’d overheard the maid from Billings’ Close—now a bar hag—moaning on about all she’d done for her trollop of a mistress. After he’d provided her with a few more quaffs of rotgut, she’d spilled her guts—literally and figuratively. To him, it felt like God had handed him a chance at righting his fate, at taking back his life from the Golden Man’s clutches.
The information that spilled from her lips was just the thing he needed to show the other Cards that he was more than just the filthy errand boy, that he had worth, that spilling his secrets would be a risk they couldn’t take, not without losing the best thing that ever happened to their order.
They might look at him like a disease now, but he had plans, plots of his own, and he would take back what was his—his future, his pride.
The sound of the lock clicking snapped him from his thoughts, and he slunk over to the back door, which was swinging open silently.
He slid in, making sure his face was hidden.
“Did anyone see you?” he asked the pale-faced maid, whose eyes were much too wide for her flat face.
She shook her head. “Nay, my lord, none. Oy sneaked down when Maddie began snorin’ like a hog in the mud. She’s been ruttin’ wif the baker, gets ’erself good ’n’ tired most nights.”
He rolled his eyes, disgust for this creature roiling through him. But, like his identity, he hid it well.
“Good, good. Now, run along—”
“But what ’bout the blunt ye promised?” she hissed.
Her voice made his already pounding head pound all the more.
“Fine,” he whispered harshly, then dug into his coat pocket for the crown he’d promised. He slapped it into her outstretched hand. “There. Now, go, make no noise, and if the Runners are called, you know nothing, you saw nothing— Am I clear?” he growled, moving in close so she could see the black intent in his shadowed eyes.
She tensed, her fingers clasping the coin to her chest in a white-knuckled grip. She nodded, shaking. “Aye. I understand.”
He dismissed her with a curt lift of his chin, and she rushed away, disappearing into the dark of the kitchens.
The house remained as quiet as a tomb, and as he moved from the kitchens into the hallway, he continued listening for any hint of movement. He wouldn’t let what happened last time happen again. When he’d broken into the Devonton townhouse, he’d been fresh from Hedo’s House, his mind still swirling with color and bliss. He’d been sloppy, careless, and when the lady had discovered him in her
private study, he’d done the only thing his addled mind could think of—he’d struck her with the fireplace poker. And struck her, and struck her, until she stopped screaming, until she stopped moving. But by then, she’d roused the house with her screeching, and he’d barely made it out through the terrace doors before the room filled with alarmed servants.
That had been a week ago. This time, he’d made sure to allow the opium haze to dissipate enough for him to operate as normally as he could…for an addict.
In the hallway, he pressed his back against the wall and moved through the shadows to the staircase that led upstairs. Lady Manderby’s study was upstairs, her husband’s was, too, but he wasn’t interested in the husband. The husband had been away on “business” in the Americas for more than four years. The husband was no use to the Cards.
The stairs made no noise as he ascended to the landing where he stopped to listen once more. From what he’d observed on his previous trips to the house, he knew it was staffed with no more than ten servants. That was a paltry sum. When he finally came into his fortune, he’d have five times as many, and a large, opulent mansion for them to serve in. His mansion, one he’d earned by the activities so many thought of as distasteful. Evil.
In the shadows, he shrugged. He cared nothing for what others thought of his path to his chosen future. Sliding his hand into his pocket, he smiled at what he felt with the tips of his fingers.
A swelling of power filled his chest, and his grin widened. He didn’t need the sweet taste of oblivion to feel invincible; he only needed this…this feeling of rightness.
He took one step forward, breathed, then took another step. Before he knew it, he was standing at the closed door of Lady Manderby’s private study.
What delicious sins are hidden within?
It was unlocked, which wasn’t a surprise. The imperious Lady Manderby wouldn’t give a second thought to the possibility that someone would steal from a peer of the realm.
None of them did.
Not even him, much to his shame and continuing misfortune.
Biting back a curse at the sharp ache behind his eyes, he knew he had to hurry. His body was failing him, seeking that which he’d denied it so he could go about this mission.
The study was dark, the only light streaming in from the large window framed by two large bookcases. The bookcases were filled with books, but he had no doubt the lady never cracked a single cover. They were all thoughtless, mindless idiots.
By the light of the moon, he set about investigating the desk. There were four drawers—one in the middle and three larger ones down the right side. He checked the middle one first. Nothing but blank paper, red sealing wax, a seal—which he gleefully pocketed—and an accounting book. He didn’t care about her accounts.
Next, he sat in her desk chair and leaned back, staring into the shadows in the far corner. Again, his head felt like needles were protruding through his sockets. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, exhaling slowly.
Pull yourself together, man. You cannot fail. Any other time, he would allow himself to fall to pieces, to yearn for the release of opioid nothingness, but right now, he needed a clear head.
Where would an incestuous slag hide the evidence of her interbreeding?
Opening his eyes, his gaze landed on the first drawer to the right. He pulled the white enamel knob. It held fast. He tried the drawer beneath it. It, too, seemed glued in place. And the last one was the same as the first two.
The pain picking away at his patience, he pounded his fist onto the desk—and the top-right drawer rattled. No, that wasn’t it— The whole right side of the desk rattled. He pushed the chair back and stood, then squatted beside the desk, using every bit of the moon’s light to inspect its peculiarities.
He pulled the top knob again, but this time he watched what happened when he did. It wasn’t that the drawer was locked… All three drawers appeared to be a facade to hide something else. He tugged, beyond curious. It didn’t budge. He felt under the desk for a release latch, something that would allow the façade to swing out.
There! Just beneath the center drawer. He pressed it, and a slight pop echoed through the silent study like a gunshot. At least that’s how loud it seemed to him… His headache had descended into his teeth and would soon find its way into his neck, then back, then chest, until the whole of him was one large ache.
Just need a little more time…
He pulled the facade away—it swung out like a small door—and behind it was a safe.
He had no way of opening a safe, not in the time he had left before his need overcame his senses. Desperate, he pulled the latch on the safe; it was locked tight.
Damn, damn, damn.
Eyeing the safe, he took in its dimensions. No larger than a hatbox, it would still, no doubt, weigh more than a crate of rocks.
But I must try.
Tensing his muscles, he reached into the compartment and pulled on the safe… It rocked a bit, letting him know it wasn’t secured to the desk. Good, good. He reached in farther and gripped the back, pulling forward again. And again. And again, until the safe was just at the edge of the hidden compartment.
He wiped the sweat from his brow, his eyes, and heaved a breath. Now came the most difficult part: lifting the blasted thing and carrying it from the house before anyone saw him.
But, before he could make good his escape, as difficult as it would be, he slipped a single item from his pocket, placing it in the compartment where the safe once sat.
He grinned at it, wondering what the lovely Lady Manderby would think when she found her safe missing and only a single Jack of Spades for a clue as to who’d taken it.
…
Not in the mood to listen to his aunt and brother revisit their evening with the Darings, Richard waved off a ride in the carriage and hailed a hackney.
Staring out the window, he watched the street as he passed, his mind on the one woman he couldn’t stop thinking about. Or wanting.
What had started as a mission to uncover her secrets had evolved into something he had no way of understanding. She’d bested him, that was clear. She’d faced him down with her attempts at flirtation, her tart mouth—oh Lord, that mouth—and her wit. Even when he’d mentioned lock picking, she gave nothing away.
Victoria Daring dared to act as though she had no idea to what he was referring, easily maneuvering the conversation to her sister Grace’s penchant for getting locked out of their house in Zhejiang, and how she’d climb the plum blossom tree to get to her bedroom window. And while the tale was charming, he knew Victoria was hiding something, camouflaging her true self behind silks, fluttering eyelashes, and forced smiles.
Hell. He had to stop thinking about her; it was doing him no good to ponder and wonder and get his thoughts twisted up like a ribbon around a maypole. There was nothing for it other than to confront her, ask her point-blank what she was up to. She could prevaricate all she wanted, but he knew the truth. He just had to get it out of her.
And what if her answer implicates her in crimes? What happened if Victoria Daring was guilty of something that would require him to contact the Runners? The Home Office? But what if she was part of something involving her father and his connections in the Foreign Office? What then?
An ache began behind his eyes, spreading out to pulse at his temples.
He would get no answers tonight.
In the meantime, he needed a distraction. There was nothing at home for him but a half-empty decanter, a room of flickering shadows, and too much silence.
Pounding on the roof, he directed the driver to White’s, where he disembarked with a little less energy than he had when leaving the Darings’.
He entered the vaunted club with a tension he couldn’t quite place. “Richard,” a familiar yet surprising voice called from a small table beside the hearth where two other men were sitting. Ethan Crossley, Marquis Crosswaite, was standing there, his arms stretched out, a large smile on his wan face.
Striding to the table, Richard greeted his old friend, slapping him on the back in a companionable embrace.
“Crosswaite, where have you been? I have not seen you in months,” he remarked, taking one of the two empty chairs. Crossing his ankle over his knee, he leaned back and motioned to the waiter for a drink. He was a regular; they knew his preferred libation.
Ethan took his seat and lifted a tumbler of amber liquid to his lips. “The old duke sent me to Liverpool to oversee some of his shipping interests,” he answered, tipping his head to the side. “It took longer than I’d hoped to secure two new ships, but once I had, you couldn’t keep me there with a thousand horses holding me back.”
They all chuckled, and Richard turned to nod to Michael Bendrake and his brother, Benjamin Bennington.
“Richard. Haven’t seen you since the Banebridge party. Have you sufficiently recovered?” Michael asked, a grin quirking his lips.
Recovered from colliding with the world’s most intriguing and frustrating enigma of a woman? No. Hardly.
“I am well enough to be here,” he offered. “Ethan, now that you are back in town, do you have any plans?” Small talk…at least he could focus on something other than sapphire eyes.
Ethan tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Well, I had planned to spend time drinking and carousing, but the old duke has ordered that I tuck in and focus on finding myself a biddable lady to wed.”
A flicker of disgust rolled over his expression before it was gone. Richard couldn’t blame the man; he hadn’t really favored the idea of marrying just for the sake of marrying, either. But for Ethan, who was the only son of a duke and the heir to a dukedom, marrying was a requirement.
Ben, a second son, said, “Each and every day, I thank the heavens that I will not have to endure such torture. By God, can you imagine being tied to one woman for a lifetime?” He shuddered.
Richard leaned back, running his finger along the rim of his drink. “I suspect that, once leg-shackled, your lifetime would be remarkably shorter.”
A Lady Never Tells (Women of Daring) Page 11