“The offer to help you, of course. Why, was there another offer?” she asked, humor filling her voice.
“No!” Victoria blurted, her face growing redder by the moment. “No other offers, just the ridiculous one of being my official—unofficial escort. It would be dangerous for him. He cannot be a part of this operation.”
“Why not?”
Though she had spent most of the day wondering the same thing, she still had no answer other than the inherent danger of aligning with him. She realized his presence as her escort would be a benefit—allowing her access to parties meant for couples rather than groups of people. Like picnics, private dinners…masquerades.
But then the other realization had crept in. She’d spend hours a week, some of them alone, with Richard. Not only would people wrongly assume they were courting, but his constant presence would wear on her, tearing down her carefully erected walls. Ripping off the mask she hid behind. Breaking her to pieces.
She wouldn’t survive it.
Verity was watching her, examining the expressions that fluttered across her face. What had she seen? Too-perceptive Verity would know the whole of it, simply from looking closely.
She shrugged and watched her sister finish the plait by tying a white ribbon around the tip. She wrapped Vic’s hair into a simple coronet, pinning it in place with a set of emerald combs that matched her gown. “I am not so sure his brand of help wouldn’t just be a hindrance.”
Verity sighed. “What do you mean? You said he was a good swordsman, and coming from you, it must mean he is very good, indeed. Besides, being escorted by him would certainly afford you access to places you couldn’t go alone. Who would ever suspect that the viscount’s paramour was sneaking about behind their backs as they danced and dined? Also…he is very handsome.”
Victoria smothered a frustrated grunt. Her sister would not admire Richard Downing. It was bad enough the man had Victoria thinking of him at inappropriate times; he didn’t need to draw in her sister as well.
Jealous? This time, she let the grunt loose. “But people would assume—after seeing us together so often—that we’ve made a match of it and just haven’t made the announcement yet.”
It was Verity’s turn to shrug, the gauzy fabric of her nightdress sliding down her shoulder. She sat on the edge of Victoria’s bed, and Vic turned on her stool to face her.
“I suppose that would be a problem…”
Victoria sighed. “But?”
Verity offered her sister a sly smile. “Now that you do not have to hide your true self from him, and since he doesn’t seem bothered by your…activities, let’s say, why not use him? For the Crown, of course.”
Lifting her eyebrows, Victoria pursed her lips. “Oh, of course, for the Crown. You mean I should take him up on his offer and use his connections within the ton to…”
“Yes, to gather information without the need for breaking into houses or dressing as maids,” Verity interjected, making Victoria snort.
“You assume I don’t like those things.” She didn’t. She hated wearing wigs, particularly. A laugh bubbled up, erupting from her chest to startle her sister. “You are right, of course. He would be an asset, but I cannot expect Papa to agree with our plan. We have already dared much just in telling him about us, about the operation.” She swallowed. “And what of Leavenson? We might not like him, but he is our liaison, our source of information through the organization. What if he were to discover Richard is working with us? What if he takes his displeasure out on us? Papa would be humiliated—and we’d be the ones carrying his shame to him.”
Victoria shot to her feet, suddenly too anxious to sit.
“When did this become so complicated? It was a simple mission: search Banebridge’s study, return home with whatever I find, then go out and do the same at another party.”
Verity rose as well. “Did you ask him how he saw through your Frenchman disguise?”
“Yes,” she admitted. “He said it was my…intensity.”
Verity coughed, poorly disguising her snort of laughter.
Letting her shoulders droop, Vic sat on her bed and stared into the hearth, watching the fire as it caught the coals, bringing them to blazing life.
“Tell Leavenson. Ask him to include Richard. The worst he could say is no. He seems a man of logic. He would see that Richard could be an asset. And…since we know he hasn’t spoken a word about you to anyone else, we can assume he is trustworthy.”
Verity had made several reasonable points. And it irked Victoria that she hadn’t thought of them first. She was losing her touch, her ability to analyze with cold precision…and she only had herself to blame. She really was making a cake of herself over a man. It didn’t matter that he was the most handsome, intriguing, utterly frustrating man she’d ever met.
“You are right, of course,” Vic replied, taking her sister’s hand in hers and squeezing. “I will speak with Papa first thing in the morning.”
“I will come with you,” Verity insisted.
She shook her head. “No. We needn’t both be there. Besides, you have a fitting in the morning.”
Verity rolled her eyes, sighing loudly. “If I get poked one more time, I will not be held responsible for the damage I do to Marguerite’s collection of hats.”
Vic held up her hand, pressing her fingers against her sister’s mouth. “You must endure all that I have endured—for fashion.”
Verity let out a frustrated breath before Vic dropped her hand.
Ping-Na appeared at the door, not bothering to knock. “Lord here for you.”
Her heart shot into her throat. Richard was there. Waiting for her. To take her to the opera.
She couldn’t figure what he thought to gain from it. Perhaps to trap her and force her to comply with his insane plan to help her?
Swallowing, she retrieved her reticule from her dressing table, checked her reflection one last time, then kissed her sister on her forehead.
“You are one of the best sisters a girl like me could ever hope to have,” she murmured into Verity’s silken black hair.
Verity pulled back and grinned. She kissed Vic’s forehead in return. “You are exactly right.” They both laughed. “Promise me that you’ll try to enjoy yourself this evening.”
Victoria snorted. “I will try. I never make promises I can’t keep.” Smiling teasingly, she left Verity in the corridor outside her bedchamber and descended the stairs.
On the ground floor, the sound of voices brought her to the sitting room where Richard, her mother and father, and Love were gathered.
She walked through the door, immediately catching Richard’s attention, even as the sight of him caught her breath. He was dressed in a black coat, white shirt, white cravat, and black breeches and boots. A large emerald cravat pin winked at her from near his throat.
Someone must have told him what color gown she was wearing. There was no other reason for him to have chosen it. But what did that matter? What had they been talking about before she arrived?
“Lady Victoria,” Richard drawled, and the sound of his formal tone made her inwardly twitch. She much preferred his informal tone…the one he used in the dàochǎng.
Giving herself a quick shake, she curtseyed, then offered her hand for his greeting. Richard stared down into her eyes and bent to brush his lips over her knuckles. She shuddered, a tingling of something warm and delicious racing up her arm.
“Lord Richard,” she said, her voice husky.
“Victoria, darling.” Her mother rose and came to stand beside her. “You look lovely—does she not, Lord Richard?”
Vic peered up at him from behind her long lashes, and his appreciative gaze roamed over her, landing and staying on her lips for a moment too long.
“Yes, beautiful,” he said, the smile in his eyes containing a sensuous flame.
“I do wish you would take Ping-Na with you,” her mother said, her tone sharp.
Vic wanted to groan in frustration. “Mother, if m
y being twenty-four isn’t enough to place me firmly on the shelf, I do not know what is.” She didn’t want or need a chaperone, especially Ping-Na, who would spend the evening glaring daggers at Richard. After what she’d already witnessed in the dàochǎng, she’d keep a sharp eye on them both.
And it wasn’t as though he were going to debauch her in the carriage or at the opera. It was ridiculous to think otherwise.
But you still hope…
“Mary, dear, let the young ones go,” her father said, pulling her mother into a one-armed embrace. “I trust Victoria.”
Victoria gasped. That was high praise, indeed.
Richard bowed. He turned to Victoria, his smile lopsided. “Shall we go?”
In less than five minutes, she was seated across from him on a plush red satin seat, in a well-sprung carriage that seemed much too small for the two of them.
His gaze rested on her, heavy, expectant. She fought the urge to fidget with the edge of her cloak; nervousness was a new experience for her.
As they pulled away from her house, he spoke. “I’m glad you are with me.”
His words seemed to slide over her, like a caress with invisible fingers.
“I thought you would beg off,” he continued.
Taken aback by his accusation, she felt the warmth of the moment chill. She snapped, “I wanted to, but I couldn’t give you the satisfaction.” She sniffed, turning her face to peer out the window.
The cad chuckled. “If you really cared about my satisfaction, my dear, you would answer me this one question with the answer I so long to hear…”
Butterflies took flight in her stomach, and she held her breath, her mind running.
“And,” she began breathily, “what question is that?”
The beginning of a smile lifted the corners of his lips.
“Will you do me the great honor of allowing me to escort you from party to party, home to home, assignation to assignation?” He drew out the last word as if it were a question all its own.
The cold returned to her blood. What did she think he was going to ask? For a kiss? For her heart? She’d give him neither.
Her mind hurtled back to her conversation with Verity. Letting out a breath, she answered, “I am not convinced that you can be of help to me, despite your connections.” The lies seemed to roll from her lips like water lately.
Perhaps I should seek absolution and dedicate my life to prayer and silence…
“And what would it take for you to be convinced?” he asked, sliding his hand down his thigh, which drew her gaze to the tightness of his breeches around the taut trunk of leg muscles. Heat rushed into her face. He did it again, and she realized he was nervous, wiping his palms to rid them of sweat.
Knowing he was anxious, as she was, made her feel a little better about being trapped in a carriage with his overwhelming presence. Perhaps he felt the same about hers.
“I don’t know,” she answered. “Perhaps we shall see how the evening goes.” She had little hope that there was anything at the opera that would help his cause, but she wouldn’t tell him that. She would enjoy watching him try.
She hid her smile by ducking her face into a shadow cast by the carriage lamp.
“I suppose that, if we are to appear as though we are courting—for the benefit of the operation, of course—we should get to know one another,” she said.
Richard leaned back, bracing one leg over the other, which only accentuated the power in his legs. He spread his arms, placing his arm over the back of his seat, which only showed the fit of his coat to perfection, flattening over the shelf of his hard chest.
“What would you like to know?” he asked, his tone even. She examined his face, the aquiline nose, the wide yet pouty lower lip, the strong jaw that was, even now, clenching under her perusal.
“Is it just you and your brother?” she asked, wanting to begin this line of questioning with something simple.
“Yes. I was born when he was ten years old, so you can imagine the difference in our interests growing up,” he answered, his lips pinching.
She knew exactly what that was like. “As the oldest, I have always felt as though I cannot completely connect with Faith or Grace like I do with Verity and Honoria.”
He canted his head, his gaze catching on her expression.
“What of your brother? He seems a pleasant enough fellow.”
“He is a fine fellow, one of the best I know. But…as the only son, he and I never had much in common with one another—”
“Other than your training?”
“We trained together, yes, but each of us naturally gravitated toward a specific skill set. Love is particularly skilled with pistols, sharpshooting, and strategies.”
Why was she telling him all of this? Certainly, he was unofficially part of the very periphery of the agency, but he didn’t need to know all the details. Especially since she knew the conversation would eventually move to her.
“And what are your sisters’ skills? I have already seen that little Miss Faith is quite the acrobat,” he said, humor in his deep voice. At her questioning look, he elaborated. “On our visit to your home, your sister ran out to greet us—myself, my brother, aunt, and cousin—and she nearly took a tumble down the stairs. But rather than fall, she did a most spectacular flip in the air, landing at the bottom of the stairs with nary a hair out of place. My aunt called it ‘marvelous.’”
Her face heating, Vic couldn’t stop the bubble of laughter, picturing her sister having a grand time showing off to the guests. The little scamp. “I am sure she meant to do that.”
His smile lit up his face, and her heart tripped over at the sight of it.
“She said something that intrigued me, and still does…” he murmured, his tone dropping into his chest.
She took a deep breath and asked, “What is that?”
He dropped his arm from the back of the seat and leaned forward, his face much too close, his eyes much too dark, his presence much too…alluring.
“She said you could all do that.”
Startled, she blinked. “We can,” she admitted.
He arched an eyebrow, his lips quirking. “Can you?”
She nodded.
“What else can you do?”
Victoria knew he was asking about her in particular, but she’d rather speak about anything else.
“Honoria is rather skilled in weaponry. If you had sparred with her, the match would have been over far sooner. Also, she is a genius with codes and ciphers.” His expression was unreadable, so she continued. “Verity is a master of intuitive reasoning. She can watch someone and determine the why and what for from how they move, speak, and by their expressions.”
“Interesting,” he remarked.
“It is.”
He braced his elbows on his knees, his jaw thrust forward. “What would she say about my expression?”
Her gaze flicked to his face… It was hard, blank.
“I do not know.”
He seemed to think on that before asking, “What else?”
She leaped at the chance to fill the carriage with conversation rather than awkward silence. “Well, Verity is also a knowledgeable chemist. She is our unofficial poisons master.”
“Grace…Faith?” he seemed to prod, pulling her words from her one by one.
“They are young yet, but Faith is learning to read lips, Grace is brilliant with languages, and they both seem to be drawn toward kung fu.”
“Ah yes.” He tipped his head back. “The special fighting form you and Miss Verity were practicing when I arrived this morning.”
At that memory, she felt the bottom drop out of her belly, heat blooming in her blood.
“Quite r-right,” she stammered.
“And you…Victoria…” he drawled. “What are your special skills?”
Without hesitating, she replied, “Disguises, infiltration…hand-to-hand techniques.”
His gaze skimmed her face, dropping to her lips and then ba
ck to her eyes.
“You were plying your skills that night we first met,” he recalled.
“Yes.”
“And you are upset that I recognized you outside the haberdasher’s.” Stunned by his perception and the accuracy of his statement, she nodded.
“How?” was all she could force through her suddenly parched throat.
He leaned in again, his golden eyes like the setting sun, making the world catch fire.
“Your eyes.”
“My eyes?” She shook her head. “What about them?”
“They stole my breath, and I’ve been trying to reclaim it since.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
She could blame her lack of attentiveness on her utter dislike of Italian sopranos, or she could put the blame squarely where it belonged, on Richard’s broad shoulders. After his words in the carriage, she couldn’t think of a word to say in response, and so she huffed nonchalantly, shrugged, and acted as though he hadn’t just awakened something that had been slumbering deep within her. Something that had roared to life, nearly bringing her to her knees with the power of it.
Victoria Daring was in over her head; she could admit that now. And she hadn’t the slightest idea what to do about it.
It was the interval. She should be out of their private box, letting Richard introduce her to his society friends. Men and women she could be surreptitiously questioning.
According to operational guidelines, she was to consider any and all members of the ton as potential suspects, which realistically made making any true friends tricky. But instead of meeting and learning about these people, she was sitting in her seat, watching the men and women in the other boxes, chatting, laughing, showing false faces—and all the while Richard was beside her, staring at her.
She could feel the burn of his gaze against her face, on her lips, waiting for her to turn, to say something. Conversation had dropped off when the opera started, and it had yet to begin again. She didn’t know what to say. Madame LaMagre, with all her breathing-control methods and emotion-masking techniques, hadn’t prepared her for the heart-pounding attraction that would come with spending time around a man like Richard.
A Lady Never Tells (Women of Daring) Page 18