Seeing him so unmoved, the nurse sniffed and said in a cocky voice, “I dinna hit the lass when she’s quiet, but some days she’s whiny and willna listen weel, so I pop her upon the head and—”
Moira straightened.
The nurse squeaked and took two hurried steps behind Aniston.
He frowned and tugged his cloak closer. “Pray watch where you’re walking, foolish woman. I don’t want your dirt upon my good cloak.”
“She had better watch more than that,” Moira said furiously. Rowena’s thin body trembled, her small hands clinging so tightly around Moira’s leg that she couldn’t have moved if she’d wanted to.
Moira fixed her gaze on the nurse. “If this child comes to any harm under your care, there is no one in this world who will protect you. Not this cretin”—she jerked her head toward Aniston—“not the constable, not the devil himself.”
The nurse paled and glanced at Aniston, who said in an amused voice, “She is most likely telling the truth about that. She has certain abilities.” His cruel gaze then narrowed on Moira. “Of course, she can’t do anything right now, can she?”
Moira met his gaze steadily. “We two are almost finished.”
“We will end this when I say so, and not before.”
There was nothing more to be said. Heart heavy, Moira gave Rowena a hug and then gently disentangled the child’s arms. “Ah, sweetling, I am so glad to see you.” She pulled out a handkerchief and wiped her daughter’s face. “Are you well?”
Rowena nodded, hiccupping. “I-I am learning to read.”
Moira’s heart ached. She’d wished to teach the child to read; it was yet another thing stolen from them. “Who is teaching you to read?”
“Mrs. Kimble. When she’s not mad, she likes a good story.”
Surprised, Moira looked at the nurse, who turned red and mumbled, “She’s a bright ’un and takes to readin’ faster than me own bairns ever did.”
“Thank you,” Moira said quietly. “Thank you very much.”
After a surprised moment, the woman’s hard face softened. “Ye’re welcome. I will make sure I dinna smack her head, but ’twasn’t done in spite.”
“I appreciate that, but ’tis best if it isn’t done at all.” Moira kissed Rowena’s cheek. “We will be together soon. I promise.”
“But you said last time—”
“I know. Something changed, sweetheart. I need to leave just one more time—”
“Noooo!” Tears spilled down her cheeks again, but Rowena’s face was set with determination. “Please, Mama, take me with you. I will be good and I won’t make any noise and—”
Moira swooped the girl to her. “Sweetling, you are a good child. I can’t take you with me because it will be much too dangerous. But I promise that this will be the last time.” She met Aniston’s gaze. “I swear it.”
Aniston’s cold smile did nothing to ease her fear.
Collecting herself, Moira stood, Rowena held tightly against her. At her movement, the coachman cocked his pistol.
She turned her full scorn upon him. “Put that down. It could accidentally go off, and then where would your master be? God knows I wouldn’t do his bidding unless forced.”
Aniston flicked a finger and the coachman, red with anger, disarmed the pistol.
“I’ve had enough drama for one day,” Aniston said. “It’s time for Rowena to leave now.” He turned to the nurse. “Take her.”
The nurse gingerly approached Moira. “I’ll put her in the coach now, mistress.”
Moira bent down and hugged her daughter once more. “Be very brave,” she whispered in Rowena’s ear. “And read well for Mrs. Kimble. The next time I see you, you can show me all you’ve learned.”
Through sniffles, Rowena nodded.
It took every ounce of strength Moira had to make herself reach down and peel her daughter’s fingers from her own. With the release of each small finger, Moira’s heart broke a bit more.
She gently pressed Rowena’s hand into the nurse’s with a beseeching look. “Treat her well,” she whispered. “If you do, you will be compensated beyond your wildest dreams.”
The nurse’s face lit up and she said in a low voice, “I’ll treat her as if she were me own bairn.”
“No, you will treat her like my daughter, something you will never forget.”
The woman said in a grudging tone, “Fine, then. I’ll no’ hit her.”
It wasn’t much of a promise, but it was all Moira had. She watched as Rowena was placed back into the carriage, the nurse following.
Moira turned to Aniston. “This is the final errand I run for you,” she snapped. “Once this is done, I want Rowena back. If you don’t—”
“Pray don’t bother me with your empty threats. I decide when this is over, not you. Find the box, Moira, and I will consider letting that be your final task.” Aniston’s gaze flickered over her. “My carriage will fetch you in the morning to begin the journey.”
“How am I to get this box from Ross?”
Aniston looked amused. “You are the expert on procuring things, not I. You’ll find a way to get the box. I’m sure of it.”
“Then I need more information. Who this man is, where he lives, how to reach him—”
“The coachman will know the route to Balnagown Castle. It’s in the highlands. It will take a week and a half to reach there, perhaps longer. What else do you need to know?”
“Why did Ross purchase the box? Does he know its value?”
“I don’t think so. He bought it for his private collection. He has a very large one, from what I’ve heard, and fancies himself an expert.”
“Is he?”
“He thinks so, but I don’t believe you’d consider him so. You know so much more about antiquities than other people.” There was grudging respect in Aniston’s voice.
“What more do you know of him?”
“He’s wealthy, unmarried, and childless. They say he has a very fine stable. And he’s been in two duels in the last year.” Aniston shrugged. “I know nothing else.”
Moira frowned. “Two duels? What were they over? Gaming debts?”
“Other men’s wives.”
“Both times?”
“Yes.”
Finally, something she could use. “I’ll leave in the morning. I’m staying at the George.”
“I know where you’re staying,” he returned coolly before he turned and walked toward the carriage. As one of the footmen opened the door, Aniston paused. “One more thing: if you fail to bring me the box this time, I won’t be as patient as I’ve been in the past.”
“I won’t fail—providing your information is better than what you gave me on Bancroft and Miss Beauchamp.”
Aniston’s mouth thinned. “Just find the damn box.” He climbed inside his coach, and the door closed smartly behind him.
Moira watched, her jaw clenched. She’d fetch Aniston’s damned box—but he wouldn’t get it until he’d released Rowena.
The coachman hied the horses and the coach lumbered forward, swallowed by the mist before the sound of the creaking wheels had faded.
A sob caught in Moira’s throat, but she swallowed it and lifted her chin. She would find a way to win Rowena back. And once the child was safe, Moira would follow her blood legacy and finish this game. Aniston might think he held all the cards, but she’d only begun to play.
When this ends, not even God will be able to help George Aniston.
CHAPTER 4
A letter to Robert Hurst from his sister Triona Hurst MacLean upon his going to Eton to study as a youth.
Father told me you weren’t taking your studies as seriously as he’d hoped, but then that’s not surprising. He’s a difficult taskmaster; no one could fulfill his hopes with their studies and still have time for things like food and sleep.
Father may worry about you, but I don’t. I know of no one more driven than you. Considering you’re but a lad of sixteen, that’s a serious statement indeed. It
makes me wonder where you’ll end up once you’re a man grown. The world has no boundaries for someone who savors success and is willing to work for it.
Robert stretched out his legs and admired the reflection of the flames in the gloss of his boots. “I wondered when you’d return.”
The man who stood before him on the thick library rug merely grinned. He was a small man with wizened features and shrewd blue eyes. His back was visibly crooked, yet he moved with an unusually quick walk. “Ye said not t’ bother ye until we had some information, so I waited until we was certain.”
“So you found her?”
“Aye. Ye said she had a taste fer luxury and so she does. She’s at the George, sir.”
Robert smiled now. Aha, Moira. I know you too well. “Good work, Stewart.”
“Thank ye, sir. She is using the name of Mrs. Randolph. Och, and she’s turned into a brunette, sir. I almost didna recognize her, except she smiled at the porter and—” Stewart’s face reddened.
“I quite understand.” Moira MacAllister wasn’t the sort of woman one forgot. It wasn’t just that she was beautiful, though she was, spectacularly so. It was the combination of her looks, her spirit, and her vibrancy. One never forgot how she looked, but more important, one never forgot how she made you feel. Just one smile could grab your soul . . . and she would extract it if you weren’t careful.
Fortunately, Robert was careful. He wasn’t as immune as he wished—the way she’d affected him at Bancroft’s sale proved that—but that had been a momentary lapse. He was protected by years of outrage at her perfidy and lies. “Ask Leeds to watch Mrs. Randolph this evening. I have information that she won’t leave until the morning, anyway.”
Stewart blinked. “But, sir, I can—”
“Mr. Stewart, you are one of the few men I trust with my most clandestine efforts. However, this is no ordinary woman. She charms like a cobra and she’s managed to escape more than once by using that charm. I won’t have that happening again.”
“Sir, I can assure you that I’m no’ likely to become a slave to a woman, beautiful or no’.”
“I’m gratified to hear that. But where this particular woman is concerned, I’ll take no chances. Take Leeds to the inn and make sure he sees her before you leave, so he knows whom he is to watch. Then you are to return here to prepare for a journey tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir,” Stewart replied stiffly. “Will there be anything else?”
Robert eyed his offended servant and said softly, “Yes, you can cease being so dramatic.”
Stewart flushed and bowed. “Yes, sir. I’ll take Leeds to the inn right now.”
“And tell him I may visit our little thief before the night is out. I have some questions that need answers and I must start my journey come morning.”
“Aye, sir. Am I to come with ye?”
“Yes. You’ll be playing the part of my groom. Leeds will be a footman. I shall take two more footmen and an undergroom, as well.”
“Very good, sir. If I might be so bold, is Buffoon a-comin’, too?”
Robert sighed. “Stewart, I’ve told you many times that my valet’s name is ‘Buffon,’ which is a highly regarded French name.”
“Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but I dinna care wha’ the French think.”
Robert hid a grin. “Why do you ask about Buffon?”
“It just seems tha’ whenever we bring yer valet along, we end up in more mischief than usual,” Stewart said in a distinctly morose voice.
“You think him bad luck?”
“Aye. I also think he’s a whey-faced, weak-kneed, poufy-shirted fool.”
“Pray don’t hold back,” Robert said politely. “You can tell me what you really think of my valet.”
Stewart broke into a reluctant grin. “Sorry fer bein’ so forward, sir, but that valet o’ yers is nothin’ but a Frenchified piece o’ lace.”
“I know. That’s why I take him with me.”
Stewart blinked. “I beg yer pardon?”
“People judge one by one’s servants. When they see Buffon they assume that I, too, am a whey-faced, weak-kneed, poufy-shirted fool. That ruse has helped me on more than one occasion.”
“I ne’er thought o’ tha’.”
“Which is why I will ask you to do less thinking and more doing.” Robert waved a hand toward the door. “Off with you, Stewart. And tell Leeds to keep a sharp eye on Mrs. Randolph. She has been known to disappear from locked rooms.”
“Och, sir, have no fear. Leeds is as good at watchin’ as I am.” Stewart gave a smart bow and left the study.
Robert regarded the closed door for a long time before he rose and went to his desk. There, he sat and, using a key hidden under an inkwell, unlocked a drawer and pulled out a leather folio holding a thick stack of papers. The dispatches told the exact locations of Miss Moira MacAllister, as well as whom she spoke to, for how long, and—where they could—what about.
The first report was from two months before Robert had met her years ago. The last one had been added late last night.
Robert closed the folio and sat back in his chair. He’d never worked so hard to keep up with anyone in his life—not for personal, nor professional reasons.
Yet despite the many papers in the thick folio, he knew a lot of information was missing. “You’re hiding something, Moira MacAllister, I could feel it in your voice. Whatever it is, I’ll find out.”
Leeds was already retired for the night, but at Stewart’s slight prod, the ex-soldier was wideawake in an instant. He donned his street clothes and pulled a cap low over his broad face, then they rode to the inn.
The George was one of the best inns in Edinburgh, with over eighteen guest rooms furnished with the best of everything.
Leeds looked about the inn yard, visually marking doors and windows. “ ’Tis a big hotel. Wish’t it were a mite smaller. Who is this miss we’re watchin’?”
“A Miss Moira MacAllister, though she’s goin’ by the name o’ Mrs. Randolph. She tol’ the innkeeper she was waitin’ on her husband to join her.”
Leeds scratched his chin. “No husband?”
“Nary a one as far as I can see. I think she pretends she’s married to keep men away.”
“Lor’, the people the master consorts with. I think his work fer the Home Office is more than he lets on. Don’t ye think so, Stewart?”
“The master dinna pay either o’ us t’ think,” Stewart said sourly. “He pays us to do.”
“A bit out o’ sorts, are ye?”
“Aye, the master was a bit harsh this evening. He was sure I was fallin’ under the spell of—”
Stewart broke off as a woman passed before a downstairs window. The George had a private general room for the fairer sex, where they could take tea or meet together. “That was her; she’s in the lower sitting room.”
The woman passed the window again, pausing this time to lift the sash and look outside, presumably at the threatening weather. Her dark hair was piled upon her head, contrasting with the creamy whiteness of her skin. The light from a lantern lit her face and showed that her eyes were delicately slanted, her eyebrows tilted to an exotic angle, her nose straight and patrician. But it was her mouth that caught a man’s attention. Something about the curve of her full lips suggested sensual pleasures best not spoken aloud.
“Gor’,” Leeds choked out.
Stewart nodded.
“Sweet gor’.” Leeds breathed again.
Stewart punched Leeds in the shoulder.
“Ow!” Leeds rubbed his arm, looking offended. “What was tha’ fer?”
“Tha’ was to remind ye to keep yerself professional at all times. Mr. Hurst says she’s a seductress, and if she can get ye under her spell—” He scowled. “I think she might be a witch. So watch ye’self and dinna get cocky, or ye’ll come to a great fall.”
Leeds’s eyes had widened and he sent an almost fearful glance at the now empty window. “How do I protect meself from a witch?”
“D
inna let her gaze fall upon ye. But if it do, make certain she dinna think ye’re payin’ her any heed. So long as she dinna think ye’re followin’ her or out to harm her, ye’ll be fine. But if she sees ye—” Stewart shook his head.
Leeds gulped and nodded. “I’ll stay low to the wall, I will.”
“Good. Note who comes to see her, and find out their names and such. If she leaves, follow her, but be discreet. Send word to Mr. Hurst when ye discover her direction.”
“What if she leaves town altogether?”
“She won’t; Mr. Hurst says she’s due to leave tomorrow morning. He’s goin’ to visit her this evenin’, though, so dinna be surprised to see him. In the mornin’ we’ll be travelin’ with Mr. Hurst.”
Leeds brightened. “Where are we goin’?”
“I dinna know, but I’ll be a groom and ye’ll be a footman. Buffon will be comin’, too.”
“That lace-bowed jackanapes?” Leeds sighed. “I suppose there’s no help fer it. How does Mr. Hurst know so much about this woman’s plans?”
“How does he know anythin’? He’s a smart one, he is. One o’ the best. And I’ve a feelin’ that whatever important business Mr. Hurst is upon, this woman might be a big part o’ it. She might be a spy.”
Leeds looked every bit as impressed as Stewart wished. “Och, I’ll no’ leave me post.”
Satisfied he’d done his best to convince Leeds of the importance of their work, Stewart bid him good night and disappeared into the darkness.
CHAPTER 5
Diary entry by Michael Hurst as he waits for his release from captivity.
Yesterday I discovered that my assistant, Miss Smythe-Haughton, has initiated a hare-brained scheme to charm my captor in the hopes of winning my release without the onyx box. I dislike her undertaking such an endeavor and expressed my displeasure, which she ignored. While the box is a crucial link to finding the long-lost Hurst Amulet, that cannot justify her putting herself at such risk. Especially when I saw the expression on the sulfi’s face when she attempted—of all the witless things—to dance for him during dinner.
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