A Most Dangerous Profession

by Karen Hawkins

  “No. He purchased it because it is easy to reproduce.”

  “Ah, he sells copies.”

  “Yes. I recognized Mr. Gulliver, though he didn’t know me, since I was veiled. He used to go by the name of Comte Constanti. Before that, he was a well-known forger of Greek statuary.”

  “Bloody hell. You knew this when I caught up to you in Edinburgh. Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  “Because you left me at the squire’s before we could discuss it.” She placed the empty glass at the table by her elbow, glad that her trembling had stopped. “If you had taken me with you, I’d have shared my information.”

  “I was coming back to get you.”

  “After you’d retrieved the wrong box.” She lifted her brows and waited.

  Robert regarded her for a long moment. “I suppose you think I owe you an apology.”

  “Several.”

  “A pity. You’re not going to get a single one. You were ill and still aren’t well enough to travel.”

  “Nonsense. I’m tired, but only because your valet apparently feels he is very important to your comfort and he pushed the coachmen the entire way. I rode almost nonstop, and I didn’t expect that.”

  Robert sighed. “Buffon thinks I can’t pull a shirt on without his assistance.”

  A soft knock preceded the innkeeper’s wife, who brought in a small tray with a bowl of gruel and a glass of milk. When she caught sight of Moira wearing trousers, she gasped.

  Robert smoothly cut in. “My wife’s love of a good joke sometimes betrays her sense of decorum.”

  “I see,” the woman said primly. She set the tray before Moira and said in a disapproving voice, “There, miss, some gruel fer ye.”

  Moira looked at the thin, watery gray gruel and tried not to curl her nose. “That’s very kind. This will serve as a beginning. Do you have anything else to eat in the kitchen?”

  The woman looked surprised. “Och, o’ course we do. We’ve a braised goose, some hard cheese, a bit o’ haggis, and—”

  “The gruel will be enough for my wife,” Robert broke in. “I’ll have some of the goose, please.”

  “Actually, no goose,” Moira countered. “My husband’s stomach is a bit off, but fortunately he loves good haggis. And I’ve heard yours is excellent.”

  “So I think, madam. I make it meself, and I add cracked pepper, too.” Her chin firmed. “Me husband’s mither says I have too heavy a hand wi’ th’ pepper mill, but I use th’ recipe from me beloved mither, and ’tis a guid recipe.”

  Moira said in a warm voice, “I’m sure it’s quite tasty. We’ll have that, of course.”

  The woman beamed. “Then ye’ll see fer yeself. Will there be anythin’ else?”

  “No, thank you. I’m sure the haggis will be more than enough.”

  Robert turned to countermand her order, but the innkeeper’s wife was already out the door. “Blast it! Now I’ll be stuck with that damned haggis.”

  Moira’s gurgling laugh caught him unaware. He’d been shocked to see her in the courtyard, and even more so when she’d collapsed before him. He should have known she wouldn’t stay at the squire’s house, damn it. Even when choices weren’t available, Moira made them.

  Robert watched her now, noting that the corner of a bandage peeked from under her braid at her temple, a bit of a bruise showing at the edge. “How’s that hard head of yours?”

  She made a face. “I had the devil of a headache this morning, but it’s better now.”

  He didn’t believe a word she said, for though her color was better, there were delicate blue circles below her eyes, and the tension in her shoulders told him she was still in pain. “You look tired. You will go to bed as soon as we’ve had our delicious haggis.”

  “We? I’m going to eat this miraculously healing gruel.” She lifted the bowl, put a spoonful in her mouth, and grimaced. “That is horrid.”

  “If you don’t eat the gruel, then you have to eat the haggis. I won’t have you going to bed without some food.”

  She replaced the gruel on the tray. “I’d rather have haggis. I couldn’t help requesting it; you should have seen your face when she mentioned it.” Moira chuckled.

  Robert gave her a reluctant smile. “I shall eat it.”

  “As will I.” She regarded him from under her lashes. “I wonder which of us will manage to eat the most?”

  “Is that a challenge?”

  “Of course.”

  Heat stirred in him at her challenge. “And the winner of this haggis-eating contest will get what?”

  “Oh, I don’t know . . . What do you suggest?”

  He shrugged, though his body had an immediate answer. He wanted more of her. More of her caresses, more of her silken hair beneath his fingers, more of her body in his bed. “Bragging rights will be enough.”

  “Fine, then. We’ll see who can stomach the most for bragging rights and for the thicker blanket in the coach tomorrow.”

  His smile disappeared. “You will not be accompanying me tomorrow.”

  “Of course I will. Why else do you think I traveled this distance?”

  “Moira, no. You’re still injured—”

  “I rode for hours and suffered no ill effects.”

  “I had to carry you from your mount.”

  Her cheeks pinkened. “My legs were stiff, that’s all. If I’d traveled by coach with you as should have happened, I wouldn’t be exhausted right now. A good night’s sleep, and I’ll be as strong as ever.”

  “I’m not taking you with me, and that’s that.”

  Her hands fisted on her knees, her green eyes sparkling. “Robert, have you forgotten that my daughter is in the hands of a madman?”

  “That’s my daughter, too,” he said sharply.

  “You don’t even know her. Don’t try to tell me that you care about her, for I won’t believe it.”

  Robert muttered a curse. “That does not alleviate my responsibility, which I take very seriously. From the moment I became aware that Rowena was my child, she became my concern, like it or not.”

  “That’s so generous of you.” Moira’s voice was laced with sarcasm.

  “It’s all I have,” he said quietly. “I’m being honest, Moira. You can’t ask for more.” He could see her struggling to understand.

  “You admit you have no feelings for her, yet you still wish to help gain her release. I don’t understand how you can feel one, but not the other.”

  “She’s my family,” he said simply.

  “So?”

  He saw the puzzlement in Moira’s eyes. How could she not understand that—Ah. Once again, I realize how little I know her. “Do you have a family?”

  Her expression closed, and she shrugged carelessly. “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “You didn’t answer my question. We’ve never really discussed our pasts.”

  She leaned back in her chair, looking wilted and too tired to argue. Her exhaustion could work in his favor. “Tell me about your family, Moira.”

  “You first,” she said, her expression showing her reluctance.

  If that was what it took, then he’d do it. “I was raised in an old vicarage called Wythburn. Father is retired, so now he and Mother spend their time traveling and writing very, very long letters full of advice.”

  Moira’s lips twitched. “They sound lovely.”

  “They are. In addition to them, I have three sisters and two brothers. All of my sisters are married, and I like their husbands well enough. One of my brothers recently married, which leaves only Michael unwed. I don’t think he’ll ever marry; he’s too enamored of his wandering lifestyle.”

  She eyed him thoughtfully. “I can’t imagine you as the son of a vicar.”

  “Father instilled in us all a love of reading and letters, which has kept us connected though we live far apart.”

  “You always seemed close to your siblings.”

  Is that envy I hear? Interesting. “We lived in the country, and there weren�
�t many other children around, so we spent a lot of time in each other’s company.”

  “Were you bored?”

  “Not at all. We made up plays, became champion cricket players, had races, and swam in the lake. We were very close, especially since we had to band together to protect ourselves from Father.”

  Her eyes widened. “Was he mean?”

  “No. Worse. He is an expert at making one feel guilty.”

  Her brow creased. “I don’t understand. Is that bad?”

  “Oh, yes, there is nothing worse. Father forced us to discuss literature at the dinner table, and if we hadn’t read his latest ‘suggested’ reading—” Robert shuddered.

  Moira chuckled. “It couldn’t be as bad as all that.”

  “Oh, it was. He’s a scholar, so our dinners were rife with discussions of the Iliad and Odyssey rather than hunting and horses, which would have been my preference.”

  “You couldn’t change the topic?”

  “And disappoint Father? No one could look as sad as he could. And he was such a good person that you felt horrid for causing even one sad frown.”

  Her eyes twinkled. “I would wager ten quid that you still managed to hold your own.”

  He smiled. “You would win that wager. Much to the disgust of my siblings, I worked hard to match my father’s scholarship. I curried his favor more than any of them.”

  “Though you didn’t love it?”

  “Not at first; it was a childish ploy for approval. But now I’m glad I did it. I find myself still reading those classics, admiring them in new ways. So my father’s evil plan worked—he bred an army of scholars, for we’re all bookish—even William, the sea captain.”

  She lifted her brows. “That’s a bit dismissive. It takes a lot of knowledge to sail a ship. You must read charts, understand astronomy, decipher the weather—most of the sea captains I’ve known are extremely capable.”

  “I didn’t mean to be disparaging. It’s my brother’s chosen field, so it’s my job to mock it.”

  She chuckled. “And does he do the same for you?”

  “When he’s not calling me a ‘fop’ and a ‘lace-edged puffin,’ he is quite capable of pulling out a few well-chosen insults, some of them from the bard himself.”

  “That will be most useful, since he’s now married to an actress. I once saw Miss Beauchamp perform. She is a remarkable actress.”

  “She is, and my brother supports her desire to remain on the stage.”

  “He must be very sure of her, for I cannot imagine a career more fraught with illicit invitations.”

  “Other than ours? A false princess and a spy?”

  She nodded, a shadow crossing her face. “You can get lost, pretending to be someone you’re not.”

  “Very true.” He watched her for a moment. “Now that I’ve bared my soul, tell me about your family.”

  Her lashes lowered as she regarded her riding boots. “There’s not much to tell. My mother was a mill worker and had me when she was only fifteen. Supposedly, my father was the mill owner’s son. He swore that he’d never touched my mother, though she bore the proof. When my mother’s parents found out she was with child, they threw her out of their house and pretended she’d never been born.”

  “Families should stand by one another, through difficulties and triumphs.”

  She tilted her head, her expression grave. “Is that what your family would have done?”

  “Yes.”

  “I would never abandon Rowena in such a way, no matter the circumstances. I don’t think my mother would have, either. I don’t remember much about her, as she died before I turned five. After that, I lived in an orphanage until I was ten.”

  “And?”

  “One day, a very tall and elegantly dressed woman came to the workhouse where we spent our days—”

  “Workhouse?” His jaw tightened. He knew something of workhouses, of the brutal treatment that children, especially orphans, received in those places.

  “Yes, I worked a loom with two other girls. This woman looked at all of us, as if selecting a horse. When she saw me, she stopped and said, ‘This is the one.’ I was told to pack my few belongings, that I was going ‘home.’ ”

  “Who was the woman?”

  “Her name was Talaitha Tigani and she was a gypsy.”

  “Out of the frying pan and into the fire.”

  “No. Her daughter had died at an early age, drowned in a pond. Aunt Talaitha missed having a daughter, so after a few years she picked one. Me.”

  “So you became the daughter of a gypsy. It must have been an exciting life, especially after working a loom for hours every day,” Robert said thoughtfully. “That explains why four walls aren’t enough to hold you.”

  Moira smiled. “Talaitha taught me everything she knew: how to pick pockets, open locked doors, make charms—”

  “And make people believe you were whomever you wished to be.”

  “Yes. Especially that.”

  It explained so much. “And so you became a Princess Caraboo.” He smiled at the outrage on Moira’s face. Princess Caraboo’s real name was Mary Baker. Several years ago she had appeared on the steps of the house of a magistrate. Because she wore a turban, seemed unable to communicate except in an unrecognized language, and behaved in a number of bizarre ways, it was decided that she was a lost foreigner. People came from miles around, attempting to decipher the mystery.

  A jackanapes eager to get involved in the mystery pretended to understand her “language” and interpreted her tale. He told her compassionate hosts that she was a kidnapped princess, stolen away from her homeland by pirates, and that she had escaped their ship and swum to shore. The romantic story made the unknown woman into “Princess Caraboo,” and she was feted until a newspaper ran her story and her description was recognized by several people who knew the real Mary Baker. Caught in her lie, Mary confessed to all. It was a huge embarrassment for her hosts, and she was banished to America.

  “Princess Caraboo was an amateur, pretending to be from some made-up country,” Moira scoffed. “I convinced the Russian ambassador that I was a princess from his own country.”

  “Thank goodness they have so many.”

  “That was a boon. He kept asking for specifics, and I had to put him off repeatedly. Meanwhile more and more members of the ton began to receive me. Eventually it became easier for him to believe the deception, too.”

  “You were accepted everywhere, even by the prince.”

  “People see foreign royals as exotic and exciting, so I was giving them something they wanted. As I speak very good Russian, it was relatively easy. I was invited everywhere, to elaborate dinners and luncheons, and modistes all along Bond Street begged me to use their services without charge.”

  “That rapacious lot gave away their services for free?”

  “They profited from their gifts, as it brought them more business.”

  “Ah, of course. They could announce that they were the modiste dressing the beautiful Princess Alexandria.”

  “And then raise their prices accordingly.” She smiled. “It was fun and exciting, while it lasted.”

  “You were very convincing. You must have traveled extensively to have managed that.”

  “Aunt Talaitha and I traveled all over Europe, especially Russia, where she has many friends. She was determined I should be accomplished; she taught me Greek and Latin, history, philosophy, even some mathematics. She said a brain was all we had between us and starvation, so it was important to feed the brain first.”

  “She sounds like a remarkable woman.”

  “She was. Very much so.”

  He caught the sadness in Moira’s eyes. “She is gone?”

  “Two years ago. She came to live with me when I had Rowena. The Scottish winters were too damp for her and—” A noise out in the hall caught her attention. “I believe our haggis is arriving.”

  Within seconds, the clattering in the hallway turned into the innkeeper’s w
ife and her daughter, a plump young miss. Robert tried to hide his impatience, but when he caught Moira’s unguarded expression, he realized it was for the best. Though he was fascinated to finally meet the real Moira MacAllister, she needed food and sleep.

  After the women had deposited their platters and utensils, the innkeeper’s wife beckoned them to the table. “That’s a lovely sight, if I say so meself. There’s yer haggis with tatties and neet, in a malt whiskey sauce. If’n ye need anything else, ye’ve but to ask.”

  With that, they left Robert and Moira alone.

  He went to the table and pulled out a chair for her. “Shall we?”

  Moira stood, and though she still wasn’t steady on her feet, she appeared stronger for having rested. As she walked toward him, he had a new appreciation for her outfit. To fool people into believing her a male, she’d bound her chest and then dressed in the French fashion of an exaggerated collar, bunched trousers, and wide coattail, which was a perfect way to hide a female form. Her hair, wrapped about her head in a thick braid easily hidden by a hat, was close to its natural red. Another good wash and the dye would disappear completely.

  He held her chair and then took the seat opposite, saying in an aggrieved tone, “You had to ask for haggis.”

  Feeling comforted by the intimacy of the small parlor, Moira chuckled. “Afraid?”

  He sent her a flat look and ate a piece of haggis.

  His face flushed, and a faint sheen appeared on his forehead. She eyed her own plate with misgiving and poked at the haggis with her fork. The grayish blob, already removed from the stomach in which it had been cooked, crumbled apart, and a spicy odor like sausage lifted from it. Pretend it is sausage, she told herself.

  She took a forkful, closed her eyes, and put it in her mouth.

  A moment later, she was gasping and reaching for her glass of water. “The pepper!” she said when she could finally speak, her voice cracking in protest.

  Robert nodded in sympathy. “My brother-in-law Alexander MacLean takes great delight in forcing me to eat all sorts of Scottish foods, though he knows that my grandmother is more Scottish than he. I’ve had all sorts of haggis, which comes in an amazing variety, some much stronger than others, which is why I rarely ask for it. But this one . . . I’ve never seen so much pepper in a haggis.”