Michael thought he heard an amused snort from inside the carriage.
“Howsoever,” the coachman went on, “as to why we let her go off down the lane, we ran into some of your men. They told us you were along down there, and more of your men were at the end. When she vanished into that alcove, we realized that’s where you must be. Figured you’d have it covered.” The man nodded toward the body of the carriage. “Looks like you did.”
Michael followed the man’s gaze. He’d had her lips covered, certainly. If his inner demons had had their way, he’d have—no. He wasn’t going to think of that. “Back to Clarges Street,” he ordered, and the coachman nodded and gathered the reins.
Michael returned to the carriage door, opened it, and climbed inside. The carriage tipped as the coachman climbed up. After shutting the door, Michael dropped to the seat beside his partner and wondered—in the wake of that revealing kiss—what she was thinking now.
As the carriage rattled off, he glanced sidelong at her face. The dim light from a streetlamp briefly illuminated her profile, the curve of her chin, the corner of her lips…
Looking forward, he dragged his mind from wallowing in memories of that kiss. He didn’t regret it in the slightest—how could he? The simple act had opened up a prospect he’d had no inkling existed…and he wasn’t, when all was said and done, averse to further exploration. But not now. Any venturing into unknown territory required careful consideration, and while in the throes of a mission, he didn’t have time to plot appropriate strategies.
Later. All that should be left until later.
Meanwhile, however, between then and now…
He waited until the carriage reached the next streetlamp and, in the pale glow, studied her face. From what he could see, her expression remained haughtily self-assured, but the curve of her lips had softened; he got the distinct impression her gaze was distant, her mind far away…as if she was still thinking about their kiss.
He definitely didn’t want to discuss that, to raise that issue between them—not yet. But that kiss made it even more imperative that he steer her away from any further active involvement of the more dangerous sort—the sort that required her to traipse around in breeches.
Facing forward, he said, “This afternoon, after seeing you home, I called at Scotland Yard.” He hadn’t intended to inform her of his late afternoon’s discoveries, deeming them too gruesome for her ears, but that was before she’d appeared in Morgan’s Lane—in breeches; if his findings served to frighten her into leaving the dangerous skulking to him, he’d be a fool not to share them. “I used family connections to ask if they’d discovered any unidentified bodies recently—since last Wednesday morning.”
She’d turned her head; he could feel her gaze on his face. He had her full attention.
“They have a register, including whatever details they’ve been able to glean.” His tone detached, he continued, “Early on Thursday morning, the bodies of two men were pulled from the river down toward Rotherhithe. One was middle-aged, the other about twenty years old. Both had been struck down, then garroted, and their bodies tipped into the river—the surgeon says they went into the water most likely the day before.” He paused, then went on, “The use of a garrote marks the murders as unusual, but other than that, the details give us no further clue.”
Silence reigned for several seconds, then in a quiet voice, she asked, “Did you identify them—Terrance Doolan and Johnny Dibney?”
“No. Not as such. Aside from all else, I’ve never actually seen them, and the bodies are at the River Police’s morgue farther down the river. But I gave the Yard the names and addresses, and they’ll pass them on and get the formal identification done.”
Cleo nodded. She fitted the details of the deaths into the picture she was building in her head of what had happened with the ten barrels. Eventually, she sighed. “We already suspected Doolan and Johnny were dead.”
His gaze had drifted to the street beyond the window. “I suspect that Doolan accepting the job of transporting the ten barrels was the action that, ultimately, ended their lives. Once he’d agreed, there was nothing anyone could have done to save them.”
If her resolution to expose the villains behind the plot had needed any bolstering…
Her jaw firming, she looked at Michael; she waited until he glanced her way and trapped his gaze. “All we can do for them and the others killed as a result of this plot is to do everything we possibly can to bring the blackguards behind it to justice.”
He searched her eyes, her face; she waited while he read her commitment, her resolution, in her expression and in the unwavering steadiness of her gaze.
His lips tightened, as did his jaw. With a brief, rather stiff dip of his head, he turned to look out at the streetscape.
Michael resisted the urge to thunk his head against the carriage window. If all he’d seen in her face was any guide—and he felt certain it was—then his telling her of Doolan’s and Dibney’s murders had only strengthened her determination to forge ahead with the mission. And he didn’t doubt that, in her mind, that meant active involvement—active participation whenever possible.
He stared out unseeing at the familiar streets. And inwardly admitted that the confirmation of the carter’s and apprentice’s deaths—of their ruthless removal by the plotters once their part had been played—had only heightened his own determination to see the villains in the dock to answer for those and all their other crimes.
Given her background, given all he’d learned of her, he shouldn’t have expected her—couldn’t expect her—to react in any other way.
Retreat wasn’t an action a Hendon would be easily driven to, any more than a Cynster would. That she was a lady and not a gentleman…given his own female relatives, he really should have known better.
Still, their agreement had been that he would share all information; at least he’d kept faith with that—one thing over which she couldn’t take umbrage.
Mentally, he looked ahead, evaluating the possibilities that lay between then and Monday morning. He wondered what she planned to do tomorrow—how she intended to fill her Sunday. But he wasn’t going to ask. Wasn’t going to start any discussion of watching the warehouses in Morgan’s Lane.
When the silence stretched unbroken and the streetscapes of Mayfair started to roll past, he decided that, if she didn’t say anything about the next day, it would behoove him to leave well alone.
Chapter 9
“My lord?”
Michael woke with a grunt, then rolled over and blinked blearily at Tom, who was standing by the side of the big four-poster bed. “What time is it?” He glanced at the window, which was now uncurtained. Muted light and a cloudy sky informed him it was at least after dawn.
“It’s just gone half past seven, my lord. You said you wanted to be woken at this time. Shall I ring for your shaving water?”
Recalling all that had happened the previous night, Michael pushed himself into a sitting position and rubbed a palm over his bristly chin. “Yes. And what news have we had from Morgan’s Lane?”
Tom crossed to the bellpull and tugged it. “Tully got back just before I came up. He said to tell you it was quiet as a grave for the rest of the night, with no sign of activity at any of the three warehouses or any of the other businesses, either. The next crew have taken over and will stay until two o’clock as arranged.”
Michael nodded. “Are any of the family up and about?”
“No. The duke and duchess, and the marquess, are all expected to sleep late, given they didn’t get home until three.”
“I see.” Michael could imagine the never-ending conversations and excitement engendered by the news of Sebastian and Antonia’s betrothal. The diversion they were, however inadvertently, providing for his own activities was welcome. He raked his fingers through his hair, then swung his legs over the side of the bed and reached for his robe. “As that’s the case, no one will miss me—I’ve decided to go out for breakfast.”
“Indeed, my lord. With friends?” When Michael grunted an assent, Tom responded, “I’ll lay out appropriate clothes.”
Leaving him to it, Michael rose, shrugged on the robe, belted it, then padded across to the window. He’d fallen asleep with the thorny problem of what to do with Cleo Hendon—how best to protect her from her own enthusiasm regarding the mission—revolving in his head. As so often happened, he’d woken with a plan—a sound and simple strategy—crystal clear in his mind.
He looked out of the window. “Carpe diem.” Despite the clouds, with any luck, the day would afford him the perfect opportunity to seize the reins and reassert control.
* * *
Cleo sat in her usual place at the breakfast table and absentmindedly nibbled a slice of toast liberally slathered with marmalade. For the umpteenth time since she’d awoken, she mentally sighed and—once again—hauled her mind from whence it had wandered.
That kiss still held the power to command her thoughts to the exclusion of all else. Which wasn’t at all helpful. After finding her bed last night, she’d spent hours telling herself not to read too much into the interlude. That he’d kissed her purely to excuse their presence in the alcove in the lane; there was no reason to suppose the exchange had meant anything more to him.
For all she knew, he kissed all the many ladies with whom he no doubt dallied like that.
As if he wanted to—gah!
She had to stop thinking about it or she’d go mad!
The mission—she needed to think about the mission. She needed to find some way to learn if anything had happened in Morgan’s Lane overnight. Or that morning.
Determined to keep her mind on that point and her wits from wandering, she debated sending a message to St. Ives House, inquiring whether Michael, or more pertinently, his men, had learned anything. Then she realized she didn’t know who else was presently residing under the same roof; very likely his brother was there, perhaps even his sister and his parents. The notion of someone else being near when Michael received her note…she didn’t want to raise anyone’s curiosity over her involving herself in Michael’s part of the mission.
“So how else?” She reached for her teacup and sipped.
Sounds in the front hall wafted to her ears. She hadn’t heard the doorbell, but Morris, the butler, had crossed the front hall and opened the door; it was the rumble of male voices that had interrupted her reverie.
Distantly, she heard the front door shut.
A second later, the breakfast-parlor door opened, and Michael Cynster strolled in.
Lowering her cup, she stared at him.
He smiled genially at her; was she wrong in thinking there was an element of intentness lurking in his dark-brown gaze?
“Good morning.” He walked to the place opposite hers and drew out the chair there.
Her eyes had widened; they remained locked on him. “What…?”
He glanced at the open door, then sat. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve invited myself to breakfast. We need to confer, and we may as well do that over the teacups.”
At that moment, Morris rushed in with a silver pitcher of coffee.
Michael smiled his thanks. “Or coffee cups, as the case might be.” Morris poured him a cup of the dark brew. “Thank you.” Michael raised the cup and, meeting her still-stunned gaze, sipped.
She wrestled her wits into order. Having him suddenly appear in the flesh had brought far too many memories surging to the forefront of her mind, thoroughly distracting her. He and she hadn’t discussed the kiss in any way—hadn’t actually referred to it at all; as Morris quit the room, presumably to fetch appropriate sustenance for her unexpected guest, she fervently hoped that they weren’t going to discuss that incident now. She needed to focus. She arched her brows. “Has anything occurred in Morgan’s Lane?”
Michael studied her. He’d sensed her sudden…not exactly nervousness but more a shying away and could guess the cause. But he could see no benefit in even alluding to the kiss they’d shared—they both knew it had happened, had both been very much involved—and to his mind, courtesy of that moment, he now knew all he needed to on that score. Bringing up that subject would only tangle them in all sorts of awkward talk—witness her entirely sensible unease at the prospect. Instead, he proposed to leave all discussion of that and associated subjects until later—until after they’d completed the mission and had had a chance to get to know each other better.
So he wasn’t there to discompose her; quite the opposite. He was there to reassure her. Consequently, smiling easily, he replied, “My men—those who were there when we were—were relieved at three o’clock. The second crew returned not long ago and, as with the first group, reported no action of any kind in Morgan’s Lane.”
He was, he realized, entirely amenable to sitting there, sipping excellent coffee and letting his gaze feast on her. Today, instead of the jacket, blouse, and skirt outfits she seemed to favor for business, she was garbed in a neat, gold-colored walking dress. The bodice hugged her curves and drew in to a tiny waist; the sleeves were tight and fastened with a row of tiny gold-bead buttons that ran from elbow to wrist. There was a single row of narrow white lace adorning the edge of the dress’s collar, the sides of the bodice’s front placket, and the edges of the sleeves. With her strawberry-blond curls in their usual artless knot on the top of her head, with tendrils already escaping to form a gilded frame for her face, she was…his version of Aphrodite.
The realization was a trifle unsettling.
Especially as she was regarding him with a steady gaze behind which lurked a soupçon of suspicion.
It was time to redirect her thoughts. “Given the lack of action in Morgan’s Lane, which might well extend until tomorrow morning, I wondered whether there was anything else we might do to advance our cause between now and visiting the warehouses tomorrow.”
The distraction worked. Her gaze turned pensive; her brow furrowed slightly as she thought.
The butler appeared with an array of breakfast dishes. Grateful for the additional diversion, after his hostess had absently waved the offerings aside, apparently preferring to stick with her toast and jam, Michael helped himself to scrambled eggs, sausages, and ham. Leaving his partner to her cogitations, he applied himself to the meal.
Eventually, she stirred. “I can’t see any way of gaining access to those warehouses—not in any way that will allow us to identify barrels of gunpowder delivered on Wednesday last—other than via some form of commercial inquiry.” She set down her teacup and, across the table, met his gaze. “Given how tightly the movement of gunpowder is controlled, I think we’re on solid ground in assuming the ten barrels we’re after will be from a private mill in Ireland and will be branded accordingly.”
With his mouth full of ham and eggs, he nodded.
“But even if we broke into the warehouses and found ten barrels with an Irish stamp, we couldn’t be sure those are the barrels we’re after—that the barrels we’re after haven’t already been spirited away.” She wrinkled her nose. “I have no idea how common it is to find gunpowder from Irish mills in London, but I suspect it wouldn’t be all that rare. London is, after all, the hub of many industries, including the fireworks manufactories—those factories supplied by our three warehouses.”
He grimaced and swallowed. “Sadly, I agree. Your analysis seems sound.”
She studied the tablecloth between them for a moment, then raised her gaze and met his eyes. “So in answer to your question, no—I can’t think of anything we might do to advance our cause between now and tomorrow morning.”
Slowly, he nodded, as if reluctantly accepting that conclusion. He glanced at his cleared plate, then set down his cutlery, patted his lips with his napkin, and laid it aside. “Given that”—he returned his gaze to her face and finally asked the question he’d come there to ask—“what are your plans for the day?”
Cleo felt her eyes widen, but although she searched, she could see nothing beyond mil
d interest in Michael’s dark-brown eyes. Feeling slightly silly for imagining there might be anything else behind what was doubtless merely a polite social query, she replied a touch more acerbically than she intended, “As I spent all Friday assisting you, I need to go into the office to check over any orders I need to sign or decisions that need to be made.” And to confirm there was nothing pending that might need her attention over the next several days.
Somewhat to her disquiet, at her words, Michael smiled. “Actually”—if anything his smile grew more charming, more beguiling—“I wonder if I might accompany you. Once you’ve dealt with anything requiring your attention, I’d like to pick your brains about the basis of the business.” His smile turned winning. “I’ve been thinking for some time about getting into the investment side of importing and exporting, and I would appreciate gaining a deeper insight into the area.”
She blinked. A stern voice in her head reminded her of his reputation; if half the tales told of him were true, he was a past master at seduction—and of course, a man who professed an interest in the import-export business would be alluring to her. Much in the way of a rare and fascinating species. But he was making that up, wasn’t he?
No matter how keenly she studied his eyes, his no-doubt-deliberately distracting smile, and his hopeful expression, she honestly couldn’t tell.
Should she risk it or…?
But this was her adventure—not just the mission but all of it.
Her eyes still locked with his, slowly, she inclined her head. “Very well. If you wish to come along, by all means do, but I warn you, the first hour or so while I deal with correspondence is likely to be hideously boring.”
His smile appeared to be entirely genuine. “I assure you I’ll survive.” His eyes gleamed. “Tales of my abysmal attention span have been greatly exaggerated.”
She couldn’t stop a disbelieving snort. She knew exactly to what he referred—the gossip among the young matrons of the ton that his interest was exceedingly hard to hold; even she had heard it. Repressively, she replied, “We’ll see,” then pushed back her chair and rose.
An Irresistible Alliance (Cynsters Next Generation Novels Book 5) Page 14