The Allure of Attraction

by Julia Kelly

  Palmer-Smythe’s face grew red and he shot up out of his seat. “That you’re suggesting that a peer of the realm or another such gentleman would be behind something like that is ridiculous.”

  “You have nothing to lose in believing us,” said Gillie, leaning over the low table as she looked up at Palmer-Smythe. “Cancel the visit.”

  Palmer-Smythe burst out laughing. “There is no chance of that, young lady. The heir to the British throne won’t be seen cowering on the off chance something might happen.”

  “Then cancel the ball,” Gillie argued.

  “No,” said the man.

  “Then at least tighten security, flood the ballroom with guards, allow us access to the prince, and with any luck we won’t have to do anything rash,” she said.

  Palmer-Smythe look at her askance. “If you two manage to secure invitations, which I very much doubt, because they were printed weeks ago and no one will be giving them up, then you may attend just like any other subject. However, if you think I’ll be bullied by the War Office about how to secure the royal who is my responsibility, then you’re both suffering delusions. This meeting has been nothing more than a waste of my time.”

  “But what if it isn’t?” said Andrew quickly.

  Disgust curled Palmer-Smythe’s lips. “But it is.”

  “Sir—”

  The man cut Gillie off with a shake of his head, addressing himself only to Andrew in a way he clearly knew would get the Scotswoman’s back up. “You two are distracting me from the real work that needs to be done here.”

  “And what would that be?” Andrew asked.

  “Making sure this visit goes off without a hitch,” said Palmer-Smythe. Then he picked up a stack of papers on his desk and began to shuffle them into individual piles.

  They’d been dismissed. Palmer-Smythe didn’t see the urgency of their meeting, and it made Andrew want to shake him, rattling the teeth in his head until the Queen’s Guardsman saw sense.

  If the prince is assassinated . . .

  Andrew refused to entertain that possibility. It wasn’t just the prince who would be put in danger if Wark and his coconspirators were successful. By neglecting to do anything, Palmer-Smythe, the Queen’s Guard, Gillie, and he were all responsible for putting everyone who attended that party in a week’s time in danger.

  Slowly he rose, a headache rolling through his head with brutal consistency. When Gillie caught his gaze, he jerked his head in the direction of the door. If Palmer-Smythe refused to listen to reason, they’d have to find their own way of preventing Wark.

  Out on the street, Gillie planted her hands on her hips and huffed out a sigh.

  “I’d call that meeting an unqualified disaster,” she said.

  “The man is an ass who can’t see anything past the shine of his ceremonial sword.”

  She turned to him, dismay etched on her face. “What are we going to do?”

  He caught Gillie’s elbow and steered her down the street. “How far does your Mrs. Sullivan’s influence reach?”

  “It depends what it is you want done,” she said.

  “An invitation. Two, if she can get them.”

  And all at once, Gillie’s features transformed from distraught to determined. “I’ll pay her a call right now,” she said.

  “Good,” he said, sticking his arm out to flag down a passing cab. As soon as it rumbled to a stop, he unlatched the door and opened it, but then he paused, remembering something Lavinia had told him.

  “Did your inquiries into Douglas come up with anything further?” he asked.

  “Nothing much,” Gillie said.

  “Lavinia mentioned that he’s purchased one of Wark’s warehouses. Why would he want that?”

  Gillie shrugged. “He wants to store things?”

  “But aren’t his factories up in Glasgow?” he asked. “There’s plenty of shipping along the River Clyde.”

  “Give me a day.” Gillie started to climb into the carriage, but paused, one foot on the step and one hand framing the door. “And what will you be doing?”

  “Going over everything that Lavinia found for us at Wark’s dinner party. Given our lack of progress, I thought it would be wise to meet again,” he said.

  In fact, he’d woken up with the dawn, wrapped around Lavinia in the warm depths of her bed, not knowing how he could wait for their prearranged Wednesday meeting to see her again. He’d sleepily suggested they meet after his appointment. She’d kissed him deeply before saying yes.

  Every moment spent with her was pulling him in deeper, yet nothing could quell the insatiable need to claim her, own her, deserve her. He realized now that, even through his hate, he’d never stopped caring for her. She was supposed to be his life, and that tie was still strong.

  “You two . . . ?” Gillie prompted.

  He nodded, bracing himself for a rush of questions or a display of womanly emotion—positive or negative he couldn’t be certain.

  Instead, Gillie’s features hardened. “How are you going to run her operation if you’re in love with her?”

  He scowled. “No one said anything about love.”

  He couldn’t think in those terms. That was the problem. Once the operation was over, he would leave and Lavinia would stay here. She’d made it clear enough that she loved this life she’d built up herself—one that didn’t have a place for him in it. The pull of attraction between the two of them was powerful, but it wasn’t enough for him to risk opening himself up to the hurt he’d felt all those years ago. And he suspected that this time, if he lost his heart to her, it might never mend.

  “What are you two doing then?” Gillie demanded as the cab’s horse nickered. “Is it only lust? Because you should both be smart enough to know that even with the best intentions that never works.”

  “You should go. This wait will be costing you shillings,” he said.

  “Home can afford it. We need to speak of this, Andrew.”

  “There’s nothing to discuss,” he said.

  “There are rules in place about handlers and assets to ensure that assets stay safe. You know that emotions complicate things. They make us sloppy and prone to mistakes.”

  “I know,” he muttered.

  “How are you going to run Lavinia’s operation if you’re sharing a bed? Can you tell me that you’ll still do what’s best for the operation?”

  “I don’t know!” he exploded, pushing a hand through his hair. It was a question that had been plaguing him since yesterday evening, when Lavinia had told him Wark had invited her to the prince’s ball. Surely it would be best to have an asset inside, keeping eyes on such a dangerous man, but a fundamental part of him couldn’t countenance it. The thought of her on Wark’s arm made him want to tear Wark in half.

  “This wasn’t supposed to happen,” he ground out.

  “But it did, so face the consequences,” said Gillie sternly.

  He dropped his head back.

  “You don’t have a plan,” she said accusingly.

  One of the first lessons Andrew had learned when he became a skipper was how not to let go. He’d learned that if he was angry or frustrated or terrified, he could ball that up and place it his chest, where it would burn brighter than coal, fueling him as he pushed himself to do things he never believed he would’ve been able to.

  Over the past few days, he’d taken everything Lavinia had thrust at him and thrust him into—the pain, the joy, the anger, the lust—and shoved it onto that fire. It had burned down, purified, and hardened until, standing there on an Edinburgh street with his exuberantly dressed colleague who wore a sour face, he could see the truth of it all.

  He was compromised, and that was compromising Lavinia, but he didn’t want to let her go. Not yet.

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” he finally said. “But I don’t want her to be hurt.”

  “That is a risk in every operation, and you knew that when you agreed to take on this mission.”

  He almost protest
ed that the only reason he’d taken on the mission at all was because McKenzie, the only other option for a handler, was too much of a drunk to run anyone, but that wasn’t entirely true. He could’ve dug his heels in. He could’ve fought, pointing out all of the things that made him unsuitable to be Lavinia’s handler. The very things he was battling with now that they were lovers once again.

  “The thought of her anywhere near Wark makes my skin crawl,” he said.

  Gillie gave him a long, hard look, as though she could peer into his soul and see beneath all the layers even he wasn’t brave enough to look under.

  “We are a week out from the prince’s ball. I cannot have you distracted by worrying about Lavinia. I like her as much as the next woman, but her first responsibility is to the mission. You should be able to order her to stand next to Wark’s side and seduce every last piece of information out of him if that’s what’s necessary.”

  He focused a hard stare on the carriage door. If he kicked it, would the wood shatter before it broke his bones? Perhaps the broken bones would be good, a temporary relief from the truth he knew he needed to acknowledge and the pain that would come in its wake.

  “Can you do that, Andrew?” Gillie insisted.

  “No, I can’t bloody well do that and you know it,” he ground out.

  His liaison nodded. “I didn’t think so. You know what you need to do for the good of everyone involved.”

  Take Lavinia off the operation. Walk away. Cut the ties that bound them together.

  “I don’t know if I can,” he said, his whole body sagging under the truth of that.

  “It’s the best way to keep her safe, Andrew, and you know it. Your decisions have made her as compromised as you are, and she has none of the benefits of your training,” said Gillie, pulling herself up into the cab and shutting the door. “End things now or risk putting her in even graver danger.”

  He stepped back as Gillie called Mrs. Sullivan’s address up to the driver, and watched her rumble off.

  Moira smiled when Miss Gibson walked into the room in an ugly olive-green dress punctuated with wide brown bows that picked up the fabric to reveal a cream underskirt. The young woman with masses of curling red hair might try to hide behind loud clothing and a sometimes-sharp tongue, but Moira could see straight through her charade. The why, however, was still a mystery.

  “Miss Gibson, what a pleasure,” she said. “What can I do for you today?”

  Miss Gibson, however, looked past her shoulder at the painting that she’d propped up on the armchair to view. The young woman nodded at it. “I like that.”

  “I do too. It’s by a young Englishman named Walter Sickert. He shows promise.” She smiled. “But I gather you didn’t come today to view my newest purchase.”

  Miss Gibson pressed her lips together. “No. I came to ask whether you could secure two invitations to the prince’s ball in seven days’ time.”

  Moira gave a laugh but the young lady didn’t join her. “Oh, you’re serious.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “I was just going to have a cup of tea. Would you like to join me?” Mrs. Sullivan gestured to the tea cart, and Miss Gibson took a seat.

  “I know it’s a tall order. I only hoped that—”

  “When we first met, Miss Gibson, I wondered what our relationship would be. I’ve been contacted by the War Office several times, and Home specifically as well. Naturally, I’m happy to do whatever I can for my country and my adopted city. Edinburgh has been good to me since I moved here after my husband’s death.

  “I tell you this,” Moira continued as she handed the young lady a cup of tea, “because there have been liaisons with Home whom I’ve helped because of duty and those I’ve helped because it gave me pleasure to assist a friend. I hope that you might consider me a friend, for that’s how I feel about you.”

  Miss Gibson let out a long, slow breath, then took a sip of tea. “I admire you a great deal, Mrs. Sullivan. Your connections—”

  “Oh, let’s not speak of connections. Anyone can cultivate those so long as they’re persistent and pleasant, and as a matchmaker both traits are vital for success. Possessing a great deal of money helps as well.”

  Miss Gibson laughed. “I suppose it does.”

  “I’ll do what I can to secure you the invitations. It may take me a day.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s my pleasure,” Moira said. “Although might I be so bold as to ask who they’re for?”

  “Captain Colter and myself,” said Miss Gibson. “I’m afraid I can’t elaborate on why.”

  “I understand. Dealing with spies has never been a particularly enlightening pursuit in my experience.”

  “We are inclined toward secrecy,” said Miss Gibson with a smile. “Why do you ask?”

  Moira sighed and adjusted the handle of her cup so it sat unambiguously at three o’clock. “I had hoped that Lavinia and Captain Colter might find their way back to some sort of understanding.”

  “Oh, they have,” said Miss Gibson.

  Moira looked up sharply. “They have?”

  The young lady blushed. “That is to say, they’ve indulged in each other’s company.”

  A grin spread across the older woman’s face. “Is that right?”

  Moira knew something of Lavinia’s history with Captain Colter. Oh, her reticent friend hadn’t done anything so direct as to speak about the relationship openly, but over the years she’d been able to piece together the basic framework of Lavinia’s tragedy. Engaged young. Left alone. Married off. The one time they’d all stood in her drawing room not two weeks before had been enough to see the tension between the two had been unmistakable. That sort of energy only appeared between couples who’d known each other intimately.

  “I don’t think Andrew is particularly happy about the consequences,” said Miss Gibson.

  “Consequences?”

  “He can’t possibly allow this to continue. Not when the prince’s life is at stake.”

  Moira studied the young woman for a long moment. “That’s a very practical approach, Miss Gibson.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “Then you’re not romantic?” Moira asked.

  A flash of panic flitted over the young lady’s face. “How did this become about me?”

  “Indulge the curiosity of your elder. Have you been fortunate in finding love?”

  Miss Gibson shrank under her scrutiny, refusing to look her in the eye.

  “There’s nothing wrong with a woman deciding that this isn’t the right time in her life,” Moira said softly. “But if you ever were to want help . . .”

  “I should probably take my leave. I have a great deal of work to do,” said Miss Gibson, carefully putting down her cup of tea.

  “Of course. I’ll send word as soon as I’ve secured the invitations.”

  Miss Gibson hesitated but then stood, drawing her shoulders back as though preparing herself to make a grand pronouncement. “Mrs. Sullivan, I hope you won’t take offense, but the last thing I wish is to become one of your matchmaking clients.”

  Moira laughed. “I understand.”

  The young lady nodded once, as though that sealed their understanding, and then excused herself. Moira stared after her long after the door shut. Her instincts told her to hold back, that Miss Gibson wasn’t the sort of woman to be pushed, but she couldn’t help her curiosity.

  With a shrug she turned back to her Sickert. Miss Gibson would come around eventually. They always did.

  Chapter Eighteen

  IT WAS RIDICULOUS to be nervous about seeing Andrew, but when Lavinia saw the flash of his boot around the hedge in the park her excitement bubbled up again. It had been just a few hours since they’d woken up next to one another, but she couldn’t stop the smile that spread over her face.

  As he drew closer, only the reminder that they were in public kept her from launching herself into his arms. He was a picture of barely tamed ruggedness poured into a m
orning suit. She wanted to tear his jacket off, lick a line down his neck, and then bite gently at the skin exposed when she undid the buttons of his shirt.

  “Hello,” she said, hands clasped in front of her to keep herself from reaching out.

  Andrew didn’t slow.

  It was impossible that he hadn’t seen her. The path was only just wide enough for two people, and there would be no mistaking her presence, especially when she’d kissed him good-bye in her kitchen that morning.

  “Andrew,” she tried again.

  The muscle of his jaw worked, but that was the only indication he’d even heard her.

  She tried to swallow away the sudden dryness in her throat. This wasn’t happening. He wasn’t going to punish her. Not when they’d only just found one another again.

  She raised her hand to stop him when a tiny flick of his wrist sent a piece of paper sailing to land next to her feet. Then his back was to her, a gentleman just out on a stroll.

  Stooping would’ve been nearly impossible in the new slim-skirted gowns she created for her clients, but she’d worn a soft, generously cut gray skirt today, for her morning had been full of fittings and measurements. She couldn’t have been more grateful for the ease with which she bent and scooped up the scrap of paper.

  Unfolding it, she saw that there was no greeting or signature, only:

  The carriage on King’s Stables Road.

  The note was curt—rude, even—and it had an unmistakable tone. That of a man ordering a woman to do his bidding. Handler and asset. Gentleman and mistress. It didn’t really matter. It would not stand.

  Lavinia crushed the note in her hand and tucked it into her reticule on the off chance that someone might otherwise find it.

  The thoroughfare mentioned in Andrew’s note was down the length of the park, so it took her a few minutes to make her way down the path and to the street. Along the way she stopped to admire the landscaping, strolling as though she didn’t have a care. She was beginning to think like a spy, and she wasn’t sure that she liked it at all.