by Zoë Archer
“Then we stay even more alert,” Michael answered. “But we search for that valise.”
“I’ve cleaned all day, and I still haven’t been in every room in Covington Hall. If Lord Larkfield used to come here as a child, he knows this place the way a butler knows a wine cellar. It could take days or even weeks to find what we’re looking for. And time’s not our friend.”
“All true.” Yet Michael didn’t appear discouraged. Despite the shadows, his eyes gleamed. “Working with Nemesis taught me the value of patience. A gun can’t be built in a matter of minutes. And it can’t fire if even the smallest piece is missing. We’ve just found our hammer. Up next, we locate our firing pin. Bit by bit, we’ll assemble our weapon.”
“Optimistic, aren’t you?”
His expression turned steely. “Not optimistic. Determined. The Larkfields will pay for what they’ve done. You and I will make sure of that.”
Ada straightened her shoulders. “The law’s blind. And its hands are bound, too. We’re just servants, but no one sees more or handles the dirty secrets of the masters the way we do.”
“There’s my lass.” He lowered his head, and suddenly his lips were on hers. It wasn’t a lingering kiss, just the brief press of soft, warm flesh. Almost chaste. But not quite.
She stiffened in surprise. And from the fast, potent response in her body. Hot as a burning brand. She wanted to lean into the kiss. She wanted to shove him away.
Before she could do either, he pulled back. The blaze in his eyes showed the kiss, quick as it was, affected him, too. Just like when he’d touched her earlier, he seemed stunned by what he’d done.
She didn’t understand her own heart, that craved him and also sought to shrink protectively away from him. He clearly wanted to resume what they’d had half a year ago, but she didn’t know what she wanted. And that shook her.
When he spoke, his voice was rougher, deeper. “They’re serving dinner in a few minutes.”
His words were so different from what had just happened, she could only stare at him.
“We’ll … talk … later.” With that, he strode away.
Ada continued to stare at the space he once occupied, silently cursing him. Cursing herself. Six months of heartbreak had taught her nothing. Only that a single, fast kiss from Michael could still make her spin like a windmill in a storm.
Chapter Five
Being a footman was as close to a perfect job as a bloke could get for collecting intelligence. Unlike a housemaid, footmen were meant to be seen. They stood in attendance at all times—in hallways, in rooms, on the back of a carriage—always there to see and listen. It still staggered Michael that gentry folk felt wholly at ease chattering about the most private subjects in his presence, like he was nothing more than a piece of furniture. A sideboard or chair couldn’t gather sensitive information. But he wasn’t made of wood and gilt. He was a man with perfectly functioning hearing and sight, and he’d put them to use for Nemesis many times.
Tonight would be no different. Though he couldn’t say his focus was entirely on the mission.
As Michael came around the dining table, carrying a tray of what the cook called chapon braisé à la Parisienne, he tried to keep his attention fixed on the guests seated around the long table.
Michael served and listened, wearing the footman’s disinterested mask. He’d learned through his training in service how to keep his emotions carefully hidden. But Nemesis had shaped him even further, so now the secrets he heard did more than feed gossip for the servants’ hall.
No one would ever know that below stairs, at that moment, was a woman Michael ached to touch. To speak with. The woman who’d haunted him like a phantom for six months. Who might never forgive him. He still felt the touch of her lips—and her shock.
Maybe she’s got herself a new bloke … But she’d mentioned nobody’s name, and she hadn’t slapped him when he’d kissed her.
Michael continued around the table as the guests took their portion of the capons. No one said anything significant.
He placed the rest of the capons on the sideboard and took up his position behind Lord Larkfield, something he’d jockeyed to do with the other footmen. Lady Cowan sat at one end of the table, and Lord Larkfield, as the most distinguished male guest, sat at her elbow. The room glittered, unlike the plain servants’ hall downstairs.
Lady Cowan did her best to engage her husband’s cousin in conversation. She got only short, clipped answers for her trouble. Michael stared at the back of Larkfield’s head, glossy with macassar oil. Patience, old man, he told himself.
Clearly, Larkfield wouldn’t simply blurt out how his hands were dirty from the orphanage scheme, or where he’d hidden the valise that might or might not hold incriminating evidence against him.
Hard to wait, despite all Michael’s experience doing just that. There was more at stake than fetching tea or opening doors.
On the outside, he remained impassive, but Michael snapped to attention when Larkfield suddenly turned to Lady Cowan and said, “It’s been decades since I’ve been to Covington Hall. Looks like you’ve made some improvements over the years.”
“Indeed, yes,” Lady Cowan said eagerly. “When Sinclair inherited it, the place was so dreadfully old-fashioned and in need of repair. He did what he could to renovate, but it wasn’t until we married that we were able to make the changes Covington Hall needed.”
Larkfield studied the wine in his glass. “Did these improvements extend to the grounds?”
“The gardens were in a shocking state when I came to Covington Hall, but I’ve had them entirely redone.”
“Including that faux ruin near the eastern pond? I imagine you’ve razed that old eyesore.”
Michael’s attention sharpened further.
Lady Cowan, however, blushed. “Alas, no. It’s so far away from the main house, and no one visits there any longer. I never let the children go.”
“But it’s still there,” Larkfield pressed.
“In truth, I’d forgotten about that ruin for years until just now. Perhaps it’s time for a change.”
“Certainly not until the weather warms,” Larkfield said.
Lady Cowan agreed, but then conversation died between her and Larkfield. Then the ladies retired, and the gentlemen were left to their cigars and brandy. Some of the footmen also left to attend the women, though Michael remained behind.
If he’d hoped that drink and tobacco would loosen Larkfield’s tongue, he was out of luck. Lord Cowan had as much success drawing his cousin out as his wife did. Michael hovered close, waiting for the smallest hint about Larkfield’s crime, but the damn toff kept himself closed tight.
Once the men rose and left to join the ladies, Michael and the others cleaned and made the room ready for the next day. Then everyone retreated back below stairs. Michael wanted to look for Ada immediately. To tell her about what he’d learned. And to learn more about her. He had to attend to the rest of his duties first, but when this was finally done, he went to the servants’ hall.
She was mending a tear at the cuff of a shirt. He made his tread heavier than normal, so that she glanced up when he entered the room. A few other servants sat at the table. When he was certain that no one but Ada looked at him, he mouthed the words broom cupboard. Her response was to tap her finger once on the table, then she returned to her work.
With everyone busy with their own tasks, Michael slipped into the broom cupboard. He’d examined it earlier and found it a decent enough place to meet, though small. The closet couldn’t have been more than three by three feet, and lined with brushes, brooms, and pails. It had no window and no lamps. Which he wouldn’t have lit anyway, unless he wanted to blare a message: secret meeting here.
He shut the door behind him and waited in the dark.
Minutes later, the door open and shut. He had a quick image of Ada’s shape before the cupboard plunged back into darkness. He couldn’t see anything, but the closet’s size forced them to stand with ba
rely any room between them. He felt her skirts against his legs, the warmth of her body. As she shifted to get more comfortable, her chest rubbed against his, and he bit back a groan. It was an agony to suppress his own wants when he didn’t know hers. When he had no idea what they were to each other besides partners for Nemesis. She tensed at the contact, but there wasn’t anywhere for her to retreat.
Was this pleasure or punishment?
“You picked this spot on purpose,” she whispered. Her breath glided over his chin.
“This hour of the night,” he said quietly, “the housemaids don’t need this gear. Nobody will poke their heads in and interrupt us.”
“Answers come awful easy to you.”
“When they’re the truth—yes.”
“Nemesis taught you how to lie,” she countered.
“When necessary. Otherwise, I’m as plainspoken as a carpenter.”
“Then speak plainly now,” she said. “But I’ll start first. If you try to kiss me again, I’ll find a very cozy, snug place for my knee. Right between your legs.”
He winced. And decided not to tell her that part of his training with Nemesis included combat practice. He’d be able to easily deflect a blow from an unskilled fighter like Ada. But the feeling behind her words was the verbal equivalent of a hit to his stones.
“I won’t kiss you,” he said. “Not until you ask for it.”
She gave a cutting laugh. “Then settle in for a long wait. Better yet, don’t wait at all. It’ll save you years.”
He exhaled. “Want to know why I didn’t contact you? I was on a mission. A letter, a word, and I’d reveal myself, and put you in danger.”
She was silent for a long, long time, and in that silence Michael lived and died a thousand times.
Finally, she said, “For the entire six months, you were on an assignment.”
“That first day we came to Covington Hall, I told you I’d just come from a mission. I’d been on the Continent all that time. Crossed the Channel then took the train here as soon as I found out you’d be on the job.” His voice roughened. “All I wanted was to write to you, to tell you … Dear Ada, it would’ve said. I’m living in a bloody palace and all I want is you.”
He wished he could see her face. He wished he could hear her thoughts, or even listen to the beat of her heart—was it steady and even, or did it pound the way his did?
She let out a sharp breath. “When I didn’t hear anything, not a letter or telegram or a scribbled note, I thought … that I was nothing to you. Just a bit of fun on the side during a mission.”
He growled in frustration. “You were always more than that. So bloody more. But I couldn’t compromise my assignment to tell you.”
“No,” she murmured, “you couldn’t.”
“I’m sorry, Ada. So damned sorry. But I’d hoped—I still hope—that maybe you and I … if we can’t have what we once shared, at least you wouldn’t hate me.”
“I don’t hate you.” But she didn’t say this with much conviction. “We can be … friends.”
“Partners, not friends.”
“Fine.” Her voice was ice.
“I’ll never be satisfied with just friends. Not with you. I want you, Ada. All of you.”
Another long pause. “Friends,” she finally answered. “That’s as much as I can give.”
He should’ve known that once the truth was out, she wouldn’t rush into his arms. Six months of silence had hurt her badly. Wounds like that don’t heal right after the stitches are sewn.
“What did you learn at dinner?” she asked.
So, that was the end of the conversation.
“Lord Larkfield asked Lady Cowan about an old fake ruin on the grounds,” Michael said. “Mostly he wanted to know if it was still standing.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. And no one goes there anymore.”
Her voice grew excited. “The perfect spot for Larkfield to hide the valise.”
“Thought so, too.”
“Although,” she murmured, “if the valise was already gone from their room earlier today, why would Larkfield ask about the ruin at dinner?”
He’d wondered the same thing. “Maybe he put it in a temporary hiding spot until he could stow it someplace safer.”
“That’s a jolly big gamble on his part,” she said.
“Think of the crime he and his wife did.” Michael couldn’t keep the bitterness from his words. “To hide how covered in mud they are, they’d do anything. Hell, she said she’d hurt you if you took one of her tawdry baubles.”
“We should look into the ruin,” Ada said at once.
He shook his head, then remembered that she couldn’t see him. Which was a good thing. He didn’t have to hide how her willingness to involve herself in the job filled him with hot excitement. The press of her body to his set his every nerve to burning, and in the darkness, each whisper of her skirts hinted at the forbidden.
“We’ve got to give Larkfield time,” he said, his voice low and hoarse. “Time to take the valise to the ruin.”
“If he takes it there.”
“That’s our best lead so far, and I’m not going to let it slip by.”
She was quiet for a moment. “Say he does stow the valise in the ruin—what do we do then?”
“See what’s inside the case, then plan our next step.”
This time there was actual humor in her laugh. “I never knew Nemesis was so off-the-cuff when it came to their jobs. Here I’d been picturing them like puppet masters, pulling all the strings. But they don’t have any idea, do they?”
He bristled. “We’re adaptable, not blunderers. Every step has its questions, its changes. And we’ve got to be ready to face all of it. Think on our feet. The way we get it done doesn’t matter. It’s the end result that counts, and Nemesis doesn’t stop until the job’s finished.”
“You’re all a bit mad, aren’t you?” Surprisingly, this was said with a hint of amusement.
“Nobody said getting revenge against powerful toffs was a task for the sane.” He chuckled. “Maybe that’s why I jumped at the chance to be a part of it.”
“Then perhaps I’m a bit mad, too,” she said in a confiding whisper. “Because I’m rather liking this vengeance business.”
He could hear her smile, and picture it in his mind. He gripped the shelf behind him to keep from reaching for her. Pulling her close. Yet he was a man of his word. He wouldn’t kiss her again until she asked.
But he hoped like hell that she did ask.
* * *
Ada had been smart. She’d protected herself. So why had she spent yet another night tossing in her bed? There had been that kiss, but more than that, she’d finally learned the reason why she hadn’t heard from Michael.
It had done much to relieve her of the burden of her hurt and anger. Yet she couldn’t let herself leap into his arms, declare that everything was fine, and take up exactly where they’d left off before. Her heart wasn’t one of those children’s bouncing balls, thrown against a wall and bounding right back.
But despite everything, she’d been so tempted to hook her hands into the lapels of Michael’s uniform and drag his mouth back to hers when they’d been in that broom cupboard. She’d been terribly aware of him—with his body pressed close, lean and heated, and the velvet of his voice surrounding her, luring her to fall deep into him.
But he’d gone once before without a word. True, she knew the reason why now. He might do the same again when this job was over. She couldn’t spend her life waiting for those brief moments when he could write to her, let alone see her. Couldn’t let her herself grow hopeful, only to have those hopes dashed over and over.
She wouldn’t go back to the mercer’s shop, cradling the pieces of her heart like some broken porcelain trinket.
“Hey, woolgatherer, are you going to pass the potatoes, or do I need to get a special order from the prime minister himself?”
Ada blinked, and offered an apologetic smile to
the housemaid sitting beside her—along with the bowl of steamed potatoes. “Sorry—a little sleepy. It’s always hard to get comfortable in a new bed.”
“Not for me,” the maid answered. “They work us so hard, I just fall right down on my mattress and I’m dead until morning.” She returned to her meal, shoveling the food into her mouth as fast as she could.
It was the midday meal, their biggest of the day, so they had to make the most of it. They ate in the servants’ hall, with the upper servants taking their food in the housekeeper’s parlor.
As they ate, the servants joked and teased one another, though she noticed that Michael, at the other end of the table, hadn’t spoken much during the meal. Was he thinking about their kiss? Or the fact that she’d accepted his apology, but that was all?
More likely he was contemplating Lord Larkfield, and the mysterious, absent valise. Would Larkfield take the valise to the ruin, or was that line of inquiry a barren branch, offering no fruit?
“Oi, woolgatherer.” This came from one of Covington Hall’s regular footmen, a fine-looking fellow with ink-black hair and a ready grin.
“It’s Ada,” she reminded him.
“That’s a pretty name,” he said.
“And a palindrome.” When he only frowned at her she explained, “That means it’s spelled the same forward and backward.”
The footman—William—winked at her. “One of those lasses that like to fill their heads with learning, eh?”
“It’s a small man who fears a woman with knowledge,” she answered.
He leaned back in his seat, stretching and showing off how well his uniform clung to the muscles of his arms and shoulders. “Oh, I ain’t afraid. But we start knowing too much—any of us, man or woman—and they’ll say we consider ourselves above our station. Then who’s going to take care of the nobs upstairs?”
“Maybe they’ll have to learn to take care of themselves.”
He grinned at her. “A revolutionary, you are. You look as sweet as cream, but I wager you’re one of those radicals we’re always warned against.”
William was an incorrigible flirt, and a man she could never take seriously. Yet she couldn’t help but grin back in a welcome relief from the constant pressure of the mission. “I might be.”