His long fingers bit into her shoulders. “You bloody little fool! Radleigh is corrupt. Dangerous. He’ll hurt you.”
Hurt her? Radleigh? He hadn’t laid a finger on her, hadn’t even dared to steal a kiss. Would Jardine go to any lengths, tell outrageous lies to stop her marrying him?
Louisa swallowed hard as she searched Jardine’s eyes for the truth. If Radleigh posed immediate physical danger to her, it was something Faulkner had neglected to brief her about.
No, she wouldn’t let him make her doubt her cause. She would not accede to Jardine’s wishes. She’d no intention of going through with the marriage, after all, and what could Radleigh do to her in the midst of a house party?
Even if she believed Jardine, she couldn’t let him know it, or she’d have no ostensible reason to continue the engagement, nor to visit Radleigh’s home.
Quite apart from the fact she’d given her oath to speak to no one about her role in Faulkner’s plans, she couldn’t imagine what Jardine would do if he knew why she’d agreed to marry Radleigh. Close those long, white hands around her neck and wring it, most probably.
“I thought you’d tired of our entanglement, yet you risked being seen with me to tell me scurrilous lies about my fiancé?”
The last word seemed to inflame him. Air fired through his pinched nostrils.
Suddenly, he released her shoulders. With a strained, muttered curse, he swept her into his arms.
Oh God, not this.
She turned her head to dodge the anticipated kiss, craned her neck to keep her mouth out of his reach.
Her breasts, her body pressed against his hard form in a contact that was delicious torture. On a groan, Jardine bent his head, slowly sliding his lips along her exposed neck.
She didn’t fight him; she had enough trouble fighting herself. Despite the call to arms that trumpeted in her head, every cell, every nerve ending in her body urged her to surrender.
Tears of frustration gathered behind her eyes as he drew her fichu aside and kissed the swell of one breast.
She shuddered and forced out on a sobbing breath, “You don’t want me. Why do you torment me like this? Let me go, Jardine. The least you can do is let me go.”
“Break the engagement,” he said roughly. “Break it, or I’ll kill him.”
She stared up at him. He meant it. He truly meant it. Radleigh might be the worst kind of villain, a traitor, a betrayer of brave men and women, but she wanted him brought to justice. She didn’t want his death to be at Jardine’s hands.
Jardine’s mouth softened a little. “Don’t do it, Louisa. Don’t settle for him.”
Fear whipped into fury. “You are the last person on earth who has any right to tell me whom I should marry. My God, Jardine, you have a hide.”
“Tell him no.”
“I will not!” Louisa’s anger hit boiling point at his autocratic tone. She wedged her hands between them and shoved at his chest. “If you want me, just tell me so! Don’t come here with threats because you don’t know how else to keep me for yourself without actually claiming me as your wife. That’s what this is about, isn’t it? You’re a dog in the manger, Jardine. You don’t want me, but you can’t stand the thought of someone else taking your place.”
He let her go, then. Flung away from her to pace, murder written over his features.
Louisa squared her shoulders in determination. She needed to nip this in the bud, before he put himself beyond redemption.
Her voice trembled. She was shaking all over, despite her stiff posture. “When that boy died last summer, you told me you didn’t kill him, that you were no assassin, despite what I’d always believed. Jardine, killing for your country . . . I don’t like it, but I’ve learned to live with it, as a soldier’s wife must. But murdering out of jealous spite is something I will not forgive.”
She swallowed. “I don’t know if you care what I think of you. But I will not renounce my betrothal. And I will never forgive you if something happens to Radleigh by your hand. You will not win me by eliminating him.”
She turned on her heel and left the clearing, blindly seeking the path that Max had brought her down.
WELL, that had gone bloody swimmingly, hadn’t it? Jardine dragged hands through his hair in frustration, then stalked off in the other direction, keeping a careful eye out for watchers.
He’d spent hours before this meeting getting rid of two surveillance operatives who had dogged his steps for days. He was certain no one had followed him here, but he’d left Nick to keep vigil, in case he’d been mistaken.
He’d had to take the risk, hadn’t he? Needed to warn her what Radleigh was.
A mistake to do it in person, perhaps. He ought to have allowed Nick to speak with her. Nick would not have helped her enact a damned Cheltenham tragedy, nor could she accuse him of telling her lies out of jealousy or spite. Badly done, Marcus. But he’d been desperate to see her.
The hell of it was that his threat against her fiancé had been an empty one. He couldn’t kill Radleigh. He needed Radleigh to get to that agent list.
He came to the stream where Nick stood with their horses, waiting, silent and alert.
Nick raised his eyebrow and jerked his head in the direction of the copse.
Jardine gave a quick shake of his head. Dammit, even Max would have handled that situation more diplomatically.
But Jardine couldn’t regret any time he stole with her. He’d needed to touch her. Kiss her. Remind her how they were together. How they always would be.
He clenched his teeth as the memory of that rising tide of passion swept over him. Despite the years of torment, he couldn’t regret a second of knowing her. But it would be so much easier for her if they’d never met.
Did she hate him now? Despise him so much she didn’t even trust that he had her safety at heart when he’d warned her against Radleigh?
Without a word to Nick, Jardine headed to his horse, stroking one hand down the mare’s soft neck while he struggled against the urge to go back. Unless he told Louisa his true reasons for rejecting her, she would not allow herself to be swayed. But he couldn’t give her honesty, not now. If she knew his plans to rid himself of Smith once and for all, she’d want to help. He couldn’t afford the distraction.
The agent list was bait. Smith would give anything for that list. Imagine the power a man like Smith would have if he knew every operative employed by the British secret service. Once Jardine retrieved the list from Radleigh, he could lure Smith out into the open and finish him, once and for all.
To acknowledge Louisa as his wife now would be to make her a target of Smith’s revenge. And if he failed, if he perished in the attempt, Louisa would be better off believing Jardine had rejected her. She’d be free.
He swung himself into the saddle and urged his horse to a walk, winding along a little-used path until they came to the edge of the copse. Once he and Nick found open ground, Nick spoke.
“I have news from Radleigh’s camp.”
“News? From the little clerk?” Jardine’s instinct bristled. He hadn’t been mistaken in Nick, then. He’d turned someone in Radleigh’s employ. “Good man.”
“He’s Radleigh’s secretary, actually,” said Nick. “Nervous, but there’s a good mind there, I think. I ought to qualify this by saying it’s entirely possible the man is laying bets on both sides. He informed me that Radleigh’s putting up that list of agents to the highest bidder. He’s had offers but nothing that tempts him. He’s going to drive a hard bargain.”
“We need to get our hands on that list.”
Nick tilted his head. “Steal it? We have no idea where it might be. He might not even keep it on the premises.”
Jardine squinted, as if he could bring Radleigh’s estate into focus. “I think he’ll keep the document close. Do we know who will be at that party?”
“My source wouldn’t divulge that information. The staff have been told to prepare twelve bedchambers.”
“They’d better prepare for thirteen.�
��
Nick’s head jerked up. “What?”
Jardine returned his gaze coolly. “I’m going to get myself an invitation to this party.”
“But if Radleigh has that list, he’ll know you’re one of us.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” murmured Jardine. “I’m not employed by the Home Office, or the government, come to that.” The corner of his mouth quirked up. “I’m what’s known as a private individual with useful connections, old boy. I’m not on any list, anywhere. Besides, the document is in code and Radleigh doesn’t have the skill to break it.”
“Who has the key?”
“That, I do not know.” Without the list, the key didn’t matter. But he must obtain that list.
He turned his head to look at Nick. “While I’m at this sterling event, I’d like you to do something for me. There’s a house in Lincolnshire that I’d like you to watch.”
SHE was sitting by the window, gazing out, when he walked into the villa he’d bought for her under an assumed name. She always sat there when he came. Jardine wondered if she ever moved from that spot, if she even noticed the pretty stand of willows with the stream running through it.
He’d done his best for her. But it wasn’t enough.
She must have heard him walk in, but she did not turn her head to look at him or greet him by name. He knew the reason. Even after all these years, he wasn’t forgiven.
He’d done his duty by her. By God, he’d given her every comfort money could buy. Staff to see to her needs day and night. A generous allowance to spend however she chose. He’d freed her from her former life. He’d even tried to give her himself, though the attempt had cost him dearly. But she’d spurned his pious, grudging gesture, and rightly so.
“Celeste.”
“Yes, Marcus?” She didn’t turn her head.
A flash of annoyance quickly fizzled to pity. She didn’t want him looking at her face. Vanity had not fled with the passage of time, nor with the ruin of her once-spectacular looks. “I have to go away. I came to see if you needed anything.”
Her husky voice, as remote as her gaze, answered him. “No, Marcus. I don’t need anything.” She paused. “Why should I?”
But she did need something. Many things. All of them beyond his power to give.
And it seemed hard, so very hard, not to resent her.
Because she was the living reminder of all he stood to lose.
SURELY, it was a mean-spirited person who would not take joy in her own mother’s delirious happiness. Surely, if she were truly selfless, she wouldn’t feel the tiny, poisonous barb of envy pierce her skin every time Millicent extolled the virtues of her prospective husband. Nor would she have to force the words through tight lips when her approval of yet another item in her mother’s lavish, endless trousseau was paraded before her.
But misery was a selfish beast, and Louisa couldn’t help feeling thin paper cuts of pain every time she remembered that she would never know the joys of a husband and children or a household of her own, even for the first time.
Perhaps she couldn’t prove her marriage, but it had happened, all the same. She’d taken those vows and she’d meant every word. She could not cast them off as lightly as a winter cloak.
The memory of Jardine’s mouth against hers, his hands on her body returned, an aching torment. It was the height of cruelty, the way he took advantage of her weakness, time and again, despite rejecting her in the most brutal terms. A crime that she could never resist him. She loved him, and that made it so hard to say no.
She despised herself for giving in, but she could never seem to refuse him, even when she’d steeled herself time and again against his wiles.
“You don’t think this is too much like mutton dressed up as lamb, darling?” Millicent’s light voice broke into her thoughts.
Her mother pirouetted before the cheval glass in her boudoir, clad in a sprigged muslin gown that made her look like a debutante.
“Not at all, Mama. You are a picture to gladden any man’s heart.”
Millicent’s features lit like moon glow. “Do you really think so, Louisa? You have such exquisite taste. I rely on your opinion utterly.”
“When you begin to resemble any species of livestock, I assure you, I shall be the first to comment upon it.”
Millicent tilted her head, giving her own reflection another doubtful survey. “Are you quite certain? Because I had thought these ribbons might be too fussy.”
Louisa took a deep, calming breath.
The air was fragrant with lilac blossoms—overpoweringly so. Thank the good Lord above that her mother’s wedding was set for the following week.
Smiling a little, Louisa pictured Woolly relating his plans for Millicent’s entertainment abroad. Nothing could have been more calculated to please her mother in every respect. Millicent was more fortunate than she knew.
The door opened and Finch announced, “A Mrs. Burton has sent up her card, ma’am.”
Millicent’s vigorously plucked brows drew together. “Mrs. Burton, you say? Why didn’t you deny me, Finch? I am not receiving visitors today.”
“Beg pardon, ma’am, I did mention that you were not at home, but I gather it’s Lady Louisa whom Mrs. Burton wishes to see.” The glint in Finch’s austere eye told Louisa the mysterious Mrs. Burton had given him a handsome douceur for unbending sufficiently to allow her access.
Calmly, Louisa rose and shook out her skirts. “Thank you, Finch. I shall be down directly.”
Millicent wrinkled her brow. “Burton? Who is this Mrs. Burton?”
“A very agreeable lady,” said Louisa. She hoped so, anyway. “I made Mrs. Burton’s acquaintance last week at the British Museum.”
If Louisa had mentioned meeting the lady in a brothel house, her mother could not have been more disapproving. “Bluestocking, is she? Honestly, Louisa. I don’t know where you find these people.”
“I told you, Mama, I found her at the museum.”
Louisa moved to the door. “I assume you don’t wish to meet her. I’ll have the phaeton brought ’round, and we’ll go for a drive.”
Millicent made a little moue of disapproval. “Do as you wish, darling. Only take your wide-brimmed hat. With Mr. Radleigh’s house party approaching, I don’t want you to develop a freckle.”
Refraining from rolling her eyes, Louisa gave the order to Finch about the phaeton, then tidied her hair and hurried downstairs to the drawing room.
As she walked into the cavernous salon, a figure standing at the window turned quickly, an expression of amused surprise sweeping her features.
The woman was no fresh-faced girl, but she was far younger than Louisa had expected an agent of Faulkner’s to be—perhaps younger even than Louisa herself.
“Oh, how fortunate I am to find you home, dear Louisa!” The woman started forward, holding out her hands and drawing Louisa in for a kiss on each cheek, in the French fashion.
Louisa had an impression of vivid, cool beauty—blond hair, ice-gray eyes, a delicately provocative mouth—before she became immersed in a cloud of expensive scent, felt the soft press of a rose-leaf cheek against each of her own.
A little overwhelmed at this enthusiastic greeting, Louisa’s body stiffened slightly.
Smoky eyes laughed at her with understanding and a hint of friendly derision. It flashed across Louisa’s mind that this woman was everything she herself would like to be.
“Won’t you sit down, Mrs. Burton? I’ve ordered my phaeton to be brought around. Would you care to take a drive with me?”
“Oh yes, indeed! I adore going on drives,” said Mrs.
Burton, managing to convey by her excess of enthusiasm that nothing could have been more calculated to bore her. “Do, please, call me Harriet, darling. None of this stuffy Mrs. Burton!”
Something offhand, almost contemptuous, in this Mrs. Burton’s demeanor made Louisa’s hackles rise.
Remember what you’re doing this for. Remember for whom.
They
conversed in vague pleasantries until the carriage was ready, and once they were seated in Louisa’s vehicle, they dispensed with the groom and were on their way.
“I suppose you are wishing you’d never been saddled with me,” observed Harriet in a tone that told Louisa the notion didn’t bother her one bit. “Now, we must settle this before we go any further. How did we meet?”
“I told my mother we met at the British Museum.”
“Oh no!” Harriet laughed. “What on earth would someone like Harriet Burton be doing at the British Museum?” She inclined her head towards Louisa’s. “Harriet Burton, my dear, is frivolous and charming, with not two thoughts in her head to rub together. Merely adding up the years she has been married to the staid Mr. Burton taxes her tiny brain. No one concerns themselves about Mrs. Burton.”
Louisa glanced at her companion and Harriet simpered back, her face transformed from the mocking, quick-witted woman who had turned to greet her in the drawing room mere minutes before.
They entered the park, moving at a brisk trot along the carriageway. Thank goodness this Mrs. Burton had turned out to be presentable, at least.
“We are here at the right time,” she murmured, scanning the thickening crowds. “Much later and there won’t be room to move.”
“Let us drive on. We shan’t take notice of anybody beyond a polite nod,” said Harriet. “You, Lady Louisa, are so enchanted with my company that you don’t wish for anyone else. Let us laugh”—Harriet broke off into a trill of mirth that sounded birdlike and sweet—“and appear to be the very best of friends.”
Louisa gave a smile that could best be described as perfunctory. “How did we meet, if anyone asks?”
Harriet waved an airy hand. “Oh, I daresay we met in a millinery shop, don’t you think? You were there outfitting your mother for her bride visits and I desperately needed someone to advise me on the color of ribbons for my hat.”
Her quick eyes took in Louisa’s ensemble. “No one will wonder at that, for you are the epitome of elegance, my dear.”
“Thank you.” Usually, any kind of compliment embarrassed, but the tone of this one was too matter-of-fact to put her to the blush. “Oh, there is Mr. Radleigh. We should stop.”
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