by Allison Lane
“About what?” demanded Alex.
“Looking … Marlow…”
Eden choked.
“John Marlow?” asked Alex.
“Wife…” His throat rattled as he sucked in air. His hand again spasmed. Then his breath escaped in a long hiss, “Sarsos-s-s…”
Alex laid shaking fingers on Peterson’s neck, then pressed an ear to his chest. “He’s gone.”
“Dear God.” Eden clutched the counter.
“Don’t faint,” he ordered, closing Peterson’s eyes and climbing to his feet. His eyes raked the shop. Had the attacker wanted information, money, or something else? A Moorish samovar lay on its side. Several urns were likewise overturned as if someone had searched inside each one. “Find something to use as a shroud while I check his desk.”
Eden drew in a deep breath, then returned upstairs.
Alex wasn’t interested in Peterson’s business files, but finding the intact ledgers proved the attacker hadn’t wanted his customer records. He’d long suspected that Peterson wrote down rumors, secrets, and other potentially valuable information. How else could he keep track of tidbits gathered over long periods of time? He’d likely also kept notes on the buyers of that information, for he set his prices according to the buyer’s urgency. He always knew just how keen someone’s interest really was.
It took him half an hour to find the thick journal hidden behind the office paneling. He tucked it under his cloak. If Peterson had identified Emerson’s employer or learned any other secrets connected to Sarsos collectors, the information would be inside.
“Let’s go,” he murmured, rejoining Eden in the shop. She’d straightened Peterson’s legs and covered him with a sheet.
“You mean to leave him here?”
“As soon as I take you home, I’ll fetch the authorities. But you don’t need your name associated with this, especially after an exhausting day.” The words reminded him of just how long it had been since he’d slept.
She cast a last doubtful look at the shop, then unlocked the door and stepped outside.
Alex followed, taking her arm to escort her to the carriage now parked a block away. But his mind was dull from sleeplessness and shock, leaving him less alert than usual. Not until a scream rose from across the street did he lift his head—
—to find a horse charging straight toward him.
Terror lent energy to his muscles. He lunged sideways, slamming Eden into a recessed doorway, where he pressed her hard against the wall as he flattened himself around her. Something slammed into the wall an inch from his head as the horse clattered past, then swerved back into the street and sped away.
Alex was suddenly aware of the delectable body plastered against his own. Heat blazed in a river of fire, only partially quenched when he caught sight of her face.
Eden’s eyes bulged in horror as she gasped for breath. “Lord! You were right. London is a dangerous city. That’s the second time I’ve nearly been run down.”
“What?” Alex checked the street, then hustled her into the carriage, waiting until she was settled before continuing. “What do you mean by second?”
“The same thing happened last week. Peterson’s door was locked. As I turned back to the carriage, a rider swerved around it to pass a slow-moving cart. He bumped Carver, knocking her into me. Don’t riders stay in the street here? Carver nearly fainted. She doesn’t like horses in the best of times, and to be hit by one didn’t help.”
“Did the man apologize?”
“No. Galloped off like his tail was on fire without so much as a wave to acknowledge our existence.”
“What did he look like?”
She shrugged. “Brown horse, black cloak, hat pulled low.”
“Same as this one.”
“And half the men in England,” she snapped. “You can’t possibly believe there is a connection. You fit that description when you were riding yesterday, as does that man and that one.” She pointed out the window.
She was right, he admitted. Six riders passed them in the space of seconds, five on brown horses. Three wore cloaks, two greatcoats, and the last only a riding coat, for the air was finally turning balmy. If he’d had his wits about him, he would have looked closer at the fellow, but—
“I can’t believe how reckless people are in this town,” Eden babbled as her hands began to shake. She was falling apart before his eyes. “Horsemen swerving off the street, drivers bellowing for people to move faster. And crime! How do Londoners stand it? Carver would have lost her reticule if I hadn’t caught that cutpurse by the ear. Kicked something fierce, he did, and escaped before I could find the watch. But to walk into a shop where there’s been robbery and murder…” Her voice broke.
Alex scooped her into his lap. Intrepid she might be, but this was too much. “Cry,” he suggested. “You are so jumpy you want to fly apart. Tears will help.”
“I’d rather hit something.” Her attempt at humor bordered on hysteria.
“I wouldn’t advise it,” he murmured. “You would just hurt your hands.”
“I’m so mad I want to rip that rider to shreds.” Her fingers bent into claws, tearing at the air.
Alex sighed. She needed to release the burst of energy that always accompanied terror. Tears were one way, but if she wouldn’t indulge in those, there were others. Exercise. Lovemaking…
Tempting. Very tempting. He tried to put the image out of his head, but he was shaking, too. Two years of retirement had reduced his tolerance for shock.
Her tremors increased, sending frissons of awareness across his thighs and into his groin. She would break at any moment, screaming. He couldn’t afford to draw that sort of attention, and she would hate being the center of all eyes – or so he told himself. And he was human.
He kissed her.
Lust exploded in a conflagration that swept him from head to toe. And her, too. The hands that had been shredding imaginary opponents latched onto his shoulders as she returned the kiss, opening to the barest pressure from his tongue, then sucking it so deeply into her mouth that she might have inhaled his soul. She was everything he sought in a lover – fiery, passionate, and so exciting that the mere pressure of her hip nearly shattered him.
As she threaded her fingers into his hair, he pushed her cloak aside and cupped a breast.
She moaned, driving him closer to the brink.
A spark of honor pulled him back. Her mind wasn’t rational just now. She would hate him if he took what she was currently offering. Forcing his own need aside, he concentrated on distracting her long enough that she could reach her room before collapsing. So he took the kiss deeper, fencing with her tongue while one thumb stroked her breast.
“Alex,” she moaned when he left her mouth to trail kisses across his face. “Alex! What—” She pressed closer, raising so much heat it was a miracle the carriage didn’t burst into flame.
“Ah, my sweet Eden,” he panted. “So beautiful. So passionate.” He returned to her mouth, fighting to maintain control as her hands raced across his back. Her tremors vibrated against a rampant erection he tried valiantly to ignore. Her hands fisted in his hair, pulling him closer, her kiss as abandoned as in his most lascivious dreams. The heat of her arousal scorched him.
He wanted her more than he’d wanted anyone in his life, desperately needed her contracting around him. But he’d vowed to do nothing she would regret come morning. Keeping that vow would likely kill him.
Another deep kiss drew her loudest moan yet. He teetered on brink of dishonor…
The carriage rocked to a halt before his town house.
Drawing a long breath, he helped her to the ground, supporting her past a lamplighter, past the footman holding open the door, too aware that her legs were buckling even worse than his own. Not until they reached the foot of the stairs did he trust his voice. “I’ll order you a bath, then deal with Peterson. We’ll talk at dinner.”
She nodded without a word.
Alex requested that his ho
rse be brought around, then went upstairs to soak his head in a basin of cold water, praying it would clear his mind.
Chapter Seven
Eden smoothed her dowdiest gown over her hips, then sent Carver away, frantic to be alone. She was appalled at her behavior.
Actually, she was worse than appalled. She was aghast, terrified, awed—
No! She could not be awed by something so base. Where had her morals gone? If they’d not been in a carriage on a busy London street, she would have begged for more than kisses, abandoning her training, manners, and responsibility, and proving that John’s faith in her had been misplaced. She’d nearly begged for more anyway.
She squeezed the back of a chair until her fingers hurt.
Only luck had kept her from the ultimate folly. Luck and their arrival. Al— Mr. Portland might blame shock, but she could not accept excuses. No lady allowed shock to drive her into unacceptable conduct. Writhing in his lap while he fondled her breast and kissed her senseless went far beyond unacceptable.
The blame was hers alone. And the guilt. She could accept guilt, but only if she learned from it. The lapse must not be repeated. To hold temptation at bay, she must stay away from him. Far away.
Her body protested.
“Traitor,” she snapped, wrapping a bulky shawl around her shoulders to further disguise her figure and provide another barrier between her and the world. It was infuriating to realize that Richard had been right all these years. She did harbor the vulgar wantonness typical of humble birth. John might never have evoked such feelings, but he was a gentleman who had treated her like the highest born lady, expecting only that she lie quietly beneath him while he found his weekly release. The matter rarely required more than a few minutes.
Alex was no gentleman. He’d recognized an opportunity, raising her restlessness to such a fever pitch that she’d forgotten everything in her need for more. If they hadn’t reached his house, she would have ripped her clothes off and demanded that he take her then and there.
How vulgar.
No lady experienced such abandon. No lady failed to control herself, no matter what the provocation. No lady turned sensual encounters into cherished memories.
She was clearly no lady. Instead of relaxing with a lady’s passivity, she’d let his mouth drive her mad. Even thinking about it tightened her nipples.
“Stop this,” she ordered herself, pacing to the window and back. “Olivia deserves better. Pull yourself together and act like a lady, even if you aren’t. You cannot throw away this chance to see her wed. She is perfect for him, as he will certainly agree once they meet. So stop distracting him.”
Drawing a deep breath, she collected her book and headed for the drawing room. When Alex returned, she must make it clear that this must never happen again. He would likely argue the point – no man enjoyed having his wishes thwarted, particularly when she’d already succumbed once. But she could convince him by maintaining complete control over her senses. And she would prevail. Too much was at stake to tolerate failure.
She paused on the stairs, surprised when someone pounded on the front door. Alex had not put up the knocker, so who would be calling? It was long past visiting hours, and no one knew he was in town. Unless…
Peterson had claimed that his assailant sought Marlow’s wife. Was he the man who had nearly run her down? Had he followed her here, then waited until Alex was gone?
Ridiculous, she told herself. He would hardly have waited in the Strand on the slim chance that she might call on Peterson today. And this wouldn’t be another collector seeking to buy the stone, either. Even if one knew she was in London – which would mean he’d called at Ridley – he would have no reason to seek her at Portland House.
It might be Smith.
She’d been wrong to think no one knew she and Alex were in town, and he’d promised to look through Jasper’s notes. Might he have found something important so quickly?
Yet it didn’t feel right. Her instincts feared that whoever was outside represented danger. Forewarned was forearmed, so she slipped down a few steps, craning over the banister to see into the hall without being spotted.
The view was severely limited. All she could make out was Tweed’s legs as he pulled the door open.
“My lord?” Tweed sounded even frostier than when she’d arrived at Cliffside.
“So he is here.” The unknown lord stepped forward – or tried to.
Tweed blocked the way. “He is not at home.”
The caller growled.
Eden leaned farther, her curiosity stronger than ever. This lord sought Alex, so she was safe enough as long as he didn’t see her. Yet that feeling of danger lingered…
He wore satin knee breeches and stockings heavily padded with sawdust – a device Alex would never need. His gloved hand clutched a chapeau bras. Oddly formal dress unless he was headed for court.
“I will tell him you called, sir.” Tweed’s voice remained cold.
“He will dine at Stratford House tomorrow evening.” The caller shoved a card into Tweed’s hand.
“He has other plans.”
“No. This defiance must cease. Either he behaves like a gentleman, or Stratford will take steps. Tomorrow. At seven. No regrets will be accepted.” He stormed away.
Eden rushed to the drawing room window, but only the man’s back was visible in the glow of the gaslights. He was taller than Alex and quite slender. Brown hair curled from under his hat, brushing the collar of a coat that had amazingly padded shoulders. Even from behind, his shirt points were visible, for they encased his ears, ending just below the eyes.
Obviously a dandy.
She hated him on sight. He was as pompous as Richard and probably useless. The tight coat and breeches would require at least two assistants to don.
His walking stick slashed out, beheading three crocuses growing under the area rail.
Disgusted, she turned away, but putting him out of sight did not thrust him out of her mind. Why would a lord carry messages like a common footman? Especially to someone he so clearly despised.
When Tweed passed the door, she called him into the drawing room. “Who was downstairs just now?”
“Lord Palfry, ma’am.”
“I couldn’t help overhear…” She let her voice trail off, then tried again. There was no polite way to pry, but she needed information. If nothing else, curiosity gave her something new to think about. “Who is he?”
“Mr. Alex’s brother, ma’am.”
His brother? A lord? She frowned. “I know it is none of my business, but why was Lord Palfry so angry?”
“It is no secret that Stratford disowned Mr. Alex some years ago.”
“Stratford?”
“Their father, the Earl of Stratford. Palfry is the heir, and Mr. Jason is with the army – a major, the last we heard. Mr. Alex is third in line. Stratford was incensed when Mr. Alex retired from the Home Office – not that he thought much of the post to begin with.”
“Why? I understood Mr. Portland showed exceptional cleverness in his search for spies and traitors.”
His gaze sharpened. “Few know of his duties, Mrs. Marlow. Any public acknowledgment of them would put him in grave danger. And not just from those who remain furious over Napoleon’s downfall. Society would also despise him. Spies are not gentlemen. Those who unmask them are similarly tainted.”
“I see. But surely his family—”
“It would make no difference. Stratford considers Mr. Alex lazy, stubborn, and incompetent. Palfry agrees with everything Stratford says.”
Eden’s mouth was hanging open. Lazy? Incompetent? Stubborn she could believe, for she’d encountered that trait herself, but the injustice of Stratford’s condemnation sparked fury. Alex had risked his life in service to the crown, giving dandies and opinionated bores the luxury of wasting their own lives on trivialities. Yet they dared condemn the very actions that protected their cozy little worlds. And how could any parent…
Tweed left b
efore she reined in her anger. Only then did she consider the full import of his disclosure. Disowned or not, Alex was an earl’s son. A younger son, to be sure, but several steps above John. Would he look twice at Olivia, a lowly vicar’s daughter?
His secrecy might deflect condemnation of his work, but wedding beneath him would draw society’s scorn and worsen the rift with his family. An insufferable lord like Stratford would never countenance a mésalliance.
Olivia had been fragile as a child. Could she tolerate scorn? Eden didn’t know. The girl had stayed in the schoolroom while living at Marwood, thus she’d never encountered the full range of aristocratic disdain.
* * * *
Alex frowned as he headed upstairs to dress. He’d done what he could for Peterson, alerting the authorities to his demise, then questioning nearby shopkeepers in hopes that someone had seen something useful. But all he’d learned was that no similar incidents had occurred anywhere in the area, which confirmed that the intruder had been seeking information rather than money.
Unfortunately, no one had noticed any customers at Peterson’s shop that afternoon, not even him and Eden. So he had no clues to the attacker’s identity.
A brief stop at his club nearly eliminated the lord and the industrialist from complicity in John’s death. Lord Oakdale had retired to his country estate two years earlier after a mild apoplexy, becoming a recluse who refused to see even friends. Rumors that he was ill were impossible to verify, but the man was nearly eighty, so it was likely. Few knew the industrialist personally, but a recent fire at his woolen mill was keeping him busy overseeing repairs. He had a reputation for keeping a close eye on his business.
So Alex was back to Emerson’s unknown employer.
The moment Tweed finished fussing with his evening clothes, he grabbed Peterson’s journal and headed downstairs. Instead of lingering over his port after dinner, he and Eden would pore over its entries, giving him a chance to ease any regrets she might have from the afternoon.
He paused in the drawing room doorway to study her before she was aware of his presence. Her regrets were obvious. She’d donned a high-necked black gown of heavy worsted, whose long sleeves covered her black gloves, leaving not a single glimpse of skin. She’d pulled her hair into an uncompromising knot on her neck, then added a black lace cap to leech the last bit of color from her cheeks. A bulky shawl masked her figure from prying eyes. A full suit of armor and ten-foot lance would be less effective at holding others at bay. At least the gloves would come off while she ate, offering him some relief from the black that threatened to smother him.