by Cheryl Bolen
Midway through the meal, Mr. Bottomworth faced him. "Mr. Rich?"
His pulse accelerating, Jack looked up from his veal, slowly chewing his food and wondering how long he could get away with chewing the same bite--and thus be saved from having to answer Mr. Bottomworth. He made a great production of chomping on the meat while he tried to anticipate the gentleman's question and form responses. He prayed Lord Sidworth would not ask him to demonstrate his command of Bantu or Hottentot.
When he could prolong it no longer, Jack raised a brow.
"I say, what is the name of your mine?" Mr. Bottomworth asked.
"Nothing as solid as Citadel," Jack answered while the wheels of his brain churned.
"Citadel the name of your mine?" Lord Sidworth asked Mr. Bottomworth.
Mr. Bottomworth nodded.
"You name it yourself?" Mr. Stephenson asked.
Mr. Bottomworth directed his response at Mr. Stephenson. "Actually that was the name my father came up with."
"So your father actually founded the mine?" Jack asked, delighted to redirect the conversation.
"Back in seventy four," Mr. Bottomworth said proudly.
Then Jack turned to Mr. Stephenson. "Many people will tell you the Citadel's the finest diamond mine in the world."
Mr. Stephenson looked admiringly at Mr. Bottomworth, who beamed. "I don't know whether it's the finest or not," Mr. Bottomworth said, "but I daresay it's the most profitable." Then he sent Jack an apologetic gaze. "I mean no offense to your. . . what did you say the name of your mine is?"
His eyes peering into Bottomworth's more as a distraction, Jack inched his elbow over until it collided with his wine glass, which toppled, sending deep claret over the fine white linen tablecloth. Jack sprang to his feet and muttered an oath.
"Don't worry about it, my good man," Lord Sidworth said, beckoning a nearby footman to attend to the mess.
By the time the table was restored, the topic of conversation had thankfully changed. Sir Ronald was bursting with his own news of the steed he had purchased at Tattersall's that morning.
While he was talking, Jack overheard the name Lamb being used at the table behind them and spun around in time to see a man addressed as Lamb. The fellow looked nothing like Prinny.
As soon as the meal was over, Jack managed to extricate himself from his table and cross the room to pour himself a glass of port while he listened to the lively conversation taking place at Lamb's table, where the men were closer to Jack's age.
"Will you stand again?" one of the men asked Lamb.
So Lamb was a Member of Parliament? Jack eyed him as he responded. He looked nothing like Jack imagined George Lamb would look. Though he was a young man--he looked to be about five and thirty--he was so gray it was difficult to tell what color his hair had been. There was nothing portly about him, and Jack thought (though he was certainly no expert about such things) that Lamb would be considered a fine looking man with his aquiline nose and pensive face.
How, though, could Jack strike up a friendship with Lamb? From the conversation he overheard it was clear to him that Lamb was a Whig. Jack was far better qualified to discuss Whig politics than he was to speak Hottentot or talk of Africa.
While he stood there eavesdropping on their conversation, he caught a glimpse of a man just entering Boodles. It was immediately clear to Jack that the man looked familiar but he could not remember where or when they had met before. Certainly not in London. Of that, Jack was sure. As Jack watched the newcomer give his greatcoat and hat to a footman, he suddenly knew why the man looked familiar. Good lord, it was Randolph Bennington! His gut plummeted.
Jack quickly spun away from the man's line of vision. He could not allow Bennington to see him. The man had served as a fellow officer in India. Bennington was likely the only man in London--other than the regent--who knew Jack's true identity.
What in the hell would he do if Bennington recognized him? A smile touched his lips when he recalled Daphne's advice on the matter. Simply deny it.
Though that's what he would do, he'd far rather avoid a confrontation altogether. But how?
He bent down to Lord Sidworth, partially obscuring his face from Bennington's sight, and spoke in a low voice. "You are free to stay, your lordship, but I've suddenly recalled that I was to meet tonight with my factor who must return to Africa tomorrow."
Lord Sidworth sighed. "I know you nabob types must put business first."
"But there you're wrong, my lord. I put nothing in front of Lady Daphne."
Jack's gaze bouncing from Bennington to Daphne's father, he saw that a broad smile transformed his lordship's face. When Bennington began to stroll into the next chamber, Jack almost sighed audibly.
Then he made a hasty exit.
Chapter 15
Daphne had been watching his lodgings all morning, waiting for his landlady to leave. As soon as that spry little woman in a voluminous merino cloak ambled away from the respectable townhouse on Marylebone, she climbed the steps and knocked upon the door.
The maid who answered raised a quizzing brow as her gaze raked over Daphne in her upperclass finery.
"I beg that you show me to the handsome gentleman's quarters," Daphne said as she tucked a crown into the girl's palm. She had described Jack rather than naming him because she did not know what name he was using. "The purpose of my visit, I assure you, is honorable, but your mistress would no doubt disapprove."
"Ah, me lady, that she would." The thin servant pushed away stray wisps of red hair and beckoned for Daphne to enter. "Captain Murphy's chambers is on the next floor, but ye must be gone afore me mistress returns from the linen draper's."
Daphne followed the girl up a flight of ill-lit wooden steps. The maid came to stand in front of the first door at the top of the stairs and gazed at Daphne. "Ye'll find the 'andsome cap'n 'ere."
One assertive nod from Daphne and the maid scurried down the stairs, her step as light as a mouse. Daphne strode up to the door and rapped her knuckles against it.
There was no response.
She knocked again.
Then she heard a mumbled oath, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps moving toward the door.
Jack himself, wearing neither frock coat nor cravat but only a fine linen shirt and buff breeches, swung open the door. "What the devil?" he asked, glaring at Daphne.
All of her carefully rehearsed words evaporated when she beheld Jack in his full, blatantly masculine glory. Her lazy gaze traveled along the length of him from his muscled thighs and along his lean torso to settle upon a pair of bountiful shoulders. There was something utterly provocative about seeing the dark skin of his exposed throat with no cravat. And the linen of his shirt was so fine she could see through it, see every heavily sculpted curve in his chest and see his trim waist funnel into tight breeches. The very thought of dipping below those breeches caused her to throb in a region below her own waist, a region she had heretofore been unaware of.
His gruff response unsettled her. Did he not take notice of how fetching she looked today? On her way here she had stopped at Mrs. Spence's and immediately donned one of her newly finished dresses, a mossy green creation that perfectly matched her eyes. She had even submitted to the bosom-smashing thing in order to appear to possess that which she did not.
To ensure that her appearance was as attractive as she could possibly make it, Daphne forced herself to sit through a full half-hour of hairdressing this morning and could truthfully say it had been the longest, most tedious half hour she had ever spent. She had told herself all the discomfort would be worth it when Jack smiled upon her.
But he hadn't smiled upon her. He looked like an ogre as he stared at her, and he made no move whatsoever to admit her into his chambers. She lifted her chin and addressed him in a haughty voice. "I expected you to be proud of me."
His brows scrunched into the bridge of his nose. And he glared. "I fail to see how one confuses the emotions of rage and pride."
Her heart hammered. "You're enraged
?"
He glared some more.
"At me?" she asked in a squeaky voice.
His eyes still narrow, he swept open the door. "Quick. Get in here before someone sees you."
She suddenly felt lighter than air as she scurried into his well-lit, nicely furnished rooms. He was mad because he worried about her good name!
When he went for his frockcoat and began to put it on, she turned away. While her back was turned, she took the opportunity to peruse his chambers. Though they weren't really his, and though he had not resided here long, she nevertheless had been curious to see how he lived. Her belief that he was exceedingly tidy was confirmed when she saw that his boots were lined up against the wall like books on a shelf, not a degree of unparalleled separation between them. More evidence of his excessive neatness was revealed in his newspaper. Except for the portion he must have been reading when she interrupted, the rest of its pages were quartered with knife-sharp folds, and each section was tightly stacked.
She liked that he had drawn open the draperies at every window to brighten the room with light. Such as it was beneath gray skies. When her glance flitted to the next room and she caught a glimpse of his unmade bed, her pulse pounded.
She spun around to face him. Why had she never before noticed that his eyes were so dark they looked black?
And they had never looked icier.
She gulped. "Aren't you going to ask me to have a seat?"
"Certainly not! Do you know what would happen if you were discovered in my chambers?"
An insecure smile barely touched her lips. "We are betrothed."
"My dear lady," he said with only barely controlled anger, "we are not engaged. I would like to think that when our sham engagement is acknowledged, you will not be spoiled for another man, a man who's worthy of you, a man who'll make you a good husband."
His sentiments were so sweet. She was truly touched by the depth of his affection for her.
With complete disregard for his wishes, she walked across the room and dropped into an upholstered chair beside a tall casement that looked out over Marylebone.
"Oblige me by not sitting in front of the window," he said through gritted teeth.
She merely turned away her face. "The only thing seen from the street will be my hair."
"These lodgings are known to be bachelor quarters."
"Oh, very well!" She got up and stalked to the chair beside the meticulously folded newspaper, knowing she was taking his seat. As she lowered herself into the cozy chair she watched him. Oh, dear, he was not going to sit down. She did wish he weren't in such wretchedly bad humor.
Standing over her like some great, dark menace, he finally spoke. "Why are you here?"
He did not sound happy.
And to think she had been patting herself on the back over her cleverness in locating his lodgings. "Are you not impressed by the deductive skills I employed to find out where you live . . . Mr. Murphy?"
He shoved a hand through his dark hair, then sank into the chair in front of the window. "You shouldn't be here."
His concern for her reputation was getting tedious. "Are you not going to ask how I discovered your lodgings?"
"Not until I find out why you felt compelled to come here."
"I did not feel compelled to come here. I merely thought, seeing as we are betrothed--"
"But we are not betrothed!"
"Yes, but no one knows that but us."
He looked mad enough to strike her. "I will have no part of compromising you, my lady."
So he wasn't likely to debauch her. A pity he was so beastly stodgy.
Then a melancholy descended over her. Her life had never had more purpose, never been more exciting than it had been since Captain Dryden had come into it. In a few weeks he would return to the Peninsula and she would return to being plain spinster, Daphne Chalmers. Would time allow the memory of his dark good looks to grow dim? Would she ever be able to forget the debilitating feel of his lips on hers? How could she return to her sterile existence now that she'd known Jack Dryden's touch?
But return, she must. Hers and Jack's fates, she knew, had been irrevocably cast on the day they were born.
It was enough to make her wish to slash her wrists.
Not, of course, that Captain Dryden did want her. He didn't. But he did hold her in high regard. He actually cared about her. Not just about her reputation he was so staunchly defending today, but he cared about her.
As she cared about him. Not that she loved him or anything like that. Lust. That's what she felt for him. And deep admiration for his high morals.
"I did not come here to get compromised," she said.
"I never thought you did. You're far more decent than you give yourself credit for." He settled back into the chair and crossed his legs, boot to opposite knee. "Why did you come, Daphne?"
He hadn't used the Lady again! No other man had ever addressed her by only her Christian name. Another consequence of their closeness. Her heart fluttered. "First I must assure you that I never intended for anyone to know I came here. Except for you. I'm not oblivious of my good name. But because I'm an earl's daughter and because my sister is a duchess and her husband is a cousin to the regent, I'm forever on public display. Which I abhor. I thought this once you and I could have a nice long brainstorming session without fearing that we would be overheard."
"You obviously waited until Mrs. Pope left before you came?"
She nodded.
"How had you planned to leave without being seen?"
"I had thought you could provide a distraction by engaging the lady in conversation while I scampered away."
When she saw that he relaxed, she slumped gratefully into the chair's soft back.
"Now that you're here we may as well have that brainstorming session, but you're not to ever come here again. Understood?"
She effected a contrite expression. "Yes, Captain."
"Jack," he snapped.
If the man had any idea how erotic she found using his first name, he would certainly rethink his demand. "So . . . " she began, "how did last night go?"
He scowled. "Badly."
"Badly in what way?" Her pulse surged.
"In that a fellow officer from India came striding into Boodles."
Her hands gripped the chair arms. "He recognized you?"
"I saw him first."
"So you made sure he didn't see you?"
He nodded. "I managed to make a hasty exit before he had the opportunity to recognize me."
She sighed with relief. "What's the man's name?"
"Randolph Bennington. Why do you ask?"
"It's rather imperative we get him to leave London, don't you think?"
He looked at her as if she were a raving lunatic. "And how would you propose doing that?"
A smile seeped into her lips. "I'm not precisely sure. Yet."
"What is your diabolical mind contemplating?" he asked, his black eyes flashing.
She shrugged. "Perhaps a forged letter from the Foreign Office ordering him to Lisbon or some such place?"
He made no response. Deep in thought, he set his hand to his chin. After a while, he nodded, then peered up at her with glittering eyes. "It would have to be a very good forgery. Bennington's no fool."
"Leave everything to me."
He bolted up into a rigid posture. "Now see here, Daphne, I can't allow you to jeopardize y--, uh, our mission."
Her smile broadened. He worried about her, even if he was loathe to admit it. "We'll never be discovered."
"How can you be so sure?" he asked.
"It so happens my brother-in-law Sir Ronald is rather important in the Foreign Office. I'll merely pay a call on him tomorrow, assure myself that Mr. Bennington has no prior connection to him, then I'll pilfer his seal."
"Pilfer his seal?" Jack thundered.
Oh, dear, the captain was irate. "It's nothing to get in such a huff over," she said. "Dear Sir Ronald is forever being pestered by underlings.
I'll wait until he's called to soothe some calamity, then I'll withdraw it from his desk."
"And when he discovers it missing?"
"He couldn't possibly trace the theft to me," she said. "Not when his office is always teeming with clerks of every sort."
"I don't like you to have to resort to larceny. Could we not just have another seal made?"
"We could. If I knew what the bloody thing looked like. If your Mr. Bennington is so devilishly smart, he'd be bound to recognize a forgery."
"You have a point there." Dark hair spilled onto Captain Sublime's forehead as he gazed up at her. He was utterly sublime.
"Now aren't you glad I came?" she asked.
The scowl he directed at her was anything but reassuring. "I would have preferred handling Bennington without exposing you."
"I won't be exposed, Jack." Using his name was intensely intimate; that he ignored it, irritated. "Until he's left London, you'd best not return to Boodles."
"Lamb was there last night."
She frowned. "Wretched luck."
He shrugged. "My forced retreat has allowed me time to bone up on Whig politics."
"Why do you feel the need to study Whig politics?"
"So I can have a common interest to discuss with Lamb."
"I didn't know George Lamb was interested in Whig politics," she said, giving him a puzzled look.
Jack looked at her as if she were delusional. "How could you not know the man's an MP?"
"Oh, dear," she sighed.
He eyed her suspiciously. "Why are you oh-dearing?"
"I'm afraid that you mistook George Lamb for his brother William, who is a Member of Parliament."
Chapter 16
Restraint honed by years of crafting life-or-death decisions prevented Jack from launching into a spew of cursing--something he certainly could not do in front of a lady. "Then I've wasted another bloody night." His angry stare drilled into the blank wall across from him. "In nearly two weeks I've accomplished nothing."
"Things of this nature take time," she said in a soothing voice.
"We don't have time! Someone's desperate to kill the English regent, and you and I are all that stand between him and death."