"No, goddammit!" Patrick growled from above her. "You have me, you little fool!"
Several things happened at once: the intruder took to his heels; Thea jerked her arms from around Patrick's neck as if she had just discovered she was clasping a cobra, her mouth forming a large dismayed "O" and Patrick surged out of her slackened grasp.
The sound of a slamming door rang out through the darkness. Silence descended. The intruder had escaped.
Patrick and Thea sat on the floor in the dark, the silence stretching out. After a few seconds as the silence grew distinctly uncomfortable, thinking it prudent, Thea scooted a little distance away from Patrick and stood up. A moment later, she heard him rise to his feet. He didn't say a word, and the silence became unnerving.
"Um, I thought I was helping," she muttered. "I thought he was you... I thought I was stopping him from hurting you."
Patrick lit the candle he had stuffed into his pocket before he had charged past Thea. In the weak yellow light they regarded each other.
Both wore signs of the battle. Though the entire incident had lasted mere minutes, quite a bit of damage had been wrought. Glumly Thea wondered how much of it they had inflicted upon each other.
Uneasily she looked at Patrick, thinking that he was really rather large and intimidating as he stared at her over the wavering flame. His hair was wildly tumbled, his beautiful jacket was askew, his cravat half-undone, and he had a bloody slash over one eye and a dandy bruise forming on one lean cheek. He looked disreputable and, she thought foolishly, rather endearing. She knew an impulse to brush back those raven locks that fell across his forehead and kiss that bruised cheek.
Thea looked little better than Patrick. Her clothes were as disheveled as Patrick's, in fact one of the shoulders of her coat had been torn and her shirt hung free of the breeches at one side. Most of her hair had managed to stay in its queue, but wisps of black hair curled in untrammeled splendor around her face. The cut on her bottom lip had stopped bleeding, but the lip itself was slightly swollen, and if Patrick was any judge, she was going to have a magnificent black eye.
"I really was trying to help," she said defensively when he just continued to stare at her, the expression on his face hard to read. "I thought I was choking the intruder—not you. I thought—"
"No," Patrick said disgustedly, "you didn't think. You simply leaped willy-nilly out from behind that screen, brandishing your pistol—thereby ruining any opportunity we may have had of following him or of finding out his identity—without, I might add, him being any the wiser."
"I didn't brandish the pistol," she muttered, glowering up at him.
"Ah, forgive me. I must have been mistaken." He looked at her politely. "And how would you describe your actions?"
Belatedly aware that she had acted without thinking and... unwisely, Thea was prepared to shoulder the blame for the fiasco that had befallen them. It was her fault. She knew that. She should not have been so quick and so eager to confront the intruder, and the dismal end to the evening could be laid squarely at her feet. Feeling chastened and guilty, she glanced over at his set face. He didn't look particularly angry, although he was clearly displeased—and she couldn't blame him for that. Reluctantly, she admitted that she'd made a mess of things. But with the best intentions, she thought virtuously. She had meant to help, and if she had tackled the right man, they would have captured the intruder. Patrick was right, however; she had ruined their chance to find out who the intruder was and where he had been going. She studied her boots for a moment, consumed with guilt and regret. If only, she thought miserably, she would learn to think before she leaped. She risked another glance at his face and sighed. She would really rather he railed at her than speak to her in those icily polite tones.
Watching her expressive face, Patrick could almost read every thought that crossed her mind. He was very aware that she regretted what had happened, but he was also aware that he didn't ever want to feel again the sheer fear that had flooded him when she had darted out from behind that screen. For all she had known the intruder could have been armed and have turned and fired at her in a split second. She could have been badly wounded... or killed. Something cold and painful coiled in his gut at the thought of this dark-eyed, beguiling, and equally infuriating little minx lying lifeless on the ground. He had never felt so helpless or full of stark terror in his life as he had that moment, when he realized how swiftly he could have lost her.
He took a long slow appraisal of her, an unwilling smile beginning to tug at the corner of his mouth. She looked a perfect disgrace. Her hat was gone, lost in the scuffle, and garbed in boy's clothing, her eye rapidly blackening and her lip swelling, she looked and had proved herself to be as notorious as her reputation. He had always considered himself a man of good breeding, and her actions and appearance should have aroused nothing but disgust in the breast of any gentleman of good breeding. He shook his head. Disgust was the last emotion in his breast when he looked at her. No, he admitted ruefully, disgust was not among the emotions that flooded through him. Appreciation of her misguided courage, yes. Amusement at the situation, yes. An odd-placed tenderness was there too, and as for desire.... Oh, yes, desire definitely churned in his breast... and loins.
Aware that proof of his desire was swelling rapidly and would soon be obvious, Patrick turned away. "Come along," he said, ignoring his baser emotions. "I doubt that there is any reason for us to linger here now."
Taking only a second to scoop up her pistol from the floor, Thea followed behind his broad-shouldered form. Uncertainly, she asked, "I know that we will probably not learn anything else, but shouldn't we examine that bookshelf more fully before we leave? You didn't see him do it, but he took something from behind some of the books—perhaps we might find something he left behind."
A close examination of the bookshelves revealed nothing but some mouse droppings and a layer of dust, and Thea was thoroughly disappointed. Her lip drooping, she allowed Patrick to urge her away from the room.
"You'd have thought that we would have found something," she muttered, as they approached the entrance of the house.
"I think we found quite enough for one evening," Patrick said dryly, as he opened the door and took a careful look outside.
At this time of the evening, there was little traffic and he hustled Thea out of the house and down the steps to the street. A moment later, they were climbing into Thea's coach.
"At least," he said grimly as he settled back against the velvet squabs and the coach began to move, "you had enough sense to bring transportation."
"I am not," Thea said haughtily, still smarting from her less-than-stellar performance that evening, "a complete fool."
Smiling in the darkness, Patrick murmured, "Actually it was very plucky, if misguided, of you to come to my rescue. I thank you for your good intentions."
"Don't patronize me," Thea said crossly. "I acted a perfect fool, and you know it." She sighed. "I did not mean to ruin things; I just wanted to stop him from leaving."
"Don't repine on it—there'll be other chances."
"Do you think so?" she asked, leaning forward, trying to see his expression in the darkness as he sat across from her.
He shrugged. "Since we do not intend to abandon our endeavors, it is a logical conclusion that sooner or later, our paths and those of our mysterious intruder will cross again." He grimaced. "And I hope with a better outcome."
"I wonder what was in that little packet that he took from behind the books," Thea mused. "It wasn't very big. It was flat and I think folded. Letters, perhaps?"
Patrick had a fair idea that the packet might very well have contained his mother's letters, but he wasn't about to share that bit of speculation with Thea. It was dangerous enough for her to be snooping around her brother-in-law's murder and disappearance without adding blackmail into the mix. Especially since the blackmail had nothing to do with her.
He frowned. Or did it? Or rather, how much, if anything at all, did Alfred
Hirst's murder have to do with whoever was blackmailing his mother? Were the two events connected? The place of Hirst's death certainly seemed to lead one to that conclusion. But was it the right one? Or was it simply one of those incredible coincidences?
Patrick doubted it. He did not like coincidences. So. Were there actually two blackmailers? Had Hirst been one of a pair? Had Hirst's meeting with Thea been personal business? Business Hirst had intended to have finished long before Lady Caldecott's expected arrival? And Hirst's murder—the falling-out between partners?
He had no time for farther introspection; they had arrived at Thea's town house. A few moments later, he was sitting in a small, charming room, decorated in shades of cream, blue, and gold, where Thea's cousin, Modesty Bradford, had waited anxiously for her young relative's return.
Modesty had not been the least perturbed by his unexpected appearance in her home at an unseemly hour, or their disreputable state. Patrick's impression was that very little indeed would perturb Miss Bradford. Introductions had been made; refreshments served by a disapproving, bald-headed butler; and Patrick was currently lounging in a large overstuffed chair that fit him very well; a half-consumed snifter of brandy was held in one hand. Thea had just finished up with a recital of their adventures.
"Well!" breathed Modesty, torn between envy and horror, "this is certainly developing into something far more than any of us expected." She glanced at Patrick. "I don't suppose you will tell us why you were at that house originally?"
Patrick smiled faintly and shook his head. "I cannot—it is not my secret."
Modesty regarded him thoughtfully. Instinctively she trusted him, and she knew a great deal more about him than she had let on. More importantly, from her point of view, he was the first gentleman outside of male relatives whose company Thea seemed to endure with something other than impatience and contempt. She found it highly interesting that Thea appeared to be tolerating his intrusion into such an intimate family matter. Patrick's actions were equally interesting, and Modesty wondered if she was the only one who found it curious that he had not immediately reported the murder of Hirst, but had instead imposed, there really was no other word for it, himself upon Thea. Of even more interest to her was the fact that he seemed not to be the least repulsed by Thea's reputation or her less-than-proper behavior. Tonight, she thought, had certainly been a good example of that! She had always known that it would take an exceptionally astute man to look beyond the scandalous stories surrounding Thea and see the warm, generous woman behind the facade. Was Patrick Blackburne that man? He might very well be, and that conclusion pleased her.
"So now what do we do?" Modesty asked, discreetly observing the interplay between Thea and Patrick.
"There is very little that we can do," Patrick replied, gazing into his brandy snifter. "Thea's description of the intruder does not give us very much to go on."
"Can I help it if, from what I saw, he just looked average?" Thea demanded. "It is not my fault that he was not a giant with flaming red hair."
Patrick chuckled, and Modesty smiled at Thea's comment.
Thea shot them both a disgruntled look and stood up. Ignoring their presence, she paced around the room with that restless energy that was such an innate part of her. She made a striking figure. Her hat had been lost at some point during the evening; her torn jacket had been discarded; and her shirt had been retucked into her breeches. At first glance, she looked a stripling and yet, not.
From beneath heavy-lidded eyes, Patrick watched her, and it occurred to him that the boy's disguise would not have fooled anyone who might have looked closely at her. Blessing Providence for darkness and a largely deserted street, he found his thoughts drifting dangerously as he observed the gentle sway of her slim hips. The white shirt was too large for her, but even so, as his gaze shifted, he was able to discern the soft outward thrust of her bosom as she moved about the confines of the small room. Feeling his breeches tighten, he cursed his unruly body and set his thoughts down a different path.
"Are you certain there was nothing about the man that would help us identify him?" Patrick asked.
Thea shrugged. "I told you; I only saw his arm when he reached behind the books, and then his back when I came out from behind the screen. What I did see of his dress appeared to be of good quality—it wasn't something a macaroni would wear, but it didn't look to be the garb of a commoner either. His jacket was dark brown—tobacco-colored—and fit him well." She frowned. "He wore breeches, buckskin, now that I think of it, and boots. I had the distinct feeling that he was a member of the quality. His hair was neatly cut and dark—not black, brown probably." Sighing, she threw herself down onto the sofa beside Modesty. "As for height, I told you; he was not tall, neither was he short. He didn't appear, at least from the rear, to be very thin or very fat. We could, no doubt, pass him on the street and find him quite unremarkable."
"Do you think he is the person who murdered Hirst?" inquired Modesty, looking from one discontented face to the other.
Patrick shrugged.
Thea grimaced.
Silence fell.
"Well," said Modesty eventually, "since there is nothing further we can do tonight, I shall bid you both good night." She rose to her feet and extended her hand to Patrick.
Patrick had also risen to his feet. Bending gracefully over Modesty's slim hand, he bid her adieu. Loosing her hand and straightening, he said, "I should be on my way. The hour is late, and I am sure that both of you would like to retire to your beds."
"Don't be ridiculous," Modesty said forthrightly. "Considering the events of the evening and all that you know of our affairs, I feel that you are quite one of the family. That said; there is no reason for you to rush off." A twinkle in her blue eyes, she said, "I am sure that you and Thea have more to discuss—especially your plans to expose this villain. Normally I would not feel comfortable leaving Thea alone in the company of a man of your reputation—" At Patrick's uneasy look, Modesty laughed. "My dear sir, I may be considered an ape-leader, but I am not unaware of the doings of society—especially those of our more, er, rakish members." When his expression grew even more uneasy, she added, "Yes, I am afraid that your reputation is well-known to me." The twinkle grew more pronounced. "I suppose I should confess that while I have never met you, I have been acquainted with your mother for years. She has spoken of you often—even your more disreputable, ah, escapades."
Uncertain whether to laugh or curse, Patrick chose the former. Laughing, he murmured, "And that confirms what I have always suspected, Mother does indeed have the most effective spy network known to man!"
"And eyes in the back of her head where you are concerned, young man," Modesty said with a chuckle.
They were in perfect charity with each other as Patrick escorted her to the door. Shutting it behind her, he turned to look at Thea. She was still on the sofa, her breeches-clad legs now curled underneath her, and those incredible dark eyes on his face.
Uncertain of his emotions when it came to Miss Thea Garrett, he regarded her speculatively.
"What?" Thea asked sharply. "Why are you looking at me that way? I told you that I did not deliberately attack you."
"I'm sure that you did not," Patrick replied equitably as he strolled back to his chair. Seating himself, his long legs stretched in front of him, he shook his head. "We are, I am afraid, at a standstill. I doubt our fellow will return to the Curzon Street house. Hirst's body is gone—God knows where—and our visitor apparently got whatever he came for. There is no reason that I can see for him to come back."
"I wonder what it was that he took," Thea muttered. "If he is the same person who murdered and hid Hirst's body, and it is logical that he is, why didn't he take it then? Why risk coming back?"
It was a good question, one that Patrick could not answer. He had several ideas, but none that he wished to share with Thea. In fact he wished that she were well out of it—which was, he admitted sourly, exactly the opposite of what he had felt barely over
twenty-four hours previously. He had hoped that she, by way of the departed Hirst, would lead him to whoever was blackmailing his mother. Presently that hope seemed to be dim at best, nonexistent at worst.
Tonight they'd discovered that Hirst's body had been removed, and who knew where or when it would surface. It was true, they had also nearly caught the mysterious stranger who had entered to remove an equally mysterious packet. For Patrick the packet was not mysterious at all—he was convinced it contained his mother's letters. It galled him to think that the bloody letters must have been there the entire time and that if only he had searched more diligently last night he would have been able to lay them in his mother's hand that same evening. Of course then he wouldn't have had reason to further his relationship with Thea...
His gaze fixed on Thea's expressive face he was forced to concede that a great deal had changed within the past twenty-four hours. And most of that change had to do with the infuriating, equally enchanting creature seated across from him.
He now dismissed her reputation out of hand. Hawley Randall had always sailed a little too close to the wind for his liking, Patrick thought with contempt. And while he considered himself as wild and reckless as any member of the rakish society to which they had both belonged, seducing innocents, even with marriage in the end, had never appealed to him. Having met Thea, it appealed even less, and he found himself wishing, with uncharacteristic bloodthirstiness, that he had been the one to end Hawley's life. He smiled grimly. And that, he confessed, was probably the most unnerving thing of all—he had never considered a woman worth risking one's skin for, yet here he was, longing to cross swords in her defense, and with a dead man at that!
"Why are you smiling?" Thea asked abruptly.
Patrick shook his head. "Nothing you would understand—I'm not even certain that I do myself." Rising to his feet, he added, "The hour is late. I think that we will all be able to consider this evening's events more clearly after a night's sleep." Taking her hand in his, he urged her to her feet. "May I call upon you tomorrow?"
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