An Irresistible Alliance

by Stephanie Laurens

  “Wasn’t me,” Landry said.

  “Or me,” Grimsby added.

  Michael finally spoke, still working to mute his accent. “You haven’t heard of any other carters taking that job?”

  The men eyed him for a second, then transparently decided that if he was Miss Hendon’s guard, he was acceptable company.

  “I bumped into Joe Carpenter the other day,” Landry said. “That was Wednesday morning, and we were both out to the mill at Islington, so it couldn’t’ve been him.”

  Grimsby shook his head. “I haven’t seen any of the others recently—not for the past few weeks. We three here”—he nodded at Fields and Landry—“tend to pick up from the more northern mills. The others live more to the south, closer to the river, which is why we don’t run into them so often. But if the pickup was in Kent, then most likely one of them did the job.”

  Cleo smiled. “Thank you for your help.”

  Michael pointed to their mugs. “Your next round is on us—I’ll tell the barkeep.”

  Three faces lit. All three chorused, “Thank ye, miss—sir.”

  With nods and smiles—at least from Cleo and the three carters—they parted. Michael gripped her arm tighter, steered her back to the bar, caught the barkeep’s eye, flicked him a crown and told him to fill Fields’s, Landry’s, and Grimsby’s mugs, take one for himself, and keep the change, then, guiding Cleo before him, he made a beeline for the door.

  At least he’d contributed to their successful retreat.

  They exited the tavern on a wave of goodwill and bonhomie. Despite that, he didn’t draw a truly free breath until they reached the hackney and he helped her in.

  He finally let go of her elbow; his fingers felt cramped. In retrospect, he was amazed she hadn’t protested his continuing to hold her close once they’d left the tavern.

  Just as well, because in the mood he was in, he wasn’t sure he would have released her.

  The shadows were deepening; it was late October, and night was not far away.

  He looked up at the jarvey and was about to tell him to drive to Clarges Street when Cleo leant out through the open carriage door. She was frowning at the list, which she was holding between her hands. “Our next carter lives in Rosemary Lane.” She looked up at Michael.

  He hesitated. “It’s getting late.”

  She glanced up at the sky, currently painted in shades of purple, then looked back at him. “It’s not that late yet, and as I understand it, there’s a clock ticking somewhere—correct?”

  He couldn’t deny that, but…

  Before he could marshal further arguments, she stated, “Now we’ve worked out our strategy for asking questions, let’s try at least one more.”

  He stared at her for several seconds, then set his jaw and looked up at the jarvey. “Rosemary Lane. Fast as you can.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  The encouraging smile his partner-in-adventure bestowed on him went some way—a very small way—to soothing the beast that seemed to be prowling just beneath his skin.

  She drew back into the carriage, and he climbed up and joined her.

  The instant the door shut, the jarvey cracked his whip, and they—partners-in-adventure—set off on the hunt once more.

  * * *

  He should have realized they would face the same situation in Rosemary Lane with Martin Carter as they had with Fields farther north.

  More, he should also have realized that Rosemary Lane, being so much closer to the docks, would make the consequences, at least for him, infinitely worse.

  They found Carter’s house easily enough. This time, Michael stood behind Cleo’s shoulder, and when the door was opened by Carter’s mousy wife, he retreated even further behind his partner so she could question the woman without the patently timid soul being distracted by him.

  He hadn’t considered the effect he had on people—ordinary people not of his class—until she’d pointed it out, but he couldn’t deny it. He knew it happened; he’d just never thought much of it before—it hadn’t mattered.

  The timid Mrs. Carter eventually volunteered that they would find her man in the Barrel and Spiggot in nearby White’s Yard. Michael had actually been to the Barrel and Spiggot—in the wild and reckless days when he’d first come on the town. It had been a rough tavern then…

  “Perhaps,” he said, falling in beside Cleo as she strode briskly down the street, “we should defer speaking with Carter until the morning.”

  She cast him a swift, sidelong glance. “Nonsense. We’re already here, and he’s only around the corner.”

  They turned in to White’s Yard. This was an area much closer to the docks, a warren of tiny lanes, alleyways, ginnels, and passageways in which all manner of vermin lurked. He reached out and took hold of Cleo’s elbow while his eyes tracked movement in the shadows. The glow cast by the gaslights was dim and made murkier still by tendrils of mist rising off the river and seeping through the lanes.

  “There’s the place.” As bold as brass, she made directly for the door.

  He gritted his teeth and kept pace.

  As they neared, the pub’s door swung open, and three men, weaving on their feet and clearly the worse for drink, stumbled out, clinging to each other in an effort to remain upright.

  Instinct kicked. He hauled Cleo against him, within his protective reach. They slowed, circling the drunken trio, who didn’t even notice them in the pervasive gloom.

  He halted to the side of the pub’s door. She’d stiffened when her shoulder had connected with his chest. But she hadn’t tried to pull away, nor had she made any protest. Just as well.

  He hesitated, then lowered his head and murmured, “Are you sure you want to go in there?”

  A second ticked past, then she turned her head and looked him in the eye. “You’ll be with me. I’ll be perfectly safe.”

  Something in him stilled. He blinked.

  She faced forward and started for the door. “Come on. Let’s find Carter before he drinks any more.”

  He couldn’t argue with that, yet he kept her close—closer than before. As far as he was concerned, her earlier words gave him license to do whatever he felt necessary to ensure her safety.

  Reaching past her, he pushed open the door and ushered her into the crowded public room.

  Cleo halted just beyond the threshold and looked around. All of the carters they’d spoken with thus far had sported flat caps; she wondered if Martin Carter wore one, too.

  But she couldn’t see far; a wall of large male bodies blocked her view. More, her presence—and possibly that of the man at her back—was already drawing wary looks. She glanced at Michael. “Let’s go to the bar and ask, as we did before.”

  All she received in response was a sharp nod. Rather than looking at her, his eyes were on their surroundings, tracking, assessing, evaluating—searching for threats. And if she was any judge, issuing blatant warnings. He eased them forward, guiding her through the throng. Despite the distraction of being held so close to him—so close that her senses felt overloaded—she had to admit that regardless of the horde of rough males surrounding her, she’d never felt so utterly confident of her own safety in her life.

  That wasn’t the way she usually felt when surrounded by rough men. Certainly not the way she was accustomed to feeling in the presence of a man like Michael Cynster. All the Cynster males were rakishly handsome, and it was commonly held that all were…rakishly inclined. Their reputations certainly painted them in that light. In the presence of such men, she was invariably stiff, very much on guard. Yet with Michael…she might have been guarded for the first few minutes of their acquaintance, but by the time she’d successfully pushed her way into his mission, she’d lost all wariness of him.

  As they reached the bar, she realized that, although she’d known him for only a few hours, he’d somehow stepped inside her guard and now stood in a position similar to that of her brothers, although she definitely didn’t view him in any sisterly light.

/>   The barkeep was a dour-faced man; she smiled brightly at him while Michael asked for Martin Carter. After a measuring look for her and a wary glance at the presence at her back, the barkeep directed them to a table across the room.

  They stuck to their previous strategy of her leading the questioning, waving the guild list and smiling sweetly; if anything, Carter proved to be even more easygoing than Fields, Landry, and Grimsby, but like them, he knew nothing of any barrels of gunpowder being ferried up from Kent. He confirmed that their group never loaned their carts to other drivers and said he hadn’t loaned his even to one of his peers in an age.

  Information secured, Michael again proposed a round of drinks for the table, which was well received, and they retreated in good order.

  Cleo had expected to pause outside the door, if nothing else to tuck the list safely away, but Michael kept her marching rapidly across the cobbles.

  Alerted by the grim tension still infusing him, she glanced right and left, then frowned. “It can’t be much past six o’clock, yet it’s as dark as night already.”

  “River mist. Overly spaced streetlights. Lots of shadows.”

  The shadows seemed especially dense, almost as if they were alive and reaching out from the alleys…

  He was still holding her close; she decided she approved.

  They reached the hackney, still waiting in Rosemary Lane; he helped her climb in, released her, and called up to the jarvey to drive to Clarges Street. As she sat and settled her skirts, she realized she actually missed the sensation of his hard fingers wrapped about her elbow.

  The carriage rocked as he climbed up, then he sat beside her, swung the door closed, and the hackney lurched into motion.

  Michael didn’t say anything for several moments, too distracted by calming…whatever it was that had his guts in its grip. He couldn’t recall ever feeling quite so exercised over any lady’s safety before. Then again, he’d never escorted a lady to the Barrel and Spiggot before.

  He glanced sidelong at her—at the list she was busily folding and tucking back into her tight-necked reticule. Given the tension he’d suffered—indeed, still felt—all of which she’d evoked…

  After several moments, he raised his gaze to her face—and found her regarding him with a steady look that even in the dimness of the carriage felt far too knowing.

  He watched as her eyes, locked on his face, narrowed.

  “I believe you’ll agree that in gaining the carters’ trust, it’s been my name—and the mention of my family’s company—that was the critical factor.” She raised her chin; her tone was decidedly tart. “And my tale of wanting to make an offer on those barrels for our fictitious client in Jamaica further paved our way—without that, it would have been difficult to ask the questions we needed to without raising suspicions, which in turn would have led to a lack of cooperation. As it is, we can cross five names off our list of fourteen. In addition, we’ve learned more about how the gunpowder carters run their business—we didn’t know about the restrictions on loaning and borrowing carts before.”

  Evidently, she could read his thoughts loud and clear. She stared at him for a second more, then with a sound close to a sniff, her chin still high, she turned her head and looked out of the window.

  He sighed and faced forward. “I take it there’s no chance that, now I’ve learned”—he tipped his head her way—“from you what questions we need to ask, you’ll agree to hand over the list and allow me to interview the rest of the men on it alone?”

  “Not a chance in hell.” The words were crisp and held a wealth of determination.

  After a moment, she added, “I might also point out that without my knowledge and assistance, you wouldn’t have any list at all. You had no idea a guild of carters existed, much less that they would have lists of members.”

  “Not even you knew they had a separate group of gunpowder carters.”

  She inclined her head. “That was a stroke of luck, but one we wouldn’t have stumbled on if I hadn’t known who to ask about carters.”

  There were too many things he couldn’t deny. The hackney rattled on through the dark and darkening streets, the gloom of an October twilight fading rapidly to full night.

  Finally, he stirred. “So we’ll need to wait until tomorrow afternoon to speak with more carters.”

  “No.” She turned to look at him. “Today is Friday, so tomorrow is Saturday, and one thing I do know about gunpowder is that the mills—the private ones, at least—don’t send out barrels on Saturday or Sunday.”

  He studied her face through the gloom. “I thought Hendon Shipping didn’t trade in gunpowder?”

  “We don’t, but our ships certainly carry cannons. I’ve been caught out before—long ago—trying to reprovision ships for a rapid turnaround over the week’s end. We now hold several ships’ worth of barrels in our own warehouse near the docks, but the mills deliver to us, so I’ve never had to engage a gunpowder carter.”

  He straightened on the seat. “So when—what time—can we start tomorrow?”

  She shrugged lightly. “Nine o’clock, I imagine.” Then she slanted a glance his way. “If you’re up for it?”

  He knew exactly what she was asking; it was generally assumed that gentlemen like him never saw the morning, never stumbled from their beds before noon. He couldn’t justifiably be offended, but in accents every bit as acerbic as hers, he returned, “I’ll call for you at half past eight.”

  She studied him for a moment, then inclined her head and looked forward. “All right. Eight-thirty.”

  In the deepening gloom, he wasn’t sure, but he thought her lips had curved.

  They reached Clarges Street. He helped her to the pavement, paid the jarvey, then escorted her to her parents’ front door. The aged butler opened it and beamed upon them both.

  She turned and gave him her hand. “Until tomorrow, then.”

  He grasped her gloved fingers, half bowed, then released her. Raising his cane in a salute, he turned away—saying at the last, “Eight-thirty. Don’t be late.”

  He heard an unladylike snort, but at least, as he stepped onto the pavement and headed for Grosvenor Square, it was he who was smiling.

  That, of course, didn’t last long. Despite the hour, he’d elected to walk in order to give himself time to think. Unfortunately, his mind didn’t want to cooperate. He’d assumed that once he was free of her distracting presence, his wits would resume their customary incisive function and lay everything—everything to do with him, her, and the mission—out clearly. Instead, much to his disgust, his faculties continued to be distracted by the tension still simmering beneath his skin. It wasn’t precisely aggravating or irritating—it was more a sense of pressure building, of impulse edging into a compulsion to act.

  To act in what way, to what end, he wasn’t entirely sure, but the pressure was there—had been from the moment Miss Cleome Hendon had bullied her way into his mission—and it was steadily escalating.

  Truth be told, he wasn’t entirely sure why he’d allowed her to seize the baton as she had, but part of his reasoning had been an assumption that, by now, after a few relatively unproductive interviews, her interest would have waned. That she would have had enough adventure and be willing to hand over the list and let him get on with it.

  Clearly, he’d misjudged her mettle. Indeed, however reluctantly, he had to admire the way she’d handled the interviews, and no matter his hopes, she was manifestly looking forward to continuing the hunt by his side on the morrow.

  With the quiet, genteel clop of hooves on evenly paved streets in his ears, he paced along the spacious pavements of Mayfair and weighed the pros and cons of putting his foot down and—somehow—curtailing her involvement and wresting the list from her…yet the truth remained that she knew far more about the world of commerce, of carters and warehouses and factories, than he did.

  And despite Drake’s assurance that they had several days up their sleeve, Michael himself felt a very real sense of
the mission slowly building in urgency—that they needed to locate the gunpowder as soon as possible.

  That meant allowing Cleo Hendon to continue to investigate by his side.

  He considered that conclusion as he turned up South Audley Street, walking steadily north toward Grosvenor Square.

  There was no sense lying to himself; despite the tension she provoked, he was perfectly willing to have Cleo brighten a day spent rocking around in hackneys and talking to carters. They had nine more carters to speak with; he had no idea how many they might manage to interview in one day.

  He might as well accept that he wasn’t going to try to deny her patent wish to continue by his side because he had—entirely unexpectedly—enjoyed her company and wanted to see more of her rather than have her angry enough to shut all doors in his face. She was, on many levels, unique—an original, as the ton would no doubt label her.

  Yet beneath the reason of needing her help, beneath even his liking for her company, ran yet another reason. An uncharacteristic reason; he wasn’t a whimsical man.

  Walking along the west side of Grosvenor Square, he noted that lights were blazing in the front hall of St. Ives House, suggesting his parents were in residence.

  As he crossed the street on the last leg of his journey home, he recalled the eagerness that had lit Cleo’s eyes, the triumph and real pleasure he’d sensed she’d felt over each of their small successes through the day.

  Foolhardy, surely, to allow her to continue to assist him with the mission because of some idiotic impulse to keep that light in her eyes—to keep her happy.

  That wasn’t like him at all.

  * * *

  Michael was in the front hall, shrugging off his greatcoat, when Sebastian descended the stairs and strolled to join him. Eyeing his brother’s attire, Michael arched his brows. “Dinner with the prospective in-laws?”

  Sebastian smiled. “Yes and no.” He paused before the large mirror on the wall and tweaked a fold in his cravat. “Great-aunt Horatia. She got wind of our betrothal—how, I don’t know—and comprehending that Mama will want to commence discussing details of the engagement ball and wedding immediately, Horatia has invited half the family to dine—the older half, of course.”