For the Duke's Eyes Only

by Lenora Bell

  “I’m not sure I should be encouraging you,” he said.

  “No,” she said with a pert smile. “You should be thanking me. Because there may come a time when this watch will save your life. After you turn it, you press down. Then you’ll hold your breath and fling it at the person you wish to incapacitate. It won’t harm them, only tranquilize them, send them into Morpheus’s arms for a good many hours. It’s my latest invention. But don’t tell Uncle. I’m still in the development stages.”

  Raven tucked the watch into his pocket. “You’re going to be a whole lot of trouble for some man, someday, Miss Mina.”

  But she’d never be his trouble. She was aesthetically pleasing, like a sculpture carved by a master, but he preferred his women older. On the tall side. With breasts that would overflow his palms.

  Slim hips, yet a generous arse. Limbs for days . . .

  Black hair and grayish-purple eyes.

  Her eyes sparkling, Miss Mina curtsied. “I’ll take that as a compliment, Your Grace. You’d better go to Uncle now.”

  “I think I’d better. Excuse me.” Raven made his bow and left.

  He carried his pistol case back to the house, leaving Miss Mina to her target practice, her inventions, and her dreams of a London Season.

  He found Sir Malcolm in the library. “Your niece seems a bit restless,” he said.

  Malcolm glanced up sharply. “Did she say something to you?”

  “She asked me why I wasn’t married, leveled a pistol at me, and told me she was nineteen and that you couldn’t keep her cloistered here forever.”

  “Damnation.” Malcolm struck his palm against his desk. “I can’t stand the thought of letting her go. I know what’s out there.” His eyes were bleak.

  He’d lost his wife and young daughter one year before Raven came to live with him.

  “The world is a dangerous place,” Raven said gently. “Especially for young ladies. But she wants to have a London Season. You must let her go.”

  He’d been trying to do the same thing with Indy—protect her from harm by telling her to stay home—and it hadn’t done any good.

  “Mina is different from other young ladies,” said Malcolm. “She’s far more inquisitive and inventive, she says whatever eccentric thing comes into her head. She has a genius for all things mechanical. Can you imagine her at Almack’s Assembly, explaining to the Lady Patronesses about how to modify a pistol’s firing mechanism to make it go off more quickly?”

  “Surely you have a female relative who might guide her.”

  “There is my aunt. She never had children of her own. She might welcome Mina, but . . .”

  “You don’t want to let her go.”

  “She’s such a comfort to me. And I don’t want her to be hurt.”

  “You must allow her to have her freedom,” said Raven quietly.

  “I know. I’m just not ready yet.”

  “I think she was flirting with me.”

  “The deuce you say! I’ll have you drawn and quartered.”

  “I didn’t flirt back, but she could benefit from a woman’s influence. She’s surrounded by men here, and not the type of men you’d want her to be involved with, if you take my meaning.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it. I still think of her as a child. But you’re right. If she must be taken away from me, I’d rather have her find a perfectly ordinary man to marry, not someone . . .”

  “Someone like me.”

  A man with too many dark secrets. A man with blood on his hands.

  “Your words,” said Malcolm. “Not mine.”

  “Lucky for you, I’m not on the marriage mart.”

  “Speaking of which, how did your meeting with Lady India go?”

  “It was exactly as you said. I had no luck at all.”

  “So she’ll be going to Paris as well. That’s a complication, but it shouldn’t be a hindrance. Could even be useful.”

  “Wait, there’s more. I . . .” There was no easy way to say this. “We kissed. And a newspaperman may have walked in on us.”

  “Good God, man, how did that happen?”

  “We were at Banksford’s residence and Mr. Peabody of the Observer was there to interview him about his steam engine.”

  “Well this does complicate things.”

  “Complicated doesn’t even begin to describe it. You’re going to read some very unusual details about our upcoming nuptials in the paper. It’s all hogwash. We’re not really going to marry.”

  “I see.”

  Those two words held volumes of unspoken meaning.

  He saw that Raven had lost control.

  He saw that Indy was his weakness. His Achilles heel.

  Malcolm studied the paper he held. “You’ve passed the tests. By the skin of your teeth, mind you.”

  “You’ve already had my debriefing. It was an impossible situation. There were four of them and two of us. They caught us unawares.”

  “You’ve suffered an injury. No shame in taking a holiday.”

  “Save your concern for someone who needs it.”

  “I think you’re ready to go back out but there are others who might question my decision.”

  “You mean Lord Grey.” He was Sir Malcolm’s direct superior at the Foreign Office and there were those who said he could become the next Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs.

  “He’s concerned about your stability.”

  “Just give me my marching orders and I’ll see the job done.”

  “See that you do,” said Malcolm. He handed Raven a dossier with the word confidential printed across the front. “Here’s the latest intelligence on Le Triton. Also profiles of Beauchamp at the Louvre, Ambassador Petrov and . . . Sir Charles.”

  “Why Sir Charles?” Raven was confused by his inclusion. He knew the British ambassador to France quite well.

  “We’re afraid he’s gone somewhat feral. He’s taken Margot Delacroix as his mistress and may be feeding her information.”

  Margot Delacroix, the most alluring of the Paris demimondaines, and the most dangerous. She was a French royalist agent who would stop at nothing to keep the Bourbon regime in power. She was also Le Triton’s close associate. Because of her ties to the underworld, Raven had shared her bed once, more than three years past. She hadn’t betrayed any confidential information, and Raven had admired the skill with which she had attempted to manipulate him to her purposes.

  Sir Charles was playing a hazardous game.

  Raven placed the dossier in his pistol case.

  “Engaging Le Triton will require a bargaining chip,” said Malcolm.

  “The Wish Diamond. He’s been after it for years.”

  “A rumor will soon spread through Paris that you’ve made bad investments and are in need of cash. Your cover is that you’re in Paris to sell the diamond necklace but you won’t go through an intermediary. You’ll arrange a face-to-face meeting with Le Triton, inside his fortress.”

  “I’ll make the deal, or I’ll take his base by force.”

  “Don’t be a hothead. There’s a reason we haven’t been able to bring him down. He owns the French police. And we’ve never been able to gain a clear picture of the layout of his fortress.”

  “I’ll find a way inside.”

  “Just don’t do anything stupid. You’d be one man against dozens. I’ll have a team in place to help you—you’ll receive my signal.” Malcolm stood and walked around his desk. “Now that I think about it, your traveling companion will make a fetching model for the necklace. You can have her wear it to Le Triton’s gaming establishment in the Palais Royal.”

  “Not going to happen, Malcolm. I won’t use her as bait.”

  “You’ve used females as diversions before. Treat this like any other assignment. You told me there was no attachment between you.”

  It wasn’t just any assignment. Not when Indy was involved.

  “Those women received compensation for their aid and they were aware of the risks involved,” s
aid Raven.

  “I think having her there could be beneficial. She seemed eager for the mission. From what you’ve told me about her she’s not defenseless.”

  “I won’t use her as bait,” Raven repeated.

  Malcolm shrugged. “Maybe you’ll reconsider once you’re there.”

  A footman delivered a message. “Ah, from our friend Lord Grey,” said Malcolm.

  “Telling you not to send me on assignment, I’ll wager.”

  Malcolm slit the letter open. “You’re wrong. He anticipated that I would send you back to the field and he sent a message.”

  Raven lifted an eyebrow. “Well? What does he say? I know it’s not Godspeed and good luck.”

  Malcolm chuckled. “It says ‘Tell Ravenwood not to cock it up this time.’”

  “Not a chance. This mission will be flawless. Smooth as silk.” In and out with stealth and precision.

  This was a test.

  Fail this mission and they would force him to retire. It would be far more difficult to fully prove his father’s innocence when Raven was no longer an agent. And then what would he have sacrificed everything for?

  “Be careful,” said Malcolm, shaking Raven’s hand.

  “I’m always careful.”

  “Don’t let emotion color your judgment. I know that you and the lady have a history.”

  “That won’t be a problem.” Raven took his leave.

  He had one purpose only. If he kept his gaze firmly locked on the target, his hand would never waiver. He must locate the stone swiftly and return it to England. So swiftly that Indy wouldn’t have a chance to court danger.

  He’d never allow her to be harmed by association with him.

  He might never be able to extract her from his heart but at least he could continue to make her think the worst of him. She’d said she didn’t wish him to be pleasant. He was prepared to be as tiresome as she desired.

  Lewd, crude, and rude. The Ravenwood she knew and loathed.

  A brick wall. A blunt instrument.

  By the end of this journey she’d wish she were anywhere else than with him.

  Chapter 9

  Indy arrived at the coaching inn early that evening and waited while Ravenwood supervised the placement of their trunks atop the traveling coach he’d hired for their exclusive use on the overnight journey to Dover.

  When all was arranged to his satisfaction, he handed her into the coach. “Where’s your maidservant?” he asked. “We should be off immediately.”

  “I never travel with my maid. I’m accustomed to doing for myself. While Fern’s a dear, she’s forever scorching my hair with heated tongs, or attempting to wrestle me into fashionable gowns. I find her more of an encumbrance than an aid on archaeological expeditions.”

  His face registered shock and then censure. “Indy, I had assumed you would at the very least bring a maidservant with you on our journey. It would be prudent.”

  “Why, are you planning to ravish me?”

  He frowned. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Why would that be ridiculous? Of course she didn’t want him to ravish her. But she didn’t think it was so very strange to arrive at the conclusion that the lusty thoughts she had about him might be reciprocal, given the kiss they’d shared.

  The kiss that could never have an encore performance.

  “Well I’m not planning to ravish you,” she assured him, “so you may as well climb into this carriage so that our quest may begin.”

  His eyes darkened to flat brown. “Are you certain you want to go through with this? Why don’t you travel to Egypt as you had planned? It’s not too late to change your mind.”

  “Good try,” she muttered.

  “I wonder, if I had begged you to come with me, would you have stayed home out of principle?”

  “Nothing could keep me from the relic we seek. Not even the prospect of your irritating company on the journey.”

  There went that sardonic brow of his, lifting over a mocking expression. “That’s what I thought you’d say, my super-dainty Indy, who sings as sweetly as a nightingale.”

  Now he was quoting Shakespeare? “You must be hard of hearing, my ruffian rogue,” she rejoined. “Now if you don’t mind I had hoped to reach Dover early tomorrow morning.” She patted the seat cushion. “Don’t worry, I won’t bite.”

  A fleeting expression of something like panic crossed his face. He doffed his hat and made a slight bow. “I’ll do anything for a woman with a knife.”

  He climbed into the coach and a groom closed the door.

  The carriage left the yard.

  The traveling coach he’d hired was by no means as luxurious as one of her brother’s carriages. The interior was commodious, built for six or more passengers, and the seats were covered in faded and cracked leather. There was a decidedly unromantic lingering odor of snuff and moldy cheese.

  Which was perfect.

  Stale snuff and lumpy leather upholstery was far preferable to sandalwood and soft, plush velvet.

  Otherwise, this might be too much like the beginning of one of her bawdy dreams. Alone in a carriage with Ravenwood . . . on an overnight journey to Dover.

  In one of her dreams, all manner of depraved and degenerate things would be bound to happen.

  She was determined that nothing worse than a little ribald repartee was going to occur in this carriage tonight.

  The best way to safeguard her heart was to pretend that she didn’t own one. She was fully capable of out-maneuvering Ravenwood at his own game.

  He drank like a fish? She’d guzzle him under the table—or under the carriage bench.

  He was calm, cold, and collected? She’d be an iceberg with a side of frost.

  Everything was a bawdy joke to him? She had dozens of off-color jests at the ready, learned from the sailors on her voyages.

  And the number-one way she was going to win was this: she would never lose her temper. Not once. No matter what asinine things he did or said.

  She unlocked her handsome mahogany traveling kit to reveal silver flasks, cups, and table settings gleaming against red velvet.

  The carriage jostled but she expertly extracted two silver cups with handles shaped like sinuous dragons.

  “What’s your poison?” she asked Ravenwood.

  He turned away from the window he’d been studiously staring out of since they left the White Bear coaching inn. “Pardon?”

  “Old French cognac, Scotch whisky, rum, gin . . . I’m practically a traveling tavern.”

  “I’m partial to Scotch whisky,” he said with a bemused look.

  She selected the whisky and concentrated on pouring it into the cup instead of onto the upholstery.

  She handed him the cup. “Peatmoor Old Scotch whisky.” She poured a generous portion for herself. “If the bottle’s to be believed it ‘carries the wild rough scent of the Highland breeze.’”

  “To your health.” Ravenwood lifted his cup.

  They swallowed at the same time, their gazes locked. She downed the fiery liquid without sputtering or saying any of the foul words that sprang to mind.

  She’d been practicing.

  She wiped her sleeve across her lips. “Another?”

  Ravenwood arched one brow, shadows playing over the keen edges of his handsome face. “Why not?”

  The whisky burned going down her throat but she approved of the mellow warmth it spread through her belly.

  “Ah.” She swirled the dregs in her cup. “Puts one in mind of a good stiff breeze to lift a bonnie Highland laddie’s . . . tartan,” she said with her best Scottish burr.

  Ravenwood choked on his drink. “Have you even been to Scotland?”

  “No, but they make delicious whisky and the men wear skirts. What’s not to like?”

  “They’re called kilts.”

  “Whatever they’re called, I hear they wear nothing underneath. A Highland breeze might be the beginning of a very special show.” She tilted her head, glancing lasciviously
at his lap. “For a lady’s eyes only.”

  The remainder of his whisky spilled down his cravat.

  She hid a smile behind her silver cup. Her plan was off to a capital start. She was definitely out-rogueing him by a healthy margin.

  “You really must be more careful, Your Grace. That’s very expensive imported contraband.”

  “I’ve Scottish blood on my mother’s side.” He hooked one ankle over the opposite knee and leaned back in his seat, the very picture of aristocratic nonchalance. “I’ve been known to wear a kilt on occasion.”

  If he’d been wearing a kilt, the foot-propped-on-the-knee move would have given her a very entertaining show indeed.

  Devil take her wicked imagination.

  “Is it warm in here?” She fanned herself with the spy novel she’d brought to read on the journey. Actually it was quite chilly. She had woolen blankets tucked around her and heated coals in a brass warmer at her feet.

  “When did you start drinking whisky?” he asked. “Doesn’t seem up your alley.”

  “You don’t know what’s up my alley,” she said archly.

  “Apparently not.” He ran the edge of the cup over his chin, drawing her attention to the stubble of whiskers already shading his angular jaw. Why did that faint, shadowy evidence of his masculinity make her want to kiss him again?

  Must be the whisky.

  He spread his arms over the back of the carriage seat. They stretched nearly the entire length of the seat. His eyes were the color of the whisky in her glass.

  He caught her eye and his lips slid into a slow smile.

  If she’d been the kind of woman who blushed, her face would have turned beet red.

  “Seems to me that you might try to ravish me after a few more glasses of whisky,” he said. “Women don’t hold their spirits in the same way as men. Wait, wait—” he interrupted her indignant protests. “Before you accuse me of being an arrogant jackass, my observation is based strictly on scientific facts. My body mass is larger than yours. I’ve more surface area to absorb the spirits.”

  He certainly had a large surface area.

  His hands were simply massive, his fingers long enough to wrap around the entire silver cup. She tested the girth of the cup she held. Her thumb and forefinger only stretched halfway around.