The Undercover Scoundrel

by Jessica Peterson

  Caroline elbowed him, or tried to, at least. He scoffed—“nice try”—and pressed her against the wall, stilling her movements as he twisted her free arm behind her back.

  His breath tickled the hair at her temples. A shiver worked its way down her body as she struggled to catch her breath.

  “Give me the wig,” he said.

  “Not this time,” she mocked, holding it closer to her chest.

  He pressed his body against hers. “Caroline. What the devil d’you think you’re going to do with a wig? Give it to me.”

  “No. Not until you let me help you—”

  “Hand it over. Now.”

  “No-o!”

  And then he was reaching in front of her, his fingers on her belly as he grabbed at the stringy curls, and she was wrenching away from him, her insides seizing with laughter.

  “Give,” he panted, “it!”

  “You can’t,” she said, “have it!”

  Caroline doubled over, unable to breathe between great sobs of laughter, and Henry took advantage of her momentary weakness and grabbed the wig from her hand.

  He was laughing, too, tugging the wig onto his head and dangling the curls against her face, making her laugh harder.

  “I’d like to see you steal it now,” he said, drawing to his full height.

  Caroline let out a sigh of relief as her laughter subsided, closing her eyes against the tears. She fell against the wall.

  She wondered what it was about Henry, exactly, that made her laugh so hard she cried. This was the second time in as many weeks; it felt as lovely as it had that first time in her garden with the peonies. Her sides ached, her eyes burned.

  When she opened her eyes they fell, naturally, on Henry.

  He was naked. In the throes of her laughter she’d forgotten that fact.

  And naturally her eyes wandered from his face to his shoulders and chest, down the sinewy ridges of his torso and hips. They followed the narrow trail of darkening hair from his navel to his groin, coming at last to his sex.

  It hung, soft and careless, from between his legs, nestled against a thatch of wiry, red-gold hair. Even as she looked at it—marveled at it, really, it was the first time she’d seen a man’s cock since she came face-to-face with this same one more than a decade ago—it began to stiffen in apparent appreciation, and grow, its smooth surface becoming engorged with veins, color.

  Henry, it seemed, had also forgotten he was naked, and just as his sex sprung to vibrant, sudden life, he tugged the wig from his head and held it over the offending organ, turning abruptly away from her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t want . . . I didn’t mean for you to see that.”

  With some effort, Caroline tore her gaze from Henry’s buttocks. They were very pale, round; where thigh met backside, the skin puckered into two tiny, deep dimples, adorable and childlike, just like the dimple on his cheek.

  She swallowed for the thousandth time, and drew to her feet. She cleared her throat. She had to tell him, if only to do something, keep herself from shoving Henry back onto the bed, and having her way with him.

  “Woodstock,” she said. “I saw him. Today. We’re running out of time.”

  Twenty-five

  A pulse of rage, hot and blinding, shot through Henry. He stepped forward, towering over her. “Are you all right? Did he harm you?”

  “I’m fine. But we’ve got to defeat him, Henry, before he comes after us. He grows impatient—”

  “But how did he get to you? I sent Moon—”

  “You said it yourself—Woodstock is a trained spy. I don’t know how he got to me. But he knew I’d be unguarded, for a moment at least. We don’t have much time.”

  Mr. Moon, something of an expert in the field of eavesdropping, suddenly appeared in the doorway, a pair of trousers in hand.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “I was following her, I was, but then I, ah, had to answer nature’s call—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Caroline said. “Woodstock didn’t hurt me. But he will if we don’t move quickly.”

  “We are not doing anything,” Henry said, casting Moon an evil look as he exchanged the wig for the pants. He turned around, shuffling into shadow. Stepping into the trousers one leg at a time, Henry’s heart clenched; he blew out his cheeks. He hated the idea of involving Caroline, now more than ever.

  Moon, ever the diplomat, cleared his throat. “Perhaps three minds are better than two.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Caroline squared her shoulders. “We might come up with some ideas—”

  “About the wig?” Henry turned back to Caroline.

  Caroline picked at her skirts. “Well. No, not really. I’m not sure what I was thinking about the wig.”

  “Woodstock demands either you or the diamond—the choice is clear.” He looked to Moon. “We should make it.”

  Ignoring him, Caroline stood. She turned and began to pace before the window, hands clasped behind her back. There wasn’t much room to move in either direction; the chamber was small, the house hardly the Hanover Square mansion to which she was accustomed. It made her movements appear frantic: three steps in one direction, turn, three steps in the other.

  “What about a hired assassin?” Caroline said. “Surely you know one or two of those?”

  The corner of Henry’s mouth curled upward. “Even if they did exist—which, strictly speaking, they do not—assassins are more trouble than they’re worth. Rough lot, they are, most of them drink gin to break their fast. Half the time they’re the ones being stabbed in the eye, rather than the other way around. Trust me, even if I kept assassins in my employ—which I do not, remember, because they do not exist—I wouldn’t call on them for this.”

  “He’s right,” Moon said, toeing at the edge of the faded rug. “By the time these nonexistent assassins sobered up, it’d be too late. We’ve got to make our move, soon, before that bastard—pardon my language, my lady—changes his terms again.”

  “There’s that we again,” Henry ground out.

  Caroline fell into her chair with a sigh of despair so ardent her lips sputtered. “Really, the two of you are the best England has to offer, and you haven’t thought of anything?”

  “I have,” Henry replied. “I’m going to give the French Blue to Woodstock. That’s always been the plan, Caroline. It still is.”

  She tugged at a loose curl, winding it about her finger. “There’s a better plan. We just haven’t thought of it yet.”

  She looked away from him, brow furrowed as her gaze flitted to the ceiling, as if she might find the answer there. Henry glanced out the window. Rain lashed against the pane. The diamond weighed heavily on his thoughts. He would be glad to be rid of it, whether it went to Woodstock or to Bonaparte.

  Henry turned back to her when she suddenly stirred. Caroline looked down at the lock of hair in her fingers, then she looked up at Mr. Moon.

  He was busy brushing out one of his wigs. This one was blond and wavy; Moon draped it over his fist, running the silver-handled brush through it with great care.

  Caroline’s eyes lit; Henry watched the spark of an idea unfurl into something else. Something she was obviously excited about.

  She rose. “Tell me, Mr. Moon,” she said, sidling up beside him, “exactly how extensive is your wig collection?”

  Moon shrugged; he didn’t look up from his brushing. “Sizeable. Why?”

  Caroline met Henry’s gaze. “Then you’ll have a wig that matches my hair.”

  Mr. Moon turned to survey Caroline’s tumbling locks. “Your hair is an unusual color—darker than most brunettes, a bit redder. But I suppose I have something close.” He grinned at Henry. “Are you going to dress my superior as your twin?”

  And then, suddenly, his face fell as the realization dawned upon him. He looked at Caroline.
They were the same height; not exactly the same build, but Moon was nowhere near the hulking monster Henry was.

  “Oh,” Moon breathed. “Oh. I’m going to be your twin.”

  Caroline tapped a finger to her lips. “My body double, as a matter of fact.”

  “That’s bloody genius,” he replied, lips curling into a wicked smile.

  She looked pointedly at Henry. “Isn’t it, though?”

  It was all he could do not to roll his eyes. Pushing his hand into the hair at the back of his head, Henry sighed. “And how does this bloody genius plan of yours work?”

  “You agree to Woodstock’s bargain,” Caroline said, eyes dancing with mischief. “Tell him you’ll hand over the diamond. You won’t, of course, but you still bring it to him—“

  “Wait, wait,” Henry said, waving away her words. “Not two steps in, and already your plot has a serious hole. We don’t have the diamond.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “Yes, we do. I do, I mean. My brother does. I know where he’s hiding it.”

  Henry blinked, his heart tripping inside his chest. “What—wait—wait, Caroline. The diamond—you mean to tell me you know where it is?”

  “I do.” She held her chin high, the soft plane of her jaw pearlescent in the low light of the fire. “And I will give it to you under two conditions. First, that you agree to my bloody genius plot. We shall require the French Blue for its success. Second, you must swear to keep it from Woodstock’s grasp.”

  For a long moment she stared him down, willing him to defy her. That look in her eyes—the determination, the challenge, the spark—it was formidable.

  And arousing as hell.

  Henry needed that diamond. They all did. But he could not tell which choice would make him the bigger fool: accepting Caroline’s offer, or refusing it.

  “All this time, you’ve known where the diamond was?” Henry asked.

  “I had my suspicions,” Caroline replied. “Suspicions I confirmed not long ago.”

  Hands on his hips, Henry poked the inside of his cheek with his tongue. “Whether you know where the stone is or not, it’s always been my plan to give the jewel to Woodstock—”

  “I won’t let you do that.” Caroline turned, stepped toward him. “There’s too much at stake, Henry. All the lives you could save—what do I matter, when weighed against all the good you could do with this diamond?”

  He stepped closer, too close, the words escaping his lips before he could think to control them. “You are the only thing that matters. Not that you’re a thing. But you matter to me, very much.” He spoke savagely. “I won’t do it, Caroline. Tell me—is there anything I can do to change the terms of your offer?”

  Caroline shook her head. “No. Either you let me help you, or the French Blue stays where it is.”

  Henry glanced at Moon. Moon shrugged. “I don’t have any ideas to outsmart Woodstock. You’re going to lose the diamond, sir, if we don’t think of something, and soon.”

  “Please, Henry,” Caroline pleaded. “I want to help.”

  Involving Caroline in his dealings with Woodstock was Henry’s worst fear realized. For twelve years he’d protected her from him; he’d sacrificed everything to keep her safe, keep her far from the danger that followed him day and night.

  And now she would step into the lion’s den beside him. He would try, heavens, he would try, but Henry couldn’t protect her from Woodstock at such close quarters. The thought of losing her, and to Woodstock—

  Henry swallowed, hard. He looked at Caroline, lovely, her eyes lively as she plotted with Moon. She didn’t understand the danger in which she placed herself. But he wouldn’t stop her; he couldn’t.

  All he could do was play his part, and play it well, and pray that if he did not escape Woodstock’s grasp unscathed, she might.

  “I have your word, Henry, that you won’t trade the jewel to Woodstock?”

  Henry tugged a hand through his hair, let out a long, low breath. “You do.”

  “Splendid. To my brother’s house, then.”

  * * *

  The thunderous clap of hoof beats sounded behind Caroline; whoever it was, he rode like the devil. The ground began to tremble beneath her feet. It was dark here in the alley, too dark even for shadow; she could hardly make out the line of Henry’s shoulders as he limped ahead of her.

  The hoof beats grew louder, imminent. In a flash of sudden, violent movement, Henry turned and with his body wedged her against a nearby wall, his knee thrust between her thighs. She let out a cry; he covered her mouth with his hand, and pressed his body more firmly against hers.

  The horse hurtled past them, so close Caroline felt the great whoosh of wind it trailed in its wake. She watched in wonder as the horse and its rider disappeared down the alley. It could’ve been the darkness, or the wavering of her senses with Henry so near, but she could have sworn the rider rode the horse without a saddle, his fists tangled in his mount’s inky mane.

  A horse thief, perhaps? She hoped the rogue hadn’t pillaged her brother’s stables.

  Henry released her. “Sorry about that,” he panted, smoothing back his hair. “But he would’ve run us over. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “It’s all right,” she replied, even as the unease in her belly pulsed brighter. The last echoes of the horse’s hoof beats faded. Peering one last time down the alley, Caroline turned in the opposite direction and made for Hanover Square.

  * * *

  Henry held the taper aloft as Caroline opened the door to William’s dressing room. Her heart skipped a beat when her eyes fell upon the drawer.

  It gaped open; stockings hung haphazardly over its sides and covered the floor, as if it had cast up its accounts. Caroline toed aside the silk and the cotton and the wool as she darted for the drawer. Glancing inside, she felt sick.

  She didn’t have to dig to know the diamond was gone.

  A cold rush of panic moved through her limbs. She covered her face with her hands. Their plan, the wigs, the defeat of Woodstock . . . their hopes, dashed in the space of a single heartbeat.

  What were they going to do without the diamond?

  Henry appeared at her side. “What? What is it?”

  “The French Blue,” she replied. “Someone took it. It was here, not a few days ago . . .”

  “Wait,” Henry said. “William kept the French Blue here, in his sock drawer? A priceless, fifty-carat diamond? In his sock drawer?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  His eye reflected the taper’s flame in a single pinprick of light, a tiny star floating in the darkness of his pupil.

  “May I?” he asked.

  Caroline nodded. He passed her the taper and stepped toward the drawer. His face was a study of hard planes as Henry tore at the drawer’s remaining contents, a flush of anger creeping up his neck to his chin, his cheeks.

  “It’s not here,” he said at last, resting his elbows on the open drawer. He pressed his thumbs to the place where his eyebrows met, and closed his eye.

  “You think that man, the one on the horse—”

  “Maybe. Could your brother have moved it elsewhere? To a safe, perhaps”—he scanned the mahogany cabinets lining the drawing room walls—“or another drawer?”

  “No.” Caroline slumped against the cabinets. “William would keep the French Blue here, in that drawer, or nowhere at all. It’s gone.”

  “I apologize for the language I am about to use. But shit. This puts us back to where we began.” He took a deep breath. “Just shit.”

  Caroline swallowed, silently cursing herself for not taking the diamond when she had the chance. “Henry, I’m so sorry.”

  He turned his head and opened his eye. “It’s not your fault. Stop apologizing. We’ll hunt it down, the diamond, though I may be forced to cut off your brother’s fingers this time
around.”

  “Fine by me.” Caroline sighed. “That scalawag deserves it.”

  And then, after a beat: “You won’t really, though, will you? Cut off his fingers?”

  One side of his mouth quirked up. “No, I won’t really.”

  “Good,” she said with a sigh of relief. “We can still do it, you know—put our plot in play without the diamond. Tell Woodstock you’ve agreed to hand me over—”

  “No,” Henry said, savagely. “I won’t go near that man without the French Blue in pocket. If something goes wrong—and knowing our luck, it will—we’ll need the diamond as protection against any threat Woodstock might make to your life.”

  Henry rose and dug a hand into his hair, gathering the golden strands between his fingers. She watched, transfixed. Even in his shimmering anger he was handsome.

  “I’ve got to go,” he said. “In the meantime, I won’t have you feeling guilty about this. Promise me you won’t?”

  She met his eye. “Let me come with you.”

  “No.”

  The vehemence of his reply startled her.

  “But why—?”

  “Stay here, Caroline. Let me sort this out. If I find anything, I shall come to you, straightaway.” He paused. “Thank you. For trusting me.”

  * * *

  Caroline was reaching for the knob when the kitchen door swung open, sending her flying—where else?—into Henry’s arms.

  Avery stumbled into the hall, hair and costume askew. “Oh, oh, my lady, I am terribly sorry! Are you all right?”

  Caroline remained plastered to Henry’s chest. The bones in her shoulders vibrated in time to his heartbeat. She inhaled, deeply, the spicy scent of his skin filling her head.

  He set her on her feet. He touched her as if she were a stranger; efficiently, tepidly. It made her stomach hurt.

  “Yes,” she said. Her gaze swept over his person. “What about you?”

  Avery opened the door the rest of the way. At once half a dozen men swarmed around him, each one dressed in Harclay livery. A tendril of panic unfurled in her chest.