Instead her fingers slipped into the bottom hem of his breeches. She had to know, suddenly. She wanted to know all of him. The good, the bad, the scarred parts, and the whole ones.
“Caroline,” he said.
“Tell me if I need to stop,” she repeated.
She hooked her thumb into the brass buttons that fastened the outer seam of his breeches, working each one free.
“Caroline,” he said again, a warning. But he did not stop her. She braced herself for what she was about to see.
She slid the fabric up, revealing the ball of his knee. The skin was intimately pale there, there were no freckles, and a smattering of wiry red hair sprung out from beneath the edge of his breeches.
There was no scar. No misshapen bones, or gruesome contortions. Just a knee—an enormous knee, she wouldn’t be able to cover it with both hands—the flesh stretched smoothly over the pear of his kneecap.
Caroline inched the breeches farther up his thigh. They wouldn’t go far; the muscles there were monstrous. Still no scars, no signs of the injury he’d suffered a decade ago.
Maybe time had been kind to him, for once, and erased the physical evidence. Maybe the damage was internal, a fracture or sprain that never healed properly.
Maybe it was none of those things. She couldn’t begin to guess how Henry bore his grief, his relentless regret, all these years. If she’d learned anything, Caroline understood everyone had his own way of coping. She had her garden; perhaps Henry had his knee.
She looked up to his eye patch; the leather thong dug into the skin of his temple. She met his eye. It appeared small with hurt, an edge of fear. A little wet.
“Caroline.” He was pleading now.
Leaning over him, she held back his breeches and pressed her lips to his knee, gently.
After a moment, she straightened and rolled the fabric back down to the top of his shin, coaxing each button through its embroidered hole. She tucked the breeches into his boots.
“I hope it feels better,” she said.
He inhaled, mouth opening as if he were about to speak.
She leaned in and kissed him on the lips. The ache in her chest heightened. Henry kissed her back, watching her watching him. It was chaste, this kiss, compared to the others they’d shared. His eyelashes fluttered against hers. They did not close their eyes.
He was the one to pull away. He stood and walked softly toward the window. Caroline followed him.
“Thank you,” he said, holding his mouth in his hand.
They both turned to the window.
There, far below, a familiar face looked up to them, mouth curled evilly into a smile.
“Good morning, lovers,” the Marquess of Woodstock drawled. “Such luck, Mr. Lake, that you are here to see me claim my prize!”
A figure, cloaked in black, struggled in the circle of Woodstock’s arm. Caroline narrowed her eyes to get a better look, but in that moment, Woodstock pulled back the figure’s hood, revealing a tumble of vibrantly red hair.
Fake hair.
A wig.
“Come down now, the both of you,” Woodstock said, holding a pistol to the figure’s head. “I would so hate to harm your friend Mr. Moon.”
Thirty-four
In the alley that ran along the length of the house, Caroline swayed on her feet beside Henry. She closed her eyes; her bottom lip trembled.
“Keep breathing, Caroline,” Henry murmured in her ear, tucking her behind him. “It’s going to be all right. There, that’s it, that’s better.”
Henry’s fingers curled into fists at his sides. He cursed, silently, though no less fluidly than he would have aloud.
His own pistol lay at his feet. He should have shot Woodstock the moment he saw him. He should have saved Caroline while he had the chance. For God’s sake, he was better than this; a better agent, a better husband.
Could he call himself that, her husband? Or had he forfeited that honor to his old friend Osbourne?
His gaze moved to Woodstock’s tall, lanky figure. That smile of his—Henry wanted to tear it off his face.
Mr. Moon squirmed against his grasp; Woodstock had his arm wrapped around his neck, the pistol pressing into the soft flesh of Moon’s cheek, dimpling the skin there.
“Are you all right, Moon?” Henry said. He kept his voice low; the house would be stirring soon. He did not have much time.
“A bit brassed off with this one,” Moon stuttered. “Otherwise right as rain, sir.”
Woodstock’s grin deepened. “My patience has worn thin. You can have him back, Mr. Lake, once you give me the lady. Or I suppose I could kill them both, if you do not cooperate.” He raised his eyes, peeked over Henry’s shoulder. “Hello, darling. What fun we shall have together!”
Behind him, Caroline stiffened. He reached behind and pulled her against him. She was shaking.
Henry glared at Woodstock. “I need more time. The French Blue—we’re close—”
“Are you?”
Again Caroline shook. Again Henry felt as if he’d been stabbed through the heart. He’d let her go once. He’d rather be dead than let her go again, and to this man.
Woodstock tightened his grip on Moon; Moon was trying, valiantly, to breathe.
“Stop it,” Henry growled, stepping forward.
Again Woodstock clucked his tongue. “I’ll stop when I have the diamond. Where is it? I have given you several days to look.”
“Give me another,” Henry said steadily. “When I find it, it’s yours. I swear to you. I’ve my best men on the case.”
“Men like this one?”
Moon made a small wheezing sound, like air rushing out of a punctured bellows.
“Stop it,” Henry repeated. “I need more time. You’ve chased after me for twelve bloody years. What’s another few days?”
“I’ve waited long enough.” Woodstock’s tone turned savage. “Give her to me.”
Henry’s heart punched against his breastbone. Never, never, never. “Don’t be a fool, Woodstock. You know as well as I do the power the French Blue buys you. Old Boney’s lusted after it for years. You could use it to change the course of the war. Surely that’s worth more to you than she is.”
Woodstock inhaled a long breath through his nose as he surveyed Henry from across the predawn gloom.
My God, thought Henry. He’s going to do it. He’s going to give me more time.
“No,” Woodstock said at last. “I don’t think so, Mr. Lake.”
The marquess released the safety on his pistol. He dug it so far into Moon’s cheek the poor man gurgled—a choked scream. Henry could see the whites of his eyes. Behind him, Caroline was shaking so hard it was a miracle she remained upright.
“Wait!” Henry cried. His mind raced. “Wait, please. The French have already contacted me. What if I . . . what if I put them in touch with you? They offered a handsome sum—and more—for the jewel. Once it’s in your hands it will be easy to trade. You’re bored here, Woodstock, and you know it. You’re not meant for civilian life. The diamond is your way back in.”
Woodstock grinned. “We know each other well. Don’t we, Mr. Lake?”
“Unfortunately,” Henry replied. “Remember our bargain. It works out in your favor.”
The marquess gave Henry another long, searching look. “Very well,” he said, pulling back his pistol. Moon slumped against him in relief. “Although this changes the terms of our ‘bargain,’ as you so adorably call it. Bring me the French Blue, and I will consider your debt paid. In the meantime, I shall keep your colleague here—Mr. Star, was it?—as a token of your good faith.”
Henry clenched his fists. “That’s not what we agreed to—”
“I don’t care what we agreed to. I keep him until you bring me the diamond. Understood?”
Lake eyed Mr. Moon. Moon returned his gaze
steadily. Go, he mouthed. Go.
Henry hated to leave him. But he had no choice.
“Fine,” Henry said. “You can expect to hear from me presently.”
“Wonderful. I look forward to seeing you both. Good evening, Mr. Lake, Lady Osbourne.” He bowed.
Rising, he stepped forward and reached past Henry for Caroline’s hand, bringing it to his lips. “Thank you, darling, for a marvelous interlude. I cannot wait to do it again.”
Caroline did not cower from his touch, though Henry could feel the tremors that racked her body.
With a small flourish, Woodstock turned and, tugging Moon beside him, disappeared down the lane.
All at once, Henry was turning Caroline to him and taking her face in his hands and whispering his apologies.
Caroline scoffed as she looked down at her bare feet. “Poor Mr. Moon. D’you think Woodstock—do you think he’ll hurt him?”
Henry bit his lip. “I’ll find the diamond, Caroline. I’ll make this right. You needn’t worry.”
“Of course I need to worry. Between you and William, I haven’t got time to do anything else.” She looked up. Her eyelashes were wet, clumped together, making them appear darker than usual. “What are we going to do?”
“We aren’t going to do anything,” he replied. “I’ve a few tricks up my sleeve. These kinds of things always work themselves out at the eleventh hour.”
The lies came easily. He had no idea what he would do. He’d searched everywhere for the diamond. He would redouble his efforts, but with Moon gone it was practically futile.
Things were looking very bad indeed.
The neck of Caroline’s gown slipped; he saw the remnants of bruises, left by Woodstock not long ago.
For a moment a wash of fury blurred his vision.
“Your neck,” he said.
“It’s all right,” Caroline whispered.
“No,” Henry said savagely. “No, Caroline, it’s not all right. I’ll never forgive myself—”
“Please, Henry.” Caroline leaned her head against her chest and sighed. “Enough. Enough of everything, for now, at least. Just hold me for a moment, would you?”
Henry blinked. This—this was more than he ever hoped for, a chance to hold in his arms the only thing he’d ever wanted.
Her. Caroline.
He dug one hand into the hair at the back of her head, careful not to touch her neck; the other he placed on the small of her back. With both hands he pressed her against him, resting his chin on the top of her head.
Henry was so tempted to kiss her.
He didn’t.
Caroline melted against him, her arms drawn up against his chest. She was breathing deeply, her nose against his shirt as if she were as desperate for his scent as he was for hers. Which she wasn’t, of course, but he could pretend, for a moment at least, that she might be.
The terrible ache in his leg lessened. Not for the first time since he’d been back in England did he wish he had both eyes. There was too much loveliness here, too much goodness to take in with one eye alone.
When at last Caroline pulled away, Henry pasted a smile on his face. He told her he would find the diamond, and save Moon, and fix everything. He asked several times if she was all right, if she needed anything.
Mostly if she needed him to stay.
She didn’t.
He walked her to her window. He watched her clasped hands fidget and fight with one another. She rolled her lips between her teeth.
Henry reached for her, sliding his hand into the hair at her temple. He bent his neck and pressed his lips to the place where her forehead met scalp.
“Leave this to me, Caroline,” he said. “Heavens, I am one of His Majesty’s most decorated agents. Surely in the face of such genius Woodstock doesn’t stand a chance.”
“Genius,” Caroline scoffed. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
Thirty-five
Caroline handed her hat and gloves to Avery and covered her face with her hands, fingers finding purchase in her eye sockets, sore from lack of sleep.
She hadn’t slept in what felt like forever. Not since Woodstock had appeared beneath her window that fateful morning some days ago, pistol in Mr. Moon’s cheek.
“Everything all right, m’lady?”
She let out a little moan.
“Right, then,” Avery said crisply. “I’ll have tea brought up to the drawing room.”
“Thank you, that sounds lovely,” she murmured, sighing. “Any word from my brother?”
Avery dipped his head, lowered his voice. “He returned home this morning, and has been locked away in his study ever since. He won’t see anyone.”
“Has he eaten?”
“I’m afraid not, m’lady.”
Caroline sighed again. Lady Violet regained consciousness a few days ago; the first thing she had done was send William away, apparently with strict instructions to leave her be.
While Caroline couldn’t blame the poor girl—William had shot her in the midst of an immensely foolish duel—her heart ached for her brother. Yes, he could be a careless cad, and yes, he could only blame himself for the terrible position in which he now found himself.
But he was in love, with a woman he’d irreparably wronged, with a woman who would not have him.
Caroline could relate to both sides of that equation. She wouldn’t wish either on anyone, even her rakehell of a brother.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Caroline said. “Perhaps I might convince him to take tea with me.”
Avery bowed, and disappeared down the hall.
Caroline followed him, stopping before the study’s carved oak door. She leaned her ear to the wood; nothing, not so much as the scratch of a quill against paper.
She knocked, softly. “William? William, are you there? I’m taking tea, I thought you might like to join me.”
“Later!” came the clipped reply.
“William,” she tried again. “You need to eat. Please—”
“Later!”
Caroline jumped at his shout.
Well, then. She’d be taking tea alone.
The silence inside the drawing room was visceral thing, enormous and alive, combing its fingers through the shiny motes of dust floating before the windows. Caroline stirred sugar into her tea, waited for it to cool.
And then she burst into tears.
She’d had no word from Henry. Which meant the diamond was still missing, and Mr. Moon still a hostage. She hoped and prayed Woodstock did not hurt him. That he was alive and well.
Caroline prayed she would still be alive when all was said and done.
It hurt, Henry’s absence, his silence. She thought about him day and night. She craved him, so often and so ardently she swore she could smell him, his scent invading her chambers at night.
Like a lovesick Juliet she waited at her window, offering up a series of increasingly desperate prayers that he might gallantly call out to her from below, and climb into her room and tell her he’d found the diamond and defeated Woodstock and turned the tide of the war in England’s favor.
Alas, her warrior Romeo did not appear. She wondered where he was, who he was with. If he was getting any closer to the diamond, any closer than she was.
Despite Henry’s admonishments to keep away, she searched high and low for the stone. She spent her days visiting pawnbrokers (discreetly, of course), jewelers’ shops, even a gambling hell or two.
Caroline would come home exhausted and discouraged, as she had today. As far as she could tell, the trail had gone cold. The diamond was lost.
She did not like to think about what that meant for Henry, or Moon. For her brother, for Violet, for Thomas Hope.
Which she did now, and which made her cry harder.
She was about to sink into rising tide of her self
-pity when the drawing room door swung open, slamming against the far wall.
Caroline jumped, spilling scalding-hot tea down the front of her gown. She looked up to see William, his hair and cravat tragically askew, stalking toward her.
His face was lit with—wait, was that joy?
Quickly she wiped her eyes, ignoring the sting of the hot tea seeping against her skin.
“I’ve found it!” William lifted her from the settee and squeezed her so hard she thought her eyeballs might pop out of her head. “The diamond! Caroline, I’ve found the diamond! And I’ve got a plan to get it back.”
Caroline blinked. For a moment her heart stopped beating altogether; her lungs burned.
“Is that,” she wheezed, “what you were doing, in your study?”
William set her down, shoving a sheaf of papers into her hand. “It’s taken me all morning and afternoon to devise it. You see, Avery uncovered a bit of gossip about old Louis, the one who’s calling himself king now, that he likes to watch women—”
“Wait,” Caroline said, blinking. “King Louis? As in—?”
“Yes, that King Louis. He’s the seventeenth’s younger brother, the one who lost his head.” William waved away Caroline’s questions. “Anyway, you know he’s in exile here in England, and I saw him last night, at White’s, and I overheard him talking about the diamond. He knows where it is!”
Caroline peered dubiously at her wild-haired brother. Dark stubble covered his chin and cheeks. “Are you sure that’s what you heard? You’ll have to forgive my assumption, dear brother, but you haven’t been exactly of sound mind these past days. An exiled would-be king, one you found at White’s, willing to spew his secrets in public? Sounds rather . . . interesting.”
“Interesting?”
Caroline coughed. “Farfetched.”
William clapped a hand to his forehead and rolled his eyes, a gesture Caroline was quite familiar with from their days in the schoolroom. William still labored, sadly, under the delusion that he was the cleverer of the Townshend children.
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