Her manservant cleared his throat and flushed. “Will you require half an hour to change, milady?”
“Whatever for?” Annica looked down at her trousers, smudged with dirt and grime. Her conscience tweaked her, but only for a moment. “His lordship was not expected. I refuse to set my day in a dither because of an unexpected caller.”
“But it is Lord Auberville—”
“Why, so it is.” She smiled evenly. “Then I suppose I must be polite. Thank you for the reminder, Hodgeson.” She halted further discussion with an airy wave of her hand.
She allowed Hodgeson to act as her social conscience due to her deep affection for him, finding it more difficult to dismiss his pained expressions than her aunt’s and uncle’s frequent laments. Indeed, Hodgeson’s raised eyebrow was the closest thing to a reproach that she ever felt, and his occasional limp was all the reminder she needed of all she owed him.
Glancing about for a place to put her trowel and gloves, she caught sight of a weed beneath her potting bench and bent to remove it. Though she yanked and pulled, the plant was more deeply rooted than she’d thought. She tugged sharply to dislodge it and, when the roots gave way, was unprepared. Her bottom landed with a plop on the hard-packed earth of the greenhouse floor. Dirt sprayed her face. Her braid loosened from its coil and slipped down her back.
“Phooey!” She spat dirt off the tip of her tongue.
From behind, strong hands cupped her elbows and lifted her to her feet. “Are you injured?” a husky voice asked.
She turned to face the new arrival. Disconcerted by what she found, she stood docilely while the man removed a snowy linen handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and wiped at the dirt across her nose. When she tried to back away, he held her immobile by catching her chin, then tilting her face up to him again.
Warmth crept into her cheeks and she watched a half smile play across sensual lips, causing a rogue dimple to deepen in the man’s chin. Clear cool blue eyes that would shame a winter sky twinkled at her, and a cap of dark blond hair streaked golden by the sun topped a face with enough mystery to be interesting. A fading jagged scar ran across his left cheekbone, and she was not aware of touching it until the man smiled again. As he did, a little thrill raced from her fingertips to the back of her neck.
“From a d-duel?” she asked, feeling like a schoolgirl.
“I scarcely know what to say. I’m tempted to answer whatever would most please you.”
“The truth pleases me.”
“Shell fragment. Trafalgar.”
She winced, feeling a sharp stab of pain in her own cheek. Oddly, the mark saved this man from the stigma of masculine beauty and placed him in a far more intriguing category. And, just as odd, she thought she read danger in the smile.
“Lady Annica, I presume?” he murmured, releasing her chin.
She cleared her throat, broke eye contact and stepped back, gathering her wits. “Yes. And you must be Lord Auberville.” She waved at the card on the potting bench.
“Have I come at a bad time?”
“Not to be rude, Auberville, but did we have an appointment? I cannot for the life of me remember having met you, let alone having invited you to call upon me.”
“We have not met. I came at your uncle’s suggestion.”
Annica felt a twinge of disappointment and annoyance that this man was going to be just like all the others. For a moment she had wondered if… “I must admit, he came very close this time. You may go now.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Uncle Thomas never tires of throwing fresh meat to the lioness. It has been nearly a year since the last time, though, and I thought he had finally given up.”
“I do not…” Auberville lowered his dark blond eyebrows.
“I am unmarried by choice, Auberville. I do not entertain suitors. I am not interested in making any alliances, no matter how sensible or beneficial to both families. I cannot be persuaded by false flattery nor pretty speeches. I am, in short, a hard nut to crack. Take my advice—we shall both be happier if you do not waste your time in the effort.”
He spread his arms wide, a picture of innocent confusion. “You have me at a disadvantage, Lady Annica,” he said. “I haven’t the faintest notion of what you are talking about.”
“Did Uncle Thomas not send you to see if we might be what he calls ‘a fit’?”
“Good Lord! Is that what you thought?”
Annica frowned when the handsome young earl began laughing. “Is that not the case, Lord Auberville?”
“Not at all, dear woman.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“Botany.”
Her mind went blank. “I fear you have me at a loss.”
“I mentioned to your uncle that I am preparing for publication a treatise on flowering shrubs indigenous to the Cornish coast. My editor has requested a folio of approximately fifteen illustrations. Thomas said you are a talented illustrator, and pointed out an example of your work. I’d pay handsomely, of course.”
“Your tea, milady,” Hodgeson announced. Unperturbed by the scene before him, he placed the silver tray on a table by a cushioned garden bench and turned to regard her with an impassive face. “Will I be showing his lordship out now, milady?”
“Another cup, Hodgeson.”
He lifted one eyebrow slightly before he nodded and left to fetch the cup.
“My apologies, Auberville,” Annica murmured, squirming with embarrassment. She must seem like an egotistical chit to the handsome lord. She turned away and slapped the dirt from her trousers. She bent over to put the weed in a basket and rinse her hands in a bucket of water. “I’m apt to assume the worst where Uncle Thomas is concerned. He means well, but I cannot make him understand that I really have no wish to marry. ’Tisn’t as if the family line will die with me. Heaven knows, his own children promise to be a prolific lot,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. She was surprised to find Lord Auberville watching her with a cryptic expression on his handsome face. The corners of his mouth twitched as if he found something amusing.
“But I must say I am intrigued by your offer.” She straightened and turned to face him. “Would I be likely to have the specimens here, in my own collection?”
“There’s the rub,” he admitted. “The specimens are sufficiently rare as to be generally unavailable. I have located twelve of the fifteen in various conservatories or greenhouses in or near London. Three others—the most rare, and therefore the most important—do not thrive under cultivation. They bloom only in mid-August, for a fortnight, on the western coast. They are a variety of phlox, but quite unlike any growing elsewhere.”
“Interesting,” Annica conceded. She motioned her caller to the garden bench and took a seat beside him. The extra cup arrived, and she poured for them both. “’Tis mid-May. That will delay your submission until autumn, will it not? Sugar? Milk?”
“Lemon,” he requested. “We are not in a hurry. My editor and I would prefer to wait and have the illustrations done properly than rush into publication without them.”
“I admire your patience, milord.” She dropped a lemon wedge into his cup and handed it to him before adding a drop of milk to her own. “My own experience has indicated that most men are wanting in that regard.”
“I assure you, I’m a very patient man.” He favored her with an enigmatic smile.
Unaccountably unnerved by that comment, Annica turned back to her duties as hostess. Using the silver tongs to place a slice of sponge cake on a small plate, she arranged several strawberries and a dollop of whipped cream on top. A sprig of mint leaf finished her artful arrangement. She placed a fork on the side and presented him with the dish.
“Thank you, Lady Annica,” he said, his voice nearly a purr.
She nodded and took a sip of her tea. “Will you be giving me a list of the plants and conservatories where the specimens are to be found?”
“Unfortunately, no. I’d prefer that, of course, but the owners
of the conservatories have agreed to allow me access only upon appointment. Wretched inconvenience, but there it is. I suppose we could arrange to go together.”
Annica shrugged, as if indifferent. “When did you want to begin, milord?” she asked. “I do have a few other commitments.”
“Oh, ah, I should think immediately. If we can have the rest done before we have to leave for Cornwall, we could be ready for submission by the end of August.”
“Has your publisher set you a deadline?”
“September 5.”
She frowned and pushed her cake around on her plate with a fork. The thought of taking on such a project was surprisingly appealing, though she couldn’t say why. “I shall put some of my other projects aside in order to accommodate you, Lord Auberville. Give me a day or two to tidy up loose ends.”
“There you are ’Nica! I’ve looked all over the house. Are you—oh!” The plump, gray-haired woman stopped short. “Hodgeson did not tell me we had a guest, dear.”
“I suppose he thought it was of little consequence.”
“Oh, I am certain you do not mean that, Annica.” The woman smiled apologetically at their guest.
Annica bit her lip, realizing her glaring faux pas. “Sorry, Auberville. I meant that Hodgeson must have thought my having a caller…not that you were of…well.” She stammered to a halt, then took a deep breath and changed direction. “Aunt Lucy, may I present Tristan Sinclair, Lord Auberville? My lord, please to meet my aunt, Lady Lucille Sayles.”
Having already come to his feet, he took her aunt’s offered hand and bowed over it. “Lady Sayles, I am charmed.”
Aunt Lucy inclined her head in acknowledgment. “Do sit down, and please accept my apologies for the interruption.”
“Join us, Aunt Lucy. We have concluded our business.”
“Oh.” Her face fell. “I see.”
Annica knew what her aunt thought, and laughed. “No, Aunt Lucy, I have not given him ‘short shrift.’ Auberville came to me with a business proposition at Uncle Thomas’s suggestion. I am going to illustrate his treatise on Cornish flowering plants.”
“But you’ve never done that sort of thing.”
“Uncle has shown him one of my pieces, and he says my work is acceptable.”
“More than acceptable, Lady Annica. Quite charming,” Auberville offered.
“You and my husband are acquainted?” Lucy asked.
“We belong to the same club,” he explained.
“I see. How fortunate for ’Nica. She has always said she would like to do something of importance. To have her work published in a quality book will be quite an achievement.”
Achievement! “Oh, good heavens! I forgot this is Wednesday. The ladies will be waiting at the Book Emporium.” Annica sprang to her feet, set her cup aside, kissed her aunt’s cheek and backed toward the greenhouse door. “Auberville—my apologies. Aunt Lucy will keep you company while you finish your tea. So good meeting you and all that. See you soon—next week latest.”
“Bluestocking society, you know—call themselves the Wednesday League,” she heard her aunt lament as she hurried across the lawn. “Spinsters and one widow. So disappointing.”
“Psst! Over here, yer ladyship!”
Annica kept her head down and slowly circled the table in one aisle of the bookseller’s shop, examining titles as she went. When she came shoulder to shoulder with a short, powerfully built man, she stopped and picked up a copy of Pride and Prejudice. “I did not notice you without your red waistcoat, Mr. Bouldin,” she whispered, referring to the Bow Street Runner’s mark of identification.
“You said as ’ow you didn’t want to be noticed, yer ladyship.”
“Quite right. It would never do to have society know that I conduct investigations. I fear such a thing would put me far beyond the pale. Now, did you bring information regarding Farmingdale?” she whispered.
“Aye. ’E’s leavin’ tomorrow night, just after midnight.” He passed her a piece of paper. “That’s where an’ when.”
“Well done, Mr. Bouldin. My group has another job for you.”
“I gathered as much, yer ladyship.” The man nodded. “I already started lookin’ for the fourth bloke. What else d’ye ’ave for me?”
She glanced around to be certain she was not observed, then took a piece of paper and several banknotes from her reticule. She slipped them between the pages of the book and returned it to the table, selecting another for examination.
The man scratched his dark head and retrieved the book Annica had just put down. He read the paper and pocketed the banknotes.
“What’s this about, Lady A.?”
“Precisely what we want to know, Mr. Bouldin.” Annica glanced toward the door, struggling with unease. “These women have disappeared without a trace. They must be somewhere. And this morning I received word that Constance Bennington’s abigail, Frederika Ballard, did not return from her day off.”
“I’ve ’eard rumors about this, yer ladyship. I’d leave it alone, was I you.”
Annica lifted her eyebrows slightly. “I cannot ignore the issue, Mr. Bouldin, because next time it could be one of my friends.”
Chapter Two
Tristan attempted to hide his impatience with the older man across from him. He had more important things to be about this evening than listening to Lord Kilgrew.
“…so you see why I have asked you here, my boy.”
“Actually, no,” he answered. “Could you speak more plainly, m’lord?”
“We want you to nose about, use your sources and see if there’s anything to the rumors, eh? Use your connections, lad. If Mustafa el-Daibul has concocted a white slavery scheme, you’ll know it—and know how to deal with it. You’ve got a singleness of mind that makes you both ruthless and successful. You are unparalleled as a strategist.”
Tristan ran his fingers through his hair. He stood and went to look out the dingy office window at the darkened street below. “I resigned when my father died, sir.”
“One never resigns from the Foreign Office, Auberville. Nor retires. You knew that going in. And we knew the appeal to you was in the danger and the risks you’d take.”
Yes, he’d known. He was painfully aware of his reputation as a dangerous man when he was on assignment. Furthermore, it was no secret that he’d been overruled last year when he’d wanted to put an end to Mustafa el-Daibul after the disastrous Algerian affair, his last mission.
He had been sent to Tunis covertly, along with another unit working independently, in an attempt to locate British hostages held for ransom by the Barbary pirates. But there had been a traitor in their midst during that fiasco, a man they came to call The Turk. They’d had to close the operation down quickly to prevent further damage and deaths. Perhaps Tristan’s superiors thought he’d like a chance to even the score now.
Perhaps they were right.
Another assignment would complicate his life somewhat, and complicate his personal plans. But he could not turn away from a chance to even the score and discover the identity of The Turk. “I shall look into the matter, sir,” he said, turning from the window.
“Keep it confidential, Auberville. Can’t have this business of missing women whispered abroad. Cause a panic and all that.”
“Report to you, sir?”
Kilgrew handed him a piece of paper with a name scrawled across it. “Send word to him. He’s been put on the problem as well. He has hired a room in Whitechapel for your meetings. He will report to you and act as our liaison. We shall arrange a meeting if circumstances require.”
Tristan glanced at the paper. The Sheikh! He knew the code name quite well, one chosen in jest for the man’s popularity with women. He counted the man as one of his few friends—one who knew the best and worst of him. He felt the same anger over The Turk’s betrayal as Tristan. They would make a good team. The man was as single-minded as he.
“Done,” he said, impatient to end the interview. He retrieved his hat, cane and glov
es from the table near the door.
“Hear you’ve set out to find yourself a wife, my boy. About time. Man in your position needs heirs—someone to keep the home fires burning whilst he’s off on business.”
“So I’ve heard, sir. Loyalty, someone you can count on, is everything, is it not?” Tristan lifted one eyebrow, neither confirming nor denying the rumor.
Annica Sayles was definitely going to be a worthy opponent, Tristan knew. She’d instructed him to call for her at quarter past one and take her to the first specimen. He’d received royal summonses with less authority than this short missive held.
Once he’d recovered from the shock of finding her in trousers, he’d grown rather fond of the sight. The lady’s derrière had looked quite charming as she bobbed and strained, trying to pull the weed. Perhaps he ought to have made his arrival known, but the scene was so amusing he could scarcely move.
And when she bent again, to rinse her hands in the water bucket, he found himself wondering if she had any idea how appealing a woman’s bottom in men’s trousers could look. He’d concluded she couldn’t possibly know. She’d never give him that much pleasure. At least not deliberately. Still, for some unaccountable reason, his heart felt lighter today.
The contrast between Lady Annica’s looks and her manners was surprising. Her dark hair and sparkling eyes were sultry and exotic, promising a deeply sensual nature. Her throaty, delicious laugh hinted at a wicked sense of humor. Oh, but her manners! She was all brusque business—at once imperative and self-confident. He found himself wondering which was the real Lady Annica Sayles—the exotic, sensuous woman, or the autocratic little termagant. He was intrigued by the prospect of having either in his bed.
“Gads! How could I have been so rash?” Annica turned in a wide circle in the center of her little studio, a wide portfolio open on her drafting table.
“I’m certain I could not say, milady,” Hodgeson replied. He stood patiently, his hands clasped behind his back, his jutting chin tilted upward. “Lord Auberville is waiting, milady. Perhaps you could inquire of him?”
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