Loving Lady Lazuli (London Jewel Thieves Book 1)

by Shehanne Moore

  Oh, she was quite sure it wasn’t. She just wished when she was quite sure, he wouldn’t choose that moment to turn round, so he stood facing her, in the soft white of the room in that very masculine way, so it was only with the greatest of difficulties she spoke, “I don’t see it’s up to me to guess, since I’m not the one who has been found where I shouldn’t. For the second time too.”

  “That’s not down to your charms, Lady Armstrong.”

  “Yes. So you keep saying. And yet here you are. My window, my bedroom.” This was a better attempt at the word. “It begs the question of where I’m going to find you next.”

  “In my trouser pocket, probably.”

  His trouser pocket? By now she should have managed to make the bargaining clear. She shouldn’t be having appalling thoughts about his pocket, especially when it was plain as this room, he remembered the last time she was in it. His pocket that was. He edged his long fingers inside. In her bedroom too. Her special sanctuary.

  “If you’ll just … just … wait a minute.”

  She cleared her throat.

  “Lord Hawley, please … just … go—”

  “In a minute. I’m trying … ”

  Whatever she’d thought a moment ago, she’d happily swop the advantage in finding him here for seeing the back of him. Especially when he stood raking close to a certain part of himself, that bit she didn’t want to consider, when her own fingers had once grasped it.

  “Trying to give you this.”

  She edged her gaze sideways. What else could she do? Try to mask her … what exactly? Trepidation? Alarm? Shock?

  He cocked his head. “If I may be so bold, that is? Here.” He reached forward. “It’s especially for you.”

  “A … A … ”

  “An invitation to a ball—soiree, I mean. The notice for anything else is too short.”

  She glanced down. Thank God he had clarified that. How could she think, have thought anything, other than what it was? A perfectly plain invitation card. Worth what at the market … Suddenly, for the life of her, she couldn’t think. What the blazes was wrong with her that she breathed in her throat because her lungs felt as if they were stuck there instead of in her chest.

  “Soiree? Lord Hawley?”

  And not just that, wasn’t this the nicest piece of undermining she’d seen in a long while? “How … how kind.” She hesitated. A soiree. No doubt with the demand that she go. It brought home even more forcefully, as if she needed it, the whole business with Gil.

  Now they would be expected to show their faces together in public. As if she could—Gil, whining and cajoling and reciting Shakespeare--although there was no denying it cemented her position. She lifted her chin.

  “While I am, of course, very, very grateful to you … ” She took in the harshness of his hard-angled jaw. His eyes like Corsican mint. Iced Corsican mint. “Grateful, yes, for the kind invitation—”

  If he thought she was about to say for your discretion last night, and that betokened the lazy flicker of knowledge across his sardonic features, he was sadly mistaken. She wasn’t for bargaining on that score. What she intended was to advise him that if he didn’t let this go, the case she’d make against him would destroy his social standing.

  Not just her bedroom but something missing from the house—for goodness sake, she could do that. As for this silly piece of paper? This soiree? Did he think she was about to fall for that, believing he had simply come in here, to her very bedroom, to give her this?

  She stiffened. “It still doesn’t give you any right to be here. This … this could just as easily have been left with Pearl. There was no need to bring it up here to my bedroom. The one I share with my husband.”

  He shrugged. “I couldn’t find Pearl.”

  “You mean you didn’t look.”

  “Oh, I think you may trust I’m adept at that.” The stare he slid over her face said she could also trust where he was adept. “But maybe she was somewhere with Ruby, talking about the fact they’re both named after jewels.”

  “Hardly a surprise when they’re sisters,” she lied.

  “Pearl and Ruby?”

  “Yes.”

  Although, given the age difference, mother and daughter might have been more credible.

  “They don’t look alike.”

  “Do you resemble Tilly? Eudora for that matter? Of course, perhaps you resemble your brother, who I never met, but I should never have taken you to be related to either of them.”

  He laughed softly. At least she wanted to think it was a laugh. Still. the way he canted his jaw was like the acknowledgement of a point in a fencing match. One he’d preferably not contest. Finally.

  “Be there, Lady Armstrong.”

  “Be? I beg your—”

  “The soiree.”

  She wouldn’t. Not for all the bottles of brandy Starkadder had kept beneath his bed-- Gil too--would she consent to setting foot in Chessington for that.

  Especially when she didn’t doubt the hellish purpose of the soiree.

  “I look dearly forward to seeing you. Both of you. For you to play another charming song.” As if to underline the fact he tapped the paper. Then with perfect disdain he strolled away.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “We need a change of plan.”

  Dumping the arm load of gowns she was carrying down on the nearest armchair, Cass strove to stop her hands from shaking, her voice too. Not with nerves. No. Nerves were things she had murdered long ago. With annoyance. Rage wasn’t worth falling prey to, not when she had conspicuously failed again in her bid to do anything really. So now she was being forced to do this, move over to Barwych Hall itself because of that damned man. Oh, and this one. Gil.

  She didn’t want to. The circumstances didn’t exist on the face of the earth in which she wanted to. Live beneath the same roof as Gil Gressingham, never mind anything else, when she loved the monk’s cell? But the way Devorlane Hawley was sneaking about, the fact she had caught him in her bedroom, gave her no choice. It was that or have Gil there. Not in a year of Sundays. Sermons on every one of them too.

  If he hadn’t insisted on the soiree, perhaps. What was it? A trade off? His silences for her presence. Or a moving of things to an entirely new level? Cass had no idea. But if he wanted to play this dirty game, without even possessing the common decency to wear kid gloves, he’d find her one whole move ahead. She wasn’t London’s premiere jewel thief for nothing. Did he really think she couldn’t maintain the front here, the façade that she and Gil were man and wife--just not in the monk’s cell?

  She would, but she still wasn’t going to that soiree. Not if Starkadder himself rose from the grave and stabbed a bony finger in that direction. When she was going to be sneered at again by fancy-pants Hawley? And this all slid further down the slope she was determined to keep a foothold on? Not bloody likely. Not even if she stood on the drop and it was her last request. Chance for a reprieve rather.

  She stooped down and snatched up the glove she’d dropped on the rug. “Yes. Devorlane Hawley is snooping. I just caught him in my bedroom.”

  She did have a duty to warn them after all.

  “Bleedin’ told yer I should of swung for him last night. The weaselly, soddin’-nosed snout.” Last night was unfinished business. If that clang of cutlery was anything to go by, in the near future, Ruby’s heels would happily dangle. “Startin’ ter unravel a bit though, don’t yer think, Saff? I mean yer bedroom ain’t a place for that soddin’ toff ter be.”

  “Oh, I dunno.” Gil glanced up from his seat by the roaring fire. “Someone must have misdirected him.”

  “If they did, it was because someone else put their size twelve feet in it last night.” Cass threw the glove on the pile. “However, I think this time Lord Hawley knows he went too far. I caught him red handed. And he … let’s just say in some ways maybe the bedroom was the best place to catch him.”

  “Not for him. The soddin’ all he’d get there. Eh, Rube? Don’t you t
hink? I mean, don’t you think knowing our Saff here, as we all do know her, how, well—”

  “You never let me finish.”

  “Don’t see there’s any need for me to go wastin’ breath doing that, not when whot I got left me is whot you might call precious and the day will come soon enough when I ain’t going to be fearin’ no more the heat of the there them sun and all, 'cos see, six feet under’s whot I am going to be. Well, don’t you think? I mean it’s not like we all don’t know our Saff here’s hardly in the market for giving him … Well …”

  Humiliation scorched to her hair roots. “Just because I’m not, doesn’t mean I can’t. All right? Do you honestly think me and Rube, there, haven’t planned this?”

  Well, did he? Which was why, that barb, now he sat, pallid as a specter on her chair—never mind her hopes and dreams—was another dent in her pranged armor?

  “Your plannin’ looks sort of less than square to me. In fact, it looks bent. Yeah. Now, I know there’s them whot will say that’s because I’m shortsighted, see? Which is why I’m going to say it for them. But are you tellin’ me that this here place, this house, whot I do see … are you sayin’ you own it? See? Whot I’m not gettin’, if that is the case, is how come, you knew ole Nicodemus. Starkadder in other words?”

  It was also a barb she’d bear. For the time being anyway. She needed Gil, as much as she needed to keep him at bay. Wondering what was in it for him would ensure that, for the time being too. Especially when so far she’d not found a concrete shred of proof. A gossamer one either. And her belief was founded solely on hidden memories.

  Still she needed to secure it and she needed to secure Devorlane Hawley, without getting into bed with Gil to prove they were a couple. She jerked up her chin.

  “Oh, I own it. It only requires proof which I will shortly have. But if you can’t wait for that, the door is there. Be my guest.”

  ***

  More than ever before Cass was aware of one thing—two, if she counted the musty odor of leather she’d spoken to Barron about several times, the one the whole coach stank of. Oh, and that hideous hog’s head grinning at her from the inn sign opposite, which probably made it three things.

  If she couldn’t deal with Devorlane Hawley face to face, the time had come to do it behind his back. What better way to do it when she wasn’t going to that soiree?

  A bellyful of good pork and claret, after his day in court, would also mitigate Lord Koorecroft’s feelings about the propriety of her recent behavior.

  Seeing a portly figure lumber down the inn steps, she clasped the coach window edge with her gloved fingers.

  “Lord Koorecroft? A moment, sir.”

  Even through the mist, the one that rose from the cobblestones, that moment was one Lord Koorecroft didn’t look inclined to grant. His eyes—rheumy blue—peered as if she was a stranger, his feet moved on past the coach, on the top of which Barron, no doubt, sat twiddling his thumbs. But perhaps that convinced Lord Koorecroft to glance upward, then at her?

  “Begging your pardon, good madam. Do I know—”

  “While we were not introduced yesterday, if you will remember, I was at Lord Hawley’s homecoming.”

  Lord Hawley’s homecoming wasn’t something Cass particularly desired to remember here. Not given the God awful racket she’d made at it, among other things. But perhaps Lord Koorecroft wouldn’t recall everything? She clasped the edge of the window tighter in her velvet gloves.

  “Yes … egad!” Lord Koorecroft exclaimed. “So you was. Wasn’t you the one who played that damnable song? What was it again?”

  As if he couldn’t recall something so cringe-worthy. Still, it wasn’t to say she couldn’t now use the fact to underline certain things. What she planned on saying for a start.

  “That was on account of me not being a true musician.”

  “Then what was you playing it for, if you are no musician? Inflicting such damnable damage on us innocents? Hmm?”

  Cass fought the urge to run her tongue over her lips. Why, when there were at least another three old goats she could have happily gone to here, did this one have to be the most challenging? The hardest to tackle? Especially given the fanciful story she had lain awake the whole night concocting? The one she was now finally going to be able to tell.

  That he was also more influential than any of them was the single consideration that prevented her driving in their direction now. Get Lord Koorecroft on her side and that would be the end of Devorlane Hawley. Get Lord Koorecroft on her side and she’d not only have dealt with things as she’d vowed last night, she needn’t answer another question about who she was. The peace would be perfect. Heavenly after yesterday’s startling events.

  “Because I would like to be a musician.”

  “So, why don’t you damn well learn to be one then and spare us good—”

  “Unfortunately, as the wife of a servant of the realm, in this time of great and unbearable crisis, that has not been possible.”

  “Wife?”

  There. She’d said it. Now to wait for the expected reaction.

  Lord Koorecroft’s eyes bulged. “But I had it from Tilda you was a widow.”

  And still would be having it, had Gil not gone and turned up last night—which was why Cass felt her jaw stiffen in a ghastly parody of the smile she attempted to give.

  “Wait … good madam, are you saying—”

  Cass squeezed back into the dark interior of the carriage. Lord Koorecroft’s jaw had dropped open. This was over if she did not press the advantage and this was the perfect opportunity to do so. To seize it and truly make it hers as she’d failed conspicuously to so far, she needed to seem a little more discreet than she was perhaps being, sitting in a carriage at a tavern door. To look, in a street bustling with afternoon shoppers and traders unloading goods from carts, a little more dignified, put upon, by the ungallant Lord Hawley. To seem driven by his vile peeping Tom persecution into behaving in ways she would normally shrink from, gallant little woman that she was.

  “Yes. In—in the service of my country, there have been sacrifices. That was but one. I am sure you understand.”

  “Your—”

  As he worked his mouth open and shut, Lord Koorecroft seemed astonished. Truth to tell he wasn’t alone. Cass wasn’t going to do anything other than smother hers though. Appearing modest, keeping her eyes downcast, a little fidgeting with her gloves perhaps, was all she should do here. Not leap about that she’d finally said these words.

  “You mean to tell me, my dear young lady that—”

  “Military matters have always taken precedence. Yes. That is what I am saying. Why I had hoped—indeed, Elgie and I both had, especially now life, alas, has treated us so unkindly—that he would be allowed to live out the suffering remainder of his days in the peace and tranquility of our delightful surroundings.”

  “Good God.”

  She tried not to squirm. Yes. Obviously widow was brilliant. It allowed her to be reclusive, heartbroken, too grief stricken to talk of her time in Mysore. If the look of unadulterated bemusement Lord Koorecroft cast from beneath his bushy brows was anything to go by, spy’s wife was a stroke of genius though. It allowed her to say anything, everything, and yet nothing.

  “Sir, I need to ask you about Lord Devorlane Hawley.”

  Making out that sneering snake was a counter agent though? That wasn’t just anything. It was a thing that went beyond genius to the realms of greatness. Her best yet. She lowered her gaze to the gnarled fingers Lord Koorecroft had fastened on the coach window frame, almost unable to breathe for the acknowledgement of her sheer dazzling brilliance and audacity. But obviously she did. She spoke too. To lose the battle was to lose the war after all. And this victory? This victory was stupendous.

  “Is he to be trusted? Or … or …” Deliberately she left the word not unsaid.

  “What has he to do with this?” Although the way Lord Koorecroft leaped in, the staccato-like nature of his delivery, in truth
she’d have been lucky to get that word ‘not’ in there.

  She cleared her throat. “It’s just I caught him at my window. And I wondered what a person of your—”

  “Devorlane Hawley?”

  She nodded.

  “At your window?”

  “Oh God, yes. Where he caught me unawares, much as it pains me to say it.”

  Why did Lord Koorecroft’s brows clap together like that? Thunder off the other? As if he had been set fire to? Cass could hardly afford to think it—she needed to continue after all—only the reaction, while hoped for, longed for, and expected, was extreme. She hurried on anyway.

  “So much so, me not being dressed at the time—fully that is. That I am afraid … I am afraid I kissed him, in defense of the realm.”

  “Good God, woman. You did what?”

  All right, she hadn’t. And it was a titanic mistake to say so. Why would she kiss him in defense of the realm, this man or any other, after all, when her husband had come to that same realm to die? And was no longer in the service? At least that, to the best of her sterling abilities, was what she’d just tried to say, wasn’t it?

  But Lord Koorcroft’s reaction, his clenching of the window ledge, was unexpected. As if he wanted to snap it in two. Then there was the matter of the kiss itself. How could it haunt her like this, sending that throat-drying ripple through her so she lowered her eyelashes over throbbing cheeks? Especially when she’d more to say.

  “I mean, in defense of my husband. To stop him from being assassinated.”

  “Good God. What?”

  “But now … now, having caught Lord Hawley in my bedroom, I fear if he is not a spy himself, he entirely misconstrues my behav—”

  “In your bedroom you say?”

  Snap it in two? Cass expected to see the carriage door career across the square. As for the noise, the snort that came all the way from the back of Lord Koorecroft’s throat and charged down his nose? Oh, this could not possibly be because Devorlane Hawley was powerful and she was a nobody.

  What on earth had he done to engender such a reaction? Was he, after all, a public nuisance? And this was known about already? And was she right to bring this to Lord Koorecroft’s attention for the sake of the other put upon women in the area?