by Lenora Bell
Perish the thought that his athletic frame seemed to have grown even more athletic about the shoulders and arms since she’d seen him last.
What did the infuriating man do, row the length of the Thames every day? His powerfully sculpted physique didn’t fit with his indolent reputation.
The problem with Ravenwood was that he was nearly impossible to ignore.
Take today, for example. All eyes in the room were on him and every ear tuned to his resonant voice because he was holding forth on the asinine topic of nipples.
Yes, nipples.
Indy heaved an inward sigh. Of course he was. Should she expect any less? And he wasn’t just holding forth.
He had visual aids.
“See here, chaps,” he said, gesturing at the marble bust of Aphrodite on the table in front of him. “This one is slightly larger than the other, which lends a wonderful air of veracity to the sculpture, wouldn’t you say?”
“Let me have a closer look.” The Earl of Montrose brought his monocle to his eye and peered at the statue’s rounded charms. “Ah yes, very lifelike indeed.”
Ravenwood skimmed his finger along the underside of a marble breast.
Which shouldn’t make her heart beat faster or do damnably fluttery things to her belly.
“Most females, I’ve observed,” Ravenwood continued, “tend to possess one breast that is slightly larger than the other. It’s like their charming bosoms are giving me a cheeky, lopsided grin.”
Oh ha ha, thought Indy. Very amusing.
“You’re the expert in these matters,” said the Duke of Westbury, who was sitting next to Ravenwood.
“I am, rather.” Ravenwood extracted a small silver flask from a pocket somewhere and took a long swallow.
Who brought a flask to at an antiquities meeting?
And another thing—why didn’t women’s clothing possess enough pockets for stashing flasks and other important items? She’d have to ask her dressmaker to add more pockets to her traveling gowns.
“Care for a nip?” Ravenwood asked Westbury, who accepted the flask.
Indy had no idea why Westbury was here. She’d never known her brother’s friend to have any interest in antiquities. He was a notorious rake and inebriate, though she didn’t think he was the mean kind of drunk, as her father had been.
Westbury had the countenance of a fallen angel, aglow with wicked beauty, but who could pay attention to him when Ravenwood was in the room?
Every single time she saw him she momentarily abandoned her intellect. And it wasn’t just her—she’d seen it happen to countless other ladies.
Sensible, strong-minded, stouthearted ladies reduced to breathless, blushing, eyelash-flapping ninnies.
When he was in the room, she had a nearly uncontrollable desire to cause herself pain. Like that winter when they were children and he’d dared her to stick her tongue on a frosty iron gate.
She’d known she shouldn’t do it, but she never backed down from one of Daniel’s dares.
She’d had a raw patch on the tip of her tongue for days.
She hated that every time their paths crossed she couldn’t take her eyes off him.
Her hand rose to her cravat. The starched male neck cloth hid more than her lack of a prominent Adam’s apple. It hid the necklace she wore; a thin gold chain supporting the weight of a copper coin nestled within a pronged setting. The Minerva coin Ravenwood had chosen for her on that long-ago summer day, before everything went so wrong.
She didn’t wear the coin around her neck because she harbored a sentimental attachment to their lost connection.
Not in the least.
She wore it as a constant reminder that she must never trust her heart to anyone ever again.
She was completely on her own in life’s grand adventure.
Lady Danger versus the World.
She harbored no hope or illusions that Ravenwood might cease being the most infuriating numbskull known to man, and go back to being her devoted childhood companion.
The one with the devilish grin. The one who loved her for her.
The warrior goddess on the copper coin that lay against her breastbone was a talisman protecting her from further heartache.
He’s not Daniel, the boy who stole your heart.
He’s Ravenwood, the man who broke it.
Her sworn rival. A cold iron gate on a wintry day that could only end in torment.
And that was why she wouldn’t even glance at him the rest of the afternoon.
She must stay intent on her mission.
As soon as the meeting began, she’d find a pretext to slip out of the room and go to the ground-floor library where she could examine the stone undisturbed. It should only take a short time to compare the hieroglyphics on the map in her pocket with the script on the stone.
“You know what they say about antiquarians, don’t you?” Ravenwood’s rich tones ended her reverie. “We like it dirty,” he said with a throaty chuckle.
Upending the flask over his lips he drained the last drops. “Have you gents heard the one about the archaeologist and the bone—” he began, but Sir Malcolm Penny, president of the Society, arrived before Ravenwood could regale his adoring public with more bawdy archaeological humor.
Seeing the two men together reminded Indy of the terrible day when Sir Malcolm had arrived to relay the news of the Duke of Ravenwood’s death.
“Gentlemen, order please,” said Sir Malcolm, taking his seat of honor at the raised table in the front of the room. The secretary seated behind him readied his paper and pens.
Indy shivered, and not because of Ravenwood’s proximity this time. She was about to become the very first female to attend an antiquarian meeting. A historic first, and no one even knew.
How she wished she could lord it over Ravenwood.
She glanced at him.
Hellfire. He was staring directly at her.
She ducked her head behind the back of the bench in front of her.
Oh that wasn’t obvious.
Willing herself to appear casual and disinterested, she relaxed in her seat, fixing her gaze forward.
Sir Malcolm, with the aid of his secretary, began detailing a list of architectural etchings that had recently been bequeathed to the Society.
After what seemed like hours, Indy risked a sideways glance at Ravenwood.
He wasn’t looking at her anymore. His eyes were unfocused, and his chiseled jaw kept sliding closer and closer to his chest. When it made contact, his head jolted upright, and then the downward journey began all over again.
Was he . . . snoring?
Indy snorted under her breath.
She needn’t have worried about Ravenwood recognizing her.
The duke was obviously three sheets to the wind.
Or thirty.
Even from his slumped position Raven could tell that the stranger with the narrow shoulders and tinted spectacles was furtively watching him.
The pretend-to-be-drunk-and-make-an-arse-of-yourself routine definitely had its uses.
It made people less wary, made them underestimate you. Under the cover of inane jokes and patter, he’d assessed each man present and either added or discarded them from his list of suspects.
He wasn’t here as a Fellow of the Society of Antiquaries.
He was here to expose a traitor.
Tinted Spectacles had arrived just before the meeting began. There was something familiar about him, though Raven couldn’t place his finger on where he’d seen him before.
He almost looked like a Frenchman, with that slim moustache and his brown hair combed fashionably forward. His delicate, elongated fingers gripped the back of the bench in front of him with such force that his knuckles were white—a sure sign of mental turmoil.
Raven’s job was to notice the small, overlooked details.
Fingernails too polished. Cuffs slightly too long.
Details could be exploited.
He was watching for anomalous behav
ior. Laughter where there should be solemnity.
A gaze that darted here and there instead of holding steady.
He didn’t want to believe that one of his countrymen was behind the recent spate of security breaches within the Foreign Office’s covert operations, but he couldn’t trust anyone, not after what had happened in Athens.
He had to keep the smile on his face, keep the jokes flowing from his lips and the brandy pouring down his throat.
He had to pretend to be carefree when his entire life was crashing down around him.
Don’t dwell on it, Sir Malcolm had said during Raven’s briefing, after Raven had returned to London, battered, bruised, and shaken. It happens to the best of men, Malcolm had said.
It doesn’t happen to me. And it will never happen again, Raven had replied through gritted teeth. I’ll find the traitor. I’ll make him pay.
Malcolm had given him a hearty clap on the back that had made Raven wince from the sharp pain in his ribs.
Perhaps you should take a holiday first.
That’s what they said to agents they were ready to put out to pasture, Raven thought bitterly.
He’d been careful, he’d hidden his movements, coded his communications, but a fellow British operative, known to Raven only as Jones, had died in Athens during what should have been a clandestine rendezvous.
Raven had nearly died as well.
Staring up at a stained-glass window the color of blood and bruised flesh . . . the color people were on the inside.
The soft insides . . . the vulnerable places.
Jab a finger into a kidney and watch a man crumple.
There was nothing soft about Raven. Nothing vulnerable. He’d rid himself of all weakness and emotion long ago.
He’d given everything up for a higher purpose, and for the chance to clear his father’s name.
When he became an agent for the Crown he’d been forced to alienate Indy. His best friend, his future life companion.
He’d left her behind, choosing instead this dangerous, solitary path.
Closing himself off from his emotions and severing all connections with those he loved. He hadn’t seen his mother, or his younger brother Colin, in years.
He’d chosen this life. And he did not need a holiday. He needed to prove his fitness for duty.
Jones had been about to tell Raven something urgent about the Rosetta Stone when the surprise attack occurred.
Which had led Raven here.
Which had led him to Tinted Spectacles.
He knew the private details of the lives of every man at this meeting except for his.
“Who’s the slender fellow sitting on the back bench?” he asked Montrose in a low whisper.
“Dammed if I know,” the earl whispered back, shrugging his shoulders. “Never saw him before. Don’t like his appearance, I must say. Loathe those dainty dandies.”
Montrose was the model of an English lord with ruddy cheeks, an expansive waistline, and a very high opinion of himself. Raven had already crossed him off his list.
Too sluggish for espionage.
“Are you acquainted with the man in the tinted spectacles?” Raven whispered to his friend Westbury, who was seated on his other side.
“Never seen him before in my life.” West sighed. “Tell me, are the meetings always this skull-crushingly dull?”
“Always. Why are you here, anyway? I didn’t know you were interested in antiquities.”
“I’m thinking of selling a few pieces from my ancestral collection. Wanted to have an opinion on what prices I might expect. Never thought it would come to this,” West whispered morosely. “But I’ve made several bad investments, and have too many sisters to bring out and it’s damned expensive with their music instructors, and dancing masters, and new gloves and bonnets every time they leave the house. May have to bring myself out and find an heiress to marry.”
Raven had kept a close eye on West of late. He hadn’t made bad investments—he had a bad gambling habit.
Debts exposed a man to the threat of blackmail, but West wasn’t on his list of suspects. He didn’t speak multiple languages, and, even though he had vices, murder certainly wasn’t one of them.
“Next we have a very handsome bequest of a Viking hoard found on the properties of the late Sir Stanhope,” said Sir Malcolm. “If you will direct your attention to the crucible steel sword displayed at the center of the table . . .”
Sir Malcolm’s job was to keep droning until Raven signaled that he’d finished his observations.
Malcolm was the closest thing Raven had to a father.
They’d gone to stay with him that summer Raven’s father had died. Malcolm was a spymaster who had revealed that Raven’s father had been an agent of the Crown.
He’d given Raven his father’s private journal, a thin volume bound with cracked brown leather and tied with a silk cord. The last pages spattered in blood.
His father’s blood.
The last entry scrawled in a shaking hand. A directive to Malcolm to give the diary to Raven and then a few lines for Raven, the words wavering, nearly illegible: My son. I was going to tell you when you turned fifteen. That’s the age I was when I became . . . what I am . . .
Raven locked away the memory.
Something was happening on the periphery of his vision.
Tinted Spectacles whispered something to the man sitting next to him, slid out of his bench seat and crept from the room.
Anomalous, indeed.
Raven waited exactly three seconds before hiccupping loudly.
Sir Malcolm paused but kept reading from his ledger.
Several hiccups later, Malcolm finally stopped reading. “Your Grace, if you please,” he remonstrated.
“Apologies, I’ll just go and walk these off.”
Raven bumbled out of the room but when he was out of sight he dropped the inebriated ruse and sped toward the central stairs. The attic held only the apartments for the resident secretary, which meant Tinted Spectacles must have gone below.
At the foot of the staircase he caught sight of a flash of blue and brown entering the library.
His hand moved reflexively to the pistol tucked into the back waistband of his breeches.
Not necessary. The man was too slender to pose a threat.
“Did that man say anything to you?” he asked the porter.
“Mr. Pomeroy? He said Sir Malcolm asked him to retrieve a volume on Viking mythology.”
“Did he now.”
“Is there a problem, Your Grace?”
“Not at all. I was sent on a similar errand. Back to your post.”
“Very good, Your Grace.”
Raven entered the large library noiselessly. Lamps burned on the tables, casting half-moons of light over broken columns, statuary, and piles of books and scrolls.
Pomeroy was examining a large shadowy object, mounted on a wooden frame, with a magnifying glass. He held a scrap of paper in one hand and was comparing it to the markings on the . . .
Rosetta Stone.
“Looking for something, Mr. Pomeroy?” Raven asked. “If that’s truly your name.”
The man spun around and his spectacles slipped down his nose, revealing eyes of a peculiar light purple color.
A color Raven would know anywhere.
He should. He dreamed of those eyes every night.
“Indy?” he exploded on an exhale, as though someone had punched him in the gut. “What in the name of Aphrodite’s perfect tits are you doing here?”
Chapter 2
“I thought you were drunk,” said Indy, because it was the first thought that leapt to mind. The thoughts she managed to keep to herself went something like this: Shite. Balls! Damn his topaz eyes. Why, why, why?
She removed her spectacles and slipped them into her pocket.
“Your moustache is crooked,” Ravenwood observed.
Her hand flew to her moustache. Blast, he was right. She held the sorry thing in place with one fin
ger, keeping the map behind her back with her other hand.
There’s hope yet that he won’t report you. Keep him talking. Treat it as a lark. Above all, don’t let him goad you into losing your temper. Don’t let him under your skin.
“Why aren’t you drunk anymore?” she asked.
“Because the sight of you wearing whiskers is immediately and irreparably sobering. It’s not a good look.”
“It’s a very good look. Girls were flirting with me on the street I’ll have you know.”
He quirked one eyebrow at her.
How did he even do that? She’d tried it in the mirror before setting out today with no luck. It would have, as he’d put it earlier, lent an air of veracity to her disguise. All rogues seemed to know how to raise one sardonic eyebrow.
“Those trousers, though,” he said in a low growl. “They leave little to the imagination. I approve.”
The fabric of her trousers became a second skin as his smoldering gaze caressed her thighs. His nearness hit her where it always did—below the navel, in the most erogenous of areas—and higher, speeding her heart and dimming her mind.
She eyed the taut stretch of his breeches over his muscular thighs. “That makes two of us, then. Did your valet have to help you wriggle into those breeches? They appear to be painted on. Borders on the indecent, really.”
“Ha. You’re in no position to lecture me on decency, as far as I can see. I could have you arrested on so many counts it addles the mind: impersonating the opposite gender, false representation for the purpose of breaking and entering, all manner of moral turpitude. They might have to create a new reform society exclusively for you.”
“Poor Ravenwood,” she cooed. “Do you need me to be locked away so I won’t offend your maidenly sensibilities?”
He didn’t take the bait. He’d always been better at remaining calm and keeping that mocking smile on his lips during their frequent altercations.
He almost never lost his temper, while she inevitably ended up foaming at the mouth with fury.
Wiping that smug smile from his lips was a game she rarely won. Life was one big joke to him. He always had a flask in hand and a laconic quip at the ready that invariably told her nothing she truly wanted to know.