“Nothing at all. It is simply that Maggie Welton had the audacity to get married,” she answered airily. “And her husband, poor creature that he is, refused to invite me to live with them. Can you imagine the gall?”
Dand grinned. “How inconsiderate.”
“Exactly,” she agreed primly. “Yet, employing that delicacy of feeling which others,” her gaze skewered him, “must only imagine, I deduced that now was the most reasonable time to leave my dear friends the Weltons and set up my own establishment. Happily, with the funds Kate and Christian conferred upon me, I am well able to do so.”
Dand’s gaze swept up her new gown, pausing on the Kashmiri shawl about her shoulders and the pearl bobs swinging gently from her ears. “The settlement must have been more generous than I realized.”
She smiled noncommittally. He had no idea.
“Speaking of your inheritance, what news do you have of Colonel and Mrs. MacNeill?” Dand asked. “And the beautiful Helena and equally beautiful Ram, of course?”
At the mention of her oldest sister, the new marchioness of Cottrell, Charlotte hesitated. Helena’s last letter had been short, her effort not to criticize or question Charlotte’s outré behavior apparent in every line. At least Charlotte could be thankful that her other sister, Kate, attached to her husband’s regiment in far-off lands, heard little of the gossip that blistered Helena’s ears.
“Not much,” she said. “Helena and Ramsey are preparing to set sail from Jamaica where Ram has been dismantling one of the old marquis’s plantations. They should be in London within the month. Kate and Christian are on the Continent.”
“And do they all still think I am a murderer?”
The query caught Charlotte off guard. She hadn’t realized Dand cared what his former companions thought of him. Caring what others thought of one only led to sleepless nights and muddied one’s focus. She had learned that lesson from Dand. Too many nights she had lain awake wondering what risks he undertook in returning to France or what dangers he had come fresh from when he arrived at her door, until, to keep herself from going mad with the terrifying images her brain conjured, she forced herself not to think of him at all.
Yet here he was, asking after the other Rose Hunters. It was unexpected. It hinted at a heart beating in concert with the rest of humanity, prey to all manner of weaknesses and foibles. She had always thought Dand Ross well-nigh impervious to any such thing. Well, now.
“I don’t know. They don’t confide in me. Please recall that as a fribble of the highest order I am much more interested in my own assorted schemes and bumble broths to give a thought to anyone else.”
“You sound a little bitter,” he said.
Was she? She hoped not. She would hate to think she condemned her sisters for believing she was as shallow as she’d led them to believe. Yet…an unreasonable part of her sometimes wished they believed in her good character, despite all evidence to the contrary. “Not really,” she answered obliquely. “Actually, I try to emulate you, Dand.”
He cocked his head. “How so?”
“Worldly, street-smart,” she listed off his qualities. “Without remorse or an inconvenient conscience or attachments of any kind and thus having no need to make explanations to anyone.”
“And how have you arrived at this rather unflattering estimation of my character?” he asked, clearly amused.
“I don’t think it unflattering at all,” she said in genuine surprise. “It seems most practical.”
“Really?” he asked, his eyes narrowed with amusement but also speculation. “Again, what makes you think this of me?”
“Well, your two best friends, who happen to be my brothers-in-law, thought you had betrayed them to the French, killed the guard who was to have provided the evidence of your perfidy, and sought to murder them but was stopped in this pursuit only because my sister Helena managed to drive a sword into your side a moment before you, disguised as vicar, intended to skewer her with your own.”
“Such a graphic account, Charlotte. Perhaps you should write one of those overheated Gothic novels that are all the rage?”
She ignored him. “And yet, here you are, unconcerned and placid as a plate of pike despite all the nasty suspicions surrounding you. How ever do you manage?”
“I take comfort in knowing that I did not do any of the aforementioned things. I do, indeed, have a conscience, Lottie. And while it is hardly spotless, I acquit myself of charges of attempting to murder my onetime companions. Besides, Father Tarkin would vouch for me.”
“Ah, but you have been away from St. Bride’s for a long time. People change.” She moved behind his chair, looking down at the rumpled hair streaked with gold. “How do I know you are innocent?”
His gaze tracked her watchfully.
“I never saw the man who claimed to be Vicar Tawster,” she continued. “Only Helena can identify him. All I know is that you remain intent on not revealing yourself to your former companions. Or my sister. Perhaps there is a reason.”
He didn’t bother to reply. His collarless shirt lay opened, pulled askew so that she could see his shoulder, tanned and smoothly capped with muscle. A few inches over would be the infamous rose brand. Though she had never seen it, both of her sisters had told her of the souvenir the torturer at the LeMons dungeon had branded into their husbands’ and Dand Ross’s hides.
She bent down, bringing her lips to within inches of his ear. He smelled clean, of soap and camphor. He didn’t even bother looking around. He took entirely too much for granted. No man of the ton had ever taken her for granted. And yet Dand Ross did. A wicked impulse arose within her.
“Added to which,” she whispered in his ear, “you didn’t appear in London for many months after the episode with Helena and the sword. Perhaps you retired to France to recover from your wound? Perhaps,” she leaned over his shoulder, “you carry the mark…here!”
Her hand darted down, pressing low on his side. Before she realized what he was doing he seized her wrist, holding her hand hostage against his ribs a second before jerking her over his shoulder and toppling into his lap. She looked up, startled, into a face dark and suddenly alien, her offending hand held in a steel grip well away from his body.
A glimmer of fear shivered through her. She hadn’t realized he was so strong or could move so fast. Or that he could look at her with such a hard expression.
Abruptly, she began to struggle. He controlled her with humiliating ease, the heat from his body seeping into her in every inappropriate place, setting her skin afire and bringing to life her long-forgotten ability to blush. He didn’t even notice.
“Do you really think I am a murderer?” His low voice had lost all trace of amusement. “And if so, do you really want to play this game with me?”
2
CHARLOTTE SHRANK IN DAND’S EMBRACE, for the first time feeling truly frightened of him. No one had ever manhandled her before. Ever. She kept her face averted, so that he would not see how he’d shaken her. “Dand…?”
At once, his hold loosened. “And that, my girl, will teach you to lay violent hands on another.”
She had laid violent hands on him? She told herself that fear alone accounted for the trembling in her chest, the sudden difficulty she had drawing a breath, and that he would not respect her if he suspected that something as simple as a snarl and an intimate touch could affect her so. “It was hardly violent.”
“I suspect that depends on one’s perspective. Violence is anything that threatens, you know.”
She didn’t understand. She shifted, aware of how hard his body was, of how hard the arms that still held her were and of his heart beating against her. It felt as though a thousand little needles were lightly pricking every part of her skin that came in contact with him. Yet, now that her fear had subsided, she felt…safe? Yes. Protected.
It had been a long time since she had felt that someone actively stood between her and whatever threatened her. It was nice, however illusory. Though she didn�
��t doubt Dand would dutifully intervene if he thought she was in danger, he was seldom in London and thus seldom in a position to protect her. She would, as she had for years, have to protect herself.
But she could relish a few moments of illusion. There was nothing wrong in that, was there?
She let her head fall back against his shoulder, looking up into his brown eyes, oblique and fathomless. Despite his scurrilous clothing, his body was clean, his hair healthy and shiny. His upper lip was bowed, his lower lip firm but curved. A sensualist would have lips like his. “I don’t really think you are a murderer.”
“Your faith comforts me no end. Now, off with you before you put a crease in my trousers,” he ordered in an odd, rough voice, lifting her to her feet.
She backed away feeling rejected and, feeling foolish for feeling so, she hunted for something to say that would cover her discomfort. “Why don’t you tell Ram and Kit you aren’t their traitor?” she asked. “Father Tarkin would not have any objection.”
“Because I’ve worked far too long and made far too many—” He stopped abruptly before continuing in a voice made purposefully careless. “If Kit and Ramsey discovered I’d stayed the course, as it were, there would be nothing for it but that they must come hieing back, guns blazing and swords drawn, to aid me whether I require it or not. Terrible glory mongers. Always have been.”
Charlotte was not deceived. “You’re protecting them.”
“No,” Dand answered. “I am protecting what I, what we, have worked so long to accomplish. I have no desire to spend the rest of my days mucking about in French stables and garrisons, charming though they are.”
He pushed himself to his feet and brushed past her, heading for the window overlooking the little park across the street. When he spoke his words again took her by surprise. “You’ve cut your hair.”
She touched her short cap of feathery red curls. “Yes. What of it?”
“It’s a bold look. Wanton.”
“Wanton?” She laughed at the prudish word on Dand Ross’s lips. “Oh, I don’t think it quite wanton. Perhaps a bit artful.”
“And that is the effect you are striving for? Artful?” He didn’t turn as he spoke but continued looking out the window. “The abbot will be disturbed.”
“The abbot doesn’t have so many agents willing to do his bidding that he can be choosey about those who do. And I give satisfaction. You can’t deny that.”
“So you have repeatedly told me and, I fear, the abbot,” he answered. “Am I to presume that these new trappings will somehow let you make yourself even useful to Mother Church?”
“And England,” she added.
“And being artful is how you have managed to finagle your way from what was to have been a simple intermediary to your current status as a full-blown intelligencer?”
“It only makes sense, doesn’t it? The more I became part of a certain fast set, the more information I came across. The more I knew, the easier it was to acquire additional information.” She frowned. “Why do you sound so disapproving?”
“Do I sound disapproving?” he asked with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’d only meant to relate my concern for your welfare. You see, there is this matter of a vow I made to your family, something to do with an eternal obligation, throwing myself into the jaws of death to save your lovely hide should the need arise.
“But as I have an inordinate affection for my own life, poor though it be, I thought perhaps merely shaking a warning finger at you before you actually dove into peril might suffice. Saving damsels is such a deuced time-consuming venture, don’t you see?”
She preened. “Do you really think my hide is lovely?”
“You know it is,” he replied matter-of-factly. “ ’Twould be a sorry waste to see it turned into a worm’s meal. No. I won’t have it. You are the only Nash left who hasn’t a full-time bodyguard sleeping in her bed. If you die, I shall count it a personal failure.” He paused. “I suppose I could marry you.”
He waited and when she only raised one of her coppery brows at him, nodded. “No? Of course not. You’d be a fool. And you are most decidedly not a fool, are you, Lottie?”
He did not wait for her answer but half turned from her. “So, there is nothing for it but that you must live without my protecting you twenty-four hours a day.”
She laughed. “Don’t worry, Dand. I won’t be plunging into peril, nor do I intend to be turned into a feast for the maggots. And, tempting as it is to throw you a yellow rose and demand you fulfill your vow to do whatever I ask by marrying me just to see you squirm, I won’t.
“I only listen, Dand. And carry what information I gather to those who can best utilize it.”
“Oh-ho.” Dand sucked in a low whistle of comprehension. “Not simply Father Tarkin anymore but now ‘those who can best utilize it.’ You aren’t working for someone besides the abbot, are you?”
She’d known she would have to tell him sooner or later. “Yes,” she said. “You’ve said so yourself many times, ‘war makes strange bedfellows.’ The Church and the British government’s motives might not be the same, but their goals are.”
His lip twitched at one corner. “How did he talk you into serving two masters, Charlotte? Or was there little talking involved?” His gaze grew flat and cold. “Who is he?”
Charlotte frowned. “Who is who?”
“The English government agent you are feeding.” Dand’s ready smile grew thinner, sharper, a little wolfish.
“It isn’t a ‘he,’ it is a ‘she.’ ” Charlotte plunged ahead. “Ginny Mulgrew.”
There was no reason he should recognize her name; he wasn’t often in London and then only for a few days—though lately his appearances had been more frequent and of longer durations. Was it…a woman who drew him to London so oft of late? She ignored the little pinpricks of anger the thought occasioned.
She was being ridiculous. He had never talked of any woman, in any manner. Certainly he had never indicated he had feelings for a woman. Though, she realized, it was unlikely he would have confided in her if he had.
She waited. The hardness slowly dissipated from his expression. His gaze narrowed thoughtfully. “I see. And how did you meet Miss Mulgrew?”
“Mrs. Mulgrew. Her husband is a baronet but they are estranged and have been for years.”
“And how did you meet Mrs. Mulgrew?”
“I had heard from a mutual acquaintance that she was making inquiries about a person whom I also considered of interest. I asked that this person introduce us.” The simple explanation neglected to inform him how close she’d come to social suicide with that request. Because Ginny Mulgrew was a courtesan. No need for Dand to know that, however.
“Mrs. Mulgrew has been extremely helpful. She is as committed as you or I to Napoleon’s downfall.”
“Brava,” Dand said, but clearly his thoughts had slipped elsewhere. “I commend the lady’s patriotism. It had just better not interfere with my goal.”
“Goal?” The simple word alerted her. “You aren’t here to relay a message, are you? You’re here with some more important purpose.”
He did not deny it.
“Tell me. I may be able to help.”
Dand raked his hand through his hair and nodded. “A letter has been stolen. Its contents could destroy a proposed alliance that might see an end to Napoleon’s military expansion on the Continent.”
“A letter?” Charlotte repeated, all else forgotten. “A letter in a specially sealed cylinder stolen from Paris?”
“Yes.” His hand fell to his side. “How did you know?”
“Because it is here. Or rather the man who says he has possession of it is here, in London.”
Dand was across the room in five great strides, grabbing her arm and pulling her toward the settee. He pushed her down and sat beside her. “Tell me everything,” he demanded. “Who is this man?”
“Comte Maurice St. Lyon, a French loyalist, or so he claims. He has been living
in England for several years. He is enormously wealthy, a connoisseur, and an art collector. Though no one seems to know the source of his wealth, he is extremely well connected.
“We know he has contacted several foreign dignitaries, as well as people without official rank or title but who nonetheless hold enormous power, hinting that he is in possession of a sealed letter that was detoured from an ‘interesting’ destination. He has invited them to his castle where, three weeks hence, they will have the opportunity to bid on it.”
Dand leaned back in the settee. “Bloody hell.” He steepled his hands before his lips and fell silent for a long moment. “Where is Comte St. Lyon now?”
“Preparing to leave for his castle, forty miles northwest of Sterling. The place is a fortress. He has hired a veritable army of men to patrol the grounds and building. The land it sits on is barren and uninhabited except for a drover’s village some miles south. Everyone in the vicinity is known to St. Lyon. A newcomer would be remarked. And dispatched,” she explained, anticipating his asking whether a fox had been set amongst the hens.
“Why doesn’t someone simply eliminate the man?” Dand asked with such cold callousness Charlotte felt a shiver of her earlier fear. Not that Ginny Mulgrew hadn’t thought of the same thing, she reminded herself.
“Because he made it clear that should any harm befall him the letter would be opened and made public.”
“Steal the letter?” Dand suggested but in such a tone that it was clear he understood that this most obvious solution would already have been explored.
“No one knows where it is. On two separate occasions, the best cracksmen in London have attempted to gain entry to his town house. Both men are now dead.” She managed to say this without revealing the distress she had felt over the discovery of their bodies.
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