A View to a Kiss

by Caroline Linden

  “Beg pardon, Lady Heath,” he said, cutting into her exposition on the importance of proper weaning. “I must excuse myself.” He tugged at his waistcoat and groped for his cane.

  “Of course, of course! But don’t neglect the bloodlines, Lord Wroth, or you shall be very sorry. Your litters shall be no better than any mongrel litter.” She nodded decisively.

  Harry made a hasty bow. “Thank you, madam, I shall.” He hobbled through the crowd as quickly as he could in his cramped shoes, keeping one eye fixed on Lord Crane. The old man was leaving at a good pace. Harry wondered what had set him off. Normally, Crane didn’t do anything quickly.

  Still, he wasn’t terribly sorry. Once he saw Crane safely through his own front door, he would be free to go home, shed the trappings of Lord Wroth, and go to bed. Doncaster would still be under Brandon’s watchful eye. His own work tonight was almost done.

  A footman was already bringing Crane his hat and cloak in the hall. Harry motioned to another servant to fetch his things, but Crane was turning toward the door, obligingly held open by another footman. Knowing all too well what a clean target Crane’s thin, crippled figure would make on the broad front steps, Harry snapped sharply after the servant to hurry. When the man finally appeared with his hat, he had to remind himself not to snatch it away and race after Crane. He paused in the doorway and searched the street until he located the viscount again.

  Crane was not waiting for his driver to draw near. He was walking to his carriage, some ways down the street. Harry hurried down the steps, gritting his teeth with each step. Damn shoes, he thought, but pushed onward. Crane was only a few yards ahead of him now, almost to his carriage. Crane’s driver was opening the door, setting the step in place, and Harry’s heart started to slow to a more regular rhythm.

  Then a man emerged from a crowd of servants nearby, and the back of Harry’s neck prickled. The coachmen and footmen of the guests were wont to wait about outside the house, enjoying a mug of ale and dancing to the music that drifted through the open doors and windows, forming a crowd that could all too easily conceal an assailant, an assassin, a common thief with a knife. Harry couldn’t see clearly enough which class this fellow belonged to, but it didn’t matter anyway. He quickened his step, glancing around for any possible accomplices lurking nearby, and closed his hand around the hilt of the dagger under his coat.

  The man lurched toward Crane, groping for his shoulder and almost sending the old man off his feet. Crane’s voice rose in indignation as he struggled under the man’s hold. Harry gripped his walking cane and measured the remaining distance. Even now he was not supposed to reveal himself to Crane, so this had to be done quickly. He wedged the end of his cane between the man’s boots and twisted, affecting a stumbling sidestep at the same moment. With a yelp the man tripped and sprawled on his back, then let out a feeble groan but didn’t move.

  “Oh dear,” said Harry in Wroth’s voice. He stooped over the felled man to hide his face, his hand still on his dagger. “So sorry, sir. The cobbles are slippery tonight.”

  Crane’s driver had come running and was hovering beside his employer. “Are you injured, my lord?”

  The viscount waved him away with a scowl. “No, no. Just a touch of assault while you were busy with the step. Fortunately I am not so easy to wound.” He pulled up his cloak where it had slipped off his shoulder and limped away with only a brief nod in Harry’s direction. The coachman gave him a sympathetic look before following his master.

  Harry listened to Crane walk away. He nudged the man on the ground with his toe, then took hold of his coat and pulled him up. A strong smell of gin hit him in the face as the fellow moaned again, and Harry released him, letting him flop back onto the street. Just a common drunk. “Drink is a wicked thing,” he told his victim, then slowly rose and turned. Lord Crane was getting settled into his carriage, none the worse for his encounter with a cup-shot lamplighter. Harry exhaled, pried his fingers from the dagger, then ducked his head and hurried on to his own carriage.

  It was farther than he remembered, and by the time he reached the familiar horses, his shins burned. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that Crane’s carriage had already started off. He rapped once on the driver’s box with his cane to get Ian’s attention, then flung open the door.

  “Here here, now, my lord! Can’t injure yourself, sir.” Ian jumped down and seized his arm. Harry scowled as Ian’s fingers bit into his flesh. “Feeling spry tonight, eh?” muttered the Scot as he practically heaved Harry into the carriage.

  “Crane’s already gone,” he bit back, slamming the door in Ian’s face. The carriage rocked as Ian leaped back onto his seat, then lurched as he set the horses off without pause. Harry knelt on the front seat and slid open the little door.

  “He’s headed home,” Ian said as they passed the last of the clustered carriages near Doncaster House.

  “He left in quite a rush.” Harry couldn’t see around Ian, and he could barely hear him. “I almost missed it.”

  Ian grunted. “Getting slow in your old age, aye?”

  Harry ignored the dig. Ian was driving along at a rapid pace, and this carriage was not particularly luxurious or well-sprung. His knees bounced on the hard seat with every jerk and sway of the wheels. He had to brace himself on the door as they went around one corner on two wheels, from the feel of it. “Have we passed him yet?” he yelled at Ian, who merely laughed, the blighter.

  Before long Ian slowed, then turned another corner and stopped altogether. Harry slid to the window and peered out. They were stopped in a narrow alley three doors down from Crane’s town house. Harry’s eyes swept up and down the well-lit street as the driver opened the door for the viscount and lowered the step. There was no one else about, no other carriages on the street. All seemed safe enough…

  Lord Crane emerged, leaning heavily on the driver’s arm. A footman came out of the house and hurried down the steps, only to jump back as Crane waved him away. Slowly, he climbed the steps into his house, trailed by the obedient footman. The door closed behind them both. The driver returned to his box and flicked the whip, setting the horses into motion.

  “Home again, safe and sound.” Ian broke the silence. “Where to, m’lord?”

  “Home,” Harry said, falling back into the seat and plucking the spectacles off his face to rub his nose. “We’re done here.”

  The carriage rocked as Ian started the team, more sedately this time, and Harry rested his head and sighed. When they turned into the mews behind the house in Fenton Lane, he put the spectacles back on. This time Ian didn’t bother to help him down, and Harry clenched his jaw as he had to put his full weight back on his sore feet. He jerked his head at Ian, who nodded and drove off to tend the horses.

  Harry crossed the narrow way to the back door of the house and let himself in. There was little pretense of nobility in this house; it was plainly and practically furnished, just enough to be lived in. It was small and somewhat dingy and no one could call its location fashionable. Mr. Phipps certainly had spared the expense when he arranged this for their headquarters.

  At the top of the stairs Harry turned toward his room, catching up the lamp left burning for him on the hall table. Ian slept in the stables most nights, and Angelique was on duty at Lord Bethwell’s. He was nearly alone in the house tonight.

  Grimacing, Harry shed the padded coat and laid it aside, then tossed the spectacles on top of it. He raised his arms above his head and stretched, feeling the muscles in his back pull tight in protest. Damn, it felt good to stand upright again after stooping for so many hours.

  Next went the shoes, the despicable narrow shoes meant for a man half his size. He peeled off the waistcoat and cravat, stripping off the pieces of Wroth. First the outer layers of musty wool, then the layers of old linen, until he was bare to the waist and finally felt almost like himself again.

  For a moment he just stood there with his arms folded, flexing his toes in relief. Those shoes were a torment from hell
. But he’d been given them as part of his disguise and told not to ask questions. That was a common refrain in this job: don’t ask, just do. He had accepted that so far, but from time to time as he sat on the edge of his seat, hardly breathing as he watched Crane labor up his front steps, he couldn’t help wondering just where the true threat was coming from. Surely they hadn’t been given this assignment merely to prevent Crane and the others from being harassed by drunks and pickpockets.

  He sighed and shook it off. It was enough that Phipps and Stafford believed Crane, Doncaster, and Bethwell were in danger. It was his lot to keep them safe, not to worry about who might harm them. Tonight he had been successful, and he ought to be content with that.

  In stockinged feet he crossed the room to the wash basin. He splashed his face, sucking in his breath at the coldness of the water, then dunked his head and scrubbed his hair to get rid of the sticky powder that turned it gray.

  When he raised his dripping head, he braced his arms on the washstand and stared at himself in the mirror. Now he even looked like himself, although a drowned version. Dark hair spiked along his crown and clung to his forehead in sodden snakes. Water dripped off a square jaw. He leaned closer, scrutinizing his reflection in the dim lamplight. A straight, sharp nose. Piercing hazel eyes. Scullery maids and tavern wenches liked his face well enough…

  “She wouldn’t want you anyway,” he muttered. He turned away from the mirror and buried his wet face in a towel, trying not to think anymore of the wealthy, pampered, gloriously beautiful and utterly forbidden Lady Mariah.

  Chapter 4

  Mariah went to her mother’s suite as soon as she was dressed the next morning. Her curiosity about the mysterious Harry had, if anything, grown stronger overnight. Although she’d kept her eyes and ears open the rest of the night, she hadn’t come across anyone who could be the same man. It was more than a little puzzling. How could he simply disappear? She even made it a point to meet as many gentlemen as possible after supper, to no avail. She’d never heard his voice again. His challenge, not to mention his sly laugh, rang in her ears as she rapped at the door and pushed it open when her mother called out.

  “Good morning, Mariah.” Mama was still in bed, sipping tea. “You’re awake early for a young lady who danced until the dawn.”

  Mariah smiled. “I wasn’t up so very late.”

  Her mother’s gaze turned shrewd. “And you were not so taken by the dancing.”

  “No,” Mariah admitted without pretense. “At least not by the dancing partners.”

  Cassandra Dunmore put down her teacup. “Mariah, you do know you shall see those same gentlemen at many other events. I hope you’re not being too quick to condemn.”

  “Condemn? Oh, no, Mama,” she protested. “I did not know what to expect. Now I do.”

  “And now you will expect to be bored,” murmured her mother with a wry look. “Perhaps your father and I were wrong to keep you from London for so long. This is your home, after all, not St. Petersburg or Vienna. I hope the excitement of those cities hasn’t spoiled England for you.”

  “Not at all! I am glad to be home. And I would never have forgiven you and Papa if you had left me here alone for the last five years.” Her mother laughed, and Mariah grinned. Then she tried to shift the subject to what she wanted to discuss. It had to be done delicately. “There were some interesting people present last night, and I expect they shall improve even more upon further acquaintance.” Mariah paused, then added as casually as she could, “Might I see the guest list?”

  “Of course, darling. May I ask why?”

  Mariah hesitated. At twenty-two years, soon to be three and twenty, she was past the age when most girls married. Her father had worried about this upon their return to England, but her mother firmly put his doubts aside; a girl with Mariah’s family and beauty, to say nothing of her charm and intelligence, could have a husband as soon as she decided to get one. The earl gave way, agreeing with his wife on all accounts about their adored only child, and Mariah had felt none of the pressure to find a husband that her friends and peers had felt.

  Still, she knew just how pleased her mother would be if she showed any interest in a gentleman. Papa would probably have him fetched at once to make his intentions and expectations known. Which was of course impossible with Harry until she discovered who he was, and even then she preferred not to arouse her parents’ suspicions. She might not like him so very much after all. “I met a gentleman last night, and he refused to tell me his proper name,” she settled on saying. “It was most vexing.”

  “Indeed,” her mother replied in surprise. “Exceedingly vexing, I should say. What did he tell you?”

  “He said he was called Harry.” Mariah faced her mother with as unconcerned an expression as she could manage. “He laughed when I said I would discover his name on my own, and said he knew I could not.”

  Cassandra set aside her tea. “He laughed?”

  Mariah gave a small sniff of disgust. “No doubt he thought I lacked the intelligence.”

  Her mother flung back her covers and got out of bed, a martial gleam in her eye. “Did he? We shall see about that.” She pulled on her dressing gown as she crossed the room to her writing desk. Mariah watched, quietly gloating, while her mother pulled several pages from a drawer. “Now, come here, Mariah,” she said, taking a seat on the chaise. “Let us discover the scoundrel.”

  “Yes, Mama.” Mariah hurried over.

  A half hour later, however, all her plans to fling the discovery triumphantly in his face lay in ruins. They had gone over the list two, three, four times, examining every name that could possibly imply Harry, and found nothing.

  “Mariah, I think he must have lied to you.” Cassandra put down the list. “We didn’t invite anyone named Harry.”

  “But he was here, Mama!” She scowled at the list in frustration. “Who is this?” She tapped one name. Her mother looked.

  “Mr. Harold Graves. Tall and bald. Not a terribly charming fellow.”

  Mariah didn’t want that to be her Harry, and besides, she had found him perfectly charming. She looked down the page. “And this one?”

  “Sir Henry Gates? I’m certain he never left the card room. Appalling weakness in a man of his position.”

  “What position?”

  “He advises the Lord Chancellor, dear. Best of friends with him.”

  “Ah.” Mariah flipped the pages, grasping at straws. “This one, then.”

  Cassandra sighed wearily. “Lord Wroth is elderly, Mariah. He walks with a cane and has a hump.”

  Mariah flung the useless list across the room. “Then who the devil is he?”

  “Mariah, please!”

  She flopped back with something dangerously close to a pout at her mother’s reprimand. How on earth was she ever to meet the man again if she didn’t know his name or his face?

  “Tell me more about him,” said her mother. “What does he look like?”

  Mariah frowned uneasily. This was dangerous. “He was tall, but rather unexceptional looking. I hardly remember, in fact.” True enough, she supposed. “It was only his mocking manner and his challenge that I would not be able to discover his name! What a thoroughly infuriating man!”

  Cassandra patted her hand. “They all are, dear, at one point or another. But it matters not. I daresay you’ll run into him again. It’s only a matter of time before you discover him.”

  Mariah propped her chin on one hand. “I suppose.” So Harry had won this point; she hadn’t been able to learn his name on her own. “Wretched man,” she muttered.

  He wasn’t worth this much aggravation. If he didn’t have the backbone to introduce himself, he wasn’t much of a man at all. Let him find her again; she certainly wouldn’t spend another minute thinking of him.

  At ten minutes before eight in the morning, Harry arrived at his other employment, the far less thrilling—and less dangerous—side of his job. Slipping in through the servants’ door, he winked at the sculle
ry maid sweeping the floor but didn’t dare linger.

  He hurried up three flights of back stairs, pushing his spectacles up on his nose. Unlike Wroth’s useless lenses, he actually needed these; while his vision was perfect at a distance, things closer than arm’s length, particularly small type, were a bit fuzzy. Today he would be spending the next several hours as Lord Crane’s private secretary, reading and writing extremely small writing, and so wore his own spectacles.

  He walked down the corridor and tapped lightly at a door. Jasper, Crane’s valet, opened it. “Good morning, Mr. Towne.”

  “Good morning, Jasper.” Harry stepped into the room as the valet left, then waited to be acknowledged by the slight figure sitting at a mahogany table, bent over a book with a magnifying lens in his hand. Who would have thought such a weak old man would be one of the most important men in England?

  Ever since the so-called “Massacre at Manchester” the previous year, radicals had been fomenting revolt and rebellion against the government, even including the mass assassination of the Cabinet heads to wipe the government’s slate clean. Lord Crane, like Lord Doncaster and the Marquis of Bethwell, had been identified as a likely target of their rage because his counsel was still invaluable to Lord Eldon, the Lord Chancellor. Crane had suffered a mild attack of palsy earlier in the year, leaving his hands unsteady. Stafford seized upon the opportunity to get one of his agents into Crane’s household, though the viscount was notorious for disdaining secretaries and conducting most of his correspondence himself. Thus Harry—under the name Henry Towne—was sent to apply for the position, charged with ensuring Crane’s safety without letting him suspect he was doing so.

  It certainly gave Harry an intimate view of the viscount. Thin and rawboned, with a face like a hawk, Crane was as renowned for his legal brilliance as for his fierce will and even fiercer temper. He was as likely to sit and patiently lecture Harry on some obscure legal point as he was to upbraid him for not copying out a letter fast enough. Harry had quickly learned three things in his employ: don’t be late, don’t be meek, and don’t make a mistake.