“Don’t stop,” Mariah moaned as his mouth left hers and moved to her neck. His hands were sliding down her back, pressing her against him even as she clung to him with all her strength. She could feel every inch of his body, lean and strong and capable of sliding through the darkness like a shadow. He made her feel wicked and alive, and she would have granted him any liberty he demanded at that moment.
“Shh.” He put his finger on her lips. She captured his gloved fingertip between her teeth and lightly bit down, trying to wriggle closer to him. “Minx,” he whispered in her ear. “You’ll pay for that.”
She sucked in her breath as his other hand cupped her breast. Her nipples grew tight and hard, and so sensitive she almost cried out when he rolled his thumb over the taut peak. Sensation rippled through her, and a fierce heat bloomed in her belly. Her body softened, opened, and she slid one foot along the side of his boot, trying to hold him to her with all her limbs.
And then he kissed her once more on the mouth, a hard, demanding kiss. Her head spun. Her knees started to buckle, but he raised his head. “You have to go back.”
Mariah shook her head, refusing to open her eyes or to release him. Fire seemed to be licking at her bones. “I don’t want to.”
“You must.” His lips brushed the corner of her mouth. “If anyone else should come into the garden…”
“I would not betray you for the world.”
His chuckle was muted. “I would betray myself, if you were to keep looking at me that way.” He brushed a stray wisp of hair from her temple, and she felt his fingers shake. “But we can’t give in to madness, not here. You must return.”
With an effort, Harry released her and stepped away. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe in and out. He couldn’t make love to her, even though he burned to, even though he knew she wanted him to. He shouldn’t have kissed her, nor even touched her. He had to take her back to the house while he still remembered that. “You should return to the house,” he repeated once more, to himself as much as to her. “Your parents will be missing you.”
She bowed her head and nodded. When he put out his hand, his desire once more in check if not diminished, she gave him hers.
He led her around the wisteria path, pausing to pick up the walking stick he had dropped. With his blood racing and his heart still pounding, it was hard to fall back into the slow, shuffling gait of Wroth, even had the source of his arousal not been hanging on his arm. He stabbed the stick into the ground with more force than necessary. God, he was tired of this facade.
“Why are you here?”
He almost missed Mariah’s whisper, he was so caught up in his thoughts. As it was, he barely remembered to speak in Wroth’s voice. “Eh? What’s that? Why, ’tis a rare privilege to hear a soprano of Mrs. Campbell’s quality,” he replied, leaning on his cane and bending a kindly glance on her. At least, he hoped it was kindly instead of burning with thwarted desire. “And she’s a fetching Scottish lass, as well.”
“Oh.” The sound was soft with disappointment. “I see.”
Harry hesitated, then lowered his voice and dropped Wroth’s accent. “Just watching out for someone—and keeping my eyes open, should any ladies need rescuing.”
Her eyes shone. “Have you rescued many other ladies tonight?”
“No.” He could get lost in those eyes. “But I was only watching one.”
Her next breath was shaky. Her body swayed toward his. Their progress had slowed to a halt, and Harry forced himself to start off before he forgot himself again.
“There, you’re not overset from your tumble into the shrubbery, are you, Lady Mariah?” He watched until realization flashed in her face. She had been in the garden a long time, and someone would ask her why. She would have to explain the dirt on her gown, as well as any scrapes or marks Dexter might have left on her, and Harry offered her a reason that didn’t require a rescuer. For both their sakes, his part in the evening must remain unknown.
“No, no,” she murmured. “But it was so very, very fortunate you happened along at that moment, sir. I was never so happy in all my life to see anyone as I was you.”
Harry nodded as lust swelled and surged within him. Keep going, he told himself. They had reached the steps of the garden. Light from the mansion spilled out onto the grass, and anyone could see them. He stumped doggedly forward, right to the edge of the small terrace, and stopped. He turned to her and bowed. “I am relieved to hear it. No doubt you will want your mother. I hope you are able to enjoy the rest of the evening.”
“Yes, thank you.” She released his arm and stepped away.
Harry lowered his head, and she bobbed a quick curtsey. Over her shoulder he could see her father approaching.
“Come to me tonight,” she breathed.
Her words went straight to his groin, and Harry forced a grim smile, groping in his pocket for a handkerchief and hoping no one noticed his state. “I am always pleased to be of service. Ah, good evening, sir.” He looked up into the earl’s set face.
“Wroth.” Doncaster barely acknowledged him as he took his daughter’s hand. “Mariah, where have you been?”
“I stumbled over a tree root, Papa, and fell into the shrubbery. Lord Wroth was kind enough to walk me back to the house.”
Doncaster glanced his way again, a measuring look. “My thanks, Wroth.”
Harry inclined his head. “I could never overlook a young lady in distress. I was delighted to be of some slight assistance.”
The earl nodded once. “Indeed. We shan’t detain you any longer, sir. I shall see to my daughter now.”
Harry bowed to Mariah. Then he excused himself and shuffled away, saying a prayer of thanksgiving that Doncaster obviously still saw him as an old man and nothing more.
“Mariah, are you hurt?” her father asked in concern.
Mariah shook her head, unable to keep from watching Harry walk away. Harry, who had emerged from the darkness like a silent, deadly angel with a knife in his hand to protect her from Lord Dexter. Harry, who had pressed her up against a tree and kissed her as if it would kill him not to. Just the memory of it made her skin feel hot.
Papa took her chin in his hand and inspected her face. She dragged her eyes away from Harry’s retreating back. “Wroth was not impertinent, was he?”
She blushed. She had seen the raw desire in Harry’s eyes when he touched her throat, and she knew he’d seen the response in hers. He could have been impertinent in a dozen wicked ways and she wouldn’t have stopped him or protested at all. Her body still throbbed in frustration that he hadn’t. But she mustn’t betray any hint of that to her father, who cast another suspicious glance after Harry. “Not at all!” she said. “But Papa, Lord Dexter was not a gentleman. I don’t wish to see him again.”
“What did he do?” her father demanded, successfully diverted.
“He—He tried to kiss me when I didn’t want him to.” The wobble in her voice was unaffected. It gave her serious pause to think about what might have happened, out there alone in the dark with Lord Dexter. “And I think he was foxed. He also tripped in the dark, and never got up. I heard him snoring when Lord Wroth came upon me.” There—no one could possibly suspect what Lord Wroth had actually done. She said a quick prayer that Harry was right and Lord Dexter would have no memory of the evening.
“I see.” Papa looked grim. “Let us find your mother. Perhaps we should return home early.”
“Oh, yes,” blurted Mariah. Harry had to come see her tonight after what had happened. Surely he would. “Let’s go this instant.”
Her father nodded. “Very good,” he replied, and led her back into the house.
Harry watched her leave, clinging to her father’s arm. That ought to be the end of his work tonight. He’d watched Doncaster carefully, noting whom he spoke to and even lingering close enough to know what he spoke of. He hadn’t seen anything exceptional in the earl’s words or actions—but that was proof of nothing. He would still have to get inside
the house and look, unfortunately, or persuade Brandon to do it. So far he had not dared speak to his fellow agents about Stafford’s true purpose, but he was forced to admit he was making no progress on his own. And somehow following Mariah into the garden made him feel as though he’d broken his vow, even though he had not intended to speak to her or touch her or kiss her.
He took up his walking stick and left without taking proper leave of his host. Stafford continued to procure invitations to events that Doncaster, Crane, and Bethwell attended, but Harry felt free of his obligation to shadow them as he had before, or even to maintain his disguise as rigidly. He found a hackney and gave the Fenton Lane direction. Phipps could pay for the long drive back across the river. Besides, tonight he was sure it would be fatal to go near Doncaster House, where Mariah would be waiting for him, and where his own mind and body longed to go.
Harry balled up his fist and rapped himself on the forehead. No matter how desperately he wished it, he had no right to go to her, no right to hold her close and soothe her fears, no right to promise her that he would never let anyone else hurt her ever again. He had no right to kiss her when she raised her lips to his, no right to touch her with the possessiveness he had almost killed Dexter for attempting…
No right at all.
Chapter 21
“Uncle! I have some shocking news!” Tobias burst into the room the next morning, flushed and breathless with scandal. Crane glanced up from his leaves.
“Oh? Have we no watercress for luncheon?”
His nephew shook his head, oblivious to the sarcasm. “No, it is far more serious than that. An attempt was made on Lord Liverpool’s life.”
Harry’s pen stopped mid-word. Crane put down his magnifying lens with a soft clink. His eyes never left Tobias. “Indeed…?”
Tobias drew a deep breath. “Someone attempted to poison him. He was to dine at a dinner party given by the Marquis of Bethwell, and then the soup was found to be tainted.” Harry abandoned his pretense of working and put down the pen before ink ran all over his page. Was this the plot he had been hired to thwart? Had it unfolded in Bethwell’s kitchen right under their noses?
“Attempted,” Lord Crane repeated. “He is alive, then? And well?”
“Completely unharmed,” Tobias confirmed. “But it was a very near thing, I believe. The villain was a cook—imagine! But he was caught attempting to put a fatal herb into the turtle soup. Not only the Prime Minister and Lord Bethwell, but all their dining companions would have been poisoned.”
“The cook,” Crane exclaimed, his color fading. “It simply cannot be.”
Tobias nodded. “I am afraid it is, Uncle. Naturally, Lord Liverpool wishes to keep the news to a small circle. It wouldn’t do for the populace to know how close to danger the government was.”
Crane just looked at his nephew as if he spoke a different language. Tobias seemed to puff up with importance at having rendered his uncle speechless. He glanced at Harry. “Of course, I must ask you to keep this news in strictest confidence, Towne.”
“Of course, sir,” Harry murmured, watching Crane. The old man looked thunderstruck, even though Harry suspected he didn’t hold the Prime Minister in as high regard as Tobias did.
“The villain was carted away to Newgate at once,” Tobias went on. “No doubt he’ll be tried and hanged for treason within the month. Imagine! A cook in the man’s own kitchen! His housekeeper must be quaking in fear for her position.”
Crane pressed one hand to his forehead. He was deathly pale. “Who told you this?”
“Lord Liverpool sent a man over to inform you, Uncle.” Tobias pasted on a smile probably meant to look comforting, and instead appeared self-satisfied. “I insisted I should break the news to you myself, delicately, for the sake of your health.”
Crane only nodded, sinking back into his chair. He looked frail and unwell all of a sudden, in stark contrast to his demeanor only a few minutes ago. Harry moved forward discreetly. “Perhaps you would like to rest now, sir,” he said quietly.
“Oh, yes, Uncle,” Tobias rushed to say. “Do rest. You must have a care for your health in the wake of such a shock. How appalling that assassins penetrated Lord Bethwell’s very own kitchen! I intend to go into our own kitchen and question all the staff myself. If there are any poisoners in our midst, never fear, Uncle, I shall catch them out.” Without waiting for his uncle’s reply, Tobias bowed and left.
In the quiet in his wake, Harry collected the leaf specimens and put them away. Crane still sat slumped in his chair, fortunately silent. Harry’s mind raced. If this were the plot, and the villains had been caught, Stafford would soon notify them all, and they would begin disengaging themselves from their posts. He would be his own man again, free to pursue his own interests…
He didn’t dare let himself think further. He could hardly present himself in the drawing room of Doncaster House, a penniless commoner without a handful of dirt to call his own, and ask for the hand of the earl’s daughter. But at least his part in spying on the earl need never come out; he could rest easy that he’d only acted in a protective fashion toward Doncaster, which only doubled his relief that Doncaster had not been the treasonous party Stafford and Sidmouth sought. That fact alone, more than anything else, lifted a monstrous burden of care from his shoulders.
“Put it all away, Towne.” Crane’s voice startled him out of his thoughts.
“Sir?”
“All away,” Crane repeated quietly. “I shan’t wish to do any more today.” Surprised, Harry put away the journals and instruments. Crane rarely put away his botanical work before late afternoon. Perhaps Lord Liverpool’s brush with death was more unsettling than expected. Crane might have thought him cold and vain, but the man was the leader of the government.
“May I bring you anything, my lord?” Harry asked.
Crane didn’t move. “No. Nothing.”
Harry hesitated. “Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?”
“No, nothing,” Crane said again. “It all seems rather pointless now.” He looked up. “You might go protect the kitchen staff from my nephew. He seems quite determined to expose another poisoner in our midst, and I should hate to lose my chef. I assume if he had wished to poison me, it would have been done long ago.”
“Mr. Crane means well, sir.”
“He may mean well, but Liverpool might as well have sent a notice to the Times. Tobias cannot keep a secret for long. How gleefully he rushed up here to tell me!” Crane sighed. “He means to do well for himself. And I suppose my own death would be a great aid to him in that ambition.”
Harry could hardly argue with that. “I am sure Mr. Crane meant nothing like that, sir,” he murmured diplomatically. “No doubt Mr. Crane is merely somewhat carried away in his relief that the Prime Minister and his companions were fortunately unharmed.”
“Fortunate?” Crane looked up from under his brows. “Yes, fortunate for the minister, indeed.”
That was spiteful, even for Crane, but for some reason Harry couldn’t leave it alone. Just a few months past, a band of radicals had plotted to assassinate the entire Cabinet over dinner, and then to overthrow the government. They had planned to behead all the ministers and set Sidmouth’s and Castlereagh’s heads on pikes. Stafford had a hand in foiling that plan. Harry couldn’t imagine it hadn’t been of significant interest to Lord Crane, as it had rippled through the town like a clap of thunder, far off and muted but threatening nonetheless. “It would have thrown the country into a crisis,” he said to Crane now. “Any attack on the government in these times must cause alarm.”
“There would not have been a crisis England could not withstand,” Crane retorted, some of his color returning.
Harry straightened the journals on the shelf; something about Crane’s reply was not right. He knew the viscount did not much like Lord Liverpool, but it was a different level of dislike entirely to say England would be just as well without him.
“But then, it does not matter,
” said Crane, subsiding again. “The minister is alive and well—completely unharmed, Tobias assures me. England can sleep well tonight.”
Harry wondered again, but Crane said no more. His chores complete, he had no choice but to leave.
Tobias had been to the kitchen, but the butler had been able to soothe the chef’s ruffled feelings. Harry thanked him on behalf of Lord Crane, who did not suspect his staff of poisoning, indeed not. Mr. Crane had been unduly alarmed by rumors of poisonings, which would doubtless prove false. Lord Crane was very satisfied no one in his household would be so disloyal, and no one was so accused.
Then, unneeded by Crane and having done his part to restore calm to the household, Harry put on his hat and left.
Papa came in while Mariah was having tea with her mother. “There has been an assassination attempt on Lord Liverpool,” he said, white-faced and somber.
Mama put down her cup. “Charles, no!”
He nodded, sinking into the chair beside her. “A cook in Lord Bethwell’s house attempted to add a large dose of toxic herbs to the soup. By a singular stroke of fortune, a maid observed him doing it, recognized it was not savory as it should have been, and raised the alarm in the kitchen in time to have the soup recalled. If not for her, Bethwell and all his guests, including Liverpool, might have been poisoned and killed.”
“Good heavens.” Mama reached out her hand and Papa grasped it. “The Bethwells shall be outcasts; no one will ever dine with them again, even if they sack their entire staff. Who is responsible? Surely no mere servant would have done such a thing on his own.”
Papa glanced at her with admiration gleaming in his eyes. “You have put your finger on it as usual, Cassandra. It is not entirely certain yet, but it appears the man may have been related to one of the murderers who attempted to assassinate the Cabinet this spring. Under interrogation, he claimed he was fulfilling the mission of the Cato Street conspirators and avenging their deaths at the hands of Liverpool’s government.”
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