The Untouchable Earl

by Amy Sandas

  Seemingly unconcerned with their near collision, he looked down at her from nearly a foot above her with an expression that could only be classified as annoyed.

  The longer she stood there staring up at him, the more annoyed he became, as was evidenced by the lowering of his untamed brows and the pursing of his thin mouth.

  And his annoyance annoyed Portia.

  He was the one who had kept them waiting while her sister was dragged off to who knows where.

  She pushed off from the doorframe and planted her hands on her hips.

  “It is about time. Do you have any idea how long we have been waiting?”

  The thick eyebrows shot up, reaching far above the top rim of his spectacles. “You have been waiting less than fifteen minutes,” he replied in an entirely unhurried tone. “Do you have any idea what time of night it is?”

  “I would say it is nearing one o’clock in the morning, which should signify that our issue is urgent and of such importance that it cannot wait until a more reasonable hour, which should in turn have pressed you to a hastier response.”

  The man made a sound in the back of his throat, a sort of abbreviated snort, then stared, saying nothing more. His lips pressed into such a tight line that they lost all hint of color and his eyes narrowed to a squint behind his spectacles.

  “Portia, come sit. Allow the poor man into the room so we may conduct our business.”

  Portia realized then that her challenging stance essentially blocked the doorway, keeping the newcomer stranded on the threshold. Executing a little snort of her own, Portia turned with a whip of her skirts and strode to where her great-aunt was pushing herself a bit straighter in the armchair. Rather than sitting, which she knew wouldn’t last long anyway, Portia took position beside the chair and waited for Nightshade’s man to step forward and take control of the situation.

  Taking control was not how Portia would describe the man’s next actions.

  After a slow glance at Angelique, he strolled into the room, keeping his hands in his pockets. He walked past the lit candelabra, his brows shooting upward again as if the fact that they had lit the room was more of an affront than their untimely barging into his household.

  Portia studied him, irritated and curious.

  This was the go-between for the highly skilled and ruthless Nightshade? He looked more like someone’s daft uncle or a confused schoolteacher.

  “Mr. Honeycutt,” Angelique said, “we met once before, a few years ago…”

  “Of course, Lady Chelmsworth,” Honeycutt interrupted without turning to face them as he wandered to the window overlooking the front street. “I recall our introduction. I assume tonight brings you here on another matter.”

  Portia bristled at the impatience obvious in his tone. The man was sorely lacking in manners.

  “Indeed. This is my great-niece, Miss Chadwick,” Angelique replied, waving an elegant hand toward Portia. “Her sister has been abducted tonight. Taken off the street and carried away. We need Nightshade to recover her.”

  Portia watched Mr. Honeycutt carefully, expecting some sort of reaction to the news of a young lady being kidnapped in such a way. But he gave no acknowledgment at all, just continued to stare out the window with his shoulders slouched and his chin tucked to his chest.

  Portia couldn’t stand any more of it.

  “Mr. Honeycutt,” she began in a sharp tone, but just as she spoke, he turned around again and pinned her with a stare that stopped the rest of her words.

  Something in his manner, his gaze, his sudden focus managed to suck the dissent right out of her. Somewhere deep within the ugly brown coat and sloped posture she detected a strong thread of competence. She rolled her lips in between her teeth in a way she hadn’t done since she was young and her mother would chastise her for her naughtiness, which had been often.

  After waiting long enough to be assured she would not interrupt any further, Honeycutt shifted his attention back to Angelique. “Have you any idea who may have perpetrated the abduction or why?”

  Angelique looked to Portia, giving her a nod.

  During their drive across London, Portia had confessed to Angelique the truth about the mysterious loan and Hale’s recent threats. The Chadwicks had initially decided to keep the full nature of their dire circumstances from the lady’s knowledge rather than risk the possibility it might influence her decision to sponsor the younger sisters for the Season.

  Portia straightened her spine and looked the man directly in the face. She realized it was vital he have all the information available if this Nightshade were to have any luck in tracking down where Lily had been taken, but it didn’t make it any easier to admit her family’s secrets to a stranger.

  “Since my father’s death several months ago, my oldest sister, Emma, had been receiving notes from someone named Mason Hale regarding an unpaid loan. Then last night, my sister Lily—the one who was just abducted—was personally threatened by Hale. He stated we had two days to repay him in full, with interest. He indicated he would have his money, one way or another.” She paused, looking for some indication that Honeycutt was listening. He provided no reaction at all. After a bit, Portia realized he wasn’t going to offer any and she continued. “Hale gave us until tomorrow to get the money to him. We had a plan to come up with the amount, but something must have changed. Hale must have decided not to wait.”

  Honeycutt was silent and unmoving for several minutes. Finally he asked, “Does anyone else have any cause to take your sister? Vengeance, lust, greed?”

  “Not that I know of,” Portia replied.

  A sick rush of guilt settled in her stomach. She and Lily had not been talking as much as they used to. Portia had been so aggravated since she began her debut Season that she had not been very attentive to her sister.

  “Do you know of Mason Hale? Where to find him?” Portia asked when Honeycutt remained silent longer than she was comfortable with.

  He narrowed his gaze in irritation again and Portia stiffened. If he wasn’t so bloody tight-lipped, she wouldn’t be forced to press him.

  “I will address the matter with my employer,” Honeycutt finally replied.

  The man turned his gaze to Angelique again. “As you may recall, his services require a partial payment up-front. The urgency of the matter will demand a substantial fee, my lady.”

  The dowager countess grunted in acceptance and reached into her reticule for a small sack of coins. She handed them to Portia, their eyes meeting briefly as she did so. The old lady lived on a limited allowance from the present earl and Portia certainly had no money.

  This was the bluff her great-aunt had mentioned earlier.

  Portia brought the sack of coins to Mr. Honeycutt, looking him directly in the eye as she came to stand before him.

  “That is all I have on my person at the moment, Mr. Honeycutt,” Angelique explained. “I did not waste time going for more funds but came directly here, you understand. I can promise the full fee once my niece is returned safely home.”

  Honeycutt glanced down at the small purse in Portia’s hand, making no move to take it from her.

  Portia’s anxiety grew unbearable.

  He had to accept it. Nightshade was their only option at this point. Precious time slid away with every second Honeycutt took to respond. Lily’s image flashed through Portia’s mind. Her sweet, gentle sister needed someone to take action.

  Now.

  Portia stepped toward Honeycutt, her anger over his obvious reticence forcing her hand. On fear and impulse, she grasped his wrist and yanked his hand out of his pocket. Before he could resist, she pressed the purse into his large palm. Holding it there with both of her hands, she looked up into his face, forcing him to meet her eyes.

  “You have to accept,” she said through a tight, aching throat. “Nightshade has to find my sister. There is no other option
.”

  He glared at her with narrowed eyes. His affront at her boldness was clear.

  Portia, full of fear and stubborn determination, refused to back down. She could feel the tension in his body, but it was more than annoyance, she realized. He possessed a sort of physical readiness she hadn’t noticed before when his slow movements and careless posture had suggested a distinct lack of interest. His hand, enclosed in both of hers, felt stronger, more capable than she had expected. Standing close enough that she had to tip her head back to look into his face, she sensed something powerful emanating from him.

  Something that forced a subtle shiver to course through her body.

  She peered into his eyes. They were shadowed by his bushy brows and distorted by the glass of his spectacles, but she swore she saw something significant there. Tipping her head to the side, a frown creased her forehead as she focused her gaze—trying to discern just what it was that had caught her attention.

  But then he curled his hand into a fist, claiming the purse before abruptly turning to walk away.

  “I will get a message to my employer. I offer no guarantee.” Honeycutt paused in the doorway. “Return home. Word of the investigation will be sent to you there.”

  “We will wait here for news,” Portia replied.

  “Impossible. There is no telling how long it will take for my employer to discover your sister’s fate. It could be several hours. Or days.”

  Portia thought of going back to the house and awaiting word. She thought of Emma returning and having to be advised of Lily’s abduction.

  No. She could not go home without some solid results…even if she had to go out into the night and get them herself.

  She folded her arms across her chest and squared her shoulders. “We will wait here.”

  Honeycutt stopped in the threshold to glare back at her over his sloped shoulder. “You cannot.”

  “We will,” she insisted with an insolent lift of her eyebrows, “unless you intend to cause a scene by physically forcing two screaming females from your home.” She smiled with false sweetness. “I received the impression you prefer to keep these dealings more discreet.”

  For a brief second, the man seemed at a loss on how to handle Portia’s insistence. Then he gave a short grunt. “Do not expect any amenities,” he muttered.

  And then he was gone.

  Three

  Portia stood there, apprehension coming back to the fore now that she and Angelique were alone again. She glanced back toward her great-aunt, whose eyes had grown heavy as her chin bobbed repeatedly toward her chest. The elderly lady would be asleep within minutes.

  Portia made a swift decision. Picking up her skirts, she crossed the room in long strides, then paused at the door, peering into the hall. Everything was dark and silent.

  Creeping forward, she strained her ears to hear any indication of where Honeycutt had gone. Had he left the house, gone to Nightshade already?

  The floorboards above her gave a telltale creak.

  Portia did not think twice as she made her way toward the narrow stairs leading up to the second floor. There was far too much at stake to worry about proper manners. Going excruciatingly slowly, she incorporated into her movements all of the little tricks she had developed as a child.

  At the top of the stairs, Portia peered down a narrow hallway, dark but for the light from one room seeping through the crack of a door barely left open. Portia crept forward, undeterred.

  Nearing the lit room, Portia heard the low murmur of two distinct voices. But she could not make out what they said. The hallway was long and narrow and not at all conducive to hiding. There was not even a table to crouch behind.

  Creeping forward, she got as close as she could, stopping in a deep shadow just beyond the pale beam of light extending across the floor. Pressing her back flat against the wall, she eased her breath into a slow, deep, silent rhythm as she had trained herself to do long ago.

  Then she listened.

  “This don’t sound like somethin’ Hale would do.” Portia recognized the guttural tone of the rude little butler’s voice coming from just inside the door. “He ain’t no kidnapper.”

  “He never was before, but you and I know people can be pushed to do almost anything under the right circumstances.”

  Portia tensed.

  This last was spoken by an unfamiliar voice. She had expected to hear Honeycutt, but this man spoke in a much lower tone and his words revealed the barest hint of cockney buried beneath the layers of finer intonation.

  Breathing so slowly she could not even feel the air moving through her lungs, she waited. She had no idea what she would do if someone stepped into the hall and saw her skulking there. It was not in her nature to think so far ahead, preferring to rely on instinct and inspiration in such situations.

  When, after a few minutes, no one came out of the room, she began to relax. She could still hear quite a bit of movement within and her curiosity won out over caution. Twisting her upper body, she leaned forward until she could take a quick peek through the crack in the door.

  She saw the butler first. He stood with his back to her, thank God, as he riffled through the drawers of a tallboy dresser.

  Beyond the butler, Honeycutt was only partially visible where he sat on a bench turned three-quarters away from her in front of a large mirror propped atop a table. Portia saw no one else in her limited view. It made her nervous, not being able to see where the third man may be.

  But then her gaze swung back to Honeycutt as he grasped the bottom hem of his coat and drew it up over his head—along with the waistcoat beneath, the shirt, and the neckcloth.

  It all came off in one attached piece.

  Portia was pondering the reason for such a design when her attention was forcefully snared by what had been revealed by the sudden disrobing.

  Honeycutt was not a man in his later years.

  His upper body was sharply defined by hard, lean muscle beneath smooth, tawny skin. As he lifted his arms to clear the garment from his head, the dim candlelight rippled over the contours of his shoulders and back. There was not a bit of extra bulk or flab. Just taut, agile strength.

  “Wot’ll you do, Mr. Turner?”

  Portia spun around to press her shoulders to the wall again, grasping her skirts in her hands to draw them in so as not to be seen from inside the room. She had forgotten herself for a few moments and had gotten frightfully close to tumbling right in. Chastising herself for such carelessness, she fought to regain control of her breath. But it was not so easy now that she had the surprising image of Honeycutt’s strong masculine physique stamped indelibly in her mind.

  “I’ll pay Hale a visit. Find out if he knows anything about this girl. Even if he wasn’t involved, Hale may have some information.”

  Honeycutt had talked with the intonation of the middle-class. This man spoke in a way that brought up impressions of back-alley dealings and midnight capers. There was a depth to his voice, a thread of danger in the low tenor that made Portia’s skin tingle with alarm.

  What had the sour little butler called him? Mr. Turner?

  “Wot costume should I ready?”

  Costume?

  “Mr. Black, I think. And toss me the face cream, would you? I need to get this beard off.”

  Fury welled hot in Portia’s stomach. She had been right to be suspicious. What kind of scam were they running? Had Angelique unwittingly walked them into a fleecing? They had already given Honeycutt—or was it Turner?—a significant purse.

  No. They had been talking about Hale. There seemed to be some intention to investigate Lily’s abduction.

  There were several more moments of shuffling movement as Portia contemplated the situation with rising trepidation. Then there was the distinct sound of water being poured into a basin, followed by the splashes of vigorous washing.

&
nbsp; “Wot if Hale don’t know nuthin’?” the butler asked.

  Portia tensed. It was a question she had not allowed herself to consider in any depth. The abduction had to be connected with Hale. There was no other logical possibility. No other lead to follow if that were the case.

  “Then we made a pretty purse for an hour’s worth of work.”

  Portia’s intention to remain hidden in the hall instantly disintegrated. Pushing off from the wall, she burst into the little room. “Like hell you did!”

  The butler gave a start at her sudden intrusion. Portia ignored his shocked glare. All of her attention focused on the man who sat in front of the mirror with a towel draped over his head as he dried his hair. She fixed her furious gaze on his broad shoulders, the fire in her blood rising to an exponential degree.

  “You have been hired to bring my sister home, and that is what you will do,” she declared. “Am I clear, Mr. Honeycutt? Or is it Mr. Turner? Or should I just call you Nightshade?”

  The butler took a swift and menacing step toward her. Portia did not acknowledge him, waiting instead for the other man to respond.

  At first, Turner did nothing to acknowledge her presence, as though his strange toilet was often interrupted by angry young women. While she watched, waiting with her arms crossed indignantly over her chest, he finished drying his hair. The movements of his arms caused a fascinating bunching and releasing of the muscles across his shoulders and down his back. After a minute of this, as Portia’s mouth went curiously dry, he stood from the bench and turned toward her.

  Standing at full height, he grasped the ends of the towel with his large hands to keep it anchored over his face like the hood of a cloak. He was still bared to the waist and his woolen trousers rested low across lean hips. Portia’s attention was immediately snared by the way muscles cut across his abdomen and angled past his hips in intriguing lines she hadn’t known the human body possessed.

  Her breath arrested quite forcefully on its way out of her lungs. Her knees locked, rooting her to the floor. And a frightening shiver skittered down her spine while another entirely unfamiliar sensation rippled through her insides.