Shirley Kerr

by Confessions of a Viscount

  “And you know her usual type?”

  She nodded, almost absently. “Men like you, or your father. Wealthy. In a position of power. Preferably both.” She propped her chin in her hand, tapping her bottom lip with one finger. “Sir Nigel is neither.”

  Alistair stared at her finger, wondering what it would feel like to trace her lip with his own finger. “Perhaps they are simply drawn toward each other. We cannot always control who we find ourselves attracted to.”

  “No, I don’t think—” She cut herself off and turned to Alistair, biting her bottom lip, as though reading the unspoken sentiment behind his words.

  He waited, but she said no more. When the silence began to draw out, he returned to a question she had ignored earlier in the evening. Dealing with his father and grandfather, he’d learned that bluntness was usually far more effective than polite subtlety. “What is your interest in the French widow?”

  She stared at her hands in her lap so long, Alistair began to think she wouldn’t answer. At last she took a deep breath. He raised his gaze from the freckle on her bosom to concentrate on her reply.

  “There is an object that’s gone missing. It belongs to someone important, and it needs to be returned to its owner. I believe Madame Melisande took that object, or knows of its whereabouts.”

  “And your brother does not share in your belief.”

  “Steven dismissed my theory.” Her lips momentarily thinned at the remembered insult.

  While his friends Nick and Tony were as close to him as brothers, he had been an only child since the accident twenty years ago. Did brothers and sisters fight differently than male siblings? Trade insults, and then brush them off as easily as boys did? He doubted they’d resort to fisticuffs as often. Though the idea of Miss Parnell participating in a physical fight definitely seemed a possibility.

  He tapped his chin. “I wonder if perhaps Sir Nigel somehow found out about Madame Melisande’s activities.”

  Miss Parnell glanced at him, eyebrows raised, then turned back to watching the couple in question.

  “Is the missing object valuable?” Alistair continued. “If money is to be made from taking the object, he’s the sort who would want to be part of the scheme.” He studied Sir Nigel, who was still near the potted palm, in animated conversation with Melisande. Miss Parnell’s sudden gasp brought his attention back to her.

  “He’s got it!” she whispered. She nodded, smiling. “He found out what Melisande was doing, wanted to be part of the scheme, but she wouldn’t cooperate, so he took it from her. She’s just recently realized she no longer has it.”

  “No wonder you couldn’t find it. By the way, what is it?”

  She bit her bottom lip. “Only a very few number of people know about the…object, and even fewer people know that it’s missing. If word got out, it could have disastrous consequences.”

  “Disastrous?” Alistair raised one eyebrow. “For whom?”

  “En—Enormous numbers of people.”

  Knowing about the work her brother had done for the Home Office, Alistair was fairly certain she had almost said England. He sat up straighter, suddenly realizing that what he’d gotten himself into could have far greater consequences than damaging a young woman’s reputation, as when his father had misinterpreted Miss Parnell being aloft in his arms on the balcony of a notorious hotel.

  A woman as daring as she, who had accosted a strange man on the street, would not be easily dissuaded from her chosen path. Not to mention how calmly she had gone along with his bald-faced lie, unruffled even under his father’s scrutiny. Informing on her to her brother would only compel her to commit still more daring and dangerous acts in defiance.

  Even the extreme option, of them actually getting married, was unlikely to give pause to a woman who would climb up onto a roof in the dark and try to swing down onto a balcony while wearing a gown.

  If he could not dissuade Miss Parnell from her quest, he now felt it his obligation, for God and country, to help her succeed.

  He did not, however, feel obliged to share this realization with her.

  “What are you two discussing so intently, hmm?” Aunt Hermione leaned toward her niece. “Setting a date for your wedding, perhaps?”

  Charlotte felt heat bloom in her cheeks. “Aunt!” she hissed. Moncreiffe cleared his throat. Charlotte continued, forcing a calm tone. “As I explained to you, it is too soon for that. The viscount and I need to become better acquainted.”

  Aunt Hermione harrumphed. “Should have done that before you accepted his offer, miss.” She leaned toward Charlotte’s ear for a conspiratorial whisper. “Though with him being so easy on the eyes, not to mention heir to a dukedom, I can understand why you didn’t wait.” She straightened in her chair, a knowing smile gracing her lips.

  Charlotte stifled a sigh. She hated to disappoint her aunt, and the old gel would be when they called off the fake engagement. But a husband was not in her future, did not fit into her plans. Just as a wife was not in Moncreiffe’s immediate plans.

  Aside from being caught in the apparent feud between his father and grandfather, she felt confident he was only going along with her subterfuge as a way to dispel the ennui that plagued so many gentlemen of the ton. The same ennui that made them such easy targets when she needed information from them, or needed to use them to further her plans.

  She did not feel guilty. She was harming no one. Her conscience was clear.

  The same could not be said for Steven, the rat. The someone he had to say hello to turned out to be Gauthier, whom they had often worked closely with in France—further proof that Steven had not declined the assignment, as he had claimed. “Wants to simply enjoy the Season, my arse,” Charlotte muttered.

  “Beg pardon?”

  She batted her lashes at Moncreiffe. “Did you say something, my lord?”

  He shook his head and returned his attention to the dancers on the floor.

  Charlotte gave herself a mental shake. What was it about Moncreiffe that made it so easy for her to act the part of a breathless, giddy green girl encountering her first handsome man?

  It wasn’t as though she’d never kept company with attractive men before. Even the handsome, wealthy, and powerful Marquis de Archambault, a man known for his discriminating taste in women, had invited her into his bed on more than one occasion, before she’d left France. She had never been tempted to accept his invitations.

  If Moncreiffe were to invite her, however…

  She glanced over at his hands resting on his knees. A casual, utterly proper position. Innocent. She stared at his long, almost elegant, fingers, remembering the way they had felt against hers as he’d caressed her hands earlier that afternoon, in the garden as they sat beneath the elm tree. He’d know exactly what to do with his hands, put those fingers to good use, to pleasure a woman.

  His lips, too. Just look at that gorgeous mouth, the charming smile. He would know how to kiss, warm and gentle, passionate and all-consuming. Not slobbering and clumsy, like Freddie Lawson, when she was twelve. Moncreiffe would make her toes curl, send shivers down her spine. The good kind.

  What would he taste like? Sweet like sugar plums, or heady like a good claret? Rich and warm, like her morning chocolate…

  She stifled a groan. She’d seen it in enough men to recognize the emotion in herself—lust. How lowering to discover she was just as susceptible to lusting after an attractive member of the opposite sex.

  Well. Now that she had identified the enemy, she would be better prepared to fight it. And the way to win this war was to deny it battle.

  Viscount Moncreiffe was only a means to an end. Just as she was for him.

  “Do you think you could make some discreet inquiries, my lord?” Charlotte whispered behind her fan.

  “About Sir Nigel?” He touched his bottom lip with one long, elegant finger. She wished he’d stop doing that. “Check the betting books, see if he’s come into any funds recently, or anticipates doing so in the near future,
that sort of thing?”

  She nodded, unable to form a coherent thought, mesmerized by the sight of his fingertip tapping his full lower lip.

  He abruptly lowered his hand and clasped his fingers together. She cleared her throat. What had they been discussing? Oh, right. “See if you can find out who else Sir Nigel might be spending his time with.”

  Moncreiffe nodded. “See if he’s had any unusual contact with people in positions of power?”

  Charlotte kept her expression carefully neutral. Moncreiffe couldn’t possibly know what was at stake.

  He kept looking at her expectantly. She had the feeling he was baiting her, trying to trick her into revealing more than she intended. Wasn’t that exactly what she had done, on so many occasions, to so many men?

  She’d have to ask Steven to look into Moncreiffe’s past. Much as it galled her to admit it, there were things that a single young man could do in London society that a woman could not. Although it wouldn’t be too out of the ordinary for a newly engaged woman to make inquiries about her husband-to-be. Though, as Aunt Hermione had said, those things were generally done before accepting the offer of marriage. Not after.

  Steven wended his way through the crowd just then and took the empty chair on the other side of Aunt Hermione.

  “How is your friend?” Hermione asked, patting Steven on his knee.

  “My what? Oh, ah, he’s fine. Yes. Just did a bit of catching up. Hadn’t seen each other since Cambridge, you know.”

  Aunt Hermione soaked it up, obviously believing every word. Charlotte ground her teeth. The musicians struck up a waltz. She leaned forward, to see around her aunt. “Steven, I believe this is the dance you promised me tonight.”

  “I did? Yes, of course. If you don’t mind, Moncreiffe.”

  Moncreiffe waved his hand in a magnanimous gesture, his blue eyes twinkling. How annoying that after such short acquaintance he saw right through her subterfuge, when her beloved blood relative, Aunt Hermione, accepted every word as gospel truth.

  Moments later, Charlotte and Steven took their place among the dancers. “Enjoy your chat with Gauthier?” she said, pleased that her voice remained neutral.

  “Don’t be angry, poppet,” he said, expertly leading them to the least crowded section of the dance floor.

  At least Steven had the grace to not deny it. She fought to keep the anger out of her voice. “How could you leave me out of an investigation, after all we’ve done together? Haven’t I proven myself enough?”

  He looked pained, even though it had been several years since she’d last trod on his toes. “I’ve already explained, it has nothing to do with your skills and ability, or any supposed lack thereof.” He took a deep breath and stared into the distance for a moment, as though hoping to draw inspiration from the potted palm in the corner. “Being back in England, watching Marianne get married, I realized I’ve been unfair to you.”

  “Unfair? Bloody right you have. I’ve put in my time, figured things out that had even you stumped, and yet you dismissed my theory about Madame Melisande out of hand. That hurt, Steven.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not talking about the case, poppet. It was selfish of me to bring you to France after Mother passed away, wrong to involve you in my work. Now the war is over, we’re in London, you should have a chance at happiness. Lead a normal life, like Marianne.”

  She started to stutter a protest, but he forestalled her by tilting her chin up with one finger.

  “You shouldn’t be involved in dangerous work. I’d never forgive myself if harm came to you.”

  He hadn’t seemed so concerned when he’d brought her to his tiny flat overlooking a Paris alley five years ago, or when he’d shown her five different escape routes to three different bolt holes. He’d been only too delighted to hear the news she gleaned from maids, mistresses, and shop girls.

  She had thrown herself into their work, devoting herself to ferreting out every snippet of information, using her French lessons in a way that would have shocked her teachers speechless. Work had distracted her from her grief over losing her mother, and given her life purpose. Her existence had meaning, made a difference, like her father had. Much as she loved her mother, Mama had been a butterfly, flitting about society, pretty but accomplishing little.

  Steven was still talking. “You should marry Moncreiffe and have babies. Be happy.”

  Charlotte almost groaned in frustration. “We’ve had this conversation before, Steven. What will it take to convince you that this work is what makes me happy? Chasing clues, solving puzzles…this is a normal life for me.” She wanted to continue to serve the crown, not get married. A husband would only get in the way.

  But Steven’s chin was set, her passionate plea falling on ears that had gone deaf as soon as they’d come to London, at least where her future was concerned.

  She could be just as stubborn. “Did Gauthier have any new information?”

  He let his breath out in a sigh. “You won’t leave it alone, will you?” He meant his tone to be harsh, but Charlotte heard grudging admiration. After pausing long enough she thought he wouldn’t answer, he spoke. “We think the…item…has been moved again. Tomorrow we’re going to make some more inquiries. If I keep you informed about our progress, will you try pretending to be a typical London miss?”

  She’d done nothing but pretend since coming to London. She pretended to enjoy endless shopping excursions on Bond Street with Aunt Hermione and paying morning calls that took place in the afternoon. Even her engagement was pretend.

  She beamed. “I can agree to that.”

  And now Steven was going to keep her informed about his investigation. Perfect. However, she didn’t trust that he’d tell her all his progress, so she’d keep an eye on him, just the same.

  The next morning, Charlotte rummaged through the trunks in her room, deciding which outfit to wear for following Steven. Should she choose a maid’s uniform, or housekeeper’s? A shop girl’s? Didn’t really matter, so long as it was the attire of someone who could walk the streets without an escort, without raising any eyebrows or drawing attention.

  She poked around the assorted wigs and garments until she banged her knuckles against something hard, long and narrow. The cane. She’d have to return that, along with the wig and dress she’d borrowed from the modiste’s shop, before the assistant who’d helped her had the cost deducted from her wages.

  Charlotte smiled at how she’d given Moncreiffe the slip that first day they’d met, walking right past him when she exited the shop’s front door. He’d even tipped his hat, in deference to what he’d thought was an old crone.

  Such a polite chap. How fortuitous that he’d paused to peer through a shop window when she’d thought someone was following her.

  Only once before had she accosted a man on the street. The suspected traitor she’d been following down a Paris side street had suddenly doubled back. She’d hooked her arm with a beefy fellow just stepping into the street and sauntered right past her suspect.

  As soon as they’d turned the corner into an alley, the fellow developed six hands, and it had taken her knee to his nether regions to convince him that No meant not in his lifetime.

  She doubted she’d ever have to resort to such means with a gentleman like Moncreiffe. She sat back on her heels, the cane clutched to her chest. To be brutally honest, she doubted she’d offer even a token protest. The thought of his hands, roaming over her body…

  Good thing their engagement was completely fictitious, merely for mutual convenience, so that kind of situation would never arise. Her ability to resist him, or rather inability, would never be tested.

  She quickly dressed in a maid’s uniform, scraped her hair into a tight bun and covered it with a mob cap, then gathered the costume to be returned, threw on an old cloak, and headed down the back stairs, out the garden gate, into the mews.

  Steven was still eating breakfast, but she knew where he was likely to meet Gauthier. She had just enough time to
drop off her burden at the modiste’s shop before eavesdropping on them.

  Chapter 5

  Alistair slouched lower in the armchair and raised his newspaper higher as Sir Nigel walked past him at White’s the next afternoon. As soon as he was out the door, Alistair shoved the paper aside, retrieved his journal and pencil, and recorded the names of the men with whom Nigel had exchanged more than banal pleasantries.

  He’d never before tried to conceal his observations, if one didn’t count deceiving the teachers at school when he was supposed to be studying something other than the night sky. Subterfuge lent an air of excitement to an otherwise tedious activity.

  An extra guinea slipped to the waiter who brought Alistair’s wine confirmed that all of the men with Nigel were his usual cronies. Also as usual, the waiter quietly added, Nigel had graciously allowed someone else in the group to pay for his meal and drinks.

  If the man was expecting to come into money soon, he was being very circumspect about it. He hadn’t even entered anything in the betting books in over a month.

  Alistair checked his watch. Just enough time to go home, change clothes, have his phaeton readied, and take Miss Parnell for a drive, as they’d agreed last night at the ball, so they could discuss what he’d learned. Or the lack thereof, since he didn’t think the information he’d gathered so far would prove to be of much value.

  Even so, he was going for a drive in the park on a beautiful day with an intriguing woman—the perfect opportunity for intimate conversation to get better acquainted with his mysterious miss.

  He picked up his pace.

  “Let me take the reins,” were her first words upon stepping out of the town house and seeing his high perch phaeton.

  Alistair exchanged a knowing grin with the groom holding the horse. “Perhaps some other time.” He gave her a hand up, admiring the way her dress clung to the curve of her hip as she climbed up to the seat before she sat and settled her skirts.