She nibbled on her bottom lip and glanced out at the street. “Very well, then.”
Good girl. Logic was always the best approach. Alistair nodded. “I’ll see what can be seen tonight, and we’ll discuss it tomorrow afternoon on another drive. I think we’ll skip Hyde Park, however.”
She gave him a small smile.
Just as they turned to go up the steps, a horse clattered up and the rider jumped down. Steven swept off his hat and the two men exchanged greetings before Steven turned his attention to his sister. “Have a good outing, poppet?”
“Delightful, thank you.” She glanced between Alistair and her brother and back, a silent message in her bright blue eyes.
Right. No need to hang around and give Steven the chance to ask awkward questions, like plans about his sister’s future.
Alistair bowed. “Until tomorrow, Miss Parnell. Good day, Blakeney.”
“Tomorrow, my lord.” She gave him a slight wave, and took her brother’s arm to lead him indoors.
Alistair folded his legs and leaned his back against one of the chimney stacks of Eccleston’s town house, blowing on his chilled fingers. He should have worn an extra shirt—there was more of a nip in the air at night this late in September.
He’d made his requisite appearance at the rout downstairs and participated in at least two dances, with very respectable, very married matrons.
Now that he was engaged, social events seemed far less crowded, with fewer women making demands on his time. It had been at least three days since anyone tried to trap him into a compromising situation. He hadn’t realized how much the attempts had dimmed his enjoyment of social outings until he found himself actually joining in the laughter while dancing the energetic Roger De Coverly with Lady Eccleston. The only thing that would’ve made it more enjoyable would be dancing with Charlotte.
Even so, he had a purpose in attending tonight that had nothing to do with dancing, and he was eager to get to it. He’d paused downstairs long enough to prevent his father from upending the punch bowl over his grandfather’s head—an attempt to interrupt the duke’s soliloquy on morals—and forestalled further conflict by pointing out a widow making cow eyes at Father, which made Grandfather stalk off in a huff, before Alistair decamped to the roof. Lord Eccleston had personally escorted him through the attic and out the tiny door.
Now he sat, telescope at the ready, open journal on his knee, pencil in hand, his gaze focused slightly lower than the starlit heavens above.
The balcony curtains were still open in Melisande’s room, and at least one candle lit. A maid had come in to turn down the blankets and add fuel to the fire, and left just a few moments ago. Perhaps he’d be in luck and Melisande would call it an early night, reveal whatever she had to reveal about the trinket Miss Parnell was so interested in, and he could get back to his observations. Much as he was enjoying the diversion with Miss Parnell, there would only be a few more nights of observing before the moon would rise too early and cast too much light.
He could always do as Dorian did, and get up in the predawn to search the skies after the moon had set. Alistair snorted. The only dawns he’d seen were those for which he’d not yet gone to bed.
To his left, the roof door opened, spilling a wedge of light onto the tiles. He rose up to a crouch. The door quickly closed again, and whoever had stepped outside stood there, motionless in the dark.
Lord Eccleston knew exactly where he was, and wouldn’t need to let his eyes adjust to the darkness before moving.
The wind shifted, and a hint of the newcomer’s scent wafted past him.
Rosewater.
“Over here, Miss Parnell,” he called softly. He should have known she’d not be content to wait until tomorrow afternoon for his report. And he should have listened to his instinct that said to bring an extra blanket, to keep her warm.
He heard a soft rustle of fabric, her dancing slippers silent as she crossed the tiles. By the time he’d stood up and feeling had returned to his legs, she was at his side, one hand tentatively resting on his arm.
“See anything of interest?” she whispered.
Her face was but a pale blur in the darkness, her curves concealed by the folds of a dark cloak. “Can’t see a thing,” he replied without thinking.
“Beg pardon?”
He coughed. “No, nothing of interest has happened so far, but I have hopes that Melisande will be turning in early tonight. See how her chamber has already been prepared?” He set his hands on her shoulders and pointed her toward the window he’d been watching.
Charlotte quashed the tiny thrill at his touch and forced herself to focus on the task at hand, the real reason she was five stories above the ground, on a roof in the dark, again. With a handsome viscount. Even though said viscount still had his arm slung around her shoulders and stood so close his chest brushed her arm with every gentle inhalation.
Ahem. Task. Even when she squinted, she could barely make out the window in question, among so many others that also had a candle or two lit. She took in the view available, realizing how high and isolated they were atop London’s skyline. Exposed. “We shouldn’t be standing in the open like this.”
“I’m set up by the chimney stack, over there.” He took her arm. “Mind the tripod. See the feet?” Following the blur of his hand, she saw three evenly spaced spots on the ground, glowing in the dark. “Phosphorous,” he added.
They quickly settled on a blanket spread at the base of the chimney. Charlotte tucked her skirts in around her folded legs, careful to keep her light yellow gown covered by her dark cloak. Moncreiffe sat beside her, close enough she felt the heat radiating from his body. This was even better than the close confines of the bench seat in his phaeton—no horse to control, no hordes of prying eyes in the park to worry about. No men following her every time she set about following Melisande.
At least, she hoped there were no prying eyes.
Just hers and Moncreiffe’s.
“Want to take a look through my telescope?”
“Yes, please,” she said, ignoring the weight of her own spyglass tucked inside her cloak. She heard the rustle of fabric as he shifted, and the glowing spots moved closer.
“There,” he said. He ran his hand from her shoulder down to her hand, then lifted it to the cold metal tube.
She leaned forward, closed one eye, and peered through the eyepiece. “It’s a bit blurry.”
“Must have bumped the focus ring. Not to worry.”
She started to lean back, to grant him easier access, but he reached one arm around her shoulders, holding her in. His hand found hers again and guided it to the ridged knob so she could focus for herself, while he held the telescope steady with his other hand. She allowed herself a moment to enjoy the secure weight of his arm around her, the warmth of his hand on hers, though his fingers were a bit chilly. Then she bent to the task at hand.
“The view is amazing.” Much wider field of view than her spyglass, she almost added. She could even read the time on the ormolu clock on Melisande’s mantel. And since the scope was mounted on a tripod, her arms would not grow weary from holding up the spyglass.
“Does this make you a Peeping Thomasina?” She heard the smile in his voice. Moncreiffe still had one arm around her, and was so close when he spoke that she felt the warm puff of his breath against her ear.
She shivered. “Not at all. If I were gazing into some other window for my own entertainment, possibly. But I’m doing this for the prin—the principle.”
“Ah. The…principle.”
Blast. “Of course. We can’t let Melisande get away with stealing the trinket. I have to get it back.”
Stupid, stupid, stupid. She’d slipped up twice, and she was certain Moncreiffe hadn’t missed either of them. There was no we in this investigation. There was just her, with a little assistance from Moncreiffe to disguise her actions, to serve as a distraction.
Problem was, he was proving to be more of a distraction to her.
This was good. Physical discomfort helped her concentrate. She moved the scope around a bit, looking through other windows in the hotel. Few of the curtains had been drawn against the darkness. The housekeeper was giving a dressing down to a cowering maid in the drawing room on the first floor, while a footman trimmed the candles in the ground floor salon’s chandelier. Another maid and footman were visible in the doorway of a bedchamber’s dressing room upstairs, doing…Oh, my. That didn’t look comfortable at all.
Charlotte leaned back from the eyepiece and cleared her throat.
“Something of interest?”
“Not really, no.” She coughed again, to clear the squeak.
Moncreiffe leaned in and peered through before she could move the telescope. He chuckled. “They’re going to hurt themselves if they keep that up. Er, keep doing that. I mean—”
“I know what you mean.” She was glad of the concealing darkness, since her cheeks must be flushed bright red. She’d seen people do that before, of course—couldn’t be helped in her line of work. One occasionally saw things one didn’t intend while conducting surveillance. But she’d never witnessed it in mixed company. She gave Moncreiffe a light smack on his arm, which was still slung around her shoulder. “Stop watching them.”
“I’m not. I moved it back to Melisande’s room. See?”
Charlotte leaned forward, too quickly, as Moncreiffe wasn’t out of the way yet. They bumped heads.
“Are you all right?”
“Ouch. Yes, I’m fine.”
“Let me see.”
“See what? It’s completely dark up here.”
He removed his arm from around her shoulders, leaving a cold void. She barely had time to register that when she heard the sound of his hands rubbing together, and then they were upon her face.
The friction had warmed his flesh, almost scorching against her chilled skin. His touch was light, tentative at first, one hand on her jaw, the other landing on her ear before moving to her cheek. “Where did I hit you?”
She guided his fingers to her brow. “It’s nothing. I’ll be fine.” She didn’t lift his hands away, though.
First his fingertips probed her forehead and the surrounding area. She closed her eyes.
“There doesn’t seem to be any blood.”
“Of course there isn’t. I told you, it’s nothing.” There was no reason for him to react in such a way to a minor bump. It was as if he was simply using it as an excuse to touch her.
Oh.
She sat perfectly still so as not to dislodge him.
He flattened the palm of his hand to her forehead, moved around a tiny bit. “I don’t feel a bump forming, though it’s probably too soon to tell.” He kept one hand on her forehead, but the other slowly trailed down her cheek and cupped her jaw. The pad of his thumb ghosted over her mouth.
Her lips parted in surprise.
His other hand slid to one side, cradling her head, while his thumb continued to sweep back and forth over her bottom lip, ever so lightly, gently.
This was highly inappropriate. Very improper. She should tell him so.
She kissed his thumb.
The sudden inhale she heard was not hers.
She sensed him move closer, felt his breath on her cheek. He was going to kiss her. Replace his thumb, pleasant as it was, with his lips, which would be ever so much better. Those gorgeous, full but oh-so-masculine lips, were finally going to be on hers. She’d know how they felt, what he tasted like. She kept her eyes open, hoping details of his features would become visible in the darkness once he got close enough.
A tiny orange light appeared on a rooftop a few houses over, just beyond Moncreiffe’s shoulder.
She stiffened.
So did Moncreiffe.
“We’re being watched,” she whispered.
Chapter 6
“What?” His tone held a growling hint of frustration. “What makes you think we’re being watched?”
“Someone just lit a cigarillo, two roofs over. See?” She turned Moncreiffe’s jaw away from her, toward his left shoulder, where the outline of a few chimney stacks was visible beyond because of the void it made against the stars in the sky.
There, by one of the voids, it came again. A faint orange glow that flared and then faded just as quickly.
“Could just be a spark from the chimney.”
Reluctantly, she let go of his chin. “Would a spark fly back up like that?”
The smoker raised his cheroot, the orange light flared as he took another puff, then it swung down again, as he probably held it by his side.
“Wonder who he is.” Moncreiffe turned back to Charlotte. “This afternoon I thought those two men in the park might be someone your brother had instructed to keep an eye on you—well, on us—but now I don’t think so.”
“What made you change your mind?” Of course Steven would not send someone to spy on her. He knew that she could fend for herself—he’d been the one to teach her.
“If your brother distrusted me to that extent, he would have insisted on accompanying us himself, or refused to allow you to go with me. There’s also the fact that Melisande was riding her gelding in the park this afternoon, and she was shopping on Bond Street the day we met.”
“You saw her back then?” Charlotte hadn’t told Moncreiffe she’d been spying on the French widow when she realized there were two men following her.
“She entered a milliner’s shop farther down the street, shortly after you took my arm.”
So, even the grandson of a duke was not immune to the courtesan’s charms? Charlotte gave him a pointed stare, the effect of which was, unfortunately, lost in the complete darkness.
The breeze carried the sharp tang of tobacco smoke after the smoker took another puff.
Amateur. Anyone who’d done any spying at all would know better than to do something so obvious, so stupid, that would give away their position.
Come to think of it, she’d seen Sir Nigel out on the balcony at one of the balls earlier this week, smoking a cheroot. Perhaps he was involved after all? She kept the excitement out of her voice. “Perhaps it is one of the men we saw this afternoon, and the smoker is doing the same as we are—watching Madame Melisande.”
“Well, that would give more credence to your original theory about the theft.” Moncreiffe shifted beside her, and a muffled thud came from the tripod as he moved it to a better angle for pointing the telescope at the other rooftop. “And it’s highly unlikely anyone knew we were going to be up here.” His voice grew more distant as he spoke while looking through the eyepiece. “You didn’t tell anyone, did you?”
She tried not to be insulted. Moncreiffe was quite new at the spying business and could have no idea of her degree of experience in the field. “Of course not. Aunt Hermione thinks I’m lying down in one of Eccleston’s guest rooms because of a headache.”
“You don’t have one, do you?” He sounded a bit worried, sincere rather than merely being polite.
She was touched. “Never had one in my life. But I often excuse myself because of them.”
He chuckled. “I shall endeavor to remember that.” His voice faded again as he bent back to the telescope. “I can’t tell for certain if they’re the same men from the park, but there are definitely at least two of them over there. They’re passing the cigarillo back and forth.”
“How disgusting. Let me look.”
Once again Moncreiffe guided her hand to the eyepiece. This time she didn’t try to adjust the viewing mechanism—there was nothing to see but the orange glow, still tiny even when magnified. No way to tell if it was in focus or not.
&
nbsp; She straightened. “There could be a dozen men over there, for all I can tell. How can you see anything?”
“Sometimes it’s what you can’t see that tells you what’s there. They’re both standing, and from this angle, they’re blocking part of Scorpius.”
“Standing? They aren’t trying to be surreptitious about this at all.” Hmm. Maybe there was no need for them to be surreptitious. “How can we be sure they’re not simply astronomers like you?”
“Well…” She pictured him tapping his chin in thought. “I know a member of the Society who lives close by here, but don’t recall the exact location of his house in relation to this one.” She heard him move the telescope back to its original position. “I suppose all we can really do is what we came here for. Watch for Madame Melisande.”
They settled in again, waiting and watching, keeping an eye on Melisande’s room as well as the smokers on the nearby roof, who seemed to have brought an endless supply of tobacco for their vigil.
After a while Charlotte realized Moncreiffe was not disturbed by the long silences between conversational gambits. In her experience, most men were in love with the sound of their own voice, or felt the nervous need to keep a dialogue going in mixed company, even if the topics were inane. “You spend a lot of time alone, don’t you?”
“Not as much as I’d like to.”
Her back stiffened. “Perhaps you should go, then. I can keep watch by myself.”
“What? No, no, that’s not what I meant.” Even in total darkness he talked with his hands, making them a ghostly blur as he gestured, occasionally touching her knee or arm to help make a point. “I spend so much time doing what other people want—and I’m referring to my father and grandfather, not you—it takes away from the things that are important to me. In accompanying them back to town, I missed being able to watch most of the Perseid meteor showers.”
Fabric rustled as he unfolded then re-crossed his legs. “I suppose I became spoiled this summer, when I went on a two-month walking tour of the countryside. Observing is much more productive when you can get away from cities and their gaslights, and away from relatives.”
Shirley Kerr Page 7