She pictured him, his telescope carrying case balanced on his shoulder, a solitary figure walking a lonely dusty road by day, seated beneath the cold sky at night. “You were alone all that time?”
“Not at first. My friend Tony set out with me, but when we reached the Devon coast, he became enamored of a lady smuggler and stayed behind to woo her.”
A female smuggler? How intriguing. “Your friend intentionally set out to seduce her? Not much of a gentleman, is he?”
“Tony may have thought that’s what he intended, but deep down he’s a good man. I attended their wedding last month.”
“So he became a smuggler, too?” All the smugglers she knew were dependably undependable.
“For a short while, but they’re both disgustingly respectable now. He helped her find a legal means for her gang to earn a living, and now the whole village has adopted him as one of their own. They make the most marvelous cheese.” He patted her knee. “If they come to town, or we go down there, I’ll introduce you to his bride. You and Sylvia would get along famously.”
Sylvia the smuggler. Scratch that—Sylvia the ex-smuggler. Yes, they probably would get along, like two peas in a pod. Except Sylvia had left the pea pod and become respectable. Married.
Such a dire fate would never befall her. She wouldn’t allow it.
But what was Moncreiffe thinking, suggesting he and she might travel together to Devon? Their engagement was a sham. They were only going to be together until the end of the Little Season or until she completed her mission, whichever came first.
She must be hungry as well as cold, given the sudden turmoil in the vicinity of her stomach.
Time to shift the conversation to more neutral territory.
“Steven taught me how to locate Polaris, to help keep me from getting lost at night, but I haven’t paid attention to much else up there. What is it about astronomy that fascinates you?”
He took his time before replying. “As an adult, I’m trying to find proof for my theory that Ceres and Pallas are asteroids, not planets.”
Planet or asteroid, comet or moon, did anyone but astronomers really care? Then the significance of his phrasing hit her. “And as a child?”
The odd huffing sound was Moncreiffe, blowing on his fingers. Charlotte realized hers were icy, too, and tucked her hands under her arms.
“As a child, I was looking for heaven.”
Heaven? She blinked. “Why?”
“Because I was a child.” His tone was flippant, but there was a hint of pain beneath its surface.
She stretched her hand out. She was aiming for his knee but found his thigh instead. She spread out her fingers and softened her voice even more. “Why did you need to find heaven?”
His leg muscles contracted beneath her hand, as though he was preparing to flee rather than answer her query. When he finally spoke, there was a wistful note in his voice. “It was where the grown-ups told me my mother and elder brother and little sisters had gone, after they died in the carriage accident.”
To lose so many loved ones, all at once…Her father had died when she was eight, her mother seven years later. The pain of each loss had been suffocating, a physical ache that still threatened to overwhelm her at times. She would not have survived losing both at once. “So you spent night after night up on the roof or out on the lawn, searching the skies, staring up at the stars. Wondering which one was heaven.” She gave his leg a squeeze, admiring his strength of character. “How old were you?”
“Five.”
Her heart contracted even further for the grieving little boy.
“My nurse was a Scotswoman, very practical. When she realized she couldn’t persuade me to stay indoors on clear nights, she gave me a picture book of the constellations, and insisted my father buy a telescope for me. My first.”
“Of many, no doubt.”
“Not really. He consulted with William Herschel about the purchase and made an excellent choice. I’ve merely had to keep the lenses and mirrors polished, and change or add eyepieces over the years.”
“So this is it, the telescope you’ve had since you were a boy?”
“No, I bought this one last year. My main telescope is at home in Keswick, in the Lake District, with an equatorial mount on the rooftop viewing platform. Doesn’t travel well, I’m afraid.”
He said some other things about angles and axes, and by the time he mentioned elliptical orbits, Charlotte’s head began to swim. His tone was mesmerizing, though she understood little of what he said. The passion that crept into his voice betrayed the importance of the topic. She had better do some research if she was going to keep up with him. Being able to discourse about his passionate interest would make it easier to distract him from probing into hers.
“When we’re done with your project and the Little Season is over, I’ll finally be able to go back to Keswick. Will you be returning home to family in the countryside as well?”
“I’m not sure. Most of my family lives here, in London.” Which was not exactly a lie. Aunt Hermione had rented the London town house, using Steven’s funds, and they were her only family now.
Thinking about the losses they had each suffered, it occurred to her this was something else she had in common with Moncreiffe—both had channeled their pain into a new endeavor. He had delved into astronomy, and after her mother’s sudden death, she had found purpose in joining Steven in his occupation.
Traveling to Paris with Steven, joining his life and work there, had been a rebirth of sorts. If she had stayed in England, she’d probably be as sheltered and single-minded as her cousin Marianne.
Well, at least she didn’t object to having the singled-minded part in common. Marianne had wanted to find a husband, but Charlotte wanted to find something a little bit smaller.
She peered through the telescope again. No sign of new activity in Melisande’s bedchamber, though the footman and maid were still engaged. He must be a strong fellow indeed, holding her up against the wall like that for so long.
She blinked and cleared her throat. “Tell me more about the viewing platform you built, what it’s like living in the mountains.”
“You really want to know about me, beyond my usefulness in reaching your objective?” His tone held no bitterness or reproach, just a matter-of-fact statement that she was using him.
She disliked the thought of herself being cold and calculating. Then she remembered he was benefiting from their arrangement just as much as she.
Charlotte spoke slowly. “We should learn more about each other, as a betrothed couple would, because if anyone sees through our subterfuge, the jig will be over. My aunt asks questions about you, and I usually don’t know the answer. Soon she’ll become suspicious.”
“Then I suppose we’ll just have to spend more time together. Get better acquainted.”
The words sounded innocent, but combined with the images she was viewing through the telescope, and given his close proximity and husky voice, they formed an altogether different connotation. She moved the telescope a few degrees to one side.
“What sorts of questions is she asking?” He’d turned his head, and his warm breath stirred the hair at her temple as he spoke.
She shivered. “Your favorite dessert, for one.”
“Hmm. ‘Tis a difficult choice, to pick just one. Can I tell you later, after I’ve had time to properly ponder?”
She almost laughed. “Yes, I think that would be acceptable.”
The mention of Aunt Hermione reminded Charlotte that soon she’d have to make another appearance at the rout downstairs, before her aunt came looking for her. Much more time out on the roof, her cheeks would become ruddy from the cold, if they hadn’t already, and Aunt Hermione might worry she had a fever.
Tucking her hands under her arms wasn’t enough. She blew on her fingers, just as Moncreiffe had done earlier.
“Breeze has a bit of a bite, doesn’t it?”
She heard the rustle of fabric again, then felt a r
ush of warmth as Moncreiffe wrapped his arm around her shoulders, this time enfolding her in his coat. She forgot to breathe. She felt his rib cage expand and contract against her side with his every breath, the silk of his waistcoat sliding against the back of her bare hand.
“Better?” He spoke so close, the tip of his nose stirred her hair, his breath a warm puff against her ear.
She nodded. What an intriguing way to warm one’s ear…
She leaned a little closer, taking advantage of his warmth. He rubbed her arm, up and down, pulling her more firmly against his side. She’d been wrapped inside a man’s coat before, but never with the man still wearing it. She felt Moncreiffe’s beating heart, could almost hear it in the hushed quiet of the rooftops.
Her body chose that moment to reassert its need to breathe, and she inhaled. His unique scent was a subtle mix of spice, with a hint of musk. Not bay rum, but cloves and…anise?
“Getting any warmer?”
Not anise. “Which pocket is it in?”
“What?”
“Your licorice. Which pocket is it in?”
“And here I thought I was going to get away with being selfish, and not have to share at all.”
She heard the smile in his voice. The hand holding his coat to her shoulder disappeared, so she reached up to keep the wool in place. His hand snaked into the coat pocket, brushing low against her right hip. She stayed perfectly still. A moment later she heard the crinkle of paper, saw a blur of white as he held out the offering just inches from her nose.
Their fingers brushed as she removed one of the three sticks left in the paper twist. Sweet, but with a sharp edge to the flavor. “Mmm. I haven’t had licorice in years.”
“Care for another piece?”
“No, thank you, don’t wish to be greedy. I didn’t bring anything to share.” And she had only wanted to confirm her theory. Who’d have guessed the viscount carried sweets in his pocket?
More rustling, and Moncreiffe ate another piece before putting the paper twist back in his pocket. In the dark, the only way to make sure it went into the pocket and not on the ground beside them was to reach in like that, even if it meant brushing up against her again. At least, that’s how she chose to interpret his actions. He hadn’t shown any other indications of wanting to take advantage of the cover of darkness.
“Looks like we’re going to get lucky.”
“I beg your pardon?” Charlotte forgot that the coat enveloped them both, and nearly dragged Moncreiffe on top of her when she suddenly leaned away from him.
He straightened. “Madame Melisande has returned.”
“You weren’t looking through the telescope. How can you tell?”
“Because there’s a flurry of activity. All the servants have returned to their duties, even the couple upstairs. Have a look.”
Charlotte reached for the telescope again, but saw only a light blur. Blast. “I think I accidentally changed the focus again.”
She stayed bent near the scope, so he wouldn’t have to remove his coat from around her. Purely for the sake of staying warm, of course.
“Got it. Yes, Madame Melisande has definitely returned. Looks like she’s having a drink in the drawing room.” Moncreiffe chuckled. “She must have been dancing with some unskilled partners. She’s kicked off her slippers and is rubbing her toes.”
With a slight huff of impatience, Charlotte pulled out her spyglass and trained it on the hotel. Very large, unskilled dance partners, judging by Madame Melisande’s grimace. Charlotte aimed her spyglass higher. The bedchamber was just as before, ready to receive its mistress. The magnification on her spyglass was higher than Moncreiffe’s scope, but the field of view was much narrower, so she kept the spyglass moving, sweeping the entire building and surrounding area.
A tiny orange light caught her eye. There, on the hotel roof. A brief flare as someone took a puff on the cigarillo, then it flew down to the roof and blinked out. Shadows moved.
She looked back to the other rooftop they’d been watching. It was now devoid of activity. How could she be so foolish and let herself be distracted?
“I don’t believe it!” she hissed.
“What?”
“The other watchers—they’re breaking into Melisande’s room!”
“Wonder why they’re doing it now, rather than earlier?”
“Maybe they got tired of waiting. With the way they gave away their position so easily, I don’t think they’re professionals at this.”
There was a brief pause, then Moncreiffe spoke again. “He seems to have had more practice at it than you.”
“He’s not wearing a dress.”
“Longer legs and arms. He can actually reach the balcony.”
Charlotte refused to think about her ignominious attempt to swing down onto the balcony from the roof, how she had ended up in Moncreiffe’s arms. Literally. Although that had led to her current position, wrapped in Moncreiffe’s coat, with his arm around her shoulders, so it wasn’t entirely awful.
Candlelight in the bedchamber revealed the intruder’s curly black hair and slightly disheveled clothes, though passable enough that he would have gone unremarked in most social gatherings. He rifled through drawers, quick and methodical, leaving things just as they had been, then moved on to objects on the fireplace mantel, lifting, inspecting, and replacing them. He pawed through the small jewelry box, holding up the various rings, necklaces, and ear bobs before putting them back. He found a stash of bank notes and coins, but put them back rather than pocketing them.
Charlotte clenched her fist. If she’d followed her own instincts, instead of listening to Moncreiffe, she’d be the one searching Melisande’s room right now.
The intruder peered behind paintings, under the mattress and pillows, always careful to restore everything just as it had been.
“I’m guessing he’s done this sort of thing before,” Moncreiffe murmured.
“A few times.”
Within mere minutes he had gone through everything in the room, just as Charlotte had the other night. He stood in the center of the room, hands on his hips, and turned in a slow circle. He started toward the fireplace, head tilted to one side.
“By Jove, he’s got another idea.”
“Shh.” She didn’t want to miss a single move. Perhaps he’d prove it wasn’t there after all, and she hadn’t made a huge mistake in waiting before attempting another search of her own.
The intruder touched the bricks around the fireplace, testing them, pushing, pulling. He knelt before the hearth and did the same with each stone. He fell backward as one came free in his hand.
Charlotte growled. She should have been the one to find the hiding spot.
The intruder quickly sat back up and peered into the gap he’d found. The lighting was too dim for her to see in, too, and then he moved, blocking her view entirely.
She gritted her teeth.
He reached in, then dropped something into his coat pocket, replaced the stone, and let himself out onto the balcony.
“Small enough to fit in a man’s hand. Wonder what it is.”
By the change in Moncreiffe’s voice, he was looking directly at her. Not that he could see her face in the darkness.
“Doesn’t matter,” she ground out. “He has it, and he’s getting away.” Should she follow him with her spyglass, or try to get down onto the ground and follow him on foot?
She’d never get down to the street in time. She jumped up, throwing off Moncreiffe’s coat, and hurried to the edge of the roof, trying to keep the shadowy figure in sight. Apparently the window washer’s ladder that had eased her ascent to the roof a few nights ago was still conveniently placed—within seconds the intruder was on the ground, darting around the corner. He skidded to a halt. Another man had stepped out of the shadows, blocking his path.
“Bet he didn’t see that coming,” Moncreiffe said.
Light from the gas lamp on the street corner glinted off the pistol being pointed at the intruder’s
chest, held by…Charlotte squinted. “Is that Sir Nigel?”
“Same build, but can’t be sure from this angle, with his hat brim casting a deep shadow like that.” Moncreiffe came to stand beside her and tugged on her elbow. “Not so close to the edge, please, Miss Parnell. It’s a long way down.”
“But I need to see—”
“It will do you no good to confirm his identity between the third and second floor if you’re dead when you hit the street.”
She allowed him to pull her back a step from the parapet, but she kept her spyglass trained on the two men in the street below.
A carriage clattered up and halted beside the man with the pistol. The driver aimed a pistol at the intruder as well. The intruder’s shoulders slumped, and he reached into his pocket and handed over the item he’d stolen from Madame Melisande’s bedchamber. While the driver kept his pistol steady, the first man climbed into the carriage, then they set off. It appeared to be an expensive vehicle, with the trim painted a much lighter color than the dark body. She couldn’t make out any identifying marks, such as a crest on the door.
The intruder’s companion ran up to him just then. Wild, wide gestures indicated a heated exchange, though she couldn’t hear any of it. They disappeared into the shadows.
She wanted to scream in frustration. “Did you recognize the coach? Was it Sir Nigel’s?”
“No, Sir Nigel doesn’t own a coach. But I may know whose it was.”
Hope flared in her chest. “Whose was it?”
“What is the object everyone is after?”
She groaned. She should have known it would come to this, should have known the viscount would not play along forever.
His voice grew sharper as his patience waned. “This is no game of Who’s Got the Button, Miss Parnell. A man just held another man at gunpoint. What is everyone after, that they are willing to risk life and limb, or inflict bodily harm, to get it?”
“It’s bigger than a button, I assure you.”
Shirley Kerr Page 8