Shirley Kerr

by Confessions of a Viscount

  Moncreiffe grasped her by the elbow, marched unerringly to the stairwell door, and pulled them both inside. Dim light from the chandeliers below filtered up to the top of the narrow staircase, seeming as bright as noon after the darkness on the roof.

  Gone was the charming, easygoing chap who’d wrapped his coat about her shoulders. Moncreiffe’s eyes sparked with anger, his full lips set in a tight line. “In what intrigue are you embroiled, Miss Parnell?” His grip on her upper arms was just short of bruising.

  Her heart skipped a beat, but she kept her voice steady. “You were perfectly willing to go along with my efforts before, my lord. Nothing has changed since we entered into our agreement.”

  “Pistols were not involved then. It was one thing to aid you in outwitting your brother, a bit of sibling one upmanship, quite another when pistol balls are flying instead of insults. What is at stake here?”

  Charlotte bit her bottom lip. There was another emotion in his voice beneath the edge of anger. Concern. He was worried about her. “No one actually fired a gun. It was just a threat.”

  Moncreiffe backed her up until her spine was against the wall. He bent down until his eyes were level with hers, loomed in close enough for her to make out the narrow band of blue around his dilated pupils.

  “What is at stake, Miss Parnell?” That was definitely concern, not just anger, with a tinge of fear. Fear for her safety.

  He was worried about her?

  That was her undoing. “A snuffbox.”

  His brows rose in disbelief.

  “As I said, it’s bigger than a button.”

  His eyes narrowed.

  “A snuffbox stolen from the Prince Regent’s private quarters.”

  He tilted his head back. “A snuffbox? All the subterfuge, the rooftop forays, being followed in the park, men being held at gunpoint. All that, for a snuffbox?”

  “A royal snuffbox. Wars have been declared for less reason.”

  She had to give Moncreiffe credit. Despite his outrage, he’d kept his voice quiet. Servants passed by at the foot of the stairs without glancing up at them.

  He dropped his arms to his sides and took a step back.

  Charlotte took a deep breath, realizing only now that she’d hardly breathed while he’d been so close. She would not allow him to distract her again. “Whose coach did Sir Nigel get into?”

  Moncreiffe seemed to debate whether or not he would answer. “I don’t know.”

  Now was not the time for her to be angry, much as she badly wanted to stamp her foot. Onto Moncreiffe’s instep. She grabbed his arm, to keep from smacking him, and kept her voice pitched low. “But you said—”

  “I said I may know whose coach we saw. It was a distinctive design, even if they did conceal the crest on the door. There can’t be very many like it. Add in the driver who’s built like a whiskey barrel, and it should lead us straight to Sir Nigel and his accomplice.”

  She smoothed down Moncreiffe’s sleeve. “Then we just need to visit the coach builders in town, find out who owns a fine carriage like the one we just saw. And hope it was built here in London, not somewhere else.”

  “We are not going. I will.”

  “But—”

  “Be logical, Miss Parnell. I will inquire about a coach I saw and admired. Coach makers are going to fall all over themselves in an attempt to be helpful if they think they have a chance to earn my business.”

  Moncreiffe wasn’t being arrogant or boastful, blast him. Merchants would indeed treat the grandson and heir to a duke far differently than they would treat plain Miss Parnell. “Ah, but think how much more helpful they would be if you are trying to find a particular coach so that you can order one just like it as a wedding gift for your affianced bride.”

  He opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it, snared by his own logic. He touched the tip of his index finger to the tip of her nose. “Round in your favor. Tomorrow I will compile a list of the finest coach makers in town and—”

  She shook her head. “Have your valet or butler compile the list. I need you to go to the gentlemen’s clubs again, see if Sir Nigel or any of his acquaintances change any habits, especially their spending habits. Observe their demeanor. He must be feeling quite confident by now, having stolen the snuffbox from Melisande, and her none the wiser.”

  Moncreiffe folded his arms across his chest. “You are giving me orders, madam?”

  “I am the one with experience in these matters, so, yes.” She had stared down heads of state. She would not be intimidated by the grandson of a duke, even if he did tower over her by a good eight inches or so. “We tried doing things your way tonight, to watch and observe—and observed the snuffbox being stolen right out from under us. Twice. I could have had it in my hands and completed this assignment. Now we go back to doing things my way.”

  He tilted his head to the side. “And if I refuse to go along? I could easily share your plans, your intentions, with your brother.”

  Having Steven know what she was up to would make things more difficult, but not impossible. “If you are so ungentlemanly as to renege on our agreement, you should know that I will find a way to proceed with my investigation, with or without your aid, with or without my brother’s knowledge of my activities.” She folded her arms as well. “But you must do as your conscience dictates, my lord.”

  “That’s the hell of it,” he muttered. He sighed. “I’ll look into Sir Nigel and his friends further, and let you know as soon as I have anything to report. In exchange, I expect you to not do anything foolhardy in the meantime.”

  She refused to be baited. “Fair enough. I will expect you to call for me at one o’clock tomorrow.”

  “One?”

  “To go shopping for carriages, of course. Any earlier in the day would only bring undue attention to our activities.”

  “Of course.” With a rueful shake of his head, he reached out to straighten the folds of her cloak, and tucked a curl behind her ear. His expression seemed to hold a smoldering heat, like the banked coals of a fire late at night, but that was probably just the poor lighting in the stairwell. He trailed his fingertips down her neck before he dropped his arm to his side. “Slip your spyglass back into its hidden pocket and get back down to your aunt before she comes looking for you. I will see you tomorrow.”

  She refused to acknowledge the tingle that shot through her at his touch. “Until then, my lord.” She hurried down the stairs without a backward glance.

  Chapter 7

  Aunt Hermione, far from noticing Charlotte’s prolonged absence at the rout, had been engaged in conversation with a distinguished white-haired gentleman. “He still has all his own hair and teeth,” Aunt whispered, indicating the man who was currently fetching her a cup of punch.

  “How nice for you,” Charlotte murmured, taking her seat. Her head swam with all that had happened up on the roof and in the stairwell.

  Rarely had she experienced such a dizzying gamut of emotions in such a short time as she had with Moncreiffe just now. The usual tedium of waiting and watching changed dramatically with her increased closeness with him, not to mention a heightened awareness of Moncreiffe as a man. A man who’d almost kissed her.

  And, unfortunately for her peace of mind, a man whom she wanted to kiss. She’d wager his kiss was as eloquent as his speech, and just as passionate.

  She was thoroughly disgusted with herself for allowing Moncreiffe to distract her and let someone else get to the snuffbox before her. Even more disturbing was the fact that her anger had quickly dissipated once she realized it meant she’d have to spend more time in his company.

  She groaned. Focus on the task at hand. Tonight had yielded far more questions than answers.

  Who were the men who’d been following Madame Melisande, and how did they know about the snuffbox? Who had stolen it from them after they’d stolen it from Melisande? Could those men be working for the Home Office, too, like Steven? If so, she didn’t think much of their abilities, letting someo
ne steal it right back.

  Then again, they’d beaten her to it, so what did that say about her own skills?

  Lord Q had told Steven how vitally important it was to retrieve the snuffbox, when he’d first given Steven the assignment.

  Other people now knew about the stolen snuffbox. Did they realize just how important it was? The lengths the Home Office and their agents would go to in order to get it back? Do whatever is necessary, Lord Q had written.

  Or was tonight’s change of possession as simple as thieves fighting over loot?

  No, a regular thief would have pocketed Melisande’s money and jewels.

  Well, she wouldn’t make any more progress on the matter tonight. Tomorrow she would interview coach makers, confirm her suspicious about Sir Nigel, find his accomplice, and perhaps find out how the two of them fit into the plots swirling around the snuffbox.

  Tonight, she had made a novice’s mistake. She’d been distracted from her task by her companion. An attractive, intriguing companion with a fondness for licorice, but still…Unacceptable. It had been several years since she was a novice.

  She was trying to prove to Lord Q that she could do the work just as well as Steven could, and without Steven’s help. All these years, and the old man still thought it was Steven who’d retrieved so much information about the French to pass along. Steven kept her name out of his reports and only spoke of her as Charlie, he said, to avoid making her a target should things go badly.

  Had nothing to do with him wanting all the congratulations, the adulation, all for himself.

  Charlotte snorted.

  But didn’t she want to retrieve the snuffbox, alone, for the very same reasons? To finally gain recognition for her contributions, and receive the adulation, the approval?

  She stared down at her folded hands.

  The quintet of musicians in the corner struck up a lively tune. Too cheerful a tune, in fact, for her to contemplate such deep thoughts.

  Moncreiffe had yet to reappear downstairs. He had probably gone back out to the roof, was now focusing his telescope on the skies, fully engaged in the research that was so important to him.

  She could definitely see the appeal of astronomy as a hobby and all it entailed—sitting under the wide-open starry canopy in near total darkness until one’s eyes adjusted to the lack of artificial light, revealing tiny details that went overlooked in the glare of day. Sitting side by side, conversing freely in the darkness. She’d dress in warmer clothing next time, though Moncreiffe had done his best to keep her warm.

  Aunt Hermione spoke, yanking her back to the present. “What are you thinking about, miss?”

  “Hmm?”

  “You look a hundred miles away. Thinking about your young man? I saw him here earlier, but he seems to have disappeared.”

  “Oh, no, I—” She cut herself off at the sight of the tall, older gentleman approaching them, holding two cups of punch. Something about his confident yet relaxed bearing seemed familiar—a man who knew his place in the world but wasn’t puffed up with his own consequence.

  He did indeed have a full head of hair, pure white, quite distinguished, which made his eyes seem impossibly blue. The decades had etched lines around his eyes and mouth, but couldn’t obscure the fact that he must have been breathtakingly handsome in his youth. To someone as old as Aunt Hermione, he must still seem extremely attractive. He looked expectantly from Hermione to her.

  Aunt Hermione took the proffered cup and sat up even straighter, a girlish smile of delight on her face. “Your grace, may I present my niece, Miss Charlotte Parnell. Charlotte, I don’t believe you’ve had the chance yet to meet the Duke of Keswick. Your future grandfather-in-law.”

  Good thing she was sitting, as her knees surely had turned to jelly. She had half expected to meet Moncreiffe’s grandfather eventually, but had pictured it quite differently. Moncreiffe at her side, for example.

  “Charmed to finally make your acquaintance, Miss Parnell.” The duke gave a proper bow, handed Charlotte the remaining cup of punch, and took the seat beside her. “I’ve been looking forward to the opportunity to speak with the enterprising young woman who succeeded in snaring my grandson.”

  “Snare?” By the twinkle in his eyes, Charlotte was almost certain he meant no insult. She took a sip of punch, which tasted vaguely of the licorice she’d eaten—a decided improvement over the insipid punch she’d tasted earlier.

  “What method did you use to bring him to heel? He has managed to avoid any number of traps, imaginative and clichéd.”

  She wrapped both hands around her cup. “There was no trap involved, your grace, I assure you. Our engagement was entirely his idea.”

  The duke’s eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, a more pronounced version of the same look when Moncreiffe smiled. “May I inquire as to how you two met?”

  “He did not tell you?”

  Keswick gave a tiny shake of his head.

  It was always best to tell the truth as much as possible when engaged in lying. She lifted her chin. “I marched up to him one afternoon, bold as brass, tucked my arm in his, and had him walk with me down Bond Street.”

  The duke raised his eyebrows, his smile slipping a bit. “No trap, eh?”

  She leaned toward him and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I had just realized I’d outpaced my maid, you see, and there was an unsavory looking chap following me, who seemed inclined to take advantage of the fact that I was alone. Enlisting the company of your grandson seemed the safer alternative at the time. I had no idea who he was until later.” She gave a rueful grin.

  Aunt Hermione was practically quivering on Charlotte’s other side. The old gel must be dying to know what was being said between her and the duke, but manners prevented her from cupping a hand to her ear.

  “A dire predicament, to be sure, Miss Parnell. I do hope you did not wound his masculine pride by pointing out the fact that he seemed ‘safe’?”

  “Alas, your grace, I did indeed make that mistake. But he seems to have forgiven me such an egregious breach of etiquette.” She set her empty cup on the tray of a passing footman.

  After the marquess’s crude innuendo on the balcony the night Moncreiffe had announced their engagement, the duke’s charm was a pleasant surprise. It was easy to see how Moncreiffe came by it so naturally. But she was astute enough to realize she had not yet passed all the older gentleman’s tests. He may have sent the engagement notice to the papers to annoy his son, but she was sure he would still want to know more about her before he’d allow the marriage to take place.

  It shouldn’t matter if she passed his tests or not, since she had no intention of actually marrying into the family. Yet something inside her wished for his approval. She’d never known her own grandfather.

  “Has he made you aware of how he spends most nights, if the sky is clear?”

  “You refer to his hobby of astronomy. Yes, we have discussed it. I’m looking forward to learning more.”

  The duke gave a slight nod. “It bodes well for the success of your marriage that you do not object to his mistress.”

  “Mistress?” She had not noticed Moncreiffe paying particular attention to any other females, but she was savvy enough to know that men had needs. Still, the idea of Moncreiffe bedding someone was a little unsettling.

  “The stars, Miss Parnell. Alistair has been studying the night sky since he was a little boy. I doubt he will give up that habit, even for a wife.”

  That was undoubtedly the truth. Moncreiffe had yet to come downstairs. He was likely still out on the roof, staring up at the night sky. Was he warm enough, without her body heat to share?

  The duke was giving her a considering glance from head to toe, though it was dispassionate rather than suggestive. He gave her another smile. “Though you may have some success in distracting him.”

  Charlotte kept her expression pleasant, though she couldn’t prevent the bloom of heat in her cheeks.

  “I see I have
discomfited you. My apologies, Miss Parnell. That was not my intention.”

  “Not at all, your grace. I find your candor a refreshing change.”

  “As I do yours. I begin to see why Alistair was attracted to you. He can’t abide simpering ninnies.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Neither can I.” He straightened. “Tell me, Miss Parnell, how did you manage to avoid the fate that befalls most gently bred English girls?”

  “The fate of becoming a ninny?”

  He nodded.

  “I suppose we can blame my half brother for that. I’ve lived with him for the past five years.”

  “Ah, yes, after your mother’s passing. Quite tragic. And your aunt so recently a widow herself at the time, unable to take you in.”

  Charlotte was intrigued that he recalled her personal history. She had assumed a secretary had researched her family tree and written the engagement notice to the newspapers, but it would seem the duke took a personal interest in his grandson’s affairs.

  She winced at her own poor choice of words.

  “I understand your father worked for the War Office, and was awarded a baronetcy for his efforts before he died.” The duke’s tone was still polite, but managed to convey that a baronet was only slightly better than no title at all.

  “It would seem your grace knows almost as much about my father as I do.” She had made peace with her family’s social standing, or lack thereof, years ago. Since she had no interest in obtaining vouchers to Almack’s, she did not see it as a hindrance, though she was well aware many people would.

  Their host, Lord Eccleston, stepped up to Keswick just then and begged a moment of his time.

  “I have our enjoyed our chat, Miss Parnell.” He took her hand to kiss the air above her knuckles. With his familiar smile and sparkling blue eyes, she had an image of what Moncreiffe would look like in fifty years.

  She shouldn’t care what Moncreiffe would look like even fifty days from now, because their association would be at an end before then.

  The prospect didn’t feel as pleasing as it should have. “As have I, your grace.”