Shirley Kerr

by Confessions of a Viscount

  She gaped at him. “Why the devil would you think I’d prefer that?”

  “The purpose of going to the coach makers was to discover the identity of the owner of the coach in which Sir Nigel departed last night. I have a list of them if you still want it.” He patted his coat pocket, and Charlotte heard the crinkle of paper. “But what if I told you I have already discovered the owner’s identity?”

  “And he lives near here? Oh, this is marvelous.” She patted his knee in appreciation. “However did you discover him so quickly? And who is it?”

  “Baron Tumblety. I already knew that he was among Sir Nigel’s circle of acquaintance—they are seen at White’s together quite often. Tumblety exists on the edge of polite Society, as he has been known to engage in trade. It is even rumored that he is chief investor in a gaming hell.”

  Charlotte snorted. “If he’s our man, down at Lost Wages they think he’s a rich toff.”

  “We’re getting close.” Moncreiffe turned the horse onto a square lined with ancient oaks, their leaves turning yellow but not yet falling. Instead of governesses with their young charges in the square’s park, a group of boys shouted and pummeled one another, and the only adult was a disinterested washerwoman, draping damp bed linens over the bushes to dry.

  The wind shifted, carrying a hint of the Thames at low tide. The waterfront was not distant, far too close for this neighborhood to be fashionable.

  “Would we not have more luck in finding the carriage if we went around back to the mews?”

  Moncreiffe pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and compared the address written there with those on the houses they were passing. “I thought we’d have more luck if we found the correct house to begin with, before we tried tooling down the alley.”

  “Of course, my lord.” Charlotte folded her hands together in an attempt to control her impatience and excitement. Steven had often commented upon her eagerness, praising her lack of maidenly reticence. He even claimed that her nose twitched like that of a hound that’s caught the scent of her prey.

  Moncreiffe would never make such an unflattering comparison, she was sure.

  “Right. That’s the one,” Moncreiffe murmured.

  Charlotte noted the nondescript facade, so much like its neighbors. Paint was peeling from the once-white trim on the pediment above the front door, but even in that detail it was similar to its neighbors. Only the dull brass house numbers on the mellow brick set it apart. No one appeared to be peeking out of the windows, nor was Nigel or Tumblety conveniently arriving or departing.

  She counted the number of houses to the end of the row, before Moncreiffe turned the corner and headed down the alley. “We should not be doing this during daylight, in such a readily identifiable carriage.”

  “If we have occasion to come here again, I will borrow my grandfather’s tilbury or gig.” Moncreiffe slanted her a smile. “And each of us should wear a costume. Perhaps the duke’s white wig from the last century for me, and a towering red wig for you, with a bonnet perched precariously on top.”

  She chuckled at the image his words painted.

  Movement up ahead caught her eye. “That’s it,” she whispered, struggling to sit still. “That’s the carriage from last night.” It was just being put away in the carriage house, the harness on the horses jingling in the crisp afternoon air as the coachman and tiger maneuvered everything into place. Like the trim on the house, the coach’s paint was faded and peeling, but the inside of the wheels and other trim was yellow, contrasting sharply with the black lacquer on the rest of the body. A decade ago it must have been quite an elegant equipage.

  “Whiskey barrel with two legs.” Moncreiffe pointed with his chin at the rotund man with the whip in his hand. “Definitely the driver we saw.”

  “Pull up,” Charlotte murmured.

  Moncreiffe pulled on the reins to halt the gelding, still several houses up from Tumblety’s. He looped one arm around her shoulders and leaned in close to whisper in her ear. “Just in case they wonder why we’ve stopped.”

  His warm breath stirred the fine hairs on her neck, sending a delicious shiver down her spine.

  “Excellent idea,” she murmured. She inhaled the warm scent of his shaving soap. She’d once cuddled in similar fashion with Gauthier to allay a suspect’s suspicion, and they’d both struggled to keep from giggling.

  Laughter was the furthest thought from her mind this time. She fought the urge to arch her neck, to invite Moncreiffe’s kiss. His lips were so close to hers. Just a little turn of her head and they’d meet. She clenched her fist in frustration and slipped her gaze toward the stables.

  The driver spit a long stream of tobacco juice and strode into the carriage house, disappearing from sight.

  Moncreiffe waited a few moments, then clicked his tongue, and the gelding obediently started, at a slow walk. Charlotte took a steadying breath. She had work to do.

  As they rolled past, she tried to take in every detail of the garden, its fence, the gate, and the back of the house. She even stood up for a quick look, and grabbed Moncreiffe’s shoulder in her excitement. “I saw him,” she hissed, sitting back down, her heart pounding.

  “Who, Tumblety?” They reached the end of the alley, and Moncreiffe turned the horse back onto the main street.

  She nodded. “The study is up on the first floor, just over from the door leading down into the kitchen. I’ll bet that’s where he’s keeping the snuffbox.”

  “In the kitchen?”

  Charlotte opened her mouth to retort, but saw the glimmer of mischief in Moncreiffe’s eye.

  He quickly sobered. “Why do you think Tumblety has the snuffbox, and not Sir Nigel?”

  “Why would Tumblety allow the use of his carriage if he were not in charge of their operation? And if I were in charge, working with a man like Sir Nigel, I wouldn’t entrust him with the safekeeping of so much as a handkerchief.”

  “I agree. So what now?”

  She took a moment to appreciate the tiny bubble of joy—it had been so long since a man had said he agreed with her. “When I stood up, I saw into the study, and there was a man sitting at the desk. You may call him Tumblety, but I knew him as Toussaint.” Her heart was still racing from the shock of recognition.

  “Knew him, how?”

  “Let’s just say that he and I have been after the same thing before. He even stabbed Steven once, because Steven got in his way.”

  Moncreiffe edged the gelding to the side of the road. Carriages clattered past in both directions. He glanced back at the way they’d come and gripped her upper arm. “Did he hurt you?”

  The intensity in his eyes made Charlotte shiver. She shook her head. “Toussaint knew I would stay behind to take care of Steven rather than follow, so he got away.”

  “Do you think he saw you just now?”

  “He was busy pouring a drink. I saw him in profile, which is why I’m certain of his identity. His proboscis is enormous.” She held her hand out to indicate a nose the size of which would make even Gauthier’s seem petite in comparison.

  Moncreiffe dropped his hand from her arm, back to his lap. “All right, now that we’ve confirmed it was Sir Nigel who ended up with the box last night, and his partner is Toussaint or Tumblety, whichever is his true identity, what is your plan? Call in Bow Street? Tell Steven?”

  She snorted. “He ignored my theory when I said Melisande was the one who stole the box in the first place. This morning he dismissed my suspicions of Sir Nigel and urged me once more to play the part of mindless miss. No, I’m leaving him out of it from now on, as he has tried to leave me out of it. I am going to be the one to take the box back from Toussaint.”

  She could already picture the look of shock on Steven’s face when she held up the box in triumph.

  Moncreiffe turned to face her, his knee resting against hers. “I can’t have heard you correctly.”

  It’s not like she had stuttered. “It’s quite simple. Tonight, after Toussaint has gone to t
he gaming hell, I’m going to sneak into his study and steal back the snuffbox.”

  Chapter 9

  Moncreiffe’s blank expression made it seem as though he still hadn’t heard her.

  A carriage swept past, and the gelding whinnied a protest at being kept standing by the side of the road. Moncreiffe calmed him down.

  Charlotte tried again. “I’m going to get the snuffbox, and complete the assignment while Steven is losing money at the gaming tables.”

  “That’s what I thought you meant.” Moncreiffe pulled off one glove and pinched the bridge of his nose.

  It had to be a sin for a man to have such beautiful, elegant fingers. Charlotte compared her own much shorter, rather pudgy fingers. At least her nails were neat and smooth, now that she’d stopped biting them. She’d had no choice, what with Aunt Hermione threatening to soak her fingertips in vinegar while she slept.

  Moncreiffe lowered his hand. “Telling you that your idea is madness, not to mention incredibly dangerous, would only goad you into attempting to steal the box on your own, wouldn’t it?”

  “Well, of course I’m going to steal it on my own. I just explained why I’m not going to involve Steven. He wouldn’t listen to me anyway.” Honestly, all the men in her life lately were proving to be incredibly dense. “And it’s not madness. It makes perfect sense.”

  She repeated his last statement in her head. Oh, blast. Perhaps she was the one being dense. “You’re actually willing to help me?”

  He looked askance at her. “I’m certainly not going to let you try it on your own.”

  She stiffened her spine. “I’m perfectly capable of sneaking in and retrieving a small object on my own. I do not require your assistance, my lord.” She folded her arms.

  “Oh, don’t poker up on me. I meant no insult to your skills as a burglar.”

  If he brought up her failed attempt to climb down to Melisande’s hotel room balcony, she wouldn’t be responsible for the consequences.

  “I would worry the entire time you were embarked on your mission. Not for your own safety, of course, but for that of anyone you might encounter.”

  She looked at him from the corner of her eye.

  “I’d be especially worried for any sailors who crossed your path. We aren’t that far from the Thames, you know.”

  Blast those earnest blue eyes of his. They seared straight through her, whether brimming with concern or twinkling with humor, as they were now. She dropped her hands to her lap.

  “Much better. I concede you have more extensive experience at breaking and entering than I do. What is your plan?”

  A hackney driver shouted an obscenity at them as he drove past. He came so close, the phaeton rocked in the other coach’s wake.

  “May I suggest we get going, and I’ll tell you along the way?”

  Moncreiffe started the horse, and they joined the steady flow of traffic.

  “Steven and Gauthier are expecting to meet their contact at the gaming hell shortly after ten tonight. That is our best chance for Toussaint to be there also, and since he’ll be gone, his servants are likely to be lax in their duties. Sitting around the table in the kitchen, or helping themselves to his best claret, for example. It will be simple to sneak in, grab the snuffbox, and sneak out again.”

  “Not so simple. Do you know exactly where he’s keeping the box? I doubt very much it’s in plain sight on top of his desk.”

  Charlotte gave a negligent wave of her hand. “Men are boringly predictable when it comes to hiding their valuables. I shouldn’t need more than a few seconds to locate it.”

  At half past nine that night, Alistair climbed out of his hired hackney four doors down from Miss Parnell’s town house, as they had agreed.

  A shadow detached itself from the shrubbery. In the swaying light cast by the hackney’s lantern, Miss Parnell stepped toward him. She wore a dark gray velvet dress and matching pelisse that absorbed what little light there was, and her black bonnet hid any hint of her blond curls. Her soft-soled shoes were silent on the cobblestones. “Good evening, sir.”

  “Good evening, miss,” he said, glancing at the eavesdropping driver, and handed her into the coach. He shut the door and banged on the roof to give the signal to start. The coach rocked into motion, rattling Alistair’s teeth as the poorly sprung vehicle bounced across every uneven cobblestone.

  He rubbed his eyes. Had he really agreed to help his fake fiancée break into a gentleman’s home?

  Ah, but Toussaint was no gentleman, and Miss Parnell was determined to go through with her plan, with or without his help. He could not, in good conscience, allow her to undertake such a risk on her own. Nor did he have a snowball’s chance in June of talking her out of it. She’d left him no choice but to assist.

  And to be brutally honest, he could not quite quench the flutter of anticipation in his stomach, reminiscent of the thrill of finding and tracking the Great Comet five years before.

  It was excitement, or he should have skipped the roast lamb at dinner.

  He heaved a sigh. “You’re certain you still want to go through with this?”

  Miss Parnell responded by slipping her hand into his and giving it a slight squeeze. “Is this not the most marvelous feeling?”

  He squeezed her fingers in return.

  When they’d entered into their false betrothal, he hadn’t considered how much they would touch each other. Her years on the Continent made her different from the other London lasses—bold in many respects, and very tactile. He’d noticed her reaction when he pretended to nuzzle her neck in the alley—more affected than she’d likely admit. Which seemed only fair, since the way she kept touching him was having an effect as well. If he wasn’t careful, his enjoyment of their contact would endanger his bachelor status.

  “The anticipation, the excitement. I’ve missed this.” She squeezed his hand again. “You must be at your best, most observant and quick-witted, or the other party will gain the upper hand.”

  “I’m worried about the other party doing more than raising their hand. You’re breaking into a man’s home. Men tend to frown on that. They protect what’s theirs.”

  “Oh, pish.” Her other hand fluttered to rest on his knee.

  Any other woman would do such only as part of a seduction attempt. Miss Parnell was simply conveying her excitement, he reminded himself.

  “We will go through Toussaint’s garden gate, and be in and out of his house in less than three minutes. The snuffbox will be mine, without Steven’s assistance, and Lord Q will finally have to—”

  “Lord who?”

  Miss Parnell slipped her hand free of his. In an uncharacteristic show of discomfort, she cleared her throat and smoothed her skirts with both hands.

  “Who is Lord Q?”

  “He is the one who gives Steven his assignments.” She let out a sigh. “Like most men of his generation, he believes women are best suited for looking pretty or giving birth. He has chosen to remain ignorant of my contributions to Steven’s successful completion of his assignments. I intend to give the old goat irrefutable proof.”

  “So all this—this subterfuge—is just to prove an old gentleman wrong?”

  “Of course not. It is vitally important that the snuffbox be returned to its rightful owner.”

  “And if you happen to benefit from being the person to retrieve said snuffbox, that is merely a delightful bonus.”

  “Nothing wrong with that, is there?” He heard the broad grin in her voice, even if he hadn’t seen the flash of teeth.

  Her excitement was contagious. They probably should reserve a room for him at Bedlam, but he found himself looking forward more and more to their adventure. The other night on the roof, he’d felt her need to do something, had felt it himself when he saw the snuffbox being stolen as they watched. Sometimes one had to stop observing and take action.

  In the dimness of the carriage, Miss Parnell shifted on the bench seat. He missed her warmth at his side, but she had turned at an ang
le so their knees pressed intimately together. “I worked and trained with Steven for five long years. I know how to do this work. It’s what I know best. It’s what I want to do.”

  She rested her hand on his knee again. “You are at the beck and call of your father and grandfather, but eventually you will be free of their tether. Can you not understand why I want to have some measure of control over my own destiny? As a wife, I would be subject to my husband’s will, even as I am now subject to my brother’s will.”

  “And you think your path to freedom lies in working for Lord Q?”

  “It’s my only option.” Her words were uttered with quiet conviction.

  So, she’d misled him on at least one bit—she didn’t plan to marry later, as she’d said, didn’t intend to marry at all. With the tether that his grandfather and father kept him on, he did understand her dilemma. Working for Lord Q was her only hope at an independent life.

  He folded her hand in both of his and gave her a reassuring squeeze. “Then tonight we will retrieve the snuffbox.”

  Her hand slid up his arm and to his cheek, and she leaned forward to drop a butterfly kiss on his jaw. “Thank you,” she whispered against his neck.

  Would she dare initiate such intimacies when they could see each other? Or was it only the darkness that made her so bold?

  He inhaled the barest hint of her warm, rosewater scent, and felt the urge to gather her into his arms and discover just where she had applied the single dab of scent. Explore her lush curves.

  The coach lurched to a halt, precluding any such explorations, or a test of his willpower.

  Alistair climbed out and paid the driver. He turned to assist Miss Parnell, but she already stood on the sidewalk beside him. With a crack of the whip and jingle of the harness, the coach pulled away, and the two of them stood alone in the stark reality of the dark street.

  Everything was the same as it had been this afternoon, yet looked different in the dark. Every shadow took on sinister overtones. He was aware of every sound, every echo. Even tracking the Great Comet hadn’t stirred his pulse this way.