He was quite proud of the fact that all of what he’d said was absolutely true. His future brother-in-law didn’t need to know about the omitted details.
Steven harrumphed and returned to his chair, but didn’t sit down.
Gauthier was still standing at attention, staring at Alistair with suspicion. “How is it you know this Nick, this schoolboy who played at being spy?”
Charlotte rapped her knuckles on the table. “Gentlemen, can we stop all this silly posturing and return to the important subject at hand? The letter?”
A few heartbeats passed before Steven and Alistair sat down and Gauthier resumed his negligent pose, leaning on the mantel.
She nodded. “Does this attempt at blackmail really change anything? We still must reclaim the snuffbox. We just have to be certain to retrieve the letter that’s inside it as well.”
Steven crossed one ankle over his knee. “Getting it will be a damn sight harder now, since Toussaint knows people are after it. Did he get a good look at you or the Darconians?”
She shook her head. “I was in the dark, on the balcony. But he may be able to recognize the Darconian who was in his study.”
“The other one stayed in the back of the garden,” Alistair added. “Impossible for Toussaint to pick him out of a crowd. I was on the ground, much closer, and still couldn’t see his features.”
“Well, what shall we do now?” She looked expectantly at each of the three men in turn. “Steven, you and Gauthier could distract him, lure him out of the house tonight, and I could make another attempt to break into the study.”
Steven shook his head. “He’s probably already moved it to a new hiding spot. I’d wager a year’s income that it’s no longer in his town house.”
Alistair wanted to check Charlotte’s forehead for fever—she couldn’t possibly be thinking of making another attempt. At the very least, it might pull out her stitches, undo all his work. Cause a scar. He leaned toward her and kept his voice low. “You’re in no condition to climb.”
She smacked him on the knee.
Steven’s head jerked up. “You know how she got the bruise?”
“Going over the garden gate,” he said without missing a beat. “The second time proved to be more problematic than the first.”
“My bruise is of no consequence. Do you think Toussaint would hide the box at Lost Wages?”
“It’s possible, poppet. Gauthier and I plan to go back to the gaming hell tonight and have a better look around. You, meanwhile, should stay home and rest, and perhaps take a long hot bath with Epsom salts.”
Alistair tried not to wince.
“That would certainly be good for a bruise. Thank you for your concern, Steven.”
“I’ll let Aunt Hermione know you won’t be attending the musicale with her tonight.” Steven paused. “You’re not faking this in order to get out of going to hear all that caterwauling, are you?”
She smiled and batted her eyelashes.
Charlotte chafed at her inactivity the rest of the day. She wanted to be doing something, anything, to get the snuffbox back, but reluctantly agreed with Alistair’s logic in taking a day of rest to let her body heal. It pained her greatly to admit that he was right, and she was in no condition to climb a balcony tonight because of the royal pain in her backside. At least, the indirect cause was a royal article. The throbbing ache when she moved had increased to the point where she considered drinking brandy straight, and skipping the pretense of having tea in her cup.
At the least, she could distract herself by gathering intelligence, so the time was not entirely wasted. The footman she’d sent on an errand just before lunch had returned from Hookham’s Lending Library with an armload of books on astronomy, as requested. Since she needed to lie still, she would put the time to good use and study up on the subject so important to Alistair.
Unfortunately, the footman hadn’t been able to find a single book that even mentioned Darconia, so she’d have to rely on what she already knew about the country to try to predict what the smoking men would try next.
She’d been unable to conceal her injury from her maid, Molly, who’d noticed the tiny new bloodstains on her shift. She’d had no choice but to take the maid into her confidence about some things, after reminding Molly that she was the one who actually paid her wages, not Steven or Hermione.
On a positive note, she discovered that Molly’s mother was a healer and had taught her daughter several useful recipes, including one for a poultice that Molly promised would draw out much of the soreness from Charlotte’s wound. It was worth the indignity of lying on her bed and having the poultice applied continually throughout the afternoon and evening.
“Your surgeon did a bang-up job, my lady.” Molly wrung out the cloths from the concoction in the kettle that had been heating on the hearth, and used them to replace those on Charlotte’s posterior that had cooled. “Even me mum’s stitches aren’t this neat. You’ll have hardly any scar a’tall.”
Thankfully, Charlotte was beyond blushing at that point.
If she had to get shot, why couldn’t it have been someplace more heroic, and less personal? Like in the shoulder, or even just a few inches farther down, on her leg?
Scar or no, Alistair was never going to see the results of his handiwork. Molly was perfectly capable of removing the stitches when the time came. The man had a warm body and a cool head in trying circumstances—not to mention being a fabulous kisser—but their relationship was going to end soon.
Charlotte thought back on her emotional conversation with Alistair in the park. He wanted her to abandon her quest, but failing that, insisted on helping her.
That would be fine, if that was as far as he went. How could she dissuade him from following through with the rest of his plan? They would never suit as husband and wife, not really.
For a moment, she allowed herself the indulgence of picturing the fantasy life he had described for her. She had never been to the Lake District, but had seen enough paintings and read enough descriptions to know she would love it there. Mountains and lakes, nights under the stars spent with Alistair. Shopping and riding, and more time spent in Alistair’s company. Being his wife, and all that entailed.
Hearing the rich, mellow timbre of his voice. Watching him talk, his elegant long fingers and expressive hands—without them, he’d probably be speechless. Staring into his brilliant blue eyes, like a patch of clear sky after weeks of endless rain. They’d turned darker than sapphires when he’d kissed her this afternoon.
And, oh, how the man could kiss. Without dislodging any of her clothing or his, he’d managed to kiss away any vestige of her intelligence, kiss away all her resistance, and he hadn’t even used his tongue. She’d overheard conversations, knew about such types of kisses. Until this afternoon she’d never thought they would be all that appealing. Now she thought differently.
If he brought that weapon to bear, she’d be sunk. She did not dare allow him a chance to even try such a tactic. An intelligent man such as Alistair would wait until he had her mindless with passion, lost to sensation, and then renew his attempts to convince her that life in the country, being his wife, was exactly what she wanted.
But such a settled life was not for the likes of her.
She’d spent the first fifteen years of her life living in the same house, in the same quaint town of Bath, and had never traveled more than a few miles from her birthplace. After her mother’s death, she’d been taken in by her aunt, who lived just down the street, and who had recently lost her own husband.
And then Steven had sent for her.
The five years since that fateful day had been filled to bursting with one adventure after another. She’d crossed the English Channel several times, had sailed on everything from fishing smacks to Dutch galliots, and once even an eighty-four-gun brig of war. She and Steven had traveled through at least eight countries and stayed in several dozen different lodgings, their accommodations ranging from exquisite country estates to th
e most abject hovels where the rats were big enough to saddle and ride. Through it all she remained free, untethered, no ties to bind her to any one place.
During the worst of the deprivations, she took heart in the knowledge that what they were doing made a difference. They enabled British soldiers to avoid traps set by the enemy. They intercepted French supply wagons, and fed and armed Wellington’s troops with the spoils.
Sometimes they waited and watched, sometimes they ran for their lives. But there was always something to learn, to do, somewhere to go. They’d never stayed in one place more than a few weeks.
Even now, when she planned to spend the entire Little Season in London, more of her belongings were still stowed in trunks than were put away in drawers and wardrobes. She could be completely packed and on her way with only a few moments’ notice, ready to go wherever her skills were needed. She’d had a great deal of practice—many times, they’d been forced to leave their lodgings in the middle of the night, and she was allowed to take only what she could pack and carry herself.
Once her plan succeeded, she was perfectly aware that Society would consider her an oddity—a single woman, without the protection of a father, husband, or brother. No matter. She planned to keep on moving, to never stay in one place too long. Her time on the Continent with Steven had taught her to never become a creature of habit, to never have a predictable schedule, never take the same route twice in a row.
Alistair liked order. Predictability. He approached life with the same methodical manner that he applied to his astronomical observations.
No, they would never suit. Soon, even he would come to realize that.
Charlotte buried her face in the soft cotton of her pillow. Odd that she hadn’t noticed before that the poultice stung so badly when first applied.
The next morning she was eager to hear Steven’s report on what he’d found at Lost Wages, but Ned, his valet, said Steven hadn’t come in until after dawn. Her half brother was still down for the count on his bed, snoring loud enough to rattle the windows.
Since Steven was even grumpier than Nick if awakened too early, she had a breakfast tray sent up to her room, and spent the morning enduring the application of more poultices. She still felt a twinge of pain when she sat down, but the improvement over yesterday’s soreness was remarkable. A few more applications, and she’d be ready to take an active part in the investigation again. Tonight.
At lunchtime she went downstairs, determined to throw a bucket of water on Steven if he wasn’t awake by the time she finished eating. The footman filled her plate, and she dug into the meal, alone.
A few moments later, heavy footsteps trod down the hall. Steven suddenly filled the doorway, smiling when he saw her, despite his still bloodshot eyes.
Her nose twitched as he entered the room, from the stench of gin and tobacco smoke that clung to his clothes as he walked by to take his seat at the head of the table.
“Have a good night, poppet?”
“I am much recovered, thank you. Did you have any luck?”
He shook his head. “Lost every hand I played. At least Gauthier didn’t win, either.”
She arched an eyebrow at him. “And your search?”
He thanked the footman who had just filled his plate and cup, and waved his dismissal. “I even chatted up the serving wenches, to no avail.” He dug into his meal as though he’d had nothing more substantial than cheap gin since dinner last night. “I did get several offers to accompany them upstairs, though.” He gave her a big closed-mouth grin, his cheeks puffed with a forkful of kidney pie.
She drank the last of her tea, refusing to think about what her brother did, or did not do, in the course of his work. “I tried to tell you it wouldn’t be at Lost Wages. I think it’s still at Toussaint’s town house.”
“Then we are in accord. Tonight, after Toussaint heads down to the gaming hell, Gauthier and I are going to search his study.” He poured more tea for himself and refilled her cup. “What are your plans?”
Aunt Hermione bustled into the dining room in time to hear the question. “She’s going shopping with me, in preparation for us attending the Grishams’ ball tonight.”
Charlotte cast a worried look at Steven. She was not going to miss out on another night of trying to get back the box. He shrugged his shoulders in a stunning display of no help whatsoever. She scowled at him.
Seeing that there were no footmen available, Hermione filled her own plate and sat down. “Good afternoon, Charlotte. Good heavens, Steven, those are the same clothes you were wearing when you left last evening. Where did you pass the night, in the arms of a doxy?” Her nose twitched. “What kind of example are you setting for your sister? I do hope a bath and shave is the first thing on your agenda for the day.”
Steven lowered his head, looking suitably abashed. “Yes, Aunt.” He winked at Charlotte, who snorted into her teacup. Served him right.
Hermione had barely tucked into her meal when a footman scurried in, asking her to attend a small matter in the kitchen. The distant clatter of pots and pans being thrown, and muffled French curses, punctuated his request.
“I may have another headache this evening,” Charlotte said as soon as Hermione was out of earshot.
“Why is that?”
“How else am I to avoid attending the Grishams’ ball?”
Steven shook his head. “We need you to go with Hermione, to act as a distraction. You know how she feels about me playing man about town two nights in a row. If she doesn’t have you there to fuss over, she’ll wonder too much about what I’m doing. We can’t have her poking her nose in and possibly getting hurt.”
Charlotte drew breath to argue, then realized the futility of it. Steven could be even more stubborn than she was. She narrowed her eyes. “There was a time when you recognized I was invaluable as a distraction on the mission, not just to cover up the mission.”
“But this is London, poppet. Things have changed. You’re an engaged woman now.” He grinned widely, as though taking sole credit for her changed status. “Go to the ball tonight. Dance. Flirt. Be a typical London miss, as you promised.”
“Typical London miss, my arse,” she muttered, but subsided as Aunt Hermione returned just then.
“There is a reason for the truism that French chefs are bad tempered.” Hermione sat down and ate a forkful of kidney pie, her eyes closed in blissful appreciation. “But you must admit, the results are worth humoring him.”
They ate the rest of the meal with companionable chitchat.
Charlotte didn’t mind shopping—she looked upon it as selecting elements for her costumes, rather than buying needless fripperies—but she was concerned about having to plead a headache again so soon, to explain her absence from the ball. Alternating alibis was much more effective, and less likely to arouse suspicion.
Hermione hustled her out to the hall in preparation for their shopping trip, while Steven stayed at the table for a second helping of everything.
“You’ll never guess who I ran into at Hookham’s when I was out this morning.” Aunt Hermione accepted her gloves and bonnet from Farnham.
The door knocker sounded. Hermione kept her hands on her bonnet ribbons so that she could say she had just come in or was just going out, depending on her desire to receive the visitor.
Charlotte hid a grin. She and Steven weren’t the only people in the house who practiced deception.
The butler opened the door, stepping aside to admit Alistair into the foyer.
Her heart gave a lurch and then started beating much faster than usual. She chided herself for this completely uncalled-for excited reaction. It had barely been one full day since she had last seen him, not weeks or months. Must have something to do with the way the sunlight streaming through the door lit his golden brown hair like a halo.
“No need to announce him, Farnham.” She held her bonnet and gloves out in the general vicinity of the butler, since she couldn’t take her eyes off Alistair.
“Very good, miss.” The butler gave a regal sniff.
Alistair stepped forward, his hat in one hand at his side. “Have I come at a bad time?” The question was meant for either of them, though his gaze was locked on Charlotte’s face. Or her lips, to be precise. Was he thinking of their kiss beneath the oak tree, too?
“Not at all, dear boy, not at all.” Aunt Hermione thrust her bonnet and gloves toward Farnham and hurried over to Alistair. “That’s what I started to say earlier, Charlotte,” she said over her shoulder. “This is who I bumped into at Hookham’s.” She tucked her arm through Alistair’s and led him toward the drawing room. “And I do mean that literally. Wasn’t watching where I was going. Nearly knocked the dear man to the ground.”
“You exaggerate, my lady. And it was entirely my fault. I was absorbed in my research, and oblivious to my surroundings, however beautiful.”
“Oh, pish.” Aunt Hermione gave him a playful tap on the arm.
Charlotte swore she saw a blush steal across the old gel’s cheeks.
“As luck would have it, Moncreiffe is planning to attend the Grishams’ ball this evening, just as we are,” Hermione said, “and has agreed to take us up in his carriage. Isn’t that marvelous?”
Charlotte met Alistair’s amused gaze. “Yes, quite lucky.” She could just imagine how the arrangement had come about. She loved Aunt Hermione dearly, but the woman could be as subtle as a falling wall of bricks.
Hermione looked worried for a moment. “You don’t think you’ll have a repeat of the headache you had last evening, do you?”
“Seems unlikely,” Charlotte assured her.
The door knocker sounded again, heralding the arrival of Aunt Hermione’s bosom bow, Mrs. Higginbotham, and her two daughters. They too were headed for shopping, but alas had room for only one more in their carriage. The two Misses Higginbotham looked at Alistair as though they’d very much like him to be the only one they had room for.
“You go with them, Aunt,” Charlotte said, tucking her arm in Alistair’s. “Moncreiffe and I will take a turn about the garden, and discuss details about tonight’s excursion.”
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