That had been the plan all along, of course. Nothing had changed. There was no reason to follow it through to the conclusion Alistair envisioned—their marriage. He did not truly want to be a spy, and she did not truly want to be a wife.
Not even Alistair’s wife.
Not even with the potential for a lifetime of heaven-shattering experiences like last night. Not even to an open-minded man brave enough to let her drive his phaeton, someone charming enough to make her and Hermione giggle like silly schoolgirls.
She resolutely ignored the lump that formed in the pit of her stomach.
Steven gave their report to Lord Q to read while they were all munching on cakes and sipping tea.
From the thunderous expression on her brother’s face, she knew he would try to continue the conversation again later, in private. She determinedly concentrated on the delicious pastry in her hand. At least, she assumed it was delicious. It may as well have been made of ash.
Lord Q set aside the report. “The first question we must address, gentlemen, and Miss Parnell, is how to proceed in regards to the snuffbox and letter.” He refilled his teacup. “You are confident the items are not at Toussaint’s gaming hell?”
“Oui.”
“We managed a rather thorough search, even before the altercation in the alley.”
Charlotte set down her unfinished cake. “If I were Toussaint, I would now take the item from wherever it was hidden last night and move it to the gaming hell.”
Steven shook his head. “He thinks he’s got rid of the only outsider who knew it was at his town house. He’d believe the town house is the safest place to keep it.”
“But someone has tried to break in there already,” Gauthier said. “The one place no one has disturbed so far is the home of his partner. What is the little rat’s name?”
“Sir Nigel,” Charlotte offered. “I don’t think Toussaint would trust him enough to let him keep it. If I were Toussaint, I would want such a valuable item on my property, perhaps even on my person, where I could keep a close eye on it.”
Steven shook his head. “No, I agree with Gauthier. Our best option now is to search Sir Nigel’s lodgings. No one would expect such a valuable item to be kept there.” He looked to Gauthier. “I think we should do a bit of exploring this evening, don’t you?”
“Certainement.”
Charlotte folded her arms. “Guineas to green beans it’s not there. I still say it’s at Lost Wages.”
“Both theories have merit,” Lord Q interjected, before the conversation could degenerate into a sibling squall. If he was about to take sides, they were prevented from learning his choice when the drawing room door opened.
“Ah, there you are, Steven.” Aunt Hermione bustled in, untying the ribbons to her bonnet as she walked. “Mrs. Higginbotham was so disappointed you were not in attendance at the Grishams’ ball last night. Please say you’ll—” Now that her bonnet was off she noticed the other men in the room and came to a halt, her expression frozen. The men jumped to their feet.
“Good afternoon, Aunt. Do you remember—”
“Lady Marwood, may I say you look just as ravishing as the last time I saw you.”
“William!” She patted her hair into place and hurried toward Lord Q with a seraphic smile lighting her face such as Charlotte had never before seen. She half expected her aunt to fling herself into the old gent’s arms. “Yes, you may, and there’s no need to stand on ceremony.”
Lord Q raised Hermione’s hand for a courtly kiss.
Steven’s jaw worked several times before he managed to get out a syllable. “I wasn’t aware you two were so well acquainted. Indeed, I wasn’t even sure you would remember him.”
Hermione sat on the sofa and patted the spot beside her. Lord Q obediently sat down. Everyone else shifted until they were seated also. Charlotte gratefully moved to a straight-back chair, where it was easier to perch on the edge of the seat. “True, our first meeting was not an auspicious occasion, God rest your father.”
Charlotte’s puzzlement must have shown.
“I’m afraid I’m the one who was charged with the task of bearing bad news when Sir Blakeney’s ship went down and all hands were lost,” Lord Q explained.
“William’s been such a dear, keeping in contact with me and your mother, Charlotte, seeing how we got on. Until she remarried, of course. He paid several calls on Marianne and me after Helena passed on, but alas, you’d already left to live with Steven in Scotland.”
“Yes. Glasgow was marvelous.” Since she’d only spent a week there in her entire life, she turned her attention to Lord Q before Aunt Hermione could ask any questions about her supposed five-year stay there. “I wasn’t aware your association went as far back as Steven’s childhood.”
Hermione nodded. “Thank goodness I was visiting Helena that fateful day, or she’d have had no one to comfort her but her baby boy.”
Steven cleared his throat.
“I do believe you are embarrassing the boy,” Lord Q said, looking not the least apologetic.
Charlotte bit her bottom lip to keep from grinning. If she had a laugh at Steven’s expense, he would make her pay for it later. There was already plenty of retribution in store for her deception.
“Madame Marwood, are you enjoying the season’s entertainment?”
Charlotte sent a silent thank-you to Gauthier for steering the subject back to a more neutral topic.
“I must say, it is an entirely different experience now that my little Marianne has been successfully launched. There is but one task left for me, and that is to see my niece blissfully settled. Fortunately, we are already well on our way to that happy ending.” She beamed a smile at Charlotte.
“How nice for you.” Lord Q shifted his adoring gaze from Hermione to raise an eyebrow at Charlotte.
She gave a slight shake of her head. Hermione knew nothing about Steven’s true vocation, or Charlotte’s, and she intended to keep it that way. Forever, if possible.
Distantly, she registered the sound of the door knocker. Should she lay the groundwork for the end of her engagement now, give some hint that the ending in store was not the one Hermione envisioned?
Steven had included her in the most recent developments in the investigation, but only because he’d had no choice. His thoughts on the subject of marriage—specifically hers—had not changed. But as long as they were all gathered like this, he could not express his displeasure at her deception.
Farnham tapped on the open door. “Excuse me, madam, sir.” He turned to Charlotte. “A gentleman caller for you, miss.”
Hermione practically clapped her hands together. “Oh, show him in, show him in!” She gave Charlotte a guilty glance. “Do forgive me, dear, I got carried away. Such a charming young man. I can hardly wait until he’s officially part of the family.”
For the second day in a row, as though thoughts of him had conjured him, Alistair stood in the doorway. Hermione hustled forward and drew him into the room.
“Sir William, may I make known to you Alistair, Viscount Moncreiffe. My future nephew-in-law.”
The men exchanged bows.
“William has been a friend of the family since Steven was in leading strings,” Hermione confided to Alistair sotto voce. “I believe you already know Steven and his friend Monsieur Gauthier,” she continued, louder. Alistair nodded a greeting to Steven and Gauthier.
“This is your Alistair?” Lord Q threw Charlotte a glance before he strode forward, hand extended. “I haven’t seen you since before you went off to Cambridge, lad. How are you?”
“Quite well, sir, thank you.” He looked a bit perplexed to have his hand pumped so enthusiastically.
“I was just sharing a bottle with your father last week, and he was telling me about a paper you presented to The Royal Society. He’s quite proud of you, you know.”
Alistair closed his jaw with an audible click. “To be honest, I didn’t think he was listening when I mentioned the presentation. I was
discussing it with my grandfather.”
Charlotte was extremely thankful she was already sitting down. Never in a million years would she have guessed Alistair and Lord Q were already acquainted.
Then again, it shouldn’t be that surprising that Lord Q was acquainted with the family of a duke, given the relatively small size of the ton.
This could work in her favor. Since Q was already acquainted with Alistair’s family…On second thought, his father, the Marquess of Penrith, was an unreliable sot, being primarily concerned with lifting skirts and emptying bottles. Surely Lord Q wouldn’t paint Alistair with the same brush as his father?
Lord Q sat back down on the sofa, obligingly beside Hermione, leaving only the chair next to Charlotte for Alistair. “Ah, yes, the old feud between Penrith and Keswick. The way you’ve managed to keep the two from throttling each other all these years, you could have a promising career in diplomacy.”
Alistair ducked his chin in a charming display of modesty. “I completely understand their urge to throttle each other, sir, since I often share it.” He smiled at Charlotte, looking at her through his lashes. She fought the sudden urge to throw her arms around him and ask if they could go somewhere private and share a repeat of last night.
Hermione cleared her throat.
Lord Q gave a guilty start. “But I’m sure you didn’t come calling here today to reminisce about your family with me.”
“No, I…”
“Have you come to discuss a date with Charlotte?” Hermione looked as eager as if she were to be a bride. “If we are to make all the necessary wedding arrangements, we will need to set a date. Soon.”
“Date? Right. Yes. Yes, I came to discuss things with Charlotte.” Alistair ran his finger between his neck and cravat, as though it were suddenly too tight.
Oh, blast well-meaning relatives. “Shall we go for a turn about the garden?” Charlotte didn’t even look to see if Alistair followed.
She didn’t need to see, as she could feel his presence behind her like a physical thing. Almost as tangible as his presence had been in front of her, last night, up on the roof.
Not wanting any maids or footmen to overhear their conversation, they were silent on the trip to the back of the house. And just because they would be alone was no reason to lose her head. She needed to stay focused on the snuffbox. Tonight presented a perfect opportunity, too good to pass up or allow herself to be distracted, yet again, by Alistair.
Walking with Charlotte at his side, Alistair debated the best way to broach the subject of their betrothal. Convincing her that they should marry because he had compromised her had already proven unsuccessful. Even after their interlude on the roof last night, he doubted she would see things any differently.
Perhaps it was a simple matter of bribery.
Not with jewelry. Even though his grandmother’s sapphire betrothal ring was a dainty thing of beauty, perfectly suited for Charlotte’s petite hand, and currently tucked away in a jeweler’s box in his coat pocket, jewelry was not the way to her heart.
Not with social ranking, and its accompanying wealth and power. Becoming his viscountess, with the prospect of becoming a marchioness and eventually a duchess, was not the lure to Charlotte that it was to the likes of Miss Hewitt. Charlotte’s life in France, so soon after the reign of terror, had inured her to such trivialities.
No, the way to her heart was through her mind and body. She was a woman who craved excitement, who needed to take action rather than wait for others to do so. She needed—and deserved—respect and acknowledgment for the unusual skills she’d cultivated and put to use. And she was most definitely a sensual creature, who had taken great delight in physical pleasure last night.
All he had to do was go along with her being a spy, and remind her that last night had been a mere taste of the veritable buffet that awaited her in the marriage bed. Their marriage bed.
Once they stepped outside into the garden, Alistair reached for her hand, then thought better of it—too many windows overlooking the garden—and tucked it into the crook of his arm.
He was searching for the proper words to begin this all important conversation when Charlotte tugged him to the farthest corner of the garden.
“We have to go to Lost Wages tonight,” she said, her voice low and urgent.
“We do?”
She nodded vehemently. “Steven and Gauthier have been wrong on every guess as to the whereabouts of the snuffbox. Tonight they’re going to search Sir Nigel’s lodgings, but I believe Toussaint has moved the box back to Lost Wages. He killed Kolenka last night, or had him killed, but Toussaint knows someone else was trying to break into the study the same time Kolenka was there, so he won’t keep the snuffbox at his home. We need to—”
“Stop. Back up. Who’s dead?”
“Kolenka.”
She appeared reluctant to elaborate, so Alistair gave her a “go on” gesture and waited patiently, schooling his expression to hide his growing horror.
“He’s one of the Darconian emissaries sent to retrieve the snuffbox. He was killed in what was supposed to look like a robbery, but it happened too near Toussaint’s gaming hell to be a coincidence.”
“And how do we know he’s the one who broke into Toussaint’s study?”
“I recognized him.” Her voice had gone quiet, but she threw her shoulders back and lifted her chin. “I went down to the coroner’s office with Steven and Gauthier this morning and…examined the corpse. It was him, the same man I saw in Toussaint’s study.”
He was impressed by her bravery, and completely horrified by what she’d gone through.
“So we need to search for it at Lost Wages. Tonight, while he still thinks no one suspects him of being the blackmailer.”
“We? You’re including me? Willingly?”
She had the grace to look embarrassed. “I just told Lord Q a few minutes before you arrived about how well we work together. If you don’t want to go, I’ll understand.”
He was getting dizzy from the succession of revelations, like a mouse being batted back and forth by a cat. “Sir William is Lord Q? And you told him that we’ve worked together?”
Alistair needed a moment to reconcile his preconceived notion of a spymaster with the image he’d had all these years of his father’s friend. Hmm. Sometimes he’d wondered if Father was really as drunk as he appeared to be.
Then he took a moment to ponder the implications of his father’s friend being aware that Alistair was acting as a spy. Q certainly wasn’t going to tell Father. “Whatever gave you the idea I wouldn’t go? I told you, Charlotte, I will always be with you.” He caressed her cheek under the guise of tucking back a stray lock of hair, knowing she reacted to such a stroke the way other women did to a much more intimate caress. “If I didn’t, you’d simply go anyway, by yourself.”
She closed her eyes briefly, fighting an almost visible battle between pleasure and determination as he trailed his finger down her throat. She blinked at him. “Well, of course I would. Steven has stopped listening to me, and he’s even less likely to listen to me now that he knows our engagement is a fraud. Since he won’t search Lost Wages, I have to.”
He dropped his hand to his side. “You told him about the engagement? Thank you—now I understand why he gave me such a scathing look when I arrived.” Alistair ran his fingers through his hair. This had all been entirely too much to take in during such a short stroll through a garden. “I take it Aunt Hermione has not been disabused of her illusion?”
“About us? It’s going to break her heart, but no, I haven’t told her the truth yet.”
He fingered the ring box in his pocket. “We don’t have to break her heart, you know. We do work well together.” He made sure that Charlotte was looking directly at him, and deliberately stroked his index finger along his upper lip.
Her sudden indrawn breath proved his reminder of last night had not been too subtle. He would much rather have given her a kiss, but his instincts screamed that th
ey were being watched.
Charlotte jerked his arm as she started walking again, racing an unseen foe around the garden’s perimeter. “The most unobtrusive way for us to get into Lost Wages is for you to be a young buck out on the town for the night, and me to be your mistress.”
“My what?”
“Well, what other sort of woman could accompany you to a place like that? It makes perfect sense. You’ll have to make a show of being there to gamble. Not too large a purse, though, or you’ll be too tempting a target for thieves. The coin won’t be a problem for you, will it?”
She went on, planning their foray for the coming evening with great enthusiasm and excitement.
Tomorrow, with the snuffbox in their possession, would be soon enough to finish the conversation he’d intended.
Tonight they were going to search the office of a man known to have killed at least once already.
The ring could wait.
Chapter 17
As they’d agreed, Alistair called for Charlotte that evening in a hackney, picking her up at the same corner as before their attempt to break into Toussaint’s study.
Had that only been three nights ago?
Then, she’d been dressed in demure dark gray, her blond curls concealed by a bonnet. Tonight she wore a blood red cloak over a matching scarlet gown cut low enough that her charms were in danger of spilling over the top. A curly black wig completed her disguise.
As she walked toward him, into the swaying light of the coach’s lantern, it also became apparent she was not wearing stays. Rouge darkened her cheeks and eminently kissable lips. His groin tightened. No one would recognize the proper Miss Parnell in this costume.
Charlotte, with her blond curls and fresh beauty, was the picture of innocence, while this creature was temptation on two legs. He wanted both versions. In his bed.
“Promise me you’ll burn this dress after we’re done tonight,” he said as soon as she settled beside him on the bench and the carriage was on its way.
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