by Alyson Chase
DESIRE IN DISGUISE
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An Agents of Desire Short Story
Alyson Chase
Chapter One
London, 1818
“Why am I doing zis again?” Cerise shifted, her breasts grazing his chest, and Wilberforce bit back a groan. He didn’t care what current fashion demanded. Her dress was too damn thin for his peace of mind.
“I could be home in front of my fire,” she continued, her soft French accent weaving around him, getting under his skin.
Wil gritted his teeth. “I needed a woman. You wanted extra blunt. And need I remind you, part of the description for this job was the ability to remain silent.”
She huffed. “No one is here. Who am I being quiet for? The little mouses?”
He rubbed the ache in his left thigh. She was right. Lord Vickers had yet to show. It was difficult to test a man’s fidelity at the behest of his wife if he refused to be where Wil’s contacts had said he’d be.
Which left Wil alone with Cerise DuBois.
Pressed tight against her in a darkened room.
The woman who made him want to pull out his hair.
The woman who made him want to fall to his knees in worship.
He never should have asked for her assistance. She wasn’t an employee of the Bond Agency for Discreet Inquiries. A wife of one of the founders of the agency would have gladly volunteered for the role of enticing maid in tonight’s excursion.
But that would have brought the husband along, as well, and as manager of the fledgling investigative agency, Wil needed to prove he could handle the cases himself.
There hadn’t been many. Not yet. A group of lords opening an agency into private investigations was a bit unheard of, even in London. But this particular group of lords were unusual in so many ways. It had been a point of pride for Wil that he not only had served one of them, but also considered Lord Summerset a friend.
Ever since the agency had started, they’d had too many cheating husband cases. Their latest client, Lady Vickers, was particularly suspicious of her husband. A cheating earl wasn’t unusual. But the legal agreement in the wedding contract specifying fidelity to the woman bringing all the money to the marriage was.
“Perhaps these long nights of investigations are not for you.” She flicked a glance up at him, then gave him her profile.
Strong was the impression Wil had when he first met her. A strong gallic nose, a stubborn chin, and a mouth full enough to give a man a proper tongue-lashing as only a French woman could.
He shifted his hips, angling his tightening groin away from her belly. He’d dreamed of those lips and a different kind of tongue-lashing for too many nights. The actress was a close friend of Summerset’s wife, and ever since Wil had met Cerise DuBois, she’d done her damndest to drive him mad. Always turning that nose up at him. Always challenging him in everything he did or said.
She was a wildcat looking for a reason to attack, and Wil was her willing victim.
Battling with Cerise was more intoxicating that sinking into any other woman.
And sinking into her…. His body burned at the memories.
He swallowed, his throat aching. But it was always bittersweet. Their time together was too short. Too tempestuous. She pushed him away as soon as they found their pleasure.
He wanted to kiss her harsh words away. Turn her caustic comments into moans of pleasure. Into pleas for satisfaction. A satisfaction only he could deliver. Punish the little wildcat for her impertinence, make it up to her, and then rile her up to be impertinent again.
He wanted more with this woman.
And more was something he knew he could never have.
“Why shouldn’t I be on this investigation?” He needed to turn his mind away from thoughts of the woman spread before him before he truly did go mad.
She flicked a glance down at his leg, and he yanked his hand from his thigh.
“Standing for hours at a time cannot be good for your injury.” She looked back to the partially-closed door that separated the bedroom from the rest of the suite in one of London’s finer inns.
Ice hardened his gut. He rocked back on his heels. Of course. His deformity must be part of the reason she wanted nothing lasting with him. To a beautiful, strong woman like Cerise, any weakness would be despised. Or worse. Pitied. His limp, his scar and stunted leg, must make him seem a cripple in her eyes.
He straightened his spine. “Your concern is unnecessary.” And unwanted. “But I think our job is at an end, regardless. Lord Vickers appears to have chan—”
The outer door to the suite wicked open, and he and Cerise froze.
It slammed shut, and a man, presumably Lord Vickers, belched loudly.
Cerise rolled her eyes. “Men,” she muttered. She adjusted her borrowed maid’s uniform, tugging the bodice down and exposing the lush shadow between her breasts.
Wil clenched his hand. Perhaps using Cerise wasn’t a good idea. The thought of Vickers putting his hands on her, if even only for a moment, twisted his stomach. Perhaps he should—
A knock rattled the outer door, and Wil shot out his hand, stopping Cerise before she could enter the main room.
It wasn’t optimal. A true maid would have popped out immediately to announce her presence, but Wil didn’t want to put Cerise into a situation where two men might want to play with the help. Their scheme was only supposed to test one man’s fidelity.
“What are you doing here tonight?” Vickers asked, his voice almost too low to hear.
Wil and Cerise inched closer to the gap in the door.
“It’s done,” another voice said.
“Are you certain?” Vickers asked.
A snort. “As certain as a man can get.” There was a pause, something rustled.
Cerise looked at Wil, the skin between her dark brows puckering.
He shifted closer. He didn’t know why, but he was getting a bad feeling about where this was going.
And then he knew.
The second man made it clear.
“I killed the arse-wipe myself,” he said.
Chapter Two
Cerise sucked in a sharp breath. Lady Vickers might have a whole lot more than an unfaithful husband to worry about if she’d heard what she thought she’d just heard.
By the way Wil’s shoulders had hardened into stone, she guessed she’d heard correctly.
A murder. Now that was a case worth her time. Much more interesting than these cheating husband ones. The only reason she did these was because…well, because Wil asked her.
As much as she told herself it was better to keep her distance, her heart insisted she say yes whenever the infernal man came knocking.
Wilberforce infuriated her, yet she couldn’t seem to stay away.
He was a temptation, a lure away from her calling. And no man would ever take her from the stage. It was where she belonged.
She nudged Wil’s side, trying to shift him so she could peer around the edge of the door.
He pushed her further back into the shadows. He gave a quick jerk ‘no’ to his head and put a finger to his lips.
She frowned, but listened intently.
“And it was clean?” Vickers asked.
“As clean as killing a man can be.” There was a hint of amusement in the other man’s voice, and a shiver raced down Cerise’s spine. To speak so casually of taking another person’s life…
Her stomach curdled. She’d taken a man’s life before. There had been nothing casual about it.
“Were there any witnesses?” Vickers huffed, sounding exasperated.
“Nay, nothing to come back to you. The rest of my money, if you please.”
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Wil edged to the crack in the door, peered through.
Cerise narrowed her eyes. Oh, if he got to peek, so did she. She wedged her shoulder between his chest and the door, dropping beneath his chin. She felt rather than heard the grumble emanate from Wil’s body. Too bad. She blinked, trying to make out the shapes in the next room. Vickers she could see clearly enough. He had his coat off, and his pantaloons were so tight they made his arse look like two fat hams trapped together. But the other man stood where the candlelight didn’t reach. His body was in shadow. Only his boots, and the long gash running along the toe of the right one, were clearly visible.
Metal clinked as Vickers handed a cloth sack to the man. “Hopefully I won’t have need of you again.”
The assassin slid the pouch into his coat pocket. “If you do, you know where to find me.”
A knock sounded on the door, and the killer slid deeper into the shadowed corner.
Vickers yanked the door open. “What?”
A house maid dropped a neat curtsy. “Evening, milord. I’m here to turn back your bed and get a fire going in your bedroom.” She breezed through the door, oblivious of the earl’s scowl. “If you’d like a bath, I’ll send some men up with a tub. I hear you’ve already eaten, but—”
“I desire nothing but your absence!”
She shrugged. “As you like. I’ll just light the fire and be gone.” She trotted toward the bedroom. Toward Wil and Cerise.
Wil swore and slammed the door shut, locking it. He ignored the commotion from the outer room. “The window,” he said as he hauled a bureau in front of the door.
Something crashed against the thin wood, the earl’s shouts of outrage coming from only inches away.
She darted to the window and dragged it open. It squawked awfully, but it didn’t matter. There was no longer any need for stealth.
She and Wil poked their heads out. One story wasn’t a long way down, but still. It would have been nice if a helpful lump of hay had been left at the bottom for them.
Wil lifted his bad leg up and over the sill, his face a determined mask. “I’ll go first. Wait until I tell you, then jump.”
Cerise narrowed her eyes. Of all the times for the man to get bossy. “I’ll jump when…”
She was speaking to air. With a whisper of trousers against wood, Wil was gone.
She leaned over the sill to see him slowly press to his feet. He kept all of his weight on his right leg.
With a wobble, he turned and looked up. He raised his arms. “Now you.”
She shook her head. The man thought to catch her? He was fou, crazy. She’d crush him and then break her own neck.
“Now!” he whisper-hissed.
The door behind her creaked on its hinges with each blast it took from the earl. And perhaps also from the man who found it so easy to kill.
Swallowing, she lifted her skirts and swung up onto the window sill. She flipped onto her stomach and eased herself down until her boots nudged the ridge of the window below her.
She looked down at Wil, then turned her face back to the wall, closing her eyes. Why did she let the blasted man talk her into these things? It wasn’t like he even had a smooth tongue, not like his employer did. It should be easy to resist his entreaties.
“We don’t have time for childish fears.” He clapped his hands. “Jump. I’ll catch you.”
Childish?! He was expecting her to trust a man to catch her from a one-story fall? A man with a bad leg? And he called that childish?
Wood splintered inside the room, someone shouted, the sound much too close.
“Woman!” Wil didn’t bother to keep his voice low. “Let go of the window! Now!”
And with a quick prayer and an emptying of all her senses, she did.
And crashed into Wil, taking him down hard to the cobblestone street.
He groaned, the sound filled with pain. She rolled off him to examine the damage. Wil grabbed his thigh with one hand, right above his knee, and swiped his other wrist beneath his nose, smearing the blood that dripped from it.
“Stop!” The earl shouted from the window.
Without looking up, after all, no reason to show the man her face, Cerise grabbed Wil’s arm and tugged him to his feet.
As one, they turned and ran from the inn.
A hank of her hair tumbled from its pins. She touched her head and pulled up sharply. “My cap!” Twisting, she saw it on the ground beneath the window.
Wil grabbed her elbow and took off running again, pulling her along in tow. “Forget it.”
Of course, he was right, but it wouldn’t do to have him think she agreed so readily. “The theatre will want it back,” she grumbled. After rolling in the streets, the whole costume was probably ruined. She’d have to replace it before Wilson, her stage manager, noticed it was gone. At least the Bond Agency wasn’t stingy when it came to expense accounts. She’d write them a bill for the costume when she got back home.
There were more shouts behind them.
If she got back home.
She moderated her sprint to keep pace with Wil’s limping gait. When she tried to duck under his arm to help support him, he grunted and pushed her away.
Typical man.
They took the corner, and the next one, and finally pulled up next to the carriage the agency owned. Without waiting for the driver to climb down, Wil hauled the door open and tossed her inside. He followed and pounded the ceiling. “Go!”
Cerise pulled his handkerchief from his inside pocket and pressed it to his face. “How bad is your leg? Do you need a doctor?”
He glared at her over the white linen. “My leg is fine. Did you have to flail your arms about like a windmill as you fell?”
She ignored that. Tumbling from a window probably hadn’t been her best look. She placed her hand on his left thigh and rubbed gently.
Wil stiffened, his fingers clenching around the bloody handkerchief.
“Yes, you appear quite well.” She slid open the front window and called to the driver. “My place, if you please. And be quick about it.”
“Cerise, I don’t need—”
“Nonsense.” She pulled at the linen to check his nose. The bleeding had stopped, but the swelling was just starting. “I have an ointment from Paris, much better than your English medicines. We will go there, tend to your leg, then try to forget zis miserable night ever happened.”
“I need to return to the office.”
“Would you launch an investigation into the murdered man when everyone sleeps? Rouse Lady Vickers from her slumber?”
“No,” he gritted out. “But—”
“And is the victim not already dead?” She pressed her back into the corner of the carriage and crossed her arms and legs. “No one can be saved tonight by your hard-headedness. You will let me look after you.”
One edge of his lips quirked. “Why, Miss DuBois, I didn’t know you had a nurturing side.”
She pressed her lips together. They had just barely escaped death, and the man joked. “I do, but it isn’t too big. You will use the ointment and then you will leave. Understand?” There could be no more intrigues between them. It was becoming too hard to say goodbye.
The humor fell from his face. “Understood.”
They traveled the remaining distance in silence, with only a grunt from Wil when the carriage hit a large rut. He grabbed his thigh and squeezed until they pulled in front of her small townhouse.
She tried to squeeze past him to exit first, to be able to give him a shoulder to lean on as he climbed down, but he seemed to anticipate her move, smoothly gliding in front of her and hopping down before the carriage steps were pulled out. He landed with his weight on his good leg.
“Foolish, pig-headed man,” she muttered.
Wil followed her up the steps and into her home.
She nodded to her footman. “I will not need anything else zis evening.”
He bowed, and dr
ifted away. Always discreet, her staff.
She untied the apron of her costume and folded it as she walked. “Follow me.” She led him to her sitting room and pushed on his shoulders until he dropped onto her settee. “Wait here. I’ll return with the ointment.”
In her bedchambers, she kicked off her boots before removing the salve from her bedside drawer. The medicine was new, unused. She’d told herself she bought it for her sore feet. Pacing a stage all day did tend to tire them.
But she’d lied to herself. She’d bought it for him. For a time just like tonight when he pushed himself beyond his limits.
The man didn’t believe in limits.
That was their main problem.
When she returned, a fire roared in the grate and Wil was back on his feet.
“Do you not understand the concept of rest?” She detested the peevish quality to her voice, but this man excelled at drawing it out. “Will it take tying you to a bed to get you to stay off your leg?”
He raised a glass of her Scotch to his lips and examined her over the rim as he took a sip.
Her cheeks heated and she turned away. Most men would have a clever insinuation after she misspoke such. But not Wilberforce. No, he was content to watch her, and wait. Always waiting.
And she never knew for what. Her stomach twisted. Wil would never harm her. Never press her for more than she was willing to give. Yet she feared this man like no other. Feared what he could do to her. What he could make her feel.
But she would never let him see it.
“Take off your trousers.” She placed the ointment on the table next to the settee and waited.
Wil strolled toward her. His limp was faint. She knew he battled not to show it. Not to anyone, but especially not to her. He was an idiot if he thought it made him look less of a man. If anything, the small hitch in his gait made him appear wicked, piratical, and it sent a shiver straight down her spine.
He didn’t feign modesty. Didn’t argue the proprieties. He stopped inches from her and stared into her eyes.
His eyes were a dark mixture of grey and green, like a storm-tossed sea. His gaze made her want to hide sometimes. Other times, the dangerous times, it made her want to bare herself to him completely. Let him be the one person to knew her like no other.