by Andrea Kane
"When I was scanning the Times at Hatchard's this afternoon, Samantha noticed—"
"You took Samantha to Hatchard's?" Boyd's shaggy brows shot up. "I thought you only returned her carriage?"
"I did. Then I offered to escort her to Hatchard's so that she might purchase some books. It was hardly a romantic liaison."
"I see."
Clearing his throat, Rem ignored the pointed disbelief in Boyd's tone. "As I was saying, Samantha noted that I was reading an article concerning the missing British ships. We chatted about the situation. I discovered that she is highly knowledgeable . . . much more so than I expected."
"Rem . . ." Boyd leaned forward. "You're telling me that the girl you keep referring to as 'a child' knows something about who's guilty of—"
"No. Rather, if she does know something, she isn't consciously aware of that fact. But she's obviously privy to detailed conversations between her brother and his colleagues ... conversations that could prove highly useful to us." Rem gripped his knees. "Boyd, if I spend time in her company, encourage her to talk, it's possible she could provide me with motives or information that would otherwise take me weeks to learn."
"And if she suspects what you're doing?"
A small smile touched Rem's lips. "Samantha is the most guileless, trusting young woman I've ever met. It would never occur to her to suspect anything other than genuine friendship."
"Friendship? Rem, what if the innocent, young Lady Samantha, like every other breathing female in the world, develops feelings for you?"
Rem's smile faded and his jaw tightened reflexively. "Feelings won't be an issue."
"I could argue that point, but you'd be too stubborn to listen. So, let's discuss physical involvement instead. Exactly how far are you willing to carry this scheme?"
"I won't ruin her, if that's what you're asking."
"Only use her, then discard her."
"Dammit, Boyd!" Rem slammed down his fist. "Since when have you become so bloody noble?"
"Nobility has nothing to do with it—pragmatism does. Drake Barrett is a powerful, influential, hotheaded man. By toying with his sister, you're inviting trouble."
"Trouble? Hell, Boyd, we've got a crisis on our hands!"
"And are you going to explain that crisis—along with all our other secret missions—to the Duke of Allonshire when he calls you out?"
"Allonshire needn't know anything. Not if I'm discreet. His valet, Smithers, tells me the duke is preoccupied with the forthcoming birth of his second heir. It's doubtful he'll even make an appearance this Season."
"Berkshire is a mere hour's drive. Gossip travels faster than coach."
"Enough!" Rem exploded. "That's a chance I'll just have to take, then. What the hell's gotten into you, Boyd? Our only concern is to eliminate the threat to England."
"Yes, our sole duty ... to see that justice is done." Boyd's gaze was filled with sorrowful understanding of the forces driving his friend. "Very well, Rem. Have it your way."
Rem averted his eyes, staring intently at a single spot on the carpet. "Let's not argue further over Samantha Barrett. She is but one thread in this web of discovery. The Season is commencing with its first official ball at Almack's the night after next. Imagine the information I can glean there."
"As always," Boyd agreed.
The fashionable world was Rem's undisputed domain, mingling within it one of his most fruitful methods of garnering incriminating details.
Ignorant of Rem's connection to the Admiralty, the ton never questioned that Lord Gresham was exactly what he appeared—a dashing earl, returned from sea to drown in life's wanton pleasures. And Rem used that impression to his advantage; attending one ball after the next, charming men and women alike until they lowered their guards, revealing tidbits that often alerted Rem to possible suspects.
Too often, traitors and thieves were actually respected members of the peerage who had fallen out of favor with the Crown or foolishly squandered away their wealth. If Rem happened to hear of a notoriously destitute nobleman who was suddenly and inexplicably brandishing large sums of money, or an ousted member of the House of Lords who was receiving mysterious visits from powerful foreign figures, his warning bells would immediately sound. Nine times out of ten his instincts were right, the culprits were apprehended, and no one was any the wiser.
"The ton will, once again, be caught unaware as you strip them of their secrets," Boyd murmured with perpetual amazement. "More's the pity, for they will never know how truly brilliant you are."
"Not brilliant, Boyd, just resourceful. As for the naiveté of the beau monde, it is essential to our cause that they remain so. Let them see only that side of me I choose to reveal—it harms no one but those who deserve to be harmed."
"Remember that in your dealings with Samantha Barrett," Boyd added quietly, and with far greater insight than Rem could yet perceive.
"You've made your point . . . quite clearly." Rem frowned, more bothered by Boyd's words than he cared to admit, even to himself. "I'll do my best to see that Samantha—and her feelings—remain intact."
Boyd cleared his throat. "So, you escorted Samantha to Hatchard's.... I take it she enjoys reading?"
"I don't think the term 'enjoy' is powerful enough to describe the relationship Samantha has with her books." Rem grinned, remembering the look on the harried footman's face when he'd seen the towering pile of reading matter Sammy had purchased in one hour's time. "The stack we carried to the carriage was taller than Samantha herself. She assures me, however, that she will have read the whole lot of them in a fortnight."
"Then you'll have to take her back for new ones, won't you?" Boyd asked carefully, studying his friend's face.
"Yes. I suppose I will."
A flicker of awareness registered in Boyd's eyes, then vanished. "I'd best get some rest. The next few days promise to be taxing ones." He rose. "How do you want to handle the situation with the Bow Street Magistrate? Do you want me to contact Briggs?"
Rem nodded in obvious relief. "I had planned to pen him a note—in code, of course—and have one of my servants deliver it, but since you're here rather than at Annie's ..." Leaning over his desk, Rem extracted a plain sheet of paper and a quill. "It would be safer for you to handle the situation. Briggs must receive the message before dawn, so that the Admiralty can arrange things immediately ... by midday, hopefully."
"It's as good as done." Boyd glanced out the window at the pitch-black skies. "I'll go to Briggs's residence directly from here, while it's still dark. Then I'll snatch a few hours' sleep and make my way to the docks." A corner of his mouth lifted. "I'll arrive just in time to have breakfast with our assistants on the wharf."
"Excellent." Rem completed his cryptic note with a flourish, folded it and handed it to Boyd. "Can you be back here by mid-afternoon? I should have news from the Admiralty by then."
"I'll be here. Your food is better than mine, anyway."
Rem didn't smile. "We've both grown spoiled, my friend. Do you remember what we used to eat at sea?"
A shadow crossed Boyd's tired face. "I have the same memories you do, Rem. But those days are behind us now."
"Are they?"
"They must be."
"I still have nightmares ... vivid ones." Rem inclined his head, meeting Boyd's eyes with a penetrating stare. "Do you?"
"Sometimes."
"Don't you find yourself questioning the fates?"
"No." Boyd brushed a lock of shaggy hair from his face. "Nor should you. Because it's futile to do so. All the answers we ever hope to attain, we already possess." He held up one finger. "I joined the navy to escape my mother's interfering domination and managing a dull textile business. You had a relentless dream to leave your mark on this world and a spirit that refused to be tamed."
Counting off his second finger, Boyd continued. "I left the navy because I no longer wanted to run. I felt I had something meaningful to do—you provided me with that opportunity. You left because the innocent bloo
dshed sickened you and your dream was transformed into an obsession for justice. As for everything else—the death, the futility—there are no answers to those things, Rem. Stop looking for them. All you're succeeding in doing is torturing yourself. You're accomplishing all you intended—righting the inequities within your control. The rest is up to fate. When are you going to accept that?"
"Perhaps never."
"Never is a long time, my friend." Boyd lay his hand on Rem's shoulder. "Isn't it time you made peace with yourself?"
"I don't know if that's possible. Not in a world as ugly and unjust as ours."
"There's beauty, too. Seek it out."
"I'd rather not. Beauty elicits emotion, and I have no desire to grapple with feelings of any kind, other than conviction and passion. I find solace in my conviction and distraction in the arms of willing women."
"You're still searching," Boyd assessed quietly.
"You're wrong. The dream you alluded to died long ago, along with the boy who envisioned it. Now there is only reality."
Boyd held Rem's gaze. "That's no longer enough. Not for me ... and I don't think for you. Your thirtieth birthday came and went last year, and mine two years before that. Surely life must hold more for us than rushing from one mission to the next?"
Rem's brows rose. "I had no idea you were unhappy."
"Not unhappy, Rem. Just lonely. Even jaded seamen can want something tangible to turn to in their old age, can't they? Something that is truly theirs?"
Abruptly, Rem turned away. "I don't know, Boyd. I honestly don't know."
"No ... you don't," Boyd said sadly, scooping up his coat. "I pray that changes, for your sake. Good night, Rem."
5
"Almack's," Sammy breathed. "At last."
She scarcely heard her own name or Aunt Gertrude's being announced, so intent was she on drinking in the graceful arches that defined Almack's famous ballroom, the rainbow of colors filling the assembly walls as the beau monde's most noted ladies twirled by in gowns of the latest fashion and hue.
Almack's. How many nights had she watched Alexandria ready herself for balls such as these, always wishing, dreaming, that she could accompany her beautiful sister-in-law? How many arguments had she and Drake had over this issue, ending always with his firm refusal to bring her out one single day before her eighteenth birthday?
At long last, she was here.
"Aunt Gertie, I'm so happy," Sammy breathed fervently.
"Oh dear." Gertrude pressed her fingers to her throat in distress. "I am becoming absentminded. I forgot to warn you, didn't I?" She leaned closer to Sammy's ear. "The food they serve here is atrocious," she confided, speaking in what she presumed to be a whisper. Two of Almack's patronesses turned around to scowl. "If you were hungry, you should have eaten before we came."
"I said happy, not hungry, Aunt Gertie," Samantha explained over the strains of violin music, simultaneously gifting the notorious Lady Jersey with an apologetic smile.
The influential matron wavered for a moment, then relented beneath Sammy's innocent charm. With a curt nod of acceptance, she moved off.
"I'm glad, dear." Gertrude absently patted Sammy's arm. "For it appears you shan't have time to eat, anyway." Pointedly, she rolled her eyes in the direction of the dance floor, where three eager gentlemen were crossing toward them, their delighted gazes glued to Samantha. "Your first ball promises to be a great success!"
"If I can remember how to dance," Sammy muttered under her breath.
Evidently, she did, because the next few hours were spent breathlessly whirling about the room, her attention vied for by the affluent Marquess of Katerly, the persuasive Earl of Tadum, and the charmingly handsome Viscount Anders. It seemed she only just returned to her aunt's side after each dance when she was claimed for yet another.
Samantha's first ball was an unequivocal and overwhelming success.
Samantha, on the other hand, was thoroughly miserable.
Where was he? she wondered, anxiously peering over Lord Anders's shoulder. Why hadn't he arrived?
Anders winced as Sammy trod upon his foot.
"I'm dreadfully sorry, my lord," she apologized instantly. "I'm afraid the minuet is the dance at which I'm the clumsiest."
"Nonsense." The viscount's smile was gently reassuring. "You're a splendid dancer. You merely missed a step, 'tis all."
"You're very kind, sir."
"And you're very beautiful, if I might be so bold as to say."
Samantha lowered her lashes, wondering how to respond to such overt flattery.
"Now it's my turn to apologize," Anders murmured over the delicate strains of the strings. "I fear I've embarrassed you. That was not my intent. But you are extraordinarily lovely. Tell me, when was your presentation at court? I don't recall hearing any news of it... or of the ball that followed in your honor."
"That's because there was no ball. As for my court presentation, it was far less dramatic than originally planned, due to the timing." Seeing Anders's questioning look, Sammy smiled. "My brother's wife is on the verge of making a presentation of her own. She is about to gift Drake with the birth of their second child. Hence, neither she nor Drake are in London this Season, and therefore could not host the lavish party they'd initially intended in honor of my coming out. Instead, Drake brought me to St. James's Palace for a private audience, then placed me in Aunt Gertrude's capable hands for the Season's festivities."
"Then tonight is your first official ball?" Anders asked delightedly.
"Indeed it is."
"How fortunate! Then I've not missed any previous opportunities to dance with you."
"No, my lord, you haven't. Although, considering the damage I've just done to your foot, I shouldn't think you'd want—" Sammy's breath lodged in her throat, cutting off the remainder of her reply. Mesmerized, she stared, her gaze riveted on the ballroom entranceway ... and its occupant.
She recognized him long before the attendant announced his name.
Clad in elegant dark evening clothes, his crisp white cravat impeccably tied, Remington assessed Almack's with the same bold appraisal as he had Boydry's.
Sammy began to tremble.
"Are you fatigued, my lady?" Anders asked, concern knitting his brows.
"What? Oh, yes, I suppose I am. I'm unused to so much excitement. It is my first ball." Sammy wondered if she were babbling.
"Of course. I'll return you to your aunt at once."
"Thank you, yes. I mean ... that would be best. That is... perhaps if I rested a bit..." Now she knew she was babbling.
Safely restored to Aunt Gertie's side, Sammy berated herself for acting such a ninny. She'd expected Remington to attend ... prayed he would do so. Now he was here and she was behaving like a lovesick schoolgirl.
Samantha helped herself to a glass of punch from a passing tray. That's because I am a lovesick schoolgirl, she mourned, gulping down her drink. Steeling herself, she placed the empty glass on another tray. Remember: act sophisticated. Adult. Worldly.
"Hello, imp."
His husky voice shattered her reserve, her nerves, and her heart, simultaneously. Pulses racing, she turned to face him, "Good evening, my lord."
Penetrating gray eyes roamed leisurely over her face and figure, blatantly appraising every inch of her from the pearl-woven crown of her tresses to the full skirt of her deep green satin gown. When Rem's eyes again met hers, Sammy flushed at the flagrant admiration he made no attempt to hide.
"You look breathtaking, Lady Samantha," he murmured, kissing her gloved hand. "Almack's should be honored to have you join its coveted ranks."
"You're mocking me."
"Never." He shook his head, thus catching sight of the elderly woman who stood beside Samantha. "You must be Lady Gertrude—'tis a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Your great-niece has spoken highly of you." With an engaging smile, Rem bowed.
"Aunt Gertie, this is the Earl of Gresham," Sammy explained. "He's the kind gentleman I spoke of... do you rec
all? The one who rescued Smitty and me from the storm and made arrangements for my carriage."
Gertrude blanched. "Really, Samantha, that's preposterous! Despite your youth, you must realize that it's not up to a gentleman—kind or not—to arrange a lady's marriage. That's what your brother has entrusted me to do!"
Sammy felt her cheeks flame.
"The duke has chosen wisely, Lady Gertrude," Rem answered smoothly, his smile never wavering. "For I'm certain he could not have entrusted his sister to a more discerning guardian."
"Why ... no, he couldn't have; thank you, Lord Gresham," Gertie stood a tad taller, preening her thin wisps of white hair.
The musicians struck up a waltz.
"May I have your permission to dance with Lady Samantha?" Rem requested, the essence of proper decorum.
"Of course, Lord Gresham." Gertie tucked Sammy's hand through Rem's arm. "I only wish every gentleman were as well-bred as you."
Her hopes shattering along with her pride, Sammy lowered her lashes, accompanying Rem to the dance floor in distraught silence. For the first time, he'd actually been viewing her as she willed him to—not as an amusing child, but as a woman. Now Aunt Gertie had ruined everything with her appalling announcement. Not only did it make her sound like a mindless dolt who relied upon others to unearth her proper mate, but it made her feel like a piece of sought-after chattel. She wanted to die. "You can look at me, you know," Rem murmured as he led her into a waltz.
"No ... I can't." Sammy stared at the buttons of his waistcoat.
"Why not?"
"I'm certain you know the answer to that, my lord. You were present during that disaster of an exchange."
Rem chuckled. "Hardly a disaster, imp. You yourself told me your aunt was deaf; consequently, I was prepared." He paused, tightening his grip around Sammy's fingers. "What I wasn't prepared for was you."
Embarrassment cast aside, Sammy's chin came up, her eyes meeting his. "I?"
"Ah ... you can raise your head above my waistcoat. Tell me, am I really so dreadful to look at?"
Her lips curved. "You know you're sinfully handsome, my lord."