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He laughed out loud. Again, that deep joyful sound. It stirred something deep in her heart. Recollections of happier times. She squashed the surge of sentimentality. Men never did anything without a purpose and they were at their kindest when their intentions were at their worst. Her own husband was a prime example. She’d thought him their saviour, her and Minette. Instead he’d been her ruination.
She fell in beside him and the horses walked side by side down the slope towards the Serpentine. ‘Do you ride here often?’ she asked, seeking neutral ground.
‘Rarely. Even at this time of year there are too many people.’ He gave her the same charming smile that seemed so friendly and open, yet did not allow her to assume intimacy.
‘You prefer the countryside, then, to town?’ she asked.
‘Each has their place. What about you? Town or country?’
Country. ‘Town.’ The Countess must always prefer the town.
They brought the horses to a halt where a copse ran down to the water and a huge gnarled willow trailed the tips of leafy branches in the water. The horses drank their fill.
They turned to head back at the same moment. She looked over to make a comment about like minds when several rooks took flight. His horse reared. A crack rent the air. A sharp sound, like the snap of a branch. He cursed, coming around behind her on the left and grabbing Peridot’s headstall. And they were off, racing away.
Normally, had any man touched her mount, she would have taken her crop to his hand. But that cracking sound, so innocent at first, had registered. A shot. Someone was shooting nearby. He galloped clear of the trees and bushes and brought the horses to a stop. His eyes when they met hers were blazing. ‘Who did you tell about our assignation?’
Paul. ‘No one.’
The hesitation was slight. Infinitesimal. But the slightest widening of his eyes said he’d heard it. Blast. The shock had made her careless.
‘Who?’ he said in a tone of low menace.
‘My groom, naturally,’ she said calmly. ‘If one can call a groom someone.’
He breathed deep through his nose and looked back over his shoulder at the copse from whence the shot had come. She followed his gaze. There was nothing to be seen except the black birds circling and cawing their protest. She inhaled, but the wind was in the wrong direction to smell any trace of gunpowder and the undergrowth too thick to reveal the smoke. ‘Someone hunting, do you think?’ she asked, wrinkling her nose.
‘Hardly. Not in Hyde Park.’ He spoke tersely, still looking back at the copse as if he could see into the shadows. He returned his gaze to her face. ‘Or...perhaps that was what it was.’ His face calmed. His voice evened out. But fires of anger still burned deep in his gaze. Almost instantly, the heat died away as if it had never been. Perhaps it was all in her imagination.
He released her horse. ‘Time to return to the carriage.’ His hand went to his upper arm. He winced and when he brought it away his glove bore the dark gleam of moisture.
‘You are hit.’
He looked at his hand. ‘A scratch.’
That certainly accounted for their wild gallop. ‘We must seek a doctor.’
‘No need.’ He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and bound it around his arm, while he held his horse in perfect control with his knees. He went to use his teeth to make the knot.
‘Let me,’ she said. She pulled the handkerchief tight and knotted it off. ‘You need to have it looked at.’
‘The innkeeper will see to it. He’s an old friend of mine. I’ve had worse wounds falling out of his front door.’
She frowned at him.
‘I’m not going to let some damned idiot poacher ruin my plans, Countess.’
She glanced back over her shoulder. ‘You think it was a poacher?’
He shrugged, but his eyes were intent on her face. ‘What else could it be?’
Surely he did not suspect her of having a hand in this shooting? ‘If you think so, then who am I to argue? I know little of English ways. But I must say that, in Paris, people do not go shooting...’
‘Rabbits,’ he said helpfully.
‘Tiens. Rabbits, in what I understand is a Royal park.’
They rode at a steady canter, past the spot where he’d teased her with her glove to the gate where they’d left the carriage. All the time they rode, his gaze scanned for hidden dangers. As did hers. Who could have fired a shot? And why?
Paul? Surely he was far too subtle for such an overt act in so public a place. And besides, why would he? She did not yet have the information he sought. Did Mooreshead have other enemies? Someone as mundane as an angry husband, perhaps. Or a jealous lover?
When they arrived at the carriage, her groom was walking the horses as instructed. All seemed as it should. It must have been an accident. A poacher. Or someone undertaking a bit of early-morning target practice. Nothing to do with them at all. Yet she could not stop dread from trickling icy fingers along her veins.
She had learned to never ignore those instincts. If she had listened to them years before, she would never have married Vilandry.
Mooreshead climbed down from his horse and helped her dismount.
Reggie came and took Peridot’s halter.
‘Take the countess’s horse back to its stables,’ Mooreshead ordered. ‘I will escort your mistress home later.’ He led his horse to the back of the curricle.
Reggie looked at her. She nodded her acquiescence. ‘Take it easy, Reggie. She’s had a good run.’
Peridot rolled her eyes, showing the whites.
‘She seems a little nervous, my lady,’ the groom said, his stolid square face showing puzzlement. He frowned at Gabe’s gelding, whose legs were trembling, and then at the makeshift bandage around Mooreshead’s arm. ‘What’s amiss?’
‘A shot,’ she said calmly, smoothing her glove. ‘Some idiot shooting in a thicket.’
The groom’s frown didn’t lighten. ‘Shooting what?’
‘A target. Or rabbits,’ Mooreshead said, returning in time to hear the question. ‘The fool must not have seen us. I’ll speak to someone in authority about it later.’ There was steel in his voice. Displeasure. ‘Well, man? Do you plan to stand there all day while the mare takes a chill?’
Reggie drew himself up to his full height, though his head didn’t come much above Mooreshead’s shoulder. His resentment at the accusation was no less impressive. He touched his forelock and bowed to Nicky. ‘I’ll be going now, my lady.’
‘Yes, Reggie. Thank you.’
He marched off stiff-legged to mount his hack.
When Nicky looked up at Mooreshead to chide him for his ordering of her servant, she saw that the good humour was back in his face and his eyes were alight with amusement. ‘A good man, that,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘A very good man.’ Reggie had been one of the few people who had remembered her mother with any kindness when she arrived at her relatives’ house. He could have been no more than a small boy when her mother left for France, but for some reason, he had expressed the desire to leave their employ and serve her instead. She’d come to rely on him and half-wished she could go with him and confront Paul about this failed assassination attempt. But she must stick to the plan and accompany Mooreshead to breakfast. The wound in his arm could not be all that serious or he would be fussing about it. Men always fussed about their aches and their pains.
‘I’ll apologise for my harshness next time I see him,’ Mooreshead said.
He helped her up into the curricle and with little more ado they were on their way. From time to time his gaze flicked to her face with a considering expression and the lines each side of his mouth seemed to become more pronounced. Was he really wondering if she had some involvement in what had occurred? She waited for him to speak. To give her some hint of his thoughts. But his expression remained uncommunicative and his conversation commonplace. Near Kew Bridge, he turned off the road and took the lane to the village of Strand on the Green. He brought the curricle to a halt in the courtyard of the Bull, an inn overlooking the River Thames.
‘What a pretty spot,’ she said.
‘I’m glad you are pleased.’ Gabe took her arm and led her inside, where they found a private parlour ready and waiting. She glanced around at the comfortable surroundings. The low beams and panelled walls. A table with a pristine white cloth and an attentive servant. The unobstructed view of the river. ‘You think of everything, my lord,’ she said calmly, though her heart was beating far too fast. Because of the shot? Or was it the idea of being alone with him? It could not possibly be the latter.
‘I’m glad you approve,’ he murmured, pulling out her chair and seating her.
‘Coffee or wine, my lady? My lord?’ asked the waiter.
‘Coffee, please.’ She had the feeling she needed her wits about her.
‘For me too,’ Gabe said. ‘Thank you. If you will excuse me for a moment or two, Nicky, I’ll have my host make a better job of this bandage and be right back.’
She nodded her assent.
The waiter poured their coffee and placed several dishes on the table. Coddled eggs, rashers of bacon, slices of ham, toast, preserves and fruit.
‘I hope you are hungry,’ Gabe said, returning and giving her a charming smile as he sat down, no longer sporting the handkerchief around his upper arm. The innkeeper must have bandaged it properly.
‘Starving. Riding first thing in the morning always leaves me sharp set.’
‘Me too.’
‘How is your arm?’
‘As I said, it’s merely a scratch.’ He looked down with a frown. ‘Ruined one of my favourite coats, though. For that he ought to be horsewhipped.’
Bluster. Nicky laughed. ‘No doubt he went home with a couple of good rabbits to fill his stewpot.’
He picked up his coffee cup. ‘Here’s good luck to him, then.’
They tucked into the food and it was a good few minutes until they sat back in their chairs and sipped at their coffee. He was watching her again. Over the rim of his cup. Intently. As if considering his next move. Prickles of warning raced across her shoulders. If she had thought him dangerous when he played the charming rogue, she now thought him terrifying. She stiffened her spine against a surge of anxiety.
If he was what she suspected, he would pounce on any sign of weakness. She needed a distraction. She remembered their wager. ‘I suppose it is time to pay the piper?’ Once more she held out her hand, palm up.
He leaned forward, his eyes glittering with a kind of wildness she hadn’t seen in him before. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said with an undertone of menace she couldn’t quite fathom. ‘The wager.’ But he made no attempt to take her hand. He just smiled, a baring of teeth that was almost a grimace. ‘You do it.’
She fumbled with the button, the leather loop making it difficult. The gloves had been made to fit tight around her fingers and the leather was whisper-thin, like a second skin. The button slipped free. She drew the glove off and held it out to him. When he didn’t take it, she set it beside his plate.
He glanced down at it. ‘You have small hands, Countess.’
She trilled an easy laugh, thankfully back on the ground she knew. ‘And tiny feet.’ She lifted the edge of her skirt and looking down, circled one foot in its riding boot.
‘Delicious,’ he murmured silkily.
She glanced up at his face. The devil-may-care rogue was back. The blue eyes crinkling at the corners, his posture relaxed and easy. He picked up the glove and tucked it inside his coat. Next to his heart. A small ache in her chest made her draw in a breath of surprise she hoped he hadn’t heard.
‘I am sorry our ride was cut short in so ugly a way,’ he said.
She smiled, reassuring, as careless as he. ‘No harm done, my lord. And I enjoyed our race. It is a long time since I galloped ventre à terre.’
‘Something you did in Paris?’
What would he think if he knew she had never been to Paris? ‘Certainly not. Only in the countryside around my home.’
‘Do you miss France?’
‘One always misses home.’ It was the people she missed the most. The tenants on the family estate. Her parents who’d died long before she wed. And most of all her sister. Poor little Minette, who might yet be alive and all alone in a brutal world. But she must not think of Minette now. She must not let him see the longing in her heart. ‘What about you? Have you been to Paris?’
Wariness flashed in his eyes, but his smile didn’t falter. ‘I went after the Treaty of Amiens. It is a beautiful city.’
A part-truth. He had been to Paris during the Terror. A disaffected Englishman accepted into the ranks of the Jacobins, according to Paul. The thought made her cold. And angry. Yet if she wanted him stopped, she could not let him see this emotion either.
She placed her napkin beside her plate. ‘Thank you for a delicious breakfast.’
‘It was a pleasure. Now, it is time we left.’
Now that was a surprise. She had expected him to suggest they dally for a few hours. Take a room. Perhaps his wound was worse than he was letting on? But if so, why not have it treated properly? Why bring her here at all instead of immediately returning her home? Paul was going to be disappointed at her failure to woo this man into her bed today. But Mooreshead would want to see her again, of that she had no doubt. While he settled the shot with the innkeeper, she went to the necessary, joining him in the yard outside when she was done.
A carriage stood waiting, a dusty and unfashionable-looking equipage that had seen better days. A groom stepped forward and opened the door.
The hairs on her nape rose. A warning. She looked at Gabe in question.
‘My curricle suffered damage when they turned it around. The pole is fractured, ready to break at any moment. The innkeeper has kindly offered us the use of his rig and his coachman to get us back to town.’
‘How odd? Two accidents in one day?’
‘I know. Dashed nuisance.’
These sorts of things did happen, but her sense of worry refused to settle. Unable to see a way to voice her concern without seeming unduly suspicious, she took his hand and he helped her in. He climbed up behind her and took the seat opposite, his legs sprawling across the narrow space between the seats. He seemed larger in here than he had outside on his horse or within their private parlour. He was a powerful man who would have no difficulty overcoming her, should he wish. She should have thought to bring her pistol instead of the knife she had slipped into the pocket hidden in her shift. She hadn’t thought it necessary, given that Reggie would remain nearby. More fool her. Yet to have insisted on her groom following them to breakfast would have made any thought of seduction impossible. So now they were alone together in a carriage and she was defenceless.
Not defenceless. She still had her wits. She kept her breathing even, despite her unease.
The carriage pulled away and for all its dilapidated appearance it moved with considerable speed.
She glanced out of the window and frowned. ‘Your coachman has missed the road. We should have turned right at the bridge.’
He followed the direction of her gaze. ‘Perhaps he is taking a short cut.’ Irony coloured his voice.
‘What madness are you about?’ she asked. ‘We are heading away from London.’
‘Yes,’ he drawled. ‘We are.’
‘Turn around, at once.’
He shook his head. ‘Sadly, Countess, I cannot. Do not fear. We will reach our destination soon.’
Heaven help her, it seemed she’d played right into his hands. Had he decided that she had led him into an assassination and now he was planning a way to get rid of her? It seemed all too likely.
She leaned back against the squabs with a bright smile. ‘Tiens. How exciting. First we are shot at. And now it seems I have been abducted.’
To her infinite alarm, his smiled deepened.
* * *
‘Abducted?’ Gabe drawled, settling deeper into a corner. The pain from the wound in his arm throbbed dully, a grinding ache rather than the stabbing pain it had been at first. The innkeeper had been another one who had wanted to call for the doctor when he realised the bullet was still lodged in his arm. Gabe didn’t have time. Whoever had shot him would want to finish the job. He was just glad he had not told the countess where he intended to partake of breakfast. How disappointed she must be that the plan to kill him had failed. Though he had to admit she had played her part well. The surprise. The sympathy.
At least he now knew for certain she was the one Armande had warned him about.
The floating sensation in his head worried him more than the pain. It was due to a loss of blood. If she guessed at just how weak he was becoming, she’d take full advantage and have them on their way back to London in no time flat. And straight into the arms of those trying to kill him, no doubt.
Maintaining his outward calm was becoming more and more difficult as he stewed over the clever way she had lured him in. With great effort, he offered her a charming, easy smile. ‘A harsh word, don’t you think? I want to know you better, is all.’
Her eyes narrowed, a small crease forming between her dark brows making her look like an irritated kitten. This kitten had claws, as the throb in his arm testified. ‘You could do that in London, surely? Reggie will be concerned if I do not return at a reasonable hour.’ She gave an expressive shrug.
‘And to whom will Reggie run with concern?’
Her blue gaze settled sharp on his face. ‘To whom? Mrs Featherstone, naturally.’
The question played for time. Time to prepare the answer he would find acceptable. Perhaps she did not realise yet that she could not beat him at the subtle game of evasion, though of course he had not expected the truth. It amused him to put her on the spot. To see how she would handle things. Hell knew he had little else to take his mind off the pain in his arm. He kept his face pleasant and smiling and watched the mask over her expression become more pronounced. So small a change, so indefinable, if he had not expected it, he would not have seen it.
A surprising sense of disappointment hollowed his gut. What? Had he expected her to cast aside her role of seductress and trust him with her secrets? He certainly wouldn’t have done so in her place. And just because she was a woman it didn’t make her any less dangerous. It was a man’s nature to protect a female. And therein lay a man’s weakness and why she’d been sent in the first place.
He’d let down his guard and she had very nearly succeeded in getting him killed. If Bacchus had not reared at the same moment the shot was fired, she might even now be carrying his lifeless body back to London in his own curricle. He almost laughed out loud. Almost.
It was no laughing matter when England stood on the brink of disaster. Not since the Normans had a Frenchman tried to invade her soil. Even after years of war, she was a ripe and juicy plum Napoleon would love to harvest. And until as recently as last night, he’d hoped they thought of him as the key to their success. But if they were trying to do away with him—
‘Where are we going?’ Nicky asked in tones of supreme indifference. She gazed calmly out of the window as if she wasn’t taking note of their direction, but her bright gaze missed nothing.
He had to admire her lethal calm.
‘Meak.’
She blinked. Naturally, she knew about Meak. She would not be a worthy opponent if she had not looked into every corner of his life.
‘Your house in the country?’
My, but she was clever. Instead of feigning puzzlement, she coolly announced her knowledge, because she knew her face had given it away. Never had he met a woman with such savoir faire. Careful, Gabe. Admiration was akin to liking. One slip and she’d have him at her mercy. The thought riled him, yet anger did not diminish his appreciation. Or the desire thrumming along to the beat of the pulse in his arm.
‘You have heard of Meak?’ he asked casually.
‘An inheritance from a distant relative, wasn’t it? Before you came into your title.’
Meak wasn’t any great secret if one cared to ask the right questions of the right people. He stretched out his legs. ‘A very small property.’
‘And quite convenient to town.’
‘I wonder what sort of convenience you imagine?’ Indeed, his body tightened at the thought of the kind of convenience a house in the country might offer to a single gentleman. His thoughts must have shown on his face, because her smile became more sensual.
‘Why bother to go such a distance?’
No doubt she’d been expecting him to take a room at the inn. But then she didn’t know the whole story. Didn’t know how badly he was wounded. The stakes had risen by leaps and bounds. Given a choice, the last place he would have taken her was Meak. He always stayed there on his way to Cornwall. There he took a breath, shed his man-about-town persona and became himself. A point of departure to the dangerous underhanded work that would ruin him completely if it became known. Meak served as his bastion. The line of defence between the reality of the life they were about to enter and his fictional existence as an idle rake. Hopefully, whoever had sent her had not breached that particular wall. If so, he was in trouble. Which was why he could not let her go. He needed to plumb the depths of her masters’ knowledge. ‘We can be entirely private there. Alone.’ He flashed her a wicked smile.
She laughed. The warm, sultry sound of it made his groin harden. He imagined her naked on his bed. ‘How intriguing,’ she said. ‘I was told you were a shameless devil, Gabe, but I did not realise the lengths to which you would go for an afternoon seduction.’ She gave a small chuckle. ‘You underestimate your charms if you think such draconian measures are required.’
A brave player indeed. He tried to remember what that felt like. The belief. The commitment. The sureness of purpose. Risking all for the sake of an ideal. He stared into the past and with a faint sense of surprise realised he couldn’t do it. Could not recall even an ounce of the youthful zeal that had once burned so bright in his veins. First his father, then Marianne, had doused the flame, he supposed. But he had held on to his sense of duty. His knowledge of what was right kept him from falling entirely into darkness.
His eyelids drooped as if weighted. Sleep wanted to claim him. But he could not sleep yet. Not until they reached Meak and he could be sure he held her fast. Then and only then could he see to his arm properly and seek some rest.
He inclined his head. ‘You honour me,’ he said. ‘But with half the ton hanging about you, I fear I would be lost in the crowd.’
At that she laughed outright. ‘You, mon cher Lord Mooreshead, could never be lost in a crowd.’
Something inside him warmed at her words. It was as if she had touched him with a gentle caress. Nonsense. He was light-headed and she was playing her role as he played his. And so they would circle the truth, for a while at least.
He reached down. He was unable to prevent an exhalation at the unexpected sharp dart of pain from his arm.
‘Your wound bothers you?’ she asked.
Inwardly he cursed at having revealed so much. ‘Hardly at all. I had forgotten all about it until now.’ He drew forth a rectangular box from beneath the seat. ‘Since we have a good few miles to go, we might as well entertain ourselves. I assume you play chess?’ A woman of her supposed ilk would learn all the arts to entertain a man. It was their stock in trade.
‘I do,’ she said. ‘I choose white.’
‘Of course you do.’ He set the travelling set on its legs between them and set out the pieces. Chess would stop him from falling asleep and eliminate the need for conversation.
Conversation required too much careful attention to avoid falling into one of her traps.
* * *
To Nicky’s increasing concern the journey went on and on. They had changed horses twice now, at small inns along the road. Not posting inns or coaching houses, tiny village inns along narrow lanes off the main road. And at each inn it became quite obvious that the horses were his own. Kept ready should he need them. They were changed without comment or fuss. Food arrived on a tray within moments of their arrival. At one, when she stepped down to use the necessary and take stock of her whereabouts, she quickly discovered there was no possible route for escape. The places were too small, the gaze of her captor too sharp, too aware of her every movement, to give her the slightest opportunity to disappear.