He grinned at Nicky. ‘I’ve been on the Town a long time, Countess. I have not failed to learn how to make the most of the company of a lovely and enticing woman.’

She settled herself more comfortably on the seat. ‘I do not respond well to flattery.’

‘And if it is the truth, Countess?’

She shook her head. ‘Incorrigible.’

She said it the French way and the caress in her voice was unmistakable. Velvet and honey and fine old brandy wrapped up in one word.

‘But you should know, Milor’ Mooreshead,’ she continued as he wove between the slow traffic of carters and tradesmen about their business, ‘your reputation precedes you. I have been warned that there isn’t a lady in London who does not fear for her virtue when you smile her way.’

AUTHOR NOTE

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to live in another time—to be the heroine of some grand adventure? I know how fortunate I am to get to do that on a daily basis. It doesn’t always go as smoothly as I would like, or exactly to plan, as characters have a way of twisting things to suit themselves. On the other hand, I must say I have a lot of fun discovering their stories. This time we are revisiting Beresford Abbey, which you may recall from HAUNTED BY THE EARL’S TOUCH. The ghost is being her usual helpful self—or is she? And the French are massing across the Channel.

Without a doubt the Regency era is one of my all-time favourite periods of history. However, it can easily be forgotten, in the glitz and glamour of London’s ballrooms, that it was a time of war as well as a time of great change—the dawn of our modern age. I touch on these matters as we follow Nicky and Gabe’s adventure.

If you want the latest news on my books, go to my website, www.annlethbridge.com, where you will have a chance to win my newest book and sign up for my newsletter, ‘like’ me on Facebook, AnnLethbridgeAuthor, or follow me on Twitter @AnnLethbridge.

Gabriel D’Arcy
Ann Lethbridge

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ANN LETHBRIDGE has been reading Regency novels for as long as she can remember. She always imagined herself as Lizzie Bennet, or one of Georgette Heyer’s heroines, and would often recreate the stories in her head with different outcomes or scenes. When she sat down to write her own novel it was no wonder that she returned to her first love: the Regency.

Ann grew up roaming Britain with her military father. Her family lived in many towns and villages across the country, from the Outer Hebrides to Hampshire. She spent memorable family holidays in the West Country and in Dover, where her father was born. She now lives in Canada, with her husband, two beautiful daughters, and a Maltese terrier named Teaser, who spends his days on a chair beside the computer, making sure she doesn’t slack off.

Ann visits Britain every year, to undertake research and also to visit family members who are very understanding about her need to poke around old buildings and visit every antiquity within a hundred miles. If you would like to know more about Ann and her research, or to contact her, visit her website at www.annlethbridge.com. She loves to hear from readers.

DEDICATION

It isn’t often an author has the privilege of working with two editors, but for this book I have been fortunate to have the advice of Joanne Grant and Anne Marie Ryan, so I am doubly blessed. Thank you, ladies, for your help in bringing this story to fruition.

I would also like to dedicate this book to my sister-in-law, Diane Jones, a courageous woman who loved family above all else.

Contents

Cover

Excerpt

AUTHOR NOTE

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

August 1804

When Napoleon amassed an army twenty-two miles away on the other side of the English Channel, what should an English peer of the realm do? Attend Lady Heatherfield’s summer ball, naturally. Gabe D’Arcy, the recently gazetted Marquess of Mooreshead, eyed the occupants in the over-hot marble-columned ballroom with a sense of despair. Did they have no idea of the danger facing their country? Did they not see the disillusion of the common man on their estates, in their cities and towns? If they did, they didn’t show it. Or seem to care.

The myriad candles reflected in gilt-edged mirrors threatened blindness as he gazed at his fellow peers. How would these carefully coiffed heads look in the basket at the foot of a guillotine? It was where they would end up if Britain became a satellite republic of France.

It wouldn’t happen. Not if he had anything to say about it. He’d given up everything he had to make sure it did not. His principles. His honour. Not to mention his rightful inheritance. Damn his father.

He and his father had never seen eye to eye about a great many things—politics, the treatment of tenants, the bullying of his mother—but Gabe never expected his father’s outright mistrust. Had been shocked when he understood how deep their differences of opinion had gone, to the point where his father considered him a traitor to the family name and to his country. But that was all water under the bridge. His father was dead and Gabe’s rebellion against his father’s autocratic rule had made him who he was now. A penniless marquess and a spy.

He did not let his impatience or frustration show. A worried countenance fuelled gossip. He’d suffered enough of that when details of his father’s will had surfaced. The first to turn their backs had been the matchmaking mamas who had plagued his early years. A poverty-stricken marquess wasn’t worth the time of day. Not that he’d cared, since he had no intention of marrying for years. If ever.

The hearsay about the unsavoury source of his income to support his privileged and idle bachelor life, whispers of him gulling green ’uns at the gambling tables or, worse, cheating, rolled off his shoulders. They were conjectures he’d encouraged.

The rumours about why he’d been denied the income from his estates cut pretty deep. Gossip about his support of the French revolution. The doubts about his loyalty to his country. Unfortunately for his pride, those rumours were also to be encouraged. They served a higher purpose.

Worse would be the revulsion of his fellows if the truth of his real activities came to light. A man could seduce innocents, kill a man in a duel or cheat on his wife, as long as it was all open and above board. It was the kind of underhanded dealings Gabe engaged in that would make him persona non grata in the world of the ton.

So he let them think what they would while he risked life and limb to save theirs. Given his preference, he would never visit London at all, but since he kept his base of operations secret, and since his French contacts demanded the occasional face-to-face interaction, he’d had no choice but to don the guise of charming philanderer and inveterate gambler and mingle with his fellows.

Hence his appearance at Lady Heatherfield’s ball.

A passing gentleman lurched into Gabe, who put out a hand to minimise the clumsily executed accident.

‘I beg your pardon, m’sieur,’ the florid-faced, rotund gentleman murmured, bowing low. ‘M’sieur Armande, à votre service.’

The contact he’d been expecting. ‘Mooreshead. You suffer from the heat, no doubt.’ Code words of recognition, even though they needed none. Armande, a supposed émigré, used his position to gain information for money. They had come into contact more than once over the years.

The man bowed again. ‘Indeed. Fortunately, the winds are strengthening and should bring a change in the weather.’

The winds that would bring the French from France, but there had been a change in plans. What change? ‘Let us hope it occurs soon, sir.’

‘Indeed. I have been almost prostrate these last five days.’

Five days? He had not anticipated they would make their move so soon. He had to get back to Cornwall and prepare. But what was the change in plan? ‘We will all welcome a change in the weather, even if it brings storms.’

‘The captain of your yacht, the Phoenix, I believe, would likely be interested.’

His orders were being sent to his ship. Why drag him all the way to London to tell him that? ‘I shall be sure to let him know.’

Armande dug out his snuff-box and offered it to Gabe. He lowered his voice. ‘You are in danger, mon ami. They do not trust you. Someone has been sent.’ He smiled blandly and raised his voice to normal tones. ‘No one but the English would fill their rooms so full on such a warm summer evening.’

A spurt of anger surged hot in Gabe’s chest. He controlled it. He’d spent years trying to win the trust of both sides in this war—any chink in the walls he’d built could prove disastrous. ‘Who?’ he asked in an undertone. A double-edged question. Who had been sent? And by whom? Armande had loyalty to neither side. He glanced around as if considering the man’s earlier words. ‘Personally, I am surprised anyone is in town at all at this time of year.’

Armande shook his head, his eyes regretful. He did not know the answer to either of Gabe’s questions. ‘A debt paid.’

Gabe had saved Armande from being picked up by a British coastguard one dark night. All part of the job, but even men like Armande, a man who profited from war, had a code of honour and paid his debts.

The Frenchman once more raised his voice. ‘No doubt refreshment is in order.’

‘Over there, m’sieur. Enjoy your evening.’ Gabe indicated the direction of the alcove where a footman guarded a table groaning beneath the weight of punchbowls. The Frenchman bowed and moved on.

Who didn’t trust him, Gabe pondered. The French? Or the British?

Either was possible. Or was it speculation without substance? In the world of espionage rumours ran riot.

‘How was Norfolk?’ a voice behind him asked as a heavy hand fell on his shoulder.

He turned to meet the stern, harsh face of one of his oldest friends. Bane, Earl Beresford. One of only a handful of people Gabe would trust with his misbegotten life. A captain of industry, Bane owned mines and factories that fed the British war machine. His head would not remain on his shoulders if Napoleon held sway.

‘Norfolk is...Norfolk,’ Gabe said with a brief smile, knowing they were not talking about Norfolk at all. Years ago in a moment of weakness, he had trusted Bane with his secrets. And hence his life. In return, Bane had allowed him to use his family estate in Cornwall as a secret base. ‘Manners creeps around with snail-like efficiency. Boats come and go with cargo, both legal and illicit.’ He always told the truth. Or as close to it as made no difference, whenever possible. You never knew who might be listening.

‘It’s good to see you back in town,’ Bane said in his usual brusque manner. ‘Come for dinner. Next week. We would be delighted to feed you.’

‘I suppose you want to talk politics and the state of the British economy. Poor Mary.’

Bane’s dark face lit up at the mention of his wife. ‘She’s used to it. And she has some pretty good ideas of her own. So, will you come?’

The elegant Lady Mary had a lovely and very delicate neck. Easy work for a sharp blade. With a conscious effort, Gabe shook off his black thoughts and inclined his head. ‘It would be my very great pleasure, but I am not in town long enough, I’m afraid.’ The news he’d just received made it imperative he leave as soon as he informed Sceptre of this latest development. Unlike agents of the Home Office, who reported to Parliament, the political arm of government, Sceptre owed its allegiance to no one but the House of Hanover. Fortunately, for the most part, the goals of these agents of security were in accord. Sceptre, however, tended to be more secretive and entirely ruthless in achieving its aims.

‘Next time you are in town, then,’ Bane said. ‘Let me know your plans in advance and I will arrange a quiet evening at home. Meanwhile, stop racketing about. You are looking quite done up.’

He laughed. ‘Surely not that bad?’

‘Not so bad others will notice.’ Bane strolled away.

The man saw too much.

Gabe sighed and glanced around the room for a suitable dance partner to help maintain his façade. One who would not immediately give him the cold shoulder. There were plenty of females who enjoyed flirting with a man of his reputed wickedness, provided he wasn’t looking for more than a dalliance.

The babble on the far side of the room intensified. The stir of the ton at some new piece of gossip, some on dit or scandal, no doubt. The crowds at the edge of the dance floor shifted like water swirling in a strong current before parting around the object of their interest.

A woman he didn’t know. She wasn’t particularly tall, or even particularly short. Her hair wasn’t brown, or chestnut or guinea gold. Strangely, it was all of them. Her features were neither classical nor pretty nor plain, because one only noticed her large cerulean-blue eyes framed by surprisingly dark lashes. Were they dyed or natural? And why would he care? She didn’t glitter or sparkle as other females did, nor did she fade into the modest obscurity of a miss new on the town. She glowed with the incandescent warmth of the pearl choker around her throat.

And the Beau Monde hovered around her like bees over clover. Sumptuously dressed women hung on her every word, while the men mentally slavered over the flesh exposed by the low-scooping gown. The lure of shoulders and high, full breasts of palest white startlingly scattered with freckles. Instinct told him she was French. Few British women would dare such a diaphanous gown of silver and dampen their petticoats with such blatant unconcern. A recent émigrée, perhaps? One who had arrived during his absence these past few months.

A woman as sensual as sin. The words reverberated in his head. Surprising. Shocking. These days, he rarely had that kind of reaction to a woman, no matter how beautiful or fashionable.

Her gaze passed over him and flicked back. An almost imperceptible lift of brows as dark as her lashes. Interest. Followed immediately by an acknowledgement of desire. The look strummed every nerve in his body, a vibration followed swiftly by heat. Things inside him shifted, as if his spine had realigned. Stunned, he froze. His body stirred as he was caught in her clear-eyed gaze. A coolly calculating glance that spun out into timelessness before it fractured into naked vulnerability. Or not. A blink and the very idea seemed absurd for such a self-contained creature.

Realisation dawned. She was the one of whom he’d been warned.

The French, then. How typical of them to suppose he couldn’t resist the wiles of a woman. Clearly, they’d let appearances deceive them into thinking he was an easy mark. Yes, he found the woman extraordinarily attractive, but so did every male in the room.

Damn it all. And if he was right, why test his loyalty at such a critical juncture? That he now had to fight a battle on yet another front was irritating to say the least. Yet, if he’d been in their shoes, he likely would have been testing his loyalty too. His role had become pivotal to their plans. If he proved a weak link in the chain, it might set the invasion back by months. He certainly didn’t want that. The more nervous they became, the harder it would be to put a stop to their ambitions once and for all.

If he told Sceptre of his suspicions about this woman, they would demand he eliminate the danger. Coldly. Brutally. Just as Marianne had been eliminated. His stomach clenched at the memory.

No. Not without proof. Suspicions were one thing, but it behove him to discover the truth of who had sent her and why. Only a fool would eliminate a danger without knowing from whence it came.

Tension tightened his muscles. A reaction to the knowledge of an upcoming skirmish. Retaining his outward easy calm, he sauntered through the ballroom, bowing and smiling, while his skin tingled and his body burned with an inner flame. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this much anticipation. Because of the way he had come alive during the space of a glance.

As he moved among his peers, he heard her name on their lips. Nicoletta, Countess Vilandry. Society’s new novelty.

He drifted towards the refreshment table, glad to see Armande was nowhere in sight. He deliberately slowed his breathing, forced himself to think logically, sifting through the bloodlines of the French nobility. Vilandry. An old name. And one now extinguished, he thought. Lack of certainty made him uneasy. Ignorance was vulnerability in this high-stakes game. But no matter what he didn’t know, his gut sensed she was the one of whom Armande had warned.

Heat leached away, followed by cold resolve. One way or another, he must delve the secret depths of the Countess Vilandry before returning to Cornwall. And quickly.

* * *

Without a doubt, Gabriel D’Arcy, Marquess of Mooreshead, would be Nicky’s most difficult challenge to date. The gauntlet in his chilly blue eyes had been unmistakably thrown down before he coolly turned away. Not a man to be trifled with carelessly, she’d been warned, despite his reputation for charm.

Something had happened during the course of that brief visual encounter. Despite her every effort, the familiar mask of the Countess Vilandry, the seductive woman she’d become to survive her marriage, had almost slipped from her grasp. Leaving Nicky Rideau, the girl she had been a long time ago, open and exposed and unprotected. Perhaps it was Mooreshead’s sheer physical beauty that had pierced her protective shield, his golden locks and masculine physique, with no sign of the corruption she’d expected to see in a man base enough to betray his country. The sweetly painful little flutter low in her belly when their eyes made contact had been a terrible shock, when she’d expected to feel nothing at all. Such a display of weakness would have earned her a slap if Vilandry had been alive to see such a beginner’s mistake. There were no emotions involved in a seduction. The woman never admired the man. She only teased and tormented.

She’d realised her mistake in an instant and drawn the Countess around her like a domino made of steel. It was too late for Nicky Rideau. She’d been buried years ago. The Countess never let her own desires run amok. And no matter how handsome or charming he proved, he would pose no threat to a woman who had learned her arts from a master. She would expose all of his secrets and find the proof of his treachery.

Failure was not an option. Not if she wanted Paul to keep his promise to provide the false papers that would get her into France. The hint she’d received that her sister might yet be alive and alone was a bruise on her heart. And the sour taste of guilt in the back of her throat.

Exposing Mooreshead would give her the opportunity to know the truth once and for all.

It would take a delicate touch to reel in a man with his reputation. She’d made it her business to unearth the gossip about him. A man of fashion. A Corinthian. A man who drove to an inch and who displayed to advantage in the pugilist ring despite his whipcord leanness and rangy height. And an incorrigible rake. A man who took nothing seriously, unless it was the cut of his coat and the set of his cravat. A man who laughed easily, whether he won or lost a fortune. A man who needed a fortune to support his lifestyle, but who was rumoured to be penniless. That last alone made her suspicious.

But it would not be easy to pierce that carefully constructed armour of devil-may-care. At least, not easy for any other woman. The Countess had been well schooled in the art of seduction and male manipulation. Her husband had delighted in teaching his young bride how to please him as well as keep his friends and political enemies dancing to his tune. She shuddered at the recollection.

Still, Vilandry’s lessons would stand her in good stead in this new venture of hers. And if in the end, Paul did not send her to France to help with Britain’s war effort, she would have earned enough to pay her own way.

A quick scan of the room found Mooreshead near the refreshment table idly watching the dancing. Or appearing to do so. She smiled at her companion, the estimable, plump Mrs Featherstone. As a widow, Nicky did not need a chaperone, but the elderly matron, with her grey frizzled hair and placid expression, not only added a necessary aura of respectability, she was the link to her spymaster. ‘Ma chère madame,’ she said idly, ‘why is it the English must keep their rooms so warm? I swear I am parched.’

‘Do you find it so, my dear?’ the other woman said, looking vague. A habit she cultivated to great success. Her eyes sharpened as they fell on their target and she gave a small smile. ‘Why is there never a waiter nearby when one needs one? Let me see what I can do.’ She drifted in the direction the refreshment table.

A moment or two later Mooreshead arrived in Mrs Featherstone’s wake, carrying two goblets of champagne. She smiled her thanks as he handed her a glass.

‘Countess,’ Mrs Featherstone said, ‘may I introduce Lord Mooreshead, who so kindly came to my rescue. Mooreshead, the Countess Vilandry.’

Nicky gave him a warm smile, dipping her knees and inclining her head, well aware that the advantage of his height gave him a clear view of the valley between her breasts. She felt his gaze linger there just a second too long. Any other woman might have blushed or simpered; she simply waited for his gaze to return to her face. She held out her hand. ‘My lord.’

‘Countess.’ He held her hand in a firm yet gentle grip and made a bow of exactly the correct depth.

‘Mrs Featherstone tells me you have been in town a month,’ he continued. ‘I regret my tardiness in making you welcome to London. Had I known the world was about to change, I assure you, I would not have left for anything so dull as a visit to the country.’

His voice was deep and well modulated and his eyes danced with laughter. At himself and at the world in general. Or so he would have it appear. She was once more conscious of shoulders that owed nothing to the skill of his tailor and a betraying pulse low in her belly. A woman’s appreciation for a magnificent male. A warning that she must be wary of a man who so easily aroused her feminine desires. Such female weakness could only endanger her mission. But desire was not something she feared. It was a two-edged sword she knew well how to wield and she would have no hesitation in using its blade to put an end to his disloyalty.

She inclined her head. ‘A charmingly expressed sentiment, my lord, but a gross exaggeration.’

He chuckled and placed a hand to his heart. ‘’Pon my honour, my lady, you wound me.’

‘It was not my intention.’

Mrs Featherstone touched her arm. ‘Would you excuse me for a moment, Countess? I particularly wished to have words with a friend of mine this evening and she arrived a few moments ago. I fear I may lose her in this crush.’

A planned excuse to leave her alone with her mark. ‘Of course,’ Nicky said. ‘I shall be well entertained by his lordship in your absence.’

‘I shall do my best,’ Mooreshead responded and bowed as her companion departed. A moment later, his charming smile held sensual promise. ‘In the interests of my duty to entertain, may I request your hand for this next dance, Countess?’

The urge to give in to the obvious strength of will in those piercing blue eyes, his absolute confidence she would not refuse, was an irresistible pull. A delicate touch, she reminded herself. Too eager and he would grow wary. Or bored. She gave a regretful sigh. ‘Thank you, but, no, I am promised to another. Perhaps later?’

On cue, the young man who had sought the first dance the instant she entered the ballroom approached. He bowed and held out his arm with an expression of triumph. ‘My dance, I believe, Countess.’ His expression cooled as his eyes met those of Mooreshead. He gave a nod of his head. ‘My lord.’

‘She’s all yours,’ Mooreshead responded with the air of a man who had the right to relinquish possession. ‘I will return later for our dance. The supper dance, I believe we agreed.’

She shook her head at the way he had finessed taking her to supper, but smiled. ‘Bien sûr. Until then.’

Mooreshead bowed and sauntered away

Well, that had been easier than she’d expected. Almost too easy.

She would have to be careful not to rush her fences and make him overly wary. A man who walked in the dangerous world of intelligence would not be easily fooled.

* * *

Fascination with a female. It happened occasionally. Even to a man as jaded as him. It was her boldness he liked. And the intelligence behind the seductive knowing in her cornflower-blue eyes with the starburst of grey in their centres. They were eyes that seemed older than her years.

Even so, under other circumstances, he would have sheared off at the obvious ploy by the Featherstone woman. It might be a coincidence that the countess had clearly decided to inveigle her way into his company at the same moment Gabe had been warned of treachery afoot. It might also be a coincidence that her appearance coincided with new orders from France. But when both occurred at one and the same time? Coincidence it was not.

The gauntlet had been tossed at his feet. He couldn’t afford not to pick it up with matters at such a crucial stage. How annoying that despite himself, he was interested in her. As a woman. He huffed out a breath and forced himself to think logically. He needed to know why she’d been sent. What it was they suspected. He strolled around the ballroom, speaking casually to those acquaintances who would spare him a word, garnering the latest on dit. The life blood of the ton. Apparently little was known about the Countess Vilandry apart from the fact they all thought her divine.

She was the fashion. Her style admired by men and women alike. No doubt about it, the countess warranted a closer inspection.

His groin tightened at the thought of the pleasure such closeness might bring.

Inwardly, he froze. Not for years had he had such a visceral response to a woman. He certainly never let them get close. Marianne had cured him of any wish to open his heart. So why was this one different?

Something sharp and unwelcome twisted in his chest. The emptiness of his self-imposed isolation? The knowledge that there wasn’t a woman alive who would want him? Was that why he was attracted to her? Because she was a creature of lies and darkness, like him?

He mentally cursed and shook off the shadows of the past. The task was simple. Find out if she was the one Armande had warned of and, if so, eliminate the problem.

With the supper dance still a good hour away, he wandered into the card room, passing the minutes until it was time to claim his dance by joining a game of faro. It certainly wouldn’t do to be seen hanging around at the edge of the dance floor watching her like a slavering dog. Everyone knew he didn’t run after females. They ran after him. And the only ones who caught him were those who were interested in nothing but good times and no ties. As far as the world was concerned, she must be no different from his usual fare.

The stakes at his chosen table were high enough to account for his inner tension. Yet the urge to return to the ballroom and see if he had imagined the whole attraction tugged at his mind. He raised the stakes to the groans of his companions. And again when he won. Their gazes turned questioning. He could read their minds. Had he cheated?

With studied slowness, he abandoned his place, picking up his winnings to disapproving stares, and headed out into the mêlée of swirling skirts and sparkling jewels. Despite the crowds, his eyes found her immediately. A mysterious woman who shimmered among lesser gems. Lust grabbed him low in his gut.

Devil take it, whether he was right and she was sent by an enemy or not, he was going to have regrets.

He bit back a curse.

* * *

The supper dance was a cotillion. To Nicky’s delight, Mooreshead proved himself a skilled and graceful dancer. Graceful in a manly way. He was always just where one expected him to be, never turning the wrong way or forgetting a figure. And he conversed easily. No matter how difficult the step, his eyes said he was thinking of nothing but his partner. It was a skill few men managed with any great success. She was impressed.

‘How are you enjoying London?’ he asked as they came together, hands linked in a turn.

‘I find it exceedingly respectable.’

A fair brow shot up. The ice in his eyes warmed with amusement. ‘You would prefer it otherwise?’

The dance parted them and she smiled at her new partner, who turned red and stumbled.

Mooreshead rejoined her at the top of the set and they passed down the lines between the other couples.

‘I do not have a preference for things not respectable,’ she said, smiling up at him. ‘But I do find it a little dull.’

‘Then it seems the gentlemen in London are failing you badly.’

Ah, there it was, the offer for them to become closer. They separated at the end of the line. Three figures later, they joined hands for a fast turn. A shiver ran down her spine at their touch despite the layers of their gloves. Anticipation. Followed quickly by annoyance. Yes, the man was attractive. No woman could ignore the classically carved features of his face, or the sensual mobility of his mouth, or even the way the candlelight glinted gold in his hair, but she must never forget he was a traitor with the potential to cause the loss of hundreds of lives. Perhaps even thousands. And not just soldiers. Innocent lives. A cold calm filled her chest. Her work was too important to let her desire for a handsome man make her starry-eyed.

She arched a brow. ‘I presume you think you would do better.’

A take-it-or-leave-it grin lit his face. So devil-may-care her stomach gave a pleasurable little hop. ‘I know I would.’ His deep voice was a velvet caress.

A tingle of warmth low in her abdomen cut short her breath. No. This was not about her desires. Duty came first. And Minette. Only by keeping her distance could she trap him successfully. He had to believe her indifferent. There was nothing more alluring to a man for whom women routinely swooned, than one who remained elusive.

She gave a non-committal shrug. ‘So you say.’

Something flashed in his eyes. Frustration? Annoyance? Or something warmer? Only time would tell. He forbore to make any further comment, leaving her in the dark and awaiting his next move.

The dance concluded. It was time to adjourn for supper and she placed a hand on his forearm. It was a forearm with the strength of steel beneath an elegantly tailored coat of the finest cloth. Her fingers tingled with a longing to explore the detail of that strength. A surprising reaction, since in her experience, beneath their trappings, fashionable men either ran to fat or scrawniness. But not Mooreshead. The man looked to have the physique of a Greek god. It was a theory she would likely have an opportunity to test in the not-too-distant future.

To achieve her goal. Nothing more.

The cream-and-gold room set aside for supper was tastefully arranged with small, round tables that allowed guests to eat and talk in small groups after selecting their own food from the sideboard against one wall. He held both their plates in one large hand, while she selected the morsels she fancied: lobster patties, oysters and little, fancy cakes. He led her to a table in the corner. A perfect place from which they could watch the room as a whole and no one could approach without advanced warning.

It was the table she would have chosen if given the option.

As if by tacit agreement, no one else made an attempt to join them. It was not surprising, for they both lived on the fringes of good society. She knew that about him, even as he must know the same about her.

‘No doubt all the gentlemen you have met tonight have told you how stunning you look,’ Mooreshead said. ‘May I therefore say how honoured I am that you chose to take supper with me?’

‘Why, my lord, you have a silver tongue as well as good looks.’

‘My lady is too kind.’

‘D’accord. It seems we have reached a fine understanding of one another.’

His chuckle in response sounded so natural she was enchanted. Not something she wished to be at all. Not with him. She must keep a straight head on her shoulders.

‘You must have been in England a long time,’ he said. ‘Your speech is impeccable.’

‘Merci. I left France after the death of my husband.’ She too could avoid the provision of useful facts.

He frowned as he attempted the calculation of age and circumstances. He would likely think her young to be a wife, let alone a widow. Appearances were deceiving. He would be horrified to know she’d been wed for nearly five years by the time she was twenty. ‘It must have been a very difficult time,’ he murmured in a tone that invited confidences.

‘I survived when many did not.’

‘You are to be congratulated on your escape.’

It was what she kept telling herself. As they so often did, the images of the fire flashed before her mind. The face of the soldier, Captain Chiroux, a demon’s mask of satisfaction in the glare of the flames. If she had realised... But it was too late to change what she had done. She could only hope Minette had somehow survived, then she would indeed feel fortunate to have escaped from France. If not, then there was only regret.

‘Where have you been until now?’ he asked.

‘Waiting for you.’

His eyes widened. And then he laughed. Yet the shadows deep in those icy-blue eyes gave his laugh the lie. The danger he exuded was not merely that of a male in pursuit of pleasure, though that was certainly there in good measure, the shadows hinted at darker pursuits that chilled her very soul.

She widened her eyes in feigned innocence. ‘I see you do not believe me.’ She gave a theatrical sigh. ‘And to add insult to injury, here comes my companion, Madame Featherstone. I am afraid our delightful tête-à-tête is to be disturbed.’ The poor dear looked quite harassed beneath her puce turban and its nodding peacock feather. Well, she would. She was supposed to keep a close eye on her and Mooreshead. At least until they were sure he suspected nothing. A cornered man was more than risky.

‘Do you ride?’ she asked with one eye on the widow’s imminent arrival. ‘I usually go to Hyde Park at seven in the morning. Before it is busy.’

His eyes gleamed with wickedness. ‘So, you like to gallop.’ The innuendo was not lost on her, but she chose to ignore it.

After a brief hesitation, he continued smoothly. ‘I’ll take you up in my carriage at six. Bring your horse and your groom. We will breakfast afterwards.’

She smiled her acceptance of the invitation as Mrs Featherstone arrived at their table. Mooreshead rose to his feet and offered the older lady a chair with a bow and a charming smile. If he felt the slightest irritation at their lack of privacy, it did not show. Exquisite manners were his forte. But a storm lurked beneath the unruffled surface. She could feel it battering against her skin.

As was usual among the English, the conversation turned to the weather. Certainly no one was ever ill-bred enough to mention the war.

Chapter Two

The discovery of the Countess Vilandry’s dwelling required little effort on Gabe’s part. Her location in Golden Square was known by all and sundry. While not exactly desirable, the location was respectable. Her companion, Mrs Featherstone, was an unknown and generally described as bit of a mushroom. Not that Gabe put much store by stuffy conventions. While the countess might be considered fast, and a little risqué, his enquiries into her background and her obvious acceptance into society had made him wonder if his suspicions might be wrong.

Sceptre had been unable to tell him anything, good or bad.

Émigrés were nothing unusual these days. London seethed with refugees from Bonaparte’s vision of France. The more he had thought about it, the more certain he had become that neither side was so stupid as to send anyone so obvious against him. Or was his reluctance to believe it the result of the smouldering attraction low in his gut every time he brought her to mind. Wanting a woman that much was dangerous to any man’s sanity, but in his case it was completely out of character. The few relationships he had allowed since returning from France had been fleeting, an integral part of establishing his persona. Nevertheless, after Armande’s warning, he could not afford to ignore such an obvious play for his attention. Not now when one stumble, one error in judgement, would bring down his carefully erected house of cards.

He drew his carriage up at her front door, pleased to see a waiting groom mounted on a staid-looking hack holding the reins of a showy little black mare who showed the whites of her eyes at the sight of his curricle. His tiger, Jimmy, jumped down and went to his horses’ heads at the same moment the front door opened and the countess stepped out in a riding habit of pale blue that showed off her curvaceous figure to perfection. A curly brimmed beaver adorned with a veil set on severely styled hair made her look naughty.

Gabe leapt down and strode up the steps to meet her. He bowed. ‘Good morning, Countess. I am encouraged by your promptness.’

A corner of her mouth curled upwards. ‘Don’t be, mon cher Mooreshead. My Peridot does not like to be kept waiting.’

‘Your mare is as beautiful as her mistress.’

‘And far more impatient.’

He chuckled. She was clearly a woman skilled in the art of flirtation with a lively wit. She would keep his thoughts from growing too dark for an hour or two. She might even be willing to slake his lust. His body hardened. He quelled his surge of desire with ruthless determination. He had other more important matters on his mind. Like leaving London for Cornwall at the earliest opportunity, which he would do as soon as he was sure the countess was harmless.

Taking her hand, he escorted her down the steps onto the flagstones. ‘Then I must not keep either of you waiting. I have ordered our breakfast for nine.’

Her blue eyes sparkled. ‘You are very forward, milor’.’

He inclined his head. ‘Faint heart does not win fair lady.’ He gestured to the curricle. ‘May I assist you?’

‘Certainement.’

As he lifted her, his fingers spanned her slender waist and, despite her very feminine curves, he was aware of the lithe strength beneath his hands. A woman who rode frequently and hard.

Once more his body stirred at an image of the kind of riding she might enjoy that would involve them being alone together. Between the sheets. Once more the urgency of his visceral response surprised him. He was without doubt going to enjoy their association, no matter how brief.

He walked around to his side of the carriage and climbed up. ‘Your man will follow behind?’

‘He will.’

‘Let ’em go, Jimmy,’ Gabe said. The little tiger jumped clear and Gabe set his horses in motion.

Countess Vilandry frowned. ‘Your tiger does not come with us?’

Yes, this lady was unusually quick witted. ‘We have your groom.’

‘Yes, but who will mind your horses while we ride? Oh!’ She laughed. ‘You, Milor’ Mooreshead, are a very bad man.’

He grinned at her. ‘I’ve been on the town a long time, Countess. I have not failed to learn how to make the most of the company of a lovely and enticing woman.’

She settled herself more comfortably on the seat. ‘I do not respond well to flattery.’

‘And if it is the truth, Countess?’

She shook her head. ‘Incorrigible.’ She said it the French way and the caress in her voice was unmistakable. Velvet and honey and fine old brandy wrapped up in one word.

‘But you should know, Milor’ Mooreshead,’ she continued as he wove between the slow traffic of carters and tradesmen about their business, ‘your reputation precedes you. I have been warned that there isn’t a lady in London who does not fear for her virtue when you smile her way.’

‘Call me Gabe,’ he said, deliberately avoiding her teasing glance by pretending to concentrate on feathering between two slow-moving vehicles.

‘Gabe?’

‘Short for Gabriel.’

‘A devil named for an angel? Très amusant.’

‘Indeed. But do not tell me you did not already know.’ She had to know his name. And he would not have her think him an idiot. Nor did he want to play word games. Or not much anyway. He wanted his suspicions put to rest. Though that didn’t make a scrap of sense, when he needed to learn just who had been sent and by whom. It really would be so much easier if she was the one. He could deal with her today and leave for Cornwall first thing in the morning. He turned his head and gave her a quizzical smile so he could read her expression.

Her eyes danced with amusement as if she had nothing on her mind but easy flirtation. ‘Tiens, you will spoil the jest?’

‘It grows stale with age.’

She laughed. A light bright sound that spread unaccustomed warmth in his chest. ‘So it is good we have such staleness out of the way, then. And you will call me Nicky. Nicoletta is such a mouthful for the English tongue, don’t you think?’

‘Nicky,’ he said, tasting it on his tongue, sharp and tart, yet, like her, exotic. ‘It suits you.’

A little frown creased her forehead. ‘A compliment?’

‘A woman as lovely as you does not lack for compliments.’

‘Lovely? Mais non. Not at all. I think they call it je ne sais quoi, n’est-ce pas?’

‘It seems we are at point non plus. At a standstill in this war of words.’

‘War?’ She raised a brow. ‘Surely not. Relax, mon ami, and enjoy a ride on what appears to be the coming of a very fine day.’

He laughed and helped her out of the carriage. He could barely remember the last time he had found a woman so enticingly amusing. It was like coming into the light after days below ground. And she was right. Whatever she was, lovely did not adequately describe it. The sum of her was more attractive than the individual parts. And therefore undefinable. She was not going to be as easy to figure out as he had assumed. Not easy, but not impossible. And perversely he was looking forward to learning her secrets. And if his initial suspicion proved correct and she did come as a spy from the French? His chest tightened. Then he would leave her convinced that her masters had nothing to fear in regard to his loyalty. That way this vibrant creature wouldn’t have to die. At least, not this time.

‘I will certainly be interested to see you put that mare of yours through her paces,’ Gabe said, as they mounted.

She glanced back at his gelding, a big bay, strong enough to hold a man of his weight and height and still go like the wind. ‘I’ll wager my glove that Peridot and I will leave you in our dust.’

Again a challenge. It must be part of her nature and it was alluring as all hell. ‘Now that I look forward to seeing.’ He clapped his heels to Bacchus’s flanks.

* * *

The early-morning breeze stung Nicky’s cheeks. The dew on the grass glittered like diamonds. She felt carefree. Giddy. As if the Countess was nothing but a bad dream and she was young again. Thank goodness, her companion was out in front. The ineffably charming Mooreshead was far too intelligent to insult her by letting her win. But one look at her face and he’d see the cracks in her hard-won walls. She let go a breath and gathered her composure.

Clearly Paul had been right to repeat his warnings last night. The man had a dark and dangerous allure. Beneath the urbane veneer lay finely honed steel forged in a crucible of fire. What turned a man with every advantage of position, wealth, intelligence and education into a traitor? She would have to be clever indeed to expose his treachery and bring him to justice.

The thought of this physically beautiful man mounting the gallows robbed the day of its brightness.

She forced herself not to think of the end, only the means, and urged Peridot to greater efforts as the big, rangy bay drew a good length in front. No catching them now. At the end of the Row, Gabe circled his horse around and greeted her with a boyish smile that caused her heart to flutter.

Mortified by her instinctively feminine response, she halted in front of him with a smile that felt forced. At her command, Peridot curtsied low, in acknowledgement of his win.

The smile turned into a delighted grin. ‘What a little beauty. And fast.’

‘Not fast enough,’ she said lightly. ‘He’s not very pretty, your animal, but he is strong.’

Gabe patted his mount’s neck. ‘I see you know horseflesh.’

She pouted, but not so much that he would think her serious. ‘If I knew it well enough, I would not have wagered one of my new gloves.’ Repressing the tingle of anticipation at the thought of his touch, she held out a hand for him to claim his prize. Boldness was the only way to handle a man like him. A man who assumed he held all the power.

With deliberate slowness, as if he sensed her impatience and intended to punish her, he pulled off his own gloves and tucked them beneath one heavily muscled thigh. When her hand disappeared inside his palm, it clearly emphasised the difference in their size and strength. Even through the kid she could feel his warmth. A small shiver slid down her back, but she kept her smile steady, coolly amused, unflustered, despite the unwanted flutter of her pulse. Carefully he undid the tiny button at the wrist, then raised her hand to press his lips to the blue-veined pulse point he had uncovered. Her insides tightened in response to the velvety sensation.

When he glanced up at her, his eyes danced with mischief.

Her heart tumbled over, her body loosened. She swallowed her urge to gasp at the odd sense of discovery. The kind of feeling a younger Nicky might have experienced. Before the world changed and she became a pawn. A puppet with gilded strings. The naive child she’d been was dead and buried beneath her childish hopes and dreams. Only the Countess lived to play this so very dangerous game. ‘You won the glove, sirrah. Nothing more.’

He fastened the button and gave her hand a gentle pat. ‘And you must keep it until I return you home. You need it for now.’

Generous to a fault. A wickedly clever move. She inclined her head as if approving of his thoughtfulness. Oh, yes, the man had charm from his beautiful burnished locks to his highly polished boots, making it hard to think of him as evil. She shored up her defences with a teasing smile. ‘Do you make a habit of collecting ladies’ gloves?’

‘Only yours.’

Gathering her reins, she tossed him an arch look. ‘A very small collection, then.’

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.

Where was Meak exactly? West of London. Berkshire, if she recalled correctly. The property had been included in the document on his background as a place he rarely visited.

And regardless of where it was, during the course of their games of chess, in the silent moments while he weighed his next move, she had decided not to attempt an escape. Fate or his lust or something else had presented an unexpected opportunity to become more closely acquainted and she would follow wherever it led. Carpe diem. Seize the day. And there was no need to worry. Once Reggie reported to Mrs Featherstone, she would go to Paul and he would move heaven and earth to discover her whereabouts.

If Mooreshead had not been so good at hiding, she would know their ultimate destination. It could not be Meak. Or the family estate in Norfolk, where he had claimed to be these past few months. He had...disappeared over the summer. Perhaps to France on his yacht that came and went from port to port around the coast, doing what, no one knew. But their Parisian contacts had not seen him, according to Paul. Now the chance had presented itself to discover where he went and what he did, and, more importantly, to know for certain where his loyalties lay. A chance she would not pass up.

And if Paul was right and Mooreshead was a turncoat—for some reason she could not fathom, she felt slightly sick at the thought—then he would pay for his crimes. And she would have the satisfaction of knowing she had prevented him from doing further harm, as well as being one step closer to finding her sister.

‘Checkmate,’ he said, winning their third game.

She leaned back and began unbuttoning her remaining glove. ‘Two out of three to you. Your collection of gloves grows larger by the hour. I see I shall have to go shopping very soon.’

His eyes twinkled as he caught her gloved hand in his right hand and raised it to his lips. Tingles ran up her arm. Unruly heat warmed her blood. She cast him a sultry glance as he nipped the end of the glove’s forefinger between his teeth and tugged. A pleasurable shiver ran down her spine. With each nip of his teeth at her fingertips of leather, something darker and more dangerous tugged deep in her core. Desire.

It had been a long time since she had felt such a deep sensual pull of male allure. In the years of her marriage, she had learned how to turn male lust to her advantage, but her encounters were never about her desires. Vilandry had never appealed to her that way, though she’d done her wifely duty, and the other affairs had been reciprocal arrangements encouraged, if not arranged, by her husband. To keep Minette safe. She pushed the memories away. Now was not the time to remember the betrayal or the fear. The threats had come close to breaking her then and she could not let the recollection of them near the surface now.

She needed to seduce a man into trusting her. A man who wouldn’t simply fall beneath her spell, like some green youth, or an old man who needed firm young flesh to get him interested. Beneath Gabe’s charm lay a cold, hard man. A man full of suspicion and steely resolve. She would need to find out what drove him. Money? Ideals? Power? All things she could understand, though rarely in her previous life had ideals played much of a part. It would make her task easier if she understood his motives. For that she would need to get into his bed and under his skin.

Certainly a man of his calibre and experience would be a worthy adversary in the arena of amour. And any other arena, she admitted to herself. But seduction was her best weapon. She let her visceral pleasure at Gabe’s touch show on her face as she lifted her chin to meet his gaze.

The glove was loose now and an inexorable pull by strong long fingers drew it free in a slow slide. The fine hairs across the back of her hand stood to attention in the cooler air. She shivered and his smile widened. The teasing smile on his lips turned distinctly sensual.

Looking into her eyes, he turned her hand palm up, his thumb massaging the tender flesh. ‘Such a pretty hand,’ he murmured. ‘So white. As delicate as a bird’s wing.’

And as easily crushed by his superior strength. The comparison was not lost on her.

‘You mistake, my lord,’ she said her voice full of amusement. ‘The whiteness is clearly marred for such flights of fancy.’

He glanced down, his long gold-tipped lashes shielding the ice-blue of his gaze. He pressed his lips to the flesh brought to life by his thumb. Hot, dry lips. Softened by desire. And she ached to feel those lips on her own. Shocked by the strength of her carnal response, she curled her fingers, but if he noticed her protective reflex he did not react, but rather turned her hand knuckles up. ‘Freckles,’ he said as if making an extraordinary discovery.

‘Yes,’ she murmured.

‘Charming.’ He brought his gaze up to rest on her face. ‘You have been kissed by the sun.’

‘Everywhere, except my face.’

‘Everywhere,’ he repeated, his voice deepening with desire. It strummed a chord low in her belly. A flutter of inner muscles turned her limbs liquid with longing. ‘I looking forward to learning them all. One by one by one.’

‘And so we go to Meak,’ she whispered. And something inside her wished there was no other purpose.

The carriage turned and swayed, rocking on its springs, scattering the chess pieced to the floor.

With a cry of surprise, she knelt to gather them up.

A soft sound made her look up.

Naked desire carved itself on his face.

Heat flared in her cheeks as if she was an innocent schoolgirl when she realised the image she presented kneeling between the thighs of this virile male. But the light in the carriage was dim and hopefully hid her blushes. ‘Later,’ she said and tossed the small wooden pieces into the box. A promise made was a promise kept. And in truth, she was looking forward to keeping her promises for her own sake. Anger welled up at her traitorous thought. The man was her enemy. Passion was her blade, not her pleasure.

With a smile she returned to her seat on the opposite side of the carriage at the same moment it drew up. The coachman, as he had at all their stops, opened the door and let down the steps.

Gabe stepped down and helped her to alight.

While he turned to give instructions to his driver, she glanced up at the house. A square stone house. A house of good proportions, but modest without ornament or grandeur. She had heard much of Bagmorton in Norfolk. The seat of the marquessate. This was a poor secondary dwelling for a nobleman such as Mooreshead. Not a single window glimmered with light. Not even the lantern at the front door glowed a welcome, though dusk had the day well in retreat.

‘I see we are unexpected,’ she said.

‘You mistake the matter.’

The coachman returned to his box and the carriage pulled away, turning into a smaller drive at the side of the house.

He held out his arm and she placed a hand on his sleeve. Rock-solid strength. All virile male. Now the game would begin in earnest. A game she must win.

The front door opened as they reached the top step. A young man with tousled mouse-brown hair peered out. The candle in his hand flickered in the wind, casting shadows over his moon-round, pimply face. His eyes lit up when he saw Mooreshead and yet there was a slackness about his expression. Nicky instantly recognised the vagueness of an innocent soul.

‘Good evening, Walter,’ Gabe said. ‘Let us in, dear old chap.’

The boy, for she really couldn’t think of him as a man though she judged his age to be about thirty, grinned and stepped aside, his eyes growing wide and round as his gaze fell on her. He gave his master a puzzled look.

‘She’s a friend,’ Gabe said. He leaned closer and muttered a few words in the boy’s ear. He shot off, leaving them to enter the gloom of the hall. Gabe chuckled. ‘He’ll bring us something to eat. Nothing much, I’m afraid, since the house is mostly shut up.’

‘I thought you said we were expected?’

‘I was expected.’ His voice was as dry as dust. ‘I am always expected.’

It didn’t look much like it. She kept the thought behind her teeth. An Englishman’s house was, after all, his pride and joy. His castle.

Mooreshead’s movements were sure in the semi-dark and the sound of steel striking flint preceded the flare of light. Instinctively she closed her eyes and turned away, so as not to ruin her vision. And when she turned back, he was lighting a branch of candles set by the door.

The marbled entrance hall boasted a grand set of carved stairs leading up to the first-floor landing and...nothing else. No tables or chairs or pictures on the walls. Just a floor of marble in squares of pink and grey and walls of white.

‘This way,’ he said, holding the candelabra high. They passed an open door. A drawing room, she thought. It too was bare. Completely empty.

Her stomach sank. She knew what this place was. Not a home. Not a sink of iniquity where he brought his latest paramour as the gossips would have it. It was a halfway house. A halt on their journey, not their final destination.

He ushered her onwards with a press of his hand in the small of her back. Their footsteps echoed on the tile and on the bare wooden stairs as they made their way upwards. There was not a stick of furniture or floor covering anywhere. He flung open a door. This room contained a large bed sumptuously accoutred with bedding and pillows and hangings from a canopy of embroidered green silk. In the centre was a table with two chairs, and a cold hearth, laid ready for a fire.

‘Welcome to my abode,’ he said, his voice full of amusement and, if she wasn’t mistaken, a smidgeon of regret.

Chapter Three

Gabe closed the door and turned the key.

The countess swung around, her eyes wide and suspicious. With a grin, he tucked the key into his fob pocket. ‘We wouldn’t want to be interrupted, now would we?’

Her gaze went back to the bed. ‘No,’ she said, her voice low and husky. ‘We wouldn’t.’

Incredibly, despite the ache in his arm, his body tightened at the velvety caress in her voice, causing his head to spin. No, it wasn’t her, it was lack of blood, even if she was the most enticing female he had encountered in a very long time. He had to keep his head here. She was a woman around whom he dare not lay down his guard. Which didn’t mean he wouldn’t enjoy what she offered; he just wouldn’t let lust overcome reason. But right now there were other more practical matters requiring his attention.

He knelt at the hearth and touched a candle to the spills left ready. Poor Walter never let him down, no matter how long between visits. There was always a fire ready to be lit, and food to be had from his mother’s kitchen at the not-so-distant cottage he’d provided for them. A guest, though, was a novelty.

The back of his neck prickled. Awareness of her moving closer. He turned sideways to keep her in view at the edge of his vision. Her expression was calm, but resolute. She had come to some sort of decision. To flee? To murder him while he slept? She wouldn’t have the chance for either. He touched the flame to the spills laid neatly between the kindling. They caught at once. ‘Sit by the fire,’ he said. ‘Warm yourself.’

She sank onto the chaise and held her hands out to the blaze. She was taking it all much too calmly to be innocent. He’d made the right decision to bring her along. He certainly wasn’t going to leave her to Sceptre’s tender mercies.

A scratch came at the door. He unlocked it, then opened it to Walter carrying a tray. ‘Come in.’

Gabe carefully pocketed the length of rope curled around the beer mug while his back was to the countess, then took the tray and set it on a nearby chest.

‘You will bring the rest as I instructed?’ Gabe asked the lad. It was always best to deal with one thing at a time.

‘I will, my lord,’ Walter said, doing his best to look properly serious.

Gabe closed and once again locked the door behind him. The countess got up and went to the table, seating herself in one of the chairs. ‘I’m famished.’

He wasn’t surprised. She had eaten little on the road. Likely she feared he might drug or poison her. Or it might have been a case of nerves held under tight control. Whatever it was, she needed food. One-handed, he carried the tray to the table. In addition to beer, his usual tipple, Walter had thoughtfully provided a pot of tea. It was what the lad’s mother drank and therefore he thought all females would be the same.

‘I can ask for wine, if you prefer,’ Gabe said. ‘Or cognac.’

‘So your cellars are furnished better than your house,’ she said with a smile. ‘Tea suits me very well. I am practically English, n’est ce pas?’ She buttered a slice of bread the size of a doorstep, placed a hunk of cheese on top and bit delicately into it with small white even teeth. She had a lovely, generous mouth with lips of just the right lushness. Not too full or too red. Just right for kissing.

He dragged his gaze away and buttered his own slice, careful not to show the pain the movements caused.

‘Tiens, where do we go next?’ she asked.

Startled, he stared at her.

‘You do not intend that I stay here.’

Not a question. He swallowed the urge to laugh at the sharpness of her attack. Nor would he pretend she had not scored a hit. ‘You will see when we get there.’

They finished eating in silence and she took her cup of tea back to the hearth. Any other woman would be trembling with fear at this point. But she wasn’t any other woman. She was his enemy and likely carefully chosen. He might admire her. Even lust after her. But he would not underestimate her.

Another scratch on the door.

Her expression turned wary. As well it might. She would not like what he would do next.

He gestured to the bed. ‘Please, lie down.’

A flare of anger sparked amid the blue. ‘Why? Are you planning a ménage à trois? I assure you it is not to my taste.’

‘Good grief,’ he said, before he could stop himself. ‘What would make you think such a thing?’ He pulled his pistol from his pocket. ‘The bed, if you please, Nicky.’

She responded to the note of command in his voice with an upward tilt of her chin. Her gaze dropped to the pistol as if considering her options. He bit back a smile at her courage. Finally, clearly unwilling, she climbed gracefully onto the bed.

‘Hands together, if you please.’

She rolled her eyes, but complied. ‘Really?’

He caught both hands in one of his, set down his pistol and pulled the rope from his pocket. He made quick work of the knot then tied it to the bedrail above her head.

She gave a small tug, shook her head and smiled. ‘You pervert.’

‘Sorry. I just don’t need to be worrying about you for a while.’

He let Walter in. ‘Well timed.’

‘You said to wait fifteen minutes.’

Gabe could imagine him down in the kitchen watching the minutes tick by. ‘You did very well indeed.’

Walter flicked a sideways glance at the countess. His jaw slackened.

‘I need your help,’ Gabe said.

‘Yes, my lord.’ The lad’s eyes were clear and guileless.

Gabe sighed. This was about to get very difficult. And very painful. ‘Put the things I asked for on the hearth and help me out of this coat, if you please.’

Walter knelt and produced several items from his capacious pockets. A knife. A box of basilica powders. A bandage. His lips moved as he laid the items out on the grey-veined marble. He looked up at Gabe for confirmation that he had all that was requested.

‘Well done, old fellow,’ Gabe said. Damnation, he did not want to ask Walter to do this.

The lad stood and Gabe turned to let him peel the coat over his shoulders and down his arms.

Walter gulped. A gasp came from the bed.

He glanced down. He wasn’t surprised to see the bandage the innkeeper’s wife had applied soaked through with blood.

‘You idiot,’ Nicky said. ‘It looks a great deal worse than a scratch. Do you have a death wish?’

He looked at her and was surprised by the anger in her face. ‘It is not as bad as all that.’

She made a scornful sound in the back of her throat.

She was right. Beneath the bandage, his arm was a mess. By rights, he should be calling for a surgeon. Not something he had time for. He glanced at the greenish tinge to Walter’s face.

‘Dear fellow, fetch me a bowl of hot water, will you, please?’

Walter swallowed and nodded, his gaze still fixed on the bloody bandage.

‘Off you go, then.’ Gabe watched him gallop out of the room. Carefully, he untied his cravat and laid it over the chair, then worked at the knot in the bandage.

‘Can I help?’ Nicky asked.

He glanced over at her, stretched out on the bed, her arms over her head, her face framed by her elbows, her lush breasts pushed up against the confining fabric of her riding habit. Again a surge of unwanted lust. He grinned. ‘The sight of you lying there is keeping my spirits up.’

‘More than your spirits,’ she said, pointedly glancing at his hips.

‘Hussy,’ he said, with a laugh. ‘Your kind of help I can do without.’

‘I don’t think your Walter is going to be of much assistance,’ she retorted. ‘He’s likely to cast up his accounts and have you playing nursemaid.’

‘Too true.’ He got the knot undone and pulled the bandage away from the wound, sucking in a breath of pain when it caught in the dried blood crusted around the edges.

‘Mon Dieu,’ she muttered. ‘Les hommes.’

No doubt she was rolling her eyes again. With the bandage off, he pulled his shirt over his head and inspected the wound he’d only glimpsed when the woman had bound it up for him. An inch or two to the right and it would have hit his heart. He probed it gently with a fingertip. And cursed.

‘The ball is still in there.’ she said.

He wiped his bloody fingers on his shirt. ‘Apparently so.’

* * *

Nicky glared at him as he got up and draped his shoulder with a towel from the washstand in the corner. The man was an idiot if he thought he could take a ball out of his arm himself.

The boy returned with a kettle of steaming water and a bowl. ‘Set it down on the hearth, lad.’ Walter did as requested and then beamed at his master.

Mooreshead frowned. ‘I should have asked you to bring up some brandy.’

The boy looked worried. ‘What does it look like? Me mam went back to the cottage.’

Mooreshead shook his head. ‘It’s all right. I’ll get it. You wait here with the countess.’ He strode out of the room.

‘Walter,’ Nicky said with a beguiling smile. ‘Untie me. Please.’

He giggled, but didn’t move.

‘Walter,’ she said again, more firmly but gently. ‘He can’t possibly remove that ball from his arm. He needs my help. Untie me.’

‘I don’t take no orders from anyone but him.’ He stuck out a lip.

She sighed and let her head fall back. ‘What makes you so loyal to a man like him?’

He stared at her in puzzlement. Innocent loyalty. What would he say if he knew the truth about the man he served? Would he care? Probably not. She certainly thought better of Mooreshead for his kindness to this poor benighted man-child.

‘Tying people up is wrong, you know.’

Shadows filled his eyes. ‘I know,’ he mumbled. ‘Mam wouldn’t like it. But she said I must always do as he asks.’

‘Why?’

He frowned and stared off into the distance as if he was trying to recapture a memory, then smiled in triumph. ‘Old marquess tossed us out with not a penny in our pockets—’ he inhaled a quick breath ‘—so we must do all we can to help my lord. It’s only right.’

The words came out so fast it took a moment to make sense of them. ‘His father tossed you out?’

‘When Pa died. He...he needed the cottage for the new man.’ He frowned. ‘I don’t know the new man. My lord was very angry. I thought I was bad. He was bad. Old marquess.’

He started to look upset.

‘And so Lord Mooreshead brought you here, to his home.’

‘Lord Templeton.’

She closed her eyes. Right. He would have been Templeton while his father was alive. ‘Walter, I want to help Lord Mooreshead, but I can do nothing with my hands tied.’

He shook his head, his bottom lip protruding. ‘No one tells me what to do ’cepting milord.’

She huffed out a breath. ‘I am not telling, mon ange. I am asking. Please.’

He took a hesitant step towards the bed.

‘Leave Walter alone,’ Mooreshead said harshly from the doorway, his face as dark as a thundercloud. He had a dusty bottle tucked under his arm.

Walter shrank back.

‘It’s all right, Walter,’ Mooreshead said, gentling his tone. ‘It is her I am angry at.’

Walter glared at her. ‘Bad.’

‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘Stubborn.’

He looked at her. ‘You are right, I cannot do this by myself. Yet, to be honest. I am loath to let you free and put a knife in your hand.’

She smiled at him sweetly. ‘Quite the conundrum.’ Bah, she should not be rising to his bait. ‘Why did you bring me here, Mooreshead? What is it you want from me? If it is ransom, you are at outs. I have no one who cares enough to pay for my release.’

‘Don’t play games, Countess,’ he said setting his bottle down on the hearth. ‘Whoever you told about our assignation this morning had me shot.’

The only possibility was Paul. She shook her head. ‘It makes no sense.’

He gave her a hard look. ‘So you do not deny you told someone in addition to the members of your household. Who?’

Her heart jolted at her mistake. ‘I told no one apart from Reggie and my companion, Mrs Featherstone, about our plan.’ She gave a shrug of indifference. ‘I thought nothing of it. I ride every day in Hyde Park.’ She glanced at the window that clearly showed it was full dark outside. ‘By now she and Reggie will be worried out of their wits. They will no doubt contact the authorities. Eventually someone will think to look here.’

He regarded her for a long moment, then inhaled, his wide chest expanding, the frown between his brows deepening. Pain. She pretended not to notice.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.