She took another delicate sip of her coffee before answering him, and his eyes tracked the movement of her creamy throat as she swallowed. “The Emerald Club is run by a man named Drummond McKenna. He has a handful of trusted associates he often confers with, and I overheard them speaking about Praed Street and Charing Cross in the week before I left my post and boarded the steamer for England. There was great displeasure among the ranks, following arrests made here in the last few months. I understand several of the suspects have turned Queen’s evidence.”
Blast. That was decidedly not what Lucien wished to hear, for it meant another round of plotting was likely underway. “Some of them have,” he confirmed, “which in turn led to more arrests.”
“McKenna was relieved he had never connected himself to the conspirators in a documented fashion,” Miss Montgomery offered. “I was able to surreptitiously read some of his correspondence. He feels confident his name is unknown to police here in England.”
McKenna was correct about that, for although Lucien was familiar with the Emerald Club’s existence from his League connections in America, this was the first time he had ever heard of the man himself.
He frowned. There remained something deeply disturbing to him about the notion of Miss Montgomery infiltrating the ranks of such brutal men without any protection. “Did you conduct your investigation of the Emerald Club alone, or were there others?”
“Alone,” she said simply, her stare turning challenging. “Although a fellow agent posed as my husband, it was deemed best by all that I infiltrate the Emerald Club alone. I have a flair for covert operations.”
He would not argue the point, for there was no need. Miss Hazel Montgomery was clearly much more than he had initially supposed. He had to inwardly admit to a grudging respect for her, though he could not say for certain his pride would allow for a vocal affirmation. After all, he was still quite perturbed at having been forced to share his duties and authority with her.
Not, as she had suggested earlier, because she was female. But because he did not wish to be forced to adhere to the wishes of another, particularly when his greatest fear remained that those wishes could well be horribly wrong. However, he was quickly coming to a great many realizations where Miss Montgomery was concerned, and whilst he did not necessarily enjoy those realizations, he recognized their necessity.
As an agent himself, he no longer harbored any doubt that her reputation was as pristine as Winchelsea, and the documents he had been provided, suggested. Likely even more so. Scratch that. Definitely more so.
Her mind was formidable. Her determination was voracious. And when the woman wanted to find the answer to a question, she was relentless. Ruthless.
Breathtaking.
He struck the last thought from his mind, for it was unworthy, and the last thing he ought to be doing in this moment was waxing poetic over the partner he had never wanted. The partner he did not require. Indeed, the partner who had been unceremoniously forced upon him by a Home Office regime, which had lost its confidence in his abilities far too quickly. He could not forget that, nor could he allow himself to forget who she was.
“Your flair for the covert is not in question by me, Miss Montgomery,” he told her.
“But my capability as your partner is?” she queried, sharp as a blade.
He hesitated. The answer was complicated. “Not your capability, so much as my necessity for a partner.”
Particularly one who made his cock stiff simply by sitting at his dinner table and calmly sipping coffee. His reaction to her was not just unwanted. It was wrong. Miss Montgomery may have a lovely face, a sharp complex mind, dark hair he wished to bury his face in, a lush bosom, and long legs he yearned to feel wrapped around him, but she was his partner.
The partner he had never, ever wanted.
The partner he now, somehow, desired. Merely not in the way he should. But lust had no place in his life. Reason, ration, fact—these mattered. Emotion, desire, vulnerability—these, he abhorred. These, he plucked from his life with attentive precision, never allowing one to remain long enough to bloom and produce fruit.
For the fruit would be rotten. Lucien’s blood was tainted, and he knew it.
She took a sip of her coffee again now, and he could not help but note the manner in which she pursed her lips, then flicked her tongue over them to remove any traces of her drink.
Would she taste of coffee, bitter and dark? Would she taste of the raspberry fool they had consumed for dessert, sweet and light, slightly tart?
“There is a reason for my presence here,” she reminded him, effectively piercing the fog of lust which had begun clouding his brain. “One you have alluded to, but have yet to share with me. After such a productive day, I cannot help but to hope you have changed your mind.”
He took a fortifying sip of his port, hesitating with his response. “One productive day does not entitle you to my confidences, Miss Montgomery.”
“I expect not.” She watched him with a frank regard. “But I would rather hear it from your lips, than borrowed from the Duke of Winchelsea’s.”
The notion of Miss Montgomery having anything at all to do with Winchelsea’s lips was irksome. Belatedly, he realized his hands had clenched upon the table. He forced them to relax, then indulged in another drink of port.
“We were not finished discussing the railway targets,” he reminded her.
The woman was vicious when she set her mind upon something. That much, he could discern already. She circled back to the source in relentless pursuit.
But somehow, his prompt had the desired effect. Miss Montgomery’s mind returned to another favorite topic of hers, detective work. He could almost see the wheels of her mind begin to churn. Her eyes widened, an expression he was coming to realize indicated she had stumbled upon an idea.
“Have you any maps showing the railways, Arden?” she asked, her drawl cascading over his senses. “Being new to this city, I cannot help but to feel rather discombobulated after having been squired about in your carriage all day.”
“I do,” he confirmed, before he could think better of it.
The hour was growing later, after all, and closeting himself in his study, without the barrier of a dinner table and the possible disruption of servants dancing attendance upon them, seemed the very worst sort of idea.
“Excellent.” She stood, beaming a smile at him that also brought with it a host of other worst sorts of ideas. “I find I have had more than enough coffee. Lead the way, if you please.”
Turrets, he reminded himself with grim intent.
Chapter Seven
Either Hazel was delirious in the wake of her world travels, coupled with a full day of investigative work, or the Duke of Arden was staring at her mouth. Her lips parted, a slow breath escaping her as her heart pounded.
The hour was late.
She and Arden had been alone in his study for an indeterminate span of time. The servants had all retired for the evening, leaving the house in a hushed state, which was interrupted by nothing save the ticking of a mantel clock and the occasional din of the street.
A frisson of awareness slid through her. A desperate, mad yearning pulsed from deep within. It was the sort of longing she had not experienced in years. The sort she never, as a rule, allowed herself to even contemplate. And for a wild moment, she imagined leaning toward Arden, brushing her lips over his.
Then she recalled why such fancies were not just wrong, but impossible. She cleared her throat and returned her gaze to the map laid out upon the surface of his massive desk. The London streets blurred, bisected by railways which formed the arteries of the city.
“Are the bulk of the railways underground, then?” she asked, even though she already knew the answer for herself, having pored over half a dozen London travel guides prior to her arrival.
“Most of them, yes,” he answered, his voice sounding strained. “They run through a network of tunnels built beneath the city streets.”
His finger, which had been still upon the map, traced over the railways, stopping just short of grazing hers where it lay over Leadenhall and Fenchurch Streets. She bit her lip, staring at his hand, so large and so near to hers. Another disastrous urge swept through her, strong and sudden. The impulse to slide her hand atop his, to touch his heat and strength, to feel a man’s fingers laced through hers after so long… It was as overwhelming as it was ruinous.
“The Inner Circle,” she forced herself to elaborate, irritated by the breathless state of her voice, clearly discernible to her own ears.
“So named, because they run in a circular pattern over most of the city’s interior,” he agreed. “From Aldgate here,” he paused as his finger slid along the map, trailing over the stations as he named them, “to Bishopsgate, all the way to King’s Cross, then onward to Baker Street…Praed Street Station…” He continued, until his finger reached Mansion House. This time, when he returned to Aldgate, his finger did graze hers, and there it lingered. “And back to Aldgate once more.”
One small touch, his forefinger against hers, and she felt as if she had been set aflame. Her awareness of every sense was heightened to an almost painful level. The divine scent of citrus-laden musk struck her. Her heart beat faster. Heat pooled in her belly, and lower still, between her thighs. Her nipples went hard. She could hear the hitch in her own breathing, just above the ticking mantel clock and the frantic thud of her heart.
She ought to move her finger away, to sever the connection and effectively reverse whatever spell he had seemingly cast upon her. Yet, some wickedness within her considered moving away a retreat. A failure. And she could not bear to be bested by Arden. Could not possibly allow him to see how very much he affected her.
Hazel forced herself to remain still. To focus upon the case and the very real possibility the Emerald Club was about to send a group of men to London to wreak havoc upon the underground railway as she had been led to believe by her investigations.
“The trains run all day in steady intervals, correct?” she asked.
“Correct,” he confirmed, his voice a deep rumble near her ear. “They begin at six o’clock in the morning and end close to midnight, with the fastest time in between trains running from eight o’clock in the morning through eight in the evening.”
She swallowed, her gaze fixed upon the map, but in truth, also his finger, still touching hers. Why had he yet to move it? More importantly, why did she not simply remove hers?
“That is an incredibly high volume of daily travelers and stops,” she observed.
“A staggering amount,” he agreed, his baritone sending a shiver straight through her.
His voice seemed even nearer now. So too, the heat from his tall, masculine form. Inexplicably, the memory of his well-defined thighs, long legs, and broad shoulders hit her. Pure, sensual torture. Why did she torment herself? Even if she was attracted to the Duke of Arden, she could never act upon her wayward impulses.
Never, she told herself sternly. Only think of what happened with Adam.
Attempting to keep the tremor from her voice, she mustered up yet another query. Another means of distraction. “How many, do you suppose, Arden?”
“I cannot begin to guess, Miss Montgomery. Something such as one hundred thousand passengers a day, I would venture to say.”
“One hundred thousand in a day,” she repeated, a swift rush of futility assailing her. “With so many people traveling about the city, and so many stops, it will be impossible to keep a bombing from occurring. Surveillance on such a grand scheme is difficult and costly, which is precisely what McKenna is counting upon.”
Silence descended upon them once more. But still, neither of them moved. His presence burned into her back in the same way the fleshy pad of his lone finger seared hers.
“Unless we have names or aliases to trace, the best we can do is prepare ourselves for the inevitable.” His tone was bleak. “And from what you have said, you have only one here in London.”
The Nightingale, yes, and unfortunately, the trail leading to him was sparse at best. Though Arden’s words were a reflection of the awful realization dawning in her own mind, she did not want to hear them. Before she had found herself in the vast, thriving metropolis of London, she had been hopeful her information could thwart the attacks almost certainly being plotted by McKenna. But what she had witnessed today, coupled with the map before her, and the knowledge she had gleaned from her guide book and Arden himself, suggested the impracticality of doing so.
“I do not know the identity of The Nightingale,” she said, wishing she had more information to rely upon. But given the secrecy of the Emerald Club, it was a miracle she had managed to obtain what she had. “I overheard a discussion concerning a trip to London for two. This was in conjunction with discussion of Praed Street and other stations. McKenna’s closest and most trusted friend is a man named William Flanagan, and though I do not have conclusive evidence of it, I suspect he is the man who is tasked with choosing members for various missions.”
Deciding she had played the coward for too long, she lifted her finger from the map, then turned to face Arden. To her shock, he had drifted even closer than she had supposed, rendering them uncomfortably near. Uncomfortable in the most delicious way possible.
Her breath caught. His expression and gaze were both inscrutable, as if he were utterly unaffected. As if he did not feel the spark that had ignited deep inside her, burning into a roaring flame.
And perhaps he didn’t.
But then she recalled the manner in which his gaze had feasted upon her lips, and she was certain he did. She had not consumed a drop of spirits this evening. She could not even blame the attraction she felt for Arden upon port consumption. And neither could she excuse it as a weakness somehow developed by her voyage across sea and land, respectively.
No, this was a weakness—an infirmity, as it were—of her own constitution. She alone was at fault. Well, she and the handsome, arrogant duke standing so near to her, his scent once more invading her senses. He was coming straight for her, and she was not certain she had the willpower, nor the desire, to stop him.
“Tomorrow is a new day, Miss Montgomery,” Arden was saying in his pristine aristocrat’s accent. Perfectly clipped, his baritone so lovely and deep, a tingle trilled through her. “Together, we will formulate a plan to anticipate the attacks you speak of. While we likely cannot stop these villains, we can make their evil tasks more difficult to carry out, if we put our minds to work upon it.”
If there was one word in the English lexicon that rendered the Duke of Arden more handsome and irresistible than he already was, she had just discovered it: together. And another, equally lovely word: we.
Those two words combined seemed to suggest Arden was on his way to accepting her as his partner. Those words also made her want to kiss him. In truth, it wasn’t just the words. It was also the way he was looking at her, respect gleaming in his eyes.
As a female Pinkerton agent, Hazel could count on one hand the number of times she had ever been considered an equal by the men she worked alongside. Even when she brought murderers and thieves to justice. Even when she disguised herself and conducted the sorts of complicated investigative missions her fellow male counterparts could never hope to even imagine on their own. She was forever being judged and found lacking by her fellow male agents who expected higher pay and fancied themselves far more effective detectives solely because they were men.
“Miss Montgomery?” His head dipped lower. His hands had found her waist.
Wrong, she reminded herself. This is wrong. And foolish. And ruinous. Romantic complications of any sort did not blend well with working as a detective, and no one knew that better than Hazel. Still, she could not stifle her desire.
She met his gaze. “Arden?”
She wanted to kiss him. For the first time in years, a man had somehow slipped past her defenses. It had been so long, in fact, since she had last felt such a foolish weak
ness, that she had believed herself incapable of it.
“The hour grows late,” he said, offering up the voice of reason.
“Yes,” she agreed, “it does.”
She ought to excuse herself. Seek out her chamber. Get some much-needed rest. But instead, she remained where she was, temptation within reach. The longing inside her would not be satisfied. She was possessed by the fleeting suspicion that if she did not act now, she would forever regret not seizing the chance. There was no choice, not really.
Hazel closed the distance between them. She slammed her eyes shut and moved on instinct. One step, rising on her toes, the tilt of her head, her hands fluttering to his shoulders, was all it required. Simple gestures, taken separately.
But when her lips touched his, nothing was simple. Everything was alive and complex, sparking like electricity. His mouth was warm and supple, and her upper lip fit between his as if it had found its home. He groaned loud and low, the sound seemingly wrung from him against his will.
And then, his mouth moved. He did not just kiss her back; he consumed her. His lips took over, aggressive and bold, ravenous and insistent. He kissed her as she had never before been kissed, his mouth working hers open, his tongue slipping inside. Arden’s kiss was carnal and dominating, and nothing like the teasing, languorous meeting of mouths she had once known, seemingly a lifetime ago.
This kiss promised pleasure. It promised hands skimming beneath her skirts. It promised forbidden touches in forbidden places, places that had not been brought to life in years.
She gave in to the urge to run her tongue along his. He tasted sweet, like raspberry fool and port. A sound she barely recognized as her own emerged from her throat. Breathy and needy. Her fingers dug into his shoulders. He had long since shucked his jacket, and he wore only shirtsleeves and a waistcoat. Beneath her bare hands, he was warm and vital and so very strong.
Hazel forgot all the reasons why she should never have kissed the Duke of Arden. He deepened the kiss, his hands on her waist tightening as he stepped into her, bringing her body flush against his. She too had removed her jacket in the course of their work, and without the barrier of a corset beneath her bodice, her breasts crushed into his chest. Because she wore trousers, their limbs tangled.
Shameless Duke Page 9
