Like a compass being turned, he felt his expectations realigning themselves. If she was more than she seemed—if she was working with Ridland to entangle him in some bad business—then she was bound for disappointment. As of now, he had no intention of underestimating her.
His close study was making her frown. “I have no need to worry, do I?”
“Oh, there’s always cause for worry,” he said mildly. It was easier like this, anyway. He felt curiously relieved. This role fitted him far better and more familiarly than that of the savior. “But I assume you did not mean to be philosophical. Do you realize where you are, Miss Masters?”
She looked around. “In a cellar?”
“In an area of London to which even I don’t travel unarmed.”
She blinked. “But I was armed, sir.”
Yes, this pretty pearl-encrusted pistol might have terrorized a dollhouse or two. He flipped it again, wondering if it was loaded. The heft suggested so. “Let’s go, then.” When she looked nervously to the door but did not move, he said more sharply, “You told Ridland to fetch me, didn’t you?” Fetch was a telling verb. Ridland had an interest in her, but she supposedly had no interest in Ridland. In one possible view of this situation, Phin himself was no more than a bone caught in the tug-of-war between a mastiff and a tiny, perfumed poodle. Which meant he’d stumbled right back into hell, of his own accord.
“But where do we go?” she asked.
Why did the answer concern her so much? “Do you have somewhere else to be?”
She blinked. “No. Only—somewhere safe. But I should like to see Mr. Tarbury, at least.” She was twisting her hands so hard that he half expected to be picking up fingers in a moment. “To assure myself that he’s well.”
He remembered this, too—the way she put her sapphire eyes to use in making these girlish, pouting appeals. Even now, when she was attired more plainly than a scullery maid, she managed to come off the coquette. He gave a frown to her outfit, really noticing it for the first time. Apart from the locket at her throat, she wore no jewelry, and her threadbare dress seemed unlikely for a woman who was, Ridland claimed, doing well for herself. Some nonsense about a company in America that catered to female vanities by way of expensive hair tonics—Phin had not listened very closely; it was not relevant to the task of finding her. “Tarbury is fine,” he told her. Tarbury was stubborn as a mule—three hours of grilling, and he’d yielded not so much as a hint to his mistress’s whereabouts.
“You’re taking me to him, then?”
“No.”
“But Mr. Tarbury will worry about me!”
He had forgotten her arrogance also. Had it not occurred to her that she involved her manservant in dangerous matters? Or did she expect men to imperil themselves for the sheer pleasure of being allowed to serve her?
His own temper startled him. He drew a breath of the musty air, schooling himself. Whatever her motives, she hadn’t forced his hand. He’d come of his own volition, God help him. He was going to get to the bottom of this and get her the hell out of his house as soon as possible.
A noise came from behind him. His body replied before his brain, pivoting, lifting the gun. Cronin’s right eye lay in his aim. “Back,” he said.
Cronin froze. His arms shook beneath the weight of the stool he held aloft.
“Don’t shoot him,” cried Miss Masters. “He is only protecting me!”
Even Cronin looked astonished by this idiocy. He retreated, dropping his weapon; as the stool crashed against the baseboards, it raised a cloud of dust that made Phin’s nose tickle. He reached backward and caught hold of the girl’s arm, hauling her toward the steps as he kept the pistol level on Cronin.
She called down to the man, “If you see Mr. Tarbury, tell him what has happened!”
Her tone struck Phin as inappropriately desperate for a woman who had deliberately enlisted his aid. But Cronin, uncovering a rusty streak of chivalry, straightened like he had a plan in mind.
Phin adjusted his aim to a spot directly between Cronin’s legs and pulled the trigger.
Ah, yes: loaded. The report was deafening. Cronin dove into the shadows. Miss Masters made not a sound. When Phin glanced over, he found her face pale but composed, as though gunfire were a regular event for her. His mood turned grimmer yet. He knocked the doors apart with an elbow and pulled her up the last step, into the night air.
Chapter Six
Ridland must have shared her letter with Monroe, for he did not protest when she gave him to understand that she must stop by the boardinghouse. What he thought she was collecting, she had no idea. Secret documents, maybe. A bag of gunpowder, some terrible secret related to Collins. At any rate, he seemed unduly concerned. He followed her up to her room and watched from the doorway as she knelt to grope beneath the bed. Her gun still rested in his hand. Since there was no one here to shoot but her, she could not find it comforting.
At least she would have the small satisfaction of disappointing him, for all she wanted to collect was the gown she’d worn while escaping Ridland’s. That, and the cat. Tarbury had taken a liking to the beast, and the scrawny thing seemed to reciprocate, although he did not show similar favor to Mina. It took her ten long minutes to lure him from under the bed.
When she finally straightened, the beast hissing in her arms, Monroe gave a cool nod, as if a cat were exactly what he’d expected her to fetch. He was in the middle of his own routine, she realized, playacting very convincingly. She wished she knew the point of it. With her free hand, she plucked her Liberty tunic off a hook and tossed it toward him.
Impassively, he looped it over his forearm. “Come,” he said, and stepped back to allow her passage down the stairs.
As she passed him, it came to her again that he was much, much taller than she’d remembered. Descending the stairs, her feet made the rickety steps groan, but behind her he moved like a thief. Had his shadow not fallen down the steps before her, surpassing her own by a foot at least, she would never have known he was there. She tightened her hold on the cat and wished, for the hundredth time, that she and Mama had never come to England.
The landlady stood holding open the front door. She appeared in a fine humor, Monroe having settled with her at some extortionate rate for the use of the rooms and her silence. As Mina passed, she tossed off an arch “Well done, dearie.”
The remark jolted Mina’s intuition. As she stepped onto the pavement and Monroe went to speak to the coachman, she gave his figure a concentrated survey. He did, in fact, look like a rich man. His suit was first-rate, tailored closely to his broad shoulders, the stitching exquisite and nearly invisible. Those cuff links he wore made an excellent imitation of gold. Where did he get the tin for such clothes? Wealthy men didn’t gamble their lives in pursuit of criminals. Perhaps spycraft paid better than she’d imagined.
The thought deepened her unease. If Ridland provided for him so generously, then his loyalties might well be uncertain. His sour attitude could bode real harm for her.
Her hesitation drew his notice as the coachman opened the carriage door. The dim illumination from a dirty streetlamp lent the curve of his full lips a brooding cast; his dark eyes looked her over as though he were sizing her up for sale. “Is there a problem, Miss Masters?”
No, she thought, only that she was about to board a coach to heaven knew where, in the company of a man who might as well be a stranger and who seemed to have forgotten completely the great favor she’d done him. And now not even Tarbury would know where she’d been taken, or be able to help her escape.
“Of course not,” she said brightly. Monroe held out his hand and she adjusted her grip around the squirming cat, trying to free a hand so she could accept his help into the coach. The beast took advantage, trying to leap to the ground. She clamped down with one arm, and he clawed her wrist. “Bad cat!” As she tried to free her arm, his tail swatted into her open mouth. She turned away from Monroe to spit out cat hair. Tarbury was going to thank her for this char
ity, more than once.
“A fine beast,” Monroe said blandly. “Is he rabid?”
The hint of sly humor in his voice startled her. It was one of the reasons she had liked him in Hong Kong, in the beginning, at least. He had made jokes for himself, expecting no one else to catch them, and indeed no one else had; she’d felt hard-pressed to disguise her amusement. That he could joke now at her expense seemed very encouraging, suggesting that he counted her no threat. A much more useful attitude, on the whole, than the one that inspired him to play with her gun.
“Indeed, no,” she said with a smile. “The cat is an original.” Although, come to think of it, rabies was a distinct possibility. “Would you like to hold him?”
His answer was to cock a speaking brow, then reach again for her hand.
She had left her too-tight gloves upstairs, for the benefit of the landlady or whichever unfortunate girl took the garret next. But when Monroe’s bare fingers closed on hers, she abruptly regretted the decision. The press of their naked flesh refreshed her awareness of his size, of the strength in his hand and the roughness of his palm. Time had worked in his favor; had she seen him across a room and known nothing of him, she would gladly have looked twice at his dark, lean face. As she stepped up into the vehicle, his eyes connected with hers, sharp and steady, and her stomach contracted.
The corner of his mouth lifted. The attraction she had felt between them in Hong Kong was alive and well, and he looked quite comfortable with it.
She settled onto the bench, her pulse tripping. She had not counted on such complexities surviving, but the goose bumps rising along her arms suggested that her body didn’t catch on as quickly as her brain. She drew a calming breath. When he had all the power, it seemed unwise to accord him unnecessary advantages.
He tossed her gown inside, then put his hand to the opening of the carriage to pull himself in. His ring caught her attention. The suit, the cuff links, the unbreakable composure—they assumed stronger significance as he took the bench opposite. He was a man without worries. This carriage, too, was conspicuously well appointed. Cream velour cushions trimmed in silk did not come cheap, and they would require constant replacement from all the mud. The wood paneling was etched in a delicate scrolling design. “Did Ridland lend you this vehicle?”
He banged the roof with his knuckles. That casual gesture and the languid way he sat back, draping an arm across the back of the bench as he crossed his legs, answered her before his lips did. “No,” he said. He owned this space, in every way. “It’s mine.”
“Oh.” Oh, dear. This called for a recalculation of strategy. She’d supposed he would hail from a family of middling status at best. Indeed, during her quick calculations while corralling the cat, she had counted on it: if guilt failed to motivate him, cash would prompt his conscience. But men with money often proved immune to the more common brands of manipulation. “It’s lovely.” She drew a breath and nodded toward his hand. Might as well ascertain the extent of it. “And what a fine ring. Does it have particular significance?”
His eyes were steady, but again she had the unmistakable impression of amusement, as if he’d guessed exactly what she was about. How? She felt certain her memory did not fail her; he’d thought her quite the brainless flirt in Hong Kong. “Not really,” he said.
She feigned dumb interest. “Really? I noticed a symbol….”
He glanced toward the hand draped over the back of the bench, then spread his fingers as though to admire the jewelry. There was nothing effeminate about his face or build, which was lucky for him; his movements were imbued with an elegance that she might otherwise have accounted feminine. “The family crest,” he said.
In her arms, the cat gave an angry yowl. She hastily loosened her grip. “Doesn’t that usually signify aristocracy?”
He spoke dryly. “Difficult to say, these days. More often it signals a very imaginative genealogist.”
“And are you…imaginative?”
“Not to any notable degree.”
The cat sank his claws into her lap. She could hardly blame him. Her idiocy astonished her. An aristocrat! And she’d thought Ridland high-handed! “Well,” she began, but words failed her. A blue blood running around the Orient, playing spy! What an idiotic notion. How was she to have guessed?
His brow lifted. “Ah. You’re one of those Yanks.”
“What Yanks?”
“Blinded by democratic prejudice.”
She flashed him her teeth. “Oh, no, I can see very well. It’s a lovely ring.” The cat’s tail was straying into her face again; she was forced to expel air in a most unbecoming fashion to avoid a mouthful of hair.
“Are you sure that’s your cat?” Monroe asked.
She was out of patience with him. An aristocrat. “I’m carrying him. It seems very likely. Why?”
“He doesn’t seem to like you.”
That wasn’t a very gentlemanly observation. “He is high strung, and does not like strong handling.” Such as being tackled. She gave him a pointed look, but he missed it; he was too busy frowning at the feline.
“Is he domesticated?”
She thought with satisfaction of the various stinking spots that now dotted the landlady’s garret. Wherever Monroe was taking her, she would not be without one weapon. “Sufficiently. Are you some sort of lord, then?”
“Some sort, yes.”
The coach jolted as it began to move. Thrown against the wall, she freed a hand from the cat’s warm belly to take hold of the strap. Monroe remained balanced. It could grow irritating, this easy self-possession of his. “Is your name really Monroe?”
“No.”
She smiled at him and waited.
He smiled back, but there was a taunt in it. For some obscure reason, he seemed to be enjoying himself. Had she been a woman given to faint spirits, it might have overset her.
Happily, she possessed a few useful pieces of knowledge about him. He was handsome, skilled at lying, and disposed to suspicion. The threat of bullets would not faze him, which no doubt had something to do with the arrogance she’d read in his bones. In Hong Kong, it had surprised her; now she knew the source. It was bred into his blood. He hadn’t even needed to labor at acquiring it. How very English of him.
Well, she had dealt with arrogant men before. The haughty young heirs among Mrs. Astor’s four hundred occasionally gave her trouble. They imagined that her reputation, her independence, and her commercial enterprise entitled them to misbehave. But they learned better at once. She slapped very hard when forced to it. Of course, Mr. Tarbury was always waiting nearby to make sure that they didn’t slap back, and Mr. Tarbury wasn’t here right now.
She forced her smile to remain steady as she scratched the cat’s ruff. Smiling made one feel braver. Washington was what Tarbury had dubbed the cat. It seemed an auspicious name for an ally in a battle against Englishmen. Maybe he could be trained to piddle on command. “What’s your real name, then?”
“Phineas Granville.”
It had a ring to it that put her in mind of prune lips and castor oil. She racked her brain for Mama’s lectures about English etiquette. She had never paid much attention; they painted such a tedious picture of her mother’s homeland. Musty homes filled with animal heads. Stiff-lipped hypocrites who fainted away at the suggestion of honest work. Reams of rules and a long list of consequences for those who dared disobey. If you should find yourself in one of the great houses, Mina, you must never speak to the footmen directly; rather, you will ring for the butler and he will relay your order. It figured that such tightly buttoned snobs would saddle a boy with such a name. “Lord Granville, then?”
“Lord Ashmore, actually.”
“Baron Ashmore?” These barons were apparently a dime a dozen.
“Earl of, I’m afraid.”
Well. At least he wasn’t a duke.
“Don’t bother yourself over it,” he said gravely, but the gleam in his eye put her on alert. “You may simply call me ‘my lord.�
�� I tell you this as a kindness, you understand. I know you Yanks are not so familiar with the way of things here, and I would not want you to feel embarrassed.”
“Oh, I do appreciate that,” she said sweetly. If he thought to intimidate her through snobbery, he would have to revise his strategy. “In fact, I’m rather old-fashioned. Traditionally, we New Yorkers don’t acknowledge foreign titles.”
“I see,” he murmured. “How awkward for you.”
“Not at all,” she said cheerfully. As she sat back, Washington attempted to jump from her lap. She tightened her fingers over his belly, and he bit her finger.
“How charming,” Ashmore said, equally cheerful.
She tugged on her hand, growing annoyed when Washington’s teeth proved obstinate. “Heel!”
“That is for dogs, Miss Masters.”
“And what is it for cats, then?”
“I don’t believe there’s a word for cats.”
She sighed, not at all surprised. She much preferred dogs, so dependent and grateful for kindness. Cats had no manners whatsoever. Jane’s tabbies hid when she visited, or crouched in the doorway to hiss. She’d hoped Washington was possessed of better judgment; during daylight, he made a show of indifference, but the last three mornings she’d woken to find him curled up on her chest, warm as a brick, purring. What good taste! She’d been charmed.
More fool she.
Ashmore cleared his throat, then sniffed. She glanced up in time to see him lean over to the window. The sound of the pane being slammed down startled the cat; he loosed a yowl and sprang away to the floor.
A muffled noise came from Ashmore’s side of the coach. It sounded like a laugh, but when she darted a glance at him, he appeared perfectly straight-faced.
Lovely. What else might make him unbend? Poison had done it. And kisses had worked well, too. She supposed that was another approach to consider.
She eyed him up and down, growing doubtful. That moment when he had handed her into the coach—well, she did not want to invite trouble. The dizzy damsel in distress seemed a safer route, so long as it continued to serve. She offered him a wide smile. “I’m not a cat person either.”
Written on Your Skin Page 9
