by Liz Carlyle
But Napier did not kiss her—though the desire, and a good deal more, was thrumming through his loins. Instead, he viciously ripped off her elaborate arrangement of chestnut curls. It came away in a scatter of pins, one of them pinging off the chimneypiece mirror.
Miss Ashton shuddered in his grasp, refusing to turn her face to his.
“Oh, I thought remembered those wild, flaming locks,” he said, hurling the chestnut wig aside, “though you haven’t much of it left. Still, I never forget a face, Miss Ashton. I never forget height. Eyes. The scent of a woman. Or her true hair color.”
“Let me go, you cad,” she whispered.
Instead he leaned nearer, his rough breath dragging in her fragrance as he watched her lashes flutter shut like dark, feathery fans over alabaster skin. And all of it designed, he did not doubt, to madden a man. To leave him unable to think straight.
He did not succumb. Not quite. “Oh, that dull wig, drab gown, and the stone you’ve gained may have made me question things in Sir Wilfred’s garden,” he said gruffly, “but I’ve sensed all along something about you was not quite right.”
She opened her eyes, and for his own sanity, Napier pushed her a little away.
She had regained herself, it seemed.
“Why, how you do flatter a lady, Assistant Commissioner,” she said mockingly. “I did not realize I had captured your imagination so thoroughly. But whatever it is you are imagining just now”—here, the little vixen let her gaze drift to his thickening crotch—“just be aware I’ve servants about.”
Disgusted with himself, Napier released his grip on her slender shoulders, and spun away. But her scent, heady and floral, followed him. Good God, this was madness. With this woman he was playing with fire—almost literally.
And the thoughts she stirred up in his head . . .
As he stood there, angry with himself and grappling for control, he heard the rustle of her silk skirts behind him, and the soft sound of leather sliding across the table.
Miss Ashton appeared before him, her cap of bright red curls springing from their pins to fall almost angelically around her face.
“I wondered,” he muttered almost to himself, “just how on earth you tamed that wild mess of hair.”
She smiled with feigned sweetness. “I’m told many gentlemen use Macassar oil,” she said, dangling his valise from one fingertip, “though I really wouldn’t know. Now, on your way out, Mr. Napier, don’t forget your bag.”
Her confidence caused something in him to snap—his good judgment, apparently—as he sneered down at her. “Oh, I am not leaving, Miss Ashton,” he said. “Nor are you.”
Her false smile faded, her eyes darting toward the row of baggage by the stairs.
“Very well,” she said, letting the valise fall to the floor. “Arrest me—if you think you can make it stick. And if you think you can survive Lazonby’s onslaught. He desperately needs my statement regarding Sir Wilfred’s confession, you will recall.”
“Oh, I’m not afraid of Lazonby, and never have been,” said Napier. “You, on the other hand—you are dangerous—and about two-thirds deranged, I begin to think.”
She gave a sharp laugh. “Well, you know what they say. ‘Great wits are sure to madness near allied.’ ”
“ ‘—and thin partitions do their bounds divide,’ ” he finished grimly.
Her eyes widened. “Why, you do know your Dryden, Mr. Napier,” she said. “Under better circumstances, I’d quite enjoy matching wits with you.”
“Aye, well, deal with the circumstances at hand, my dear,” Napier warned. “Perhaps you don’t deserve to hang—Lord knows Sir Wilfred wanted killing—but there is always a price to be paid for duplicity. And let’s face it, my dear: you elevate duplicity to an art form.”
Miss Ashton had stepped away, calmly pulling what was left of the loose pins from her short, fiery curls. “And so?” she said, tossing a few onto the table.
“And so I want you, by God, where I can keep an eye on you,” he said, “until this business of Sir Wilfred’s death dies down.”
“Mr. Napier,” she said wearily, “if you try to put me in jail, Lazonby will—”
“Not jail,” he snapped. “Until he has no further need of you, he’ll just lie and get you out again.”
Her hand stilled. “Then . . . where?”
“Somewhere else,” said Napier, too bloody stupid to bite his tongue. “Somewhere, perhaps, that might make good use of your incorrigible talents.”
“Oh, I think not.” Her eyes shied warily as she edged away.
But he scarcely heard her, his mind in a whirl. “Aye, it might do, at that,” he muttered. “Something in the way of a bargain—a Faustian bargain, or near it.”
And Napier knew in that moment that he had truly taken leave of his senses. That he was making the one mistake he was infamous for never making—allowing emotion to rule over cold logic.
Miss Ashton apparently concurred. “That’s a scheming look in your eyes, Napier,” she said warningly. “And I’ll tell you straight out, sir, that I’m not doing anything underhanded.”
“Oh, now you find your moral high ground!” Napier laughed. “Good God, madam, does your audacity know no bounds?”
And yet his sudden notion seemed to make a shocking sort of sense. He was loath to leave the woman; loath to unleash such a fey and clever creature on an unsuspecting society until he was sure she wasn’t after someone else—Lazonby again, perhaps, for Miss Ashton was clearly possessed of a mind too sharp for her own good.
Was she dangerous? He thought not.
Well, not now. But a part of him burned to keep an eye on the woman, to discover exactly what she’d done and why. He only hoped it was the part above his waist, and not below.
Miss Ashton, however, had backed even farther away. “You may call it audacity, Napier,” she said. “But whatever I may have done, I have always sought justice.”
He sharpened his gaze. “Yes, and now you need to leave London rather desperately, don’t you?” he said, thinking aloud. “You’re wise enough to know Lazonby’s restraint will last about as long as it takes him to clear his name in the press and get back in the good graces of polite society—which won’t be long. He doesn’t want Anisha’s name tarnished. So aye, he’ll use you. And then he might just throw you to the wolves.”
Miss Ashton lifted one shoulder, but she was listening. “And so I’m to make a deal with the devil, am I?” she said lightly. “And then . . . what? You’ll protect me from Lazonby if he somehow turns on me in order to get back at my brother Jack?”
“Something like that,” he said.
She lifted her chin, all of her arrogance restored. “Be specific.”
He jerked his head at the row of baggage. “Unpack that lot,” he said. “You’ll need just one trunk; your most elegant things, but suitable for the country—and for a house in mourning. My driver will pick you up on Tuesday at eight o’clock in the morning.”
Miss Ashton froze. “To take me where,” she said, “do you wildly imagine?”
“To Wiltshire,” he said, snatching up his valise. “And I do not imagine it, wildly or otherwise. You are going. That, you see, is your penance.”
“To Wiltshire? With . . . you?” She stared after him. “But why? To do what?”
“To act,” he said grimly. “God knows you’re good at it.”
“Good at acting as a drab grammar teacher, certainly,” she acknowledged. “But I rather doubt they need another of those in Wiltshire.”
“No, but I need an affianced bride,” he said, snaring his hat from the table. “Fool that I am, Miss Ashton, I am not without sympathy for what you’ve lost. But by God, until I know you are neither mad nor dangerous, then I mean to keep an eye on you.”
At last, he had rendered the lady speechless. Her eyes turned to saucers and her mouth literally fell open. Dredging up a faint sliver of pity for her, Napier relented.
“Miss Ashton,” he said darkly, “it is my
theory that for better than a year you’ve fooled half of London into believing you some radical young newspaper reporter. Surely, for a mere fortnight, you can make my meddling relations believe that you are at least a little in love with me.”
Was it his imagination, or did her expression relent?
“And after that, I am free to go where I wish?” she said, her mouth turning up at one corner. “I have your word as a gentleman?”
He cocked his head to one side, studying her. “Well, that will depend,” he finally answered, “on whether one accounts me a gentleman. And whether you can behave as a sane, responsible member of society. And on how well you do at keeping those meddling relations from . . . well, meddling. I must conduct a sort of enquiry, you see. And it’s your job to ensure I do it unhindered.”
Miss Ashton crossed her arms. “Then send your man to fetch me, Mr. Napier,” she said. “And perhaps I’ll be ready to go. Or perhaps I’ll be halfway to Scotland.”
He smiled. “Oh, you’ll not be off to Scotland, my dear.”
She smiled back, dazzlingly. “You think not?”
“Oh, I know not,” he replied, setting off again toward the door. “For I’ll have a half dozen London constables watching every road out of Hackney.”
At that, she hastened after him. “But I am not a prisoner,” she complained. “You cannot restrain me here.”
“Can I not?” he said over his shoulder.
“Napier!” Her eyes burned into the back of his head. “Napier, you are unconscionable.”
“Yes, it’s often been remarked,” he said, turning to make her a pretty bow. “Now, I shall meet you at Paddington under the sign for the Number One platform on Tuesday morning, tickets in hand—or I will find a way to arrest you.”
“You heartless dog,” she whispered. “I can see they call you Roughshod Roy for a reason.”
“They do indeed,” he said. “So, Tuesday morning. Pray do not be late. Now, have you a maid? If not, hire one.”
“Yes. Yes, of course I’ve a maid.” Miss Ashton fisted her hands at her sides. “But perhaps I shan’t be there at all. Perhaps I shall be the one person who stands up to your bullying.”
“Ah, bridal nerves already, my dear?” Napier forced a munificent smile and set off again. “I shouldn’t have thought it of you.”
“Napier—” she said grimly.
But Napier merely threw open the door. “Now I bid you good day, Miss Ashton,” he said with specious cheer, slapping his hat back on. “And I shall count the hours until I can again gaze upon my beloved bride-to-be.”
Lisette watched Royden Napier stride down her flagstone path, barely resisting the urge to hurl one of the massive brass candlesticks after him. But they were very fine candlesticks, and likely wouldn’t survive the blow against Napier’s rock-hard skull.
Besides, yes, there was always a price to be paid.
At least she now knew what Napier’s price was.
Her stomach twisted in knots, Lisette turned and retraced her steps into the parlor. Fanny stood in the shadows, halfway down the staircase, one hand seemingly frozen upon the banister, her expression stricken.
“I’m going with you,” said Fanny.
“Oh, Fanny.” Lisette cast her an anxious glance. “Were you near enough to hear it, then?”
“Of course.” The maid’s worry lines had deepened to wrinkles. “I knew t’was trouble when I saw that one come swaggering up the path.”
Lisette went to the desk, and fell into the chair, her gaze fixed on Ellie’s portrait. “He knows, doesn’t he?”
“Aye, he knows.” Fanny’s expression was grim as she descended. “But he knows, too, t’will be the devil to prove it.”
Dragging a hand through her unruly curls, Lisette pondered it as Fanny collected the hairpins scattered around the breakfast table. She had to admit a grudging respect for Royden Napier. He did not like her. But he had not liked Sir Wilfred Leeton very much, either.
Fanny was shaking out the wig. “So you actually mean to go, then?”
Her aplomb returning, Lisette rose. “Why not?” she said, turning from the desk. “I wanted out of London and out of Lazonby’s reach. Perhaps . . . perhaps Napier can be managed?”
“Ooh, I don’t know about that one, miss.” Fanny looked skeptical.
“Well, we must try.” Lisette forced a smile. “So let’s set to it, then. Kindly go tell Mrs. Fenwick to stop packing, and instead send me all the newspapers we’d collected for the wrapping.”
“Aye?” The maid looked at her quizzically. “What for?”
“One must always know one’s enemy, Fanny,” Lisette replied. “And I intend to know mine very well indeed.”
CHAPTER 5
In Which Our Intrepid Heroine Commences an Adventure
The clamor around the Great Western’s temporary terminus was near deafening by half past nine in the morning. Having been deposited in front of the entrance by Mr. Napier’s driver, Lisette hitched her carpetbag onto her wrist, sucked up her courage, and hooked her arm through Fanny’s.
Together they picked their way around a pair of waiting hansom cabs, waded inside, and were at once swept up in the rivers of passengers either rushing to catch a train, or flooding forth from one newly arrived. Added to this a maelstrom of porters, servants, and clerks, and the whole of it felt unnerving.
Lisette had taken the train just once in her life, from Liverpool down to London, but in such a state of agitation she scarce remembered it. Indeed, she’d yanked herself up by the roots from Boston so hastily she’d not even shut up the house properly, practically flying across the Atlantic with that old, crumpled copy of the London Times still clutched in her fist, having already memorized every word of the front-page article predicting Lazonby’s release from prison.
And thinking all the way of Papa, so handsome and so gay. Of Ellie, so beautiful and full of promise. And wondering why she, the awkward one, had been spared.
No, the voyage and the train were but blurs to her. But that article, and her fateful meeting with Royden Napier thereafter—ah, those she still recalled with crystalline clarity.
“Look, there it is, miss.” Fanny pointed around the tall top hat of the gentleman blocking their way. “The sign, hanging from a bracket.”
“Ah, so it is. Off we go then, Fanny.”
Lisette, by far the taller, pushed her way along the platform past makeshift spaces marked Cloak Room, Ticketing, and Telegraph Office until finally she neared the sign.
The assistant police commissioner stood tall and rigid beneath it, dressed far more elegantly than ever Lisette had seen him. Today Napier wore a black cutaway coat over a gray silk waistcoat and a wide, snowy cravat. As if in deference to mourning, his tall hat was banded in black crepe, while a charcoal cloak lined with pewter silk swung casually from the crook of his elbow.
His mahogany-colored hair fell, heavy and lustrous, at an angle that shadowed his face, and long, faintly hollowed cheeks accentuated the powerful lines of his cheekbones above a jaw that was—like the rest of Napier, she suspected—harsh and squared away.
A large leather portmanteau sat at his feet and his weight was borne ever so slightly onto an elegant, brass-knobbed walking stick. But that grim, relentless gaze was fixed upon the pocket watch in his hand, the gold case flipped open as if he timed her every step.
Drawing up before him, Lisette dropped her carpetbag at his feet and looked up. And fairly far up, too, for though she was tall, Napier seemed to tower over her almost intimidatingly.
Lisette ignored it. “Good morning, my love,” she said brightly, presenting her gloved hand for his kiss. “Oh, how the hours have dragged since last I gazed upon your handsome face.”
Dark, storm-colored eyes leveled to hers, his gaze direct and far too incisive. “Save it for Wiltshire, Sarah Siddons,” he said, snapping the case shut and ramming the watch back into his waistcoat. “Did my driver see to your baggage? Ah, here is Jolley! Have you the tickets? Good man.�
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Lisette let the hand fall.
Jolley, it appeared, was Napier’s valet, who informed them that, yes, tickets were in hand, the baggage seen to, and the driver sent on his way. A thin, slightly stooped man of some years, Jolley had a world-weary gaze and an attitude utterly uncowed by his master.
“And I had to take the last two seats,” he finished in a put-upon voice, “in second class.”
“Doubtless you’ve survived worse.” In one smooth, effortless motion, Napier picked up his portmanteau, snaring Lisette’s bag in the same hand. “Send your maid with Jolley, Miss Ashton, and follow me.”
With no further explanation, Napier set off down the platform, his long strides undeterred by either the baggage or the walking stick, the elegant cloak billowing gently off his elbow as he moved.
After one last squeeze of Fanny’s hand, Lisette dashed after him with something less than ladylike grace. Just as she passed the hissing green locomotive, however, the thing let off a horrific blast of steam, very nearly frightening her out of her wits.
She stopped, and clapped a hand to her heart.
Was this what the world was coming to? Everyone dashing madly about like rats flushed from a nest? Just so they might clamber into frightful, hot, clattering contraptions that would whisk them off to another place of haste and confusion?
Napier strode on, oblivious.
With a muttered imprecation, Lisette adjusted her hat and set off again.
Another twenty yards farther along, Napier broke stride to slap a coin into the palm of a waiting porter. The fellow dashed down the platform to throw open the door to a first-class compartment, Napier hurled in the bags, and the porter climbed in to rack them.
When the fellow leapt down, Napier handed Lisette up the slight step. But as he did so, his gaze caught hers and some dark, unsettled emotion seemed to sketch across his face, and for the merest instant, Lisette wished that her hand were ungloved.
Was the man’s touch, she wondered, as confident as his eyes? Was that steady arm as powerful as it felt?
