The Allure of Attraction

by Julia Kelly

  “I would never knowingly put you or your business in harm’s way. You have my promise on that,” he said.

  Her gaze fell to her lap, where her hands were clasped so tightly that her knuckles were white. “I do hope your promises hold more water than mine did,” she said.

  He started, surprised that she would’ve mentioned their broken engagement, and a little thread of doubt began to worm its way into the certainties he’d held for more than ten years. Did she regret the decisions she’d made? Did she ever wonder what their lives would’ve been like if she’d refused the first man who’d come along and asked her to marry him?

  Lavinia leaned across the gap between their benches, and he couldn’t help but mirror her, drawn in by his desire to know more.

  “I have one very important question to ask you, Andrew.”

  His eyes locked on the sensual rounding of her lips again. They were teasing him, lush, pink, and beautiful and more kissable than he wished he knew. He couldn’t help but lean a little closer.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Do I get a pistol?”

  He jerked back. “What?”

  She rolled her eyes. “A pistol. A mechanized weapon that hurtles lead projectiles at one’s enemies in order to injure or kill them.”

  “I’m well aware of what a pistol is and its purpose.”

  “Or perhaps a knife. I’m sure I could think of all sorts of ways to modify a gown so that it could be hidden. There’d be no need to go reaching down and hitching up my skirts to get at a stiletto secreted in my garter.”

  “No stilettos,” he nearly hissed. No garters either. Bloody hell.

  “You’re quite right. They’d be far too large. What I need is a knife with a blade that folds into its handle. Far more compact. What are those called?”

  “It doesn’t matter, because you will not, under any circumstances, be carrying or using one.”

  “Why not?” she asked. “If I’m to be a spy—”

  “You’re not a spy.”

  “I am absolutely a spy. Spy.” She jabbed a finger at her chest, depressing the taut fabric across her breasts and inadvertently making the swell of them more prominent as though she were actually trying to kill him. Then she pointed at him. “Spymaster.”

  “The spymaster is a man I sincerely hope you never meet. I’m the handler. You are an asset.”

  Her face scrunched up in distaste. “An asset? That sounds so . . . uninspired.”

  “It’s what you are. And there is no need for an asset who is doing clandestine work to carry a weapon.”

  “Is this because I’m a woman?” she asked, her back clearly up.

  “No, it’s because if I give you a pistol, you’re likely to shoot Wark the moment he annoys you.”

  “I will concede that you have a point.”

  “The same goes for a stiletto or any other knife. I don’t care how ingenious your plans are for outfitting a gown with secret pockets.”

  The idea of her, an untrained recruit, using a weapon terrified him. Even having it on her might embolden her to use it, and he knew from experience that inexpert men and women usually did more damage to themselves than good in a fight. He wasn’t going to risk having her blood on his hands.

  “What am I supposed to do then if the work becomes dangerous?” she asked.

  “My responsibility as your handler is to make sure you never have to ask that question.”

  “Hmph.” She crossed her arms and sat back but—mercifully—didn’t push back this time.

  “How are you going to establish contact with Wark? It’s best if it’s in a public place,” he said.

  “It’ll have to be his home.”

  “Absolutely not.” That was exactly the wrong sort of place for her to meet Wark. If she was inside a private home, he’d have no way of keeping an eye on her. A public place would be far better.

  “His mother has a fitting on Friday, and he’s sure to be there. He’s always there,” she said, pulling a face.

  “Rearrange for it to be in the shop,” he said.

  “No.” Her tone was firm, brooking no argument. “My head seamstress, Siobhan, has all the fitting rooms booked for other clients. If I change my plans to fit Mrs. Wark, it will throw everything into chaos. This morning in the park alone is costing me time on three dresses’ worth of buttonholes, and with the prince’s visit coming up, time is a valuable commodity.”

  “That bloody ball.” Andrew screwed up his face. “Why all the effort for one night, I’ll never understand.”

  “It’s not just the ball. It’s everything else around the ball too, and no lady of fashion wants to be caught out wearing an old dress,” she said with a shrug.

  “The world is mad,” he said.

  “And I suppose you would prefer sun-bleached linens patched so many times the fabric will rend in two if you just look at it the wrong way,” she said.

  “At least that would be comfortable,” he said, rolling his shoulders under the tight confines of his jacket. Once they were out of port, he’d always preferred to shed the formality of shore clothes, keeping to his shirtsleeves and waistcoat unless they were sailing through the bitter-cold waters of the North Sea or the Atlantic in winter.

  “Do you know, I never would’ve taken you as the sort of man who lets his clothes wear him,” she said.

  “Don’t try to goad me, Lavinia,” he said.

  She laughed and rose from the bench with a rustle of her purple skirt. “For all that you were a seafaring man and commanded men on a ship, you forget one thing.”

  “What is that?” he asked, towering over her now that he too was standing.

  “I always won our childhood arguments.”

  “Only because you managed to make yourself incredibly annoying,” he said, a smile tipping his lips despite himself.

  She shook her head. “It was because you have too much honor for your own good. I’ll send word after I speak to Wark on Friday.”

  His hand shot out, landing on her wrist before he could think what he was doing. Heat rushed through him, and he became acutely aware of her parted lips, the quicker-than-normal breaths she took, and the throb of a low, aching desire he’d told himself for years to forget.

  “Be careful,” he said.

  She cast her eyes down to where his hand touched hers. He was wearing gloves, and her long sleeves covered her from shoulder to wrist with nary a peep of skin, but every touch still fired in him a deep connection they’d both left behind long ago. And he knew that she could feel it too.

  “I refuse to be the asset who ruined her first encounter with her target. I’ll be careful,” she said.

  Slowly, he released his grip, chastened by her determination but not knowing exactly why.

  Dammit, he wanted to be there to assess the way Wark was with her, and it would drive him mad knowing she’d be on her own. He could tell himself his worry was rooted in the success of the mission all he liked, but that would be a lie. He wanted to be there because, despite everything she’d done, he couldn’t lose the flash of the old protectiveness he’d once felt for her.

  It was only when she’d disappeared completely from view that Andrew realized that they’d been looking at one another for the entire second half of the conversation. Hardly clandestine at all.

  Chapter Seven

  HOUSE CALLS HAD never been Lavinia’s favorite part of the business, but they were a necessary evil—and a lucrative one at that. For a fee, she would bring all of her materials with her and attend a lady in the comfort of her own boudoir, sitting room, or drawing room. Some women appreciated not having to leave their homes, while others relished the chance to be waited on like royalty. Whatever their motivations, this personal element of the business was one way Lavinia distinguished herself from other Edinburgh dressmakers.

  That was why, despite the pain in her back and a stiff knee, late on Friday morning she found herself crouched next to the makeshift pedestal formed by a low table, pinning
up the hem of Mrs. Wark’s new green cashmere walking dress. Normally she took Kelsie or Fiona with her to jot down measurements and act as a buffer against Wark’s inevitable interruptions, but this time she had an entirely new set of motivations. This time she wanted the overstuffed man to come charging into the room, trying to sneak a look down the front of her dress as he so often did during these fittings.

  Disgust swirled in her stomach at the thought of so much as pressing an encouraging hand to Wark’s forearm, but she was just going to have to cope. Still, she wished that Andrew had agreed that she should arm herself. Now all she had to defend herself were quick wits, a good memory, and a great deal of persistence.

  “There.” She placed the last pin in the hem of Mrs. Wark’s dress and straightened, acutely aware of the pop and crack of her joints. “That should do it.”

  She watched Mrs. Wark turn to the mirror that had been set up in the drawing room and examine the wool gown with its hobble skirt and high-necked jacket punctuated by tiny black buttons running down the front of it. Whippet thin and straight-backed, Mrs. Wark was able to carry off this design—unlike Lavinia, who thought the long bodices now in fashion made her look even shorter than she actually was.

  “A beautiful dress,” Mrs. Wark announced.

  “It suits you perfectly, madam,” said Lavinia, letting out a tiny sigh of relief. Sharp-eyed and exacting in her demands, the lady sometimes remained unsatisfied until three or four fittings in—each of them delaying the date when Lavinia would be paid for her efforts.

  “I think perhaps another in pistachio would do as well, but with a kilting effect in the front and back. I have an illustration from Le Beau Monde,” said Mrs. Wark, stepping off the platform and going to a sideboard where the fashion magazine lay open.

  “As you wish,” said Lavinia, doing her best to hide her reluctance. She had talent, style, and flair, all of which could be better employed creating new gowns rather than copying designs out from a fashion plate.

  “There,” said Mrs. Wark, jabbing a long, bony finger at the page. “That should suit. Maybe with a slight swag over the skirt to soften the effect.”

  Lavinia frowned. “I would caution against adding additional embellishment to a dress such as this. You might find that you lose the line of the silhouette.”

  The drawing room door opened. Lavinia braced herself for Wark, but instead an older man walked through the door. He was dashing, with stone-gray hair that swept back from his forehead, but something about the way his eyes searched Lavinia’s face as though he could read into her very soul set her on edge.

  “Mr. Douglas,” said Mrs. Wark with a girlish laugh, “didn’t anyone ever tell you that it’s impolite to burst in on a lady during a fitting?”

  “You are, as always, the very picture of elegance, Mrs. Wark,” said Douglas, bowing low over the woman’s outstretched hand and planting a lingering kiss on the back of it.

  Lavinia fought to keep her brows from shooting up. This was a new development. It had been six weeks or so since she’d been in the Wark household for a fitting, and she hadn’t encountered this Mr. Douglas before.

  “You’re too kind. My dressmaker and I were just finishing,” said Mrs. Wark with a wave toward Lavinia.

  He snapped his chin in a little bow. “Daniel Douglas, at your service, Mrs. . . . ?”

  “Parkem, sir,” said Lavinia. At least this Douglas had the courtesy to introduce himself. It was never a guarantee given that, in the eyes of most of her clients and their friends, she was little more than the hired help.

  “A pleasure to meet the mastermind behind the beautiful creations that this beautiful creature wears,” said Douglas.

  The fall of heavy steps on the carpet just outside the drawing room signaled Wark’s arrival. As he strode in, he asked, “Spending my money again, Mother?”

  “Harold, Mr. Douglas has come calling,” his mother said, the hint of warning in her tone unmistakable.

  Wark’s gaze cut over to Douglas, and his mouth turned down at the corners. “I thought you were off visiting one of your factories.”

  “I just arrived back yesterday evening, and nothing could keep me from calling on your enchanting mother,” said Douglas.

  Wark’s eyes narrowed. “And when will you be leaving again?”

  “Harold,” Mrs. Wark admonished her son while Douglas laughed.

  “Not until after the prince’s visit,” Douglas said.

  Lavinia thought she heard Wark mutter, “Shame,” under his breath, but no one else seemed to notice.

  “Harold was just named to the committee organizing the prince’s visit,” said his mother.

  Lavinia’s heart skipped. Andrew hadn’t mentioned that Wark was on the committee.

  “How very fortunate. How did it come about?” Douglas asked.

  Wark cleared his throat. “A vacancy arose and the chairman, who is a close business associate, nominated me to the position.”

  Her skin prickled all over. Good Lord, it was as though the man were trying his very best to sound sinister.

  “It was outrageous that they didn’t invite you from the beginning. Just think of all that this family’s business has done for Scotland,” said his mother.

  “And of all the money I’ve contributed to the celebrations,” said Wark with a grunt.

  “It’s a great honor. Harold will be with the prince during some of his ceremonial duties as well as the private ones. The schedule is much more extensive than the public one released to the newspapers,” said Mrs. Wark.

  “I’ll be going with him all around the bloody city,” said Wark.

  “Harold, your language,” said Mrs. Wark sternly.

  He kissed his mother on the cheek. “Only a jest, Mother. Who wouldn’t want to hobnob with the Prince of Wales?”

  “I imagine all this fuss is beneficial for your business, Mrs. Parkem,” said Douglas.

  “Yes. We’ve seen almost as many orders as we see around the Caledonian Hunt Ball,” she said. And I have no idea how on earth I’m going to fill them while trying to spend time with this woman’s loutish son.

  “Perhaps I should raise the rent even higher then.” Wark bellowed a laugh.

  Lavinia forced herself to smile even though what she wanted to do was jab Wark in the eye with all of the pins in her pincushion. This was why Andrew wanted her unarmed.

  “Harold, if you’ll show Mr. Douglas to the library, I’ll make myself presentable and we can take tea,” said Mrs. Wark.

  “No tea for me, Mother. Royal duties call.”

  “Then you’ll make sure Mr. Douglas has not forgotten the way,” said Mrs. Wark, clearly not wishing to leave any possibility that Wark and Lavinia might end up in the same room alone together.

  “Excellent,” said Douglas amiably, yet Lavinia couldn’t help but notice the little smirk on the man’s face, as though he found Wark as ridiculous as she did.

  Stern-faced, Mrs. Wark slanted her a look. “That’s all for today, Mrs. Parkem. I’ll send my maid down with the dress.”

  As soon as the door was shut and Lavinia was alone, she let out a steady breath. She was already tense enough in this house, but the added challenge of trying to be a spy at the same time meant she’d probably hit the ceiling if someone so much as dropped a book in her general proximity.

  As she packed up her sewing box, her mind raced. If Wark was on the prince’s committee, that meant he would be uniquely positioned to have access to the future monarch. She would send word to Andrew and Miss Gibson as soon as she returned to the shop.

  The prince would be in Edinburgh for five days on a whirlwind of private and public events, and the public events would be very, very public. She knew from the papers that thousands of people would line the streets from Waverley Station to Holyrood Palace to try to capture a glimpse of the Prince of Wales and the princess, and that five hundred invitations had been issued for the royal ball. Then there were school openings, inspections of shipyards—the list went on and o
n.

  She needed more information if she were to help Andrew.

  She was just snapping closed her box of supplies when Wark reappeared in the doorway.

  “Good, you’re still here,” said the man.

  She glanced up again, immediately on the alert. She made sure she was never alone with the man if she could help it. At her shop, Siobhan and Kelsie were never far away, and his mother usually loomed over them whenever he appeared at a fitting. Still, this was her chance to try to wheedle more information out of him.

  She pulled her shoulders back and painted on a smile. “Mr. Wark, what a pleasant surprise. I hope I’m not keeping you from your business. Or perhaps you decided to take tea with your mother and Mr. Douglas after all.”

  “That windbag. He thinks owning a few factories makes him a titan of business.”

  “What does he manufacture?” she asked.

  “He’s a trumped-up ironmonger. Door handles, knockers, that sort of thing, although he keeps talking about diversifying. He bought a metalworks that supplies some of Glasgow’s shipyards six months ago, and since then he’s been snapping up factories so quickly it’s hard to believe he’ll remain profitable,” said Wark, the disdain easy to read in his voice. “If it were up to me, we wouldn’t know him.”

  “How did you become acquainted?” she asked.

  “He and Mother met at a house party last year. The host was a friend who’s known Mother since she was a little girl. But enough of this. Tell me, Mrs. Parkem, are you as mad for the idea of attending this ball as my mother?”

  “Unlike Mrs. Wark, I’m unlikely to find myself with an invitation, and I should fear I wouldn’t know a soul,” she said carefully.

  “You would know me,” he said.

  “But just one person at an entire ball . . .”

  Like a trout on the line, Wark took the bait. “Would you like to attend? I could arrange everything.”

  “I hardly know what to say,” she said. That much was true. The ball was only weeks away. By then it could be too late. She needed to figure out what Wark was up to as soon as possible, and that meant forcing more meetings with him now.