Just One Touch

by Debra Mullins

  “I do,” he replied quietly. “She told me.”

  Belvingham’s mouth fell open. “She told you?”

  “I know you meant to keep her safe,” Rogan continued, “but there comes a time when too much safety becomes dangerous. She had you to protect her. Now you’re ill, and she has no more inkling of how to go on in the world than a newborn babe.”

  “That’s why I married her to you.”

  “And I will watch out for her.” Rogan cast another glance out the window. “She’s precious, but not helpless. She needs to learn that.”

  The duke peered closely at his son-in-law. “Good Lord, Hunt, have you fallen in love with her?”

  Rogan gave a jerky shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe. I just know I don’t intend to let anything happen to her. And that means going after Althorpe.”

  “He’s a snake, and a poisonous one at that!”

  “Then the best thing I can do is cut off his head before he bites anybody else.”

  Belvingham gave a reluctant chuckle. “I admire your confidence, Hunt.”

  Rogan came around and sat in a chair near the duke’s. “Besides discovering Althorpe’s secrets, we need to discover how he is poisoning you.”

  A look of defeat shadowed Belvingham’s face. “I’ve tried. Cook brings my meals directly to me herself, straight from the kitchen. Only Gregson is allowed to fetch my brandy at night. I don’t know how the bastard is doing it.”

  “Well, if he’s careful to keep his distance, that means someone near you must know something,” Rogan said.

  “I trust my staff implicitly,” the duke protested.

  Rogan’s lips curled in a cynical smile. “The facts speak for themselves, Your Grace. Someone in your household had to have helped him. And you and I are going to discover who it is, before it’s too late.”

  Malcolm Gregson sat in the corner table in the common room of the Duck and Crown, his untouched ale before him. Lips pressed in a tight line, he pulled out his pocket watch yet again to check the time.

  “Where the devil is he?” he muttered.

  He glanced around the tavern. No one paid any attention to him, and that was the way he liked it. He closed the watch with a snap and tucked it away in his waistcoat pocket. Then he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a tattered length of ribbon, stroking it between his fingers.

  What would Edwina think?

  His grip tightened around the ribbon, knuckles showing white. His gentle Edwina would hate what he was doing. If she knew the lengths he went to so as to protect their future, she would scold him from here to London, and he would deserve every harsh word.

  He was a traitor, albeit a reluctant one.

  The door to the tavern swung open to admit several people. A quick glance had Gregson sitting up straight and taking a hasty gulp of his ale. He shoved Edwina’s ribbon into his pocket.

  He was here.

  “Well, young Gregson.” Randall Althorpe sat down at Gregson’s table, his charming smile at odds with the cold gleam in his eyes. “May I join you?”

  Unable to speak, Gregson took another drink of ale.

  Althorpe signaled to the barmaid and requested an ale of his own, then looked back at Gregson with an expectant smile.

  Gregson wrapped his hands around his tankard, wishing he were anywhere but here. He could barely look at the duke’s heir, so repulsed was he by the man.

  “Tell me what brings you here, Gregson.” Althorpe nodded his thanks to the barmaid as she set a tankard of ale in front of him. “Have you something more to tell me?”

  Gregson nodded.

  “Excellent.” Randall sipped his ale, never taking his reptilian blue eyes from Gregson. “Tell me then.”

  Gregson took another bracing swallow of ale. “Our bargain still stands, correct?”

  “Of course it does.” Althorpe slid a glance around the room. Apparently satisfied they weren’t being overheard, he nonetheless lowered his voice. “Just as when you told me of the highwayman’s capture, in return for any information you can give me, I promise not to tell dear Uncle that you aren’t who you say you are.”

  “I am Malcolm Gregson,” the assistant protested. Then he dropped his eyes to his half-empty tankard. “I just didn’t exactly tell the truth about my education and background.”

  “And your dear Edwina would probably have been beyond your reach,” Althorpe sympathized.

  Gregson felt his face heat as well as his temper. He controlled both. “Leave my betrothed out of this. Our bargain stands—I provide you with information on the duke’s household, and you don’t tell His Grace about me.”

  “And when dear Uncle cocks up his toes, I shall write you a recommendation as the new Duke of Belvingham. Yes, yes, dear sir, that is our agreement. Now what have you heard?”

  Gregson stared at Randall Althorpe for a long moment, his stomach clenching in knots. He hated betraying the duke, but what else could he do? He loved Edwina, intended to marry her. If her father discovered that Malcolm Gregson was not the educated man he claimed himself to be—if it came out that he was the son of a fishmonger and that he’d lied to secure a decent position—well then, he knew Edwina would be lost to him forever.

  He couldn’t let that happen, even if it meant dealing with the devil.

  As the minutes passed without Gregson saying anything, Althorpe’s expression darkened. “Don’t waste my time, Mr. Gregson,” he warned softly. “You do not want me as an enemy.”

  Gregson swallowed hard, then admitted, “I lingered in the hallway and overheard some of the conversation between Mr. Hunt and His Grace. Mr. Hunt intends to question James Black again tomorrow.”

  “Well, well.” Althorpe stroked his thumb along the handle of the tankard. “I shall have to see that does not happen.”

  “How can you possibly do that?”

  Althorpe glared. “I have many connections, Mr. Gregson, some of whom I dare say you would prefer to know nothing about.” Gregson paled, and Althorpe raised a brow. “Have you anything else to tell me?”

  “I also overheard Lady Caroline and her new husband in the garden.” Disgusted with himself, Gregson didn’t dare look at Althorpe. “They were discussing their marriage.”

  Pursing his lips in interest, Randall sat back in his chair, tapping one finger on the table. “And how are the happy newlyweds?”

  “Not so happy. They’ve already quarreled.”

  Althorpe clicked his tongue in sympathy. “So soon?”

  “They were discussing that, and something else.” Gregson hesitated, hating to divulge such intimate secrets. “They haven’t consummated the marriage.”

  “Indeed?” Althorpe’s brows rose in speculation. “Why not?”

  “I believe it has something to do with Lady Caroline.” Miserable, he drained the last of his ale.

  “Fascinating.” His second ale arrived, and Althorpe immediately took a swallow. “So, Hunt hasn’t managed to get past those barriers of Caroline’s. That might prove useful. Good work, Gregson.”

  Gregson shrugged off the compliment, lost in his misery.

  “If you will excuse me, Gregson, I believe it’s best if we not be seen together for very long.”

  “I have to leave anyway. The duke sent me on an errand at Cathington.”

  “See that you do a good job there,” Althorpe said with a smirk. “That house will be mine shortly.” He picked up his tankard and walked away.

  Gregson watched him vanish into the crowd, then took Edwina’s ribbon from his pocket and slid it through his fingers.

  But he found no comfort there.

  Rogan arrived home to find Peterson waiting. The irritating fellow paced impatiently outside the door to the stables. Upon seeing Rogan, he stormed straight over.

  “A fine thing this is,” Peterson ranted as Rogan slid from atop Hephaestus. “Not only do you leave me cooling my heels, but your men will not allow me inside the stables to see to the care of my own mount!”

  “She’s not
yours anymore.” Rogan took a moment to check between his horse’s front legs to be certain he wasn’t overheated. Satisfied, he led the animal into the stables, Peterson trailing behind like an annoying sibling.

  “On the contrary, Mr. Hunt, she is mine until funds have changed hands. An event,” he pointed out with supercilious sarcasm, “which has not yet occurred.”

  The man’s tone grated. Rogan grabbed a brush and began to brush the grime from the stallion’s coat. “You’ll get your money.”

  “So you say! I demand that you write the bank draft now, sir, or I shall take my horse and go.”

  Rogan spared him a look of disgust. Every time he thought about what Peterson had done to that horse, he wanted to pummel the sneer right off his face. He flexed his fingers, imagining the crunch of bone beneath his fist.

  But then he thought of Caroline and pushed the urge away.

  “Hunt, did you hear me?”

  Rogan didn’t even bother to look at him this time. “You’ll get your money as soon as I’ve finished getting Hephaestus settled.”

  “Don’t you have grooms for that sort of thing?”

  “I always take care of my own mounts. Watch carefully; you might learn something.”

  Peterson puffed himself up in indignation. “Mr. Hunt—”

  Rogan paused. Fingers clenched tightly around the brush handle, and he pointed the tool at the skinny gamester as if it were a rapier. “Peterson, you take your life in your hands by pushing me.”

  “I only want what’s due me.” Peterson cast a disparaging look at the brush and then adjusted the fit of his coat. “It’s bad enough that you have caused me to ruin my boots walking across the countryside. Now you expect me to stand and wait in favor of an animal?”

  Rogan finished brushing down his mount in silence and gave him a sip of water before he closed the stable door.

  “Mr. Hunt, I am speaking to you.”

  Rogan turned an intolerant glare on Peterson. “You’re making noise, but you haven’t said anything of interest yet.” Before the peacock could puff himself up again, Rogan led the way out of the stables. “Come along then, if you want your money.”

  “Finally.” Peterson sauntered after him. “May I say, Mr. Hunt, that you have a most disagreeable disposition. I don’t know how you managed to win a lady as charming as your wife.”

  “No, you may not say.” With a curl to his lip, Rogan led the distasteful wretch into the house to his study. “Have a seat, Peterson. This will only take a moment.”

  “I should hope so after all the time I’ve wasted here.” Peterson dropped into a chair as Rogan moved behind his desk and pulled out a bank draft. He scribbled out the amount, blew on it to dry the ink, then held out the draft to Peterson, who snatched it eagerly and scanned it. His eyes widened in disbelief. “This is all? That gray is a valuable animal!” Peterson tossed the draft on the desk. “Offer more or I will take the horse and leave.”

  Rogan flattened his hands on the desk and leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. Anger simmered fit to rend his veins. It was all he could do to not grab the pretentious jackanapes by his neck cloth and eject him from the house. “You will not take the horse, and you will not get another farthing. You damaged that animal, which makes my offer more than generous.”

  “That horse is poorly trained and needed discipline!”

  “It’s you who needs discipline, Peterson. Now I suggest you take the money and leave before I give you a taste of what you did to that mare.”

  Peterson looked as if he would protest more, but a look at Rogan’s stone-set face apparently convinced him otherwise. Snatching the bank draft from the desk, he tucked it away in his coat pocket. “I shall not say it was a pleasure doing business with you, Hunt.”

  “And I shall not wish you to the devil,” Rogan shot back. “If you start walking now, you may yet reach Bartholomew’s tavern before dark. You can catch the mail coach to London there.”

  Peterson sneered. “My gratitude knows no bounds.”

  “My patience does. Good day, Peterson.”

  The foppish gamester turned away without another word and stormed out of the house. Rogan sat down in his chair with a sigh. As much as he hated paying so generous a price, it had been well worth it to see the back of Peterson. The man was cruel and vicious, and to leave the gray in his care would mean condemning the animal to death.

  He took comfort in the fact that Caroline would be pleased that the fellow had left under his own power and not limping and bloody. He hoped she appreciated his restraint, because it had been damned hard to let Peterson walk away without making him pay. Who did the bastard think he was, beating an innocent creature—

  His thoughts stumbled, halted, as his gaze fell on a piece of pottery tucked against the hearth.

  It was wedged into a corner and easily overlooked by whomever had last cleaned the room, just a small shard of white clay that no one would have considered important. But he knew where it came from, how it came to be there. He remembered the incident last night when he’d brawled with his brother. They’d smashed several figurines and one vase as they attempted to beat each other senseless. The shard he looked at now was no doubt a piece of one of those damaged items.

  Who had cleaned the room? Caroline? Tallow or Grafton?

  He’d never thought about who cleaned up the messes before. Never even noticed the messes even if he’d been the one to make them. How many servants had picked up after him and his brother and father every time they’d fallen into a fistfight?

  He rose from his chair, walked over, and bent down to ease the slice of pottery from where it was wedged. Then he stood, regarding it.

  He’d spent the last half hour wishing Peterson to the devil for his abominable treatment of the gray mare.

  But was he any better?

  Caroline was ready for bed when the soft knock sounded at the connecting door. Gripping her wrapper closed, she called, “Come in.”

  Rogan opened the door. He was wearing his dressing gown, and his expression struck her as oddly reticent as he hovered in the doorway. “May I come in?”

  “I just said you may,” she said with a grin. But when he didn’t reply to her jest, her smile slowly slipped away. “Rogan, what’s the matter?”

  He came over to her and took her hands, searching her face with an intensity that dissolved her levity. “I came for a good-night kiss,” he said finally.

  Her lips parted in a soft “Oh.”

  “I want you to know, too, that I will think about what you said today. I want this marriage to work, Caroline.”

  “So do I,” she whispered.

  “I want to be the kind of husband you deserve.”

  Her heart melted. “Oh, Rogan.”

  “Now kiss me good night, and let us both fall asleep with a sweet memory.”

  “Yes.” She waited, but he didn’t take her into his arms. “I thought you wanted to kiss me good night.”

  “No.” His lips quirked with humor. “I want you to kiss me.”

  “Oh.” Startled, she dropped her gaze to his mouth. “All right.”

  “Come closer, love. I promise not to move.”

  She came toward him, longing for the taste of him with a hunger that surprised her. He guided her hand as she stepped closer to him, placed it on his shoulder. She rested the other on his chest.

  “Do you want to kiss me?” he asked softly.

  “Yes,” she whispered, entranced by his curving lips.

  “Go ahead. Kiss your husband good night, love.”

  She needed no more encouragement, and she stretched up on her toes to press her mouth to his. The kiss was urgent yet sweet, their lips clinging as Caroline swayed on her toes.

  They moved apart, and Rogan steadied her with a hand on her arm as she rocked back on her heels. When he slipped his hand around her waist to hold her fast in his embrace, her startled brown eyes met his.

  “I don’t want you afraid of me, Caroline.”

  “I�
�m not,” she replied, distracted by the moisture that clung to his lips.

  “Good.” And with a little smile and a whispered “Good night,” he left the room.

  Chapter 12

  The next day, Rogan left the magistrate’s office with a frown on his face.

  James Black had been found dead in his prison cell that very morning.

  Docket had no explanation for it. No one had come to visit the criminal, so finding him dead in his cell with his throat cut had shocked him.

  And it bothered Rogan. Greatly.

  He had no doubts at all that Althorpe had something to do with James Black’s death.

  He was glad now that he had contacted Gabriel Archer. Known as the Avenging Angel, Archer had built his reputation by using his impeccable investigative skills to resolve certain difficulties for members of the nobility, or anyone else wealthy enough to afford him. Ever since he had exposed a traitor to the Crown nine years before, he had been in constant demand for matters that required discretion and excellent performance.

  Rogan had no doubt that if anyone could ferret out Althorpe’s secrets, it was Gabriel Archer.

  He made a mental note to write to Archer and notify him of this latest development as he started for the livery, where he had stabled his horse while he was in the village. He slowed as a glimpse of a familiar carriage caught his eye. The equipage, surrounded by three outriders, stopped in front of the dressmaker’s, and his wife descended, her maid at her heels.

  Dressed in a becoming yellow dress and a simple straw bonnet, Caroline looked like a ray of sunshine personified. A smile curved his lips as he treasured the opportunity to observe her when she didn’t know she was being watched. She looked so petite amid the much taller footmen and outriders. Even her maid topped her by an inch or two.

  And when he held her, her head barely reached his chest.

  For an instant he imagined enfolding her small frame in his arms, her delicate curves pressed against him. Concerns over Althorpe faded to the back of his mind as an unfamiliar warmth flooded him. He wanted to go to Caroline, to talk to her and watch her smile. Hear her laugh. Before he could move, she went into the dress shop, her maid right behind her.