by Cora Lee
There was no peace to be found at Elliot House, however. Hart’s butler was waiting by the front door with a sealed letter on a salver.
“This came for you just after you left, my lord. It was the special messenger that delivered it.”
“The special messenger” meant the letter was sent by someone in the unofficial intelligence gathering ring Hart belonged to, headed by the Earl of Wellington. The communications Hart received most often had something to do with a degenerate specimen of a man wreaking havoc in an area near one of Hart’s estates. From time to time there was even the stink of treason on said specimen, and Hart was always relieved to see such men contained and dealt with appropriately. Even better when the population at large never knew they were in danger.
He handed over his hat and gloves, taking the letter from the butler and cracking the seal as he walked toward his study.
Hartland,
I haven’t much time, so I’ll keep this brief. A woman called Sarah Shipton has angered someone very powerful in Dover, and word has spread that this person is offering one hundred pounds to whomever kills Miss Shipton and provides proof of the deed. The proof is to be brought to a tavern called The Black Horse in Seven Dials as soon as may be, and payment will be offered anonymously. You know more people in London than anyone and it sounds as if this Miss Shipton might be there. I hope you can find her in time.
Adam St. Peters
Sarah Shipton? From the bookshop? How on earth had she managed to provoke a threat of death?
Hart scrubbed a hand through his short, dark hair and dropped onto the leather sofa in his study. He wasn’t in the habit of letting information go to waste, nor of allowing ladies be killed. But what could he do here? His usual modus operandi was to put on one of the armor variations he’d crafted and go at the criminal head-on. But this time he didn’t even know who the criminal was. And even if he did, it wouldn’t matter; this criminal had authorized anyone and everyone to do his bidding. Taking just one person out of play wouldn’t do any good.
The most straightforward action would be to return to the bookshop and tell Miss Shipton to leave Town. But how would he convince her to do so? He couldn’t tell her about the intelligence gathering ring—only the eleven members and Wellington himself knew of its existence and they’d all been sworn to secrecy to protect each other. Perhaps he could tell her about the letter without revealing its origins? No, he doubted anyone would pick up and leave their home indefinitely based on the claims in a letter they couldn’t verify.
He leaned his head back against the arm of the sofa, wishing he’d had more sleep. Or less wine. Whatever it was that was muddling his brain he now wished to perdition. Not that it would stop him the next time he went on a winning streak at cards or had a breakthrough with an invention, of course. But perhaps he wouldn’t indulge again until Miss Shipton was out of harm’s way.
What if he arranged for her to visit Paris? Or Milan? Or Dublin? He had friends in Dublin that could discretely see to her safety. Would she go if he presented it as her own version of the Grand Tour?
Hart must have drifted off to sleep, for the next thing he knew his valet was shaking him awake.
“I’m sorry, my lord, but you told me to make sure you looked your best tonight for Lord Preston’s ball.”
“What does that have to do with anything, Richards?” Hart asked, his eyes squeezed shut.
“You also told me you needed to leave by seven o’clock.”
“And what time is it now?”
“A quarter past, my lord. I tried to wake you earlier, but you swung your fist at me and told me to go to the devil.”
Hart turned onto his side and tried to bury his face in the leather of the sofa. “How quickly can you have my clothing ready?”
“It is ready now, my lord.”
“Good man.” He wasn’t surprised. Richards had been with him for nearly two decades and was more than familiar with Hart’s idiosyncrasies. “Just let me peel myself off the furniture and I’ll be right up.”
Forty-five minutes later Hart was greeting the Marquess of Preston and his goddaughter in the receiving line at Preston’s home in fashionable Mayfair. He pasted on a smile for the sake of the lady and hoped he didn’t look as bored as he knew he was about to feel.
Dancing turned out to be tolerable, particularly when he partnered one of his favorite merry widows and another just two sets later. Both seemed disappointed not to have secured a liaison with him, but Hart held firm. He enjoyed flirting with women, certainly, and pushing the bounds of propriety was enormously entertaining. But sometimes playing the libertine was more fun for him than actually being one, and it kept eligible ladies from thinking they might want to be the future Countess of Hartland.
“Lord Hartland?”
It was Preston’s goddaughter...what was her name? Tiverton? Taggart? “Good evening, Miss Talbot. May I offer my congratulations on your engagement?”
“Thank you, my lord.” She gave him a demure smile. “I’m glad that you were able to attend this evening. It means a great deal to my godfather.”
“He wanted a crush for your celebration, no doubt, and the easiest way to get a large number of people in one place is to invite me.” He waggled his eyebrows. “But I do wish you every happiness in your marriage.”
Hart gave her a small bow and turned to go, but she caught his arm. “Might I have just one more moment of your time, my lord? There is someone I’d like to introduce to you.”
He struggled to keep from rolling his eyes, but allowed her to turn him back around. If he fought the introduction he would lose more time than if he simply let it happen. “Certainly, Miss Talbot. It is your party, after all.”
She kept a hold of his elbow and towed him a few steps toward a brunette in a pale green and silver gown. “Lord Hartland, this is my very good friend, Miss Shipton.”
Well, here was an opportunity he couldn’t pass up. Hart reached for Miss Shipton’s gloved hand even though she hadn’t offered it to him. “Yes, we’ve been acquainted with each other for many years, haven’t we?”
“We have,” she confirmed, taking back her hand. “Lord Hartland is a regular patron of my mother’s bookshop.”
“And a friend, too, I hope.” Hart smiled at each lady in turn. “Are you engaged for the next set, Miss Shipton? Perhaps you would do me the honor?”
Miss Shipton’s eyes darted from Hart’s to Miss Talbot’s then back again. “Certainly, my lord.”
He took her gloved hand again and placed it on his sleeve, but instead of leading her toward the dance floor he headed for the ballroom door. Miss Shipton glanced back at her friend, but Hart leaned closer to her ear and said quietly, “I know this is unusual, but I must speak with you. Your life is in danger.”
Chapter Two
Miss Shipton accompanied Hart out of the ballroom without another word, though her body was stiff beside him. He’d probably frightened her, but her silence gave him a chance to think about what to do next. Hart certainly hadn’t planned to abscond with the poor woman in the middle of a ball.
He led her down a hallway, listening at a couple of doors before he found a room he was sure was empty. Pushing the door open, he pulled Miss Shipton in and shut the door as quickly as he could without slamming it.
“What on earth are you doing, Lord Hartland?” She had the sense to keep her voice down, at least—she had the most to lose if they were caught. There was only a little moonlight filtering in through the window, but he could see she had her hands on her hips.
“I’m trying to save your life, Miss Shipton.”
“What are you talking about?”
He took a breath, still trying to figure out what to say to her. “You know that I am the Armored Man.”
“Everyone knows that.”
Of course they did. He hadn’t made a grand announcement, but he hadn’t exactly kept it a secret either.
“In that capacity, I come across information that is sometimes unsav
ory in nature.”
He heard the rustle of fabric as she crossed her arms over her chest. “And?”
“And your name came up in one bit of information.” Not exactly the truth, but she couldn’t know about the intelligence gathering ring. “Did you recently take a trip to Dover?”
“Yes. My aunt and cousins live there.”
“While you were there, you made someone very angry.”
“That’s not at all vague. I’m surprised you haven’t wrapped up this whole mystery with that amount of information.”
Hart forced himself to keep a straight face, even though she likely couldn’t see his features in the low light. She’d never spoken to him that way at the bookshop, and he found he liked it. But now was not the time for flirtation. “There is a price on your head. One hundred pounds for proof of your death. Is that specific enough for you?”
“That can’t be right.” There was a hitch in her voice, and he hoped to God she didn’t start crying.
“It is.” He stepped closer to her and laid a hand on her upper arm. “The source of the information is very reliable.”
“Why would someone want me dead?”
“My source didn’t know, only that it was someone with a fair amount of influence.”
Her head tilted downward, as if she was inspecting his dancing pumps, and she cleared her throat. “And connections to the kind of people that could fulfill such a request.”
“Exactly.”
“You said this person was in Dover.” She lifted her chin. “How do you know I’m in danger here, in London? I’m nearly one hundred miles away from my would-be assassin.”
Hart shook his head. “The person offering the bounty included a location to bring proof of your death.”
“Where?” The question was practically a whisper.
“Seven Dials.”
He felt a shudder run through her, and he didn’t blame her for being frightened. Seven Dials was perhaps the most notorious slum in London, offering a wealth of crime and vice.
“Someone followed me to the bookshop yesterday morning. Do you think that is connected to this?”
“Was it someone you recognized?”
She shook her head. “The sun had barely risen and he stayed some distance behind me. I couldn’t make out much besides his clothing, but every time I turned a corner he was there.”
It could have been an ordinary footpad, or even a doltish lad who thought distressing ladies was good fun. Or it could have been someone planning to collect the reward offered for Sarah’s life. “Whoever he was, he wasn’t there to see to your safety.”
“What can I do?”
He placed his free hand on her other arm and stroked the bare skin with his gloved thumbs, hoping the action would calm her. “Get out of Town for a while, quietly. I can ferret out the person behind all this and put an end to it, but the task will be much easier with you tucked away somewhere safe.”
Miss Shipton shook her head. “I can’t. My mother—”
“Take your mother with you. It will be good for her, too.”
“No, you don’t understand. We’re having financial difficulties, we haven’t the money to go anywhere at all. We haven’t even the money to keep the bookshop open.”
Well, there went that option. “I will send you wherever you’d like to go, for as long as you’d like to be there.”
“Why would you do that?”
He gripped her arms a little tighter. “Because you aren’t safe here.” She was silent for several long moments—moments in which Hart couldn’t see her eyes or read the expression on her face. He drew her a half-step closer to him. “Can you convince your mother to leave?”
“I-I...yes, I think so.”
“Can you do it without telling her why?”
Again she was silent. But her voice was steady when she answered a few moments later. “Yes, I believe I can. Though I will probably have to tell her you are the one sending us.”
“Fine.” He could work with that.
“And we’ll have to come up with a plausible reason for you to take such an interest in us.”
“Very well. We’ll think of something to tell your mother.”
“And the neighbors.”
He hadn’t considered that. Hart neither knew nor cared what his own neighbors thought of him, but a respectable shopkeeper and her daughter would. “And the neighbors.”
“I shouldn’t trust you. I don’t trust you.”
That he had considered. Yes, he was the Armored Man, the one who both prevented and solved crimes Bow Street was unable or unwilling to deal with. But he was also Hartland, the bachelor of five-and-thirty with a reputation for debauching respectable ladies, who was happiest disappearing for days into the nearest high-stakes card game.
“In almost every instance, Miss Shipton, you would be painfully correct. But in this one exceptional case, you do need to trust me. I will make sure you’re safe, in all definitions of the word. I promise.”
She stepped closer to him and her eyes became clear in the gloom, wary but focused. “Alright.”
He released his grip on her arms and took a step back. “Good. If I come into the bookshop tomorrow, can you find somewhere we will be able to speak privately?”
“I can if you come around one o’clock. Mr. Higgins will be there to mind the shop, but no one will be in the clerk’s office. You’ll have to come in through the door at the back, though, so no one else sees you.”
Hart grinned at that, hoping she could no longer see his expression. He’d gone in and out of plenty of back doors and servants’ entrances, and his grin would likely tell her why. “I will manage.”
“Then I will see you tomorrow.” Miss Shipton moved toward the door, but the expected rectangle of light didn’t appear.
“What—”
“Shhh, I hear voices.”
He crept to the door and stood behind her, trying to quiet his breathing to better listen for trouble. There were two female voices nearing the door, not with any haste but at a steady rate.
“Get behind me.”
She obeyed without question, no doubt knowing the consequences of being found here alone with him. The voices were right outside the door now, and Hart managed to take a step backward just before the door swung open.
“I believe it’s in here,” one of the voices said as a woman entered the room. “The last time I had it, I was reading it in the chair over by the window.”
“Lord Hartland?” the second voice asked. It was Lady Rebecca Barrington, the daughter of an old friend of Hart’s father, and there was enough light coming in from the hallway that he was sure she could see Miss Shipton’s body behind him.
But maybe she couldn’t see Miss Shipton’s face. “I was just, erm, having a conversation with a lady of my acquaintance.”
The first woman came back into the light holding a book. It was Preston’s goddaughter. “A conversation?”
“A conversation,” he confirmed. “Look, my clothes aren’t even rumpled.”
Both ladies studied his tailcoat and breeches, and both seemed satisfied—for a moment at least.
“Wait, didn’t you walk this way with Miss Shipton?” Miss Talbot asked.
“No. Well, yes. But she left me for a gentleman who promised her refreshment and I found a new companion.”
“You did? Who?”
Miss Talbot came toward him, craning her neck around his shoulder to see who was hidden behind him. He tried to turn, but stepped on the hem of Miss Shipton’s gown and felt her stumble against him.
“Sarah?”
Miss Shipton rescued her gown from Hart’s foot and came around to his side. “Thank you for trying, my lord. Diana is a persistent one, and would have figured it out eventually anyway.”
“What are you doing in a dark room alone with a man? With this man?”
“It isn’t what you think, Diana,” Miss Shipton answered in a steady voice. “We really were just having a conversation. But the su
bject was delicate and we needed privacy.”
The light from the doorway wasn’t all that bright, but even Hart could see that both women looked skeptical.
“Were you here of your own accord, Miss Shipton?” To Hart’s surprise, Lady Rebecca’s voice was neither condemning nor angry. Instead she sounded more curious than anything else.
“I was.”
Another not-quite-truth, since he’d practically dragged her away from the ballroom and told her to be quiet about it. But it seemed to satisfy Lady Rebecca.
“You’re sure nothing untoward was going on here?” Miss Talbot sounded less convinced.
“You heard Lord Hartland,” Lady Rebecca said. “If he and Miss Shipton had been in the middle of something indecent, their clothing would be in disarray. Yet they both look as tidy as you and I do.”
Some sense at last. Hart smoothed a hand down the front of his coat and smiled at each woman. “Then there’s no reason for word of this little encounter to spread beyond this room, is there?”
“You would be doing me a great service if you kept this to yourselves,” Miss Shipton added.
Miss Talbot and Lady Rebecca exchanged a look that Hart couldn’t read. After a moment, though, they seemed to come to an agreement.
“Then that is what we shall—”
Miss Talbot was cut off by the presence of Lord Preston barreling into the room. “What is going on here?”
Damn and blast. Hart kept his mouth shut and let Miss Talbot and Lady Rebecca do the talking, for he knew anything he said would only anger Preston more. He felt like a coward hiding behind the ladies’ skirts, but it wasn’t his reputation at stake.
“We were discussing The Mysterious Hand, my lord, and came up to find Diana’s copy of it,” Lady Rebecca said.
“In a dark room?”
“We only needed to pop in and get the book,” Miss Talbot chimed in. “No need for a candle when I knew right where I’d left it.”
Preston persisted. “I only saw you and Rebecca come this way together. When did Hartland and Miss Shipton arrive?”
Lady Rebecca and Miss Talbot both looked from Hart to Miss Shipton, and Hart knew it was over. The truth was written plainly enough on their faces that even Preston would recognize it. Nor was there was anything they could say that would appease him, especially when he thought a lady’s honor was being impugned.
