Stephanie Laurens - B 6 Beyond Seduction

by Stephanie Laurens

  “She’s a remarkable woman,” Gervase said, “which is why this villain wanted us both here in London. With both of us gone, there’s no one on the peninsula with the authority, the position or the experience to lead. There are only minor gentry on the peninsula itself, a few minor barons north of the estuary, but even if they were roused to action, by they time they came to investigate a stranger with a crowd of bully boys digging up a beach, it would all be over, the villain long gone.”

  He paused, then grinned, not humorously. “Of course, our villain didn’t know Charles was lurking—I’ve left him and Penelope at the castle, keeping watch.”

  “So when our villain arrives…” Christian pulled a face, the equivalent of male pouting. “I don’t know about you, but I have a deep-seated aversion to letting St. Austell have all the fun.”

  “Indeed. Which is another excellent reason for finding Ben with all possible speed—not that we need another reason, but still—so we can race down to Cornwall and be in at the end ourselves.”

  “Not another reason,” Christian said. “A carrot. Dealing with the villain will be our reward for finding Ben quickly.”

  Senses pricking, Gervase looked up and saw Madeline framed in the doorway. He smiled and rose. “There you are—come and join us.”

  “Thank you.” Madeline smiled warmly, her heart unexpectedly aglow. She’d come downstairs overwhelmed by concern and incipient panic, then she’d heard Gervase’s words, his description of her, his and his colleague’s clear confidence that they would find Ben and deal with the villain; she’d drawn breath, felt their implied assurance sink in, felt their confidence buoy and steady her. Walking into the room, she transferred her gaze to the other gentleman, who had smoothly risen to his feet.

  “Dearne, Miss Gascoigne.” He bowed, then smiled engagingly. “But I hope you’ll call me Christian.”

  There was something in his manner—a gentle air, an invitation to laugh at all and everything—that had her smiling easily in return. She inclined her head. “Madeline, please.” She sat in the chair Gervase held for her, glanced around to see him head for the sideboard—decided to let him feed her and turned her attention to his friend. “I understand you’re another member of this rather strange club.”

  “Indeed. I won’t bore you with the details of its founding, but it has, I would say, served its purpose well.” He smiled at her in a way that made her wonder just what the true purpose of the club was.

  Before she could think of how to ask, Gervase returned to the table. “I’ve rung for tea.” He set a plate piled with kedgeree, ham and a fat juicy kipper before her.

  She looked at it, and wondered when she’d mentioned she loved nice kippers; she couldn’t recall ever doing so, so how had he guessed? Inwardly shrugging, she murmured her thanks, picked up her knife and fork, and sampled the kedgeree. It was delicious—and she realized she was starving.

  Accustomed to the table habits of males, she barely noticed the silence that enveloped the table. Gervase was still absorbed with his sausages, while Christian sat back and sipped coffee with the air of a man satisfactorily replete.

  From under her lashes, she studied him, curious to observe another of Gervase’s cronies. Like Gervase and Charles, Christian had much the same build; she recalled Gervase had originally been in the guards, and suspected the same held true of the others—they all had the classic guardsmen build, that of tall, broad-shouldered, saber-swinging horsemen.

  As for the rest…gray eyes, a certain self-deprecating streak, as if he were cynically amused with himself, but underneath she could readily see the same reliably ruthless strength she’d come to value in Gervase, that unswerving commitment to defending and protecting, be it the weak, the helpless, their friends, their family or their country.

  It was all the same to them; it was simply who they were.

  And nothing would ever change them.

  Nothing would ever soften them.

  To her mind, that was as it should be; the thought was more comfort than threat.

  She forked up the last tiny piece of kipper just as Gervase pushed away his plate. She looked up and smiled as Gasthorpe poured tea for her; she patted her lips with her napkin, picked up the delicate cup and sipped—and nearly closed her eyes and sighed.

  She glanced around, but Gasthorpe had gone. She turned to Gervase and Christian. “I don’t know where you found him, but Gasthorpe is a treasure. I don’t know how he managed it, but he found this gown.” She broke off to explain to Christian that they’d set out on their pursuit without baggage. She glanced again at the gown. “He said it belonged to the lady who used to live next door—he borrowed a maid from there for me, and to adjust the size and let down the hem.”

  “The lady would be Leonora,” Christian said. “Now Countess of Trentham.”

  “Trentham.” Madeline looked at Gervase. “He’s another of your members, isn’t he? He married the lady next door?”

  Gervase nodded.

  Finishing her tea, she set the cup down. She felt fully restored, ready to face the world and any villain in her quest to rescue Ben. She glanced at the men.

  As usual Gervase, sipping his coffee, seemed to read her mind. “I’ve already told Christian the whole story.” At his words, somberness settled about them, upon them. “We need to decide how best to search for Ben. Christian agrees he’s unlikely to be released until the afternoon.”

  Christian leaned forward, hands clasped on the table. He met Madeline’s gaze. “I’ve been thinking, evaluating the ways—the best ways—to locate Ben.” He glanced at Gervase, then looked again at Madeline and went on. “It’s likely that when they release Ben, they’ll set him free in a slum, in the stews. They won’t want him found too quickly—the villain wants you to stay in London for a few days at least. So we should assume that Ben will suddenly find himself alone on the street in a dangerous part of town.”

  Again Christian paused, then said, “I have contacts, numerous acquaintances, in London’s underworld. What I propose is that I contact those who are essentially the overlords of each of the slums, and alert them to the situation—send them a description of Ben, and tell them we want him back unharmed. They’ll put the word out, and their people will all be on the lookout for Ben. The chances of them finding him quickly, and unharmed, are high.”

  Madeline studied the gray eyes fixed unwaveringly on hers. “What’s the drawback? Obviously there is one.”

  Christian’s lips quirked; he inclined his head. “Indeed. I won’t send out that message unless you approve. The drawback is that, to be rescued by the overlords of London’s underworld, Ben would, necessarily, come into contact with them and their minions—and I wouldn’t be truthful if I didn’t say that some of them are more than revolting enough to make any lady swoon.”

  She studied him for a moment, then said, “A delicate lady, perhaps. Even me, perhaps. But what of an innocent but insatiably curious, country-bred ten-year-old boy?” When Christian raised his brows, surprised by her tack, she glanced at Gervase. “You know what you’re talking about, have experience of it—I don’t. But you should be able to remember being a ten-year-old—would you at ten have been shocked and horrified, or would you have thought it a grand lark to be consorting with villainous underworld figures?”

  Gervase grimaced. He looked at Christian. “I don’t know about you, but it would have been a lark to me.”

  Christian pulled a face. “Me, too.”

  “And what’s the alternative?” Madeline asked. “Trust to chance that someone kind and honorable happens to find him first? I’ve never been in any slums or stews, but I don’t think I’d be happy taking that approach.” She pushed back from the table. “How do we go about sending these messages? Perhaps I can help write them?”

  Christian glanced at Gervase. “So we do it?”

  Rising, Gervase waved to the door. “So the lady decrees. Let’s adjourn to the library.”

  They did. They spent some time drafting thei
r message, then Christian and Madeline, seated on opposing sides of the desk, started copying it in neat, legible script.

  Gervase paced and looked over their shoulders. There was no place for him to sit to help them, and his scrawl wasn’t all that neat.

  “We’ve plenty of time,” Christian said without looking up. “Those areas don’t stir until noon—as long as we send out these notes by then, they’ll have plenty of time to spread the word before Ben is let loose in their domain.”

  Gervase humphed and kept pacing. He and Christian had agreed that it would most likely be later in the afternoon rather than earlier that Ben would be released. Which meant there would be hours yet to wait….

  The distant sound of the front door knocker had him turning expectantly to the door.

  Christian glanced that way, too, then, as the sound of firm footsteps on the stairs reached them, he set down his pen.

  Her concentration absolute, Madeline continued transcribing.

  She heard the door open, heard Gasthorpe announce, “Mr. Dalziel, my lords.”

  Blinking, she glanced up as a deep, dark voice drawled, “Dearne. Crowhurst. I understand there’s something you believe I should know about.”

  Primitive precognition sent a frisson arcing through her. Madeline stared at the tall gentleman who strolled with unutterable grace into the room. He was outwardly similar to Gervase and Christian, tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired, the long, austere planes of his face a testimony to his heritage. Yet beneath the urbane, sophisticated veneer, there was an element of something else—something harder, sharper, altogether more subconsciously alarming. She felt unexpectedly glad that Gervase stood, at least metaphorically, between her and his ex-commander.

  There were dangerous men, and then there were the impossibly dangerous; Dalziel belonged in the latter category.

  Whoever he was; she could now see the evidence on which Gervase and his colleagues based their belief that Dalziel was no mere mister.

  Gervase moved forward to shake his hand. “Glad we caught you—I was afraid you might have left town.”

  A faint smile flirted about Dalziel’s mobile lips. “Not quite yet.” He turned to shake hands with Christian, then glanced briefly at her before looking, inquiringly, at Gervase.

  With a smile for her, Gervase turned to Dalziel. “Allow me to present the Honorable Miss Madeline Gascoigne.” To Madeline he added, “Dalziel, who you’ve heard me mention.”

  Madeline remained seated; they were all towering over her but even if she stood they would still be taller, and there was a certain statement to be made by remaining where she was—queens remained seated—so she faced him, head high, smiled graciously and, consciously imperious, offered her hand. “Good day, sir.”

  She caught another upward twitch of his lips as Dalziel took her fingers and very correctly bowed over them.

  “An honor, Miss Gascoigne, although I believe it’s something less than pleasant that has brought you to town.”

  “Indeed. Some blackguard has kidnapped my youngest brother.” Madeline looked at Gervase.

  He waved Dalziel, whose gaze had grown sharper, to a chair. “Sit down and I’ll tell you the story.” He glanced at Madeline. “I’d better begin at the start.”

  Sinking into a chair, elegantly crossing his long legs, Dalziel nodded. “You perceive me all ears.”

  While Gervase related the tale of how her brothers had found the brooch, and subsequently where she’d worn it, the information he’d gathered on where it might have come from, then Ben’s disappearance and all they knew of that, Madeline turned back to the desk and continued penning Christian’s notes. Christian, too, continued, but from time to time he’d look up, frown—and the ink would dry on his nib as he became distracted with the story.

  Madeline didn’t bother to recall him to his task; there were only a few more notes to write, and it was barely eleven o’clock. Christian had said it might be counterproductive to send the notes out before noon, and at least writing them gave her something to do to fill in the time, making her feel she was actively engaged in the task of rescuing Ben. Lips compressed, she wrote on, aware of Dalziel asking questions, of Gervase replying.

  She could see, comprehend, that Dalziel could be intimidating, but he wasn’t a threat, and as long as he could and would help them rescue Ben, that was all she cared about.

  “So this brooch might well be the key.” Dalziel frowned; Gervase had given him a brief description of the brooch. He grimaced. “I wish you’d brought it with you.”

  Madeline lifted her head. “I did.” Reaching into the pocket of her borrowed gown, she drew out the heavy brooch; she’d taken it from her own gown, wanting to keep it with her. Setting down her pen, she swiveled from the desk and held out the brooch to Dalziel; when he took it, lifting it from her palm, she looked at Gervase. “I thought if by chance we meet this blackguard face-to-face, he might be willing to exchange Ben for it.”

  Gervase met her eyes, but then glanced at Dalziel.

  Madeline did, too, as did Christian.

  Dalziel had made no sound, no movement to draw their attention; it was his stillness, the sheer focused intensity of it, that had seized their collective attention.

  Cradling the brooch in his long fingers, he was staring at it as if it were the Holy Grail. “Good Lord,” he breathed.

  When he lapsed back into awestruck silence, Christian hesitantly prompted, “What?”

  Dalziel drew in a long breath, then leaned back in the chair. He laid the brooch on the arm, his fingers tracing the curves, the pearls. “Our paths, it seems, cross again.”

  His tone was distant, detached. Madeline glanced at Gervase. He looked as puzzled as she.

  His gaze on the brooch, Dalziel at last continued, “Let me tell you what’s been keeping me in London—one of the things, at any rate. As we—the members of this club and I—know, there’s some person, some Englishman, a member of the aristocracy, who was a French agent during the wars, but who escaped detection. He’s continued to elude me, and all others, but we know he exists, that he is a flesh-and-blood man.”

  He paused, then looked up at Gervase, then Christian. “Flesh-and-blood men usually require payment for their services. We’ve had a net in place for years, identifying any payments that came via the usual channels of cash, drafts or any other of the customary monetary instruments. We’ve accounted for all such payments, leaving unresolved the question of how our elusive last traitor was paid.”

  Long fingers lightly tapped the brooch. “After Waterloo—indeed, even before that—we’d started getting reports from the new French authorities. They were perfectly willing to work with us to trace any payments made by Napoleon’s spymasters. However, we still turned up nothing—nothing we hadn’t already found—until some enterprising French clerk started an inventory of the palaces, and the artworks and artifacts contained therein, the jewelry collections amassed by the various princely families of the ancient regimes. He started reporting pieces missing. Not wholesale ransacking but one piece missing here, one there. At first he assumed it was simply mislaid items, the natural outcome of the disruption of war, but as he discovered more such missing items, he began to sense a pattern. That’s when he approached his masters, and they sent his list to me.”

  Dark eyes narrowing, Dalziel lifted the brooch, slowly turning it between his fingers. “Would it surprise you to learn that on that list is an oval cloak-brooch dating from the age of Charlemagne, Celtic goldwork with diamonds and pearls surrounding a large rectangular emerald?”

  His voice faded into absolute silence.

  Madeline broke it. “Are you saying that the man after the brooch, the one searching for a cargo the brooch formed part of—the man who has Ben—is this unidentified traitor?”

  Dalziel’s eyes rose to meet hers. His jaw set. “I fear so.” He paused, then added, “As it happens, that increases the likelihood that your brother will be released unharmed once he’s identified the beach for our tra
itor. Our man is careful and clever—he’s only killed once that we know of, and then he was forced to it, when a henchman who knew his identity was cornered. Murder attracts too much attention—he’ll just want Ben to be lost for a while, more to keep you occupied than anything else. You’re right about that.” He looked down at the brooch. “Now we know it’s him, things make more sense.”

  He stared at the brooch, then leaned forward and carefully handed it back to Madeline. “Regardless of what happens, please don’t offer to give it back. If he demands it and there’s no alternative…but don’t volunteer it.”

  She considered the brooch, felt its weight in her palm. Understood why he’d given it back to her, into her keeping, appreciated his comprehension. She looked up and met his dark eyes. “Thank you. I won’t.”

  He nodded, then looked at Gervase. “I think we can conclude that your blackguard is indeed our old foe, and he’s after that cargo. No surprise he was wise enough not to agree to be paid in French sous, and careful enough to wait until now to bring his ill-gotten gains into England, and used French smugglers to do it. Far safer to cache his thirty pieces of silver in France while Napoleon was in power, and bring it over now, long after the wars are over and, so he would reason, no one’s watching anymore.”

  Gervase nodded, his gaze locked on the brooch. “It all makes a certain sense.”

  “Indeed. We’ve already established what sort of man he is. He has no need of money, but items such as that”—Dalziel watched as Madeline slipped the brooch back into her pocket—“the treasures of kings and emperors, those would hold a real incentive for him—something only he was clever enough and powerful enough to gain, something no one else could ever have.”

  Christian snorted. “Symbols of his greatness.”

  Dalziel nodded, then came to his feet in a rush of nervy energy. “He’ll want that cargo. After all this time, all his planning, waiting for his moment of triumph—he’ll be fixated on regaining his treasure.” He smiled chillingly. “And fixated men make mistakes.”