“This pleases me, too,” he whispered.
She couldn’t help it—she smiled back. And just as fast as he’d disappeared, the hunter was back. Quickly, he lowered his head and darted his tongue into her décolletage, into the very spot he’d been staring at so intently moments ago.
“Oh!” Catharine cried out in surprise. She felt a little embarrassed to have punctured the almost reverent quiet they’d maintained, but she couldn’t help it. His tongue dipped lower. “Oh!”
A bell rang, sharp and insistent, shattering the moment. It was followed by a light tapping on the door. Where had the time gone? He pulled away from her, looking toward the door. Not the hunter, not the smiling man—just the enigma that was Dr. Burnham.
In a flash she stood, putting some distance between them. “No one will enter. It merely signifies the end of our time together. The midnight gathering will begin soon.”
He rose and joined her, taking her hand. “I will extend our arrangement. Must I go down now to do so or can it be settled afterward?”
My God, she had completely forgotten herself when she should have been preparing for what was to come. Though a small part of her thrilled to the idea that Dr. Burnham didn’t want their interlude to end, she didn’t need Blackstone to rebuke her to know how close she had come to jeopardizing the entire mission with her carelessness. She should already be downstairs, preparing to greet Mr. Bailey and Mr. Biedermeier.
“Neither,” she said, answering his question with a decisive, cool tone. She pulled her hand from his and glanced around the room for his clothing. Not finding it, she looked back at him. He was fully dressed, of course. The only sign that anything had occurred between them was his usually immaculate cravat, which had become slightly disheveled, its knot loose and off center. How was it possible that such a heated, intensely erotic encounter had unfolded without either of them removing a single item of clothing? The only outward sign that anything had happened between them was an impressive erection he didn’t seem to be trying to hide at all.
The bell rang again. “Well, it has to be one or the other, because this isn’t finished, viscountess. If I inform the ringer of that bell of my intentions, will that infernal noise cease?”
She very much did not want to say what she knew she had to, but so much depended on the next two hours. “I’m sorry. I can’t entertain you any longer. I have a…prior engagement.” Attempting to infuse her bearing with as much regalness as she could, she lifted her chin, pursed her lips, and stood tall. “Let me help you with your cravat. It needs straightening.” She tried to cut through the charged air in the room, smiling as she moved toward him. “And, you should know, Dr. Burnham, that I am an expert arranger of cravats.”
He held up a palm, declining her offer of assistance, but his face did not change as he continued to stare at her. My, but he spent a great deal of time watching her silently. It was difficult not to squirm under his intense eyes.
“A prior engagement for conversation?” There was a bitter note in his speech.
What could she say? “Yes.”
After a few heartbeats of silence, he nodded. “Farewell, then, Lady V. I wish you very happy.”
Not waiting for a response, James bowed, turned on his heel, and left. It was all he could think to do. He made his way down the steps slowly, deliberately, concentrating on the task of putting one foot in front of the other. The quiet thud of each footfall was like a vise tightening around his chest. What had he been thinking? That there was a deeper well beneath the shallow surface she presented to the world? That she broke the rules just for him? He fingered the bead in his pocket, the one his pride had prevented him from handing over when he’d arranged their assignation. He had been a fool to think he was special. He glanced down at the diminishing bulge in his breeches, and his cheeks flamed with shame that she could summon such a response, and it could mean nothing. This was why it was important to have a greater purpose. It was essential to focus on what mattered in this world. Feelings and physical responses were fleeting, transitory, whereas the problems tackled by the Society were real. They could be broken down, assessed, understood, and, he believed, eventually solved.
The cold night was a welcome relief. As he paused at the top of the gray stone steps, a carriage pulled up. A tall man alit first and turned to wait for a shorter man who spoke as he descended the carriage.
“Certainly I’ll enjoy meeting your lady. But I warn you, I’m not inclined to pay for mere conversation.”
“It sounds absurd, doesn’t it?” the taller man said through his amusement. “However, she’s very compelling. I’ve taken the liberty of reserving her time for the next two hours. But since you don’t want her, I shall take her myself. She’s very expensive. A prime article.”
They made their way up the steps, not noticing James. He strained to get a look at them, but the taller man had already stepped inside without turning his face toward James. The smaller gentleman, whose visage was obscured by a too-large tricorn hat that sat low on his head, brushed against James’s arm and turned, giving him an absent, apologetic nod. “Do you suppose she ever breaks her own rules?” he asked his companion. “Can she be convinced to offer more than mere conversation?”
“Yes,” James whispered, angry at how easily he’d fallen under Lady V’s spell, letting himself be distracted from his primary purpose. “She can be convinced.”
Chapter Five
Catharine stood at the top of the stairs listening to Dr. Burnham’s footsteps fade. For the second time in a week she was on the verge of tears after an encounter with him. The bell rang again—the maid whose job it was to rouse them was making the rounds. The clanging pierced through the fog in her head.
There was no time to brood. She was already late. Darting back into her room, she stepped in front of a mirror that hung near the door and was greeted by the image of a woman who appeared to have been thoroughly tumbled. And yet their lips had not even touched! But her cheeks glowed, her wig was mussed. She ran her fingers over the skin of her neck, feeling the tiny scratches left by Dr. Burnham’s whiskers.
Well, there was nothing for it but to press on. What were affairs of the heart when matters of state beckoned? Entering the already full drawing room, her pasted-on smile turned genuine when she caught sight of Mr. Bailey. Blackstone had introduced them a few days ago, and she’d very much enjoyed meeting the man of business. She understood immediately why Blackstone trusted him: he was expansive and friendly, but a man of few words. When Mr. Bailey turned toward her, she quickly rearranged her features into a bland mask. They weren’t supposed to know each other. She glided over to a settee and watched as he approached alone and “introduced” himself.
“Lady V, I presume?” He bowed.
She nodded her acknowledgment and invited him to sit, slapping open her fan. Concealed behind it, she whispered, “Where is our German friend?”
Mr. Bailey made an almost imperceptible gesture with his eyes. Catharine followed his gaze to a blond man with a fair moustache wearing a brown coat. He sat, laughing over something—with Amelia.
No! Amelia was the one girl he must not choose, the only one who could not be safely or reliably bribed. But an air of familiarity between the pair suggested it was she who had entertained Biedermeier on past visits. Catharine knit her brow in Mr. Bailey’s direction. “Amelia,” she mouthed.
“I feared as much,” he murmured, taking her arm and running his fingers up and down it, playing his part. His touch created no sensation in her. It was rather like having one’s brother annoy one by scratching one’s arm. How different from the sensations she’d experienced earlier this evening.
“Oh,” she said, raising her voice. “Mr. Bailey, here comes your friend. I’m ever so anxious to meet him.” Biedermeier had excused himself from Amelia, and as he approached, Catharine spoke even more loudly. “I confess I find a foreign accent irresistible.”
Mr. Bailey did not cease his stroking of her arm as he made intro
ductions.
“I’ve grown rather fond of Mademoiselle Amélie, I’m afraid,” Biedermeier said. “But Mr. Bailey has been singing your praises, Lady V, so I thought I would be remiss if I did not come and meet you.”
“Oh, Mr. Biedermeier, I’m so pleased you did,” Catharine purred, pulling her arm from Mr. Bailey’s grasp and giving her hand to their target. “I understand you’re quite rich.”
He looked momentarily startled. “You’re very direct, aren’t you, Lady V?”
She performed a coy shrug.
“Yes, I’m rich, you’re right about that. But I’ve earned all my money in trade. I’m an industrialist like Mr. Bailey here. I’m not someone your English high society would approve of.”
“Nonsense! You’re among friends. I’m sure everyone here understands the value of a hard day’s work.” She patted the place next to her, for the German was still standing. He glanced back at Amelia, suspended in indecision. “Or…” she said, lowering her voice seductively, “a hard night’s work.”
He sat.
“Mr. Bailey tells me you own a gun works?”
“Yes. In Birmingham.”
“You’re a long way from home!”
“Certain business concerns bring me to town with some regularity.”
“How fortunate for us. What sort of guns do you manufacture?”
“Muskets.” He snuck another glance at Amelia, who had been joined by a new gentleman. “Do you know anything about the manufacture of small arms?”
Catharine shook her head. Perhaps he would say something useful if she got him talking about his business. “I’m afraid not, sir. But I find the concept fascinating.”
“Guns are made from a great many parts—stocks, barrels, triggers, bayonets, of course. And various oddwork like screws, pins, swivels, that sort of thing.”
Not knowing whether any of this was new or useful information, but hoping Mr. Bailey might find it of use, she sought to keep him talking. “How remarkable. I’ve never given a great deal of thought to guns, other than to note how terribly powerful and masculine they are.” She leaned a little closer to their prey.
“I manufacture barrels for two types of muskets, but I’m also a gunmaker—a setter-up—which means I buy other parts from outworkers and from other manufacturers and assemble the finished product.”
“How wonderful. You must be a very intelligent man.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Bailey. “It’s rather unusual for someone who manufactures a part to also be a gunmaker himself. The industry is quite decentralized. It takes a certain amount of business acumen to keep everything organized.”
“Are you familiar with the industry, Mr. Bailey?” Catharine batted her eyes at him.
“Not intimately, but I do have a cousin who makes stocks grown from the finest beech trees in Buckinghamshire. Mr. Biedermeier and I struck up a conversation in this very room a few weeks ago and discovered our common connections to the industry.”
“Well,” said Catharine. “I think it’s all simply marvelous. In these times of war, we all must do what we can for king and country, mustn’t we? Oh!” She feigned a surprised look and dropped a hand on Biedermeier’s arm. “Am I being too terribly presumptive, Mr. Biedermeier, to imply that you have taken on the cause of your adopted country as your own?”
“Not at all, my lady. I’m an Englishman in my heart, though of course I cannot deny that the Board of Ordnance pays handsomely for my wares. There’s nothing quite like blunt to inspire loyalty.” He smiled wolfishly. “I’m sure that’s a sentiment you and your colleagues”—he glanced around the room—“can appreciate.”
“Oh, come now, Mr. Biedermeier!” She playfully swatted his arm. “Don’t be so modest. I can see that your motives are unsullied.”
“Lady V,” he said, leaning closer so that his forehead almost touched hers. “May we speak frankly?”
She forced herself not to recoil. “Of course. Speaking frankly is a specialty of mine.”
“That’s what I understand. Speaking, anyway. I’m to pay for two hours of your company, and it will only include conversation?”
She glanced at Mr. Bailey, who, although he affected a relaxed pose and sipped from a glass of champagne, was following every word of the conversation.
“From time to time I am known to be somewhat flexible.” She shivered at the image that flashed through her mind unbidden—Dr. Burnham’s whiskers brushing across her neck. She could almost feel them.
Biedermeier grasped a handful of her scarlet skirts and gave her thigh a squeeze. “How flexible?” She fought to tamp down a rising panic, forcing herself not to shove his hand away. “Fully flexible?”
She looked at Mr. Bailey again, who returned her gaze blankly. It all hinged on her. She was drowning, struggling to speak through the layers of pressure on her chest.
“No. Not that flexible, I’m afraid,” she finally whispered.
He was up in a flash. “If you will excuse me then, Lady V. I’m afraid my needs this evening aren’t flexible, either.”
“How very disappointing.” She pouted, making one last attempt to ensnare him. “You won’t reconsider?”
One corner of his mouth turned up ever so slightly. “We are conversing now. Why would I pay for what I can get for free? After all, we commoners can’t afford to be so careless and entitled as you aristocrats.” The comment made Catharine think of Dr. Burnham. She must appear quite the careless—nay, downright reckless—aristocrat to him, too. Not bothering to bow or to take his leave in any formal fashion, Mr. Biedermeier made his way back to Amelia.
Catharine turned to Mr. Bailey, stricken. Should she have offered herself to him? It was the surest and most direct way to extract more information about the man. What must Mr. Bailey think of her? Her exploits with the beau monde’s young men were a poorly kept secret. When Blackstone introduced them, Mr. Bailey remarked that he’d heard of her. He intended the comment to flatter, but if he knew her, it was because of her reputation. What was one more meaningless liaison, he must be wondering. And he would be right, wouldn’t he?
Mr. Biedermeier’s words echoed in her mind. Careless, entitled aristocrat.
Mr. Bailey turned to her, smiling broadly. “Lady V, shall we retire? I have already made arrangements for us. I was, of course, prepared to defer to my friend, seeing as how he only makes it to town once a fortnight. But it is to my benefit that he finds his company elsewhere this evening.”
She nodded and allowed him to lead her away. Once outside the drawing room, they walked quickly, picking up speed as they mounted the staircase. By the time they reached the small white door to her room, she was out of breath trying to keep up with him. He took the key she was fumbling with, unlocked the door, and practically shoved her inside.
“Damn it all to hell!” He immediately began to pace. “Of all the bloody bad luck!”
“Mr. Bailey, I’m sorry. I should have done it.”
He stomped across the room and turned back to her. “No, that’s not what I meant. I hate to have to go to Blackstone and tell him we have nothing. A fortnight lost. It would be one thing if he were here more often. If we can’t think of a way to disengage him from Amelia next time—or a way to bribe her—this will all have been for naught.”
“It’s a terrible disappointment,” she said.
“It’s maddening. To have him so close! If only there were a way to know what he says to her.”
An idea rose, fully formed in her mind. A daring, dangerous idea. “There may be a way.”
“Do tell.”
She reached for his arm. “Quite an obvious way, in fact. Come, and hurry. It may already be too late.”
She led him out the door and down the stairs. Amelia’s room was on the second floor—two flights down. As luck would have it, they met no one on the stairs. At the second floor landing, Catharine motioned for Mr. Bailey to remain in the stairwell while she peeked around the corner. All clear. “Quickly!” She took off down the hallway at a ne
ar run, towing him behind her, and didn’t stop until she’d reached a door at the far corner.
“Can you pick the lock?” she whispered.
In a flash, Mr. Bailey was on his knees working at the lock with a long, thin tool he’d extracted from his breast pocket. She heard footsteps on the stairs. “Hurry!”
A click reverberated through the quiet hallway, and they were in. Heart hammering, she assessed the room. Making for a large armoire at one end, she flung open the doors, grabbed Mr. Bailey’s arm, and shoved him inside. Muffled voices murmured just outside the door. She turned, her stomach dropping. Dear God, what had she done? The sound of a key being inserted into the lock echoed loud as thunder. Mr. Bailey grabbed her hand, pulled her in next to him, and closed the doors. They stood on one side of the armoire, where clothing hung, the other being given over to rows of drawers. Frantically, she tried to arrange Amelia’s gowns to hide them.
“How odd,” Amelia said, her voice audible through the wooden doors. “I was sure I’d locked the door.”
“Make sure you lock it behind you, Mademoiselle.” Catharine could hear the lust in Biedermeier’s voice. There was a sharp slap, and Amelia squealed and giggled.
“Shall I rub your feet, Mr. Biedermeier?” Amelia purred.
There was no answer from Biedermeier. Instead, the room was filled with the subtle sounds of an embrace: the swish of silk, the quickening of breath. “No. Let’s just begin.”
“By all means. Please have a seat.”
The phrase didn’t seem to mean what Catharine thought it did because it wasn’t followed by any of the sounds she would have expected. She cocked her head, trying to hear something—anything. Over the next few minutes there was merely a soft ruffling sound. Perhaps the sound of clothing being removed?
Viscountess of Vice Page 7
