by Sue London
He sketched a bow. “At your service, Miss Grant.”
Had she conjured him from her fervent imaginings? Her thoughts scrambled for purchase. Here he was and she hadn’t considered how she would proceed in this situation. Which would be better? A turn out-of-doors where they might find some privacy in the gardens? Or the tension born of touching politely in a room of onlookers when all one really wanted was to be able to strip off one’s partner’s clothes? She reminded herself that she didn’t just want him, she wanted to break his control. Wanted to see what he was capable of. All that energy of his could, she thought, be put to good use.
She snapped her fan closed and gave him a winsome smile. “I would love to dance.”
* * *
Miss Grant’s reaction to his greeting had been almost comical. Considering how composed she had been in their two previous encounters, including the one where he had nearly stumbled over her in the street, it had been intriguing to find her so flat-footed. By the time he led her out onto the dance floor it was clear that she had returned to her usual blasé demeanor. He hadn’t questioned that jaded, seductive persona before, but seeing her taken unawares it had been clear that it was, indeed, a persona. In her surprise she had seemed softer. Vulnerable. Open. She had wet her pink lips while considering how to reply to him, and he had been tempted to kiss her there in the ballroom. He usually wasn’t taken by the sweet and gentle, but it had just made her seem… naked. Delectably, sensually naked.
Now, thank God, she was dressed both literally and figuratively as they prepared to make their way through the intricate steps of a classic country-dance. It would never do to have his name in the scandal sheets for kissing an American girl on the dance floor of the Lyle Summer Ball. He would prefer, in fact, if his presence here weren’t noted at all. He didn’t care much for entertainments and didn’t fancy having to refuse a flurry of invitations if hostesses thought he might be willing to attend theirs.
As the orchestra struck up the tune she asked him, “Would you like to play a game?”
He smiled at her. “Always. What are the rules?”
“Whoever makes the most correct guesses about the other wins.”
On one level her proposal alarmed him. Nothing good could come of anyone attempting to dig into his history. However, Robert loved games and he especially loved games he knew he could win. He had received his first dossier of information about her this morning. She was younger than he thought, only twenty-two, and far richer than he could have imagined. “I find myself intrigued. Who goes first? “
“I will,” she said smugly. “You were hurt very badly by someone you loved.”
The dance separated them, but when they came back together he said, “Too vague. For instance, I think that you,” he trailed off, narrowing his eyes as though looking deeply into her, “have traveled extensively.”
She snorted. “Too vague.”
He added, “With your mother's shipping company.”
Her eyes widened for a moment, then narrowed in suspicion. When their dance brought them back together she scoffed, “Information you learned from my cousin does not count as guessing.”
* * *
Imogen thought that Mr. Bittlesworth appeared far too smug. It would do him good to be brought down a peg or two. She looked at him, really looked at him, as she didn't often with people. She usually didn't want to see too much. But this man, with his smirk and information he only could have received from Violetta during the supper, had pushed her too far. As they separated again during the dance she kept her eyes trained on him, endeavoring to see him, see into him. It had been so long since she had attempted to do such a thing she wasn't sure it would work. But it did. And what she saw made her falter and collide with another dancer.
Seeing her distress, Bittlesworth made straight for her and whisked her off the dance floor. She was torn between a desire to struggle away from him and console him. Death. So much death around him. She shouldn't have looked. She wrapped her arms around herself and focused on pulling in her perceptions.
“Give her air, please,” Bittlesworth said, holding his hand up to some well-meaning guest that fluttered nearby. His tone was sharp, commanding. A man used to giving orders.
No, no, no. Stop observing. Stop trying to read him. She closed her eyes tightly and rocked from the waist, her arms a protective shield. The images had flit by so rapidly she hadn't been able to see a pattern, just blood. She had smelled offal and the sweat of desperation. The vision had been overwhelming, but underneath it she had sensed him. His grim determination. His stark sense of justice.
Now she heard his voice sharply in her ear. “Breathe.”
His tone cut into her reverie. She took a deep breath and realized they were outside. Her eyes popped open in surprise. They were in the gardens. The scent of roses and gardenias laced the air. She didn't see any other guests around them, and suspected the foreboding glare Bittlesworth gave their surroundings was the cause of it.
“Were you a soldier?” she asked.
He turned his attention back to her and frowned. “No.”
Her mouth was quite dry and her tongue felt thick. “Then why have you killed so many people?”
Chapter Four
Robert felt every inch of his skin erupt in tingles. As a green lad he had been snookered in cards once. It wasn't a mistake he made often, placing a bet he couldn't afford to lose. A bet he wasn't certain, beyond doubt, he would win. There had been that card game, and now Miss Grant's game. He schooled his expression into one of polite perplexity. “I'm sorry? You think I've done what?”
Her aqua eyes regarded him solemnly. Her eyes seemed ancient. Fathomless. She didn't bother repeating her question, merely took another deep breath and squared her shoulders.
“Thank you for the dance, Mr. Bittlesworth.”
And then she walked away, back to the lights and gaiety of the ball. He wanted to grab her by the shoulders, demand why she thought he had killed anyone. He would study her dossier in detail again tonight. It stood to reason, with her connections and ease of international travel, that she might be an agent. But why boldly ask him about the men he had killed? Why the pretense of a near fainting spell? Nothing about this made sense. Robert didn't like things that didn't make sense.
* * *
Imogen had recovered from her evening and enjoyed a morning playing with Violetta's sons. Then the butler arrived with a silver salver, bearing a fancy note addressed to “Miss Grant” and sealed with wax. She noted the wax had been pressed with a stamp of crossed swords. Raising her brows at Violetta, she broke the seal and opened the missive.
“And?” her cousin asked impatiently.
“It's an invitation,” Imogen murmured, reading through it.
“To what?”
“Tea. With the Duchess of Beloin.”
“When?”
Imogen looked up. “Today.”
Violetta chuckled. “The duchess is quite unorthodox. What did you do that garnered her attention?”
“I'm sure I don't know.”
Violetta patted her hand. “The two of you will get along swimmingly. You'll have to tell me all about it.”
“You think I should accept?”
“She's a duchess, you goose. You must accept.”
Imogen frowned mildly at Violetta's casual acceptance of rank. But an unorthodox duchess could certainly be an entertaining diversion, and Imogen needed something to keep her from thinking about the intriguing but quite frightening Mr. Bittlesworth. She penned her acceptance.
* * *
Robert wasn't given much to guilt or questioning his own actions, and it rankled him that Miss Grant's voice kept returning to him. ‘Why have you killed so many people?’ Firstly, he would like to question her use of ‘so many’. In his line of work he had the death of more than a few men on his hands, some directly and more indirectly. But what really qualified as ‘many’, anyway? Especially ‘so many’. Was that any number above ten? He steered his
attention back to the report he had been decrypting, but it almost immediately flitted away again. Secondly, he still had no idea how she even knew he'd killed anyone, much less ‘so many’. Did the character of the men matter naught? It could be said that innocents died on the battlefields every day, on both sides. Loyal, honorable men who wanted only to serve their country and were thrown against each other day after day until one side or the other broke. There were few innocents, few loyal, honorable men to be found in the back alleys that Robert had claimed as his battlefield.
That had been her question, hadn't it? ‘Were you a soldier?’ As though that might make the history of death, of blood, somehow more palatable. The only thing that made death palatable, or killing truly honorable was the end result. The triumph of moral justice. Generals attempted to secure it by sending thousands of boys to their death. Robert did it by collecting and controlling information. And, from time to time, a well-placed knife to the ribs or shot to the head. Why was he to be judged, while generals were awarded medals? He had, in the final accounting, killed far fewer for far greater results.
But no matter. He had some of his best men working on the puzzle of Miss Grant and how she knew anything about Robert Bittlesworth. The chance meeting on the street in front of the apothecary didn't seem so chance at all anymore. His men had already turned up that the shop had been under investigation for some months now, and routing back the source had led to none other than his old friend Gideon Wolfe, Earl of Harrington. Lord Lucifer. Soon he would find out from Gideon what had prompted him to tip off the minister of health. It could be nothing, but best to leave no stone unturned when it came to this flirtatious and over-informed American.
* * *
Imogen had grown up with wealth. She had traveled widely and seen some of the most beautiful buildings in the world. She had dined with princes and danced with kings. It was no small feat to impress her, but she found the townhouse of the Duke and Duchess of Beloin to be enchanting. Casual wealth was evident in the soaring marble foyer and carved mahogany bannister. Discipline and efficiency were evident in the staff that greeted her and conveyed her through the house. Taste and refinement were clear in the artwork on display. But what brought a smile to her face were the clear marks of a couple that didn't care about your opinion of them. Dirty boots in the front hall that, based on the look the butler had cut towards them, were only left alone by a clear command that they were neither to be removed nor cleaned. Artwork that bordered on the obscene displayed in public hallways. In Imogen's experience the wealthy were often so preoccupied by impressing others that they had little personality at all. This home, however, indicated that its residents had quite a bit of personality. Were perhaps even eccentric. Her spirits buoyed, she followed on the heels of the butler.
The sitting room was large, bordering on huge. The walls soared to over twenty feet in height, covered in gold and white silk. The oak floors spanned out in all directions, soaking afternoon sunlight filtering in from cloister windows. In the midst of that golden expanse sat three women in a coze, heads close together and laughing before looking up at her entrance. One blonde, one honey brown, and one a darkest sable. After Imogen's name rang out across the room the dark-haired one nodded once, quite serenely. “Welcome to my home.”
This was the duchess? Hardly larger, hardly older than a child. But the feature that sent Imogen's stomach sideways were the girl's eyes. A darker, more intense blue, but she knew there was no mistake. This girl was a relative of Robert Bittlesworth. The afternoon took on a decidedly less cheerful air.
She curtsied low. “Your grace.”
The duchess herself radiated a muted gray aura that was difficult to assess. The blonde was awash in the violet light of an artist, while the brown-haired girl had a soft blue radiance. Imogen waited for one of them to speak.
* * *
Sabrina Telford nee Bittlesworth, Sabre to her friends, used almost every ounce of her quite considerable control to keep from bouncing up and down in her seat. The last time she remembered being this excited was the first time Charlie took her out to ride a pony. This was the woman that Robert had danced with last night and then ‘took outside for some air.’ Now Sabre would do her sisterly duty and ensure that Miss Grant was the catch that Robert needed. Not that her eldest brother would thank her at all for presuming to interfere in his business. In fact, her friend George, the blonde on her left, had already suggested that Robert would come up with some quite creative revenge for any meddling. But if she were so concerned, then George shouldn't have come over first thing this morning to report the news about Robert, which she had heard from her husband, who had heard it from his business partner, who had been at the dance in question. Because it was completely predictable what Sabre would do with such news. Starting, of course, with inviting over Jack, the honey-haired woman to her right, so that they could discuss the potential ramifications of Robert having formed a tendre. The three young women called themselves the Haberdashers. In their youth they had been the terrors of Derbyshire. Now they were a duchess, a countess, and a former spy.
None of that was of any mind to this Miss Grant. Sabre regarded her keenly. Tall, though not as tall as Jack. Ginger-haired with a direct, bright aqua gaze. Yes. Sabre thought she could come to quite like Miss Grant. Provided that first looks weren't deceiving and the woman didn't turn out to be a simpering nitwit.
“Please, join us,” Sabre invited, indicating a seat on the low settle across from her. “May I introduce the Countess of Harrington,” she said, indicating Jack, “and Mrs. Rokiczana.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Miss Grant said. Such a harsh American accent. That was definitely a mark against her.
“How do you take your tea?” Sabre asked, beginning to pour.
“Just plain, please.”
Like George. Interesting.
Chapter Five
Introductions having been made, Imogen waited patiently to find out why the duchess had summoned her. As the tea was poured, the blonde asked, “You realize there’s no harbor to throw it into?”
The countess gasped. “George!”
The duchess gave her friend a quelling look and said evenly, “Yes, George. Don’t.”
The blonde looked far from quelled, but also seemed more interested in teasing than anything else, as she waggled her eyebrows at Imogen.
“Actually,” Imogen said, “I developed my fondness for tea while in China. That’s why I don’t take milk or sugar. It’s only inferior tea that requires something additional to make it palatable.”
The blonde grinned now. “I think she’s saying we may drink inferior tea.”
The countess shook her head. “Actually, as she didn’t immediately request milk or sugar, she’s inferring that our tea may be acceptable.”
“Oh, well now you’ve caught her in a coil. She can’t request milk or sugar without seeming to pass judgment.”
“Haberdashers,” the duchess scolded, “you are being far from welcoming.”
“But she’s not a guest,” the blonde countered, relaxing back against the sofa cushions in a decidedly unladylike posture. “She may be my new sister. I wouldn’t want her to have a false impression of me.”
Imogen froze. How could all of these women be sisters of Robert Bittlesworth? They didn’t even appear to share the same parents. Although entertained by the bold and sarcastic girl now lounging back with a challenging glint in her eyes, Imogen would have happily paid a dear price to be able to leave the room immediately. She barely knew Robert Bittlesworth and hardly wanted his bevy of sisters testing her for ‘suitability’ or whatever else it was they had in mind. It was no better than being at a seamstress, sized and measured and pricked by needles.
“I’m sorry, Miss Grant,” the countess said, quite earnestly. “We are obviously far too much at our ease and shouldn’t treat you so. I would love to hear about your travels in China. Were you there long?”
“Two years,” she replied. “I was young enough that
at the time it felt like forever.”
“Have you traveled anywhere else?”
Imogen smiled down into her cup. The tea was quite good. “It’s fair to say that I’ve traveled everywhere else.”
“That sounds exciting,” the countess said encouragingly. “Did you enjoy it?”
Imogen looked up at the young woman again. Most people took the opportunity to say they were jealous, or went on at some length about how they did or didn’t want to travel. Few asked if Imogen had enjoyed herself, but the countess had a steady gaze that said she was truly interested in the response. “Sometimes. But traveling can be quite tiresome. Weeks or months on the ships. Feeling awkward in another culture, not able to speak the language or know what to do in most situations.”
“What are your talents?” the duchess asked.
Imogen turned her attention to the petite brunette. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your accomplishments. Your hobbies.”
“I juggle,” the blonde volunteered as an example.
“It’s not that I didn’t understand your question,” Imogen clarified. “I fail to see the relevance.”
The blonde tapped her foot. “I think you know precisely why we’re asking. Anything that concerns Robert concerns us.”
Imogen didn’t think she often displayed the temper many equated with her flame-colored hair, but she was quite finished with this odd and heavy-handed inquisition. She might as well show the blonde how rude and sarcastic was really done. “Pardon my uncouth American manners, your grace, but I don’t understand how a simple dinner party and dance can generate this much interest. I have spent far more time with many men, I assure you.”
The duchess only raised her brows. “Dinner party?”
Imogen stood. “Enjoy your afternoon, ladies.”
