A Dangerous Affair

by Jillian Eaton

“Twenty.”

  “Sixty.”

  “Twenty.”

  The shopkeeper’s face flushed a dull, mottled red. “You’re supposed to bargain with me!”

  “You’re right,” he agreed with an amicable smile that fell just short of his eyes. “Twenty.”

  What the shopkeeper didn’t know – but was quickly coming to realize – was that Grant wasn’t the sort of man who compromised.

  On anything.

  It was not a matter of the money. He may not have been as wealthy as his father (few men were), but wealth was not something that had ever concerned him. Aside from a few extravagant purchases here and there, including a fine breeding stallion he planned on putting out to stud next spring, he lived well within his means.

  He had two houses, one in London and another in Surrey, as well as a small hunting lodge in Scotland that his brothers spent more time at than he did. If he wished, he could have stopped working tomorrow and lived a life of leisure, but sitting on his arse had not appealed to him as a young man fresh out of Eton and it did not appeal to him now.

  “Fine,” the shopkeeper muttered as he slid his spectacles back into place and glared up at Grant with the resentment of someone who was going to take what he’d been offered but wasn’t happy about it. “Twenty it is.”

  Grant paid him and rewrapped the loose leaf pages before tucking them away inside of his coat. Reaching across the counter, he shook the shopkeeper’s hand. “Thank you kindly, sir. My mother will be very pleased.”

  “At least someone will,” the shopkeeper mumbled under his breath. “Rob a poor old man blind, why don’t you. I thought runners were supposed to catch thieves, not be the ones doing the thieving.”

  Grant lifted a brow. He’d spent enough time in St Giles to recognize a swindler when he saw one, and he’d known from the moment he first stepped foot in the bookstore that the gray-haired shopkeeper wasn’t nearly as doddering and harmless as he appeared. “You and I both know you didn’t pay more than five shillings for the entire crate.”

  “Two and a half.” His thin lips stretched in a crafty smile. “But who’s counting?”

  The Duchess of Readington was waiting for her son in the foyer when he arrived. She’d always had a sixth sense where her three boys were concerned, and even though Grant’s visit was an impulsive one she did not seem at all surprised to see him.

  “Do come in and sit down,” she said gaily, her soft gray eyes filled with both pride and adoration as she ushered him into the parlor. Unlike her husband, Caroline hadn’t aged a day over the past twenty-seven years. Or so it seemed to Grant. A classic English beauty with ivory skin and soft blond hair she always wore in a simple twist at the nape of her neck, she was the heart that held the Hargraves together.

  “I was just about to ring for tea.” A knowing smile curved her lips. “Should I have Alice bring in some Shrewsbury cakes as well? Mrs. Bentley made them first thing this morning. They’re still warm from the oven.”

  Grant grinned at his mother. “You did know I was coming, then.”

  “I had a feeling.”

  “You always do.” He kissed her fair brow and gently pushed the packaged novel into her hands. “Here. This is for you. An early birthday present.”

  “For me?” Caroline expressive countenance registered surprise and then unbridled delight as she tore open the paper to reveal what was hidden inside. “Oh Grant! You shouldn’t have. But I am so very glad that you did! How did you know this was precisely the one I was looking for?”

  He shrugged. “I had a feeling.”

  She arched a brow. “Your father told you, didn’t he?”

  “A runner never reveals his sources.”

  “You’re a lovely boy. Have I told you that?” Standing on her toes, she pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek. “And so very thoughtful. I’ll treasure this always.”

  “I am glad you like it.”

  “I love it,” she corrected as she carefully wrapped the pages back inside the brown paper and set the gift aside on a small table. “Now have a seat and tell me what you’ve been doing since I saw you last. You have missed dinner two weeks in a row. I was beginning to grow worried.”

  Every Sunday evening the Hargraves made a point to eat together as a family. It was a tradition Caroline had started when her boys were still young and it was one she’d insisted on maintaining even now that they were all fully grown. With the addition of his sister-in-law’s and two young nephews the dinners were often quite the circus, but Grant – to his surprise – rather enjoyed the bedlam.

  “I’m sorry, Mother,” he said apologetically. “You know I would have been here if I could.” Making himself comfortable in a wide chair upholstered in rich Italian leather, he crossed his legs at the knee. “Bow Street has been busier than usual as of late.”

  Caroline sat across from her son on an elegant rose colored settee and frowned. “Nothing too dangerous, I hope.”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary.” Knowing how his mother worried, he always kept the worst from her. She had no idea how many times he’d been shot at. Or the stabbing that had nearly ended his life. Or the time he’d narrowly avoided being run over by a crazed highwayman. If she knew the truth she would have demanded he leave the runners at once, and since that was something he would never willingly do, he glossed over the finer details of his work to save them both the hurt and disappointment.

  “Well that’s good, I suppose.” Waiting until after the tea and Shrewsbury cakes were brought in to change the topic of conversation, she stirred a lump of sugar into her cup and said (in a very nonchalant sort of voice), “Have you by chance received your invitation?”

  “And what invitation would that be?” Grant said dryly, not fooled for a minute by his mother’s innocent façade. “The one to the Hayworth dinner party or Lord and Lady Dashwood’s?”

  “You’re going to the Dashwood’s ball tomorrow tonight?” she said brightly. “How splendid.”

  “No, that is not what I–”

  “Your father is going to be so very pleased. He was just telling me yesterday that he doesn’t see you enough. This will give you both an excellent opportunity to spend some quality time together.”

  “One hour,” he said grudgingly. “I’ll attend for one hour.”

  “Four.”

  “One and a half.”

  “Two.”

  “Excellent!” Caroline set her cup down and clapped her hands together in delight. “I will let Lady Dashwood know to expect one more.”

  He regarded her with suspicion. “You wanted me to attend for two hours the entire time, didn’t you?”

  The Duchess of Readington may have been sweet as spun sugar, but when she wanted something she was like a terrier with a bone. Now that her first two sons were happily wed she’d set her sights on finding a wife for Grant. He went along with her matchmaking schemes because it made her happy, and because he didn’t have the heart to tell her he was already married...to his work. And Bow Street was the jealous sort who barely allowed him time for a mistress, let alone a wife.

  “I think we both know the answer to that.” Her smile just the tiniest bit smug, Caroline bit into a Shrewsbury cake and dabbed the corners of her mouth with a napkin. “Would you like to share a carriage?”

  “I’ll meet you there. I have some business to attend to and I may be a little late.”

  “Not too late or you will miss Lady Dorothea’s piano recital before the ball.”

  “The horror,” he said dryly.

  “The poor dear cannot carry a tune,” Caroline acknowledged, “but she is a lovely dancer. And if I’m not mistaken, Miss Catherine Evans will be attending as well. You remember her, don’t you? Her parents are dear friends of ours. Why, I remember when you two were children! You used to play together all the time. She has grown up into a beautiful young woman, don’t you agree?”

  Knowing a trap when he saw one, Grant decided now was an excellent time to take his leave.

  �
�Thank you for the tea,” he said as he rose to his feet. “I’m glad you enjoyed your present. I will see you tomorrow evening.”

  “You’re leaving so soon?” she protested. “But you only just got here.”

  “No rest for the wicked. Give Father my best.”

  “Do be careful.” Caroline followed him back out into the foyer. “You know how I worry.”

  “You shouldn’t.” Tucking his hat under his arm, he leaned down and kissed the line furrowing her brow. “I can take care of myself. What time should I arrive?”

  “Don’t you have your invitation?”

  “I must have lost it.” Or tossed it out the window.

  “Indeed,” Caroline said with a look that told him he was not fooling anyone, least of all her. “The ball will begin at half past nine, but Lady Dorothea’s recital will be held at seven in the drawing room followed by a light supper.”

  Over two hours of off-key warbling? He grimaced at the thought.

  “Half past nine it is.”

  “Grant–” his mother began, rolling her eyes in exasperation.

  “Got to go,” he said cheerfully. “Criminals to catch and all that.”

  “What about Miss Evans?” she called after him. “I think the two of you will have a lot to discuss! Lady Chatworth will be there as well. You know her, don’t you? And Miss Browning! We mustn’t forget about her. Or what about…”

  Her voice faded away, lost to the wind as Grant made his escape.

  Bloody hell. One more minute and she’d have had him engaged to half of London! He knew his mother meant well, but he didn’t know how many more of these dinner parties and balls he could take. Each one was exactly the same as the last. Bloody waste of time, if you asked him. And yet another reason why he loved being a runner more than he did a nobleman.

  No day on Bow Street was ever the same as the last. There were no mindless social engagements to get through. No piano recitals to endure. No prattling gossip to ignore. If he could have left that world behind him he would have done so gladly, but that would have also meant leaving his family.

  Which meant for the indeterminable future he would continue to do what he’d always done: find a balance between both worlds. But he knew the day was coming where he would have to choose one or the other. Bow Street or the Ton. Being a runner or a being nobleman. Just as he knew that no matter which one he picked, he would be disappointing someone he loved.

  “I do not know what to do with him.” Leaning back against her husband’s chest, Caroline sighed as she watched her youngest son walk briskly away. He had the long, ground covering stride of his father. As well as his stubbornness, she thought as she tilted her head back and met Eric’s comforting blue gaze.

  “There is nothing to do, I’m afraid. Grant needs to travel his own path.” Wrapping his arms around his slender wife, he rested his chin on top of her head. “He always has.”

  “If he had a wife…” she trailed off, bemused by her son’s refusal to settle down and raise a family. Ever since she was a young girl, the only thing she’d wanted to do was fall in love, get married, and have a family of her own. The perfect happily-ever-after. Needless to say it hadn’t gone precisely as she’d hoped – did anything in life ever go according to plan? – but it had all worked out in the end.

  She was married to the duke of her dreams, she had three wonderful sons and two darling grandchildren. Why shouldn’t she want the same for Grant? She knew his life as a runner was important to him and she was proud of the selfless work he was doing (even though she suspected it was far more dangerous than he let on). But she did not understand why he couldn’t at least look for a wife. She’d presented him with plenty of options, hadn’t she? Sweet, lovely, well-mannered girls which any man would consider himself lucky to marry.

  Grant had scarcely given a single one of them a second glance.

  “Not every man needs a wife,” said Eric.

  “You did,” she pointed out, twisting in his arms until they were face to face. She arched a brow. “Even if you didn’t realize it at the time. ‘This is nothing by a marriage of convenience’,” she said in a deep voice. “‘I am incapable of love.’”

  “I was a fool,” he said without hesitation.

  Caroline’s mouth curved. “I believe the word I used was ‘dolt’.”

  He tucked a golden curl behind her ear, his thumb lingering on the curve of her jaw as he gazed deeply into her soft gray eyes. “Do you know you’re as beautiful as the day I married you?”

  She swatted his hand away. “Do not try to distract me. We are discussing our wayward son and his refusal to find a bride.”

  “Grant will find a wife when he’s ready. There’s no use in badgering him.”

  “I am not badgering him,” she protested.

  Eric simply notched a brow and waited.

  “Oh all right, maybe I was badgering just a little. But don’t you want him to be happy?”

  “He is happy.”

  “He thinks he’s happy,” she countered, lifting her finger for emphasis. “But that’s only because he hasn’t met the love of his life yet.”

  Recognizing the determined gleam in his wife’s gaze all too well, the duke felt a twinge of sympathy for his youngest son. If Grant hadn’t put him through hell and back when he’d gone off to war, he would almost be tempted to warn him.

  Almost.

  “Haven’t you heard it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie?”

  Caroline pursed her lips. “A little nudge here and there isn’t going to hurt anything.”

  As his gaze dipped to his wife’s breasts, Eric’s mouth curved in wolfish agreement. “You’re right about that,” he murmured huskily before he cupped her shapely bottom and pulled her against his growing arousal.

  “What are you doing?” she gasped even as she pressed herself against him. After thirty years of marriage the fire between them still burned, and she’d never been able to resist the heat of the flames. “It’s the middle of the day!”

  “And?” Grinning, he scooped her up into his arms and bounded up the stairs.

  Chapter Six

  “Are ye sure ye want to do this now?” Standing in the middle of Juliet’s bedchamber with his arms crossed, Bran scowled at her as she tried to figure out which weapon would fit best under her gown.

  All of them, she decided as she propped her bare foot on the edge of the bed and started to pull up her skirts. “Do you mind?” she snapped, glaring at Bran over her shoulder.

  He snorted. “As if ye have anythin’ worth looking at. I’ve seen curvier thighs on a chicken.”

  But he averted his gaze as she strapped two daggers to her left leg and a small pistol to her right. Tightening the leather straps to ensure nothing would come loose, she dropped her foot and shook her out skirts.

  Stolen from a house in the fashionable Wayfair District, the sea green evening gown was trimmed with white lace and pearls. It was pretty enough, she supposed, although when she’d put it on she’d felt as though she were stepping into a cage. One with puffed sleeves and a soft muslin overlay, but a cage nevertheless.

  “You can look now.” Sticking her hands on her hips, she squared her shoulders expectantly. “Well, what do you think?”

  An ominous line appeared between Bran’s wheat colored brows as his gaze swept her from top to bottom. “I think this is a bloody bad idea.”

  After Juliet’s close call with the runner yesterday morning, she’d told Bran everything. Once he had finished shouting at her, he’d demanded she lay low until the imminent threat of danger had passed. But Juliet had no intention of sitting on her arse. She wasn’t going to let a near brush with Newgate or a handsome runner dictate her actions. Not that she thought of the runner as handsome. In fact, she’d hardly thought of him at all since their little run-in at the bookstore.

  Well, maybe a few times.

  Or every five minutes.

  Try as she might, she could not forget the green sharpness of his eyes or t
he way she had trembled in response to his touch. She knew it was ridiculous. She knew it was dangerous and stupid and reckless. But knowing something and feeling it were two very different things. Her body craved what her mind knew she could never have. It was a troubling contradiction; one she intended to solve by doing what she did best: stealing.

  “It will be an easy make. Are you saying I can’t do it?” she dared Bran with a challenging tilt of her chin. The thief muttered a curse under his breath.

  “I know ye can,” he said between gritted teeth. “But I don’t see why ye are. Ye have a runner hot on your heels. And not just any runner. You’ve the bloody Wolf after you!” His eyes flashed. “The bastard is relentless, Jules. He won’t give up until you’re locked up in Newgate. The best thing you can do is keep your damn head down and pray he forgets about you.”

  Juliet had a talent for drawing, and after she’d sketched out a rough profile of the runner in question, emphasizing his thick brows and strong jawline, Bran had immediately known who he was.

  He’d revealed that her pursuer was none other than Lord Grant Hargrave, third son of the powerful Duke of Readington. In the back alleys of St Giles he was known as The Wolf for his tenacity and vicious bite. It was said that once he caught someone’s scent they might as well turn themselves in because he wasn’t going to stop until he had them in irons. But she wasn’t afraid. Not of him, not of any man. And she was going to prove it.

  “Keep my head down?” she said with an incredulous snort. “I’d rather cut it off. I am not going to stop doing what I am best at just because of a runner.”

  “Not jest any runner,” Bran reminded her. “The Wolf is second-in-command.”

  Her mouth curled in a sneer. “He could be the bloody magistrate for all I care and it wouldn’t make a difference. You said he catches every thief he goes after?”

  “Aye,” Bran said curtly.

  “Well, I was right under his nose and he didn’t catch me.” Sitting on the edge of the bed, she pulled on stockings and a pair of sturdy leather ankle boots. No flimsy silk slippers for this damsel. Juliet may have been attending a ball, but she had no intention of dancing.