A Dangerous Affair

by Jillian Eaton

  “Now take your pistol and any other weapons you have and toss them into the river. Keep one hand behind your head and your eyes on me.” A flash of silver moonlight reflected off the blade of her knife as she took a step back. Grant was tempted to lunge forward and overpower her, but he knew it was often better to bide one’s time until an opportunity presented itself.

  A lesson he’d learned the hard way from a certain red-haired vixen with a penchant for sharp objects.

  Wondering how the devil he was going to explain losing another gun to the other runners, he slowly withdrew his pistol from its holster and his knife from his boot and threw them both into the Thames, his burning gaze never leaving Juliet’s.

  “What now?” he asked, the two words more of a taunt than a question. “I told you before. I’ll chase you to the ends of the earth. If you want me to stop, you’re going to have to kill me. Do you have that in you, little tigress? The ability to kill a man? It’s harder than it seems.”

  “I know how hard it is,” she snapped.

  “Then what are you waiting for? Oh, that’s right. You don’t want to hurt me unless you have to.” And because his pride was wounded, and because he wanted to hurt Juliet as she had hurt him, he said the cruelest thing he could think of. “Tell me, have you whored yourself out to other runners or should I consider myself special?”

  The slur was beneath him, and he regretted it even before her cheeks turned white and the knife trembled in her hand.

  “Juliet, I apologize. I didn’t mean–”

  “I am not a whore, I’m a thief.” Her eyes flashed a dark, dangerous shade of green as her hand steadied. “And you can pretend otherwise all you want, runner. But you kissed me.”

  “You’re right. I did.” His hands latched onto his hair in frustration, pulling the ebony curls taut as he continued to stand with his arms bent behind his head. “But I shouldn’t have, and I am sorry for taking advantage of you.”

  She lifted her chin. “No one takes advantage of me.”

  “Are you saying you enjoyed the kiss?” He managed to keep his tone indifferent, as if he didn’t give a donkey’s arse one way or the other, but there was no denying the quickening in his loins as he recalled the way she’d quivered when he had run his tongue along the delicate curved shell of her ear.

  Had the kiss meant something to her, as it had meant something to him? Or had it just been another means to an end, like the first?

  “I’m saying…” She hesitated, and he could all but see the gears in her clever mind spinning and turning as she considered her answer. “I’m saying it wasn’t the worst kiss I’ve ever had.”

  “So you’ve kissed other men.” And why the hell that should invoke a sharp pang of jealousy he hadn’t the faintest idea.

  Not yours, he reminded himself. She’s not yours, Hargrave, and even if she were – since when have you gotten your bollocks in a twist over a woman’s sexual history? The more experienced the better, remember?

  Yes, that had always been his personal motto before…and one of the reasons he’d gravitated towards widows and mistresses and actresses with a long line of lovers attached to their names. He’d known he wasn’t their first, just as he’d known he wouldn’t be their last. And he was grateful for it. Grateful that they knew how the game was played, and when they parted ways they would do so amicably, with no hard feelings between them. No feelings at all, to be precise.

  It was how he preferred it. How he’d always preferred it. So why was his blood beginning to boil at the mere thought of another man tasting the honeyed sweetness of Juliet’s lips? Maybe she really was a witch. It was the only thing that made any bloody sense, because desiring a woman who kissed him one moment and drew a knife on him the next certainly didn’t.

  “Whether I’ve kissed another man is none of your business. We’re not friends, runner.”

  “You’re right.” He rocked back on his heels, a roguish grin lifting one corner of his mouth. “We’re not. Because I sure as hell don’t kiss friends like I just kissed you.”

  She arched a brow. “I’m willing to bet you don’t try to put them in manacles, either.”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  Her reply was a snort. “So what now?” she asked, expertly tossing the knife from one hand to the other. “I run away, you chase me.”

  “We kiss,” he interceded.

  “That’s not going to happen again.”

  “Is that another bet?” he asked, enjoying himself despite the blade pointing at his heart.

  “Maybe it is.”

  “Let’s put ten shillings on it, then.”

  The slight widening of her eyes was the only indication he’d managed to catch her off guard. “You really want to bet on if we’re going to kiss again?”

  “Afraid you’ll lose?”

  She gave a haughty toss of her head. “Maybe you should just give me the ten shillings now and save yourself the trouble.”

  “I fear my pockets are empty.”

  “That’s a pity.”

  “Yes,” he said, staring deep into her eyes. “It is.”

  She held his unwavering gaze without blinking and they stared at each other in silence, neither of them wanting to be the one who looked away first. Neither of them wanting to display anything that could be seen as a weakness. Neither of them wanting to admit what they were both beginning to feel in their hearts.

  “What now, runner?” she asked quietly.

  It was a simple question, but there was no simple answer.

  “Now…now you run, and I catch you, and you stand before the magistrate.” Even as he spoke the words out loud they sat ill in his stomach, like the fish he’d eaten at Lady Harrington’s dinner party. “There’s no other way this can go, Juliet. You know that as well as I.”

  “What if I promise to never steal again?”

  “Justice would still need to be served.”

  “Justice.” Her mouth twisted in a bitter smile. “Justice is not as black and white as you runners like to pretend. No one is perfect. No one is without sin. Not even you.”

  “I never claimed to be,” he said stiffly.

  “You don’t have to claim something to believe it.”

  “What do you want from me, Juliet?” Frustration edged his tone. He knew what she was asking, but he couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t. Not unless he was willing to give up what made him who he was.

  Some men defined themselves by their titles. Others by the number of estates they owned or how much money they had in their coffers. But Grant had always defined himself by something else. Something that couldn’t be bought or sold. Something that had no monetary value, but was worth more to him than all the gold in the world.

  His integrity.

  If he gave that up…who would he be? What would he become?

  “If you come with me willingly, I’ll put in a good word for you.” Even as he said the words out loud, he knew Juliet would never surrender. Her wild spirit was as much a part of her as his honor was a part of him. “That’s the best I can do. I’m sorry.”

  “You have nothing to apologize for. You’re only doing your job.” She hesitated, and like a veil being dropped to reveal a painting, the guard she kept over her emotions slipped, giving him a rare glimpse of the vulnerability she kept hidden from the rest of the world. “Do you know, I sometimes wonder how different my life would have been if I’d been born in a fancy house instead of a root cellar.” A wry smile flitted across her face. “I always thought it would impossibly boring and dull. All those dresses to wear and balls to attend.”

  “Don’t forget the dinner parties,” Grant said dryly.

  “Of course.” Her smile faded as she met his gaze. “But now…now I don’t think it would be dull or boring at all.”

  “Juliet.” He reached for her without thinking, only to leap back with a startled curse when her knife sliced through his coat. “Bloody hell! Watch what you’re doing with that thing. You could have stabbed me.” />
  “If I had wanted to stab you, you would be bleeding.” Any traces of vulnerability vanishing behind a sneer, she started to edge towards the bridge. “It’s been lovely chatting with you runner, but I’ve other things to do.”

  “I’ll be collecting those ten shillings sooner than you think.” He could have easily gone after her. They both knew it. But instead he let her go, sliding his hands into his pockets as he watched her saunter away into the heavy wall of gray fog.

  “Soon,” he repeated quietly. “Very soon.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Nine Months Later

  St. James Park, London

  Juliet sauntered through the crowded park with a spring in her step and a glint in her eye. Dressed in a pale blue muslin walking dress, matching bonnet, and soft green shawl, she blended in perfectly with the ladies who had turned out in droves for their daily constitutional.

  On the main thoroughfare curricles and buggies raced past one right after the other, pulled by energetic horses eager to stretch their legs after a long winter spent slogging through the snow and the slush. Children, their pockets heavy with breadcrumbs, flocked to the pond to feed the quacking ducks while their nannies struggled to keep pace.

  The breeze that fluttered through the trees was warm. The sun was bright. The sky a clear, cloudless blue. It was a beautiful spring day. One made even more beautiful by the smell of old money and the sapphire necklace Juliet was following.

  The necklace was attached to the Dowager Duchess Glastonbury, an elderly woman who'd recently lost her husband to old age and a weak heart. To add insult to injury, the lecherous old goat had been found arse up in the bed of his mistress.

  Word had it the dowager was so enraged and humiliated she planned on holding a public auction at the end the week to sell off all the jewelry the late duke had given her over the course of their long - and clearly tumultuous - marriage. It was a thumb in the face of a man who had prided himself on maintaining a perfect public image while indulging in all manners of sinful decadence behind closed doors.

  Word also had it that among the things the dowager planned on auctioning off was a diamond tiara that had once belonged to Queen Anne, the last monarch of the House of Stuart. If that was true, it would make the tiara invaluable.

  Although Juliet was fairly confidant she could manage to come up with a price for it.

  If she could get her hands on the tiara before it went up for auction, she would never need to steal anything again. She and Bran could retire from their life of crime and spend the rest of their days traveling the world. She'd always wanted to see Spain and India.

  Wherever they went, she already knew they would never be able to return to London. Or at least she wouldn't. Although she’d gone to great pains over the past nine months to stay out of trouble and keep her head down, she knew Grant was still out there searching for her. She hadn’t seen him with her own eyes, but there had been whispers of The Wolf prowling through the East End. Why, just last week little Johnny Reed had sworn up and down he’d seen the runner having a pint at The Lusty Mermaid. A story two barmaids had been only too happy to corroborate.

  Giving up her life of crime (even if just temporarily) had been one of the hardest things Juliet had ever done, but she had known it was either that or find herself in Newgate. For it hadn’t been a question of if Grant would catch her. It had been a question of when. And after their last encounter she hadn’t been willing to take any more chances. Especially when she couldn’t trust herself around him.

  He brought out things inside of her she didn’t recognize. Feelings she didn’t want. Weaknesses she didn’t need. So instead of tempting fate a third time, she’d simply…disappeared.

  This was the first time she'd come out in the open since Blackfriars Bridge. She felt like a field mouse scurrying out into a farmer's field while a hawk soared in circles high above the clouds. Albeit a field mouse armed to its little buckteeth. If Grant swooped out of the sky, she'd be ready.

  "Excuse us." A haughty voice interrupted Juliet's thoughts as a trio of women, led by a cool-eyed blonde with a pale, thin face, stopped in the middle of the walking path and glowered down their noses at her. "You are in our way."

  Juliet blinked. There was plenty of room for the women to walk around her, but apparently they were of the opinion that the middle of the stone-covered path was reserved for them and them alone. Knowing a bully when she saw one - or in this case, three - she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, her gaze flicking to the lady on the left and the lady on the right before centering on the one in the middle.

  "Perhaps you are in my way. Did you ever consider that?" she asked.

  The blonde's mouth dropped open, drawing Juliet's eye to a distracting brown mole nestled just above her upper lip. "Who do you think you are?" she demanded haughtily.

  "I know who I am. Who the bollocks do you think you are?"

  The woman on the right let out a scandalized gasp. "Lady Ashburn, we should keep walking.” She looked quickly around. "People may start talking."

  "Oh no." Juliet's eyes widened with exaggerated concern. "What do you think they might say?"

  She'd never understood the nobility's obsession with gossip. They pretended to avoid it at all costs, but at the first opportunity they used it to tear one another to shreds. Like a pack of blood-thirsty wolves turning on each other.

  Lady Ashburn's mole stretched to the side as her mouth curled in a sneer. "Do you think I don't know your type? Your dress is two seasons out of date and I wouldn't even make my lady's maid wear such a hideously old bonnet. You're nothing more than a grasping little opportunist looking for a wealthy man to sink your claws into."

  "You got all that from my refusing to move out of your way?" Juliet slowly clapped her hands together in a mocking round of applause. "Bravo. You've pegged me, all right. That's why I came to the park today. Not for some fresh air, but to find myself a rich husband and - what was it? Ah, yes. Sink my claws into him." Grinning, she lifted her arms with her fingertips curled inwards. "Rawr."

  "Anna, Kate, come along. The poor thing is clearly deranged." Picking up her skirts, Lady Ashburn sailed past with her nose so high in the air Juliet wouldn’t have been surprised if it started spurting blood. Her companions scurried after her like two puppies heeling to their master’s side, leaving Juliet standing alone.

  "Snobby bitches," she muttered under her breath. Adjusting the brim of her hideously old bonnet, she scanned ahead for a glimpse of the Dowager Duchess, but the older woman and her retinue were nowhere to be seen. They must have stepped into a carriage or gone down a different walking trail.

  Snatching the bonnet off her head in a fit of frustration, Juliet threw it down and ground it into the dirt with the heel of her boot. She needed that tiara. But to get to the tiara, she had to get to the Dowager Duchess first. And now, courtesy of a snide nabob with a mole the size of Hyde Park, all of her efforts had come to naught.

  Eyes narrowing to thin slits of annoyed green, she turned and watched as Lady Ashburn and her two companions flounced away down the path. She’d promised herself – and Bran – she wouldn’t partake in any petty thievery. But surely a little robbery wouldn’t hurt anything. Besides, she needed to make certain her reflexes were still top notch before she attempted the crime of the century.

  And Lady Ashburn had just given her the perfect target.

  Lips curving in a secretive little smile, she continued walking. But she’d no sooner gone more than a hundred yards when the back of her neck began to tingle.

  She kept moving at a normal pace, giving no indication that she felt a pair of eyes on her back, when she came to a sharp bend in the trail. Ducking swiftly behind a tall tree that had vines creeping up one side of its massive trunk, she drew a dagger out from beneath the folds of her shawl and held it at the ready. If Grant thought to get the drop of her, he was going to have to be a bit sneakier at it.

  But when she jumped out from behind the tree, no one wa
s there. The trail was completely empty. Frowning, she slowly tucked the knife away. But she couldn’t shake the feeling of someone watching her, and like a mouse scurrying back to its den after it saw the shadow of a hawk rippling across the ground, she promptly returned to the East End.

  Blood sprayed out of Hayworth’s mouth as Belcher delivered a powerful uppercut. The crowd roared as he staggered back against the ropes. For a moment it looked as though he was going to collapse, but out of sheer will and determination he managed to stay on his feet. Swaying drunkenly from side to side, he tried to land a blow to Belcher’s ribcage. With a taunting laugh his opponent danced nimbly out of the way.

  “Come on you big bastard,” Grant said between clenched teeth, the fifty pound note he’d bet on the boxing match crumpled in his fist. “Get your balance. There’s a lad. Now lean in and – bloody hell.”

  Hayworth struck with the strength and speed of a rampaging bull. Belcher’s feet actually left the ground as the punch to his jaw sent him sailing backwards. He landed flat on his back and this time made no attempt to rise. The umpire pried back his eyelids, tapped his cheeks, and when there was no response save a painful groan, jerked Hayworth’s arm in the air and declared him the winner by knockout.

  “Son of a bitch.” Discarding his note in disgust, Grant fought his way through the chanting crowd. ‘Belcher, Belcher!’ they screamed, men and women alike clambering to get closer to the best boxer to ever come out of Bristol. The entire root cellar shook as hundreds of feet pounded the ground. Ale began to flow as entire kegs were rolled down from upstairs, and Grant helped himself to a frothy pint before he found the nearest exit.

  Blessedly cool, fresh air greeted him as he stepped out into the alley behind Darby McCall’s, a renowned gentleman’s club on the outskirts of the theatre district. Every Thursday night the club hosted a boxing match that drew crowds from all over London. Although boxing was discouraged by the magistrates, the runners had unanimously agreed to turn a blind eye as long as no one was hurt – aside from the boxers themselves, of course.