by Heather Gray
"What was your plan, then? Brute force?"
He smiled. "I'd thought to pose as a customs official or some such."
"Hm. Not bad, but you'd be better off posing as my man of business."
Owen had to ask. "You've never told me how you gathered the information you sent in that coded message to Rutherford."
"I investigated. What more do you need to know?"
A sigh slipped out before Owen could stop it. He'd thought they were making progress, but she still held herself back. "How do we know there won't be a woman on that ship named Giselda Fairweather?"
Isabel, not normally one to fidget, twined her fingers together. "My information is sound. The investigation told me the shipment — whatever it is — was being sent unaccompanied under that name. It seems they felt that was the least conspicuous way to get their merchandise onto English soil."
"What if someone on the ship knows Giselda Fairweather? What of your ruse then?"
She shook her head. "I did some asking whilst I was in Gloucester. I don't think she's a real person."
"It's too risky."
"Danger is what we do, is it not? I'll do the talking. You'll keep me safe. We can do this. As partners."
Much as he wanted to, he couldn't argue. "Certainly. But I don't think you should give too much lead time to building your identity."
"Agreed. Check in with Hank, get your old room back, and listen to the chatter."
Isabel started to walk away from him, but after a two steps, her movement faltered. She looked back over her shoulder, her blue eyes brighter than should be possible in the fading light. "Why did the prince let you live?"
Owen's breath caught in his throat. "What?"
Turning fully to face him, Isabel asked again, "Why did the Russian prince let you live? You told me he had his reasons. I'd like to know what they were."
Heat built up in Owen's chest. Isabel seemed determined to uncover every part of his life that he'd rather she not. Why couldn't she be content to simply think him the hero and leave well enough alone? No, of course not. She needed to dig until she learned how ordinary he truly was.
Owen forced his jaw muscles to loosen so he could answer. "The prince gave me full access to all of his ledgers. I hoped to find something that would tell me why his wife had been targeted. Since money is almost always the cause, it seemed like a good place to start, especially when I learned that his wife made a habit of reviewing said ledgers on a regular basis."
He paused, remembering the devastation on the prince's face when he'd informed him of his findings. A glance at Isabel found her leaning in, lips parted, eyes bright. Much as he didn't care to relive the next part, Owen knew he would tell her everything.
"The prince employed a number of people to oversee his various estates. The man of business at his primary residence, though, had begun stealing from him three months before the princess's death. It turns out that she uncovered the theft and confronted the man. The prince himself was away on business at the time, or she'd have gone to him. As it was, she showed mercy and banished the man from her husband's land. The prince would have had him executed. In banishing him, though, the princess allowed him an opportunity to hire an assassin. She was killed before she could report his misdeed to her husband."
Owen scrubbed a hand across his face. This wasn't a part of his past he particularly liked to recall. "I told the prince about the discrepancy in the books. He was able to put a name to the misdeeds. I'd thought he would bring the man in for questioning or — foolishly — that there would be a trial. Instead the prince tortured him until he got the full story, including the name of the assassin. So, while I may have failed to bring him the assassin, I gave the prince the man who'd hired him."
Isabel's eyes were in shadow now. How he wished he could better read them. Her voice moved softly through the night. "And the man of business? What was his fate?"
Owen's jaw clenched involuntarily, and he had to again force it loose. "Executed at the prince's hand."
She nodded. "The form of justice bothers you, or that you played a role in it?"
"I thought the prince was trying to frighten him into revealing more information. Then the sword flashed, and before I could get a single sound out, the man's head lay there next to his fallen body. I should have expected it, but somehow I didn't."
Isabel stepped close enough to rest her hand on his arm. "We all see things in this business that we wish we could undo."
"Yes, well…" The words hung between them, and she allowed it. Owen was again struck by what a still person Isabel was. It wasn't just her physical movements, either. Everything about her, including her words, was calm and still.
With a shake of his head, Owen tried to dislodge the mood and images the talk of Russia had brought with it. "How shall I get ahold of you when I know something?"
She gave him a saucy wink and grin. "I'm sure you'll figure it out." Then she was gone, slipping down a side street and out of his view.
Owen rubbed his jaw, thoughts of Russia replaced by much more pleasant ones. Any man lucky enough to win Isabel's favor would never have a dull day in all his life.
He smiled to himself. Owen abhorred boredom.
****
A note was waiting for Owen the next morning as he made his way above stairs to break his fast. Hank handed it to him with a glare. Despite his protests to the contrary, the barkeep still believed his barmaid Iola had run off with Owen. The rate for Owen's room had even been doubled in retribution for the perceived wrong.
Owen couldn't blame the man. After all, he had run off with the barmaid. Not that he had any plans to admit it.
He sat down to his meal and opened the intricately folded note.
Tonight. Usual place. Q.
Owen wanted to laugh. In three small words she'd made him want to bow and say, "Yes, m'lady, whatever you say." Maybe he was projecting, but since he knew the Q stood for Queen, he couldn't help but find an imperial tone in the missive.
After his meal, Owen set out for a walk that landed him at the door to the harbor master's office. He stepped through, but nobody paid him any heed.
Owen wandered over to the board where estimated arrival dates were posted. It took him a while to locate the ne Hurlants, and the minute he did, he let out a low whistle.
"Aye! There y'are! I was wonderin' if you'd show yer face 'round here again. That boat yer so interested in is comin' asooner'n anybody thought. Latest update says day af'er tomorrow."
"Thank you. I'll be back two days hence with my client. We'll need to get onto that ship as soon as it docks."
A gap-toothed grin was his answer. "Aye. I'm sure they'll be jus' thrilled with that, gov'nor."
As soon as Owen shut the door behind him, he glanced at his pocketwatch and hurried toward the center of town. He had orders from Parliament to meet one of their rural agents and work with him for the remainder of the mission. With the ne Hurlants arriving in two days' time, the need to meet and assess this other agent grew in importance. Owen had hoped to put it off and avoid the man for several days, but he couldn't — not if he wanted to remain in Parliament's good graces.
****
Owen arrived at the Hotel Belafort, one of the more elegant establishments in downtown Bristol. He approached the mahogany front desk and nodded to the gentleman behind it. "I'm here to see Phineas Kitteridge."
The man behind the counter had a nasal voice dripping with disdain. "I would be pleased to let Mr. Kitteridge know he has a visitor. Who should I tell him is calling?"
Owen made a show of patting himself. "I'm sorry. I must have forgotten my cards. He should be expecting me. The name is Oscar Lanford."
The man gave a delicate sniff before giving the smallest of nods to a nearby staff member.
A part of Owen enjoyed the obvious discomfort of the man behind the counter. He could have gone and sat down in the nearby tea room, but that would have been too easy.
"Ah, Mr. Lanford, there you are." The voice
gave condescending a whole new meaning.
Owen wheeled to see the man addressing him. He was the sort of Englishman who set tongues to wagging in ballrooms and at house parties. Phineas Kitteridge was tall and slender with blond hair young debutants would sigh over. The stair banister practically preened with the privilege of being allowed to show off his long, delicate fingers to advantage. The man had grace and elegance in a way that undermined any ability he may have had to appear masculine.
Phineas held out a hand, and Owen grasped it, fighting off the urge to shudder at the wholly feminine handshake the man gave. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Kitteridge."
"How nice of you to say."
So much for, "The pleasure's mine, I assure you."
Phineas strode past him and into a private lounge. Two men shadowed him, each with a fierce appearance and menacing scowl. A small wave of Phineas' hand sent the two men to stand outside the lounge door.
"Shall we get down to business, then?"
Owen sat and stared at the man, not at all thrilled at the idea of doing business with him. "You aren't quite what I expected."
"Oh? Would you prefer I be a giant brute with no manners, then?"
A serving girl brought in a tea tray. Owen expected Phineas to pick up his napkin and delicately tap the corners of his mouth. Instead, the man ignored the girl as if she weren't even worthy of his notice. Then, once she left, he picked up the pot of tea and asked, "Sugar? One lump, or two?"
One lump, or two. That was the code phrase Owen had been hold to expect. He was speaking with Phineas Kitteridge and not some imposter. Owen suppressed a shudder. He'd give almost anything to find out the man across from him was anyone other than Kitteridge. His time with the War Department and the Russian prince before that had put him in position to work with many different types of people, but this one… this one was going to be more irksome than most. He could tell already.
"No sugar. The ship we need to intercept…"
"Now, now. No need to discuss business yet. Let us enjoy the repast and the niceties of civilization. Shall we talk about the weather, or would you prefer to discuss the latest fashions at Almack's?"
"I'd prefer neither." Owen bit the words out. "We need to discuss the upcoming mission, get the details sorted out, as it were. Then I’ll be on my merry way."
Phineas waved a hand through the air. How could a man be so graceful?
"I see you prefer the ignoble approach. I, on the other hand, refuse to abandon myself to such base behavior."
Chapter Twenty-Nine
"We're doomed." Owen's morose look would be comical if he weren't so sincere.
"What mean you? We've not even begun."
He ran a hand through his blond curls — a reflection of his distress. "I met with the agent Parliament demanded I work with."
"And? Will he be of help to us?"
Owen growled and began pacing the small abandoned shed he and Isabel had been using for their meetings. "Working with him is going to be a trial. I might shoot him just to be done with it so we can complete the mission in peace."
Isabel bit back a chuckle and watched as Owen continued to stomp to and fro across the aged boards. "I see. What about him did you not care for?"
"I wanted to talk about the mission. He wanted to discuss fashion. I told him we had everything covered at the ship. He insisted on accompanying us to give us 'an air of legitimacy'. I tried to leave. He ordered more crumpets and tea."
Owen heaved a sigh with enough force to send dust motes dancing in what little moonlight made it into the shed. "Then he wanted to discuss some scandal he'd read about in the paper. I'm not even sure he was a man! What men talk about fashion and scandal while eating crumpets?"
Isabel no longer tried to hold in her laughter. "He must have at least one good quality?"
Owen stopped pacing and fell back onto the crate serving as his seat. "I'd rather eat nails than spend another hour in that man's presence."
Isabel returned to the reason Owen had gone to see the man in the first place. "He's going to be coming on the mission with us. Does that mean on the ship?"
He answered with a miserable nod.
"Will I still be Giselda Fairweather?"
"You're to be Giselda. He's going to be a family friend who insisted on escorting you to the filthy docks, and I'm to be the groveling servant present to do your bidding and see to your every whim."
Isabel snorted. "Groveling? That doesn't suit you."
Owen's eyelids dropped to half-mast as he watched her. The earlier whine gone from his voice, he said, "It's a good plan, and I like the idea of the extra protection his presence will afford, but I'm afraid if we get into a tight spot he'll turn into a ninny, and we'll end up protecting him. We need to rethink this. It's not going to be safe enough for you."
Isabel closed her eyes and savored the moment. Owen was more concerned with her safety than with the job they had to do. Intentional or not, the man was seducing her as certainly as the moon was suspended in the sky. She tried to tuck the emotions he evoked aside, but her voice still held a tremor. "We'll be fine. I'll be safe, and we won't let this other agent die, either. What's his name anyway?"
"Phineas Kitteridge." Owen spat the words without thought into the darkness of the room, but Isabel reeled from the blow.
"What did you say?" Her voice held a tremor again, but this time for an entirely different reason.
"Phineas Kitteridge."
"Describe him to me."
"Tall, so slender a brisk wind would topple him, blond." Owen's voice held a hint of impatience.
Isabel fisted her hands in her lap and forced herself to remain seated even though she wanted to jump up and run as far and fast as her legs would carry her. Owen's eyes were on her, and she refused to give in to the terror clawing at her throat. "What's the plan, then?"
A pregnant pause settled in the room before Owen spoke. The silence was filled with question, but she ignored it and waited for his words. "The morning after next Giselda Fairwather and Oscar Lanford will arrive at Hotel Belafort to meet Phineas Kitteridge. He'll have already lined up an appropriately elegant carriage, and we'll all ride down to the docks together to await the arrival of the ne Hurlants. As soon as the gangplank is down, we'll board, see to our business, and be gone before anyone's the wiser."
"And if something goes wrong?"
"I already have papers giving me authority to access the cargo on behalf of the Rutherford family. Those will serve as the fallback plan. Kitteridge says he'll have papers for Giselda. Other than that, be well armed and prepared to improvise."
Isabel nodded. "Always."
Before she'd even registered movement, Owen stood in front of her and drew her to her feet. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. She found her head tucked against his shoulder as one of his hands rubbed her back in slow circles.
"It'll work itself out, whatever has you upset."
It wouldn't, but she kept that to herself. "It's nice of you to say." Her words were muffled against his chest. A short time ago she would have reveled at being close enough to feel the texture of his waistcoat and hear the beat of his heart. She would have reached her arms up to encircle his waist and hold him equally close, no matter how scandalous.
But then he'd said that name.
Now her hands rested against his chest, still fisted with more emotions than words could ever hold.
Owen's lips brushed her temple, and she closed her eyes, fighting tears. Why does he have to be so kind? The kind ones always die too young.
"You were fine until I said his name. Who is Phineas Kitteridge?"
Isabel stood up on her tiptoes and pressed her lips against Owen's. Part of her hoped to distract him, and part of her wanted to savor the taste of him one more time. Once he knew the whole story, she feared, he might never want to hold her in his arms again.
As soon as her lips touched his, a wave of heat swept her sensible nature away.
Owen lea
ned into the kiss, and his lips moved over hers. He smelled of soap and wood smoke. His hands cupped her shoulders, then one moved up to tangle in her hair while the other slid down until it splayed against her lower back. Sizzling heat radiated out from where his hand rested.
Isabel's hands unclenched of their own volition and slid up Owen's chest. She stepped closer though no room was left for even air between them.
Owen obliged her, deepening the kiss until Isabel's mind was emptied of reality, missions, and agents. Only Owen remained. There was only room for Owen.
A groan filled the room, and Isabel had no notion whether it was her or Owen who made the sound.
Yet it was enough to break the seductive spell. Isabel drew back from the kiss and used her shaky legs to put distance between her and Owen. She touched her swollen lips with the fingers of her right hand. "I'm sorry. I didn't know…"
Owen nodded before turning his back on her. He took the three steps needed to bring him to the room's outer wall. A swift pivot and step, and he once again faced her, his back firmly planted against the structure. "I'd say we both share the fault for how far that went, but being the gentleman, I ought to take the blame for it."
She gave him a small smile before sitting back down on her crate. "I think I'm supposed to be ashamed of such wanton behavior."
The words had no sooner left her mouth than Owen was in front of her, kneeling, her hands in his. "No, Issy. Not that. It's the wrong place and the wrong time, and that sort of kissing shouldn't happen until two people are properly wed, aye. We went about it the wrong way, but it's not a bad thing, not shameful. I shan't let it happen again. You have my word. I'll keep my distance until all this is behind us and I can call on you the way a gentleman would. But don't feel shame. Please don't." He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his touch so tender it made her heart ache all the more.
"Very well, Owen. I won't feel ashamed. But I won't let you take all the blame for it, either."
Owen backed away again, taking up his former position against the wall. "Are you going to tell me now what you thought to avoid by kissing me?" His voice held his smile, and she accepted it as the precious gift it was.
