by Georgie Lee
She touched her gloved fingers to her lips, the memory of his kisses as vivid as the colours in the paintings on the walls. It was dangerous to dwell on such temptations especially when Bart had made it clear he didn’t share her desire for a home and family, but she couldn’t help herself. Not one kiss from her husband had ever ignited her insides the way Bart’s had and the old sensation gave her hope.
Stop it. What she was doing was foolish in so many ways, but especially where her emotions were concerned. She wanted a family and he wasn’t the man to give it to her. The constant derision of his own had poisoned him against the notion of a wife and children. Besides, he’d asked for nothing more than her assistance with this Rouge Noir, and after Aunt Agatha’s treatment of him yesterday, and Freddy’s threat, he wasn’t likely to have an interest in aligning himself with her in anything but a professional manner.
‘Lady Rexford, how wonderful it is to see you in London,’ Lady Windfall exclaimed as she joined Moira before a painting of a church near a pasture. The elderly woman had been an old friend of her husband’s whom Moira had hosted a few times at Allwick Hall.
Moira exchange pleasantries with the woman, the entire time subtly watching Bart out of the corner of her eyes. She half-heartedly answered Lady Windfall’s questions, all the while debating if she should approach Bart or continue with the exhibition and then go home and wait for him to send her word about their next meeting. He offered her no silent indication about what she should do, his attention focused on Lady Camberline and the red-headed man she spoke with. Judging by Bart’s grim expression, something about the strange pair bothered him, but she couldn’t see the man for he stood with his back to her.
Once the red-haired man was done speaking with Lady Camberline, he moved into the adjoining gallery with surprising alacrity. Bart followed the red-haired man, hurrying as fast as decorum allowed. She wondered what about the man had aroused his suspicions, except this time she wasn’t about to wait for him to seek her out tomorrow and tell her. She’d find out tonight and then gain from him some advice on how to handle her tea with Lady Camberline.
‘If you’ll excuse me, Lady Windfall, there’s something I must see to.’ With a smile of apology, Moira dashed away from her sedate companion and across the gallery, moving as quickly and delicately as she could manage without drawing too much attention to herself. She made for the adjoining room which was more crowded than the first, forcing Moira to peer over the tops of turbans and curled ringlets to try to catch sight of Bart. At the far end she saw his wide shoulders disappear around the corner and she twisted her way through the gathered ladies, explaining to any she accidentally jostled that she was looking for the women’s retiring room.
She reached the end of the hall and turned left. It led to a door slowly closing, indicating where Bart had gone. Taking a quick look around to make sure no one was watching, she slipped through it.
Chapter Six
The solid thud of Bart’s feet on the concrete somewhere up ahead drew Moira forward into the semi-darkness of the hallway. The one or two lanterns hung along the length of it were turned down low and offered more shadows than light. She slowed her pace and ran her hand along the wall, struggling to see ahead and unsure about where she was going. She passed a dark bisecting hallway and on the other side considered returning to the gallery when a solid mass of man grabbed her from behind.
She let out a yelp.
‘Moira?’ Bart’s voice hissed in her ear, the familiar scent of his shaving soap cutting through the darkness and her fear. One of his arms sat hard against her waist, the other stretched across her shoulders, keeping her tight against him. ‘What are you doing here?’
He didn’t let go of her, but continued to hold her close. She leaned against him, as thrilled by the firmness of his arms around her, and his wide chest against her back, as she’d been terrified when he’d grabbed her. She longed to tilt her head back, slide her hand over her head and along the back of his neck and draw his lips down to hers. She almost twisted to face him until she remembered herself and where they were.
‘I was following you. I have news.’
‘It can wait.’ He let go of her and shifted away, denying her the pleasure of his strong embrace. ‘Go back to the gallery.’
Before she could respond, the squeak of a door opening somewhere up ahead in the darkness set Bart into motion. Without a word, he bolted off down the corridor, leaving her alone in the darkness.
Moira considered returning to the gallery, but she wasn’t about to stand by herself in the wide rooms wondering if he would come back while lamenting the way everyone around her, except the most aged of the lot, ignored her. She was tired of being overlooked and the excitement of the chase, and the desire to remain close to Bart, sent her racing after him.
She struggled to keep up with him as he rounded a corner and then shoved open the door leading to the outside.
* * *
Bart burst out of the building and stopped in the dark alley behind it. Reaching the end of the building, he plastered himself against the corner and peered around it to try to catch sight of the man and where he’d gone. Beyond this narrow alley was the main street in front of the Royal Academy. Bart surveyed the gathered carriages and people converged there, searching for the man, but there was no one except drivers huddled in groups smoking pipes and chatting. He had to find the man and corner him without getting shot. He’d seen the outline of the pistol beneath his jacket when he’d stepped away from Lady Camberline, but it didn’t scare Bart off the chase. He touched his own pistol in the holder beneath his coat, hesitant to draw it. He couldn’t rush down the middle of the busy street waving his weapon and draw the wrong kind of attention.
The whisper of silk beside him and the faint scent of lilacs caught his attention. Without looking, he knew Moira was with him. ‘What are you doing here? I told you to go back to the gallery.’
‘And I decided to ignore you.’ Her breath was as rapid as his from having kept up with his pace. Her impertinence would have been charming if they were in a sitting room instead of an alley. ‘Who are you chasing?’
Bart was about to tell her when a flash of red hair beneath a carriage lantern caught his attention. He took off after Mr Dubois, aware of the delicate fall of Moira’s slippers echoing behind him. Focused on not letting Mr Dubois get away, he didn’t insist Moira return. They raced down to the end of a street, Bart steadily gaining on the smuggler who was more winded than fast. He had to catch him. The armament procurer for the War Office didn’t have the pedigree to rub elbows with peers, at least not in public. Few men here might know him and those that did might gladly purchase his questionably acquired munitions and French goods, but they weren’t likely to acknowledge a connection to him at an art showing. Nor would a man like him openly approach a marchioness unless he’d had dealings with her before. Bart needed to know what they were and what he and Lady Camberline had been discussing. Bart was sure it wasn’t French wallpaper for her sitting room.
Bart turned a corner to the street where a group of men spilled out of a tavern. In the glow of the light coming from the tavern’s windows, the skunk caught Bart’s eye, his swarthy mouth turning down at the corners. He didn’t wait for Bart, but took off in a fast walk through the assembly of drunken men. A few cursed at Mr Dubois’s rough handling as he headed towards the street on the other side.
His pushing created an opening for Bart to follow. The scoundrel jogged around a corner, making for the wrought-iron fence of a private courtyard on the opposite side. Mr Dubois raced through the gate and the screech of the hinges carried over the rustle of rocks beneath Bart’s shoes as he ran after him. He threw out his arms to catch the swinging gate, then hurried into the passageway leading to the dark courtyard just beyond it.
Mr Dubois turned a sharp corner. Bart did the same, then dug his heels into a hard stop, near
ly hitting the end of a pistol. He knocked the weapon aside as it went off. Plaster and brick shattered behind him and Moira screamed. Bart turned to see her grab her neck and crumple to the ground. It was the distraction Mr Dubois needed to escape. He took off running in the opposite direction as Bart hurried back to Moira.
She knelt in a heap of silk on the corner, her hand pressed to her neck, blood staining her white glove.
Bart crouched next to her, his heart racing faster than when he’d been chasing the smuggler. He pulled her hand away from her neck, desperate to get a look at the wound.
‘A piece of the brick hit me,’ she answered in a shaky voice, sitting back in her beautiful dress in the wet and dirt of the street.
He examined the cut, relived to see it was more ugly than deep. He slipped a handkerchief out of his pocket and pressed it to the wound, anger tingeing his relief. ‘Why did you follow me? I told you to stay behind.’
He bit back the rest of the sentence about her having given the man the opportunity to get away. She was not one of his trained men, but a woman he’d thrown into a strange and dangerous situation. She was already wounded enough because of him. She didn’t need him making her feel guilty to add to the sting.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t listen,’ she apologised, her wide eyes glistening in the faint light from the lone street lamp overhead.
‘It’s all right.’ He placed his arm around her shoulder and drew her against him, trying to ease her trembling, and the jolt of fear searing his insides. She’d narrowly missed sharing Lady Fallworth’s fate. ‘Come with me.’
He helped her to her feet, clasping her tight to him as he guided her away from the alley and back to the Royal Academy. She leaned hard against him as the lanterns illuminating the front of the Royal Academy came into view between the carriages.
‘I can’t go back in there, not like this,’ she protested.
‘We aren’t going inside.’ He turned her away from the main street and led her down a darker side one to where his conveyance stood waiting. He’d learned years ago not to muddle his vehicle in with the others, but to leave it out where he could make a hasty retreat. He waved for his driver to remain in his seat and then tugged open the door. ‘Get in.’
‘I can’t leave with you,’ Moira protested, staring into the interior of the carriage. ‘What will my driver think when I don’t return?’
Bart signalled for Tom, the boy sitting beside his driver, one of the few convicted pickpockets he and his men had trained to serve the law instead of breaking it, to hop down. ‘Find Lady Rexford’s driver and tell him she’s decided to go home with Lady... Moira, was there someone there tonight you’re familiar with?’
‘Almost no one,’ she answered, the tremble in her voice made worse by the shame of her admittance. ‘But I did speak with Lady Windfall who used to visit me and my husband in the country.’
Bart turned back to Tom. ‘Tell the driver she’s gone with Lady Windfall and to return home instead of waiting for her.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Tom dashed off to find the Fallworth driver and relay the message.
‘I’m sure we needn’t resort to such lies. I’m perfectly capable of going home in my own vehicle,’ Moira protested as he handed her inside.
‘No, I must see to your wound.’ He climbed into the coach and settled in beside her. ‘I’ll take you home afterwards.’
He reached past her to draw the dark curtains over the windows and his knees bumped hers when the vehicle rocked into motion. Neither of them pulled away or made a move to place some distance between them, even while the space inside the vehicle seemed to shrink with their closeness. He turned up the carriage lantern and the orange light highlighted the blood staining her glove. ‘Let me see it.’
She kept the handkerchief pressed to her neck, her skin paler than normal. ‘You needn’t bother. I told you it’s only a scratch.’
‘Let me see it.’ He took her chin with his fingers and tilted it to the side as he removed her hand from her neck. The wound was straight and clean and not too deep, but the jarring contrast of the cut against her luminous skin made him want to hunt down Mr Dubois and pound him into the pavement. ‘I’ll clean it. It should heal well, although I can’t promise there won’t be a permanent mark.’
A shiver made her full breasts tighten along the edge of her gown. It was all Bart could do to control his reaction to her enticing curves. He shrugged out of his coat and draped it across her shoulders.
‘No, I can’t. I don’t wish to stain it.’ She tried to shift out from under the garment, concerned as always about others and never herself, but he wouldn’t allow it.
‘I insist.’ His fingers brushed her shoulders when he settled the wool firmly over them. She clutched the lapels and drew it closed, but not close enough to disturb her wound. He reached past her, aware of how near his arm came to her stomach as he opened a panel in the side of the carriage to reveal a hidden compartment. Inside sat two tumblers and a decanter of brandy. The sensation of her stomach against his forearm when he’d held her in the dark Royal Academy hallway increased the heat of her nearness. If he could clutch her against him again he would, but she was here to help him save the Crown, not to enjoy a fling. He sat back, his grip tight on the cold glass of the brandy decanter.
‘You travel well stocked.’ A touch of humour brought back the hint of blush the scare had drained from Moira’s cheeks.
‘It’s to calm nervous clients on the way to court and to subdue less co-operative witnesses.’ He tapped open another small panel behind him to reveal a selection of pistols and knives.
‘It’s that dangerous being a barrister?’ She nodded at the pistol in the holster against his side.
‘It is when you regularly extract information from forgers and other lowlifes.’ He splashed a bit of brandy on his handkerchief.
‘And to think, so many look down on men in business. If they really knew how exciting it was, they might join you,’ she teased with a lilting smile, the encounter with Mr Dubois failing to extinguish her spirit.
‘I doubt it. The soft dandies don’t have the stomach for it.’ He pressed the brandy-moistened linen to the wound and she drew in a sharp breath. ‘My apologies.’
‘It’s all right.’ She winced again as he continued to clean the cut.
He wiped the soft skin in delicate circles to remove the trail of blood threatening to stain the lovely bodice of her dress, ignoring the clenching of his stomach at the memory of the gunshot and her collapsing in the street. When he’d stood with his soldiers against the French, he’d seen many men go down on either side of him. Their deaths had shaken him, but not the way Moira’s near miss had. It was as if he’d been shot himself. It made it more acute the risks he was asking her to take by helping him and he debated not taking her home. If Mr Dubois had recognised her, she might be in as much danger as her sister-in-law had once been. He kept his concerns to himself, unwilling to alarm her. She’d had enough of a shock already. ‘You handled the encounter much better than most ladies would.’
‘I’ve nursed two men through illness and raised a small child. I’m no delicate flower.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he said, even if the mention of her late husband made him as angry as what Mr Dubois had done to her.
‘How am I going to explain this to Freddy or Aunt Agatha?’ She folded her hands in her lap with a sigh. ‘Between the smell of brandy and the blood, they’ll think I’ve been in a pub fight.’
‘In a way you have been.’ Bart focused on the dark red wound, doing all he could to ignore the swell of her breasts as she took in a sharp breath when he ventured too close to the cut. ‘Tell them you weren’t paying attention on the way to Lady Windfall’s conveyance and you walked into the sharp edge of a tail board.’
‘Do you think they’ll believe it?’ The faint humour she’d shown
before was gone, replaced by real concern.
‘I’m sure they will.’ Her eyes met his, her doubt as certain as his, despite his words. ‘Why wouldn’t they trust you?’
‘Because I’m lying to them.’
Bart sat back, lowering the brandy and the filthy handkerchief, his guilt expanding. It wasn’t only her life he’d put in danger through their alliance, but her future with her nephew. He had to count on Freddy’s love and concern for her to imagine all might be well. His own experience with his father made it a difficult faith to extend. He stuffed the cork back in the bottle and returned it to the hidden compartment. ‘I’m truly sorry for what happened tonight.’
She tugged off her bloodstained glove and wadded it into a ball. ‘I’m the one who should apologise. If I’d just gone back to the gallery like you asked instead of following you I wouldn’t have been hurt and the man wouldn’t have escaped. Who was he?’
After what she’d been through, there was no reason not to tell her. ‘Jacques Dubois, a notorious arms procurer and smuggler.’
‘Oh, dear.’ Moira touched her fingertips to her mouth, the glove having stopped her delicate skin from being stained. ‘Do you think he saw me?’
He didn’t need to warn her about the other consequences of tonight. She’d already guessed. ‘I doubt it. It was dark and he isn’t likely to be familiar with you. In the small chance he is, I’ll assign a man to watch you and your house.’
‘Won’t it be suspicious to have a strange man following me?’
‘My men are so good, no one in your family will notice. In the meantime, I must figure out why he was there and speaking with Lady Camberline. He doesn’t have the pedigree to rub elbows so freely with the mother of a peer.’
‘He’s known Lady Camberline for a long time. His mother was a French émigré who became Lady Camberline’s governess. His father was married to the governess,’ Moira stated the same way his mother did whenever she relayed gossip he needed for a case.
