The Undercover Scoundrel

by Jessica Peterson

  Henry landed noiselessly on his feet in the mews behind the house and limped round to Duchess Street. His leg ached fiercely tonight; with every step his being rang with misery.

  Getting old, Henry decided, was a most depressing endeavor.

  Above him, night began to bruise the sky, and faded stars gained pulsing strength. The air was warm and calm and pleasant against his skin. Tucking a stray lock behind his ear, Henry wove determinedly through the growing traffic gathered about the imposing façade of Hope’s town house. To Cheapside, he wondered, or was it best to head for the bridge . . . ?

  That was when he saw her.

  It was only a glance, a quick sweep of his eye to the shadowy alley tucked between two houses. But he would know that face anywhere; he could pick out the proud set of her shoulders in a crowd.

  He drew up suddenly, pressing his back to a nearby wall. His heart beat unevenly, insistently inside his ears. He turned his head, daring another glance over his right shoulder.

  With the help of a liveried footman, Lady Caroline Townshend—no, wait, she was Caroline Osbourne now, wasn’t she?—descended from a gleaming carriage lacquered a brave shade of blue. Even as she stepped carefully, she caught her slippered foot in the silken expanse of her skirts and pitched forward, arms flying above her head.

  Henry’s belly turned over and his hands shot up as if he might catch her from where he stood. Praise heaven the footman broke her fall, and together they tumbled in an elegant knot to the ground.

  For half a heartbeat Henry’s chest flared with jealousy. Even though the man had rescued Caroline from a nasty spill, Henry hated the sight of his hands on her person. It was all he could do not to leap from his hiding place and help her to her feet himself.

  But he couldn’t. He would not embroil her in his plot. He’d learned, twelve years before, the suffering his bloody doings could bring to those he loved. Caroline would be spared.

  He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing hard. He felt dizzy. His palms were sticky with sweat. His heart felt as big around as the moon.

  “Oh, oh, thank you, Collins, I’m afraid this won’t be the first time I’ll be mauling you,” he heard her saying. Her voice sent a shiver of recognition down his spine; he winced against the longing that surged through him.

  “. . . and please,” she whispered, “please keep this . . . outing of mine between us. I shall meet you at this very spot.”

  Henry’s eyes flew open. Caroline wasn’t supposed to be here? He snuck another glance. She was indeed alone, without an escort; her rakehell brother the Earl of Harclay was nowhere in sight.

  Caroline looked up and Henry ducked just in time. He held his breath as she passed an arm’s length from him onto Duchess Street. He watched her back disappear into the crush; her hair was swept high onto her head, leaving the nape of her long, swanlike neck bare. He could see the tiny hairs there glimmer in the light of the streetlamps.

  He swallowed. His fingers began to twitch.

  Holding a fan up to her face, Caroline slipped between two carriages and mounted the front steps of Hope’s mansion.

  Of course. Her intricately embroidered ivory silk gown and enormous panniers should have given it away.

  Caroline was going to Hope’s ball.

  Sneaking into Hope’s ball, more like it.

  Henry brought one of those twitching fingers to his lips. He shouldn’t do it. Really, he couldn’t. There was the diamond, and the whole of the British Empire to serve and protect . . .

  He thought about Caroline’s bare neck, and her perfume.

  Henry stalked across the street, ignoring the catcalls and curses of the drivers he passed. Safe in the shadows on the dark side of the street, he ducked into an alcove beside a bay window.

  He did not wait long. A gentleman dressed in a ridiculous robin’s-egg blue coat and white satin knee breeches passed by, obviously bound for Hope’s Versailles-themed ball.

  Lake stepped out into the street. The man’s wife or mistress was nowhere in sight; even better, he swayed a bit on his feet.

  He was drunk.

  It was all Henry could do not to rub his hands together with glee.

  Reaching out, Henry grasped the man by the back of the neck. Before the drunkard could cry out, Lake brought his fist down on the top of his head. For a moment the unfortunately attired chap wavered, and then he fell into Lake’s arms.

  Looking up to make sure no one was about, Lake quietly dragged the man into the alcove and got to work. He left a handful of coins in the man’s clammy palm; clothes this ridiculous must have cost a small fortune.

  Tugging at the embroidered lapels of the robin’s-egg blue coat—it was more than a little snug, and the breeches, dear God!—Lake emerged from the alcove a few moments later.

  The crush to enter Hope’s ball was already immense; costumed guests jostled and pushed against Henry’s elbows, his shoulders. As he ran a hand over the powdered expanse of his wig in an attempt to smooth it, his palm brushed against his leather eye patch. He hesitated.

  And then he pushed on. He was a head and a half taller, his shoulders twice as wide, as any gentleman in attendance—since when had Englishmen gotten so damned small?

  Besides, considering the selection of costumed guests—and bared bosoms—he’d already seen, no one was going to pay him much mind.

  With a speed of which he did not think himself capable, Henry darted up the steps, weaving and ducking between bejeweled guests like a boxer in the ring. He slipped through the doors, narrowly avoiding a run-in with Caroline’s scalawag brother, the Earl of Harclay, who wore a purple waistcoat of so vibrant a hue it made Henry’s eye smart.

  He stalked through the hall and into the colonnaded gallery that ran the length of the ballroom. He stopped to survey the crowd: lots of wigs, lots of indecently exposed skin, but no Caroline.

  Swiping a coupe of champagne from a passing footman, Henry watched as Hope’s bewigged head crisscrossed the ballroom, nodding here, sagging there; his grim-faced guards waited in the shadows. Still no sight of her.

  Henry began to panic. What if she’d already left, snuck away while he was busy assaulting a stranger behind a bay window? Worse, what if she was ensconced in some private room upstairs with an unscrupulous gentleman, intent on indulging the freedoms allowed her as a widow?

  It wasn’t any of his business, he reminded himself. She wasn’t his. Not anymore.

  His blood rushed hot at the unwelcome thought, nonetheless; he downed his champagne in a single gulp and set the glass down none too gently on a nearby table. He took another from a nearby footman, and downed that one, too. Taking a third, Henry pushed his way into the ballroom.

  Still no Caroline.

  Just when he was about to give up and give in, across the ballroom he caught sight of a familiar pair of shoulders.

  She was alone (thank God); even so, his heart fell.

  Lady Caroline Osbourne was looking for someone. He could tell by the way she was trying to look like she was doing anything but.

  She turned, stray wisps of hair brushing against the skin of her nape as she looked over her shoulder.

  She looked right at Henry.

  His heart tripped inside his chest. The pressure in the ballroom changed, suddenly, and Henry could feel his pulse moving inside his head.

  Her eyes were heavy and full. Oh, but she was lovely.

  Caroline looked away, color rising to her cheeks. He watched the rise and fall of her chest. He wondered who she was looking for, what she meant to do with him.

  She moved through the crush, and he moved with her, always maintaining a safe distance even as he drew closer, bit by bit. He had no idea what he was doing. What would he say, if he drew close enough? Would she even speak to him?

  But he couldn’t help but follow her. He trampled toes, mauled debutantes, overturned a foot
man’s tray; Henry hardly noticed the wreckage he left in his wake as he trailed Caroline across the ballroom.

  Every now and again she would turn and look at him, knowing he’d be there, staring at her like a man possessed. She would meet his gaze, and then, her blush deepening, she’d look away.

  He watched her sidle up to the refreshment tables and accept a coupe of punch. He grinned when, after taking her first sip, her eyes watered and she let out a little sputter of surprise. Hope’s punch was a criminally potent brew.

  Her eyes flicked up to meet Henry’s over the rim of her crystal coupe. Her eyelashes were long, and darker than he remembered. Girlish, and pretty.

  Her costume was neither fashionable nor daring, but it was her: slightly careless and entirely unique; she looked elegant, a creature from another place and time. Her dark hair was pulled back, revealing the profile of her face. Strong jaw, soft chin, raspberry red lips.

  So distracted was he by those lips that Henry was caught up in the swell of the crush. The press of bodies urged him to the edge of the ballroom, toward the tables where Caroline now stood. He panicked, and then he gave in.

  Her eyes went wide as he approached. She tipped back the coupe, finishing her punch in a single gulp. She watched, regretfully, as a footman took away her empty cup.

  Henry was so close he could smell her perfume; his entire being ached at the strange familiarity of her scent. It was shocking, to be so close to her. He’d never expected to see her; he’d never allowed himself to imagine it happening. It was too dangerous.

  What he felt for Caroline was too dangerous.

  And then she met his gaze, her head tilting back as he got closer, and closer, pushing aside bodies with increasing urgency.

  Four

  Caroline had been ducking in and out of the crush with exhausting futility all evening.

  Holding her fan just beneath the reach of her bottom eyelashes, she’d searched the ballroom, from the balcony to the floor and back again. She hoped she was as discreet as she thought she was being in her pursuit; surely in the midst of all this merriment and mayhem, no one would notice her looking, quite ardently, for a pale-haired giant?

  Yes, surely.

  Caroline’s eye caught on a flash of gray-blue brilliance across the ballroom, widening at the realization that it was a diamond—the diamond, King Louis’ French Blue. It was enormous, even from a distance; there was something distinctively seductive about the way the jewel sparked and glittered in the low light of the chandeliers above, winking red one moment, flashing white the next.

  Perhaps it was the lady wearing the French Blue who was so alluring. She was tall and shapely, and wore a gown of diaphanous pale gauze that left very little to the imagination. The jewel hung from a collar of wisplike diamond threads, resting just above the inviting crease between her breasts. Like the diamond, her eyes flashed a bold shade of blue; but even as the pert slope of her nose, the knowing smile of her lips exuded confidence and coolness, the woman’s color was high.

  One need only look slightly to the left to know why.

  Caroline’s brother, William, despoiler of debutantes, voluptuary extraordinaire, was grinning down at the lady as if he might enjoy that ample bosom for dessert.

  Caroline rolled her eyes. So much for finding London and its dissipated amusements dull; a few coupes of punch and William was back to his old tricks. Hopefully the poor girl knew better than to indulge him.

  Who was she, Caroline wondered, and why had this Mr. Hope chosen her to wear his prized jewel? Perhaps he wanted to display his wealth before all the world, or at least all of London, and there was no better way to do that than to wedge it between a pretty girl’s breasts.

  But even as curiosity prickled in the back of her mind, Caroline’s thoughts returned again and again to Henry.

  Was he here at the ball? She was beginning to feel foolish for even thinking such a thing; she was beginning to feel foolish for thinking she’d seen him at all earlier this afternoon in Hyde Park.

  Yet it was him. It had to be him. She’d felt it in her skin, in her heart. Henry Lake was back in London.

  But even if he was back, even if he was here, what did she hope to accomplish by chasing him down? He disappeared twelve years ago with hardly a handshake; no one had heard from him since. It was obvious he did not want to be found.

  Caroline turned, and so did her heart inside her chest.

  He was here. He was real, and alive.

  And he was looking at her.

  She looked away, heart pounding, heat rushing to her face. She felt unsteady on her feet, as if the ground had suddenly shifted, jolting her to life. Her ribs fought against the prison of her stays as she struggled to catch her breath.

  Meeting his eyes—his one eye, which at the loss of its partner seemed to have taken on twice the intensity, twice the heat—made Caroline feel as though she was going to cry; like she was falling into the deep well of emotion that had lain hidden inside her all these years.

  Caroline began to move, if only to keep from fainting. She inched sideways through the crowd, feeling the heat of Henry’s gaze on the back of her neck. Was he following her?

  She glanced over her shoulder. Oh, he was definitely following her.

  Stumbling blindly through the crowd, Caroline at last found respite at the refreshment tables. She didn’t need to look to know that Henry was getting closer.

  Caroline hooked a trembling finger through the handle of a crystal coupe and threw back the punch.

  Dear. God. It was more brandy than punch, burning a ribbon of fire down the length of her throat. She coughed heartily, running the back of her hand across her lips. She looked up. Henry was close. Very close.

  She looked down at her empty glass, waiting for what her brother called liquid courage to light a fire in her belly.

  She waited.

  And waited.

  And was none the more courageous when, sadly, a footman removed the coupe from her hand.

  Taking a deep breath through her nose, Caroline looked up.

  Henry was an arm’s length away; as he moved to stand before her, he captured her eyes with his, her chin drawing higher to meet his gaze.

  He drew up in front of her, a respectable distance separating their bodies until a crowd of drunken dandies jostled enthusiastically behind him, pushing him closer.

  Too close.

  His face lit with panic.

  “Oh, oh, how clumsy, and the crowd . . . I, um. Are you all right?”

  She blinked, startled by the sound of his voice. A chill shot down her spine; that voice of his, deep, rumbling, was at once foreign and familiar.

  “Yes,” she breathed. No. Not at all. “All right, thank you.”

  Henry’s green eye, wide, glowed in the half-light of a thousand candles. For a minute the room fell away and she was beneath the arched ceiling of her family’s ancient chapel, the echo of her vows ringing in her ears as she met Henry’s gaze.

  She blinked and the spell was broken. She could see stray white strands of his wig clinging to the damp skin of his forehead; heavens, he was bigger than she remembered, and more handsome, and intimidating, and so . . . so very much.

  “Hello,” he said softly.

  She met his eye. “Hello.”

  Caroline could smell the scent that rose from his skin. He smelled fresh, like lemon soap and laundry. There was something else there, too, something visceral and spicy, something that sent a rush of recognition through the base of her skull.

  The eye patch was more sinister up close; its surface shone dully, and Caroline wondered what, exactly, was hidden beneath it. She resisted the impulse to reach up and feather her fingers across its surface.

  The drunken dandies returned, forcing Henry to lurch forward; Caroline caught him in her arms. His face was bright red.

  “I,
uh, I swear I’m not doing this on purpose—here, once I can move I’ll, um, move?”

  Caroline squeezed her eyes shut, her body pinned against his. She willed herself to be still.

  His chest bowed and scraped against her own. They were both breathing hard.

  Behind them the music started, a rising melody that permeated the sounds and sighs around them. Henry glanced over his shoulder.

  “There’s more room near the dancing,” he said.

  Caroline ignored the excited thump inside her chest. “Are you—?”

  “Asking if you’d like to breathe? Yes. Although to do that we’ll need to dance.”

  “But it’s a waltz.”

  Henry furrowed his brow. “What’s wrong with a waltz?”

  “I don’t know how.”

  Really, she hadn’t a clue; considering she often had difficulty walking, it was safe to assume she was going to be miserable at it. Never mind that Henry was looking down at her like that; she was likely to break her leg, his leg, perhaps even both their legs . . .

  No matter the threat to their lower extremities, Henry’s left hand dipped to the small of her back. He grinned.

  “Then I shall teach you.”

  The protest died on her lips when his right moved to clasp her own in the steady warmth of his palm. He pulled her against him; his breath tickled the hair at her temples. She felt terrifyingly present, her body coming alive as he pulled her yet closer. She looked down at the bare skin of his throat, the ridge of his jaw covered in the barest velvet of pale stubble, and swallowed.

  They began to move. Caroline blushed at the intimacy of their movements, the way Henry guided her body to glide in time to his. Her gown sighed as it brushed against the gilded buttons of his courtier’s coat; his thighs pressed insistently against her own.

  The ballroom surrounded them in a whirl of dark shape and sound, and yet the sensations bursting to life inside Caroline were all bright, all color. She could feel his eye on her as they moved. She did not dare look up.

  Oh, heavens, what was she doing? All these years later—the heartbreak, the regret—she should know better than to waltz with Henry Beaton Lake.