The Undercover Scoundrel

by Jessica Peterson

  Without waiting for a reply, he bounded up the narrow kitchen stairs. Even as he told himself he was heading for the front door—it would be the first, and likely only, time he would use it—his gait slowed as he approached the drawing room.

  The doors were slightly ajar; a beam of bright sunshine separated them, illuminating tiny motes of dust as they floated drunkenly through the still air. He could hear the murmured purr of conversation.

  He stepped closer, peering through the crack between the doors.

  His heart fell with a squish to the floor.

  Caroline sat on the edge of a sofa, her hair provocatively mussed; she wore a virginal morning gown that did not suit her, not one bit. Even though there were dark smudges beneath her eyes, they appeared very much alive, and hopeful, as if she were keen to see someone as much as he longed to see her.

  She bent her neck to politely laugh at something; the high collar of her gown pulled back, revealing a telling raspberry that marred the smooth skin of her neck.

  Good God, in his wanton abandon he’d marked her.

  Henry wasn’t sure if he was horrified, or proud, or (secretly) a little of both.

  He hadn’t time to decide, for at that moment Caroline looked back in his direction; she met his gaze through the crack in the door. Her eyes flashed with surprise. The smile faded from her lips; they parted, slightly, as the breath caught in her throat.

  “Caroline!” Henry jumped at the sound of the earl’s voice behind him. “Caroline—oh, hullo, Mr. Lake, pardon me, I’ve just got to collect my dearest sister—Caroline! Let’s go.”

  Harclay poked his head into the drawing room. “Come along, love, you look like you could use a rest—no offense.”

  “None taken,” she murmured, her eyes never leaving Henry’s. She rose, and appeared about to say something—to him, to Harclay, he couldn’t quite tell—when Lady Violet appeared at his elbow. She and Harclay exchanged a heated look before she turned back to Henry.

  “Ah, Mr. Lake, there you are,” she said, tugging him aside. “You’re coming with me. You know, two minds are better than one, that sort of thing.”

  He would’ve groaned aloud had the realization not dawned on him at that very moment. It was obvious Lady Violet titillated Lord Harclay to the point of distraction; he was taken with her, and would probably follow her to the gates of hell (which is where that blackguard belonged anyway). And Caroline, being Harclay’s dearest sister, was close with him.

  It was safe to assume, then, that wherever Lady Violet was, Lord Harclay would soon appear. And where Harclay turned up—well, Caroline wouldn’t be far behind.

  Yes, yes, Henry had pledged to leave Caroline alone so that she might spend the days of her widowhood in peace. He had no claim, and certainly no right, to her company.

  Not that he was glad the French Blue was stolen from under his nose, but it appeared the theft would throw the lot of them together, himself and Lady Caroline included.

  And Henry was certainly glad for that.

  He followed Lady Violet out to the street.

  Eight

  Caroline stuck out her lip and blew a stray wisp of hair from her eyes. She glanced out the window, open to a cool spring breeze, and sighed. The sun still shone brightly, same as it had when she’d last checked. The hours were passing at a snail’s pace.

  Would this day never end?

  She’d begun reading quite some time ago. Even so, the book on her lap remained open to the first page—obviously a very boring first page. With another sigh she closed it and held it in her hands. Around her the house was oppressively quiet.

  So far, “liberated widowhood” was proving mind-numbingly dull. Perhaps she needed a different book, or maybe a different sofa. Was it too early for a drink? Wine didn’t count as a proper drink, really, when one considered the strength of other libations, brandy, cognac, rag water . . .

  Caroline closed her eyes. She was being silly. There was no cure for the way Henry had looked at her through the crack in the door, not even gin.

  There was no cure for Henry.

  She wanted to feel rage at his appearance at Hope’s. She’d told him, in no uncertain terms, to leave her be. And he was very good at leaving.

  What she felt for him was strong, and wild. But it wasn’t rage.

  Caroline tossed the book aside and leapt upright. Her slippers pinched her feet as she paced across the stars and constellations embroidered into the carpet, hands tucked into the small of her back. She couldn’t sit still; the future that once promised peace, and solitude, and plenty of time in her garden, now seemed unbearably enormous and barren, somehow. She couldn’t bear another hour like this, much less a day, a week, a decade.

  After what felt like an eternity spent pacing (but was probably less than three minutes), Caroline’s ears perked up at the sound of footsteps in the hall.

  She crashed through the doors and slid out into the hall’s marbled expanse. William was there, gathering his hat and gloves from Mr. Avery. She did not need to ask where he was headed; her brother appeared as exhausted, and just as restless, as she.

  Caroline put her hands on her hips and lifted her chin and asked anyway.

  “I am going to call on Lady Violet,” he said, slapping his gloves against the palm of his hand. “I feel rather terribly for her, what with the missing diamond and all that. It’s only proper I see to the condition of her nerves.”

  “The condition of her nerves? I don’t believe you for a moment.” Caroline sniffed. “But if you allow me to accompany you, I promise not to pursue the matter any further.”

  William huffed and rolled his eyes, but after making a mad dash upstairs for her spencer jacket and bonnet, Caroline found him waiting for her a few moments later.

  “Don’t worry.” Biting back a smile, she took his hand in her own; it was clammy. William was nervous. “I take my duties as a negligent chaperone quite seriously.”

  * * *

  Caroline’s heart pounded as she and William were ushered through the rambling, if faded, expanse of Lady Violet Rutledge’s house.

  Henry wasn’t here, she told herself. Why would he be? He had no business with Violet. Unless, of course, he was somehow involved in the saga of Hope’s missing diamond, in which case he would certainly be here.

  Caroline cowered behind the fortress of William’s shoulders, as if he might lessen the blow of Henry’s presence—or his absence. She heard Violet’s voice—“Our thief might be . . . someone with the cheek to steal a fifty-carat stone in front of five hundred people . . . but who?”—and then the butler flung open the doors and Caroline was peeking underneath William’s arm.

  Her gaze landed on a familiar strawberry blond queue, tied neatly with a narrow green ribbon; her eyes traveled over his thick neck and broad shoulders. The scent of lemony spice filled her nostrils.

  He was seated in a chair, facing away from her. At the commotion, Henry turned around. They met eyes, and then Caroline ducked, foolishly, behind William, as if she might hide there.

  Oh, God.

  “Lady Violet,” William was saying, “would you do me the honor of accompanying me on a stroll about the park? I feel a bit of fresh air might better clear our minds of last night’s unfortunate events. My sister, Caroline, has generously offered to chaperone us.”

  William turned just as Caroline was making to stand; he caught her head between his arm and torso.

  Oh, God.

  From her perch she peered into the room, hair pulled over her eyes, and managed a smile even as she wished, for a moment, that she might suffer an apoplexy and die.

  In a heartbeat Henry was on his feet, looking down at Caroline as she struggled to her own.

  In the next heartbeat William was leading Violet into the hall and toward the front door.

  “Well, then.” Henry held out his arm. “To the park?�
�

  * * *

  For the first several minutes of said stroll, Caroline and Henry spoke in fits and starts.

  “Oh,” she said, trampling his foot. “Sorry . . . er, about that.”

  “Yes.” Henry cleared his throat. “Indeed.”

  “Indeed, a lovely afternoon. Look there, a swan.”

  “Yes.” An awkward pause. “The swan.”

  “It is white.”

  “White, yes. Like. Ah. Snow. Pretty?”

  Caroline did her best to ignore the burn that shot up her arm from the place where his elbow swallowed her palm.

  Beside her, Henry shuffled along; his limp had returned with a vengeance.

  “Are you—um—all right to walk? We might sit—”

  “No,” he said. He sounded angry, suddenly. “Let’s keep moving.”

  “Oh. Yes, yes of course.”

  Caroline glanced about the park—it was the fashionable hour, and crowded—worried that someone was watching them; that their shared secret could be read in the tightness of Henry’s mouth, in the heat that mottled her face.

  A few paces ahead, William’s head was bent toward Lady Violet’s; she turned and smiled at something he murmured in her ear. Desire was writ clearly on their faces; neither seemed to very much care who saw them.

  Watching them filled Caroline with longing.

  “I am sorry,” Henry said. His voice was low and rough.

  She started. “Sorry?”

  “I promised to let you be. You never wanted to see me again after last night, remember?”

  Caroline looked up at him. He glanced sideways at her. His temples were damp with sweat.

  “I remember,” she said slowly. “But this is hardly your fault. I volunteered to chaperone, and William—well, he can hardly keep his pants on when it comes to Lady Violet.”

  Henry’s shoulders lifted with a scoff. “Your brother can’t keep his pants on, period.”

  “I know. He claims he’s getting better. But there’s something different about this one.” Together they stepped around an enormous Irish wolfhound tugging a poor footman about by a thick leather leash. “The way he looks at her, and how attentive he is—I haven’t been with him much these past years, but I can tell he likes her.”

  Henry turned to her. “He treats you well, your brother?”

  “Yes. As best he can, anyway. He can be annoying, a bit patronizing. I wish he’d realize that I am close to thirty and far too tired to get into any sort of trouble.”

  A beat of silence passed between them as they walked; this one wasn’t companionable, not by a long ways, but it felt less painful than the last few.

  When Henry spoke, his voice was low. “Does he know about us?”

  “No.” Caroline trained her gaze on the ground. “You remember, he was away at Eton when we . . . when it happened. I haven’t told him. Besides, by the time anything—I was married to Osbourne that August. No one knew anything.”

  “I’m still shocked our old friend the vicar didn’t betray us.”

  It was Caroline’s turn to scoff. “The vicar. I think he was too frightened of you to give us up to our parents. You forget how intimidating you can be.”

  “What?” Henry blinked innocently. “Is it my hair?”

  Caroline found herself biting back a grin. “Yes. It’s that glorious hair of yours. Gives you the look of a Viking, or a pirate. A Viking-pirate.”

  “I like the sound of that.”

  “I knew you would.”

  “I confess I would make a better Viking than a pirate. I like having my teeth, and besides, don’t you think I’d look fetching in one of those horned helmets?”

  “Along with a sinister beard, and your hair done in a pair of braids. I daresay villages wouldn’t be the only thing you’d be invited to pillage.”

  Henry tapped his fingers against his eye patch. “The ladies do so favor cripples.”

  Caroline smiled. “No one would pay much mind to your eye if you were wearing that horned hat.” And then, lower, after a pause: “How did it happen?”

  They rounded a bend; the pathway stretched out before them in a great swoop through cleared parkland, the leaves and the grass and the air gilded by a late afternoon sun. Caroline held a hand to her forehead against it.

  “It’s hurting your eyes,” he said.

  “It’s hurting yours, too. And you’ve only got one left.”

  He smiled. “Here, let’s rest a bit, then.”

  Caroline called out to William; he and Lady Violet idled on the edge of the path.

  Henry maneuvered Caroline into the shade of a nearby tree. It was quiet there, and warm, the sounds of the passing crowd a muted murmur. Caroline’s arm slipped from Henry’s; he leaned his back against the tree, crossing his arms over his enormous chest as he looked at her. She looked away.

  “It was Thomas Hope,” he said at last. “We were on a ship from Calais, sailing straight into a storm. I saw the mainmast falling; he didn’t.”

  Her throat tightened at the image. “You must love him as a brother, to risk your life for him like that.”

  Henry bent a knee—his good knee—and pressed the sole of his foot against the tree trunk. It was his turn to look away. “I’ve missed them, my brothers. Hope was”—he grinned—“an eccentric substitute.”

  “Does it always hurt? Your leg?”

  “It’s gotten worse over the years, especially during winter. Can’t seem to shake the cold. Although”—here he looked at her, intently—“well, it comes and goes, I suppose.”

  She resisted the impulse to reach for the patch and push it aside. She wanted to see the damage—what it looked like. The damage the life he’d chosen had done him.

  The damage he’d suffered being away from her.

  “What?” he asked, scoffing. “Are you disappointed? That I don’t look like I used to?”

  “No. I’m not disappointed.” She swallowed. “Besides, what kind of Viking-pirate would you be without an eye patch and a limp?”

  “An unconvincing one, I should think.” Henry stood and offered her his arm. “Come, your brother’s looking at Lady Violet as if he might eat her. You’re not very good at this chaperoning bit, are you?”

  “Abysmal.”

  “And quite proud of that fact, I see.”

  They trailed William and Lady Violet through the park until they reached the glittering expanse of the Serpentine. The sun was so warm there it was almost hot; strolling arm in arm with Henry Lake didn’t help matters, either. She felt like weeping and running and mauling him all at once.

  She felt confused. And a little angry with herself for enjoying his company so much. Caroline never forgot how well she and Henry got on, how easily words and ideas and feelings flowed between them. And while twelve years’ distance stretched between them, there were moments when it felt like they’d never been apart at all.

  “You said you were back in England on business.” She looked at Henry. “Is that business Hope’s diamond?”

  He nodded, a single dip of his head. “We’ll hunt down whoever stole the French Blue and give that scalawag what he deserves. I’m afraid I’m rather”—here he searched for the right word—“unforgiving when it comes to my enemies. And then I’ll leave. Leave you be. Leave England.”

  “So eager to be gone, to leave, then.” She grinned, sadly, at her feet. “Just like before.”

  Henry turned to look at her.

  Twelve years ago, she thought, he left her, and in so doing confessed his indifference for her. He never loved her, had used her to get what he wanted and then tossed her aside. Everything he ever said to her was a lie. He never loved her.

  Why then, that look in his eye, the softness that made her belly turn inside out? The heat in his gaze made Caroline feel, for a moment, anyway, that she was the on
ly woman on earth. That she was seventeen again, and beautiful, because the way he looked at her made her feel that way.

  “Allow me to confess a secret, my lady,” he said, pulling her closer. His breath felt warm on her ear. “I didn’t want to leave. Not you, not Oxfordshire, not my family. I left because . . . well, because I was forced to.”

  His confession knocked the wind from Caroline’s lungs. The world whirled around her in a dizzying rush of light; a strangely metallic taste thickened inside her mouth. She was shocked. Her anger flared to new heights.

  Henry was lying. It was the only explanation. He’d lied to her before, and he was lying now, perhaps with the sinister intent of tricking her once more.

  What a fool she’d been all this time, to let him close again.

  Caroline pulled him, hard, off the path to a halt beside her. The Serpentine lapped at their feet. “But what . . . why . . . ?” She threw up her hands. “Bah, what the devil does it matter now?”

  “Please, my lady, I cannot tell you more—”

  “Of course you can’t. You haven’t changed, Mr. Lake, not one bit.”

  “Somehow I don’t think you mean that as a compliment.”

  “I don’t.”

  He held his hands out before him. “I want to tell you, I’ve always wanted to tell you. Caroline—”

  She turned on him, the warning not to call her that on her lips. But she tripped on her dress and careened backward, arms circling over her head as the sickening feeling of inevitable disaster descended upon her.

  “Caroline!” Henry leapt forward, attempting to restore her balance.

  But Caroline, quite suddenly, didn’t want her balance restored.

  She wanted to fall, and she wanted to pull Henry down with her. It was only what that blackguard deserved, making her feel worthy when he’d destroyed whatever worthiness she felt a decade ago, making her believe he felt anything but indifference for her.

  And so Caroline’s arm darted out, clasping Henry by the elbow. They were falling, falling, the momentum of her body pulling them down.

  Together they cartwheeled with a monumental splash into the Serpentine. The water was a shade colder than freezing; the shock of it paralyzed Caroline as the weight of her skirts dragged her down.