“She’s not to be involved,” Henry repeated, low, steady. “Besides. If those bastards weren’t smart enough to recognize the earl, they won’t be smart enough to use Lady Caroline against him.”
Moon nodded, though the bent of his brow suggested he wasn’t entirely convinced. “Yes, sir.”
Henry took a long, vicious pull of ale, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “But I want you to keep an eye on her, just in case.”
“Of course. I assume nights, too?”
“Especially nights. If you so much as see a cat lurking about that wasn’t there before, you’re to come to me.”
By now Moon’s eyes were wide as saucers. He nodded again.
They waited and drank, and drank some more, twilight fading to darkness as the hours passed. The Cat and Mouse filled to bursting with London’s most devotedly seedy population; in the corner behind Lake’s left elbow, a gap-toothed lightskirt plied a lucrative trade.
Still no acrobats.
It was well past midnight when Mr. Moon at last succumbed to ale and exhaustion, his head resting in the crook of his arm on the table. He snored, and not at all softly.
Henry grimly conceded to his own exhaustion. He lifted Moon up by his armpits, “There, that’s a good lad, one foot in front of the other,” and carried him toward the exit.
Weaving their way through the crush of bodies, Henry was just about to thrust Mr. Moon out the tavern door when he felt a strange rush of air at his back.
It was vaguely familiar, that rush, as was the scent that trailed in its wake: labdanum, a pungent smell, wood and smoke, a vainglorious one, so big and so potent it was said to be worn by Caesar himself. Henry knew that scent. He just couldn’t place it.
Henry wheeled about, Mr. Moon’s limp body falling from Henry’s arms to the ground with a muted thud.
He saw nothing, save the same faces he’d looked at for the past five hours: powdered faces, greasy faces, bruised ones.
The scent overwhelmed Henry once more, and then there was a voice at his ear, so quiet and whispery he wondered if he’d imagined it.
Soon, it said.
And then it was gone.
Henry searched the room frantically, but even with the advantage of his height he could see little beyond the threshold; the lighting inside the Cat and Mouse was dim at best, nonexistent at worst.
There were shouts by the door; someone was yelling about moving the body that blocked the tavern’s entrance. Henry took one last look. No sign of sinister scalawags, spies; nothing out of the ordinary.
Henry collected Mr. Moon and stalked into the night.
Twelve
Brook Street, Hanover Square
The Next Day
“A dinner party?” Caroline put a hand to her hip. “Really?”
William looked up from the invitation he was penning. “Yes, really. Tomorrow evening. Don’t look so surprised, I’m not all rotten.”
“When was the last time you hosted a dinner party? Do you even know how?”
William glared at her. “Of course I know how. Besides, I’ve got Avery to help, and you.”
Caroline stepped into her brother’s cigar-scented study and slid the pocket doors closed behind her. It was late afternoon; the sun burned through the shutters’ half-lidded slats with mean intensity, casting the room in burnished bronze. She held up a hand against the light and took a seat across from William.
“I know why you’re doing this,” she said.
He didn’t bother to look up from his paper. “And why is that?”
“You’re baiting Lady Violet. Admit it. You like her. Why not just give back the diamond and seduce her the regular way? Wine, flowers, a bauble—try buying it this time—more wine.”
“Because,” William replied, “like me, Lady Violet revels in the chase, and like me, she would lose all interest if said chase ended on so unimaginative a note as that. Besides, I’m not ready to return the French Blue. It’s rather thrilling, to know a priceless diamond once worn by the kings of France is sitting at the bottom of one’s—”
“Don’t tell me.” Caroline held that hand up to her brother. “I may have my suspicions, but I’m enough of an accomplice as it is.”
“Very well.”
“But you should give it back. The diamond. Soon.”
His eyes flicked to meet hers. “All right, all right. Now are you going to help me with these blasted invitations? I haven’t a clue what to say.”
Caroline straightened her shoulders. “Under one condition.”
“Yes?” he said wearily.
“Since you seem to be keeping your enemies—or at least your victims—quite close, invite Hope, and Mr. Lake, too, to this little dinner of yours.”
“Hope, yes,” William said. He arched a brow. “But Lake? There’s something about him. I can’t explain it, not really, except I have a bad feeling about that man. He’s not who he says he is.”
“Of course he’s not. No one in London is these days.” She put a hand on the desk. “Please, William.”
He groaned. “If you insist.”
“I do.”
“Very well. Now come here, and tell me what to write.”
Caroline sidled over to the other end of the desk. Looking over her brother’s shoulder, she saw a piece of paper peeking out from under the one upon which he now labored. It was covered in his crooked, angry scrawl.
She could only make out the last line—Yours, H.
Curiosity prickled at the base of her skull. William only ever used that signature—informal, intimate—in his letters to Caroline.
Only this letter wasn’t meant for Caroline.
While William shuffled through a drawer for more ink, she discreetly lifted the top page to peek at the one beneath it.
Dearest Lady Violet—
I find myself in an insufferable position: not only have I not quite finished seducing you, but I also owe you a great deal of money. Please join me for dinner tomorrow evening at half past eight. Bring your aunt Georgiana and Lady Sophia; others of our mutual acquaintance shall join us.
I shall be serving both the brandy and the champagne that you so liberally enjoyed. Perhaps after we again indulge, we may settle our accounts?
Yours, H
“What are you looking at?” William returned to the desk.
Caroline dropped the paper. “What? Me? Nothing, it was nothing. Here, what you’ve got so far for the invitation is, um, less than ideal.”
She struggled to contain her excitement as she helped her brother pen the invitations. William liked Lady Violet. Liked her. Never mind the obvious problem—that the earl had stolen the French Blue from about Violet’s neck, and in so doing had jeopardized her friend, Thomas Hope, and her future—but William, infamous rakehell that he was, might actually be in love.
The Next Evening
For the second time in almost as many days, Henry Lake was reduced to using the front door.
He tried to focus on his plan to sneak off from the party and snoop about the earl’s private quarters, his dressing room especially. Over and over, he ran through the series of events in his head, when he’d make his move, what he’d say. Work had always been his distraction, and tonight he desperately needed to be distracted.
But when he’d stepped into the welcoming front hall of Harclay’s house, Caroline was there, waiting to receive Henry. He saw her color rise with pleasure, and his heart rose along with it. Her gloved fingers slid into his palm with well-practiced ease, a current of feeling moving through him from this place where they touched. Her eyes were honey brown in the low light, warm, like velvet, a perfect foil to the pale pink of her gown. She looked happy to see him.
And all that focus, the work, the drive to distraction, dissolved in the space of a single heartbeat as Henry felt himself falling into her
gaze. He didn’t want to fall, he couldn’t fall; there wasn’t time, and it was dangerous besides.
But he fell, and kept falling, until she surrounded him. Her scent—lilies, and skin—her awkward greeting, and even more awkward stumble as he escorted her to the drawing room; she filled him, body and mind, and he felt soft in all the wrong places.
Henry passed the half hour of champagne and conversation in a daze. Wherever she was, he would look up and meet eyes with her across the drawing room. She would look away, blushing, adorable and impossibly lovely, and he would have to bite the inside of his lip, and dig his fingernails into his palm, to keep from looking again.
The French Blue, he tried reminding himself. It could be here, in this very house, right under his nose; hidden in the walls, perhaps, or tucked into some corner he hadn’t had time to search.
Caroline laughed, the sound sending a rush of pleasant warmth through him. Henry tensed, and felt inexplicably, strongly jealous of Hope, who stood beside Caroline, smiling.
She wasn’t Henry’s; she owed him nothing. And yet he felt possessive of her, protective, too. If he had his way he wouldn’t share her with anyone.
Lady Violet and the earl were ensconced in a far corner, whispering naughty nothings while they all but groped one another. Violet’s cousin, Lady Sophia, a rosy-cheeked debutante with a wicked gleam in her eyes, kept trying—and failing—not to look at Hope. Hope was blushing, tugging at his mess of curls.
Henry blinked. Good God, had Cupid poisoned the well? It seemed Henry’s wasn’t the only desire that thickened the air in the room. He was at once relieved—there was a certain camaraderie in being laid low by longing—and annoyed with himself. He should be taking advantage of the earl’s weakness, his state of distraction; instead, Henry was busy indulging his own weakness.
A weakness that went by the name of Lady Caroline Osbourne.
The dinner gong was struck, and Henry escorted Lady Violet to Harclay’s cavernous dining room. Silently he prayed he might not sit next to Caroline.
And then he prayed that he might.
Flipping back his tails, he took his seat beside Caroline (he was on her right; to his left sat Lady Sophia). In the light of the silver candelabra, Caroline’s diamond earbobs winked and flirted; Henry stared at the tender skin of her earlobe, wondering if she would like it if he took that skin between his teeth.
He winced at the familiar tightening in his breeches.
“Are you unwell? The champagne not to your liking?” she asked.
“Fine, quite fine, thank you,” he said gruffly, and finished what was left in his coupe in a single gulp.
They spoke quietly—gossip, the weather, all polite things. Henry watched the earl watching him. Caught between them, Caroline played the perfect hostess, filling awkward silences, diffusing antagonism whenever it arose.
Halfway through the third course, the earl turned to Violet; Caroline turned her gaze on Henry, pleading.
“You promised,” she said, low.
“I know,” he replied. “You look lovely, by the way. I haven’t had a chance to tell you.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
He grinned. She blushed. “So what if I am? But you do look beautiful. That color suits you.”
Her eyes raked (hungrily, appreciatively, he’d like to think) over his evening kit. He’d paid a tailor several months’ salary to have it made up in three days’ time, in the hopes that Caroline might look at him just as she looked now. The bright, crisp white of his cravat and waistcoat; his Pomona green velvet coat; the black satin breeches; she took it all in, biting her bottom lip as she did so.
He hoped she liked it. Really, really hoped she liked what she saw. Mr. Moon had approved, but it was Caroline’s opinion that mattered. That Henry craved.
“And you,” she said, mirroring his grin as her eyes flicked over his costume one last time. “Passable, I suppose.”
Just like that, in a room full of family and friends and footmen, they were alone, her voice low, his lower, as they grinned at one another. Was he imagining her burn, the same burn that coursed in the space between his blood and his bones? She couldn’t like him, or feel for him the things he did for her. He’d left her, he was maimed, a cripple, scarred on both sides of his skin. Why did he even try?
Because of the way she was looking at him, now. He wanted to reach out and touch her face, hold her chin in his palm.
Her brother the earl cleared his throat, and Caroline’s blush deepened as she looked away and the spell was broken. Henry looked up and saw Thomas Hope glaring at him from across the table. He straightened in his chair, tugging at his cravat; yes, the diamond, of course.
Dinner passed in a whirl of dishes and desserts; Caroline rose, and the ladies rose with her, bowing out of the room; then, cigars and brandy, the three of them—Hope, the earl, and Henry—sizing one another up through the haze of smoke.
“My offer of aid stands, Hope,” the earl said, rolling his cigar between his thumb and forefinger. “The news of the stolen diamond bodes ill for my fortunes as it does for yours. I’ve men and money at my disposal. You need only ask.”
Henry met Hope’s eyes across the table. The earl had a set of stones on him, Henry had to give the man that; to offer aid in the search for the jewel, when he knew, and they knew, that he’d stolen it himself, was nothing if not ballsy.
Two can play this game, Henry thought, the table jumping as he stubbed out his cigar in an engraved silver ashtray. “We’ve men and money of our own,” he said. “Besides. I rather enjoy the hunt. Not as much as I enjoy the kill, of course. The kill is my true skill.”
It was a ridiculous and melodramatic speech, but there was something about the earl that set his teeth on edge, and made him feel particularly vengeful.
If Henry hadn’t given Caroline his word, he would’ve strangled her brother right then and there.
The earl wore a small smile of triumph; Hope appeared frustrated, utterly defeated; and Henry felt too many things to possibly list.
The earl stood, draining the last of his brandy. “Let’s join the ladies, shall we? My new billiards table has just arrived. It’s proven quite amusing; even Caroline likes to play.”
* * *
Caroline liked to play indeed, though she proved she was just as accident prone at sport as she was at life in general. Five minutes after the gentlemen entered the room, Caroline managed to launch a cue ball at Sophia’s mother’s head; Lady Blaise went down with a muffled cry, her overturned lace-edged petticoats like the layers of a flaky confection from Gunter’s.
The party broke up after that. The earl, in all his thieving deviousness, swept Lady Blaise into his arms and gallantly carried her to her waiting coach; the ladies Sophia and Violet hurried out the door after him. Mr. Hope took his hat and gloves from the butler and without a word stalked into the night, which left Henry and Caroline, alone, in the front hall.
She was weeping openly now, bottom lip wobbling as tears rolled down her cheeks.
“Lady Blaise is going to be just fine,” Henry said, drawing up before her.
“I know.” Caroline wiped at her face with the edge of her wrist. “I just. I feel terrible. I’m such an ungainly mess, I shouldn’t be allowed in public, or around other people—”
“Stop.” Henry stepped forward. “It was an accident. Besides, you taught us all a valuable lesson: find cover whenever it’s your turn to play.”
Caroline scoffed. “Thank you,” she said. “That doesn’t make me feel any better, but thank you for trying.”
A breeze wafted in through the front door, carrying with it the barest trace of a strange, heavy scent.
That scent.
A scent that made Henry stiffen. He knew it. It caught inside his head, a vague memory he couldn’t quite place.
“Do you smell that?” he asked.
<
br /> Caroline sniffed. “Smell what?”
The scent dissipated, if it was never there. “Nothing,” Henry said, looking down at her. “I must’ve imagined it.”
Heavens, but she was lovely, eyes wide and wet.
Without thinking, Henry reached forward and swiped away a tear with the crook of his first finger. Her skin was damp, and warm; alive.
Caroline froze; realizing what he’d done, Henry froze, too.
Caroline looked up at him, her long, dark lashes wet with tears. He felt wild with the desire to touch her again, but he couldn’t move, and neither did she. The air between them tightened, urging them closer, pulling, challenging, teasing. If he took one step forward, just one more step, he could crush his lips to hers, hold her face in his hands . . .
She was afraid; he could tell by the uncertainty that darkened the wet pools of her eyes. Tears rolled silently down the sides of her face, seeping down her throat as she bent her neck to look up at him.
“My lady,” he whispered. Of its own volition, his traitorous first finger unfurled, guiding the other four to cup her face in his hand. Desire shot through him, tightening the muscles in his legs, his back, and inside his chest.
Her lips parted, slightly. “Please,” she breathed.
“Please what?” His voice was gruff.
Behind them the sounds of the earl’s conversation with Sophia and her mother floated through the door; Caroline and Henry were safe, for a moment at least.
Caroline scoffed, her lips curling into a tiny smile. “Please don’t address me like that. My lady. I hate it.”
“It’s what you asked.”
“I hate it.”
“How should I address you, then?”
Her eyes flicked to his lips. “I don’t know.”
Henry’s fingers moved to her ear, her hair. Caroline didn’t move into the caress, exactly, but she didn’t pull away, either. Her face was tense, pained as she looked up at him.
His eyes moved to her throat. No woman on earth had a more elegant neck; a more enticingly erotic vulnerability there, in the soft sinews that moved against her skin in time to her scattershot pulse.
The Undercover Scoundrel Page 13
