Caroline nearly jumped when Woodstock let out a little laugh. He stepped back, removed the gun from her head, loosened his grip on her throat. She gasped for air. “What have I to lose? Surely you are not foolish enough to attempt to kill me before all of London, and during the season at that! I know where you live. I know where she lives. And you aren’t going anywhere until you find that gem. Soon, then. I’ll be watching you.”
Henry’s words were a rush of relief. “Good. Thank you.”
“Remember you swore,” Woodstock said, teasingly.
“I did. And in return you must swear not to harm her. Lady Caroline. You are not to go near her, or this house. She is—”
“Not yours.”
“No.” Henry ran a hand through his hair. “She’s not yours, either. So stay away from her, or I’ll kill you.”
Caroline looked away. The savageness of Henry’s threat sent a shiver down her spine.
Woodstock sighed. She could practically hear him rolling his eyes. “Fine, fine, I’ll stay away from her. But know this, Mr. Lake. You don’t find the French Blue, and soon—well, I’m afraid the terms of our little arrangement shall no longer stand.”
“I’ll find it,” Henry ground out.
A pause. “What will you do?” Woodstock asked.
“About what?” Henry said.
“The blood on your hands? The thousands of men—good men, innocent men—who will die because you choose her over them? I know you mean to use the French Blue as leverage against the French. You won’t be able to negotiate for the lives of your men if you don’t have the stone.”
Caroline’s heart skipped a beat. So that’s what Henry had been talking about—doing a favor for old St. George. He meant to trade the diamond for the lives of his soldiers on the Continent.
He would not be able to make such a trade if he gave the jewel to Woodstock.
He would choose her life over the lives of his men.
“Let me worry about that,” Henry replied.
“The diamond,” Woodstock said calmly. “Or Caroline. Your choice. I get one or the other. Don’t keep me waiting.”
* * *
Only when the last of Woodstock’s footfalls faded into the blackness beyond her window did Caroline resume breathing. She gulped at the air, thirstily, like she’d been held under water these last minutes; the sudden onslaught of sensation made her dizzy, bright dots blurring her vision.
And then Henry was folding her into his enormous arms, holding her against him as he smoothed her hair, pressed his lips to her forehead, asking if she was all right, was her throat all right, could she breathe all right? His heart beat furiously, violently, against her ear. She closed her eyes, listened as her heart began to beat in time to his.
She buried her face in his chest, stifling the sound of her grief; she couldn’t hold back, couldn’t stop if she wanted.
Years of unshed tears, of unspoken heartache and unrequited affection burst from the dark places where she’d hidden them and inundated her being. She was powerless against the onslaught. She let herself drown in it.
All this time she assumed the worst of Henry. That he never loved her, that he’d been in love with someone else. That he used her, abused her trust, thought she was strange, repulsive even.
Her affection hadn’t been unrequited, after all. He’d been in love with her, ardently, those years and years ago. The kind of ardent love she felt for him, once.
And felt again now, witnessing him forsake everything so that her life might be spared. Henry chose her. Turned his back on his men and chose her life over theirs. One life in exchange for thousands.
The fact that he’d chosen her—without hesitation, without a second thought—made her heart swell in the most wonderful, most hopelessly painful, way.
There were a thousand questions she wanted to ask him, a thousand things she wanted to say. I wish you’d told me. I wish you’d taken me with you. I understand why you left, but it hurts—knowing your reasons.
She didn’t know where to begin.
But she knew, in that moment, what had to be done.
“You can’t do it, you know,” she whispered.
“What’s that?” he said.
“Give that man the French Blue. I won’t let you.”
Henry’s shoulders fell. He turned his head and looked out the window, revealing the chiseled architecture of his throat and jaw.
His gaze returned to her. “Your patriotism is inspiring, Caroline, really, but I’m afraid you don’t have much choice in the matter.”
“Choice?” She lifted her chin. “But there’s no choice to be made.”
The look in his eye changed, loosened. “My point exactly.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know what you meant.”
“One life in exchange for the possible slaughter of thousands?” she said. “That guilt will weigh on us both.”
He cocked a brow. “Do you always go to bed in so Shakespearean a mood?”
“Only on Thursdays.”
“Well then, Lady Macbeth, you might take your perfumes of Arabia and go to sleep. I hope you wake in a less suicidal disposition.”
She bit her lip, let out a scoff. “I’m not going to let you do it.”
“I know you won’t,” he said softly. “But I’m going to do it anyway. Who knows, we might win the war in the meantime, and then it won’t mean anything to lose the jewel to Woodstock.”
“It means something to Thomas Hope, and Lady Violet. They’ll lose everything. Perhaps we might outwit Woodstock together. Defeat him so you don’t have to give up the diamond. We can do it together—”
“I’m sorry, Caroline,” he whispered. “I won’t put you in danger. Not if I can help it. I’m sorry.”
“I know,” she replied. “What you did for me—it’s extraordinary. Let me return the favor. Let me help you. I’ll tell William everything; if he knows we’re in danger, he’ll give back the diamond, you can take it to the French—”
“And let Woodstock have you?” Henry untangled her from his arms. He looked down and met her gaze. “Considering the things I just confessed to you, Caroline, do you really think I’d let that happen? I’ll handle Woodstock on my own. It’s too dangerous, you being involved. I won’t see you hurt. Besides, I don’t trust your brother. If he knows Woodstock threatened you, he might confront him, try to kill him on his own. Woodstock is a well-trained agent, and deadly; your brother, despite his bravado, doesn’t stand a chance. Which is why I can’t pay the marquess a call tomorrow and take care of him myself. He’ll be watching our every move. No, it’s better if we keep the earl out of this for the time being.”
A beat of silence passed between them.
At last Henry looked away, tugged a hand through his hair. “I have a plan in place to loosen the jewel from your brother’s grasp. Once I have the French Blue—”
“You’ll do what you think is right.” Caroline offered him a small, tight smile. “Just like you did twelve years ago.”
He met her eyes. “Do you not think I made the right choice then?”
It was her turn to look away. “There was no right choice, Henry.”
There was no right choice now.
Seventeen
Once Henry had gone and the house was quiet, Caroline flung the counterpane aside and scurried to the door. She listened; not a sound.
She snuck out into the hall, wincing as she stubbed her toe on a sinisterly placed chair. Hopping to her brother’s door, she ducked to peek inside the keyhole.
The room was dim, lit by a pair of candelabra.
And it was empty. No doubt William was out somewhere peeling off Violet’s clothes. In his carriage, perhaps, or maybe the stables. The way they were looking at one another tonight at dinner—heavens, it was a miracle the box hadn’t burst i
nto flames.
She let out a sigh of relief. At least William had not heard the exchange between Woodstock and Henry.
At least their secret was safe. For now.
Caroline crept into the bedchamber and closed the door softly behind her. Even with the windows open, the room smelled just like his chamber from childhood: like boy. A close, slightly musky, slightly sour smell that made her smile—he’d been so cute as a boy, and so naughty!—as she moved across its carpeted expanse.
With shaking hands, she plucked a taper from the candelabra. Its light sputtered and flashed in her unsteady grasp. She opened a narrow door at the far end of the room and stepped into William’s dressing room. Rows upon rows of drawers neatly lined the walls; their mahogany surface shimmered in the candle’s wavering light.
Caroline turned to a wide drawer, a little above waist height. Its copper pull was the only hardware in the room marked with fingerprints.
Perfect. It was the drawer.
For as long as she could remember, William had hidden his most treasured possessions in a top drawer amid his stockings and socks. When they were little, it had been a drawer in his ancient bureau that had to be tugged, quite viciously, to get open. Back then he’d hidden money, biscuits, and bugs in his not-so-secret drawer. Caroline would dig through it every Monday after luncheon, when William was at his shooting lessons. Sometimes she’d steal the biscuits; most times, the bugs.
She’d take them back with her to the garden, where they belonged.
As he got older, he’d hide slightly less innocent objects in the drawer of his bedside table here at their father’s London house. A copy of Fanny Hill, read so many times its pages were limp with fatigue; a flask; a girl’s garter, festooned with tiny pink ribbons.
Caroline had been so tempted to ask about that garter. But then William would’ve known she’d been snooping about his drawer, and moved his secrets elsewhere. And she liked knowing his secrets.
Holding the taper aloft, Caroline clasped the cold metal pull and slid open the drawer. Neat stacks of silk stockings sat shoulder to shoulder, each pile an alternating color: first white, then black, cream, and navy, white again.
Careful not to drip wax onto the stockings, Caroling began nudging her hand between the soft stacks. Her fingers probed and poked, feeling between each sock carefully, patiently—for she knew she could never rearrange these garments as neatly as had William’s valet.
She found a few trinkets, old love letters that had very little to do with love. Nothing exciting. Not at all what she was looking for.
Taking the taper in the opposite hand, she began her search anew. She dug deeper, the stockings gliding between her fingers softly. It made her think of Henry, and the glide of his silken hair in her hands.
Her knuckles brushed something hard, irregularly shaped. Her pulse jumped. She chased it to the corner of the drawer, where she was able to grasp it with her fingers and coax it to the stockings’ silken surface.
Caroline rolled it to the center of her palm. It felt cold, and heavier than she imagined it would. Dead weight.
The French Blue winked and flashed seductively in the taper’s yellow light. Caroline stared at it, transfixed, her heart in her throat as her eyes raked hungrily over the diamond. It was enormous.
The jewel appeared black from this angle, like the mummified heart of a child (how morbid, she thought); she turned her hand, and the diamond winked white, purple, translucently cerulean, a shade lighter than the sea.
A strange kind of desire prickled inside her chest; her eyes watered because she hadn’t blinked, not once; she was caught in the diamond’s seductive pull, in the tide of her longing to possess it.
It was unimaginably thrilling, to think the kings of France once kept this jewel in their own secret drawers; that they once wore it in the halls of Versailles as a complement to their dazzling costumes. It had seduced kings, this diamond, and had doubtless aided those kings in seducing women, wives, mistresses, favors. The French Blue had been witness to a world, and a way of living, that no longer existed. There was something terribly romantic about that. A world long gone, the regret and anger at its passing—Caroline knew these things well.
She held the stone for several minutes, its underside warming to her palm. Her eyes, still swollen from her encounter with Woodstock, began to sting once more.
It was all too much. The things she felt, the events that occurred. The threat the Marquess of Woodstock made against their lives.
He was too much. Henry Beaton Lake.
In her palm, Caroline held the power to put an end to his troubles, hers, too. The diamond could change everything. It could buy the lives of a thousand of Henry’s men. Or it could buy her life, a return to her peaceful, if dull, widowhood.
But it could not buy all those things. She knew, no matter how much she pleaded with him, no matter what she said, Henry would trade the diamond to Woodstock.
There was no right choice, but Caroline knew that out of all the options available to her, this was the wrong one.
She couldn’t let him do it.
Which meant she couldn’t give him the French Blue. Not yet. Not until she could either convince him to take the jewel to the French, or hatch a plan of her own to outwit Woodstock.
She could take the stone to Thomas Hope. As far as she could tell, he was its rightful owner—for the time being, at least. But Thomas and Henry were old friends; if she gave the diamond to Hope, chances were it would end up with Henry.
And then he’d make the trade with Woodstock, and they would all have blood on their hands.
He broke her heart once. She would not let him do it again by choosing her life over the lives of his men.
Caroline’s fingers curled around the diamond. She had time; a few days, at least, to convince Henry to trade the diamond to the French, or to beat Woodstock on her own.
She hadn’t a clue how she would do either of those things. She couldn’t offer herself to Woodstock, confront him; Henry would know of it before she took two steps out the door. She could not go to the French with the diamond; she was not acquainted with any traitorous spies, as far as she knew, anyway.
But she would try.
She would be strategic in her choices. When to reveal the diamond’s location, who to tell.
Caroline brought her fist back up to the drawer. She uncurled her fingers. The diamond stared at her, innocuously, from the center of her palm.
She buried it between the third and fourth stacks of William’s stockings.
Her head snapped up at the sound of footsteps on the stairs in the hall. Quickly she smoothed the mess she’d made and darted from William’s rooms. She ducked behind that sinister chair in the hall just in time to see William pass by, a soaked—and shivering—Lady Violet in his arms.
He used his foot to shut his bedroom door behind them.
Well, then. At least someone’s lust would be slaked tonight.
Caroline collapsed against the chair and let out a long, low breath. The skin on her throat burned with the memory of Woodstock’s hardened grip.
Her lips sang with the memory of Henry’s kiss.
Her head spun. Days ago she’d been a simple widow, dedicated to the simple pleasures of her simple life. Now there was a price on her head, a sinister Marquess on the hunt, and an ex-lover whom she kept kissing, despite the risk to her sanity, her safety.
Now there was no untangling herself from the things she felt for Henry. His confession, the sacrifices he’d made on her behalf—they should have brought her peace.
They brought her pain instead.
Eighteen
Henry hadn’t even landed on his feet after launching through the window when Mr. Moon’s voice sounded from across the chamber.
“That was a rather long interlude. If you don’t mind my saying, sir, good for you.”
Henry met his eyes.
And told him everything. About Woodstock’s sudden appearance, his traitorous past, his threat to Caroline.
The moral of this tale of woe, as the marquess so eloquently put it, was that they—he and Moon—needed to redouble their efforts to coax the jewel from Harclay’s grasp.
When Henry was finished, Moon blinked and let out a long, low whistle. “That’s bad news, sir. Very bad.”
“I was an idiot,” Henry panted. “I knew from the moment I stepped foot in London that I was being followed. I was so careless—so careless to be seen with her—after all this time, the care I took to keep her safe, away from who I am—”
“What’s done is done,” Moon said. “Besides, we might outwit that bastard Woodstock before he has the chance to make his move. Why don’t we do it the old fashioned way? Grab him at night, a little laudanum, a blow or two to the head. And once we have him in our possession, I’ve a . . . a friend, you see, he’s a gaoler down at Newgate. An imaginative one, too—he owes me a favor.”
“A favor?” Henry arched a brow.
“A favor. I don’t think he’d mind doing a bit of—er, work on the marquess, if you catch my meaning.”
Henry shook his head. “If only it were that easy. Woodstock is watching us; he’s a trained agent, dangerous. Smart, too. There’s no way we could take him on our own; he’d see us coming from a mile away. Besides, if we made an attempt on his life, and we failed, he’d go after Caroline.”
“Right.” Moon’s face was grim. “Our plot with the acrobats, then—it’s more important than ever that we coax the jewel from Harclay’s grasp. Lucky for you, I’ve made contact with them.”
Winded—wait, why was he still winded, launching through windows was his craft, damn it!—Henry bent over, hands on his knees.
“With the acrobats?” he said hopefully, looking up.
Moon nodded. “They’ll be performing at Vauxhall tomorrow evening.”
The Undercover Scoundrel Page 16
