The Undercover Scoundrel

by Jessica Peterson

  The hair at the back of his neck prickled to life. Henry turned his head, slowly; he peered over his shoulder; the passage behind him was quiet, eerily so.

  That’s when he smelled it.

  A musky scent, masculine, like burnt wood.

  Labdanum.

  Woodstock. He was here.

  Henry’s pulse rushed cold. He turned this way, then that, hoping to catch something, the edge of a coat, someone disappearing into the hedge, but the square met his wild search with silence.

  “Show yourself,” Henry growled.

  Still nothing.

  He held up his hands. “Show yourself,” he repeated.

  Henry turned toward the quiet rustle behind him. A man emerged from the shadows of the passage, sweeping the beaver-skin hat from his head and tucking it into the crook of his arm. He was of medium height, medium build; fair skin; with a mop of close-cropped hair that was neither blond nor brown, but both. His eyes were brownish-hazel-green-yellow; he wore breeches and a coat of nondescript quality and color. He looked like a middling barrister, minus the wig.

  Conspicuously inconspicuous.

  Which meant, of course, this man was anything but a barrister. He was an agent.

  And while that was hardly comforting, at the very least he wasn’t the Marquess of Woodstock. Henry let out a silent sigh of relief, his arms falling to his sides.

  “You’ve been following me,” Henry said, and turned to face the man.

  “Yes.” His accent was scrubbed clean of any inflection, any quirk that might mark him, tie him to a place. “I understand you have—or used to have—something that might be of interest to me.”

  Henry arched a brow. “To you?”

  The man smiled. “To me. And my superiors.”

  The man reached inside his jacket and produced a neatly folded newspaper, which he handed to Henry. Henry held it open between his thumb and last finger and glanced at the latest headline detailing Hope’s missing diamond.

  Lake looked up at the agent and passed back the paper.

  “Are you the thief who stole it from Mr. Hope’s party? The French Blue?” the man asked.

  “Depends.” Henry crossed his arms.

  “Depends?”

  “What will you give me?”

  The man stuffed the paper into his coat. “The French Blue rightfully belongs to the Republic. It was stolen from us twenty years ago. We shouldn’t have to give you anything.”

  Henry grinned. “But you will.”

  “We are willing to negotiate, yes.”

  “Willing to negotiate.” Henry scoffed. “Don’t play coy, good sir, for I know your superior would trade his bollocks for the missing crown jewels.”

  The man blinked. “We shall discuss terms when you produce the French Blue. It is our wish to conclude this business quickly. If you do not have the jewel, we will find out who does, and negotiate with him.”

  He flicked his wrist and a small, thick-edged calling card appeared between his fingers. He held it out to Henry. “My solicitor. He knows how to contact me.”

  Ducking into his hat, the man bowed and said, “Please make it known His Majesty the prince regent has France’s wish for continued good health.”

  “How lovely. Except we both know Prinny drank away whatever health he had back in the nineties. Nevertheless, I shall pass your wishes along.”

  The man turned and disappeared into the passage’s gaping darkness. Henry watched him go, trying not to wince at the sudden, fierce ache in his leg.

  As if Woodstock’s threat did not place Henry under enormous pressure already; now this, a reminder of what he would lose should he find the diamond, and trade it to the marquess. All those men—his men—fighting for England on the Continent; Henry would not be able to negotiate with the French for their lives.

  They would lose—even England could lose—if the French Blue went to Woodstock in exchange for Caroline’s safety.

  Nothing—nothing—mattered more than that. Her. Caroline.

  Tugging a hand through the hair at the back of his neck, Henry limped into the deepening twilight. How to keep both his promises to England and to Caroline, to himself—that was the question. A question that, at the moment, didn’t seem to have an answer.

  Henry let out a sigh of frustration. Even Hamlet, in all his ghost-seeing grimness, wouldn’t envy Lake’s current debacle. He’d faced madame guillotine, master swordsmen, but facing the fact that he had to betray his country to keep her alive—that he would leave her again, after falling for her once more—

  That was too much to bear.

  Twenty-three

  The Next Day

  Her usual afternoon stroll in Hyde Park interrupted by a bout of foggy drizzle, Caroline was ducking into her carriage when she heard a voice, sickeningly familiar, ring out behind her.

  “My lady!”

  She turned to see the Marquess of Woodstock approach, a gruesome little smile splitting his face as he offered a sweeping bow.

  A charge of terror moved beneath her skin, leaving a metallic taste in her mouth. Had he come at last to claim his prize, exact his revenge? But it had been only a few days—she thought they had more time—

  “My lord,” she replied, her voice high, unsteady. The drizzle was turning into rain, pattering dully against the ground, the top of the coach.

  Her eyes flicked over Woodstock’s head. Where were—?

  “They’re not here,” Woodstock said.

  She drew a breath through her nose. “They will be, soon.”

  “That gives me ample time to make good on my . . . promise, if I should so choose.”

  Nicks, who had been standing quietly beside the vehicle, stepped forward, sensing something was wrong. The marquess narrowed his eyes, slipping a hand inside his coat.

  Caroline stepped back. “Into the carriage, Nicks. You’re getting wet.”

  “But I—but—you are too, m’lad—”

  “Now.”

  Nicks shot Caroline a pleading look; Caroline ignored it; at last Nicks climbed into the vehicle.

  “Why don’t you do it, then?” Caroline hissed, closing the door behind her. “Why don’t you take me now and end this ridiculous game you play?”

  Her heart was in her throat; she felt wild, and a little dizzy. The rain soaked her bonnet; it hung limply against her cheek.

  Was this it? The moment she ceded her freedom, and her life?

  She would do it.

  She would do it if it meant saving Henry’s career, all those men fighting for him on the Continent.

  She realized how afraid she was to die.

  Woodstock’s smile returned. “I confess I am rather enjoying myself, watching the lot of you chase your tails. And the anticipation of the things I shall do to you . . .”

  He reached out, brushed a thumb over the slope of Caroline’s chin. His touch was cold, his skin clammy; she recoiled from it, and he laughed.

  “Soon, my lady,” he said. “Tell your paramour I shall come for you very soon.”

  And then he turned and stalked into the gloom.

  * * *

  Being confronted with the very real prospect of dismemberment and death, Caroline realized she had to do something. Anything. Now.

  For days now she’d racked her brain in an attempt to outwit Woodstock. She’d come up with nothing on her own.

  But this—this changed everything.

  She did not want to die; she did not want Henry or his men to die, either.

  Which meant they had to defeat the marquess.

  They—she and Henry and Moon—had to try, at least. Together.

  Assuring Nicks the strange man in the park was an old friend, Caroline changed into dry clothes and laced up a pair of sturdy boots.

  Gathering her reticule and umbrella in the f
ront hall, she turned and was nearly mauled, for a change, by her brother, William, as he skipped down the stairs.

  “Good God, William, what’s gotten into you?” Caroline wheezed, hand on her chest. “I didn’t know you were one for skipping.”

  “I wasn’t skipping,” he said. He turned to the mirror and with his fingers slicked back a rogue lock of dark hair. Dressed in an evening kit of black velvet coat and breeches, he appeared every inch the rakehell.

  Caroline knew he was up to no good.

  “Yes, you were,” she said.

  “I was not.”

  “Were, too.”

  “Was not.”

  Caroline met his eyes in the mirror. “What’s the occasion?”

  “Almack’s.”

  Even as her pulse leapt—excellent, William was out tonight, which meant he would not notice that she would be, too—Caroline narrowed her eyes.

  “Almack’s? You’ve reached a new low, William, trolling for your prey at the assembly rooms. Every debutante in there wears a padlocked chastity belt.”

  William turned to her. “For your edification, sweet Sister, I have no interest in unlocking said chastity belts.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I’m escorting Lady Violet Rutledge and her mother. Oh, and her cousin—Lady Sophia. She’s the one with the chastity belt, though I daresay Thomas Hope’s made quick work of it.”

  “Mr. Hope and Sophia Blaise?” Caroline cocked a brow. “Didn’t see that one coming—a banker and a debutante.”

  William shrugged. “Violet thinks it’s innocent enough, but I know better. I see the way that millionaire rogue looks at her. He’s enamored.”

  “You look at a lot of women,” Caroline said. “It’s never innocent, the way you look. But what do you know of being enamored?”

  She was baiting him, and he knew it. He was smiling.

  But not his usual wicked smile, the devil flashing in his dark eyes. It was a quiet smile. Secret. And he was blushing.

  William never blushed.

  “Well, then,” Caroline said. “I do so hope you enjoy yourselves. Keep out of trouble.”

  “Please, Caroline, it’s Almack’s. We couldn’t find trouble if we wanted.”

  Caroline put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re William Townshend. Trouble finds you.”

  “Not tonight.” Henry looked at the umbrella she held in the crook of her arm. “Any plans for you this evening?”

  “No, no, I’ve got a bit of a headache, and the rain, and . . . um. I was just—I was just coming back from the park, you see . . . early to bed, I suppose.”

  William eyed her for a long moment; it took Caroline every ounce of resolve to not wince, or burst out laughing at the ridiculous jumble that was her excuse.

  But it appeared William was rather more enamored of Lady Violet than he was suspicious of his sister, for he bent forward, planted a kiss on Caroline’s forehead, and dashed out the door.

  Watching him descend the front step, Caroline noticed the puddles in the street below were stewing and still; the rain had stopped, but not for long. She ducked her head outside. The sky was gray and low.

  The perfect evening to slip through the empty Mayfair streets unnoticed.

  Twenty-four

  Henry bolted upright in bed at the sound of footsteps by the door. His entire being ached with exhaustion.

  Sending Moon to patrol Caroline’s window, Henry had spent the previous evening huddled in a corner at the Cat and Mouse, convincing those hairy acrobats to make their move already. It had been a delicate operation; he didn’t want to give himself away, but he managed to coax from them a promise they would confront the Earl of Harclay soon. Which meant the diamond might be loosened from his grasp as early as the next evening, and this sordid business at last concluded.

  Having returned home well after the sun rose, Henry had attempted to get some sleep that day.

  Considering thoughts of Caroline haunted his waking and sleeping dreams, he did not get very much at all.

  His hands were on his face; his fingers fumbled as he attempted to tie the leather thong of his eye patch at the back of his head.

  He opened his eye and his breath caught in his throat.

  Caroline. She was here.

  * * *

  “Good God, Caroline,” he said, running a hand through his adorably mussed hair, “I know everyone else wants to kill me, but you, too? If I weren’t so bloody knackered I’d cry. How’d you get in?”

  Already she felt the familiar tug at the ends of her mouth. She leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms.

  “I found your associate, Moon he called himself, lurking beneath my window. He escorted me here and kindly allowed me entrance. I don’t mean to offend, but was he the woman at Vauxhall, the one—?”

  “Yes,” Henry said, grinning. “He makes a far less compelling female than he’d like to believe, I’m afraid. Something about the jaw, and his moustache . . .”

  He sat up against the pillows, the counterpane falling into his lap. He wasn’t wearing a shirt (why would he be? she wondered vaguely); Caroline watched his nipples pucker at the chill evening air that came in through the cracked window. In the thin gray light his chest and shoulders appeared smooth, the skin pulled taut over muscle and bone, the slopes pleasing, masculine, inviting. The barest trace of spice tickled her nostrils.

  She swallowed, hard. A moment ago she felt as if she were standing at death’s door, but now, seeing Henry and his muscles and his naked chest, her body felt glaringly alive, as if she’d not only inhaled smelling salts but also ingested them.

  Henry followed her gaze to his chest. His grin faded as he tugged the counterpane back into place. “I’m, um, terribly sorry, Caroline, you startled me, and I forgot that I was naked—without clothes, that is; here, let me get a shirt . . .”

  Eyes trained on her feet, Caroline shook her head. “I won’t be long. I’ve come to offer my aid in untangling this mess with Woodstock, and the diamond. I’ve too much at stake; I can’t just wait for you to end up dead, trying to rescue me.”

  “I won’t end up dead.”

  “Your men will, if you trade the French Blue to Woodstock. Let me help you, Henry. Please.”

  He released a long, low breath. “You know I’d never allow you to put yourself in harm’s way on my account,” he said slowly.

  “I want to help. If not for your sake, then for Violet’s, and my brother’s. I can’t sit still, knowing how much trouble we’re all in.”

  Caroline heard the scrape of skin; she snuck a glance at Henry to see him cross his arms across his naked chest. Though those arms and that chest bulged with muscle, the freckles that dotted his skin made him look boyish, somehow. God, those freckles, they did something to her . . .

  She looked away.

  “For your brother’s sake, Caroline, and for yours, I beg you stay out of this, and keep yourself safe. Besides, what makes you think Moon and I haven’t had any luck concocting a plan to destroy Woodstock on our own?”

  Caroline scoffed, toeing the fine layer of dust that covered the floor. “It can’t hurt to have more help, can it?”

  “Yes, it can, if it puts you in danger. I won’t have you ending up hurt, bleeding out in the middle of the woods like—like that poor girl. I cannot accept your offer.”

  “You left everyone and everything you loved,” she said. She turned her head to look at him. “You left to protect me. Let me return the favor.”

  He returned her gaze steadily. “Doesn’t matter now, does it?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Henry. You’re no martyr. Of course it matters. Let’s work together. Defeat Woodstock, so you might trade the diamond to the French, and save the lives of your men.”

  “One problem,” Henry replied. “We don’t have the French Blue.”

&
nbsp; “We will.”

  He cocked a brow. “You sound awfully confident about that.”

  She hoped—prayed—her burning cheeks did not give her away.

  “I am confident in us,” she said. “Don’t you even want to try to defeat Woodstock? He’s a traitor—”

  “Of course I want to defeat him. But your life is at stake, Caroline. If I move against him, and I fail—I’m sorry, Caroline, but it’s too dangerous. No.”

  “No?”

  “Yes. No. Not this time.”

  With a petulant huff, Caroline crossed her arms and snuck a glance about the room. Her eyes caught on the chairs drawn up before the fireplace; she saw one of Mr. Moon’s wigs—long, blond curls—hanging from an armrest.

  She didn’t know what she’d do with a wig, or how it would help her outwit Woodstock. But it was a wig, a disguise, and surely a disguise was a step in the right direction? She darted across the room and snatched the wig, making a break back toward the door.

  “I’m going to defeat Woodstock,” she panted, “and you can’t stop me.”

  Henry tossed aside the counterpane and leapt from the bed. “Watch me,” he growled.

  She glanced over her shoulder to see him lunging for her.

  That wasn’t the only thing she saw.

  Her pulse gave a little shriek of pleasure.

  He was completely, utterly, fabulously naked; not so much as a sock marred the pale perfection of his person. Heat flooded her face as she reached for the doorframe—wait, why am I running from that? she wondered vaguely—but Henry was too quick, too strong.

  He curled an arm beneath her ribs and caught her, heaving her against him with a breathless grunt.

  Caroline made one last grab for the door, but Henry held her fast, wrapping his other arm around her torso as she attempted—and failed—to slither free of his grasp.

  She wanted to tell him to go to hell, to set her down. His touch felt dangerously delicious; she knew she had to escape, quickly, before the ability to resist him abandoned her.