Then she spotted the opened letters on the writing table. She hesitated, her blood running high. Did she dare? It would be going rather far, wouldn’t it?
Oh, but that was the reason she should do it. No adventure was without risk.
Hurrying over, she peered down at the topmost sheet. The letter from the Navy Board to the American consul gave Major Lucas Winter permission to view the Deptford shipyards. Interesting, but not terribly informative. She thumbed through the others. More boring correspondence, no wifely letters.
Then she reached the bottom sheet, which contained a curious list of names with comments scrawled beside them. “Mrs. Dorothy Taylor” was annotated with a series of French addresses, a date, and a terse description. “Miss Dorothy Jackson” had no description, but the French addresses and mention of a brother. “Mrs. Dorothy Winthrop”—goodness, the man had a penchant for Dorothys—had only a date and one address, along with a reference to her American husband.
The last name was underlined twice: “Mrs. Dorothy Smith.” Amelia froze. Before Dolly had married Papa, her name had been Dolly—Dorothy—Smith. Amelia swallowed. It meant nothing. There must be a hundred Dorothy Smiths in London alone.
But as she scanned the comments beside Mrs. Dorothy Smith, her heart sank:
270 Rue de la Sonne, Paris
May have had companion in Rouen in Nov. 1815?
Departed Calais for Plymouth alone on Feb. 1816
Fair-skinned, green eyes, reddish hair, short
Amelia stared blankly at the paper. The description certainly fit Dolly. And Dolly had visited both Paris and Rouen before arriving in Plymouth in 1816, when Papa had swept her off her feet and married her. “May have had a companion”—of course she’d had a companion. Her now deceased merchant husband.
But why would Major Winter be interested in Dolly? Clearly her name was what triggered his interest, so he probably hadn’t known her personally.
Turning the sheet over, she found more chilling notes:
Dorothy Frier alias Dorothy Smith?
Times match when Frier fled US to escape capture
Dolly? Trying to “escape capture”? By whom? And why? The word alias sounded perfectly criminal. Did Major Winter’s involvement mean that the American government was part of it, too?
Perhaps the Dorothy whom Major Winter sought had been a British spy. But the war was over—who cared about spies now? Anyway, it couldn’t be timid Dolly, who flinched when people argued, who bent over backward to please Amelia and Papa, who’d been eager to marry Papa and give him full use of her fortune when she could easily have married a rich—
A sick apprehension settled in her belly. What if Dolly had come by her fortune dishonestly?
When Amelia’s widowed father had met Dolly in Plymouth, the two had fallen in love almost instantly. Dolly had been so sad, so delicate, that Amelia’s big, gruff Papa had wanted nothing more than to protect her. And who wouldn’t? Dolly was a sweet-natured darling.
But it was Dolly’s fortune that changed their lives. Dolly’s money had paid for Mrs. Harris’s expensive school. Dolly’s money had provided Amelia’s dowry and come out in London. And Dolly’s money had allowed Papa to bring the estate into good working order after their years of frugality.
Amelia searched the papers, hoping for other information, but found none. What now? Dolly had never mentioned the name Frier, but then, she’d said little about her past. Could Dolly have had another sort of life? Dolly did enjoy card playing—could she have been a gambler? Or the wife of a gambler or a card cheat?
No, it was absurd. Dolly would never participate in any sort of criminal scheme. She lacked the temperament for it. She couldn’t even deny Amelia the smallest request, and she cried over the deaths of goldfish, for goodness sake. The idea of her doing something criminal was ludicrous. That her recent life mirrored this other Dorothy Smith’s was merely a horrible chain of coincidences.
But the major wouldn’t think so. She could tell he was the sort to be a thorough investigator. Indeed, he might already know about Dolly. It would explain why he’d stared at Amelia in the ballroom.
So how long before the major traveled down to Devon and spoke to Papa? Or tried to haul Dolly off to America for something she was surely innocent of?
Amelia had to warn her, but how? And about what? She didn’t know what he was after—it might be nothing. She wasn’t even sure he’d connected Dorothy Smith with Dolly. And upsetting Dolly in her delicate condition was out of the question. Besides, wouldn’t it be better to find out why the man was there first?
A pop nearby made her jump. It was only a log in the fireplace, but still…she had to escape. The room had taken on a distinctly threatening cast, with its boldly displayed sword and hidden weapons and ominous notes hinting at treachery. If the major caught her here, no telling what he’d do.
She carefully restored his papers to the way she’d found them, then hurried out the door. Thank goodness the hall was deserted. She still had to deliver Sarah’s letter, a task she now wanted to be rid of as swiftly as possible.
As she hastened toward the only remaining bedroom, she retrieved Sarah’s letter from her reticule. But she couldn’t get it closed again, which was why she didn’t notice until too late that someone had ascended the stairs.
“What the hell are you doing up here?” snapped an unfamiliar male voice with a distinctive accent.
She nearly had heart failure. Thrusting the letter and her reticule behind her back, she jerked her head up, only to come face-to-face with the one man she should avoid.
Major Lucas Winter.
Chapter Two
Dear Charlotte,
A little high spirits never hurt anyone. Nonetheless I shall be happy to advise you, and if trouble does attend you, I stand ready to aid you both. Do try to give me ample notice, however. I shall need time to prepare for any escapes from Newgate.
Your faithful servant,
Michael
Lucas watched as the blood drained from the young woman’s face. Good. A fearful Englishwoman was a truthful one. When he’d come up to grab his dagger, he hadn’t expected to stumble across the stepdaughter of the woman he was investigating. Clearly enemies lurked in more than just the ballroom downstairs full of redcoats. And this particular enemy was hiding something behind her back.
“Well?” he demanded. “Tell me why you’re outside my room.”
A sudden change came over her face, and she fluttered her eyelashes at him. “Yourroom? I don’t even know who you are. I was looking for the retiring room.”
He snorted. “In the family quarters on the second floor? Try another tale. That one won’t wash.”
Although she was even prettier up close than in the ballroom, her pout showed her to be the kind of spoiled female he hated. “Really, sir, I don’t know why you make such a fuss. How was I to know the family rooms were here? I’ll just go downstairs—”
“First show me what’s behind your back,” he demanded.
“You mean my reticule?” she said, a bit too quickly, and held it out.
“And in the other hand?”
“Nothing to concern you,” she snapped. The shift from petulant young miss to lofty lady of rank made his eyes narrow, and she immediately softened her tone. “It’s private.”
Stepping forward, he took her by the arm. “Maybe we should just continue this downstairs.”
“No!” She jerked her arm from his grip, and something fell to the floor. As she reached for it, he stepped on it. Her head snapped up to meet his gaze, her eyes blazing. “Remove your foot at once!”
Had the lady actually stolen papers from his room? Swiftly, he picked up what he’d pinned under his boot. A sealed letter addressed to “Lord Kirkwood.” Hellfire and damnation. One look at her blushing cheeks told him what that meant—though Kirkwood hadn’t mentioned the girl having a liking for him.
Damn her for sneaking about where she shouldn’t. Now that he’d insulted and embarrassed
her, he’d never get the truth out of her.
He gritted his teeth. Better change tacks. He held out the letter. “I believe this is yours, ma’am.”
She took it from him with a sniff. “I told you it was private.”
“A soldier’s bound to think the worst when a woman’s prowling about by herself. In America, a female sneaking about a soldier’s quarters is generally up to nothing good. Or nothing respectable, anyway.”
Her fiery blush deepened. “Is that your idea of an apology?”
Damn. He couldn’t say the right thing tonight to save his life. “Of course not.” He forced civility into his voice. “I beg your pardon, ma’am. I’ll tell my cousin you tried to protect his privacy.”
“Lord Kirkwood is your cousin?” she said, with wide-eyed innocence.
“I should introduce myself. I’m Major Lucas Winter.”
“I’m Lady Amelia Plume.” She flashed him another pretty smile, the kind that could get a man into trouble.
But not him—not until he confirmed that she wasn’t sunk up to that pretty smile in her stepmother’s affairs. “If you want,” he said tersely, “I’ll deliver your letter to my cousin myself. It’s the least I can do.”
“Oh, no, you’ve already done your least,” she quipped, waving the battered letter before him. “I think it would be safer if I just do what I came up here to do and put it in his room myself. Before you shoot it for ‘lurking about.’”
Her clever remarks were strangely at odds with the silly filly she’d appeared to be earlier. But then, her kind—wealthy and well connected—was like that, flighty and fickle. He should know; he’d been raised by her kind.
The reminder darkened his humor. “Don’t worry, Lady Amelia, a little dirt on your letter won’t affect my cousin’s interest in your fortune.”
“It isn’t my correspondence, but a friend’s,” she protested.
“Right.” He opened the door to his cousin’s room with a flourish. “Go on then—deliver your ‘friend’s’ letter. I’ll wait here while you do.”
By standing in the doorway he forced her to walk past him to enter, and he caught a whiff of her perfumed hair. It reminded him of something. Honeysuckle. Like the soap all the ladies seemed to favor in the town where he’d grown up in Virginia, before his father had moved them to Baltimore.
The faint scent of home made him want to howl his frustration. He’d been hunting Theodore and Dorothy Frier for over two long years. When other marines had returned home to enjoy the peace, he’d had neither a home nor peace. And now, thanks to the Friers, he’d been forced back to the country he loathed. It was one more thing he’d hold them accountable for, once he brought them to ground.
Lady Amelia returned to the doorway, and he moved aside so she could exit and close the door herself. He didn’t want to smell her scent again, to be reminded of all he’d lost…or to notice how damned attractive she was.
To his irritation, instead of running off right away, she faced him. “Thank you for letting me complete my task. And I’d appreciate it, sir, if you would not…That is, if anyone were to know that I—”
“You want me to keep this little encounter between us.”
Eyes the color of rich chocolate met his. “That would be lovely, thank you.”
So the lady wanted a favor, did she? He could use that. “Don’t be too quick to thank me, ma’am. I’ll expect something in return.”
She tensed. “Oh?”
Asking his questions right out would arouse her suspicions, and he didn’t want her alerting her stepmother. But she’d handed him a way to get closer to her so he could investigate more discreetly. “I want a waltz from you.”
“A-A waltz?”
“The man takes the lady’s hand in his, puts his other hand—”
“I know what a waltz is,” she said dryly.
“Then I want one in exchange for my silence.”
She blinked, then flashed him a flirtatious smile. “Why, Major, you aren’t trying to blackmail me, are you?”
The flirting put him on his guard. “That about sums it up.”
“It’s not very nice of you.”
“I’m a soldier, ma’am, not a courtier. I use whatever’s at hand to get what I want.” He let his gaze trail down her. “And what I want tonight is a waltz.”
Coyly, she lowered her eyes. “When you put it like that, how can I refuse?”
She turned, and her gown, weighted by its flounces, clung to her backside, outlining her curves before settling into place. He tensed. When was the last time he’d bedded a woman? Paris, probably. But that French whore’s heavily rouged cheeks and unwashed body bore no resemblance to the silky attractions of the perfumed creature undulating down the hall before him.
He couldn’t tear his eyes away. God have mercy, she had a walk that would heat a man’s blood to boiling. He’d noticed it even in the ballroom.
Before he could douse the fire in his veins, she turned to cast him a smile so blazing it lit up her whole face. “Just so you’ll know, Major Winter, I would have danced with you without the blackmail.” Then she sashayed to the back stairs and disappeared.
For a second, all he could do was stare after her. What a little tease! First his cousin, then him. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was after something—
He scowled. Damnation, maybe she’d been inside his room after all.
Swiftly he entered it and examined everything. He scanned the surfaces, searched the carpet for stray threads, even sniffed the air. Nothing looked out of place. Even his papers sat exactly where he’d left them. Though he thought he smelled honeysuckle, he couldn’t be sure, with so many bowls of flowers lying around. Kirkwood’s servants must think he was a damned Prissy Pantaloons, like their English masters.
Still, he doubted a society female would come in here. Lady Amelia might be bold enough to leave a letter on a suitor’s pillow, but she’d never search a stranger’s room. Hell, unless she knew his real reason for coming to England—and she couldn’t—she’d never even think to look. If she knew how to think at all.
She was just a flirt. Good, he’d use that, too. If she wanted entertainment, he’d happily oblige her. How better to get information from the little lady?
Ifhe could manage a flirtation when he was so on edge. Damned redcoats—they always did this to him. The war might be over, but they still plagued him.
Fine. Let them come at him. And in case they did…
He found his dagger in the drawer. He should have carried the damned thing with him in the first place.
Hiding it inside his wide sash where it made a reassuringly firm bulge, he headed out and down the stairs. Before he reached the bottom, two drunken redcoats approached.
He tensed. “Gentlemen,” he said with a tight nod.
He continued down, but they blocked his path. As the old anger settled hard in his belly, he felt instinctively for his dagger.Steady, man, they’re only young fools in their cups. But that didn’t quell the clamor in his gut.
One of them nudged the other. “Will you look who it is—one of them American savages who fled at Bladensburg while we burned their puny capital to the ground.”
It was the wrong battle to mention. The American militia had run from the British, but not the Marine Guard.
“You’re mistaken, sir.” Lucas fought to restrain his temper. “I’m one of the savages who stood firm with Commodore Barney.” He couldn’t suppress a sneer. “Not that you green lads would know that—you were probably cowering in a barracks somewhere.”
He knew he’d struck a nerve when both men flushed to their ears.
“Now if you’ll excuse me…” He shouldered past them.
One man grabbed his right arm. “See here, you insolent Yankee—”
With instincts honed from years in battle, Lucas whipped out his dagger with his left hand to press it to the man’s ribs. “Unless you want a blade in the gut, boy, you’d best let go.”
The other so
ldier lunged at him drunkenly, but Lucas crossed his right arm over his left to grab the man by the throat. “Go ahead: two to one odds are nothing to me.” He squeezed until the man began to choke. “All I need is a reason.”
He didn’t even need that. Fueled by the sight of redcoats, a dark haze filled his vision, whirling him back to an airless tunnel and the screams of—
“Major Winter!” came a sharp voice beyond them. “Release those men!”
It took a second for the haze to lift and another for Lucas to remember where he was. Then he saw Kirkwood hurrying up the hall, alarm in his face.
Smothering his remaining rage, Lucas smiled coldly. “Certainly, cousin.” He let go of the one man’s throat, but had to force himself to sheathe his dagger. His breath came fast and hard, parching his throat. “I was just explaining some things. But we understand each other now, don’t we, boys?”
The one he’d held by the throat fell to his knees gasping. The other fellow gaped at him. “You’re mad, you are!”
Lucas regarded him with contempt. “See that you remember it.”
Stiffening, the man growled. “Someone should teach you some manners.”
Lucas laid his hand on the dagger’s hilt. “I’d be happy to oblige anytime—”
“Enough, both of you,” Kirkwood said, sounding harried. He turned to the soldier. “Go on with you, before I tell my mother you accosted our guest.”
Sullenly the man relented. As he weaved down the hall, Kirkwood glanced at the gasping soldier on the floor and called for a servant to bring water. While the servant attended the man, Kirkwood motioned to Lucas to follow him into his study.
As soon as they’d entered, Kirkwood shut the door. “Good God, Winter, are you trying to get yourself killed?”
Lucas went to pour himself brandy from the decanter on Kirkwood’s desk. “Trust me, those two asses could hardly walk, much less kill anybody.”
Never Seduce a Scoundrel Page 2
