Shana Galen

by When Dashing Met Danger

  But a hundred possibilities occurred to her then. With a rush of excitement, Lucia bounded off the bed and spun in a circle, hardly sure where to begin. She glanced at the small oak desk pushed against the wall near the door and ran to it first. Pulling open each drawer, she rifled through its contents, heedless of the disorder she created. There were bills, invitations—a few love notes. Hmm, those looked interesting…

  She slammed the drawer. She didn’t have time to read love notes right now, not that she would have anyway…well, perhaps just one.

  The next drawer was locked, and she hunted for the key but couldn’t find it. She might have to break in later, but things weren’t to the destruction-of-property stage yet. She crouched down, balanced on the balls of her feet next to the desk, and tried to think logically. The desk hadn’t yielded any clues, but John was clever, and it was an obvious hiding place. Where else might John hide something?

  Her eyes flicked to the cherry clothespress near the bed. Nothing of interest in there unless…

  In her haste to rise, she almost tripped over her night robe. With a jerk, she pulled the clothespress’s heavy door open and scanned the contents, then frowned and bit her lip. Everything was as it should be. All of John’s clothes were in their usual order, or disorder, as it were. She noted a few items missing, but wherever he’d gone, he hadn’t taken much with him.

  She had the paneled door half shut when she thought of the waistcoat. She grabbed a handful of garments and sorted through them, separating the waistcoats. She tossed the older ones to the side, discarded several others, and had three left. One she didn’t remember seeing him wear. It was dark green with embroidery, and she brought the waistcoat closer to the candlelight, examining it from every angle. But if there was something special about the garment, she failed to see it. Although Lucia wasn’t overly familiar with men’s waistcoats, it seemed to her that all the pockets and buttons were in their rightful places.

  She dropped the waistcoat on the floor and turned back to the wardrobe. Then, on impulse, she reached down and scooped it back up again. She shrugged her robe off and pulled the waistcoat over her chemise. With a nervous glance at the door, she went to stand before the cheval mirror. She didn’t know how she’d ever explain what she was doing in John’s room wearing his waistcoat over her underclothes if someone found her. The garment was huge, swallowing her slender figure, but she fitted it against her ribs, running her hands along the soft material. She jerked with surprise when she heard a crackle as her fingers passed over the left side.

  Lucia parted the garment and peered at the lining. No pockets. Nothing that looked out of the ordinary. Had she just imagined the sound of paper rustling?

  No. Running her fingers along that spot again, she was sure she felt something inside, but when she opened the garment, once again she saw nothing.

  Frustrated and impatient, she was about to dash to the kitchen in search of a knife to slit the material open when she spotted the seam. The craftsmanship was impeccable, the seam so tiny as to be rendered almost invisible. She could see where Schweitzer & Davidson had acquired its reputation. Reaching inside the tiny pocket, she pulled out a scrap of wrinkled paper. Holding it near the candle on the desk, she smoothed out the creases.

  There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the words hastily scrawled in what was unmistakably John’s handwriting. She read Toulon and a date, March twenty something. And after the date a name: Wentword or Went with? Only the last phrase was clear: Madame Loinger, Calais.

  Who was Madame Loinger? A lover? Lucia bit her lip. Perhaps she should read through those love letters after all. But what about Calais and Toulon? John in France? Why would he be in France with a war on?

  She sank into the desk chair and dropped her head in her hands. She wasn’t an expert on the political situation but, being the daughter of a politician and engaged to another, she knew something about Napoleon Bonaparte. Some members of the government feared the war with France was not going well, that Old Boney might even be bold enough to attempt invasion.

  Reginald thought the whole notion ridiculous. Even Bonaparte couldn’t be that foolish. Her father, on the other hand, was more circumspect. Once when he hadn’t known she was listening, she’d heard him remark that it was damned unfortunate Pitt was running the country at a time like this. If Fox were in office, he’d see to Bonaparte’s defeat, by God.

  She raised her head. One thing was certain. She had to show Alex this note. This was hard proof that John was no longer in England. The date written after Toulon was shortly after John’s departure from London. Toulon must have been John’s true destination.

  Her heart began to thud. And if her brother was in France, he might be in grave danger. He could have been caught by French government officials who questioned his presence there. He might be rotting away this very minute in some French prison.

  Lucia’s breathing hitched. Dear God! Did they still guillotine aristocrats over there? She had no idea. Perhaps her father—no, he’d tell her to stay out of it. And Reginald was a lost cause. But—

  Alex had lived on the Continent, in France, for a time.

  Alex. Alex would know what to do. Alex would save John.

  Lucia raced back to her room, tore off the waistcoat, and pulled her rose-colored gown over her chemise. She didn’t have time to fuss with a petticoat, but she was glad she hadn’t removed her silk stockings earlier. She shoved her feet into her slippers.

  Stuffing John’s note into her reticule, Lucia shrugged into her cloak and had her hand on her bedroom doorknob when she froze. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

  She pursed her lips. It was barely twelve o’clock; late, but not exactly the middle of the night. The ton would still be about, going to their various clubs, balls, the theater. It was so early, Alex himself probably wouldn’t be at home. She just prayed his mistress wouldn’t be there instead.

  “No,” she said to herself, dismissing the idea immediately. Men installed their mistresses in separate residences and visited them when they wished. She didn’t even want to consider that a visit to his mistress could be the reason Selbourne had left the Winterbourne dinner party early. But Lucia supposed if he wasn’t at home, she’d just have to wait for him. Of course, it would be social suicide if she was seen on St. James’s at this hour, any hour really, but there was no hope for it.

  Alex wasn’t going to like it. Or, more correctly, he wasn’t going to like that she’d ignored his order to stay out of the investigation. Men liked to feel they were in charge. Usually it was simply easier to play along. But she couldn’t afford to humor male vanity tonight. And surely Alex would see that this note was more important than any silly dictate he’d given her? Surely he’d see the need for her urgency? He couldn’t possibly fault her this time.

  It was easier than she’d anticipated to sneak out of her parents’ house. Almost too easy, she thought as she tiptoed down the dark stairs of the town house and slipped out. Keeping the hood of her cloak close about her face, she ran the short distance to Bruton Street.

  Though her escape had been simple, she wasn’t out of danger yet. Carriages streamed by, and Lucia couldn’t afford to be recognized. The night shadows closed in, and her heart drummed in her ears. She snatched a look behind her and quickened her step.

  It wasn’t only the gossip she feared. Even elegant Berkeley Square wasn’t safe from pickpockets and ruffians. Fear rising like bile in her throat, Lucia remembered that the Prince of Wales and his brother the Duke of York had been robbed on Hay Hill, just off Berkeley Square, a few years before. If the Prince of Wales wasn’t safe, what hope did she have? She heard the clatter of a carriage behind her and whipped around, almost collapsing in relief when she saw it was a hack. She waved frantically and the hack slowed, then stopped. She almost tripped in her haste to be inside.

  Lucia pulled the door closed and looked up when the jarvey opened the hatch. “Where to, miss?”

  It was a moment before his words regi
stered. Her relief at being safe turned to disgust as the stench in the cab overpowered her. She coughed and pulled a handkerchief from her reticule. The perfumed linen masked the stench, but she scooted forward so less of her touched the seats. They were sticky and damp. She dared not look too closely.

  “Ahem!” the driver said. “Do you want a ride, miss, or to sit there gaping?”

  “Ah, yes.” She wiped her hand—wet from God knew what—on her cloak. “Take me to the Earl of Selbourne’s town house. Immediately, please.” Lucia peeked at the jarvey. She’d sounded confident and experienced, hadn’t she? The driver would never guess she’d only been in a hackney once, years before.

  “What’s the direction, luv?” the jarvey asked impatiently.

  “Direction?” She frowned and let the handkerchief drop away from her nose a bit. “You don’t know?”

  The jarvey rolled his eyes. “This lord, that lord. They’re all the same. Live in big fancy houses. Which one you want, miss?”

  “Ah…” Her plan was sinking around her, and she struggled to find a means to buoy it. She had no idea precisely where Selbourne lived and couldn’t exactly ask anyone who did at this hour. Well, the driver could take her to St. James’s and somehow she’d figure it out. A hazy plan, but she wasn’t sunk yet.

  “It’s on St. James’s Street. Drive there, and I’ll instruct you further.”

  The driver made no move to shut the hatch. “If you don’t mind me asking, luv, do you really think you ought to be going into that part of town?” He nodded at her, eyes sharp in his round face. “A lady like yerself, I mean.”

  Lucia swallowed, her uncertainties threatening to tip the lifeboat she’d latched on to. She knew exactly what the jarvey meant. A lady of the ton was not—under any circumstances—seen on St. James’s or thereabouts. To enter that male preserve was to risk social ostracism. An outcast. Forever.

  Lucia straightened. Well, she was prepared to take that risk, if it came to it, and she certainly was not going to be lectured by a hackney driver.

  “Sir, I appreciate your concern.” Her voice was frosty, the tone she used when a dancing partner misplaced his hands one too many times for coincidence. “I must insist you drive on. The hour is getting late.”

  The driver shrugged and dropped the hatch shut, but not before Lucia heard him muttering to himself about hoity-toity females.

  A few minutes later the coach stopped, and Lucia heard the driver call to some passing gentlemen. She hunched down and pulled her hood over her face, but inside the muffled cocoon, she heard the jarvey mention Selbourne. One of the men replied, his voice thick and slurred, but she thought she heard the number seventy-seven. She’d have to remember that.

  The hack rattled on, and when it slowed, she cracked her hood and glimpsed a large, well-maintained row of terraced houses. The face of the corner town house was brick, and the heavily polished wooden door on number seventy-seven gleamed almost as much as the ornate knocker. The house had a gate surrounding it, wrought iron and beautifully worked. Selbourne had good taste. With a pang of dismay, Lucia noted there were no lights shining through the windows. Perhaps the drapes had been shut?

  Well, there was no turning back now. With a push—both mental and physical—Lucia hopped out. She quickly paid the driver, giving him a little extra for his help, and pulled the cloak securely around her.

  The gate was unlocked, and she opened it, then shuffled to the front steps. The door loomed in front of her, the eyes of the gold lion’s head on the knocker staring her down. Daring her to touch its polished brass. She paused. Ridiculous. It was a door knocker, after all. Throwing her shoulders back, she raised her hand to grasp the ring dangling between the lion’s teeth. Her hand hovered and shook inches from the knocker. She couldn’t seem to make her fingers grasp the ring.

  Thoughts crashed over her, threatening to capsize her courage. If her father could see her now, what would he say? A flush of guilty heat coursed through her. It wasn’t hard to imagine the scathing lecture her father would issue or the hysterics her mother would dissolve into if this, her latest escapade, were exposed.

  She glanced at her frozen hand again and almost lowered it. But she could hardly give up now. John needed her, and she would risk anything, even her father’s disappointment, to help John.

  Her fingers grazed the knocker.

  On the other hand, she could exercise some caution. There was no need to ensure that her father heard of her late-night adventure. Perhaps knocking on Selbourne’s door wasn’t such a good plan. What if one of his staff answered? How would she explain who she was and what she was doing here?

  She dropped her hand. No, this wasn’t at all the thing. The hack was just pulling away, and she watched it go, tugging on her lip thoughtfully. There was no going back now. She smiled. Well, then, she’d have to go around.

  Turning from the door, Lucia went down the steps and headed toward the back of the town house. There was a wall around the back of the property, but she tried the gate and, finding it open, was spared the indignity of scaling it—an act she was none too certain she could have accomplished.

  Once through the gate, Lucia found herself in a small but well-kept garden. It was a dark night, but the sliver of moonlight glinted off the glass of the windows. She chose one, calculating its position in the house. Most likely the library. It was as good a room as any.

  Lucia glanced around and took a deep breath, trying to control her nervousness. None of this had been part of the plan, but then she hadn’t had much time in which to craft it, had she? Besides, plans were made to be revised. And she was simply revising—as she went along.

  The window she’d chosen was slightly elevated—leave it to Selbourne to have a library without French doors—but she could probably manage to crawl through if it was unlatched. On tiptoe she stole a look inside.

  The room was black.

  She tugged her lower lip again. Her pink satin shoes were wet from dew on the grass, and the night wasn’t getting any warmer.

  Do it, Lucia. Do it. With a whispered curse, she pushed up on the window. To her surprise, it slid open easily and without a sound. She gave it a final heave, opening it enough so she’d fit through. She smiled. Now all she had to do was crawl inside.

  Hands on the window ledge, she jumped up, resting her chest on the sill. She fell right back down again. Another curse. This one more pungent.

  The cloak was too much of an encumbrance. She untied it and tossed it on a nearby bush. Shivering in her thin satin gown, she reminded herself she’d be inside in a moment.

  She grasped hold of the window casement again and began to pull herself inside. Her slippers were slick and smooth, and they slipped over the textured brick of the town house. “Damn these shoes,” she muttered.

  Her legs flailed about for a moment until she finally found an indentation. Bracing herself, she heaved her body forward and got her shoulders and chest inside. Her triumph was short-lived as she began to slide into the library headfirst.

  She tried to brace her arms to stop the slide, and pull her legs over the windowsill, but her momentum was too great and she tumbled unceremoniously, and somewhat loudly, onto the hard floor of the library. Lying facedown, her skirt about her knees and her hair in tangles over her face, she froze, holding her breath, waiting for any little sounds that would indicate she was detected.

  “Bloody hell! It’s you.”

  Lucia jumped and covered her mouth to contain the scream. Steel clamps seized her arms, and she was hauled, tripping and stumbling across the room. Just as she regained her footing, she was shoved onto a piece of furniture. Her mind spun, her lungs ached from holding her breath, and her heart threatened to burst from her chest. It took every ounce of her courage to keep from running, screaming and crying, out of the house and into the street.

  That was if her captor would allow her to escape.

  Her eyes still hadn’t adjusted to the darkness of the room, but her gaze flew to the dark shape of
a man nearby. She heard him swearing and hunched back into the furnishing’s seat cushion. There was more cursing and the sound of items falling and tipping over, then the soft glow of candles lit the room, and Alex stood before her. She closed her eyes and put her hand on her heart, trying to breathe again.

  Three heartbeats later, she opened her eyes. He was scowling at her, fury etched in every line of his face.

  “Lord Selbourne,” she rasped.

  He stared mutely. Lord, she’d never seen anyone, not even her father, so angry. She should be cowering, blubbering. Instead she stared right back at him, fascinated. He wore tight black trousers. Without his coat, she could see how closely they molded to the muscles of his thighs. His stark white shirt was untucked and open at the throat. In the V, she caught a glimpse of the hard muscles of his smooth bronze chest.

  He was like one of the Greek gods her governesses had made her study: powerful, sensual, but not real. He couldn’t possibly be real. He was a dream—a delicious nighttime fantasy—standing there in front of her, watching her darkly with a mixture of fury and something else. Something that caused a flash of heat in her belly that traveled all the way down to her toes.

  Her fear evaporated, replaced by heat and dizziness. Her gaze traveled his body again, and then she stole a peek at his face.

  Oh, Lord! He was going to murder her! His eyebrows were drawn sharply together, and his lips were a tight line. Even in the dim light of the candle, the angles of his cheekbones and clenched jaw stood out starkly.

  “I have one question for you, Miss Dashing.” She jumped. The sound of his voice was like a saber thrust through the thick tension in the room. She blinked, unable to tear her gaze away from him.

  “One question,” he growled. “Where would you like me to dispose of your body?”

  Chapter 14

  At that moment, Alex wanted to kill her. Murder seemed a small price to pay to remove her, permanently, from his life. He watched her eyes widen, saw her start to shrink into the couch before stiffening her spine and straightening again, bolstering her courage.