She didn’t want Cord in the library where he might deduce her uncle’s incapacitation and how she had taken over her uncle’s work. “I’ll go down to hear if there is any news but have Brompton interrupt my meeting with Lord Rathbourne after a quarter of an hour. I want to return to Uncle Charles.”
Mrs. Brompton hesitated, as if to speak. She took the opportunity provided by her housekeeper’s moment of uncertainty to rush to the door and hurry down the steps.
When she entered the library, Cord was rifling through the papers that were strewn about from last night’s break-in. Her usually orderly desk was a mess. Her worry about her uncle, fear for Michael’s safety, and her lack of sleep, all fused into a boiling sense of rage.
“What are you doing?” She demanded.
Preoccupied, Cord didn’t register her outrage. He spoke matter-of-fact. “I’m trying to find a clue to the thief’s intentions. Does your uncle have a secure area for his confidential work? There are two different sets of handwritings on these notes. Is this your handwriting?”
Her heart thumped loudly, as if it might leap out of her chest. “Yes, it’s my handwriting. As you know, I help my uncle with his work. Do you need to go through my uncle’s papers at this time?”
She had almost slipped and called them “her papers.” She needed to be careful not to reveal anything that might hurt her uncle.
Cord stopped his search and came around the desk. His face was creased with concern.
“How is your uncle this morning?”
His quiet strength made her want to confide all the secrets that she had just sworn not to reveal. She was drained. If he so much as touched her, she would cave. “He’s napping but awoke earlier with a headache.”
He stepped closer and his voice softened. “You’re exhausted. You mustn’t worry. Lord Harcourt will recover and return to his normal brilliant self.”
She longed to tell him that her uncle would never return to the man he had been; he hadn’t been that man for years. But once informed, how could he, as the head, ever allow the situation to continue with her uncle?
He took her into his arms, pressed his mouth against her hair, and slowly rubbed her back in slow circles. His touch was gentle and loving. “You’ve had a hard night.”
She inhaled his smell, an earthy mixture of lime and starch. Tilting her head upward, she looked straight into his intense blue eyes and was lost in the deep tenderness.
He cradled her face in his hands and kissed her forehead, her eyelids, her cheeks. “You’re not alone. I’m here.”
Henrietta relaxed into his strong hands. This is how it feels to be cherished. It was a feeling she had never experienced and it filled her with longing and hope.
She leaned into him and pressed her lips against his cool lips, needing him. His hands at the nape of her neck supported her head.
With her tongue, she outlined his lips, touching then retreating. He groaned. The primitive sound enraptured her.
“Henrietta.” His voice was low and rough.
She put her arms around his neck and pulled on his lower full lip as he had done to her the night before. She nibbled, tasting him, anticipating his next primal response.
His groan became a growl. The deep sound reverberated against her chest and she pressed against his strength, melting into his hard body.
His arms clamped around her, tightening her against his firm length.
His kisses became demanding, desperate. His tongue thrust in and out of her mouth.
She was swept away in a flood of feminine sensation. She returned each kiss with a need she didn’t understand.
His hands went down her back to her bottom. He lifted her against the full length of his swollen erection. Her body throbbed against him.
She heard a whimper, which must have come from her. She fought to get closer, climb into his body. She could feel his heart beating rapidly against her chest.
His hands dropped to his sides. He exhaled loudly while his whole body shuddered. He kissed her gently on the lips, on her eyelids.
She was breathless, her face was burning, her body shivered in expectation. Embarrassed by her lack of control, she didn’t know what to do, where to look. Dazed, she looked into his darkened eyes.
“You’re exhausted and have had a shock. My lack of restraint is unpardonable. His voice was husky and his breathing ragged. “I seem to have no control when you’re near.”
“You needn’t apologize.” She touched her finger to her burning lips. “I needed…”
Brompton tapped then entered the library. “Lady Henrietta, the doctor will be arriving soon to examine your uncle.”
She tried to focus on what Brompton was saying, but she was only aware of Cord, his scent, his heat, and every breath he took. “Thank you, Brompton. I’ll return to my uncle’s room.” Her voice was shaky. A warm blush covered her face.
She had forgotten her instruction to Mrs. Brompton. She had forgotten everything once she started kissing Cord, kissing him in the library with everyone in the house. What had come over her? It must be the shock of the assault on Uncle Charles. Yet she wanted to return to Cord’s arms.
His breathing remained irregular, his voice strained. “You need not worry about anything. I’ll find whoever did this to your uncle. You need to rest while I examine your uncle’s work to make sure nothing is missing.”
The vision of Cord searching through her desk, discovering her secrets, hit her like the dunking in the Serpentine. Shocked out of her body’s glorious languor, she moved in front of her desk. “You don’t believe it was a house burglary?” She tried to sound nonchalant, but her heart sprinted. “How will you know if anything is missing?”
“I’ve spoken with the Bromptons. They find no valuables are missing.”
When did he speak with the Bromptons and why didn’t she know that nothing had been missing? Her mind wasn’t reacting quickly enough. “Can’t you wait until my uncle is better?”
“Your uncle works for my office. I’d be remiss in my responsibilities if I didn’t pursue an investigation.” The warmth in his voice vanished. “Until proven otherwise, I
have to assume the break-in is related to the sensitive messages your uncle deciphers.”
“Oh.” She hadn’t had time to consider the likelihood that the break-in wasn’t a burglary but espionage. She had been too consumed with worry over her uncle’s concussion.
“I’m not sure if I’ll be able to tell if anything has been taken without your uncle’s assistance.”
“Can’t you wait until my uncle is able to direct you on the order of his desk?” She fingered the ribbons in her skirt. “I find it disturbing to go through my uncle’s work when he…” She hesitated. “When my uncle is unwell.”
He stepped toward her. “Until I can figure out what the thief was looking for, your safety and the safety of the household are my top priorities. There will be a man in the household, guards around the house.” His directives flowed in the staccato rhythm of one accustomed to commanding. “You’re not to go anywhere without an escort.”
She didn’t want to think about possible danger to her uncle or Edward. Gesturing with her hands like her French mamma, she said, “Isn’t this a bit extreme?”
“Whoever had resorted to such violence might not be easily deterred.” He made no attempt to hide his exasperation. “You’re to comply with my directions.”
She was too tired to think about all the ramifications. She longed to share her burdens with him. But would he be understanding of her uncle’s illness or her brother’s capriciousness?
He moved closer, looming over her, his arms folded across his chest. “Don’t be foolish. You’re a woman alone. With your uncle indisposed, who’ll protect you?”
As in his office, he treated her as if she wasn’t capable of managing a crisis without a man’s direction. She had taken care of the entire Kendal household since her mother’s illness. “Your man in our household should reassure you that I, an unpr
otected woman, will be safe.”
He looked baffled at her response and clearly wanted to say more, but Brompton stood at the door.
“Lord, I must return to my uncle.” Without looking back, she quickly hastened out of the study—her secrets safe for one more day.
* * *
He had gone to Kendal House resolved to ask Henrietta questions about the book in her reticule and to examine her uncle’s study. Instead, he’d acted like an unrestrained youth, coming close to taking her in the library. His blood heated with the memory of the wet tip of her tongue teasing him, her plush backside in his hands. She had taken them to a passion that he had never experienced and never wanted to end.
He rubbed the stubble growing along his chin. He had foregone shaving this morning in his rush to return to Kendal House.
Who was he kidding? He had rushed to see Henrietta. Since he had returned to England, he was either worrying for her family’s safety or wanting to make love to her. He was beginning to need her more than he had ever allowed himself to need anyone. Since his brother’s death, he hadn’t allowed anyone to get close.
He recognized himself in her stubborn refusal to acknowledge that she needed anyone. They were alike, afraid to become close to anyone for fear of losing them. They were both used to managing alone but not any longer.
Again this morning, she dismissed his concerns for her safety. He had come off sounding a bit dictatorial when he directed her on the measures that were necessary to keep her safe. Henrietta didn’t take directions easily. She was used to managing the household without male intervention. She must run circles around the elderly Harcourt.
The arrival of the fierce Talley Swanson to stand guard over the Harcourts helped lighten his irritable mood. He departed for his office.
It was time for her brother to come home. He understood the young man’s need for adventure; he had done the same, escaping England and the pain of Gray’s death. But it was time for Kendal to return from Paris, face his responsibilities, and relieve his sister. Henrietta’s pallor and the dark circles under her eyes belied her resolute façade.
She wasn’t going to be pleased with his interference, but it felt right for him to take on the ordering of her life. It also had felt right to comfort and kiss her passionately. Everything about Henrietta felt right to him. Unfortunately, the lady wasn’t ready to admit she felt the same.
Climbing out of his carriage, he ascended the steps to the Abchurch offices.
The clerk moved deftly to take Cord’s wool overcoat. “Lord Ashworth is waiting for you in your office. He has been most anxious for your arrival.”
“How could this day get any worse?” Cord muttered under his breath.
“Excuse me, my lord?”
“Pay me no mind, Witherspoon.”
“Would you like your tea now?”
“Yes, and sandwiches. I’ll be damned if I didn’t miss breakfast.”
A tense Ash stood at the window.
“What’s happened?” Cord asked.
“We’ve received word from our man posted in Talleyrand’s office.”
Cord sat at his large desk and braced himself for the bad news. His empty stomach filled with dread. He prayed Kendal wasn’t dead.
“A codebook was taken from Le Chiffre’s library.”
Cord exhaled the breath he had been holding.
“Our man knows nothing more about the book but it must be significant since Le Chiffre demanded to immediately see the foreign minister. He heard Kendal’s name mentioned by Le Chiffre when the door to Talleyrand’s office was opened.”
Cord leaned forward. “Go on.”
“Kendal must have recognized that the book was important and took it.”
Cord jumped up from his seat. “Damn it, what was that young fool thinking? Does he know what danger he’s in?”
If Ash was startled by th outburst, he gave no indication.
“The codebook had to be what the thieves had been looking for last night. It’s the reason for Charles Harcourt’s assault,” he said.
“Charles Harcourt was assaulted last night?” Ash asked.
“There was a break-in. His study was searched. Charles Harcourt is too ill to tell me what is missing from his papers.”
Cord didn’t like the conclusions he was drawing about the book in Henrietta’s reticule and why she had taken it to the ball.
The clerk arrived with a tray filled with cold sandwiches and scones. He hoped the hearty sandwiches and hot tea would revive him.
“How is Charles Harcourt faring?” Ash asked.
“He took a blow to the back of the head. The doctor said he has a mild concussion.”
“My God, violence wouldn’t be necessary to subdue the elderly man,” Ash said.
“Not unless you’re trying to obtain something you believe the man is hiding, possibly a codebook?”
“Men in our line of work don’t require force to achieve our goals,” Ash said.
Neither man needed to acknowledge their familiarity with the techniques of coercion. It was a past they shared and would rather soon forget.
Ash spoke with his mouth full of the egg sandwich. “This doesn’t sound like spy work. I suspect the work of thugs.”
“Last night’s violence toward Charles Harcourt was confusing. But if the French believe Kendal sent his uncle the codebook, it makes sense. Send someone down to the docks to find out who’s been hiring.”
The tea helped Cord focus after his sleepless night, but he didn’t want to acknowledge what he’d already concluded. He had believed last night that Henrietta had been upset by the loss of her reticule because of Lord Harcourt’s traumatic assault.
He continued to chew, unaware of what he was eating. Her brother took the book from Le Chiffre and sent it to his sister, not to Sir Ramston or the intelligence office. Why? He didn’t believe for a minute that the Harcourts were traitors. They had been loyal subjects for hundreds of years. The Kendal title went as far back as the Rathbourne title.
Who did Henrietta plan to meet at the ball with the codebook in her reticule? He had only seen her in the company of De Valmont and Wycliffe.
“Are the rumors still making the rounds about Wycliffe’s debts?” he asked.
Ash didn’t seem to react to his abrupt change in topic. “He has come into a great deal of wealth recently, supposedly a death in his wife’s family. He has already gone through his wife’s vast fortune.”
Cord hadn’t forgotten the way Wycliffe looked at Henrietta, as if she was a delicious dessert for his consumption. He slammed down his teacup. “Find out what Wycliffe has been up to and where he has gotten his money. I have never trusted that bastard.”
Ash reached for another sandwich.
“Have we had word from Brinsley? I want Kendal on a ship back to England.”
Cord wasn’t ready to confide in Ash. He couldn’t reconcile his suspicions about Henrietta. He really didn’t believe Henrietta was involved in anything treasonous, but why was she secretive? He was going to wring her brother’s neck for involving Henrietta in his dangerous escapade. He was prepared to teach the young Kendal a painful lesson.
“Cord, are you all right?”
He hadn’t heard anything Ash had said but saw the speculation in his friend’s eyes.
“I was thinking about Kendal.”
“You mean Kendal’s sister?” Ash teased.
When women were involved with disreputable plots, there usually was a man behind it. He didn’t believe Henrietta was involved in anything perfidious, but he could believe Wycliffe was. He considered the idea that Henrietta was Wycliffe’s lover. Had Henrietta been feigning passion to manipulate him? She had responded passionately to his kisses at the Firth ball, but her responses were those of an innocent. He hoped she was protecting her brother. If it was Wycliffe… The rushing blood started to throb in his temples.
He had acted like a love-stricken fool, deferring to her wishes not to search the library because she was upset
. Consumed with passion, he’d forgotten to ask her why she carried the book in her reticule.
“You’re giving a lot of thought to the Kendal family,” Ash said.
Ash’s jest wasn’t lost on him, but he wasn’t in a joking mood. He was onto the lady’s games. Since she didn’t seem to trust him to share her secrets, he would use his own methods of learning the truth. He wasn’t above using her blooming physical attraction to him to unveil her secrets. In fact, he was going to enjoy every moment of exploring her passionate nature.
“Send another urgent message to Brinsley to bring Kendal home. Where in the hell are those two?”
Ash nodded, understanding the dangerous game Kendal had precipitated by taking the codebook.
“I’ll deal with Henrietta and her uncle.” He ignored the smirk on Ash’s face.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Reclining on the black settee in her sitting room, Isabelle stretched her arms over her head, lifting her breasts to awaken Lucien’s appetite. She presented herself as a tableau in the slick black furnishings accentuated with crimson pillows and drapes to stir his dark erotic tastes.
Earlier today she had received a message from Talleyrand. Two of his agents in London were suspected of changing their allegiance to support Fouché. She still couldn’t believe Lucien was one of the agents. Lucien hated the peasant Fouché.
Her sheer black negligee matched the Chinoiserie bric-a-brac lining the lush sitting room and fell at mid-thigh, exposing her legs to Lucien’s inspection.
She had never trusted the highly placed English aristocrat’s motive for treason. But Lucien was a totally different matter. The possibility that Lucien was collaborating with Fouché was more upsetting to her and Talleyrand than if Lucien had defected to the English.
Trained as a female agent to use sex, she would have Lucien’s secrets before the night was finished.
“Take that damn ensemble off.” Judging by Lucien’s harsh command, he hadn’t retrieved the book from Kendal house. Their mission of recovering the codebook remained a failure.
She hadn’t expected words of love. “Lucien, darling, what is wrong? I’ll do whatever you need, but tell me what has happened.” Isabelle knew Lucien to be unpredictable, yet she never could comprehend what drove Lucien’s volatile sexual hungers. There were nights when he was almost a considerate lover. Not tonight.
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