by Shana Galen
“Your mother?” he asked.
She nodded, taking it back. “This is all I have left of her.”
It was more than Rafe had of his own mother. “And you would have left it behind if I had threatened to go immediately?”
“What other choice would I have?” she asked. “My father is everything.”
He was beginning to see that. What must it be like to have the sort of love Collette had for her father? Rafe was certainly fond of his father and his siblings, but he did not know if he would go to the lengths Collette had for a single one of them. He couldn’t say whether he would have gone to any trouble for anyone in his life, save the men he had fought with in Draven’s troop.
And now Collette.
She held up the dress, and it was more than suitable for a trip to the London docks. The color was a rather dull brown and the dress had no embellishments. Wrinkled and stained, he wondered when she had last worn it. She must have read the question in his face because she said, “I wore this on my voyage to England. When I met Lady Ravensgate, I changed into a better dress. I might as well have left this one on, because I never saw that dress again. I think her ladyship burned it. My father and I didn’t have much need for fine clothing in the country, but considering I sewed all my own dresses, I rather resented her burning that one.”
“I understand.”
She raised a brow. “You? You have never even lifted a needle and thread.”
He couldn’t argue. “Would you like help unfastening this dress?”
She blew out a breath. “This is not an invitation, Rafe Beaumont.”
He held up his hands, his expression all innocence—he hoped. “I understand.”
She presented him her back, and he began to unfasten the ties and tapes and laces. She dealt with the pins in the front and soon the garment began to sag, exposing the skin of her shoulders. Rafe looked at the wall above her head.
“You never said how you knew I would be in the garden tonight,” she said. Her movements indicated she had stepped out of her skirts and stood in her chemise, petticoat, and stays, but Rafe kept his gaze on the wall. And when that proved a challenge, he turned his back.
“I didn’t know. I wait for you every night.”
He heard her gasp and, a moment too late, realized what he’d just revealed. “You stand out there every night?”
“Not every night.” That was a lie. “At least not all night. Not most nights anyway.”
She grabbed his arm and turned him to face her. He looked down at her face, then down farther, and quickly brought his eyes back up. Her full breasts swelled over the tops of the stays. “Are you lying to me? Lady Ravensgate said she saw you at a dinner party.”
“I’ve gone to several events, hoping to see you.” Keep looking at her face, he reminded himself. “To speak with you in case you had new information,” he added.
“I have pretended to be ill.”
“I gathered as much when I overheard Lady Ravensgate speaking. And so the last few nights I’ve waited in the garden for you.”
She stared at him, her mouth parting slightly as more questions seemed to form in her mind. He wouldn’t allow her to ask them. He didn’t quite understand why he stood outside the town house most nights himself. He did not want to try and explain it. “Do you need help with your dress?” He gave her a slow perusal to remind her she was standing half-clothed before him. At least that was the reason he gave himself for the survey. Her cheeks reddened and she grasped the ugly brown dress.
“I can put it on. If you could just help with the laces in the back.”
“Of course.” She turned and bent to step into the skirt. Look up. Do not look at her bottom. That rounded, sweet bottom…
“What was that?” she asked.
“Nothing.” His voice sounded strained. “I cleared my throat.”
“It sounded like—”
“How old were you when your mother died?” he asked, desperate to change the subject.
She paused and began to don the bodice. “Twelve, almost thirteen.” She held laces out to him, and he studied them a moment, then went to work. He had dressed and undressed enough women to understand the workings of most every type of dress.
“A hard age to lose a mother,” he said.
“It was, and losing her was made harder by my father’s frequent absences. But I had my aunt until she married when I was fifteen.”
“It’s not quite the same, is it?” He’d had a stepmother.
She glanced back at him, her eyes shrewd. “No, it isn’t.”
“Ready?” he asked.
She nodded.
“I don’t know what trouble we might find, but you have to promise to do as I say.”
She nodded.
“And the first rule I make is for you to wear this cloak at all times.” He dropped it over her shoulders. “With the hood up. You’re too pretty for your own good.”
She laughed.
“That is not amusing.”
Then she saw his look and her face changed. “You are serious? You think me pretty?”
He waved the question away. “You know you’re pretty.” But from the look of astonishment on her face, he thought perhaps she didn’t. “The second rule is not to ask questions. Put everything you want in the satchel. We are leaving.”
“For the docks?”
“Yes, but not directly.”
“Then where first?”
He pulled the hood of her cloak up. “No questions.”
They left the town house as quietly as they’d entered. Rafe thought Collette might look back one last time as she walked away, but she never even slowed. He could all but hear the questions forming in her mind, but to her credit, she refrained from asking them. Rafe had barred them not because he didn’t want her to know what he was doing, but because he didn’t like to admit he was a bit out of his element. Fortunately, he knew someone who could help. He’d always said that it wasn’t what you knew but who you knew, and knowing Jasper Grantham would serve him well tonight.
But where to find the thief taker? If he was on the trail of a criminal, he might not surface for days. Rafe could only hope business was slow at present. He’d try the Draven Club, and if Jasper wasn’t there, then the man’s home. As they had to make their way down King Street to the club, Rafe was glad he had told Collette to keep her hood up. At this time of night, all sorts of men were out on the street. The brothels and the gaming hells were open and thriving, and reputable women were not usually to be found in St. James’s Square after dark.
Once at the Draven Club, he ushered Collette up the stairs and tapped on the knocker. As though he had been expecting them, Porter opened the door a moment later. The Master of the House inclined his head at them. “Good evening, Mr. Beaumont. Good evening, miss.”
“Is Jasper here?” Rafe asked.
“Lord Jasper is in the dining room. Shall I fetch him?”
Rafe looked back at Collette. Women were not allowed inside the club. No exceptions. But Rafe could not leave Collette on the street alone.
“I’d rather speak with him inside. Would it be possible for Miss Fortier to wait in the vestibule?”
Porter’s face showed no emotion. “She may be seated just inside the doorway, and I will keep her company. I trust you may find the dining room on your own, sir?”
“Yes.” Rafe shouldered Collette and himself inside. Porter indicated a stiff-backed chair, and Collette sat gracefully, rearranging her cloak as she did so. Rafe rushed halfway up the steps and then back down again. “Thank you, Porter. I appreciate this.”
“Of course, Mr. Beaumont. Think nothing of it, sir.”
“But it isn’t nothing, Porter. I know”—he put his arm around Porter’s shoulder and drew the man a little away from Collette—“I know my reputation. Miss Fortier isn’t
like the other women.”
Porter looked him straight in the eye. “Yes, sir. She wouldn’t be inside right now if I thought she were.”
Rafe gave Porter a long look, then bounded back up the stairs. He found the dining room deserted except for Jasper, who sat at a back table with a bowl of soup and a book. When Rafe entered, he lowered his book, revealing his scarred face. Never more than in moments like these did Rafe marvel at the dichotomies inherent in his friend. He was the son of a marquess but lived most of his life in the London rookeries. He wore a mask in public because his face scared women and small children, and yet here he sat, the epitome of elegance, sipping soup and reading a book. Jasper was a man who could fit into any situation, a veritable chameleon.
“What the devil happened to you?” he drawled, setting his book down but keeping a finger between the pages to mark his place.
“I need your help.”
Jasper shook his head. “I told you before, I don’t want to be involved with your hordes of women.”
“You’re not amusing. This is a question about a packet from France.”
Jasper drew his finger out of the book. “Go on.”
“If a ship arrived in London from France, where would they drop anchor to attract the least notice?”
“Ships from France generally arrive at Dover.”
“I don’t think this one will. The passengers will want to avoid a land journey with its turnpikes and toll gates.”
“Are they smugglers?”
“Of a sort.”
“Then Wapping. It’s far enough away from the center of London that the customs officials are not quite so strict. Plus, it has a history of smuggling and pirates. If this ship wants to avoid notice, I imagine they’ll seek out the quay in Wapping. The customs officials there might be easily bribed to overlook one or more passengers who wish to disembark without the proper paperwork.”
Rafe closed his eyes. “I don’t want to go to Wapping.”
“No one wants to go to Wapping. Hire a carriage. It’s four miles at least and the highway can be dangerous.” Jasper lifted his wine and Rafe expertly plucked it from his hand.
“Where am I to find a carriage at this hour?” He drank Jasper’s wine down.
Jasper glared at him. “I would have suggested you ask Porter. But now you’ve drank my wine, you can go to hell.”
Rafe grinned at him. “I’ll see you there.”
Fifteen
Collette’s eyes drooped. It was almost dawn by the time Rafe had negotiated the use of the club’s carriage and the conveyance was ready. She’d all but fallen asleep in the chair. In fact, she thought she might have been forgotten except that she heard the lovely older gentleman, Porter, chastising Rafe for keeping her out all night.
“Where is this young lady’s home? She should be in bed, sir.”
“Your concern is touching, Porter. Are you also worried for my health?”
Porter harrumphed and hobbled away. One of his legs was wooden, but he was so adept at using it, it had taken a little while for Collette to notice.
Finally, Rafe shook her shoulder and, taking her arm, escorted her to the coach. It was black lacquer and shone in the early-morning light. The team of six black horses stamped their feet and looked eager to be away. The coachman wore a high-collared coat with his hat brim pulled low on his forehead. He lifted his hat a fraction of an inch as they approached.
And then Rafe opened the door and helped her inside. He climbed in after her, seating himself across from her and facing the rear. Porter had followed them outdoors, but instead of closing the door to the carriage, he handed Collette a wrapped parcel. Collette looked down at the square of linen, and when she looked up again, Porter slid a thickly wrapped brick beside her feet. “To keep you warm, Miss Fortier,” he said. Then he looked at Rafe. “The victuals are for Miss Fortier, not you, sir.”
Collette looked down at the package in her hands again. She lifted the linen and revealed a loaf of bread, an apple, and a flagon of wine. “You are very kind, Mr. Porter.”
“If I were truly kind, I wouldn’t send you off with Mr. Beaumont.”
Rafe blew out a breath. “Need I remind you I pay your salary?”
Porter smiled. “That’s not my fault, sir.” And he closed the door.
“The man is impertinent,” Rafe groused as he tapped on the roof to indicate they were ready to depart.
“Oh, anyone can see he cares for you.” Collette set the parcel of food on the seat beside her. “He simply knows you too well. You have an awful reputation, Mr. Beaumont.”
“If he knew me, he’d know half of that is pure fiction.”
“Half is still far worse than the reputations of a dozen such men.”
Rafe considered her, the side of his face lit by sunlight. And then he drew the curtains to shield them from the eyes of the curious they passed. “And what do you believe, Collette?” he asked, his voice rising from the darkness.
“I don’t know what to believe,” she answered. “Ask me again in a few days.”
“Believe me, I will.”
The carriage moved at a slow pace, as the streets were crowded. Collette was lulled to sleep by the easy motion of the conveyance, then all but fell off her seat when the coach bounced over something—hopefully not someone—in the road.
“You’d better come sit with me,” Rafe said, his form still shadowed in the darkness. “You can lean your head on my shoulder, and I’ll keep you anchored. Or better yet, I shall sit with you.” He waited and when she gave no answer, he said, “May I?”
Collette drew a breath in. It was dangerous to be in close proximity to Rafe Beaumont. Her body tended to betray what she knew was in her best interest. “Very well. But—”
Beaumont paused in the act of rising from his seat.
“But this is not an invitation to kiss me or do anything else of that sort.”
“No kissing.” He slid beside her, his body solid and warm, and she realized even though her feet had been resting on the brick, she’d been cold. She was about to rest her head on his shoulder, but then he spoke again. “What other things of that sort do you speak of? Can you be specific?”
She let out an annoyed breath. “You know what I mean, Rafe.”
“Not at all. For example, would putting my arm around you to keep you from falling be of that sort?”
“It depends where you put your arm.”
“The shoulders?” He put his arm about her shoulders.
“That is fine.”
“Hmm. What about your waist?” His arm slid down her back and wrapped around her waist.
Collette drew a shaky breath. “That is acceptable.”
“Are you cold? Your voice is trembling.”
“I’m fine.”
“Shall I warm you up?” He took the arm not holding her and reached across her to rub his hand up and down her arm. “Better?”
“Yes. Really, I am fine, sir.” She said this more forcefully. And then, before she knew what had happened, he had touched his nose to hers. She jerked back, surprised because she had not been able to anticipate his movements in the dark. “What are you doing?”
“Your nose. It’s cold.”
“It’s fine.”
“I can’t have your nose ice cold. I’ll warm it for you.” He touched her nose with his again and this time his forehead tapped against hers too. She knew she need only move a fraction to press her lips to his, and his mouth would be warm and inviting and so, so wicked. “I know you are a hedgehog expert, but were you aware that in some northern cultures, this is considered a kiss?”
“What is?” She could hardly breathe. His sweet breath feathered over her chin.
“Rubbing noses. It’s like a kiss for them.”
“So then you are breaking my rule.”
“I’ve nev
er been very good at following the rules.” His mouth brushed hers so lightly she could almost believe she’d imagined it. Heat and longing flared inside her. She could not seem to stop wanting this man. Even when she knew she should not want him. Even when she knew she could not have him.
“Neither have I.” Her mouth met his and warmth raced through her. She felt as though she’d been sleeping and now that he kissed her, held her, she was awake and alive again. His mouth slanted over hers, his hands tangling in her hair and cradling her head. He might have pulled her into his lap, but he made no move to do so. Instead, he lowered her to the soft squab and looked down at her, his hair falling over his forehead so she could not see his eyes at all.
“Just let me hold you,” he whispered. “I cannot seem to ever hold you close enough.”
She closed her eyes and reveled in his scent and the feel of his body pressed against hers.
“This will most likely be our last day together,” he said quietly. “If we are right and your father is already in England, you will see him today.”
And then what would happen? she wondered. Would Rafe turn them all in to the Foreign Office? Or would he let her go but imprison her father? He must have known that she would never be willingly parted from her father. Where he went, she would go. And if Rafe was the one responsible for her father’s death, she would never be able to forgive him.
“And then we will be enemies once more,” she said.
“We were always enemies. We just forget. From time to time.”
She smiled wryly. “I never wanted this.” And she didn’t know if she meant her life as a spy or falling in love with him.
“Neither did I. And yet…” He trailed off, sounding thoughtful.
“And yet?” she prompted. For some reason it was easier to speak to him like this, in the dark, when she couldn’t see how beautiful he was and he couldn’t see her expressions.
“And yet I always knew this was coming. I always knew I’d meet a woman I couldn’t dismiss quite so easily.”
