by Alyson Chase
“Wot’s your rush there, lovely?” He stood several inches above her, his lank hair scraping his dirty collar. He leered. “How about you and I become better acquainted?”
“No, I thank you.” She tugged her arm free. “That idea holds no appeal.” She should have kept her Bardolph costume on. No man would want to molest her in that. But it was easier sneaking back into the earl’s home as herself. There would be less explanations required if she were caught.
“Oy, so proper you are.” He stepped closer. “Makes no mind to me if yer friendly or not. I’ll just take your bag and be done with it.” He reached for her reticule.
Fury swelled within her, making her chest grow tight. Another man trying to take what he wanted from her. “You want my bag? You can have it.” And with all her strength, she swung the reticule between his legs.
He gargled, clutched his hands to his groin, and dropped to his knees.
Another form melted from the shadows, and she jumped back, arm aloft, ready to swing again.
“Nice shot, miss,” Wilberforce said. He toed the man’s shoulder, a smile crossing his face when the man crumpled to his side and curled into a tight ball. “What do you keep in that satchel?”
The tension between her shoulders eased and she lowered her arm. “A stocking full of ha’pennies.” She shook her reticule, the clinking of the heavy coins loud in the night air. “I find it makes a most efficient deterrent.”
“I’d have to agree.”
The man on the ground sputtered, coughing up something foul, and she turned her back and strode away.
Wilberforce was only a step behind her, his footfalls uneven, his soft tread distinctive with his limp.
“Did he ask you to follow me?” she asked.
“No, miss.”
“So you did so on your own initiative. Why?” Was he looking for a bribe to keep quiet? She didn’t know if she could take another impediment to her new life.
“I didn’t think a woman should walk about at night unattended. It isn’t safe.”
No, nothing in life was safe. Not walking about London at night, nor conversing in a sitting room with the wrong man. She pressed her fingertips to the protrusion at her wrist. Safety was but an illusion. “As you see, I’ve learned to take care of myself.”
“Yes, miss.”
She whirled on him. “What are you going to tell your master, and how much do I need to pay to keep you silent?”
“No one is my master,” he said with quiet dignity.
She couldn’t argue that. Having her own taste of freedom these past years, she knew she could never subjugate herself to society’s hierarchy ever again.
“Summerset. Will you tell him where I go?” Had he already done so? The earl did like to toy with her. It would be just like him to keep such knowledge to himself until he could use it against her with most effect.
Wilberforce looked away, down the street. They were only a block from the earl’s home. A newly-installed gas lamp made his black hair appear almost midnight-blue. “When I was young, he helped me out of a bad situation.” His words were quiet but hung as heavy as mist. “I don’t want anyone to face the trouble I did. So I’ll walk you home if I’m able.” He stared down at his feet. “I don’t know which house you visit if that’s your worry, and it’s not my business. I only want to make sure you make it home safe.”
“And you won’t tell Summerset?” she repeated. It was a rare person who wasn’t looking for an advantage at every turn. He sounded sincere, but she’d been fooled before.
He lifted his shoulders. “I don’t think he needs to know right now.”
Netta chewed her lip. That hadn’t been the whole-hearted agreement she’d hoped for, but it would have to be enough. She nodded and turned once more for Summerset’s house. At his neighbor’s yard, she paused. “You understand I’m going to keep going in using the servants’ entrance?” It was supposed to be locked at night, but one of the first things she’d lifted had been the housekeeper’s key.
He yawned, covering his mouth with his palm. “As you like. Your mode of entrance doesn’t matter; only that you’re back safe.” He even led the way, extracting his own key when they approached the back door. “Goodnight, miss.” He nodded and turned for the kitchens, his duty apparently satisfied for the night.
What a strange man. Netta smothered her own yawn. But as long as he kept his mouth shut, his mannerisms weren’t her concern.
She crept to the staircase and made her way upstairs to her room. Her eyes drooped as she changed into her night rail. As she settled under the covers one thought kept her awake longer than it ought.
What had the earl done to help Wilberforce out of trouble? For a man who cultivated an appearance of indifference, Summerset certainly seemed to be in the habit of rescuing those in need.
Even with all the roles she played, she couldn’t help but think that John Chaucer, Earl of Summerset might be the most practiced actor of them all.
***
The fourth step on his staircase squeaked, and John glanced towards his study’s door. Netta was home. Finally. Her excursion tonight had been longer than most.
Not that he was keeping an eye on her. As long as she learned her part, she could do whatever she wanted. Visit whomever she wished.
He slouched in his chair. Was she sneaking out to visit a lover? What kind of man would let his woman wander about at night getting into trouble?
What kind of man would be skilled enough to control her? Netta was quite the handful.
“Summerset?”
Should he learn where she went? After all, she was an investment. Any intrigues of hers could interfere with his scheme. It was his duty to investigate who might be handling his asset.
Handling her assets.
“John?!”
“What?”
The Baron of Sutton blinked in surprise at the edge in John’s voice. He sat across from John, a snifter of brandy in his hand and a concerned expression on his face.
John modulated his tone, removing all signs of frustration. After all, why should he be irritated? Netta’s affairs were none of his own. “Apologies. What did you say?”
“I only asked when you wanted to leave. The Home Office won’t get any quieter.” Sutton placed his glass down and scratched his chin through his bushy, black beard. “If you want to take a more direct approach, I’d understand. Sudworth deserves a thrashing for what he did to your brother. I’d be more than happy to use my fists tonight rather than sneak about adding bits and bobs to a file.”
John smiled. Yes, his friends were always ready to get in a mill or two on his behalf, and he was lucky for it. He, Sutton, Montague, Rothchild, and Dunkeld had been in their fair share of fights working for the Crown as spies, but he’d never felt in any true danger. He had the best of men fighting alongside him.
His eyelids went hot, and he buried his face in his own drink. It wasn’t the fault of his friends’ that their time together was now so infrequent. They were married, some with families, all having given up espionage. John had a standing invitation to each and every one of their homes, but he rarely accepted. He was the odd man out as his friends turned into fathers and rusticated in their domestic lives.
But if he was ever in need, he knew who to call. Sutton was the only other one of them in London at present, but if John sent a request for assistance to his friends in the country, they’d be upon him just as fast as their horses could carry them.
“A physical response to the assault on Robert is very appealing, I admit.” One he’d had to talk himself out of several times. John tossed the last of his whisky down his throat. “But it won’t recover my ore mines. Sudworth’s beating can wait until after the deed is back in my brother’s hands.”
Sutton grumbled. “I hate waiting.” He tapped the toe of his boot on the floor. “I say, is your cat dead?”
John looked at Judith laying on the hearth before the crackling fir
e. The animal was stretched out as though she were on an invisible rack, her paws stretched up above her head.
John frowned. Sudworth’s cat most likely never lounged with such indelicacy. “No. She likes to sleep that way.” It was damned annoying when the cat took up half his bed with that position. And she was mean when he attempted to prod her back to her side.
John rose and stretched his hands to the ceiling. His back popped. “There is also the matter of what Sudworth is up to. I don’t buy his claims of seeking justice against Raffles one bit. There is some gain to him in ruining the man. I want to discover what it is before giving him a thrashing.” He patted his breast pocket, the letter folded within crinkling. John had written it before his friend had arrived, copying from the original word for word.
If what Sudworth had given him was the original. There was a strong chance it also was a forgery, one meant to implicate Raffles. Regardless, John had mimicked the handwriting to a decent degree, keeping it close enough to not arouse immediate suspicion but distinctive enough that its falsity would be uncovered under stricter scrutiny.
He hoped to walk the fine line between giving Sudworth what he wanted while not sabotaging Raffles with his actions. The subterfuge soothed his conscience but added to the difficulty of his task. He needed to discover the plot before his forgery was brought to light.
Sutton pushed to his feet. “What does Liverpool have to say about the matter?”
“Nothing.” John lifted his foot to the seat of his chair and brushed a bit of ash from his white leather boots.
“You have informed him.” Sutton crossed his arms and squinted. “He does know we’re breaking into the Home Office tonight.”
John sniffed. “The prime minister has shown a decided lack of interest in our skills. As such, I have no interest in seeking his approval of our endeavors.”
“John.”
“Hmm? Yes?”
Sutton merely arched an eyebrow.
John blew out a breath. “I want to learn more first. As of now, I would only have the barest suspicions to tell Liverpool. My inquiries have turned up no connection between the man and Raffles.” He rubbed the back of his head. “After I learn something of substance, then I will go to the prime minister.” Perhaps. It could be satisfying to lay a fully-foiled plot at the man’s feet. Show Liverpool just what he was missing by not utilizing John’s talents.
“And if we are caught tonight?” Sutton asked.
John tutted. “When have we ever been caught?”
“Well, there was that time in—”
“Hardly ever,” John interrupted. “Truly, you have gone soft since your retirement.”
Sutton pinched his lips together. “Robert isn’t the only Chaucer brother who likes to gamble.”
John’s stomach tensed as though punched. His friend was wrong. John never risked what he couldn’t afford to lose. And he knew his limits. Breaking into a file room wasn’t even close to them.
He turned on his heel and strode for the front door, Sutton following behind. They slid into their coats. The footman held the door, and John and Sutton stood on the front steps while his carriage was brought around.
“I wonder how long it will take to get around security,” Sutton said.
John arched an eyebrow.
“Not that I’m not happy to spend the evening with you, of course,” Sutton hastily added.
“Of course.” John shook his head. He couldn’t blame his friends. Having a fine woman at home did tend to change a man’s priorities. But where was the excitement? The thrill of a good intrigue? How did his friends not knock their heads against the wall in abject boredom ever since they’d left the service of the Crown?
“Don’t worry.” John tapped his thumb against his thigh, trying in vain to squash the foolish feeling of abandonment that dug its claws into his skin. “You’ll be home abed before the hour strikes three.”
“Truly,” Sutton said, “a night getting into trouble with you is just the thing. It will be like old times.”
Old. Yes. Everything was starting to feel old. If he—John swallowed—was truly retired from the spy game, what on earth would he do with himself? He’d once dreamed of spending his life developing new metals. The chromium steel he’d created had yielded more profit and pleasure than he could have dreamed. If it hadn’t been for the accident…if it hadn’t been for his mistake, he might never have taken up working for the Crown. His small laboratory had fulfilled his needs.
Since the explosion, he only ever entered it to whip up some concoction that would assist in one of his clandestine assignments.
And now, not even for that.
These days, he woke up, read the papers and his correspondence, ensured production from his mills was running smoothly, and went to bed. Even with shopping jaunts and routs and races, it made for a dull life.
Only Robert’s trouble had roused him of late.
His brother’s trouble, and Netta.
He glanced back at his house. “Yes. Old times,” he murmured. In times of old, he wouldn’t have hesitated to liven up his job with an affair between the sheets.
His carriage pulled to a stop before them, and the driver hopped down to open the door. John followed his friend inside.
Perhaps if he didn’t want to feel so bloody old, he should stop acting it. Life was short. No need for it to be made miserable with self-denial.
He settled back against the seat as they pulled into motion.
His charm, though legendary, had little effect on the woman, unless one considered an increased degree of insolence on her part a show of success. His generosity of spirit and forbearance as he showed her how to be a lady she only repaid with cheek and scorn.
His lips curved upwards. He did appreciate a saucy woman.
As they rolled through London’s streets, he wondered: what would it take to seduce Netta Pickle? And how big of a mistake would it be?
Chapter Nine
“That’s absurd.” Netta slouched back in her chair and crossed her arms. The man was mad. Even in her days as the accomplished and learned daughter of Viscount Darby, she had never, not once, been instructed to walk with a book atop her head.
“A woman must glide when she enters a room.” Summerset placed the thick tome on the crown of his head and provided her with an example. “She must exude a lightness of foot and a grace of motion.”
Netta scowled. Damn him if he didn’t appear to float across the parlor. The heels of his lavender suede boots made nary a sound as he made his way from one end of the room to the other. His hips remained motionless as his elegant legs stretched, one after the other, in an easy saunter. When he stood before her, he bowed deeply, catching the book as it tumbled from its perch and sweeping it as flamboyantly through the air as though it were a feathered hat.
He straightened and dropped the book in her lap. “And that is how a lady walks.”
She looked at the size of the book, examined the size of his head, and sighed. It was no use. Nothing could deflate his ego, not even a sound thumping.
“This isn’t difficult.” He tugged at the billowing lace cuff of his shirt. “A lady should be polite, witty, and composed at all times. And when she enters a room, she must—”
“Bloody glide. I know, I know.” She rolled to her feet. “But turning me into a blasted bookshelf won’t do nothing to help me glide. I’m not a swan, you know.”
“Won’t do anything to help you glide.” He shook his head. “I do believe for every double negative you use, I’ll tell cook to serve you one less of those puddings you so enjoy.”
She gasped, and caught the book as it tumbled from her head. “You wouldn’t dare.”
He merely quirked an eyebrow.
Yes, of course he would. He was the sodding Earl of Summerset, and if ever a man dared, it was he.
All right. She balanced the book back on her head. Time to start rapidly improving her speech. Those puddings wer
e delicious. Far better than the offerings from the little bakeshop around the corner from her apartments.
She took a wobbling step forward. Perhaps she should start a bakeshop when she and Eleanor arrived in America. She’d never made anything before in her life, but she could learn. She was—
“Drat!” She swiped the book from the Persian rug. “I hope this book holds little importance to you,” she said, overenunciating her words. “For it is sure to be bent and ragged by the end of this silly lesson.”
“It’s not silly, and I have two more copies of that particular edition.” He tipped his head to the side and narrowed his eyes. “What are you doing with your hips? A woman’s hips shouldn’t thrust and bobble in that manner.”
She gritted her teeth. No man had ever complained about her bobbling hips before. She muttered something rude under her breath, which, of course, he heard.
“I would have made a marvelous woman,” he replied. “Perhaps in my next life I’ll be so fortunate. But as we are stuck for the moment in this life”—he moved behind her and placed his hands at her waist—"be so good as to move just so.” He fitted his front to her back and urged her forwards.
Netta sucked in a breath. He was warm and hard in all the right places. He wrapped an arm around her middle, his palm splayed beneath her breasts, and a delicious shiver danced down her spine. She wasn’t as free with her affections as some of her friends in the theatre, but she also wasn’t some untried girl. She knew when a man moved well, and how that would translate into his bed sport.
And the earl moved very well. With a casual press of his hand there, a nudge of his thigh there, he glided her about the room.
He bent his head, his breath hot on her ear. “How does that feel?”
“Quite nice.” She swallowed, trying to bring moisture back to her mouth.
They came to a standstill, his hand still pressed indecently to her belly, his thumb just grazing the underside of her bosom. He was folded around her like a luxurious velvet coat. She could feel the steady beat of his heart against her back…and when it kicked up its pace.
