by Clee, Adele
Loath to spoil their fun, but fearing Miss Sands was about to dart out from her hiding place, Dante had to act.
“This seat is taken.” Dante’s menacing tone sliced through the shadows. He recognised the woman as the young wife of a doddering peer. “I suggest you move elsewhere unless you wish me to inform Lord Clements he’s a cuckold.”
Squeals and curses replaced the carnal grunts. Lady Clements jumped from the seat and covered her bare breasts. Frederick Wace, a young buck with less courage than chin hair, grabbed his lover’s arm and fled into the darkness.
Dante might have breathed a relieved sigh had Miss Sands’ ramblings not taken an alarming turn.
“Get off me! No! Get away!”
“Hush.” He swung around and drew her out of the shrubbery. “Hush now. They’ve gone.”
Tears streaked her cheeks, the droplets glistening beneath the faint slivers of moonlight. She fought to catch her breath, lacked the strength to raise her eyelids.
He hated seeing any woman in pain, preferred seeing them panting with pleasure and gasping his name. His stomach twisted into knots. Hard knots. Crippling knots. The urge to run, to seek amusing entertainment, to drink himself into oblivion, to banish the memory of his mother’s tears, forced him to step back.
But then Miss Sands’ eyes flew open. Fear marred the vibrant blue irises. Fear left its hideous etchings in every distressed line on her face. She looked at him, the realisation she had escaped her nightmare evident in her sudden exhalation. But then the tears came anew. The first like the trickle of water seeping through the cracks in a dam. It did not take long for the walls to collapse under the pressure.
Miss Sands rushed into his arms, buried her face in his neck and sobbed.
Dante stood rigid. He had nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.
Chapter 2
How odd it was to take comfort in the arms of a stranger. But then Mr D’Angelo was not a stranger. Everything about their meeting tonight had gone as planned. If he knew her real name, he would know of their connection. But Beatrice could not risk telling him yet. Not until they were better acquainted. Not until he’d learnt to trust her, to respect her opinion. And although she’d come expecting some surprises, she had not thought to fall into his arms, a quivering wreck.
For a moment, she forgot about the horrendous year she’d had—a lonely year spent struggling to survive—and took comfort in his warm embrace. Mr D’Angelo did not smell like a sweat-soaked monster. A devious devil in disguise. No. His spiced bergamot cologne reflected a man with an unmistakable presence. A sensual seducer, confident in his own skin.
“Miss Sands,” he said, his voice strung as tightly as a bow. “Perhaps I should have my coachman take you home. I’m not sure what caused your sudden panic, but—”
“I have a fear of enclosed spaces, sir.” It was not irrational by any means. She pulled away from him and accepted his proffered handkerchief. The silk square smelled as divine as his clothes. “When trapped in dark places, I fear I might not escape.”
“Ah, I assume it has something to do with the licentious libertine.”
“Sometimes, it is impossible to suppress the memories.” She hated the fact she had a weakness. Hated the fact someone insignificant could still affect her so profoundly.
“I understand. Memories appear with the slightest provocation.”
“They do.” She felt oddly comforted by his remark. “Mr Daventry took a chance hiring a female agent. I cannot go home without proving Mr Babington is the criminal who defrauded Mrs Emery.”
Wearing a curious frown, Mr D’Angelo considered her intently. “I, too, believe Babington is the culprit.” He gestured to the red velvet cushions lining the bench. “Though I am keen to hear how you came to that conclusion.”
Beatrice dried her eyes and returned the gentleman’s handkerchief. “You agreed to barter. One piece of information for another. It wouldn’t do to reveal all my secrets.”
“We were interrupted before I gave my consent.” He waited for her to sit and then settled beside her. “But we share a goal, both seek to catch the culprit, and so I accept your terms.”
Their shared goal amounted to more than identifying a swindler. She wanted to find the person who murdered his parents as much as he did.
“Excellent. Let us discuss the facts.” Beatrice managed a smile. “A gentleman professing to be a wealthy merchant purchased the widow’s rare ormolu clock for two hundred pounds. Naively, the widow took his cheque and gave him the heirloom.”
“And when presented, the cheque proved to be a forgery.” Mr D’Angelo was frugal with his information and gave nothing away.
“It occurred to me that this wasn’t his first crime,” she said. “According to Mrs Emery, he exuded an aristocratic confidence. Must be highly educated because he professed to hail from Lancashire, yet had no accent. As you know, criminals often tell some semblance of the truth when inventing a tale. Mr Babington’s parents hail from Rochdale, and while his father is a gentleman, his mother’s family are wealthy wool merchants.”
“Lancashire? The widow made no mention of it to me.”
Mrs Emery had commented on Mr D’Angelo’s dark, dangerous eyes, on the fact one should be wary of anyone of Italian heritage. “Mrs Emery found you intimidating. After her initial shock upon meeting me, she was grateful that Mr Daventry sent a female agent.”
“Did the widow tell you anything else important?”
Beatrice grinned but resisted the urge to tap him playfully on the arm. “It is your turn to reveal information, Mr D’Angelo.”
He inclined his head, conceding. “I believe Babington has committed many crimes. But where does one sell stolen items without leaving a trace? I discovered he uses numerous pawnbrokers, men willing to turn a blind eye to his misdeeds.”
Beatrice knew Mr Babington had various means of profiting from his ill-gotten gains. But she had focused on another line of enquiry.
“I gathered information about a gang known to work from the London docks. They smuggle stolen goods abroad, expensive items that are too identifiable to be sold locally. A gentleman of quality arranged to hide items amongst the cargo—a diamond brooch, a topaz and chrysoberyl bracelet, and a gold-mounted tortoiseshell snuffbox.”
Mr D’Angelo folded his arms across his broad chest and grinned. “You speak of Gilbert Stint’s gang?”
“Perhaps.”
His inquisitive gaze journeyed over her hair, her face, dipped to her breasts. “How did you gain that information when Stint refused to discuss the matter with me? Even after I delivered a swift upper-cut to the scoundrel’s jaw, he continued to play dumb.”
“I have many contacts in the rookeries, Mr D’Angelo.” During her first few days in London, she had been lucky enough to find work at a tavern run by Alice Crouch—a formidable woman with a fondness for waifs. Luckily, Mr Stint had a fondness for the buxom proprietor of the Bull in the Barn. “But while their information proves useful, I cannot present it as evidence.”
Beatrice would never betray Alice.
“Lady Giles lost her chrysoberyl bracelet at Mr Babington’s masquerade in August,” Beatrice continued. She had earned that priceless piece of information by befriending the lady’s maid. “And Mr Winston-Jones lost his snuffbox during a private party at the Blue Jade, a club known—”
“For opium-fuelled orgies.”
“You’ve been?”
“No, Miss Sands. I’ve never had the need to pay for pleasure.”
“Of course not.” A man oozing raw masculinity must have a host of willing bed partners. “Mr Babington is a regular patron of the Blue Jade. It cannot be a coincidence.” Beatrice paused. “It is your turn to divulge a secret, sir.”
Mischief glinted in his black eyes. “A reason I believe Babington is guilty, or do you wish to know something personal, Miss Sands?”
“While it’s important we know each other better, sir, we should focus on our current case.”
They had plenty of time
to become acquainted. The only way to prove Babington’s guilt was to catch him in the act. Once she had proven her worth, she would offer to help Mr D’Angelo find the man who murdered his parents. The man who murdered her father, too.
“The blackguard sold Mrs Emery’s ormolu clock to a pawnbroker in Holborn,” he said. “The owner’s description—a man an inch shy of six feet, with brown wavy hair and a pasty complexion—confirms it’s Babington.”
“Mrs Emery described the merchant as having chalk-white skin.” Beatrice had pressed the old woman, needing her to confirm what she had learnt from Mr Stint. “I believe Mr Babington uses a mix of wax and powder to cover the purple birthmark on his cheek.”
Mr D’Angelo’s full lips curled into a slow smile. “To say I’m impressed by your investigative skills would be an understatement, Miss Sands.”
A sudden rush of excitement stole her breath. Earning Mr D’Angelo’s respect was key to her plan. “When one has to fight for survival, it pays to be shrewd.”
In truth, she was merely lucky. Lucky, Alice had found her when she did. Lucky, she’d not been stolen off the street and put to service.
“Oh, you’re shrewd, Miss Sands.” Despite his compliment, his intimidating aura left her slightly unnerved. “Shrewd enough to afford a gown that must have cost more than a few months’ pay. Shrewd enough to gain entrance to a ball for degenerates when I know Daventry would not have secured an invitation.”
“You sound as if you distrust me, sir.”
“Do not be offended. I distrust most people.”
Well, she would have to change that. Perhaps a good dose of honesty was the cure.
“The dress belongs to Miss Trimble. The lady employed to run the house in Howland Street.” Miss Trimble owned an assortment of clothes and disguises, all items a lady might use when conducting an investigation. “She disapproves of me attending Mr Babington’s ball, hence why she is waiting outside in the carriage Mr Daventry provided for our use. She told me a lady with poise and confidence could walk into a king’s court without an invitation. And she was right.”
“Did Daventry provide the coachman?”
“Of course.”
Mr D’Angelo gave a knowing nod. “Then Daventry will know exactly where you’ve been tonight. I’ll wager the coachman is skilled in combat and carries a brace of pistols, wager Miss Trimble is employed to keep Daventry informed of your whereabouts.”
“Mr Daventry considers the safety of all his agents,” she said. According to Miss Trimble, he was particularly concerned about the captivating gentleman of Italian heritage.
Mr D’Angelo narrowed his gaze. “What are you really doing here, Miss Sands? Another motive drives you, not the need to put food on the table or prove yourself in a man’s world, but something else.”
Panic forced Beatrice to her feet. The gentleman’s insight was remarkable.
“Might I suggest we postpone any discussion of a personal nature until we’ve found something to incriminate Mr Babington? Time is of the essence, Mr D’Angelo.”
“And what if we need to hide in a dark corner?” He stood, his countenance turning somewhat arrogant as he straightened to his full height. “Will you tremble in terror? Will you claw at my back, gasp, and give the game away?”
Her hackles rose at the mere hint of condescension. “Do not press your body against mine, sir, and there shall be no problem.”
“You should take it as a compliment. Most women would beg to have me thrust them up against a topiary hedge, and yet I chose you.”
She laughed. “You did not choose me. I stalked after you along a moonlit path. I sought you out because it seems ridiculous not to work together when we’re investigating the same case.”
He bent his head, and in a husky voice whispered, “But if I could have chosen any woman from the ballroom to push against, Miss Sands, it would have been you.”
Oh, the man was a devil and a tease.
Miss Trimble had warned her to stay on her guard.
“Well, I’m liable to attack any man who so much as tries, and I doubt Mr Daventry wants fighting amongst the ranks.”
Wearing a rakish grin, he brushed his hand through his brown shoulder-length hair. “Then I’ll have to see what I can do to help you curb your temper. Now, back to the matter of Babington. We should—”
“I shall search Mr Babington’s study while you examine his bedchamber.”
“I’m not leaving you to wander the house alone. Perhaps you’re unaware, but there are a few rogues out to seduce you tonight.”
Seduce her? And she thought she had blended into the crowd.
“We’ll both search the study,” she conceded, else they would be locked in a battle of wills until dawn. “Though after your needless attempt to protect my reputation, I don’t suppose you’ll want anyone seeing us together.”
Mr D’Angelo moved to stand beside her. “I shall enter the study. Wait outside until I raise the sash.”
“Outside? You expect me to climb through a window while wearing a ball gown?”
He seemed to find the thought amusing. “You’re an agent of the Order. If I’m to let you present the evidence to Daventry, I need to test your mettle. Besides, the rakes are watching your every move, waiting for an opportunity to pounce. The moment you slip from the corridor to the study, they’ll be fighting for a chance to join you.”
Beatrice might have challenged his observations. If men were so intent on pursuing her, why had no one followed her into the garden? Still, it was imperative she passed Mr D’Angelo’s test.
“Then I bow to the weight of your experience, sir, and will do as you suggest.”
The rogue moistened his lips as his gaze slipped to her ankles. “I’ll escort you as far as the arched arbour. Babington’s study is—”
“The third window to the left as one approaches the house.”
“Precisely.”
Beatrice refused to hold on to his arm as they walked along the moonlit path back to the house. It had nothing to do with wanting to prove herself his equal, and everything to do with the fact the man’s magnetic presence made her nervous. Of course, as a female agent, one had to be a damn good actress, and she’d done a remarkable job so far.
Amid the rustle of silk and the groans of noisy lovers coming from the shrubbery, the five-minute wait near the study window left Beatrice’s heart thumping and her cheeks aflame. When Mr D’Angelo finally raised the sash, she couldn’t race to the window quick enough.
“You’ll have to lift your skirts to your knees if you’re to climb over the ledge, Miss Sands.” Mr D’Angelo offered his hand along with a devilish grin.
“I might have to raise them higher than that,” she teased.
“Be assured I’ve seen more than my share of stocking-clad thighs.”
Heat flooded her cheeks for the umpteenth time this evening.
Beatrice surveyed the ledge, feeling rather thankful she had come prepared. Bunching her skirts, she thrust her head through the gap and tried to ignore the feel of Mr D’Angelo’s hot hands as he gripped her waist and helped her inside.
“Be careful. Mind your head,” he whispered, his shocked gaze fixed firmly on her legs as she edged through the gap. “What the devil are you wearing?”
“These?” Beatrice set about righting her skirts, covering the fitted white trousers. “Miss Trimble gave them to me. Decorum is an important factor when a lady has to scoop up her gown and run.”
For the first time this evening—for the first time since watching him from afar these last few months—a genuine smile touched his lips. The deep amber flecks in his eyes glowed. Heaven help her. Mr D’Angelo was handsome when angry, but the rare glimpse of happiness made him appear utterly breathtaking.
“During my time as an agent, during my time witnessing women in many states of dishabille, I have never encountered a woman wearing trousers beneath her ball gown.” He lowered the sash, drew the heavy green curtains and set about lighting the candle in
the brass stick on the desk.
“Have I defiled your delicate sensibilities, sir?”
“No, Miss Sands, you’ve sparked my interest, and that’s a damn sight more dangerous.”
The air between them crackled to life. She could see why a lady might want to be thrust against a hedge and have him smother her body.
Beatrice cleared her throat and rounded the desk. Maintaining a certain distance made it easier to focus on the task at hand. “Miss Trimble disapproves of me chasing criminals for a living, but she knows my options are limited. Consequently, she tries to assist me in my endeavours, not hinder my progress.”
Mr D’Angelo tugged the handle on the desk drawer only to find it locked. “Hence the reason she made you wear trousers to protect your modesty.”
“Indeed.”
“And yet some men find them more arousing than bare legs.”
“I doubt that.”
He glanced up from trying to pick the lock with wire and a thin metal instrument. Their eyes met—more a sensual tussle than a clash of swords. “I’m a man who thrives on intrigue, Miss Sands. You’ll do well to remember it.”
“There is nothing intriguing about me, sir. Wearing trousers is a logical decision if you think about it.”
“And I am thinking about it, Miss Sands. I’m thinking about it a great deal.”
“Then stop thinking and focus on opening the drawer.”
Beatrice glanced around the room, looking for a place where a man might hide evidence of his crimes. The bookcase full of leather-bound volumes captured her interest. Her uncle had hidden the damning newspaper cuttings between the leaves of a book entitled Farming Practices of the Middle Ages.
Mr D’Angelo cracked open the drawer and sifted through the contents while she studied the gold embossed lettering on the spines of numerous books.
“Search under the seat cushions,” came Mr D’Angelo’s whispered command. “Open the bureau and look there.”
But Beatrice was drawn to the row of books on the top shelf. She took the footstool positioned near the fireside chair, stood on tiptoes on the cushioned seat, but could not reach to pull a book from the shelf.
