Shirley Kerr (4 page)

Miss Parnell hastily withdrew her hand. She cleared her throat and blinked several times, then smoothed back a strand of hair and faced her brother, hands loosely clasped. “Steven, Lord Moncreiffe and I were just, ah, discussing terms. We—Wait, you two know each other?” She shot Alistair an accusatory glare before turning it on her brother.

“A mutual friend introduced us the other night.” Alistair tugged his waistcoat into place. “Had I realized the family connection, Blakeney, I would have sought your permission before pursuing a match with your sister.”

Alistair’s thoughts moved at lightning speed as he spoke the mundane platitude. Blakeney worked for the Home Office, as did Nick.
Nick saved me and Charlie from having to swim a time or two.
Miss
Charlotte
Parnell dangling from the rooftop, trying to sneak into the room beyond the balcony door, now made much more sense.

But the war was over, and had been for some time. What would two ex-spies be after in London?

Clearly, Miss Parnell was not working in complete harmony with her brother. Rivals, more like. At the least, she wanted to deceive him about the nature of her engagement.

Once again, two people were using Alistair as a pawn in their power struggle. By going along with her deception, he was playing right into her hands.

As he looked down at the pretty blonde beside him,
her lovely freckle hidden by her high-necked gown, he thought he might just enjoy being in her hands.

Besides, it appeared they had no one willing to serve as peacemaker, unlike Father and Grandfather.

“No harm done,” Blakeney said, striding forward. “Perhaps we should adjourn to the library so we can discuss practical matters?”

Miss Parnell stepped forward and to the side, blocking Alistair’s exit, unless he wanted to knock her over. “Actually, we were discussing plans for Lord Moncreiffe to escort the three of us to Lady Bainbridge’s Venetian breakfast this afternoon.”

“We were?” Alistair murmured.

“Not what it looked like to me,” Blakeney said, folding his arms across his chest.

Miss Parnell raised her chin. “He’s going to bring his carriage by at one o’clock.” She stepped aside and raised her hand, palm down. “Until then, my lord.”

Alistair took the hint and dropped a kiss just above her bare knuckles. “Until then.”

Just when he thought Blakeney was going to challenge him, he moved aside at the last second to let Alistair pass through the doorway.

He reclaimed his hat and coat from the footman and walked home, deep in thought. With any luck, a false engagement to a pretty girl like Miss Parnell would keep away all but the most aggressive of the marriage-minded young women who’d been dogging his steps.

Would she realize he knew of her real intentions? What was she really after, that she wanted to get without her brother’s cooperation?

And more importantly, should he help her, or try to stop her?

He needed to gather more information before drawing a conclusion. Miss Parnell, at the least, was worthy of further observation.

Introductions to Miss Parnell’s aunt and then getting the foursome into the carriage prevented any private conversation with his temporary fiancée. He barely managed to be the one to assist her from the carriage when they arrived.

The Bainbridges’ garden was decorated with paper lanterns swaying in the light afternoon breeze. An army of servants kept the dishes filled to overflowing with delicacies, feeding almost the same size crowd as had graced the ball at the Argyle Rooms last night.

Alistair had almost decided to spirit Miss Parnell away so they could talk, when he realized they were now the only ones seated in the dappled sunlight beneath the elm tree in the corner of the garden.

“I know what you’re up to,” he said softly to her as she bit into a pastry.

She dropped the pastry onto her plate. She swallowed and patted her cherry-red lips with her napkin. “I know I shouldn’t have taken a second tart, but the first was so good.”

He almost smiled. “Not that. In fact, it’s refreshing to see a woman who doesn’t pretend she eats like a bird. No, I meant I know why you want a fraudulent fiancé.”

“You do?” She stared down at the pastry as though it had been the one to speak, not him.

“You’re trying to do something without your brother’s knowledge—something that required breaking into someone else’s hotel room.”

She held on to her plate with both hands and turned her blue gaze on him. “Do you see the half dozen or so daggers plunged into my back, my lord?”

A lingering glance over her entire luscious figure, and Alistair assured himself she was speaking metaphorically.

“Those are from the ladies who’ve congratulated me on my forthcoming marriage to you. Very determined ladies who had every intention of diligently pursuing a match with you for themselves. Let us not pretend that I am the only one who benefits from this arrangement.”

He allowed a rueful grin. “I had noticed the sudden lack of handkerchiefs dropped in my path since the announcement appeared.” He rested his arm on the back of her chair and turned toward her, leaning over just far enough to catch a glimpse of her freckle. He barely resisted the impulse to twine one of her curls around his finger.

Not only had she changed from the simple gown of this morning into something with lacy frills and a lower neckline, but her hairstyle was again a mass of pinned-up ringlets. He wanted to pull the pins loose, one by one, and let the curls dance around her creamy bare shoulders.

He cleared his throat. “Fair enough, I acknowledge we both benefit. I’ve already deduced your interest in this event extends beyond Lady Bainbridge’s garden décor and gastronomic offerings, and not just to receive accolades for your triumph.”

“My triumph?” Her puzzled frown put a tiny line between her eyes. His fingers itched to smooth it.

“My grandfather is a duke, my father a marquess, and I’m their sole heir. I’m considered quite a catch.” He spoke with enough deprecating humor to tease an answering smile from Miss Parnell.

“You catch quite well, too.” She flushed with color at the admission, but did not look away.

Alistair felt an answering warmth spread through him, remembering the feel of Miss Parnell in his arms on the balcony the other night. He hadn’t wanted to let her go. Who knows how long he might have held onto her, kept her tightly against his body, had they not been interrupted?

He reached for her hand and turned her palm over to examine her fingers. “No lasting damage sustained from your foray on the rooftop?” All he could see were faint red marks, which for all he knew might have been left by juice from the tart she’d been eating.

“Nothing of consequence,” she whispered.

At the breathless tone in her voice, he looked up. Her gaze was locked on their joined hands, where he was absently stroking her fingertips.

He patted her hand and sat back in his chair. “Your interest in this event?”

She offered her plate to a passing footman and brushed crumbs from her lap. “Everyone who is anyone is here. Being seen in public with you has cemented our arrangement. If anyone had any doubts about the veracity of the announcement in the paper, they were erased when you caressed my hands just now.”

Guiltily, he looked up at the people strolling through the garden or standing in clusters, eating and gossiping.
More than a few heads turned quickly away, caught staring at him and Charlotte. “I was not—” Recognizing the futility in a denial, Alistair cut himself off.

Having had such intimate physical contact so early in their acquaintance—holding her aloft in his arms—had apparently decimated his usual reserve. If he kept this up, he’d be as licentious as his father. At least where Miss Parnell was concerned. He sighed. “Yes, everyone can see we are in fact engaged. But you were interested in this event before we entered into our agreement.”

“Of course. As I said, everyone who is anyone is to be seen here.”

He’d wager his last farthing that social standing was at the bottom of Miss Parnell’s list of priorities. He quickly reviewed her actions since their arrival at the Bainbridge residence. After surveying the guests who’d arrived before them, she’d excused herself to the ladies’ retiring room, and he thought she’d been gone an inordinately long time. Even for a woman. “You didn’t break into anyone’s bedchamber here, did you?”

“Break in? Of course not.”

“Don’t split hairs. Did you do here what you did the other night?”

“Fall into a man’s arms, literally?” Smiling, she batted her lashes. “Nearly break my neck? Meet a courtesan face-to-face? No, I did none of those things today.”

He wiped a tiny crumb from the corner of her mouth and tipped her chin up with one finger. “Miss Parnell.”

She gave a small sigh of defeat. “I did not find what I was looking for the other night. I had reason to believe I would be successful here. I was not.”

He glanced around at the crowd of people milling in the garden. Who, or what, was she after? He counted himself lucky she’d revealed even the fact that she was searching. Soon, he’d persuade her to confide in him in greater detail. “So. What do we do now?”

“We?” She gave a delicate shake of her head. “You are going to escort me to various functions, squire me about on your arm. The ladies will wish me ill, and sigh over you, but from afar. I will occasionally slip away to look for”—she pursed her lips in thought—“what I’m looking for, and then come back to your arm, with no one the wiser.”

Alistair folded his arms. “So essentially you want me to be your escort and your alibi.”

“And in return, I shall protect you from the marriage-minded masses.”

He smiled at the image of the short, curvy blonde beside him fighting off hordes of women—her dress swirling about her shapely ankles, ringlets swaying, bosom heaving with exertion.

Having the pretty Miss Parnell on his arm would be no hardship. Their proximity would allow him the opportunity to wear down her defenses, find out what she was really up to. “What outing or event is to be on our social calendar next?”

A
nother ball that night, as it turned out, held at the home of Lord and Lady Addington, one street over from the Argyle Rooms, and the hotel where Alistair had learned Madame Melisande was staying. He’d noticed the French widow, whose charms could be rented if not actually purchased, had become a common element in Miss Parnell’s activities.

Madame Melisande had arrived at the Venetian breakfast shortly after Alistair’s chat with Miss Parnell under the elm tree, and his fiancée had quickly excused herself to the ladies’ retiring room again. She’d come back looking less than satisfied, moments after Melisande had reappeared.

“Unless you plan to depart from respectability,” he whispered in Miss Parnell’s ear as they made their way through the receiving line that night, “I’d like to know
your interest in the courtesan.” Aunt Hermione was just ahead of Miss Parnell, and Blakeney was only a step behind Alistair on the crowded staircase. The courtesan in question was five places ahead of them in the receiving line, and Miss Parnell was taking note of every person Melisande engaged in conversation.

Miss Parnell studiously ignored him and moved forward to greet their hostess on the landing, dropping a curtsy and complimenting the marchioness’s sapphire blue gown. The two women discussed the gown and the modiste who designed it, and commiserated on the outrageous prices she charged for her work, but wasn’t it worth it in the end?

Intrigued by Miss Parnell’s change in demeanor, Alistair paid closer attention. The empty-headed miss was back—the persona she’d used to fob him off during their first dance together.

Their group stepped into the ballroom doorway, was announced, and entered the fray. From the corner of his eye Alistair noted several young women whispering behind their fans as the foursome passed by. More than one wistful look was tossed his way, and several full of venom were directed at Miss Parnell.

Miss Parnell’s Aunt Hermione was oblivious to the undercurrents. “My, you are a tall one,” the older lady gushed upon finding herself standing beside Alistair.

He smiled down at the diminutive lady. The top of her head barely reached above his elbow. Though she had never been classically beautiful, there was a handsome quality to her features, which lasted longer than simple beauty. Silver strands highlighted her once golden
hair, framing her still youthful face. He was struck by the family resemblance with her niece, and realized for the first time that most men would probably not consider Miss Parnell to be pretty in the traditional sense, either.

“I trust I’m leaving you in good company,” Blakeney said to Aunt Hermione, with a pointed glance to Alistair. “I see someone I must say hello to.”

“Off you go.” Aunt Hermione made shooing motions. She glanced up at Alistair. “If you wouldn’t mind fetching me a cup of punch, young man, I’ll be happy to sit among the chaperones while you two dance.” Her eyes twinkled as she beamed at him and her niece.

Minutes later Alistair and Miss Parnell took their place in the dance lines forming. He was fully aware that the movements of the dance would afford her the chance to look over everyone in the ballroom without being obvious. It would also allow him to converse with Miss Parnell, and watch where her attention was drawn.

He saw Madame Melisande cross the room at the same moment Miss Parnell saw her. The widow soon entered into a heated conversation with a gray-haired gentleman, who thankfully was not Alistair’s father.

“Neither of them look very happy, do they?” Alistair noted as they waited out their turn at the end of the dance line a few minutes later.

“He seems to be trying to placate her,” Miss Parnell murmured.

“I wonder who he is,” they both said at the same time. They shared a quick smile, then stepped into position in
the dance, exchanging places with another couple, and began working their way back up the line.

The first time Alistair had slipped from a roof while attempting to get a closer look at the stars, his governess had insisted dancing be added to his studies once his ankle healed, in addition to the usual courses of Greek and Latin and estate stewardship. He had resisted and complained, to no avail. The agility and balance he’d gained from the extra practice had served him well over the years. It had even spared him much of the awkwardness that usually accompanied adolescent growth spurts.

He was doubly grateful now for those many hours of dance practice, because he found himself distracted by Miss Parnell’s smile, or the graceful way she moved, rather than concentrating on his own steps in the dance. He moved by rote, so no one was aware of his preoccupation.

“My aunt undoubtedly knows who he is,” Miss Parnell said when the figures brought them together again. They briefly held hands as they ducked under the arch made by the other couple in their square.

“Excellent.” They spun away from each other and circled back.

Soon the music ended and he escorted Miss Parnell to her aunt.

“Which gray-haired gentleman?” Aunt Hermione replied, after Miss Parnell had taken a seat and made her inquiry. “There are so many of them.” Aunt and niece shared a chuckle.

Miss Parnell described the gentleman in question, without resorting to pointing.

“Sir Nigel Broadmoor is a loose fish, someone with whom you should have no contact,” Aunt Hermione pronounced with unexpected vitriol.

“Has he done you harm?” Alistair leaned forward to see her reply.

Aunt Hermione pursed her lips as though tasting an unripe lemon. “Last Season, he set his sights on my Marianne. Did everything he could to try to compromise her, poor girl, short of putting his hand up her skirt. Had she a larger fortune, I doubt we could have successfully fended him off.”

“What would a fortune hunter possibly want with Madame Melisande?” Miss Parnell murmured.

“Fortune hunter, card sharp, all-around loose fish,” Aunt Hermione said. “You steer clear of him, miss, do you hear me?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Miss Parnell demurely folded her hands in her lap. She turned to Alistair, pitching her voice low enough that only he could hear her. “He doesn’t seem Melisande’s usual type of paramour.”

“And you know her usual type?”

She nodded, almost absently. “Men like you, or your father. Wealthy. In a position of power. Preferably both.” She propped her chin in her hand, tapping her bottom lip with one finger. “Sir Nigel is neither.”

Alistair stared at her finger, wondering what it would feel like to trace her lip with his own finger. “Perhaps they are simply drawn toward each other. We cannot always control who we find ourselves attracted to.”

“No, I don’t think—” She cut herself off and turned to
Alistair, biting her bottom lip, as though reading the unspoken sentiment behind his words.

He waited, but she said no more. When the silence began to draw out, he returned to a question she had ignored earlier in the evening. Dealing with his father and grandfather, he’d learned that bluntness was usually far more effective than polite subtlety. “What is your interest in the French widow?”

She stared at her hands in her lap so long, Alistair began to think she wouldn’t answer. At last she took a deep breath. He raised his gaze from the freckle on her bosom to concentrate on her reply.

“There is an object that’s gone missing. It belongs to someone important, and it needs to be returned to its owner. I believe Madame Melisande took that object, or knows of its whereabouts.”

“And your brother does not share in your belief.”

“Steven dismissed my theory.” Her lips momentarily thinned at the remembered insult.

While his friends Nick and Tony were as close to him as brothers, he had been an only child since the accident twenty years ago. Did brothers and sisters fight differently than male siblings? Trade insults, and then brush them off as easily as boys did? He doubted they’d resort to fisticuffs as often. Though the idea of Miss Parnell participating in a physical fight definitely seemed a possibility.

He tapped his chin. “I wonder if perhaps Sir Nigel somehow found out about Madame Melisande’s activities.”

Miss Parnell glanced at him, eyebrows raised, then turned back to watching the couple in question.

“Is the missing object valuable?” Alistair continued. “If money is to be made from taking the object, he’s the sort who would want to be part of the scheme.” He studied Sir Nigel, who was still near the potted palm, in animated conversation with Melisande. Miss Parnell’s sudden gasp brought his attention back to her.

“He’s got it!” she whispered. She nodded, smiling. “He found out what Melisande was doing, wanted to be part of the scheme, but she wouldn’t cooperate, so he took it from her. She’s just recently realized she no longer has it.”

“No wonder you couldn’t find it. By the way, what is it?”

She bit her bottom lip. “Only a very few number of people know about the…object, and even fewer people know that it’s missing. If word got out, it could have disastrous consequences.”

“Disastrous?” Alistair raised one eyebrow. “For whom?”

“En—Enormous numbers of people.”

Knowing about the work her brother had done for the Home Office, Alistair was fairly certain she had almost said England. He sat up straighter, suddenly realizing that what he’d gotten himself into could have far greater consequences than damaging a young woman’s reputation, as when his father had misinterpreted Miss Parnell being aloft in his arms on the balcony of a notorious hotel.

A woman as daring as she, who had accosted a strange man on the street, would not be easily dissuaded from her chosen path. Not to mention how calmly she had gone along with his bald-faced lie, unruffled even under his father’s scrutiny. Informing on her to her brother
would only compel her to commit still more daring and dangerous acts in defiance.

Even the extreme option, of them actually getting married, was unlikely to give pause to a woman who would climb up onto a roof in the dark and try to swing down onto a balcony while wearing a gown.

If he could not dissuade Miss Parnell from her quest, he now felt it his obligation, for God and country, to help her succeed.

He did not, however, feel obliged to share this realization with her.

“What are you two discussing so intently, hmm?” Aunt Hermione leaned toward her niece. “Setting a date for your wedding, perhaps?”

Charlotte felt heat bloom in her cheeks. “Aunt!” she hissed. Moncreiffe cleared his throat. Charlotte continued, forcing a calm tone. “As I explained to you, it is too soon for that. The viscount and I need to become better acquainted.”

Aunt Hermione harrumphed. “Should have done that before you accepted his offer, miss.” She leaned toward Charlotte’s ear for a conspiratorial whisper. “Though with him being so easy on the eyes, not to mention heir to a dukedom, I can understand why you didn’t wait.” She straightened in her chair, a knowing smile gracing her lips.

Charlotte stifled a sigh. She hated to disappoint her aunt, and the old gel would be when they called off the fake engagement. But a husband was not in her future, did not fit into her plans. Just as a wife was not in Moncreiffe’s immediate plans.

Aside from being caught in the apparent feud between his father and grandfather, she felt confident he was only going along with her subterfuge as a way to dispel the ennui that plagued so many gentlemen of the ton. The same ennui that made them such easy targets when she needed information from them, or needed to use them to further her plans.

She did not feel guilty. She was harming no one. Her conscience was clear.

The same could not be said for Steven, the rat. The someone he had to say hello to turned out to be Gauthier, whom they had often worked closely with in France—further proof that Steven had not declined the assignment, as he had claimed. “Wants to simply enjoy the Season, my arse,” Charlotte muttered.

“Beg pardon?”

She batted her lashes at Moncreiffe. “Did you say something, my lord?”

He shook his head and returned his attention to the dancers on the floor.

Charlotte gave herself a mental shake. What was it about Moncreiffe that made it so easy for her to act the part of a breathless, giddy green girl encountering her first handsome man?

It wasn’t as though she’d never kept company with attractive men before. Even the handsome, wealthy, and powerful Marquis de Archambault, a man known for his discriminating taste in women, had invited her into his bed on more than one occasion, before she’d left France. She had never been tempted to accept his invitations.

If Moncreiffe were to invite her, however…

She glanced over at his hands resting on his knees. A casual, utterly proper position. Innocent. She stared at his long, almost elegant, fingers, remembering the way they had felt against hers as he’d caressed her hands earlier that afternoon, in the garden as they sat beneath the elm tree. He’d know exactly what to do with his hands, put those fingers to good use, to pleasure a woman.

His lips, too. Just look at that gorgeous mouth, the charming smile. He would know how to kiss, warm and gentle, passionate and all-consuming. Not slobbering and clumsy, like Freddie Lawson, when she was twelve. Moncreiffe would make her toes curl, send shivers down her spine. The good kind.

What would he taste like? Sweet like sugar plums, or heady like a good claret? Rich and warm, like her morning chocolate…

She stifled a groan. She’d seen it in enough men to recognize the emotion in herself—lust. How lowering to discover she was just as susceptible to lusting after an attractive member of the opposite sex.

Well. Now that she had identified the enemy, she would be better prepared to fight it. And the way to win this war was to deny it battle.

Viscount Moncreiffe was only a means to an end. Just as she was for him.

“Do you think you could make some discreet inquiries, my lord?” Charlotte whispered behind her fan.

“About Sir Nigel?” He touched his bottom lip with one long, elegant finger. She wished he’d stop doing that.
“Check the betting books, see if he’s come into any funds recently, or anticipates doing so in the near future, that sort of thing?”