Authors: Collette Cameron
Chapter 2
Yvette gulped past the lump in her throat and quickened her pace. She maneuvered between seaman, crates, overloaded carts, and the occasional steaming pile of horse droppings. Skirting a well-sprung carriage, she slipped into a dingy warehouse doorway. From its depths, the whoosh of her heart magnified in her ears, she watched the suspicious man.
Was he truly trailing her? Should she confront him? She bit the inside of her cheek and glanced around. Papa’s offices were but a few blocks away. She peeked at the man again. He was a rough looking codger.
He had stopped too and now peered around, clearly aggravated. Yanking off his shabby cap, he wiped his sweaty brow with his forearm. After cramming the accessory on his bald head, he tugged on his ear, turning his head this way and that.
Crouching low, Yvette crept around the end of a barrel-filled wagon. Staying close to the cooper’s and obscured in the shadows, she darted down another narrow lane. A half-starved cat jumped from the crate beside her head.
“Lord Almighty,” she yelped, wincing when the barrel she plowed into crashed to the ground.
A hoarse shout echoed behind her, followed by the thud of running feet. Grasping her skirts in one hand, lugging her valise in the other, she broke into an awkward, lumbering run. She dared to shoot a peek behind her. The man gained on her, and Lord help her, a second man had joined the chase.
Sweet Jesus, it was Collingsworth.
She knew there was something untrustworthy about that man.
Her bonnet fell forward, blocking her view. Dropping her skirts, she clamped a hand on her hat. Panicked, terrified her pursuers were hired by Edgar, she dashed across the street, then sped down the nearly deserted avenue.
Panting for breath, Yvette barged into a well-dressed gentleman before knocking her knees against a bench occupied by a fishwife a few feet farther along.
“I say, miss!”
“Slow down, dearie.”
“I beg your pardon,” she gasped, without slowing her pace.
A carriage came alongside her, the door thrown open wide. A gloved hand emerged. “Quickly, Miss Stapleton, get in,” ordered a deep baritone voice.
He knew her?
An acquaintance of Papa’s perhaps?
Careening along, neck or nothing, Yvette peered over her shoulder. The men continued to chase her, only now, they were much closer. There’s no help for it then. It’s either this stranger, or them.
Dear God, to be in Edgar’s clutches again . . .
The voice repeated, “Hurry, get in.”
She had no idea who this ornate carriage belonged to, but she prayed he was better than the blackguards chasing her. He knew her name and besides, she had her dagger. She released her bonnet, which promptly plopped onto her forehead. She’d rather take her chances with him, than risk being captured by any associate of Edgar’s.
Doubtful but desperate, she extended her hand.
At once it was clasped in a strong grip.
Yvette jumped, lurching into the carriage. The momentum flung her, arms and legs splayed, across a very stylish, very male lap. Her valise thwacked the occupant alongside his head. Her squeal of surprise was drowned out by his grunt of pain.
“Oh.”
“Oomph.”
His hat toppled to the carriage floor. Through the black lace edging her bonnet, she glimpsed a tanned, hawkish face and midnight hair. Tangled in her skirts and shawl, she whiffed his spicy scent even as she tried to scramble off him. Levering herself upward, her hand pressed against his generous maleness.
Lord have mercy.
Cheeks reddening, Yvette released her hold on the satchel, and flopped onto the floor in an undignified heap. Her gaze flew to his face and darted away again before he looked up.
A low chuckle rumbled throughout the bouncing vehicle.
He was laughing at her, the lout.
Who
was he?
Her curiosity and gratitude faded into leeriness. Perhaps jumping into his carriage hadn’t been the better choice. She righted herself and crawled off the floor and onto the opposite seat. Reaching to grasp her bag, at the precise moment her rescuer bent to retrieve his hat, Yvette smacked her head on his square chin.
The man grunted in pain for a second time.
Dear Lord, I’ve injured him . . . again.
“Blast it all. I’m terribly sorry, sir.” Quite cross, she retreated into the shadowy corner of the plush carriage and rubbed her throbbing forehead.
Peeking at him from beneath her lashes, she reached to straighten her bonnet. It hung askew off the side of her head, like a giant, drooping peony. She shoved it into place but the moment she removed her hand, it flopped over once more.
The stranger’s unrestrained laughter filled the carriage.
“Oh, bother it all.” Yvette’s patience with both her rescuer and the silly bonnet were at an end. She had no choice but to remove the dratted cap to reaffix the thing. Several strands of hair tumbled to her shoulders when she removed the bonnet from her head.
Suppressing a shriek of annoyance, she placed the hat beside her. She then set about securing the wayward curls. Pinning the last strand in place, her eyes met those of her companion.
She stilled, as did the world around her. The air hung suspended in her lungs. Her eyes widened in disbelief, her stunned gaze riveted on his face. “You exist?” Her voice was husky with awe.
Raising an ebony eyebrow, a flicker of humor softened the nobleman’s features. “So it would appear.”
A voice, deep and dark, caressed Yvette’s heightened senses. She stared. Her gaze roved across his handsome features returning, as if compelled by some unseen force, to his eyes.
Those eyes
.
Fringed by thick lashes, the mesmerizing turquoise pools gazing at her sent her senses reeling in recognition. Her mouth dropped open. No, it couldn’t be. “Am I dreaming?”
Giving a quick shake of her head, she lowered her eyelids for a moment. Lud, but she was befuddled. “Who are you? Have I met you before?”
Her mind raced. She’d had an active social calendar prior to their temporary move to Boston. In fact, she’d had her coming out season mere weeks before they’d left. Almack’s, Vauxhall Gardens, the opera and theatre, balls, routs, soirées—she couldn’t recall seeing him at any of the social gatherings she and her parents had frequented.
The man across from her shifted, adjusting his muscled legs. His gaze rose lazily from her lips.
An unhurried smile quirked the corners of his strong mouth. “I’m Laird Ewan McTavish.”
Yvette wrinkled her forehead. A Scot? “You speak with barely a trace of a brogue.”
“Ah, that credit goes to excellent tutors. My entire family can speak the King’s English if they choose. And yes, we’ve met.”
“Where?” Surely she would have remembered
him.
“At your cousin’s wedding.”
That explained why she couldn’t recall him. Vangie’s wedding was a hazy blur. After a horrid scandal, Vangie had been forced to marry Viscount Warrick. Yvette had been sick with concern for her dear cousin. She couldn’t even recall what she’d worn that day.
She bent forward and peeked out the window. The men were nowhere to be seen. “Were you following me?”
“I saw you being chased, and it seemed prudent to rescue you.” He looked beyond the carriage window before returning his gaze to her. “Do you know why you were being pursued?”
Yvette wasn’t about to blurt her suspicions to him. He’d think she was given to Banbury tales. She shook her head. “How did you know I’d get in the carriage?”
Laird McTavish grinned. “I didn’t, but I hoped you’d recognize me. Now, where can I deliver you?”
His satiny voice, with its nuance of Scot’s brogue washed across her senses again.
“Hmm?”
Did he say something? “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
He smiled again, a slow, seductive curl of his lips. “What is your destination?”
Should she go the Banbury Inn first and rid herself of her cumbersome valise or make straightaway for Mr. Dehring’s office?
Nibbling her lower lip in indecision, Yvette considered him. Faith, he was handsome. For the first time she noticed the small, crescent-shaped scar on the left side of his cheek. The disfigurement didn’t detract from Laird McTavish’s rugged good looks in the least.
But, could she trust him? True, he had rescued her from Collingsworth and that other man—and God only knew what else. The familiar weight of her dagger pressed against her leg. She fingered the blade through her reticule’s thin fabric. He claimed they’d met before, but other than that, she knew nothing whatsoever about him.
Except those eyes, she knew those eyes. She had seen them in her dreams dozens of times.
No, though he stirred her curiosity, she wasn’t so short on wits as to tell him where she was lodging. “My solicitor’s office on Red Croft Street, please.”
Less than ten minutes later, Yvette stood in front of Mr. Dehring’s establishment. Smoothing her skirts, she eyed her rescuer from the corner of her eye. He was a powerful man. Though not as tall as Papa, his abundant muscles made him appear larger.
He reached inside the carriage to retrieve her bulky valise, then turned to her. “Allow me to assist you inside.”
The timbre of his voice had the hair rising on the nape of her neck. He took her by the elbow. She started as sparks of awareness spread, and lingered in the most interesting places. The pleasant warmth sweeping through her could not be attributed to the scorching day.
She stood mute, eyes wide. Good heavens, whatever had come over her? Blinking, she forced a composed smile. At least she hoped it was composed. Her lips were turned upward, of that she was sure. But mayhap, she looked like a calf-eyed, leering ninny.
She stopped smiling. “Thank you, but I can manage. ‘Tis only a few steps . . .”
Her voice drifted off when she met his eyes. The inexplicable draw of his gaze held a promise, or perhaps, it was a challenge. She wasn’t sure which. It didn’t matter. The world blurred around her as her gaze roved across his features.
Her eyes rested on his full lips. They looked warm. And firm. His teeth flashed white against his tanned face. She raised her eyes to his once more. Was that a knowing gleam in his eye? Could he read her mind?
Of course not
“Miss Stapleton.”
Mr. Dehring’s exuberant greeting ended the sensual connection. His lordship removed his strong hand from her elbow.
Mr. Dehring beamed with fatherly affection. “My dear, I wasn’t aware you’d arrived.”
“Only this morning, Mr. Dehring.”
“My lord . . .” Mr. Dehring began.
“Excuse me, I must be off,” interrupted Laird McTavish, tipping his top hat. “I’m late for an appointment.”
Yvette turned to him, smiling her gratitude. “Thank you for your assistance. I’m most grateful. I shudder to think what would have happened if you hadn’t happened by.”
Raising her gloved hand to his lips, he placed a chaste kiss on her fingertips. “The pleasure was mine.”
The honeyed tone of his voice caused her toes to curl in her boots. Mr. Dehring’s discreet cough broke the spell entrancing her once again.
Laird McTavish bowed to her, then nodded to Mr. Dehring before turning on his heels and bounding into the carriage.
She watched the conveyance ‘til it faded from sight.
There was a man who quickened her pulse. Would she ever see him again? The memory of his beguiling smile flashed before her eyes. Did she want to see him again? No. If he wasn’t a fortune hunter, then he was undoubtedly a rogue and a rake.
Chapter 3
Whistling a jaunty tune, Ewan wended his way through the maze of corridors in the musty War Office. Nodding, or raising a hand in greeting to numerous acquaintances, he moved with purpose.
He’d patrolled the docks for the better part of a week, awaiting Miss Stapleton’s ship. When she didn’t disembark the
Peaceful Wind
as expected, he’d sought the ship’s captain to discover why. Informed of her pre-dawn flight from Boston, Ewan continued to monitor the dockside, awaiting the arrival of the
Atlantic Star,
which should have docked days ago.
It wasn’t uncommon for ships to arrive earlier or later than expected. Seamen were at the Almighty’s mercy. Storms, headwinds, or lack of wind could delay a ship for weeks, and a strong tailwind could shorten a voyage by almost as much. Such had been the case with the
Peaceful Wind
. She’d made port before the
Atlantic Star
, though she’d sailed a week later.
He was more determined than ever to see Edgar Marquardt become a permanent resident of Newgate. According to a letter he’d received from his agent in February, Marquardt, the bloody bastard, had tried to abduct and rape Miss Stapleton in December.
Ewan turned into another lengthy passage, this one less populated. It was no wonder visitors often got lost at the War Office. It was a labyrinth of fusty corridors and gloomy staircases.
He felt his jaw, wincing when his fingers touched the fresh bruise. His grin widened. Miss Stapleton’s lack of grace was endearing. His groin yet burned where she pressed her hand against it.
Yes, escorting her to Somersfield was going to be quite enjoyable. The unexpected absence of her chaperone complicated matters, but he would cross that bridge when he came to it.
Confound it, he’d been so taken with Miss Stapleton, he’d forgotten to mention the change of plans to her. No matter, he knew where she was staying, and he could rectify the oversight later.
Ewan entered the Secretary of War’s office without so much as a knock, his boot heels clicking on the elaborate, tiled floor. He quickly scanned the room.
What were Rothingham and Fielding doing here? Had Yancy sent for all the Diplomatic Corps agents presently in Town or had the two dropped in uninvited as they were want to do? They were as nosey as a couple of old crones and every bit as gossipy.
Ewan traded nods with the two lords, then addressed the secretary. “Well, Yancy?”
“One of our . . .” Yancy began.
“Agents was found floating in the Thames, throat slit.” Lounging against the mantle of an enormous, unlit fireplace, brandy snifter in hand, Lord Fielding appeared unaffected.
Ewan furrowed his forehead in annoyance. Fielding was forever interrupting.
The Earl of Rothingham sat in an armchair before the fireplace. He removed a cheroot from his mouth, then flicked the ashes onto the hearth. “We knew his disappearance was cause for suspect.”
“And The Regent’s furious,” Yancy said, his voice edged with irritation.
Surprised at Yancy’s tone, Ewan faced him. Yancy appeared exhausted.
The secretary wiped a hand across his eyes. “I had a meeting with him earlier today.” He met each of the men’s gazes in turn. “When he ordered us to find the traitor who almost cost him the war, Prinny assumed it would be an easy task.”
Fielding chuckled. “He would, the pompous twit. Marquardt’s been the only easy thing about it. We know he spied for the French.” He took a sip of his cognac.
“Be that as it may, traitors don’t go unpunished under the Regent’s watch.” Yancy took a generous swallow from his own snifter. “Every time we get close to discovering who gave Marquardt his orders, another agent or informer dies.”
Ewan moved farther into the room and began pacing. “The war may have ended, but the danger to our agents damned well hasn’t. How many does that make now?” He looked to Yancy.
“Eight over the past twenty months.” Yancy grimaced. “But five in the last six.”
Ewan sucked in a sharp breath and shook his head. “Bloody hell, eight?”
Someone was eliminating loose ends. Someone who was desperate not to be exposed for handing over royal secrets during the war. He met Yancy’s gaze. “We’re getting close to exposing their mastermind then.” He traced the small scar on his cheek. The muscles flexed beneath his fingers.
He
would
succeed in ousting the spy.
Rothingham exhaled an extended puff of smoke. “I suppose then, until agents and informants stop getting murdered, we can’t let it rest.”
“Ye suppose, do ye?” Mockery thickened Ewan’s brogue.
Pinching his nose between ink-stained fingers, Yancy cocked his head to the side. Releasing a deep breath, he slouched into the leather wingback chair behind his desk. He seemed to choose his words with care. “Sethwick, exactly how devious is Marquardt? Is
he
capable of murder?”
Ewan stopped pacing and met Yancy’s gaze head-on. “Did you know he’s Miss Stapleton’s stepbrother? Their parents died recently. The circumstances were questionable, and . . .”
“Bloody hell, Sethwick. You’re not suggesting Marquardt killed his mother?” Fielding interjected. “What about the daughter? Is she safe, unharmed?”
Brows raised, Ewan studied Fielding’s flushed face. “You are acquainted with Miss Stapleton?”
“No . . . I . . . uh . . .” Fielding’s gaze shifted to the snifter he held, “I’m concerned for her safety, ‘tis all.” He took a deep gulp of his cognac.
After assessing Fielding for a prolonged moment, Ewan resumed pacing. “Actually, Miss Stapleton arrived in London this morning.”
He
stopped again, choosing instead to rest one hip against the conference table centered in the room. “My agent in Boston informed me Miss Stapleton suffered a riding mishap in December, scarcely a month after Marquardt’s arrival in Boston. It wasn’t an accident. Her father and stepmother died a tad over three weeks later. Their doctor was suspicious because they’d attended a soirée the day before, yet no one else became ill.”
Ewan’s gaze roamed the room, before resting on Yancy. “An unusual coincidence, don’t you think?”
“Poisoned?” Rothingham stretched his legs before him, then lit another cheroot.
Ewan gave one terse nod. “Likely arsenic or nightshade. Both are undetectable.”
His cigar clenched between his teeth, Rothingham said, “You think Marquardt’s behind the accident and deaths? Why? I can’t imagine he’d murder his mother.”
“I’m guessing for the inheritance, and I don’t believe his mother was the intended victim . . . Miss Stapleton was.” Ewan shifted his position and crossed his ankles.
“Ye gads, you don’t say!” Rothingham took a pull on his cheroot. “I don’t see how money will help him though. He’s accused of treason.”
“True, but he’s not aware we know he’s a traitor. There’s only one thing that would cause a man to be so desperate for money he’d resort to murder.” Ewan straightened and clasped his hands behind him. “Someone’s going to kill him if he doesn’t pay up. He’s . . .
“Being blackmailed!” Fielding blurted.
“Dammit, Fielding, stop interrupting me!”
“Sethwick?” said Yancy.
Ewan looked to him.
“Might Miss Stapleton be useful in capturing Marquardt?”
Ewan cocked his head. “How so?”
“Bait. We . . . er . . . you could use her as bait.” Fielding’s eyes glittered with unhealthy excitement.
“For God’s sake, do shut up!” Yancy slammed his fist on the desk. “That’s not what I meant at all, you imbecile.”
Rothingham tossed his cheroot in the fireplace. “I say, old chap, poorly done.”
Ewan’s gaze swept the room before resting on Fielding. “You should be horsewhipped.”
As should I
.
Guilt washed over him. He’d already considered the possibility himself. Sending Fielding another menacing look, he faced Yancy. “I have a pressing need to speak with you about another matter.”
Rothingham rose and stretched. He faced Fielding. “What say you and I make our way to Whites?”
Fielding nodded, then with a terse nod to Yancy and Ewan, followed Rothingham from the room.
“What’s so pressing, Sethwick, you couldn’t share it with the others?”
Ewan shrugged. “Not so pressing, but I’m afraid if Fielding opened his mouth again, I’d plant him a facer. By-the-by, a man matching Marquardt’s description was in the Nag’s Head.”
Sending him a piercing look, Yancy said, “You’re certain?”
“Aye, beyond a doubt. One of Marquardt’s lackeys, Belvidere, followed Miss Stapleton. Chased her to be precise. I rescued her off the docks.”
Yancy closed his eyes and shook his head. “The devil take it.”
Ewan studied him. Yancy knew something. Something, by the haggard look on his face, he was reluctant to share.
“Sethwick?”
Rising, Yancy walked to the multi-paned window dominating the wall behind his desk. “I wasn’t exaggerating when I said Prinny was livid. He raged
, ‘
You couldn’t see a snake beneath your nose, Mr. War Secretary!’”
Sagging against the sash, Yancy stared out the window. “That’s what gave me the idea.”
He spoke so quietly, Ewan had to strain to hear.
Yancy swung his jungle gaze around to meet Ewan’s. “I suspect we’ve hunted too far abroad for our spymaster. This last death is too coincidental.”
The urgent message his stare conveyed caused Ewan to suck in a great gulp of air.
“
Merde
!”
Plopping into a chair opposite Yancy’s desk, Ewan leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He furrowed his forehead in worry. “You mean one of
us
? One of the elite corps— not just a War Office agent?”
Yancy responded with a curt inclination of his head as he returned to his chair.
Ewan struggled to control his anger, though he was sure Yancy could see the outrage simmering in his eyes. He could feel it strumming through his veins.
“The devil you say? It stands to reason, though. That’s why our ringleader has always been one step ahead—how he’s continued to elude us. Why our agents and informants have gone missing. Because, the damn fools trusted him.” Ewan slammed his fist into his palm.
Yancy nodded his head. “As have we all.” He reclined in his chair and closed his eyes.
Ewan rose and began pacing the length of the War Office.
After several moments, Yancy murmured tiredly, “Do stop pacing. You’re wearing a path in my expensive Persian carpet.”
Ewan waved his hand dismissively. His steps slowed. Facing his friend, he didn’t mince words. “This,” he spread his hands, “stays between us. I don’t need to tell you how dangerous this could be if you’re proven right. If ‘tis one of us, he has access to the same information we do.”
Hands fisted, Ewan closed his eyes. “We’re all targets. Even the Regent.”
“Do your suspicions include Clarendon?”
Exhaling slowly, Ewan opened his eyes and shook his head up and down. “For now, I think we must. Clarendon knows his brother is a spy, and he’s done much to help us. Still—”
He sat opposite Yancy again. “It could have been a ruse to keep us off his scent. Every member of the corps has access to the War Office. Until we can eliminate any of us as suspects, we must be careful. We don’t know who may be involved.”
“‘Tis possible, we’re dealing with a powerful government official, Ewan.”
“Aye,” Ewan rubbed his bruised jaw, “or a peer.” He stood, straightening his jacket. “How could I have been so blind?”
“You, no more than the rest of us.”
Ewan eyed Yancy relaxing with his eyes closed against his chair. When was the last time he’d slept?
“You know, Yancy, Prinny’s to blame really. He’s the one who insisted we bring the others on board. What was it he said?” Ewan scrunched his brow. “Ah, I remember. ‘We must utilize the talents of all during wartime.’”
Yancy cracked open one eye. “I know, but I don’t dare tell him that. Before the war, when it was the four of us—
Warrick, Harcourt, you and I—there was no question of a traitor in our midst.”
“Dammit, we should have brought Marquardt in when we had the chance.” Ewan ran a hand through his hair, then spread his hands wide apart. “Now, when Prinny’s agreed we can arrest him, Marquardt’s nowhere to be found.”
Ewan couldn’t contain his frustration. Marquardt had been within his grasp more than once, and each time, he’d been forced to let the cur slip away.
“I agree, but again, Prinny wanted the spymaster. It’s a pride thing with him you know.” Yancy arched his brows in mockery. “He can’t stand the thought that someone outsmarted him. In any event, his refusal to let us arrest Marquardt has cost us eight good men.”
Ewan shook his head in disgust. “I thought to have ousted our spy by now. I’m a fool for not considering it might be someone in the corps.”
“Nobody has the ability to unearth a war criminal any better than you. You brought in dozens during the war.”
“Yes, and blister it, one blasted man continues to elude me.”
Stretching his arms overhead, Ewan heaved a hefty sigh, then relaxed against his chair, resting both hands on the arms. “I had another purpose for calling. I shall be out of Town for several days, perhaps a fortnight or more.”
He chuckled softly. “Warrick had an unfortunate encounter with his new stallion which has made riding impossible. He asked me to escort Miss Stapleton to Somersfield in his stead.”
Yancy’s lips curved into a rakish smile. “An assignment, I assume you’re not distressed to be burdened with? You’re social life has been rather restricted due to the Regent’s constant demands.”