"Ye're a bloody bastard, ye know that, Gresham?"
"I've been called worse." A corner of Rem's mouth lifted slightly. "Your decision?"
Johnson's broad shoulders sagged. "As I said, what d'ye want?"
"A very small favor, actually."
"Yer favors are never small, Gresham."
"Neither are your crimes, Johnson."
Silence.
"I need you to gather a few of your cronies—the more intelligent, observant, malleable ones—and keep a little vigil for me."
"Wha' kind of vigil?"
"The kind you're best at—scrutinizing ships. Check for anything out of the ordinary: unusually light cargo, shipments or seamen that look odd or out-of-place ... whatever your instincts warn you might be amiss. As for the men you select"—Rem stroked his chin thoughtfully—"I recommend that you start with Jarvers; an excellent choice. He's got a sharp eye and an equally strong incentive. Should the magistrate learn of the opium shipment he smuggled off the Traveler last week, he'd be on his way to Newgate—and a hanging. Yes, I'd definitely call on Jarvers if I were you."
"Nothin' escapes ye, does it, Gresham? Ye know everthin'."
"If that were the case, I wouldn't need your help." Rem turned to go. "Cover the entire Thames. Quickly. Get your men and get busy. Boyd will be in touch at week's end to hear of your findings."
"What about the watchman?" Johnson called out fearfully.
"He'll be diverted." Rem never glanced back. "Oh, and Johnson, forget the River Run—the people of London need that cargo, and I hear Newgate is really a most unpleasant place to take up residence."
Johnson cursed explicitly, spitting after Rem's retreating figure.
He was particularly careful to make certain the earl was too far off to witness his actions.
"The carriage is as good as new."
Boyd gestured toward the Barrett's vehicle, scratching his unruly head of sandy hair.
"I owe you one, Boyd." The refined nobleman in the tight black breeches, cutaway coat, and snow-white cravat bore little resemblance to the threatening rogue who'd returned from the Thames's unsavory banks mere hours ago.
"The only thing you owe me is some information." Boyd's terse response contrasted directly and purposefully with his casual stance, a stance that was as deliberate as was their meeting. It ensured that anyone strolling through the crowded streets of Covent Gardens would see only a pair of close, if slightly mismatched, friends enjoying an amiable chat.
Their friendship was hardly a secret.
Their conversation was hardly a chat.
"I got Johnson." Idly, Rem smoothed the collar of his coat. "He'll serve us well. He's contacting Jarvers and a few others. The docks will be covered."
"I'll make sure of it."
Rem nodded. "I let him know you'd be checking on him at week's end."
"Fine."
No more needed to be said. Excluding predawn hours when concealment was assured, the docks were Boyd's undisputed turf. Heavily muscled, intentionally unkempt, a seaman turned tavern keeper, Boyd blended easily into the wharf's riffraff. Rem was different—a respected naval captain, a feared adversary, a welcome drinking and gambling partner. But still, an earl.
"Who do you want from Bow Street?" Boyd asked quietly.
"Templar and Harris. Assure them they'll be well-compensated."
"When and where do we meet?"
"Tonight. One a.m. In Shadwell."
"Annie's place?"
"It's the most prudent choice."
"And the safest." Boyd grinned. "Besides, it'll be added incentive to our men."
"Undoubtedly," Rem agreed dryly. "Just make sure they know that it's business first, pleasure later."
"I will. And you?"
"What about me?"
"Should I ask Annie to arrange for someone special?"
"For yourself, certainly. I'll find my own."
"You always do. And if not, they find you."
Unconsciously, Rem glanced past Boyd to the gleaming Barrett coach. "I'd best take care of my errand."
"Yes ... the inadvertent hero. Well, you certainly look the part. A nobleman, right down to your polished Hessians. That should please Lady Samantha tremendously."
"Very amusing." Rem stubbornly refused to meet the speculative gleam in Boyd's eye. "Now take your cocky grin off to Bow Street. I'll see you at one."
* * *
"Oh, Millie, this one is as dreadful as the last."
Samantha cast the mauve silk gown to the bed. "They all make me look like a child on her way to a birthday party. All that's missing is a gaily wrapped parcel. Can't we find something that makes me look . . . older?"
The frail young lady's maid wrung her hands worriedly. "But they all look beautiful on you, m'lady. I don't know what you have in mind."
The quiver in Millie's voice struck Sammy hard, melting her tender heart. Swiftly she turned, giving the stunned servant an impulsive hug. "I apologize, Millie. I know I'm being terribly difficult. It's just that..." She paused. "Can you keep a secret?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"The gentleman who is returning our carriage. . . he's not just any man."
"No, ma'am?"
"No." Sammy shook her head adamantly. "He is soon to be my betrothed."
"Oh!" Millie's jaw dropped. "But I thought. . . that is, Lady Gertrude . . . what I mean is—"
"My aunt knows nothing about this," Sammy cautioned at once. She frowned, biting her lower lip. "Unfortunately, neither does the gentleman in question. But he will—soon."
"I don't understand."
"I'll explain it all to you later. For now, let's just find me a suitable gown. I want Remington to see how sophisticated and worldly I am."
"Sophisticated and worldly, m'lady?"
"Yes." Sammy swept across the room and seized one of the books from a towering pile that teetered precariously at the edge of her nightstand. "Just look at this heroine," she demanded, flipping through to a page and pointing. "She's self-assured, charming ... yet enticingly aloof in the presence of all her adoring admirers." She lay the book reverently on the bed. "All heroines possess those traits."
"I see."
"What about this gown?" Tearing through her wardrobe, Sammy spotted a flowing morning dress in a rich, burnished amber color. She yanked it out, holding it up against her before the looking glass. The neckline wasn't adorned with three tiers of lace such as the one worn by her current heroine in Chapter Three. Still, it would have to do.
"It's lovely."
"Good. Then that's settled." As Sammy spoke, her clock chimed two. "We'll have to hurry. Tell me, Millie, how are you at dressing hair?"
"I've never tried," the maid confessed.
"Well, I'm abysmal. So whatever you do will be an improvement. Would you be willing to try?" Sammy swept her hair off her face and looked questioningly at Millie, whose pale skin turned one shade lighter.
"Are you certain, m'lady? I wouldn't want to spoil your beautiful hair, especially given how important this caller of yours is."
"Nonsense. Just use your judgment." Sammy sank down at her dressing table. "Only use it quickly. Remington will be here any moment."
"Well, if you're certain . . ."
"I'm certain. Between the two of us, how horrid can the results be?"
Thirty minutes later Samantha wanted to eat her words, and her mortified lady's maid was in hysterical tears.
"Forgive me, m'lady, I've ruined everything!" Millie wailed into her handkerchief. "Now you'll lose your suitor and I'll lose my job. What will I tell my family?"
Torn between sympathy and dismayed disbelief, Samantha eyed her own tangled disarray, wondering how Millie had managed to transform her from a reasonably attractive young woman into an untrimmed garden vine in so short a time. A garden vine that was now being watered by the maid's melodramatic tears.
"It's all right, Millie. Stop crying," Sammy heard herself soothe. "You're not going to lose your job. Nor do I plan to
lose my suitor." Rapidly, she began to pull out the pins that Millie had haphazardly jabbed into her hair. "Under the circumstances, we'll have to settle for simplicity."
"But I thought you said you had to be sophisticated?" Millie sniffled.
"I did. But even Remington will prefer unadorned tresses to an unchecked weed." Vigorously, Sammy began to brush out her hair. "Would you help me, Millie?"
"I obviously can't." A new round of sobs.
"Yes, you can. Now dry your eyes and locate a ribbon that matches this gown."
"Yes, ma'am." Blowing her nose loudly, Millie proceeded to scurry about the room, at last producing a pale amber ribbon. "Will this do?"
"Perfect! See how efficient you are? Now let's tie my hair back."
In between their task and Millie's hiccups, the sound of an approaching carriage reached their ears.
Sammy rushed to the window. "He's here!" she announced, recognizing the Barrett family crest from far down the street. Leaning against the sill, she watched the vehicle draw to a stop, her heart accelerating to a frantic rate as Remington alit.
With customary impulsiveness, Sammy spun on her heel, gathered her skirts and sprinted toward the door.
"Where are you going, m'lady?" Millie sounded horrified.
In a burst of insight, Sammy suddenly understood why.
Abruptly, she halted.
You are no longer a reckless child, Samantha,
she silently berated herself. For heaven's sake, act like a lady, not a hoyden. Counting slowly to ten, she released her breath, smoothed down her gown and gave Millie a beatific smile. "What would you say is a respectable period of time to wait before greeting a gentleman caller?"
Millie blinked. "Why, I don't know, m'lady. A quarter hour perhaps?"
"I'd never last. Five minutes." Sammy turned decisively, her gaze fixed on the clock. Four minutes and a flurry of pacing later, she headed back toward the door, this time maintaining the proper pace and gentility. "Wish me luck, Millie."
"I do, m'lady."
As Sammy descended the stairway, she could make out Remington's rich baritone as he introduced himself to Hatterly, the Barrett's Town house butler.
"It's an honor, my lord," Hatterly responded with his customary starched dignity. "Lady Gertrude will be very grateful for your kindness. I'm certain she wishes to thank you herself, but unfortunately, she is currently indisposed."
"There is no need to disturb Lady Gertrude," came Rem's gallant reply. "I merely wanted to return the carriage and make certain that Lady Samantha and Smithers arrived safely despite last night's storm."
"We did, thanks to you, Lord Gresham." Sammy advanced toward the doorway, mentally cautioning herself not to bound at Rem like a welcoming, exuberant puppy. "Without your assistance, I shudder to think what the evening's outcome would have been. You acted quite the hero."
Rem's chin came up, an indulgent light warming his eyes as they met Sammy's. Fleetingly, almost involuntarily, his gaze flickered over her body, the action so swift that Sammy thought she might have imagined it. She prayed she hadn't.
Leaning forward, Rem captured her hand and brushed it with his lips. "Hello, imp," he murmured against her knuckles. "I'm pleased to see you looking so well." He raised his head, gifting her with a slow, dazzling smile. "Have you read your cumbersome stack of books yet?"
"No." Sammy could still feel the warmth of his breath on her hand. "We arrived quite late last night. I barely had time to bathe before falling asleep. But this morning I reread Mysteries of Udolpho, the Gothic I described last night."
"I see. Then perhaps you'd prefer I take my leave so you can—"
"No!" Her protest erupted with a will all its own. "That is ... you did come specifically to return our carriage."
"True." Another melting smile. "It is repaired, and as promised, brought here between two and four o'clock."
"You're prompt as well as kind, my lord. The very least I can do is invite you in."
"I believe the earl is already in, my lady." Smitty's disapproving voice descended from the second floor landing like a bucket of ice water.
Sammy winced. "Lord Gresham has returned our mended coach, Smitty. I'm certain Aunt Gertie would want to properly thank him. Since she is abed, I believe the responsibility to do so falls upon us."
"We appreciate your generosity, Lord Gresham," Smitty said stiffly, coming to stand beside Samantha. "You have our gratitude. I'm certain the Duke of Allonshire will contact you personally once I've advised him of your kind rescue; Lady Samantha means the world to him." A meaningful silence. "On behalf of His Grace, I must apologize for putting you to so much trouble. It won't happen again. Your greatcoat is restored and has already been placed in your carriage. And now, as I'm certain you have pressing matters that await you, we shan't take up any more of your time."
" 'Twas no trouble and no thanks are necessary, from His Grace or yourself," Rem assured Smitty with more than a twinge of amusement. "As for taking up my time—"
"We can at least offer you some refreshment before you go," Sammy broke in.
Rem's penetrating gaze returned to her face and he made a formal bow. "Refreshment sounds delightful, my lady." The teasing tone in his voice indicated that he was still vastly amused.
Amusement was not the emotion Sammy sought.
She blurted out the first thing she could think of to alter that. "I was just about to adjourn to the sitting room for a glass of brandy when you arrived. Please join me."
"Brandy?"
Smitty nearly choked on the word. "Yes, brandy." Samantha shot him a withering look. "Of course, the earl and I will understand if you haven't the time to join us, Smitty."
Without awaiting a reply, Sammy marched into the sitting room and seized the decanter of brandy from the sideboard. How much of the spirit did one pour into a glass, anyway? she wondered. It appeared innocuous enough. A gentleman would require a hefty portion in order to satisfy his thirst. As for a lady .. . Sammy reminded herself again that Remington was used to women of great sophistication.
She filled two goblets to the brim.
"Your brandy, Lord Gresham." Sammy extended a glass to Rem, whose expression had, at last, gone from amusement to incredulity. So, she'd finally made an impression! Well, she'd only just begun.
With a thoroughly adult smile, Sammy raised her glass. "In honor of your kind assistance, I toast you, my lord." Lifting the glass to her lips, Sammy swallowed liberally ... once, twice.
Her first thought was that her throat was on fire.
Coughing violently, Sammy sagged against the sideboard, struggling to suck in a breath. Vaguely, she was aware that Remington was at her side, removing the drink from her hand and pressing a glass of water to her lips.
She gulped it gratefully.
"Are you all right?" he demanded, hooking his forefinger beneath her chin.
Mutely, she nodded.
"Imp, brandy is meant to be sipped, not guzzled." Rem caressed her flushed cheek with his thumb. "Perhaps tea would be more appropriate—just this once?"
"Perhaps what Lady Samantha needs is rest rather than food," Smitty suggested pointedly from the doorway.
What Lady Samantha needs,
she thought, utterly mortified, is for the floor to swallow her whole. Valiantly, she fought the tears of embarrassment that burned more painfully than her throat. "I have a better alternative, if you'll allow me, Smithers," Rem returned. His tone was gentle, his expression unreadable. "Lady Samantha mentioned that she wished to select some new reading material at Hatchard's today. As it happens, I'm heading to Piccadilly myself. Since Samantha's aunt is obviously unable to accompany her at this time, perhaps I can serve as a substitute . . . with a proper chaperon, of course."
"That would be wonderful; I'd love to go," Sammy answered before Smitty could utter a word.
"Good." Rem inclined his head in Smitty's direction. "Would that be acceptable, Smithers?"
Smitty was in the process of shaking his hea
d when he caught the pleading look in Sammy's eyes—his perpetual undoing. "Well, I suppose . . ." he faltered.
"Oh, thank you, Smitty!" Forgetting her earlier resolution to act demurely, Sammy flew across the room and hugged the valet. "I'll alert Millie at once and we can be off!"
Rem watched her rapid departure with a rich chuckle, until he caught the disapproval on Smitty's face.
"Smithers," he began tactfully, "I'm aware of your concern, and I respect it—though, I assure you, it is entirely unnecessary. Despite my reputation, I'm not in the habit of seducing innocents. Especially well-bred innocents who are barely out of the schoolroom. So, stop worrying. My intentions toward your charge are completely honorable. I shall bring her home happy, submerged in new reading material and thoroughly intact."
"Thank you for your assurances, my lord." Smitty sounded as encouraged as a fly who'd just been told to make himself at home in a spider's web—by the spider himself.
Moments later, studying Samantha's shining head in the Piccadilly-bound carriage, Rem wondered at his own curious reaction to the lovely, hopelessly romantic young woman beside him. It wasn't her artless infatuation that touched him, for he was wise enough to know how swiftly those tenuous feelings would fade once she was introduced to an army of adoring men. No, it was a deeper quality—an unconditional, untainted faith she seemed to possess. Still, she thought him a hero; a moral, gallant gentleman. He was anything but.
It was time to quickly dispel her misguided notion. "Samantha . . ." he began quietly, hoping the rattle of the carriage would keep Millie from overhearing.
"Yes?" Sammy turned, tilting her chin back to gaze up at him.
Her eyes were as green as rare chips of jade; subtle, yet compelling, and so wrenchingly vulnerable. Maybe there was still a bit of the hero in him after all. "I suggest you avoid drinking brandy," he said solemnly. "It doesn't appear to agree with you."
"I've never tasted it before today. What I did was stupid. I apologize."
With uncustomary tenderness, Rem tucked a lock of ebony hair behind Sammy's ear. "It wasn't stupid and there's no need to apologize. Imp, are you always so very honest?" At her questioning look, he continued, "Sweetheart, let me give you some advice. You're about to embark on your first Season. Dozens of men will be attempting to win your hand ... and anything else they can acquire in the process. I would suggest you temper your sincerity just a bit."