From the corner of her eye, she saw the hand he’d rested on his thigh tighten into a fist.
After several fraught seconds, he said, still speaking very precisely as if measuring each word, “I thought, when we parted earlier in the evening, that I had convinced you—that we agreed—that there was little likelihood the barrels would be moved tonight.”
She snorted and folded her arms across her chest. “Clearly, we were both wrong—and both of us realized that.”
He nodded tersely. “But what changed your mind?”
She hesitated, then asked, “What changed yours?” He’d said he would “drop by,” yet he’d been secreted in the alcove, ready and waiting for the barrels to be moved.
It was his turn to hesitate, but eventually, plainly reluctantly, he replied, “Your suggestion of replacing the gunpowder meant that, very likely, we would have nullified the threat the gunpowder posed by…later today. If the gunpowder remained in the warehouse until today, there would be no more immediate danger from the plot.” He paused, then said, “Call it superstition if you like, but I’m too old to trust in Fate’s benevolence. Especially given the way this investigation has run thus far, with us always arriving just too late, I decided that, come today, the barrels would be gone from the warehouse, leaving us with no further lead to pursue.”
She inclined her head. “My reasoning was…not quite the same. I suspected you would be there, in the alcove, waiting. And it occurred to me that, if our villains came calling, Morgan’s Lane was too deserted to be safe, even for you. But there was nowhere else any others could hide, not close enough. But a lady of the night could be openly about, and I would have my knives and my gun, and as you saw, I’m tolerably good with both.” She paused, then said, “He must have glimpsed me while I was tucked away in that ginnel and wondered why I was there. That was what he asked when he caught me. But if he and the carts had gone the other way, to Tooley Street, as we all assumed they would”—she glanced down at the body—“there would have been no danger to me, and he would still be alive.”
Michael dragged in a breath. It was as he’d feared. “So…you came to protect me.”
She hesitated as if thinking, then nodded. “Yes.”
He took time to consider his next words, but again, they had to be said. “Don’t think that I don’t appreciate the sentiment, but I really, really would rather you didn’t try to help or protect me—not if doing so puts you in harm’s way.”
She took her own time in thinking over her response. Finally, she said, “If you meant what you said earlier, in the lane—and for the record, I certainly meant each and every word I said in reply—then I regret to inform you that I will never, ever, be the sort of lady who sits quietly at home, embroidering by the fire, while you go off to face God knows what threats. If you go into danger, you may be very sure that I will be by your side. Or at least lurking about, armed and in disguise.”
The qualification drew a bark of a laugh from him.
At the edge of her vision, Cleo saw the hand he’d fisted fraction by fraction relax. Then with that hand, he reached across, tugged one of her hands free, and to her surprise, raised her fingers to his lips and pressed a gentle kiss to them. “Yes,” he said. He turned his head, and his eyes met hers as she lifted her gaze to his face. His expression turned wry, and he admitted, “I know. But I had to say it.”
That was all right, then. She felt her lips curve. As long as they understood each other…
She shifted her gaze across the carriage, considered, then added, “Just to be clear, although I’ve developed a definite liking for adventure, I find I’m not so enamored of danger. You may rest assured I won’t go seeking it out.” Turning her fingers, she gripped his hand. “And I would appreciate it if you didn’t go out of your way to engage in dangerous exploits, either.”
She looked up and saw him grimace, but then he met her gaze, and his lips curved wryly. “It seems my hedonistic career is at an end. No more phaeton races.”
She laughed.
The painfully tight tension had fallen from them both. They’d survived the night, and at least between them, they recognized in which direction they wished to go.
Onward, hand in hand, into a future they had yet to define.
More immediately, however…
She looked at the body beneath their legs. “Where are we taking him?”
Michael relaxed against the squabs. “Wolverstone House. The staff there will know what to do.”
Chapter 15
As Michael had predicted, Hamilton, the Wolverstone House butler, didn’t turn a hair on being informed that the body deposited on the tiles of the front hall was very definitely dead.
“Of course, my lord. Leave the matter with me” was the extent of Hamilton’s perturbation.
Somewhat to Michael’s amazement, despite it being four o’clock in the morning, the butler and the two footmen he summoned to remove the body, and Drake’s man, Finnegan, who came hurrying down the stairs, were all wide awake and fully dressed.
On seeing Michael’s puzzlement, Hamilton explained, “We are expecting the marquess to return at any moment, my lord.”
“Ah.” Michael nodded. “I see.” The Wolverstone House staff were utterly devoted to the family, but most especially to Drake now that he’d stepped into his father’s shoes, government intrigue-wise.
Finnegan, a short, slight Irishman who looked a great deal more youthful than he actually was, hurried to peer into the bundle as the footmen hoisted it. Looking at the man’s face, Finnegan’s eyes went wide. “A body! And a gentleman at that.” He cocked his head. “Possibly one down on his luck.” Finnegan looked at Michael. “Do we know his name, my lord?”
“Sadly, no.” Michael knew Finnegan was entirely in Drake’s confidence; Drake frequently used him for this or that inquiry. “However, your master and I and all concerned in this latest mission need to learn his name as quickly as possible.”
Finnegan nodded. “I will endeavor to discover it, my lord.” He murmured something to the footmen, then led them into the nether regions of the mansion.
Michael glanced at Cleo. With the fingers of one hand interlaced with his, and her gaze taking in the magnificence of the ducal front hall in a mildly interested fashion, she’d stood quietly beside him, absorbing the interplay between him and the staff.
They’d sent her carriage back to Clarges Street, bearing a message that she would remain in Grosvenor Square with Michael until after their meeting with Drake, whenever that might be. Michael had told coachman and groom that he would see their mistress home in due course, an assurance they’d accepted without apparent qualm.
As he watched, her gaze shifted to Hamilton, who she’d met the previous afternoon, and she smiled tiredly. “Good morning. I rather think the marquess will want to speak with us as soon as possible. Indeed”—she waved in the direction in which the body had been taken—“we certainly need to speak with him urgently. I wonder if there’s somewhere we can rest until his lordship arrives. We’ve been up all night and would appreciate a chance to refresh ourselves.”
Hamilton didn’t exactly smile, but his features eased, and he bowed low. “Miss Hendon. The marquess would consider me quite remiss not to offer you and Lord Michael all the comforts this house can provide. None of the family bar the marquess are currently in residence. It would be our pleasure to provide you with rooms and beds and every other amenity.”
Michael hid a grin and watched Cleo try to disclaim the need for quite that degree of hospitality, but as he could have told her, turning Hamilton from such a tack was something few had ever managed.
“But you said the marquess was likely to arrive at any moment,” Cleo protested. “There’s no sense putting your staff to such trouble for us to gain just a few minutes of rest.”
“Well, as to that, miss,” Hamilton explained, “while we are holding ourselves ready to welcome the marquess home, there’s no saying when he will arrive. It’s quite likel
y he won’t grace this hall until closer to noon, and then you and Lord Michael will have wasted a good seven hours you might have spent regrouping.”
Cleo narrowed her eyes on Hamilton’s face, but the butler met her suspicious look with an air of complete and utterly unshakeable certainty.
She surrendered with what grace she could muster. “Very well. As you insist, you may show us to rooms for the rest of the morning. But you will inform the marquess that we are here the instant he arrives.”
“Indubitably, miss.” Hamilton bowed, then straightening, waved to the grand staircase. “If you will follow me, I will show you to suitable chambers.” He nodded to another footman who had taken up a position in the hall. “Jeffreys will alert one of the maids to attend you, miss, and will arrange for hot water to be brought up for you both.”
Jeffreys immediately sped away to do so.
Michael walked beside Cleo up the stairs. He was still suffering from a species of inner turmoil in the aftermath of the action in Morgan’s Lane and, even more, the clash in Black Lion Court. That they had somehow, out of that, managed to come to some sort of amenable understanding without railing at each other was, he felt, nothing short of amazing. Yet when they’d both been forced to witness the other waltzing one step away from death, their reactions—and the words that had subsequently tumbled from their lips—had established a truth it was impossible to step back from, much less suppress.
That didn’t make the roiling feelings, the impulses denied, any easier to bear. But as his father had intimated, he’d just have to manage it.
Hamilton led them to the guest wing. Michael was relieved to note that the rooms to which the butler showed them were close, with only two doors between. His protective instincts were still a trifle raw; even in such safe and secure surrounds, knowing Cleo was close soothed his inner guardian.
Michael halted closer to the main stairs, at the door to the room that Hamilton had indicated would be his, and watched as the butler guided Cleo to the room three doors along. A little maid came hurrying up, still tucking strands of hair under her cap.
Cleo glanced back along the corridor, caught his gaze, fractionally shook her head in resigned surrender, then followed the maid into the room.
Michael opened the door and went into his allotted chamber. He’d already declined the offer of Finnegan or a footman to help him to bed; on that score, he needed no help.
The bed was a large tester much like Michael’s own. He shrugged out of his greatcoat; on registering the weight of his pistol and that of the villain’s in the pockets, he reminded himself he would need to clean his pistol later. He would offer to clean Cleo’s pistol—her revolver—too. He was curious to examine the gun; he rather thought he should get one of his own.
If his wife had such a gun…
He stilled. Then he straightened and eased off his coat. It was the first time he’d attached that label to any woman, even in his mind, yet it fitted the woman he’d chosen to a T.
Cleo, his wife.
He smiled and unknotted his cravat, then he turned down the lamps and opened the curtains over one wide window before sitting on the side of the bed and easing off his boots. After setting the boots aside, he weighed the notion of removing the rest of his clothes, but who knew when Drake would arrive?
Deciding he didn’t need to strip to get some sleep, he tipped backward, brought his legs onto the bed, then settled his head on the pillows.
He clasped his hands on his chest, closed his eyes, and waited for sleep to claim him.
* * *
Cleo lay on the big, wide bed and stared up at the canopy. It was blue. Royal blue. Everything in the room was in some shade of blue. Which was an interesting observation, no doubt, but in no way contributed to her finding her way into slumber.
She’d washed, grateful for the warm water, and had allowed the maid to let down her hair and ease out the tangles. Then she’d dismissed the girl, doused the lamps, lay down on the bed, closed her eyes, and tried to relax.
After ten minutes of relaxing, she was still wide awake. Keyed up, with a certain tension thrumming along her nerves.
She knew what the problem was. She’d made a decision—prompted by the heat of the moment, perhaps, yet she’d stepped over a line, decisively and with intent. In her mind, that decision was settled, sealed, accepted, and was now a part of her. She’d recognized and acknowledged where her future lay, and now, she wanted to get on with it.
Now, she wanted to seize it.
She wanted to seize him, be seized in return, and see what came next.
On top of that, there was a compulsion building inside her, fed by some need, some yearning far deeper and more compelling than any rational argument.
Restless, she shifted onto her side.
Ten seconds later, she rolled once more onto her back. “This is hopeless.”
She sat up, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and stood. She glanced down at her skirts as she shook them straight. She’d disguised herself as a high-class lady of the night; if seduction was her goal, that wasn’t a bad start.
Should she do this?
Could she?
Would she?
She raised her head, straightened her spine, and with great deliberation, walked to the door. She was her mother’s daughter; she was perfectly capable of seizing the moment and acting decisively to secure the future hovering before her, hers if she dared to claim it.
Patience had never been her strong suit; she wanted that future now.
She opened the door and paused to check the corridor. Although lights burned in the front hall, all seemed quiet and calm downstairs—awaiting the arrival of the house’s junior master. On this level, the mansion lay slumbering, blanketed in the pervasive stillness that signified unoccupied rooms. Reassured, she stepped onto the runner, quietly closed the door behind her, then walked—quietly but not surreptitiously—to the door three doors up the corridor. The door to the room into which Michael had gone.
Pausing outside the door, she debated whether to knock or not, then with a mental shrug, she grasped the knob, opened the door, and calmly walked in. She shut the door behind her, then looked toward the large bed.
He, too, had turned down the lamps, but he’d opened the curtains over the window to the side of the bed. There, in Mayfair, the fog was no denser than a wispy veil, allowing moonlight to wash over the bed, illuminating the expanse in a silvery radiance while, by contrast, making the shadows swallowing the rest of the room darker, more impenetrable.
She wasn’t interested in the rest of the room, only in the man stretched out on the bed. He lay with his head cushioned on the pillows, his hands, fingers interlaced, resting on his chest, his legs straight, his stockinged feet crossed at the ankles. He still wore his waistcoat, shirt, and breeches, but had dispensed with his cravat, leaving the strong column of his throat exposed between the points of his collar.
She was visited by a sudden urge to set her mouth to the bare skin of his throat, to lick and taste. Quelling the impulse—reserving it for later—she fastened her gaze on his face. His eyes were open; no more than she had he fallen asleep.
Incapable of completely hiding her satisfaction, she allowed her lips to curve just a little as she walked to the nearer side of the bed. She watched him track her approach and noted the faint signs of the heightening tension that laid siege to his muscles. Recognized, too, the stirrings of something more primitive, more primal, as, with his features hardening, his gaze remained unrelentingly locked on her, and something darkly powerful stared at her through his eyes.
Steering this clash—for she felt sure it would be a clash of sorts—in the direction she wished it to go would require retaining control of the reins, at least at the start, and the only way she might achieve that ambition was to keep him off balance.
She reached the bed, met his gaze for a long second, then she turned, sat, swung her legs up to the coverlet, and lay down.
Michael watched he
r settle beside him. Her expression calm and open as it generally was, she lay staring up at the canopy overhead—exactly as he’d been doing when she’d come in. Unable to even collect his wits, much less think with her so close—in the dark of the night, in the same bed, no less!—he stared at her for a good minute, then, because it seemed the only sentence his brain could muster, asked, “Why are you here?”
The single most important question as far as his inner warrior-guardian was concerned.
She turned her head and, across the pillows, looked at him. Unhurriedly, her gaze traced his features, then she met his eyes. “I couldn’t sleep. Trying was futile.” Through the silvery moonlight, her eyes searched his, then she arched her brows. “What about you?”
Her tone had turned sultry, loaded with feminine invitation. The sort of invitation that made his pulse leap. But…he needed to go carefully here. He needed to stay in control—of himself as well as her.
Ruthlessly clinging to impassivity, he straightened his head and, once again, gazed at the canopy. “The same.” After a second’s pause, in a somewhat diffident tone, he added, “It’s the aftermath of the action.” He felt it was important he mention that; he doubted she’d lived through such excitement—such danger—before.
“The inability to sleep? Perhaps. However, as that does seem to be our mutual state, I thought we might seize the moment to address…”
When her voice trailed tantalizingly away, he set his jaw and counseled himself to wait and not show his very real interest…but she seemed to have lost her train of thought. Eventually unable to stand not knowing, he prompted, “Address what?”
As if she’d been waiting for the words—for that invitation from him—she drew in a deep yet distinctly tight breath, then she rolled toward him, came up on her elbow by his side, looked into his face, and succinctly stated, “This.”
Before he could stop her, before he could react, she bent her head, pressed her lips to his, and kissed him.