A Most Dangerous Profession

  “What was that?” Robert asked, voice husky.

  “The onyx box fell. Perhaps we should put it somewhere safe?”

  “An excellent idea.” He retrieved the box and put it under the seat across from them, then he settled Moira back in his lap. “We should talk about what will happen after we rescue—”

  She placed a hand on his cheek and smiled. “Hurst, has anyone ever told you that you talk too much?”

  And all of his words fled, chased away by a redheaded vixen with eyes the color of a Scottish glen.

  CHAPTER 22

  A letter from Lady Caitlyn Hurst MacLean to her sister Triona Hurst MacLean.

  You would think, since we wed brothers, that we would not be forced into secret stratagems to spend some time together, but thus it is. Pray inform Hugh that the Earl of Tunbridge has been forced to sell all of his horses because the new Countess Tunbridge has decided he spends too much time in the stables. Hugh has always coveted Tunbridge’s gray matched set, and he will instantly wish to go to Edinburgh for the sale.

  Meanwhile, I shall inform Alexander that the countess is also selling many of the furnishings in their various houses, because they once belonged to her mother-in-law. Alexander cannot refuse a good estate sale.

  By the way, when we get to town, the Countess Tunbridge wishes us to go to tea with her. You’ll like her very much; she is ever so charming.

  It took a week and a day to reach Edinburgh. The closer they got, the more anxious Moira became. Robert did what he could to while away the time—he told stories, played cards, made up silly games, shared court gossip that made her chuckle. But mostly he drew Moira into telling him stories about her life with Rowena.

  He learned a lot, seeing Moira in a new light. It astounded him that a woman who could trick the entire polite world into thinking her a Russian princess had the gentleness of spirit to be a devoted mother. But her love for Rowena showed in every sentence as she told of the dolls and flower chains, the colds and bruises, and the laughter and sadness of a normal childhood. Moira obviously loved her cottage in the country, and Robert wondered if Hurst House was the right sort of place for a child. Or for Moira.

  He no longer wondered if he wished them in his life—the events of the last three weeks had erased those doubts. Others now tumbled through his mind. Would Moira want to be a part of his life? Would Rowena accept him? He had no idea how to be a good father or husband. What if he couldn’t do it well enough? Would they all be miserable?

  There was only one area he was sure about, and he held Moira close every night while she slept. And most mornings he awakened her with a kiss that didn’t stop there.

  As they drew closer to Edinburgh, Moira fought her own fears. She no longer worried that Robert might whisk Rowena away. He would never take a child from her mother; she knew that now. But would he wish to be part of Rowena’s life after they had her safe? Did she want him to be part of Rowena’s life?

  Including Robert in their life would change everything. For months, Moira had longed for things to return to the way they had been; now she didn’t know what she wanted. Robert was a complex man; she couldn’t ask him to stay within the safe little world she’d built. Even if he agreed to, out of a sense of responsibility or because he’d come to care for Rowena, he would eventually tire of the smallness of the community—the very thing that Moira had come to love. It simply couldn’t be.

  Parting from him would be difficult, for she had seen another side of the most fascinating man she’d ever met. And despite their desperate dance to keep their attraction contained, she’d fallen deeply in love all over again.

  She stole a glance at him as he looked at the cards in his hand, deciding which to play. Today was the final day of their journey; they were only six hours from Edinburgh.

  Robert caught her gaze and placed his cards on the seat. “Moira, we must talk.”

  Her heart gave a lurch as she set her cards down as well. “Of course.”

  “We will see Aniston tomorrow.” Then he said firmly, “Rather, I will see him.”

  She frowned. “No. I must be there.”

  “It’s not safe for you. We don’t know what he’s capable of. We underestimated Ross, and you almost paid the price for it. That will not happen again.”

  “Robert, this is my battle. I will tell him he cannot have the onyx box until he gives up Rowena. I’ve never had any leverage before and it will make all the difference.”

  “He won’t agree to it.”

  She set her jaw. “He has to, or the box will be gone.”

  “And what if he calls your bluff? He knows you will never trade against Rowena’s freedom. Meanwhile, he has every reason to think I don’t care about her.”

  “He’ll know that’s not true when you appear instead of me. Otherwise, you wouldn’t bother.” She picked up her cards. “I am going to see Aniston, not you, and that’s that.”

  He looked thoughtful. “You’re right. Fine. Then we’ll go together, as partners.”

  At one time, she would have agreed to that wholeheartedly. But the more she allowed Robert into her life now, the harder it would be to keep him out later. Besides, he didn’t know Aniston as she did. It would be easier—and safer—to do this on her own.

  But Robert wouldn’t take “no” easily, so she merely said, “All right.” She nodded toward his cards. “It’s your turn.”

  He smiled and selected a card from his hand. “Tomorrow we deal with Aniston and Rowena will be freed.”

  She smiled in return though she couldn’t disagree more. This was her fight, and no one else’s.

  In the dim predawn light, Moira tugged her overcoat about her shoulders, adjusted the lace at her cuffs, and then regarded herself in the mirror. Looking back at her was a slender man of average height, dressed in the French manner. Lace spilled from her wrists and adorned her cravat behind a thick-cut emerald that was as large as it was fake.

  She tugged the dark wig more firmly into place and placed a curly-brimmed hat upon her head, wincing as a hairpin dug into her scalp. “Thank God I’ll only have to wear this for a short while,” she told herself, deepening her voice and adding a French accent.

  She posed before the mirror, one hand lightly resting on an ornate sword that wouldn’t have been amiss on a stage. From the way she stood to the haughty expression on her lightly powdered face, she was no longer Moira MacAllister, but a highborn French émigré with more money than manners. The disguise served several purposes. For one, it would allow her to escape the notice of anyone at the inn, including Stewart and Leeds. For another, she could travel to Aniston’s abode without interference. And lastly, she might be able to surprise Aniston and give herself more of an edge in their coming meeting.

  “You, monsieur,” she told her reflection, “have much to accomplish today.” But before she could face Aniston, she had to procure a horse from the landlord. She tugged on a pair of gloves to hide her feminine hands. It was time for the game to begin.

  Moira turned from the mirror, the overcoat swinging out as she moved, the pockets both weighted. Inside one pocket rested the long velvet bag holding the onyx box and a small but very full coin purse, while in the other was her pistol.

  She paused to replace the false bottom in her trunk and locked it tight before pushing it under the bed. Then, straightening her shoulders, she opened the door and stepped into the empty hallway. She was glad Robert had chosen an inn on the outskirts of Edinburgh; there were far fewer people to contend with.

  Better yet, French émigrés weren’t frequent visitors at such inns, so anyone she met would likely have only a vague, theater-induced concept of a Frenchman, which was perfect for her cause. The secret of a good disguise was to be exactly what people expected. That way, no one gave you a second glance.

  As she went down the hall, her gaze lingered on the door to Robert’s bedchamber. When she’d slipped out of the room earlier he’d been asleep, his hair falling over his brow, his stern mouth softened.


  Last night had been their final hours together. She’d spent it the way she’d hoped—passionately. With each kiss, each caress, each sigh, and—after he’d fallen asleep in her arms—with each tear, she’d been telling him good-bye.

  The memory tightened her throat as she walked down the stairs. A faint light gleamed from the back hall, indicating that the innkeeper and servants were beginning to stir.

  Moira peeked out the front window and, seeing no servants in the inn yard, she opened the front door and then slammed it shut, turning around so that it appeared that she’d just entered.

  She instantly heard footsteps from the back hall, followed by the glow of an approaching lantern. Moira quickly arranged her face into a haughty expression.

  The innkeeper looked surprised to find a well-dressed gentleman in his foyer so early in the morning, but his shrewd gaze noted the lace cuffs and the emerald pin in her cravat. “Och, sir!” He offered an eager bow. “Sorry no one was here t’ greet ye, but I wasna expectin’ anyone as ’tis early yet.”

  “Oui. I need a horse, and I need it now.”

  The innkeeper rubbed his nose. “I can assist ye in that. O’ course, it’ll cost ye a bit, fer I’ve no’ so many nags as to easily afford to lose one.”

  Moira pulled a few large coins from the stuffed purse in her pocket. “Just tell me the amount.”

  The innkeeper’s eyes gleamed. “Tha’ should do it.”

  Moira dropped the coins into his outstretched hand.

  “I’ll have a mount saddled right away. She’s older, but she’ll get ye where ye need t’ go.” The innkeeper went to the door and opened it, then looked back at her. “Pardon me, sir, but how did ye get to be here if ye’ve no mount?”

  “I was riding to Edinburgh to visit the Earl of Stratham when a damned thief attacked me.” Moira allowed a sneer to touch her mouth. “That was his last mistake.”

  “ ’Tis a shame how the brigands run amuck. The crown should do somethin’ aboot them.”

  “This one won’t trouble anyone again.” Her hand rested upon the hilt of her sword and she permitted herself a faint, superior smile. “In the commotion, my horse ran off. A farmer gave me a ride to your inn. And now I must get to Edinburgh.”

  “I’ll have a horse saddled fer ye right away.”

  “I shall wait by the fire in the common room.” She sauntered into the room as if it were her God-given right, and a second later she heard the door close behind the innkeeper.

  So far, so good.

  The big room was lit by a single lantern, a low fire crackling in the grate and doing little to banish the early morning chill. She stood before the fire, leaning against the mantel and watching the flames crackle. Soon she’d have Rowena back. Yet she was leaving the man she loved forever.

  It didn’t seem fair that the two people she most cared about would never share her life at the same time, but it was better for them all not to have to deal with the complications that could cause. But then life had never been fair, and it was silly to wish otherwise.

  The front door opened and closed and the sound of booted footsteps came down the hall. Good—the horse was ready.

  Stewart stood in the doorway, a heavy overcoat making his small frame appear as wide as he was tall. His eyes widened as he took in Moira.

  She pressed her lips into a thin line and said in her best French accent, “What do you want?”

  Stewart seemed frozen, gawking as if she were a giraffe.

  She scowled. “You’ve come to tell me the horse is ready, no?”

  Stewart shook his head slowly. “The master had it right, mistress; ye’re right good with disguises. A bloody genius.”

  Moira’s heart sank. “Damn it,” she snapped. “Where’s Hurst?”

  “Gone,” the servant said almost apologetically.

  “When?”

  Stewart pursed his lips and glanced out at the sky. “An hour ago, mayhap more.”

  She closed her eyes. He must have left our bedchamber the second I slipped out to change clothes, damn him! She felt betrayed, even though that was ridiculous when she’d been the first to leave. “He knew I was leaving, then.”

  “Aye, mistress. He put me an’ Leeds to watching the cattle, and said that as soon as someone came askin’ fer a horse, ’twould be ye and that ye’d be disguised. Which ye are,” Stewart added, admiration in his voice. “If ye’d walked past me in the inn yard, I’d have ne’er taken another look.”

  Moira scowled and yanked off her hat and wig, stuffing it into her pocket. “Damn it, I must have a horse! It is urgent that I get to town.”

  “He tol’ us about Mr. Aniston and how that horrible man has yer daughter. But Mr. Hurst said ye was to stay here and not to go runnin’ into a hornet’s nest where ye could get killed.”

  “Like hell! That’s my daughter. I’m going, and—”

  Leeds stepped around the corner, looking embarrassed, a rope coiled in his hands.

  Moira stiffened. “What are you going to do with that?”

  The servant sighed. “Mr. Hurst said we might have to tie ye up to keep ye here.”

  “He did, did he?” Moira fisted her hands. “That–that–ass!”

  “Aye,” Stewart said apologeticly. “Sit yerself down, mistress. We canno’ allow ye to go.”

  Moira looked at the chair but made no move toward it. “No.”

  The two men approached, Leeds moving to her left, and Stewart to her right.

  Moira watched them narrowly, her fury incinerating the fear that beat through her veins. Damn you, Robert Hurst! Her gaze narrowed on her opponents. Damn you to hell.

  CHAPTER 23

  Michael Hurst’s diary entry as he set sail for England on his brother’s ship.

  With William’s help I finally rescued Miss Smythe-Haughton from the amorous clutches of the sulfi, and we are now under way. I won’t burden this epistle with the details; suffice it to say that the sulfi met his just deserts, and Miss Smythe-Haughton is about to receive the most severe talking-to. Which will doubtless be met with her amusement.

  It is more and more obvious that her parents must have been exceptionally lax in her upbringing, for she will not listen to a word I say.

  Robert halted his horse in front of a small town house on the end of Regent Terrace. The town houses, part of Edinburgh’s famed New Town, gleamed like seashells lined up in the morning sun. Robert climbed off his horse and walked it to a man across the street.

  “Mr. Hurst?” The man’s voice had a strong cockney accent.

  “Yes. You must be Mr. Norris.”

  The man tipped his hat. Short and stout, with powerful shoulders and a thick neck, he had the build of a boxer. “Indeed, sir. I be Norris.”

  Robert looked at the house across from them. “This one, I presume?”

  “Aye, sir. As ye requested a month ago, we’ve been watchin’ George Aniston, and here’s where he’s landed.”

  “And the child?”

  “That was a mite trickier. We found no evidence of a child until last night.”

  “What did you discover?”

  Mr. Norris grinned, revealing several missing teeth, and laid a finger beside his nose. “We found the tell, guv’nor. Laundry.”

  “Laundry? Ah, you mean for the child.”

  “Aye. I pretended to be lookin’ fer me lost dog, and struck up a conversation with the maid as she was hanging the laundry in the back. In the bottom o’ the basket was a night rail, several gowns, things as a small girl might wear.”

  Robert nodded and wondered if Moira had already sent word to Aniston that she wished to meet him. It was difficult to tell what Moira had or hadn’t done.

  She hadn’t trusted him enough to include him. That stung, but Robert accepted it. It would take a lot to completely gain Moira’s trust. And while he’d made significant inroads over the last three weeks, it would take several months, if not years, before she completely let down her guard. She’d had it up too long, and the price o
f this was too dear for her to simply turn it over to him.

  But he was the best person to deal with Aniston. Moira’s emotional attachment to Rowena made them both more vulnerable, and now was not the time for vulnerability of any kind.

  He turned to the Bow Street Runner. “Tell me everything you’ve found out. Aniston’s habits, the number of men in his employ, and where you think he might be keeping the child.”

  Mr. Norris began to rattle off an impressive amount of information, reaching into his coat pocket for a map of the house with Aniston’s bedchamber and all entrances clearly marked. “There are twenty-two servants in all, three of them naught but ruffians, and a harsh lookin’ woman who acts as a nurse. Those, he keeps with the child.”

  I can handle three. “Where does he keep her?”

  “The attic rooms, sir.” Mr. Norris’s stubby finger poked the map. “This set of steps leads to the attic. I’m sure she’s there, fer there were no lamps lit in that part of the house before, and now they’re ablaze.”

  “Good.” Robert examined the map, then folded and tucked it away. “Thank you for the information.”

  “Indeed, sir. The little girl . . . she looked scared. I’ve a daughter of me own.” The man’s clear eyes met Robert’s. “Ye wouldn’t be wishin’ fer some help, would ye? I’ve not had a good brawl in a month and I’m due fer one.”

  “I could use a diversion. Something to set the place in an uproar and draw attention to the lower floors.”

  The man smiled. “I can do that.”

  “Good. I’ll be ready at the back of the house when it occurs.”

  “Very good, sir. I’ll give ye ten minutes and then begin.”

  “One more thing. My wife is quite anxious to assist in saving our daughter. She might arrive before I’ve completed my task. She’ll be carrying a weapon, perhaps two. And don’t be surprised if she’s dressed as a man.”

  Mr. Norris blinked. “Pardon, guv’nor?”

  “My wife is a bit of a gypsy. It’s difficult to tell what she might or might not do.”