Sweetest Little Sin (6 page)

“THE date is set!” Millicent all but pirouetted into the drawing room where Louisa sat staring into space and neglecting her embroidery.

“Woolly says we shall be away two months. In Italy and Paris.
Paris!
” Millicent breathed. “Can you imagine?”

Louisa couldn’t, actually. She’d never been to Paris because France and England were almost always at war. But now there was peace, and Millicent would travel with her new husband to that glittering city after they married next week. Thank goodness Louisa had finally convinced them not to wait until she was off Millicent’s hands before they did the deed.

She smiled. Sir Waldo Felsbrook, “Woolly” to his friends, was exactly the sort of man she would have chosen for her mother. Steady, kind, dependable, rich enough to withstand the depredations on his purse Millicent would surely make, and best of all, dotingly fond of his new wife.

He’d even asked Louisa if she’d like to accompany them on their honeymoon, with the constipated air of someone who had just performed a heroic act of self-sacrifice. Louisa had choked a little on her ratafia cake and managed to reply that she would not be lonely, as she’d be doing the usual circuit of country houses in the months her mother was away.

With visions of her wedding tour dancing in her head, Millicent was easily persuaded Louisa needed no better chaperonage than the presiding matron at each establishment.

A pity Louisa could not prevail upon Kate to go with her, but she and Lyle departed soon for the Scotland estate. Kate’s company would have been welcome, Louisa thought now, as her mother’s radiance seemed to intensify her own despair.

As the shock of her encounter with Jardine wore off, pained bewilderment took its place. Louisa went about her daily business because what else was there to do, really? One did not lie abed and languish even if one’s life had shattered into a thousand pieces. One did not parade one’s despair. In any case, showing such excessive emotion would draw attention to her grief and invite questions she had no intention of answering.

Deliberately, she accepted every invitation that came her way, filled her days with all of the gay trivialities of the season. And because Mr. Radleigh called most often and most assiduously cut out the rest of her suitors for the privilege of enjoying her company, she let him. Not that she intended to do as Faulkner asked. Not at all.

But she had to admit the only small frisson of interest she felt in these dark days was in Radleigh and his supposedly evil schemes.

The numbness and confusion slowly dissipated, and in their place grew anger. Without an outlet, cold, hard fury built and built inside her, layer upon layer like a glacier forming from compacted snow. Sometimes, she imagined her heart shrinking under the weight of it.

And yet, she went on.

She thought of poor Caro Lamb going after Byron with a fruit knife in the middle of a party. How she had pitied the poor, mad girl when she’d heard of it. Now, she could sympathize with such violent emotion even if she could never bring herself to emulate Byron’s erstwhile lover.

In any event, a fruit knife was too good for Jardine. He deserved a horse whip.

And if that didn’t work, she could shoot him through his big, black heart.

JARDINE, brimming with impatience, tapped his long fingers on the desk. Waiting was the worst part of the business. This time, he awaited information that could finally bring Smith within his grasp.

Where the hell were they?

He would have handled the intelligence gathering himself if he hadn’t taken so long to recover from the damage done him by those thugs. Fever from his wounds had sunk him in a dark haze of delirium and he’d been weak as a kitten ever since.

Now, Jardine was champing at the bit, ready for action, but he knew better than to underestimate his enemy. He needed to be meticulous, to follow the lead on Smith his colleague had provided, find out everything he could before he formulated a plan.

His strength had always lain in his ability to quickly assimilate information, make connections, strategize. Just because this time the mission was personal didn’t mean he’d charge into the fray like a greenhorn. Everything he’d ever wanted was now within his grasp, as long as he played his cards right.

His head jerked up as Emerson opened the door. “Lord Nicholas Morrow and Mr. Ives, my lord.” Only by the faint flare of his nostrils did Emerson register his disapproval of the second man who entered Jardine’s domain.

Jardine nodded to Nick, then let his gaze run over Ives. Ives was a sneak and a petty crook; he resembled nothing so much as a balding weasel, but he definitely had his uses.

“What have you got?”

Nick took a chair that was pulled up to the desk. Ives remained standing, shifting from foot to foot and turning the brim of his shabby hat around between his fingers. “I followed your Mr. Faulkner, just like you said. Dull work, that was. Nothing out of the ordinary, just the same old routine, back and forth between his home and the office. Until yesterday. Took a little jaunt to the country.”

Jardine leaned forward. “Go on.”

Ives sidled closer to the desk, head tilted in an ingratiating manner. “There’s a cottage, see, in the middle of nowhere. And it’s all locked up, like, with two armed guards outside. Dunno how many within.”

Interesting. Not quite what he’d expected. He didn’t see how he could use it, but it paid to know things. They often came in handy, especially when one dealt with a cold, ruthless bastard like Faulkner.

“Good work, Ives.” He rose and walked to the large compendium that held his maps and drew out the relevant one. “Show me where the cottage is.”

When they’d pinpointed the place and Ives had left, Jardine saw that Nick was watching him with an added gleam in those impossibly brilliant blue eyes. “Keeping an eye on our esteemed head of operations?”

Jardine grunted. “He’s been stirring up discontent in rural areas, flushing out those who disagree with the status quo, then throwing them in prison for sedition. When someone in his position becomes more concerned with the longevity of the incumbent government than individual liberty, it’s time to take action.”

Jardine paused. “On that other matter . . . What do we know about Radleigh?”

Lord Nicholas Morrow handed him a slender file. “Not nearly enough. The man doesn’t seem to have existed two years ago.”

Jardine’s eyebrows snapped together. He snatched the file and glanced through it, mastering its contents with the speed born of practice. He’d been in many tight corners that required him to commit a large amount of information to memory before running for his life.

Jardine glanced at his companion. “Your report is concise, yet admirably thorough. Learned that in the army, did you?”

Nick smiled slightly, his gaze clear and tranquil, giving nothing away. There was more to Nick than the reckless ex-cavalry charmer who drove the ladies wild. Jardine sensed the darkness in him—well, only a dullard or an automaton could have failed to be affected by the carnage at Waterloo—but there was some personal trouble there, Jardine was sure.

Jardine had long been friends with Nick’s brother, the Marquis of Vane, but lately he’d taken an interest in the younger man, keen to harness both the darkness he sensed and Nick’s undoubted skills.

Nick wasn’t one of Faulkner’s creatures. He had a private income and energy to burn and no loyalty to anyone. Jardine trusted him, as far as he trusted anyone.

He tossed the report aside and leaned back in his chair. “What do you think of Radleigh? Is he our man?”

“Difficult to say. There are faint glimmers of a connection. Certainly, Radleigh has information for sale and he’s put it up to the highest bidder.”

Jardine gestured to the report. “This is all facts, figures, names, dates. What’s your opinion of him, personally?”

Nick took a while to answer. “On the face of it, I’d say he’s a mushroom. A wealthy man with social aspirations. He’s clever and he wants the best, won’t be satisfied with anything less than true acceptance in the ton. And he’s smart enough that he’s spreading his influence in all directions, not relying on any one sponsor too heavily.”

“Astute of him,” agreed Jardine, tapping his chin with one finger. “So if he’s a mushroom, where did he spring from?”

Nick gestured to the report. “According to the story Radleigh’s circulating, he’s recently returned from Africa, but it could just as well be India or the Americas, for all the evidence I can find of him. He puts it about that his fortune derives from shipping—I’d say smuggling, more like, but I can’t prove it yet.”

Nick rubbed his eyelid with his middle finger and continued. “Bought that ghastly place in Derbyshire Lawrence altered to look like a Mogul palace. Thinks himself a canny one because he snaffled it for a song.” Nick crossed his legs. “Well, everyone knows the expense of construction quite rolled up poor Lawrence. They say Radleigh has come home to settle down. He’s looking for a wife.”

Another chink in the armor. This, Jardine could use. “A wife? Set his sights on anyone in particular?”

Here, there was a pause.

Jardine’s gaze sharpened. “Well?”

Then Nick’s intensely blue eyes met his. “Lady Louisa Brooke.”

Stunned, Jardine didn’t speak for many moments. Then he recovered himself and snorted. “She wouldn’t let him within ten feet of her. She’s far too high in the instep to take up with some showy villain like Radleigh.”

Nick sighed. “Much as I hate to be a talebearer, you’re quite out there, Jardine. It’s the talk of the town this week. You’d know if you’d left your sickbed.”

Ice-cold fear wrapped around Jardine’s chest. His hand clenched into a hard fist. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. For God’s
sake
, not Radleigh. “What else?”

“They’re betting on it in the clubs.”

“On
what
, damn you? On what are they betting?”

Quietly, Nick said, “On how soon Radleigh will take Lady Louisa to wife.”

REALLY, thought Louisa, it was almost worth accepting Radleigh to put an end to her mother’s incessant nagging.

“Only think how comfortable you would be,” said Millicent as they dawdled along Bond Street. “Here is a man who is pining for you—
pining
, I say—and you will not give him the slightest encouragement to come to the point. The way you treated him so coolly at Kate’s ball quite put me to the blush.”

The irony of it made Louisa suppress a pithy retort. Surely
Louisa
had been the one blushing at her mother’s blatant attempts at matchmaking.

“Oh, do but look at that hat, Mama,” she said, pointing in a milliner’s window. “It would be ravishing on you.”

Fortunately, almost every hat and bonnet looked ravishing on Millicent, so Louisa’s random selection wasn’t a complete obfuscation. Her mother’s sharp glance told Louisa she wasn’t fooled by this attempt at distraction, but how could the relieving properties of a good scold compare with the joy of a truly artistic hat?

Unable to resist the temptation, Millicent leaned forward to scrutinize the bonnet
in quo
, then swept into the shop, setting the little bells at the top of the door jangling.

Louisa took a deep, calming breath and followed.

Someone passing jostled her, knocking her off balance. As she stumbled, a nondescript man in brown fustian caught her hand and supported her under her elbow to right her. He stepped back and swept off his hat, apologizing profusely. Before she could get a good look at his face, the man turned and melted into the crowd.

A little shaken, Louisa entered the shop, her gloved hand making a tight fist. As her mother avidly discussed hat trimmings with the milliner, Louisa turned away, pretending to inspect a display of silk turbans.

Slowly, she uncurled her fingers.

In those few seconds of confusion, the man in brown fustian had pressed a note into her palm. Louisa spread the small, crumpled piece of paper, smoothing it with her thumbs, smudging the ink a little. It read:
Whittaker’s Bookshop, tomorrow at one. Don’t dawdle.