TheCharmer (13 page)

Damn, but she was good.

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Collis was waiting behind the mews well before dusk. He'd spent a half hour too long in Louis Wadsworth's company, dawdling over sherry and talk, before he finally declared another engagement for the evening.

At first it hadn't been too bad, as conversations go. Louis was an intelligent fellow, if given to waiting for his guest to express an opinion before actually daring one of his own.

Not that Collis had done anything but toe the conservative party line. Hell, even Dalton would have choked at hearing some of the stuffy declarations he'd made tonight in the interests of drawing Louis out.

Then he'd abruptly realized that Louis was very subtly and skillfully questioning
him
. That had been disconcerting, to say the least. Why would the head of a family "friendly to the Liars" be so interested in the doings of the Prince Regent and the Prime Minister?

Especially when Louis claimed to know Liverpool so well himself. He'd even proudly shown off his father's posthumous award for allegiance, received by Louis directly from His Royal Highness George IV. It didn't seem to Collis as if Louis needed any help at all moving upward socially. He was already very nearly atmospheric.

Yet, for all his high connections, there was something about Louis that left Collis ill at ease. Perhaps it was simply his disregard for his dependents. To allow a guest to molest a housemaid was contrary to everything Collis believed in. To encourage it, yet?

Simon must not know this about Louis Wadsworth, Collis decided. Simon was well known for his stance on taking advantage of women. But Louis Wadsworth might very likely know something about
him
. It hadn't occurred to Collis that Louis might know of the connection between Simon and Dalton—and therefore to him…

No. It really wasn't likely. Simon had nothing to do with Dalton in public, and Clara and Agatha did all their socializing in the secret rooms of the club.

All in all, not what he'd expected from a candy-coated test assignment. Simon was up to something here. Collis leaned against the stone wall surrounding the back garden of the Wadsworth house, studying the problem.

The garden gate next to him opened without the merest squeak. A dark shape, barely discernible in the growing dusk, stepped through, carefully and soundlessly closing the gate behind.

Collis couldn't resist. He clapped a heavy hand on her shoulder, intoning, "You there!" in a rough accent.

A moment later, he was lying breathless on the grimy cobbles of the alley, looking up at the pale oval of Rose's face peering at him from the depths of her shawl. She straightened, then kicked him lightly in the ribs with the toe of her shoe. "Don't
do
that!"

She held out her hand. Collis took her offer, for his breath hadn't entirely returned to his lungs. "One day, I'll learn," he gasped. He stood, grinning down at her. "Unless you want to keep tossing me on my back?" He leered playfully. "Or I could practice on you."

She didn't retort sharply, as she usually did when he teased her so presumptuously. Instead, she took his hand and dragged him farther behind the odd stacked crates and barrels that always seemed to end up lining the alleys of London. "I only have a moment before the cook will miss me," she hissed at him.

Unseated by her refusal to engage, Collis groped for a way to deal with this new, brisk Rose. "Aren't you taking this all a bit seriously? It's not as if you truly work here."

"I don't know about you, Collis, but I am indeed working at the moment." She regarded him closely. "What are you wearing?"

Collis spread his hands so she could see his version of the common man's tailoring. "Something more appropriate for lurking in an alleyway. Do you like it? I nicked it from one of the grooms at Etheridge House."

"You look…" Rose hesitated. He looked wonderful, actually. His broad shoulders filled out the rough jacket tightly, and the breeches weren't nearly as baggy on him as they ought to be. Aristocrat he might be, but no one could accuse Collis Tremayne of being a pasty weakling. In the workingman's kit he looked manly and slightly dangerous and—this was not a welcome thought—entirely attainable.

For one eternal fraction of an instant, her heart brought forth a full-blown fantasy of a world where this man before her was an ordinary man. In the blink of an eye, she saw them happy and poor and mad for each other, with fat laughing babies crawling underfoot in their humble, cramped, blissful abode.

Then reality snapped back into place with a sickening jolt and she promptly buried that fantasy in a plot marked "Things That Will Never Be."

"You lost," she said slowly. He wasn't going to like this. "You lost the wager, Collis. Go home." She only had to get rid of him for the night. So far, the cook was working her like a drudge and watching her every move. She still had not had the chance to do more than learn the lay of the house. Yet soon the staff would go to sleep, readying themselves for another early day. Then she could begin her search. Just a few midnight hours—that's all she would need.

Then, tomorrow she would confess everything, to Collis and to the Liars.
After
she had her evidence.

He grinned. She could see the flash of his smile in the dimness. "What, and let you have all the fun?"

"I'm quite serious. You shook on the wager. I won fair and square. My orders are for you to give me one day's head start. Go home. Go drink with your highborn friends. But tonight is mine."

He straightened to his full height. She couldn't see him well, but she could imagine his face. "We are supposed to work together, remember?"

Rose folded her arms. She had to get rid of him. "What is the difficulty with giving me one night? It isn't as though you could get back in tonight. You've already been a guest, so you can't very well pose as a servant now."

He only looked intrigued. "Well, actually, I think that could be done—"

Rose could faintly hear the cook's voice shouting for her through the window of the kitchen. Her urgency surfaced as annoyance. "Collis,
no
. Now keep to your word! Are you a gentleman or are you just a rakehell?"

She felt the shot go deep, felt it in her own belly as he flinched at her words. Drat. She hadn't meant to wound him.

Vengeance tonight. Apologies tomorrow. She tightened her shawl over her shoulders. "Now go home," she ordered coolly, "and let me work."

With that, she turned back to Louis's house, leaving Collis standing in the grimy, darkened alley.

The royal private quarters of Carlton House, situated beautifully on Pall Mall in the heart of all that was fine and aristocratic in London, were something to behold. When Prince George had designed the rooms, he'd given free reign to his trained eye and profound love of beauty and fine architecture.

Not to mention comfort. Collis lounged deeper into what had to be the single best drinking chair in all of Christendom. Apparently nothing was too good for the royal arse. Collis's bones sighed in pleasure at the deep cushions meant for the gradually sinking posture imposed by the serious partaking of far, far too much superior wine.

At his feet was poised a small hassock, primed and ready for the moment when he was as nearly horizontal as a man could be without a girl and a bed.

Thinking of girls led one to think of breasts. That was fine. Collis had spent many happy hours of his life contemplating the divine miracle of breasts. Now of course, the thought of breasts led him to remember one certain breast in particular. One sweet, round, high breast that should have been altogether too small to be tempting. How could it be that it had felt so perfectly enticing in his hand?

And then of course, thoughts of that breast led one to wonder about the other half of the pair and what it would be like to see them, together, naked—to touch them both, together, naked—

Collis snorted into his wine, which really was too fine a vintage to deserve such treatment.
Two breasts require two hands, don't they
?

"And then what did you do?"

Collis raised his glass to peer through the wine to see the fire flickering in its ruby depths. "I left. What else should I have done? She'd won by getting into the house first."

His companion shook his head in amusement. "Giving up so easily? Pity. Seems a waste. What I would give for a chance to live so adventurously!"

Collis snorted. "Yes, I cannot imagine why everyone isn't doing it."

"I am referring to the excitement and danger of being a Crown spy. Beats the bloody hell out of my life, I'm sure."

Collis slid his eyes sideways, too drunk and too lethargic to move his head. Time to check his companion's mood. They were alone in the Prince's private sitting room. The considerable cadre of menservants and royal attendants, some more highborn than Collis himself, had been summarily dismissed after supplying them with more wine than any two men should sanely drink.

Still, such intimacy with royalty came with problems of its own. It didn't do to misinterpret the humor of George IV, Prince Regent and ruler of England.

Although Collis counted the Prince among his friends, George could be unpredictable. Half-filled with drunken ramblings, half with piercing insight, time spent with the Prince was rarely comfortable but always stimulating. Once very handsome, he had not aged well due to dissipation and overindulgence.

George was thought by most to be so vulgar as to be stupid, but Collis knew his friend to be a sensitive and intelligent man who had no compunction putting on his worst face when met with prudery and prejudice. The fact that the prejudice was highly merited never seemed to bother the Prince one jot. He liked sleeping with women, he liked eating and drinking and gambling, and he saw no reason to not do all with enormous energy.

Perhaps Collis understood the Prince's rebellion better than most, for he faced a very similar lot in life. Dalton Montmorency, the great Grand Oompah of Etheridge, might not cast a shadow as deep as a king's, but Collis knew well the burden of being heir.

George would have been happiest working as an artist or architect, married to his dear Maria Fitzherbert, an ordinary man with extraordinary talents.

The Prince emitted an enormous belch. Yes, George was drunk, although not as drunk as Collis. George was eye-bright-and-restless drunk.
Damn
. Collis was sure the Prince had matched him swallow for swallow. He sat up and set aside his glass. Rubbing both hands over his face to hopefully rouse himself to matching alertness, he sighed. "I'm not the man I once was."

George waved his glass airily. "Who said you ought to be? You were a poisonous little snot until you turned twenty-five. Vain and self-important. Now, you're much more amusing. Life and humbling disfigurement have given a nicely dry twist to your personality, rather like a hint of sour lime. I much prefer it."

"So happy to oblige." The Prince's offensive statement slid over Collis's wine-soaked mind, leaving only the truth behind. But what of it? He'd once had every right to be proud and every reason to be vain, hadn't he? Then he frowned. "You hardly spoke to me when I was twenty-five."

The Prince shrugged. "Ergo the poisonous-snot comment." He rested one gloriously clad leg on a hassock and propped his other across that knee to rub one stocking-clad foot. "I love those shoes, but they are bloody tight."

Collis's wavering gaze took in the offending but beloved shoes, a pair made of pristine white kidskin and embellished with gold buckles. "They do appear a bit small."

George nodded woefully. "But small feet are so fashionable right now."

Collis pondered his own booted feet blankly. His feet hadn't been small since he was five years old. "Damn," he swore mildly. "Looks like I'm on the outs, then."

George snickered. "Never mind, my boy. You've got other assets, from what the ladies at court say."

Collis eased himself back into his chair slowly. Only the asset of being highly ornamental, unfortunately. He'd not confided that to George or to anyone. Everyone made the obvious assumptions, keeping his roguish reputation intact.

Rose's eyes hovered before him in the flames. He saw disappointment and disdain rise in them, just as he had so many times. Had even intentionally caused, when she had provoked him too often. Grave hazel contempt.

I pity the waste
. Suddenly his flirtations with the ladies at court seemed pathetic. Collis drained his glass. He would not ride that horse tonight.

"What are you thinking?" The Prince wasn't even looking at him but sat staring into the fire. Too damn perceptive by half.

"I am pondering the mystique of the female bosom."

"Ah. A favorite topic of mine as well. And how go your musings?"

"I'm working my way round the matter." He recalled the sensation of Rose's soft feminine flesh cradled in his palm. He smiled wistfully. "I'm still grasping the full import, so to speak."

George issued an appreciative snort and raised his glass. "Would you like to hear how I spent my day? First I sat through six hours of incessant whining and begging—I refer to the Royal Audiences, of course— then Robert stalks in with the usual poker up his arse about how I'm spending too much time and money in Brighton. The man is clearly the stiffest Prime Minister England has ever seen."