Too Dangerous For a Lady (16 page)

“On the journey, you can tell me all your adventures,” she said.

“Not all of 'em,” he said with a chuckle, eyes still bright with pleasure at their enterprise. “Send the footman across to Liverpool at first light tomorrow to deliver those. We might even have the coach by the end of the day.”

“You're used to action, aren't you?”

“Always have been. Hate lolling around. It'll be good to be doing something, even if it kills me.”

She had to accept that. It was only as she went up to her room that she realized that she'd agreed to go to London, where, if Thayne was to be believed, enemies lurked. His, not hers, she told herself, but it was a good thing he was leaving tomorrow or he'd be back up to berate her.

T
he next day Mark packed his valise and went down to pay his bill. The postboy came by to leave a bag for Tranmere and Mark paused in case the letter had come at last. It had. Braydon had made it to London! Thank God he was alive, but as Mark broke the seal, he cursed him for being a slow correspondent.

He scanned the crisp writing until the important part jumped out at him:

Julius Waite returned to his London home along with Seth Boothroyd. Tregoven and Durrant returned to their separate lodgings at the same time. Solange Waite and Isaac Inkman have disappeared.

Though the words were clear, Mark reread them. How the hell had they been allowed to disappear?

He read on:

They arrived at the Swan with Two Necks two days after leaving Warrington and were observed, but by switching hackneys they gave the inept watchers the slip. The next day Seth Boothroyd disappeared from Waite's house.

“Damn them all to hell,” Mark muttered, with the inept watchers particularly in mind. Clearly he hadn't impressed
upon anyone how clever Solange could be, but he'd not expected this twist and it alarmed him.

If Solange had broken free of Waite, she was embarked on some plan of her own, and it wouldn't be mild or cautious. The urgent question was, had Solange summoned Seth Boothroyd to guard her, or to send him north to find his brother? Mark tossed the letter on the fire and watched it burn, caught between two imperatives. He was needed in London. Braydon was safely there, but he had only facts, not familiarity. Mark knew he'd have better insights that could be crucial in this emergency.

However, Hermione still wasn't safe. Seth could be approaching Tranmere now, so how could he leave? Perhaps he was a traitor to his country, but he couldn't leave Hermione unprotected under such an imminent threat.

He wrote to Braydon explaining the situation.

As for finding Solange and Isaac, he'll need a laboratory. Investigate establishments that sell chemical equipment and supplies. Solange could disguise herself in many ways, so she is unlikely to be spotted by searchers. Isaac would be easier, but he'll be happy to stay in whatever rooms they're using. He likes a whore now and then. They'll be brought in to him, but with his distinctive appearance, you might pick up a trail that way. Boothroyd won't stay inside and is distinctive. Hawkinville should set people to search for him. As soon as I hear from you that he's in London, I'll travel south with all speed.

He sealed and sent the letter, telling himself that Solange, Isaac, and Boothroyd could be anywhere in the vastness of London, undetectable amid a million people. His being there to prowl the streets wouldn't help.

He doubted anyone else would see it that way.

*   *   *

Hermione woke to her fifth day in Riverview House, determinedly not thinking about Thayne having left. It was better so. The footman set out on his errand to Liverpool and they could only wait for the results. In the meantime, she tried to persuade Edgar to take the medicine for one more day.

“Why? We're going to London to find Grammaticus.”

“It might take days for us to begin our journey.”

“I'll have someone's guts if it does.”

“I can see you're accustomed to being a tyrant.”

“When necessary.”

“At least continue with the opium. Remember how your joints ached? That will make traveling hard.”

“Trying to addict me? Then you'll have me dancing to your tune.”

“If you can dance, I'll be delighted.”

That won her one of his dry laughs. “You're a saucy piece. So like my Anne. Stupid woman to marry a man who'd lock her in a box.”

“Perhaps she didn't realize until too late.”

“You watch yourself, then. Suitors are tricksy.”

“I'll be careful—if I come across any.”

“You will in London.”

“Seeking an eccentric society and a quack doctor?”

“Some eccentric gentleman might take a fancy to you. Peter!”

“Yes, sir.”

“The brown box in the bottom drawer.”

As the servant found the box, Hermione wondered what new wonders might appear. She'd been tempted to explore the drawer that had contained the sandalwood fan.

This time the box wasn't a work of art. It was long, shallow, and made of plain dark wood with a solid lock. The
servant also brought something else, an ovoid wooden shape. Despite his darkened and gnarled fingers, Edgar manipulated the shape, sliding pieces in and out and around in a pattern she couldn't follow. Then it opened like a flower revealing several keys nestled within. He chose one and unlocked the plain box. When he opened it, she saw a slender dagger settled in red silk.

“It's beautiful,” Hermione said, because it was, in a lethal sort of way.

The hilt was of gold, or a gold-colored metal, set with tiny plates of jewel-colored glass. They might, perhaps, be paper-thin jewels. The blade was about eight inches long and slender, with an unusual rippling form. A design of silver and black followed the ripples all along it.

“Pick it up,” Edgar said, “but respect it. It's sharp.”

Hermione obeyed. She'd never expected a weapon to feel so comfortable in her hand. She'd held pistols, which were too heavy, and a sword that had felt unwieldy. This felt . . . right.

“It's a kris, from Java,” Edgar said. “A lady's kris.”

“Women go armed in Java?”

“Some of them.”

“Why do you have a lady's weapon?” she asked, turning her hand so light played on the subtle patterns in the metal of the blade. They reminded her of watered silk.

“I forget,” he said. She didn't believe him. “You might as well have it if you're to be dealing with suitors.”

“I've never found them as dangerous as that.”

“London suitors,” he said, but he meant something else.

“You're being mysterious, Edgar. Why?”

He shrugged. “You're worried about things, and not all of them my health. Paying attention to worries has kept me alive a time or two.” He paused, perhaps hoping for an explanation. When she didn't give it, he said, “We're going to the wicked city. Won't hurt to have a weapon there.”

It certainly wouldn't. Trying to hide her reactions, Hermione touched the blade with a finger and cut herself. It was too shallow a cut to bleed, but then, she'd hardly touched it. “It will hurt to have this one,” she protested.

“There's a sheath in the lid.”

There was, of something hard and light covered with red velvet on the outside. She slid the blade into it, feeling softness inside.

“Silk wool. Find a way to wear it beneath your clothing. It'll do you no good in a drawer.”

She thought of the abduction. It wouldn't have helped at first, but perhaps when the brute had dropped her on the ground like a sack, she could have got the weapon out. “I don't know how to use a blade.”

“We're not talking about fencing. If you're in danger, don't fiddle around threatening someone. He'll take it off you. Stick it in, and stick it in hard. A kris is strong and sharp. It goes through clothes and flesh like a knife through soft cheese, and it'll go through some bones, too.”

She drew the blade out again. It looked so delicate, but she could sense its lethal power. “I don't know. . . .”

“Don't be a milksop. Traditionally, it's worn at the back, tucked into a belt. Find a way to wear it. I'll not go to London without.”

“You're the one who wants to go.”

“But you want me to.”

“You're a scheming, conniving old reprobate.”

He showed his long teeth. “And more than a match for you. Go and sort out that blade.”

She took the box up to her room, imagining what Polly would say to the idea of her sister going armed. Polly wouldn't be happy about any part of the enterprise. She wasn't heartless enough to wish the old man dead before his time, but she hadn't spent enough time with Edgar Peake to become fond. Polly had been soothed by the belief that
Edgar didn't have more than a comfortable income, but when Hermione thought of his cavalier decision to buy a coach and the way he was ordering lawyers and bankers around, she wasn't so sure.

That puzzle box held quite a number of keys and each could unlock a treasure. It was his money, she reminded herself, earned through a lifetime of hard work and danger. It wasn't hers or Polly's to pine over.

In any case, he wouldn't go to London unless she was wearing the dagger. In the small of her back? It wouldn't show beneath the fullness at the back of her high-waisted gowns, but it would make sitting in a coach uncomfortable and she couldn't think how she'd get at it there. She had to assume that women in Java wore belted garments and wore the kris in open view. She couldn't do that, but Edgar wouldn't go to London unless she had the kris on her. What about her pockets? In a day dress she wore a pair beneath her gown and could reach into them through a slit in the side of the dress. She put the sheathed kris in the right-hand one, but the hilt poked out.

Then she saw the solution. She took out her small sewing case and unpicked a little of the seam at the bottom of her right-hand pocket. She stitched around it to make it secure and then slid the kris through almost to the hilt. The sheath was trapped, and the hilt would be easy to reach. She studied herself in the mirror. It didn't show. She sat down. It felt a little awkward, but it would do.

Thinking of her abduction, she drew the blade as she might have done that day. Again, it felt comfortable in her hand, but could she thrust it into someone's body? It would slide through cloth and flesh, but could she actually do it? She hoped never to find out, but as she eased the blade back into the sheath, she had to admit she felt comforted.

M
ark had resisted the temptation to go up to the Riverview House gardens, even though he'd seen Hermione out there in the afternoon. She would believe he'd left, and it was better so. He went out to walk around Tranmere on his spurious task, but also to check for strangers in the area, but his mind kept drifting to Hermione, even to the impossible prospect of claiming her for his own one day.

When afternoon rain drove him back to the inn, he had no distraction from his thoughts. Marriage required a home. Even when his duties were over, what home could he offer?

Faringay had never been idyllic despite his parents' devotion to each other. From his earliest memories he'd been warned to be quiet and avoid all alarms, and to never “disturb your lady mother, young sir.” Only now did he wonder whether one of his father's motives in creating the French Wing at Faringay had been to relieve his son from having to be quiet and avoid all alarms in the rest of the house. Perhaps, and then two years later he'd been sent off to school.

When he'd returned for holidays, he'd rarely seen his mother, but he'd noticed how Faringay Hall was deteriorating. Perhaps his father simply hadn't cared, but more likely he feared that workmen and noise would set his fragile wife into a mania of terror. Mark had witnessed those fits only twice, but he'd never forget them. She'd been plunged back into the riotous attack she'd suffered, seeing violence and death all around and sure it came for her.

He'd joined the army to make sure the French wouldn't invade Britain, but he'd welcomed release from the obligation to spend occasional times at Faringay Hall. Was his private war against revolution yet another way to avoid the place? It held extra shadows now because of his mother's suicide two years ago. He knew that his being there wouldn't have helped—quite the contrary—but that didn't save him from guilt.

He had a duty to Faringay, however, and if he took a wife, she would want a home.

Take Hermione there? She'd had enough of loss and privation. He wanted better for her, and he couldn't marry as long as there was work to do. He had only to remember his mother to know why it was important.

He went down to the taproom in the evening, hoping the amorous footman would come down to flirt with Jilly and let slip a mention of Hermione. He was in luck, or so he thought until he overheard what the man had to say.

George arrived late and in a gloomy mood, complaining of a trip over to Liverpool in the rain to visit a lawyer and a bank. “Taking the old man away, she is. That'll be the end of a cushy job.”

“You mean he'll die?” Jilly asked, handing him a tankard of ale.

“Don't know one way or t'other on that, me Jilly, but he won't come back. We'll all be dismissed.”

“That's a shame, then.”

Mark had become familiar enough at the inn to ask a question. “Where's Mr. Peake going? Bath, perhaps?”

“London. Wouldn't mind going to London, but they're only taking Mr. Peake's man and one of the maids for the lady.”

London. What madness was this? Hadn't he made it clear that the people who might hurt her were there? Ignoring Jilly's amused eye, Mark asked, “When do they leave?”

“Likely be tomorrow, sir. The old man's bought a coach.”

“Hired, you mean.”

“Damned if I do, sir. Bought.”

“That'll cost a pretty penny,” Jilly said.

“Aye, but we've always reckoned he's warm. Come back from t'Orient with chests of rubies, they say. Not that I've seen any.”

“Pity,” said Jilly, sidling up against him. “I wouldn't mind a ruby.”

They settled to flirting and Mark went up to his room to stand glaring at Riverview House. How could the stubborn woman not grasp how dangerous London would be for her?

He knew which room was hers. Her curtains were drawn, but light shone through a chink. He left the inn and made his way up the dark lane without a lantern, going on memory of the lay of the land, grateful that the rain had stopped. He easily climbed the gate and there was enough moon to show the gray stone paths of the garden, which took him to the house. On the ground floor open curtains showed a bedroom where an old man in a nightcap slept propped up in a bed. Old Mr. Peake, who was going to get Hermione killed if Mark couldn't talk sense into her.

All seemed quiet, and George's arrival at the inn showed that the day's work was done. Some of the servants would be in bed. Any others would be taking their ease in the servants' hall or the kitchen. Presumably a back door was still open, but he'd be detected immediately. He first tried the obvious, but the front door was locked. The windows were closed for the night and the house was inconveniently clear of helpful trellises or climbing plants that could support a man.

There had to be a way.

He worked his way around, checking for other entrances, and came to a patch of grassy garden and glass doors. They were locked, but in a far less substantial way. He wasn't
skilled with locks, but three years ago, in preparation for his mission, he'd taken instruction and acquired some tools. They'd do for this one.

After a little fumbling, the lock turned and he entered a silent, dark room. Moonlight suggested the position of furniture, so he took off his boots and left them by the closed door, then made his way carefully out into the entrance hall. It was equally dark, but he could hear a mumble of conversation from the back of the house. That presented no danger to him. His target was upstairs. He climbed the stairs, taking his bearings. Hermione's room should be to his right. When he arrived at what he thought was her door, he turned the knob and entered.

The room was firelit, as her room at the inn had been, but the bed-curtains were drawn fully back. She wasn't here, but her nightgown was draped over a rack near the fire, as it had been at the King's Head. Such a promise of domestic pleasures. He liked the propriety of nightgown and nightshirt, warming by the fire. It spoke of settled domesticity and a comfortable home.

He realized he could smell her as well. Whatever perfume or toilet water she used was light and subtle, but he knew it, and the underlying essence that was her. He touched her nightgown. . . .

But then he put aside folly and left the room. Where else might she be? If she was passing time with the servants, he was sunk, but he doubted she was. She wasn't haughty, but the servants wouldn't be comfortable with a marquess's daughter sitting in the kitchen with them, so she wouldn't do it. She'd be sensitive to such things.

Drawing room or library? A library was probably on the ground floor and there'd been no candle there, ready for her use. The drawing room should be up here, so he went in search of it. He opened doors as he had that night at the King's Head, but with much less risk. No one was hunting him tonight and Hermione was the only guest.

He found two other bedrooms, both unused, and then the drawing room. It was a large corner room set with two sofas, a number of chairs with upholstered seats, and some small tables. A large, screened fire burned in the hearth and Hermione sat in a green gown on a gold-striped sofa, reading a book by the light of a modern reflecting lamp set behind her. She seemed haloed like a saint, but a startled one.

He stepped in and closed the door behind him.

She put the book aside and rose, but with a semblance of calm. “At least I'm not in my bedroom this time. Who's hunting you now, Thayne?”

Despite the calm, she'd flushed with color and he hoped it wasn't all anger. She wore a small flowered pin in her thick mahogany hair and everything about her delighted him. He'd come here to berate her but realized he was smiling. He made himself sober. “No one, but you're a mad fool.”

Instead of protesting, she grimaced. “London.”

“London,” he agreed. “What possesses you?”

She raised her chin. “Necessity. Why are you even here? Your necessity was to leave.”

“So that's why you thought you could get away with this.”

“I'm not getting away with anything. You do
not
command me, sir.”

“I wish I did.”

“I'm sure you do. Stop looming over me. If you intend to stay, sit.” She sat back down, hands neatly in her lap.

Keeping a stern face was almost impossible, but he managed as he took a chair facing her. By God, this must be love. A damnable, insane ecstasy simply to be in her presence, despite folly and danger.

She frowned. “Are you all right?” Then, alarmed, she asked, “Is that Boothroyd here?”

“No,” he quickly assured her. “There's no new threat. Unless you go to London, that is.”

“I must. There's someone there who might have a cure for Great-uncle Edgar. I can't put my safety ahead of his life.” Her resolution was infuriating, but such honor was part of why he adored her.

“What cure?” he asked.

“It's complicated, but we hope to find a particular doctor there. I won't be deterred.”

“Very well. I must go to London tomorrow, and this time it's certain. I'll find him for you.”

“Why?”

“To keep you safe.”

Why it should stun her, he couldn't understand, but she became less prickly. “It's not just a matter of the medicine, Thayne. Edgar wants to go to London. He's not been there for fifty years and there are things he wants to see. It will do him good to get away from here.”

“Zeus! Then I'll take him. I'll take him and find the doctor, and even make sure he takes his medicine. And you can return safely to your sister.”

“No,” she said, her square chin infuriatingly resolute. “And don't glare at me like that. I will be perfectly safe.”

“Safe? You're a complete idiot.”

“Am I, indeed? No,” she said, raising a commanding hand, “listen to me. I'm not a simpleton and have given this considerable thought. First, London is a very large city. The chance of my encountering the Frenchwoman or the brute's brother is remote, especially as they won't be looking for me there. You admit they might possibly come looking for me here.”

“Which is exactly why you must return to Yorkshire.”

“Where they
also
might know to look for me. Can you deny that?” Before he could attempt to, she swept on. “More to the point, those people wouldn't recognize me if they passed me on Bond Street.”

“You're planning a disguise? Perhaps there's some sense—”

“I don't need one. The first brute saw me, but the Frenchwoman didn't, and his brother's never been near me. You see? I'll be safer in London than here or at Selby Hall.”

He opened his mouth and shut it again.

“Unwilling to admit I'm right?”

“I'm seeking the flaw in your argument.”

She waited, like a cat watching a cornered mouse.

“You are a damnable woman.”

“You mean I'm right.”

He laughed. “Yes, I mean you're right. I'm not convinced you'll be safer in London than here, but your points are valid.”

“Grudging, sir, grudging.”

“Don't count it against me that I want your safety.”

“I don't. But what of yours? May I command you not to take risks?”

“Would you want to?”

Her eyes slid away for a moment and he waited, breath shallow. Finally, she looked up at him. “Yes.”

He crossed to sit by her on the sofa. “So we can talk more quietly,” he said, but that wasn't the reason, and they both knew it. Her brows rose, but she smiled. The damnable woman was ready to be kissed.