Vexing The Viscount (28 page)

“Oh!” He sat bolt upright, making the bed bounce Daisy into a trough in the soft mattress. “I almost forgot. The professor I met with gave me the name of the island we’re looking for. It’s—”

“Braellafgwen,” she said along with him, then added, “Hill of the blade and sheath.”

He leaned on his elbow and looked down at her. “How did you know that?”

“Because you’re not the only one who can discover things, Lucian,” she said, tracing a circle around his brown nipple. “I understand why you didn’t want to go to the Society of Antiquaries, but I had no trouble there at all.”

“After I told you not to—” He caught her hand and held it still. Anger sizzled in his tone. “Whom did you speak with?”

“Sir Alistair Fitzhugh,” she said. His grip tightened so she almost cried out. Then he released her hand, his brows lowering like thunderclouds. “He was most helpful and—”

“What did you tell him? No, never mind. It doesn’t matter now.” He threw his legs over the edge of the bed and climbed out. “You gave him enough, and now he knows where to look for the treasure as well.”

He stalked back to his discarded clothing, picked through the pile and pulled on his stockings, smallclothes and breeches. His silence bristled with fury.

“Give me a little credit.” Daisy pulled the sheet up and tucked it under her armpits to shield herself from his gaze. Of course, he’d have to deign to look at her in order to feel the slight. “I gave him nothing at all, and I certainly didn’t tell him we’re seeking Roman treasure.”

“You didn’t have to.” Lucian shrugged his shirt on and tucked the hem into his breeches. “He already knows.”

“After your presentation at the Society, he knows
you’re
looking for it. I’d wager half of London knows you are, but he couldn’t possibly connect me with your Roman treasure,” Daisy said, puzzled by his irritation. “I gave him a perfectly plausible tale about my ladies’sewing circle being interested in druid sites on the Thames.”

“You gave him everything he needs,” Lucian accused. “I told you not to go to the Society.”

“You categorically did not. You merely said you couldn’t go. That didn’t mean I shouldn’t, and I don’t know why you think you can order me about.” She glared at him. “It’s not as though we’re married.”

“You’d never be a biddable wife, at any rate,” he growled.

“Probably not. In fact, it would be my duty to be as un-biddable as possible so long as you insist on being so mulish,” she agreed, her own anger rising to meet his. “But I am not your wife. Neither am I in your employ.”

“But Mr. Peabody thinks you are my assistant, and he’s been spying for Fitzhugh since he started working at the site. So Fitzhugh saw through that flimsy tale you told him like—Oh, blast and damn! He may be halfway to the island already.”

“Peabody was spying?” She climbed out of bed with the
sheet wrapped toga-style about her. “Why didn’t you give him the sack?”

“I wanted to know what he was up to.” Lucian put on his waistcoat and began buttoning the long line of pewter marching down his chest.

“Why didn’t you tell me about Mr. Peabody?”

“Because I didn’t want you to know my—” He stopped himself. He’d nearly said it aloud.
My father may be involved in a plot to overthrow the king.
Just thinking it was terrible. Speaking it was more than he could bear. He straightened and looked her in the eye. “My business. I didn’t want you to know my business.”

She flinched as though he’d slapped her.

“Your business,” she repeated woodenly.

“Yes, my business.”

“You come here and make love to me and tell me you want things real and demand to know all my secrets.” Her voice started softly, but now was building toward shrill. “And you don’t want me to know your
business?
”

Better to have her angry with him than delving for the unspeakable truth.

“What an astute mind you have.” He shoved an arm into the sleeve of his frock coat. “You’ve managed to grasp my point very quickly…for a woman.”

He probably should have expected the kettle to come flying, but Daisy was so quick, he barely had time to duck. It sailed within a finger’s width of his head and crashed into the wall behind him. A spiderweb of cracks rippled the plaster.

“Careful! That might have been me!”

“That
should
have been you,” she said, green eyes blazing. Her hair was wondrously tousled, and the sheet drooped low on her breasts. “Stand still next time.”

Lord, she was magnificent. Part of him wanted nothing
more than to heft her over his shoulder, carry her back to bed and swive the living lights out of her.

Another part warned that it would be more than his life was worth to try.

Besides, if Fitzhugh was already in possession of the name of the island, he had no time to lose.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“To Braellafgwen.” He bent to buckle his shoes, careful to keep his eyes on her in case she should rearm herself.

“And how do you intend to get there? Swim?”

“No, I’ll hire a boat.”

“With what as payment?” She laughed mirthlessly. “Your skills as a gigolo?”

“Why? Are you offering to write a letter of recommendation?”

He wasn’t quite quick enough to dodge the cake of soap that zipped across the room. It was hard and Castilian and beaned him squarely on the bridge of his nose. Stars danced across his vision.

He probably deserved that.

“Now that I have your attention, it occurs to me as your
business
partner”—she spat the words at him—“that between the two of us, I am the only one with sufficient funds to make a journey to Braellafgwen. Therefore,
I
shall see to the arrangements.”

Before he could object, she tugged the bellpull and Witherspoon appeared at her door. If the man was shocked by the soggy carpet around the tub, the disheveled bed or his mistress’s state of undress, he gave no indication. His expression was locked in perpetual neutrality with a hint of boredom.

“How soon can you arrange to hire a boat and crew capable of taking Lord Rutland and me upriver to an island called Braellafgwen?” she asked. “No, wait, better just say an unnamed destination until we settle on our arrangements.
We need to travel with all speed and extreme discretion.”

Witherspoon cast his eyes heavenward, as if he might receive a sign from above. Then, satisfied he’d made the correct calculations, he lowered his gaze. “I shall make a few inquiries among my connections, but I believe you may rely upon a dawn departure,” Witherspoon said.

“Very well. Meet me on the wharf at dawn, Lord Rutland, or I shall go alone.”

Her bearing was so regal, Lucian figured she’d completely forgotten she was clad in nothing but a rumpled sheet.

“Witherspoon, please see this…” She glared at him as if he were a particularly repugnant sort of vermin. “Show this
gentleman
out.”

The six-oared shallop Mr. Witherspoon engaged was perfect for their needs. It was captained by a Mr. Crossly, who, despite his dour name, had a pleasant way about him. Daisy found his aromatic pipe comforting as he deftly managed the tiller one-handed and kept up a running conversation punctuated by frequent gestures with the other. The oars were manned by his six strapping sons.

“Wanted to go for an eight-oar tilt boat meself, but the missus drew the line at birthing six boys and started poppin’out daughters instead,” he explained with a laugh.

The merry little craft was graced with a small tilt, a cloth-covered, open-sided cabin, where Daisy could shelter from the sun. The day had dawned cloudless, the water a rare blue, the breeze fresh and frequent. They were making remarkable speed, thanks to the surging tide in addition to the strong backs of Mr. Crossly’s sons.

All things considered, Daisy should have been pleased. The shallop was an exceedingly comfortable mode of travel, much nicer than a dusty coach on a rutted road. It only reinforced her faith that she and Lucian had correctly deciphered Caius Meritus’s poem. The current was strong; she could easily imagine the ancient thief making his way up the Thames, even in a single-occupant craft. Mr. Crossly estimated that they’d travel the thirty miles or so of river to Braellafgwen in about six hours.

Daisy was finally having an adventure. She should have been outrageously happy.

And would have been, except for the other passenger with whom she shared the tilt.

Lucian sat with his arms folded over his chest in taciturn surliness. He propped his tricorne over his face and lounged with his long legs outstretched. The rapier he’d worn as part of the highwayman costume turned out not to be ornamental. It was strapped to his left hip, and the angle of the sheath kept Daisy from sitting too close to him.

Not that she wanted to. He hadn’t apologized yet, and she had no need to, thank you very much! Lucian deserved everything she gave him.

Including that faint purple bruise on the bridge of his nose.

So they spoke to each other only when absolutely necessary, and even then with cold civility. Now that he seemed intent on a nap, they glided along in stony silence.

Daisy leaned her cheek on her palm and sighed. Even though they were making good time, this was going to be a very long trip.

“I still don’t see why we had to wait to follow them to the treasure when we might have stolen the march by leaving yesterday and beaten them to it,” Lord Brumley complained.

“Because we may not be privy to all Rutland and the Drake chit knows,” Sir Alistair explained. “There may yet be pieces to this puzzle we couldn’t begin to guess.”

He raised a hand to shield his eyes from the glare on the water and squinted at the other tilt boat in the distance. The viscount and Miss Drake were making excellent progress, but Fitzhugh’s vessel managed to keep them in sight.

“We might spend weeks stumbling about on Braellafgwen looking for the treasure and still come away with
nothing. Following them to it is a much simpler matter,” Alistair concluded.

He didn’t feel the need to add that neither he nor Brumley could afford to hire the little shallop they now rode in, so he had to skulk about in the shadows waiting until Rutland left his home slightly before dawn. Only then could he approach Lord Montford to demand the earl step in and aid the true king’s cause.

He’d sworn to, after all.

At first, his lordship was furious at being rousted out of bed so early, but once Alistair mentioned the name of Rutland’s traveling companion, Lord Montford had been eager to join them. Alistair had the distinct impression the earl was not at all happy his son had taken to cavorting with Miss Daisy Drake. Whatever his motivations, it was gratifying to have another peer of the realm on board, on the theory that nobility further ennobled the cause.

Even so, Lord Montford was reduced to handing over some silver serving spoons, all black with tarnish, as payment for their passage. Yet another example of a land-rich, cash-poor peer groaning under the German usurper’s hand. Time was, the mere dropping of a man’s title was enough to earn him credit at the finest establishments throughout the land. Now, not even the river rats rowing this excuse for a boat would board a noble passenger without collecting the fare up front.

“But if he finds the treasure first,” Brumley said, “Rutland’s not likely to give it up without a fuss, is he?”

“Let me worry about my son, Brumley,” Lord Montford said, joining in the conversation for the first time since they boarded the shallop. “I can vouch for his cooperation. I need only give the word.”

Brumley frowned with concern. “But that woman, that Drake girl, she’s not the sort to go quietly, if you know what I mean. How many times have you tossed her from the
Society’s meetings, eh, Fitzhugh? And yet she keeps turning back up like a bad penny.”

“Lucian thought himself so clever when he hid these, but Avery still takes his orders from me, not my son,” Lord Montford said, patting the handle of the pistol shoved into his waistband. It was part of a matched set of dueling pieces. He’d given the twin to Alistair. “Do not trouble yourself over Miss Drake. She’s the reason I made certain we are armed.”

The scrape of booted feet and the rumble of masculine voices sounded in the hall. Isabella looked up from the lavender-scented writing paper on her escritoire and saw her brawny son-in-law standing at the parlor door with his scruffy friend at his side.

“Gabriel, how lovely to see you,” she said, extending a hand to him. The former pirate captain who’d married Isabella’s only daughter bent over her fingertips as smoothly as any dandy. Of course, Gabriel Drake was considered a baron or some such, but in Cornwall, of all rustic places, so Isabella never put too much stock in his title. She was far more impressed by the man himself.

“You grow more beautiful each time I see you,” Gabriel said with a wink. “Luckily for me, Jacquelyn favors her mother.” He straightened and turned to nod at Geoffrey, who’d been reading when he came. “Wexford. I don’t think you’ve met my friend, Joseph Meriwether, Baron—”

“Aw, belay that baron stuff,” the squint-eyed old mariner said. Isabella knew Mr. Meriwether had been awarded the small barony north ofigabriel’s estate for service to the Crown. “Just call me Meri.”

The fellow pumped Geoff’s hand vigorously.

Isabella rang for tea. “What brings you to London?”

“My old ship is due in port with a consignment of cotton,” Gabriel said. Carding and spinning the cotton into
thread provided piecework for his tenants through the winter and a chance to earn some ready coin without leaving their homes. “Besides, I’m hoping to catch up with my old shipmates.”

“And see if they’re managing to sail as honest mariners yet, without being bored into excessive drink or an early grave,” Meri said.

“An early grave, in any case,” Gabriel said with a grin. “Excessive drink is a foregone conclusion.”

“The day’s a bit young for strong spirits yet, but we can certainly accommodate you after supper. Say you’ll stay.” Isabella shepherded her guests to the comfortable chairs across from the settee, where she sat. Her young husband hooked a thigh over the arm of the settee next to her, leaning toward her, the picture of the doting swain.