Leslie Lafoy (6 page)

Park and Hyde

Gentle Bride

Park and Hyde. Hyde Park? Is that what had brought Mignon all the way across the Atlantic? A twisted reference that might or might not refer to a London park? Her blood went cold and her stomach sank to the soles of her feet. Oh, dear God in heaven. Surely there had to be more of a reason. Surely Mignon hadn’t come all this way on that clue alone.

“Three and four.”

She forced her gaze up. Barrett Stanbridge stood there with his arm extended, two scraps of paper neatly pinched between his thumb and forefinger. “Thank you,” she murmured numbly, taking them from him with a trembling hand.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, tipping his head slightly to the side to study her.

Without answering, she looked down at the newest puzzle pieces, hoping, praying that one of them would have the other half of the missing text. One piece, obviously a corner, had a single line running diagonally across it. The other greatly resembled the one she’d found.

“It’s a shame Mignon’s dead,” she said, blinking back tears. “Because I’d really like to kill her.”

Barrett clenched his teeth and shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. As impulses went, the one to wrap her in his arms and console her had to be among the five worst he’d ever had. But, Jesus, if he had to stand there and watch her cry …

“There’s my study yet to search,” he offered, deliberately adding a note of grim resignation to his tone. “And then the parlor.”

She looked up at him incredulously and the corner of her mouth twitched upward.

“I’m sure we’ll find the other four pieces by the time we’re done,” he went on, relieved at the apparent success of his tactic. They wouldn’t find anything in the parlor, of course. Unless Mignon had slipped in there while he slept. But if thinking of him as some sort of satyr kept Isabella from dissolving in tears and him from doing something incredibly stupid … All things considered, being thought of as an inexhaustible rake really wasn’t that bad. People had certainly said worse things about him.

“Shall we?” he asked, motioning for her to precede him out of the dining room and down the hall.

She was fighting that delightfully broad and knowing smile of hers as she walked away. Barrett fell in behind her, yet another realization slowly worming its way into his awareness. Whoever wanted the map desperately enough to have beaten the life out of Mignon would do the same to Isabella. And while standing between her and harm was a matter of conscience, honor, and decency, it was also selfishly practical; nothing would clear his name more efficiently than handing the authorities the real killer. Looking at it that way … He had to go the course with her. It was the only sane and rational thing to do. He’d just have to keep his wits about him and tamp down the sparks she seemed so easily capable of igniting.

*   *   *

Isabella had the distinct feeling that she was being manipulated. Artfully, subtly, ever so kindly, and since the moment they’d walked in to search his study. Not that she was overly concerned about it or the slightest bit resentful. She had six of the eight map pieces and was about to sit down to a hot meal that she didn’t have to buy with what few coins she had. That Barrett Stanbridge seemed to have ulterior motives for helping and feeding her didn’t matter. Food was food. And there were two more scraps of the map to be found; one of them the missing text. Which had damn well better have the word “London” in it, she silently groused as she carried the platter of fried potatoes from the stove to the kitchen worktable.

Placing it between the two plates of ham and eggs, she smiled at Barrett and let him assist her into her seat. Food, a significant part of the map,
and
gallantry. If that was all she allowed herself to look at, today stood as one of the best days she’d had in years.

“I’m curious about something,” Barrett said as he took his own seat on the opposite side of the table.

And so we begin.
“Oh?” Isabella placed her napkin across her lap and picked up her knife and fork. “Curious about what?”

“Why do you carry a knife?”

He might well be wondering about that, but she suspected that he was using it largely as a conversational prelude. “As a woman traveling alone,” she provided, “I want to be able to protect myself and thought it wise to have a weapon with a bit more heft than your average hatpin.”

“A derringer,” he countered, helping himself to the potatoes, “would be a more commanding and equalizing choice.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more, but I can’t cut ropes with it.”

He froze, the spoon suspended over his plate. “Are you telling me that you also carry a gun?”

“Such as it is,” Isabella admitted, delighting in having surprised him. “A Colt revolver is my firearm of preference, but it’s far too bulky to carry around in a skirt pocket.”

He dumped the potatoes on his plate, returned the spoon to the platter, and then sat there, his forearms resting on the edge of the table as he openly studied her.

She ate a bite, took a sip of her tea, and then, grinning, ventured, “You’re still curious, aren’t you?”

One corner of his mouth quirked upward as he nodded. “How does a seemingly genteel young woman like yourself happen to become a walking arsenal?”

She’s determined to survive,
she silently answered. Unwilling to be that honest with a man who was largely a stranger, she opted for evasion. “Ah,
seemingly
is the key word. And I’m not really all that young. I’m twenty-seven.”

“And you haven’t answered the question.”

A persistent stranger. “New Orleans fell to the Union early in the war,” she supplied with a shrug as she sliced off another bite of ham. “We were an occupied city for a full three years. Even before then, my husband was gone, serving in the army, and I was left alone to fend for myself. It was easier to do so armed.”

“But the war ended.”

“Formal hostilities, yes. But not the military occupation. And I was still alone.”

“And still armed.”

She met his gaze across the table and decided that there was no harm in giving him a fundamental, most unfeminine truth. “I doubt that I’ll ever be without a weapon of one sort or another at hand. Some people may find their comfort in the biblical rod and staff, but mine comes from my knife and derringer.”

“Have you ever had to use them?”

He’d crossed a line. He saw her flinch and knew that her reaching for a helping of potatoes was meant to both disguise it and give her time to decide how she wanted to answer. He picked up his fork and ate a bit of potato as he waited.

“More times than I care to remember, actually,” she replied, her tone too light, too casual. Her chuckle was entirely too breathless and forced as she added, “And certainly more often than I hope anyone will ever discover.”

“Self-defense,” he pointed out gently but firmly, “is always an acceptable reason for committing violence.”

“So they say.” She forked up a bit of egg and stabbed a sliver of ham. Looking at it, she arched a brow and smiled wryly. “But, given the widely differing views of what constitutes self-defense, I’d rather not take the chance.”

“There’s a far greater leeway in defining acts of war,” he ventured, watching her carefully.

She nodded, crisply said, “I’ve heard that mentioned a time or two,” and then popped the bite of food in her mouth.

If she thought that response would squelch his curiosity, she’d badly miscalculated. “Were you a spy, Isabella?”

“Your food is getting cold.”

He grinned, for some unfathomable reason inordinately pleased. “You were, weren’t you?”

She met his gaze and arched a delicate brow. “I couldn’t help but notice that you carry a knife and a gun,” she said coolly, calmly. “Were you a spy at one time in your life?”

“I was an engineer in Her Majesty’s Army,” he countered, enjoying the game, fascinated by her complexity. “I built bridges and train trestles. And defended them when necessary.”

“Necessity does make for interesting habits, doesn’t it?” She speared a chunk of potato and popped it in her mouth.

“You’re not going to give me a straight answer, are you?”

She grimaced and made a production of shuddering. “I’m afraid that the potatoes need more salt.”

His suspicions largely confirmed by the determination of her evasion, Barrett accepted her change of subject, offering, “They’re perfect as they are. You’re a good cook.”

“Thank you. I’m afraid that I learned the hard way and by my own devices. My husband suffered greatly in the process.”

“But I’m sure that he appreciated the fact that you were making the attempt.”

“No, not really,” she admitted, her eyes sparkling mischievously. “But then I didn’t much care. He deserved to suffer.”

Another little mystery. Barrett grinned and took up the dangling thread. “I gather your union wasn’t a happy one.”

“Well,” she drawled, “if there’s one good thing that can be said about the Union Army, it’s that they spared me the trouble of putting a bullet in him myself.”

“You couldn’t have simply said ‘Damn the scandal’ and divorced him?”

She snorted in a most unladylike and delightfully honest way. “Henri was very Catholic. I was forced to convert to marry him.”

“You make it sound as though they actually held a gun to your head.”

“Henri’s and the priest’s, too,” she replied, nodding emphatically. “None of us went to the altar willingly. If I had it to do over again, I’d do a good many things differently.”

“Such as?”

“To start with,” she said readily, having apparently given the matter a great deal of previous thought, “I wouldn’t try to be Mignon and flirt with a man renowned for his lack of self-control. And I certainly wouldn’t climb into his carriage thinking he truly intended to see me safely home.”

“Ooh,” he murmured, understanding. “Compromised.”

“Not actually, but the appearance of it was quite sufficient for my father. He hauled out his hunting rifle and declared me formally engaged.”

Henri could have done worse for a wife. It could have been Mignon’s father pointing the muzzle at him. “How old were you?”

“Seventeen. I thought I was terribly grown-up then. A truly worldly woman.” She rolled her eyes and then shook her head with a sigh. “Did you do anything particularly shortsighted and foolish at that age?”

“Yes,” he admitted, remembering. “And again at eighteen. Twice at nineteen as I recall.” The disaster at twenty-four flashed through his mind’s eye, but he firmly set it aside and went on, saying, “And now, at thirty-one, there’s Mignon. That one’s shaping up to be one of my more memorable mistakes in judgment.”

She waved her fork dismissively. “I don’t see how you could have reasonably known that she’d be killed after leaving your company. If she hadn’t, you’d likely consider her to be one of the better things to have happened to you this year.”

It was the perfect opening and he seized it. “Which brings me to a matter I’ve been mulling for the last hour or so.”

She sat back, a tiny little shadow of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth, and arched a brow in silent question.

“I’m not prepared to let you go off in search of your treasure alone,” he said bluntly, firmly.

Isabella could clearly see the track of his thinking and what he was proposing. Part of her was sorely tempted to accept the offer right then and there. Another part, the one that remembered the bitter costs of partnerships, was vehemently opposed to even considering the notion. “It’s not your decision to make,” she rejoined quietly, mentally trying to weigh her concerns.

“Granted. And I’ll admit that my motives are purely personal and extremely selfish. But I’m in considerable trouble because your cousin was killed in her quest for Lafitte’s millions. If you’re killed, too…”

“I assure you that I have absolutely no intention of ending as Mignon did.”

“I should hope not,” he countered dryly. “But murderers seldom put our intentions ahead of their own.” He sighed and gave her a softly apologetic smile as he added, “I don’t give a fig about the treasure, Belle. Truth be told, I don’t believe it exists. But I understand your need to pursue the possibility. All that I’m asking is that you try to understand my need to see that you stay alive.”

He was right about the dangers, of course. And she’d be a fool to refuse his protection. Still … Her heart racing, her stomach churning, she swallowed down her trepidation and said, “I can’t afford to pay you for your time. Not until I find the treasure, anyway.”

“I don’t need or care about money,” he instantly countered. “My primary concern is keeping you alive and my neck out of the hangman’s noose.”

“It would be a purely investigator-client relationship?”

“Absolutely,” Barrett assured her despite the prickling of his conscience. “Strictly professional.”

“Would your assistance be limited to protecting me or would you actively assist me in the search?”

“That depends entirely on how much you feel you can trust me. If you want my help in the actual search, I’m willing to give it.”

She looked away, fixing her gaze on the window that overlooked the rear yard and the alleyway where Mignon’s battered body had been found. Her cousin had shamelessly used Barrett Stanbridge’s body, his good nature, and his home for her own ends. That he was willing to look past all of that and offer
her
his assistance … Yes, she wasn’t Mignon. Thank God. And yes, he stood to gain by it if all went well. But if anything went wrong, the gallows was a certain end for him. What did it say that he was willing to take the chance?

More importantly, what did it say about her that she was inclined to accept his help? It would be one thing if she believed that their relationship could remain purely professional. But she knew better. He was handsome and capable and he stirred fantasies that warmed her in the most delicious ways. It had been so long since she’d felt the deep tug of wanting, the quick spark of carnal hunger. To learn that part of her hadn’t been reduced to ash was disconcerting and yet wildly exhilarating. The thrill of it was telling; it was only a matter of time before she reached for him, before she closed her eyes and let desire run its course. And in surrendering to passion, she’d be putting herself on the edge of the precipice again.