Midnight Mistress (15 page)

Juliana stabbed her needle into the embroidery. “His reasons are not of the least interest to me. Now, if you would be so kind, I should like to take an hour’s rest before tea.”

Meg left the room, but Juliana did not rest. Instead she threw her embroidery into a tangled heap and began pacing just as her friend had done. As angry as Meg was at Connor, Juliana was ten times more furious. And even more than that at herself.

The moment his lips met hers, all her carefully cultivated poise and virtue had shattered like a dropped Christmas globe. Her blood had turned to hot honey. She’d melted into his arms, aching for the feel of his steel-hard body molding to hers. It was as if she were burning alive from the inside out. She’d pulled him closer, feeding on him with an animal hunger she’d never dreamed she possessed. When he’d bent
her back across the desk she’d complied eagerly, yearning for him to claim her body the way he’d claimed her mouth. When Meg cried out, her first emotion had not been one of relief, but of profound disappointment. Luckily, her years of rigorous deportment had helped her to quickly regain her good sense. She realized that Connor’s behavior was shameless, ungentlemanly, and thoroughly uncivilized.

And wonderful.

“It was
not
wonderful,” she argued aloud. “It was improper and embarrassing and if he tries to kiss me again I shall scratch his eyes out.”

Of course, that did not address what would happen if she kissed him.

“This is boorish. I shall put it out of my mind entirely.” Resolved, she went to her writing desk and penned a quick note to Mr. McGregor, informing him that she had secured the assistance of Captain Gabriel. It did not sound nearly so scandalous on paper—though she did leave out the details of their negotiations.
Like his fee
.

She put the letter on the silver salver for Lucy to deliver to the afternoon post, than began to open her correspondence. It was a considerable stack, as she had been occupied with other matters for the better part of a week. Most of the letters were perfunctory condolences about her father from people who had never known him, but a few warmed her heart. One badly misspelled missive from an old tar in Liverpool particularly affected her. Her father had made many friends over the years, looking beyond the trappings of wealth and station, believing that people should be respected for their inner worth.
Like raising up a wharf rat who had risked his own life to save mine
—

No. That Connor was dead. The man she knew now had professed to love her, but she’d seen him in the arms of another woman. He’d stolen from her father. He’d turned into a privateer, a ruthless mercenary whose only redemption was
that he sailed for the crown. Tonight he was going to have his way with a married woman. And his kiss had awakened a hunger in her, a need for him and no other.

She put her head in her hands. And for the first time that afternoon, Juliana’s eyes brimmed with tears.

“
Mon Dieu
, I cannot
believe
that you kissed her.”

“Can we just drop the subject?” Connor growled as he held the nearly shut lantern in front of him. He stooped to avoid a drainpipe that traversed the narrow alley. “You’ve made it clear that you do not approve of my actions.”

“I do not
approve
of flat beer. I do not
approve
of sloppy bootblacks, or poorly tied ratlines, or winning horses that toss shoes in the final furlong. But you, my friend, are the most idiot, slow-witted, imbecilic
Anglais
that ever—”

“So you have said. Incessantly.” Connor pulled out his handkerchief and wiped the sleet from his eyes. He scanned the darkness ahead for any hint of trouble. The Admiral usually chose the locations for their secret meetings well, but there was always a chance they might be discovered. Besides, Limehouse held more dangers than an out-of-place Bow Street Runner. “I believe this is the place where we are to wait.”

“Good. And while we are waiting I shall tell you again what a fool—”

“One more word, Raoul, and I’ll stuff this handkerchief down your throat.”

Raoul didn’t utter a sound.

Connor turned away and studied the alley. It was a foul place even for the Limehouse slums, with a lacework of rusted pipes and dank ice pooling in the rutted crusts of mud that covered the floor. It stank like a sewer. The memories called up by the stench and the narrow confines set his teeth on edge. ’Twas like being in prison.
Or a grave
.

“Well, one thing’s sure. No one is likely to bother us in this hellhole.” He sat down on what appeared to be a fairly sturdy
barrel and attempted to knock some of the caked mud off his boots. “The Admiral had better show soon. I gave up a private dinner with the baroness for this.”

Raoul stroked his mustache. “I recall you sent your regrets before the Admiral’s summons arrived.”

Connor glowered. St. Juste was too observant by half. He should never have told him that he’d kissed Juliana. But if he had not, how could he have explained why he was suddenly in her employ? And how would he have explained the subtler changes, such as the way his jaw pulled taut whenever someone mentioned her name? Try as he might, he could not wipe the feel of her body from his mind. Or the taste of her from his lips—

A scraping sound caught his ear. He swung the lantern beam and pulled his pistol from his belt. A long, naked tail flicked through the light before disappearing into a filth-edged hole. Rats. Christ, he hated rats. They clawed up memories of a tiny box in the lowest, blackest ship’s hold, too small for a man to sit or to stand, too foul for him to breathe. The darkness had had no day or night, and no end. He fingered the scar on his cheek, the visible reminder of that terrifying time. The invisible reminders were just as permanent. All his fine, pretty ideals had been swallowed up in that coffin cell, by the pain, the hunger, the loneliness, and the darkness. The best part of him had died in that torture box. The broken, starving shell that had come out was hardly human at all.

He settled back on the barrel. “Raoul, what are we doing here?”

The viscount gave him a quizzical look. “But of course, we are waiting for the Admiral.”

“No, I mean why the hell did we ever get involved in this deception? Why aren’t we out at sea, with a clean wind at our backs, instead of skulking around some godforsaken alley waiting for a man who will not tell us his name or even show us his face?”

Raoul sighed. “You know the answer,
mon ami
. This is the only way we can hope to gain our—well, not our souls, perhaps. They are long gone. But we shall have our revenge. You for the
Absalom
. And I for a man who was finer than either you or I can hope to be.”

Connor closed his eyes, remembering Daniel St. Juste. He had been a short man, not nearly as tall as his nephew, and an old war wound had left him with a limp. Nevertheless, there had been a fire in his eyes that made any man he met think twice about crossing him. And there had been a kindness in him that was too big for this world.

He had been murdered by a friend.

Another scraping sound brought Connor back to the present. More rats, he thought with a grimace. “God’s teeth, Raoul, if the Admiral does arrive I’ve a mind to tell him what I think of his bloody cloak-and-dagger foolishness.”

A voice hissed from the darkness. “My cloak-and-dagger foolishness has kept you alive, boy.”

Connor jumped to his feet. He swung the lantern toward the voice, but all he saw was the piled refuse of the crowded alley. “Is that truly you, sir?”

“Of course it is me. Who else would be in a
hellhole
like this at this time of night?”

Connor winced. The Admiral must have been listening to them for several minutes.
Maybe longer
. Thankfully, Connor hadn’t mentioned Juliana’s name. He set the lantern down on the barrel and took a bold step forward. “What do you have for me?”

The Admiral’s voice wheezed out like air from a pig’s bladder. “The emperor is marshaling his troops, and plans a major offensive in the next few months. His agents will pay handsomely for any strategic naval information we can send their way. Which is why I am most particularly interested in the friendship you have recently cultivated, Captain Gabriel.”

A warning drilled down Connor’s spine. “I have cultivated many friendships among the rich and powerful. You will have to be more specific.”

“I speak of a lady of your acquaintance—Lady Juliana Dare.”

“No!” The word burst out, scattering a flurry of unseen vermin to their nests.

Raoul tugged Connor’s sleeve and bent to his ear. “My friend, may I remind you that this man has enough on us to send us to the gallows ten times over?”

“I don’t care. I will not make her part of this.”

“
I
am the one who says who is part of this, boy,” the Admiral hissed. “The girl has inherited dozens of ships—ships that could easily transport our messages to foreign ports. ’Tis a plum ripe for picking.”

“Well, you’re bloody well going to have to pick another one,” Connor growled. “Besides, ’tis hardly likely I’ll see her again.”

“It was my understanding that you are to see her tomorrow morning, when you start work as her manager.”

God’s teeth, was there anything this man did not know? “That is true. But I will not involve her in this.”

“You have never been reluctant to use the gentry in the past. Why hesitate now?”

Good question. Juliana was as heartless as every other member of the aristocracy. He should have jumped at the chance to use her as her class had so callously used him. He should have—but he could not. The longer he waited to answer, the more damning his silence became. Finally he cleared his throat. “I cannot tell you why, but—”

“He kissed her.”

Connor spun to face Raoul, his gaze murderous.

“He would have found out,
mon ami
. He always does.”

“You … kissed her?”

For the first time the voice from the darkness sounded
startled—and human. But in a heartbeat, the Admiral redisguised his words. “I shall contact you shortly with more details of our operation. Meanwhile, continue your association with the Marquis Line, and keep an eye on the Dare woman. And on her plain little friend.”

“She is not
that
plain,” Raoul muttered.

“Silence. There has been enough talking back for one night. I am in control of this operation. I
own
you. Never forget that.”

Connor stepped forward. “Can you at least tell us when you will give us the information we seek?”

Silence was his only reply.

They started to make their way back down the alley. Raoul kept up a steady one-sided commentary on the unfairness of the tavern game of cups and balls, the politics of Parliament, the dismal state of his Hessians—anything that came to mind. Connor wasn’t fooled. Underneath the bright conversation St. Juste was just as worried as he was. The game was not going at all as they’d planned.

I own you
.

It was no idle threat. A word from the Admiral could send them to Newman’s Hotel in a heartbeat. He could endure the possibility when only he and Raoul were involved. But now other reputations, and maybe lives, were at stake. And the fact that he was mad as hell at one of those lives made the situation no less palatable.

Months ago, when he and Raoul and he had been approached by the Admiral, they had made a devil’s pact. The shadowy figure had promised the names of the cowards who had murdered Daniel St. Juste under a flag of truce. Since then, every battle, every victory, every breath they’d taken had brought them closer toward that goal. The Londoners called him a hero, but he was deaf to their acclaim. He did not work for his country’s honor, nor for the money he was awarded in the prize courts, nor even for revenge like his friend Raoul. But he had his price, just as the viscount had
his. He’d fulfilled his devil’s bargain with single-minded calculation—until a freckled nose, ocean eyes, and a courtesan’s mouth had melted his indifference to a puddle.

He hunched his shoulders against the sleet, feeling the cold as he hadn’t in months. Juliana had reawakened his feelings—for that alone he could damn her. And yet, even now he knew that he would do whatever it took to protect her from the Admiral’s plots. She was innocent of the deceit that stained his life. Though that was perhaps the only deceit she was innocent of.

She’d played him for a fool. He was nothing to her. Less than nothing. She’d proved as much when she’d called him a low-born cur, and again this afternoon when she’d been so unaffected by his caress. Only an idiot would want a woman who felt so little for him.

But he did want her. God’s teeth, he
ached
for her. Even now he’d have sold his soul for another chance to hold her in his arms. But he could not have done so, even if he’d wanted to.

His soul was no longer his to barter.

The next few weeks were ones of intense activity for Juliana. For a girl who had spent her days sleeping until noon and dancing until dawn, the experience of doing something useful was new, different, and exhilarating. She got up every morning at a very unfashionable hour and went to the offices of the Marquis Line, often not returning home until well after dark. She spent the days learning the shipping business from the ground up, or from stern to stern, as McGregor put it. At the end of the day she fell into bed, often fully clothed because she was too exhausted to wait for her abigail to undress her, with her head aching from the facts and figures that had been stuffed into it during the day. More than once, she swore to herself that she’d had enough and that the Marquis Line was just going to have to get by with another owner. But every morning she woke up at dawn, and rang for the coach to take her to the London docks.