Much Ado About Rogues (10 page)

He picked her up and carried her to the bed, sitting her on the edge of it while he quickly rid himself of his clothing. Pushing her nightrail up over her thighs, he spread her knees and pulled her toward him, his eyes dark as he guided himself into her before capturing her mouth with his own.

She wrapped her arms and legs tightly around him, feeling him deep, deep inside of her, their tongues dueling, keeping time with his strong, hard thrusts.

Later, he would love her, as he’d loved her last night. Later, she would give him what he’d given her and thrill at his release, his temporary surrender to her hands and mouth. Later, when they were both too exposed, too vulnerable to hide from each other, at least not in the dark in the middle of the night.

He’d hurt her, yes. But she’d hurt him, as well. They were both very good at what they did, and they both knew where to aim to inflict the most damage to the other.

And the most pleasure.

At some point they had to find a way to stop hurting each other. At some point they had to forgive, and to trust.

But for now they would simply take what came most easily to them. Just as they had last night, the years stood between them now. So much time lost, so much need to make up for. This wasn’t making love. This was mating. Pure and simple and primeval.

And good. Ah, so very—
“Jack.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

“G
ENTLEMEN
,” J
ACK
SAID
, slipping into the empty chair at the table Dickie Carstairs and Will Browning shared inside the anonymous-looking tavern at the bottom of Bond Street the first evening after his arrival in London. “How wonderful, if predictable, to find you together. Too early for the theater? No invitations tonight, Will? No, that couldn’t be possible.”

Dickie looked at him in surprise. “I’ve been haunting Half Moon Street all day. You didn’t give the signal. Shade up, you’re in residence. Shade down, you’re not. Half up—or half down, I suppose—meet you here. No signal, but we came anyway. You’re supposed to signal, Jack. It’s what you said you would do.”

“I didn’t signal? How remiss of me. Will? Would you care to remonstrate with me, as well?”

“Another time, perhaps. You’re at the mansion in Grosvenor Square, aren’t you? Doing a bit of showing off for the lady, Jack? She’s here with you, isn’t she? Couldn’t leave her where she belonged, not that I blame you, I suppose. A pretty piece.”

“And here I thought you meant your apology of the other day,” Jack said silkily, even as he raised a hand to signal the barmaid for another glass. “There was a complication.”

Will looked at him levelly. “They’re the very devil, aren’t they? Complications.”

Henry Sutton had always been the buffer between Jack and Will, two men with rather high opinions of themselves when it came to their unusual talents, and rather an aversion to being considered second behind anyone else. Dickie Carstairs was a poor substitute mediator, but he did try.

“See? There you go. Complications. I told you there had to be something,” he said, turning to Will after pouring Jack a glass of wine. “Had to be a reason.”

Jack nodded to Dickie. “There was a child at the manor house. Not knowing what Sinjon could be up to, and how it might impact the daughter and the child, I felt it best to remove both mother and son to London until we know what’s going on. Half Moon Street wouldn’t have served. Have you had any progress at this end?”

Will’s knowing smile would have meant his death if he hadn’t quickly turned it into a frown of concern. “Well done, Jack. It’s the marquis we’re after, not his family, correct? A child, though, and a male child at that. How wonderful…generally speaking. As for the rest of it? We know our elusive quarry alit just where we thought he would. We know he hired a man and a wagon to move a heavy trunk. We located the man and the wagon, visited the inn, and found the marquis gone when we searched the attic room he had leased for the space of one week. The trunk remained, but it was empty.”

“He was still an old lady at the inn, although nobody there could remember seeing her leave that last time. She—that is,
he
left a small purse in his room, to cover his lodgings, I suppose, and left the trunk behind as well, as Will just said. Empty. Very nice trunk if I must say so myself. Oh, and it was the monk that left the inn. That’s twice with that disguise. He won’t use that again, I think,” Dickie supplied helpfully. “But that’s all we know. We don’t know what to do next, Jack. Does the daughter have any ideas?”

“A few,” Jack said, thinking about Tess’s insistence that Sinjon was planning to sacrifice his life in order that Jack would kill the Gypsy for him. Not arrest him. Silence him. And without the Crown being given the chance to question him and perhaps learn of his dual role as Sinjon’s thief, along with the location of the collection. Otherwise, the Mask of Isis and the rest could not be bestowed on Jacques and thus assure the boy’s future, could it? He doubted Tess had considered that part, but he had. “I don’t put much credence in what she thinks. He fooled her as completely as he did the Crown’s none-too-bright watchdog, slipping away out from directly below their noses, which doesn’t say much to her powers of observation. She thinks her father summons the dawn, but we know better than that, don’t we, gentlemen.”

Will snorted. “We don’t know anything you don’t tell us, and I’d like to go on record now in saying I don’t much care for your secretiveness. We work together, Jack. Moreover, we work for the Crown, not a daughter upset over misplacing her doddering old father.”

“You’re questioning my loyalty, Will?”

“Absolutely not. I’m questioning what hangs between your legs, and would very much appreciate hearing something from you that would alleviate my fears that your brain may be hanging there, too,” the other man said softly. “You haven’t done so yet, but I’m fairly certain your next line will have something to do with needles and haystacks, and that Dickie and I should just take ourselves off and you’ll handle the whole of it. Admit it, Jack, we’re no closer to our runaway than we were before, and I find myself totally out of charity with the man. And you.”

“Sounds the same way to me. Needles and haystacks, I mean—not the rest of it. Well, that’s that, then, isn’t it? So what do we do now? It seems we’ve run out of options.”

“Oh, ye of little faith. And, in your case, Will, lively imagination.” Jack smiled as he saluted the two men with his full glass. “We agree the daughter’s useless, or at least I do. You didn’t ask me if
I
had any ideas.”

Dickie sat forward in his chair, first looking about him as if he expected several wagging ears to be listening in on their conversation—which anyone who hadn’t been might be inclined to do now, as he looked so very suspicious. “Well? Do you?”

“As it happens, yes, I do.” He pulled a folded bit of the
London Times
from his waistcoat and placed it on the table. “This same advertisement, or notice if you will, has appeared daily for the past five days. I’ve already checked.”

Will deftly snatched up the newspaper before Dickie could even half reach for it. He unfolded the scrap, checking first one side and finding only part of an article printed there, before turning it over. “The advertisements? Really?”

“A timeworn method of communicating with interested others. I thought Sinjon might trot it out for us. Or at least I thought he’d believe I’d think so.”

“He’d think that, would he?” Will read the first item. “‘Devonshire widower seeking chaste, moral female of exemplary health and numbering no more than five and twenty years; to whom he might bestow the honor of wife, and invest in her the pleasures of mother and educator to his eight young children.’ And he names a solicitor for the dozens of eager, chaste and moral females to contact. I don’t believe I foresee a feminine stampede in the direction of this Devonshire solicitor’s office. At any rate, I suppose that’s not what I was supposed to be noticing here?”

“I wouldn’t think so,” Dickie said, shaking his head. “Eight, you said? No wondering why the first wife died, is there? Probably just wanted some peace, poor thing. Probably couldn’t chance turning corners in the house too close to the wall, or he’d grab her and put her up against it, trying for number nine.”

“I beg your pardon, did you just say what I thought you said?” Jack asked, surprised that the man even imagined such things, let alone said them.

Dickie’s face flushed red to the roots of his hair. “It’s only what I heard my father say about my uncle Robert. Who hadn’t a feather of his own to fly with, mind you, and was always sponging off us, moaning about all the mouths he had to feed. Don’t breed ’em, don’t have to feed ’em, that’s what my father— And what do you find so funny, Will Browning?”

Will waved his hands in front of his face as if in apology. “Nothing, Dickie. You’re a man of many parts, though, I’ll say that for you. I think I found it, Jack, next up after the prolific widower. But what does it mean?”

As Dickie grabbed the newspaper to read the advertisement for himself, Jack explained.

“Someone is advertising the sale of
objets rares d’art,
Dickie, of Roman, Greek and Egyptian variety. Discerning buyers, once qualified, will be allowed to view this aforesaid private collection for the purpose of making offers of purchase. Those interested are to deliver their correspondence to Mr. St. John at Number 9 Cleveland Row precisely at noon, the fifteenth of June, outlining their qualifications. That’s in three days’ time. If deemed reputable, they will then be contacted by the seller and an appointment made to view the collection, at which time bids will be entertained.”

“Yes, yes, I see all of that here. Seen dozens like it, for that matter, although none so precise about the time. Some impoverished peer or other is always trying to sell something without letting the world know his coffers are bare. Can’t let your creditors know you’re pockets-to-let, or they’ll all pounce. Half the ladies in the
ton,
to hear my father tell it, are wearing paste instead of diamonds, and only half of that half even know it. But what does that have to do with—”

“St. John,” Will interrupted. “Sinjon. Am I right?”

Jack nodded. “Rather more blatant than is usual for Sinjon, but I suppose he may not have trusted me to understand anything more subtle.”

Dickie threw down the paper. “It’s too bloody subtle for me. What does it signify? He’s inviting you to come see him, is that it? After all this skulking about as old ladies and monks? All this changing of lodgings? Why would he do that?”

Jack had his lies carefully prepared. “My guess is that he’s decided the quiet country life doesn’t suit him any longer, and he’d like to make some changes in his arrangement with the Crown. Either the Crown pays him much better than it has to remain silent about twenty years of not always flattering secrets, or he sells them to the highest bidder. You did catch that line about
entertaining bids,
yes? He knew Liverpool would set me to tracking him down if he disappeared, just as he knew he stood a good chance of
disappearing
if he sat at home once his request, we’ll call it, landed on the prime minister’s desk. I’m actually rather insulted.”

“How so?” Will asked, reading over the advertisement a second time.

“Obviously, Will, that Sinjon would believe I’d be willing to meet with him, be his tame messenger, carry his demands to Liverpool—and how sure he feels he knows me, that I wouldn’t simply follow orders and eliminate the threat by eliminating him. He’s planning to pull me into his conspiracy. I’m damned if I do, gentlemen, and damned if I don’t. Turn on Liverpool by helping Sinjon, or follow my orders and needlessly murder a delusional old man, because that’s what it would be. He’s years past defending himself. And no, Will, before you say it, I would not care for Tess’s reaction were I to do the latter. There are still some small remnants there of what I once felt for the woman.”

“Very prettily put, if dangerously idiotic. But, Jack,” Will said as he poured himself another measure of wine, “think about this a moment. You’re more of a dupe in this thing than you’ve realized. That’s why he left the daughter behind. Your lost love, if you’ll allow a moment of theatrics. You show up, asking for the father’s whereabouts, and she looks at you with large, soulful eyes, asks you to remember what you once had together, and begs your help. How could you do anything less? And damn, man, you did bring her and her brat toddling along with you to London, didn’t you? Saving the man the trouble of fetching them from the country before they set sail to God knows where, his pockets filled with Liverpool’s gold. I’d say you might be a tad ashamed, but not insulted. You’re acting just as your old master expected. Dare I say his trained monkey?”

“Enjoying yourself?” Jack asked, glaring at Will to let him know he’d come within a hair of pushing too hard this time. Will would expect no less of a reaction from him; besides, Browning wanted a challenge, and sliding a knife between the ribs of an old man didn’t qualify.

But now it was Jack’s turn again. “Still, did he have to be so unsure I’d pick up on his clues? St. John was enough. He didn’t have to throw in all this nonsense about selling his supposed rare art objects. True, the man may have once been famous for his collection, but that was in France, which is where the collection remains. God, according to the daughter, they’re in debt to half the local village, as he must have taken all of his money with him to pay his passage, hire helpers, secure inn rooms.”

Dickie looked at him blankly. “Then there’s no collection? It’s all a ruse? Now there’s a pity. But it makes sense. A man with a fist full of ancient art and such shouldn’t have to come after Liverpool, or not pay the local tradesmen.”

“Very good, Dickie, we’ll make a thinker of you yet. The point, however, is that the marquis was hitting Jack here over the head with clues because he didn’t trust him to understand otherwise,” Will said, smiling at the man. “So, Jack, what next? We’re heading off to Cleveland Row? Somehow I don’t think the doddering Sinjon will let it be that easy.”

“He won’t. Sinjon isn’t there. He will, however, have made arrangements for any and all responses to his advertisement to be delivered to him wherever he’s hiding. Sinjon always had a flaw, gentlemen. He has always considered himself the smarter man, in any situation. He took plans too far, made them too intricate, when simple would serve us better. We argued on that head, quite often. As we all know, for every unnecessary twist or turn, every extra person added to a plan, another opportunity to make a mistake rears its ugly head.”

“True enough, Jack,” Dickie agreed. “Look what happened when your brother added himself to our last venture. Cost us Henry.”

“Henry’s mistake cost us Henry, we’re all agreed with that,” Will Browning said tightly. “Dig him up, and Henry would agree, as well.”