Queen (Regency Refuge 3) (10 page)

Owen's mouth dropped as Isabel walked down the stairs the next morning.

Magnificent.

Her blond hair — lighter than he remembered from childhood — was pulled into an elegant chignon with a smart black hat atop. She wore a riding habit the same azure shade as wild lupin, with delicate trim black as midnight. The dress made the blue in her eyes the most prominent color in the room. Owen was mesmerized before he had a chance to take a single breath.

"Well, then, Owen, are you ready to leave?"

Owen, having misplaced his ability to speak with any coherence, nodded.

"Mrs. Burnham insisted I take some dresses her girls no longer wear. She also demanded — quite forcefully, might I add — I take a fine horse from the stable here at Chakal Manor so I'll need not trade off throughout the day."

Owen snapped his mouth closed as he worked to process Isabel's words. "Of course, of course. We wouldn't want to disappoint Mrs. Burnham, would we?" He glanced around the foyer. "Speaking of, will she be seeing us off this morning?"

Isabel shook her head. "She was quite fatigued when she retired for the night. I'm sure she'll sleep the day away."

He lifted an eyebrow at her. "Exactly when did Mrs. Burnham find her bed?"

Isabel offered a delicate shrug. "I'm sure I wouldn't know." Then she plucked at an imaginary piece of lint on the sleeve of her jacket. "A couple hours ago, perhaps."

Owen, who had been so blinded by the beauty of her presence, finally took notice of the fatigue in Isabel's eyes. "The two of you were up all night?"

She gave him a broad smile. "Not every day do I get to meet one of the few people in all of England who can make Owen Loring quake in his boots."

Holding out his arm to her, Owen clucked his tongue. "I'm not sure
quake
is quite the word."

"Oh? You've a better word to offer? Perhaps quail? Tremble? Ooh, what about quiver? That one has a nice sound to it."

Owen shook his head, allowing Isabel to have her fun. He wasn't a fool. He'd understood Mrs. Burnham's message about the pigeon. What to do with that information — that remained a mystery to him, though. Owen had yet to figure out who he could trust. Even Isabel — as much as he wanted to, he wasn't wholly convinced yet that she didn't have her own agenda.

They arrived at the stable to find one of the footmen waiting for them with their satchels and another traveling bag — filled with fine dresses designed to keep him distracted from his job while in London, no doubt. A stable hand led
Despiadado
out into the early morning light and secured two of the bags to his saddle. Another horse followed, a strong mare with a sturdy build and shining coat.
Despiadado
nipped at her, and the mare gave a welcoming whinny in response.

Was the entire world conspiring against him? It would be near to impossible to keep his distance if their horses became infatuated with each other. Owen wanted to pull Isabel close and rain kisses along her collarbone and neck. He'd never met another woman like her. She was spectacular. And his father may well have been responsible for the murder — for that's what their execution amounted to — of her parents.

Distance. Yes, he needed to keep his distance.

Isabel hopped onto a mounting block and gained her seat without waiting for Owen. She gripped the reins in her hands and straightened her shoulders. "Her name is Buttercup. What do you think? I say the name is far too soft for such a strong creature, but we shall see."

Owen gave her an absent nod and climbed into
Despiadado's
saddle. With the sinking feeling of a man who knows he's doomed himself to years of torture, he sighed. "We shall be on our way, then."

****

As the sun climbed high in the sky, they stopped to let the horses rest and to enjoy a light meal. Owen grumbled his irritation as he secured the horses and pulled bread and cheese from a basket Chakal Manor's cook had sent along with them.

"Are you all right, Owen? You seem upset about something."

"How are we supposed to make good time to London with all this baggage slowing our horses down? It's ridiculous."

Isabel's eyes snapped. "This basket can be left behind after we eat, and if
Despiadado's
not able to manage my extra bag, then give it to me. I'm sure the weight won't slow Buttercup down in the least."

Owen glared at the grass as if it had offended him by being soft enough to sit on. "Now you're being absurd."

"
I'm
being absurd? Pardon me?"

He glanced up and saw fire in her eyes. "You seem different today."
Breathtaking. Beautiful. Fiesty. Powerful. With the most perfect lips…
Owen shook his head to clear the thoughts.

Isabel frowned at him. "Sometimes I get too used to playing the part."

"What do you mean?"

Her brow creased. "Whenever I'm a scullery maid, I say
yes'm
and keep my eyes lowered. If I'm dressed as a lightskirt, I'm brazen. I flaunt myself and get closer to men than would ever be considered decent. And here I am dressed in the role of quality, and I find I am more prepared to fill the role than I'd realized."

Owen took a bite of the bread as he studied Isabel. "So which one is the real you?"

She lifted one shoulder in a feminine shrug. "I suppose they all are, in one way or another."

"How so?"

"I know you do a lot of book work for the agency, Owen, but have you never been in disguise before? Never pretended to be someone you're not?"

He shook his head apologetically, thinking not for the first time that he didn't do enough to keep his country and the people he loved safe. "In banks, or accounting positions at businesses, I don't need to pretend in order to be those people."

"You're going about it the correct way, then."

Owen lifted an eyebrow in question.

"No matter the role I am asked to play, I draw on that part of myself . As a servant, I remember all the times I've been made to feel I am less than another, not worthy to aspire to more. Or if I play a trollop — which I'm rarely ever allowed to do any more — I think about the times men have taken liberties. Then I pretend to enjoy it. If I am to be a woman of quality while we are in London, I shall remember my time in the Queen's court, or the time I infiltrated Napoleon's court, or… Well, you understand. To be a woman worthy of such fine garments, I must remember what it was like to be worthy of fine trinkets with a governess and servants to wait on me."

"I'll kill every single one of them if you wish."

Isabel's eyes widened, and Owen realized he'd said the words aloud.

"Pardon?"

He felt the heat in his chest and tried to force the blush into submission, refusing it the right to rise high enough on his neck to be noticed. "The men who took liberties with you. Say the word, and I shall dispatch every last one of them."

Isabel's eyes glittered as she took a bite of cheese. "So chivalrous, offering to murder men for long-ago deeds on my behalf. I think perhaps I shall decline, though, if that's quite all right with you."

Owen winked at her. "So be it, but if I witness any new liberties, I shan't be responsible for my actions. I am honor-bound to defend you."

Isabel wiped her hands on the proffered napkin and stood, shaking out her skirts as she did so. "I believe I'm quite prepared to protect myself against liberty-seekers, but be assured I appreciate the sentiment."

With the aid of a nearby log, Isabel mounted Buttercup, and Owen watched, again mesmerized. He had a feeling that of all the roles she'd played, of all the people she'd been, this one allowed her the most freedom to be herself. She'd always had a sharp tongue, but as a child she'd never used it to cut people down. Rather, she'd liked to parry words with those around her. It was what had always made her seem older than her years.

And if my father is responsible for ripping that life away from her and forcing her into a world where she had to play the part of… a trollop… I shan't ever forgive him.

The heavy burden of grief weighed Owen's shoulders down as they once again began on the road leading toward London. He wanted to believe his father couldn't have set up his business partner and friend to take the blame for treason, but he'd been at his job too long not to realize good men sometimes did horrible things to protect their families and their wealth.

Wisdom, God. I could use a lot more than I have. And self-control, too. Isabel is far too tempting for her own good. Couldn't you have made her a harridan or given her big oozing warts on her face? Something to make her less of a distraction?

They had been in London for five days, and November would soon be coming to a close. Little progress had been made in finding answers. Working in such close confines with Isabel was proving a challenge. She'd was a constant distraction to his concentration.

Tobias had stored all the minister's paperwork and a few of the man's belongings in a single room hidden at the back of an apothecary shop. The quarters were cramped and the smell was musty with disuse. Nonetheless, this small room was where they'd been condemned to pass their days. Monotonous didn't begin to describe the tedium.

Isabel shoved a box of paperwork into a corner, and Owen tried not to stare as she stretched her back afterward, but it was a struggle. He'd found watching Isabel to be the one happy interlude in the otherwise uninspiring boredom of their days, which only served to remind him how unpleasant their task was. Perhaps if he wasn't searching for evidence that might ultimately point the finger of guilt at his father —
then
he'd be able to better enjoy the task at hand.

Wiping the perspiration from her brow with the back of a hand, she pivoted toward Owen and asked, "Do you think the minister would leave evidence of any kind? His death wasn't a surprise — at least not to him — so wouldn't he have planned accordingly and gotten rid of any incriminating evidence?" Isabel picked up a nearby file to use as a makeshift fan. "And why on earth is everything being stored in such an airless vault? Is this Tobias' idea of security? Anyone who tries to break in and get anything will die of asphyxiation before they can ever get out."

"I'm sure Tobias has his reasons." Not that he'd ever bothered to explain them to Owen.

"When you first said we were coming to London, you made it sound like you were coming here to find proof of my parents' guilt."

Owen glanced up at her, then back down at a note he was jotting. "I believe I never said
we
were coming to London. If memory serves, I said
I
would be making the journey. Alone."

Isabel moved closer and leaned over Owen's shoulder, presumably to see what he was writing. He inhaled, her scent filling his mind as the soft brush of her chest against his back ignited other senses.

"Hm, and here I thought you'd invited me along."

Owen cleared his throat and pushed his chair back. He intended to escape, but his move put him in closer proximity to the woman who had demanded admittance to almost all his waking thoughts. In a single quick motion, he got to his feet and stepped away from her. "You misunderstood me."

A wicked and delicious smile tugged up the corners of her mouth. "Do you realize you've never told me your code name?"

Heat started in his belly and moved higher until he was sure his skin must be aflame. "You're playacting. Don't pretend to seduce in order to get information." Owen's heart raced fast enough to put a champion horse to shame. If this was Isabel's idea of playing the part of a seductress, it was a wonder every man in England hadn't given up his secrets to her already. Owen was going to be in trouble if he ever had to watch her charm a man for the job. He'd go mad for sure.

With a slow wink, Isabel moved closer. "Come now, Owen. Tell me what you're up to here."

Owen's growing desire was dowsed as quickly as if he'd jumped into the Thames in the middle of winter. A chill swept up his spine, and the gooseflesh rose across his back and arms.
I'm hoping to find proof to exonerate your parents. Oh, and by the way, my father may be the one who got them killed. Will you marry me?

With a hard shake of the head, Owen tried to dislodge the thought. Marriage? Where had that come from?

Isabel must have sensed the change in him, for she dropped her temptress routine and went back to sorting through yet another stack of papers. He half expected her to apologize. What she'd done hadn't been at all fair, which wasn't like her.

A light tap at one of the wall panels drew both their eyes. Any apology she'd planned to make would have to wait now. Owen sauntered over to where the sound had come from. A glance told him Isabel had her gun out and at the ready. With a soft click of the wall mechanism, Owen opened the panel a short way and assessed the man standing on the other side.

Then, backing into the room, he threw the panel wide and said over his shoulder, "Someone's here to see you."

Isabel, gun still in hand, gasped upon seeing Jackal. Still gripping her pistol, she hurried around the stacks and piles of would-be detritus and threw herself into his arms.

The older man's voice rumbled deep. "Hello, Queen, it's good to see you again."

She dashed away her tears. "It's been too many years. I've missed you."

He nodded. "Indeed it has. I'm sorry it had to be that way."

Jackal stepped over to a worn divan and sank into its welcoming comfort. Aside from Owen's chair or one of the crates, the divan was the sole place to sit in the confined space. Owen returned to the ledgers and tried not to eavesdrop as Jackal and Isabel visited. They had quite a bit of catching up to do, and he had yet another ledger to read through.

The minister had kept scrupulous records, perhaps too scrupulous. He'd kept track of every farthing ever spent, which meant if there were illegal transactions, they would be difficult to find amid all the other stuff and nonsense the man had recorded. The minister had been a crafty old devil. No one recorded so much detail unless they were trying to bury what they didn't want found.

A peek up told him Jackal and Isabel were chatting, fast friends from years gone by. Her face glowed. His, on the other hand, remained shuttered. Owen would wager a pile of useless ledgers that Jackal had more than a friendly visit on his mind.

****

The clock advanced by hours, and Jackal lent a hand with sorting through papers. They found some old journals that had belonged to Lysander, the minister's son. Jackal's mouth tightened with the discovery. "Let me see those as soon as you're done with them."

Owen nodded. It was the least he could do. "Of course."

Dusk was upon them, and Jackal stood. He collected his cane and gave Isabel one last hug, admonishing her to remember her training. "You need to stay safe, and then once this is all past, come to Chakal Manor, and I'll give you a proper introduction to my family."

Isabel nodded and, leaning up on tiptoe, gave him a kiss on his cheek. Her eyes danced in the candlelight. "I shall do my utmost to remember to call you Rupert, too, now that I know your name. It wouldn't do for your lovely new family to hear me call you Jackal."

He smiled and chucked her under the chin, treating her as a child of ten and two rather than a woman of twenty and four.

With a tilt of his head, Jackal indicated he needed a word with Owen. The younger man followed him into the passageway on the other side of the wall panel.

"Have you decided yet whether or not you can trust Tobias?"

Owen dropped a shoulder. "I wish I knew for certain, but for now I'm proceeding on the premise that he is not at fault in any of this."

Jackal winced. "In some ways, I think we're all at fault for this mess. I'm not sure how, exactly, but I think we've all played a part in a scheme so well-orchestrated none of us even realized it."

"I know what you mean."

"Isabel had nothing but glowing things to say about Mrs. Burnham."

Owen avoided eye contact. "They seemed to get along quite well."

"Are you going to tell me what's going on in my own home?"

"I wouldn't presume to take such liberties."

This time Jackal frowned. "Parliament has officially filed papers demanding you be sanctioned for your insubordinate behavior. Tobias was named in the papers. If you don't turn yourself in to Parliament within a fortnight, your fearless leader will be out of a job."

Owen let the knowledge sink into his chest. "A fortnight?"

Jackal nodded. "I might be able to hold them off a bit longer, but your actions on the coast made them look foolish. Pride and politics are a dangerous combination. If you came in and presented a sound argument for your actions, it might go a long way toward changing their minds about you."

Owen snorted. "Change the mind of Parliament? What do you take me for? A magician? Shall I turn a woman's kerchief into a falcon while I'm at it?"

"I'm only the messenger."

"Do they know you're here?"

Jackal chuckled. "They don't even know
here
is here. As far as they're concerned, you're on a wild goose chase out on the coast for the sole purpose of thumbing your nose at the rules Parliament has established."

"I seem to have a way of making enemies where I don't intend."

Jackal nodded. "A fortnight. Wrap this up and get some answers. Then try to placate the powers-that-be so you can complete your other investigation."

The two men shook hands, and Jackal slipped away through the dark passage. Owen stepped back into the glorified storeroom with one thought on his mind.

If they're going to imprison me, I've got to clear Isabel's parents before they do. Expediency, God. Expediency would be much appreciated about now.

A quick glance told him Isabel had fallen asleep. She was curled up on the divan, hugging a small pillow to her chest. Owen walked over, lifted a worn blanket from the back, and settled it over Isabel's sleeping form. Leaning down, he brushed a kiss against her forehead.

With renewed energy, he lit another candle and returned to where he'd left off in the ledgers. He was on year eight. Of forty.

I will prove their innocence if it's the last thing I do.