Shirley Kerr (29 page)

Ned, his valet, dropped the stack of cravats he had just folded. “Yes, miss?”

“When was the last time you saw Steven?”

He glanced at the clock. “Just before ten.”

It was only half past ten now. She sagged against the door frame in relief, her hand to her heart, and tried to catch her breath.

“Ten last night, that is. He hasn’t come home yet.”

Now was not the time to panic. There could still be a simple reason for Steven to have not come home yet, one that had nothing to do with Toussaint. She cleared her throat. “I need you to go over to Gauthier’s lodgings, see if he is there and if he knows Steven’s whereabouts.”

Ned bent to pick up the cravats.

“Now, man! Make haste!”

Ned dropped the cravats and darted out the door, almost knocking over Charlotte in his rush.

More pacing would accomplish nothing but wear a path in a perfectly innocent Aubusson rug. She certainly didn’t want to go downstairs and risk encountering Aunt Hermione.

What to do?

There was a good chance that Ned would come back with the news that Steven and Gauthier had searched
Sir Nigel’s town house last night, found nothing, decided to drown their sorrows, and were sleeping it off at Gauthier’s flat.

No, she didn’t really believe that, either. Steven rarely overindulged in drink, and never while he was working on an assignment.

She had to do something, anything, and do it
now
. She returned to her own bedchamber and changed into a heavy velvet dress in verdant green she hadn’t worn since they left France. Made by a very special modiste, the dress had all sorts of useful slits, pockets, and linings. Charlotte set about filling them.

She strapped on both of her knife sheaths, after making sure the knives were clean and sharp. Checked that the small pistol Steven had given her two years ago was loaded, and tucked that into its hiding place, along with pouches of extra shot and powder.

One pistol was not enough. If Toussaint had hurt Steven, she was going to need a lot more weaponry.

Since they hadn’t wanted to arouse her new maid’s suspicions, she had allowed Steven to store most of her arsenal of weapons in his room. She grabbed her parasol that concealed a sword, peeked into the hall, saw that no servants were about, and darted back down to his bedchamber.

Both of Steven’s pistols were gone, though hers were still there. She finished arming herself and checked her appearance in the mirror. Nothing looked out of the ordinary, but she felt at least two stone heavier than usual. It was a wonder she didn’t clank as she moved.

Ned returned, gasping for breath, his face ashen. “So sorry, miss, but Gauthier’s man says he ain’t been home since last night, either.”

She had been expecting to hear as much, but it was still a blow. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Thank you, Ned.” She grabbed Toussaint’s note on her way out.

“I’m very sorry, my dear,” Lord Q said, giving Charlotte’s shoulder a consoling pat a short time later. “Blakeney is one of my best operatives. But you know the department’s official policy. We do not negotiate. I cannot make an exception, however much it pains me to say that.”

She had not really expected him to hand over the snuffbox. She’d come mainly as a professional courtesy, to let Lord Q know—

No. She wouldn’t even finish the thought. No harm was going to come to Steven.

For half a second she flirted with the idea of knocking out Q with her parasol, breaking open his safe, and making off with the snuffbox. But Q’s butler stood at the open doorway. He was no aged family retainer, but a burly bear of a fellow still in his prime. More servants casually lingered between her and the exit points.

“I understand, sir.” The sad thing was, she truly did understand. If word got out that the Home Office could be coerced in such a way, no telling what havoc would ensue.

“I suggest that you go home and trust in your brother’s skills, that everything will turn out all right.”

If he patted her one more time, she would not be held responsible for her actions.

She folded the vellum and tucked it up her sleeve again. “Thank you, sir. Good-bye.”

He gave her what was probably supposed to be a reassuring smile as she left.

She exited the town house and stood on the sidewalk, watching the coaches go by on the street as if everything in the world were perfectly normal.

Toussaint had Steven at his mercy. Steven would not have succumbed easily to being captured. Given their history, Toussaint would take great delight in inflicting the most pain possible. He would want revenge for the way Steven had thwarted him in Paris.

If she had not stolen the snuffbox last night…

No. Her success and Steven’s capture were unrelated. In fact, Toussaint would probably have already killed Steven if he didn’t need him alive to use as leverage in bargaining.

Alive didn’t mean unharmed, though. Steven was likely in a great deal of pain by now, possibly injured. Might even be dying.

She fought down the rising panic and pushed aside images of hideous tortures being inflicted on her only brother. She needed to be logical, to focus. She had to rescue him. Now.

But how? A stealth attack? Sneak into the gaming hell and surprise Toussaint? The note had not offered a specific address, so he must mean for her to come to Lost Wages.

He would not be alone.

Neither should she.

But Lord Q was withholding his help. Gauthier was unavailable, since he, too, was in need of rescue.

She’d thought she wanted to work on her own. She’d forgotten that Steven rarely acted alone—he usually worked with Gauthier, or her, or another of Q’s operatives.

She needed someone, too. Someone who could think fast on their feet. Someone who would not be intimidated, no matter what they faced.

There was only one man who could help her.

But would he be willing? She didn’t deserve his help, but perhaps he’d do it for Steven’s sake.

Swallowing down a great lump of dread, she gave her coachman directions.

Minutes later, a lofty butler escorted her into an elegant salon befitting the home of a duke. And a marquess. And a viscount.

All three were present.

Three generations, living together under one roof.

Despite their many disagreements over the years, the duke had not booted out his son, the marquess. Despite the many disagreements, Alistair had not abandoned them to their mutually bitter fate, but remained on hand, still attempting to be their peacemaker.

Standing here in their salon, she felt the connection to their past, the weight of their shared history, as an almost tangible thing. But it was not oppressive—more like the weight of favorite blankets piled on the bed at night to keep away the winter chill. Comforting. Reassuring.

Something she did not have. Had not even noticed the lack until now.

Tears pricked at her eyes.

She’d had her chance to gain this kind of connection for herself, and had given it up. Had given up Alistair.

Seeing him again was almost as painful as having to ask for his assistance. At the moment, though, he appeared disinclined to so much as help her across the street. She took a steadying breath and stared into the youngest pair of blue eyes in the room. “I need your help, Alistair.”

A
ll three men had risen to their feet, with varying degrees of ease, when she entered the room.

His grace, the Duke of Keswick, stood up with the aid of his walking stick, and an audible creak.

The Marquess of Penrith tossed aside his newspaper and rose with an unsteady lurch that indicated, despite the early hour, the half-empty bottle of brandy at his side had recently been full. “Thought you said the chit told you to bugger off,” he said in a loud aside to Alistair.

“Father,” Alistair growled. He had been seated behind a desk, quill pen in hand, and eyed her with an unnerving wariness.

Keswick thumped his walking stick. “How may we be of assistance, Miss Parnell?”

Alistair tossed down his quill. “You have at least a
dozen names, sir, but I don’t recall any of them being Alistair.” He stepped out from behind the desk, toward Charlotte. “You were saying?”

The three gazed at her expectantly.

“I, that is…might we speak in private?” She struggled to keep her hands flat at her sides, not fisted or fidgeting.

“Sure you don’t need a chaperone?”

“Enough, Father,” Alistair growled.

“Right, sod off,” Penrith said cheerfully. He sat down and opened his newspaper with a loud rattle, raising it high to cover his face.

Alistair rested his hands on his hips. “I think we said all there is to say last night.”

She shook her head. Keswick was still unabashedly eavesdropping, and Alistair appeared as immovable as an ancient oak. “Toussaint has Steven,” she said in a rush. “He wants to trade for the…box.”

Alistair remained frozen, though his eyes seemed to be thawing.

Keswick glanced between her and Alistair but made no move, made not a sound.

The ticking of the clock seemed abnormally loud.

“My brother is being held hostage by a man who has already killed twice this week. Steven’s life is in danger. I have a chance to save him. But I need help.”

Alistair still made no move to come toward her. “I assume the box is not available to trade?”

She nodded.

“That is unfortunate.” He appeared to be studying the frieze above and beyond her shoulder.

“I’m not asking for my sake—I know I don’t deserve that—but I thought you’d be willing to help save my brother’s life.”

He did not reply.

She rubbed her hands over her eyes. This was a mistake. Of colossal proportions.

And she had no one to blame for her predicament but herself. She could bloody well find a way out on her own. “Sorry to have disturbed you, gentlemen.” She turned, blindly heading for the door.

The newspaper rattled. “By Jove, boy, you’re not going to let her leave, are you?”

Even before Penrith finished speaking, a hand grabbed her shoulder, spun her back, and pulled her close. Alistair wrapped her in his warm, familiar embrace, and she melted against his chest.

She closed her eyes, inhaled deeply of his spicy scent, with the hint of licorice, and felt a sob escape.

“We’ll get him back,” he murmured, rubbing a hand up and down her back.

She sniffed back any other tears and tried to gather her self-control.

“What do you want to do? What did…your employer…say?”

Still conscious of the two other men in the room watching and listening to the proceedings with great interest, she reluctantly took a step back from Alistair and cleared her throat. “He says he’s very sorry, but is unable to offer any assistance in the matter.” She tried to prevent any bitterness creeping into her tone.

Alistair nodded. “I thought as much. Have you formulated a plan?”

He led her to the sofa, where there was a tea service and a plate half full of biscuits on the low table. Once she was seated, Alistair beside her, Penrith and Keswick both pulled up chairs to form a small circle.

His grace poured and thrust a cup into her hands. “Drink up, lass, and explain what’s amiss.”

She felt a bubble of hysteria working its way to the surface. She was glad to be back in Britain after five years abroad, and couldn’t believe she’d almost forgotten the way Brits seemed to think a cup of tea was the cure for anything. She drank deeply to swallow the bubble.

“Toussaint, did you say?” Penrith tossed back the dregs of brandy in his glass. “So, your employer would be Sir William, then.”

Charlotte choked.

Keswick thumped her on the back with such vigor she nearly pitched onto the floor. “Don’t be so shocked. Boy’s not as cupshot as he seems. Usually.”

Charlotte had trouble reconciling this statement, since the “boy” in reference was at least in his fifties, his once-brown hair turning white at the temples.

“Always wanted to try my hand at spying.” Penrith poured a splash of tea into his brandy glass.

“Oh, don’t start that rubbish again, you nodcock.”

Penrith ignored his father. “Alas, William keeps saying my face is too notorious.” He heaved a great sigh. “Despite that, I’ve met Toussaint a time or two myself. Nasty bugger. Cheats at cards.” The last sentiment was
expressed in a tone that clearly conveyed Penrith’s opinion that cheating at cards was a hanging offense.

“She and her brother have had run-ins with Toussaint before,” Alistair said.

Penrith steepled his fingers. “So, William is leaving young Steven to twist in the wind, while Toussaint thinks up inventive ways to inflict pain on his captive.”

She shuddered at the image he’d conjured.

“What do you intend to do about it, Miss Parnell? I don’t imagine you came here merely to sob on my grandson’s waistcoat, and Sir William wouldn’t employ the sort of miss who expects others to solve her problems.”

It had to be a good thing, having a duke and a marquess on her side. Both Penrith and the duke were waiting patiently—not just feigning polite interest, unless they were gifted thespians. They actually wanted to hear what she had to say.

She sat up straighter. “I don’t have the item Toussaint wants to trade, but I thought I could bluff him with something similar.”

“You think to fool him with a substitute?” The duke rubbed the carved handle of his walking stick.

“Only for a few minutes, to distract him. While I have his attention, I’ll need someone else to sneak in and free my brother.”

Alistair looked directly at her for the first time since sitting down, his eyes sharp and assessing.

She met his stare, unwavering. “I need a partner.”

Alistair hardly dared breathe. Perhaps he’d been hasty last night when he’d given up on Charlotte as a lost cause. Or perhaps she was a faster learner than he’d given her
credit. Sufficient motivation could overcome almost any obstacle, make any difficult subject easier to master. Was Charlotte’s affection for him sufficient motivation to change her ways?

He’d almost groaned in frustration when the butler showed her in. He’d already imagined her in his bed, her golden hair splayed on his pillow like a halo. He didn’t need to see her here, in his home, in the flesh. Presented with reality, he’d steeled himself against the pain that stabbed through him at seeing her again.

But now there was a tiny spark of hope. She had a plan that required a partner, and she’d come to him. She recognized she had a greater chance of success by working with someone than she did working alone.

Granted, there was likely no one else to whom she could turn. Aunt Hermione was a sweetheart, but hardly equipped to handle the situation that Charlotte now faced. And he was well aware that she had chosen her wording with great care. She was counting on his guilt about being unable to save his own siblings to help her save hers.

Her attempt at manipulation didn’t upset him—he’d probably do the same if their roles were reversed.

It wasn’t concern for her brother’s life that moved him. It was the realization that she was determined to do her damnedest to save Steven, even if it cost her own life. He couldn’t allow that. As angry as he’d been with her last night, he still needed to know that she walked the earth.

Her single unshed tear had sealed his fate. Holding her in his arms once more had been heavenly torture.
And now he was committed to carrying out her plan, even though it was probably the last thing they would ever do together.

He held his hand out toward his grandfather. “Your snuffbox, if you please, sir.”

The duke’s eyebrows rose. “That’s a very special blend, made exclusively—”

“Hand it over. You can keep the snuff. I just want the box.”

“Ah. No cause for concern, then. It’s merely a family heirloom handed down from my great-grandfather to me, someday destined for you. Or at least, it was.” Keswick removed the box from his pocket, took a pinch of snuff, and tipped the rest into the last clean cup on the tray before handing the box to Alistair.

The handsome silver box was inlaid with sapphires and diamonds, arranged in the familiar shape of the family crest. Penrith squinted as it changed hands. “I suppose a fake might fool Toussaint for a moment or two, from a distance. Especially if the light is poor.”

Alistair placed it in Charlotte’s palm and closed her fingers around it. “Now tell us about your plan.”

With the unexpected assistance of his father, who insisted on taking part in order to exact revenge for a long-ago crooked card game, Charlotte altered her plan as they discussed it.

Scarcely an hour later, the duke waited nearby in his coach, a sheet draped down to conceal the crest on the door. Bandages and other medical supplies were on board, as well as his grace’s favorite surgeon, who’d lit
erally been dragged from his bed to join the excursion—who was going to say nay to a duke?

Alistair huddled with Charlotte in the doorway of the chandler’s shop next door to the gaming hell while they waited for the marquess to return and report on his reconnaissance.

“I need to tell you something.” She clasped her hands together, something he knew she did only when struggling to contain her emotions. “This morning I came to a very unpleasant conclusion.”

His heart skipped a beat. He stepped closer, shielding her from the view of a group of sailors sauntering past. He meant to keep his voice carefully neutral but couldn’t resist whispering in her ear. “Before or after Toussaint’s note arrived?”

Her rosewater scent teased him, even as she licked her lips and closed her eyes. “I—”

“Come along, children.” Penrith staggered past, seemingly only the judicious use of his walking stick keeping him from falling to the gutter in a drunken stupor.

Stifling a curse for his father’s bad timing, Alistair tucked Charlotte’s hand in his and followed after, though not too closely. Penrith had liberally sprinkled Blue Ruin on his cravat, and left an odiferous wake.

He turned the corner into the alley and plopped down on an overturned whiskey barrel. “All right, here’s what we’ve got.” Though he slumped with the boneless posture of the thoroughly inebriated, his words were clear and his eyes bright as he looked between Alistair and Charlotte. “The serving wenches and pot boys aren’t paid enough to be loyal, so I don’t think you’ll have to worry
about them. Toussaint is in the main gaming room, along with Sir Nigel and Mr. Jennison, and two men at the back table who are not playing cards because their hands are tied to their chairs. One of them bears a striking resemblance to you, Miss Parnell, or at least he did before his eye was blacked.”

“Steven’s alive!” Charlotte grabbed Alistair’s arm and sagged against his side. He wrapped his arm around her in a reassuring squeeze while she took a moment to collect herself. “The other gentleman, does he have a rather large nose?”

Penrith nodded. “Gauthier?”

“They’re all in the same room at once.” Alistair realized he was stroking her arm when his father raised a sardonic eyebrow. He stilled but didn’t let go. “This should make our task easier.”

“How did you manage to see all this without arousing suspicion?”

“No one pays any attention to a drunkard.” Alistair spoke slowly, wondering just how often over the years his father had been sober when he seemed inebriated.

Penrith tapped the tip of his nose with his finger and winked. “Now let’s go save your family, miss.”

They parted company outside the tavern entrance of the gaming hell. Penrith entered first, loudly calling for a tankard of ale, damn it.

Charlotte watched Alistair dart to the corner of the brick building and climb up the same drain pipe she had climbed down last night. If someone had closed the window that Penrith had opened on his first foray into the
structure, would he still be able to get in without attracting too much attention?

A doxy strolling by glanced up and followed Alistair’s progress. An appreciative smile lit her care-worn face. Charlotte couldn’t help a tiny smile herself at his display of masculine strength and agility, not to mention the way his breeches delineated his backside as he climbed.

Once up on the roof, he made no effort at stealth, instinctively following a truism she had learned early on in espionage. Act like you’re supposed to be doing whatever it is you’re doing, and most people won’t question your actions. He reached the window, gave her a little wave, and climbed inside.

She wanted to be the one skulking about, sneaking down the stairs, tiptoeing down the hallway. Wanted to be the one to cut Steven and Gauthier free of their bonds, be the one to rescue them, see the astonishment and relief on their faces.

But the painful truth was, it was best if she did what she had done most often—be a distraction. She could keep Toussaint’s attention longer and get him to talk to her more than he would to anyone else, which would improve the odds of their plan’s success. She could provide Alistair the most time to free Steven and Gauthier.

After counting to ten, to give Alistair and his father a chance to get into position, Charlotte sauntered into the tavern, through the taproom and to the back hall. It was much less crowded than last night, with a few men stretched out on benches or the floor by the fire, sleeping off the prior night’s merriment.

The door to the gaming room was ajar. She could sneak in, catch Toussaint and his minions unawares, and rescue Steven and Gauthier all by herself. She could hold Toussaint at gunpoint and coerce him into doing her bidding. It would certainly be a sight to see him forced to cut his own prisoners free.