Shirley Kerr (8 page)

“Better?” He spoke so close, the tip of his nose stirred her hair, his breath a warm puff against her ear.

She nodded. What an intriguing way to warm one’s ear…

She leaned a little closer, taking advantage of his warmth. He rubbed her arm, up and down, pulling her more firmly against his side. She’d been wrapped inside a man’s coat before, but never with the man still wearing it. She felt Moncreiffe’s beating heart, could almost hear it in the hushed quiet of the rooftops.

Her body chose that moment to reassert its need to breathe, and she inhaled. His unique scent was a subtle mix of spice, with a hint of musk. Not bay rum, but cloves and…anise?

“Getting any warmer?”

Not anise. “Which pocket is it in?”

“What?”

“Your licorice. Which pocket is it in?”

“And here I thought I was going to get away with being selfish, and not have to share at all.”

She heard the smile in his voice. The hand holding his coat to her shoulder disappeared, so she reached up to keep the wool in place. His hand snaked into the coat pocket, brushing low against her right hip. She stayed perfectly still. A moment later she heard the crinkle of paper, saw a blur of white as he held out the offering just inches from her nose.

Their fingers brushed as she removed one of the three sticks left in the paper twist. Sweet, but with a sharp edge to the flavor. “Mmm. I haven’t had licorice in years.”

“Care for another piece?”

“No, thank you, don’t wish to be greedy. I didn’t bring anything to share.” And she had only wanted to confirm her theory. Who’d have guessed the viscount carried sweets in his pocket?

More rustling, and Moncreiffe ate another piece before putting the paper twist back in his pocket. In the dark, the only way to make sure it went into the pocket and not on the ground beside them was to reach in like that, even if it meant brushing up against her again. At least, that’s how she chose to interpret his actions. He hadn’t shown any other indications of wanting to take advantage of the cover of darkness.

“Looks like we’re going to get lucky.”

“I beg your pardon?” Charlotte forgot that the coat enveloped them both, and nearly dragged Moncreiffe on top of her when she suddenly leaned away from him.

He straightened. “Madame Melisande has returned.”

“You weren’t looking through the telescope. How can you tell?”

“Because there’s a flurry of activity. All the servants have returned to their duties, even the couple upstairs. Have a look.”

Charlotte reached for the telescope again, but saw only a light blur. Blast. “I think I accidentally changed the focus again.”

She stayed bent near the scope, so he wouldn’t have to
remove his coat from around her. Purely for the sake of staying warm, of course.

“Got it. Yes, Madame Melisande has definitely returned. Looks like she’s having a drink in the drawing room.” Moncreiffe chuckled. “She must have been dancing with some unskilled partners. She’s kicked off her slippers and is rubbing her toes.”

With a slight huff of impatience, Charlotte pulled out her spyglass and trained it on the hotel. Very large, unskilled dance partners, judging by Madame Melisande’s grimace. Charlotte aimed her spyglass higher. The bedchamber was just as before, ready to receive its mistress. The magnification on her spyglass was higher than Moncreiffe’s scope, but the field of view was much narrower, so she kept the spyglass moving, sweeping the entire building and surrounding area.

A tiny orange light caught her eye. There, on the hotel roof. A brief flare as someone took a puff on the cigarillo, then it flew down to the roof and blinked out. Shadows moved.

She looked back to the other rooftop they’d been watching. It was now devoid of activity. How could she be so foolish and let herself be distracted?

“I don’t believe it!” she hissed.

“What?”

“The other watchers—they’re breaking into Melisande’s room!”

“Wonder why they’re doing it now, rather than earlier?”

“Maybe they got tired of waiting. With the way they
gave away their position so easily, I don’t think they’re professionals at this.”

There was a brief pause, then Moncreiffe spoke again. “He seems to have had more practice at it than you.”

“
He’s
not wearing a dress.”

“Longer legs and arms. He can actually reach the balcony.”

Charlotte refused to think about her ignominious attempt to swing down onto the balcony from the roof, how she had ended up in Moncreiffe’s arms. Literally. Although that had led to her current position, wrapped in Moncreiffe’s coat, with his arm around her shoulders, so it wasn’t entirely awful.

Candlelight in the bedchamber revealed the intruder’s curly black hair and slightly disheveled clothes, though passable enough that he would have gone unremarked in most social gatherings. He rifled through drawers, quick and methodical, leaving things just as they had been, then moved on to objects on the fireplace mantel, lifting, inspecting, and replacing them. He pawed through the small jewelry box, holding up the various rings, necklaces, and ear bobs before putting them back. He found a stash of bank notes and coins, but put them back rather than pocketing them.

Charlotte clenched her fist. If she’d followed her own instincts, instead of listening to Moncreiffe,
she’d
be the one searching Melisande’s room right now.

The intruder peered behind paintings, under the mattress and pillows, always careful to restore everything just as it had been.

“I’m guessing he’s done this sort of thing before,” Moncreiffe murmured.

“A few times.”

Within mere minutes he had gone through everything in the room, just as Charlotte had the other night. He stood in the center of the room, hands on his hips, and turned in a slow circle. He started toward the fireplace, head tilted to one side.

“By Jove, he’s got another idea.”

“Shh.” She didn’t want to miss a single move. Perhaps he’d prove it wasn’t there after all, and she hadn’t made a huge mistake in waiting before attempting another search of her own.

The intruder touched the bricks around the fireplace, testing them, pushing, pulling. He knelt before the hearth and did the same with each stone. He fell backward as one came free in his hand.

Charlotte growled.
She
should have been the one to find the hiding spot.

The intruder quickly sat back up and peered into the gap he’d found. The lighting was too dim for her to see in, too, and then he moved, blocking her view entirely.

She gritted her teeth.

He reached in, then dropped something into his coat pocket, replaced the stone, and let himself out onto the balcony.

“Small enough to fit in a man’s hand. Wonder what it is.”

By the change in Moncreiffe’s voice, he was looking directly at her. Not that he could see her face in the darkness.

“Doesn’t matter,” she ground out. “He has it, and he’s getting away.” Should she follow him with her spyglass, or try to get down onto the ground and follow him on foot?

She’d never get down to the street in time. She jumped up, throwing off Moncreiffe’s coat, and hurried to the edge of the roof, trying to keep the shadowy figure in sight. Apparently the window washer’s ladder that had eased her ascent to the roof a few nights ago was still conveniently placed—within seconds the intruder was on the ground, darting around the corner. He skidded to a halt. Another man had stepped out of the shadows, blocking his path.

“Bet he didn’t see that coming,” Moncreiffe said.

Light from the gas lamp on the street corner glinted off the pistol being pointed at the intruder’s chest, held by…Charlotte squinted. “Is that Sir Nigel?”

“Same build, but can’t be sure from this angle, with his hat brim casting a deep shadow like that.” Moncreiffe came to stand beside her and tugged on her elbow. “Not so close to the edge, please, Miss Parnell. It’s a long way down.”

“But I need to see—”

“It will do you no good to confirm his identity between the third and second floor if you’re dead when you hit the street.”

She allowed him to pull her back a step from the parapet, but she kept her spyglass trained on the two men in the street below.

A carriage clattered up and halted beside the man with the pistol. The driver aimed a pistol at the intruder as
well. The intruder’s shoulders slumped, and he reached into his pocket and handed over the item he’d stolen from Madame Melisande’s bedchamber. While the driver kept his pistol steady, the first man climbed into the carriage, then they set off. It appeared to be an expensive vehicle, with the trim painted a much lighter color than the dark body. She couldn’t make out any identifying marks, such as a crest on the door.

The intruder’s companion ran up to him just then. Wild, wide gestures indicated a heated exchange, though she couldn’t hear any of it. They disappeared into the shadows.

She wanted to scream in frustration. “Did you recognize the coach? Was it Sir Nigel’s?”

“No, Sir Nigel doesn’t own a coach. But I may know whose it was.”

Hope flared in her chest. “Whose was it?”

“What is the object everyone is after?”

She groaned. She should have known it would come to this, should have known the viscount would not play along forever.

His voice grew sharper as his patience waned. “This is no game of Who’s Got the Button, Miss Parnell. A man just held another man at gunpoint. What is everyone after, that they are willing to risk life and limb, or inflict bodily harm, to get it?”

“It’s bigger than a button, I assure you.”

Moncreiffe grasped her by the elbow, marched unerringly to the stairwell door, and pulled them both inside. Dim light from the chandeliers below filtered up to the top
of the narrow staircase, seeming as bright as noon after the darkness on the roof.

Gone was the charming, easygoing chap who’d wrapped his coat about her shoulders. Moncreiffe’s eyes sparked with anger, his full lips set in a tight line. “In what intrigue are you embroiled, Miss Parnell?” His grip on her upper arms was just short of bruising.

Her heart skipped a beat, but she kept her voice steady. “You were perfectly willing to go along with my efforts before, my lord. Nothing has changed since we entered into our agreement.”

“Pistols were not involved then. It was one thing to aid you in outwitting your brother, a bit of sibling one upmanship, quite another when pistol balls are flying instead of insults. What is at stake here?”

Charlotte bit her bottom lip. There was another emotion in his voice beneath the edge of anger. Concern. He was worried about her. “No one actually fired a gun. It was just a threat.”

Moncreiffe backed her up until her spine was against the wall. He bent down until his eyes were level with hers, loomed in close enough for her to make out the narrow band of blue around his dilated pupils.

“What is at stake, Miss Parnell?” That was definitely concern, not just anger, with a tinge of fear. Fear for her safety.

He was worried about her?

That was her undoing. “A snuffbox.”

His brows rose in disbelief.

“As I said, it’s bigger than a button.”

His eyes narrowed.

“A snuffbox stolen from the Prince Regent’s private quarters.”

He tilted his head back. “A snuffbox? All the subterfuge, the rooftop forays, being followed in the park, men being held at gunpoint. All that, for a
snuffbox
?”

“A
royal
snuffbox. Wars have been declared for less reason.”

She had to give Moncreiffe credit. Despite his outrage, he’d kept his voice quiet. Servants passed by at the foot of the stairs without glancing up at them.

He dropped his arms to his sides and took a step back.

Charlotte took a deep breath, realizing only now that she’d hardly breathed while he’d been so close. She would not allow him to distract her again. “Whose coach did Sir Nigel get into?”

Moncreiffe seemed to debate whether or not he would answer. “I don’t know.”

Now was not the time for her to be angry, much as she badly wanted to stamp her foot. Onto Moncreiffe’s instep. She grabbed his arm, to keep from smacking him, and kept her voice pitched low. “But you said—”

“I said I
may
know whose coach we saw. It was a distinctive design, even if they did conceal the crest on the door. There can’t be very many like it. Add in the driver who’s built like a whiskey barrel, and it should lead us straight to Sir Nigel and his accomplice.”

She smoothed down Moncreiffe’s sleeve. “Then we just need to visit the coach builders in town, find out who
owns a fine carriage like the one we just saw. And hope it was built here in London, not somewhere else.”

“
We
are not going. I will.”

“But—”

“Be logical, Miss Parnell. I will inquire about a coach I saw and admired. Coach makers are going to fall all over themselves in an attempt to be helpful if they think they have a chance to earn my business.”

Moncreiffe wasn’t being arrogant or boastful, blast him. Merchants would indeed treat the grandson and heir to a duke far differently than they would treat plain Miss Parnell. “Ah, but think how much
more
helpful they would be if you are trying to find a particular coach so that you can order one just like it as a wedding gift for your affianced bride.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it, snared by his own logic. He touched the tip of his index finger to the tip of her nose. “Round in your favor. Tomorrow I will compile a list of the finest coach makers in town and—”

She shook her head. “Have your valet or butler compile the list. I need you to go to the gentlemen’s clubs again, see if Sir Nigel or any of his acquaintances change any habits, especially their spending habits. Observe their demeanor. He must be feeling quite confident by now, having stolen the snuffbox from Melisande, and her none the wiser.”

Moncreiffe folded his arms across his chest. “You are giving me orders, madam?”

“I am the one with experience in these matters, so, yes.” She had stared down heads of state. She would not
be intimidated by the grandson of a duke, even if he did tower over her by a good eight inches or so. “We tried doing things your way tonight, to watch and observe—and observed the snuffbox being stolen right out from under us. Twice. I could have had it in my hands and completed this assignment. Now we go back to doing things my way.”