Swept Away By a Kiss (35 page)

The maid’s back went ramrod straight. “I will never tell a soul.”

“Anyway, you owe it to me after the way you let Lord Ashford cozen you into obeying him on our walk back from the village the other day. Now, how should I carry this knife?” She frowned and handed it to her maid. “Keep it. It won’t do me any good in my reticule.” The small bag already contained the only essential item for Valerie’s undertaking. Smoothing her hair a final time, she turned toward the door.

“Let me go instead, mum,” Mabel said. “Or wait a day, and tomorrow I will make up to that nasty valet and sneak into milord’s chambers that way.”

“Thank you, but I have to do this myself.” She took a steadying breath and pulled her shawl around her shoulders. “But you can remain in the corridor, just by my door here.”

“If anything occurs, I will be ready to defend you.” Mabel brandished the knife.

“I am persuaded it will not come to that,” Valerie said with a great deal more confidence than she felt. She stole into the corridor and to the far end of the east wing, halting before the marquess’s door. With a glance behind to see Mabel slide into the shadows, she knocked. The door opened immediately, and Valerie slipped inside.

Lord Hannsley turned the key in the lock.

“I trust you were not noticed, dear lady,” he said smoothly, taking her arm and leading her toward the hearth.

“I don’t think so. I was very careful.” Careful to wait until all were in bed, and to stop herself from crying after she fled Steven so she wouldn’t ruin her face before meeting the marquess. She’d also been very careful to repeatedly convince herself that this was the right thing to do, no matter how cold her hands and how twisted her heart.

A fire burned in the grate. The room was overly warm and heavy with the sticky scent of Lord Hannsley’s cologne. She sank to the sofa as he sat down across from her. A decanter of wine and two crystal goblets were arranged on a silver tray upon the table between them. She extended her chilled fingers to the fire.

“Are you anxious, my dear lady? I cannot believe it of you. Perhaps you would care for a drop of wine?”

Valerie’s nerves didn’t sizzle in the way Lord Hannsley imagined. Six months earlier she’d lived through an adventure much more terrifying than this. Beneath the marquess’s hooded gaze now, she could not bring herself to be truly afraid. Whatever else happened, at least he was unlikely to kill her.

Though, of course, he had tried to kill Steven.

Valerie pressed down upon her fear. It was simple. She simply must make sure the marquess had no idea why she had really come.

She accepted a glass. Lord Hannsley stood and sauntered to the window to draw together the thick red draperies. She seized the opportunity. Snatching the vial from her reticule, she poured its entire contents into the crystal carafe. The dark syrup dissipated into the wine, and an involuntary breath of relief escaped her.

The sound drew the marquess’s attention. He returned and squeezed her shoulder.

“You are not weary after the long day of merriment, are you, my dear?” he purred, and rounded the sofa to sit beside her. Valerie shook her head, smelling cheroot as his thick thigh pressed against hers.

“No, my lord, I am well. But I would like you to answer a question for me.”

“I am at your service, lovely lady.” He stroked her cheek with the back of his finger. Valerie resisted a shudder of disgust.

“In the hall, you seemed to realize that I—mm—wished for your company this evening.” She fluttered her lashes. “How did you know?”

The marquess splashed more garnet liquid from the decanter into his glass. He touched his goblet to hers and lifted it to drink. Valerie set her mouth to the edge of her goblet. His gaze settled upon her lips.

“My dear, you have me in a quandary. How am I to reply?” He sipped. “I cannot imply that your behavior was anything but modest by saying that you called to me with your delectable body when you entered the hall this evening.”

Valerie’s stomach knotted. He took another pull of wine, and his hooded gaze shifted to her breasts.

“And I cannot impugn myself by suggesting that I have enough experience to tell when a woman is desirous of an intimate acquaintance.”

Valerie stared in amazement as the dark circles at the centers of his eyes widened. He drew another sip, but still his goblet remained half full. She tipped her crystal glass against his again.

“Then, my lord, shall we say that you simply had an intuition?” She tried to keep her voice low.

“Intuition, my beauty, and some knowledge of the sort of female you have been in the past.” Wine funneled through his lips. With a deft movement he grabbed her glass out of her fingers and clasped her face between his huge hands. His wine-wetted lips came down open upon hers.

Stunned, Valerie forced herself to submit. Hannsley groaned, and his hand went to her breast, then without warning between her thighs. Sick, cold sensation jolted through her, and she tried to shift away from his groping fingers. He pushed onto her, sucking her neck, his fingers clutching at her through the gown.

Valerie clamped her eyes shut and forced herself to remember the reason she was again voluntarily submitting to a bad man’s desires. This time, however, the success of her plan did not require Steven to commit murder.

His words from earlier still ricocheted through her, filling her with fever even as she tried to shut out the sensation of the marquess’s onslaught. He had all but declared himself. Afraid of how he could hurt her, she had been unable to believe him then. But now exhilaration and renewed purpose crowded out fear. Steven wanted her, and she would do anything to help him. Any moment Hannsley would succumb to the cordial and she would be free to use her wits instead of her body to achieve her goal.

Hannsley bore her down upon her back to the cushions. Valerie struggled to free her lips.

“My lord,” she gasped. “I cannot—”

“Temptress,” he said heavily as his mouth shifted to the edge of her bodice. “You can for me, just as you have for others. My cock is primed for you already, vixen.”

Valerie gulped in air and shoved at him. “My lord, please, I need a moment to prepare.”

His grip between her legs released and his hold on her breast slackened. Valerie’s heart leaped.

“Lord Hannsley?”

“Dearesht Lathy Vaalera, I cannosh sheem to—to—”

His slurred voice sounded like music as his chin dug into her shoulder. She pushed his chest hard and rolled him off her onto the floor. Springing up from the sofa, she gathered her skirts and looked down at the giant man sprawled upon the thick Persian carpet, his arms splayed at odd angles beneath him, his hip jutting up and face pressed into the floor.

Valerie knelt and pressed her fingers to the pulse at his neck. A breath of relief stole through her lips. He slept.

She looked about the bedchamber, for the first time fully aware of her surroundings. She scowled. A real intriguer would think to look around when first she entered a new place, to prepare. But it could not be helped now.

She hurried to the escritoire and filed through its meager contents: a stack of handkerchiefs embroidered with scrolling Hs, several vowels of unfortunate gentlemen, a high-polished snuffbox, and a container of cigars.

No papers.

Valerie didn’t know exactly what the documents would look like or say, but she suspected Lord Hannsley would not travel to a country house party with such a great many papers that she could not recognize the important ones when she found them.

She moved through the bedchamber and into the dressing room, searching every nook. Finally, crowing quietly in triumph, Valerie discovered her prize, a string-tied bundle of correspondence tucked into the bottom compartment of the marquess’s traveling trunk. Fingers trembling, she untied the knot and spread the papers upon the lid.

The documents were mostly written in English, a few in French, and others in Dutch, the script elegant. Her heart raced. These must be the papers Steven sought. Her gaze flew over the pages, picking out phrases and words.

. . . in our Interest to discontinue purchasing in the West and turn our attentions to the East Coast of the African Continent . . . fetch a suitable price for newly imported Males . . . unreasonable fear of detection by the Authorities . . . concerned with his own safety and not enough with the successful delivery of Cargo . . . unable to sail due to unsuitable Weather Conditions and the interventions of the ship Blackhawk under the command of the so-called Angel . . .

Valerie’s eyes flew open. Angel. As though it had happened hours earlier and not months, she remembered Zeus speaking of the Angel that first day aboard the
Blackhawk
.

Not Bebain, as she had thought, but Steven. Etienne La Marque.

Her heart raced as she read through the letter and moved quickly to the next. It was dated August 20, 1810, and signed by the vice governor of the formerly French colony of Martinique, now under English control.

It has come to my attention that the man they call the Angel, and his associate the Panther, have caused great damage to our trading Interests. We believe that at this juncture their activities must at all costs be stopped. There are no other Appreciable Impediments to continuing the Trade in imported Africans if these men are destroyed. When this is completed, we will with pleasure renew our offers of Assistance and Protection to your ships when in our waters, and our armed escort when we are able beyond the Sphere of our Jurisdiction . . .

Valerie didn’t need to read more. She saw immediately the difficulties Steven would face bringing Lord Hannsley to justice. He must make accusations against the king’s appointed governor as well as the marquess. These papers would allow him to do so with a hope of success.

Valerie’s chest expanded with an unfamiliar sensation. It was not the shock of learning of treason at such high levels of the government, or even the sheer thrill of her success.

She sat back upon her heels.

Pride. She felt proud of Steven. Against impossible odds, he put his life at risk to help others. He was a good man. The papers in her hands finally, in some strange way, made that goodness real beyond what her heart had always told her.

Wonder swelled in her, powerful and pure.

Folding the papers, she carefully rearranged the contents of the traveling trunk and closed it. She smoothed her rumpled gown and returned to the bedchamber. Lord Hannsley still breathed slowly in deep sleep.

The crystal wine decanter hefted solidly in her hand. She poured the liquid into the simmering hearth embers, as well as the wine in the marquess’s goblet, her stomach rumbling as she smelled the steam rise. She’d barely eaten all day. Heady with triumph, she picked up her own glass and with a salute to her success, took a drink.

Two sickeningly sweet swallows later, Valerie blanched. She gagged, spitting out the marquess’s drugged wine. Somehow she had mixed up the glasses. How could she be so foolish?

Snatching up her shawl, she bolted for the door. She closed it as softly as her trembling hands allowed, and fled up the corridor, cursing her idiocy and praying she would reach her chamber before the drug took effect.

The corridor spun and her head grew heavy. Mabel emerged from the shadows. A man appeared in the passageway beyond. With her last thought, Valerie felt the papers sliding out of her grasp. She followed them to the floor.

Chapter 32

T
hank the Lord Almighty!”

Mabel’s exclamation rattled through Valerie’s head as though it came through a coal scuttle. Valerie tried to open her eyes, winced, and pulled a leaden hand from beneath the covers. She laid it across her forehead. Her mouth tasted woolen.

“What time is it?”

“Oh, milady, it’s two already. Sore worried I was you’d never wake.”

Through slitted eyes Valerie saw her maid hover into sight, face awash with relief.

“I haven’t got a wink of sleep, afraid you killed yourself with that poison instead of His Lordship.”

Valerie pushed herself up in bed. Sunlight streamed through partially drawn draperies.

“It was not poison, Mabel,” she mumbled, “only a sleeping draught. And I never intended to kill Lord Hannsley.” She shook her head, trying to clear her muddled thoughts. “It must have been terribly potent. I only drank a mouthful—”