Unmasking the Spy (18 page)

Not that
beau monde
women
were the only ones who acted in such a manner. Look at Larouche. Ian’s shoulders
shook in a mock shudder. He’d rather not look at him. Just listening to him was
bad enough. Pretensions of being the next Brummel aside, Larouche’s repugnant
attitude toward marriage was by no means unique. He spent his nights whoring
and rarely graced his fiancée’s side at society soirees. By his own admission,
Larouche already considered Miss Kinsey to be his property.

Despite popular opinion, Ian
considered the “wife as property” mantra a technicality, and for the most part
hogwash. His mother was a walking angel and his sisters were strong women. He
hated to think of them becoming anyone’s mere property, and hoped they wedded
into as loving a marriage as their parents had shared. Larouche didn’t know the
meaning of the word “love.”

Miss Kinsey, poor girl, didn’t
stand a chance.

Ian straightened the stack of
writing paper on his desk and lined his inkbottles in a row. He wished there
were some way he could protect innocent girls from men like Larouche. Although
Miss Kinsey was perhaps a little silly, she did not deserve the utter disregard
of her fiancé. No woman did.

And he could now admit that Miss
Kinsey wasn’t the narcissistic husband-hunter he’d thought her to be. Her
occasional silliness and surprising wit were a little endearing but she was
still too temperamental for his taste.

Nonetheless, if he’d been in the
country, he might have defended her to Larouche. Rude as it may be to step into
a conversation where one was not invited, Ian felt it equally rude to not treat
a lady like a lady.

However, he was not in the
country. He was in London. And he could hardly get involved in any more of Miss
Kinsey’s affairs. Not just because he needed to keep a low profile in general,
but hell. He was already deceiving her by investigating her father, presenting
himself as a rakish dandy, and falling half in love with her ethereal relative.

Ian shook his head. No. No, he
wasn’t. He mustn’t let himself get carried away. He simply felt a little
uncomfortable about the unmitigated success of the locket he’d given her, and a
bit embarrassed about the way he’d forgotten himself and been flattered by
Elizabeth’s transparent delight.

The romancing was progressing far
too well. He was even romancing himself. He’d have to tone down his gift giving
and his own reactions to her charm, or he’d start imagining himself falling for
her.

No more lover-like purchases,
then. Besides, he didn’t want Elizabeth to be hurt when he disappeared back to
Heatherley. Of course, she might go back to wherever she came from at any time,
too. For all he knew, this was her first trip to London. Not that she was
exploring the city at all. He doubted she ventured from Chadwick House.

If he had a wife as obviously
passionate as Elizabeth, he’d entertain her in such a way that she’d never want
to leave the bedroom, much less the house. Ian closed his eyes and a slow smile
spread across his face as he remembered the feel of her skin against his mouth,
his lips brushing the hollow of her neck, her fingers gripping the front of his
shirt, the sweet strokes of her tongue against his, and… Zeus. Against his
better judgment, he hoped to see her again tonight.

She was beautiful. Innocent.
Seductive. If he were a poet, he’d no doubt compose a line or two for her. Ian
opened his eyes and his writing implements snapped into focus. For the love of
God.

“Might as well give it a go,” he
said aloud with a self-deprecating shrug.

He arranged a clean sheet of
paper on his desk, dipped his pen in the ink, and stared at the blank sheet. He
sat there for so long the ink dried on the pen and he had to refresh the tip
again.

“Elizabeth,” he wrote. “You are
like…”

Ian sat back and considered, his
pen poised on the paper. A flower? No. Too trite. A lady? Of course she was a
lady. The moon? No. What the hell did that mean, anyway? That she was white?
Round? Floating in the sky? Don’t be stupid. Maybe a rose? No, a rose is a
flower. Damn.

The paper now contained four
nouns in a row, each of them scratched out in turn. Inspiration failed to
strike. Ian sighed and rewrote “rose”. He could probably rhyme that one far
better than “lady” or “moon” anyway.

He dipped his pen and tapped the
edge against the lip of the bottle while he thought of rhymes. We will not be
foes? You make me forget my woes? We all have highs and lows? That’s just how
it goes? You have a pretty nose? I like your naked toes? You’re not wearing any
hose? I’m no good at writing prose?

Argh.

Being a poet was much harder than
one would think. How did they invent rhymes to express such pure, simple
feelings like enjoying a woman’s company, being charmed by her easy smile,
aroused by her tentative passion, tickled by her keen wit?

Ian wrote and scratched out
several more lines before he faced the truth. His poetry was god-awful, and he
felt like an ass. He balled the paper in his fist and threw it at the wall. He
ducked when it ricocheted and nearly hit him in the face. Hound’s teeth, he
couldn’t even throw a proper snit.

After straightening his writing
supplies, Ian turned to see where the crumpled ball had fallen. Devil take it,
the damn thing had rolled right out the door. The last thing he needed was for
his staff to come across it and have a good snicker at his expense.

Sighing, Ian stood and lurched
for the paper, snatching it up and stuffing it in his pocket. He should be
worrying about Chadwick, not Elizabeth. He needed to keep his mind on his
mission. One vase, one false-bottomed drawer, one trick frame, and one
secret-hollow book. He’d already found half, so there were just two to go.

Tonight, he’d search for the
vase.

*          *          *

After supper, Alicia wandered
into the music room to pound at the pianoforte but ended up sitting on the
bench and staring into space. She’d thought all men were condescending, fickle
idiots – except for Rogue, of course – until last night when Mr. Morrissey had
tried to comfort her.

He had taken exception on her
behalf because he had no way to know that she was long past being hurt by
anything Louis might say. The music swelled, he pulled her into his arms for
the illusion of privacy, and his expression was quite earnest when he said that
all men were not like Louis and he, for one, appreciated a woman with a mind.
How sweet was that?

Of course all men were not like
Louis. Alicia was banking on that fact in her lifelong search for Prince
Charming. What she hadn’t expected was for Ian Morrissey to be unlike Louis as
well. Ian conversed well, never patronized her, and seemed worried about her
delicate sensibilities.

Perhaps she had judged him far
too harshly. Perhaps she should abandon her search for Mr. Wonderful and settle
instead on Mr. Morrissey. After all, “not like Louis” was an excellent
recommendation for any man.

And, if she were honest with
herself, it was looking less than likely that she would find everlasting love
in the next five days.

What was so wrong with Mr.
Morrissey, anyway? He was handsome. Attentive. Youngish. Intelligent. He liked
her well enough to care about her feelings, and he disliked Louis enough to
make it a point to differentiate himself and his thoughts on women.

“What are you doing in here,
cousin?”

Alicia turned to see her redheaded
nightmare filling up the doorway in his long blue tails and extravagant cravat.
His cologne stank more than usual, and his smirk rankled her nerves.

Another point scored for Mr.
Morrissey. He lived far from Louis.

“Playing the piano,” Alicia replied
with a pointed glance at the instrument.

“I didn’t hear you play.
Although,” he added with a sneer, “that may be just as well.”

Alicia grit her teeth. Couldn’t
she have a moment’s peace?

“Don’t expect to play when you
live with me, cousin. I don’t have musical instruments,” Louis informed her
with a supercilious air. “And don’t think any less of my townhouse because of
it. I
choose
not to have any. And although the location is just fine,
once I come into some money I will buy a bigger house on a better street and
have the best parties with more friends than you’ve ever had.”

Alicia raised a skeptical
eyebrow. “I’m sure,” she said in a voice that implied anything but.

Louis sniffed. “You don’t want to
stay a spinster, do you, cousin?” Louis asked, as if retracting his suit would
in any way injure her feelings.

“Perhaps I do.” Alicia turned
back to the pianoforte. She placed her fingers on the keys and began to pound
out Beethoven’s Symphony Number 5 with as much force as she could, determined
not to hear anything else Louis might wish to say.

When the melody died, Louis was
gone.

By the time her father’s loud
snores drifted down the hallway, Alicia already had a candle burning and was
debating whether or not to search his office again. To be honest, she was still
a little upset about the documents she’d found last time, and wasn’t quite sure
she wanted to find out anything more of that nature.

Of course, by not going, she
would miss Rogue. If he came.

Alicia laughed softly to herself.
When did the possibility of seeing Rogue start to matter more than the contents
of her father’s desk? If she thought for one second that she was starting to
fall in love with him, the smart thing would be to snuff out the candle and go
right back to bed.

But – since when did she do the
smart thing? Alicia rose to her feet and faced the truth. She was smitten. If
there was the chance he might come, she wanted to be there. She could while
away the hours waiting in the library, reading a romance novel. If he came, he
came. If he didn’t, he didn’t. Alicia stared out the dark window, hoping he
planned to call and wishing he could take her away.

He was so dashing. Handsome. Charming. What woman
wouldn’t want him to steal a few kisses? And, oh, those kisses! Alicia’s
fingertips skated from her shoulder to her neck. His lips had been warm. Soft.
His breath had been moist. Hot. Good Lord, if he kissed her again she’d melt
into a puddle at his feet.

A little wicked smile flitted
across her face. She
hoped
he’d kiss her again. And the only way he was
going to get to do that is if she were downstairs. Ready. Available. Waiting.

With a sigh, she crossed to her
vanity and began applying patches.

*          *          *

The first thing Ian noticed when
he entered Chadwick House was a thin strip of light, shining in a soft line
from under the library door, in the very room where he planned to start his
search for the mysterious vase. Damn. He couldn’t take the chance that someone
was awake and sitting inside. He’d have to search the office instead.

Ian crossed his arms and squinted
down the corridor. There didn’t appear to be any candles burning elsewhere.
However, the office was at the other end of the hall. He’d have to walk right
by the library. Although the door was closed, there was always the chance that
whomever was inside would come out while he was still in view.

He could go back outside and come
in another window, of course. Or he could just leave and return another night
altogether. Ian uncrossed his arms and turned around just as a loud crack of
thunder barked from the clouds and torrents of rain dumped from the sky.
Marvelous. Well, no sense standing around in the hallway contemplating the
ironies of fate. Might as well try for the office.

Keeping to the far wall, Ian
prowled past the library, loped around the staircase and down the rest of the
hall. He tried the handle. The office was dark and unlocked. With one final
glance in the direction of the library, Ian slipped inside the office and shut
the door behind him.

If someone was awake at this time
of night, lit candles were out of the question. Ian’s eyes adjusted well to
darkness, but he was glad of the occasional bolts of lightning that lit the
room in an eerie glow.

He made his way around the room,
picking up vases and shaking them gently to see if anything rattled inside.
Nothing. He made the round again, this time picking up any object with a hollow
and feeling inside for papers or other miscellany. Nothing again. Either there
was no nefarious vase, or it wasn’t in this room.

Ian shrugged. All was not lost.
He crossed to the desk and sat down at the chair. At last, he had the
opportunity to investigate the claim of the false-bottomed drawer. He tugged
each handle in succession, setting the contents in his lap and fishing around
the dark recesses for a latch or a catch before putting the papers back and
going on to the next drawer. He finally felt something in the bottom drawer to
his right.

The flat wooden panel rose,
revealing a secret compartment below. Ian bent double and groped along the
bottom for clues. His fingers came in contact with something hard and large.
Not jewels.