скачать книгу бесплатно
She leaned back into the squabs, her heart hammering in her chest. He had been right about the danger in a kiss. His were as intoxicating as anything served at the party, and as compelling as Barton’s were not.
Perhaps what Barton accused her of was true. She was more than willing to bend the rules if she felt she would not be caught. And Mr Smythe would see to it that what they did was safe and in secret.
Perhaps it was no more than that. He was passionate, but solicitous of her reputation. Where other men wished to parade her fallen virtue as a trophy to their skills at seduction, with Smythe no one would know that they had been together. When he was done with her he would leave as quietly as he had come, moving through her life like a fish through water.
And when they parted tonight, he had not said goodbye. She could scarce control herself at the thought of seeing him again. She could still feel the kiss, hot and sinful, a brand on her shoulder to remind her of all the ways and places he might kiss her, should she allow it.
And why had she been so quick to agree? Was it because he had not asked at all?
Not at first, perhaps. But once he had started, he had asked her what would make her happy. He had not tried to negotiate her out of her honour, or worried that he was being outbid by some other man. He had not given her an ultimatum, or threatened her with shame or discovery.
He’d given her the first kiss as a sample of what was to come, and pointed out that he could give her even more pleasure, this instant, if she would allow him to. There had been no talk of bracelets or houses, or paying off her grocer and cutting back her staff. Or even what he wanted from her. He had kissed her again because he had wanted to, and because he had known she would like it more than she had when kissing Barton. Just a moment of shared bliss, and then he was gone.
She slipped her own fingers under the shoulder of her dress, imagining that his lips were still on her. He had said that she wouldn’t be safe with him, and she imagined him climbing in beside her and pulling her close in the darkness of the cab. She would be alone and completely at his mercy. And his hands would roam freely over her body, taking everything he wanted from her.
As though it mattered. She never wanted to be safe again.
She shook her head to clear the fantasy and leaned her face to the open window, feeling the breeze in her hair. She glanced at the passing streets. The direction seemed right, but how would the driver be able to find her house? She had not heard Smythe tell him the address.
She turned and knelt on the seat, opening the connecting window between the carriage and the driver. ‘I live on Grosvenor Square, just past—’
‘I know the way, your Grace. Do not concern yourself.’
He had used her title. And over the sound of the horses, she thought she heard a trace of amusement in his voice. He knew of her. And he knew other things as well.
‘Your master, Mr Smythe—have you known him long?’
There was no answer. And the driver tickled the horses with the tassel of his whip so that their speed increased.
He was loyal. Enough so as not to speak. And Smythe trusted him more than he did himself.
Then that answered the question. The man was no casual hire, but a trusted associate. A partner in crime, perhaps?
They were nearing her house, and she bit her lip in frustration. She knew nothing about Mr Smythe. He was not one of Barton’s familiars. And she had been too careless when he had been introduced to her and had not paid attention. She had not even heard his Christian name.
The carriage pulled smoothly to a stop in front of her home. The driver hopped down from the seat and opened the door for her, taking her hand and guiding her to the ground.
She looked at him, not sure what to expect. His face was no longer shielded from her, and she found it plain and honest. Surprisingly friendly. He was gazing back at her with a frank curiosity that she should have found inappropriate in a servant, had she not wanted words with him.
She tried again. ‘Please. About Mr Smythe. I know very little. Not his address. Or even his first name. If I should need to contact him…’ It was all horribly bold of her. The words died away in her throat.
The driver stared at her for a long moment, in a way that was totally devoid of subservience. And then his shoulders rose and fell once in a way that was part shrug and part silent laugh. He rummaged in his pocket, and came out with a white pasteboard, glancing at it before handing it to her. ‘His card, your Grace.’
She swallowed. ‘Thank you.’ She tried not to appear too eager, but snatched the card from his hand, and turned from him, concealing it in the bodice of her dress. And then she ran up the walk and into her house.
Once inside, she fled up the steps and into her room, shutting the door and reaching down the front of her dress to find the card, nestled close between her breasts.
‘Anthony de Portnay Smythe. Anthony Smythe. Tony. Anthony.’ She tried various versions of the name, tasting them, and enjoying the way they felt on her tongue.
Before Susan came to help her undress for bed, she looked for a place to secrete the card, finally slipping it under her pillow. She could not help smiling at the foolishness of it, as her maid undid the hooks of her gown. As a token of affection, a calling card was not much to speak of. And the man had not given it to her, after all. Perhaps he did not mean for her to know more of him.
Susan was undoing her stays and as she turned the maid gave the slightest gasp. The mark was there on her shoulder. ‘Did you have a pleasant evening, your Grace? At Lord Barton’s party?’ The remark was offhand, as though nothing unusual had sparked it.
‘Most pleasant,’ Constance answered, unable to resist a small sigh of pleasure.
‘So I suspected.’ Susan was faintly disapproving.
‘Despite the presence of Lord Barton,’ Constance corrected. ‘The man continues to be quite odious. I do not plan to see him again.’
‘I should hope not, your Grace.’ This seemed to put the maid’s fears to rest.
‘Although there is another gentleman…’ She hid her smile behind her hand.
Susan grinned back at her. ‘If he puts such a sparkle in your eye, then he must be a most singular person.’
‘But how is one to know, Susan,’ she asked impulsively, ‘what the intentions of a gentleman are? I have been wrong so many times in the past.’
‘If he makes you happy, your Grace, perhaps it is time to think with your heart and not your head.’
The thrill of it ran through her. If she were to think with her heart, the choice would be easy. She wanted Anthony Smythe, and she could have him.
For now. Her mind brought it all crashing back down to earth. It was seductively pleasurable to think of Mr Smythe. And surely there was no harm in dreaming. But it would be a temporary solution at best. If she accepted any more purses from him, while allowing him to toy with her affections and use her body for his own pleasure, then she was little better than what she feared she would become.
But suppose he offered marriage?
The thought was as fascinating as it was horrifying. And not something that needed reckoning with. She would be a fool to trust him, or read too much into a few kisses. The first night, he had sworn that he loved another. He might be faithless to the other woman, and willing to dally with Constance for a while, if she encouraged him to. But in the end, his intentions to her would prove the same as all the others.
Although it might be more pleasurable with him, than with others, for he was as passionate as he was considerate.
But he was a thief, she reminded herself. Even should she wish for an honourable union, there would be no way to overlook her lover’s chosen occupation. A breath of the truth would destroy her reputation along with his. Eventually, he would be caught, and hanged, and she would be ruined in the bargain. Worse than she was now, alone, unloved and disgraced as well.
She shook her head sadly at Susan. ‘Alas, I think I cannot afford to allow my heart to lead in this. The answer is not Barton, certainly. But it cannot be the other, no matter how much I might wish it so.’ She allowed Susan to help her into bed and to blow out the candle, leaving her in the dim light of the fire, alone between the cold sheets.
And almost without thinking, her hand stole beneath the pillows and sought the calling card, running her fingers along the edge, feeling the smoothness of the pasteboard, and stroking the engraving as sleep took her.
Chapter Six (#ulink_c31c35da-60a5-5a33-8d40-76c9790c6559)
Patrick opened the bed curtains with more vehemence than necessary. Tony squinted as the late-morning sunlight hit him. And now his servant was rattling the plates on the breakfast tray. ‘And a good morning to you too, Patrick,’ he grumbled, reaching a hand out for his coffee. Patrick did not approve of the hour his master had gotten in, did he? Then he could go to the devil.
After sending his carriage away, Tony had enjoyed the excellent hospitality of the Earl of Stanton, given his regards to Lady Esme, and assured St John that he had been quite mistaken about the Duchess of Wellford. The woman was innocent.
In all the ways that mattered to the State. He smiled in satisfaction as he remembered the way she’d bitten her lip when he’d sucked on her shoulder, and dug her fingers into his sides to pull him closer. A certain lack of innocence in other areas might not be the worst thing.
But it had been embarrassing to stand before Stanton and admit his lack of success, when it came to the rest of the Barton matter. He could report on the location of the printing press in the basement, along with the inks and the paper. There was no evidence that printing of any false bills had occurred, but all the components needed were easily accessible. It would do him no good to destroy the supplies, other than to demonstrate to Barton that someone had tumbled to his plan. Tony needed to get the plates, and they were most likely locked tight in the safe in the study, behind a Bramah lock where he could not get to them.
St John had been most unimpressed with the gravity of the situation.
‘Try again,’ St John had said, pouring another whisky for his guest.
The fact that the Bramah lock was reported to be unpickable had little impact on his host. Had he never seen the challenge lock that Bramah displayed in their shop window, to taunt thieves and lockpicks? The company offered two hundred guineas to the first man who could open it. It had stood for more than twenty years so far, with no one able to claim the prize.
Stanton was too kind to suggest the return of the down payment, but Tony suspected it might enter the conversation if he belaboured the impossibility of the task before him.
He could afford to return the money and walk away, of course. But it stung his pride to think that such a thing might be necessary. It went against his grain to admit defeat, and although the impregnability of the lock was common knowledge, common knowledge was frequently wrong. It might take more time than was available to a burglar, but perhaps with practice…
He looked at Patrick, who was laying out his clothes for the day, and turned his mind to more pleasant matters. Willing his face to give nothing away, he said, ‘The return trip to the Wellford house was uneventful, I trust.’
Patrick finished brushing his coat before responding. ‘A stray cat almost met an unfortunate end beneath the carriage wheels, but I was able to prevent disaster.’
‘And the duchess arrived home safely?’
‘To her very door. She was a most grateful, and, you will forgive me for noticing, sir, a most attractive passenger.’
Patrick approved. It was strangely pleasing to have his opinion of Constance confirmed by his valet.
‘Although strangely talkative, for nobility,’ Patrick continued. ‘Most of the peerage can’t be bothered…’
‘Talkative?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Patrick returned to the choosing of shirts as if nothing important had been said.
When Tony could stand it no longer, he asked, ‘And what did she say?’
‘She asked after you, sir.’
‘After me.’ Tony sat up, almost spilling his coffee in the process.
‘Indeed, sir.’ Patrick set the rest of the breakfast tray in front of him, refilled the coffee cup and stepped away.
‘And what did you tell her?’
‘I didn’t think it my place, sir.’
The man picked the damnedest times to remember his station and to behave as a servant.
‘I assumed you must have had a reason for neglecting to mention your Christian name, or to give her your direction. Perhaps you had no wish to be troubled by the lady again.’
Tony groaned, and wiped his face with his hands. She did not know who he was? He’d been formally introduced to her, for God’s sake.
And she had had eyes only for Barton. Tony stabbed his kipper with more force than necessary.
Patrick brightened. ‘And then I realised what a great ninny you are around women, and more so with a certain woman in particular. And I suspected that you had merely forgotten the importance of the information. So I gave her one of your cards.’
Tony slumped in relief. ‘And how did she receive it?’
Patrick mimed putting a calling card down the front of an imaginary dress. ‘I dare say your good name has got further with the lady than you have yourself.’
Later, as Patrick shaved him, Tony could feel his face, set in a ridiculous grin. She’d wanted to know his name. And carried it next to her…heart.
The image of the card nestling against her body, warmed by her skin, made him almost dizzy with desire. Patrick was right, he should capitalise on the situation immediately. He rubbed a finger experimentally along his jaw line. Smooth. Not that she had complained the night before. But it would not do to let her think he took her interest for granted. ‘Patrick, my best suit, please, I am going out. And extra care with the cravat, please.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And while I am gone, Patrick, I have a task that needs doing. Please go down to the Bramah Locks Company. I wish a safe installed in my study. Fitted with one of their fine locks. The job must be rushed, for I have valuables to store, and am most afraid of thieves.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Two hours later, Tony had to admit that the day was not going to plan. He had imagined a quiet chat with Constance, in her sitting room. Kissing in the moonlight was all well and good. Much better than good, to be truthful. But he must make some attempt to assure her that in daylight he was not without the manners of a common gentleman, if their association was to go any further.
He ignored the novelty of it, and called at the front door, but was disappointed to find her Grace was not at home. He left a card and enquired of the butler, as politely as possible, where she might be on such a fine day.
And now he found himself frequenting the lending library in Bond Street, hoping to catch sight of her as she ran her errands. When she entered, he was paging though a volume of poems that he had read a hundred times, trying to appear the least bit interested in contents that he could barely see, since his reading glasses were at home in his desk.
And she was not alone, damn the luck. There was a man at her side who gave every indication of solicitous interest, and two young ladies as well.
What was he to do? In the scenario he’d imagined, she’d been shopping alone, or perhaps with her maid to carry packages. It would be easy to approach her and he would make some offhand remark that might make reference to the evening before without mentioning it directly.
She would laugh, and respond. He would offer to carry her books. She would graciously accept. Conversation would ensue. He would let slip certain facts, recognition would dawn in her eyes, and he would be spared the embarrassment of having to reintroduce himself to a woman who had known him since they were both three.
Nowhere in his plan had he considered that the position of book carrier and witty conversationalist might already be occupied. Tony could not very well pretend not to see her, and she could not help but notice him, for he’d positioned himself in such a way as to be unavoidable.
Damn it to hell, but he must speak to her.
He turned and took a step towards her, just as she made to go past. And in the second before he spoke, he caught her eye as it tried to slide past without meeting his. There was alarm, followed by embarrassment, and finally resignation, before she managed to choose an expression to suit the situation—a friendly smile that said to the people around her, I think I know this man, but am unsure.
It was too late. The words were already out of his mouth. ‘Your Grace. A most lovely day, is it not?’
‘Why, yes. Yes, it is. Mr…’
‘Smythe, ma’am. We met at Lord Barton’s party last evening.’ The words sounded false, but she leapt on them as salvation.
‘Why, of course. How foolish of me. Mr Smythe, may I introduce Viscount Endsted and his sisters, Catherine and Susanne.’
‘Ladies. Your lordship.’ He made his best bow, and was dismayed to hear the ladies giggle in appreciation.
When his eyes rose to Constance, he saw fresh alarm there at the young ladies’ reaction. He was not suitable for them, either. Once he had gone, she would have to warn them off.
‘Mr Smythe.’ There was a slight emphasis on the mister, and the Viscount took a step forward to head off the interested sisters and gripped his hand.
His handshake was firm to an almost painful degree. Tony considered, for a moment, the advantage to responding in kind, then discarded it as infantile.
As the viscount sensed him yield, he released his grip as well. Endsted glanced at the book in Tony’s hand. ‘Byron?’
‘Yes. I find it—’ How did he find it? He did not wish to give the wrong answer and further jeopardise his position with Constance. ‘Most edifying.’
Endsted’s sisters giggled, and Endsted glared at them. ‘The man’s scandalous. I do not hold with him. Not in the least.’
‘I have no real opinion of the man,’ Tony responded, ‘for I have never met him. But his poetry is in no way morally exceptionable.’ He glanced to Constance.
