A Daring Liaison

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“’Ere we are, gov’nor,” the driver said as he threw the door open and lowered the step.

Charles exited first and flipped the driver his coin before he lifted Mrs. Huffington down. He steadied her as the coach pulled away, leaving them in the dim glow of a streetlamp. Even in the darkness, he could see the deepness of her blush. A bit late for that, was it not?

“I … I …” she stuttered. She held his arm as she steadied herself.

He grinned. He liked having the upper hand and vowed not to give it up again. “An auspicious beginning to our new arrangement, is it not?”

“I … that … shouldn’t have happened.”

“Tush! ‘Twas little more than a kiss. And we’ve done that before, so nothing new at all.”

“Did … did we kiss back then? I’d forgotten.”

Her words were so patently a lie that he laughed. On the strength of that long-ago kiss, and before her aunt had invited him to tea to “talk,” he’d been eager to ask for her hand. This “kiss” had been even more powerful, but he was older and wiser now, and he’d known how to use it to his advantage. No longer a callow lad apt to challenge her, he merely smiled, evoking another telltale blush.

She turned toward her door and took an unsteady step. He gripped her arm again and walked up the steps with her. It was not his intention that she take a tumble because he’d weakened her knees. No, her next tumble, though she didn’t know it yet, would be directly into his bed.

With one hand on the door latch, she turned to him. “Mr. Hunter, I scarcely know what to say.”

“Good night will do.” He arranged the shawl around her shoulders and grinned. “Or, ‘Until tomorrow, Mr. Hunter.’“

A spark in her eyes told him that her wits had returned. “I think it should be ‘Never again, Mr.

Hunter.’“

He laughed outright as he gave her a low bow and entered the street.

Around the corner and down a narrow lane, Charlie found himself deep in thought. Though he’d been loath to admit it, that “kiss” had taken a toll on him, too. One that left him barely able to stand straight.

In the coach, though, the years had slipped away the moment their lips had met and he’d been vulnerable again, young and eager to please. Everything he’d done since then, good and bad, everything he’d become, was because of that kiss. Because of Georgiana.

He hated that feeling. Hated that she could still do that to him—make him remember their long conversations and how she’d said she wanted the same things from life that he did—loving each other, learning, a family, travel, extending themselves in service to those less fortunate, growing old together. He felt he’d found the one woman in all the world who could fill his every need, and he had vowed to fill hers.

But now he knew the spell she could cast over him. Knew how deeply he wanted to possess her. And how deeply she wanted him, too. But that was physical. He could still give her that much. So he would take her. Enjoy her. But never fall prey to her wiles again.

Yes, he’d been deliberate. He’d meant to disarm her and draw her closer to him. He’d meant, in fact, to take her completely and lull her into believing he was smitten with her. But … his conscience had pricked him as deeply as a sword point. If she was innocent of the charges, he’d have a damn lot of explaining to do. But if she was guilty … oh, hell! If she was guilty, he’d want her still. As frequently as he could manage before she climbed the gallows.

He was so lost in his thoughts that he almost missed the movement in the shadows. How had he missed that he was being followed? He barely had time to prepare when, with a suddenness that kicked his heartbeat to a higher level, he was attacked.

A knife slashed across his midsection and he spun away to avoid it. When the knife became caught in his jacket, he used the momentum to gain control. Fear, followed quickly by anger, infused him, making him reckless.

His attacker made a fist of both his hands and brought them down on Charles’s shoulder, trying to drive him to the ground. His arm went numb and he dodged away, leaving nothing but air to brace the man. He went down on his knees, catching himself by throwing his arms out to break his fall.

Charles took the knife by the hilt and freed it from his jacket as he gripped a handful of the man’s hair and jerked backward. He held the knife to his throat, ignoring the throbbing in his shoulder and arm.

“Gor!” the man wheezed as he looked into Charles’s face.

Not Gibbons! Damn it all! “Who are you?” he snarled.

“Don’t matter,” the man gasped.

“What the hell do you want?”

“Uh … yer watch and coin.”

A lie if ever he’d heard one. He pressed the edge of the knife against the man’s Adam’s apple until a fine line of red appeared and a single drop trickled down the man’s neck. “Don’t lie to me if you want to live.”

The man whimpered. “Easy, gov’ner.”

“Who sent you?”

“Nobody. Just bum luck …”

He emitted a muffled shriek when Charles increased the pressure on the blade. “Give me the name.”

“He’ll kill me!”

“And I’ll kill you if you don’t.”

“Gibbons! Dick Gibbons!”

Charles slipped the knife downward, wiped the blade on the man’s jacket and released his filthy hair. Just like Gibbons to hire a street ruffian. “Go back to him and tell him to do his own dirty work. Tell him I’m waiting for him.”

The man scrambled away, half crawling and half tripping over his own feet in his haste.

Charles tossed the knife into the shrubbery and peered into the midnight mist. Anyone else? No, too quiet now. He rubbed his shoulder and continued, keeping watch this time. Two attempts in one night. The bastard was stepping up his game. He’d better find Gibbons before Gibbons found him.

Chapter Five

Georgiana slammed her bedroom door and leaned back against it as if she could hold her shame at bay. She’d sent Clara to her bed with a sweep of her hand. No more conversation tonight!

How could she have confided all her deepest fears? How could she have allowed him such liberties? How could she have cast caution and the lessons of the past to the wind?

Because it felt so good. So right.

She threw her reticule across the room and dropped her shawl where she stood. He’d bewitched her! That could be the only explanation. She’d never allowed liberties like that before, except with Gower—and that had been required because they’d been married. In bed. And he hadn’t made her feel the things that Charles Hunter had. Things that left her breathless and trembling. Craving more. She’d never suspected—never dreamed—there could be such delight. She collapsed on her bed, her knees unable to support her through the vivid memory of the unexpected passion he’d awakened in her.

Oh! And it was Charles Hunter who had taught her that. He must be laughing up his sleeve right this very minute. Or telling his friends how easily seduced she’d been. For the second time! Or plotting how he might avoid her in the future, now that he’d made a fool of her again.

Never again.

She stumbled to her dressing table and pulled the pins from her mussed hair, dropping them in a gilt pin dish. She needed to compose herself or she’d never sleep tonight. Not that she’d slept well at all since arriving in London.

She suspected she was losing her mind. Aside from the shocking incident with Mr. Hunter, there were other signs of madness. She hadn’t told him everything. In fact, she hadn’t told Mr. Renquist everything, either. They’d think she’d gone quite balmy. Perhaps they’d even think she was unhinged enough to have killed her husbands herself. She couldn’t risk that. She’d almost rather believe she was cursed than that those little things meant she’d gone insane.

There were dozens of them—those little things—her forgetfulness, the missing items she’d sworn she left here last fall, the things she’d brought with her from Kent that she could not find now, the vague uneasinesses, the prickle of hair on the back of her neck warning that she was being watched or followed.

She might have suspected one of the new servants, but the missing items were inconsequential, really, and of little value beyond sentiment. A tortoiseshell comb, a ribbon, a brass locket she’d gotten at a country fair. Oddly, when she’d made a fuss over a small golden ring with a tiny garnet that had gone missing, the household had been in an uproar until one of the servants found it in the garden. Georgiana couldn’t imagine how it had gotten there since she had no recollection of being in the garden.

Clara said she was too high strung, that her nerves were spent and her imagination had run away with her. Furthermore, Clara informed her, grief could make a person think and do very odd things.

Like allow Charles Hunter to …

No! She would not spend another moment thinking about that! Or about him. If she had any sense at all, she’d leave London immediately. But since she could not, she would face Mr. Hunter down. Offer him impudence for impudence.

She opened the drawer of her dressing table and removed the bottle of laudanum Aunt Caroline had kept on hand to help her sleep. She hadn’t used it before, but tonight, at least, it would help her forget the news from her solicitor and her wanton behavior with Mr. Hunter. She removed the cork and took a sip, ignoring the instructions to measure the dose carefully. She couldn’t possibly be any more reckless than she’d already been.

Marcus Wycliffe heaved a world-weary sigh as he and Sir Harry Richardson sat at the small table on either side of Charles. “We searched every hole and shadow near Covent Garden. No trace. And, of course, no one saw anything. All we can say for certain is that Mrs. Huffington did not fire the shot.”

“Aye?” Charles took a deep drink from his tankard. “Well, that does not eliminate the possibility that she had help.”

Wycliffe winced. “Are you backing out?”

Charles had had time to consider that option in the hour he’d been waiting for Wycliffe and Richardson to arrive. Anger and desire mingled into a heady brew every time he thought of Georgiana Huffington. Sense told him to walk away. Something dangerous and darker urged him to continue. His darker urges were always stronger. “I’ve already made a beginning. Mrs. Huffington is unaware of the Home Office’s interest in her. Our meeting went well.”

Wycliffe quirked an eyebrow at Charles. Even through the dim tavern light, the man could be intimidating. “Went well? How well?”

Charles had no intention of telling his superior that he’d left the woman in question still trembling from his touch. She might be his assignment, but he was still discreet enough to know that some things were none of the Home Office’s business.

Richardson, however, sat back in his chair and regarded Charles with a sly grin. “Details, man. We want the details.”

“Our conversation was quite enlightening. She is shrewd enough to know how she appears to the ton. She realizes that people are talking, and she has thought ahead to the necessity of finding a palatable answer to the mystery. She has even voiced a concern that she might be next—which is something I do not think we can rule out entirely after the shooting tonight.”