A Marquess, a Miss and a Mystery Page 16

  ‘The what?’ Never mind her fingers, this was something worth counting. ‘As far as I knew, nobody in the particular network we had been investigating knew much more than the next person in the chain to whom they had to pass on what they knew. You are telling me that Herbert had discovered some information about their ringleader?’

  ‘Well, in the new letters, the ones that used the Bible as their source, they definitely mentioned The Curé. Which means pastor, in French, doesn’t it? Or a chaplain, at a stretch...’

  ‘Hold on, hold on... I might not be the world’s most religious man, but I’m pretty sure the word curé never appears in the Bible.’

  ‘No, but the word cure does, and so does the indefinite article. When they occurred together, in referring to a person, I translated it as “cure a”, or “curé”.’

  ‘It sounds as though Herbert brought you several of these coded notes.’

  ‘Yes, he did. And he always smuggled them back to the person he got them from before they noticed.’

  ‘How the deuce did he manage that?’

  She gave him a look of exasperation. ‘I don’t know. He never told me any details about his work, not really. I just copied the notes, then returned the originals to him before anyone could notice they were missing.’

  That wasn’t the way they usually worked. What on earth had possessed Herbert to copy notes and return them? And not tell him exactly what was going on? ‘How long had this been going on?’

  ‘A week or so.’

  ‘And during that time, you must have deciphered several notes.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So? Tell me what was in them. And what led you here.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘Well, the first few notes, which came from this person who called himself The Curé, were actually rather threatening in tone, now I come to think of it. Though at the time, I was more interested in the work itself than the implications of them. Oh,’ she said, her heart sinking. ‘How I wish I’d paid more attention! I...’ She found herself gazing up into his face, even though it had gone a little blurred. Because he would understand all about guilt and regret, wouldn’t he? And doing things from motives that were as far from being noble as possible?

  ‘I was being so...selfish!’ She took off her glasses and rubbed at her eyes. ‘I enjoyed being able to use my brain in a way that very few others can. I wasn’t interested in what it meant outside the house. Outside my room. It just gave me a really good excuse for sitting there, away from Aunt Matilda and her constant fault-finding, and feeling useful. Even if it was only to Herbert. Even if I couldn’t tell anyone else about it. Even if he did receive the wages—’ which he passed on to her, since he’d said nobody would actually employ a female for such work ‘—and the credit...’

  ‘You can still be useful,’ he said in that tone of voice a person used when they were trying to placate a toddler who had broken a favourite toy.

  ‘You promised you wouldn’t lie to me,’ she said, hooking her spectacles back over her ears, so that she could glare at him more effectively. Herbert had always said that putting them on made her look as though she had stones for eyes. Like a gorgon.

  ‘I am not lying...’

  ‘Just how do you think I can continue in this line of work, now that Herbert has...gone?’ She tripped over the word died. It was too final. Too obscene, considering the way he’d died.

  ‘Now that I know about your skills...’

  ‘What, you are going to visit me, on the way home from one of your gambling hells, with a note that must have a translation by morning? Or pop round for breakfast the next morning to pick it up?’

  ‘Yes, well,’ he said, in a voice laced with bitterness, ‘that would definitely ruin your reputation, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘That is not it at all! You stupid man! Nobody would believe you could possibly be visiting me for...that.’

  She batted her hand at him as though to prevent him from interrupting.

  ‘It’s all very well convincing people here that you are amusing yourself by flirting with me simply because your brother forbade it and you want to defy him, or annoy him. But who on earth would believe that a handsome man like you, a man who could have any woman with the crooking of his finger, would keep on pursuing a plain, awkward bluestocking like me? They’d know there was something else going on. They would want to know what. They’d talk and ask questions, and there would go any chance of being able to work unnoticed.’

  ‘You really don’t have much idea of just how bad my reputation is,’ he said bitterly. ‘Far from assuming we were doing anything of import, they’d probably say I’d become so jaded with my usual fare of dashing matrons that I’d sunk to amusing myself by attempting the ruination of an innocent. That the obduracy you’ve shown towards me so far has made me determined to teach you a lesson, or some such thing. They’d come up with anything but the truth.’

  ‘Really?’ She peered up at the lines bracketing the corner of his mouth and saw that he totally believed what he’d just said. Her spirits plucked up, just a bit. If it was true, if society was so set on believing the worst of him that she might be able to continue with work she’d found so rewarding, then...

  She sighed. She was being selfish again. Hiding behind a man who would face all the danger, all the criticism, just so she could do as she pleased. ‘Once we’ve discovered Herbert’s killer, that will be the end of it. I have to accept it.’

  He frowned. ‘You are going to just...give up? An occupation that means so much to you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But, how will you cope? Herbert told me that he passed a good deal of the money he received by way of...reward for our activities, to you.’

  ‘I never needed the money,’ she explained. ‘My parents left adequate provision for me. It was just...very satisfying to know that I had earned it through my own abilities. That it was my very own, to spend as I saw fit. Or invest as I saw fit. Without anyone else having a say in it. It made me feel...’ She shook her head. ‘Well, never mind. It is of no use thinking about it. I couldn’t possibly sacrifice you in that way. It wouldn’t be fair.’

  ‘Sacrifice me...’ He blinked. Tilted his head to one side. ‘Are you saying that you would give up your work, work that is so important not only to you, but also to the security of our country, out of some misguided notion of protecting my reputation?’ His face changed. Grew sardonic. ‘Are you sure it isn’t your own reputation you are worried about? That you don’t want your name to be linked to mine?’

  ‘How like a man to suspect something like that. You, none of you, can believe that a woman is capable of acting honourably. As if I care that,’ she said, snapping her fingers, ‘for the opinions of society. After the disaster of my Season, and my behaviour since, I have no reputation to ruin. And even if I did, do you really think it would bother me to lose it? What do I care for all that vacuous gossip that passes for conversation in the salons of the idle idiots who think they are better than everyone else just because they have either lots of money or age-old titles? So what if they start saying I am a fallen woman? They already snigger at me for being an oddity, for wearing the fashions of five or six years ago and preferring to attend lectures than balls.’

  He silenced her by suddenly grabbing her by the elbows and giving her a little shake. ‘You don’t know what you are saying, you little goose! It will be an entirely different thing and you should know it. If they once suspect you of being a fallen woman, as you call it, they won’t just snigger at you and give you a wide berth. You will have the worst sort of scum sniffing round you like dogs after a juicy bone.’

  She could feel his hands not only on her elbows, but right the way down to her toes. And she wasn’t sure if it was that, or the fierce light in his eyes, that had made all her irritation vanish as suddenly as a popped soap bubble.

  ‘No, really,’ she sai
d in a voice that would only just emerge from a throat that felt thick with...something she’d never experienced before. ‘I hardly think men would...’

  ‘Don’t you ever look in the mirror?’ he said, giving her another little shake. All she could do was blink up at him, rendered totally mute now by having him so close. Having his hands on her. Such strong hands, that could move her entire body with just the tiniest of effort on his part.

  He frowned. ‘Just how bad is your eyesight? Never mind. I’m pretty sure there is nothing wrong with your ears. So just listen. Take it from me, you are pretty. Deucedly pretty, as a matter of fact.’

  Pretty? She leaned forward, just a touch, and breathed in to see if she could smell brandy on his breath. Could he have been drinking when he’d gone off to change his clothes? For he surely couldn’t say any such thing if he was sober.

  ‘And your mind is...’ He shook his head. ‘There must have been men who have looked beyond the dreadful clothes you wear to the woman beneath?’

  Hearing him speak about the woman she was beneath her clothing made her feel incredibly aware of her skin. All over. From there, it was merely a blink of an eye to take her to a place where she could imagine she was standing before him completely naked. With his hands on her. And his eyes looking intently into hers. Her heart started pounding. It was hard to breathe. She couldn’t be thinking about being naked, with his hands on her. It was...so, so wrong. She should move away.

  She raised her hands and put them on his chest. Her cheeks felt as though they were on fire. What was she doing?

  ‘I...that is, no. No man has ever wanted to...explore beneath my clothes.’ She couldn’t believe she’d just said that. What was the matter with her?

  She cleared her throat. ‘That is, I mean, most men shy away from women like me, don’t they? Men don’t really like women to be cleverer than they are. Especially not a woman who has a tendency to voice her opinions, whether they run contrary to their own or not.’

  She would have thought he would have agreed with her. Made a joke of it. Broken the strange tension she could feel taking over her better sense. Stopped her from making a total fool of herself.

  Instead, he took her face between his hands. Looked at her mouth. ‘Most men,’ he said gruffly, ‘are idiots, though, aren’t they? Cowards.’

  Her heart was now beating so fast she rather thought it was making her tremble. He was going to kiss her!

  Was he going to kiss her?

  No, of course he wasn’t. Men like him didn’t kiss girls like her. Not even when they were taking part in a pretend pursuit. Or, perhaps they did. If they thought they needed to convince people they were really smitten, or at least, determined to make her fall for them. But in that case, he wouldn’t set about it like this. He’d have made sure there was at least one witness...

  Oh, why was she thinking of a thing like that at a time like this? When he was still holding her face in his hands. And looking at her mouth. And...lowering his head!

  She gasped.

  And so did someone else.

  And Lord Devizes turned his head from her suddenly to look in the direction from where that other gasp had come from.

  And so, of course, did she, her heart plummeting. Because there stood the very witness he needed, if he’d set the scene deliberately.

  Which explained it all.

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘What,’ boomed the pompous tones of his half-brother’s loyal secretary, Perceval, ‘do you think you are doing?’

  Before he could ask himself the same question, Nick fished in his pocket for a handkerchief. ‘Miss Carmichael has something in her eye.’ Yes, the kind of look no red-blooded male could resist. What the hell had he been thinking, yielding to that invitation? ‘I am attempting to remove it,’ he said—although, actually it was Perceval who’d removed it when he’d interrupted. Nick folded his handkerchief into a neat triangle, then, rather than allowing the obstacle of her spectacles to get in the way, slid it under the lenses. He wished he could as easily remove what he’d seen blazing from that unique pair of eyes as he could a mote of dust. Albeit an imaginary one. For she shouldn’t believe anything good of him. He was no good. Why couldn’t she see what everyone else could?

  In spite of being very short-sighted about some things, she was quick to spot her cue. Taking hold of the handkerchief, she muttered, ‘Thank you, my lord. I think I can manage.’

  But Perceval was no fool.

  ‘A likely story,’ he said, bustling over.

  ‘For goodness’ sake,’ said Horatia with a touch of impatience. ‘What do you think he was doing? Something improper, by the tone of your voice,’ she said, jabbing at her eye with the corner of his handkerchief until it really did look a bit raw. ‘As if that were at all likely. Men like him don’t kiss girls like me,’ she concluded, with a convincing touch of wistfulness.

  Convincing, because she believed it.

  ‘Men like him,’ said Perceval, jutting his chin in Nick’s direction, ‘will kiss any female if they think they can get away with it.’

  Precisely!

  Though, hang on, what did he mean any female? How dare he imply Horatia wasn’t the kind of woman a man would want to kiss?

  Before he knew what he was about, he’d curled his hands into fists and was on the verge of demanding Perceval apologise for insulting her to her face. And even when he’d uncurled his fists and clamped his mouth shut tight, having reminded himself that this was no time to start a brawl, he was still of the opinion that it was past time someone stood up for her.

  ‘You should not,’ continued the pompous oaf, blithely ignorant of how close he’d just come to having his cork drawn, ‘be alone in a room with him. It is most improper.’

  ‘Fustian,’ she said, tucking his handkerchief up her sleeve, instead of hiding it away in her reticule, the way most ladies would.

  ‘Precisely,’ Nick said, following her lead this time. ‘Miss Carmichael has the sense to know she is perfectly safe from unwanted advances.’ The trouble was, they wouldn’t have been unwanted. If Perceval had not come in just when he had, Nick would have kissed the blazes out of her. And then probably flattened her to that sofa and explored beneath her clothes, just to prove that she was as desirable as any woman her age.

  And she would have loved every minute of it.

  ‘So what,’ said Perceval, ‘do you expect me to believe the pair of you are doing in here? Alone?’

  Miss Carmichael gave him a look that wouldn’t have seemed out of place coming from a governess confronted by an exceptionally dim child. ‘We are devising a treasure hunt for the children. Did His Grace not inform you? Or his betrothed, Miss Underwood?’

  ‘No,’ said Perceval, looking as though she’d slapped him. ‘They did not.’ He obviously didn’t like not knowing everything that was going on at Theakstone Court.

  He made a swift recovery, however, and was about to point out something Nick was sure he wouldn’t want to hear. So Nick stepped up to him and said softly, ‘Since Miss Carmichael’s recent bereavement means she is unable to take part in the more frivolous pursuits in which everyone else is engaged, Miss Underwood thought this would be a way to take her mind off her grief, while also being of use. Those children,’ he said, with a slight shake of his head, ‘are being woefully neglected.’

  ‘No, they aren’t,’ put in Horatia indignantly, proving that she’d overheard his attempt to convince Perceval he was being tactful. ‘Miss Underwood just has a lot on her hands, that’s all. And why anyone should take it into their heads to drag their children from their own homes and then abandon them to the care of strangers, I cannot think.’

  He exchanged a glance with Perceval then, expressing a shared, masculine exasperation at the female’s ability to contradict herself and the impossibility of pointing it out.

  ‘But surely,’ said Perceval, dogg
edly refusing to be distracted from his primary concern altogether, ‘this is not a suitable place for the planning of—’

  ‘It is not only the perfect place for the planning of,’ Nick said, cutting him off before he could really get going, ‘it is also one of the stages for the hunt itself.’ He drew out a sheaf of paper on which he’d scribbled his ideas for a clue to lead to this very spot. ‘“Though it is said the world cannot contain all the books that may be written, the room of books can hold the globe,”’ he quoted and waved his hand to a geographical globe that rested upon a stand near the window. In the lower part of the stand was a shelf with a drawer. Last night, he’d ascertained that currently it was empty. ‘There is a perfect place to conceal a clue and a bag of sweets for whoever finds it first. Miss Underwood has dispatched a footman to the village to purchase them.’

  ‘But as you can tell,’ put in Horatia, with a wry grimace, ‘that clue still needs a bit of work. The other ones we’ve written are all in rhyme.’

  We’ve written? He raised one eyebrow in Horatia’s direction at that claim, causing her to tighten her lips in disapproval.

  ‘Well, still,’ blustered Perceval, ‘I must insist that a better place for you to work together would be one of the drawing rooms, where there are footmen in attendance. And other ladies would be present.’

  ‘But Miss Carmichael needs to see the rooms where we are to place the clues.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘For inspiration, of course. How is she to help me create verse that will amuse the children, while leading them to the correct spot, if she has not seen the place where I believe a clue should be left?’

  ‘Which reminds me,’ said Horatia. ‘Don’t we need to be moving on now? To the main hall? You did want to leave a clue in that suit of armour you were telling me about, didn’t you?’