He’d dutifully surveilled the yard in Southwark during the day on Monday and had returned late that night to watch the arrival of the barrels after Lawton and his helpers had collected them from the warehouse. He’d hung back in the shadows and watched the drays roll up and turn through the gates. Fired by curiosity, he’d used the fog for cover and had silently crept closer—close enough to observe the beginnings of the transfer.
Very clever. He had to admit the old man constantly amazed him.
He’d watched the process; it had seemed that Lawton, too, had performed as required. He’d heard enough of the men’s mutterings to gather that Lawton had hung back to check for anyone taking too close an interest in the drays’ route. As he hadn’t wanted Lawton to see him—to ask why he was there—he’d let the shadows swallow him and had quietly left the area before Lawton had arrived.
Griswade reread the old man’s most recent communiqué. The only construction he could place upon it was that Lawton had been permanently delayed.
At no point had Griswade foreseen any such happening. On the one hand, it was all well and good; more for him once the old man shuffled off. Yet on the other hand, Lawton’s disappearance—or more accurately, his failure to report to the old man in Berkshire—indicated that someone had stumbled on the plot.
Intentionally? Or had the interference been accidental, as it were?
More to the point, if, somehow, Lawton had been taken up by the authorities, would he talk?
After several minutes of weighing the prospect, Griswade decided it wasn’t all that likely. However much he denigrated Lawton, it was unquestionably true that Lawton was clever enough to realize that talking wouldn’t save his skin. Let alone his neck. Lawton might not be as clever or as cunning—and he definitely wasn’t as ruthless—as Griswade, but Lawton was far from stupid.
That left two alternatives. Either Lawton was locked up and not talking, or Lawton was dead. In either case, how safe was the gunpowder? Had the transfer been properly completed? The old man had, as usual, cut to the heart of the matter in demanding that Griswade obtain answers to those questions.
He glanced at the clock. It was too late to do anything about gaining the required answers tonight. He would go to Southwark tomorrow and find out what they—he as well as the old man—needed to know.
However, there was also the question of the four men who had performed the transfer. If Lawton had been taken out of the game before or even immediately after the transfer had been completed, he wouldn’t have had time to snip those loose ends.
That needed to be done; Griswade knew the old man wouldn’t agree to the third stage rolling ahead until the second was completed to the last detail. Griswade could and would kill two birds with one stone.
The ends of his lips kicked upward in a brief smile. He would verify that the transfer had been successfully completed and then…
For several minutes, he indulged his imagination, then another thought intruded.
He looked again at the letter the old man had sent. Yes—there it was. The old man had received word that Lawton hadn’t returned home last night. That word assuredly came via Badger, Lawton’s man; no one else would have known of Lawton’s disappearance in time to send word to Berkshire sufficiently early for Griswade to have received a communication that night.
That left another outstanding issue. What about Badger?
CHAPTER 3
Drake climbed the stairs to Lady Cottlesloe’s ballroom. His feet felt like lead. In one part of his brain, impatience reigned, whipping him on; in the larger part, a bone-deep reluctance held sway. What he was about to do wasn’t wise, not on any count. Unfortunately, finding Louisa and learning if she’d discovered Chilburn’s address was absolutely mandatory if he wished to get any sleep that night.
Lady Louisa Cynster was the bane of his life. For the past nine years, he’d been all too aware that, for him, she radiated an almost hypnotic attraction, one that operated on multiple levels—intellectually, sexually, emotionally. Even socially.
Nine years ago, he’d recognized that if he gave in to that potent attraction, if he indulged it and pursued her in any way, he might well fall in love with her.
To him, as to his father before him, love was a trap to be avoided for as long as possible. Love was a power he inherently distrusted—a power strong enough to influence him, to bend him to its will.
Love was definitely not a power to be trifled with.
Hence his decision to steer clear of Louisa to the best of his considerable ability.
Of course, in order to avoid her, he’d had to know where she was. What her circles were, her favorite haunts. Whose arm she’d been seen on. Consequently, he knew that, despite a positive army of would-be suitors, she couldn’t be said to have encouraged any gentleman. Much to the grandes dames’ and the gossipmongers’ disappointment, she’d never given the slightest sign of being even vaguely interested in any other man.
He’d suspected, and the undercurrents alive during the meeting that afternoon had proved, that she’d retained her interest in him—something that had bloomed long ago—as well as a sexual awareness of him that had grown with the years.
Even more unsettling, that afternoon, there’d been a certain intensity in her gaze, a purpose that had blazed behind the translucent pale green of her eyes.
Unless he missed his guess, she intended to use the situation thrown up by his current mission to challenge him. Privately, between him and her—on a personal plane.
If he could, he would have clung to safety, turned, and walked away, maintaining his habitual wall of distance and separation from her.
But he needed her help. This time, he—and unfortunately, she—knew he needed her assistance. Now they’d established that the perpetrators came from the ranks of the social elite—and he would take an oath that the mastermind was even more solidly haut ton than Chilburn—then of all those he might tap on the shoulder, Louisa was unquestionably the best qualified to render the type of support he required. She was widely regarded as the natural successor to her grandmother’s and Lady Osbaldestone’s mantles; she would either know the answers to his questions or know from whom to get them.
He reached the top of the long flight of stairs and stepped into the foyer before the crowded ballroom. The few guests he’d passed had nodded politely—and tried their best to hide their surprise and the speculation that immediately followed. Lady Cottlesloe would have sent him an invitation, but no more than her guests would she expect him to appear given he so rarely waltzed to society’s tune.
The ballroom doors stood open; he could see the usual throng of ladies garbed in all the colors of the rainbow, in silks and satins bedecked with ribbons and bows, with diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and sapphires flashing from about their throats, bobbing from their earlobes, circling their wrists, and even gleaming from amid the artfully arranged curls of their upswept hair. In contrast, the gentlemen, including him, formed a regiment in black and white, providing sharp contrast to the ladies’ peacock hues.
He knew he was hesitating, all but dithering, reluctance still dragging at his feet. But he’d weighed all the prospects, and his way forward was clear.
This mission was too important for him to walk away from Louisa and the help she could and would give.
He had no choice but to engage with his nemesis and let Fate play out her hand.
It was nearly midnight, and Lady Cottlesloe had long ago abandoned her position by the door. Drake found her seated on a chaise against one wall and made his bow—predictably to unfeigned and delighted surprise, rapidly followed by effusive welcome.
He managed to extricate himself and, being tall enough to see over most heads, swiftly quartered the room. He spotted Louisa, also predictably surrounded by a circle of the fashionable—ladies and gentlemen both, but with the gentlemen heavily outnumbering the ladies.
She was wearing a gown of pale-green satin, the shimmering hue contrasting sharply with the lustrous tu
mble of her black curls. The cut and fit of her gown and the stylish scalloping of the two-tiered skirt and the top of her bodice were the epitome of haute couture, with not a single flounce or even lace edging to distract the eye from the superb lines.
As ever to him, she shone like a beacon in a shifting sea and drew him like a lodestone.
When he was still several feet away, she swung around, her eyes widening, her gaze instantly colliding with his. Typically, she made no attempt to excuse the awareness that had prompted her to so suddenly look for him. Instead, after a second of studying his eyes, his expression, her finely arched black brows rose interrogatively.
He halted at her elbow, and the circle shifted to include him. Perforce, he had to acknowledge the others. He bowed slightly to the ladies.
Understanding his difficulty, Louisa stepped in. “Lord Winchelsea—allow me to present Lady Anne Colby, Mrs. Hendricks, and Miss Dunstable.”
The ladies bobbed curtsies and murmured excited welcomes.
Drake exchanged nods and brief greetings with the other men, all of whom he could place. They eyed him measuringly. Were he a betting man, he would have wagered that, despite the presence of the three other ladies, the true focus of the gentlemen’s attentions and intentions was Louisa; the other men were wondering what he was doing there and whether he would queer their pitch.
He turned to Louisa, met her gaze, and saw the suppressed laughter there… Only then did he realize he hadn’t greeted her.
And that his unexpected—indeed, unprecedented—appearance by her side, combined with his familiarity in not formally acknowledging her, had already started hares running in far too many minds.
He mentally gritted his teeth. He avoided society, especially of this sort; obviously, he was rusty.
He was also apparently too slow. Before he could draw Louisa away, Viscount Coleman leapt in. “I say, Lady Louisa, Lady Anne—have you seen the latest play at the Theatre Royal? The farce is quite hilarious.”
Louisa admitted she had yet to see Drury Lane’s most recent offering. The other gentlemen weighed in with their opinions, and a lively discussion ensued.
Too lively. Standing in silence beside Louisa, Drake had no doubt the intent was to keep her engaged and away from him.
His temper was already abraded by his misstep in approaching her so directly; even without turning his head, he was aware of the glances bent on him and her and the whispered comments being exchanged behind raised hands.
He gritted his teeth in earnest and reminded himself he didn’t care what society thought—he just needed to talk to her, and this wasn’t working.
The instant the first chord in the summons for the next waltz floated over the coiffured heads, he seized her hand.
She glanced at his face, her eyes widening.
He met those eyes, his gaze a warning, and stated, “My dance, I believe.”
She opened her eyes even wider. “I don’t have a dance card.”
“So there’s nothing to prevent you granting me this dance.” With the briefest of nods to the others, he stepped out of the circle, drawing her with him.
She chuckled, acquiesced, and allowed him to lead her to the floor.
On reaching the area of parquet that was rapidly clearing, he halted, drew her into his arms, and stepped out—and she followed light as thistledown, supple and responsive.
They were both scions of noble houses; they could waltz in their sleep. That should have freed their minds for conversation. Instead, sensation blossomed, bloomed, geysered. Despite all his many shields, his senses heightened and fixed on the feeling of her however acceptably whirling in his arms, on the weight of her palm riding on his shoulder, and the way her fingers curled in his. Slender, but strong. Without thought, their paces matched perfectly; her body mirrored his without hesitation as they whirled through a turn.
The impulse to hold her closer yet was a drumbeat in his brain. The compulsion was strong enough to jolt his wits into place.
He looked into her eyes; for several instants, he felt as if he was drowning, then he drew in a breath, pulled back from the tangle of feelings and emotions swirling through him, and focused on her face. On her expression.
Only to realize that she’d been distracted, too.
“Have you learned anything about Chilburn?” The question was abrupt, his tone hard—an attempt to jerk them both back to the here and now of the mission.
Louisa blinked. Reluctantly, she corralled her senses, her wits, until then whirling along with their feet. What she’d seen in his eyes as he’d gazed into hers… It took effort to turn her mind to his question, then she refocused on his face. “Not a great deal. Apparently, all his family are in town, but at this time of year, the events are so much smaller than during the Season that if you want to hunt someone down, unless you’re lucky, it means attending many more events.” She paused, then reported, “I met Sebastian and Antonia at the Marchmains’. They hadn’t had any luck at all and were going to call it a night. After the Marchmains’, I stopped by Lady Ortolan’s soiree on the off chance and caught up with one of Lawton’s sisters-in-law there.”
She paused as they whirled through the turn at the end of the oval dance floor, then as they once more precessed up the room, continued, “Lawton’s sister-in-law apparently has no time for Lawton—very definitely no love lost there. I gathered he’s regarded as the family wastrel. She didn’t know his address, only that he has lodgings somewhere in town. Oh—and he has a man who goes by the name of Badger.”
She studied Drake’s face—the lean planes of his cheeks, his hooded eyes, the blade of his patrician nose. His thin, mobile lips were presently set in a rather rigid line. “Did you learn anything?” She wondered if he would tell her.
He hesitated, but then admitted, “No. In fact, nothing—a dearth of information so complete that I have to wonder if Chilburn had dropped out of society—our circles, at least—altogether. His name is known, but only vaguely, a distant acquaintance met somewhere, sometime. I couldn’t find anyone who called him friend—not even acquaintance—at any of the major clubs or hells. And he’s not a member of any of those establishments, either.”
“Hmm. That does rather fit with him being a wastrel. Presumably, he doesn’t have the wherewithal to play in those circles anymore. His sister-in-law hinted that he lived a hand-to-mouth existence funded by gambling and what she termed ‘crazy wagers.’” She thought, then suggested, “You might have more luck in the clubs frequented by ex-cavalry officers.”
Drake grunted. After two revolutions, he said, “We’ll need to check, but if he’s chronically short of funds, those doors will be closed to him, too.”
The waltz whirled them on. With nothing further to say or ask, she allowed her senses to rise again, to take hold again and draw her awareness back into the dance—into all it revealed. All it confirmed.
When the last bar sounded and Drake released her, while he bowed and she curtsied, she felt even more vindicated in pursuing the path she’d decided to take. Regardless of his ineffable control, his all-but-impenetrable emotional shields, there’d been an instant there, in the second that followed the last note of the music, when his reluctance to release her, to let her move out of his arms, had shone through.
He was attracted to her—just how deeply she could not as yet tell—but he was determined to fight it. To hold the compulsion at bay and keep her at a distance.
She rose from her curtsy and smiled at him. Propinquity should trump even his control.
His eyes, already fixed on hers, narrowed.
She fought not to let her smile deepen. “I believe I’ll call it a night.” She swung toward the door. “It’s Tuesday, after all. Sebastian, Antonia, and I are more likely to find the Hawesleys, or at least the viscountess, tomorrow evening, when more of the major hostesses will be hosting events.”
Drake paced alongside her, listening as she mused, “I particularly want to speak with Lawton’s sisters. Of all the family, t
hey’re the most likely to have recent and accurate insights into his present life and any friends or associates he might have taken up with. I’ll try at the at-homes and afternoon teas tomorrow…”
He glanced at her and saw her pull a face.
“Sadly, those events are much less well attended at this time of year.” She caught his eye. “They’re not the same source of boundless information they are during the Season.”
They came upon their hostess in the crowd and took their leave. Drake ignored the speculative glances and walked out of the ballroom by Louisa’s side.
They paused in the front hall while the butler collected her cloak; noticing the direction of the man’s gaze, Drake reached out, took the garment, and draped it over Louisa’s bare white shoulders. She thanked him with an absentminded smile…or at least a smile that appeared to be so. He knew better than to trust outward appearances with her.
He walked with her out of the house and down the steps to where her carriage—a neat black town carriage that, he noted with some disapproval, did not bear the St. Ives crest on the door—waited. He waved the footman back and opened the door.
Louisa stepped past him, gathered her full skirts, then held out her gloved hand.
He steeled himself and grasped it.
She paused and met his eyes, then arched a brow. “Are you coming?”
He held her gaze. He’d come to the ball to assure himself that she hadn’t learned Chilburn’s address and gone haring off to investigate by herself. His intention had been to see her safely home…and she wasn’t home yet.