The Undercover Scoundrel Read online

  The butler’s eyes flicked over Caroline’s head, to Henry.

  “Tell me,” she said. “Is it William?”

  Avery met her gaze. “It’s Lady Violet. She’s been kidnapped. The acrobats, the ones at Mr. Hope’s ball—they kidnapped her.”

  She heard Henry draw a breath behind her.

  “The acrobats?” Henry asked. His tone was carefully neutral.

  “Yes,” Avery snapped. “Took her right in the middle of a dance at Almack’s. Gone, just like that.”

  Twenty-six

  Henry’s heart fell to the floor between his legs with a squish.

  Oh God, he thought, this is all my fault, this isn’t how things are supposed to happen. He hadn’t seen it coming.

  Moon had; Moon had warned Henry that this could happen, that tipping off the acrobats—telling them the bearded man who owed them money was the wildly wealthy Earl of Harclay—could endanger Caroline, or Violet, or both. That the acrobats could use the women as blackmail against Harclay, threaten their lives, kidnap them.

  Henry offered a prayer of thanks that it hadn’t been Caroline. And then he cursed himself, silently, fluidly, for being so stupid as to put her in harm’s way with Woodstock. Just the thought of her being harmed, taken—it would be his fault, all of it—made his vision blur with rage.

  He was thirty-two years old, for God’s sake, and had been playing at this espionage business a solid decade or more. He should know better. He should better protect the woman he loved. Had he learned nothing, being forced to leave her as he did? Had he not learned to take more care?

  His hands curled into fists at his sides. “Do we know where they took her?”

  “No,” Avery replied. “The earl is in pursuit. Didn’t even have time to saddle his horse.”

  “What do they want, the acrobats?”

  Again the butler looked to Caroline. She gave him a small nod. Go on.

  “Not entirely sure, sir. No doubt a sizable sum of money.”

  Henry blinked. It all came together in a sudden, startling flash of clarity. Of course. The rider in the alley. The missing diamond, and the kidnapping.

  Yesterday, Hope told Henry he’d frozen the earl’s accounts at the bank until his lordship produced the French Blue. It meant the earl had little, if any, access to the money their friends the acrobats were demanding.

  The earl did, however, have the diamond. If he were as enamored of Lady Violet as Caroline seemed to think he was, he would trade his bollocks to get her back; he would trade a gem worth upwards of twenty thousand pounds.

  What was that line the earl had used with Violet? Oh yes.

  It’s only money.

  The rider who had nearly mauled Henry and Caroline in the alley was none other than the earl himself. After the kidnapping, he’d no doubt made a mad dash from Almack’s back to his house in Hanover Square, where he dug the diamond out of his drawer; when Henry and Caroline had seen him tearing down the lane, William was heading away from the house, after Violet, the diamond tucked into his coat pocket.

  Henry guessed the acrobats were hiding out in Cheapside. The Cat and Mouse, most likely.

  He had to get there before Harclay traded away the diamond. If the acrobats got hold of the French Blue, it would be lost forever; pawned, sold. Caroline would die, and so would his men.

  He turned to the butler. “You’ll stay here, and guard the lady. Lock the doors. No one comes in or out. Keep her away from the windows—an interior room would be best.”

  He turned to Caroline. She appeared as if she might burst into tears at the slightest provocation. His stomach clenched. If he made it out of this alive, he would never, ever forgive himself.

  He took her elbows in his hands. She was shaking.

  “Please,” he said, giving her arms a gentle squeeze. “Stay here. I’m going to help your brother find Violet. If there is any news, I shall see that you receive it straightaway. But you must stay here; the streets are not safe.”

  “All—right, all right,” she stammered.

  Henry made for the door. At the last moment Caroline lunged for him, giving his sleeve a gentle tug. “Take care, Henry,” she said.

  “I will,” he said.

  And he meant it.

  Two Hours Later

  Horse nickering with exhaustion beneath him, Henry watched from the shadows as Lord Harclay helped Violet up the front steps of her family’s crumbling Grosvenor Square manse.

  She looked worse for the wear, gown spattered in blood, hair askew, but she was home, and in one (disheveled) piece. Harclay had successfully negotiated with the acrobats for her release. What drunk idiot wouldn’t forfeit a girl, even a pretty one, for a blue diamond that was practically the size of a plum?

  By the time Henry arrived at the Cat and Mouse in Cheapside, it was too late. The air was acrid with singed gunpowder, an acrobat lay bleeding on the tavern floor, the deal was struck. Violet was in William’s arms, and the French Blue clenched in an acrobat’s greedy fingers.

  It was too dangerous to go in after the diamond. Even with a man down, there were still three acrobats with which to contend, and while they were short of stature, they were strong, and quite drunk, and far more limber than Henry ever hoped to be.

  He’d begged. He’d pleaded and threatened. This wasn’t how the plot was to go. He hadn’t had time to call in more men, to bring something—anything—with which to negotiate.

  It was a losing fight.

  It disappeared, the French Blue, two decades ago, in the beginning tumult of the Revolution. Now, if Henry didn’t act quickly, it would disappear again.

  He’d have Moon canvass London’s shadiest pawnbrokers in the morning, its more discreet jewelers; beyond that, there wasn’t much Henry could do. He didn’t want to notify his superiors, or the agents working for him; the more people who knew, the sooner the French would discover the jewel had slipped from his grasp, and look elsewhere for their negotiations.

  Henry had come to London to find the diamond; he’d planned to exchange it for the lives of British soldiers on the Continent.

  But now his plan had changed. There was too much at stake to give up now; in one fell swoop he could spare Caroline’s life, and leave her to her hard-won widowhood.

  He could not give up now.

  Even though he hadn’t a clue what to do next.

  He closed his eyes and drew a long, slow breath. Hope would be furious, his stock would continue to slide, and Lady Violet’s fortunes would fall. So many lives and livelihoods depended on this bloody diamond.

  All weighty concerns, surely. He should be thinking upon them, devising schemes and deceptions to win back the stone, and right these wrongs.

  He was thinking of Caroline instead.

  He hoped she’d heeded his request and stayed at home.

  From Violet’s front door came delirious cries of relief, muffled sobs; Henry stood watch, lest there be any undue fainting or palpitating of elderly hearts.

  When the cries died down and the sobs became giggles, Henry urged his horse into motion.

  Mayfair was all but deserted at this hour; the gas lamps were his only company, casting his flickering shadow out before him in sinister enormity. His leg was killing him.

  He was exhausted, and hungry, and in pain.

  Still. There would be no sleep for him tonight.

  He led his horse down the familiar alley. In the dark Hanover Square was eerie, and strange. Windowpanes, blank with drawn drapes, stared down at him with unreadable intent.

  All but one windowpane, that is. A single window was open to the cool night air, lit from within by a lamp whose light was reflected in a mirrored vanity.

  Wincing, Henry dismounted and tied his horse to the iron rails of the back gate. Despite the stiffness of his leg, he climbed the gate without disturbing so much as a pebble
; he did, however, bite back an enthusiastic expletive when he landed on his bad leg.

  He stood beneath the window, craning his neck as he waited for Caroline to pass by, or draw the drapes, or settle on the sill and quote a bit of Shakespeare.

  (If only she’d whisper those lovelorn lines: “Henry, O Henry, wherefore art thou Henry?”; he’d be scaling the wall and in her bed in half a heartbeat.)

  He heard Caroline move inside the room, heard Nicks’s muffled admonitions to go to bed, and get some sleep.

  Even as his heart began to pound at the memory of Caroline’s mouth pressed to his, Henry felt limp with relief. She was here. She was safe.

  He leaned his back against the cold brick, crossed his ankles and his arms, and closed his eyes. He listened. Caroline was in bed now; the maid was leaving the room.

  He could smell her perfume. Inside his chest, his heart hiccupped.

  She was safe.

  For now.

  And heavens, she smelled good.

  “Caroline,” he whispered.

  Twenty-seven

  Caroline could not sleep.

  She rose from bed and made her way to the window. Brushing aside the curtains, she rested her elbows on the sill and leaned out into the night—black, still, enormous.

  That’s when she heard it. Her name, whispered by a familiar voice.

  Henry waited beneath her window, face upturned, his one eye translucent in the darkness. Her heart clenched. He was so handsome.

  He was here.

  “Can’t sleep?” he whispered.

  She shook her head.

  He hesitated, but only for a moment.

  “I’ve got a few bottles of decent wine back at my brother’s,” he offered. “Let me keep you company tonight, Caroline. I know you’re afraid.”

  A warm rush of tears thickened at the back of her throat. She was afraid, she was exhausted, and she wanted nothing more than to spend the night with Henry.

  It was a stupid choice. A bad choice.

  But she made it anyway. She didn’t want to be alone tonight.

  * * *

  Not two moments into their ride back to Henry’s, a solid sheet of rain descended upon them, pummeling their heads and shoulders, splashing the ground.

  Henry rode like the devil, urging his horse through the streets.

  When at last they arrived, Henry lifted her from his horse and together they made a dash for the house, slipping in muddy puddles before they fell into the kitchen, the door closing softly behind them.

  A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, lanterns lit the space, thunder rumbled outside.

  Henry gave his shirtsleeves a good shake.

  Caroline pushed back her cloak. Praise heaven her dress was spared most of the onslaught; so were Henry’s shirt and breeches, which unfortunately did not cling to his person as they had that day at the Botanic Gardens.

  Her gaze trailed up from his waist and chest to his face. He was looking at her.

  “Henry,” she said. “What are we going to do? If the diamond’s gone—”

  “I don’t know.” He ran a hand through his wet hair. “But in the meantime I should like to keep you safe. With me. After what happened with Violet . . .”

  A pause.

  “Stay,” he said. “For a drink. For anything you want. Stay.”

  “I came the first time you asked, didn’t I?”

  Was it just her imagination, or was he leaning closer? The space between their bodies was alive, suddenly, twisting with potent possibility. Despite the chill of the rain, Caroline felt warm. Watching a stray drop wind its way down the slope of Henry’s neck, she felt warmer.

  He overwhelmed her, surrounded her. She couldn’t have tucked tail and run if she’d wanted. He was keeping her here.

  Like she would ever want to leave.

  “Your cloak,” he said. She moved to untie the knot at her throat. Henry brushed her hands aside. She looked away when his fingers brushed the skin of her throat. The place between her legs pulsed dully.

  She tried not to think about that first night, the night of Hope’s ball. The wild kiss she and Henry had shared in the dim coolness of that chamber. Even now her lips burned.

  Upstairs, the door to his room was open. Henry moved through it easily, tossing aside a pair of breeches hung about the back of a chair as he passed.

  “Sorry about the mess,” he said. “Moon’s housekeeping skills have yet to improve.”

  “But the candles are lit—he’s not all bad. No luck finding a valet?”

  “No time,” he said, and toed a stack of rumpled papers underneath the bed. “Figuring out a way to coax the French Blue from your brother’s grasp—without pulling out his fingernails, of course—has proven a time-consuming task. A task at which I have sadly failed.”

  The window was open, and the soft patter of rain floated into the room. Henry pushed the window closed; the air was cooling.

  “Here,” he said, and gathered a fistful of newspapers off one of the chairs drawn up before the fireplace. “Sit.”

  She sat. Henry went to work on the near-extinguished fire, tossing the papers on top of a fresh wedge of firewood. The flames flickered to life, slowly at first, until a blistering fire burned brightly at Caroline’s feet, lighting the room.

  Outside the window, thunder rumbled; rain continued its assault on the pane. It made for the perfect cozy night in.

  Except Caroline felt anything but cozy. Just being in this room—the smells, the bed that loomed over her shoulder—made her feel unsettled, and intensely aware, awake. She felt drawn tight, like the string of a bow just before the arrow is released. Perhaps she should have just gone to bed, as Nicks in no uncertain terms had told her.

  She tried taking a deep breath, but only managed to inhale the scent of Henry’s soap. Citrus, a hint of masculine smoke. Again that tug between her legs.

  “Wine?” Henry asked. “I think we both need a nip after this evening’s events. Besides, I’ve taken the liberty of replenishing my brother’s stores with a more palatable selection.”

  She looked over her shoulder at Henry, who stood at the bureau with a corkscrew in one hand and a gleaming dark bottle in the other. The corkscrew appeared laughably tiny in Henry’s square-edged fingers.

  “Time to replenish the stores,” she said with a smile, “but none for a valet?”

  “A man must keep his priorities in order.”

  “Wine first,” she said, “work second, clothes third?”

  “Something like that.”

  He pulled the cork out of the bottle with a deft snap of his wrist. He poured the inky wine into a pair of elegant, etched-glass cups—they weren’t proper wine coupes, but they were better than the teacups he’d proffered last time—and held one out to Caroline.

  “Cheers to Violet’s rescue,” he said, offering his own cup as he settled into the chair across from hers.

  She touched her glass to his. “Cheers.”

  They drank in silence. Caroline gulped at her wine; it was delicious, tart on her lips, jammy on her tongue. At once she felt the familiar stirring in her blood, the simultaneous release.

  She kept drinking.

  “That’s good,” she said, rolling her lips between her teeth. “Very good, Henry, thank you.”

  The grin he gave her made the backs of her knees tingle. “Better, now that you’re finally calling me Henry.” He looked down at his glass, glinting pleasantly in the light of the fire.

  She kept drinking. It helped ease her worry, her fear that they’d lost everything by losing the diamond.

  There was nothing more to be done tonight. Nothing to do except wait.

  “Shall we play a game, then?” she asked. “Cards, perhaps?”

  “Caroline,” he said. His voice was low, a warning. “You’re changing th
e subject. Quite clumsily, might I add.”

  She met his gaze. It was getting dark in the room; the molten light of the fire was reflected in his pale iris, turning it a shade darker than amber.

  “Please,” she replied. “I don’t want to talk—not about that, anyway. Let’s play.”

  “Fine.” Henry threw back the rest of his wine and set the glass on the floor beside his boots. Rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, he leaned forward, his eye flashing. “A game of truth.”

  “Truth?” Caroline chased the droplets of wine that were left in her cup. “But you never tell the truth.”

  “You may choose to tell the truth,” he said, “or you may choose to drink.”

  Caroline straightened. She liked the sound of that. “Then you’re going to get very drunk.”

  “That is the hope,” he replied, rising.

  He brought the bottle over from the bureau and refilled their glasses.

  Twenty-eight

  They were on their third bottle of wine. The rain had stopped; the view outside the window was so dark Caroline could see naught but her reflection in the pane.

  What had begun as a test of truth had, in true Henry Lake fashion, devolved into a drinking game.

  Who is your favorite brother, Robert or Peter?

  Peter, he’d said, and gulped at his wine.

  Do you sometimes fantasize about killing your brother? he’d asked.

  I know you do, she’d said, and gulped at hers.

  It went on like this for an hour, and then another, the two of them giggling over their empty cups as they refilled them again, and again, and again.

  Henry was leaning forward in his chair, allowing the last of the wine to drip from the bottle into Caroline’s cup. He set the bottle down at his feet, and looked up to meet Caroline’s gaze. His lips were stained red from the wine; his cheeks were rosy pink from the fire; and his hair, dry now, coursed over his shoulders, the pieces at the front tucked behind his ears. His eye patch shone dully in the low light of the fire.