Lucien was still wondering if he’d made the right decision when they arrived at their hotel in Bellagio, Italy.
Since the incident on the mountaintop, whenever they’d stopped to change horses, Meg had seemed somewhat remote. Had she been hiding something from him in her satchel, such as letters from the man she was working for, perhaps? Or had she simply wanted him to trust her?
Whether or not it was unspeakably disloyal to his family, he had chosen the latter.
But he didn’t yet know the weight of guilt he would carry for that decision until the concierge informed him that Lady Morgan Ambrose had checked in.
His half sister was here? The news not only surprised him but immediately made him question his own motives. Why had he chosen Meg over his legacy? It made no logical sense. And his self-recrimination only worsened when his gaze unerringly found her walking with her aunts as they followed a liveried porter toward their own apartments.
“Bollocks,” he muttered beneath his breath. He should have done more. Should have coerced Lady Avalon, found her weakness, used it to pressure her into revealing the name of the man she worked for . . .
Instead, his only true accomplishment had been to catalog and obsess over the precise dimension of her mouth and how it fit perfectly beneath his.
“Cheer up, old chap,” Pell said as they walked to their rooms. “It isn’t the end of the world. It just feels that way when Morgan appears.”
Their rooms were located on the opposite side of the hotel from the Parrish women. Opening the door, he was instantly greeted by the sight of gauzy curtains billowing in the breeze, framing a view of the blue lake and jagged mountains just beyond the balcony.
Morgan then entered from an adjoining room, looking perfectly at ease, as if this hotel were her home and they were her guests. “I thought I would join in on all the fun. By the by, how is the hunt going?”
Pell wasted no time in sinking onto the nearest upholstered surface, sprawling out with exhaustion as though he’d been the one to pull the carriage instead of the horses. “The prey has him tied in knots and chasing his own tail.”
“Sounds dreadfully uncomfortable.” She tsked and pressed a kiss to Lucien’s cheek.
You have no idea, he thought, his mood fractious.
“I have matters well in hand,” he lied. “Mr. Richards has supplied a good deal of information on Lady Avalon.”
Morgan patted his sleeve before venturing to the sideboard. “I told you he was the best man for the job.”
Lucien had wanted to hire an investigator that his acquaintance, Lord Savage, had brought to his attention on his last trip to London. But Morgan had been rather insistent and claimed that she was feeling excluded. So he’d given in and contacted Richards on her recommendation, much to his current regret and frustration.
“I’m still waiting to hear more about the women she’s traveling with. But I’ll leave no stone unturned. Hell, I’ve even resorted to taking Pell’s advice on the matter.”
“Which reeks of desperation,” Pell said flippantly.
Morgan smirked as she brought her cousin a glass of Madeira. “That’s precisely what I was going to say.”
“I know. You’ve become predictable in your old age,” he said before he took a sip.
“Oh, cousin. Your humor is the reason why you should never trust a drink I give you. I know far too much about poisons.” A flash of alarm crossed Pell’s face, just before he spit the Madeira back into the glass and she chuckled. “Don’t keep me in suspense, brother. Tell me, what was our cousin’s advice? Was it as clever as your decision to open the gates?”
“Not now,” Lucien growled.
He didn’t need a reminder that it had been his duty to protect the book, to keep it from falling into the wrong hands, and that he had failed.
Throughout the ages, there had been men who’d wanted to claim the recipes for themselves. Power-hungry men driven to crush their enemies and elevate their own place in history. Decades had gone by without a single attempt. One would think that, in the age of reason, learned men would no longer believe in myths and legends. But his grandfather had warned him that history would always repeat itself. And he’d been right.
“What?” she asked, all innocence. “All I’m saying is that we should consider ourselves fortunate that the second attempt to steal the book in our lifetimes didn’t end up like the first. Then again, we have no idea what your Lady Avalon might have done if her efforts had been thwarted at all.”
“She isn’t a cold blooded criminal.”
“Are you sure, brother?”
Restless, he paced between the door and open window. He needed an occupation. If he were at Caliburn Keep he could go into the old buttery and try a new experiment. Not that it would matter without the book, he reminded himself.
But he was having difficulty imagining Meg guilty of villainous compulsions. Or perhaps, the part of him that was inexorably drawn to her had simply murdered the part of him that was capable of rational thought.
Scrubbing his chin, he stared through the window, unseeing.
There had been moments when he’d felt so close to deciphering the mechanics of her mind that he could almost anticipate her next words just from a look. Then there were also moments that left him with more questions than answers. He was thinking, again, of the satchel, of the choice he’d made.
Pell stalked across the room to pour a fresh drink. “Wouldn’t blame you if you weren’t sure about her. Women are fickle creatures, the whole lot of them.”
“Not this one,” Lucien said, his mind made up about Meg. “She knows precisely what she wants and will stay her course. It is up to me to anticipate her next move and be there to intercept her.”
A haughty laugh rang from Morgan’s lips. “You make it seem as though you’re hunting her instead of the book.”
Could he have explored other avenues from the start? Perhaps. But he had made a purposeful decision to stay close to her and it was in his nature to continue on one course until every possibility was examined in depth. He would see this through, no matter how long it took.
“If a wolf steals a rabbit from your trap,” he said, “then a man hunts the wolf to find its den, and there, he’ll find the other wolves.”
“But will he get the rabbit back?”
That was the question of the hour. And he hated to admit it, but he did not know the answer.
His sister came up beside him, her reflection smiling in the window glass. “Why don’t you introduce me? Perhaps I can learn more about her—woman to woman—as you continue your hunt.”
* * *
Meg and the aunts were shown to a suite of rooms that were bright and airy with a view of the vivid rhododendrons blooming in the garden below. It was so lovely here that it was impossible to imagine that anyone could have a single trouble in the world. But Meg had plenty.
Lucien had given her his trust, and in return, she was still deceiving him about who she really was.
She was a horrible, horrible person!
Mentally, she gave that tail-twirling devil on her shoulder a firm talking to. But in midcastigation, a knock fell on their door.
It was a porter, bearing a handwritten invitation to the ladies from the Duke of Merleton, wanting their immediate response.
Maeve and Myrtle greedily skimmed the missive then said in unison, “We’d be delighted to accept.”
The porter bowed and left. When the door closed, the aunts began chirruping excitedly.
“Already an invitation to dinner, and he wishes for us to meet his sister,” Maeve said with a grin as she began pulling out the pins in her hair. Crossing the tiled parlor, she stepped through the open door of her bedchamber and onto a millefleur carpet that muffled her footfalls.
Myrtle practically skipped in the same direction. “And he hasn’t been away from us for more than an hour at most. It seems that he cannot bear to be parted from a certain someone, hmm?”
“It certainly does,” Maeve agreed, appearing in the doorway as she ran a brush through the thick strands of her gray hair. “If you’ll recall, I had a feeling about this from the very beginning.”
“No, indeed, sister. I believe that I had the feeling.”
“And I believe,” Meg interjected on a sudden rise of throat-tightening nervousness, “that neither of you can have any sort of feeling at all, for two reasons. The first being that this is only a holiday flirtation, nothing more,” she said and paid no attention to the fact that her words lacked conviction. “The second and most important is that the duke still believes I’m Lady Avalon. Remember her—the woman who stole his family’s book?”
Myrtle shrugged. “Oh, higgledy-piggledy. None of that makes a bit of difference when romance is in the air.”
“What’s in a name? as Shakespeare wrote. The important part is that Merleton has come to know you, my dear,” Myrtle said.
Meg sighed and stared sightlessly into her own wardrobe. They might not think it mattered, but she knew better.
He’d been different with her, more watchful ever since the day the satchel spilled. She supposed she couldn’t blame him after the way she’d frantically tried to keep him from seeing all the letters from Wiltshire, from her brother, Ellie and Aunt Sylvia. Every one of them addressed to Margaret Stredwick.
But Meg couldn’t risk him finding out the truth that way. Not in that moment. Not when everything seemed so promising. She couldn’t let this feeling end. And she feared it would the moment he knew who she really was—not an exciting adventuress and agent provocateur—just a dried-up debutante, one step away from the shelf.
She planned to tell him everything, of course. But in her own time and in her own way.
They would be leaving for England in a month. Surely that should give her long enough to find the right words.
And when she did, she hoped she wouldn’t lose him.
* * *
The first thing Meg noticed about Lady Morgan Ambrose was her stunning beauty. She possessed a wealth of dark auburn hair, swept up in a sophisticated twist, and she carried herself with a surfeit of confidence that was enviable. Her manner was neither stiff nor formal, her smile easy as she stepped forward and extended her hand.
“A pleasure,” she said that evening, lightly clasping Meg’s fingertips. “Miss Parrish, isn’t it? I’m simply dreadful with names.”
Meg swallowed, disliking the deception that had seemed so harmless in the beginning.
“Please, call me Meg,” she said and saw the other woman’s smile broaden. “What brings you to Italy?”
“A simple need to check up on my little brother. Wouldn’t want him lost down any stray rabbit holes, after all.” Lady Morgan flitted her fingers in nonchalance, but her eyes seemed serious. Though they were a different hue than her brother’s, they both possessed that same calculating intensity. And if she was Lucien’s older sister, then their age difference couldn’t have been much.
They dined on the terrace with a cool breeze blowing in from the surrounding mountains and rushing over the calm waters of the crystal blue lake. It was a lovely meal, but the air grew too cold for the aunts, so the gentlemen escorted them inside.
Lady Morgan lingered, nibbling on an olive as she gazed at Meg from across the table. “I’ve seen the way you look at my brother. The way you pretend not to follow his every move and glance away the moment he turns to you. I’d almost suspect you’re in love with him.”
A startled laugh escaped Meg as she was caught doing that very thing through the open doorway. She felt her cheeks heat. “In love? Of course I’m not in love. I’m just on holiday.”
“But you felt something that first time you met, did you not? I know because my brother felt it, too.”
“He . . . he told you that?” Meg asked, her voice shaking as a hopeful tremor stumbled through her. Could it be true that he’d felt the same bone-deep certainty from the beginning, only he’d been much better at hiding it?
Then again, he was so logical that he likely required seventeen kinds of proof before he surrendered to any school of thought.
Lady Morgan nodded. “Oh, yes. We’re family. We don’t keep secrets from each other. Of course, he was far from elated that he should have been so affected by the woman who stole our family legacy. The very book”—she paused and looked pointedly across the table—“that our parents died protecting.”
Meg gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “I had no idea. How awful.”
The guilt that had been pressing on her before increased tenfold.
“But don’t mention it to anyone, hmm? It’s a painful topic, and not even he likes to talk about it.”
Meg nodded in agreement. Then her gaze found him again as he was handing the aunts a glass of sherry. When he stood, he turned toward the terrace, and she quickly looked back to his sister. “I’m so sorry that this has happened, and for my part in it. But I must confess, I honestly don’t know where the book is. I did not take it.”
Morgan studied her for a moment, torchlight flickering in her eyes. “Do you want to know something? I think I believe you.”
A breath fell out of Meg. “You do? I’m so relieved.”
“Then I’m glad. My brother is quite sure of you. And it isn’t like him to hold someone in such high esteem,” she said with a grin. “I’ve never seen him in such a state.”
If that were true, then perhaps Meg wasn’t wrong about their connection, after all.
A new hope fluttered beneath her breast.
She slid a glance through the doorway again, and her pulse quickened when she saw that he was still watching her. Tentatively, she lifted her hand in a small wave. His stiff shoulders relaxed at once, then he inclined his head.
Lady Morgan swirled the ruby wine in her goblet. “Be a dear and put him out of his misery. Talk to him. Spend time with him.”
“But what about the book? Shouldn’t I tell him—”
“Not yet,” she said. “Let him come to know you better. Trust will surely follow. I know how my brother’s mind works, after all. And besides, he has hired an investigator, and soon this book nonsense will sort itself out. Then, you’ll both be free to explore whatever might come next.”
Her words were still lingering on the fragrant breeze when Lucien appeared in the open doorway.
“I have been sent on an errand by the elder two Misses Parrish,” he said to her. “They wish me to tell you that they are eager to retire after their day of travel, and if you would like, I could escort you to your door later.”
As their gazes held, every ounce of uncertainty she’d felt since the Alps evaporated like smoke. She nodded. “I should like that.”
She saw that elusive dimple of his, and her breath caught. This was most definitely a promising new stage of her grand flirtation. Or perhaps . . . something even more.
* * *
Lucien returned after walking Meg to her door and strode into the small parlor where his sister was sitting, reading a novel by lamplight.
She looked up and lowered her book. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that was almost a grin on your lips. Did your evening end on a high note?”
“There was no singing involved,” he said for the sole purpose of irritating his sister. She always hated it when he was overly literal. Standing at the sideboard, he heard her snarl of disdain, then grinned in earnest.
“You know very well what I mean. Are you any closer to knowing Lady Avalon’s secrets?”
He turned with two drinks in hand and crossed the room to present one to her. “I do not know what you said to her, but she did mention a desire to tell me something important on the morrow. Which, I can only deduce, has to do with the book.”
Morgan sipped her claret thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t be too hasty in my assumptions if I were you. Because, earlier, I told her that you seemed to be affected by her. And before you grouse at me, think of the results. She was instantly elated by the news, which clearly means that you affect her as well. You can use this to your advantage.”
Ah. So that explained the noticeable tenderness in her gaze when the two of them had lingered at her door. And, in the moment, the sight of it had sent a pleasing frisson of warmth through him. But now . . .
“She is exceedingly clever and needs no encouragement to spin webs around her victims. You should have told me of your plans. We had developed a certain rapport, an understanding of each other’s characters. You may have undermined all of that with your interference,” he said, feeling suddenly cross and cold to the marrow.
He didn’t like knowing that everything between them might be a lie. There was nothing he could trust, not a word, a gesture or a single look. He would be a fool to forget that.
What he needed was to remain logical and grounded. This was not, after all, a mere holiday but a quest, and he mustn’t allow himself to become distracted.
Well, not again.
“No, brother. One woman can tell when another is in over her head and she has allowed her more tender feelings to get the better of her. What may have started out as a mere game has turned into something more, at least for her. Knowing this, however, my advice is to withhold any mention of the book for the time being.”
He felt his brow pucker. “But she and I both know that is the reason we are here in the first place. Why would either of us need to pretend otherwise?”
“Because when I brought up the book to her, she became instantly defensive, making excuses that she didn’t know where it was. So I pretended to believe her. And that was precisely when she became unguarded and revealed herself.” She stood and laid her hand on his sleeve. “This book means a great deal to our family. After all that we have suffered to protect it, we cannot afford to let it slip through our fingers again.”
Lucien knew she was right. And he felt guilty for the wayward thrill of anticipation that trampled through him at the very thought of spending the coming days with the woman who’d taken it.