Meg tried to catch her breath. But since she was still held tightly against the duke and acutely aware of everything at once—like his long-fingered hand splayed against her lower back, the pressure of his fingertips, the warmth of his palm, the tangle of their legs, the press of their hips, their stomachs and chests laboring against each other—she could hardly think, let alone remember how respiration worked.
Was it in, then out? Or out, then in? Her lungs didn’t seem to know what to do at all.
Thankfully, he righted the two of them and set her apart before she ended up swooning in his arms like a silly twit in a Gothic novel who fainted if a gentleman penetrated her with his gaze.
And yet, she was feeling a bit dazed, nonetheless. The collision had only lasted a few seconds, but beneath her breast, her heart struggled to catch up with its own beats. In fact, she was so stunned to find herself staring up at his face again that she repeated an incredulous “You?”
“Clearly,” he intoned with that disapproving frown as he looked down to his hand.
She did the same, observing the spatter of mud on his cravat and coat along the way before spying the pair of brass-rimmed spectacles in his hand. Like the first time they’d met, he was dirty and so were his glasses.
Honestly, she was surprised the man was capable of making it out of bed in the morning.
Unaccountably irritated, Meg whipped a handkerchief from her sleeve, then reached out and took hold of the object. “If you’d have been wearing these, you likely would have seen that you’d been about to become flat as a flounder.”
“I was aptly aware of the barrel’s trajectory and had already calculated the seconds it would take to walk three paces out of the way without suffering an injury or fatality. Had I increased the speed of my gait, then the dray that merely splashed me when its fore wheel hit a puddle would have struck me instead. Of course, I did not factor in the possibility of a reckless woman charging at me while I was in the middle of polishing the mud from my lenses.”
“A simple thank you for saving my life would suffice.” She rolled her eyes in exasperation and stepped closer to put the glasses on his face where they belonged. “Now, bend down, if you please.”
When her arms lifted, he shook his head. “I am afraid your efforts—”
“I haven’t all day, Your Grace, and you are still far too tall.”
He expelled a taut breath through his nostrils, but obliged and lowered his head.
And that was when she noticed the problem.
As she unfolded the hinged bronze arms to set the earpieces in place, she became aware of a certain twist in the frame that forced the glasses to sit rather cockeyed. The left side drooped. The right was tilted back to reflect the sky.
Hmm. In an effort to straighten them, she nudged the saddle over the bridge of his nose with the tip of her gloved finger.
“There,” she said . . . just before a lens popped out.
The disk dropped neatly into his waiting palm as if he’d anticipated the calamity. “As I was saying, your efforts to save my life caused irreparable damage to my spectacles.”
Ah. So that was the crunching sound she’d heard.
“Well, I’m certain someone could repair them.” As she spoke, a hook-shaped portion of the frame snapped off. The glasses swung in a low-sweeping arc, dangling from one ear a moment before the remaining pieces fell to . . . well . . . pieces. “Or not.”
Straightening his posture, he tucked the detritus into the inner breast pocket of his gray wool coat. “I find it curious that you have not commented on the happenstance that we should both meet again.”
“You don’t believe in happenstance.”
“And you have quite the keen memory,” he said with a knowing lift of his brows. “I have a sense that little escapes your notice.”
That was a rather odd thing to say. Then again, he was a rather peculiar man. Even so, she was curious about why they should encounter each other again, and here of all places. “Very well, I shall ask. What brings you to Calais?”
“It has to do with a recent theft on my property.”
“How interesting. I hope you enjoy your—” She broke off as she registered what he’d just said. Her throat went dry and she rasped, “Theft?”
Surely, he couldn’t mean . . .
“Of certain recipes.”
She gulped audibly. Somehow, he’d found out and had come all the way to France in order to . . . to . . . what? Confiscate the scrap of foolscap? Take her into custody? Have her clapped in irons? Exported? Hanged?
Well, that seemed a bit excessive for a single pilfered recipe, even if it was the duke’s favorite.
“Have you heard of them?” he asked with a cool glance over her blanched complexion.
She tried to compose herself and not look guilty. It was just a little recipe, after all. Hardly valuable.
“A . . . a brief mention, perhaps.”
He nodded as if in understanding. “It is true that they are not spoken of at such length as they once were. Then again, I imagine there are few who could hear of a bejeweled book, illuminated in gold and silver, and not remember it.”
Ohhh! A breath of relief left Meg in a rush.
He was talking about the book. The recipe book. Not the stained collection that the cook had in the cupboard.
So then, this meeting of theirs could only have been a strange coincidence.
Huh. And to think, right around the time that she was there with the aunts, a diabolical stranger was plotting to take that ancient book. Such a shame. And, clearly, Mr. Gudgeon had a lot to answer for if he was allowing just anyone inside the keep.
Unless, of course, the aunts had managed to take it. . . No, that wasn’t possible. They were determined, but not steal-into-a-family-vault determined. Besides, they’d only been separated for a moment.
Absolving herself and the aunts of any guilt, she tsked and patted his sleeve with sympathy. “I cannot believe someone stole something so precious right out from under your nose. The absolute gall. I hope you recover the book quickly.”
“I fully intend to. In fact, I’ve managed to track the thief to France,” he said darkly.
“Here?” What were the odds of that? Why, she might have traveled on the packet steamer with the thief in question. A truly uncanny coincidence. “Why do you suppose the culprit would travel to France?”
“I could ask the same of you, for I cannot reason it out.”
“You’re asking me?”
His mouth curled slightly at one corner. “I can think of no one more qualified to answer the question.”
Meg was taken aback. Flabbergasted, to be honest.
Men never asked for her opinion. They typically took one look at her youthful, rounded face and observed her with a condescending air as if she were a green goose with nothing to offer of consequence. Even Daniel had done so.
But not this man. And she had no idea that she’d made such a favorable impression on him in those scant few minutes they’d spent in the shadowy corridor.
Flattered by this, she studied him from a fresh perspective.
He was still a brooding sort of fellow with an inordinately intense gaze. But in this light, she could see that his ears were nicely shaped and not flared in the least. His nose wasn’t excessively large but fit the proportions of his chiseled countenance. His jaw was sharply angled, his chin strong but not overly mulish by any means. In truth, he wasn’t terrible to look upon. He had a nice head of dark hair, too, even if it was a bit long on top and fell carelessly to one side. A quick trim could remedy that. His shoulders were quite broad and . . . well . . . what woman wouldn’t find those appealing? And, if memory served, his forearms were finely honed.
All things considered, the duke wasn’t half-bad.
However, the best part of all was that he didn’t look remotely like Daniel Prescott.
Giving careful consideration to Merleton’s query, Meg straightened her shoulders and tapped her finger to the side of her mouth. “Perhaps there are ingredients that can only be found in France. I know that the aunts have mentioned that the truffles residing in the soil here are the best in the world.”
“Ah. Then the culprit wants to recreate the dishes as they were first made.”
“Well, I do recall mention of the Broceliande Forest—Arthur’s forest—located in Brittany. That might be a connection, as well.”
His brows lifted in surprise. “You know your history.”
She grinned abashedly and shook her head. “I know stories. My father loved to tell them, especially those of the knights of the round table. They were his favorites.”
“Were they, indeed?”
This must have pleased the duke, for something glimmered in those alert river-stone eyes. Something that made her pulse quicken. And she discovered with surprise that being the sole recipient of his rapt attention was . . . well . . . rather appealing.
As soon as the thought entered her mind, she nearly rolled her eyes and was glad that a certain pair of meddlesome matchmakers would never know—
Oh, no! The aunts! She’d completely forgotten that they were waiting for her. Drat!
If they discovered her in the duke’s company, they would likely start planning a wedding breakfast without delay. Then Meg could kiss the idea of having any fun or small flirtation—let alone a grand one—fare thee well.
“That is all the insight I can offer, I’m afraid,” she said in haste, backing away as if he were a leper.
Frowning, he took a step toward her. “But we haven’t concluded our discussion.”
“I must return to my party before they become alarmed by my absence. But I wish you the best of luck in sorting this out, Your Grace.” She turned to leave but couldn’t stop herself from adding, “Then again, I don’t imagine you believe in luck.”
“No. I believe in facts, tangible proof and the knowledge that I will have my property in my hands quite soon.”
“After you repair your spectacles, of course.” With a hapless shrug, she grinned and noticed that he stopped his pursuit at once. As he stood there, staring after her, she offered a merry wave and walked away, bidding adieu to the duke for the last time.
* * *
She was taunting him, Lucien thought as he watched the thief from the confines of his carriage.
He couldn’t believe how boldly she played her game. First, in manhandling him and catching him off guard, then in manipulating the conversation. From complaining of his height to mentioning the truffles, the Broceliande Forest and her father, Lucien could hardly fathom what she might have said next. It was enough to make his head spin like the wheels of a carriage, careening off course.
Not only that, but her reaction when he’d mentioned the theft—the widening of her eyes, the way she’d blanched, her throat constricting on a swallow—almost had him believing that she was innocent, caught up in a scheme of another’s design.
The glimpse of her frailty surprised him exceedingly. But that was when he realized it was merely another ruse, a performance to gain his sympathy.
Therefore, he’d quickly adjusted his own tactics. He’d surmised that by pretending to require her assistance in solving the riddle, he would deceive her into thinking that he didn’t suspect her, thereby filling her with a sense of complacency that would cause her to reveal her true nature.
He’d been right.
She’d given herself away by admitting a deep knowledge of Arthurian legend. He’d almost had her in his snare. Though, she must have sensed her own slip because her manner altered again. She had become agitated by degree, casting a nervous glance over her shoulder, just before she announced the need to depart without delay.
Lucien wasn’t about to let her go. He wanted answers. And he had every intention of escorting her back to her party, even if only to cement the point that she couldn’t hide from him.
But then, casual as you please, she’d flashed a grin. And he hated to admit that he had been disarmed by it. His brain had neglected to send the required information to his organs and limbs, leaving him momentarily arrested. Long enough for her to escape before he learned anything of much value.
“She is too clever by half,” he said, his mood in a knot.
“That girl with the old biddies? I think you’re barking up the wrong tree, cousin,” Pell said from the adjacent bench. “She’s far too young to be Lady Avalon. We were hearing rumors of her exploits when you visited London last year. And the infamous adventuress had been seducing men for their fortunes and secrets even before then.”
“Do not be fooled by the careful application of creams and powders. If you’ll recall from the list my investigator provided, the secret formula of a youth serum was among the items she has stolen.”
The report stated that Mr. Sudworth, of the eponymously named Sudworth’s Cosmetics, had been forced to apologize to the ladies of the ton—who’d paid handsomely in advance for the serum—stating that a woman who went by the moniker Lady Avalon had taken him unawares and had stolen the only copy from his safe.
A similar tale had been told by a certain Lord Hunnicutt, who’d discovered that his wife’s diamond tiara had been purloined after a night at the opera with the lady in question. Then there was a banker in Brussels, a shipping magnate in America, a count in Cologne, a marquis in Marseille . . . and the list went on.
Thirteen pages in all. A myriad of treasures and secrets stolen, and none of them with any apparent connection. At least, not yet.
“Perhaps, but we still don’t know to what end.”
Pell’s statement mirrored Lucien’s own frustrated thoughts. “She must be working for someone. A collector of some sort.”
Aye, that must be it, he mused. This villain knew about the legends, too. Lucien wondered about the extent of that knowledge and whether it might aid him in his own quest. He would have to meet him to discover the answer. And in order to do that, he would have to get closer to her. Much closer.
“And the old biddies?”
Distracted by his thoughts, Lucien answered, “It is obvious that Lady Avalon recruited them to act as her shield. Oh, she is quite cunning, to be sure, and not one to be underestimated. Mark my words, behind those crystalline blue eyes lies a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”
“Crystalline?” Pell puffed out a laugh. “Is that a word you’ve just made up?”
“It is from the Greek krustallos, meaning crystal, and dating back to the fifteenth century.” And there was no more apt word to describe the startlingly clear, pale blue color.
“I thought you said she broke your spectacles. So how do you even know the color of her eyes?”
“Because I remember them from when we first met and my spectacles were still intact,” Lucien growled beneath his breath. He detested being bothered by pointless questions.
Thankfully, his vision impairment was only with objects that were near. He could see quite clearly from a distance, like the way she’d just glanced surreptitiously over her shoulder as if to ensure she wasn’t being followed before climbing into her carriage.
But damn, he wished he’d had his corrective lenses in place when they’d stood together a few moments ago. He wanted to catalog every look that crossed her face, note every subtle shift and twitch so that he would be armed with all the information he needed to discover the man she worked for. Given time, he knew she would give something away.
For now, however, they were engaged in a subtle dance of accusation and subterfuge.
So she claimed that he’d met his match? Well, he would soon prove that she had met hers.
“By the by, what color are my eyes?”
“They are—” Lucien stopped. “I refuse to respond to such an inane and insufferably provoking question when you and I are both aware of the answer.”
“Do you know what I think?”
“That it still boggles your mind when two plus two equals four?”
“My cousin, the wit,” Pell said dryly. “But you cannot hide behind your droll humor, because I think Lady Avalon has sparked your interest.”
“You are delusional. All I want are those recipes and the name of the man she’s working for. Nothing more.”
And yet, he was surprised to recall the initial response he’d had when she’d hurled herself against him. Shock, of course. And then . . . something else.
The moment played through his senses with perfect precision—the feel of her body against his, the precise dimensions of the dip in her lower back as he’d pulled her close to keep her from falling, the warmth and softness of her breasts as she crushed the fist that held his glasses, the rush of breath escaping her lips as she looked up and saw him—
He shook his head. It was ridiculous to ponder over it or wonder why it felt as though her form had left an indelible stamp upon his own. He was the Duke of Merleton. His sole focus was to secure these pieces of his family heritage.
He refused to let a woman distract him with her charms.
No, indeed, for he knew her coy game. And if she thought for a minute that a pair of broken spectacles would keep him from following her, then she had underestimated her latest adversary.
“Suit yourself,” Pell said offhandedly, easing back against the squabs. “All we need to do is follow her and her luggage, and then we’ll soon have possession of the book.”
Lucien shook his head. “It will not be that simple. I could send a man to search their trunks, but he won’t find anything. She would not be that careless. No, indeed. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have such an illustrious career as a master thief. We will need to keep a close eye on her and take careful note of everyone she encounters. And I’m beginning to wonder if the objects she has stolen were chosen at random or if there is a pattern,” he said, sensing that he was on the cusp of unearthing something that would alter the course of his life. “A little more time with her is all I’ll need.”
Pell was silent for a moment, scrutinizing Lucien’s profile. “Are you certain this isn’t merely an excuse to bump into her again?”
He ignored the comment. “Whoever hired her could simply be a fanatic of the old legend, but I don’t think so. It seems more like the plot of a military man, one with a particular appetite for power.”
“Well, if your plan is to meet her again and learn her secrets, you might want to tame that prickly and obdurate nature of yours. At least pretend to be affable. More flies with honey, and all that.”
That old adage might be true. But Lucien wasn’t interested in flies. He wanted to lure a wolf into the open. And as the carriage set off in pursuit, he began to formulate a plan.