Clasping his fiancée’s hand, Nick drew her forward, displaying the ring upon her finger to the audience before them. Hushed whispers erupted as speculation spread through the crowd. For years, he’d managed to steer clear of the marriage mart. It helped that two brothers stood between him and the eventual inheritance of a viscount’s title. Still, irritation would curdle the features of a number of mothers and daughters once the news reached the guests upstairs.
Though he forced a pleasant smile onto his face, inwardly he cringed. What should have been a shared private moment following an impassioned proposal involving actual words had been turned into a spectacle played out before a roomful of gossip-inclined ton. Not ideal. He never would have dared attempt such a stunt had he not known how adverse she was to societal attention.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Glover.” Lady Stewart lifted her voice, and he had the decided impression she carefully chose the words that would appear on tomorrow’s scandal sheets. A niggling suspicion that she’d staged this altercation warned him that there was more at play here than a lover’s spat. “My heart belongs to another.”
“Impossible,” Glover barked. Fury set his mustache quivering like a hairy caterpillar having heart palpitations. “I would have been informed. Your uncle—”
“Perhaps you’d best take that up with him.” Nick’s tone would have warned off a normal man, but Lady Stewart’s admirer had a fervent look about his eyes that suggested—no, promised—he would be trouble.
“You may count on it.”
Glaring, Glover turned on his heel and stormed from the room, off to lodge a loud and vociferous complaint to her uncle. Trouble would come next from that direction. Her guardian, Lord Maynard, was known for his uncharitable business ventures. Whatever arrangements he and Glover had arrived at, Nick’s sudden intervention wouldn’t be welcome. Not that he cared.
Would that he could toss Lady Stewart in a waiting steam carriage and take to the streets to settle things between them privately. Alas, that would only inflame the situation. As their time together here could now be measured in mere minutes, he cupped her elbow and drew her toward a service door fitted into the room’s paneling. “Come,” he said, “let’s find you a quiet corner to regain your composure.”
She sniffed, but held her tongue and allowed him to lead her down the hall, past a servant’s staircase—sidestepping a clockwork hoist that carried stacks of empty plates and fingerprint smudged crystal along a downward track toward the kitchens—and into the conservatory.
He drew her into an alcove behind a potted plant where they could face each other and speak in relative privacy.
“Regain my composure?” His fiancée lifted an eyebrow. “How very patronizing.” Indignant amber eyes flashed behind her grey lenses, and Nick was struck by a desire to pluck them from her face that he might bask in the full heat of their brilliance, in the golden glow that was almost an exact match to the color of the amber ring that now adorned her finger.
Nick cleared his throat. “Apologies, but what kind of agent would I be, shattering the carefully crafted illusion you present to the ton? Though Mr. Glover’s bleating tonight has drawn unprecedented attention in your direction, you might still aspire to slip quietly from the role of wallflower into that of stately matron.”
“A wallflower potted and rooted and content to remain upon the shelf.” Her chin lifted.
“Is that so?” he countered. “Then you should not have encouraged the attentions of Mr. Glover, a man with a tendency to boast within the confines of his club.”
“He did not!” Her eyes grew tight as she muttered a curse. “Of course he did. What did you hear?”
“You won’t like it.”
“Nonetheless, I prefer to know, lest I be taken by surprise. What nasty rumors has he spread? Leave nothing out.”
With the name Dr. Gregory Farquhar in hand, Nick had headed to a club favored by second and third sons who eschewed the tradition of military or church service to pursue alternative paths. Among them were a number of physicians who might know something of this cardiologist’s past, of his present.
And so one had. “Stay far, far away from him,” he was cautioned. “Whatever promise he once showed, he’s descended into madness and no longer even pretends to see patients. His wife grows ever more bitter as her husband toils away in that basement laboratory of his doing aether knows what.” With some reluctance and repeated warnings, he’d been given Dr. Farquhar’s direction.
Though the hour grew late, Nick had decided a brief visit was in order. Perhaps if he approached Dr. Farquhar as one scientist to another, offering flattery and a willing ear, the man might invite him into his laboratory. Unlikely, but worth a try.
Fortifying himself, Nick had tossed back his drink and rose. En route to the door, he’d passed a rowdy bunch of gentlemen, tormenting one of their own about his supposed “conquest”.
“Are you insane? She has no dowry. Leastways, not one worth mentioning.”
“You don’t have to marry the first woman you bed, Glover. Not even if you leave a bun in the oven.”
“She’s hardly the first,” he’d snapped. “And it’s not her that I value, but what she will bring to our marriage.”
Sniggers erupted. “She’s a freak,” a second man said. “Hiding those strange eyes of hers behind smoky glass, slipping in and out of rooms when no one’s looking.”
Nick had slowed his steps, wondering.
“Save yourself,” a third advised. “She turned down your offer. Consider yourself fortunate. We’ll take you to Mrs. Fowler’s house…”
A brothel. He’d heard enough.
Dr. Farquhar lived in a relatively new townhome—terraced—on a respectable street not far from The British Museum. The man’s steam butler had taken Nick’s card, but declared the good doctor not at home and unable to say when he would return. The usual lies, for Nick had not missed the twitch of a curtain that covered an upper window. For a brief moment, he’d stared into the wild eyes of a white-haired man. The physician himself?
With a normal, civilized conversation ruled out, Nick had returned home to dress for the ball and arrived at Lord Aldridge’s front door to find chaos and turmoil surrounding the very woman that drew him to tonight’s societal event.
“Mr. Torrington, tell me.” Lady Stewart scowled, correctly anticipating what he had to share.
“Much what you’d expect.” He cleared his throat. She deserved to know. “Bets were being taken. Odds were rather in favor of you declining his offer, despite… well… his boasts of sexual conquest that would force you to accept his suit.”
“I will claw his eyes out.” Her face flushed, but she did not turn away from Nick’s gaze. “But I won’t pretend I’ve been chaste all these years in London. Are you certain you don’t wish to retract your unspoken offer?” She lifted her hand and began to slide the ring from her finger.
He caught her hand with his. “No.” Were there certain primitive instincts fixed in his brainstem that objected? Yes. But the higher centers of his brain admired her refusal to conceal the truth. “I’ll admit to a selfish urge to guard your reputation and an inclination to defend your honor by resurrecting the tradition of pistols at dawn, but it’s not your maidenly virtue that draws me.” The corner of his mouth kicked up. The words he’d practiced in his mind fell away. Instead he spoke the raw truth. “Not only do I like you, Lady Colleen Stewart, I admire you. Your quick mind, your skills as a sneak thief, your refusal to conform to society’s will. And,” he trailed a finger down the side of her face, “your kisses send fire racing through my veins. You’re the only woman I wish to make my bride. But if I don’t suit you, then by all means, return my ring.”
The pulse at her throat fluttered. The attraction between them was palpable. No, combustible. Yet her hesitation spoke volumes and her words, when they finally came, were soft. “Might we… consider this a trial engagement?”
“A trial engagement.” He lifted an eyebrow.
“We’ve known each other for years now, but only in fleeting snatches.” She took a deep breath. “I’d not thought to marry anyone. Not before you. But—”
“You wish to know me better first.”
She nodded. “And you ought to know me better as well. There are freedoms I do not wish to relinquish.”
“You wish to discuss terms.” Fair enough, especially given her uncle certainly wouldn’t be inclined to negotiate a favorable marriage contract on her behalf. “Contracts and finances.”
“Of course. Much as I loved my father, he tied me—legally—to an awful man he himself did not respect—and all due to a misplaced view of a woman’s abilities. I’ll not willingly or blindly speak vows without securing my future rights.”
“The last thing I want is a reluctant or apprehensive bride.”
“Additionally, you might not appreciate the attention an engagement to me brings. Your own reputation will suffer.”
“Not nearly as much as yours.” Gentlemen were permitted their wild oats, but the slightest hint of indiscretion forever stained an unmarried woman’s reputation.
“And,” her voice dropped as her lips curved upward, “we ought to see if we… suit.”
Heat crept up beneath his collar and cravat. Nick stepped closer. “Are you suggesting—”
She flicked her fingers against his waistcoat, directly over his concealed TTX pistol. “I wish to see how you conduct yourself in the field.”
“You want me to lead you into excitement and danger upon the dark streets of nighttime London?” Never had he thought to woo a woman in such a manner, but he found himself warming to the many possibilities that long hours of prolonged surveillance might provide.
“I do.” She laughed, then became all business. “Now, tell me what you have in mind for our first outing together, and what is it you seek.”
A tiny, irritating voice counseled him that he ought not include her on tonight’s undertaking, reminding him that the scientist might well be employed by the Committee for the Exploration of Anthropomorphic Peculiarities, or CEAP as it was sometimes referred to among the Queen’s agents. Nick could do this alone. He could sneak into Dr. Farquhar’s laboratory without assistance. A partner to watch one’s back was valuable, but not imperative. So asserted his mind. Other parts of his anatomy continued to insist that the presence of this particular woman was, in fact, very necessary. But those parts—ones that were upright and alert—had no business running a mission.
Still, when put to a vote, his gray matter lost.
“A medical device. One merely rumored to exist, so finding it is not a certainty. To begin, I’ve a basement laboratory I wish to search. Quietly and discreetly.” For her, he tried to separate the task at hand from any future they might or might not share. “Regardless of the outcome of our trial engagement, you will be paid.” He named a sum. “For each evening you assist my endeavors. A bonus of twice that if—when—we find the device.”
A titter of laughter met their ears and though the other couple that wandered past was lost in each other’s eyes, he stepped yet closer to Lady Stewart, dropping a hand lightly upon her waist to discourage any interruption of their conversation.
“A generous offer.” She leaned forward, breathing her next question into his ear. “And what of our trial engagement?” Her fingertips smoothed the lapel upon his jacket.
“Formal and chaste.” He swallowed, fixing his gaze upon the unremarkable cluster of fabric flowers pinned to her shoulder.
“Is that so.” She bit her lower lip, toying with the top button of his waistcoat. “How… disappointing.”
He laughed, then pulled her into his arms so that she might feel his stiffness against the soft swell of her stomach. “Unless you wish otherwise. Though it is by no means a condition of either our engagement or your employment.”
“Well, then, let’s see what opportunities present themselves.” She dropped her hand, then slid her arms beneath his coat and about his waist. “Shall we begin tonight?”
“Yes.” His cock twitched, but he ignored its enthusiasm. This was not the place for anything but a kiss. People—some of them irate—would soon come looking for her. For them. Not only would her uncle take offense, but their scene in the library might well have overshadowed Lady Sophia’s debut. “When will your household be asleep?”
She rolled her eyes. “After Mr. Glover’s uncalled for furor? My uncle will rant, but my aunt will silently applaud my actions. By three in the morning, I will have been sent to my room. Any further outrage will be set aside for breakfast pleasantries.”
He snorted. “Taken to task over tea and toast?”
“It does tend to put off one’s appetite.”
“Colleen?” a voice called in the distance. Their time was up.
“My aunt,” she said, but didn’t pull away. “Now that we’re engaged, you may call me by my given name.”
“As a fiancé ought. Might he also be permitted a liberty?”
“If I may call you by yours?”
“Of course.”
“Well, then. But only a small one for the moment.” Her fingers slipped beneath the edge of his waistcoat and ran over the linen of his shirt, tracing the muscle that ran down his back. “Appearances must be maintained, Nicholas.”
He brushed his lips along the edge of her jaw and whispered, “Not Nicholas. Nick.” Then he captured her mouth with his own, tasting honey and soft sighs as he explored its sweet shape. A perfect fit. He was about to deepen their embrace when the leaves beside him rustled.
“Colleen!” her aunt exclaimed, staring openly through the foliage. “What is this I hear of an engagement?”
He took a step back, releasing his fiancée. “Soon,” he whispered. If there was time to seek out a private corner of London after they searched the laboratory…
Behind her spectacles, Colleen’s eyes flashed as if her mind charted a similar course. “The mews,” she whispered, then dropped her hands from his waist and—at an impatient huff—turned toward the interruption. “Mr. Torrington, you’ve met Lady Maynard.”
“Many times.” He turned and bowed. “Always a pleasure.” Colleen’s aunt was a classic beauty—and older than her niece by a scant few years. He’d heard speculation about the manner of Lord Maynard’s first wife’s death. None of them pleasant, all of them centered around her inability to provide an heir.
“So this is the gentleman that kept you up at night and has set the ball abuzz.” Lady Maynard threw him a saucy glance.
Nick slid his questioning gaze back to Colleen.
“She knows only about my occupation.”
In other words, Nick’s employment with the Queen’s agents had not been discussed.
“And the cat’s,” Lady Maynard added. “Your timing leaves much to be desired, but better late than never. Not that my irate husband agrees. I’ll do what I can to smooth your path, but you had best pay a visit tomorrow. My advice? Bring a competent solicitor.”
“A solicitor?” Nick asked.
Lady Maynard’s eyes widened as she glanced from him to Colleen. “Does it not strike you as odd that your uncle is—after years of ignoring your presence—suddenly so very interested in finding you a husband? One of his choosing? It’s rare his temper flares. He’s up to something.”
“So noted,” Nick replied.
A commotion broke out in the hallway.
Lady Maynard caught up Colleen’s hand, grinned at the amber ring, then tugged. “Come. Mr. Glover is grousing about breach of promise, and I’ve sent for the steam carriage. We have minutes to fabricate a story involving a lengthy courtship and a secret engagement.” She winked. “Clearly, the truth won’t do.”