Royd escorted Isobel through the ornate doorway of the Wolverstone House ballroom. Even though, in ton terms, it was relatively early, the room was crowded, and the stairs and front hall were jammed with guests making their way to the receiving line. That line currently snaked from Wolverstone and Minerva, standing just ahead, across the foyer, and down the stairs.
Regardless of everyone’s preoccupation, the lady gliding beside him drew all eyes. She’d already been responsible for four different people tripping and nearly falling down the stairs. He set his jaw and pretended not to notice the stares, let alone the speculation that immediately sprang to life in so many eyes—male as well as female.
And then there were the whispers.
Although far removed from London society, the women in the compound had chosen correctly in giving the diamonds to Isobel. The gown she wore tonight had been created to showcase Rundell, Bridge, and Rundell’s most fabulous creation. Somewhat to his surprise, it had been Iona who had insisted Isobel needed “the right” gown. Even more surprisingly, his mother had joined the chorus, and the entire female above-stairs contingent of Stanhope Street had rolled away in carriages to visit warehouses and modistes.
If he’d known what the result of their efforts would be, he would have found some way to stop them. When Isobel had walked down the stairs this evening, his tongue had stuck to the roof of his mouth, and he’d been literally unable to speak. Even Duncan, darting about examining all the nattily dressed gentlemen and ladies, had stopped and stared.
Royd had known Isobel for most of his life, had grown accustomed to having her beside him; apparently, he’d forgotten how magnificent she truly was—his Amazon.
She looked every inch a regal warrior-queen, in sleek silk the color of the late evening sky in those moments before it turned black. Against the alabaster skin of her bosom shone the blue diamonds, set in plain gold with nothing to detract from the stones’ fire. The result was austere yet dazzlingly gorgeous—the stones blazed with a stark blue radiance that was literally riveting.
Once seen, it was difficult to look away, and that wasn’t simply a matter of expensive silk and stones. It was Isobel herself; she possessed both the grace and the ineffable confidence to carry the moment—and the gown and the necklace—off. On most other ladies, the same gown and necklace simply wouldn’t have had the same, almost shocking impact.
About them, conversations stuttered, then halted, before starting up again even more avidly.
They reached Minerva, whose face lit as the guest she’d just welcomed moved off and she finally saw them.
Isobel curtsied. Royd bowed, and they murmured the usual pleasantries.
Minerva nodded meaningfully. “Excellent!” Her eyes alight, she passed them on to Wolverstone, standing beside her.
Wolverstone arched his brows. They went through the motions, but as the duke straightened from bowing over Isobel’s hand, he murmured, “If that doesn’t lure them out, nothing will.”
Royd managed not to grunt.
He led Isobel to a group of friends, a predetermined next step. All those involved in the effort to identify the backers and collect the necessary evidence to convict them had met at St. Ives House at the—for the ton—unholy hour of ten o’clock that morning. Devil Cynster, Duke of St. Ives, and his duchess, Honoria, would be hosting the second ball, should it be necessary, but they were all working on the assumption that they would need two nights to draw at least two more of the backers into their net. Honoria had suggested using their house for the meeting, so that anyone happening to notice the people coming and going would think it more to do with their event and not the Wolverstone House affair.
The meeting had, in essence, been a foregathering of their troops—an opportunity for all those willing to be involved to meet Isobel, and for her to meet them. As well as St. Ives and Honoria, three of his cousins and their wives had joined the group, as had several other couples Dearne and his marchioness, Letitia, had recruited. Carstairs had been there, with his wife, Loretta, and three other couples he introduced as those involved in bringing down the fabled Black Cobra. Wolverstone and Minerva, and Jack Hendon and his wife, Katherine—another Kit—had been there, as well as all the Frobishers and their ladies, and Iona, who, it transpired, was well known to both Minerva and Honoria, as well as Letitia and several other ladies.
The Carmody matriarch’s reach was greater than Royd had appreciated.
As usual, it had been Wolverstone who had called the meeting to order; he’d explained their strategy and the tactics they intended to employ. Because this was a ball and there were so many uninvolved and unaware sharing their stage, of necessity, those tactics had to be fluid, able to respond to situations as they evolved.
The critical point, one Wolverstone had stressed, was that Isobel should never be out of sight of at least two of their number, and if anyone, male or female, approached and asked her about the necklace, at least two of them should converge to a distance close enough to overhear the exchange.
As for how they would know to close in, if Isobel was asked outright as to where she’d got the necklace, she would raise her hand to the stones and fiddle with the links.
Their preparations had been made, and everyone was in place, eager to put their plan into action.
He and Isobel chatted, smiled, and moved through the crowd, in reality shifting from one group of protectors to another. They circled the room once, giving all those there the opportunity to notice and stare at the diamonds—which everyone did. Royd hadn’t been certain that the prediction that no lady would boldly walk up and ask where Isobel had found the stones would hold true, but it seemed Minerva had been correct; although any number of ladies ogled the diamonds, not one asked specifically about them.
That Isobel wasn’t widely known among London’s ton undoubtedly helped; people couldn’t place her, but as she was plainly acquainted with a select group among the upper echelon, no one dared patronize her, either.
“Everyone—simply everyone—is talking about the diamonds,” Edwina softly crowed as she swanned past on Declan’s arm.
Then the musicians started up, and Royd claimed the first waltz. As it was the only waltz he was allowed that evening, he was determined to enjoy it.
As he drew Isobel into his arms and stepped onto the clearing floor, he realized it had been a very long time since they’d shared a dance in a ballroom, let alone a waltz. Yet she moved with him instinctively, her steps mirroring his; as they were both so tall, it was easy to tighten his hold and step out. She matched him; on a gurgle of laughter, she met his eyes. “If I haven’t already become the cynosure of all eyes, this will surely achieve that.”
He dipped his head and, his eyes on hers, murmured, “I live to serve.” You. Only you.
She held his gaze as if she’d heard the unspoken words. They drowned in each other’s eyes, navigating the crowded floor more by instinct than design, lost for those moments in the other’s presence, in the reality they now shared.
Unfortunately, the measure wound to a close.
As he whirled her to a halt, her gaze still on his face, as if sensing the battle he waged to allow her out of his arms, she murmured, “This will work—you know it will.”
He met her eyes. “It better.”
She knew he wasn’t speaking of luring the backers to show themselves but of her being adequately protected through the night.
As arranged, as he led her off the floor, Caleb stepped forward to, with an insouciant grin, filch her hand from his.
Royd released her. As he stalked through the crowd, he reminded himself not to scowl, and that it was infinitely better his youngest brother was first in the long line of gentleman-protectors scheduled to step in; any of the others and he might not have been able to play his part and let her go.
He gritted his teeth and tried not to let it show. He’d known he wouldn’t enjoy the evening, but until that moment, he hadn’t appreciated just how onerous his role would be.
* * *
Isobel smiled and joked with Caleb, who spent most of their dance extracting as many facts about Kate and her family as he could. He handed her off to Dearne, who smiled kindly, waltzed extremely well, and, she learned, had been one of Wolverstone’s operatives in France during the last war.
When the dance ended, Dearne conducted her to a group including his wife and several other couples. They chatted and waited to see if any gentleman not of their number approached, but none did.
That became the pattern of her evening; she would dance with several of her protectors, then chat with them and their wives while waiting in vain for a backer to appear.
But they’d foreseen that the backers might not be so easily tempted into openly approaching her—not in full sight of a goodly portion of the ton—and had planned accordingly. Consequently, after dancing the supper waltz with Rupert Cynster, one of the duke’s cousins, she prettily declined his offer to escort her into the supper room. After sending him to look for his wife, she turned and, unhurriedly, strolled down the ballroom and into a short corridor. She opened the door at the end and walked into the mansion’s conservatory.
She closed the door behind her, paused for a second to listen, then, choosing the central path of the three leading into the moonlit shadows, walked down the avenue of densely packed palms and ferns.
Anyone watching her would think she had gone there to meet with some gentleman, which, as it happened, was true. According to the plan, several gentlemen of her acquaintance, Royd among them, would be concealed among the profusion of palms. She strolled, making no attempt to mute her footfalls. Now to see if any other gentleman sought to follow her and have a word in what appeared to be a private setting.
The conservatory’s walls as well as its roof were made of glass. Moonlight slanted in, gilding leaves and laying a silvery sheen over the tiled floor. At the far end, all three paths converged on a circular space hosting a small fountain. The tinkle of water, the smell of rich loam, and the scents of night-flowering plants brought the jungle the diamonds had come from vividly to Isobel’s mind.
“How appropriate,” she murmured sotto voce.
Immediately, she heard the click of the conservatory door closing. After the briefest of pauses, heavy footsteps started following her down the path. Subterfuge was clearly not the gentleman’s intent. She reached the fountain and turned, head rising, to see who had walked into their trap.
A large, florid-faced gentleman, no more than an inch taller than she but three times as wide, came stumping down the path. He’d pulled out a white handkerchief and was already mopping his brow. “Dashed warm in here.” His tone was complaining.
Isobel studied him. “It is rather humid.”
He stuffed the handkerchief in his pocket and sketched her an excuse for a bow. “Sir Reginald Cummins. Miss Carmichael, is it not?”
Isobel barely inclined her head. “Indeed, sir.” In contrast to the room, her tone was chilly.
Sir Reginald didn’t notice. His gaze had locked on the necklace.
Even in the moonlight, Isobel was fairly certain it would be winking and blinking, casting its invisible net.
Sir Reginald certainly seemed caught. He moistened his lips and, without shifting his eyes from the stones, said, “I wonder, my dear, if you would tell me where you got that necklace.”
“This?” Isobel raised her fingers to the diamonds. She paused, then said, “From an admirer. Quite recently. It’s the first time I’ve worn it.”
Sir Reginald forced his gaze to her face. His expression was no longer the least bit friendly. “Frobisher?” The word was a demand.
Isobel arched her brows, then let a small smile play about her lips. “Sadly, no—not him. Someone else.”
Sir Reginald’s hand shot out and locked about her wrist. “Who?”
“Why, sir—”
“Dammit, woman—don’t play games with me! Those are blue diamonds, as anyone with a half-trained eye could see. That many stones could only have come from one place, and I supposedly have an interest in that venture. Yet I’ve heard nothing about this damned necklace. So tell me, you minx—who gave it to you?”
Three large male bodies materialized from the shrubbery and surrounded Sir Reginald.
Another—Royd—appeared beside Isobel. Before Sir Reginald got his mouth closed, Royd gripped Sir Reginald’s wrist.
Sir Reginald’s eyes popped wide. A sound of pain escaped him, and he released Isobel’s wrist as if he’d been burned. He hauled in a breath. “See here!” Even in the moonlight, his face had reddened. “What is this, heh?”
One of the shadowy figures leaned closer. “I believe, Sir Reginald, that you had better come with me.” It was Dearne who spoke. “There are several gentlemen waiting to speak with you, Wolverstone among them.”
“What?” The panic in Sir Reginald’s face echoed in his voice.
A chirp sounded from close by the door.
Dearne seized Sir Reginald’s wrists and bound them; one of the other figures stuffed a handkerchief into Sir Reginald’s mouth when he opened it to shout, while the other promptly wrapped a scarf around the man’s head, effectively and efficiently gagging him.
The three bodily lifted the shocked baronet aside, into a darker pool of shadows. How they planned to immobilize him, Isobel didn’t know, but she trusted they would.
Royd melted away, back into the shadows from which he’d come. Isobel blinked. Even though she knew he was there, she couldn’t see him.
Footsteps approached, not down the central path but along one of the side paths. And this time, they were quiet—not quite stealthy but careful.
Isobel waited to see who would arrive. Once she was certain from which direction they were coming, she shifted to look into the bowl of the fountain; the position allowed her to watch the side path from the corner of her eye.
She hadn’t carried a reticule, but a fan dangled from her wrist. She flicked it open and idly waved it before her face.
A tall, rather cadaverous gentleman, exceedingly well dressed yet projecting an aura of ennui and overt dissipation, stepped from the shadows. “There you are, my dear. I’ve been looking for you.”
She ceased her waving and widened her eyes at him. “You have? Yet I don’t believe we’re acquainted, sir.”
“Lord Hugh Deveny.” He gave her a nod rather than a bow. “And I’ve been looking for you to reclaim my property—I believe that lovely necklace is mine. If you would be so good as to hand it over?”
Isobel nearly laughed, but even on less than a minute’s acquaintance, she realized Lord Hugh actually believed she would comply. “Yours, sir?” She infused enough shocked amazement into her voice to be convincing. “There must be some mistake. I received this necklace from my papa—he, in turn, had it from a gentleman acquaintance in Africa. It’s only been in the country for a very short time—I fail to see how it could possibly be yours.”
Lord Hugh’s expression darkened. His lips compressed, then he contemptuously spat, “It’s simple, you silly girl! That gentleman from Africa was some bounder who sold your father stolen goods. Those are blue diamonds and come from a mine I’ve invested in, so I’m right—those diamonds belong to me, and I suggest you hand the damned necklace over immediately!”
Lord Hugh reached for the necklace.
Royd caught his hand.
Lord Hugh jumped, then blinked, dumbfounded, at Royd.
Wolverstone walked out from the shadows. “Good evening, Deveny. In case you’re wondering, I was here all along and heard every fascinating word you let fall.”
Lord Hugh opened and shut his mouth several times without emitting any sound. Unlike that of Cummins, Lord Hugh’s complexion had turned deathly pale.
“I don’t know...” With a visible effort, Lord Hugh pulled himself together. “See here, Wolverstone. I don’t know what game you’re playing—”
“More to the point, Deveny, is what game you”—Wolverstone glanced aside as the other three gentlemen appeared, pushing Sir Reginald, bound and gagged, before them—“and Sir Reginald here have been involved in.”
At the sight of Sir Reginald, every vestige of color drained from Lord Hugh’s face.
“Cat got your tongue, Deveny?” When Lord Hugh didn’t respond, Wolverstone glanced at the trio behind Sir Reginald. “Ungag him.”
When they’d complied, as Sir Reginald moistened his lips, Wolverstone stated, “Now would be a good time to start talking, gentlemen. Leniency can be extended only to those who cooperate, and we only need one of you to do so to complete our investigations.”
Lord Hugh stared helplessly at Sir Reginald.
Sir Reginald stared back, then he set his jaw pugnaciously and glared at Lord Hugh. “You’ll get nothing out of me, sirrah! Whatever fabrications and wild accusations you might make, there’s not a shred of evidence to say we’ve been involved in anything underhanded.” He switched his now-belligerent gaze to Wolverstone. “We’re innocent. You have to let us go.”
Wolverstone arched a dark brow. After a moment, in a quiet voice, he said, “Not yet, Cummins. Not yet.”
Lord Hugh tried to wrench free of Royd’s hold—to no avail; Royd simply held him. “I’ve no notion of what you’re talking about, Wolverstone.” To Royd, he hissed, “Let go, damn it!” Straightening, trying to ignore Royd, he addressed Wolverstone. “If you will instruct this gentleman to release me, Your Grace, I believe I will return to the ball.”
Wolverstone’s smile flashed sharklike in the moonlight. “Sadly, I’m not so inclined.” He turned to the other three. “Take them away—you know where.”
One of the other men—Isobel saw it was Lord Trentham—moved to Deveny’s side and took his arm in a hard grip.
Wolverstone looked at Deveny, then at Sir Reginald. “Let’s see if we can’t find some lever to loosen their tongues.”
* * *
They hadn’t expected to snare two of the backers on their first attempt.
“Sadly,” Carstairs reported, “even though we now have four of them, and we’ve taken care to keep them separate from each other, none of the bloody blighters will talk.”
It was early in the afternoon of the next day, and all those who’d been involved in the attempt to capture the backers had gathered in the Wolverstone House drawing room to learn of the end result.
Wolverstone arched a cynical brow. “It appears there’s honor among thieves, even of this ilk.”
Jack Hendon snorted. “No honor there.” Along with Carstairs and several others of the company, Hendon had been involved in the subsequent interrogations. “They’re as guilty as sin—you can see it in their eyes. Cummins and Deveny haven’t even denied involvement. They’ve simply shut up.”
“I got the impression they’d discussed what to do in the event of any interference from the authorities,” the Earl of Lostwithiel put in.
Wolverstone nodded. “That does, indeed, seem likely.”
“What we have got from them”—Carstairs’s tone was redolent with frustration—“is that they’re utterly convinced they are beyond the law—effectively untouchable. That if they just hold the line and admit nothing, they will, in the end, walk free.”
A dissatisfied silence fell, then Dearne stirred. “On a more positive note, we might have got a bead on where the six met. Apparently, Ross-Courtney favors the Albany for his more discreet meetings. We’re working on getting information from the staff there, and knowing four of the six names will expedite that.” He paused, then added, “But, at most, all that will give us is the other two names and evidence that the six met in private—possibly frequently over the crucial period. It won’t give us anything to link them to the mine.”
“That’s the critical link our lure has delivered,” Wolverstone said, “at least with respect to Cummins and Deveny. By their own words, they implicated themselves with a venture producing blue diamonds—ergo, the mine.”
“Ross-Courtney and Neill implicated themselves by their presence and actions at the mine,” Caleb said.
“True.” Looking across the crowded room, Wolverstone met Caleb’s gaze. “However, sad to say, I doubt that’s going to be enough to convict Ross-Courtney. Not with his connections. He’ll fabricate some ridiculous tale of being captured and held for ransom, and because many will prefer to believe him, they will.”
“And if Ross-Courtney walks free, the others will, too.” Robert looked at Royd.
Royd met his brother’s gaze, then directed his own at Wolverstone. “So how long do we have before our weakest link fails?”
Wolverstone softly snorted. “You mean Melville.” It wasn’t a question. “He was bad enough about Ross-Courtney and Neill. Now we’ve added Lord Hugh plus Cummins, Melville is all but having conniptions. Lord Hugh’s father is a strong supporter of the government. That we’ve more or less kidnapped the duke’s son, more or less under Melville’s aegis, is making Melville exceedingly nervous.” He paused, then added, “I can’t, regrettably, order Melville on no account to tell anyone we have the four in custody, but I have cautioned him over the extreme inadvisability of doing so, and asked him to inform me before he shares the information with anyone at all—including his wife.” Wolverstone faintly shrugged. “We’ll see.”
“In other words”—Trentham’s tone was cynical—“in spite of the government’s exceedingly desperate desire to convict in this case, we won’t have all that long.” To the room at large, he reported, “We’ve men trawling through the diamond merchants in Amsterdam, but it’s slow going, and we haven’t had even a glimmer of a possibility so far.”
“We’ve started making inquiries via the banks,” Rupert—better known as Gabriel—Cynster put in. “We’re trying to identify our mysterious banker by attempting to find payments made to both Ross-Courtney and Neill from the same source. Now we can include Cummins and Deveny as well, that might go faster.” He paused, then grimaced. “Fast being a relative term. Given the degree of discretion we’re having to employ so as not to alert the men’s agents...it’s going to take at least a week, possibly more.”
Devil Cynster caught Wolverstone’s eye. “We might not have a week.”
When Wolverstone didn’t respond, Lostwithiel shifted. “Loath as I am to suggest it, perhaps employing other methods of persuasion, not just words, might be in order.”
Wolverstone hesitated, then shook his head. “Were this war, that would be justified. But this isn’t war, and engaging in such practices would lower us to their level.” He paused, then more decisively went on, “With respect to the four backers in our custody, our best tack will be to continue to interrogate them while seizing every opportunity to undermine their confidence—to convince them we’re certain we’ll be able to hold them incommunicado long enough to get the evidence we need.”
“The best way to do that,” Dearne said, “is to tell them of the avenues we’re pursuing—perhaps lead them to think that the staff at the Albany are not quite as deaf as Ross-Courtney imagined.”
Trentham nodded. “And that the diamond merchant guild in Amsterdam is proving most helpful. In fact, it’s the opposite, but our backers won’t know that.”
“Their banker is a key weakness for them,” Gabriel Cynster said. “He most likely knows their names and that the money he or his institution is funneling to them comes from a particular diamond merchant.” Cynster looked at Hendon and Lostwithiel. “You might mention we’re closing in on the banker.”
Lostwithiel nodded. He looked at Wolverstone. “My only concern in going that route is that if they do, in fact, succeed in walking free, even for a short time, the first thing they’ll do is move to obliterate all potential evidence—and we know they’re of the ilk to order men killed without a blink.”
Wolverstone grimaced fleetingly, then, slowly, he arched his brows. “It’s almost like a challenge—with time running out, can we hold our nerve better than they can?”
Seated beside Royd, Isobel stirred. “It’s a risk and reward situation. If we don’t take the risk, we’ll lose the prize.”
Heads nodded all around the room.
Once again, silence fell, this time with everyone wracking their brains, trying to define any lever or other avenue to move forward with speed.
Eventually, Wolverstone said, “We’ve come so far. We’ve rescued the captives, shut down the illegal enterprise, and have the three local villains in our hands, ready to talk and accept their punishment. Unlike the six backers—and it’s the backers we want, and that the government truly needs to convict. We have four backers in our hands, and the prospect of evidence enough to convict them given several weeks...but to get those weeks, we’re relying on no one alerting their families, agents, or supporters, who will then start asking questions.” Wolverstone looked at his wife. “Neill and Cummins are married. Are their wives likely to start agitating over their disappearances?”
Minerva shook her head. “I wouldn’t think so.” She glanced at Honoria.
Honoria stated, “Neill’s wife lives permanently in the country, and as far as she or anyone in his household would know, he’s still in Africa.”
“As for Cummins,” Minerva said, “his wife hasn’t come up for the season, and he keeps no house here, merely lodgings. So only his staff would know he hasn’t returned home. I suspect it will be days, possibly even a week, before Cummins’s manservant might think to notify his mistress of his master’s non-return...in short, it’s unlikely anyone will come looking for Cummins for a few weeks at least, and even then, only if Lady Cummins bestirs herself.”
“It seems,” Devil Cynster somewhat grimly said, “that the more immediate threat is the other two backers. They’ll have no idea Ross-Courtney and Neill have been seized, but they’ll notice Lord Hugh and Cummins have mysteriously vanished, most likely within a few days. And then they’ll raise hell with the authorities.”
Dearne nodded. “Especially if they’ve discussed what to do in the event official interest is shown.”
“I suspect you won’t have even two days,” Lady Clarice Warnefleet dryly opined. “Not with the tales sweeping through the ton of a fabulous blue diamond necklace appearing at the Wolverstone House ball.” She regarded the gathering with a steady gaze. “Assuming they weren’t at the ball last night, the other two backers will have heard about the necklace by now. The first thing they’ll do is contact each other—including Cummins and Lord Hugh. When they don’t hear back from Cummins and Lord Hugh within a day or so...”
Honoria nodded. “They’ll start asking questions.”
“And given their ilk,” a gentleman by the name of Delborough put in, “they’ll be clever enough to raise those questions via avenues that disguise their involvement. We won’t be able to identify the backers by tracing the questions back to the source.”
“We need to identify the remaining backers as a matter of urgency.” Wolverstone spoke decisively. “Without getting the last two into our hands as well, the odds stacked against us are too high, and we’re unlikely to be able to pull this off.” He looked at Isobel, seated beside Minerva. “My dear, are you willing to act as lure again?”
“Yes—of course.” Isobel glanced at Honoria. “I assume we’re speaking of the St. Ives ball?”
Royd clenched his jaw and forced down the protest that, instinctively, had risen to his lips. The smoothness of their operation at last night’s ball should have been reassuring, yet his instincts—those prickling feelings he’d long ago learned not to ignore—were stirring, unhappily fermenting.
As discussions over repeating their ploy the following evening rolled on, he listened with half an ear while trying to identify the specific source of his unease. Yet he couldn’t see any reason Isobel behaving tomorrow evening as she had last night, surrounded—as it seemed she would be—by an even larger contingent of “guards,” should pose any greater danger than had been the case last night.
The only excuse he could advance for his lack of enthusiasm was a craven quibble that trying the same tack twice was akin to tempting Fate that critical one step too far.
As he listened to Isobel and heard her resolution—her determination to do all she could to ensure the backers were brought to justice—ring clearly in her tone, and saw his brothers and their ladies equally committed, then looked further and saw so many others ready and willing to stand with them, he could do nothing other than, by his silence, agree.
And so it was decided. As a group, they would attempt one last throw of the dice.
Isobel would wear the blue diamond necklace at what was expected to be the biggest crush of the season—the St. Ives’ ball tomorrow night. If they succeeded in identifying the remaining two backers, no further hurdle would stand in the way of, one way or another, seeing justice done.
If they failed to reel in the last two backers...they would be no worse off than they were now, but their ability to secure what had become the ultimate goal of the mission would remain under threat, their grasp on success uncertain, and likely to grow more tenuous with every passing day.
* * *
Royd and Isobel strolled back to Stanhope Street with the other three Frobisher couples.
They arrived to discover that Duncan had been taken out for a drive in the park by his grandmother and great-grandmother. Fergus, however, was waiting and insisted on being told the state of play. Edwina ordered tea and cakes, and the eight of them sat with the patriarch of the family and ran through the recent deliberations leading to their latest tack.
Edwina fixed her gaze measuringly on Isobel. “The second of your new gowns should have been delivered while we were at the meeting. We should go up and check that it will look as well with the diamonds as we’d thought.”
“That it will show them off as spectacularly as we’d hoped.” Aileen rose, bringing the others to their feet.
“Indeed.” Isobel threw an inviting glance at Kate.
Kate smiled and joined the exodus.
The instant the door shut behind the ladies, Declan stated, “These days, quiet moments have to be seized. I’m for the library.”
“I’ll come with you.” Robert followed Declan to the door.
Caleb looked at Royd. “You’ve heard of this picnic the ladies are organizing for next Monday?” When Royd nodded, Caleb went on, “I’ve been deputed to take the official invitation to the office for dissemination to our crews.” He pulled out a folded sheet and held it out. “If you approve, I’ll take it around there now—it’ll need one of us to authorize it.”
Royd took the sheet, opened it, and swiftly scanned the lines; Fergus read over his shoulder, snorted, and grinned. Royd handed the “invitation” back to Caleb. “It reads more like a summons, but I have no inclination to tamper.”
Caleb grinned, tucked the sheet away, saluted, and headed for the door.
Fergus tapped Royd’s arm. “Join me in the garden. I wouldn’t mind a stroll.”
Royd followed his father out into the rear garden. They ambled down the path, with him shortening his stride to match his father’s gait.
To Royd’s surprise, Fergus made no move to initiate a conversation; his father simply walked down the path, apparently noting and approving the greenery.
Eventually, entirely of its own accord, a question rose to his tongue. “How did you manage it with Mama?” He waved widely. “Letting her swan into danger? I assume she did so several times over the years she sailed with you.”
Fergus laughed. “Oh, indeed. Many times more than several. How did I cope?” His father turned his piercing gray gaze—a gaze Royd had inherited—on him. “Much as you are, I warrant.” Looking forward, Fergus added, “It’s not easy, but you have to hold it all in and just stand ready in case your fears come true. It’s the price we pay to have them by our sides, in our lives.”
Royd pulled a face and kept walking.
“Actually,” Fergus said a moment later, “I would think you, of us all, would have the easiest road. You’ve known Isobel for so long, and she always was fearless.”
“That was then,” he grumped. “This is now.”
“Unarguably, but the quality of fearlessness doesn’t change. Any more than her intellect, and that’s never been in doubt. No ninnyhammer there.”
“No.” After a moment more of studying the gravel, Royd sighed. “I know it’s me and not her—that it’s my reaction and I have to deal with it.”
Fergus chuckled. “If you understand that, you’re at the head of this class. Unless I miss my guess, Edwina is still bludgeoning that lesson into Declan’s hard head and will be for some time. If I understand what happened on his leg of the mission, Robert wasn’t given much choice, but he’ll still try to resist if he thinks he can get away with it—not that he will. Aileen will set him straight. As for Caleb...it appears he’s going to get off lightest. His Kate is much more amenable to being protected, but even there, as I take it she plans to sail with him often, I foresee he’ll be tested, too, but as we both know, and he’s so recently proved, Caleb can adjust to damn near anything and thrive.”
“Hmm. Speaking of which, I wanted to discuss a change in our roles.” Royd explained what he had in mind.
Fergus asked several pertinent questions, then gave his blessing. He halted and waved toward the house. “Let’s seize the chance while Caleb’s out to run this past Robert and Declan. Not that I think they’ll argue, but then we—you and I—can make the announcement at this picnic the ladies are planning.”
Royd returned with his father to the library and spent the next hours discussing the shipping business and, when Caleb returned, breaking the news of his new position to him.
“His reaction,” Royd told Isobel as, after a restful and reassuring evening, they walked down the corridor to the room they now shared, “was something to see. His legs literally gave out, and he collapsed in a chair.”
“He still thinks of himself as so much the youngest—the baby none of you realize has grown up.”
“I think what shocked him most was Declan’s and Robert’s patently sincere agreement.”
Isobel smiled. “This mission opened their eyes. Until then, I think only your parents and you—and me—saw Caleb as he truly could be. I don’t think even he truly comprehended his abilities, his strengths, not until this latest adventure.”
They reached the room two doors before theirs. Isobel opened the door and looked in. Royd looked over her shoulder.
Moonlight poured in, striking the carpet and shedding enough diffused light for them to make out the lump that was Duncan curled up in the big bed.
Still smiling, she closed the door. “Your mother and Iona wore him out. They took him to the Serpentine to feed the ducks, and they’re both perfectly content to encourage him to talk and question nonstop.”
Royd followed her into their room. “He’s learned a lot since leaving Aberdeen.”
As have I.
One of his major realizations was that secrets between them never ended well.
She walked to the dressing table and started unpinning her hair.
He shrugged off his coat and waistcoat, laid both aside, and started unraveling his cravat. Thinking.
“Help me with these laces.”
He dragged the cravat loose and glanced her way. Hands on her hips, her back to him, she stood before the dressing table. When he didn’t reply, she glanced over her shoulder.
That look—half sultry siren, half expectant innocent—would draw him until he died. He tossed the cravat to join his coat and walked to her.
She faced forward again. He set his fingers to her laces and tugged. He kept his eyes on the task.
“What is it?” Her tone suggested she was perfectly aware he was harboring some...inner turmoil.
As usual, she waited—teasing answers from him was one of the few occasions when her patience seemed limitless.
He dragged the last lace loose, and her gown gaped all the way down her slender back. He slipped his hands inside the garment; his fingers and palms against her silken skin, he slid his hands around to the front of her waist and drew her against him.
In the mirror, over her shoulder, he met her eyes.
He wanted to tell her, but getting the words out wasn’t easy. Closing his eyes, he drew in a breath, his chest swelling against the curves of her back. “I feel as if, after eight years of emptiness, I’ve only just got you back, just long enough to glimpse heaven again—my version of it, at least—and here I am happily or, as it happens, not at all happily risking you and everything between us, and all hope for our future, again.” He let his chin drop to her shoulder; from beneath his lashes, he watched her face in the mirror. “I know it’s what needs to be—that you need to do it, and all the reasons why—and yet...” He closed his eyes, fractionally shook his head.
Isobel heard the words he didn’t say; she felt the tension in him, through his body at her back, in his hands as they held her.
She slid her arms free of her sleeves and turned in his hold. Instantly, he straightened, raising his head and opening his eyes. She met his gaze, searched, and saw what he allowed her to see in the roiling gray. “What do you think I felt knowing you would lead the attack in the compound? That you would be the first of our men to drop inside an enemy-held perimeter? And that I could be nowhere near—not even within sight of you, let alone close enough to step in should anything unexpected occur...” Her eyes on his, she tilted her head. “Isn’t that the same thing?”
He held her gaze, then bluntly said, “It might be, but you’re a woman—you handle it better.”
She battled a laugh—as he’d intended; having brought up the subject and said his piece, he was intent on distracting her. When he tried to draw her in, she put a hand on his shirt-clad chest and held him back. “That might be so, but that wasn’t what I meant.” She waited until he stilled, until she could capture his gaze again. “What I meant was that you don’t need to hide this side of yourself from me—I understand what you feel because I feel the same. But doing the sorts of things we do—going into danger perhaps, but as far as possible with control in our hands—that’s a big part of us. Of both of us. It’s who we are and what we do—and that’s one of the links in the chains that bind us.”
She paused, trying to read his face, but seeing only that he was listening. “We shouldn’t—we can’t—limit ourselves, can’t turn aside from doing what we might when there’s a need. We can’t cut this out of ourselves—we’ll always be like this. But now we both can see it”—she tilted her head, her eyes still on his—“perhaps we can manage things better. Or, at the very least, with greater experience, the moments will become less...fraught.”
He studied her face for several heartbeats. “You’re saying we have to get used to this?”
When she nodded, he sighed. “That’s what I said—you’re better at that than I am.”
She laughed and reached for his face to draw his lips to hers.
He obliged and bent his head, but before their lashes lowered, he murmured, “Just for my record, tell me plainly—you’re not just willing but you actively want to play the lure again.”
His face framed between her palms, she held his gaze. “I want to do this. For the captives we freed, for those we didn’t, for all who helped us, for Kate, and yes, I want to do this for you and me. Tomorrow is our last roll of the dice—we need to let the wind fill our sails and see where chance takes us.”
When he sighed and fractionally nodded, curious now, she asked, “What if I’d said I wasn’t truly willing?”
His lids rose, and his eyes searched hers.
“I’m just curious. Would you have backed me then—supported me if I’d cravenly said no? Even if it meant we might fail to catch the backers?”
His gaze hardened; he frowned as if her question was close to idiotic. “If you didn’t want to do it, I’d whisk you away so fast your head would spin. Catching the backers is important to you, me, my family, an army of friends, the captives, and if Wolverstone and Melville have it right, the government and the country—but you, your safety, transcends all of that, at least for me. To me, you are paramount—keeping you safe...for me, there is no higher imperative.”
She wasn’t sure her heart, swelling so dramatically, would remain in her chest.
Any lingering niggle over setting aside her concerns over the quality of his love and instead letting herself be guided by hers for him had just cindered and blown away.
She smiled radiantly and knew her heart was in her eyes.
“What?” He was still frowning at her. “Did you think—”
She kissed him. Held his face firmly between her palms, planted her lips on his, and kissed him with an intent and a determination that flowed from her soul.
Enough of words; actions spoke louder.
Tonight, she wanted to be in charge—to take the reins and show him all he meant to her. To ensure he understood she valued all he was—all and everything that came with his love, even his bouts of overbearing overprotectiveness.
He, of course, had his own notion of who should script their play.
The result was an intimate wrestling match the likes of which neither had indulged in before.
Clothes flew, hands seized and grasped, palms caressed, and lips lingered hot and wet.
They finally reached the bed—and she won by tripping him and toppling him backward onto the coverlet, then diving atop him and quickly scrambling to sit astride...
Only to discover he’d sneakily led her on. That he’d plotted to be in this position all along, so he could see her and send his hands searing over every square inch of her skin, caressing, tantalizing, kneading. Possessing.
She tried to cling to supremacy, to return the favor at least, but in this sphere, he knew her far too well; he reduced her to gasping, throbbing need—to that state where her wits had flown and her senses whirled to a giddy beat and her pulse thundered in her veins.
Until passion roared, and desire raked her, and she sobbed with wanting.
And there was only one source of relief.
She rose up and, in one long gliding slide, took him in—and her world contracted to this. To him and her, joined physically and linked in every other way, together, naked on the fine sheets.
Eyes closed, her fingers linked with his, she used his support to rise up, and then slide slowly down again, repetitively impaling herself on him. Desire flicked, whip-like, and she shuddered. She used her inner muscles to hold and caress him, and felt every muscle in his long body harden in response.
She smiled. She kept her eyes closed, her fingers locked with his, and gave herself over to satisfying the demands of her body and his.
To taking them both up—refusing to let him hold back and observe, but demanding and commanding that he journey with her. In that, she’d learned how to get her way—how to sinuously sway and tense just there, slow and hold, and compel.
In the end, he surrendered, and they rode on together, both absorbed and caught, immersed in sensation, in the rhythmic, undulating slide of her body over and around his, only to pause here, then there, struck helpless by exquisite, excruciating pleasure, holding tight and still as they savored...until they breathed again and rode on.
Up, ever upward. Letting the tension coil steadily tighter, higher, until they were moving rapidly, fluidly, their breaths coming in pants, their skins flushed, slick and burning, their bodies striving as one in their desperate race for the peak, for the completion that beckoned, just out of reach.
The coil snapped, and they soared—high, higher—into the fire of their inner sun, a supernova of their senses.
Ecstasy hit them and stole their breaths. Had them both arching and tightening, gripping and clinging in desperation.
The rearing wave broke, roared over and into them. Filling them, easing them, flowing through them.
They sank back to earth, to the mortal plane.
To their thudding hearts, to the glory in their veins.
With pleasure, bone-deep, wreathing their souls, they eased apart just enough to find the sheets and settle themselves in each other’s arms.
She listened to the slowing thud of his heart. Sensed their mutual slide into oblivion.
Before they slid over the edge into that most blissful of seas, she found strength enough to say clearly, “You can never lose me because I’ll never let you go.”
His arms tightened about her. He raised his head and dropped a kiss on her forehead.
As sleep stole across her mind, she heard him say, “You’re mine, and I’m yours. And nothing in this world will ever change that.”