He had almost kissed her.
Standing right there in the middle of that lavish drawing room while she openly questioned his intentions and honor. If Miss Moore were a man, he’d have called her out. He might do it anyway, if only to rid himself of the temptation she presented. He was wildly attracted to her, and it was hard to look at her without imagining what it might be like to kiss her. To taste that soft, wide mouth, to explore the satin of her skin. To do that and so much more.
But Beatrice was still missing, and yet somehow he had allowed his body to lead, allowed himself to fantasize about his own base desires. His hands curled in his pocket around the letter and the ring. Maybe Miss Moore had been right in calling his honor into question. Because right now, his only focus should be on finding Bea.
As he passed Blackfriars Bridge and drew nearer to the Puddle Dock stairs, the stench from the Thames rolled up in damp waves over the banks and into the streets and alleys. The sunshine of the early morning had disappeared behind a heavy blanket of grey clouds and the wind had picked up, making him shiver beneath his coat. It hadn’t been too difficult to find the tavern—he’d had to ask only three watermen before the last had pointed him in the right direction. He turned down the crooked alley, spotting the building immediately. He glanced up at the tavern sign, creaking from its chains under the eaves, and frowned. The sign read Lion’s Paw, though the picture beneath it made what Max assumed to be the noble beast look more like a starving hyena.
He shrugged, pushed through the door, and ducked into the building. A welcome warmth enveloped him, along with the delicious smells of cooking meat. His stomach growled, and Max realized he hadn’t eaten anything since he’d shared a meal with a handful of his crew just after putting into port late yesterday afternoon.
He glanced around, taking in the sturdy tables and the well-swept floor. There were a few patrons already seated, bent over bowls of what looked like stew and generous chunks of bread. At the far end of the tavern, three dozen youths of indiscriminate age and dubious origins were wolfing down their own portions. A couple of heads popped up long enough to glance at Max, before dismissing him in favor of their food.
“Get you something?” asked a young girl with thick red hair pulled back off her face. “Beef stew today. Yesterday’s bread, but it’s still good for dipping. Best ale this side o’ the Channel.”
Max slid onto a bench. The serving girl couldn’t be much more than thirteen, but her untouched loveliness was startling, especially in a tavern such as this. A dimple appeared on her fair cheek as she smiled at him and waited expectantly for his order.
“Yes, please,” said Max, sliding a coin onto the table. “The stew and ale.”
The girl snatched up the coin and flounced away, returning in less than a minute with his meal and a large earthenware cup of ale. “Even got carrots in it,” she said as she placed the steaming bowl in front of him and departed, just as a draft of wind heralded another arrival.
Max tucked into his food, letting his eyes wander around the tavern, trying to formulate a plan. He’d yet to see any sign of the man called Gil who was the proprietor of the establishment, but he wasn’t leaving here until he’d gotten what he came for. If this man had had in his possession a letter that had a connection to his sister, Max was going to get some answers.
A bell suddenly dinged somewhere in the back of the tavern, and one of the youths sitting at the far end popped up like a jack-in-the-box.
“Not your turn,” one of the others still seated complained.
“Is too. An’ you know it.” The youth shoved what was left of his bread in his mouth as he left the table.
The others watched him go with what looked like envy as he disappeared through the same doorway the serving girl had emerged from. A moment later he reappeared, pulling a ragged hat from the pocket of his threadbare coat. He marched through the tavern and vanished through the front door without a backward glance.
Max eyed the door leading to the back of the tavern. Downing the last of his ale, he rose and made his way toward the rear.
The young serving girl slid neatly into his way as he approached the door. “You need more food?” she asked, effectively blocking his way. He’d have to shove past her to gain access. And he might yet.
Max shook his head. “I need to speak with Gil.”
This did not seem to surprise her. “Gil expectin’ you?”
“No.”
“Who’s askin’?”
Max considered his response. “Captain Harcourt.”
The girl’s expression didn’t alter. “Business or pleasure?”
Max blinked. What the hell did that mean? What sort of pleasure would he seek with a man who owned a tavern? “Business.”
“Wait here.”
Max was left standing near the end of the tavern, a dozen pairs of eyes now trained on his back. He turned slowly, and all eyes dropped.
“Can I help you?”
Max spun back again to find a petite woman, with the same lustrous red hair and fair complexion as the serving girl, leaning against the doorframe with a calculated nonchalance. Sharp green eyes raked him from head to toe as if evaluating a potential threat. Her hands were in the pockets of a bulky apron, but even the apron wasn’t enough to conceal her voluptuous figure. She put Max in mind of a beautiful viper that just might strike without warning.
“I was looking for Gil.”
“You found her. What can I assist you with, Captain Harcourt?”
Max tried to hide his surprise, though he clearly failed. The woman named Gil smirked.
Business or pleasure, indeed.
“A boy working for you delivered a message to my house this morning,” he said. “That message originated here.”
The woman shrugged. “Oh?”
“I wish to know who sent it.”
Gil laughed softly, as if this were humorous. “I brew ale and provide meals to paying customers, Captain. That’s all.”
“You’re not a very good liar.”
“You wound me.”
“I am not in the mood for games. I need information. My sister is missing.”
“I am sorry to hear that. Would you like to leave a description? Perhaps I can send word if I see her.”
Max shifted. “Name your price.”
Gil pushed herself away from the doorframe. “I don’t have a price, Captain, because I don’t have an answer.” The humor had faded from her eyes. Her gaze traveled the length of him, as if assessing anew what she saw. “But the boy you say delivered your message. Can I expect him back?”
Max met her gaze without flinching. “No.” She could make of that what she would.
“Then, Captain, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
Suddenly Max was aware that the barrel of a dueling pistol was pointed squarely at the center of his chest. He was losing his edge. The woman had had it concealed in her apron the entire time, and he had been oblivious. Bloody hell.
He debated his options. He was reasonably sure he could disarm her before she shot him. He was less sure she wouldn’t wing either him or one of the other patrons in the process.
“I asked you to leave, Captain.” Her expression was cold and detached now, as if she were idly contemplating what color his blood might be when it splattered all over her neat, whitewashed walls.
“For the love of God, Gilda, don’t shoot him.”
Max closed his eyes.
Gilda’s gaze slid past Max, and her eyes crinkled at the corners, her mouth turning up in renewed amusement. “Well, if it isn’t the duchess.” She paused, her eyes coming back to rest on him. “Why can’t I shoot him?”
“Because he’s my client.”
A red brow arched. “My condolences.”
“Thank you.”
Max gritted his teeth and turned to find Miss Moore standing behind him, brushing beads of dampness from her cloak. “What are you doing here?” he hissed.
“Aside from making sure you don’t end up with a hole through your miserable hide? Having a cup of ale, I should think. Best ale this side of the Channel, you know.” She smiled cheerfully at him, smoothing back the damp tendrils of hair that had sprung from her braid.
“You’d be best not to let this one off the leash,” the redheaded woman commented, tucking the pistol into her apron strings and gesturing for the young girl to fetch more ale. “All the finesse of a Smithfield bull let loose in a china shop, this one.”
Max felt his jaw slacken. “I am standing right here. I can hear you.”
“Good,” Miss Moore said primly. “Maybe if you do more listening, it will reduce the chance of you getting shot again.”
Gil’s green eyes suddenly lit up. “Hello, Roddy. I didn’t see you there.” Max suddenly became aware of the boy’s presence behind Miss Moore.
“Good day, Miz Gil,” Roddy replied.
“The duchess treating you well?” Gil winked at Miss Moore, and Max wondered at the strange nickname.
“Very, Miz Gil.” Roddy grinned at the tavern keeper before drifting in the direction of the youths still watching. He was greeted by name by at least three.
Gilda suddenly swung toward Miss Moore. “Don’t tell me you hired Seth too,” she said.
“I didn’t,” Miss Moore said.
A pair of stricken eyes widened, then narrowed dangerously at Max. Gil’s hand started to drift to the weapon at her hip.
“He did.” Miss Moore jabbed a thumb in his direction.
“What?” Gil looked between them in confusion.
“The good captain here hired Seth on as a carpenter’s servant.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because I need a new one.”
“What happened to your last one?”
“He got promoted. He’s the carpenter’s second mate now.”
Gil gave Max a long look. “And what did you offer him that made him leave his current job?” she asked suspiciously.
“An elephant,” Max replied.
“An elephant,” she repeated, clearly perplexed.
“Among other things,” he added.
Gil turned to Miss Moore. “And Seth will be well treated at the hands of your captain here?”
It was Miss Moore’s turn to give him a long look. “Yes,” she said, and Max felt an inexplicable rush of pleasure at her faith.
Gil shook her head before turning back to Miss Moore. “You have to stop taking my best ones, Duchess,” she complained, though without venom. “I only had Seth two weeks.”
Miss Moore was saved from having to respond by the arrival of more cups of ale. Gil turned to help the girl, and Miss Moore yanked him to her side.
“I need you to wait outside,” she murmured into his ear.
“Hell no.”
“Your presence here is helping no one, least of all your sister.”
“I’m not leaving. That woman knows something.”
Miss Moore closed her eyes, and it looked as though she was counting something in her head. “Of course she knows something,” she sighed, opening her eyes. “And she’s not going to tell you. Gilda has not survived as long as she has by allowing herself to be intimidated by obnoxious sea captains. I think she made that clear, what with the pistol stuck in your face.”
Max seethed. “I’m not obnoxious. And I’m not leaving.”
Miss Moore said something terrifically vile under her breath. “Then for all that is holy, Your Grace, keep your mouth shut for the next five minutes. Understand?”
Max was so shocked by her vehemence that all he could do was nod.
“Look,” Miss Moore said, making an effort to sound more conciliatory. “I don’t presume to tell you how to manage your ships or your business. I would appreciate the same consideration when it comes to mine. Is that fair?”
There was no way to argue with that reasoning. “Why are you helping me?”
“You mean now, after you dismissed me like an errant page boy?” The conciliatory note slipped.
Max might have winced. “Yes.”
“Honestly, I have no idea.”
Both women slid onto a bench, far away from prying ears, and Max followed suit, sliding in beside Miss Moore, unwilling to sit next to a loaded pistol and unwilling to be left standing awkwardly by the table.
Miss Moore took a long draught of her ale and nodded appreciatively. “A good batch.”
“They’re all good,” Gil snorted.
“True.”
“You didn’t come to compliment me on my ale.”
“No.”
Max was fully aware he had been relegated to the role of spectator. He chafed and shifted, his thigh brushing Miss Moore’s. She ignored him.
“You’re here looking for a girl.” Gil’s eyes slid to Max. “His sister.”
Miss Moore’s beautiful mouth turned down in displeasure, and she slanted him a sharp look. “He told you.”
“Yes. About the same time he implied Seth had met an unfortunate end. He should choose his words with more care next time.”
Miss Moore sighed. “The captain is distraught. His sister is missing.”
Distraught? Distraught! Max came halfway out of his seat. She was making him sound like a fragile, swooning maiden.
Under the table Miss Moore’s hand came down on his knee, her fingers biting through the fabric of his breeches. He sat back down with a thump. Gil smirked again.
“I need to know who sent that message,” Miss Moore said evenly.
Gil shrugged. “There’s no way of being certain. You know that. I wouldn’t have a business if I couldn’t guarantee anonymity and confidentiality.”
Max frowned. None of this was making sense. And Miss Moore’s hand on his knee was becoming all he could concentrate on. Her grip had relaxed, and the heat that was trapped between her palm and his leg was sending all sorts of impure thoughts to fog his brain.
“Doesn’t mean no one saw.”
The redhead shrugged again. “Maybe.”
“I would be in your debt.”
Gilda leaned back from the table, a gleam in her eye. “A fine offer if I ever heard one.”
“I’ll not offer again.”
“Very well, Duchess. Collette was working last night. I leave the back door open for her to come in and warm up from time to time. Can’t say for sure that she saw anything, though.”
“Thank you.”
Gil tipped her cup and swallowed the last of her ale. “Pleasure doing business, as always, Duchess.” She stood, straightening her apron, and wandered to the other side of the tavern, collecting used crockery and plates as she went.
Max reached down and covered Miss Moore’s hand where it still rested on his leg, lifting her fingers slightly. If he was going to be able to think clearly, Miss Moore could not be touching him. She snatched her hand out from under his, and he was gratified to see a pink stain climb into her cheeks.
“‘Distraught’?” he growled at her, trying to establish some distance.
“Would you have preferred foolish?”
Max exhaled. This was better. He felt safer behind battle lines.
“Why can’t she tell you who paid her to have that message sent to me?” He gestured at the youths, who were starting to drift away from the table. “And who is Collette?”
Miss Moore looked at him for a moment before rising, pulling her coat more closely around her. “Follow me.”
* * *
Ivory ducked under the low lintel and wove her way through the back room, where kegs of ale were stacked to the ceiling and a wood fire glowed in a large hearth. A medieval-looking cauldron full of stew hung over the heat, simmering. A wooden tub of greasy bowls sat on the floor, a tabby mouser licking the spoils off the edge of the nearest one. The cat gave Ivory a baleful glare as she passed, but didn’t budge. There were no windows in this back room, making the light dim, and when Ivory stopped, the duke ran into her back. By reflex he caught her shoulders to keep her from falling, but she twitched out of his grasp as though he had pressed hot coals to her skin.
Another blush threatened. She’d thought to keep him from folly when she’d shoved her hand on his knee under the table, but it had been clear the folly was all hers. Beneath the fabric of his clothing, she’d felt the power of him, muscles like steel flexing under her hand. The desire to explore the rest of his body was threatening both her sanity and her professionalism.
“This is why Gil cannot identify the person who sent you that message,” Ivory said, taking another step back for good measure. She gestured to a heavy iron box mounted to the wall near the back door. The top of the box was hinged, but the lid was secured by an oiled padlock.
She pushed open the back door, was suddenly engulfed in a blast of chilled air, and stepped into a deserted, narrow lane. There were empty barrels stacked along one side of the wall, waiting to be collected, along with a number of broken crates containing refuse. On the other side of the door, however, in the spot where the iron box was bolted onto the interior wall, a narrow slit had been cut into the rough exterior.
“It’s a depository,” Ivory told the duke. “Messages can be dropped here anonymously. They must be wrapped with two shillings and have a clear address on the front. Only Gil has the key. She retrieves them—”
“—and sends boys like Seth out to deliver them.” His voice was flat, and she couldn’t tell what he was thinking.
“Yes. One coin is for the messenger, while Gil takes the other.” Ivory paused. “Though I suspect a good portion of Gil’s earnings are eaten by her messengers.”
“A paragon of virtue.” The sarcasm was sharp.
“No,” Ivory said. “You’d be a fool to believe that. But she does what she can.”
“Your boy—Roddy—he used to work for her?”
“Yes. He’s talking to the rest of the messengers right now. If any of them know something, he’ll find out, though it’s doubtful. The system works incredibly well.”
“Who the hell needs to send messages anonymously?”
“Besides your sister?”
The duke scowled.
“People who don’t want to be found, Your Grace. People who don’t want things traced back to them.” Ivory gestured around her. The walls of the buildings on the other side of the alley stared blankly back at her. Looking to her right toward the end of the alley, she could just make out the grey surface of the Thames. On the other end, daily traffic passed blindly by as people went hurriedly about their business.
The duke was looking at her strangely. “Like you?”
She met his eyes unapologetically. “Sometimes.”
“But why would Beatrice need to do that? Hide behind anonymity?”
Ivory avoided his gaze and started up the alley toward the street. “Have you ever considered that your sister doesn’t want you looking for her?”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it really?”
“Yes, it is. My sister is young. She has her whole life ahead of her. Between her title, her beauty, and, if I may be so vulgar, the dowry that my fortune will provide, Bea will have her choice of husbands. She will marry well and become an important part of society.”
Ivory sighed.
“Are you disagreeing with me, Miss Moore?”
Ivory stopped and looked up at him. “Is it possible that your sister might not wish to carry on as everyone expects, and marry as everyone expects, and become the perfect society wife as everyone expects? Is it possible that she may be running away from a life she never wanted?” Elise had told her that nothing had been missing from Beatrice’s rooms that might be pawned for quick coin, but that didn’t mean that the girl hadn’t been secretly squirreling away pin money for a long time. For all Ivory knew, Beatrice could have enough coin on hand to flee London. Or to flee England altogether.
“What are you implying?” Alderidge had his hackles up again. “That I somehow failed to provide for her? Though I may not have been home often, I can assure you she had the best tutors, the best instructors, the best clothing. She’s had music lessons, painting lessons, riding lessons, dancing lessons. She’s never wanted for anything. Ever.”
The duke was missing the point entirely. Ivory asked a different question. “Is it possible that she might be seeking something different out of life? Something beyond material needs?”
“Like what?”
Ivory stared at him and jabbed a finger at the lapel of his coat. “You tell me, Captain. You’re a peer who has chosen a far different life than is expected of a man with the title of duke. You don’t seem overly interested in selecting a bride and settling into a predictable life of comfort, the passage of time marked by annual balls, games of cards at your club, a good bottle of brandy, or the occasional shooting party at a country home.”
Alderidge shuddered. “That may be true, Miss Moore, but I don’t see what my lifestyle has to do with Bea’s.”
“Maybe she too would like to discover what may lie just beyond the next horizon. Maybe she too craves the same life of adventure that she thinks her brother has.”
Alderidge’s face was a mask of stony horror.
Finally.
“She’s asked you to take her to India, hasn’t she?” Ivory asked softly.
“Many times,” he croaked. “How did you know that?”
“I guessed,” she admitted.
“But I explained to her why it was impossible. Just the journey alone is perilous. And then there are diseases and all manner of danger in such a place. I would never put Bea’s life at risk like that.”
“Yet you put your life in danger all the time.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“Because—” The duke stopped, his icy grey eyes locked on hers.
“Because you are a man? Because you are free to make your own choices?”
“I— That’s not—” Alderidge stopped. “You’re twisting my words.”
“I’m not twisting anything, Your Grace. I’m merely suggesting that your sister may have made her own choices and struck out on her own.”
“But why would she do that?”
Ivory sighed, realizing the conversation was now going in circles. She started walking again.
“She never said she was unhappy,” the duke said, almost desperately, hurrying behind her.
“I think she did, but you just didn’t hear her. Why do you suppose your sister wanted to go to India?”
Alderidge fell silent, only the sounds of their boots slapping against the wet muck on the pavement breaking the quiet.
“I don’t know.” They had reached the end of the alley and the sounds of humanity and hooves and creaking equipages were constant now.
Ivory turned, catching Alderidge’s sleeve. “Once we find her, I suggest you ask her.”
The duke only nodded, suddenly looking exhausted.
She almost reached up to touch a hand to his face to smooth away the lines of worry that were carved deep into his features. She imagined herself going up on her tiptoes to catch his lips with her own, to make him forget his troubles, if only for a brief moment. How long had it been since she had wanted to offer a man such a simple gesture? How long had it been since she had admitted to herself that such a simple gesture was not simple at all? That it was only the start of darker, deeper desires?
Ivory pulled her hand away from his sleeve and shoved it safely beneath her cloak. She was fully aware she was walking on very thin ice. Her reputation, her very livelihood depended on her success. And if she wanted to preserve any of that, her only priority should be finding the Lady Beatrice.
And not imagining kissing Maximus Harcourt.
* * *
She found Collette in the doorway of St Timothy’s Church, barely a stone’s throw from the alley. The small building could hardly be described as a church, lacking any soaring stonework and instead boasting listing, rotting beams and a collection of kind clergymen who did their best to aid those who came seeking shelter.
The woman might have been beautiful once, but years of living on the streets had exacted a heavy price. Her dark-blond hair was thin, as was her face. Dark circles ringed tired, faded eyes. Collette was crouched at the top of worn wooden steps, a tin mug of steaming broth in her hands and a vacant expression on her face. A few others were scurrying away, protecting their own tins, as if afraid Ivory had come to steal their meager nourishment.
“Good day, Collette,” Ivory said, making her way up the stairs. She was aware of the duke on her heels, his presence impossible to ignore. The vulnerable worry he had worn so recently on his face had been replaced by a hard, remote severity, making it easier for Ivory to concentrate on business.
Collette’s eyes shifted and focused slowly on Ivory. “Duchess.” She smiled in welcome, keeping her lips carefully pressed together so as not to expose the fact that she had very few teeth left. “Been a long time.”
“Is the soup good today?” Ivory asked, glancing at the door of the church. On most afternoons the church served a hot broth, but some days it wasn’t much more than thinly flavored water.
“Got some turnips in it today.” Another tight-lipped smile. “Would you like some?” She offered her tin, shivering under her threadbare cloak.
“No, thank you,” Ivory said gently, coming to crouch next to the woman. “But I might have a bit of business for you.”
Interest sparked in Collette’s jaded eyes before they lifted to peruse the duke where he stood stiffly, waiting. “He don’t look like the type to pay for a midday tumble. In fact, he don’t much look like the type that pays for any sort of tumble. Though sometimes it’s hard to tell.”
Ivory suppressed the urge to glance back at Alderidge, if only to see if his jaw was clenched as hard as she suspected. “Not that sort of business. Information.”
“Ah. He your client then?”
“Yes.”
“My condolences.”
A giggle escaped Ivory, taking her by surprise. “Gil said the same when she almost shot him.”
“That would’ve been a shameful waste. Did she swive him first?”
Ivory grinned again, though she couldn’t stop the heat that was climbing into her cheeks. “No. But Gil also said you were working last night. Behind the Lion’s Paw.”
“Might have been.” Her reply was guarded.
“Someone dropped off a message early this morning. Probably around three or four o’clock.”
Collette gazed into her tin. “It was dark.” She pulled her thin cloak around her more tightly with her free hand.
Ivory drew out a small purse of coins and pressed them into Collette’s hand.
The streetwalker raised her head. “But there was a moon, of course.”
Ivory made a sound of encouragement.
“A gentleman,” Collette said. “Dark coat, scarf, hat, silver-tipped walking stick. Couldn’t see his face, on account of the scarf, though. Average in build. Came from this end of the alley, left the same way. Looked mighty pleased. He was humming to himself.”
“Humming what?” Alderidge spoke up from behind Ivory.
Collette shrugged. “Don’t know. But it sounded nice.” She began to hum with a surprisingly strong, pretty tone, and it took Ivory a few moments to identify it.
“‘V’adoro, pupille,’” Ivory said. “From Handel’s Giulio Cesare.”
Collette looked at her blankly.
Ivory sang the opening of the aria softly, remembering the rise and fall of the notes. It was a shame, really, that Giulio Cesare had become a nearly obscure piece, having long since given way to more popular operas.
“Yes.” Collette was smiling again, and Ivory was aware that the duke was staring at her. “Do you think you could sing—”
“Maybe another time,” Ivory interrupted softly. “Anything else you can remember?”
“When I asked him if he wanted to keep his good mood rolling, he told me to sod off—that he had all he needed waiting at home for him,” Collette scoffed.
“Did you see if he had a carriage? Or a horse?”
“He was on foot. Whatever he was traveling in would been left up on the road here. I never saw anything.”
“Did you see a woman with him? She might have been blond?”
“No. He was by himself.”
“What about a lady by herself?” It was the duke who asked.
Collette scoffed. “No lady foolish enough to come down here at night on her own. Never saw no lady. Last night or any other.”
A silence fell, and when it was clear the woman had nothing else to offer, Ivory stood. “Thank you.”
Collette nodded, and the purse disappeared under her cloak. “Always a pleasure, Duchess.”
“I don’t suppose I can convince you to come back with me for a night or two?” Ivory asked carefully. “Just in case you remember something else, of course.”
Collette’s lips thinned, and her chin rose, as if she saw right through Ivory’s words. “Doing just fine on my own.”
Ivory sighed inwardly. One day Collette would surprise her and say yes. She pulled at the ties of her woolen cloak and swung it over the thin woman’s shoulders, not giving her a chance to refuse.
“Don’t need your charity,” Collette protested, though it was halfhearted.
“Not charity,” Ivory assured her. “Part of your payment. Besides, my client here has promised me a new velvet cloak trimmed in satin and ermine when I find what he is looking for.”
Collette looked up suspiciously at Alderidge.
“Blue velvet,” he said behind Ivory, not missing a beat. “Though it is to be trimmed with fox and not ermine. It’s warmer, and I am rather partial to function as well as beauty.”
The streetwalker turned back to Ivory and gave her a long, speculative look.
Ivory willed herself not to blush. “Thank you again, Collette.”
The woman raised her tin of soup, and Ivory retreated back down the church stairs, her arms wrapped around her waist against the cold. She’d barely made it two steps back in the direction of the Lion’s Paw when a blissful heat enfolded her.
Alderidge swung around to stand in front of her, tugging the lapels of his greatcoat gently together across her shoulders.
“What are you doing?” Ivory asked, startled.
“Baking a cake.”
She stared at him.
“What the hell does it look like I’m doing? You’ll freeze to death wandering around in a dress in the middle of winter.” He pushed a stray strand of hair from the side of her face and pulled the collar of the coat up around her ears.
Ivory stopped breathing. “But—”
“If you freeze to death, it will take me much longer to find Bea,” he cut her off gruffly.
And if she couldn’t remember to breathe, she might suffocate before she froze to death.
“But I can’t wear your coat,” she finally managed.
“You’re already wearing it. I regret that it is not blue velvet with ermine trim.”
“Yes, but—”
“Do you think you could simply say thank you and not argue?”
Ivory blinked. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He was looking down at her, a strange smile on his face.
Ivory slid her hands against the interior of the coat, wrapping it as close to her body as she could. The unfamiliar lining slid against the skin of her shoulders. She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath, the scent of wool, salt, and something exotic filling her nose. It was like having the duke wrapped around her, she thought, with his heat and his touch and his scent. Just that thought set her skin on fire, her nipples hardening beneath her bodice where her breasts rubbed against the heavy coat. She wasn’t cold any longer. Instead she was fevered, her mouth dry and her body throbbing.
Bloody hell, but she was in trouble.
Once upon a time, she had been one of the most desired women in London. Men had vied to possess her. They’d sought to buy her favor with flowers and perfumes, poetry and jewelry. They’d offered her expensive homes, obscene allowances, and silk and satin clothing fit for a princess. And though she was sometimes forced to accept some of these gifts in order to survive, none of it had interested her.
But here, standing in the middle of a dirty London street, she had just been thoroughly, completely, irrevocably seduced by a worn, salt-stained greatcoat. Ivory swallowed with difficulty, knowing that if the Duke of Alderidge so desired, he could push her back up against the church wall and have his way with her right here, right now. And she would, undoubtedly, enjoy every second.
Except he had no interest in possessing her. Nor had he sought to seduce her.
And maybe it was that knowledge that had her so captivated. So tempted. What Alderidge had done just now had been an act of kindness. It had not been a ploy to secure her preference or her company for the night. His only interest in her was in her ability to help him find his missing sister.
And she would do well to remember that he was a client who had come to her for help, not for a tumble, as Collette had so delicately put it. Ivory had spent years cultivating a reputation as the best at what she did, and being the best required her to be professional at all times. Yet somehow, when it came to the Duke of Alderidge, all it took was a simple act of kindness to make her want to throw all that into the wind for a fleeting taste of this man.
“Are you all right?”
Ivory’s eyes snapped open to find the duke watching her, his expression unreadable.
“I was just…” She trailed off, second-guessing the wisdom of what she had been going to say.
“You were just what?” He was close enough for her to see the blond tips of his lashes, the jagged edges of the scar that ran across his forehead near his hairline. Close enough to study the way his lower lip tightened as he watched her and imagine what it would feel like to run her tongue along its edge—
“Miss Moore? You were just what?” he repeated.
“Surprised. Most people don’t do me favors without expecting something in return.” She hated the words the second they were out. They made her sound like a petulant child. Or worse, weak.
Those incredible grey eyes darkened again. “Do not make the mistake of labeling me ‘most people,’ Miss Moore,” he said.
Ivory couldn’t look away.
“So it was a gentleman,” he said abruptly.
It took Ivory a second to get her bearings.
“That proves that my sister did not deliver that message,” he prodded.
“True,” she said, grasping at her wits and his statement with alacrity. It was much easier to deal with this man when he was abrupt.
And not gentle and kind.
“But it doesn’t prove she didn’t write it and have someone deliver it for her. And I’m afraid that Collette’s description will not be helpful in identifying the individual. Who she described could have been any of a thousand gentlemen in London.”
“Just a ray of optimism, aren’t you?” Alderidge grumbled.
“You did not hire me to be optimistic,” Ivory replied. “You hired me to be logical.”
“Then logically, Miss Moore, is it not obvious to you that Bea’s been kidnapped? The man said he had everything he needed at home. Whoever he was, he must be holding Bea prisoner in his house.”
Ivory’s nostrils flared. “Or alternatively, Captain Conspiracy, the gentleman is a faithful husband and was referring to his wife.”
His eyes slitted. “I do not appreciate being mocked.”
Ivory met his gaze evenly. “Again, we have no evidence to suggest that your sister has been kidnapped. What we do have evidence of is that this unidentified gentleman knows your sister, though in what context, I cannot guess. He may be a friend, someone she trusts and someone who is helping her. At the very least, he seems to have her best interests at heart. Otherwise we’d be reading about the scene last night in the Times right now. We must not discount the possibility that the gentleman could also be her lov—”
“No.”
Ivory rolled her eyes. They were getting nowhere. She began shrugging out of the duke’s coat. “Go home, Your Grace. The both of us standing here in the middle of the street accomplishes nothing. Be assured I will not rest until I am satisfied with the outcome. I still have people watching and asking questions. I will send word immediately if I discover anything else.”
Alderidge yanked the lapels of his coat back around her, his hands resting just below her chin. “Keep the coat on. And you can’t send me home like a disobedient child.”
Ivory blew out a breath of exasperation. “Then do as you wish, Your Grace. But make sure that whatever you do, it isn’t out of the ordinary—”
“Hullooo! Your Grace!” The enthusiastic shout came from behind Ivory. The duke dropped his hands and turned. Over his shoulder Ivory could make out a well-dressed man leaning out of the door of a carriage that had stopped in the middle of the street.
Alderidge swore under his breath before returning the man’s wave of greeting.
Ivory was already edging away, unwilling to give this stranger any reason to ask Alderidge awkward questions about his companion.
The duke turned back to her. “Where are you going—”
“I say, Your Grace, why have you not got a coat on?” the man in the carriage shouted. “You’ll catch your death! You’re in England, not India, in case you’ve forgotten.” Laughter at his own jest drifted across the street. “Come, let me give you a ride.”
The duke turned back toward the waiting carriage and said something Ivory couldn’t make out. She wasted no time darting into the nearest alley, and by the time Alderidge turned back, she was long gone.
* * *
The Earl of Barlow beamed at Max as he sat opposite him in his carriage. As much as Max wasn’t in the mood for idle small talk, he couldn’t argue that the carriage at least provided a reprieve from the cold winds that blustered outside. Since he no longer had his coat. Since Miss Moore had vanished in front of him.
He shifted, not pleased with the ache that had settled in his chest, nor the one that had settled in his groin. The sight of Miss Moore wrapped in his coat had been disturbingly intoxicating. What he’d intended as a simple act of chivalry was inspiring all sorts of lustful imaginings, far beyond what a woman wrapped in a coat ever should. He pictured Miss Moore wrapped in one of his shirts, wrapped in his sheets. Wrapped in him—
“What good fortune, happening upon you just now,” Barlow said happily. “Too cold to walk anywhere today. Especially dressed as you are.” His forehead crinkled. “What were you doing down here?”
Max frowned at the bumbling intrusion on his privacy. “A trifling business matter. Nothing more.”
“I see. Was that a woman you gave your coat to?”
Max’s frown deepened. So Barlow had seen that. He wasn’t particularly pleased with that either.
“Yes.” He kept his answer short, unwilling to discuss anything that had to do with Miss Moore or why he had been standing in a London street with her.
“Was she an acquaintance of yours?” Barlow asked curiously.
“No.” The answer was out before he had time to consider it. “Just a woman down on her luck who needed a coat more than I.”
“How magnanimous!” Barlow exclaimed with delighted approval. “More gentlemen should aspire to such goodwill.”
It was not lost on Max that he had given his coat to a woman who had first given her own cloak away without a second thought. “Indeed they should,” he murmured.
“Perhaps you might wish to make a stop along Bond Street, Your Grace?” Barlow suggested with a great deal of animation. “I know a wonderful shop where you might purchase a fabulous new coat. Such fabrics and finishings! I recommend that you demand ivory buttons—”
“I have another coat,” Max said, his head already beginning to pound. “But thank you,” he added hastily.
Barlow looked deflated for a brief second before he sat up again. “I must offer my condolences,” he said, his voice dropping to almost a whisper, as though someone might hear them.
Max almost snorted at the mention of the word condolences.
“A terrible thing, last night. So unexpected. And in your own house, no less.”
For one horrifying moment, a vision of the scene in Bea’s bedroom flashed through his mind, before he remembered that Barlow had no way of knowing what had really happened.
“Indeed.” Max was abrupt.
“And to think that you were the last one to see the earl before he breathed his last.” Barlow sucked in a breath of air through his teeth. “One can never take anything for granted, certainly not the time one has on this earth.”
“Indeed.”
“I must ask how Lady Beatrice is faring amid all this misfortune.” Barlow’s face was a portrait of concern.
Max could feel his body tense. “My sister was most distraught,” he said, borrowing Miss Moore’s word.
“Of course. Any lady would be incapacitated with shock and grief.”
Unless her name was Miss Moore, Max thought grimly. Then she managed corpses tied with silk ribbon the way most women managed their daily shopping lists.
Barlow shifted against the squabs. “About Lady Beatrice—”
“My sister is not in town at the moment,” Max interrupted before he had to fend off more invitations to theaters or museums or exhibits.
Barlow blinked owlishly at him. “Then where is she?”
“In the country,” Max said vaguely. “Recovering.”
“Oh. Of course. And when do you expect her back?”
“I don’t know,” Max said, wishing he could escape the confines of the carriage immediately, coat or no coat. The man’s good intentions were starting to wear and the pounding in his head was increasing. The truth was, he barely knew Barlow and had no interest in getting to know him further. He reached for his watch, only to realize it was in the pocket of his coat. On Miss Moore. As were the letter and Bea’s ring.
Dammit.
The carriage slowed, and Max pulled the curtain back, relieved to see that they were almost in front of his home.
“I thank you for your kindness, Barlow,” Max said, trying not to appear too eager to get out of the equipage. “But I must be hurrying on.”
“Of course, of course,” Barlow said. “Perhaps, Your Grace, if you have a moment, there is a matter of business I’d like to discuss with you—”
“Can you stop by tomorrow?” Max asked, desperate to get away from the earl.
“Absolutely,” Barlow said with a toothy smile. “Would noon be suitable?”
“Yes, yes.” Max would have agreed to anything. He snapped the door shut and almost sprinted across the street and up the stairs to his town house.
He yanked open the door and ducked inside, then closed it and leaned against the cool surface. Letting his eyes drift shut with weary exhaustion. He wasn’t going to be able to do this. Pretend that everything was fine and perfect when men like Barlow trapped him in conversation.
He would be expected to show up at a few clubs while he was in London. He would certainly be meeting with a number of company men to talk numbers and shipping and contracts for the coming season. He had holds to provision, men to pay, cargo to load, bills to review, ships to repair. How was he supposed to do all of this when his sister was simply…gone? When the woman who was supposed to help him find her was somehow turning into a temptation he no longer wished to resist?
When he didn’t have the first clue what to do about any of it?
“Have you found her?” Helen’s voice cut across the silence.
Max opened his eyes. “Not yet,” he said dully. The pounding in his head was not improving.
His aunt was standing in the hall, dressed immaculately as usual, though her hands were clasped together as if in prayer. At his answer she made a noise of distress and wobbled.
Max went immediately to her side and guided her into the drawing room, where he seated her on a long settee.
“Where is she?” Helen asked, though Max knew she wasn’t expecting an answer.
There was an untouched tea service arranged on an end table, and Max poured and pressed a cup of tea into her thin hands. He wandered over to the door and closed it firmly. He sat down on the other end of the settee and regarded his aunt.
“Was Beatrice unhappy here?” he asked with no preamble.
Helen’s fingers tightened on the handle of her cup and her saucer clattered. “Who told you she was unhappy?”
“No one,” Max said with resignation, knowing he sounded like Miss Moore, but needing to ask the question anyway. “But I can’t not consider the possibility that Beatrice has…left.”
“You mean run away? Like an ill-bred country girl yearning for a big-city adventure?” Helen’s voice was harsh.
Max sighed. He would keep the message he’d received to himself until he knew something more. Telling Helen that he had received a message suggesting Bea might very well have fled would only serve to upset her more.
“She wanted for nothing,” Helen whispered. “I made sure of that.”
“We both did. But maybe I failed to give her what she needed most.” There, he had said it. Had said what had been pressing on his conscience ever since he walked into Beatrice’s room last night.
“Beatrice worshipped you,” Helen said, putting her teacup aside.
“Beatrice didn’t even know me.”
His aunt stood and retrieved a pretty wooden box, whimsical birds carved across its surface. Max recognized it immediately as a gift he had sent to her from Bombay. She brought it to Max, placed it in his lap, and resumed her seat.
“What is this?” Max asked.
“Every letter you ever sent her. She kept every one. And for each one you wrote, she wrote you four.”
“I know.” Sometimes he would find a dozen letters waiting for him at the offices in Bombay or Calcutta, brought to port by another ship.
Very slowly he opened the box, finding a stack of worn letters, the paper soft from constant handling. On the top of the pile, a pretty pink seashell rested.
“She knew you through your letters. Through your tales of adventure.”
Except his tales of adventure were often just that. Tales. He never wrote of yellow fever. Or cholera. Or any of the other diseases that ran rampant and felled men like flies. He never wrote of wounds that festered and seethed until they drove a soul to madness before taking his life. He never wrote of the men who waited, just as eager to kill for a chance at taking a purse as for a chance at taking an entire ship.
“Still, I think we both know that she needed her brother. Not a pile of stories.” There was accusation in Helen’s words.
“She had you,” Max said, a heaviness settling in his gut.
“And it would seem I wasn’t enough.” Helen shook her head. “She’s all I have. I’m so afraid—”
“She’ll be fine. I will find her and bring her home.”
“How do you know that?” his aunt cried. “My God. After what we found upstairs…” She put a hand to her mouth.
Max couldn’t think of anything to say to make her feel better. Helen had seen everything he had. “Did she ever mention anything about Debarry?” he asked. “Did the earl ever call—”
“No,” she mumbled miserably. “She never once mentioned Lord Debarry. I didn’t even think she knew him until…until last night. I’ve never even spoken more than a dozen words to the man.”
“Had she done anything unusual recently?”
“No.” Her aunt paused, as if a thought had stuck her. “She asked to have a miniature made.”
“And that was unusual?”
“She had always refused to sit for a portrait before.”
“Who was it for? The miniature?”
“I assumed it was for you.” Helen’s eyes widened.
“Do you have it?”
“Yes.” She stood and went over to the mantel and took a tiny framed portrait from the ledge. “It came this morning. It was being set.”
Max also stood. “May I see it?”
Helen returned to the settee and passed it to him. The artist had been incredibly talented and had captured her features perfectly. But gone were the ringlets and the girlish blue ribbon he remembered, and in their place was a somber seriousness. “Can I keep this?” he asked.
Helen hesitated, girding herself to argue.
“I should show it to Miss Moore and her associate. I think it important that they know what she looks like. They are still working on our behalf.”
His aunt deflated, and she nodded.
A thought struck Max. “How did you know to hire Chegarre and Associates?” In hindsight, how had he not asked this question earlier? How had his upright, unbending aunt been familiar with people with…the skills that Miss Moore possessed?
“Every member of the ton knows about Chegarre and Associates,” she muttered.
“I didn’t.” Though he supposed he wasn’t really a member of the ton. He never had been. “What do you know about Miss Moore?”
Helen shrugged. “Nothing. Nor do I care to. All I need to know is that Chegarre’s people can make certain Beatrice still has a future when this is all over. Because that is what they do. Make scandals disappear. And everyone knows it.”
Max didn’t like that Helen could not provide any more information about Miss Moore than he already knew. The lack of knowledge was beginning to nag, and he would rectify it as soon as possible. But it made sense that Helen had known about the firm. In his absence she had stepped into the void left by his parents. Made decisions, took care of details that he had never given a second thought to.
“I never thanked you for what you did for Bea,” Max said, suddenly. “And everything else you’ve done for me. For us.” He said it awkwardly. “I know it was not without a price.”
Helen looked away. “Do you?”
Max frowned. “You filled a hole when Father and Mother died.”
“Because you refused to.” She stared into the fire. “I would have gone with him to Boston, you know,” she said dully. “He asked me to go with him.”
“Who?” Max had missed something in this conversation.
“Edward. He even asked me to marry him.”
“Wait, what?” Max felt his forehead wrinkle in confusion. “Who is Edward?”
“Edward Shelby. He is a barrister. I met him at a conservatory. We share an interest in orchids. We have a great number of things in common.”
“And you were engaged?” Why was this the first time Max was hearing of this?
“Not officially. He asked me to marry him before he left. He had a brother there who also practiced law. The two of them set up their own firm.” She sounded infinitely sad. “He wanted me to come with him as his wife.”
Max stared at his aunt. “You didn’t go.”
“Your parents had just died. You were in India. Someone had to look after the estate. Someone had to be here for Beatrice. I couldn’t just take her away with me.”
“I didn’t know.”
“He still sends me the occasional letter. Apparently orchids do not grow well in Boston.” Her voice sounded far away.
“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
“What was the point? I asked you over and over to stay when you first came back after their deaths. When you first assumed the title. You refused. And if you wouldn’t stay for your own sister’s sake, why would you have ever stayed for mine?”
Max felt a stab of guilt, which was ridiculous. How could he be held accountable for thwarting a dream he’d never known existed? “I could not stay, Helen. I do not belong here.”
Helen gazed at him, her mouth twisted slightly. “You never wanted to belong.”
“That is not true. But Father and Mother made it clear to me from the time I was six that I was not needed. My only duty to this family, in whatever occupation I chose, was to not tarnish the Harcourt name. I was expected to find my own path, build my own life. I did that, and have continued to do that. And it’s kept the coffers filled and provided every necessity.”
“And is that what you expect from Beatrice? And from me?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“That we simply stay out of the way and not tarnish the Harcourt name?”
Max clenched his teeth. “No. And it’s not the same.”
“Isn’t it?” Helen sank back down on the settee as if the fight had gone out of her. “When we find Bea, will you stay then?” she asked Max without looking at him. “Will you stay here as the Duke of Alderidge?”
I can’t. The answer was immediate. He didn’t belong here in London now any more than he had when he was a child or an adolescent. His life, the one he had carved for himself, by himself, was across an ocean. The only life he had ever known, built on his own blood and sweat, was not something that he would or could simply abandon. Yet somehow he couldn’t bring himself to say it.
Helen seemed to take his silence for the answer she had expected. “I thought so.”
Max rubbed his hands over his face. “I’m sorry,” he said, though he wasn’t entirely sure what he was apologizing for. Lost family? Things that fate had commandeered and directed? Things that could not be recovered any more than time could be recaptured?
He looked down at Helen. “I think you’ve made a far better duke than I ever would have.”
She met his eyes then, and all he saw was disappointment. “That is probably so. Since you never even tried.”