Chapter Seven

Dinner began as a tired affair that paled in comparison to the gay parties Abigail had attended in Paris. Guests talked of other parties, dresses, horses and even food. The conversation between Mr. Morrison and Baron Aidair about a gaming hell where Mr. Morrison had won several hundred pounds was the most interesting conversation she heard. The man he’d beat had challenged him to a duel.

Englishmen took too personally their losses. Of course, the French were known for fighting, but a dispute usually centered around a woman. She smiled at the recollection of a young count who challenged a gentleman who had proposed a very indecent meeting with her involving another gentleman. Abigail suspected the count’s proposition had more to do with his interest in the other gentleman than in her. The young count, however, remained determined to defend her honor. 

Perhaps, when she finished this mission, she should return to France. Of course, she wouldn’t be able to move in certain circles where she was known as Carlotta Durand. Well, perhaps she would, if she didn’t mind being Carlotta. That alias had afforded her some pleasure.

She felt strangely anxious to end this mission. The only way to do that, however, was to locate the Honors. As she had little hope of doing so, the two weeks that stretched out before her seemed interminable.

Wine flowed liberally, and Abigail indulged without restraint. Lord Russell sat at the head of the table halfway down from her, which left no chance of gleaning any information from him during dinner. The chair to her right remained empty. Lord Reade sat to her left. Mrs. Russell must have heard that Abigail was his latest conquest and had seated them together. Who was his most recent real conquest? From what Fanny said, he was much sought after, though she hadn’t heard of him until the night they met.

Abigail reached for her glass and covertly glanced at him. She glimpsed the flick of his eyes at her hand and the thinning of his mouth. She’d caught similar looks from him with each refill of her wine glass.

“Lady Buchman,” said young Baron Aidair, who sat across from her, “I understand you spent time in France. You were brave to visit in these tumultuous times.”

“Not so brave,” she said. “I speak French like a Parisian, so no one knows I am English. Also, I did not visit Paris. That is too dangerous. I have friends in the north near Lille, so I entered through Belgium.” She smiled. “I was barely in France.”

The light of adoration gleamed in his eyes and she sighed when he said, “I still say you are brave.”

“If I recall, your brother owns Talsworth Castle,” said the woman to Lord Reade’s left.

“That is correct,” he said.

Abigail sipped wine and half listened to the Baron go on about the war and Napoleon’s sanity. Talsworth Castle. She’d heard of it. Built in the late thirteenth century—even before Castle Caithis—and located on the Isle of Skye, if she recalled. Lord Reade was brother to Lord Kinwall? A few months away from the world of espionage and she’d lost her edge. It hadn’t occurred to her to ask what nobleman he was related to. The Kinwall title went back at least four hundred years. Mr. Russell, direct descendant of Oliver Cromwell, would be green with envy. 

“I have never been to Skye,” the woman said to Lord Reade in a low, sultry voice.

“Indeed?” he replied.

A stab of jealously pierced her heart at the sensual note in his voice. He was here with her on assignment but couldn’t refrain from trifling with other women—while she sat beside him. What difference should it make? It wasn’t as if anyone believed him loyal to his new lover. Her gaze caught on his fingers as he grasped the stem of his wine glass. Warmth ripped through her at the thought of those fingers tracing a line along her jaw, down her neck to the rise of her breasts over the neckline of her bodice.

She grimaced inwardly. Good Lord, she’d fallen prey to his damned charms. But she had to admit, those long, tanned fingers were beautiful. Abigail kept her gaze fixed on them as he lifted the glass and pressed the rim to his lips. Full, moist lips that would feel—

“Lady Buchman.”

Abigail jarred from her thoughts. For a heartbeat she thought Baron Aidair had spoken. Then she registered the man standing to her right and looked up into Viscount Chaluim’s face. She froze. Dear God in heaven. Lord Chaluim was a guest at this house party? How would she accomplish anything with him pursuing her as he had at Lady Bingley’s party?

Eyes fixed on her, he pulled out the empty chair beside her.

“Lord Chaluim,” Lord Reade said. “What a pleasant surprise.”

Lord Chaluim paused in lowering himself onto his seat and angled his head in acknowledgement. “Sir,” he said, then sat and returned his attention to Abigail.

“How was the drive here?” Lord Reade asked. “It looked like rain earlier.”

Lord Chaluim looked past Abigail at him. “It was raining hard when I arrived.”

“You were fortunate not to have encountered any difficulties on the drive.”

Chaluim frowned. “Why would I have any difficulties?”

Reade took a drink of wine “Why, the rain, as I just said. The road from Inverness becomes muddy rather quickly. I’ve seen more than one carriage mired during a bad rain.”

“Of course, your carriage is never mired,” Lord Chaluim said with asperity.

The couple across the table to Abigail’s right exchanged a glance. They, too, recognized Lord Chaluim’s goading.

Lord Reade, however, went on as if he and Lord Chaluim exchanged mere pleasantries, “On the contrary, I have, on half a dozen occasions, found myself stuck in the mud.”

Abigail ducked her head and took a bite of her quail in an effort to hide a smile. The way Lord Reade said ‘stuck in the mud’ gave her the distinct impression he meant that Lord Chaluim was a stick in the mud.

Lord Chaluim nodded to a waiter who hurriedly filled his wine glass. “My driver is quite skilled,” Chaluim said. “He has yet to have the slightest difficulty driving in the rain.”

“You are most fortunate,” Reade said.

“Indeed,” he replied, then pointedly turned his attention to Abigail. “What good fortune that you are here, my lady. I have looked for you at the parties I attended, but to no avail. Now we shall be able to spend some time together. Is it too presumptuous of me to claim the first dance at tomorrow evening’s ball?”

“You are too late for that,” Lord Reade said before she could reply. “I am pleased to say that I already claimed that dance.” He smiled at Abigail and she read a hint of humor in his eyes.

“Then I will have to settle for the second dance,” Chaluim said stiffly.

Abigail smiled. “Forgive me, Lord Chaluim, but my second dance is claimed, as well.” It wasn’t, but she would make sure to have a partner for that dance.

“I would like to claim a dance, as well,” Baron Aidair interjected.

“Third dance?” Viscount Chaluim said in such a pitiful voice she almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

“I am afraid so,” she said.

Frustration flared in his eyes. “Perhaps it is best if I ask what dance you have available.”

“Lady Buchman,” the young baron said, but Abigail answered Lord Chaluim.

“The seventh dance.” She would be in a devil of a fix if she didn’t find five more partners. Four—the baron would take any dance she offered.

Viscount Chaluim offered a tight smile. “I suppose I should count myself fortunate to be able to dance with you at all.”

Abigail wanted to slap him. If she were just plain Abigail Matheson or even Lady Buchman, that is exactly what she would have done. But spies didn’t alienate party guests.

She looked at him from beneath her lashes. “I feel certain you will forgive me, particularly since I had no idea you would be here.”

Uncertainty played across his features, then he smiled magnanimously. “Nothing to forgive, my dear. I’m pleased to be added to your dance card, at all.”

Now she only had to find a way to excuse herself from that dance.

 

Twenty minutes later, the gentlemen adjourned for cigars and brandy. The ladies left the dining room and gathered in a lavish parlor on the second floor. Abigail went straight for the balcony and gazed out over the gardens. She breathed deep of the cool night air. How she longed for a walk. The wine at dinner had been good—too good, in fact—and a walk would do wonders for clearing her head. She imagined Lord Reade’s expression should he return to the parlor to find her gone and walking alone in the garden. A perverse desire to see that now-familiar frown of disapproval on his handsome face almost motivated her to head for the parlor on the ground floor where a balcony opened into the garden. But The Raven would never forgive her for bungling a mission because she wanted to get a man’s attention.

Her thoughts came to an abrupt halt. Why in the world had she thought that? She didn’t want Lord Reade’s attention. Did she? Nae. He lived for women who wanted his attention. She had no intention of being one of the empty-headed females who batted her eyelashes at him as Lady Julia had done at dinner. Abigail glanced over her shoulder and saw the lady in question seated on the divan near the fire in deep conversation with another woman Abigail didn’t know. Interestingly enough, with no male in the room, Lady Julia’s coquettish behavior had disappeared.

Abigail returned her attention to the garden. The rain had cleared the sky and the stars shone brightly.

Male voices filtered to her and Abigail realized the men had arrived. She hated to leave the quiet of the balcony. The other women had stayed indoors, so she’d had the night to herself. Lord John’s voice boomed over the other men’s voices. The man was boorish. Still, she needed to return to the festivities.

When The Raven had said she had another mission, anticipation had hummed in her. But she’d lost her taste for this mission. Why? Perhaps because she didn’t believe Mr. Russell had stolen the Honors. But it wasn’t her place to question an order from a superior.

She put on a smile and returned to the parlor to find Lady Julia’s hand on Lord Reade’s arm, the coquettish expression back on her face. She lowered her gaze and Abigail was startled at the boredom that flashed across his face. 

“Lady Buchman,” Lord Chaluim called.

She had to find a way to get rid of the man.

He reached her side an instant later. “Won’t you sit with me?”

She had no choice.

To Lord Chaluim’s obvious frustration—and Abigail’s amusement—Baron Aidair sat on the divan opposite them and joined in the conversation. When Mr. Wesley, a wealthy investor from Edinburgh, joined them, Abigail felt certain Lord Chaluim would come to blows with one or both men.

“Lady Buchman and I are old friends,” Lord Chaluim assumed the superior tone the peerage used when addressing anyone not born to the noble class.

“But I love making new friends.” She smiled at Mr. Wesley. “Don’t you agree, Lord Chaluim?”

“I wouldn’t think of disagreeing with you, my lady.”

Not until he had her married, pregnant and tucked away in the country somewhere while he spent her money in Edinburgh or London. The prig.

Fifteen minutes later, she gave thanks when Mr. Wesley vacated the chair to the right of her seat and Lord Reade sat down.

“Lord Reade,” she said, “did you enjoy your cigar and brandy with the other gentlemen?”

“My brandy, yes,” he said. “I do not smoke.”

“My father loved a good cigar,” she said. “Sometimes, I swear I can still smell his cigars.”

“How long has he been gone?”

The gentleness of his tone surprised her and her cheeks heated with embarrassment. Rarely did she lapse into public memories of her father.

“Five years,” she answered.

“Not long,” he said, and her heart constricted at the understanding in his voice.

“It isn’t, is it?” she said. “People are kind, but I can tell that they think I’m being overdramatic by missing him so much after five years.”

“You never fully get over the loss of a loved one,” he said. “But you do learn how to cope with the loss.”

Lord Chaluim patted her arm. “It’s best to concentrate on the present and those who love you.”

Lord Reade’s face clouded, and she quickly said to Lord Chaluim, “Of course, you are right, that does help.”

The disdain on Lord Reade’s face said he didn’t agree.

“One never quite gets over the loss of a parent,” Baron Aidair said.

Abigail’s heart tugged. The lad had been but nineteen. Too young to lose a parent, when he’d lost both. She offered him a gentle smiled. “As Lord Reade said, we do learn to live with the loss, but nothing takes away our memories.”

He smiled gratefully. “Quite right.”

Lord Reade rose. “Are you ready for the stroll you promised me, Lady Buchman?”

“Stroll?” Viscount Chaluim said. “It’s late and the ground will be wet after the rain.”

Reade grasped her hand and assisted her to her feet. Lord Chaluim jumped up.

“You’re quite right,” Lord Reade said. “Which is why Lady Buchman promised to explore Caithis Castle with me a bit.”

“I beg your pardon?” Chaluim said. “You two—alone? That is improper.”

“He is right, my lady,” the baron said.

Abigail gave a gay laugh. “An old widow such as myself has no worries about her reputation.” She looked at Lord Reade. “I had begun to despair that you’d forgotten.”

“Forgotten?”

She shrugged. “You were otherwise engaged.”

He covered her hand with his. “Nothing could induce me to forget you, my lady.”

She smiled, then looked at Lord Chaluim and the baron. “If you will excuse us, gentlemen.”

The baron stood.

“I really must insist that someone else accompany you, Lady Buchman,” the viscount said.

“Nonsense, I have nothing to fear while in Lord Reade’s company. Good evening.”

They started toward the door. Abigail caught the glance Lady Julia sent their way. She hated the surge of satisfaction she experienced, but followed through with a cool regard of the lady. Mr. Russell gave Lord Reade a knowing glance before they passed into the hallway.

“An ‘old widow’ such as you?” Lord Reade said when they turned the corner in the hallway.

She laughed. “I had to say something to keep him from accompanying us. You know full well that is exactly what he wanted.”

Reade chuckled. “You can’t blame him for wanting to bask in your presence.”

Abigail bumped him with her shoulder. “You are teasing me.”

He looked down at her. “Only a little.”

Her stomach did a somersault. “Aye, well, I’d say everyone now believes we are lovers.” Including Lord Chaluim, if she were fortunate. 

“That is the idea,” he said.

She arched a brow. “It took you long enough to save me from Lord Chaluim.”

“I didn’t think you were the sort of woman who needed rescuing.”

Damn him for noticing. “You’re right, of course.”

Reade covered her hand with his. “I have some information that might take your mind off foolish men.”

“What might that be?” she asked, and tried to ignore the warmth of his fingers.

“When we were having our brandy, Mr. Russell mentioned the Scottish separatists who accuse England of concealing the Honors.”

“Really?” That was very interesting. “Did he say anything else?”

“A discussion ensued. Of course, most believe the Honors were lost to us long ago. But Russell encouraged the idea that the separatists might have a point.”

Abigail frowned. “What reason could he have for wanting people to believe that England conceals the Honors?”

“Cromwell served as Lord Protector of the Commonwealth of England, Scotland, and Ireland. If Russell sees himself in that same position, then if he were to produce the Honors, that would cast him in the same light as Cromwell.”

“That’s ridiculous. If he stole the Honors, that makes him a thief, not Lord Protector.”

“Perhaps, but those who sympathize with the separatists will call him a hero and that could be close enough.”

“Our government will try him for theft of the crown jewels. Perhaps even treason,” she said.

“Are you certain?” How willing will Scotland be to admit that they’ve held the Honors all this time and remained silent?”

He had a point. The separatists would likely scream for the heads of those who kept quiet.

“That might mean Mr. Russell really does have them here at Caithis Castle,” she said.

“My thoughts exactly.”

“Tomorrow evening during the party is a perfect time to search his private wing,” she said.

“Aye. He will be busy with his guests. We can give the rooms a thorough search.”

“Actually, I hoped you might keep him busy. Perhaps playing cards? That way, I can be assured he won’t interrupt my search.”

He hesitated, then said, “As you wish.”

He sounded disappointed. Surely, he didn’t really want to assist in the search?

“Did you plan on doing any exploring tonight?” he asked.

He did want to search. She had planned on retiring early tonight, but the information about Mr. Russell had invigorated her.

“It is too risky to search their private quarters tonight. There’s no telling when he or Mrs. Russell might retire. In any case, I’m not certain he would hide the Honors there.”

“A treasure room,” Reade said.

She smiled. “That would be apropos, don’t you think?”

“And quite convenient. The treasure room is either in a tower or below the kitchen. The servants will be busy cleaning in the kitchen. Shall we take a look in the upper floors? There are stairs not too far ahead,” he said.

“Perfect.”

They reached the stairs and climbed two floors to the small southeast turret, but found no treasure room. They had no better luck with the other three turrets.

“I imagine by now the servants have finished in the kitchen,” Reade said.

“No better time than the present to see if there is a treasure room below ground,” Abigail agreed. They descended to the ground floor and neared the great hall when voices sounded ahead.

“You are certain,” a man’s voice said.

“Saw them with my own eyes,” another man replied.

Abigail exchanged a glance with Lord Reade and read in his eyes the same recognition she’d felt. The second speaker was Lord Chaluim.

“Damn, but I didn’t believe he would do it,” the first man said.

She mouthed the words, It couldn’t be.

He shrugged.

“Now we see what he does with them,” Chaluim replied in a no-nonsense voice that contrasted the foppish tone he’d used earlier. “Could change the tide,” he said. 

Their voices were coming closer. Abigail pulled her hand free of Reade’s arm and scanned the dimly lit hallway. No nearby doors, and they’d left the stairs back behind the turn. He seized her hand and began a jog back the way they’d come. They would never reach the corner before the men entered the hallway. He halted. In the next instant, he crushed her against the wall and his mouth came down on hers.

He grasped her wrists and shoved them up against the wall. Her heart thundered. His full mouth was as warm and moist as she’d imagined. He tasted faintly of the brandy he’d drunk. When he released a breath, Abigail melted into him. He gently slipped his tongue between her lips. She sucked him inside and he groaned. Their tongues sparred, causing the juncture between her legs to tighten. She tugged her arm in an effort to free her hand from his grasp—she needed to touch him—but his hold tightened. He slipped a knee between her legs and she became aware of the hard length pressing against her abdomen.

He slid a warm kiss along her cheek, her jaw… Dear God, her neck.

Her head swam.

Reade abruptly broke the embrace and released her hands. She seized his lapel and allowed her head to fall forward onto his chest. Her heart pounded in her ears. Reade pulled her close and turned a fraction. She tilted her head enough to see between him and the wall. Two men approached. Lord Chaluim and another gentleman she didn’t recognize. Even in the dim hallway, she discerned Lord Chaluim’s thunderous expression.

Lord Reade eased her away from the wall and placed her hand in the crook of his arm as the men reached them.

“Reade,” Chaluim said. “I see your walk has been fruitful.”

Lord Chaluim was pointedly ignoring her. Good. She wouldn’t have to worry about that dance she’d promised him tomorrow evening.

“My lord.” Reade angled his head in acknowledgement.

The men continued past and Reade started away at a slow walk in the opposite direction.

When they reached the empty great hall, he whispered, “Lord Chaluim may not be the dolt he appears to be.”

She looked at him in surprise. “You noticed that, as well?”

Abigail glanced at the fire burning in the large hearth at the far end of the room. The fire in her room had likely been kept burning by the servants. She would love to curl up on the warm bed. Would Lord Reade go directly to his chambers, or had he plans with Lady Julia? 

“Does everyone in your world of espionage wear a mask?” he asked.

“More than you might think.”

“How do you know who your friends are?”

His arm muscle flexed beneath her fingers. “As a spy, one has very few friends, sometimes none, especially if you’re far from home.”

“Hmm,” he intoned. “Do you think they were talking about the Honors?”

“It certainly is possible.” She glanced about the great hall. “Perhaps they just came from the treasure room below.”

“Should we wait to take a look around?” he asked.

She shook her head. “We did quite well there in the hallway when we encountered Lord Chaluim. They didn’t doubt they’d caught two lovers together.” The memory sent a tremor rippling through her stomach. “Did you know his companion?” she asked, thankful she managed an even voice.

“Nae. I don’t even recall seeing him at dinner.”

“Neither did I.” 

They reached the small hallway leading to the kitchen and slowed. Silence reigned up ahead. They entered the kitchen. The waning fire in the hearth cast a halo of light across the floor to the high table that dominated the middle of the room. Abigail caught sight of the arched doorway on the opposite side of the room. Lord Reade cupped her elbow. They crossed the room and passed through the doorway into the scullery.

Lord Reade nodded at a door up ahead on the left. “Perhaps there?”

She nodded, hurried to the door and pulled it open. Stairs descended into darkness