A Thoroughly Compromised Lady (10 page)

The remembrance of the man's retaliation was nearly enough to finish him off. The only thing more frightening than Dulci's ‘moon light charge of the candlestick' against an intruder was seeing the other intruder leap for Dulci, having no scruples about attacking a woman.

Jack, who'd faced down worse than two mediocre burglars, had been scared, not of the act itself; he knew how to handle combat of all nature. He'd been scared because Dulci was at the heart of the risk. He was not used to such an emotion being attached to his work. What
drove
that fear for Dulci was frightening in itself. He'd worked with partners before and never been frightened for them in such situations. This was not fear invoked by simple lust for another. While he wouldn't name it, he would admit that he felt something stronger than lust for Dulci.

He would not bother himself with the effort of naming that feeling right now. To do so would be imprudent and hasty until he was absolutely sure what that feeling was.
Some might rashly name it love, but Jack was unwilling to do so on short acquaintance, both with the sentiment and the woman to whom he might attach the emotion.

Indeed, he wasn't even sure ‘love' was the right word or feeling. Just because a man sneezed didn't mean he was catching cold. Then again, a part of his con science nagged, this might be it, this might be love. If so, it was a deuced rotten time to work that out and he would put off admitting it to himself as long as he could. There was a lot left to work out before his con science could say ‘I told you so'.

In any case, if or when he ever decided to use the term, he would exercise the utmost caution. Love meant promises and he was a man who promised nothing.

All his philosophising could not change the reality of his emotions, which had simmered under the merest veneer of control since he'd seen the intruder lunge for Dulci.

Jack's gut had tightened with rage at the sight and remained clenched with raw, barely leashed anger. That man was going to pay. Jack had followed him into the night, exhausting every lead, every potential, fuelled by his anger. All to no avail. The crafty burglar had gone to ground; his head start out of the window had been enough to elude Jack in London's dark alleys. Jack had returned to Stockport House exhausted and empty handed.

He wouldn't be empty handed much longer. He had every confidence the interrogation would confirm all he suspected. Then he could get back to Dulci. She'd played her part beautifully today in a lovely demure dress of pale blue and lace. No one could have looked at her today and accused her of spending two intimate
nights with him. He laughed silently at his mental joke. Dulci did everything beautifully. She couldn't help it. And it had paid off. Her image of quiet innocence and his objective politeness had carried the day. No one had questioned his presence in her home at the unseemly hour of four in the morning.

But Dulci was
angry
and Jack knew he had a reckoning coming. Monarchs and maps aside, Dulci felt betrayed. He knew what she thought; he could have told her sooner when they first discovered the map and he hadn't. He'd wanted to be sure. But he'd waited too long and now she suspected his motives in their brief affair. Well, there would have to be time for sorting that out after… Jack heaved a sigh, fighting the urge to close his eyes. This was an old pattern too in his life. Everything was put off until after. The only problem was that ‘after' kept getting pushed further down the line. It was something of a revelation to realise that he wanted ‘after' to be ‘now' where Dulci was concerned.

‘Well done today, Wainsbridge,' Gladstone huffed across from him. Jack did not mistake his opening as a compliment, but merely arched his eyebrow.

‘You've managed to avoid scandal.' There it was, Gladstone's real reason for conversation.

‘I beg your pardon?' Jack said coolly, pretending to be con founded by Gladstone's reference. If the man was going to bring up certain omissions, he would have to be blatant.

Gladstone's eyes narrowed. ‘You were in Lady Dulcinea's house, sleeping in her guest room, I hope, although that hope seems misplaced.'

‘Indeed I was.' Jack sat up ramrod straight. ‘Lady Dulcinea was in need of immediate protection after you
and I met at the Mayfield ball. When I returned to the ballroom, she was in the company of Calisto Ortiz. I escorted her straight home, but I could not leave her. Seeing that she is an old family friend, I saw no harm in staying at a home in which I've been welcomed for several years. It would have been her brother's wish if he'd known she was at risk.'

‘You cleverly disguised that today.'

‘For Lady Dulcinea's benefit,' Jack said staunchly, rather enjoying putting Gladstone's lurid imaginings to rest. ‘Sometimes honourable intentions get lost in social translation. I had no wish for an in ac cu rate telling to circulate in society.'

‘Where I come from, Wainsbridge, when a virtuous woman's honour is compromised, a gentleman does the right thing and marries her, especially if he is party to the compromising in the first place. He knows what needs to be done without society's prompt.' Gladstone took the high ground. ‘Then there is no need for a network of lies and half-truths.'

Jack smiled politely. ‘Neither I nor Lady Dulcinea have any intention of marrying, each other or otherwise, as I am sure you are well aware.'

Gladstone glowered the rest of the way, but at least, Jack mused, he was silent.

M
ore bungling! Calisto Ortiz could hardly concentrate on Adalberto Vargas's words during the afternoon meeting at their leased head quarters, someone's currently unused town house. Vargas was laying out the agenda of their opening discussions with the British. After two weeks of parties and a ‘getting to know you' phase, the time to settle down to business had finally come. Much of the business slated for discussion was
de rigeur
, such as the status of the Spanish missionaries along the Orinoco.

In fact, many of these yearly reports were usually handled by the Venezuelan government and the Governor of British Guiana, Sir Carmichael-Smythe. There was seldom a need to bother London with the mundane mechanics of colonial relations. This year, with boundaries in question, it had been deemed more expedient to go straight to London rather than relying on correspondence by steamer.

Such a strategy suited Ortiz perfectly. He'd rather
pass off his map of boundaries, drawn by a biased surveyor, among people thou sands of miles away who'd never set foot in South America than among people who actually lived there and were somewhat more familiar with the terrain. It would be easier to argue the former boundaries had been flawed, that the river ran at a different angle than the results previously reported.

It was all wishful thinking as of yet, seeing that he didn't have his map to hand. The map was proof that British Guiana had over stepped its physical boundaries. Without it, Vargas could only make polite overtures about ‘looking into the situation'. That would take time, years even, given the distance and the expense and organisation of mounting an official expedition. The Ortiz family didn't have years. They wanted to mine the gold
now
, but as long as the territory remained in British hands, all the gold would belong to the British, too, no matter who mined it.

Vargas didn't know about the map. If he did, Vargas would object strenuously. The man was a traditionalist to his core. Calisto had planned on introducing the map on the eve of negotiations, presenting it humbly as a patriotic gift to Vargas. ‘Here's a map my family commissioned once of the region,' he'd say simply, adding, ‘I do believe it will help your negotiation since it clearly lays out the grounds in contention.' In one short sentence, the map would become valid proof that the territory belonged to Venezuela. Vargas would not doubt the map or even consider that the map might have been the result of money changing hands. He might even get some type of useful commendation for it.

All this could still come to pass if he could get to the map. But now, the risk was greater. Wainsbridge was
sure to alert those involved that the map was a fraud and the insinuation that the map was not legitimate would cause Vargas to worry. The intruder Wainsbridge had caught in Lady Dulcinea's home had surely sung like a night in gale under the pressures of the Foreign Office. By now, Wainsbridge knew everything he'd once suspected. But a few well-placed words could mitigate Wainsbridge's claims. That wasn't what worried him.

What worried Ortiz most was that Wainsbridge had turned out to be rather more than he appeared. Calisto's instincts had been correct there.

He idly tapped a finger on the brown folder beneath his hand. The dossier had come before lunch. The viscount actively worked in a quiet but prominent capacity for the king himself. He was also something of an expert on the South American region, having been there with Schomburgk a few years back. Wainsbridge potentially knew too much about the region. He would know what was skewed on the map. He might even guess why. For those faults, Wainsbridge would have to die. Vasquez had died for much less.

Calisto Ortiz smiled with satisfaction. At the other end of the table, Vargas nodded at him, and Ortiz realised Vargas, pompous old windbag that he was, thought Ortiz was smiling at him. There'd been too much bungling already. Ortiz would handle Wainsbridge's demise. He wouldn't per son ally kill the man with his own hands, of course. After all, why do it himself when there were others who'd be glad to do it for him?

 

Jack stepped down from the carriage in front of Stockport House, tired and world weary. Dulci had lit the lamps. She'd stayed in for the evening. She'd waited
for him. The thought was both comforting and un settling.

Late spring twilight had descended and the night was mild, a perfect evening for courtship if one didn't have any other pressing matters to consider. Jack always did. It was the trademark of his life now. He took a moment to pause and drink it in. It was quiet here. Stockport House was set back from the street, away from the road noise. One could see the street, but one didn't have to hear it. Crickets chirped in the hedges, reminding Jack of home, the small manor house in the north country where he'd grown up. He closed his eyes. He could smell the roses and honeysuckle planted along the drive and his heart ached for simpler days and simpler pleasures.

It wasn't fair to paint those days as a halcyon past. Those days hadn't been perfect either but this, whatever it was he'd become now, hadn't turned out the way he'd hoped. He hardly knew the man he'd become any more, this man who carried a knife in his boot and interrogated mercilessly. Jack opened his eyes. Enough of that maudlin sentiment. If wishes were horses…

Jack laughed roughly. If wishes were horses, Dulci would be riding pillion behind him, her arms wrapped about his waist, her cheek pressed to his back, her hair streaming in the wind as they charged into the unknown. That was all he'd ever really wanted—someone to share his adventures.

To discover that Dulci was that someone was both hopeful and hopeless. How could he drag Dulci into the wilds he explored? An explorer's life was necessarily devoid of the luxuries she enjoyed without thought. And there were dangers too: disease, hostile peoples, poisonous insects, to name a few. While she might be game
for such an adventure, would she be game for what it would do to her life? Unless he married her. That might be the one useful thing to come out of his title—he could make her a viscountess at least. Brandon would have to agree first and Jack couldn't see that happening. Brandon would want more for his sister than a wandering viscount, even if the wandering viscount was his best friend.

Those factors alone were enormous obstacles to his simple wish. They didn't begin to even en com pass Dulci's needs or his. How could she love a man she didn't know? He barely knew himself or even if he was capable of love. Certainly he was capable of falling into love. But sustaining it?

Jack climbed the steps and was met by Roundhouse at the door. Roundhouse informed him Dulci was in the garden, Morrison and Tredwick were in the library playing chess, alert to any suspicious behaviour. Two other men were in the garden with Dulci in case anyone attempted to penetrate the house from the garden gate on the alley side.

How much more did Dulci hate him for making her home a prison, a fortress? Stockport House had always been her refuge, the place where she could fence and collect without casting aspersions on her gender. But he'd had no choice. He could not leave the home un guarded. It had been a convenient stroke of luck that he'd been there last night. The consequences of Dulci having discovered the intruders alone did not bear thinking about.

Jack stepped out into the gardens and breathed the fresh night air. He spied Dulci immediately. She sat at a small table, engaged in taking notes from a book. She'd
changed her gown again, this time into a simple dinner dress of pale green. Her hair was done in an elegant twist, leaving her neck exposed and delicate. One could not help but be drawn to the single strand of pearls that lay at the base of her neck, innocent and unassuming where her pulse beat beneath them. Jack felt his desire rise. Even in the midst of his exhaustion, he wanted her. He wanted to touch her, to feather kisses down her neck, to feel her body beneath his hands. He would get lost in her and he would be able to forget all else.

‘Jack.' Dulci had looked up and spotted him. ‘You're back. I thought we'd dine alfresco.' Her greeting was polite, perhaps a bit stiff, wary. There was little warmth to it. She might have been greeting any acquaintance. She made a gesture and servants immediately began setting out dinner trays.

Jack marvelled at the efficiency. Regardless of her greeting, she'd been planning this, waiting for him. That had to mean something. Linen was spread, wine was poured. His plate was filled. Servants disappeared. There was a hardness in Dulci's eyes when she looked at him.

‘I would ask you how it went, or how your day was, but that hardly seems appropriate given the circumstances. After all, it isn't as if you're coming home from a hard day's work trying a case.'

Jack raised his glass in a toast. ‘Hard work, none the less. No less difficult for its form.' Behind those blue eyes of hers, she was thinking the worst of him.

‘Interrogation isn't torture, Dulci,' he said in low tones, careful not to be over heard. ‘I gave him a meal and a glass of ale and sat down to talk with him while he ate. That is all.'

‘You gave food to a starving man. I am sure he hadn't eaten for a while,' Dulci accused.

Jack sipped his chilled wine. ‘He committed a crime, against you. He deserved worse than cold chicken and conversation with me.' He could hear the emotion edging his voice.

‘Heaven forbid I should be entitled to a higher sense of justice than other citizens.'

Jack set his wine glass down force fully, liquid slopping over the rim, his anger breaking loose. ‘Did you want me to announce how the map was discovered? Did you want me to say we found it dressed in blankets in between bouts of lovemaking? I had to be objective today. I could not let any of them suspect for a moment that I'd run through London half-naked for you, that I'd been scared beyond belief when the intruder went for you and you fell before I could get there.' Jack paused. ‘What do you think would happen, Dulci, if anyone guessed at what we've been doing?'

For once, Dulci had the good grace to look penitent. ‘I would not trap you, Jack. I would expect nothing. I would shoulder my part of the blame.'

Jack snorted. ‘That would be all of the blame. It's always the woman's fault.'

Dulci chose to ignore him and turned the conversation in an entirely different direction. ‘My honour aside, what did you learn today?'

‘The man was sent by Ortiz. Everything is as we thought. Gladstone had to eat a small slice of humble pie.'

‘Well, then, that's it,' Dulci said with a satisfied half-smile. ‘The proper officials know the map is a fake. Even if Ortiz recovered it by some miraculous means, he
can hardly introduce it into the talks now that everyone knows. It's over.'

How nice it must be to live in Dulci's black-and-white world. She expected blunt straight for ward ness from everyone around her and gave it in return. It was hard for her to conceive of the spaces between where black and white weren't so obvious. Jack's world, however, was a bit greyer. He did not think it was over.

‘We must be alert in case Ortiz tries something else.'

Dulci's gaze sharpened. ‘Ortiz is not to be arrested?'

‘We can't. He has diplomatic immunity. The Venezuelan government can choose to try him upon his return, but we can do nothing.'

‘So he's on the loose, able to extract revenge.'

‘Possibly. Your safety depends on complete honesty. I will not mince words with you. Ortiz may decide that, as a woman, you should be spared his wrath, that you could not under stand the significance of the map.' Jack flashed her a wry smile. ‘For once, Dulci, your gender might be the saving of you.'

‘You think Ortiz will target you instead.' Dulci divined instantly the hidden message in his words. A flicker of worry flamed in her blue eyes. Jack took it as a good sign. She might be angry, but she hadn't given up on him entirely.

‘Yes,' Jack said simply. ‘I am sure by now that he has a dossier compiled on me and he knows my back ground. He's too astute to not take the standard measures. He will know I've been to South America and that should worry him greatly. That I've turned up in the midst of this negotiation will confirm his suspicions. He knows,
no matter what you knew or didn't, that
I
knew. I knew what he was after and why he was after it.'

‘Then you've come to say goodbye.' Dulci looked away, making a great show of fussing with her napkin beside her plate.

Jack nodded. ‘Among other things that need saying.' He gestured to the men walking the garden, motioning they could retire inside. ‘Walk with me, Dulci.' He didn't want to explain what was in his heart at the same table where they'd talked of murder and conspiracies.

Dulci took his arm, but she dreaded what he was going to say. In a way, what was to come was far worse than hearing the sordid details of Calisto Ortiz's gory schemes to retrieve a map. ‘The hydrangeas bloomed this week.' Dulci pointed to a large pot of blue-and-pink flowers set on the pathway. ‘They were late this year. Brandon would have had a fit.'

Beside her, Jack laughed softly. ‘Brandon loves to order nature around. Taming the wild suits him.'

‘I threatened to let the garden go its own way this year since he wasn't coming to town.' Dulci reached out to touch a petal on the climbing roses. It was nice to talk with Jack this way, without a ballroom of people staring, without innuendo and the double meanings that wrapped most of their conversations. Yet, such a simple discussion seemed surreal. Dulci tilted her head in Jack's direction. ‘How is it possible after all that has happened that we can stand here speaking about flowers and Brandon? It's almost too ordinary. My world has been turned upside down and yet it still looks the same, still acts the same. I changed my gown for dinner, I gave orders to the servants, I worked on my notes. Calamity has struck. Shouldn't
everything
be different?'