A Thoroughly Compromised Lady (9 page)

Dulci let out the breath she'd been holding. The imminent danger had passed.

‘If you'll excuse us,
señor
?' Jack reached for her, his hand at her back, forceful and strong as if he expected resistance. ‘Lady Dulcinea and I have another engagement to attend.'

Curiosity was a powerful motivator, Dulci noted on the way to the carriage. On any other occasion, she'd have cut up at Jack immediately for manipulating her in such a manner. He'd spoken for her, decided who she would receive and then all but marched her out of the Mayfield ballroom without a word.

A potent silence reigned between them at the kerb while they waited for the carriage. Beside her, Jack stood tall and terse, his eyes habitually scanning their environs. At his side, his hand tapped anxiously against his trouser leg in an impatient gesture. His other hand didn't leave the small of her back.

The carriage arrived and Jack hurriedly ushered her into it, throwing a disgruntled look at the coachman as if to say, ‘It's about time.' He didn't relax until they were underway.

‘Don't get too comfortable,' Dulci remarked the moment she saw his shoulders ease and settle into the squabs of her excellent seats. ‘I'll take your explanation now for your rather boorish behaviour with Señor Ortiz.'

Jack's features still wore the hardness she'd glimpsed in the garden. ‘Your importer, Señor Vasquez, is dead. The Thames washed him up yesterday.'

Dulci furrowed her brow, perplexed. Certainly this
was a tragedy, but Jack hadn't known the man. It didn't explain Jack's reaction in the garden. ‘Dead? How? Was there an accident with his ship?'

Jack's voice was tight. ‘No. His throat was cut. It was most definitely an act of murder.'

Dulci fell back against the squabs, her face paling at the thought. ‘Why?'

Jack leaned forwards and took her hands in his. ‘Someone was after his cargo.'

‘Yes, of course,' Dulci said absently. Her mind raced through the conversation she'd had with the man just a few days ago. He'd been nervous, anxious to conclude their business. A horrible thought occurred to her. ‘Jack, I have the cargo,' Dulci said slowly, understanding dawning at least in part. ‘Whoever killed Vasquez will come looking for me.'

Jack squeezed her fingers and she took comfort from his strength. ‘Only if Vasquez gave them a name, my dear.'

It was weak assurance at best. She noticed he said nothing along the lines of ‘no need to panic unnecessarily'. Because, of course, there was every need. Dulci knew without being told that there was no way to know what Vasquez had said or didn't say in his last moments. ‘In such cir cum stances, I think we must assume the worst,' Dulci said quietly. ‘Tell me everything. Who is behind this and what are they looking for?' She'd meant every word, but she hadn't under stood what the worst was.

Jack knew he had no choice but to tell her the truth. ‘There's a map with forged boundaries that the Venezuelan government may use to force our hand in the upcoming negotiations over the borders between British
Guiana and Venezuela. The map has slipped the possession of its intended owner. It ended up in Vasquez's cargo.'

‘Our map,' Dulci stated matter of factly, the pieces of the puzzle becoming clearer. She could see the moment of discovery in her mind, the two of them wrapped in blankets, the fire light, the journal between them, Jack flipping back a page and running his long fingers along the awkward seam of the page. It was hard to conceive of such a simple, intimate moment, playing a critical role in political negotiations.

‘Yes, our map.' Jack's face was impassive in the dim interior of carriage. His visage gave away no clue that he shared her images of the map. He was, most unfortunately, all business. Something inside her died and suspicion began to bloom in its place.

Señor Vasquez had been killed for the map. Someone must want the boundaries redrawn badly, badly enough to commit murder. ‘What do the lands have that's worth killing for?' Dulci asked.

‘I believe there's gold in the con tested river valley.' Jack's answer was succinct, direct.

‘Do you have any suspects?' Dulci tried to match Jack's business-like tone while her insides churned in anticipation of more bad news.

‘Calisto Ortiz.'

Dulci froze, overcome with a morbid chill. The man who'd caressed her arm in the garden, who'd taken dinner with her at the RGS, who'd flirted with her and with whom she'd flirted back, was a murderer. ‘How certain are you?'

‘More certain than Gladstone. He wants to extend a
gentlemanly prerogative to Ortiz and not race to conclusions. I do not suffer from any such compunction.'

‘How could I not know?' Dulci was stunned.

Jack shook his head. ‘Why should you have suspected any thing? You had no reason to think otherwise.'

‘He wanted to come see my collection.'

Deceit. A superficial ardour. A kaleido scope of emotions and motives swirled into hard forms. Nothing was as it seemed. Ortiz had not been interested in pursuing her, but her map. They could not doubt that Vasquez had given him her name. It was the reason Ortiz had sought her out tonight in the garden. If she'd harboured feelings for Ortiz, she might have been hurt by his deception. As it was, she was appalled.

There was a special type of fear evoked from the knowledge of having fraternised with an enemy in such close quarters. That fear was heightened by knowing that the enemy was at large and all secrets were stripped away. There was no longer the protection of shallow façades. She knew now what Ortiz was behind his good looks and easy manners. He knew the same of her. She imagined in his mind she was no longer a pretty belle with whom he could pass his time while away from home. She'd been trans muted from an entertaining interlude abroad to quarry, someone to be hunted and run to ground. If it hadn't been for Jack's interruption this evening, Ortiz would have been easily successful.

Ah, yes, if it hadn't been for Jack… The silence between them in the carriage burgeoned. Dulci took no steps to break it. Earlier suspicions bloomed full in the wake of Jack's disclosures. Jack had been stalking Ortiz from the start.

Façades. Pretences to passion. The ka lei do scope of
emotions and motives swirled again, configuring new shapes. Ortiz wasn't the only guilty party here. The difference was that Jack's betrayal hurt. She'd been foolish, believing in Jack's passion, in Jack's promises. Oh, not real promises made with words, but in the promises his body made hers. She'd given herself over to the ridiculous belief that this time it would be different, that she'd be different than the other women he'd been with. And maybe she was. This time she wasn't outside his work like the women he entertained periodically when he was in town. She
was
his work.

The fencing, the desire to see her collection, all an attempt to gauge if she held Vasquez's mysterious, coveted cargo. Then there was the map. He'd known the minute he saw it he'd found the prize, in the middle of an intimate, cherished moment. The following two days—what was she to make of them now? All lies? Perhaps they were nothing more than a delay, waiting to see how events would develop. What promises could she believe? Some of them? None of them?

In all fairness, she'd pushed for the first time, that glorious act of love-making in her work room; she'd wanted that even with the understanding there would be nothing more: no promises, no exhortations of sudden and newly discovered love upon consummation. She'd approached that first time with a judicious eye to reality. But then, there had been more. He'd taken her in his arms and loved her into oblivion, far beyond their initial intentions.

In the two days that followed, she'd started allowing herself to believe things had shifted, that this time, beyond all explanation, it was different for him. She had not realised until now how dangerous that little fantasy
had been, how much she'd in advertently built it up in her mind so that now what he saw as just sex was something she viewed as the worst of betrayals.

‘Dulci, say something.' Jack broke into the pro longed silence. ‘I under stand what a shock this must be.'

The ka lei do scope in her mind stilled, cold objectivity coming to her. She'd heard the rumours about him before, how he seemed utterly devoted and yet possessed the cold-blooded ability to walk away when it suited him without a back wards glance. She'd even been counting on such truths to some extent. She'd wanted no protestations of honour and duty afterwards, no forced proposals more for her brother's sake than hers. Now that she had precisely what she'd counted on, any disappointment she felt was her own fault.

Dulci studied Jack with hard eyes and said simply, ‘You're wrong. It's really not shocking at all. It is what I should have expected.'

The carriage pulled into the round drive outside Stockport House. Jack insisted on handing her down, making a great show of searching the area before he let her out of the carriage.

Dulci wished she could sniff at his protective behaviour, but she knew such a gesture was foolish. Whatever she blamed Jack for, she needed him for protection. The one night she wanted to send Jack packing back to his bachelor rooms was the one night she could not risk being alone.

The world she took for granted had become dangerous. How would Ortiz come? This was the most pressing question. His arrival was inevitable. Would he come as a polite gentleman and hope to discreetly lift the map from the collection room? Would he come violently as
a thief in the night? Would he stop at that? The other question was how far would he go? Would he assume she was ignorant of what she possessed and leave her alone? Would he assume she under stood the value of what she had and seek to subdue her the same way he'd subdued Vasquez?

Dulci walked stiffly to her front door, marshalling her thoughts and her courage. Her motto would serve her well. The antidote for trouble was to expect it and she was expecting quite a lot.

To her dismay, her hand shook slightly with her door key. Jack took the key from her hand and fitted it to the lock.

‘I'll have a room readied for you at the top of the stairs,' Dulci said curtly.

If Jack was disappointed in his sleeping arrangements, he didn't argue. ‘As you wish, Dulci.'

She wanted him to argue, to put up some kind of protest so she could take it as proof that not all of their passion was a lie, as proof that he under stood she was angry with him for deceiving her. But if love-making was on Jack's mind at all, he kept it very well hidden and that infuriated her no end.

C
alisto Ortiz bent graciously over Lady Mayfield's hand and departed the ball, looking to all he passed like a man headed to the clubs or gambling hells to spend the later hours of the night. He offered no sign of the turmoil seething beneath his well-cultivated surface.

Foiled by Wainsbridge again! It was per son ally intolerable.

He'd been on the brink, the
very edge
of success! The lovely Lady Dulcinea had been warming to his flirtation, excited by the prospect of sharing her collection with him. Once he'd extracted the invitation, it would have been a simple matter to retrieve the journal and, with it, the map without anyone being the wiser. But Wainsbridge had chosen the choicest of moments to re in state his curious claim. It did make him wonder precisely what manner of relationship the viscount had with Lady Dulcinea. The man's behaviour spoke of a commitment far deeper than that of a dance partner.
Unless there was another reason for Wainsbridge's possessiveness?

It would be in his interest to uncover who the viscount was and the exact nature of the man's attentions. Perhaps Wainsbridge's interests, like his own, were rooted in something more than the attractions of Lady Dulcinea's pretty face.

Calisto Ortiz stepped out into the night and hailed a hackney, giving directions to a tavern on the Southwark docks. If the viscount was indeed more than an ardent dance partner, he would not have the liberty of waiting to act in a more genteel fashion. Wainsbridge would know what he was after. It was imperative that he act tonight. He knew men on the docks who would gladly perpetrate a break-in. He could not commit such a crime himself, but he could send others to act on his behalf.

 

The crash of shattering glass woke Dulci shortly after four in the morning, according to the little clock beside her bed. Protection and defence drove her instincts. She pushed feet into slippers, arms into the dressing gown hastily discarded at the end of her bed, her hand snatching up the heavy silver candlestick from a long narrow table as she flew down the hall. There was no time to go for her revolver in the library in her desk drawer. Who would have thought she'd need a gun in her own house?

‘Jack!' she called loudly, running past his room, but his door was wide open and he was gone.

Dulci flew down the staircase, her feet certain of their destination: the collection room. The fight was already engaged. Later, when she remembered that night, she'd be glad Jack had got there first. What would she have
done against two masked intruders with nothing more than a candlestick?

Dulci gasped at the sight of her beloved room in a shambles. The long windows she adored for their work-light were nothing more than jagged shards of glass, the remnants of the panes laying in a shower of sharp, sparkling rubble on the floor. A few curio cases, which had had the misfortune of being in the battle zone, were turned on their sides, their panels broken. In the middle of it was Jack, shirt less and brandishing a knife she hadn't known he carried. He feinted and dodged, using a curio case as a shield against one of the attackers. Dulci cringed. If only she had her rapier or her gun! But by the time she retrieved either the fight would be over.

Under other cir cum stances, she might have been riveted by Jack's bare-chested skill, all lean grace in the moon light streaming through her ruined windows. But the other attacker drew her attention, slinking around to the side of the long work table while Jack was engaged.

Dulci sprang into action, racing towards him. These men would not take a thing from her! Her slippers crunched glass beneath their soles. She brandished her candlestick, swinging it like a medieval mace, screaming a banshee yell. The intruder looked her way in time to see the candlestick seconds before it connected with the side of his face. He staggered back wards into the table and collapsed with a cry.

The cry brought the other attacker. Darting away from Jack, the masked man lunged for Dulci. In reflex, she put up the candlestick to ward off a blow. The blow glanced off the silver of a blade, but the impact stunned
Dulci, and jarred down her arm. She fell, her feet losing their purchase in the glass.

She heard Jack bellow her name, she braced herself for the attacker's assault, but it never came. Faced with Jack, knife in hand, he opted to vault on to the table, making a wild scramble for the window before Jack could pull him back.

Dulci cautiously crawled to her knees, seeing the concern on Jack's face, and beyond him footmen in various states of dress materialising in the doorway. She under stood the in decision that flickered across Jack's features. ‘Go, Jack! Go after him! I'm fine,' she cried, flinging an arm towards the window. Jack leapt to the table, but he was already too late. The rope jerked away through the window, the attacker having enough wit to destroy the escape route upon reaching the ground.

‘The back stairs!' Dulci scrabbled to her feet, running and sliding in elegantly towards the door, Jack behind her.

He seized her in the hall to halt her flight. ‘I'll go. Stay here and see to getting our culprit tied up before he wakes.' Jack roughly shoved past her, running shirt less into the night, gesturing to two footmen to follow.

Dulci drew a deep breath, some of the excitement leaving her in the wake of Jack's departure. Jack was right, of course. There was no benefit to both of them haring off into the night. They would come back to find the other intruder gone and the journal with him.

Dulci quickly organised the servants. There were actions to take and decisions to make. Some of them were sent to round up cords from the kitchen. Others were set to watch the captive until he was secure.

Her butler, Roundhouse, asked permission to call
the watch. She debated the decision before deciding against it. She also wished to maintain some level of anonymity. She didn't want this break-in announced to the world. Going for the watch would only raise a host of questions. That couldn't be what Jack wanted.

The housekeeper wanted to clean up the room, but Dulci thought it would be better to wait for Jack, for the daylight, and a chance to search for clues. Instead, Dulci set the woman to work making tea and laying out an early breakfast. After a whirlwind of early morning activity, there was nothing to do but wait for Jack's return.

 

Dulci was dressed and coiffed, looking every inch the respectable young woman by the time Jack came back some time after the clock chimed nine, dressed in someone's ill-fitting shirt with too-short sleeves. It seemed more than hours had passed since the break-in.

She'd never been treated to the sight of a dishevelled, unkempt, sleep less Jack called out in the middle of the night to run the streets of London. The man standing before her in the entry bore little resemblance to the couth, impeccably tailored man who'd squired her to the Mayfield ball only last night. Jack's blonde hair hung in his face, causing him to repeatedly push it out of his eyes. His trousers were ripped at the knees, his chest, where it peeked through the un but toned shirt, bore signs of soot and dirt.

She searched his tired face, adorned with dark circles and the blonde stubble of morning beard. He shook his head wordlessly. The intruder had got away.

‘Do you want to bathe first or eat?' Dulci solicited.

‘Eat, if you can stand me. I'll start with coffee if you have it.' Jack's voice was hoarse with weariness.

‘I have breakfast and coffee laid out in the family dining room. I'll send someone to your lodgings for fresh clothes.' She peered closely at Jack. He seemed to sway where he stood. ‘Are you all right?'

Jack managed a wry half-smile. ‘There's nothing wrong with me coffee can't cure.'

 

Coffee, a bath and clean clothes did indeed work wonders on Jack. Dulci wondered at his reserves of stamina hours later as he briefed a small team of men, Gladstone included, in the ruins of her collection room, leading them through the burglary.

‘There can be no question that the intruders had a specific destination
and
goal in mind.' Jack flashed a sharp look at Gladstone. Dulci recalled Jack's scepticism the prior evening over Gladstone's reluctance to officially name Calisto Ortiz as the prime suspect in Vasquez's murder.

‘This room is set at the back of the house and is two storeys from the ground. The intruders came here instead of choosing rooms on the lower level, which would have been accessible with much more ease and without the risk of waking the occupants. It is unlikely someone sleeping on the third floor would have heard a disturbance on the lower level.'

Dulci noted how care fully Jack worded his hypothesis, delicately skirting away from any word that would imply ‘we'. Unless called to it, Jack was doing his best to steer attention away from his presence in a bedchamber in an unmarried woman's home.

The three other men nodded their heads, following
Jack's explanations. Dulci marvelled at how easily or perhaps willingly the men were led. It was a curious trait of the English to simply ignore what did not please them. If anyone deduced Jack had already been on the premises, no one mentioned it out loud. True to English custom, if it wasn't said, then it didn't happen.

‘Did the intruder escape with the map?' one of them asked.

‘No, the map is safe.' Jack's answer was direct and short.

‘Do we have any idea who sent these men?' asked another.

‘
I
have ideas.' Jack shot Gladstone a cool look. ‘We have the second intruder in custody. He's been sent to a safe house where he awaits interrogation later this afternoon. I am confident we'll have the answers we seek by evening.'

Dulci hid a shudder. An interrogation sounded exceedingly brutal. She wanted to protest that such extremes weren't necessary, but of course they were. To not extract the needed information from the captured intruder was the height of folly. Was Jack going to do the interrogation? He'd said ‘we', implying he and one other. She'd never thought Jack capable of cold-blooded violence. His appearance seemed so immaculate and, well,
clean
, nothing out of place, nothing disturbed by any unruly conduct as if he moved in a world apart from the rest of them. But then, Calisto Ortiz had not looked like a murderer any more than Jack looked like an interrogator. So this was what he did for the king. This was his work.

‘Gentlemen, if you'll follow me into the drawing room, there is one more matter we must discuss,' Jack
led them down the hall towards the large room at the front. Dulci trailed in their wake, giving instructions to waiting servants that tea should be brought to the drawing room and perhaps something a bit stronger.

‘The other item is Lady Dulcinea's need for protection,' Jack began once everyone was settled with tea and sandwiches. He strode meaning fully in front of the long windows, looking out to the busy street beyond the Stockport House gates, all eyes in the room riveted on him.

There was no doubt that Jack was in charge. The unprepossessing Gladstone had faded in to the upholstery of his chair without meaning to. A tremulous thrill darted unbidden through Dulci. There was something undeniably appealing about a man in command, even if that man was Jack and had much to answer for; she'd almost forgot for a moment, but his next words stirred her temper.

‘We must operate on the premise that our culprit will try again in the wake of this initial failure to recover the map. That puts Lady Dulcinea at risk. That risk in creases if our culprit treats her with the same assumption as he treated Señor Vasquez—that Vasquez not only possessed the map, but knew its purpose.'

She might as well be just anyone Jack was responsible for guarding for all the impassive objectivity he was showing, not the woman he'd lain naked with discovering the dratted map. She wondered what these men might say if they knew precisely the cir cum stances under which the good Viscount Wainsbridge came across the map.

‘The house and Lady Dulcinea must be under surveillance at all times until this situation is resolved.' Jack
nodded to one of the men. ‘Morrison, I will leave it to you to work out a schedule. I will station myself here as well as much as I am able. We have our jobs, gentlemen. Let's work swiftly and competently; the empire and our monarch depend on us.'

‘To say nothing of Lady Dulcinea,' Gladstone said, rising from his chair with a smile that relieved some of her irritability.

‘Gladstone, we must be away,' Jack snapped, striding towards them. ‘The interrogation, man. They're waiting for us.'

‘Might I have a word before you go?' Dulci asked.

‘I am afraid not, Lady Dulcinea.' Jack smiled indulgently, coldly. There was nothing of her clever, teasing lover in that smile. ‘You can give your daily schedule to Morrison. I'll return later. I will contact your brother unless you prefer to do it yourself. He should be informed.'

The limit of Dulci's tolerance had been reached. Reached and exceeded. She would not stand here and be treated like a hapless female a moment longer. ‘Do not mistake me for a school room miss. I appreciate your concern, but I am fully capable of looking after myself. It was me, after all, who knocked out our captive with a candlestick last night.'

‘Yes, indeed, Lady Dulcinea,' Jack said through a thin smile. ‘I can hardly forget it.'

 

Jack doubted he'd ever be able to shake the image of her dashing across the room, her pink-silk dressing gown billowing behind her, her hair loose, oblivious to the amazingly sensual image she created, streaks of moon light turning the thin night gown she wore beneath
the robe gossamer. If it was truly only lust he'd have only noticed the fine fullness of her breasts in that moment. But his thoughts had been obsessed over her safety—how could he protect her when she insisted on putting herself in the centre of the action?

Jack sank back against the carriage seat, not caring that he shared the space with Gladstone. Jack could not recall being this tired in quite some time. Dulci was going to be the death of him. Had she no idea how many times she'd pushed him to the brink of fear last night? The very idea that she'd thought herself capable of taking on a man who out weighed her by at least two stone was enough to stun him, her success at doing so not with standing.