He crushed her in his arms as he convulsed into shattering pleasure, and the horrified recognition of his madness.
Dear God.
He loosened his grip enough for her to breathe and buried his face in her silky, scented hair. The black bonnet and her hairpins had gone astray. His powdered wig had fallen off at some point, too.
Panting, she said, “Was that what I think it was?”
He made an effort to collect himself. “I’m afraid so. My deepest apologies, Lady Kiri. I haven’t behaved so badly since I was a boy.”
“Not half as sorry as I am!” Wild-eyed, she lifted her head and bit him on the shoulder. Hard. “You are driving me mad, Mackenzie!”
“That’s entirely mutual.” Her feverish expression showed that she was as aroused as he was, and it was his damned fault for starting something he shouldn’t have done. “Let me make amends.”
Keeping one arm around her shoulders, he shifted her onto the seat beside him and bent into another kiss while his hand slid up the curve of her calf, over her knee, to the smooth, firm flesh of her thigh. Her mouth was hungry and her knees opened invitingly. He took his time, caressing ever higher as her breathing roughened. Sweet, silky moisture and heat, her gasp when he first touched her intimately . . .
She cried out, the sound lost in his mouth as he brought her to culmination with only a few gentle strokes. When her body stilled, he held her close, soothing and silently cursing himself for being a dishonorable fool.
They clung to each other, bodies damp and entangled. There was utter silence within the carriage, leaving space for the sounds of the city. Carriages, a street vendor calling the price of his oysters, a dray driver shouting filthy insults. But inside the coach was silence, except for gradually slowing breath.
Having Kiri in his arms was happiness greater than any he’d ever dreamed. He understood now what she’d said about each person having an individual scent, because even under the layers of perfume and sweat, he was aware of an essence of Kiri that in the future he’d never forget. She smelled of strength and humor and mischief.
Yet twined with happiness was despair. He never should have allowed such intimacy between them. It made him long for more while bitterly aware that he’d already taken too much.
Voice husky, Kiri whispered, “Explain to me why something that feels so right is supposed to be wrong.”
“Passion lies outside of right and wrong. It exists to keep the human race going.” He sighed and stroked his fingers through the darkly shining cascade of her hair, which fell almost to her waist. “But society had reasons why passion can’t be freely indulged. Good reasons, most of which have to do with the protection of women and children. Since we live in society, those rules can’t be disregarded.”
“And here I thought you broke rules all the time,” she said wryly.
“Some rules. Not the ones that cause harm to others.” He brushed her hair back, revealing the fine curve of her cheek. “Especially not others whom I care about.”
“So you care about me?”
Her wistfulness went to his heart. “How could I not? You’re as remarkable as you are beautiful.” His lips twisted. “If I didn’t care, I would have behaved much better.”
“I’m glad you didn’t behave.” She raised her head from his shoulder, and even in the dim carriage, he could see the green burn of her eyes. “You’re right that social laws are ignored at one’s peril. But we have this moment in time when we are both outside our lives, and I intend to take advantage of it.” Her eyes turned mischievous. “And of you.”
He laughed, even more enchanted by her mixture of worldliness and naïveté. Growing up in the middle of an army and having a curious mind had given her experience far beyond that of most young ladies of her class. She had the pure fire of youth that had not yet been seriously tarnished by injustice and regret.
She also had the arrogance that came with high birth and the belief that she was above consequences if she broke society’s rules. That could . . . cause problems. They came from different worlds that touched now only by chance.
Reminding himself of that, he said, “This time is precious, but I’m determined not to take advantage of you, and I’ll do my damnedest not to let you take advantage of me.”
He caught her around the waist and moved her to the seat on the other side of the carriage, where he should have left her in the first place. “We’d better make ourselves as presentable as possible since we must be nearing Exeter Street.”
She raised the blinds. “Lord, we both look disgraceful. As if we’ve been doing exactly what we’ve been doing. Do you see any of my hairpins on the floor?”
She looked magnificent, not disgraceful, but even in the irregular world of Exeter Street, they must maintain some decorum. He scrounged on the floor and managed to find several hairpins. “Is this enough? I know you had more, but I can’t find them.”
“These will suffice.” She expertly pinned back her heavy hair, smoothed down her wrinkled gown, then donned her bonnet and drew the veil across her face. One would have to look closely to see the subtle signs of disorder.
Wishing he had a veil himself, he retrieved the powdered wig from the floor and settled it down again. “Do I look like a proper footman, or a tipsy gentleman of an earlier generation?”
“Not much can be done about the fact that livery is old-fashioned. But the wig can be fixed.” She leaned across the carriage and straightened the hairpiece with meticulous care. Her face was only inches from his. “There. Much better.”
Their gazes met, and he wondered if he showed as much yearning as she did. Very gently he leaned forward and touched his lips to hers in a sweet, regretful kiss. “It would be better if we’d never met,” he murmured, savoring her warmth and delicacy. “But I can’t be sorry we have, selfish though that is.”
“I’m not sorry, either.” She sat back against the seat with a sigh. “Unlike you, I don’t regret my selfishness. Sometimes selfishness is exactly the right thing to do.”
He blinked, then burst into laughter. “My brother Will says that Ashton is both Christian and Hindu, but you, my warrior maid, are pure pagan.”
She gave him a slow, wicked smile. “And all the better for it.”
Chapter 20
By the time they reached Exeter Street, Mackenzie had transformed himself into the perfect blank-faced footman. Kiri hoped her acting was equally good as he handed her out of the carriage and escorted her into the house.
As soon as they were inside, Mackenzie pulled off the powdered wig, and formality with it. “I hate this thing. It’s like wearing a dead animal on my head.”
Kiri’s tension eased with a smile. “A rabbit? Or perhaps a ferret?”
“More like a badger. Coarse.” Turning serious, he said, “Now that we have those names, I’ll send a note to Kirkland to set up a meeting with him and Cassie.”
Kiri concentrated on removing her bonnet, which gave her an excuse to look away from Mackenzie. He’d always been damnably attractive, and the more intimate they became, the more irresistible she found him. “What is Cassie’s part in this?”
“She’s half French and spends much of her time in France, so she’ll visit some of the clubs and taverns that cater to French émigrés.”
“She’ll go alone?” Kiri was willing to frequent dens of iniquity, but even with her fighting skills, she wouldn’t go to such places on her own without a life-or-death reason.
“She’ll have a male companion, probably Rob Carmichael. He’s mainly a Bow Street Runner, but he also works with Kirkland and his French is excellent.”
“Another student from the Westerfield Academy, no doubt.”
Though Kiri meant the comment as a joke, Mackenzie chuckled. “Yes, in fact. We’re a far-flung lot. Even if we weren’t particular friends while in school, there’s a general level of trust among Lady Agnes’s Lost Lords.”
Kiri moved toward the stairs. “And trust is vital for this particular mission.”
“Even more vital than usual.” He frowned. “Under other circumstances, my club manager, Baptiste, would be a good escort for Cassie because he really is French, with many connections in the émigré community. I’ve trusted him with my business for years. But given the attempted kidnapping, I don’t dare trust anyone who works at Damian’s.”
“I saw Baptiste at the masquerade.” Kiri had been looking for Mackenzie without success, but it was easy to spot the well-dressed manager who kept a watchful eye on the activities. “He must be upset by your death.”
“Kirkland said he was so shocked he became sick.” Mackenzie’s expression lightened. “As soon as he started to recover, Baptiste told Kirkland that if the club is sold, he wanted a chance to make an offer. A practical race, the French.”
Kiri paused with her hand on the newel post at the base of the stairs. “Could he be a secret Bonapartist who helped the kidnappers?”
“I thought of that,” Mackenzie said slowly. “But if so, he’s one of London’s great actors. He’s always despised the revolution and the emperor. Half his family died during the Reign of Terror, and he barely got out alive.”
Her brow furrowed. “If you find Damian’s a fertile place for collecting indiscreet conversation, he might also.”
Mackenzie frowned as he thought. She liked that he considered what she said instead of dismissing her as a mere female. “In theory, yes, but I know Baptiste very well. When Bonaparte is mentioned, his hatred is visceral. You can see it in his body.”
Since he knew the Frenchman and Kiri didn’t, she accepted his opinion. In his business, Mackenzie had to be a keen judge of people. “Let me know the time of our strategy session. If you give me the list of names, I’ll make copies.”
“That’s a good idea.” He returned her pencil and the paper he’d written the names on. She headed up the staircase, refusing to look back at him. If she did, she wouldn’t want to leave.
As she neared her room, she saw that she was being shadowed by a shy-looking tabby cat. The tabby was sleek and well fed, so she must be the kitchen cat. Kiri liked cats, so she held her door open and stood back.
Watching Kiri warily, the cat darted past her into the bedroom, then leaped onto the bed and proceeded to turn several times before settling down at the foot. “I see I won’t have to sleep alone,” Kiri said. “Thanks for that, Puss.”
Green eyes opened in a flat stare, then closed. Kiri got the impression that the cat was a habitué of the room, and not about to let a human disturb her routine.
Drained by the events of the morning, Kiri folded onto the wooden chair. She didn’t want to think of what she’d felt in Mackenzie’s arms, but she could think of nothing else. His touch, his warmth, his strength. A shiver burned through her, overwhelming her determination to be wise.
Mackenzie was right that passion existed apart from social rules. She had a rebellious streak, but her family would not welcome a gambler of dubious reputation as a member. In particular, the general would be appalled that she would even talk to a man who’d been cashiered from the army.
She might be willing to fight her family over an unsuitable man, but she couldn’t do anything that might reflect badly on them. Particularly not something that would diminish the choices for her younger, shyer, better behaved sister. She and Lucia teased each other regularly, but they were close. Kiri had adored her younger sister from the day she was born. She adored Thomas, too, though she’d never embarrass them both by saying such a thing aloud.
Lucia and Thomas were both Stillwells, sane and practical. But Adam was her full brother, and even though they’d been raised on opposite sides of the world, they shared a streak of romanticism that must come from their father, who had briefly been the Duke of Ashton. He’d hated the idea so much that he’d died of a fever so he wouldn’t have to leave India. At least, that was Adam’s theory.
If she would be the only person to suffer consequences, she’d hurl herself into Mackenzie’s arms. Which was exactly what she’d done when he kissed her in the carriage. If she’d shown a grain of sense, they would have gone no further than the kiss.
But her yearning hunger for him had overwhelmed her and pushed them into a deeper layer of involvement. A pity she didn’t have only herself to think of.
But she had a family she loved and didn’t want to disgrace. Even so, control would be hard. It helped that Mackenzie didn’t seem the marrying kind. She believed that he did care for her. But she also believed that he’d cared for many women in his life. That didn’t mean he’d wanted to marry any of them, or he would have done so.
For a man like Damian Mackenzie, marriage would just be an unwelcome, not to mention unnecessary, distraction. When he wanted a woman, he had no shortage to choose from. If he ever did take a wife, he’d probably choose an actress who was as flamboyant and unrespectable as he was.
But Kiri had been serious about taking advantage of this brief time out of time. For a few days or weeks, they were joined in a mutual mission and living under the same roof. She’d be no worse off if a few more rules were broken.
If she had only a few weeks, she would make the best of them.
“Kirkland said he might be late, and we should start eating without him,” Mackenzie informed Kiri, Cass, and Rob Carmichael, the Bow Street Runner. The Runner was tall, lean, and contained, a little like Kirkland but with more visible edges. Kiri decided that if they met in a dark alley, she wanted him to be on her side.
The strategy meeting took place over a supper of thick fish and vegetable stew and fresh bread prepared by Mrs. Powell. By mutual consent, they concentrated on the meal rather than talking business. Having spent the afternoon in her room, Kiri had an appetite and was finishing her second bowl of stew by the time Kirkland arrived.
He greeted them tersely. “I’m glad you had a chance to eat before I ruined your appetites. This afternoon there was an assassination attempt on the prince regent.”
Kiri gasped. The regent might be self-indulgent and extravagant, but he was still the ruler of England. “Was the prince killed or injured?”
“He escaped unharmed, though he was understandably upset. He’s taking this conspiracy a lot more seriously now.” Kirkland looked bleak. “But one of my men was badly injured protecting the regent.”
“Who?” Carmichael asked sharply. “And how badly?”
“Edmund Stevenson. The surgeon thinks his arm can be saved.”
“Poor devil,” Carmichael muttered. “A good thing he was there.”
Mackenzie asked, “Did you catch the assassin?”
“There were three. Two escaped, the third was shot by Stevenson. He seemed to be a Frenchman.”
“Do you want me to look at the body?” Cassie asked. “I might recognize him.”
“I hope you do.” Kirkland frowned. “I hate to ask this of you, Kiri. Could you come with Cassie and me after supper to see if he might be one of the kidnappers you saw at the club?”
If Cassie could identify dead bodies, so could Kiri. “Of course.”
“If you’ve finished eating, we can go right now,” Kirkland said.
Cassie gave him a gimlet stare. “Sit down and eat, Kirkland. Starvation won’t make your brain work better.”
Kirkland started to protest, then smiled tiredly. “You’re right.” He accepted the bowl of stew that Cassie dished up for him.
As Kirkland dug into the food like a man who’d skipped too many meals, Mackenzie said, “We have other business as well.”
He gave Kiri a warm, private smile. “Remember how Lady Kiri identified the cologne worn by the leader of the kidnappers? This morning we went to the shop that makes it, and she charmed the proprietor into giving her a list of customers who use that scent and fit the general description of our quarry.”
Kirkland looked up from his food with approval. “You’re a born agent, Kiri.”
She laughed. “It’s good to know that my troublemaking qualities have their uses.” She produced tiny bottles containing a couple of drops of Alejandro each. “There’s no guarantee that our man will be wearing this at any given moment, but it’s one more element to the description.”
As the others sniffed at the scent bottles, Kirkland said, “I want to see the names he gave you.”
“I made copies of the list this afternoon.” Kiri passed the sheets to each of the others. “I met several of these men in society, but I can’t say much about them.”
“At least five of them are French, or have strong ties to the émigré community,” Cassie contributed.
Kirkland scanned the list. “Merritt has been in the West Indies since spring, Palmer is in the navy and seldom in England, Lord Wellston is an Irish peer who rarely crosses the Irish Sea.” He pulled out a pencil and made notes by the names.
“Most of these fellows have come to Damian’s often enough for me to recognize them,” Mackenzie said. “I know who I’d suspect first, but that would be guesswork.”
“A man who runs a gambling house is going to be better at guessing than most,” Kirkland said. “Who of these men would you consider most suspicious?”
Mackenzie listed them, and for the next hour, they all talked back and forth, each person contributing what knowledge or insights they had. By the time they finished, the list had been narrowed down to six men who seemed the most likely.
Sir Wilbur Wilks. George Burdett. Jacques Masson. Lord Fendall. Comte Vasseur. Paul Clement. Kiri drew little stars by those names on her list. “Of course, none of them might be guilty,” she murmured.
“This is how investigations are done. Piece by piece, until a pattern begins to form.” Carmichael smiled. “It’s not a job for impatient people.”
Kirkland pushed his chair from the table. “The next piece of the pattern to consider is the late and unlamented assassin. Are you ready, Kiri?”
“Lead on, Lord Kirkland.” Kiri controlled her expression. It was gentlemanly of him to be concerned for her tender sensibilities, but she’d rather be in the same category as Cassie: ready for anything.
The dead assassin lay on a stained table in a cold room by the river. Kiri did her best to turn off her nose so she wouldn’t be overwhelmed by multiple odors in the old building. As they crossed the ill-lit room to look at the corpse, Mackenzie murmured, “Steady, lass.”
She was grateful for his warm hand on her waist, and hoped none of the others were aware of her nervousness. Telling herself she could do this, she moved to one side of the table while Cassie went to the other.
The corpse looked peaceful enough, with a blanket drawn up to his neck. He seemed to be average height or a little below. Thin. Scrawny, even.
Mackenzie lifted a lantern high so light fell on the assassin’s face “Do you recognize him?”
Kiri studied the lined face, trying to imagine it partially covered with a mask. He looked to be about forty, but might appear older than his years if he’d lived a hard life. She frowned as a memory was triggered. “The man at the club had a scar on his left cheek running from here to here.” She indicated with her finger. “I just remembered that.”
“What about you, Cassie?” Kirkland asked.
“I recognize him.” Cassie stood on the other side of the table, her gaze intent. “I’ve seen him at some of the French taverns. His name is Hervé. He’s one of those disreputable sorts who lurks around the émigré community in London. I’ve heard that he was in Napoleon’s army until he deserted.”