The Smuggler Wore Silk (19 page)

And the longer she stood here listening, the higher the odds that she would be seen.

Trying not to think about being caught, she pushed open the door and slipped into the room. Relief washed through her. It was unoccupied. She waited only a moment to steady herself, taking in the dark green colors and masculine furniture before rushing to the desk.

She pulled open the first drawer and rifled through stacks of stationery. What was she looking for? She had no idea, but hoped she would recognize it when she saw it. The stationery was blank, however. Beside it lay a wax seal and jack. Stationery waiting to be used, Grace concluded.

She shoved the drawer closed and pulled open the one below. A few scraps of paper lay on top. They were scribbled notes, seemingly unimportant.
Correspond with boot maker
and
Discuss vote with Viscount Lyndon.
She picked one up. Was it the same handwriting as that in the folios found in the smuggling caves? It was difficult to tell without having the original handwriting in front of her.

She stared at the paper in her hand. It was only a few words, a quick note from Lord Paget to himself. A reminder. Something small and easily misplaced. Unimportant.

She tucked it into her coat pocket without compunction.

Turning her attention to a third drawer, she pulled it open as well. It was near the bottom of the desk and deeper than the other drawers. A stack of ledgers lay within. She removed the first ledger, opened it and scanned the long, tidy columns of figures. Frowning over the numbers and descriptions, she ran her finger down one of the columns. It appeared to be related to investments on the Exchange.

It seemed innocent, but perhaps the others were not. She laid the first ledger on the desktop and retrieved the second, once more running her fingers down the long column of numbers.

“And what,” a thin, oily voice drawled, “is the new Countess of Langford doing in my study?”

Heart thudding, Grace slowly looked up and directly into the cold eyes of Lord Stuart Paget. He stood in the doorway, elegant in unrelieved black, a walking cane gripped in one bony hand.

“Um. Well. I was just—” Her mind went completely blank. She could think of absolutely nothing to explain her presence.

She should have concocted an excuse
before
she began the search.

Paget strode into the room. Her hand trembled as she dropped the ledger on the tabletop. She retreated a step as he rounded the desk, eyes full of menace. He must be propelled by fury, she thought wildly, as he was barely using his cane.

A bony hand snaked out and gripped her forearm, skeletal fingers pinching her skin. She yelped when he swung her around, pinning her between him and the wall. He brought the walking cane up and pressed it against her throat. Her breath turned to ragged gasps. She stopped struggling, working instead to maintain her breathing despite the pressure.

He leaned in until their faces were only inches apart. She wanted to scream for help, but the cane prevented her from making any sound besides a moan.

“What are you doing here?” His breath was sour and unpleasant and hot on her face.

Inspiration struck. “I had a message, sir,” she croaked. The pressure on her throat eased slightly and she took a breath. “From my husband. I was—” What? What? Panic reared its head, but she beat it back and forced herself to think. “I was only looking for paper to leave you a message.”

She could see uncertainty flitting behind his eyes. “My husband wants to host a dinner party for my uncle to thank him for caring for me for so many years. We thought—” She swallowed. “We thought to include you.”

Paget’s eyes narrowed as he searched her face. She did her best to remain impassive, calling on all of her control to keep the suffocating fear from showing on her face.

“I don’t quite believe you, Miss Gracie.” Paget’s gaze flicked to the side and Grace saw he was looking at her medicine satchel. Abruptly, he stepped back, the cane dropping to the floor.

She breathed deep, rubbing the ache in her neck.

Paget scooped up her bag. After a quick flick at the latch to open it, he upended it and dumped the contents on the floor.

Grace couldn’t hold back her distressed cry. Vials and packets and bottles scattered. A roll of linen bandages unraveled and a jar of dried herbs shattered, sending up the bitter scent of betony.

She crouched, scrabbling to rescue her belongings. A sharp whistle of wind sounded near her ear and the cane swept down to block her, the point resting close to her searching fingers. Slowly, she straightened and met Paget’s gaze. He held her eyes for a moment, then turned back to the floor as he used his cane to push through her belongings.

“Take off your coat,” he barked.

“Lord Paget, I—”

“
Now.
”

Her fingers fumbled as she reached for the coat. She prayed he only asked that the coat be removed. If he asked for more, she would run, would scream. Would fight.

Then something fierce and strong washed through her, and her fingers stilled. “No. I will not.”

Shock passed over Paget’s face, followed quickly by rage. “You
will
remove—”

Locking her shaking knees, Grace dug deep for courage. She lifted her chin and simply opened the coat. “Do you think I’ve stolen something from you? A set of silver spoons, perhaps? A candlestick? Do you think I need your paltry possessions now that I’m a countess?” She snorted derisively, hoping desperately that he believed her. “You can see the inner pockets of my coat.” She ran her hand down the smooth inner lining. “There are no bulges, no lumps. I’ve stolen nothing.”

Please, don’t let him find the note.

She stood there, the coat open for inspection but still on her shoulders. His eyes searched the surface of the material, leaving no inch unexamined. Then his gaze returned to her face, eyes narrowed.

“Satisfied?” she snapped, surprising even herself with the force of her words. She closed the coat, fighting for calm as she redid the buttons. She prayed he wouldn’t see her fingers shaking.

“Not entirely.” He threw the bag at her. She bobbled it, but managed to loop a finger around the handle. Dropping to her knees she began to shove the bottles and vials into it. The bandages went into the satchel in a jumble of fabric. Shards of glass nicked her fingers as she struggled to sweep the betony and its broken bottle into the bag.

“Leave it,” Paget said, disgust dripping from his words. He stalked past her and threw open the study door. “I don’t know why you’re here. But make no mistake,
my lady
, I will be watching you.”

She fled. Her heart was still pounding when she rode into Thistledown’s courtyard.

__________

T
HE DARK MARK
discolored the delicate flesh above her collarbone. No matter what accessory she wore, it was visible. The bruise couldn’t be hidden. Nor could she hide the truth from Julian.

She glanced at the door to the adjoining countess’s suite. It wasn’t lies driving a wedge between them. It was half-truths and omissions and secrets.

Leaving their shared chamber, Grace made her way through the east wing until she reached the drawing room. Julian was already there, a glass of brandy in his hand and the fire leaping at his feet. She hadn’t seen him since breakfast when they’d parted in anger.

He left his post near the fire when she entered, a smile on his lips. It didn’t quite reach his eyes. Still, he brought her fingers to his mouth.

“Ah, fair lady, after a tedious day, your beauty and—” The flattering words and charming smile died away. His gaze focused on her throat and his eyes went hard. “What happened?” he demanded. His fingers flexed, tightening on hers.

Her free hand fluttered up, ineffectively hiding the mark. “We may be able to determine if one of our suspects is the traitor.”

“Tell me.” His tone went flat, his face grim.

She tried to tug her fingers from his grasp, but they only tightened further. He held her gaze, his eyes a sharp blue. Then his fingers released and she pulled her hand free.

“I went to Lord Paget’s.” Stepping away, she paced the room and succinctly told him about her confrontation with Lord Paget.

Fear and panic still writhed in her belly.

She heard his breath draw in, then slowly blow out. She turned to face him. His face was impassive, eyes cold. A muscle jumped in his jaw, but it was the only outward sign of his reaction.

“I will kill him.” The words were very measured, very controlled. And all the more frightening because of it.

“
Julian.
”

“I will kill him for touching you.” He slapped his glass onto the nearest table, sending gold liquid over the rim. He strode toward the door with terrifying purpose.

“Stop!” Alarmed, thinking only of stopping him, Grace darted forward and put herself between Julian and the door.

“Step aside, Grace.”

“No. Think. If you go to him now it will only make it worse.” She saw his gaze fall to her throat. Stepping forward, she placed a hand on his rigid arm, spoke softly. “Paget let me leave. The damage is only bruises.
Only bruises.
”

“I would have no marks on you, Grace.” He stroked his fingers over the purpled flesh, his touch the barest flutter of butterfly wings. “Does it pain you?”

“No,” she lied. “I put ointment on it.” She studied the angry flush of his cheeks. His gaze lingered on her bruised neck, and she watched as he struggled for control.

Whatever else stood between them, she knew one thing.

“Thank you for caring so much,” she whispered, setting her hand against his cheek.

He turned his face into her cupped palm, breathed deep. Something intense flashed in his eyes before he buried it.

“Thank you for caring, Julian,” she said again.

“I can’t help it, damn it.”

The frustration in his voice made her smile. “Let’s go in to dinner. We can talk about what I found today and what to do next.” She held out her hand, certain the storm had passed.

She was wrong. He yanked her forward until she was pressed tight against him. His mouth found hers, firm and wild and furious. Fire sizzled from his mouth down to her toes, filling her. He walked her backward until she was pressed against the door, pinned by his hard, lean body.

“Mine,” he murmured into her ear, just before he nipped lightly.

“No,” she answered on a moan. “You’re mine.” Drawing his mouth to hers, she kissed him with all the desperate hunger she felt. Their tongues danced and their breath mingled as they gave themselves to the power that pulsed between them.

Her fingers delved into his hair, gripped it, as his hands roved over her body. Possessive fingers skimmed over her hips before cupping her breasts. Those fingers delved beneath her bodice, brushed across her nipple—and stilled. He slid his hand from her bodice. She felt something scrape against the sensitive skin of her breasts.

“What is this?” he asked.

“What?” Dazed, she could only stare at the folded scrap of paper in his hand.

“What is this?” He unfolded it and read the scrawl that marched across the page.

“It’s from Lord Paget’s study.”

His gaze skimmed along the edge of her bodice, hot and intense. Then it flicked down to the note in his hand. “I assume it’s intended as a sample of Lord Paget’s handwriting, since we don’t care whether he has contacted his boot maker.”

She ignored the pounding of her heart. “We can compare it to our sample from the folios.”

“I’m still angry, Grace.” He tucked the note in his pocket. “At you for recklessly searching Paget’s office, and at him”—his gaze touched briefly on her throat—“for hurting you.”

“It’s over. The bruise can’t be undone. Nor can I take back the incident,” she said. “But perhaps we could return and search again.”

“First, I don’t want you participating in any more searches.” He stalked across the room to the table that held his brandy glass. “Second, I think Paget would be too suspicious. He would be looking for anything out of place in his home. He might even post guards.”

“In other words,” Grace finished for him, “I’ve ruined any future searches.”

“If Paget is the traitor, you may have compromised the entire operation.”

She heard resignation and anger in his tone and felt uncomfortably guilty. “At least we have a sample of his handwriting. If it isn’t a match, we can obtain samples from the other gentlemen.”

“Unless Paget alerts the others, which is inevitable.”

“We don’t know that, Julian.”

“But we do.” He contemplated the brandy glass, swirling its contents. “If you discovered someone snooping through your financial files—that someone being the niece of your old friend—wouldn’t you inform him? And your other close friends as well?”

“Yes.” She closed her eyes, accepted it. “What do we do now? How do we move forward?”

“
I
search their homes for comparable handwriting samples.” He leaned forward. “
I
, Grace. Me. Alone. If I need assistance I’ll contact Angel.”

“I can help.”

“It’s dangerous, and you’re inexperienced. We don’t need you to be discovered again. You won’t escape without consequences a second time.”

“But if I’m with you—”

“I’ll be distracted and worried about you and make a mistake.”

He was right. Rubbing a finger between her eyes, she sighed. “Fine. I understand.”

“But you don’t like it.”

“Would you?” she shot back.

“No.” He reached out, took the finger that rubbed her forehead and brought it to his lips. “Fair lady, I would only see you safe.” His gaze held hers as he switched fingers, kissed the next one, then the next.

“You’re trying to placate me.”

“You’re too clever.” He paused, grinned. “Is it working?”

“Yes,” she laughed. “For the moment.”

__________

A
SHORT, SHARP
cry pulled Grace from sleep. The cry came again, and she realized it came from Julian. He thrashed beside her, pushing the covers away. She rolled over and saw he lay on his side, knees curled into his chest, his back to her.

“No.
Please
—” The fear in his tone was unmistakable. And chilling.