The beguiling creature performed a polite curtsy, her eyes downcast. Was she remembering the single extraordinary kiss they had stolen in a garden seven years ago?

He took her hand and bowed. ‘Charmed again, Mrs Huffington. How long have you been in town?’

‘Not long, sir,’ she said as she looked up from their joined hands. ‘I’ve only just returned from Kent.’

He took a moment to absorb her remarkably green eyes. Not emerald. Not greenish-grey or sea-green. Hers were more … olive. And every bit as captivating as they’d been years ago. His memory had not failed him. Nor had hers—indicated by the subtle blush on her cheeks. Yes, she was remembering that single astonishing kiss, too. Ah, but she was no longer girlishly coy. No, this Georgiana was a woman of considerable experience. One he would have no qualms about seducing.

About the Author

GAIL RANSTROM was born and raised in Missoula, Montana, and grew up spending the long winters lost in the pages of books that took her to exotic locales and interesting times. That love of the ‘inner voyage’ eventually led to her writing. She has three children, Natalie, Jay and Katie, who are her proudest accomplishments. Part of a truly bi-coastal family, she resides in Southern California with her two terriers, Piper and Ally, and has family spread from Alaska to Florida.

Previous novels by the same author:

A WILD JUSTICE

SAVING SARAH

A CHRISTMAS SECRET

(in The Christmas Visit anthology)

THE RAKE’S REVENGE

THE MISSING HEIR

THE COURTESAN’S COURTSHIP

INDISCRETIONS

LORD LIBERTINE

A LITTLE CHRISTMAS

(in Regency Christmas Gifts anthology)

A RAKE BY MIDNIGHT

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

AUTHOR NOTE

Writing about the Regency world of the Wednesday League has always been fascinating for me. The things I’ve learned through my research have both surprised and dismayed me. The juxtaposition of the glittering society of the ton with the ‘seedy underbelly’ of the rookeries and Whitechapel offer endless opportunities to my fertile imagination—which tends to run wild even in the best of circumstances. Adding to that mix, I’ve always been obsessed with the similarities between justice and revenge. When does one become the other? Or does it? I think I will always want to explore that question in my fiction.

Charles Hunter’s story gave me ample opportunity to do this. Readers who have met Charles in earlier books may not recognise him in the single-minded, determined man in this book. As he searches for revenge he is faced with a different but equally important lesson—sometimes the heart sees more clearly than the eyes, and forgiveness can be more healing than revenge. But Charles must learn that lesson quickly if he is to save the woman he loves.

I enjoy hearing from readers, so please feel free to visit me at www.gailranstrom.com or e-mail me at gail@gailranstrom.com

And now, without further ado, here is Charlie’s story.

A Daring Liaison
Gail Ranstrom

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Chapter One

London, April 1822

Charles Hunter always sat with his back to the wall to avoid unpleasant surprises—a tactic he had learned from his superior at the Home Office, Lord Wycliffe—and the Black Dog Tavern was not a place where one would want to be surprised. Charles watched Wycliffe come toward him now, wondering why he had arranged this meeting outside the office. The grim look on his face was not reassuring.

Trouble, then. Serious trouble, and highly sensitive if they couldn’t they talk about it at the Home Office. He took a deep drink from his mug and gestured to the waiting tankard, which Wycliffe lifted promptly.

“Hunter,” he said as he sat.

Charles nodded. “What is this about?”

“It’s on the hush, Hunter. I can’t make you take the venture, but it would be good for your career if you did. Probably get you that assignment to the Foreign Office you asked about. That’s why I thought I’d give you first chance at it.”

The Foreign Office? That was a plump little carrot to dangle in front of him. He’d wanted to get the hell out of England for months now. Maybe a transfer would clear his head. Ever since he’d been wounded last fall, he’d been restless, angry and a bit reckless. Standing by one’s best friend as he was shot through the head could do that to a man, he’d been told.

“What’s it about?”

Wycliffe sighed and looked down into his ale. “Long story. First, have you met the late Lady Caroline Betman’s former ward, Georgiana Carson, currently known as Mrs. Gower Huffington?”

Charles covered his surprise and damned the quick twist of his gut at that name. Did he know her? Hell, he’d been about to propose to her when her guardian informed him that his feelings were not returned. But that was before she’d married for the first time. She’d been so fresh. So beautiful. So duplicitous.

“We’ve met,” he admitted.

“What do you think of her?”

“I’ve always thought she is a stunner. Intelligent and self-possessed, though guarded and …”

Wycliffe nodded again, as if confirming Charles’s opinion. “Inscrutable?”

Charles shrugged. He’d been about to say deceitful, but perhaps that had only been his experience. “Aloof, I’d say. And not given to emotion.”

“Odd for a woman who’s been married twice.”

“And widowed twice, and hides in the countryside now, from what I hear.”

“Then you didn’t know?” Wycliffe narrowed his eyes as he sat back in his chair. “Mrs. Huffington has come back to town.”

The connection was lost on him. What did Georgiana Huffington, née Carson, have to do with Wycliffe’s assignment? He rubbed his shoulder, still aching from the ball he’d taken when his friend was killed last October. “Aye, she’s come back to town and …?”

“Good Lord, Hunter! Where have you been? Allow me to catch you up.” Wycliffe leaned forward again and lowered his voice as if he feared they might be overheard. “Rumor has it that she killed her husbands.”

Charles stared into his ale, remembering his obsession with the woman seven years ago. He’d been taken with those olive-green eyes—and the promise of lush curves beneath her demure girlish gowns. She’d been shy, sweet and possessed of a gentle humor he found endearing but there had always been a hint of darkness and mystery about her. “She doesn’t look like the type.”

“You, better than most, know that appearances can be deceiving. Why, you’ve witnessed things that would shock the ton into speechlessness—with the possible exception of me.”

Aye, the deceit and duplicity he’d seen beneath innocuous appearances no longer surprised him. He was a jaded man.

“But I am glad you find her appealing. That will make your job easier.”

A job involving Mrs. Huffington? Never. Charles laughed and shook his head. “I am on holiday. Personal matters to settle.”

“Come, now, Hunter. I know you are not spending your leave playing with the demimonde and dancing with new country lasses fresh into town for the season. Not while Dick Gibbons is still at large.”

Gibbons. That misbegotten, vile, flea-infested bag of manure. Gibbons was the personal matter he intended to settle before taking another assignment. He’d wager all he owned that Gibbons was the man who’d killed his friend and put a bullet in his shoulder. “I have business of my own to attend, Wycliffe. I am not inclined to help you with any ‘unofficial’ problems at the moment.”

Wycliffe sat back in his chair and tapped the table with one finger, a jaded expression on his face. “The truth is that you need to kill Gibbons before he kills you, eh? I’ve seen all kinds, Hunter, but the Gibbons clan is beyond my comprehension. I cannot think what could account for their felonious nature.”

“It’s in their blood,” Charles murmured. “It’s who they are and what they were born to be.”

“I’ve known good men with no better beginnings. You do not really believe in ‘bad blood,’ do you?”

“Aye, I do. And I believe if it’s birthed a Gibbons, you’d do the world a favor to exterminate it before it can spread.”

Wycliffe gave a short laugh. “And nature and upbringing have no bearing? Are inconsequential?”

Charles shrugged. “I’d say they count for very little.”

An arched eyebrow was Wycliffe’s reaction. “I can see this is not the night for a philosophical discussion.”

It certainly wasn’t. Charles brought the conversation back to the point. “So if you think the Huffington woman is guilty of something, put someone else on her trail.”

“That’s precisely why I need your help. It isn’t official, you see. Not yet. It is … delicate, and requires someone who is socially adept, accepted at all levels of society and who has a light touch.”

“If it is not official, why are we poking our noses in what doesn’t concern us?”

“Requests from some rather prominent people. Her former husbands’ families are suspicious of the nature of the deaths. Too coincidental, they say. Too convenient. For her.

“She has profited nicely from both deaths. And her last husband, Gower Huffington, was quite wealthy. No immediate family, but he has a distant nephew who was expecting to inherit. He thinks Mrs. Huffington cozened his uncle into changing his will and thus cheated him of his due.”

Disgruntled relatives looking for an inheritance were not reason enough to drag his attention from Dick Gibbons. He shook his head again. “Not interested.”

“You haven’t heard the rest.” Wycliffe finished his ale and pushed his chair back. “About her and Adam Booth.”

A cold feeling settled in the pit of Charles’s stomach at the mention of his friend. “What about Booth?” Adam had taken a bullet that had been meant for Charles, and Charles had been carried away with a bullet in his left shoulder. Dick Gibbons had been gunning for Charles, not Adam. His friend had just gotten in the way. And what did any of that have to do with Mrs. Huffington?

“He’d been courting Mrs. Huffington. ‘Tis rumored they’d signed marriage contracts the day he was killed.”

Charles remembered Booth’s interest in the widow, but he hadn’t realized how serious it was or he’d have warned his friend against her. He took a long, slow drink, digesting this information.

Wycliffe pressed his advantage. “Furthermore, Mrs. Huffington’s former guardian, Lady Caroline Betman, died rather suddenly. Her death is being seen as yet another convenience for Mrs. Huffington. Each death was ruled accidental, save Lady Caroline’s, which was thought to be natural. That is why the investigation must be kept unofficial. There is no new information that would warrant reopening the inquiries. Gathering that information would be your task.”

Charles was forced to admit that Mrs. Huffington looked guilty of something. And he’d known unlikelier killers. “I only knew her briefly seven years ago, and have no way of knowing what she may or may not be inclined to do. In fact, I can think of no reason to take this assignment. I need to find Gibbons before he finds me.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Maybe it isn’t Gibbons you are looking for.”

For a moment—just a moment—Charles thought Wycliffe was suggesting … “Mrs. Huffington?”

Wycliffe spread his arms wide. “Why not? If she is guilty of killing her husbands, then why not Adam Booth? Even his father has paid a visit to the secretary. You always said it was not like Gibbons to miss, nor was a pistol his first choice of weapons. What if it wasn’t Gibbons holding the gun that night after all?”

That supposition gave Charles a moment’s pause until logic took over. “What could her motive be? She wasn’t married to Booth, so she did not stand to inherit. Would she not have waited until the nuptials?”

“Lady Caroline had negotiated a nominal settlement should Booth not wed her, no matter the reason. Afraid he’d back out, no doubt.”

Bloody hell! Was everything he’d believed wrong?

“Two husbands? And both of them dead?” Lady Sarah Travis asked without preamble, her violet eyes wide with astonishment.

Georgiana Huffington was well aware that the Wednesday League book club had convened an emergency meeting on her account. The ladies were quietly dedicated to helping women who, for one reason or another, found themselves in a pickle.

She gave a decisive nod, feeling the color rise to her cheeks. It was always the same—this reaction. Perhaps it was because she was only three-and-twenty. Or perhaps they were wondering how she could possibly have had such colossal ill fortune. They might as well know the worst immediately. “And one fiancé,” she admitted with a breathless sigh.

Grace Hawthorne leaned forward and placed her teacup on a low table. “My dear! That is … too heartbreaking.”

Lady Annica Auberville and Lady Charity MacGregor, the other two women present, nodded their agreement.

“Is this why Gina has brought you to us?” Lady Sarah prodded with a sideways glance at her sister-in-law, Eugenia Hunter.

“She said you might be able to help me.”

Lady Annica placed her teacup beside Mrs. Hawthorne’s and studied Georgiana intensely. “I confess I do not know how.”

Dizzy with the implications of what she was about to say, she took a deep breath before she could say the words aloud. “I have begun to wonder if their deaths were altogether natural.”

She expected protests, or at least some sort of reassuring denial. But the ladies merely studied her as if she had said something perfectly reasonable. For a long moment, the only sound in Lady Sarah’s elegant sitting room was the rhythmic tick-tock of an ornate tall case clock in one corner.

Finally, Lady Sarah nodded. “Please rest assured that anything revealed in this group is utterly confidential. And we shall expect the same of you.”

She heaved a sigh of relief and nodded her agreement rather vigorously. What she was about to say was bad enough, but to risk it being repeated was untenable.

The women smiled and Lady Sarah inclined her head. “Could you give us a brief summary, Mrs. Huffington?

A sick feeling settled in the pit of Georgiana’s stomach. “I was first married at seventeen, barely three months after entering society. His name was Arthur Allenby. The night of our vows he tumbled down the stairs, having had a bit too much celebration.”

“Consummated?” Lady Annica asked in a very frank manner.

Dear sweet Allenby. He’d been so eager for the marriage bed, and then … “No. He fell before, well, you know. Mr. Allenby’s family returned my dowry, added considerable compensation and sent me back to my aunt Caroline’s at once. I was a reminder of the tragedy, they said. Then, after my mourning and an extra year, came Gower Huffington. We wed two years ago. In December. We traveled to his country estate for our honeymoon.” This time there had been a consummation. He’d been quite eager and quick—over before she’d been able to ease the pain. And once again, for good measure Gower had said. She had dared hope she would come to tolerate it in time. “A day or two after we arrived, he went for a walk and did not return. By the time the woodsman found him the next day, he was quite dead. His heart gave out, the coroner said.”

She glanced at Lady Annica and answered before it was asked. “Consummated, no issue. Mr. Huffington’s lands were not entailed, nor his fortune. He had no other close heirs and left me quite comfortable.”

“And … and you wonder if these unfortunate incidents were entirely natural?” Lady Sarah repeated.

“It seems rather odd to me that neither of my marriages have lasted longer than a day or two. It could be a tragic coincidence.” Georgiana hesitated. The final story was shorter, and even more tragic. “But last fall, before Aunt Caroline and I left town so quickly, I was betrothed to another man. He was killed barely a day after signing our contracts and before any announcements had been made.”

Even Gina’s eyebrows went up at this. “Who was it, Georgiana?”

“Mr. Booth. Mr. Adam Booth.”

“I was at the Argyle Rooms that night! I recall the incident—in the street outside Argyle House.”

Georgiana nodded. She still did not know the particulars of that event, except that she had been assured it had nothing to do with her. But still …

“Too much for mere coincidence,” Lady Annica mused. “Do you have any particular reason, aside from the untimely nature of the deaths, for suspecting foul play, Mrs. Huffington?”

“I have been over it in my mind endlessly. I did not know of anyone who wished them ill, nor can I think of anyone who would wish me ill. There is simply neither rhyme nor reason to it all, and that, I think, is the reason it took me so long to see the unlikelihood of mere coincidence.”

Grace Hawthorne put her teacup aside. “Has there been a threat to you personally, Mrs. Huffington? A note or a warning? A near call, an unaccountable accident, odd occurrence?”

“Nothing. I vow, each time it came without warning. One moment, all was well, and the next …”

“Disaster,” Gina finished for her.

“The most troubling was my betrothal to Mr. Booth. Our engagement had not even been announced, and he was dead. We—Aunt Caroline and I—were assured that the matter was quite unrelated to our betrothal, but …”

“But?”

“The facts speak for themselves. And, to be blunt, I would almost rather think there is something or someone else behind these things than to think of myself as being cursed. I’ve heard it whispered in the ton that only a madman would propose to me now. And I’ve heard there are some who are speculating that I hastened my husbands’ ends.”

“Do you want to be married again?” Lady Sarah asked with a note of wonder in her voice.

Georgiana shuddered. “I’ve had quite enough marriage and mourning, thank you.” Not again. Never again. Marriage and men were not for her.

Lady Sarah sat a little straighter. “Then the worst that could happen is that we are unable to get to the bottom of this and that the rumors persist. But if you do not wish to marry again, those consequences are not so very dire.”

“No,” Lady Annica corrected. “The worst that could happen is that we stir the pot and it somehow comes to a boil and implicates Mrs. Huffington and she is arrested.”

Arrested? If she was found guilty, she would hang. Dare she risk that?

“Is there anything—anything at all—that you have not told us, Mrs. Huffington?”

Georgiana shifted in her chair. Should she mention the little items recently gone missing? The occasional uneasy feeling that she was being watched or followed? Or that something was not quite … right? No. She needed these women to help her, not think she was confused or mad. Clara, her maid, had said it was merely her imagination, brought on by the circumstances of her husbands’ deaths. Even Aunt Caroline had told her she was seeing things that were not there.

“I can think of nothing important. Truly. Nothing.”

“Were you terribly in love, my dear?” Lady Charity asked.

“Love? I … Lady Caroline assured me that love follows marriage. She approved of my husbands and was as distressed as I over their deaths—perhaps more so. She desperately wanted to see me settled.”

Gina filled the gap for her. “Lady Caroline expired just before Christmas.”

“Then you are quite alone in the world, are you not?” Mrs. Hawthorne asked. “Such tragedy in your short life.”

Georgiana waved one hand in dismissal of the unwanted sympathy. “I only want to clear my name and reputation. And if my husbands were murdered, I want to find out who is behind it and obtain justice for them. That is the least I can do.”

Lady Annica clapped her hands. “Justice. The very thing we stand for, Mrs. Huffington—Georgiana, if I may? We are all on first names here.”

“We must ask you to think carefully about our next question, Georgiana,” Lady Sarah warned. “How closely do you want to be involved in the investigation?”

“Very closely, indeed,” she vowed. If someone was singling out the men she married, she wanted to know why.

“Excellent. I shall make all the arrangements and send you notice of where and when we shall meet next. Leave your schedule open, dear. We shall likely begin tomorrow.”

His hand raised, Charles was about to knock on his sister’s door when it opened and nearly caused him to stumble. Thank God he’d arrived in time.

“Charles! Heavens, you nearly frightened us to death.”

He looked over his sister’s shoulder to see her usual collection of friends—Lady Annica, Grace Hawthorne, Lady Charity MacGregor, Eugenia and, yes, the infamous Widow of Kent. His first love, his deepest cut and now his quarry.

Sarah followed the direction of his attention and smiled. “Charles, have you met Mrs. Huffington?”

“I believe I had that pleasure some years ago,” he said, removing his hat. “Refresh my memory?” He was rewarded by Mrs. Huffington’s little flinch at the slight.

Sarah stood aside to allow Mrs. Huffington to come forward. “Georgiana, may I present my woefully wicked brother, Mr. Charles Hunter? Charles, may I present Mrs. Georgiana Huffington?”

The beguiling creature performed a polite curtsy, her eyes downcast. Was she remembering the single extraordinary kiss they had stolen in a garden seven years ago? He took her hand and bowed. “Charmed again, Mrs. Huffington. How long have you been in town?”

“Not long, sir,” she said as she looked up from their joined hands. “I’ve only just returned from Kent.”

He took a moment to absorb her remarkably green eyes. Not emerald. Not greenish-gray or sea-green. Hers were more … olive. And every bit as captivating as they’d been years ago. His memory had not failed him. Nor had hers, indicated by the subtle blush on her cheeks. Yes, she was remembering that single astonishing kiss, too. Ah, but she was no longer girlishly coy. No, this Georgiana was now a woman of considerable experience. One he would have no qualms about seducing.

“Is Kent your home?” he asked to break the silence.

“It was until my marriage … s. And is again now.”

Quite interesting, the way she included her deceased husbands in one group. He wondered, perversely, if he should offer condolences or congratulations.

Before he could say anything, she tucked a stray wisp of dark blond hair back into her bonnet and continued a little breathlessly. “I have come to town to meet with my aunt’s factor and solicitor to settle matters regarding her estate.”

He noted a quick flash of pain in her eyes, just as quickly hidden—genuine grief for her aunt, then, but only scraps for her husbands. And Adam Booth? What had she felt for him? “I am sorry for your loss … es, Mrs. Huffington.”

A sudden spark in her eyes told him she’d caught his deliberate mocking.

He became aware of the other ladies watching them with interest, and that he was still holding Mrs. Huffington’s warm, delicate hand. He released it and gave her his best devil-may-care grin as he bowed and stood aside to let them pass. A fair beginning. Having been reintroduced by his sister, Mrs. Huffington was unlikely to suspect the real reason he was about to show a singular interest in her again.

But he’d been surprised by the sudden flash of anger that surfaced at his memory of that kiss—a kiss so remarkable he’d been about to propose. A kiss he still remembered seven years later. A kiss, as it turned out, that had been nothing but deceitful.

Chapter Two

Georgiana looked down at the darkened city street outside her window. There were a few trees in the small square across the way, two or three benches and a grassy patch for children to play. A little piece of the country in London. The thought made her a bit melancholy. She’d lived most her life in Kent, shut away with her guardian. Lady Caroline’s tragic disfigurement had isolated her from the world but for her brief and successful husband-hunting forays for Georgiana. But she could not regret those quiet, idyllic days. In fact, she yearned for them. A life in the countryside free of the controversy and scandal of her circumstances seemed the most desirable of all goals. The moment she could conclude her business, she’d hasten back to Kent and retire there.

London was too unsettling. Too demanding. Too dangerous.

She leaned against the window casement and pulled the lace curtain aside to watch the flicker of the lamppost below and try to organize her mind for the days ahead. But all that came to her was Charles Hunter. Her first love. Her greatest shame.

She’d met him years ago, in her come-out season, and she’d thought him terribly handsome and quite amusing. She’d made the mistake of allowing him to kiss her in a garden one summer night, and that had been her undoing. That kiss had been deeply stirring and had led to more than she intended.

Upon their reintroduction this afternoon, she’d confirmed he was quite the best-looking man she’d ever met. But now there was nothing of his youthful openness left. He was still tall and dark, like his brothers, and he had the same startling violet eyes as his sister, but he seemed more guarded, more … dangerous. What had happened to him during the intervening years?

Back then, he’d been her favorite, and she’d thought she was his. But after that kiss he’d turned moody and began to avoid her. She wondered if she’d done something wrong, commited some gaucherie, or somehow offended him. When she’d complained, Aunt Caroline informed her that some men were fickle, and lost interest when a woman came too easily. Charles Hunter, she was told, was a rake—the sort who liked the chase more than the capture. Had the kiss been his capture? Humiliated, she’d begun to avoid him, too.

Now? Well, he was Lady Sarah’s brother, and she would likely be encountering him on occasion. But she was seven years older and wiser. She could hold her own with a man like Mr. Hunter. His subtle challenge and the ever-so-slight insult this afternoon aside, she could be as polite as he. Yes, warm and polite on the surface, cool and distant beneath—that was the way to deal with a man of his mettle. Surely ignoring his little barbs would be easy for her now that she had some measure of sophistication and experience.

The mantel clock struck the hour of eleven just as a knock sounded on her door. Sanders, her footman, entered carrying a small silver tray bearing two letters. “Mr. Hathaway said these came for you a bit ago, madam. I think one is from that solicitor fellow.”

Her solicitor? Oh, pray he had found time for her in his schedule. “Why did he not bring it to me when it arrived?”

“Mr. Hathaway was on his way out to fetch blacking for the stove and andirons, madam. He left them in the foyer and Clara told me to bring them up.” Sanders placed the little tray on her night table.

Blacking? Where would her butler find blacking so late at night? Georgiana sighed as she realized her household had become used to functioning by itself during her mourning. It might take her a while to get matters back in hand.

Sanders added wood to the fireplace and turned to Georgiana. “Will that be all for tonight, madam?”

“Yes, thank you. Please send Clara up.”

He gave a crisp bow before leaving her alone in her room. She looked around and sighed. In London three days, and they’d just managed to settle in. She hadn’t thought to send servants ahead to prepare for her arrival. Aunt Caroline had always tended to such matters. The house had needed airing, the linens washing, the furniture dusting and the floors polishing. But now she was ready for her stay, no matter how long. The only room they hadn’t opened was Aunt Caroline’s. She was not quite ready for that yet.

How odd, she thought as she turned to the four-poster bed and removed her apron. She and Aunt Caroline had talked endlessly about everything in the world, but they’d never talked about this—about the small details of her aunt’s final wishes.

The threat of tears burned the backs of her eyes and she blinked rapidly to hold them at bay—she had promised herself that she was done with them. She’d cried oceans of tears in the past seven years, but her deepest sorrow was for Aunt Caroline.

She removed her lace cap, tossed it on her dressing table and pulled the pins from her tidy bun. The weight of her hair tumbled down her back and she ran her fingers through it to remove any remaining hairpins as her maid bustled in.

“Ready for bed, madam?”

“Yes, Clara. I think we are all exhausted. Please tell everyone to sleep late.”

The plump woman smiled. “Aye, madam. Won’t have to tell them twice, I vow.”

Georgiana laughed. Sleeping late was a treat Aunt Caroline had always offered after an unusually long day of work. “If you will just help me with my stays, I shall do the rest myself.” She undid her tapes, lifted her work dress over her head and turned her back to the maid.

Clara went to work loosening the laces of her corset until it fell away, leaving Georgiana only in her chemise. “Aye, madam. I think we’re all settled in, like. Everyone is excited to be back in town. Why, even Mr. Hathaway has a spring in his step.”

Her staid butler? Imagining Hathaway excited about anything was nearly impossible.

“Cook and me think he has a sweetheart.” Clara giggled. “He was sad to leave last fall and he perked up the minute we got here.”

And now he was going out at night to buy blacking. Georgiana smiled. She wondered if she’d have to hire a new upstairs maid soon. She hoped Hathaway’s sweetheart was not a cook, because Mrs. Brady was truly gifted in the kitchen.

Clara picked up the brush but Georgiana took it from her and sat at the dressing table. “Go on to bed, Clara. I’ll finish up. And mind you, lie abed in the morning.”

Clara bobbed a curtsy and practically ran for the door before Georgiana could retract the offer. She began to pull her brush through her hair and then set it aside to open her little jewelry case.

Silly to look again, she knew. It hadn’t been there yesterday and wouldn’t have magically appeared today. But she’d have sworn she’d left the little opal ring here last fall. Aunt Caroline had given it to her on her sixteenth birthday and it was precious to her. Even more precious now that Auntie was gone.

She closed her jewelry case with a sigh and turned to the letters on her tray. She broke the unfamiliar seal on the first one—not from her solicitor but from Grace Hawthorne. She and her husband, a diplomat, were hosting a reception for the American ambassador tomorrow evening and requested her attendance—a very proper and sedate way to reenter society after her most recent mourning. She would send her acceptance in the morning.

The next letter was, indeed, from her solicitor. He would see her Friday morning and hinted that he had news for her. Whatever it was, she could not be surprised. She and her aunt had shared every detail of their lives. Well, every detail but for those in her will.

Georgiana went to her escritoire and opened her appointment book. She scratched the Hawthorne reception tomorrow night and her appointment with the solicitor the day after into the book, then blew the candles out, dimming the bedroom to the indistinct glow of the fireplace.

After she shed her chemise and donned her nightgown, she went back to her window to open it to the soft breeze. A movement in the shadows across the street set her heart to racing. The overwhelming sensation of being watched sent a shiver though her and she rubbed her arms to banish the sudden gooseflesh that rose there. Someone walking over her grave, her aunt used to say. The edge of the curtain drifted back into place as she backed away from the window. Had it been her imagination or a foreshadowing of things to come?

Charles shifted in the darkness. He hadn’t meant to let the sight of Mrs. Huffington in the window draw him closer to the light, but he’d forgotten himself in his study of her. She was so bloody beautiful that he could well understand men getting lost in those soulful green eyes and proposing in the face of almost certain death.

But was she a victim or a villainess? That was the question Wycliffe wanted answered. And he needed to know if she’d been the cause of Adam Booth’s death and his wound. He rubbed his shoulder absently, the muscles still stiff from the injury.

Georgiana Huffington’s entire future depended upon what he uncovered. And, as heart-stopping as she was, he could not afford to allow his baser instincts to interfere. He’d never compromised an assignment before, and he wouldn’t start now. Seduce her, perhaps, but be drawn in by her supposed innocence? Never. He knew better.

Ah, but anticipation of tomorrow night at the Hawthorne reception made him smile to himself. Mrs. Huffington’s dismay should be quite amusing when she realized he would not be so easy to avoid as he’d been years ago.

A cold shiver worked its way up his spine. Someone walking over his grave? He glanced around and strained to hear any sound, no matter how faint. Damn Gibbons and his cutthroats. Charles hadn’t been able to relax for months, but this was different. His every instinct warned him danger was in the wind. Breathlessly, he waited. Moments passed before he breathed again. A falling leaf? A stray cat?

Only stillness. And oppressive atmosphere.

He turned away, grateful that Thackery’s was nearby. He’d find his friends and indulge in a bit of gaming. Perhaps a bit of female companionship.

Charles paid his respects to Adam Hawthorne and his honored guest, the American Ambassador Richard Rush, and moved away. The press of guests at his back waiting for introductions relieved him of the responsibility of making polite conversation.

He was pleased to find there was an orchestra. Dances, he had found, were quite convenient to get a lady alone for a private word. All he needed was the lady. He waited in the foyer to watch the wide entry door. Sooner or later, Mrs. Georgiana Huffington would come through it, and the game would begin.

Charles’s anticipation rose with each passing moment. The memory of her standing in the window in a nearly transparent nightgown, her hair falling around her in a golden aura, was enough to keep him standing there for hours. How would that glorious mass feel slipping between his fingers? What lay beneath that alluring nightgown he’d glimpsed? Did she still kiss like a wild angel?

He straightened as his sister and Mrs. Huffington came through the door, followed by his brother-in-law, Lord Ethan Travis. He hovered until they had been presented to the ambassador and then followed them into the music room.

Mrs. Huffington was elegant in a soft gray satin that draped to reveal her excellent figure. Rather than drab, as it might have been on any other woman, the sheen of soft gray became her, nicely setting off her delicate coloring and hair. Was the gown a remnant from her previous half mourning? Her hair had been contained in a graceful coronet from which a few curls were left to dangle and caress her long, graceful neck.

For one prurient moment he found himself wondering if the hollow of her throat was still soft and sweet, if he would be able to feel her heartbeat there, quickening against his lips. Did her passions run hotter now that she was an experienced woman? How fierce would she be in making love?

Sarah noticed his approach and smiled a welcome. “Ah, I thought you’d be here, Charles. With your imminent appointment to the Foreign Office, you could scarce afford to miss this event. The American ambassador—perhaps you will be sent to America.”

His imminent appointment? Now, why hadn’t he heard this? Another of Wycliffe’s ploys to convince him to investigate the Widow of Kent? He forced a smile and bowed. “Dear sister. Mrs. Huffington.” He greeted the ladies. “I trust you are well?”

Sarah turned to Mrs. Huffington, deferring to her for an answer.

“Very well, thank you,” she said. Her full lips curved in a smile both wise and innocent.

Charles knew when a woman was attracted to him, and knew by her smile that she recognized the attraction was still mutual. The question was what she would do with that knowledge. Time to test the waters.

“Have you taken care of your business in town, Mrs. Huffington?”

“I’ve done no more than make appointments, sir. I think all of London must be waiting on someone or other.”

He laughed at her assessment. “Then you will be with us for a while yet?”

“So it would seem.”

“And I am doing my best to keep her diverted,” Sarah said. “I am taking her to my modiste tomorrow.”

Ethan slipped his hand into Sarah’s, an endearing gesture that belied their four years of marriage. “Her favorite establishment,” he explained. “Though I always suspect there is some manner of mischief afoot there.”

Sarah nudged him. “Tease! The only mischief is to your accounts. Marie is simply the best dressmaker ever. One has not truly arrived in London until one has had a gown fashioned by Madame Marie. Her judgment is unerring.”

Ethan read Charles’s expression, smiled and edged a knowing glance toward Mrs. Huffington. “Have you seen the Hawthorne gardens, Mrs. Huffington? The topiary is extraordinary.”

“I’ve not had that pleasure, Lord Ethan.”

Taking the cue, Charles offered his arm. “Allow me to show you the grounds, Mrs. Huffington.”

She hesitated, then blinked and took his arm, her hand trembling just a little, and he surmised she had been about to refuse. Did she realize he was on to her “poor widow” act? That his interest in her now was due to his suspicion of her? Or was she remembering their last encounter in a garden?

“Bring Georgiana back before long, Charlie. I really must introduce her around,” Sarah called after them.

He gave his sister a sardonic wink. Sarah had admonished him more than once for his rakish ways, but he was not about to lie just to set her mind at ease. Instead, he led Mrs. Huffington through the ballroom and out to the terrace.

“I fear I’ve appropriated you with falsehoods, Mrs. Huffington,” he admitted.

“You have no knowledge of topiaries?”

He smiled down at her, a bit diverted by the subtle scent of her perfume—a note of flowers blended with ambergris—similar to the scent his former mistress had used. But on Mrs. Huffington it was quite heady. Lush and seductive. “None,” he admitted. “Absolutely none.”

“Then we shall have to bumble along on our own, shan’t we?”

Quite adventurous of her. He’d just given her the perfect excuse to return to the house, and she hadn’t taken it—not that he’d have let her escape. Perhaps she had her own reasons for wanting to speak to him alone.

They strolled deeper into the twilight, guided by the lantern-lit paths. She did not prattle on like most women in like situations. To the contrary, after her initial reluctance, she seemed composed and calm, and he supposed that was due to the familiarity of such a walk. Had her husbands strolled with her through gardens before going down on bended knee?

They reached a path of hedges trimmed in various forms. He paused at one with a sharp spire. “Here we have the ever-popular boxwoodicus pointum.”

She laughed, a sound that sent a shiver up his spine. “I shall commit that to my memory, Mr. Hunter.”

He led her a bit farther from the house, curious how far he might take her. Far enough for privacy? “How have you come to know my sister?”

“I am not long in her acquaintance,” she admitted. “Miss Eugenia O’Rourke—oh, sorry, Mrs. Hunter since her marriage to your brother, but she was an O’Rourke when I met her—introduced us.”

“And how do you know Gina?”

“Last fall when Aunt Caroline and I came to town, we met in mutual company. I was previously acquainted with the Misses Thayer, who made the introductions.”

“Hortense and Harriett? Aye, the twins know everyone between the two of them. Did you all go about together?”

“Occasionally.” She paused and looked up at him as if she would say more, then glanced down again and the moment passed. “Not long after our arrival, Aunt Caroline and I returned to Kent. There was … trouble. And Aunt Caroline felt we should go home.”

Trouble? Was that how she thought of her most recent conquest’s death? Aye, he’d wager that would send her back to the countryside to hide. He stopped and took her hand, mildly surprised by its softness and warmth. “May I offer my condolences on your aunt’s death? I am told time will ease the loss.”

Tears welled up in her eyes and she brushed them back with her free hand before they could fall. “It was quite unexpected. I do not believe she was much in pain.”

As they continued to stroll in silence, still holding hands, Charles was surprised that she hadn’t sought to break the contact. All the better for him, since accustoming her to his touch was a part of his plan. Her little half smile was back and he breathed a little easier. He’d learned that the more a woman smiled, the less suspicious she was.

After a moment or two, she spoke again. “Did I hear your sister say that you are bound for the Foreign Office?”

“It has been mentioned to me as a possible option, but I have not made a decision. I have unfinished business where I am.”

“And where is that, Mr. Hunter?”

“London,” he told her without a twinge of conscience. Though it was no secret that he was with the Home Office, he perpetuated the myth that he was a minor clerk to Lord Wycliffe at Wycliffe’s suggestion. Only his brothers knew the extent of his activities.

“The Foreign Office sounds wonderfully exotic. I think I would love to travel, though I have not done enough of it to know.”

Charles shrugged. “My family has always believed in service to one’s country. All of us have traveled extensively, and allow me to assure you, Mrs. Huffington, that there is no place on earth like England.”

“Still, I have nothing left to hold me here, and it might be nice to see something of the world. That is the one benefit that Aunt Caroline’s infirmity denied me.”

He looked down at the top of her head, bowed to the pebbled path. Her scent, the soft warmth of her hand as it rested in his, the curve of her throat that begged his kisses, and the fullness of her lips just waiting for his. His eyes slipped lower to the provocative swell of her breasts above the modest neckline of her gown. Though they were mostly hidden from view, his imagination fueled an immediate and strong response in his body. One that he hoped Mrs. Huffington was yet innocent enough to miss.

He shook his head to clear it. Was this part of her allure—this mixture of worldliness and innocence? The undeniable appeal that had lured two men, perhaps three, to their deaths?

“Is something amiss, Mr. Hunter?” she asked.

The lowered intimacy of her voice caused him to stop and face her again. There was an unquestionable risk in growing closer to the woman, but he was a man who’d always liked the thrill of danger. “Mrs. Huffington, I hope you will not think me presumptuous, but how long do you plan to be in town?”

“No longer than it will take me to settle matters regarding Aunt Caroline’s estate. I find London society a bit … ruthless.”

He, too, lowered his voice. If the chit was flirting, he’d give her more than she’d bargained for. “If you are referring to the gossip shared over teacups, I cannot deny it. But I hope you will be staying longer.”

Georgiana’s heart tripped. He leaned closer. Too close. “Are you flirting, Mr. Hunter?”

He gave her the boyish smile that used to turn her insides to mush. “Neither of us is innocent of the world and its … pleasures.”

She held her breath as he lifted her hand and bent his head to brush his lips across her knuckles. A dark lock of hair fell across his forehead, and instant warmth seeped through her. She knew quite well that Aunt Caroline had been right about him. He teased, he flirted and once he’d stolen a kiss, he was on to the next woman. Who would know that better than she? Charles Hunter was an irresistible rake who had broken half the hearts in the ton. But not hers for a second time. She was immune.

After two marriages and a rather serious courtship, she had experience of a man’s passion. But Charles Hunter’s slow, easy grace was nothing like poor Arthur’s, who’d done no more than kiss her before his tumble down the stairs. Nor was his seduction akin to Gower’s quick, hard passion, come and gone in a blink. Yet not so sweet as Adam Booth’s humble kiss.

No, Mr. Hunter was in no hurry, and that unsettled her. He was a challenge to everything she’d come to believe—that love and passion were not for her, and marriage would be a disservice to any man for whom she bore any fondness at all. But it might almost be worth a kiss or two, since she no longer bore any fondness for him. Just curiosity. Could he still render her senseless with his kiss? Cause her heartbeat to race? Kindle a burning in her soul?

She looked up into those deep unfathomable eyes and he seemed to read her mind. He lowered his head toward hers, parting his lips just slightly. She wanted to cry. To run. But she wanted to kiss him even more. Aunt Caroline’s voice echoed in her mind. Once a man like Charles Hunter has what he wants, he will go on to the next conquest.

Slowly, reluctantly, she withdrew her hand. “You are most gallant, sir, but I think we’ve … studied the topiary rather longer than we intended.”

He offered his arm, which she took. A frisson of misgiving warned her that there was more to Charles Hunter than Aunt Caroline had suspected. The night had deepened and the shadows encouraged her to say things she might not have dared in daylight. “Why did you really ask me into the garden, Mr. Hunter?”

He seemed surprised by her frankness. “I should think that would be apparent, Mrs. Huffington. As you have become my sister’s friend, we shall be often in the same company. ‘Twill be more pleasant if I can count you a friend, too.”

Friend? Their brief moment of familiarity had passed, and the time had come to be polite again. “I believe we have established that much, sir.”

He guffawed. “I like the way you speak your mind, Mrs. Huffington. Quite refreshing. Is there anything coy about you?”

“Heavens! I hope not. If you hadn’t noticed, I’m a bit past the blushing maiden stage of my life. And, alas, there is no one left to remind me of my manners.”

He arched one dark eyebrow. “Do not look to me for reminders, Mrs. Huffington. Had I my way, you’d be joining the gentlemen for cigars and brandy. I am far more likely to encourage your frankness than complain of it.”

They entered the terrace doors to the strains of a waltz already in progress. Mr. Hunter swept her into his arms without a “by your leave” and led her into the whirl of soberly dressed gentlemen and gaily gowned women.

“Why, yes, Mr. Hunter. I’d love to dance,” she said with mild reproach.

“The first of many to come.”

Oh, she doubted that. Too much Charles Hunter would have her undone and forgetting both her scruples and Aunt Caroline’s warnings. A moment later the dance ended and Mr. Hunter took her arm to lead her back to his sister.

Their way was blocked by two couples who had stopped to chat.

“… just as brazen as you please,” one woman was saying. “And now it seems she has dug her talons into Charles Hunter, dragging him into the gardens like a common trollop…. ”

Georgiana’s cheeks burned.

“I would think she’d have the decency to remain in the countryside,” the other woman agreed. “Everyone knows what she is.”

“And what is that, Francine?” one of the men asked, his gaze flicking over the woman’s head to meet Georgiana’s eyes.

“Why, a schemer at best. A murderess at worst,” the woman answered. “And if I were to choose between the two—”

The scorching heat was replaced by a sudden icy coldness in the pit of her stomach. She could not mistake the mocking glance of the man who’d asked the question. She looked up at Mr. Hunter, and the expression on his face was terrifying—dark and furious. She started to turn, thinking he would quickly lead her around the group.

His grip tightened on her arm. “Hello, DeRoss. Everly. Ladies,” he said with an inflection that cast doubt on the name.

Georgiana was torn between amusement and humiliation.

“Hunter.” DeRoss, the man who’d asked the question, looked pointedly at Georgiana, pressing the introduction.

Mr. Hunter gave a slight smile, but there was something predatory about it. She suspected there was worse to come and lifted her chin with every bit of pride she could muster.

“Have you met my sister’s dear friend, Georgiana Huffington?” he asked as he placed his hand over hers where it rested on his arm. The move was proprietary and flattering. And false.

Mr. DeRoss and Mr. Everly both gave the barest of bows and Mr. DeRoss spoke for them both. “Charmed, Mrs. Huffington.”

She curtsied as slightly as they’d bowed. “Gentlemen,” she murmured.

But Mr. Hunter was not inclined to stop there. “Miss Wilton-Smythe and Miss Grayson, allow me to present Mrs. Huffington.”

Georgiana nodded and the women did likewise.

“I importuned Mrs. Huffington to allow me to show her the topiary. Quite artistic, were they not, my dear?”

My dear? He really was going a bit far. “Quite, sir. Exceeded only by your knowledge of the subject.”

He laughed. “You are most welcome to whatever random knowledge I possess.” Turning to the others, he said, “Must be getting Mrs. Huffington back to my sister. She will be waiting.”

“Lady Sarah?” one of the women asked.

“I only have the one sister,” he said. He turned Georgiana in Sarah’s direction and led her away. “I’ve found it’s always best to face bullies down,” he said. “Let them know you’re equal to them and that they cannot force you into a corner.”

“But what was the point of mentioning your sister?”

“She has a reputation in the ton, Mrs. Huffington. Whoever Sarah approves publicly will be accepted without question.”

“Ah, so then …”

“Those women will say nothing further against you.”

Lady Sarah aside, she did not think any of them would want to cross Charles Hunter again. “But they will not like it,” she said. “And they will be waiting for me to do something wrong.”

He looked down at her, one eyebrow cocked and a challenge in his words. “Then your task is simple, Mrs. Huffington. Do nothing wrong.”

She shivered as he released her hand. What a pretty pass things had come to when even her professed friends did not think she would be able to keep out of trouble! Worse—that she, herself, doubted it, too.

Chapter Three

Georgiana took long strides, still fuming as she swept out of her bank, her bulging reticule stuffed with two thousand pounds in banknotes tucked tightly under her arm. How could things have gotten so out of hand in just a few months? While she had been languishing in Kent mourning Lady Caroline’s death, every distant relative of Lady Caroline and Gower Huffington had been conspiring against her!

“Madam, could you slow down a bit?” Clara asked, trotting along behind her. “’Twill make no difference if we’re a few minutes late at that fancy French dress shop.”

Georgiana slowed her pace to accommodate her maid’s shorter legs. “Sorry,” she murmured.

Now able to catch her breath, Clara began prattling on about the doings of the household, leaving Georgiana’s mind to return to the problem at hand—how would she find the resources to look into her husbands’ deaths and fight for her rights at the same time?

The worst of it was that Walter and Robert Foxworthy, Aunt Caroline’s second cousins on her mother’s side, had filed for conservatorship over her. Conservatorship? According to her solicitor, Mr. Goodman, they were suing for the right to control her inheritance and her into the bargain! Untenable! How dare they?

They had never bothered to visit even once in the past twenty years or more. Why, she wouldn’t know them if she bumped into them on the street. Furthermore, warning her that the matter could take years to settle, Mr. Goodman had advised her to withdraw a considerable sum of money from the bank before her funds were frozen.

If that were not enough, he informed her that she was being sued by a Mr. York, Gower’s cousin twice removed. She hadn’t even been aware that Gower had a nephew, let alone that he claimed to be the sole heir to Gower’s fortune. Indeed, Mr. York was claiming she had used duress to make Gower change his will in her favor! Why, nothing could be further from the truth. He’d changed his will in her favor even before they’d said their vows.

She had hoped her business in town would be settled today, and instead she had this new set of problems and another chore. Mr. Goodman had given her a packet that contained a copy of Aunt Caroline’s will for her information and a few letters to her old friends. All were now safely tucked in her reticule along with that absurd amount of cash.

Common sense told her she should go back to Kent and await the outcome of the Foxworthy petition and the York suit, but how could she do that? She had to defend herself against these scurrilous charges. Her life and future were hanging in the balance! Any plans of hastening back to the countryside to avoid Mr. Hunter’s attentions were now out of the question. He’d advised her to stay out of trouble and now, through no fault of her own, trouble had found her.

The ladies had arrived at La Meilleure Robe. Georgiana left Clara in the waiting room and joined them in the back fitting room. They brushed her apology for being late aside with kind reassurances.

“These little lulls give us a chance to actually discuss the books our husbands think we are reading,” Sarah said.

“What book do they think you are reading?”

“The Pirate, by the Wizard of the North,” Lady Annica said.

“It would be a good idea for you to read the book, too, dear,” Grace Hawthorne said. “In the event someone should ask. I have an extra copy if you’d like.”

Georgiana nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Hawthorne.”

“Grace,” the woman corrected. “I shall have a footman deliver it to your home.”

A handsome woman with the bearing of a queen entered through a side door and clapped her hands. “Ah! We are in pursuit, eh? Well, come. ‘Oo is my client?”

Sarah nudged Georgiana toward the dressmaker’s platform. “Madame Marie, this is Mrs. Georgiana Huffington.”

The dressmaker circled Georgiana, her gaze sweeping up and down, assessing her figure. “Ah, yes. I know just the style for you, petite. And the correct color for you is violet. Any violet, but especially deep violet. Please say you never wear yellow.”

“Never again.” Georgiana vowed to go home and cull anything yellow from her wardrobe as she undressed to her corset and chemise.

Marie nodded and began taking Georgiana’s measurements with knotted string behind a short dressing screen. Barely a moment later, a pleasant-looking man entered the room and was introduced as Madame Marie’s husband, Mr. Francis Renquist. Gina explained that he had been a Bow Street Runner and was the group’s chief investigator. He’d been briefly informed of her dilemma.

He nodded acknowledgment to Georgiana and then chivalrously avoided looking at her. “I have a few questions before I can begin, Mrs. Huffington.”

“Ask anything, sir.”

He took a small pad of paper and a lead pencil from his waistcoat pocket and prepared to take notes. “Do you know of anyone, no matter how far-fetched, who might have any reason to kill your husbands?”

“None,” she answered quietly as Madame Marie continued to knot her string. “That is why these events are so bewildering.”

“Do you have any former suitors who might bear a grudge?”

“No. Between marriages and mourning, I have not been much in society.”

“Could it be possible that either of your husbands had enemies? Former lovers, mistresses, or rivals?”

“I … I do not believe so, sir, but I was not married to them long enough to become familiar with their personal affairs.”

“Had any of them been affianced before you?”

“I do not think so.”

“And you, Mrs. Huffington? Are there any men you jilted or who paid you court and who could be angry? Narrowing the field, so to speak, to have a second chance at you?”

Charles Hunter swept briefly though her mind, but he had snubbed her, not the other way around. She arched her eyebrow at the man. “I think I’d recall such a thing.”

He allowed a small smile to quirk the corners of his mouth. “Aye, you probably would. Well, then, shall we look at the money? Who, apart from you, stood to profit from your husbands’ deaths?”

“No one, I thought. My first husband made settlements for that possibility in the marriage contract, but I did not inherit the bulk of his wealth. Certainly not enough to murder for. And Mr. Huffington did not have any close relatives, though he did have a cousin twice removed who has made claims against his estate. He says that he was Mr. Huffington’s heir, but he did not come for the funeral or send condolences. Neither has he called in the year and a half since. Mr. Huffington’s friends, though, were all quite considerate.” A few had even offered to “ease her loneliness,” but none had paid her serious suit.

“Aside from that, I have just learned that my aunt’s second cousins have filed for conservatorship over me on the grounds that I am unstable due to the deaths of my husbands. I think they are simply making a grab for Aunt Caroline’s estate.”

Mr. Renquist frowned and his pencil flew across his paper as he made notes. Several of the ladies raised their eyebrows at her announcement and she knew they were wondering how she would handle such an occurance.

Madame Marie took a few more measurements and stood back with her hands on her hips.

“A lovely figure, Mrs. ‘Uffington. I believe we shall try the new lower waistline. Bien entendu! I will begin at once,” she said, bustling from the dressing room.

Georgiana turned to Lady Sarah. “Do I not have to choose a style from her books?”

Lady Sarah merely smiled. “Trust her, Georgiana. She will delight you.”

Finished with his notes, Mr. Renquist took a deep breath and continued. “That brings us to you, Mrs. Huffington. Is there anyone in your past who might have a reason to kill your husbands?”

She was prepared for that question since she’d asked it of herself many times. It was that very question that had sent her straight to Gina and the Wednesday League book club. “I have no relatives, which is the reason Aunt Caroline raised me. Though I called her ‘aunt’ we were not blood kin. She had no brothers or sisters, just her second cousins. The entailed lands reverted to the crown upon her father’s death, and the rest were solely hers. I shall learn her wishes for the final disposition of her estate once I have read her will. But she led me to believe that no one else had a right to make a claim on her estate.”

Mr. Renquist looked pained. Clearly, he would rather have someone to point a finger at than have her as the only logical killer. “I am bound to say, Mrs. Huffington, that it looks bad for you. Still, if there is something afoot, we shall uncover it. Are you willing to do your part?”

“Whatever you think reasonable.”

“Go about in society. Make note if anything odd occurs, or if anyone suspicious lurks near you. Should there be something out of the ordinary, or anything too similar to the circumstances leading to your previous marriages, come to me at once.”

She nodded. A quick glance at the other ladies reassured her that this was not an unusual request.

Mr. Renquist continued, “I will meet you here at your fittings. If you wish to see me sooner, send word to Marie and she will arrange it.” He gave a short bow and was gone.

Bemused, Georgiana stared at the closed door as she edged from behind the screen. I am bound to say, Mrs. Huffington, that it looks bad for you.

As Lord Wycliffe and Charles entered their box at the Theatre Royal, Wycliffe inclined his head to the ladies in the box across from them and Charles lifted one sardonic eyebrow. Perhaps it was the threads of distinguished gray at Wycliffe’s temples, or the fact that he was unmarried, considered good looking, and possessed of a title and position—whatever it was, Wycliffe did not lack for female attention and did not hesitate to reciprocate.

As if reading Charles’s mind, Wycliffe turned to him and smiled. “I say, Hunter! I always get more attention from the ladies when I’m in your company.”

“’Tis true,” Sir Harry Richardson said with a wide grin and a slap on Charles’s back. “Why, even the demireps love our Charlie.”

“Ah, there’s our pigeon,” Wycliffe said, inclining his head toward a box to their left.

Charles followed his line of vision and saw Hortense and Harriett Thayer, along with Mrs. Huffington, entertaining a number of men in their box. His brother James was there, too, accompanied by his bride, Gina—the perfect excuse to pay his respects.

“Do you really think that divine creature is capable of cold-blooded murder?” Richardson asked Wycliffe.

“Capable? Yes. From what I’ve heard, she is more than capable of anything she should choose to do. Morally inclined? That is another question entirely, and the one we must answer to the Secretary’s satisfaction.”

Charles cocked an eyebrow. “Is that possible?”

Wycliffe laughed. “Peel is a reasonable man, for all his innovative ideas about reform and establishing a metropolitan police force.”

He gave a sigh, knowing now that they’d be answering to the Home Secretary himself for all that the investigation was “unofficial.” Suddenly the case had taken on a more ominous tone. More urgent.

“What do your instincts tell you about the woman?” Richardson asked.

“I hardly know. We have not talked at length, but she is a congenial sort. Quite pleasant to look at, and she possesses an infectious laugh. She expressed an interest in travel.”

“She is not—”

“No, she has no immediate plans to leave the country. She mentioned that she has business to attend, then will consider it. We have another fortnight to find our answers, at a minimum.”

Wycliffe frowned. “Who is her solicitor?”

Charles had had enough time in the past two days to discover a good many facts about the infamous widow. “Goodman is her solicitor.”

“If we need to delay her in London, I will persuade him to hold up Mrs. Huffington’s business matters.”

Wycliffe could be very persuasive and Charles hoped that wouldn’t be necessary. His superior could have a very heavy hand on occasion.

Richardson nudged him with another glance at the ladies as the orchestra signaled an intermission. “Are you going to introduce us?”

Still watching Mrs. Huffington, Charles considered the question. She was airy tonight, dressed in a heavenly froth of willow green with a fluid overdress of translucent cream. Even from this distance, he could see the graceful column of her throat, the lush curve of her breasts and the sensual way her lips curved into a smile when she saw him across the distance.

To his dismay, he suddenly realized that he wanted her. Despite her rejection. Despite the intervening years and marriages. Despite that she could be a cold-blooded killer and may have contracted the murder of his best friend and his wounding, he still wanted her.

That thought disturbed him. She was an assignment. No more. She was a potentially murderous female who’d gotten away with two crimes, perhaps four if her aunt’s death had not been natural and Booth had been one of her casualties. She was intelligent, clever and forthright—a lethal combination in a woman. And because of those things, she could easily have stymied the authorities. However he dealt with her, he would have to keep on his guard.

He noted the eager light in Richardson’s eyes and the interested spark in Wycliffe’s expression and sighed. “Come on, then.”

Within moments, the introductions were performed and several conversations were struck up, leaving Charles free to watch. Hortense and Harriett quickly snagged Harry Richardson’s attention, and after a few quiet words with Mrs. Huffington, Wycliffe turned to greet Jamie and Gina. Seizing the opening Wycliffe had given him, Charles nodded to the widow as she raised her fan and snapped it open.

“You look flushed, Mrs. Huffington. Are you feeling well?”

“Very well, thank you, Mr. Hunter. Just a bit warm.”

“I believe there is time for a breath of fresh air, if you’d like.”

“Thank you. That should be just the tonic I need.” She retrieved a cream cashmere shawl from the back of her chair and took his arm.

Charles was pleased to find that none of the others followed them. A few moments alone with Mrs. Huffington would seal their friendship and relax her suspicions. He couldn’t help noticing the heads that turned to watch them descend the double staircase to the rotunda and exit the building. Tongues would wag, he was certain, but gossip would work to his advantage, discouraging other potential suitors by signaling his own interest.

Once they were on the street, he draped the shawl over her shoulders against the cool night air and turned her toward the square. Covent Garden, alive with excitement until the wee hours, always had something interesting to offer.

“I never grow bored in London,” Mrs. Huffington said as if reading his mind.

“And yet you’ve spent most your life shut away in the countryside.”

She laughed and looked up at him, stopping his breath with her beauty. “Aunt Caroline was not comfortable in London after her accident. I might have made another decision.”

Ah, yes. Her disfigurement. “When did that occur?”

She shrugged and her shawl slipped down one creamy white shoulder. “Aunt Caroline said it happened the year before I was born. She did not like to speak of it, so I did not ask more. And as much as she dreaded London, the dear woman made certain I had my come-out. She so badly wanted to see me happily married that she brought me to town to husband-hunt.”

A task she had excelled at, evidently. “How gratifying you had no problem finding one. Or two. Still, ‘tis a pity she did not live to see you happily married.”

“She did. Twice, remember? It was only after my last fiancé’s tragic death that she lost heart for my future.”

He looked down at her to see if she was serious. They had touched on this subject before, but she had never admitted to having a fiancé. Perhaps he was making progress in gaining her trust. He decided not to pursue that particular subject just now since Booth’s death only angered him. “Did she believe you were happily married?”

“Though I scarcely knew the men, I was quick to assure her that I was more than content with the matches.”

“And were you in actuality?”

“I had no particular objection to them, and Aunt Caroline was so eager for my happiness that I could not disappoint her.”

“Is that why you married so quickly each time?”

“I married because she urged me to. I’d have been perfectly happy to wait for …”

“Wait for what, Mrs. Huffington?”

She sighed and shook her head. “For her death, sir. I would rather have stayed with her and eased her old age, just as she eased my childhood.”

“Is that why you returned to Kent after each of your husbands’ deaths?”

“Yes, and there was nowhere else to go. I could have stayed at Mr. Huffington’s estate, but I was quite alone and did not know anyone in Yorkshire. Aunt Caroline sent for me, and I was happy to go.”

“I must say that I find your equanimity refreshing,” he said. “Most women go on about marrying for love, and yet you managed to find contentment, brief though it was, with two men. And a fiancé?”

She laughed at his assessment. “I was not married long enough to be disappointed, Mr. Hunter. As for love …” She shrugged. “Perhaps that requires a certain fierceness of character that I do not possess. In regard to my … equanimity, I have a practical nature. And practicality tells me that marriages are seldom made for love. They are made for gain, position, consolidation, convenience or simply to produce an heir.”

“So you’ve never loved deeply?”

“Certainly I have. Lady Caroline. My darling spaniel. The memory of my mother and father.”

“But not a man?”

“Once I thought …” There was a long pause before she stopped and looked up at him. “No. Not a man.”

The moment stretched out as Charles wondered what it would be like to be loved by such a woman. If she loved, would she love fiercely?

“Flowers fer the missus?”

He turned to find a young girl staring up at him. She had a small wooden box filled with posies slung around her neck and was holding one made of violets and lily of the valley. Innocent, yet provocative, like Mrs. Huffington. He took a sixpence from his waistcoat pocket and flipped it to the child. She snatched it out of midair and gave him the posy before dashing off down a side street, not even offering change.

Basking in her brilliant smile and with a small bow, he presented the flowers to Mrs. Huffington.

She accepted them and lifted them to sample their fragrance. “Thank you, Mr. Hunter. You are the first to ever give me flowers.”

A muzzle flashed. Instinctively, he pulled Mrs. Huffington into his arms before he dove for the ground. The deafening report of a pistol shattered the night as the bullet whistled past his left ear, and fury filled him.

Bloody hell! The flower girl had been sent to distract him.

Chapter Four

A shrill scream split the air in the echo of the gunshot even as the sound of running feet increased. Help arriving? Or pedestrians escaping the chaos?

Georgiana felt the reassuring weight of Charles Hunter across her, and the rise and fall of his chest against hers, and sighed with relief. He was breathing. He was alive. Thank God.

He lifted himself slightly, as if he was unwilling to expose her if the danger was still present. His glance bored into her, as if searching for signs of injury or hysteria. “Are you …”

“I am well, Mr. Hunter,” she answered, trying to give the impression of aplomb even as she cleared her throat to steady her voice. “And you?”

He grinned and she realized he had anticipated hysteria. He eased himself to the side. “Well enough, Mrs. Huffington.”

“What—”

“Hunter! Good God, man! What happened?”

Mr. Hunter sat up and helped her into a sitting position as Lord Wycliffe and Sir Harry arrived at their side. “’Twould seem buying a lady flowers has become a capital offense.”

Lord Wycliffe’s narrowed gaze swept the surrounding square and paused at each deepened shadow. At a subtle gesture, Sir Harry spun about and headed in the direction from which the shot had come. “No warning?”

Mr. Hunter uttered a curse under his breath as he stood and lifted her to her feet. “A flower girl stopped us as we strolled. The moment she had her coin, she dashed for the alley. A second later—the shot. I’d wager she’d been hired to stop us long enough for the shooter to take aim, and then run away.”

Oh, dear Lord! Another man she’d been with had nearly been killed! She was cursed!

“You think the flower girl was involved?” Lord Wycliffe asked.

Mr. Hunter glanced quickly in Georgiana’s direction and she made a pretense of brushing the dust from her gown and examining herself for damage, though her trembling hands were apt to betray her. Apparently assured of her well-being, he turned back to Lord Wycliffe.

“Aye,” he said in a hushed voice. “Paid to distract us. As for knowing why, that’s anyone’s guess.”

But Georgiana had a guess. Whoever had killed her husbands, and perhaps Mr. Booth, had now turned his attention to her. Or Charles Hunter. Her heart pounded against her ribs at the thought of Charles lying in the street with a bullet in his chest. She turned slightly to pretend attention to her costume, trying to cover her fear and wondering what else they might say if they thought she wasn’t listening.

“Gibbons?” Lord Wycliffe asked.

There was a pause and then Mr. Hunter’s voice answered in a hushed tone. “Unlikely that Gibbons would have missed once we were still for longer than a moment, and I doubt he’d part with a ha’penny to hire a flower girl.”

Who was this Gibbons person, and why would he want to kill her?

From the corner of her eye, Georgiana noted that Lord Wycliffe slid a glance in her direction. “Do you think …”

“Possible,” Mr. Hunter answered.

She shivered with that implication. She knew what they suspected. That someone had tried to kill her. Was that better or worse than someone trying to kill the men with her? Icy cold crept through her as she surveyed the crowd, looking in one direction and then the other. Was a killer still watching? She caught sight of the edge of a cape rounding the corner of the Theatre Royal. She shivered. She really must get a grip on her imagination!

She met Charles’s gaze, painfully aware that attention was directed at her and they were likely wondering if she really was such a dreadful person that someone wanted her dead. She banished the terrifying notion and gave them an uncertain smile. “At least no one was injured. Thank heavens for that.”

“Are you not frightened?” Charles asked.

Terrified! But she had no intention of discussing it. “S-surely the whole thing was some sort of accident, was it not?”

Lord Wycliffe seized on her excuse. “Pistols misfire all the time, Mrs. Huffington. Very sensible of you to understand that.”

The thought flashed through her mind that his lordship was a dreadful liar for a man in his position. “Nevertheless, I should like to return to the theater, if you do not mind. I would think the intermission is well over and my friends will be looking for me.”

Mr. Hunter and Lord Wycliffe flanked her as they turned toward the theater. She glanced over her shoulder one last time, her skin prickling with the feeling that someone was watching. She was sure of it. As sure as she’d been the other night at her window.

“How perfectly dreadful!” Hortense exclaimed. “Why, you could have been killed.”

Harriett’s eyes narrowed and an angry furrow creased her brow. “Really! Men ought to be more careful. I do prefer swords to pistols for that very reason. You wouldn’t have an accident like that with a sword, now, would you?”

“You have a point, Miss Harriett,” Lord Wycliffe replied with a wry grin.

The orchestra struck a chord to signal the end of the intermission, and Harriett lowered her voice. “Furthermore, men who discharge their pistols in public ought to be horsewhipped.”

Hortense nodded her agreement. “At the very least.”

Georgiana noted the twinkle in Lord Wycliffe’s eyes. She was relieved that neither of her friends seemed to be taking the incident as a personal attack. One could argue that one shot was much like another, but she was not reassured. That shot had seemed deeply personal.

“Mrs. Huffington, are you quite all right?” Mr. Hunter asked yet again, noticing her distraction.

“Quite,” she said as everyone turned to her. She gave them a cheering smile and shrugged. “Nevertheless, I should like to go home.”

“Why, of course, you poor dear,” Harriett said. “You’ve had a frightful experience. We should have thought of that, but you seem so composed.”

“I am just exhausted. But please do not shorten your own evening. I shall hire a hackney.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Mr. Hunter said, shooting a meaningful look at Lord Wycliffe.

Ah, so contrary to their assertions, he and Lord Wycliffe actually did suspect there was something sinister in the wind.

Mr. Hunter took her arm and led her from the theater as the performance resumed. On the street, he signaled a hackney, handed her up and followed her in. The jarvey cracked his whip and the carriage lurched forward, propelling Mr. Hunter into the seat beside her instead of across from her.

“Beg pardon,” he murmured as he settled next to her.

She gave him a sideways glance and arranged her skirts to keep them from wrinkling, then folded her hands in her lap, trying to give the appearance of sublime unconcern. She did not want him to know how acutely aware of him she was—of his warmth, his size, his sensual mouth or the devastating effect he was having on her senses.

“I have a vague recollection of glimpsing you last fall, Mrs. Huffington. Were you in London as late as September?”

So it was to be inconsequential conversation, was it? And a tacit agreement to ignore their earlier acquaintance? But she couldn’t ignore the fact that he smelled utterly masculine—like good shaving soap and starched linen.

She gave herself a mental shake and turned her thoughts to the conversation. “Yes. In fact, I believe I saw you at the Argyle Rooms the night my … Mr. Booth was shot.”

“Did anyone ever mention to you that someone else had been shot that night, too?”

“I believe so. One of his friends, I was told, but the injury was not life threatening.” She looked at him and surprised an almost incredulous look on his face. But she had told him about Mr. Booth before, hadn’t she? Why should he be surprised?

A muscle jumped along his jaw and he took a deep breath. “You were saying, Mrs. Huffington?”

“Oh, yes. That we left for home a day or two after that. There seemed no point in staying and Aunt Caroline was never very comfortable in London.”

“I understand. London, for all its glamor, can be an unsettling place.”

She smiled. “I would never call it peaceful.”

He shifted to face her, and a small smile quirked the corners of his mouth. “Somewhat of an understatement, that.”

She looked into his deep violet eyes and wondered where her wits had gone. Two husbands and a fiancé, and it had taken Charles Hunter and a vow of celibacy to make her heart beat faster—the very definition of irony. He had, in fact, been the only man who ever had ever made her heartbeat race. The only man who had ever made her lose her wits with a single kiss.

Her little voice, the one that whispered good sense when her heartbeat tripped along a wayward path, told her to demur. Told her, in fact, to run home as fast as she could. Charles Hunter could have her rushing headlong into a relationship she’d sworn never to have again.

“But I must say, Mrs. Huffington, that you have a very cool head. Not many women could be shot at and then dust themselves off and get on with their lives.”

“If there was another choice, sir, I missed it.”

Charles laughed at her attempt at irony, then grew sober. Perhaps it was just as well that she didn’t know he was the other man shot last fall. That knowledge could put her on her guard and he wanted her as unguarded as possible. He reached out to tuck an escaped lock of hair behind her ear. The strands felt like silk against his fingers. “I gather you’ve learned to cope with shocks.”

A shadow passed over her face, and her dark lashes lowered to shield her eyes at his reference to her husbands’ deaths. Was she hiding something? Preparing to lie? “When you are at fate’s mercy, Mr. Hunter, there is little else you can do.”

“Fate?” he echoed. “Is that how you define your ill fortune with husbands?”

Her gaze, half angry, half bewildered, snapped upward to meet his. “Or that I am cursed. What else can it be?”

“Coincidence?” he ventured.

She relaxed and shrugged. Had she thought he was making an accusation when he’d only meant to open the discussion? Mention the elephant in the room that everyone seemed intent on ignoring?

“’Tis just that I hardly know what to say. How can I explain such odd occurrences? And how shall I explain my late fiancé? Mr. Booth had just signed the contracts before he was killed. Am I supposed to believe that, too, was coincidence?”

Charles gritted his teeth. Booth. His head spun with Wycliffe’s unsubtle suggestion that the shooter hadn’t been Dick Gibbons. Had, in fact, been Georgiana Huffington. He fought the impulse to ask her where she’d been when those shots had been fired.

Long adept at covering his emotions with innocuous expressions and meaningless banter, Charles did nothing to betray his anger and suspicion. If Mrs. Huffington had been responsible, in part or whole, for Adam Booth’s death, what had she hoped to gain? Without the nuptials, she was not entitled to anything more than the small settlement her aunt had negotiated. Could she have done it to preserve her freedom rather than for gain? Did she not like her aunt’s choices? Or was she a secret man-hater who disposed of any who threatened her freedom? If so, he sure as hell knew how to find that out.

“Rational explanations or evidence aside, Mrs. Huffington, what do you think is behind it?”

Her bewilderment looked genuine enough. “Fate is as good an explanation as any I’ve pondered. Unless …”

“Pray, enlighten me.”

“If … if it is not a curse or coincidence, then it has to be deliberate. And if it is deliberate, then it must be personal. And if it is personal, then someone, for some unknown reason, wanted Mr. Allenby and Mr. Huffington dead—perhaps even Mr. Booth. And if that is true, then I am the common thread between them. But if that is so, then why hasn’t an attempt been made on my life?”

“Aside from tonight, you mean?”

She turned her lovely face up to his, and her expression was one of bewilderment. “To make me suffer? Or to hang for the crimes? Or could that person simply be taunting me until he is ready to kill me, too?”

Ah, she was good. He almost believed her. “Why? Who would despise you so much?”

“I cannot think of anyone I’ve wronged deeply enough to warrant such hatred.” Something of her desperation reached him. If she was telling the truth, she would be frantic, indeed. Her eyes were luminous in the dark coach. “That is why I must get to the bottom of this before something else calamitous can happen.”

Better and better. She was falling like a ripe plum into his open palm. “I collect it wouldn’t be much of a life if you feared any man you showed an interest in could die, and that you must always watch over your shoulder.”

She cocked her head to one side and her lips quirked in a sardonic smile. “Was that supposed to be comforting, Mr. Hunter?”

“Were you looking for comfort or honesty, Mrs. Huffington?”

“Honesty,” she conceded.

“I am prepared to help you, if you desire it.”

“Help me what?”

“Find out if there is anything sinister behind your ill fortune and the odd things that have been happening to you. That gunshot tonight, for instance.” Could have been Dick Gibbons targeting him, but she did not need to know that. “Apart from that, I think you will be needing a male escort. Delightful though they are, I doubt the Misses Thayer can offer you much protection.”

Her deep shudder told him that she’d feared the same thing. Mrs. Huffington was not just in fear for the lives of men who knew her, but in fear for her own life—unless this was an act to disarm him.

“I am nobody,” she murmured. “I cannot in my wildest imaginings think why someone would want Mr. Allenby or Mr. Huffington dead. Or Mr. Booth, for that matter. Nor is there anyone who might wish me dead. It has to be something else. And that is why …” She blinked and pressed her lips together as if she’d said too much.

“Why it is a mystery you are compelled to solve?” he finished for her. “Again, one with which I am prepared to help you.”

“I scarcely know what to say, Mr. Hunter. I appreciate the sentiment, but you would be putting yourself in danger.” She sighed and only the steady clip-clop of the horses’ hooves broke the heavy silence.

Charles took her hand, so delicate and small in his that he almost regretted what he was about to do. She was playing into his scheme, offering an opportunity only an idiot or a man with scruples would waste—and Charles was neither. No, he was a man about to test whether she was a man-hater or not. With his other hand, he lifted her chin to look up at him. Slowly, relentlessly, he lowered his lips to hers.

They were soft, plush, voluptuous and they trembled just a fraction. A studied response? Or genuine? He didn’t care which. He lost himself in the taste of honey, her heated moan and her almost unwilling response. He sensed that she wanted to deny him, but was unable. Could there be any sweeter revenge for her previous rejection than that?

And that was his last rational thought as he answered in kind, releasing her hand to draw her closer. His reaction was purely visceral—as primal and basic as that long ago night when he’d fancied himself in love. Time had done nothing to dull that edge. He wanted to lose himself in her, bury himself in her softness, feel her heat surround him, lay her bare to his study, watch her face as she found release in his arms. He was older now, more experienced than he’d been back then, but knowing what lay ahead only deepened his hunger and quickened his urgency.

Seven years had changed Georgiana considerably. She was no longer a maiden. She was a woman of experience, schooled to passion. No demurring now. No fear. No crimson blushes. She arched to him, her breasts crushing against his chest. He felt a shiver of passion shoot through her and nearly choked on his body’s response—a desire so strong he was hard-pressed to contain it. And, sooner than he’d thought, he had the answer to his question. No, Georgiana Huffington was no man-hater, and yes, she would love fiercely. Or, at least, make love fiercely.

And who had the upper hand now?

“Charles …” she murmured when he softened his kiss.

The single word was more declaration than denial. She wanted him. Him. Whom she’d had so little regard for that she’d had her aunt reject him. Well, she could have him. Far be it from him to leave a lady wanting or waiting.

Her shawl slipped down her arms, baring her slender neck. The warmth of her skin and the subtle scent she wore rose to him, wrapping him in a seductive cloud. He answered in the only way he could.

He relinquished her lips to nip at one earlobe, tugging gently until, with a faint moan, her head dropped back to expose her throat. He accepted that invitation and traced a path of kisses to the hollow where her heart beat closest to the surface. Lingering there, he triumphed in her gasp and the quickened beat against his lips.

Georgiana Huffington was his for the taking, and he was mystified by how deeply he wanted her, too. Could it be possible to love and hate at the same time? To want to give both pleasure and pain?

She tangled her fingers through his hair and held him close, lifting her throat to his lips with a longing sigh. He left that sweet spot, moving downward, scraping her delicate skin with the coarse stubble emerging from his morning shave. She shivered and wiggled closer.

He wove his fingers through her hair to hold her immobile while he continued his exploration. He moved his other hand to push the willow-green bodice lower. Even through the gloom of the coach, he could see the delicate pink contrast of her breast appear above the trim, and his sudden need to sample it was greater than he’d thought possible.

He captured the little crown between his teeth and drew it deeper into his mouth. The peak, already firm, tightened into a bead against his tongue, teasing, tickling. He rolled it against the roof of his mouth and she made a soft keening sound. As she’d done all those years ago, before she’d stopped him with a desperate cry.

But there was no plea for mercy this time. No demurring. Her hand, still tangled in his hair, pressed him even closer—so deeply that he feared he’d hurt her. He swept his hand downward to lift her hem and skim his palm up the inside of her thigh. Past stocking, past garter, past a soft chemise, until he found the soft heat of her sex.

She shivered and twitched as if she would draw away or stop him. But he nuzzled her breast again, drawing her ever deeper into his mouth, and she hesitated. That split second was all he needed.

He stroked lightly and she was almost wanton in the way she arched to his teasing touch. He circled her opening with one fingertip, gathering the dew of her passion, and then slipped it upward to find the source of her need. At his first touch to the little nub, she moaned and pressed against his palm. Oh, she was ripe and ready, but he was in no position to join her—damn the luck. Their coach had just passed the park across from her home.

Ah, but he could bind her to him with a lesser satisfaction and leave her still craving more. The next time they met she’d be ready and eager for anything he’d be willing to give. She’d think him smitten and never suspect that he had other motives.

With a few deep strokes, she was finished, gasping and trembling in his arms. She seemed so surprised, so genuinely disconcerted, that he almost believed she had not experienced that particular pleasure before. He eased his hand away and smoothed her skirts as the coach drew up outside her town house. He tugged her bodice up to cover that wanton nipple and lifted her shawl to cover her shoulders. No trace remained of their indiscretion.

“’Ere we are, gov’nor,” the driver said as he threw the door open and lowered the step.

Charles exited first and flipped the driver his coin before he lifted Mrs. Huffington down. He steadied her as the coach pulled away, leaving them in the dim glow of a streetlamp. Even in the darkness, he could see the deepness of her blush. A bit late for that, was it not?

“I … I …” she stuttered. She held his arm as she steadied herself.

He grinned. He liked having the upper hand and vowed not to give it up again. “An auspicious beginning to our new arrangement, is it not?”

“I … that … shouldn’t have happened.”

“Tush! ‘Twas little more than a kiss. And we’ve done that before, so nothing new at all.”

“Did … did we kiss back then? I’d forgotten.”

Her words were so patently a lie that he laughed. On the strength of that long-ago kiss, and before her aunt had invited him to tea to “talk,” he’d been eager to ask for her hand. This “kiss” had been even more powerful, but he was older and wiser now, and he’d known how to use it to his advantage. No longer a callow lad apt to challenge her, he merely smiled, evoking another telltale blush.

She turned toward her door and took an unsteady step. He gripped her arm again and walked up the steps with her. It was not his intention that she take a tumble because he’d weakened her knees. No, her next tumble, though she didn’t know it yet, would be directly into his bed.

With one hand on the door latch, she turned to him. “Mr. Hunter, I scarcely know what to say.”

“Good night will do.” He arranged the shawl around her shoulders and grinned. “Or, ‘Until tomorrow, Mr. Hunter.’“

A spark in her eyes told him that her wits had returned. “I think it should be ‘Never again, Mr.

Hunter.’“

He laughed outright as he gave her a low bow and entered the street.

Around the corner and down a narrow lane, Charlie found himself deep in thought. Though he’d been loath to admit it, that “kiss” had taken a toll on him, too. One that left him barely able to stand straight.

In the coach, though, the years had slipped away the moment their lips had met and he’d been vulnerable again, young and eager to please. Everything he’d done since then, good and bad, everything he’d become, was because of that kiss. Because of Georgiana.

He hated that feeling. Hated that she could still do that to him—make him remember their long conversations and how she’d said she wanted the same things from life that he did—loving each other, learning, a family, travel, extending themselves in service to those less fortunate, growing old together. He felt he’d found the one woman in all the world who could fill his every need, and he had vowed to fill hers.

But now he knew the spell she could cast over him. Knew how deeply he wanted to possess her. And how deeply she wanted him, too. But that was physical. He could still give her that much. So he would take her. Enjoy her. But never fall prey to her wiles again.

Yes, he’d been deliberate. He’d meant to disarm her and draw her closer to him. He’d meant, in fact, to take her completely and lull her into believing he was smitten with her. But … his conscience had pricked him as deeply as a sword point. If she was innocent of the charges, he’d have a damn lot of explaining to do. But if she was guilty … oh, hell! If she was guilty, he’d want her still. As frequently as he could manage before she climbed the gallows.

He was so lost in his thoughts that he almost missed the movement in the shadows. How had he missed that he was being followed? He barely had time to prepare when, with a suddenness that kicked his heartbeat to a higher level, he was attacked.

A knife slashed across his midsection and he spun away to avoid it. When the knife became caught in his jacket, he used the momentum to gain control. Fear, followed quickly by anger, infused him, making him reckless.

His attacker made a fist of both his hands and brought them down on Charles’s shoulder, trying to drive him to the ground. His arm went numb and he dodged away, leaving nothing but air to brace the man. He went down on his knees, catching himself by throwing his arms out to break his fall.

Charles took the knife by the hilt and freed it from his jacket as he gripped a handful of the man’s hair and jerked backward. He held the knife to his throat, ignoring the throbbing in his shoulder and arm.

“Gor!” the man wheezed as he looked into Charles’s face.

Not Gibbons! Damn it all! “Who are you?” he snarled.

“Don’t matter,” the man gasped.

“What the hell do you want?”

“Uh … yer watch and coin.”

A lie if ever he’d heard one. He pressed the edge of the knife against the man’s Adam’s apple until a fine line of red appeared and a single drop trickled down the man’s neck. “Don’t lie to me if you want to live.”

The man whimpered. “Easy, gov’ner.”

“Who sent you?”

“Nobody. Just bum luck …”

He emitted a muffled shriek when Charles increased the pressure on the blade. “Give me the name.”

“He’ll kill me!”

“And I’ll kill you if you don’t.”

“Gibbons! Dick Gibbons!”

Charles slipped the knife downward, wiped the blade on the man’s jacket and released his filthy hair. Just like Gibbons to hire a street ruffian. “Go back to him and tell him to do his own dirty work. Tell him I’m waiting for him.”

The man scrambled away, half crawling and half tripping over his own feet in his haste.

Charles tossed the knife into the shrubbery and peered into the midnight mist. Anyone else? No, too quiet now. He rubbed his shoulder and continued, keeping watch this time. Two attempts in one night. The bastard was stepping up his game. He’d better find Gibbons before Gibbons found him.

Chapter Five

Georgiana slammed her bedroom door and leaned back against it as if she could hold her shame at bay. She’d sent Clara to her bed with a sweep of her hand. No more conversation tonight!

How could she have confided all her deepest fears? How could she have allowed him such liberties? How could she have cast caution and the lessons of the past to the wind?

Because it felt so good. So right.

She threw her reticule across the room and dropped her shawl where she stood. He’d bewitched her! That could be the only explanation. She’d never allowed liberties like that before, except with Gower—and that had been required because they’d been married. In bed. And he hadn’t made her feel the things that Charles Hunter had. Things that left her breathless and trembling. Craving more. She’d never suspected—never dreamed—there could be such delight. She collapsed on her bed, her knees unable to support her through the vivid memory of the unexpected passion he’d awakened in her.

Oh! And it was Charles Hunter who had taught her that. He must be laughing up his sleeve right this very minute. Or telling his friends how easily seduced she’d been. For the second time! Or plotting how he might avoid her in the future, now that he’d made a fool of her again.

Never again.

She stumbled to her dressing table and pulled the pins from her mussed hair, dropping them in a gilt pin dish. She needed to compose herself or she’d never sleep tonight. Not that she’d slept well at all since arriving in London.

She suspected she was losing her mind. Aside from the shocking incident with Mr. Hunter, there were other signs of madness. She hadn’t told him everything. In fact, she hadn’t told Mr. Renquist everything, either. They’d think she’d gone quite balmy. Perhaps they’d even think she was unhinged enough to have killed her husbands herself. She couldn’t risk that. She’d almost rather believe she was cursed than that those little things meant she’d gone insane.

There were dozens of them—those little things—her forgetfulness, the missing items she’d sworn she left here last fall, the things she’d brought with her from Kent that she could not find now, the vague uneasinesses, the prickle of hair on the back of her neck warning that she was being watched or followed.

She might have suspected one of the new servants, but the missing items were inconsequential, really, and of little value beyond sentiment. A tortoiseshell comb, a ribbon, a brass locket she’d gotten at a country fair. Oddly, when she’d made a fuss over a small golden ring with a tiny garnet that had gone missing, the household had been in an uproar until one of the servants found it in the garden. Georgiana couldn’t imagine how it had gotten there since she had no recollection of being in the garden.

Clara said she was too high strung, that her nerves were spent and her imagination had run away with her. Furthermore, Clara informed her, grief could make a person think and do very odd things.

Like allow Charles Hunter to …

No! She would not spend another moment thinking about that! Or about him. If she had any sense at all, she’d leave London immediately. But since she could not, she would face Mr. Hunter down. Offer him impudence for impudence.

She opened the drawer of her dressing table and removed the bottle of laudanum Aunt Caroline had kept on hand to help her sleep. She hadn’t used it before, but tonight, at least, it would help her forget the news from her solicitor and her wanton behavior with Mr. Hunter. She removed the cork and took a sip, ignoring the instructions to measure the dose carefully. She couldn’t possibly be any more reckless than she’d already been.

Marcus Wycliffe heaved a world-weary sigh as he and Sir Harry Richardson sat at the small table on either side of Charles. “We searched every hole and shadow near Covent Garden. No trace. And, of course, no one saw anything. All we can say for certain is that Mrs. Huffington did not fire the shot.”

“Aye?” Charles took a deep drink from his tankard. “Well, that does not eliminate the possibility that she had help.”

Wycliffe winced. “Are you backing out?”

Charles had had time to consider that option in the hour he’d been waiting for Wycliffe and Richardson to arrive. Anger and desire mingled into a heady brew every time he thought of Georgiana Huffington. Sense told him to walk away. Something dangerous and darker urged him to continue. His darker urges were always stronger. “I’ve already made a beginning. Mrs. Huffington is unaware of the Home Office’s interest in her. Our meeting went well.”

Wycliffe quirked an eyebrow at Charles. Even through the dim tavern light, the man could be intimidating. “Went well? How well?”

Charles had no intention of telling his superior that he’d left the woman in question still trembling from his touch. She might be his assignment, but he was still discreet enough to know that some things were none of the Home Office’s business.

Richardson, however, sat back in his chair and regarded Charles with a sly grin. “Details, man. We want the details.”

“Our conversation was quite enlightening. She is shrewd enough to know how she appears to the ton. She realizes that people are talking, and she has thought ahead to the necessity of finding a palatable answer to the mystery. She has even voiced a concern that she might be next—which is something I do not think we can rule out entirely after the shooting tonight.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.