She looked him square in the eye, though an unsettled shiver ran through her body. The free hand that could reach for the dagger strapped to her ankle clenched and unclenched, ready. “Unhand me.”
He glanced down at his hand still clasped around her arm and released it.
“I am saying I don’t know you,” she continued, her voice careful and steady. “Therefore, I haven’t the faintest clue as to the sort of man you are. And being of the aristocracy doesn’t spontaneously confer honor onto a man. If anything, quite the opposite.”
He held her gaze, revealing nothing of his thoughts, until, at last, he relented with a slow nod. Men and their stupid honor. Honor was usually what got them killed. She had no use for it.
“Right,” she said, all business, her feet on the move again, leaving that shaky feeling in the dust. “Let’s get on with this night, shall we?”
Somewhat mollified, Clare asked, “What part of town is this job?”
“Berkeley Square.”
“And the job itself?”
“We’re, um—” She almost didn’t want to speak it aloud, but the man would know sooner rather than later. “We are rescuing a kidnapped dog.”
Clare’s eyebrows shot together. He was wondering if he’d heard her correctly. The next moment, a smile spread across his face, his mouth losing its sardonic curl. He was a man transformed by that smile of his, no longer the brooding marquess, but an altogether different man. One possessed of humor. One appealing and beautifully handsome.
She had to look away. That smile rendered the man too attractive by half.
“A kidnappeddog?” His laugh echoed off the limestone townhouses to either side of them.
“Shush,” she chided, holding a finger to her mouth. She didn’t need a startled resident calling out for the night watch. “Jobs come in all forms.”
“And species.” His rakish smile hadn’t abated a whit.
A responding smile twitched about her mouth, but she suppressed it and kept placing one in front of the other, navigating the few remaining streets in silence, until, at last, they arrived at a discreet black iron gate.
She crouched and bid Clare do the same. Her voice pitched low, she said, “The garden has a guard, so follow me closely and—” She held a finger to her mouth, hoping he would understand the time for talk had come to an end.
She pressed her face against wrought iron bars and peered through, scanning garden grounds cast in myriad shades of night grays and blacks. At last, she located the guard a good twenty yards in the distance. Limbs relaxed, head tipped to the side, the man was settled on a bench, stealing a nap. The ex-lover had neglected to collect the key to his private garden from Lady Fortescue upon their final parting. Hortense pulled the silver key from her jacket pocket, twisted it in the lock, and pushed the gate open only wide enough to permit first her, then Clare.
Even in the dark, it was a beautiful garden, spring blossoms of all varieties bursting into various stages of bloom. People like her—thehoi polloi—had access to a few public gardens, but nothing like this, ones filled with marble and bronze statuary, rare roses, and whimsical trails. A garden like this was for the rich, and only the rich.
Like the nob currently dogging her step.
“Does this job involve Sir Archibald Winthrop?” he whispered at her back.
Her eyes lifted toward the sky. Of course, this lord knew Sir Archibald Winthrop. All lords knew each other.
She held a finger to her mouth and continued creeping along the perimeter of the wall in a low crouch, hoping with every movement not to wake the guard. Fortunately, the townhouse was both dark and the last in its row, making it the nearest. Still, they would need to break cover to access the set of glass double doors.
She pointed down at their feet before crouching to remove her boots. She indicated that Clare do the same. His eyebrows drew together in question, then disbelief once he’d intuited her meaning.
“It’s best to enter a house on stocking feet,” she explained in a rushed whisper. Truly, the man was a bit of trouble.
She waited for him to balk at the idea—even hoped he would, so she could bid him farewell. But a few heartbeats later, he followed her lead.
She retrieved another key from a different pocket, flashed another quick glance toward the guard, whose soft snoring was barely audible across the grassy distance, and broke cover, Clare fast on her heels. Key at the ready, she slid it into the lock and twisted.
Or attempted to twist. The mechanism didn’t budge.
“What is it?” came an urgent whisper, moving closer with each syllable.
“’Tis nothing.” She tried again, putting all her weight into it. It refused to do as bid. A worry came to her. “The guard. Has he moved?”
“Dead to the world.” A beat passed, and she felt Clare draw closer, so close she could hear the intake of his breath, feel the heat of his much larger body. “Let me try.”
