“It doesn’t seem like the sort of place you would frequent.”
“Not as a guest.”
Of course.“As a spy.”
“If you insist upon that word, then, yes, as a spy. But more as a serving wench than anything.”
“I take it you’ve played the servant on more than a few occasions in your chosen profession.”
She heaved a beleaguered sigh. “I wouldn’t mind it so much, but…” she trailed with a slight grimace.
“But?” he nudged. She was on the verge of a confidence, and he would have it. He would have all of her.
“Well, a woman has tobea servant toplaya servant, doesn’t she?”
A wry smile found its way to her mouth, and he found himself responding in kind. She was such a serious person, and he could admit to being a fairly serious person himself. But together, they made each other smile. He liked that about them.
“Perhaps we should visit the lodge in Scotland. Well, it’s more of an enormous manor house these days,” he said to keep the banter going. “Something tells me you would be quite useful in a pinch.”
This time she laughed, and gratification soared through him. “No doubt about it. I’m one of the Continent and England’s great luggers of buckets and starters of fires.”
Although it had begun as half a joke, he found he’d like to take this woman to Scotland. It was his favorite place, and he’d like to share it with her.
With that arrived a sobering thought. They had a marriage arrangement, not a marriage. An important distinction, and one he found himself chafing against the more time he spent with her.
She must have sensed his shift in mood for she, too, cast her gaze across the water, fragmented light dancing on its surface with every stroke of the oars. Jamie couldn’t help keeping half an eye on her profile. How beautiful she was in the moonlight. It wasn’t only her new clothing, its color and fit suiting her to perfection. Or her lady’s maid’s skill with her hair. Those were superficialities that did nothing to enhance beauty that reached deep into her bones. She would be exquisite in a potato sack.
And desirable.
Another sobering thought.
Last night, at the Duke of Wellington’s supper party, he hadn’t been prepared for how thetonwould react to her, like she was their newest, shiniest bauble. Tonight, he would handle his reactions better and not let his emotions get away from him.
Rothesbury was their target, and their success in rescuing Rafe from Flick Doyle relied heavily upon Hortense securing the confidence of the duke. Last night, she’d achieved just that.
He should be pleased.
Yet he couldn’t quite summon the feeling.
She cut a sharp glance his way. “Shall we review tonight’s objective?”
“To get closer to Rothesbury, correct?” There was no mistaking his disgust.
She nodded slowly. “That’s the means, but not the end. Tonight, we must gain an invitation to his residence so I can access his vaults, and pray the tiara is there.”
It hit Jamie. “You’re not simply good at your profession. You’re the best, aren’t you?”
“Amongst them.”
She made the acknowledgement without arrogance or braggadocio, but rather as a statement of truth. This quality, her quiet assurance, was damned attractive.
As if she needed to be any more attractive.
“I take it you have a plan for how to achieve the objective?”
“Flattery,” she said quickly, then hesitated. “But I must warn you.”
“Of what?” He knew enough to be wary of what might next cross her lips. The woman didn’t give idle warnings.
