The optimistic appendage in his breeches leapt. Damn, but he should have taken himself away from her.Faraway. He was some kind of fool for allowing this farce to continue from the first. He should have stood by his assertions and refused to allow Mary to attend.
Another thought that had been plaguing him for the past fortnight reared its ugly head once more. Mary had seemedzealousin her desire to take on the assignment with Colin over him. Could it be that she wished to partner with Colin with the hope to begin an affaire intruthwith the man?
The thought made him ill. Mary as Colin’s mistress? A shiver travelled down his spine and a pit settled heavily in his gut. Gabe knew enough of Colin’s prowess with women to know that it was entirely possible that Mary had taken it into her head to be infatuated with the man. But Gabe didn’t like it.
A shudder wracked Mary’s body and Gabe turned his attention to her once more. Her eyes had slipped closed but her body still trembled. Was she cold? Had she fallen asleep?
“Mary?”
She shivered again but there was no response. He sat up to remove his coat before leaning forward and draping it over her, tucking it under her chin. He resumed his seat and closed his own eyes. It was to be a long journey and he would prefer to be in unconscious oblivion and rise at least somewhat rested than sit here lusting after a woman that he could—should—never have in his bed.
* * *
The Bonaparte spy sat in the leather wingback chair behind the large mahogany desk, looking through correspondence.
“Other guests have arrived, wot?” his man asked in an irritatingly cheerful manner.
“It would appear so,” the spy said. “Mr. Jenkins has the maids and footmen bringing luggage up to the rooms as we speak. There are several more to come. As a matter of fact, I am looking through their correspondence at this very moment.” The crinkle of parchment echoed through the quiet study as the spy opened a new missive. “The actress, Miss White, is to arrive before supper, but… What is this?”
“Eh wot?” The man withdrew an elaborate, gold inlaid snuffbox from his inner breast pocket, and flipped it open.
“The actress is bringing her protector, it seems. A Mr. Spencer. Do you know him?”
“Can’t say as I do.” He dipped his overlong little finger nail into the white powder and brought it to his nose.
“Hmm. Better tell the others to keep an eye on him.”
“Very good, very good.” The man sniffed and snorted before scratching at his bulbous nose. “But, uh, do you think it was wise to invite so many of us here? Seems suspect, eh wot?”
The Bonaparte spy laughed cruelly. “No, idiot. A house party is not suspect, it is expected. If I arranged the meeting at a pub or club,thatwould be suspect. A house party is the perfect façade. The meeting will go on as scheduled.”
“Very good, very good.”
