“Read my notes,” she said. “Begin on page twenty-three. There is a man here in London going by the name of The Nightingale, who has been accepting funds and shipments of Atlas powder from the Emerald Club. The club is organizing an attempt to cause destruction on your railways using bombs hidden inside portmanteaus. I do not have more than that, other than the knowledge The Nightingale is not alone. My investigations suggest there are others, working in concert, all with strong connections to the Emerald Club.”
Her words sent a different trill altogether down his spine. He recognized the icy claws of dread all too well. Either the woman before him was a fraudster, flush with false information, which would prove unreliable, or…
Or she was exactly who she seemed to be: an intelligent, resourceful creature, who had somehow infiltrated the ranks of one of the most secretive and dangerous Fenian organizations in Americaandmined crucial information, which could be used against the Fenians before it was too late.
He extracted her journal from where he had stored it, locked in one of his desk drawers. “I will read the bloody notes.”
“Page twenty-three,” she prodded.
“Page twenty-three,” he agreed. Of course the woman knew by memory what information was contained on which page. He should not be surprised, and yet he was. Somehow, Miss H.E. Montgomery continually surprised, impressed, vexed, and confounded him.
“Excellent.” She flashed him a beaming smile and stood, thrusting her hand out over his desk.
He was forced to stand as well, and to accept her handshake, even if it felt deuced odd, which it did. Her hand was bare in his, and he could not deny the spark which shot past his wrist and up his arm. Or the heat settling somewhere in the vicinity of his trousers.
“This is not a surrender, Miss Montgomery,” he warned her, lest she think he was falling into her battle formation.
“I would never dream of such a hasty capitulation, Mr. Arden,” she assured him, grinning as she pumped his hand with more vigor than a lady ought to possess, before releasing him. “I will leave you to your reading. I have some inquiries to make about town.”
Jesus, the thought of her gadding about in those trousers…No.
“I shall accompany you,” he decided grimly. “I will read the notes upon our return.”
Her smile deepened. “I do not require your assistance, sir. I assure you.”
Oh yes, yes she did.He’d be damned before he allowed her to go traipsing about London, alone, wearing those misbegotten trousers.
“Nevertheless,” he said, trying to keep his voice even and smooth, “I am your partner, Miss Montgomery. My place is at your side.”
She frowned at him, looking distinctly unimpressed. “Very well. If you must.”
He placed her journal back within its locked drawer for safekeeping. “I must.”
It was either that, or spend the rest of the afternoon pacing his study, worrying about what would become of her in those blasted trousers. He had no choice really. Not any more of a choice than he had in accepting her as his partner.
For now, he reminded himself.For now.
Chapter Six
The Duke ofArden’s mother had drowned herself in the sea.
This lone, awful thought would not leave Hazel’s mind. Disliking him was difficult indeed, if not impossible, after his revelation. Even more so with him sitting across from her in his carriage once more, their knees nearly brushing with each sway of the conveyance. She ought to have worn one of her simpler shapeless day gowns, instead of her trousers, she thought grimly. Her skirts would have provided a sufficient barrier to ensure Arden’s trousers could not accidentally glance over hers.
Damn it, she was staring at his knees once more, she realized, and from there, it would not be long before she was ogling his thighs. Her face heated. And not just his thighs. She forced her gaze to the window instead. Far more interesting sights and sounds awaited her in the bustling streets of London. Moreover, she had a job to perform, an investigation to conduct, and Arden was her partner.
She must stop mooning over his fine form and face. His masculine appeal had no bearing upon the tasks looming ahead of her. Firmly, she forced her mind to facts. Reaching into the interior pocket sewn into her coat, she extracted a list.
“A love letter?” Arden guessed into the silence which had settled between them.
She flicked an irritated glance in his direction. His lips were quirked, and in spite of her every intention to remain impervious to him, she could not deny the Duke of Arden was a handsome devil. Nor could she deny he had the ability to make her pulse quicken and send heat rolling through her.
“Do I seem like the sort of woman who would secret letters from a lovesick swain about her person?” she asked.
He quirked a brow. “You seem like the sort of woman who is as unpredictable as dynamite.”
“Dynamite is predictable,” she quarreled. “It explodes.”
“Not when the mechanisms surrounding it fail to perform their functions,” he pointed out. “For every explosion we have suffered at the hands of the Fenians, there have been at least half a dozen others, either foiled or faulty.”
