The bitter scent filled the air. Laudanum. Alec let out a silent breath, and ran a shaking hand through his hair. All he had to do was wait for the drug to work and make his escape when the countess fell asleep again, but she turned to lie on her back, and he was directly in her line of sight.
Her first sound was a mere grunt of surprise, but Alec knew a scream would follow now she’d seen him. His only choice was to get the hell out as fast as possible. He ran for the door.
He would have made it if it hadn’t been for the broken glass and the spilled perfume. It made the floor slick, and he slipped, landed hard on his hands and knees, and dropped the letters. The ribbon broke, and they fell to the floor like leaves around him.
As the countess’s shrieks gathered power, he scrambled for the envelopes in the dark, cursing in Gaelic as the perfume soaked into the knees of his breeches, stung the places where the shards of glass bit into his flesh like sharp-toothed guard dogs.
By the time he’d regained his feet, the countess was sitting up, staring at him, her mouth wide in the darkness, the sheets clutched to her bosom, her screams ear-splitting. He had no idea a lady could shriek so unceasingly, without even pausing to draw breath. He threw open the door, and her alarm followed him down the hall as he ran toward the window at the end, his point of entry, and his escape route. He heard footfalls behind him, pounding along the corridor, and hoped they’d pause to check the countess first, and buy him precious seconds. The window was just ahead, and he hunched his shoulders, made ready, and jumped. He tumbled through the opening, cracking his shoulder on the frame, tasting the night air. He ignored the pain and rolled down the slate roof of the porch, and fell heavily to the ground. There was glass in his knees, and in his hands too, and he grunted as shards renewed their assault.
He could still hear her screams as he fled. Surely the entire household and half the neighboring ones had woken by now.
He heard the cry from the window, a male voice, baritone to the lady’s soprano in a very bad comic opera. “Stop, thief!” But Alec was running over the greasy cobbles, praying he didn’t slip, hoping Countess Bray hadn’t gotten a good look at him. He didn’t stop until he was well away, and sure he wasn’t being followed. He ducked into the blackest alley he could find, and flattened himself against the wall, his heart slamming against his ribs, his lungs burning, and sent up a prayer that whoever might be lurking in the alley wasn’t worse than those pursuing him.
Nothing. The only rats were the four-legged kind, the only cats the hopeful moggies searching for food.
He stepped out under a streetlamp, looked at the blood on his fingers, saw the glitter of glass. He used his teeth to pluck the shards from the cuts, and spat them out. He patted his pocket, making sure the letters were still safe against his pounding heart, and took a flask of whisky out of his coat and drank. There was more blood on his knees, but that would have to wait until he was home.
He was back at his lodgings within a half hour, a dozen streets and a whole social class away from Lord Bray’s fashionable Mayfair town house. He poured himself a tumbler of whisky and emptied his pockets, dropping the crumpled, bloodstained letters on the table, letting his heartbeat slow. He dropped his breeches and grimaced as he plucked the glass out of his knees.
He cursed aloud. He wasn’t usually clumsy. In fact, he was the best “retriever” the Crown had, the one they called upon for the most sensitive, important missions. But he knew there was always a chance of being caught. It took just one small mistake. Like knocking over a perfume bottle. He shut his eyes as he tossed the last bit of rose-scented glass into the chamber pot. He crossed and splashed cold water over his face, and stared into his own hollow eyes in the small oval mirror. He looked like what he was, a hard, desperate creature of the night, dark-haired, gray-eyed, muscular; a thief, a man with no home, no family, no honor. He turned away, stared instead at the letters on the table. There was no need to worry. Even if the mission hadn’t gone exactly according to plan, it hadn’t failed. He had the letters he’d been sent for. It had been a close call, but he hadn’t been caught.
He glanced at the letters, eight billets-doux that were important enough to the Crown to ask a man to risk life and limb to retrieve. He wondered what was in them that could be so damaging, but it wasn’t his job to ask questions. He was expected to steal them, not read them. Tomorrow he’d deliver them, and the problem the letters represented, whatever that might be, would be resolved. He looked at the clock. It still lacked several hours until dawn. He didn’t want to sleep. He never slept after one of his excursions. He sat and drank whisky and wished he were in Ceylon, where his family believed he was. He’d left Glenlorne eight years ago, bragging how he intended to make a fortune as a planter in the South Seas. He’d never made it farther than London, and he wasn’t a planter. He was a thief.
He turned back to the letters, and stacked them as neatly as possible given their tattered condition—his fault entirely. He’d even gotten blood on the edges of the vellum. He noted the royal seal on the envelopes, the gold edges of the expensive stationery. Important letters indeed. He’d been told there were eight letters in all, a collection of indiscreet romantic thoughts carelessly put to paper, irrefutable evidence of a royal affair, now long over. The contents of the letters had become a threat to someone important, a potential source of embarrassment or scandal for the Crown, perhaps, or even blackmail—which was why he was sent to fetch them back, before any mischief was done that could not be undone. He counted the letters as he stacked them. His throat closed and he counted again.
And again.Seven.
He searched his pockets, looked on the floor. It wasn’t there.
He sat heavily in the chair and ran a hand over his face. He’d dropped one—lost it in the street, or left it behind in Lady Bray’s bedchamber.
That, of course, meant disaster. His stomach turned to water, and he swore, cursing his carelessness.
He pulled on his coat and headed out into the night once again.
He had to find the missing letter.
CHAPTERTHREE
Caroline ran smack into a wall that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere in the middle of the dark sidewalk. She bounced off the hard surface as if she weighed nothing. If not for the hands that grabbed the front of her cloak, she’d have toppled backward into the dirty street.
For an instant she hung in the grip of the dark, terrifying figure as he dragged her into the light of the closest streetlamp and loomed over her. The bitter taste of fear dried her throat, and she scrabbled at his gloved hands uselessly with shaking fingers. He could seeher, but with the light behind him, he was just a shadow, huge and sinister. Her heart began to pound, and she almost wished she’d stayed safely at home.
Almost.
She tried to pull away, to run, but he held her as easily as if she were a child with no strength at all. Real fear coiled through her like smoke, making her weaker still. Had Somerson seen her leave the house, and sent him after her? If he was a footman, he wasn’t one she knew, nor was he wearing Somerson livery. He was dressed in black from head to toe, part of the night. Terror turned her knees to jelly, and she sagged, but he hauled her up and set her on her feet without letting her go. One fist held her cloak under her chin.
“What the devil are you doing, careering around the streets in the dark?” he demanded. “I might have cut your throat, thinking you a pickpocket!”
Hysterical laughter bubbled in her throat. He thoughtshewas someone to be afraid of? “I’m not!” she protested, stepping back, pulling out of his grip. He let her go and she backed into another wall, a real one this time. She shrank against it, laid her palms flat on the rough bricks. “I didn’t see you. I must have tripped on my cloak. It’s borrowed, you see, and—”
“Borrowed?” he growled. She detected a burr in his voice, an accent of some kind. She felt his eyes scanning her, assessing her, and knew what he must be thinking. A lady on the street alone was unheard of in Mayfair, especially at night, in clothes that weren’t her own. Her cheeks heated despite the damp chill in the air.
She pushed farther back into the wall, fearing the gentleman was about to hook his fingers into her borrowed cloak once again and frog march her back to Somerson House.
If, of course, hewasa gentleman. Her heart leaped into her throat and cowered there, making speech impossible. She could not scream or plead or reason with her captor.
“Where are you going at this hour of the night?” he demanded.
