“The ton might consider dabbling in trade as holding court with theunderworld, but if you’re talking about criminals, then no. Wait. Did the earl implicate him? Is Pembrock a French spy?”
“Spy for the Crown. Spy for the Crown,” Charlotte interjected.
It took everything he had to not strangle the damned bird.
“Do you think Charlotte’s onto something?” Robbi asked.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Robbi,” Caillen hissed as she leaned over him toward her far-too-intelligent little sister.
“It’s true! Wait until —” Robina’s voice rose with excitement, before Caillen cut her off. “Say one word, and I’ll box your ears so hard, you’ll never be able to listen in on another conversation.”
Thank God. But he heard the grin in Robina’s voice as she stood up and skipped across the room.
“It’s nice to see my sister again.” As the door closed behind her, Caillen took a deep, calming breath.
“I’m not sure what’s worse. Having the information which is supposed to go to the War Office in the hands of your little sister, or not being able to respond when a beautiful woman washes your body.”
Caillen’s gaze shot to his and her cheeks heated. “You were awake?”
His lip quirked in a bedeviling taunt. “Could a man sleep while his body is being caressed?”
“I did not caress you! I bathed you like I’ve been bathing you for over a fortnight!”
His brows drew together. “I’ve missed entire weeks of erotic hands doing wonderful things to my body?”
Caillen’s lips thinned as she pressed them together. “If you even think about touching me, it will be the last thing you ever do.”
“Damn, all that passion wasted.” She was going to hit him, and somehow, he thought that particular type of torture would be worth it. He delivered a beguiling smile that never failed to make a woman swoon. “You can’t hit a dying man.”
“Actually, I can.”
His grin grew. He could see she wanted to smile right back at him, so he said, “My cock still needs to be washed.”
Her wet washcloth smacked him in the face. “Do it yourself.” The door slammed shut before he could remove the cloth from his eyes.
Damn, but she was beautiful, just as she had been the first day they’d met and she’d slammed Ross’s library door as she left her weapon, the most sought-after novel of the ton, behind. He glanced over at his nightstand to her copy ofSense and Sensibilitywritten byA Lady. Had she recognized it?
And then, not for the first time, did he wonder if the lady author was none other than Miss Caillen Blair.
Four
Dear Sisters,
He is dead and I pray for death every day.
Caillen
—A letter written by new Lady Griffith to her sisters while she recovered from a brutal attack on her honeymoon. An attack her husband, Lord Griffith, did not survive. November 1811
Caillen slumped against the door outside his chambers, her cheeks blazing with humiliation. He knew. It was as if the man could read every thought that went through her head. She’d found his physicality and virility shocking. Fascinating, actually. Despite never wanting to engage in marital relations again, his cockstand had entranced her. No, no that wasn’t the correct word. His aroused manhood had merely stunned her with its impressive stature.
She winced. It was not impressive.
“I’m told it’s rather extraordinary,” he said from the other side of the door.
She closed her eyes and turned her head to speak to the closed door. “How did you know I was still here?”
“I heard you slump against the door and was afraid you may have fainted as you recalled the length of my?—”
