A Lady of His Own (Bastion Club 3) - Page 130

After a moment, Gervase looked up; he raised his ale mug to Charles, Penny, and Nicholas. His smile dawning, he drawled, “We haven’t said so, but we’re deeply grateful to you for giving us a chance to quit London.”

Jack wholeheartedly agreed, and drank.

Eyes wide, Charles regarded them in mock-surprise. “I thought you both had plans?”

Jack and Gervase exchanged glances, then Gervase nodded. “We did.”

“Unfortunately,” Jack said, “the matchmaking mamas had even bigger plans.” He shuddered eloquently. “In reality we’re refugees seeking asylum.”

The day had flown; it was soon time to change for dinner. Penny had Norris show Jack and Gervase to their rooms, then headed for her chamber. Half an hour later, they fore-gathered in the drawing room, then went into the dining room. Taking the chair at one end of the table, she sat Gervase and Jack to either side of her and had them recount all they knew of the latest London events.

They proved excellent sources of information; like Charles, their powers of observation and recall were acute, even though it quickly became apparent they had little real interest in the entertainments of the ton. They’d expected to take an interest, or have such interest develop; instead, they’d been disappointed. The ton, even at its frenetic best, was not, she suspected, exciting enough—not at base real enough—to satisfy such men, not after their recent experiences.

She listened, encouraged them; Charles sat back, a smile playing about his lips, adding the occasional taunt or leading question. Nicholas watched, quietly amused; to Penny’s eyes, he was improving with every hour, although his wounds still clearly caused him pain.

Once the covers were removed, she remained while they passed the decanters, then at her suggestion they took their glasses and repaired to the drawing room to sit in comfort and talk. Inevitably, the discussion returned to the man they now referred to as “the French agent.”

“I agree it’s unwise to guess his identity when any day Dalziel will likely find enough to point an unerring finger at him.” Jack drained his glass, glanced at Gervase, then looked at Charles. “But can’t we work out some trap? One that will work regardless of which of the three he is?”

Charles leaned forward, his glass cradled between his hands. “Now you’re both here, that would be my choice. He doesn’t know you, or of you; there’s no reason he’ll know you’re here. Quite aside from any Selbornes, he’s after the pillboxes, but now knows they aren’t easily accessible.”

He sipped, then went on, “Tomorrow I’ll show you the priest hole—it’s the perfect hiding place, obvious once you know of its existence. Our first hurdle will be getting details of the priest hole to him in a way he’ll believe.”

“There are ways and means.” Gervase grinned. “He’d believe a priest, wouldn’t he? I do quite a good impersonation—how about as a clerical scholar come to study the priest holes of the district? Give a minor social event, get the suspects together, and let me expound on my fascinating studies.”

Charles stared at him, then smiled and saluted him with his glass. “That would work.”

The clock chimed eleven. Penny glanced at Nicholas. He was wilting again. She caught Charles’s eyes.

He nodded almost imperceptibly, stood, and stretched. “We can develop our approach tomorrow, after you’ve viewed the hiding place itself.”

They all got to their feet. Penny led the way upstairs, paused at the stair head to bid them all good night, then sailed—alone—down the corridor to her room.

Charles joined her ten minutes later, entering the room a mere minute after Ellie had left. Seated at her dressing table brushing out her hair, Penny glanced at him in the mirror, a warning on her lips, simultaneously realized how silly any such warning would be. Given the state of her bed every morning for the past week, Ellie would long ago have realized she was no longer spending her nights alone.

The thought sent a small, self-seductive shiver through her. She studied Charles’s face as he walked farther into the room, shrugging off his coat, then starting to unknot his cravat; from his expression, he was already formulating, rejecting, and developing elements of a possible plan.

Refocusing on her reflection, she fell to more vigorously brushing her hair while she considered, absorbed, how relieved she felt now Jack and Gervase were there. She knew beyond question that Charles would stand between her, Nicholas, and everyone else who was innocent, and the murderer, like a human shield protecting them. It wasn’t that she’d thought, not even entertained the thought, that he’d fail.

But he was no longer facing the murderer alone.

Gervase had said he and Jack were grateful for the opportunity to leave London. She in turn was grateful they’d come.

Rising, she snuffed the candles in the dressing table sconces, leaving the candle on the table beside the bed to cast a soft glow. She’d donned a long white nightgown, purely on Ellie’s account. Charles, in shirtsleeves and breeches, sat on the bed to ease off his boots. Drifting to the open window, she leaned against the frame and looked out at the courtyard, a sea of moon-washed shadows. “Jack and Gervase are members of your club, aren’t they?”

When Charles didn’t immediately reply, she glanced back to see him standing, barefoot, stripping off his shirt. She sensed his hesitation, and softly laughed. “You needn’t think you’re giving anything away. It’s rather obvious—

you’re all very much alike.”

“Alike?” He tossed the shirt over a chair, slowly walked toward her. “How?”

She watched him draw near, considered the excitement that licked down her nerves, that slowly tightened them. “There’s a scent of danger about each of you. Beneath your glossy veneer, you’re all dangerous men.”

He halted before her, studied her face. “I’m not dangerous to you.”

She reserved judgment on that; she let her lips curve, her brows quirk teasingly. “It’s rather…fascinating.”

He stepped closer, backing her against the window frame. “I’m not sure I approve of your being fascinated by them.”

Tags: Stephanie Laurens Bastion Club Historical
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