Gabriel D'Arcy

A planned excuse to leave her alone with her mark. ‘Of course,’ Nicky said. ‘I shall be well entertained by his lordship in your absence.’

‘I shall do my best,’ Mooreshead responded and bowed as her companion departed. A moment later, his charming smile held sensual promise. ‘In the interests of my duty to entertain, may I request your hand for this next dance, Countess?’

The urge to give in to the obvious strength of will in those piercing blue eyes, his absolute confidence she would not refuse, was an irresistible pull. A delicate touch, she reminded herself. Too eager and he would grow wary. Or bored. She gave a regretful sigh. ‘Thank you, but, no, I am promised to another. Perhaps later?’

On cue, the young man who had sought the first dance the instant she entered the ballroom approached. He bowed and held out his arm with an expression of triumph. ‘My dance, I believe, Countess.’ His expression cooled as his eyes met those of Mooreshead. He gave a nod of his head. ‘My lord.’

‘She’s all yours,’ Mooreshead responded with the air of a man who had the right to relinquish possession. ‘I will return later for our dance. The supper dance, I believe we agreed.’

She shook her head at the way he had finessed taking her to supper, but smiled. ‘Bien sûr. Until then.’

Mooreshead bowed and sauntered away

Well, that had been easier than she’d expected. Almost too easy.

She would have to be careful not to rush her fences and make him overly wary. A man who walked in the dangerous world of intelligence would not be easily fooled.

* * *

Fascination with a female. It happened occasionally. Even to a man as jaded as him. It was her boldness he liked. And the intelligence behind the seductive knowing in her cornflower-blue eyes with the starburst of grey in their centres. They were eyes that seemed older than her years.

Even so, under other circumstances, he would have sheared off at the obvious ploy by the Featherstone woman. It might be a coincidence that the countess had clearly decided to inveigle her way into his company at the same moment Gabe had been warned of treachery afoot. It might also be a coincidence that her appearance coincided with new orders from France. But when both occurred at one and the same time? Coincidence it was not.

The gauntlet had been tossed at his feet. He couldn’t afford not to pick it up with matters at such a crucial stage. How annoying that despite himself, he was interested in her. As a woman. He huffed out a breath and forced himself to think logically. He needed to know why she’d been sent. What it was they suspected. He strolled around the ballroom, speaking casually to those acquaintances who would spare him a word, garnering the latest on dit. The life blood of the ton. Apparently little was known about the Countess Vilandry apart from the fact they all thought her divine.

She was the fashion. Her style admired by men and women alike. No doubt about it, the countess warranted a closer inspection.

His groin tightened at the thought of the pleasure such closeness might bring.

Inwardly, he froze. Not for years had he had such a visceral response to a woman. He certainly never let them get close. Marianne had cured him of any wish to open his heart. So why was this one different?

Something sharp and unwelcome twisted in his chest. The emptiness of his self-imposed isolation? The knowledge that there wasn’t a woman alive who would want him? Was that why he was attracted to her? Because she was a creature of lies and darkness, like him?

He mentally cursed and shook off the shadows of the past. The task was simple. Find out if she was the one Armande had warned of and, if so, eliminate the problem.

With the supper dance still a good hour away, he wandered into the card room, passing the minutes until it was time to claim his dance by joining a game of faro. It certainly wouldn’t do to be seen hanging around at the edge of the dance floor watching her like a slavering dog. Everyone knew he didn’t run after females. They ran after him. And the only ones who caught him were those who were interested in nothing but good times and no ties. As far as the world was concerned, she must be no different from his usual fare.

The stakes at his chosen table were high enough to account for his inner tension. Yet the urge to return to the ballroom and see if he had imagined the whole attraction tugged at his mind. He raised the stakes to the groans of his companions. And again when he won. Their gazes turned questioning. He could read their minds. Had he cheated?

With studied slowness, he abandoned his place, picking up his winnings to disapproving stares, and headed out into the mêlée of swirling skirts and sparkling jewels. Despite the crowds, his eyes found her immediately. A mysterious woman who shimmered among lesser gems. Lust grabbed him low in his gut.

Devil take it, whether he was right and she was sent by an enemy or not, he was going to have regrets.

He bit back a curse.

* * *

The supper dance was a cotillion. To Nicky’s delight, Mooreshead proved himself a skilled and graceful dancer. Graceful in a manly way. He was always just where one expected him to be, never turning the wrong way or forgetting a figure. And he conversed easily. No matter how difficult the step, his eyes said he was thinking of nothing but his partner. It was a skill few men managed with any great success. She was impressed.

‘How are you enjoying London?’ he asked as they came together, hands linked in a turn.

‘I find it exceedingly respectable.’

A fair brow shot up. The ice in his eyes warmed with amusement. ‘You would prefer it otherwise?’

The dance parted them and she smiled at her new partner, who turned red and stumbled.

Mooreshead rejoined her at the top of the set and they passed down the lines between the other couples.

‘I do not have a preference for things not respectable,’ she said, smiling up at him. ‘But I do find it a little dull.’

‘Then it seems the gentlemen in London are failing you badly.’

Ah, there it was, the offer for them to become closer. They separated at the end of the line. Three figures later, they joined hands for a fast turn. A shiver ran down her spine at their touch despite the layers of their gloves. Anticipation. Followed quickly by annoyance. Yes, the man was attractive. No woman could ignore the classically carved features of his face, or the sensual mobility of his mouth, or even the way the candlelight glinted gold in his hair, but she must never forget he was a traitor with the potential to cause the loss of hundreds of lives. Perhaps even thousands. And not just soldiers. Innocent lives. A cold calm filled her chest. Her work was too important to let her desire for a handsome man make her starry-eyed.

She arched a brow. ‘I presume you think you would do better.’

A take-it-or-leave-it grin lit his face. So devil-may-care her stomach gave a pleasurable little hop. ‘I know I would.’ His deep voice was a velvet caress.

A tingle of warmth low in her abdomen cut short her breath. No. This was not about her desires. Duty came first. And Minette. Only by keeping her distance could she trap him successfully. He had to believe her indifferent. There was nothing more alluring to a man for whom women routinely swooned, than one who remained elusive.

She gave a non-committal shrug. ‘So you say.’

Something flashed in his eyes. Frustration? Annoyance? Or something warmer? Only time would tell. He forbore to make any further comment, leaving her in the dark and awaiting his next move.

The dance concluded. It was time to adjourn for supper and she placed a hand on his forearm. It was a forearm with the strength of steel beneath an elegantly tailored coat of the finest cloth. Her fingers tingled with a longing to explore the detail of that strength. A surprising reaction, since in her experience, beneath their trappings, fashionable men either ran to fat or scrawniness. But not Mooreshead. The man looked to have the physique of a Greek god. It was a theory she would likely have an opportunity to test in the not-too-distant future.

To achieve her goal. Nothing more.

The cream-and-gold room set aside for supper was tastefully arranged with small, round tables that allowed guests to eat and talk in small groups after selecting their own food from the sideboard against one wall. He held both their plates in one large hand, while she selected the morsels she fancied: lobster patties, oysters and little, fancy cakes. He led her to a table in the corner. A perfect place from which they could watch the room as a whole and no one could approach without advanced warning.

It was the table she would have chosen if given the option.

As if by tacit agreement, no one else made an attempt to join them. It was not surprising, for they both lived on the fringes of good society. She knew that about him, even as he must know the same about her.

‘No doubt all the gentlemen you have met tonight have told you how stunning you look,’ Mooreshead said. ‘May I therefore say how honoured I am that you chose to take supper with me?’

‘Why, my lord, you have a silver tongue as well as good looks.’

‘My lady is too kind.’

‘D’accord. It seems we have reached a fine understanding of one another.’

His chuckle in response sounded so natural she was enchanted. Not something she wished to be at all. Not with him. She must keep a straight head on her shoulders.

‘You must have been in England a long time,’ he said. ‘Your speech is impeccable.’

‘Merci. I left France after the death of my husband.’ She too could avoid the provision of useful facts.

He frowned as he attempted the calculation of age and circumstances. He would likely think her young to be a wife, let alone a widow. Appearances were deceiving. He would be horrified to know she’d been wed for nearly five years by the time she was twenty. ‘It must have been a very difficult time,’ he murmured in a tone that invited confidences.

‘I survived when many did not.’

‘You are to be congratulated on your escape.’

It was what she kept telling herself. As they so often did, the images of the fire flashed before her mind. The face of the soldier, Captain Chiroux, a demon’s mask of satisfaction in the glare of the flames. If she had realised... But it was too late to change what she had done. She could only hope Minette had somehow survived, then she would indeed feel fortunate to have escaped from France. If not, then there was only regret.

‘Where have you been until now?’ he asked.

‘Waiting for you.’

His eyes widened. And then he laughed. Yet the shadows deep in those icy-blue eyes gave his laugh the lie. The danger he exuded was not merely that of a male in pursuit of pleasure, though that was certainly there in good measure, the shadows hinted at darker pursuits that chilled her very soul.

She widened her eyes in feigned innocence. ‘I see you do not believe me.’ She gave a theatrical sigh. ‘And to add insult to injury, here comes my companion, Madame Featherstone. I am afraid our delightful tête-à-tête is to be disturbed.’ The poor dear looked quite harassed beneath her puce turban and its nodding peacock feather. Well, she would. She was supposed to keep a close eye on her and Mooreshead. At least until they were sure he suspected nothing. A cornered man was more than risky.

‘Do you ride?’ she asked with one eye on the widow’s imminent arrival. ‘I usually go to Hyde Park at seven in the morning. Before it is busy.’

His eyes gleamed with wickedness. ‘So, you like to gallop.’ The innuendo was not lost on her, but she chose to ignore it.

After a brief hesitation, he continued smoothly. ‘I’ll take you up in my carriage at six. Bring your horse and your groom. We will breakfast afterwards.’

She smiled her acceptance of the invitation as Mrs Featherstone arrived at their table. Mooreshead rose to his feet and offered the older lady a chair with a bow and a charming smile. If he felt the slightest irritation at their lack of privacy, it did not show. Exquisite manners were his forte. But a storm lurked beneath the unruffled surface. She could feel it battering against her skin.

As was usual among the English, the conversation turned to the weather. Certainly no one was ever ill-bred enough to mention the war.

Chapter Two

The discovery of the Countess Vilandry’s dwelling required little effort on Gabe’s part. Her location in Golden Square was known by all and sundry. While not exactly desirable, the location was respectable. Her companion, Mrs Featherstone, was an unknown and generally described as bit of a mushroom. Not that Gabe put much store by stuffy conventions. While the countess might be considered fast, and a little risqué, his enquiries into her background and her obvious acceptance into society had made him wonder if his suspicions might be wrong.

Sceptre had been unable to tell him anything, good or bad.

Émigrés were nothing unusual these days. London seethed with refugees from Bonaparte’s vision of France. The more he had thought about it, the more certain he had become that neither side was so stupid as to send anyone so obvious against him. Or was his reluctance to believe it the result of the smouldering attraction low in his gut every time he brought her to mind. Wanting a woman that much was dangerous to any man’s sanity, but in his case it was completely out of character. The few relationships he had allowed since returning from France had been fleeting, an integral part of establishing his persona. Nevertheless, after Armande’s warning, he could not afford to ignore such an obvious play for his attention. Not now when one stumble, one error in judgement, would bring down his carefully erected house of cards.

He drew his carriage up at her front door, pleased to see a waiting groom mounted on a staid-looking hack holding the reins of a showy little black mare who showed the whites of her eyes at the sight of his curricle. His tiger, Jimmy, jumped down and went to his horses’ heads at the same moment the front door opened and the countess stepped out in a riding habit of pale blue that showed off her curvaceous figure to perfection. A curly brimmed beaver adorned with a veil set on severely styled hair made her look naughty.

Gabe leapt down and strode up the steps to meet her. He bowed. ‘Good morning, Countess. I am encouraged by your promptness.’

A corner of her mouth curled upwards. ‘Don’t be, mon cher Mooreshead. My Peridot does not like to be kept waiting.’

‘Your mare is as beautiful as her mistress.’

‘And far more impatient.’

He chuckled. She was clearly a woman skilled in the art of flirtation with a lively wit. She would keep his thoughts from growing too dark for an hour or two. She might even be willing to slake his lust. His body hardened. He quelled his surge of desire with ruthless determination. He had other more important matters on his mind. Like leaving London for Cornwall at the earliest opportunity, which he would do as soon as he was sure the countess was harmless.

Taking her hand, he escorted her down the steps onto the flagstones. ‘Then I must not keep either of you waiting. I have ordered our breakfast for nine.’

Her blue eyes sparkled. ‘You are very forward, milor’.’

He inclined his head. ‘Faint heart does not win fair lady.’ He gestured to the curricle. ‘May I assist you?’

‘Certainement.’

As he lifted her, his fingers spanned her slender waist and, despite her very feminine curves, he was aware of the lithe strength beneath his hands. A woman who rode frequently and hard.

Once more his body stirred at an image of the kind of riding she might enjoy that would involve them being alone together. Between the sheets. Once more the urgency of his visceral response surprised him. He was without doubt going to enjoy their association, no matter how brief.

He walked around to his side of the carriage and climbed up. ‘Your man will follow behind?’

‘He will.’

‘Let ’em go, Jimmy,’ Gabe said. The little tiger jumped clear and Gabe set his horses in motion.

Countess Vilandry frowned. ‘Your tiger does not come with us?’

Yes, this lady was unusually quick witted. ‘We have your groom.’

‘Yes, but who will mind your horses while we ride? Oh!’ She laughed. ‘You, Milor’ Mooreshead, are a very bad man.’

He grinned at her. ‘I’ve been on the town a long time, Countess. I have not failed to learn how to make the most of the company of a lovely and enticing woman.’

She settled herself more comfortably on the seat. ‘I do not respond well to flattery.’

‘And if it is the truth, Countess?’

She shook her head. ‘Incorrigible.’ She said it the French way and the caress in her voice was unmistakable. Velvet and honey and fine old brandy wrapped up in one word.

‘But you should know, Milor’ Mooreshead,’ she continued as he wove between the slow traffic of carters and tradesmen about their business, ‘your reputation precedes you. I have been warned that there isn’t a lady in London who does not fear for her virtue when you smile her way.’

‘Call me Gabe,’ he said, deliberately avoiding her teasing glance by pretending to concentrate on feathering between two slow-moving vehicles.

‘Gabe?’

‘Short for Gabriel.’

‘A devil named for an angel? Très amusant.’

‘Indeed. But do not tell me you did not already know.’ She had to know his name. And he would not have her think him an idiot. Nor did he want to play word games. Or not much anyway. He wanted his suspicions put to rest. Though that didn’t make a scrap of sense, when he needed to learn just who had been sent and by whom. It really would be so much easier if she was the one. He could deal with her today and leave for Cornwall first thing in the morning. He turned his head and gave her a quizzical smile so he could read her expression.

Her eyes danced with amusement as if she had nothing on her mind but easy flirtation. ‘Tiens, you will spoil the jest?’

‘It grows stale with age.’

She laughed. A light bright sound that spread unaccustomed warmth in his chest. ‘So it is good we have such staleness out of the way, then. And you will call me Nicky. Nicoletta is such a mouthful for the English tongue, don’t you think?’

‘Nicky,’ he said, tasting it on his tongue, sharp and tart, yet, like her, exotic. ‘It suits you.’

A little frown creased her forehead. ‘A compliment?’

‘A woman as lovely as you does not lack for compliments.’

‘Lovely? Mais non. Not at all. I think they call it je ne sais quoi, n’est-ce pas?’

‘It seems we are at point non plus. At a standstill in this war of words.’

‘War?’ She raised a brow. ‘Surely not. Relax, mon ami, and enjoy a ride on what appears to be the coming of a very fine day.’

He laughed and helped her out of the carriage. He could barely remember the last time he had found a woman so enticingly amusing. It was like coming into the light after days below ground. And she was right. Whatever she was, lovely did not adequately describe it. The sum of her was more attractive than the individual parts. And therefore undefinable. She was not going to be as easy to figure out as he had assumed. Not easy, but not impossible. And perversely he was looking forward to learning her secrets. And if his initial suspicion proved correct and she did come as a spy from the French? His chest tightened. Then he would leave her convinced that her masters had nothing to fear in regard to his loyalty. That way this vibrant creature wouldn’t have to die. At least, not this time.

‘I will certainly be interested to see you put that mare of yours through her paces,’ Gabe said, as they mounted.

She glanced back at his gelding, a big bay, strong enough to hold a man of his weight and height and still go like the wind. ‘I’ll wager my glove that Peridot and I will leave you in our dust.’

Again a challenge. It must be part of her nature and it was alluring as all hell. ‘Now that I look forward to seeing.’ He clapped his heels to Bacchus’s flanks.

* * *

The early-morning breeze stung Nicky’s cheeks. The dew on the grass glittered like diamonds. She felt carefree. Giddy. As if the Countess was nothing but a bad dream and she was young again. Thank goodness, her companion was out in front. The ineffably charming Mooreshead was far too intelligent to insult her by letting her win. But one look at her face and he’d see the cracks in her hard-won walls. She let go a breath and gathered her composure.

Clearly Paul had been right to repeat his warnings last night. The man had a dark and dangerous allure. Beneath the urbane veneer lay finely honed steel forged in a crucible of fire. What turned a man with every advantage of position, wealth, intelligence and education into a traitor? She would have to be clever indeed to expose his treachery and bring him to justice.

The thought of this physically beautiful man mounting the gallows robbed the day of its brightness.

She forced herself not to think of the end, only the means, and urged Peridot to greater efforts as the big, rangy bay drew a good length in front. No catching them now. At the end of the Row, Gabe circled his horse around and greeted her with a boyish smile that caused her heart to flutter.

Mortified by her instinctively feminine response, she halted in front of him with a smile that felt forced. At her command, Peridot curtsied low, in acknowledgement of his win.

The smile turned into a delighted grin. ‘What a little beauty. And fast.’

‘Not fast enough,’ she said lightly. ‘He’s not very pretty, your animal, but he is strong.’

Gabe patted his mount’s neck. ‘I see you know horseflesh.’

She pouted, but not so much that he would think her serious. ‘If I knew it well enough, I would not have wagered one of my new gloves.’ Repressing the tingle of anticipation at the thought of his touch, she held out a hand for him to claim his prize. Boldness was the only way to handle a man like him. A man who assumed he held all the power.

With deliberate slowness, as if he sensed her impatience and intended to punish her, he pulled off his own gloves and tucked them beneath one heavily muscled thigh. When her hand disappeared inside his palm, it clearly emphasised the difference in their size and strength. Even through the kid she could feel his warmth. A small shiver slid down her back, but she kept her smile steady, coolly amused, unflustered, despite the unwanted flutter of her pulse. Carefully he undid the tiny button at the wrist, then raised her hand to press his lips to the blue-veined pulse point he had uncovered. Her insides tightened in response to the velvety sensation.

When he glanced up at her, his eyes danced with mischief.

Her heart tumbled over, her body loosened. She swallowed her urge to gasp at the odd sense of discovery. The kind of feeling a younger Nicky might have experienced. Before the world changed and she became a pawn. A puppet with gilded strings. The naive child she’d been was dead and buried beneath her childish hopes and dreams. Only the Countess lived to play this so very dangerous game. ‘You won the glove, sirrah. Nothing more.’

He fastened the button and gave her hand a gentle pat. ‘And you must keep it until I return you home. You need it for now.’

Generous to a fault. A wickedly clever move. She inclined her head as if approving of his thoughtfulness. Oh, yes, the man had charm from his beautiful burnished locks to his highly polished boots, making it hard to think of him as evil. She shored up her defences with a teasing smile. ‘Do you make a habit of collecting ladies’ gloves?’

‘Only yours.’

Gathering her reins, she tossed him an arch look. ‘A very small collection, then.’