A Most Dangerous Profession Page 9

  “I look forward to meeting the squire. Do you think I might have a bath before dinner?”

  “Of course! I’ll send one up now and Firtha will come back at six to help you dress. No late city hours for us here in the country!” With an arch look Lady Anne finally left, Firtha following with the luncheon tray.

  Moira waited for the door to close. Then she crossed to the wardrobe, collected a small trunk, and placed it on the bed. It was a large and heavy case, made with iron bands and a heavy wood bottom, all covered with leather. She reached inside, flipped two hidden latches, and removed a thin false bottom. Inside was a complete suit of clothing befitting a gentleman of fashion, a dark wig, a packet of hairpins, and a fat pouch of coins.

  She counted the coins, replaced the items, and returned the portmanteau to the wardrobe floor. Perhaps Robert had done her a favor. A lady of fashion traveling in a coach would need two days to reach her destination. A gentleman on a good horse traveling ventre à terre could make the same trip much quicker.

  But she was still weak from her illness, so rest was crucial. She slipped back into bed. She’d sleep the rest of the afternoon to conserve her energy, then eat dinner with the squire and his wife. But as soon as her host and hostess were abed, she’d make her way to the stables, and borrow a horse. To assuage her conscience, she’d leave her hosts a letter and a generous portion of the coins.

  She snuggled under the covers and curled onto her side, examining her plan for flaws.

  It will work. She settled against her pillows and almost immediately fell asleep, dreaming of riding pell-mell across the moors, chasing a black-haired devil with eyes of blue.

  CHAPTER 10

  A letter to Michael Hurst from his sister Lady Caitlyn Hurst MacLean, two years ago.

  Of all the Hursts, you are the most like our grandmother, Mam. No one believes in magic and amulets more. Do you remember the tales she used to frighten us with when we were children? Not for her the soft stories of princesses and knights and good deeds. No, she always told the stories where witches ate bad little children and evil kings ruled their countries by placing a horrid curse upon those who dared rebuke them.

  Like the Brothers Grimm, she delighted in sharing the darker side of the world. You loved those stories while the rest of us cowered in fear. Perhaps that’s why you’re the explorer among us; you savor the things we seek to avoid.

  Later that same afternoon, Leeds wiped the blood from his nose and looked about the tack room. “Och, tha’ finishes it.”

  “Aye,” Stewart agreed, holding a handkerchief to his cut ear. “ ’Twas no’ so hard. After all, they’re but Sassenachs.”

  He looked at the six footmen and two coachmen who were now trussed and tied up along one wall. He and Leeds might be sporting some bruises, but the footmen and coachmen were far worse for wear, only two of them even conscious.

  “Ye could see Mr. Hurst’s Scottish lineage in the way he fought tonight,” Leeds said.

  Stewart cast a cautious glance at the closed door before he leaned forward to say, “There’s no’ many men as can fight like Mr. Hurst, fer all he wears them Frenchified clothes.”

  Leeds nodded. “He do dress like he couldna’ lift a fork, much less make a fist.”

  “But when he makes a fist—” Stewart shook his head in admiration. “ ’Tis somethin’ to see.”

  The door to the tack room opened and Mr. Hurst walked in. He had already tugged his gloves back on, his cane tucked under one arm, his cravat back in perfect repair. Only the faint scrape along his jaw indicated he’d been involved in a glorious altercation. “You’ve tied them securely?”

  “Aye, sir,” Stewart said. “Leeds tied ’em, and I checked the lashin’s meself.”

  “Good. Thank you for assisting me.”

  “Och, now,” Leeds said, grinning. “ ’Twas a pleasure.”

  “Aye,” Stewart said, cracking his knuckles. “ ’Twas more fun than havin’ to put up the horses.”

  Robert had to laugh at their enthusiasm. “It was a good fight.”

  “Wha’ are we to do wit’ them now, sir?” Stewart asked.

  “We’ll hold them here until morning, when we’ll put them on the mail coach and send them back to Edinburgh to their damned master.

  “It’s a pity we won’t be there to see Aniston’s face when his servants are returned to him.”

  Stewart rubbed his chin. “Ye seem a mite put out by this Aniston fellow.”

  “ ‘Put out’ isn’t the phrase I’d use.” Robert couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice. Just the thought of Aniston made his chest tighten as if a vise were upon it.

  Stewart cleared his throat. “Sir, just to be certain . . . are we to send them back alive?”

  “Of course you’re to send them back alive! I just don’t want any of them to follow us. And this will send Aniston a message he’ll not forget.

  “You may leave them for now; just lock the door and keep the key with you. I won’t have someone stumbling upon them and letting them all go.”

  “What if the servants from the inn need to get into the tack room?” Stewart asked.

  “I’ve already spoken to the landlord. He was more than glad to make a few extra coins by renting us this space for the short time we’ll need it.”

  “Yes, sir,” Leeds said. “We’ll sleep in the next room so we can keep an eye upon them.”

  “Excellent. I shall go inside and bespeak a room. Buffon should arrive within the hour with my luggage. We should reach Balnagown Castle by nightfall tomorrow.” The real work would begin then, and Robert was looking forward to it. “When Buffon arrives, take care of his coach and horses, but do not allow him to unpack my luggage. I have all I need in my portmanteau.”

  Leeds and Stewart looked pleased at the prospect of telling Buffon what to do.

  Robert left and went out to the inn yard. The inn had been a welcome surprise, much larger than they’d anticipated, considering how far north they’d traveled. The two-storied timbered building dated to the sixteenth century, a style Robert rather liked. He entered the front hall and, upon finding the innkeeper, obtained the use of a private parlor.

  The room he was escorted to was cozy, the ceiling so low that he was in danger of banging his head on the broad beams. A welcoming fire crackled in the grate and several well-stuffed chairs sat nearby, while a small table with two chairs were tucked beside a window that overlooked the inn yard.

  Robert was glad to strip off his coat and gloves and warm himself by the fire. The innkeeper further endeared himself by producing a decanter of very tolerable brandy, which Robert enjoyed as he awaited his valet’s arrival.

  He sipped the amber liquid, savoring its warmth, and wondered how Moira was faring. She would be angry that he’d left her behind, but he’d had no choice.

  I have a daughter. The thought rang through him.

  His entire life had changed since he’d found out. Yet he didn’t feel different; he didn’t feel like a father. While he was worried about the child, it was more because of her innocence than the fact that she was his.

  Was that normal? He sighed and took another sip of brandy. I don’t know what a father should feel. Damn Moira for keeping this from me. I deserved to know.

  Yet he couldn’t entirely blame her. Their relationship had been based on lies. She’d been living in London, pretending to be the daughter of a Russian prince. She was very, very good and few people had realized her deception. She’d become the darling of society, welcomed into the homes of the wealthiest and most powerful.

  Before long, someone in the Home Office had noticed a slow leak of financial information. After some research, they’d realized that the Russian princess was neither Russian nor a princess, and Robert was sent to investigate by pretending to become one of her admirers.

  He had expected to be unimpressed with such a sham. But what he’d found was an amazingly beautiful and intelligent woman who was as charming as she was false. But beneath that falsenes
s, he sensed something else—an almost desperate vulnerability. Who was she? Who was she working for? And how was she able to fool so many people?

  The more he’d attempted to learn, the deeper he’d become involved. There was a spark between them from their first meeting and eventually they’d succumbed to it.

  Robert now admitted that the attraction had been growing into something more, which was why he’d been so furious when she’d disappeared. He’d foolishly hoped that she would begin to trust him, and tell him the truth about herself and her past. Instead, she’d arranged their sham marriage and then disappeared without a word, taking with her important documents she’d stolen from a high-ranking government official.

  The Home Office had demanded an explanation, and Robert hadn’t had one. He’d been too involved in trying to discover who the real Moira MacAllister was, to notice her side activities. Furious at being made a fool of, he’d set out to find her, using all of his resources. After days of near misses, he’d finally caught up with her at a small inn by the docks in Dover. There, her defiant attitude and seeming unconcern had infuriated him even more. He’d reclaimed the stolen papers and, to prove that she meant nothing to him, had left her in the care of another man from the Home Office to deliver her to face charges.

  An hour later, the agent had been thoroughly bamboozled and locked in a closet, and Moira was gone.

  Robert had never stopped looking for her. As the years progressed, he’d convinced himself that it was just professional pride and curiosity about her motives in tricking him in such a way that drove him on, but now he had to face a few facts about himself—none of which were pleasant. His anger with Moira had nothing to do with his job with the Home Office, and everything to do with the growing feelings he’d had for her when she’d left.

  Discovering now that she’d been carrying his child when she’d left, and that she hadn’t bothered to tell him, added to his fury and confusion.

  After I get my hands on that damned box and settle the issue with Aniston, she and I are due for a long, long talk.

  He settled deeper in his chair, wishing he hadn’t had to leave her at the squire’s. No doubt she thought to set out after him, which was why he’d not only taken all of the horses, but also gone through her clothing and portmanteau to make certain she had no funds to hire a carriage.

  “Let her feel the sting of being left behind for once,” he murmured, sipping the brandy. It served her right.

  A coach pulled up outside, the traces rattling. Robert stood and crossed to the window, glad to see it was Buffon’s. Robert’s luggage—two large trunks and a number of smaller cases—was strapped to the top, so that it was almost as tall as it was long.

  Stewart approached as the coach came to a stop and immediately engaged the valet in an energetic discussion. As Robert watched them, a rider on a large bay trotted into the inn yard, garnering no more than a passing glance from the arguing servants. The man guided his horse around the coach toward the stable.

  As the gentleman pulled his horse to a halt he turned his head, his profile in stark relief against the dark stable door.

  “Damn it!” Robert slammed his glass onto the table, the brandy sloshing out as he stalked out of the parlor.

  CHAPTER 11

  A diary entry from Michael Hurst the day he discovered the first onyx box.

  I wasn’t impressed with the onyx box itself when I purchased it, for it was the parchment inside that excited me: a rare reference to the Hurst Amulet. I thought the parchment the true treasure, as there are dozens of such boxes and neither the piece nor its age were particularly notable.

  But this morning, after I placed the parchment in a safe location, I prepared to toss the box into a crate to be sent back to England to be sold, and something caught my eye. One side seemed a little thicker than the others. To my surprise, it opened and revealed—I cannot trust myself to write it here, but I think I now know why I’ve been unable to find that damned amulet here in Egypt.

  Someone removed it long, long ago.

  Moira wearily contemplated dismounting her horse, her legs trembling with fatigue. Her escape had been flawless; no one had seen her and she’d quickly caught up to Buffon’s coach, which had led her here.

  But other errors had been made. First, she was much weaker than she realized, which had become apparent as the hours passed.

  Second, she’d assumed that Robert’s valet, being of such a prim and precise nature, would travel timidly. But either he had the constitution of a workhorse, or his commitment to his employer’s appearance was fanatical, for Buffon had only stopped when forced by the needs of the horses. Which had left Moira riding much longer than she’d expected.

  She patted her horse’s neck. “No doubt you’re as tired as I am, aren’t you, girl?” The mare whickered softly. “Well, there’s no rest until this saddle is off, is there?”

  Gathering herself, Moira swung out of the saddle. As her boots hit the cobbled yard, she knew she’d made a mistake. Her knees buckled instantly, and if she hadn’t been holding on to the saddle she’d have fallen to her knees.

  She set her teeth and forced her weak legs upright. They locked in place like a tin soldier’s; only by leaning against her mount was she able to stand.

  Behind her, she could hear the altercation between Robert’s valet and a groom. Thankful for the diversion, Moira rested her forehead against her horse’s neck. “Now what do I do?” If she tried to walk, she feared she might fall. But she couldn’t stay here much longer; someone was bound to see her, and while her costume was good enough to stave off instant recognition, it wouldn’t withstand close scrutiny.

  She’d just have to grit her teeth and try to make it to the stables. Once there, she could find a place to rest away from prying eyes.

  She took a deep breath, pushed away from the horse and took its reins, trying to ignore her trembling legs. “Ready?” she asked the mare. “Let’s go.”

  She managed three steps before her knees buckled again, pitching her forward. Moira threw out her hands to catch herself, but strong arms swept her from the air, and she was tossed over a shoulder like a sack of grain.

  Moira knew it was Robert the second she settled against his broad back, his arm around her thighs as he walked easily toward the inn. “Stewart,” Robert called as he walked past his astounded groom, “take care of the lady’s horse.”

  The groom, a small, wizened man with an oddly shaped figure blinked. “Lady?”

  Buffon, a tall, well-favored man and considerably younger than she’d expected, looked down at the groom with disdain and said with a heavy French accent, “Oui, it is a lady. Can you not see? Ah, but all you see are the trousers and not the shape, eh?” He flipped a dismissive hand toward the red-faced groom. “Pah, you English who cannot tell the difference between a man and a woman. I wonder that you manage to have children.”

  As Robert carried her into the inn, the innkeeper stared in amazement.

  “What a surprise,” Robert said smoothly. “It appears that my wife has come to visit.”

  “But I—” Moira began.

  Robert slapped her bottom. “She was supposed to stay put at the home of our acquaintance. She can stay in my room; there’s no need to prepare another.”

  The innkeeper, clearly sensing more largesse, nodded. “Yes, sir! I put ye in room number two, at the end of the hall at the top o’ the stairs.”

  “Good. We’ll wait in the parlor until then. My wife has recently been ill, and she’s still not strong. If you’ve some gruel and some bread, that would be most welcome.”

  “Robert, no!” Moira protested. She lifted her head to tell the innkeeper, “I dislike gruel and would rather have something else. Do you have—”

  “She’ll have gruel.” With that pronouncement, Robert went into the small parlor. Ducking the beams, he carried her to the fireplace and unceremoniously dumped her into a chair.

  Seeing his grim expression, she said, “You shouldn’t have left m
e.”

  The words sounded sulky, but she didn’t care. She was so tired, her back and legs afire, and now Robert had just ignominiously scooped her up and paraded her before the entire population of the inn.

  “Idiot. You’re so tired you can barely sit upright.” He went to a small table and picked up a glass and brought it to her. “Here. Drink this.”

  “It’s not more of your tonic, is it?”

  “No, it’s brandy.”

  She took the glass and, by dint of supporting her wrist with her other hand, managed to sip it without trembling too badly. The first sip warmed her, the second smoothed her tattered nerves, and the third sip made her lean back in the chair and sigh. “Thank you.” Some of her tiredness seemed to melt away.

  “You’re welcome.” He plucked her hat off and tossed it aside. “Now I can see your eyes.” He took the chair opposite hers, his dark blue gaze hard. “You’re a fool to have come all this way. Less than a week ago a fever nearly killed you.”

  “Robert, this isn’t your fight; it’s mine. I will do whatever I must to get that box, and my daughter, sick or not.”

  “She’s my daughter, too.”

  Moira rested her head against the tall back of the chair. “This is too important for us to argue over. I came here to you, because I think we’ll do better if we work together.”

  “I can get the box without your help. I’ve already made arrangements through Ross’s Edinburgh agent to purchase it.”

  “As did I,” she replied. “Before I left town.”

  Robert paused. “Mr. Gulliver?”

  “At number four High Street. A rather unctuous man with a tendency to sneeze.”

  Robert muttered a curse. “That arse sold the box to both of us!”

  “Yes.” She took another sip of the brandy. “Did you ever wonder why Ross, who isn’t well known in the world of antiquities, possesses such a unique item?”

  Robert shrugged. “I assumed he’d somehow recognized its value.”