Read A Most Naked Solution Online
Authors: Anna Randol
A Most Naked Solution (13 page)
The eyes rested in a sun-kissed face underlined by strong cheekbones and a straight, Roman nose. Her lips—Bennett pulled his gaze from their seductive, just-kissed fullness. His memory was far too active to dwell on that feature.
Rather than a soft English kitten, she was a panther. And like a panther, she appeared ready to go for his throat.
He met the challenge in her gaze with one of his own. She shouldn’t have tried to deceive him.
Completely and utterly unacceptable. Sophia had done that, allowing herself to be beaten time and time again.
Love for his sister had made him gullible and blind. He’d believed her when she had not attended family gatherings, claiming a sudden illness, even though she’d never been sickly as a child. He had believed her when she’d claimed the bruise on her cheek resulted from bumping into a door. Hell, he’d even teased her about it.
But he’d allow no emotions to interfere with his protection of Miss Sinclair. As soon as he received the locations the government wanted sketched, he’d arrange for her to draw them. Then he could leave.
Her hazel eyes flashed. “Stop glowering. It isn’t my fault I had to save your life.”
No, he wouldn’t let her rouse him this time. “Thank you for your quick thinking.”
She frowned and lowered her brows. Searching for the trap in his words, no doubt. She crossed her arms and stared out the window.
Her father, Sir Reginald, slouched next to her, a bemused smile on his face. Sir Reginald had given his daughter her coloring, but there the similarities ended. His face lacked the sharp angles that defined hers and his addiction had taken its toll, robbing the man’s skin of luster and his eyes of life.
Miss Sinclair glanced at him and caught his survey of her father. She quickly turned back to glare at the pane of glass beside her. Too quickly.
He sought to put her at ease. “His sickness is no reflection on you.”
Her mouth dropped open and her face jerked toward him. “Of all the arrogant, overbearing— Why do you suppose for one minute that I care a whit for your opinion about me or my father? Just because some imbecile assigned me to you, it doesn’t allow you free rein in my private life.”
Bennett clenched the seat cushion until his fingers ached. Control. The army had taught him control. As a Rifleman, he could hide unmoving in the brush for hours while enemy troops moved inches from his position. A mere slip of a woman didn’t have the power to rile him. “On the contrary, for the next month, it belongs to me entirely.”
Hell, how had that escaped?
Miss Sinclair sputtered. “The devil it does!”
Bennett rubbed a hand over his eyes. “I’m here to protect you—”
“That’s a polite way of putting it. I agreed to do the drawings, not to accept a jailer.”
“You need to be alive to draw.”
“How do you propose to accomplish that? Your very presence threatens to expose me. I risk discovery every day. The risk increases monumentally if I’m entangled with an obviously British keeper who knows nothing about the country he’s been sent into.”
Bennett’s hands tightened on his knees. “What you are doing for the British is dangerous. Your ridiculous scenes put your life in jeopardy. Who did I meet with this morning?”
Staring at him defiantly, she folded the veil with crisp, tight snaps. “My maid.”
Without the guidance of her father, she’d grown too wild. Her excessive freedom ended here. “What are your plans for the rest of the afternoon?”
Her lips stretched over her teeth in an expression that was more snarl than smile. “I’m busy.”
“With what?”
She lifted her chin and shrugged. “It doesn’t concern my work so it doesn’t concern you.”
“Your plans?” He waited silently, never letting his attention waver from her, a trick that had wrung information from the most hardened soldiers.
Apparently, Miss Sinclair was made of sterner stuff. When they drew to a halt at her residence, she still hadn’t answered him.
He jumped down, then assisted her out. The touch of her skin was as disturbing as before.
As if he were Prometheus holding stolen fire.
When she tried to pull away, he refused to let her, locking his fingers around her wrist. Her pulse fluttered under his fingers.
“Unhand me.”
“Not until I know what you are planning.” And until he convinced his brain that there was nothing extraordinary about this woman except her foolishness.
Suddenly, she twisted in his grasp, freeing herself. But he grabbed her waist before she’d managed a single step. The lithe muscles under his fingers tensed, and he tightened his hold before her next attempt to flee. “If you don’t tell me your plans, we will stand here all night.”
She shoved against his chest with both hands, but when that didn’t loosen his hold, she sighed. “I’ll stay at my house tonight like an obedient puppy.”
Bennett nodded at the concession. Good, perhaps she could learn who was in charge after all. “We’ll discuss my plans for you tomorrow morning at nine.”
She nodded.
“Do I have your word that you’ll not try to leave the house this evening?”
She glared at him. “If it convinces you to let go of me, then yes, you have my word.”
He loosened his grip, and she stalked away toward the coach.
Despite her glares and muttered oaths, he helped her remove her father. Once the man’s feet were on the ground, he teetered for a moment, then straightened and practically skipped into the house. She stalked after him, the silk of her robe clinging to softly supple hips.
She’d never agree to confine her movements to a carefully arranged schedule. Even knowing what little he did of her, his original stratagem was ridiculous. So rather than monitoring her from afar he’d have to—
Damnation. He wouldn’t be able to leave her side.
T
hree glasses of the finest French brandy lingered untouched on the desk. Sir James Glavenstroke tapped his own half-empty glass with nervous fingers. He never should have poured the drinks before they entered the room. That had guaranteed they wouldn’t imbibe. Which was a damned shame. Alcohol would have made the upcoming ordeal easier.
At least for him.
The Trio, they called themselves—La Petit, Cipher, and Wraith. The finest agents he’d ever created. More soldiers owed their lives to them than to Wellington himself.
Pride burned in Glavenstroke’s chest, but he coughed it away. After all, any one of them would gladly slit his throat for the hell he’d damned them into.
Not that they’d be any happier when he kicked them out of it.
Glavenstroke ran a hand through his thinning gray hair, then sipped his brandy. Madeline Valdan, La Petit, watched his fidgeting with far too keen a gaze. The past ten years had transformed Madeline from a breathtaking youth to the most achingly beautiful woman he’d ever seen. He tried to still his nervous motions, but he knew that, in and of itself, would be a sign.
“What are you stewing over, Glavenstroke?” Madeline asked. “You know you can’t hide anything from us.”
No. He’d been unable to do that since he plucked them from their fate on the gallows. In exchange for their lives, they’d agreed to hone their particular skills on behalf of His Majesty’s government. They’d each originally possessed talents that had led him to select them over the other condemned souls in Newgate, but once they’d received formal training, they’d become an unstoppable force. A wickedly sharp dagger used to eviscerate Napoleon and his allies.
But now the war was over.
“Out with it.” As always, the voice of the Cipher, Clayton Campbell, remained perfectly calm, yet drew a shiver up Glavenstroke’s spine.
With a sigh, he removed the bank drafts from the drawer and laid them on the oak desk. “The Foreign Office thanks you for your hard years of service on His Majesty’s behalf.”
“But?” prompted Madeline.
“There is no
but
. You’ve served your country well and are free to resume normal lives. You each have, of course, received full pardons for your past transgressions.”
Madeline and Clayton stared at him. It was a measure of their level of shock that they permitted that much of a reaction.
Ian Maddox, the Wraith and third member of the Trio, was the only one who remained unsurprised. But Glavenstroke knew that stemmed from his low expectations of humanity in general. Unlike the other two, Ian was a product of the mean streets in London’s West End. No level of cruelty or greed surprised him. The government could have ordered their immediate execution and he wouldn’t have batted an eye.
Madeline tucked a strand of chestnut hair behind her ear—the one nervous gesture he’d never been able to break her of. “Why?”
Ian’s powerful frame relaxed in the chair, and rather than diminishing his strength, the pose made him resemble a tiger the moment before it pounced. “What dear Glaves here is too polite to say is that they don’t need us anymore. Now that we’re of no use to them, having us on the payroll is too much of a risk. Can’t afford to let the sweetly docile populace discover they’re employing the hangman’s leftovers.”
Ian was correct as always. In fact, with his ability to gain access to whatever location he desired, it was likely he’d known about this forced retirement before Glavenstroke did.
With an uncomfortable cough, Glavenstroke delivered the final insult—the bank drafts.
“This is the first pension payment?” Clayton’s hand tensed on the slip of paper.
Ian snorted. “Sorry, they can’t have us on the pension records, either.”
Madeline stiffened. “I’ve whored myself on behalf of this country. A foot soldier would have made more than this.”
Glavenstroke took a large swig of his brandy, welcoming the muted burn at the back of his throat. He’d called in every favor owed him to arrange for even this much. But he hadn’t reached his current position by being soft, so he didn’t apologize. After all, without his help, the three of them would’ve been dead a decade ago.
Clayton rested his hand on Madeline’s arm. “With proper investment—”
“And what, another ten or twenty years of waiting? I know you’re a genius with numbers, Clayton, but even you cannot miraculously transform this into anything other than the insult it is.” She rose to her feet, and the other two followed.
“What do you plan to do?” Glavenstroke asked them, despising himself for the weakness the question betrayed.
Ian glanced back over his shoulder, a slight smile quirking the corner of his mouth. “Won’t that thought keep you up at night?”
As the door closed silently behind them, Glavenstroke poured himself another glass of the amber liquid. They’d land on their feet. He’d taught them well.
Hopefully, they’d continue to use their skills to help society, because if any one of them turned—he knocked back the second shot of brandy in a single gulp—heaven help Mother England.
W
hen lightning didn’t strike Madeline Valdan as she strolled through the hallowed doors of White’s, a wicked smile curved her lips. She’d seize her positive omens where she could.
While the footman by the door kept his gaze studiously averted, she slipped the heavy bag of gold sovereigns into his pocket and then rose up on tiptoe so her lips brushed the air inches from his ear. “Thank you, John.” He still didn’t deign to speak to her, but an adorable blush spread above the starched points of his shirt collar.
As she sauntered down the corridor, Madeline couldn’t resist a quick gawk at this bastion of manliness. Marble pillars jutted out from deep, plush carpet to join with the ornate plaster of the ceiling and reflect the rippling patterns cast by the crystal chandeliers. The club reeked of power and entitlement.
And most importantly, money.
Madeline smoothed the flowing lines of her black domino. The silk used to make the cloak had been an extravagant expense, but as she’d learned, presentation was everything.
She strode past the coffee room and straight into the card room. After all, she was offering a gamble—hopefully, a very expensive gamble.
The murmur of masculine voices rumbled through the expansive space, punctuated by an occasional bark of laughter. Faro cards slapped onto tables and dice clacked across tables.
She scanned the room as she’d been trained, noting the number of men and classifying them: those actively gambling, those pretending to gamble, and those watching; those holding a winning hand versus a losing hand. From her brief glance, she also knew which men were dangerous and which posed a threat only to their after-supper pudding.
As Madeline walked to the center of the room, the tables she passed quieted, then burst into jumbled exclamations.
She selected a table directly in the center of the room under an immense glittering chandelier. She couldn’t have asked for a better stage.
She smiled at the nervous young man who had turned to gape at her as she approached. She held out her hand. “Be a dear, Algie?”
Algie’s training as a gentleman didn’t fail her, and he offered his hand without thinking. She grasped it, stepped on his thigh, and then onto the middle of the table.
Madeline now held the attention of the entire group of assembled men.
Two determined footmen arrived at the edge of the table. “Miss, this isn’t that type of establishment. You must leave or we will remove you.”
Madeline threw back the hood of her cloak.
“Madeline . . .”
“Who’s mistress . . .”
“. . . seen with the Regent himself last . . .”
The voices testified that the last six months had served their purpose. They all knew who she was.
She’d spent every last dime of the paltry government stipend on being seen and heard around London. Dressed to scandalous perfection. Always on the arm of a different man and always on the cusp of something utterly outrageous. Soon the gossip sheets hadn’t been able to write enough about her. Gentlemen lusted after her and ladies despised her.
She opened the front of her domino, revealing her emerald gown. The bodice skimmed her breasts and barely covered her nipples. In fact, when she’d tried it on, a misplaced sneeze had produced quite shocking results. The sleeves were practically nonexistent, and the lack of petticoats molded the skirt to every curve of her hip and leg.
She raised her voice to carry above the noise. “What do you think, gentlemen, shall I leave, or do you want to hear what inspired this dastardly stunt?”
The shouts clamoring for her answer overwhelmed the cries for her ousting, so the flustered servants stepped back a pace.
Madeline trailed a hand slowly down her hip. “I bring you something for sale.” She nodded at offers shouted by several of the bolder gentlemen to share their beds for the night. “Not quite. I’m here to inform you of an auction.”
“What’s being sold?” asked the overdressed and overfed Colonel Willington.
She scanned the room, gauging the reactions. Excellent. Every single one of them strained for her answer. She waited three more heartbeats before answering. “My virginity.”
Disbelief and outrage echoed through the room. Forgotten cards drifted onto tables as fortunes sat neglected in the center. She didn’t even try to speak for several minutes. But when she did, everyone listened. “The bidding book will be at Naughton’s for the next fortnight.” Most of the men here knew of the gambling den firsthand, and those who didn’t wouldn’t be bidding regardless. “At the end of those two weeks, the man with the highest bid wins.”
“What exactly does he win?” a dark-haired fellow asked.
She tapped her cheek. “Hmm . . . my virginity?”
The crowd laughed, but he pressed on. “But what exactly does that entail?”
“That’s simple. One night with me and a chance to succeed where every other man in London has failed.”
A voice that she couldn’t quite match with a face spoke from the corner of the room. “If you’re a virgin, why not marry?”
She’d rather be dragged over broken glass by a herd of gout-ridden turtles. Yet she allowed none of her thoughts to show on her face when she lifted her eyebrow. “Is that an offer?” As she waited for the chuckles to die down, she untied her cloak, dropping it so it pooled at her feet. Eyes once again riveted to the ample amount of bosom she’d arranged for display. “I think you gentlemen know—mistresses have more fun.”
Murmurs swelled again through the crowd until Baron Weltyn, a perspiring gentleman with a salmon-colored jacket and slightly bulging eyes, snorted. “But why would we want to bed an innocent?”
“While I may be a virgin . . .” She reached up and unbuckled the specially designed clasps on the shoulders of the gown. With a slight shrug, the dress joined the cloak on the ground, revealing her tightly laced black corset, matching satin drawers, and sheer stockings. “I’m definitely no innocent.”
Men jumped to their feet, some driven by outrage, some by lust. Friends pounded the elderly Duke of Avelsy on the back as he choked on his brandy.
She surveyed the uproar with satisfaction. The only bad reaction was no reaction at all. For this auction to succeed, the scandal needed to sweep London. The more this night grew in infamy, the better she would do. Madeline reached up and plucked the pins from her hair so the dark chestnut strands tumbled over her shoulders and cascaded down her back.
The room again quieted.
Desire pounded hot and almost palpable in the room.
“How do we know you’re a virgin?”
Finally, someone had the nerve to ask the question she’d seen burning in everyone’s eyes. She peered into the darkened corners of the room. Ah, the not-so-honorable George Glinton.
“You’ve been escorted around London by nearly every peer in this room. How do we know you’re still a virgin?”
“Can any of you claim to have bedded me?” She reached leisurely to her feet and retrieved her dress and domino, treating the men in front of her to the view of her breasts threatening to overflow the cups of her corset, while the men behind her watched the fabric of her drawers tightening over her backside. Satisfied that she had their full attention, she draped her clothing over her arm and held out her hand so Algie could assist her to the ground. With swaying hips, she walked toward the door.
“Wait!” another voice shouted. “You didn’t answer Glinton. How do we know you’re a virgin?”
She peered back over her shoulder and smiled that seductive smile she’d been forced to perfect during countless hours of training by the Foreign Office. “It is a gamble, is it not? And that, gentlemen, is why you will have to bid and bid well.”