The Earl's Complete Surrender (21 page)

“I had no idea that you were so . . . involved in this profession of yours.” The man was nothing short of remarkable.

“It's necessary, considering the dangers involved. I do have a tendency to seek them out.”

Dumbfounded, she shook her head. “How on earth have you managed to remain so inconspicuous? Everyone thinks you're an unadventurous man who favors his own company to that of others.”

He met her gaze directly. “And so I am. I chose my profession for a reason, Lady Newbury, and it's not because I particularly enjoy it. But I am good at it, especially because of my unique ability to remember everything I see.”

“I suppose that does make sense,” Chloe mused. “I just can't imagine it for myself.”

“You come from a large family,” he said. “Your situation is completely different.”

She nodded, realizing how true that was and wondering what it must have been like for Woodford to not only lose his parents but to have no siblings or friends with whom to share the pain. “What about friends and . . . Have you never missed having a confidant?”

His mouth curved a little. “I had Hainsworth of course. He was always happy to listen to what I had to say. But I've also had my share of lovers, if that is what you wish to know,” he told her candidly.

Appalled, Chloe stared at him, her hands closing into fists. “It most certainly was
not
.”

“No?” One eyebrow lifted. “Then what was it? Friends and . . . what?”

She swallowed, aware that he'd deliberately snared her in a lie. “I was merely wondering how a potential family life might coexist with your profession.”

“It can't,” he told her darkly as he leaned back against the squabs, his eyes holding hers captive. “Which is why I told you from the beginning that I can make no promises. Because I've no plans to marry.”

“Not ever?” She couldn't help the question. After all, he was an earl. Choosing not to marry seemed so . . . irresponsible. More than that, it made her feel hollow inside, which, of course, made no sense at all.

“Having a wife and children would make me too vulnerable while giving my enemies too much power.” His jaw seemed to tighten a little. “I might be willing to risk my own life, but I would never be able to risk my family's. As it is, I'm having a devil of a time dealing with your involvement in this escapade.”

“I was involved before we even met,” she said, liking the fact that he was concerned about her well-­being. It showed that he cared, for which she was grateful.

“Which I suppose is fortuitous in a way since it would likely take me twice as long to decode the book without you. Even so, I won't rest easy until we get you to safety.” He paused for a moment before explaining, “I rent a ­couple of apartments; one that functions as my official home and another that I use as a safe house. The lease on the latter is generally good for six months, after which I relocate. My official address will be compromised, so we're heading to the safe house.”

“And then?” she asked, anxious to know his plan.

“Then you'll tell me where to find Mr. Lambert so that I may solicit his help once I've visited the king and told him of our progress.”

“You mean to leave me at the safe house while you go on without me?”

“Yes.”

Folding her arms across her chest, she glared at him. The thought of spending time on her own and worrying about him every moment he was away did not appeal to her in the least. “I might refuse to tell you where to find Mr. Lambert unless you promise to take me with you.”

His eyes darkened. “Don't be foolish. We know that The Electors are capable of murder. You are not trained to protect yourself against them, in spite of the fencing lessons you've been receiving. On the contrary, Lady Newbury, you are a liability that I cannot afford to take along on hazardous errands, so please, be sensible and do as I ask.”

“Very well,” she agreed, accepting his reasoning. He was right. If something were to go wrong on his way to Mr. Lambert's, the last thing Woodford would need was a woman to worry about, so she accepted that she would have to worry about him instead.

 

Chapter 17

A
fter seeing Lady Newbury safely to his secret apartment, James locked the door behind him and hurried down the stairs. Halting by the front entrance, he glanced out into the street beyond. It wasn't too busy—­just a few pedestrians and the occasional carriage driving by. He'd have to hire a hackney to take him to Carlton House. The corner of Upper Guildford and Lamb's Conduit would be a good spot, so James decided to head in that direction.

He hadn't gone more than twenty paces before he became aware of two men keeping pace with him on the opposite side of the street. Perhaps it was nothing, but James wasn't about to take that chance, so he deliberately turned down the first available side street and pretended to study the contents of a shop window while waiting to see if they followed.

A long moment passed and James was just about to continue on his way when the two men materialized on either side of him. “Hand it over,” one of them said. He was taller than James—­broader too.

“I'm sorry, but are you talking to me?” James asked, pleased by the casual tone of his voice.

“Who else would I be talking to?” the man asked.

Turning his head, James studied the man's companion. He was a stocky man, built like a prizefighter. Great! “To your friend here, I suppose,” James said. If he could only make them doubt his identity, he might be able to avoid an altercation with them.

“He was talking to you,” the prizefighter told James, his lip curling with vehemence.

James attempted a blank stare. “I can't imagine why. Do I know you by any chance?”

“No,” the tall one said, “but the man who's paying us does. Now hand over the damn book or Larry here will have to smash your face in, is that clear?”

An unappealing thought, James decided, but hardly enough to deter him from saying, “I don't have it with me.”

“We'll see about that,” Larry said. “Grab him, Sam.”

Leaping back, James reached for the pistol in his jacket pocket, but before he could manage to pull it free both men charged toward him, knocking him flat on his back. His head hit the ground with a thud and then the wind was forced out of him as both assailants landed on top. Bright light exploded behind James's eyes, followed by a sharp excruciating pain that pierced his skull. He gasped for breath and attempted to move—­a futile endeavor until Larry and Sam eased off of him. They immediately went for his pockets, but this time James was faster. Still clutching his pistol and fighting the pain, James pulled the weapon free and pointed it at the man closest to him. “Back away,” he wheezed.

“You can't shoot us both,” Larry said.

“No, but do you really want your friend here to die?” James asked, not taking his eyes off Sam.

Sam stared down at the pistol, his expression lacking the arrogance it had earlier. Fear shone bright in the man's eyes. His throat worked as he swallowed. He raised his hands and leaned away. “Let's leave him be, Larry.”

Larry snorted. “And give up on the reward?” He tugged on James's jacket, ignoring the threat to his friend.

“If you're apprehended, you'll hang,” James said as Larry patted him around his chest.

“Brawls aren't punishable by death,” Sam said. Deciding that James had been bluffing, he began helping Larry again.

“No,” James said, trying to push them aside so he could sit up. Sam caught him by his arms and slammed him back down on the ground. The pistol fired and Sam cried out. Releasing James, he clutched his thigh where the lead ball had struck him. “But treason is,” James added.

“You bloody bastard,” Sam groaned.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Larry asked, impervious to Sam's suffering as he glared down at James.

“The book you're trying to steal belongs to the king,” James grit out. “It's important. That's all I'm saying.”

Footsteps tapped in quick succession against the cobblestones. “Hey! You! Leave that gentleman alone!”

Turning his head, James saw that a group of men were approaching at a run, alerted no doubt by the sound of the shot being fired. Sam groaned. “Help me, Larry.”

“Sorry,” Larry said, scrummaging to get off the ground, “but you're on your own.” He started toward the other end of the street, but the group of approaching men split, some coming to a halt beside James and Sam while two continued after Larry. Within a few minutes, both culprits had been apprehended.

“Are you all right?” a man dressed in black asked.

“I've been better,” James muttered as he leaned on each of his legs in turn to see if they'd taken any damage. His back and head hurt like the devil. “Are you a runner?”

The man dressed in black nodded. “Principal Officer Townsend, at your ser­vice.”

James nodded. “Earl of Woodford.”

Townsend inclined his head toward Sam and Larry. “Will you be pressing charges against these men, my lord?”

“Absolutely,” James said. He needed to stop Larry and Sam from interfering in his case.

“I should be the one pressing charges,” Sam said. “That bloody cove shot me!”

“Mind your language,” Townsend said. He looked Sam up and down. “His lordship has every right to defend himself as he did.”

“If you can see to it that they're both locked away until further notice, I'd appreciate it,” James told Townsend.

“As you wish, my lord,” Townsend said. He studied James a moment, then asked, “Would you like for me to arrange a carriage for you?”

“Thank you, but that won't be necessary.” He was no longer in any condition to call on the king. At the very least he would have to return to the apartment for a change of clothes.

“Very well then,” Townsend said. “Let's take these culprits away.”

“I'd like to ask them a question before you do,” James said. “This wasn't a random attack and I want to know who's behind it.”

“Answer him,” Townsend said when Larry and Sam remained silent. “Refusing to do so won't help you. Quite the contrary.”

“He didn't give us a name,” Larry said, “but his hair was dark, much like yours.” He nodded toward James. “Not as tall though.”

“Was he well-­dressed? Wealthy?”

Larry hesitated a moment before nodding. “His clothes were quality, and he offered each of us five hundred pounds for our efforts.”

Townsend whistled, obviously impressed.

“Anything else?” James asked.

Larry shook his head.

Turning his back on him, James addressed Townsend. “Thank you for your help.” He handed him a calling card. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“Will do,” Townsend said, putting the card in his pocket. He dipped his head toward James. “Good day, my lord.”

James waited until they were out of sight before heading back to the apartment. His back was still sore and would probably remain so for a few days. Placing his fingers to the back of his head as he climbed the stairs to the third floor of the building where he was renting, he felt a lump forming. No surprise there. In truth, he was lucky he hadn't been knocked unconscious. Jesus! Within a week he'd been whacked in the forehead by a door, punched in the face and had his head slammed against the ground. Pausing for a moment, he took a breath while considering his assignment. The description Larry had given him fit any number of gentlemen, but it also fit Scarsdale to perfection.

“My God, what happened to you?” Lady Newbury asked when she greeted him at the door. Her eyes had gone wide and there were two stark creases upon her brow.

“A minor altercation with a ­couple of villains,” he said as he shrugged out of his jacket and flung the garment aside without any care for propriety. Try as he might, he couldn't stop himself from wincing in response to the pain.

“It doesn't seem like it was a minor altercation. You're clearly hurt.”

“It's not that bad,” he lied. “I just need a brandy. If you don't mind.”

She hesitated briefly before heading toward the side table while James crossed to the nearest armchair and lowered himself into it. Everything ached.

When Lady Newbury handed him his glass, her eyes were filled with concern. “There's blood on your ear,” she said. “On the back of your neck too.”

James blinked. “I didn't realize,” he told her truthfully before taking a sip of his drink.

“I'd like to take a look at the wounds.” Her expression grew serious. “I also want you to tell me where else it hurts.”

“I've already told you, it's nothing.”

Crossing her arms, she gave him an angry look. “What's wrong with you? You're obviously in pain!”

“It's manageable,” he said, clenching his jaw and squeezing his eyes shut as needle-­sharp misery stabbed at his head.

“It doesn't look that way,” she argued. “Let me help.”

Before he could protest any further, she'd stepped up behind him and begun parting his hair. A small sigh followed. “You've a cut here,” she said. Her fingertips traced his earlobe, sending a warm wave of pleasure down over his shoulders and torso. “And here. They're not deep, but I'll still need to clean them.”

She pulled gently on his cravat and James jolted forward without thinking, confounded by the unexpected invasiveness. His back protested and agony swiftly followed. “What are you doing?” he asked with a groan.

“There's some serious bruising.”

“I'm not surprised,” he said, taking another sip of his drink. Ah, that felt good! “I landed on my back with two men on top of me.”

“I see.” Her voice was strained. If only he could turn his head and see her expression, but he knew that doing so would hurt even more, so he refrained. “I think you should take off your shirt so we can see how bad it is.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You may need a compress.”

He hesitated a moment, then managed a nod. A compress would actually be quite lovely. “Very well then,” he said. Setting aside his glass, he began untying his cravat.

Rounding his chair, Lady Newbury started toward a door leading into a narrow hallway that led toward two bedrooms and a small kitchen.

“Where are you going?”

Continuing on her way, she gave him her answer. “To fetch some water and a towel.”

James stared after her. It had been a long day and they'd both been through a lot, but while he was accustomed to this sort of thing, she was not. He was impressed with how well she seemed to be handling it. Pulling away his cravat, he laid it across the armrest and untied his shirt closure. She'd asked him to forget about the kisses they'd shared at Thorncliff, even though she had to know that for a man like him, with the sort of memory he possessed, doing so would be quite impossible. Especially now. The brief touch of her bare fingers against his bare skin as she'd studied his wounds, had brought the recollection of those intimate moments between them straight to the forefront of his mind.

He wanted that again—­that unrestrained passion that they'd shared. But would she allow it?

Footsteps sounded, announcing her return. Realizing that he was still wearing his shirt, he struggled to get out of it, but the ache in his shoulder made it difficult for him to move his arm properly.

“Do you need help?” Lady Newbury asked, placing a bowl of water and a clean white towel on the side table.

“I'd appreciate that,” James said. He studied the apprehensive look upon her face. She was either unsure of what to do or she was afraid. He'd suspected fear to be the cause of this new barrier she'd built between them when they'd been in the carriage. Since then, he'd had no opportunity to study it more closely, until now. Raising his arms as much as possible, he said, “All you have to do is pull it over my head.”

She nodded, stepped forward and gathered the fine fabric in her hands while trying to stand as far away from him as possible. Tugging at it, she pulled it free from his breeches, but was unable to complete the task without moving closer. The moment she did, James leaned in to meet her, his shoulder pressing against her hip as she dragged the shirt over his head.

Looking up, he hoped to assess her reaction to their brief contact, but found that she'd turned away, busying herself with the towel and the water. “How bad is it?” he asked.

She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes flickering over him, just as they'd done at Mrs. Dunkin's. A pink flush colored her cheeks and she immediately looked away. “I think you'll live,” she said.

Surrendering his serious demeanor as if he were tossing aside a heavy cloak, James allowed a faint smile. “What a relief,” he murmured, turning away and offering her his back. Whatever her reason for wanting to stop the progression of their relationship, she could not hide her desire from him—­not when she'd just stared at him as though he were a tasty treat waiting to be devoured.