Page 41 of Souvenir of Love

“…skills that I’m sure you’ll find most useful. And I shan’t need you to do anything quite so dramatic as the things you’ve just named. As for the network, well, you’re in luck. It shouldn’t be too much trouble; most of the groundwork has already been laid.”

“Has it?”

“Yes, although…” Grenville paused. “There is one more thing I should mention.”

James looked across the table, noticing how the old man’s gray eyes seemed to gleam in the candlelight. “Yes?”

“You’ll need to pay a little visit to Rafe Harcrest, the Earl of Moreham.”

James nearly snapped the stem of his wineglass.

Fourteen

They’d chosen a table in the corner of the crowded pub of the inn where they’d spent the previous night, when they’d arrived in their coach from London. James surveyed his companions as they gathered around the scarred wooden table.Handpicked for their unique skills, Grenville had said.A tad unruly.After spending some time in the men’s company this past week, James had a fair idea of those skills, and no doubt a number of them were hanging offenses. Not for the first time, he found himself wondering where His Lordship had found this group.

Marcus was slim and as elegant as the quill he seemed always to be twirling in his left hand, his brown eyes inspecting the world from under brows arched in mild amusement. Andre’s compact body was so unable to contain his restless energy, even his mop of black curls and his bright blue eyes seemed to crackle with it. And David, with his dark blond head bent over hands, always working at some clever construction of wood or metal, was so quiet and gentle that at times he appeared almost slow-witted. But when he lifted his head, there was a powerful intensity in his sherry-colored eyes.

They’d chosen this table, rather than having their meal brought upstairs, because Marcus had said—and Andre had agreed—people were always more curious about what went on behind closed doors than out in the open, under their noses. And the hubbub of voices, the clatter of plates and tankards, and the scraping of chairs in this pub on the outskirts of the Harcrest family land made it difficult to hear the conversation at one’s own table, much less overhear that of one’s neighbor.

As they sat down, Andre caught James’s eye. “So, His Lordship, the earl, has sworn to kill you if you go anywhere near his sister?” He shook his head and whistled softly.

“My business is with His Lordship, the earl, not his sister.”

“But how can you resist slipping off to see her…?” Andre smiled. It was the kind of smile that made a man wonder if his sister was sufficiently chaperoned. “I hear tell she’s a rare, lovely sight. Popular topic of conversation she is round here, the wild and beautiful sister of the Earl of Moreham.”

The future he’d chosen was with these men and with a fugitive desperately waiting for rescue. “A man’s life hangs in the balance. We’ve no time for women,” James said in a voice that made clear the subject was closed.

Though apparently not clear enough for Andre. “But you wouldn’t need to make the time. The lady is so close! And who could say that it wasn’t an accident, or even fate, if your paths should somehow cross today?”

“And if it looked as though your paths might cross, we could hurl Andre under the hooves of her horse,” David suggested with a smile, “then I could step forward to the rescue, offer to re-shoe her mount…”

“Which of us do you think she’d find more appealing?” Andre inquired.

“No doubt Dinsmore would like to toss you both under a team of horses’ hooves,” Marcus murmured, lifting his quill from the sheet of paper upon which he’d been writing.

“You wound me, Marcus,” Andre said cheerfully. “Can you blame us if our natural curiosity has been aroused? It is all folks around here can speak of, the beauteous Lady Elizabeth and the infamous duel her brother fought to secure her honor.” He stroked his smooth cheek innocently. “We just want to get a glimpse of her, see what all the fuss and bother is about.”

Marcus tapped his quill into an inkwell. “All your years in this business, you ought to know how people like to spin a simple tale into something far more dramatic. The lady’s probably nothing more than passing fair.” His eyes strayed speculatively to James. “And the duel, why, I’ll venture it was nothing more than a misunderstanding between two proud and honorable men.”

James knew they were attempting to lead him into a discussion of Elizabeth. They’d been trying since they’d arrived at the inn the previous afternoon and heard the talk of the duel and the abrupt end to Elizabeth’s first season. It seemed the locals could speak of little else, unless it was his own scurrilous behavior. He knew, too, that the men at the inn recognized him. His family home was nearby; he’d stopped here before. They made little effort to hide their stares. They dared not approach him, but when he had led the group to their table, he overheard “He’s come for revenge” and “He’s come to steal her back.” He would no more acknowledge their speculation than he would acknowledge the pain that twisted in his gut at the mention of Elizabeth Harcrest’s name, and he would not be drawn into a discussion by this banter.

“Dinsmore knows how to keep his mind on the task at hand,” Marcus concluded.

“No reason a man can’t have a little workinhand at the same time…” Andre said.

“In case you hadn’t noticed, I have my work in hand.Women…” Marcus waved his quill dismissively. “Sometimes I wonder if you’ve anything else on your mind beyond the fairer sex.”

“Can you think of a finer thing for a man to have on his mind…or in his bed?” Andre responded, winking at a barmaid. “Besides, they’re a puzzle, a challenge, each one different…and nothing keeps a man’s wits sharper than trying to unravel ’em.” He turned his attention to the sheet of paper beneath Marcus’s quill. It was a list of names, many of them written numerous times. He ran a blunt finger down them, stopping at one. “You need a little work there. The shape of theRdoesn’t look quite right.”

Marcus slid the paper out from under Andre’s fingertip, studying the offendingR. After a moment he began carefully reshaping the letter.

“We need more ale,” said David, who’d been examining Marcus’s writing box, running his fingers along the sides, opening the compartments, and tapping the wooden sides speculatively. He put the box down and raised his mug.

The barmaid Andre had been admiring left the table she’d been serving in mid-order and hurried over. “Mr. David,” she said, a trifle breathlessly, “is there something you need?”

He nodded and a lock of dark blond hair slipped loose from his carelessly tied queue.

The barmaid’s hand rose as if she’d like to smooth the strand back into place. She caught herself. “Is there anything I can get you?”