The Dangerous Mr Ryder. Louise Allen
Even in the gloom of the carriage with the occasional flashes of light, she could see from his expression that he had no intention of agreeing. ‘I have a perfect right to be there,’ she said, with sudden inspiration. ‘I can walk in with whomever I like—who is to refuse me? And the caretaker will not think to wonder what I am doing, he is so used to seeing me. It will reduce the risk, and hasten things, if you do not have to break in.’
‘That is true,’ Jack conceded. He must have sensed her surprise at his capitulation. ‘I am not in the habit of turning down perfectly good arguments just because someone else makes them.’
‘I thought you objected because I am a woman. Or because of my position.’
‘Neither. What you do in your position is your choice. I have a history of disagreements with dukes, but not grand duchesses, and in my experience women have an equal tendency to good and bad sense as men.’
‘Oh.’ He had taken her aback and it took a moment to recover. Whatever their station, the men in her life made it quite clear—deferentially of course—that she must be treated with respect for her position and with patronising indulgence for her opinions. Even dear Philippe was prone to treat her as though she had hardly a thought in her head beyond gowns, good works and her son. A grand duchess was expected to be a dutiful doll.
She was beginning to relax a little too much with this man, beginning to like him. In her position it was dangerous to do any such thing just because someone did not treat you like a brainless puppet—and kissed like a fallen angel. ‘Do you treat the dukes with as great a familiarity as you treat me? I have a title which you should use—’
‘Your Serene Highness, if I address you as such, then not only will every sentence become intolerably prolonged, but we risk exciting interest at every point along our journey.’
‘Ma’am would do excellently,’ she retorted, finding all her irritation with him flooding back.
‘What is your full name? Ma’am,’ he added belatedly just as she drew in a hissing breath of displeasure.
‘Evaline Claire Elizabetta Mélanie Nicole la Jabotte de Maubourg.’
Jack whistled. ‘I can see why you are referred to as the Grand Duchess Eva. I think we are here.’
Eva looked out at the high wall and the double gates with a little wicket set in them. ‘Yes, this is it.’ She found the key and handed it to him. ‘I shall tell the watchman that you are a French visitor from Grasse, interested in seeing how we make perfume here. And do try to remember to address me properly,’ she added as Jack handed her down from the carriage.
‘Yes, your Serene Highness.’ The click of his heels was a provocation she decided to ignore.
Old Georges, the watchman, came out with his lantern before they were halfway across the courtyard. He was pulling on his coat one handed, his wrinkled face a mask of concern at being caught out. ‘Your Serene Highness, ma’am! I wasn’t expecting you, ma’am—is anything wrong?’
‘No, nothing at all, Georges. This gentleman is from Grasse where they also make fine perfumes, as you know. He has no time to visit tomorrow, so I am showing him the factory tonight.’
‘Shall I light you round, ma’am?’
‘No, that is quite all right, just give monsieur your lantern. We will let you know when we leave.’
She opened the door into the offices, nodding a dismissal to the old man. Jack followed her in and closed the door. ‘That was almost too easy,’ he observed.
‘What do you mean?’ Eva opened the heavy day book and began to scan it. ‘There is always just Georges on duty at night. Now, this is the outer office; I doubt if we’ll find anything in here and the day book seems innocuous.’
‘If you were operating a secret laboratory, would you leave just one old man on duty? He did not seem at all alarmed by our presence, so he cannot be in on the plot.’ Jack scanned the room, opened one or two drawers, then moved into the next room. ‘Therefore it must be well hidden.’
‘I see what you mean.’ Eva picked up her skirts and followed. ‘The laboratories are through here; I have the master key.’
One after another the doors swung open until she reached the last one. ‘We do not use this one any more. Oh, look—the lock has been changed.’ Suddenly the familiar surroundings of the factory, which she had often walked through at night without a qualm, seemed alien and full of menace. She found she had moved closer to Jack and bit her lip in vexation at the betraying sign of fear. ‘This key will not work on it.’ She held it out as though to explain her instinctive movement towards him.
‘I’ll have to pick it, then.’ Jack fished in his boot top and produced a bent piece of thin metal, then hunkered down and began to work on the lock. Eva picked up the lantern and came to hold it close. ‘No, I do not need the light, thank you. I do this by feel and by sound.’
She watched, fascinated by his utter concentration. Again, the image of a swordsman, balanced and focused, came to her as she studied, not his hands, but his profile. His eyes were closed, his face relaxed as though listening to music, hearing and analysing what he heard at the same time.
Dark lashes fanned over tanned cheekbones. She saw a small crescent scar at the corner of his eye and observed the darkening growth of evening stubble begin to shadow his jawline. He was a very masculine figure, she thought, aware of the ease with which he balanced, the way his breeches moulded tightly over well-muscled thighs, the warmth of his body as she stood close.
I am too used to courtiers, too used to velvets and satins and posturing politicians and officials. Even the officers wear uniforms that speak more of the ballroom than the battlefield. This man looks dangerous, feels dangerous. And the biggest danger was, Eva realised, dragging her gaze away from his body to concentrate on the movement of the picklock, that she found him exciting to be with. Infuriating, insolent, casual and peremptory—and exciting.
It was something she had been wary of, these two years of widowhood, letting herself get close to another man, allowing the chill of her lonely bed to drive her into some rash liaison. You overheard too many people sniggering behind their hands as they recounted the tale of yet another widow of high rank taking a lover. It was risky, demeaning and ruinous to the reputation, for the secret always seemed to get out and, of course, it was inevitably the woman who was the butt of the jokes and the object of censure.
This feeling of arousal, this sense of hazard, was simply due to the shock of Jack Ryder’s eruption into her life and the stress of her worries for the past weeks. Everything was heightened, from her fear, her anxiety, to her sensual instincts. That was all it was, all it could ever be.
‘Got it.’ The lock clicked and the door swung open. Inside was a room laid out as a drawing office, with two desks on one side, a wide, high table in the middle and two drawing slopes with stools on the other side. Along the back of the room was a range of chests fitted with wide drawers.
‘Not a scrap of paper.’ Jack pulled open the desk drawers. ‘Empty except for pens and ink and rulers.’
Together they went to stand in front of the chests. Eva reached out a hand and touched the dark wood, noticing how heavily the piece was made. ‘Look at the locks. I have never seen anything like that before.’
‘Neither have I, and I will tell you now, I cannot pick these.’ Jack straightened up from a minute inspection of the locks, each made of steel, with double keyholes and strange rods and bars on its surface.
‘We will just have to smash the chests, then,’ Eva said robustly. ‘There are fire axes in all the rooms. Look, here.’ She lifted the axe from the corner where it stood next to a pail of water and swung it experimentally. It was heavy.
‘If I do that, then there is no hiding the fact that we have been here.’ Jack leaned back against the chest, folded his arms and regarded her steadily.
‘Of course.’ That much was obvious.
‘When