Gabriel D'Arcy. Ann Lethbridge
the question. ‘The fool must not have seen us. I’ll speak to someone in authority about it later.’ There was steel in his voice. Displeasure. ‘Well, man? Do you plan to stand there all day while the mare takes a chill?’
Reggie drew himself up to his full height, though his head didn’t come much above Mooreshead’s shoulder. His resentment at the accusation was no less impressive. He touched his forelock and bowed to Nicky. ‘I’ll be going now, my lady.’
‘Yes, Reggie. Thank you.’
He marched off stiff-legged to mount his hack.
When Nicky looked up at Mooreshead to chide him for his ordering of her servant, she saw that the good humour was back in his face and his eyes were alight with amusement. ‘A good man, that,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘A very good man.’ Reggie had been one of the few people who had remembered her mother with any kindness when she arrived at her relatives’ house. He could have been no more than a small boy when her mother left for France, but for some reason, he had expressed the desire to leave their employ and serve her instead. She’d come to rely on him and half-wished she could go with him and confront Paul about this failed assassination attempt. But she must stick to the plan and accompany Mooreshead to breakfast. The wound in his arm could not be all that serious or he would be fussing about it. Men always fussed about their aches and their pains.
‘I’ll apologise for my harshness next time I see him,’ Mooreshead said.
He helped her up into the curricle and with little more ado they were on their way. From time to time his gaze flicked to her face with a considering expression and the lines each side of his mouth seemed to become more pronounced. Was he really wondering if she had some involvement in what had occurred? She waited for him to speak. To give her some hint of his thoughts. But his expression remained uncommunicative and his conversation commonplace. Near Kew Bridge, he turned off the road and took the lane to the village of Strand on the Green. He brought the curricle to a halt in the courtyard of the Bull, an inn overlooking the River Thames.
‘What a pretty spot,’ she said.
‘I’m glad you are pleased.’ Gabe took her arm and led her inside, where they found a private parlour ready and waiting. She glanced around at the comfortable surroundings. The low beams and panelled walls. A table with a pristine white cloth and an attentive servant. The unobstructed view of the river. ‘You think of everything, my lord,’ she said calmly, though her heart was beating far too fast. Because of the shot? Or was it the idea of being alone with him? It could not possibly be the latter.
‘I’m glad you approve,’ he murmured, pulling out her chair and seating her.
‘Coffee or wine, my lady? My lord?’ asked the waiter.
‘Coffee, please.’ She had the feeling she needed her wits about her.
‘For me too,’ Gabe said. ‘Thank you. If you will excuse me for a moment or two, Nicky, I’ll have my host make a better job of this bandage and be right back.’
She nodded her assent.
The waiter poured their coffee and placed several dishes on the table. Coddled eggs, rashers of bacon, slices of ham, toast, preserves and fruit.
‘I hope you are hungry,’ Gabe said, returning and giving her a charming smile as he sat down, no longer sporting the handkerchief around his upper arm. The innkeeper must have bandaged it properly.
‘Starving. Riding first thing in the morning always leaves me sharp set.’
‘Me too.’
‘How is your arm?’
‘As I said, it’s merely a scratch.’ He looked down with a frown. ‘Ruined one of my favourite coats, though. For that he ought to be horsewhipped.’
Bluster. Nicky laughed. ‘No doubt he went home with a couple of good rabbits to fill his stewpot.’
He picked up his coffee cup. ‘Here’s good luck to him, then.’
They tucked into the food and it was a good few minutes until they sat back in their chairs and sipped at their coffee. He was watching her again. Over the rim of his cup. Intently. As if considering his next move. Prickles of warning raced across her shoulders. If she had thought him dangerous when he played the charming rogue, she now thought him terrifying. She stiffened her spine against a surge of anxiety.
If he was what she suspected, he would pounce on any sign of weakness. She needed a distraction. She remembered their wager. ‘I suppose it is time to pay the piper?’ Once more she held out her hand, palm up.
He leaned forward, his eyes glittering with a kind of wildness she hadn’t seen in him before. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said with an undertone of menace she couldn’t quite fathom. ‘The wager.’ But he made no attempt to take her hand. He just smiled, a baring of teeth that was almost a grimace. ‘You do it.’
She fumbled with the button, the leather loop making it difficult. The gloves had been made to fit tight around her fingers and the leather was whisper-thin, like a second skin. The button slipped free. She drew the glove off and held it out to him. When he didn’t take it, she set it beside his plate.
He glanced down at it. ‘You have small hands, Countess.’
She trilled an easy laugh, thankfully back on the ground she knew. ‘And tiny feet.’ She lifted the edge of her skirt and looking down, circled one foot in its riding boot.
‘Delicious,’ he murmured silkily.
She glanced up at his face. The devil-may-care rogue was back. The blue eyes crinkling at the corners, his posture relaxed and easy. He picked up the glove and tucked it inside his coat. Next to his heart. A small ache in her chest made her draw in a breath of surprise she hoped he hadn’t heard.
‘I am sorry our ride was cut short in so ugly a way,’ he said.
She smiled, reassuring, as careless as he. ‘No harm done, my lord. And I enjoyed our race. It is a long time since I galloped ventre à terre.’
‘Something you did in Paris?’
What would he think if he knew she had never been to Paris? ‘Certainly not. Only in the countryside around my home.’
‘Do you miss France?’
‘One always misses home.’ It was the people she missed the most. The tenants on the family estate. Her parents who’d died long before she wed. And most of all her sister. Poor little Minette, who might yet be alive and all alone in a brutal world. But she must not think of Minette now. She must not let him see the longing in her heart. ‘What about you? Have you been to Paris?’
Wariness flashed in his eyes, but his smile didn’t falter. ‘I went after the Treaty of Amiens. It is a beautiful city.’
A part-truth. He had been to Paris during the Terror. A disaffected Englishman accepted into the ranks of the Jacobins, according to Paul. The thought made her cold. And angry. Yet if she wanted him stopped, she could not let him see this emotion either.
She placed her napkin beside her plate. ‘Thank you for a delicious breakfast.’
‘It was a pleasure. Now, it is time we left.’
Now that was a surprise. She had expected him to suggest they dally for a few hours. Take a room. Perhaps his wound was worse than he was letting on? But if so, why not have it treated properly? Why bring her here at all instead of immediately returning her home? Paul was going to be disappointed at her failure to woo this man into her bed today. But Mooreshead would want to see her again, of that she had no doubt. While he settled the shot with the innkeeper, she went to the necessary, joining him in the yard outside when she was done.
A carriage stood waiting, a dusty and unfashionable-looking equipage that had seen better days. A groom stepped forward and opened the door.
The hairs on her nape rose. A warning. She