A Scoundrel in the Making (The Marriage Maker Book 9) Page 3

  Lord Reade laughed. “I imagine, for some, keeping silent is rather difficult.”

  Elana’s eyes twinkled. “You have no idea, sir. In any case, would you care to see the room?”

  “Who wouldn’t want to see a room furnished with furniture from Louis XIV’s own home?” he said.

  “Good.” Elana looked at Abigail. “And you, Lady Buchman, would you care to see the room?”

  “As Lord Reade has pointed out, who could possibly resist?”

  Elana nodded toward the hallway on the far side of the room. “I will go on ahead. Meet me in the hallway there.” Without waiting for an answer, she strolled away.

  Lord Reade grasped Abigail’s hand, slipped it into the crook of his arm, and smiled. “Are you in the mood for a little adventure, my lady?”

  Adventure? He couldn’t be. Was this man her pretend lover?

  Chapter Four

  They reached the hallway and Abigail glanced back at the ballroom before Lord Reade pulled her into the corridor. They took several steps forward, then slowed. Lady Elana waited up ahead where the hallway took a turn to the right. Abigail pulled her hand from Lord Reade’s arm and quickened her step. Lord Reade kept pace, and when they reached Elana, she led them around the corner.

  Four doors down on the left, Elana stopped and entered the room without knocking. Modest light spilled in from the hallway. She crossed the room and secured a candle from the mantle. In a moment, she had the taper lit.

  “Lord Reade, would you close the door, please?” Elana asked as she lit a candelabra sitting on a table situated near a divan.

  He closed the door, then clasped his hands behind his back and stopped to examine an ornate cabinet to the left of the door.

  Elana set the single candle back on the mantle, then looked at Abigail, brows raised, and said, “What do you think of Lady Ker’s collection, Lord Reade?”

  “I cannot comment on the collection,” he said without turning, “but I would wager this Boulle cabinet is authentic.”

  For the first time in their association, Abigail read genuine surprise on Elana’s face.

  “Indeed?” Elana hurried to his side. “We were always certain Belinda… well, she has a penchant for embellishment.”

  “I can’t blame you. This piece alone is worth a fortune. If the entire room were genuine Louis XIV furniture, it would be a fortune some might kill for. Though, making off with the booty might prove challenging.”

  “How interesting,” Elana said.

  Lord Reade looked at her. “I have the impression you are not just being polite.”

  She laughed. “You are very astute, Reade. Forgive me. May I call you Reade?”

  “As you wish, my lady,” he said, and to Abigail’s surprise, she detected no sexual innuendo in his manner.

  “Why don’t we sit down?” Elana started toward the divan.

  Abigail followed.

  “Shall I build a fire?” Reade asked.

  “I don’t want to put you to any trouble,” Elana said.

  “It’s no trouble,” he said.

  Abigail sat with Elana and watched as he dropped to one knee at the hearth. Elana’s brows rose and Abigail felt certain she, like Abigail, had noticed how his jacket went taut across his broad shoulders. He certainly filled out his coat quite nicely. But then, he knew that. No doubt, he knew they watched him, and he planned which nights he would bed each of them.

  She envisioned herself astride his slim hips, palms flat on his muscled chest as she lowered herself onto his erection. He appeared to be in excellent physical condition. She would wager she could ride him into a mind-numbing orgasm.

  He lit the kindling and fanned it into flames.

  Abigail started from her thoughts. She repressed the urge to glance at Elana as Reade placed some larger sticks and then two logs on the fire. Finally, he rose and faced them.

  “Thank you.” Elana smiled. “Please, have a seat.” He took the chair closest to Abigail, and Elana said, “By now, you must have guessed that I am your contact.”

  A corner of his mouth ticked up in a half smile. “I had begun to wonder.”

  “Good,” Elana said. “Then I’ll get right to it. Your mission is to track down the thief who stole the Honors of Scotland.”

  “The Honors of Scotland?” Abigail blurted. “Why, I had no idea they still exist. The gold and silver weren’t melted down long ago?”

  “Fortunately, no,” Elana said.

  “They were last seen in 1707, when Parliament disbanded under the terms of the Treaty of Union,” Reade said.

  Abigail looked at him in surprise. “I am impressed.”

  “You act as if a man is incapable of reading, my lady,” he said.

  The reproof was spoken in lazy tones, but Abigail glimpsed a hint of steel in his eyes. “Not at all,” she said.

  Amusement replaced the steel. “Just those men who frequent ballrooms and gambling hells?”

  “I admit, in my experience, I have found it unusual for such men to know much about history,” she said.

  “Lord Reade is an unusual sort of man,” Lady Elana said.

  “So, I am coming to appreciate.” Abigail studied him. “Is there anything else you know about the Honors of Scotland?”

  “Just that which is found in history books,” he said. “The Honors were last used at the 1651 coronation of King Charles II at Scone. They were then hidden in Dunottar castle. When Cromwell besieged the castle, the local minister's wife smuggled them out and she and her husband buried them under the floor of Kinneff church. If no’ for the dedication and courage of Reverend James Granger, the Honors would have been lost. For the remainder of Cromwell’s reign, the reverend kept them buried under the flagstones of the village church. Though he and his wife dug them up once a month to polish them.”

  The intense national pride that emanated from him stirred her heart.

  “Scottish separatists claim the Honors are locked/held in the Tower of London and shown to a chosen few,” he went on. “Some say they were smuggled to France and melted down. I must admit, I believed the precious metal had been melted down and the stones sold, long ago.”

  Elana smiled. “Happily, you were wrong.”

  He gave a slight bow. “I am pleased to be wrong in this case, my lady. I have long lamented their loss. Where have they been kept all these years?”

  “In a chest in Edinburgh Castle,” Lady Elana said.

  “You mean to say the Scottish Regalia has been moldering in a chest in some storage room in Edinburgh Castle for a hundred years?” Abigail asked.

  “Hardly moldering,” Elana said. “Their whereabouts have been known to a select few. You can imagine that the English government might make certain demands if they knew of their existence.”

  “I can well imagine,” Abigail murmured.

  “Your job is to steal the Honors from the thief and safely return them to their hiding place.”

  “Forgive me for saying so, my lady,” Lord Reade said, “but their hiding place clearly cannot have been all that safe.”

  “Quite the contrary,” The Raven replied. “The door leading to the storage room where they are kept is bricked up.”

  Reade frowned. “Is the brick still intact?”

  “It is.”

  “Then there must be a secret passageway into the room.”

  “There is,” she said.

  “If only a select few knew the location of the Honors, then that narrows our list of suspects,” Abigail said.

  Lord Reade shook his head. “Some of the servants in Edinburgh castle must have been there for many years, some even most of their lives. They would know every nook and cranny of the castle.”

  “Correct,” Elana said. “There are over sixty servants employed there.”

  “I believe we can easily eliminate some of them,” Reade said. “For most servants, such a find as the Crown Jewels of Scotland would be too great a discovery to keep secret. The sword is four and a half feet long. Not
easily hidden. If a servant is the thief, he would likely try to sell them immediately. Their appearance in any pawnbroker would be nearly impossible to keep quiet. It’s also likely a servant would have help from another servant or family members. With so much money involved—”

  “Squabbles would break out,” Abigail finished for him.

  “Exactly,” he said. “Most folks of their class aren’t equipped to handle a large sum of money.”

  “How much money are we talking about?” Abigail asked.

  “Easily, a million pounds,” Elana said.

  “Good Lord,” Abigail said. “Is it possible to sell them for that much?”

  Elana shook her head. “Nae. The sword would be sold separately, and the jewels would be cut and sold and the metal melted down.”

  “To think that the Honors survived the British invasion and Cromwell only to be sold by common thieves is unconscionable,” Reade said.

  Abigail felt the same. But what self-absorbed rake cared for anything save his own pleasure? Now that she thought of it, why had he agreed to help with this assignment? He was to be her cover, the reason she might be caught in places she shouldn’t be. But who was this man, really? Why had The Raven chosen him?

  “I imagine you have already eliminated many of the servants,” Reade said.

  “We have,” Lady Elana said. “We also have people watching all the pawnbrokers.”

  “Nothing so far, I take it?” he asked.

  “Not so much as a twitch.”

  “Perhaps the thief took the Honors out of Scotland,” he said.

  “If so, we must follow until we find them or learn of their fate,” Elana said.

  “Where do we begin?” Reade asked.

  “Why, with Mr. William Russell, the self-proclaimed, direct descendent of Cromwell. We all know how long and hard Cromwell searched for the Honors. We suspect Mr. Russell has succeeded where Cromwell failed.”

  Abigail blinked. “You mean Mr. William Russell, owner of Caithis Castle?”

  “Exactly,” The Raven said.

  “Surely, a man who openly claims to be a direct descendant of Cromwell wouldn’t be fool enough to steal the Honors.”

  “What better cover than to hide in plain sight?”

  Lord Reade leaned forward, attention fixed on Elana. “Is Mr. Russell one of the few who knew where the Honors were stored?”

  Elena shook her head. “Nae.”

  Chapter Five

  As Lady Elana closed the parlor door behind her, Reade felt that he’d stepped into one of the romantic novels currently popular amongst the ladies. He grimaced. All this dramatic tale needed was a hero to sweep in and save the heroine. Although, he doubted that Lady Buchman needed to be saved by anyone, much less him. If anything, he needed to be saved from her.

  Still, her clear displeasure when Lady Elana had said, ‘Two lovers such as yourselves will be in want of privacy. No one will be surprised to discover the two of you in out-of-the-way places,” was such a contrast to her bold search of his person that he wondered which she was: succubus or angel.

  After the door clicked shut, Lady Buchman said, “I cannot fathom why they need us to investigate Mr. Russell.”

  She’d said ‘us,’ but Reade felt certain she referred to him.

  He smiled. “Lady Elana made herself quite clear. They suspect him of stealing the Honors.”

  “I understand that.” She gave an impatient wave of her hand. “But they must have agents better suited than us.”

  There was that word ‘us’ again.

  “You need not worry, my lady. I promise not to get in your way. Just tell me what you need me to do, and I will obey.”

  That same sultry look reappeared, then vanished, and she said in a business-like tone, “Keep your eyes open.”

  Was she making light of him? “I cannot tell you how relieved I am that you are in charge of this mission,” he drawled. “I would never have thought of that.”

  Her brow furrowed, then she narrowed her eyes. “Sarcasm is unbecoming.”

  He shrugged. “I am no more sarcastic than you are condescending.”

  She opened her mouth, then closed it and released a breath. “I have no idea what instructions to give you. I have never before worked with a partner.”

  He suspected the truth was more along the lines that she really had no idea what to do with him. Again, a stark contrast to her earlier, when she clearly knew exactly what to do with him. When she’d searched him for cards, he’d half expected her to slip a hand down his pants in search of hidden aces. He thanked God she hadn’t gone that far. He wouldn’t have been able to control the erection that fought to be freed the moment she slipped her finger into the front pocket of his waistcoat.

  “Lady Elana gave us very little to go on,” she said. “But we will have the two weeks of the house party to search the castle.”

  Reade frowned. “Surely, it would be too dangerous for him to hide the Honors in his own home?”

  “I’ve seen stranger things,” she replied with a grimness that made him both want to know what she’d seen and not want to know.

  He wasn’t made for espionage, but then, he wondered just how many people really were. According to Sir Stirling, Lady Buchman was a skilled spy. That, however, didn’t mean she was meant for such a life. The last two weeks, since his launch into society, had mentally fatigued him. He couldn’t imagine years of pretending to be someone he wasn’t. But whether for love of country or love of family, one did what one had to do.

  By his estimation, he would be playing his private role for the better part of the year. If, that was, his brother didn’t succumb to his need to gamble and mortgage their ancestral home even more. Strange, how Robert couldn’t walk away from a gambling table and Reade had to be forced to play. Fate had been cruel, in that Reade was a far better player than his brother.

  “You can leave the investigating to me,” Lady Buchman said. “Just be your usual self.”

  The doorknob jiggled.

  Lady Buchman’s head snapped in the direction of the door. “Bloody hell,” she muttered.

  The knob turned.

  Reade shoved off his chair and dropped onto the couch beside Abigail. He dragged her onto his lap.

  “What in the—” She broke off as the door opened.

  Young Lord Evers and his fiancée stopped short in the doorway and stared.

  Lord Evers’ eyes flicked from Abigail to Reade and he flushed. “Forgive the intrusion.”

  Lady Christina remained silent, eyes wide as saucers.

  Lord Evers hesitated, then said, “Please do not tell anyone we were here.”

  “Our presence here isn’t what it looks like,” Lady Christina blurted.

  “It looks like Lord Evers intended to take advantage of an innocent young woman,” Reade said.

  Lord Evers stiffened. “Nothing could be further from the truth. Lady Christina and I are engaged.”

  “Then I suggest you not endanger your fiancée’s reputation by escorting her to private parts of the mansion alone.” Reade glimpsed the startled look Lady Buchman gave him.

  “You have endangered Lady Buchman’s reputation,” Lady Christina said. “She’s even sitting on your lap.”

  “Lady Buchman is a mature widow,” he replied.

  “Mature?” Abigail said.

  Leave it to a woman to balk at being called mature, but to care nothing for her reputation.

  “Even a rake like you should respect women,” Lady Christina said.

  Abigail started to push off his lap, but he held tight. “Sit still, my dear,” he said.

  Alarm flashed on Evers’ face. “I must insist you release the lady, sir.”

  “Really?” Reade said. “Why would I do that?”

  The young man blinked in surprise. “A gentleman does not force a lady to sit on his lap.”

  Reade looked at Abigail. “Am I forcing you to sit on my lap, my lady?”

  Her eyes narrowed infinitesimally, but she
smiled so sweetly that he almost believed she meant it when she said, “Only because we are making the young gentleman and lady uncomfortable, sir.”

  Reade smoothed back a lock of her dark hair. “I daresay any young couple who themselves are engaged in a private assignation are not made uncomfortable by finding another couple doing the same.”

  “Do you need help, my lady?” Evers asked.

  She looked at him and smiled gently. “You are most kind, sir, but no. I know you understand what it’s like to be caught up in the throes of passion.”

  The lad’s cheeks reddened again, and Reade suspected the young man had yet to truly understand passion.

  “If you are certain,” he persisted.

  “I promise you, I am quite certain,” she replied.

  He bowed. “As you wish, ma’am.” He looked at Reade. “Sir.” With that, they retreated.

  When the door closed, Abigail shoved off Reade’s lap. She glanced at the door, waited three heartbeats, then said, “For heaven’s sake, why did you do that?”

  “Do what?” he asked. “I did many things.”

  She waved her hand. “That—you pulling me—” She blew out a frustrated breath. “All of it.”

  He shrugged. “You did instruct me to be my usual self.”

  * * *

  At the knock on her bedroom door, Abigail rolled over in bed, facing away from the door, and pulled the pillow over her head. Whatever the hour, it was too early to rise.

  “Up with you,” cried a female voice.

  Abigail snapped awake. She had to be dreaming. Fanny would never arrive early enough in the morning to wake her. The bed dipped to one side as Fanny sat and dragged the blankets from Abigail’s shoulder. Cool air washed over her bare skin.

  “For God’s sake, Fanny,” Abigail said, her head still beneath the pillow, “what are you doing here at this ungodly hour?”

  “Ungodly hour? It’s eleven thirty.”

  Eleven thirty? She’d never slept that late in her life. Guilt tugged. She had never before drunk a full bottle of champagne after returning home from a party, either. Worse, her head didn’t ache. How accustomed to champagne had she become that a bottle of champagne didn’t give her a headache?