Marguerite Kaye - Regency Rogues - Candlelight Confessions

‘You’ll see.’

‘Have you a carriage? A horse?’

‘It’s not that far.’

Deborah sucked in her breath. ‘You mean we’re going to—here, in town? But isn’t that …’

‘Risky? Wasn’t that rather the point?’

She shivered. She had imagined a house like Kinsail Manor. The dark of night. The silence of the country. For a few seconds, reality intruded. Streetlamps. Night watchmen. Late-night revellers. And surely more locks, bolts and servants to contend with.

‘Having second thoughts, Lady Kinsail?’

His mocking tone made her stiffen. ‘No. And don’t call me that.’

‘Deborah.’

The way he said her name, giving it a dusky note it had never contained before, made her belly clench. His nearness threatened to overset her. She pushed back her greatcoat in an effort to distract herself. ‘What do you think of my clothing? Is it appropriate for a housebreaker?’

The breeches and boots revealed long, long legs. Blood rushed to Elliot’s groin. He tried not to imagine what her derrière would look like, tried not to picture those fabulous legs wrapped around him. Was she wearing corsets beneath that coat? ‘It’s very …’ Revealing? Erotic? Stimulating? Dear God! ‘Very practical,’ he said, dragging his eyes away. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’d done this before.’

‘I found the clothes in a trunk in the house when I moved in. They must have belonged to the previous tenant. I kept them, but he never came back for them. He must have been quite a small man, for they are a perfect fit, don’t you think?’

She pushed the greatcoat further back and posed for his inspection, quite oblivious of the effect her display of leg was having on him. ‘I think we had best make tracks,’ Elliot said brusquely.

Pulling the greatcoat back around her and jamming her hat on to her head, Deborah hurried after him as he crossed the road. ‘Where are we going? What are we going to steal? Whose house is it?’ Her questions were breathless for she was struggling to keep pace with him as they skirted the beginnings of the new buildings to the east of Hans Town, avoiding the main thoroughfares, heading towards Hyde Park.

‘The less you know the better,’ Elliot replied.

Her booted feet stumbled on the mix of cobbles and mud as they wended north along mews and through stables. The houses grew grander as they passed Berkeley Square. Crossing Mount Street and into another mews, Deborah’s nerves began to take hold. When Elliot pulled her down a shallow flight of steps and into the shelter of the basement wall, she looked up and up and up at the massive building in front of which they stood, and thought she might actually be sick. ‘This is Grosvenor Square,’ she whispered.

Elliot nodded. She caught the gleam of his smile and remembered her first impression of him. Dangerous. Her fear was dissipated by anticipation, pounding through her veins in a rush. ‘Is this it?’ she asked, looking with awe at the elegant town house, the rows of windows like blank, sleeping eyes.

‘This is your last chance to change your mind. After this there is no going back, do you understand?’

He was standing close enough for her to sense his excitement. It was contagious. Her stomach felt as if it were tied in a knot. Deborah nodded.

Elliot’s laugh, the low growl she had first heard in the grounds of Kinsail Manor, quivered over her. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘now listen very carefully.’

Slowly, methodically, he went over the details of his plan, details she realised he could only have compiled as a result of thorough observation and reconnaissance. He had an impressive eye for minutiae. She understood now why it had taken him over a week to contact her. She listened so carefully she scarcely dared breathe before reciting each step back to him slowly, painstakingly, a frown furrowing her brows, determined to miss nothing, to prove herself worthy.

‘Good. You have an excellent memory,’ Elliot said, when she had repeated it a second time.

‘You are impressively well prepared,’ Deborah returned with a grin.

‘Know your territory. I’ve had plenty of practice.’

‘Another unexpected bonus of your army training, no doubt. If only they knew.’

‘And yet another is that I expect to be obeyed. Remember that.’

He spoke lightly, but she was in no doubt that he meant it, nor in any doubt that he had always achieved absolute obedience. It was not fear of retribution, but implicit trust that would have inspired the same loyalty in his troops which she felt stirring her courage. A determination not to let him down, to live up to the expectations he had of her. ‘Understood,’ Deborah said, with a mock salute which made him smile.

The watch called the hour from the other side of the mews. Across the way, a candle flame reflected in the dimpled glass of a window pane was snuffed out. Above, the town house was in complete darkness. ‘They are early to bed, our occupants,’ Elliot whispered. ‘And early to rise too.’ When he awoke tomorrow, the Minister would be the poorer and the men he had deprived would be his beneficiaries. Justice of the sort which the government seemed incapable of delivering would be served. The glow of satisfaction warmed him. ‘Ready?’ he asked Deborah.

She nodded. Her eyes glittered in the dim light. He leaned towards her, pressing a swift kiss to her icy lips. ‘Let’s go.’

Though the lock was easily picked, the door on to the mews was bolted on the inside, as he had expected. The lower windows were barred. The wave of crime which the upright citizens of London blamed on the soldiers they had once revered had weighted the coffers of locksmiths and ironmongers, who did a roaring trade these days in providing protection against the poor wretches who had perforce resorted to theft. Nodding to Deborah to assume her post as lookout at the top of the steps on to the mews, Elliot untied the length of rope from his waist and attached the little hook which had been made by the regiment’s smithy to his own design. The cotton which was wrapped around it muffled the report as the hook found its mark on the first throw. Testing it with a sharp tug, Elliot climbed swiftly to the second floor. The lock on this window gave way to his jemmy. It was the work of moments to pull in the rope, detach the hook, close the window, jump lightly down from the sill and make his way stealthily back down into the bowels of the house.

Deborah was waiting at the door as he slid the bolts back. She slipped silently into the narrow corridor and followed him back through the flagstoned kitchen where the banked fire provided a modicum of light, into the gloom of the servants’ staircase and up.

He dared not use his lantern. Behind him, Deborah, obviously as able to see in the dark as he was, did not stumble. He was impressed by her courage and excited by her presence there in his shadow.

The painting was in the study, at the back of the house adjacent to the room he had first entered. ‘An early study of Philip the Fourth,’ Elliot whispered to Deborah. ‘It’s bigger than I remember. But then, the last time I saw it, it was hanging in a rather larger house.’

She stared at the decidedly ugly subject, resplendent in black and silver. She could see it was beautifully executed, but she could not like it. ‘You said you’ve seen it before?’

‘In Madrid. In the house of one of our senior Spanish allies.’

‘Then how did it get here?’

Elliot shrugged. ‘Plunder. A gift. A bribe. I don’t know,’ he said, pressing the button which released the blade of his knife. Quickly, he cut the painting from its heavy frame and rolled it up before handing it to Deborah.

She took it gingerly. ‘How did you know where to find it?’