Harlequin Historical May 2021--Box Set 2 of 2 Page 5

  ‘Shall I take him out for you?’ Will waved at the pup. He knew exactly what happened when a puppy woke up.

  Selbourne frowned. ‘Kind of you. She. Answers to Moth. There’s a yard at the back. Go through the curtain and you’ll see your way.’

  Will nodded. ‘Lady wife?’ he murmured.

  Selbourne’s eyes narrowed. ‘Exactly so. My thanks.’

  The puppy rose, stretched.

  Will clicked his fingers. ‘Moth. Come along.’

  The puppy cocked her head and followed him out through a kitchen area and into the snowy yard. Will watched as she sniffed around, squatted and did what puppies do. She came back, wagging her tail, clearly pleased with herself.

  ‘Good girl.’ He bent down and scratched her ears, wondering where Selbourne had acquired the pup and just what, precisely, had gone into her ancestry. Whatever it had been—and it had been large, judging by the paws—the tail lashed. ‘That’s exactly right. Now, have a bit of a run.’ He moved off the step and clicked his fingers to encourage the pup to follow.

  So Selbourne knew Huntercombe’s code for discretion. And he’d used it, assuming Will would recognise the warning. But what about that little man had bothered him? Moth scampered around, rushing with a high-pitched bark at a sparrow. The fellow was dressed as a gentleman, his clothes were of excellent quality...he frowned, bringing the man into his mind’s eye...and those clothes didn’t fit. Who spent a large amount of money on clothes and didn’t have them made to fit? The puppy scratched and snuffled in the rubbish pile with obvious pleasure while Will continued to mull over the oddly dressed man. Even if he’d bought them second-hand, clothes could be altered to fit easily enough...unless of course they had been hastily assembled as some sort of disguise. Which meant Selbourne thought he was being watched.

  And perhaps he was simply being paranoid.

  ‘Come on, Moth. Back inside.’

  He opened the door and the puppy trotted back in with him.

  Selbourne had sold the set to the little man. ‘Thank you, sir. Come back again. Bring your lady wife next time.’ He handed the man his change.

  ‘Ah, thank you, sir. Most kind. I fear she does not go about much. An invalid, you know.’

  ‘Quite so.’ Selbourne strolled ahead to open the door. ‘I hope she enjoys the books.’

  He stood in the open doorway watching his customer hurry away. ‘Thank you for that, Barclay.’

  Will joined him. ‘Do you think he was a spy, sir?’

  Selbourne smiled. ‘Oh, yes. Carshalton is furious. He’s convinced I’m hiding his property.’

  ‘His property?’ Will stared. ‘I thought—’

  ‘That’s all she is to him.’

  ‘Are you hiding her?’

  Selbourne’s eyes narrowed and Will braced for a blistering set down.

  ‘Oh, God!’ For an instant Selbourne gripped the door as if it were the only thing holding him up.

  ‘Sir! Are you unwell?’ Will set a supportive hand under his elbow and followed his gaze down the street.

  Several men in blue greatcoats had entered at the far end, moving purposefully.

  ‘Bow Street Runners.’ Selbourne hurried across the shop to his desk.

  The Runners knocked on the door of the first house. Even above the street racket, Will thought he could hear the pounding. Imagination only, but he could see the confident, rhythmic pounding. ‘Open in the King’s name!’ And people hurrying by slowed, stared, then hurried on, heads lowered, shoulders hunched.

  Nothing to do with me. I’m not even here.

  A second group of Runners on the opposite side, entering a shop, and another group coming around the corner behind him and entering the Red Lion. Three remained outside, one going into the yard, the others watching the street.

  Selbourne was back, the coffee pot in his hands. ‘I have to—’

  Will grabbed the old man’s wrist. ‘No. Not you. Where is she?’ Even as he asked he knew... Burnt feathers. ‘Never mind. Stay here.’

  ‘What? But—’

  ‘They’re watching you. If you go, it will alert them.’

  Selbourne let out a breath. ‘Take this.’ He shoved the coffee pot into Will’s hands. ‘Tell her I asked you to return it.’

  * * *

  Psyché glanced across as the doorbell jangled. Her foolish heart did a little skip and dance as she saw that it was Will Barclay and she couldn’t help the smile.

  Then she saw the coffee pot, the grim expression as his gaze met hers...

  Her smile still firmly in place, she strolled back, weaving through the tables, to meet him at the counter.

  Heart hammering, she forced herself to sound unconcerned. ‘Mr Barclay. Back so soon?’

  He held up the coffee pot. ‘Mr Selbourne asked me to return your pot.’ His voice lowered. ‘Urgently.’

  Her brows rose. ‘Thank you, sir.’ She turned slightly to present her back to most of the shop and lowered her own voice. ‘What is it?’

  He put the pot in her hands, murmured, ‘Runners.’

  A quick intake of breath, a swift glance around and she drew him back behind the counter. ‘A moment, sir.’

  She reached up, tugged on a cord and heard the faint chime of the bell.

  She led him further back, still in sight of the shop and the front door. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘They’re searching the street,’ he said. ‘I can try to get her out the back, but—’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘They’ll be watching the yards.’

  ‘Listen! If they take her here, you’ll be—’

  She brushed her fingers over his lips to still his arguments. She already knew the risk she ran, but that he would worry touched her to the core.

  ‘Trust me. I can hide her.’ She gave him a little push. ‘Go up to my apartment. Tell her you brought the coffee pot.’ Despite the fear hammering in every vein, she smiled. ‘Make yourself comfortable. Suggestively so.’

  His eyes widened. ‘Suggestive?’

  She nodded. ‘It will explain any impression that more than one person has been living there.’

  ‘You want them to think we’re—?’ He actually blushed.

  ‘Don’t be too shocked, Mr Barclay. We’re just playing pretend.’

  * * *

  He couldn’t believe he was blushing, but then he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to risk playing pretend with this woman. He might want it to be all too real...his lips tingled from the light touch of her fingers.

  Her smile turned wicked. ‘Rolled back shirtsleeves are always...indicative and—’ one finger slid along the edge of his cravat ‘—you might want to loosen this.’

  He swallowed. ‘Right,’ he said, then shook himself mentally and headed for the stairs.

  He nearly mowed Miss Carshalton down as she came out of the apartment clutching a valise and a knife.

  She recoiled with a startled gasp, but the knife stayed steady in her hand about a foot from his belly. ‘Don’t move!’ A fierce, low command.

  He stayed absolutely still. ‘It’s all right. I’m a friend.’

  The knife didn’t waver.

  ‘I brought the coffee pot.’

  To his relief the knife was withdrawn. ‘Go down. She’s waiting for you.’

  ‘Is it Carshalton?’

  ‘Runners. Go.’

  She went past him like a ghost, silent as she raced down the steps barefoot.

  He stared after her. The bell. Psyché’s calm as she swung into action. Miss Carshalton’s readiness...

  They planned and they were ready. They’ve probably rehearsed this.

  Now it was up to him to improvise on the theme she had given him.

  * * *

  Psyché controlled her slightly laboured breathing, shut the storeroom door and strolled
back to the counter. She smiled at Caleb as if she had been up to nothing more nefarious than a visit to the storeroom. She had to behave normally, not as if she expected to be raided by Bow Street in short order. Her staff knew nothing. None of them would intentionally betray her, but unthinking gossip, Ignatius had warned, little things that added up to something significant, could sink a battle fleet. Besides that, she had to protect them from the potential consequences of her actions. She had scrupulously avoided taking too much food upstairs in front of them, been wary about when she brought crockery down for washing up and Kit moved about as little as possible during shop hours—and always on bare or stockinged feet.

  She glanced at the slate board, where orders were scrawled, and began grinding coffee beans. The servers memorised the orders at the tables, then noted them on the board for her in varying ways. Caleb could write, but most of the others used symbols and pictographs. She focused on the coffee grinder. Normal.

  Caleb handed a pot and cups to Sally, who whisked them off to a table near the door. ‘You right, Miss Psyché?’

  Damn. Clearly she wasn’t doing a good job with normal.

  ‘Perfectly, Caleb. Why shouldn’t I be?’

  If normal wasn’t working, then she’d try for flustered, perfectly plausible given that she had just sent a man up to her apartment... She let a glance slide towards the back corridor and up towards the apartment, to where Will Barclay should be by now.

  Caleb hesitated. ‘It’s only...that chap. He was in earlier, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Know him, do you?’

  ‘He’s a friend.’ She hoped.

  ‘Well, you don’t usually let anyone up to your apartment like that.’

  Psyché went for very flustered, avoiding his bright gaze. ‘No. So when I do you may assume the person is a very good friend. Now, if we’ve quite exhausted that subject, let’s make some coffee.’

  Caleb turned away, but not before she saw colour stain his cheeks. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  There was apparently such a thing as too much success. Now Caleb’s adolescent male mind was going to be filled with quite the wrong thoughts for a boy his age. Then again, what did she know about boys? For all she knew they were the right thoughts. It was girls, young ladies, who were supposed to pretend they didn’t know sex existed. Which, she thought as she ground a pile of defenceless cacao nibs, cardamom seeds and a soupçon of sugar to a fine powder, had actually been true of Hetty. Uncle Theo had realised very early that she herself was aware of certain facts of which most young girls were kept in ignorance.

  ‘You cannot un-know things, child.’

  He had asked only that she keep her knowledge to herself.

  Out of love for him she had obeyed, although she thought on reflection that ignorance of any sort was dangerous for a young girl.

  * * *

  A pot of chocolate, several of coffee and two pots of tea later, Bow Street made its unceremonious entrance.

  ‘Everyone to remain right where ’e is, if you please, gentlemen.’

  The tone made it very clear that the if you please was a mere sop tossed in the general direction of diplomacy. The lead Runner brandished an official-looking piece of paper, embellished with an even more official-looking seal.

  He came forward, looking about him with a frown, his gaze scarcely registering Psyché. Eventually he beckoned to Caleb. ‘Where’s your master, boy?’

  Caleb, looking utterly petrified, said, ‘Um, Miss Psyché’s mistress, sir.’

  The man scowled. ‘Are you deaf or stupid, boy? I said your master, not your mistress.’

  Psyché nudged the boy aside. ‘I’m in charge, Officer.’ She spoke over the scandalised mutterings of her customers. ‘What may I do for you?’

  He gave her a suggestive leer. ‘I’ll speak to your master first, wench.’ He looked her up and down, then swaggered a little. ‘Then we might have a little chat about what you can do for me.’

  Behind him, his men sniggered.

  Caleb surged forward and she grabbed his elbow, holding him back. ‘Don’t be a fool,’ she said sharply.

  Returning the Runner’s assessing gaze, she allowed her lip to curl. ‘I am the owner, Officer. The warrant.’ She held out her hand with a snap of her fingers. ‘If you please.’

  Or even if you don’t.

  ‘Owner.’ He goggled at her, apparently having trouble with the concept in this context.

  ‘Yes. Owner.’ She smiled with deceptive sweetness. ‘A noun. Deriving from the verb to own, signifying possession of an object. In this case, The Phoenix.’

  Not me.

  The fellow did a more than passable imitation of a landed trout, but he handed the warrant over.

  Psyché took her time, reading it carefully.

  ‘A young lady, a Miss Catherine Carshalton?’ she said at last. ‘Why on earth would she be here? You’re welcome to look, but you’re wasting your time, Officer.’

  He shrugged. ‘That’s as maybe. We’ve to search every house, every shop along here.’

  She had no choice. ‘Very well. This way.’

  * * *

  It took fifteen minutes for them to poke into every corner, every nook and every cranny downstairs, including the storerooms and the little closet where a servant occasionally slept, asking questions of all the staff if they had seen a young woman thereabouts—grey eyes, brown hair, wearing a white fur cloak. Psyché barely resisted an eye roll. Lord! Did they think Kit such a fool she wouldn’t have got rid of something as identifiable as an ermine cloak?

  The staff looked suitably blank as well they might. Sally did roll her eyes. ‘Women don’t come in ’ere, guv. Saving the mistress and meself. It’s a coffee ’ouse, ain’t it? Gents only.’

  Sally took them down to the cellars and gave it as her opinion that they’d be lucky to find as much as a rat down there. They came back empty-handed, the senior officer very red-faced and puffed after, from the scraping and banging that had echoed up the stairs, moving everything around to check for trapdoors and hidey holes.

  ‘We’ll see up there, missy,’ he announced, waving at the stairs leading up to Psyché’s apartment.

  She scowled and placed herself in front of the stairs. ‘Don’t be ridiculous! Those are my private apartments up there! No one is—’

  A muffled thud filtered down and the man’s eyes narrowed. ‘Going to say no one’s up there, weren’t you, my fine wench?’

  She shrugged. ‘I do own a cat, Officer. The occasional thud is to be expected.’

  He pushed past her and went up rapidly, making no effort to keep his footsteps quiet.

  He threw open the door and Psyché winced at the crash as it hit the wall. ‘I hope you are going to make good any damage,’ she said.

  Fiddle, sprawled exposing his belly to the fire, stretched lazily and looked over with a lazy mrowp.

  ‘Doesn’t look to me as that cat’s moved in the last couple of hours,’ the officer remarked. He pointed to the bedroom door. ‘What’s back there, eh, missy?’

  He strode across, his boots clunking on the floorboards.

  ‘Is that you already, darling?’

  The very masculine voice was muffled by the door and the officer, his hand already on the door knob, stopped dead and glanced back at Psyché in patent outrage.

  Taller than he by half a head, she looked down her nose at him and shrugged.

  The Runner flung open the door and Psyché, looking over his shoulder, felt her jaw drop.

  Will Barclay was a very good-looking man. She knew that. He had a lovely smile and kind eyes, and there was that wretched buzzing of attraction.

  That was when he was clothed.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  She’d told the man to make himself comfortable, but she had to admit he’d exceeded expectations. Naked to the waist,
sitting up reading in her bed, his half-moon reading glasses perched on his slightly crooked nose and that wretched lock of hair hanging over his eye, the buzz became a roar in her blood. Clearly, to have a chest like that, Mr Barclay did rather more than merely scribe letters. And his arms, not heavily muscled, were exactly right, wiry and strong.

  But the glasses, and the tousled lock of hair, topped the whole thing off. She wanted to remove the glasses, brush his hair back and—She pulled herself together.

  ‘Mr Barclay is a friend,’ she said coldly to the Runner. ‘I trust you are now satisfied?’

  ‘A friend, is he?’ sneered the man.

  ‘Yes.’ Will—how was she supposed to think in formal terms of a man half-naked in her bed?—kept his tone crisp and cold. ‘I am Miss Winthrop-Abeni’s very good friend and you would be ill advised to offer her any insult whatsoever. Perhaps you would care to explain this intrusion?’

  The Runner straightened. ‘We have a warrant to search properties in the area for a kidnapped heiress. A Miss Catherine Carshalton.’

  Will snorted. ‘Well, I’m not hiding her, as you can see.’

  The man stood his ground. ‘Dare say, but I got to make a note of everyone we speak to for my report.’

  ‘Report?’

  The officer nodded. ‘For Mr Carshalton. He’s employing us for this job and he wants a full report.’ He produced a pencil and notebook. ‘Your name, sir?

  ‘William Barclay,’ he said shortly.

  The man noted that down. ‘Address, sir?’

  Psyché kept her face expressionless. Damn. A lie would bring the Runners back here hotfoot if it were discovered, but Huntercombe’s name—

  ‘Moresby House, Grosvenor Square.’

  Psyché breathed a mental sigh of relief. She’d forgotten that Huntercombe used the family name rather than the title for his London house.

  The man scribbled that down. ‘And your connection there, sir?’

  Double damn! Moresby might slip past Carshalton; Huntercombe’s private secretary would not.

  ‘His lordship’s private secretary!’ he retorted. ‘I trust this information will not be made public!’

  Shrewd hazel eyes considered him. ‘Nice goings on, I must say. Well, it’s none of our business. Only the magistrate, and the young lady’s father, will see my report.’ He snapped the book shut and shoved it back in his pocket.