Scoundrel - The Blades Of The Rose Part 3

London bent to sniff at the tiny pink blossoms on the rosemary bushes, but a strange awareness p.r.i.c.kled along her neck. She straightened and looked around. Everything was silent, save for the chatter of the hotel guests inside, the slight rustle of the tall cypresses in the breeze. The distant nighttime sounds of Athens, too: carts in the street, voices in Greek bidding each other a pleasant evening. Despite this, she could not shake the notion that she was not alone.

"h.e.l.lo?" she called out. "Father?" Then, "Sally?"

"Never would've forgiven my mother if she'd named me Sally."

London stifled a gasp as a familiar, deep voice rumbled from the darkness. Then the lean, agile form of Ben Drayton half-emerged from the shadows.

"Mr. Drayton," she breathed, pressing a hand to her pounding heart, "you quite startled me."

"My apologies," he said, still keeping largely to the shelter of night. In the dimness, she was just able to make out certain details about him. He wore the clothes he'd had on in the marketplace, definitely not dressed for dinner. Not with those tall boots that had seen much wear, the serviceable fabric of his coat. But London hardly attended to his clothing. She had told herself, in the intervening hours since seeing Mr. Drayton, that she must have embellished her memory. No man was truly that beautifully formed in face and body. A romantic fancy brought about by an exotic setting and too much time reading books at home.

Ah, but no. Her recollection had not played her false. Here, in this perfumed evening garden, he was just as athletic, just as seductively handsome, perhaps even more so. Nighttime felt appropriate, a milieu that suited him, with its promises of dalliance and danger.

She found her voice. "I did not hear you."

He came closer, skirting the edges of light. "Rotten habit of mine, sneaking around. Used it to great effect taking strawberry tarts from the b.u.t.tery when I was supposed to be in bed."

"So I am the strawberry tart, in this a.n.a.logy."

He chuckled, warming her. "I'd never call you a tart, my lady."

London wanted to be a little daring, almost as daring as he was. "But if I was a berry, I wonder what kind I'd be," she said with a teasing smile.

"Something sweet and wild," he said, voice low and husky.

London had only just mastered her breath, and his words made it catch again. Her gaze strayed toward his mouth, the mouth that said such wicked things. She made herself turn away, play with her ebony-handled fan. What was wrong with her? All she wanted to do was cross the small distance that separated her from this veritable stranger and pull his mouth down to hers, learning what he he tasted like. She never even did such a thing when tasted like. She never even did such a thing when married married. She would not now, of course, but the impulse was strong, stronger than she would have suspected in herself.

She had to turn her mind in a less...wanton direction. "Are you a guest of the hotel, Mr. Drayton?" she asked.

"No. Visiting someone at the hotel."

She turned back and started. He stood closer so that only a few feet separated them. She did not know any man could move so silently. Perhaps he was was part feline, after all. Would his body have the warmth of a large cat, as well? It seemed likely. "A friend?" part feline, after all. Would his body have the warmth of a large cat, as well? It seemed likely. "A friend?"

"Not a friend."

"An acquaintance, then? Who? Perhaps I know them. We may have a friend in common."

"Doubt it. I sincerely hope you don't know them."

"What disreputable company you must keep, sir."

"Those I consider my friends are disreputable in the best ways." He surveyed her with a long, slow perusal that lingered boldly on the exposed flesh of her arms, her shoulders. It was a look like a caress, and her skin responded in kind. No gentleman looked at a woman in such a fashion. But this Mr. Drayton, she was beginning to understand, only spoke and dressed like a gentleman. Underneath the polish he was all rogue. "Sweet and wild, indeed," he murmured. He eyed her formal dinner gown. "A little too much splendor, though."

"Not so splendid that I can't cause a bit of trouble in Monastiraki," she answered with an impish smile. "See what a scoundrel you have turned me into. I still have that piece of pottery." She poked into the small evening reticule that dangled from her wrist, until she produced the shard and held it out to him. "My ill-gotten gains." When he bent closer to peer at the fragment, she said, "Take it. I've had enough of Darius the Third."

He plucked it from her hand, his fingers brushing hers as their eyes held. She felt a hunger low in her belly stir to life.

He held the shard up to read it better in the soft light. "Darius the Third," he repeated. "Really?"

She wondered whether he would dismiss her linguistic skills or condemn them. "I hope you you don't question me, too," London said with a lightness she did not quite feel. "That's what got me into trouble at the marketplace. I dated it based on the inscription. But," she added quickly, "if someone claims that an antiquity comes from the era of Darius the Great, they oughtn't sell something from Darius the Third's reign." don't question me, too," London said with a lightness she did not quite feel. "That's what got me into trouble at the marketplace. I dated it based on the inscription. But," she added quickly, "if someone claims that an antiquity comes from the era of Darius the Great, they oughtn't sell something from Darius the Third's reign."

He lowered the piece of pottery and looked at her, speculative. "You know the difference."

London debated whether or not to prevaricate. She could pretend she knew less than she did, or make light of what was her greatest pa.s.sion and accomplishment. But the encounter with Drayton in the market square had convinced her that she could free herself, that she had the strength to own herself with pride. And if he did laugh at her or find her unnatural, then she could weather that, too.

"I do," she answered, direct and clear. "I've studied languages my whole life. The more ancient, the better, but I know dozens of modern ones, as well."

"The vendor in Monastiraki insulted you in Greek."

"I understood every word he said, and what you said to him. Do not doubt me, handsome rogue Do not doubt me, handsome rogue," she added in accentless modern Greek. Then, in an ancient dialect he would never know, she said, "I want to kiss you and see your skin in the moonlight." "I want to kiss you and see your skin in the moonlight."

He stared at her, narrowing his eyes. Not contemptuous or patronizing, but something else, as if she were the missing piece to a puzzle he a.s.sembled in his mind.

She felt a new kind of unease under that keen scrutiny. "What is it, Mr. Drayton?"

He narrowed his eyes. "Tell me why you're in Greece."

"I shall not, sir," she answered at once. Father had been explicit in his instructions to her. She could not speak to anyone of their purpose. No matter what attraction drew her to Ben Drayton, he wasn't to be let in to her confidence, not about this.

The teasing rogue was gone, and a new hardness entered his voice, his posture. "No husband with you here. A relative, then. Father. Brother."

London stiffened, growing more alarmed. "This conversation is over, Mr. Drayton." She tried to brush past him, but his large hand clamped onto her arm, holding her fast. London's temper and fear spiked. "Release me, immediately."

"What do you know about the Heirs?" he demanded.

"The airs?"

"Heirs," he repeated, positively menacing. he repeated, positively menacing.

"Whatever you are talking about, it is lost on me. If you do not release me at once, I shall scream." She wished she could do more than scream, but London knew nothing about how to physically protect herself. Now that she faced real danger, she fervently wished she knew how to throw a punch. She very much doubted her feeble efforts would have any effect on the exceptionally strong Drayton.

"London?"

"Mrs. Harcourt?"

The voices of her father and Fraser cut through the heavy garden air, coming toward her. Before London could utter a single word, Ben Drayton was gone, vanishing into darkness noiselessly. She gulped and shivered, feeling the hot imprint of his hand on her arm.

"Here," she called, walking out of the darkness and toward Father with hurried steps. "Did you see him?"

"Who?"

"He said his name was Ben Drayton...." She looked from her father to Fraser.

"A Blade?" Fraser murmured to her father, but Father shook his head slightly.

"Investigate, Fraser," her father barked. Fraser trotted off into the darkness. London could have sworn she saw him take a revolver from his jacket.

Now truly frightened, she turned to her father, hoping to find a measure of comfort in his familiar face. All she saw there was a cold glitter in his eyes, the same look he had given her when he'd discovered her in his study a month ago, rearranging a series of rubbings taken from stone. Her father's jaw clenched. Even though he was a man nearing sixty, regular exercise kept him as hale as a man half his age. Riding, fencing, hunting. Gentlemanly sport. But there was nothing genteel about his sudden and intimidating anger.

"What is it, Father? Do you know Drayton?"

"Not that name. But who knows, maybe he's new," he muttered to himself. Then he directed his attention back to his daughter. "Did he say anything to you?"

"He demanded to know why I was in Greece, who I was traveling with. And he said something about heirs, if I knew about them. What does that mean?"

"d.a.m.n and h.e.l.l," Father growled, shocking London. She'd only heard her father swear in front of her once before. "I knew those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds would come tailing us."

She gripped the sleeve of his dark evening jacket. "Please, Father, who are you talking about? What is going on?"

"Gone," Fraser said, returning. "Not a sign of him anywhere. Must have jumped the wall."

Her father snarled, "He spoke to her, the b.l.o.o.d.y rogue. Asked about us us."

Now Fraser looked at her with icy eyes. "And what did you tell him?"

"Nothing. Nothing." Fear was burning away in the wake of growing anger. No one was giving her any real answers, even though it was clear something was afoot, something that her father and his a.s.sociate knew about. It had to be about his governmental work. "Please, Father, I'm not a child. You must tell me what is happening. Tell me who that man was."

After sending Fraser a warning glare, her father captured her hand with his and began to lead her toward the hotel. "Some fortune-hunter," he said quickly. "Seeking an heiress to ransom. Do not trouble yourself over it." He patted her hand. "Fraser and I will protect you."

"You must think me a tremendous idiot," London said, halting in her steps. "I want the truth."

Father started, clearly unused to having anyone, especially his dutiful daughter, make demands of him. But she was older now, not as willing to be led where her father wanted her to go. Seeing that she would not be dissuaded, he said, "The work that I do, that Fraser does-it generates its share of enemies."

"What kind of enemies?"

"Enemies against England."

"But Drayton is English."

Her father smiled, but it wasn't at all comforting. "London, I'll not have you upset or overwrought. Go inside now. And believe me when I say that the less you know, the better it is for everyone."

"But-"

"Now, London," he said. He spoke as if he were sending her to the nursery to play, out of the way of the adults.

She looked to Thomas Fraser, but he gave her the same bland smile her father handed out like sweetmeats to placate her. Trapped between two men. London had thought, after Lawrence died, that she would have a kind of freedom she'd never experienced before, as a woman of means without a man to whom she must answer. But now, now that dream was slipping away, being lost in the murk of someone else's agenda. What had brought her to this point?

A month earlier, she had been visiting her parents, one of her typical midweek calls. She often saw her mother for luncheon, especially after Lawrence's death, and, though Jonas kept to his rooms, occasionally their father joined them for a meal. He was to eat with them on that day, a rather dreary Thursday in April. London and her mother sat at the table in the dining room, as they did when Father planned to join them. They waited and waited, but Father's seat remained empty. Mother refused to eat until he arrived, but she was too circ.u.mspect to send a servant after him. She had even looked longingly at the creamed lobster on toast, yet would not take the smallest bite.

Finally, famished, tired of her mother's unnecessary self-sacrifice, London rose from the table to find her father, herself. She went straight to his study, as he was usually there. Pausing outside the closed door, she had tapped lightly. When there wasn't an answer, she knocked, a little more loudly. Still nothing. London had tried the door, expecting to find it locked as it always was, but this time it wasn't. Slowly, London opened the door and peered inside. It seemed empty. London felt herself drawn into the room. Despite the fact that she was a grown woman, she held her breath as she crossed the Turkish carpet, seeing the shelves of bound volumes, the large maps upon the walls. Britain. India. Africa. A fire burned in the grate. The smell of tobacco and significance. The Forbidden Kingdom.

The study was the realm of men. At hours early and late, a steady parade of sober-suited men went in and out its door. Jonas had permission to enter. London did not. Even the parlor maids were barred from entrance. Only Slyfield, the butler, had leave to clean the room at Father's explicit order. London never knew what would happen to her if she ever went into her father's study, only that, if she did, something terrible would happen to her. She should not be there. Yet she could not make herself leave.

The ma.s.sive desk had drawn her like a lodestone. This was the place where her father conducted his business, where he made momentous decisions and shaped lives. London touched her fingers to the surface of the desk, trying to absorb some of its power. She could use more of that in her own life. As she had done this, her gaze fell to some pieces of foolscap arranged in a row. Someone had done rubbings in charcoal on the paper, taken from some stone source. Ancient writings. She frowned. Laid out as they were, they made no sense. London could not stop herself. She rearranged the papers.

"What the h.e.l.l do you think you're doing?"

London had whirled around at the sound of her father's outraged voice. He stormed into the study, and, for a moment, she actually feared he might use physical violence on her. He had never spoken to her or looked at her this way before, preferring, instead to treat her as if she were made of spun sugar. She didn't care for either form of interaction.

"I'm sorry, Father," London had blurted. She tried to back up, but the desk blocked her. "I was only trying to help."

"Did you touch anything? Read anything?"

"Just these." She gestured to the row of papers. "They were out of order."

"Out of order?" her father had repeated, his eyes straying to the rubbings. Confusion flickered across his face. "You can read this?"

Not knowing whether she was d.a.m.ning herself further by revealing her linguistic knowledge, London decided it was better to openly admit her expertise than revert to a cowering, ignorant girl. "Yes, Father. It is a form of ancient Greek that was only known in the Cyclades Islands. Only a few scholars are even aware of its existence. And me," she had added, trying to keep the pride from her words.

He had scowled, but his temper seemed to be cooling at this revelation. "You?"

"Yes, me."

"Are those other scholars English?"

"One is French, another is German, and the other is Russian. I am the only person in England who knows this form of Greek."

After a moment, he said, almost grudging, "So, what does it say?"

She fought against the fillip of happiness his acceptance brought her. "That's what's odd about it," she had said, turning back to the papers. "Even properly ordered, the words make no sense. There is more, I a.s.sume?"

"Yes, much more."

"I would have to see it all, put it in context. Then, I believe, it would become clear."

Her father had paced away from her, then, and finally took a cigar from a rosewood humidor on his desk. Mother didn't like him to smoke in the house, but this was his study and he could do as he pleased in here. After tr.i.m.m.i.n.g the cigar and lighting it, he had taken a few meditative puffs whilst contemplating the maps. London stood in an agony of worry. What would he do? Disown her? Forbid her from coming back to his house?

"Do you know what I do for the British government?" he had asked, at last.

She had shaken her head numbly.

Carefully, as if he were explaining a complicated scientific principle to a child, he said, "I, and Jonas, and Lawrence and all our a.s.sociates, are archaeologists. We find ancient objects around the world and bring them back to England, for the glory of England."

That was a surprise. London never would have considered her father nor his colleagues to be men of science or academic learning. But she did not voice this, letting her father continue. was a surprise. London never would have considered her father nor his colleagues to be men of science or academic learning. But she did not voice this, letting her father continue.

"The rubbings you see here"-he waved toward his desk-"were part of a much larger set taken from a ruin in Greece. Not a man on my team could decipher them. Not a single university professor in the whole of the country could, either. But you"-and here he turned back to her-"a woman, my daughter, were able to do what no one else had been capable of."

"I wasn't able to understand it, though," London felt compelled to add. "Not fully. I would have to see the complete writings to make sense of them."

"Yes," Father had agreed. "It is imperative, for the good of England, that we decipher these writings. Under normal circ.u.mstances, I would seek out a British scholar with the proper expertise, but there isn't one. There's only you." He ground out his cigar with a deliberate motion, and watched it smolder for a moment before looking up at her.

"And that's why," he continued, "for the first time in the history of my organization, I must involve a woman in our work, though it pains me greatly to do so." He took from his waistcoat pocket a heavy gold pocket.w.a.tch inscribed with symbols London did not recognize. "Today is the twelfth of April. I expect you to have your bags packed and ready for travel by the sixteenth."

London had blinked. "I'm sorry-what do you mean?"

"It means, my daughter, that you are coming with me to Greece."

And so it had begun. Now she was in Greece, being led across a nighttime garden by her father. Enemies, he'd said. Enemies of England. Something else much bigger than simple archeology was happening, and London was in the middle of it, whether she wanted to be or not.