Saving Persephone (The Haberdashers Book 4) Page 4

  She set the pillow down again. There was no reason to indulge in maudlin thoughts. It had been some time now that she had been old enough to travel on her own and do whatever she wanted to do. Not that her mother hadn't fought it, insisting at first on companions and guards. But after enough instances of Imogen leaving her entourage stranded on various continents, her mother finally relented. Provided, of course, that Imogen checked in as agreed and visited relatives as agreed. And generally did everything as agreed. It was little wonder that her mother was not only one of the few women to run a large business in the world, but by far the most successful. The woman was an unstoppable force.

  But soon she would go visit Papa, and that was something altogether different. While Mama could be like the restless and powerful ocean, Papa was as calm and steady as the stone his keep was built on. Growing up, she had often wished that she lived in her father's highland home rather than traveling the world. But her mother had hoped that Imogen would take to the business as she herself had as a child. A hope that had gradually lessened over the years until Imogen had finally broken free of it two years ago. Two years of freedom. A freedom that felt surprisingly empty and lonely. Even here with her cousin, she couldn't entirely escape the pangs of loneliness that plagued her. But perhaps with Papa she would regain the warmth of family.

  The door opened and Robert Bittlesworth slipped back inside. He had dressed again and carried garments over one arm. He locked the door before turning to address her. “It was impossible to find blue silk underclothes on short notice and this will have to do. I hope you don't mind me acting as your lady's maid?”

  “Of course not.” Imogen stood and tossed aside the shirt she had been wearing. She saw desire blaze again in his eyes.

  “As tempting as you look, I don't fancy entertaining the baron while you try to struggle into these clothes on your own.” He set aside everything but the chemise and held it up for her to step into.

  Imogen raised her arms and let the whisper-soft lawn fabric fall over her. “One wonders how you can produce women's clothing so quickly. You weren't even gone for a quarter hour.”

  “I'm known to be a worker of miracles. Sadly, this blue was the brightest dress I could find.”

  She ran a finger over it. “Celestial blue. It's quite in fashion this season. I like it, actually.”

  “Well, let's get you in it.”

  * * *

  Robert was certainly more familiar with disrobing a woman than clothing one, and there was an intimacy to the act that he hadn't expected. Once he had all the ties and ribbons in place he kissed her shoulder. “I think that's it, then.”

  Miss Grant smiled at him. “I see a great future for you as a lady's maid.”

  Robert returned her smile with a wicked one of his own. “There would be benefits to that.”

  “Well,” she said, biting her lip as she paused. “This is goodbye.”

  He laced their fingers together. “Is it? How long are you in Town?”

  “Some weeks yet, but my cousin tends to schedule almost every hour. It would be hard to get away.”

  He kissed the side of her throat and she sighed, leaning toward him. “How did you get away today?”

  “Invitation from a duchess. Violetta couldn't argue with that.”

  He kissed the other side of her throat. “What if the duchess were to invite you out to her country house for a week?”

  Miss Grant chuckled. “I doubt she would do that after I upbraided her today.”

  “Come out to the country with me. Sabre and Telford were planning to go to their house soon. You can ostensibly accept an invitation from her and come with me.” A week with the intriguing, and potentially dangerous, Miss Grant sounded very attractive to Robert. So attractive that he knew he would stop at nothing to convince her. And if she were an agent, from the Americas or elsewhere, wouldn't it be easier to assess her in seclusion?

  Her chuckle had turned into a delightful laugh. “I think that plan is certain to be found out.”

  “Perhaps. But would you care if it was?”

  By the arrested look she gave him, he knew that he had correctly surmised a love of danger in her. She slowly smiled. “Perhaps not. What do you suggest?”

  “Await an invitation. All will become clear.”

  Still smiling, she pulled him closer for a kiss. “Until then,” she said brightly.

  Chapter Nine

  Robert had been working for the Crown since the age of seventeen, and in that seven years had taken no holidays whatsoever. At first he mildly panicked over what planning might be needed for a holiday. Then he realized that throughout that time he had been on many missions, some of which had required that he be out of touch with the Home Office for weeks or even months. This was simply like planning a mission. Perhaps it even was a mission, if Miss Grant was more than she seemed. Panic mitigated, he set to the required tasks with his usual ruthless efficiency. The Telford's travel plans were confirmed quite innocently over a family dinner. A house in the country was leased, with assurances that the necessary discretions would be observed. Plans for communication in his absence were worked out. It was all so terribly easy he wondered why he had never taken time to himself before.

  Then, on the final eve before his plan was to be executed and he had nothing to do but wait for morning, the ruminations began. The ordeal with Sims had been over for almost two months, yet it arose in his mind from time to time, perhaps because of how furious he had been with the man. This eve, however, it took a grip on his thoughts that he couldn't shake.

  The assignment had been simple enough: observe a new agent on her first assignment and provide assistance as needed. It should have been child's play for an experienced agent like Sims. But that, apparently, had been the problem.

  Robert struck his prisoner again. “Why did you betray us?”

  Sims spit blood out, his glare still keen and angry after two days of questioning. However, his accent had reverted back to the stews. “P'raps if that light bit of skirt you sent me with was worth anything she'da known what was happenin'.”

  At first Robert assumed Sims was referring to Anna, another agent he had sent in to also keep an eye on George. But thinking that he had most likely been overprotective, he had sent Anna on another assignment shortly after their arrival in Vienna. Since he knew that the Prussian diplomat hadn't turned Sims until two months later, he realized that the man was referring to Georgiana. One of his little sister's best friends. A girl he had known since she was in leading strings, whom he had steadied the first time she sat a horse. A girl he had trained for espionage. As his hand closed over Sims' throat in a crushing grip it occurred to him that even if George had been ready for her first assignment, it was possible he himself hadn't been. “She isn't a light skirt, you mewling pus,” he growled. “I trusted you to watch over her.”

  “To sit your snooty whore?” Sims managed a surprising amount of venom as he gasped against the grip on his throat. “Plum assignment, that. The next, was it walking your dogs or currying your horse?”

  The blow Robert dealt him was so violent that the chair toppled over, leaving an unconscious Sims sprawled on the straw-covered floor.

  * * *

  Less than a week after their rendezvous, Imogen received an invitation from the duchess to leave the following day for a week in the country at Belle Fleur. After sharing it excitedly with Violetta, she retreated to her room to examine it beside the one she had received for tea. It was the same color and weight of stationery, the same seal, and the same handwriting. Perhaps Robert had his sister write the invitation? Perhaps this actually was an invitation from the duchess and simply coincided with the plan Robert had proposed. She was amused as she penned a response, wondering if she were accidentally accepting a week with an officious and nosy sister, rather than the lover she wanted to steal away with.

  Even the next morning she remained confused as liveried servants quickly loaded her luggage onto a carriage with the ducal seal w
hile she said goodbye to Violetta. A petite woman peeked out of the carriage window and made an impatient gesture, and Violetta laughed.

  “Sweet cousin,” Vi said, “as much as I'll miss you, I don't think it wise to keep the duchess waiting.”

  After a last hug, Imogen let one of the ducal servants help her into the carriage. The duchess was looking out the opposite window, her face obscured by her bonnet.

  “Thank you so much for the invitation, your grace,” Imogen said as the carriage wheels started into motion.

  The figure chuckled and turned to look at her. “It feels good to be addressed as 'your grace.' Perhaps I will add that to my repertoire of games.” Nimble fingers untied the bonnet strings. Even now, the woman looked remarkably like the duchess and could pass for her in poor lighting.

  Imogen laughed. “I'm sure some men would pay quite well for it.”

  Free of the bonnet, the woman's hair was luxurious and dark. She tilted her head, appraising her companion. “You know what I am?”

  “I have no idea what you are, but I think I can surmise what you do. A woman who can be hired for such a scheme, who talks of her games? It's a trade plied all over the world.”

  “For a lady, you don't seem particularly shocked.”

  “Should I be? Anyone who purports to be shocked by something more common than rain is either woefully sheltered or purposefully obtuse.”

  The woman's laughter was rich and musical. “I think Madame Blythe would love you.”

  “As I don't know Madame Blythe, it's hard to know what to say to that.”

  The woman held her hand out. “I’m Missy.”

  “Imogen.” They shook hands briefly.

  “I would like to think that if things were different than they are that we could be friends,” Missy said.

  Imogen shrugged. “Things rarely stay the same for long, so who knows?”

  Missy laughed again. The carriage slowed, and then rolled to a stop inside a carriage house.

  “Stay here,” Missy advised, then scooped up her bonnet and stepped down from the carriage.

  Imogen peeked out the window and could see that the servants were bustling about in the dim light. Then the carriage swayed as someone came up the steps. Imogen recognized him immediately and gave him a welcoming smile. “Robert.”

  “Miss Grant,” he said, kissing her fingertips before seating himself opposite her in the carriage.

  “Certainly we can drop the formalities.”

  “Something about you inspires formalities.” He narrowed his gaze at her and relaxed back against the cushions. “Although I'm not quite sure yet what it might be.”

  The carriage began rolling again, and as the morning sunlight fell more clearly on her companion she could see that he appeared haggard, emphasized by the bleak darkness of his aura. “Did you sleep?”

  He raised a negligent shoulder, but his gaze shifted to the window. “I'm not one for sleep when there is work to be done.”

  “Well, there's nothing to be done now.”

  “Nonsense,” he said, his gaze coming back to her. “I have a lover to seduce.”

  “And you have all week to seduce me.” She scooted over to press herself to the side of the cabin and patted the seat next to her. “After all the work you did to protect my reputation, such as it is, the least I can do is be your pillow while you nap.”

  He stared at her for a few moments, his reaction inscrutable. “Well. If you insist.”

  “I do. I insist.”

  “A gentleman never argues with a lady.”

  * * *

  Fortunately, Robert was quite used to independent-minded women, and recognized Miss Grant's expression. She felt that he had done more than enough for her and wanted to do something in return. Would insist on doing something in return. Although it would be easy enough to redirect her energies to a more carnal pursuit, the truth was that he was quite tired. As though not only last night, but the fatigue from some months weighed down on him this day. If he could please her by acquiescing to her wishes while also getting the rest his body desperately craved, then that suited both of them.

  He crossed to her side of the carriage and did his best to arrange himself on the cramped bench. Due to his height it was far from comfortable, but her soft thigh under his head and her scent were both quite pleasing. The scent of lotus flower, he now knew. He had the receipts of her most recent purchase to verify it.

  “I will only sleep for a few minutes,” he warned her. It was his way, typically, to take a short catnap of a quarter hour when fatigue made him slow his pace.

  “That's fine.” Her voice was distracted as though she were already looking out the window and lost in her own thoughts. He fell asleep with her quietly running her fingers through his hair.

  Chapter Ten

  Imogen watched Robert as he slept. He continued to surprise her. When first he had lain down, he had been tense and controlled and his dark aura had clung to him for some time. Then, instead of waking up as he had warned her that he would, he had visibly relaxed. Now he was sprawled on the bench much like a child, one arm carelessly hanging down to the floor. She was suspicious that he was drooling on her lap, but she had lost sensation in her leg some time ago. Typically she would wake her partner and make him move. With Robert Bittlesworth, however? Something about this felt special, as though this weren't a relaxation he was disposed to. Not that it was uncommon for her to have people drawn to her, at ease with her. It was among her many gifts.

  The carriage slowed and rattled over a bridge, jolting him to wakefulness, and he reeled as he righted himself on the seat. His disorientation was amusing, but it was clear that he would have come up swinging if anyone else had been there. Looking out the window, he scowled.

  “We have arrived.”

  Imogen smiled at his dark demeanor. “Had you not wanted to arrive?”

  “We were to have stopped for luncheon.”

  Imogen saw that she did, in fact, have a wet spot on her skirt and folded her hands over it. “We can flog the carriage driver later for missing it.”

  The look Robert directed at her was nothing short of appalled. Apparently humor was not his strong suit.

  * * *

  Robert felt the cobwebs of sleep still clinging to him. He always reserved one day a week for a full night's sleep and it was definitely not today. If he slept the entire carriage ride then that meant at least six hours. Outrageous. Even without sleeping last night he hardly needed that much rest. His companion continued to smile serenely at him but there was a gleam to her eye that made her look as though she were party to one of the greatest jokes of all time.

  It had taken him a moment to realize that she had only been teasing about flogging the coachman. She obviously didn't know the type of people he did, who would have thought nothing of doing that very deed. People such as his father, for instance. He couldn't blame his coachman Meade. Not being sure whether they might be in flagrante during the carriage ride, he'd instructed the driver to only stop if Robert rapped on the ceiling. No such rapping had occurred. Therefore, they had not had the romantic luncheon he had diligently planned.

  However, being petty about it now hardly suited his goal of creating a romantic ambiance for their trip. He wasn't accustomed to how one treated a lady in intimate surroundings. Whores didn't need romance or planning, or much of anything other than his money and favors. He had assiduously avoided those girls who were new to the profession and might want more, or be prone to form attachments. Here he had a woman who seemed even less inclined than himself to pursue marriage, if such a thing were possible, but her status as a lady certainly meant he should approach her differently. She, however, seemed blithely comfortable with his mood.

  “Is that the house?” she asked, seeing it through his window as the carriage wound up the drive.

  “Yes.”

  She had a delighted grin as she clambered over him to press her nose to the glass. “How charming. Is it yours?”

 
; He resisted the desire to squeeze the rounded bottom so tantalizingly close. “For the week.” He was glad she approved. He had ridden over a few days before to make sure it was to his liking before signing the lease. It somehow managed to be something between a cottage and manor house, appealing with its whitewash and bright trim. Large enough to not feel hemmed in, but small enough to be cozy. He was sure it had seen its fair share of romantic assignations. It looked as though it would show best surrounded by flowers, in spring or the height of summer. The evenings were already cooling and shortly it would be autumn in earnest. Not that it mattered. They were here for the week. An expensive, but he liked to think very worthwhile, entertainment.

  * * *

  Imogen had crawled over Robert's lap and he was barely touching her. She could sense his desire for her. He had a surprising sense of formality for a man who had tupped her on his desk and arranged a week of sensual abandon. The carriage bounced through a rut and she took that opportunity to fall into his lap with a squeak. As she expected, his arms came around her and secured her to his chest. She wriggled around until she was sitting on his lap rather than sprawled across it. His narrowed gaze meant he knew precisely what she was doing, but once she smiled up at him he pulled her close for a kiss. Ah yes, this was why she had come. The singular focus of Robert Bittlesworth's attentions. How he made her shiver when he nipped her bottom lip, then sucked it between his own. He was more addictive than sweets, her private opium. She knew that eventually she would grow tired of him, but at this juncture he was fresh, novel, and exciting. Downright delicious, really. She was far from ready to release him when he pulled away.