Peter Jackson’s mind, but he would never have aired it. ‘Would you like to eat something?’ Peter asked his wife while traversing the room to the bar.
‘Oh, yes, indeed,’ Mrs Jackson said.
‘I fancy a beef sandwich if the landlord can rustle up such a thing,’ Ruth Beresford told her elder sister. ‘Might I have my coins?’ Valerie Beresford delved into a pocket and drew forth a little pouch she’d been keeping safe.
Fiona was also feeling hungry. She put her reticule on her lap and opened the strings to find some money. The thought of a beef sandwich, with horseradish, was making her mouth water. She decided to add her order to her companions and take up Mrs Jackson’s idea of a rum toddy to wash it down and keep the chill at bay. Now out of the coach and relaxing with her travelling companions, she felt her misgivings about her new life fading away. Everything would be fine as long as she kept her mettle...
* * *
‘What in damnation are you doing here?’ The gentleman’s harsh demand suggested an imminent display of anger, but he remained lounging at ease in his chair. A slight hardening in his handsome features was all that attested to his annoyance.
Oh, but he was furious... Becky Peake knew that very well. He hadn’t shouted at her, although she knew she deserved it. His voice had been stone cold and so were those eyes that resembled chips of charcoal.
‘Don’t be cross with me, Luke,’ she begged. The landlord of the tavern had shown her to the back room and Becky now skipped over the threshold, closing the door behind her. ‘I don’t want to be left behind in town when you’re so far away.’ Approaching his chair, she attempted to perch provocatively on his lap.
But he got up from the table with a muttered oath and walked away.
Becky, always pragmatic, looked at the appetising plate of food he’d abandoned. ‘I’m famished...might I tuck in if you’ve finished?’
He flicked a hand. ‘Help yourself.’
Becky untied her bonnet strings, allowing her dark curls to bounce to her shoulders. Loosening the cloak fastened at her throat, she settled down to enjoy the cold meats, springy aromatic bread and cheese piled on to the plate. Suddenly aware that her lover was gazing thoughtfully at her, Becky used the snowy napkin to dab her pout. ‘What is it?’ She dimpled. ‘Do you forgive me? You look as though you do...’
‘Well, that depends,’ he said with a fractional smile.
‘You always overlook my peccadilloes when I’m attentive to you.’ Becky sounded confident and got up to sashay towards him, then coil her arms about his strong neck.
‘Your impertinence is not a peccadillo and I won’t forget it, sweet, but now you’re here perhaps there’s a way you could make up for it.’
Becky unhooked a few more of her cloak fastenings and shrugged out of the garment. Beneath it she wore a flimsy lemon gown that clung to her curvaceous figure. ‘I’ll do whatever you say...’ she purred suggestively.
‘Good...’ he growled, removing her arms from about his neck. ‘Let me put a proposition to you...’
‘I’m not set against your plan, Your Grace. I simply think that it is too soon to implement it.’
‘Pray, why is that?’ Alfred Morland, Duke of Thornley, was not used to being gainsaid, especially by persons of vastly inferior rank. But this was no ordinary man. Major Wolfson was a veteran of the Peninsular Wars and had a catalogue of commendations attesting to his military expertise and bravery. The Duke of Wellington, a mutual acquaintance, had recommended the major’s services when Thornley outlined his predicament. Since His Grace was in great need of somebody possessing Wolfson’s qualities, he was repressing his temper as best he could while glaring at the tall figure standing opposite. He was a fine figure of a man, Thornley inwardly sniffed, and he could believe Wellington’s boast that no sane fellow would cross his former aide-de-camp without good cause and serious consideration. But having invested much time and thought in this intrigue the Duke of Thornley very badly wanted to see action as soon as possible.
Since Napoleon had been defeated, Major Wolfson had been hiring out his talents; not that he needed the money—Wellington had let on that the fellow had banked an inheritance from his late grandfather that would make Croesus envious. Apparently, Luke Wolfson liked the life of a soldier and had no interest in settling down as a country squire in Essex. Such a thrill seeker had seemed a prime candidate to carry out the mission, but Thornley could see that the fellow was not at all impressed with his brainchild to outwit a local villain.
Luke took a hearty swallow of the brandy the duke had given him when feeling affable, then placed the glass on the mantel. ‘There is a risk to a young woman’s life which surely makes rigorous checks imperative before the point of no return.’
‘I have engaged you, sir, in the hope that you will deal with any dangers facing the doxy. If you find the task onerous or beyond your capabilities, you have only to say and I will employ another mercenary.’
‘In which case you will certainly need to delay while you find someone willing to take on the job and infiltrate the Collins gang.’ Luke’s lips slanted in a subtle smile as the older man brooded on those salient points, like a bulldog chewing a wasp.
‘The woman is being paid handsomely for her trouble...as are you,’ His Grace sourly reminded.
‘Indeed, and I have promised Miss Peake she will be back in town by next week spending her earnings. I would not want to be arranging her funeral instead.’
‘Well, tell the chit she might have a bonus if she agrees to expeditiously get this over with.’ Thornley gave the major a dour glance. ‘No doubt you expect a similar favour even though you have already negotiated a princely sum for yourself.’
Luke gave an easy shrug. ‘If you want to offer an inducement to accelerate matters, I will, of course, accept it. But the risks remain the same and I would urge you to think carefully before pelting headlong into this. If Collins smells a rat, you might gain nothing and tempt the gang to persecute you and your daughter. Her welfare is paramount, is it not?’
‘It is!’ Wolfson’s last remark had touched a nerve. The Duke of Thornley adored his daughter. He knew she got bored in Devon confined to the house. But Thornley was loath to let her out much, even with her maid, to enjoy the local markets and emporiums because of the gang of ruffians infesting the area. ‘If the blackguard smells a rat it will be because Wellington has overdone your praises. I’m paying you to ensure that Collins suspects nothing.’ His Grace thumped down his brandy glass on the desktop, shoving himself to his feet. ‘You forget yourself, sirrah, to be lecturing me!’
‘I was under the impression you would welcome such advice,’ Luke said mildly. ‘In fact, I thought you summoned me here for that very reason.’ Their combatant gazes tangled, but Luke could see the duke was not going to back down and admit his mistake. ‘Jeremiah Collins kidnapped, then returned a young dandy to his family on payment of a hefty ransom some six months ago.’ Luke shot the duke a glance and saw him redden. ‘You knew about that...got your inspiration from it, I take it.’
‘Of course I knew,’ His Grace blustered, smarting under the mild accusation of stealing an idea from the very person
