A Daring Liaison

Chapter Five

Georgiana slammed her bedroom door and leaned back against it as if she could hold her shame at bay. She’d sent Clara to her

bed with a sweep of her hand. No more conversation tonight!

How could she have confided all her deepest fears? How could she have allowed him such liberties? How could she have cast

caution and the lessons of the past to the wind?

Because it felt so good. So right.

She threw her reticule across the room and dropped her shawl where she stood. He’d bewitched her! That could be the only

explanation. She’d never allowed liberties like that before, except with Gower—and that had been required because they’d been

married. In bed. And he hadn’t made her feel the things that Charles Hunter had. Things that left her breathless and trembling.

Craving more. She’d never suspected—never dreamed—there could be such delight. She collapsed on her bed, her knees unable

to support her through the vivid memory of the unexpected passion he’d awakened in her.

Oh! And it was Charles Hunter who had taught her that. He must be laughing up his sleeve right this very minute. Or telling his friends

how easily seduced she’d been. For the second time! Or plotting how he might avoid her in the future, now that he’d made a fool of

her again.

Never again.

She stumbled to her dressing table and pulled the pins from her mussed hair, dropping them in a gilt pin dish. She needed to

compose herself or she’d never sleep tonight. Not that she’d slept well at all since arriving in London.

She suspected she was losing her mind. Aside from the shocking incident with Mr. Hunter, there were other signs of madness. She

hadn’t told him everything. In fact, she hadn’t told Mr. Renquist everything, either. They’d think she’d gone quite balmy. Perhaps they’

d even think she was unhinged enough to have killed her husbands herself. She couldn’t risk that. She’d almost rather believe she

was cursed than that those little things meant she’d gone insane.

There were dozens of them—those little things—her forgetfulness, the missing items she’d sworn she left here last fall, the things

she’d brought with her from Kent that she could not find now, the vague uneasinesses, the prickle of hair on the back of her neck

warning that she was being watched or followed.

She might have suspected one of the new servants, but the missing items were inconsequential, really, and of little value beyond

sentiment. A tortoiseshell comb, a ribbon, a brass locket she’d gotten at a country fair. Oddly, when she’d made a fuss over a small

golden ring with a tiny garnet that had gone missing, the household had been in an uproar until one of the servants found it in the

garden. Georgiana couldn’t imagine how it had gotten there since she had no recollection of being in the garden.

Clara said she was too high strung, that her nerves were spent and her imagination had run away with her. Furthermore, Clara

informed her, grief could make a person think and do very odd things.

Like allow Charles Hunter to...

No! She would not spend another moment thinking about that! Or about him. If she had any sense at all, she’d leave London

immediately. But since she could not, she would face Mr. Hunter down. Offer him impudence for impudence.

She opened the drawer of her dressing table and removed the bottle of laudanum Aunt Caroline had kept on hand to help her sleep.

She hadn’t used it before, but tonight, at least, it would help her forget the news from her solicitor and her wanton behavior with Mr.

Hunter. She removed the cork and took a sip, ignoring the instructions to measure the dose carefully. She couldn’t possibly be any

more reckless than she’d already been.

* * *

Marcus Wycliffe heaved a world-weary sigh as he and Sir Harry Richardson sat at the small table on either side of Charles. “We

searched every hole and shadow near Covent Garden. No trace. And, of course, no one saw anything. All we can say for certain is

that Mrs. Huffington did not fire the shot.”

“Aye?” Charles took a deep drink from his tankard. “Well, that does not eliminate the possibility that she had help.”

Wycliffe winced. “Are you backing out?”

Charles had had time to consider that option in the hour he’d been waiting for Wycliffe and Richardson to arrive. Anger and desire

mingled into a heady brew every time he thought of Georgiana Huffington. Sense told him to walk away. Something dangerous and

darker urged him to continue. His darker urges were always stronger. “I’ve already made a beginning. Mrs. Huffington is unaware of

the Home Office’s interest in her. Our meeting went well.”

Wycliffe quirked an eyebrow at Charles. Even through the dim tavern light, the man could be intimidating. “Went well? How well?”

Charles had no intention of telling his superior that he’d left the woman in question still trembling from his touch. She might be his

assignment, but he was still discreet enough to know that some things were none of the Home Office’s business.

Richardson, however, sat back in his chair and regarded Charles with a sly grin. “Details, man. We want the details.”

“Our conversation was quite enlightening. She is shrewd enough to know how she appears to the ton. She realizes that people are

talking, and she has thought ahead to the necessity of finding a palatable answer to the mystery. She has even voiced a concern

that she might be next—which is something I do not think we can rule out entirely after the shooting tonight.”

Wycliffe placed his tankard on the table in front of him. “Did anything she said, no matter how subtle, lead you to believe she might

be the culprit?”

“She’d be too clever for that and seems to be willing to explore even far-fetched explanations.”

“As a diversion?” Richardson suggested.

Charles had considered this possibility. Mrs. Huffington was certainly intelligent enough to attempt that sort of diversion, but he

doubted she was desperate enough for that yet. For a split second, he’d thought perhaps she had set that street ruffian on him, but

no. The man had confessed it was Gibbons. He shook his head. “I wouldn’t rule out the possibility, but I do not think she considers

me threat enough yet to attempt the deception.”

“It’s that congenial demeanor you put forward. No one ever suspects you’re up to anything deeper than your next pleasure.”

Charles smiled at Richardson’s conclusion. “It has served me well thus far. Mrs. Huffington suspects me of nothing but passing

interest. If she were guilty and suspected my intentions, she would be unlikely to risk piquing my attention. In fact, I begin to suspect

you only cast suspicion on Mrs. Huffington to persuade me to take this infernal case, Wycliffe.”

Wycliffe gave him a canny grin and signaled the bar for another ale. “So do you suspect something?”

“I don’t believe in coincidence. Someone or something is behind these deaths and attacks. And I was nearly killed on my way here

tonight. All these events appear to have a common thread, and that appears to be Mrs. Huffington.”

“Christ! Two attacks in one night? Someone really wants you dead. Do you think she could have hired someone? Paid someone to

shoot and miss, just to misdirect suspicion? Then kill you on your way here?”

Charles thought about how close that shot had come, how open she had seemed in the coach, how truly bewildered by events. “The

man tonight said Gibbons sent him. As for the incident in Covent Garden, I think we must consider the possibility that Mrs. Huffington

could have been the target.”

“Who—”

Charles shrugged. “Her husbands’ families? Someone from her past? I need to know more before I can hazard a guess. I am

gaining her confidence. And, should I make the proposal I am thinking of, I imagine there is a fair chance she will take it.”

“What sort of proposal?” Wycliffe asked. He lifted his fresh tankard and watched Charles over the rim.

“Why, marriage, of course.”

Richardson leaned forward, his bright blue eyes widening. “Are you mad?”

He laughed. “Aye, I suspect I am.”

Wycliffe snorted. “I’ve heard she has said she will never marry again.”

“That suits me well. I don’t mean to actually go through with the nuptials. Just propose. Lead the ton and the public at large to believe

it is true.”

“To provoke an ‘accident’?”

“Exactly.”

“Will she go along with your plan?”

“I have ample reason to believe she will. She says she wants to get to the bottom of this, so it would be difficult for her to refuse my

help.”

“And what if no one attacks?”

“They will. Or she will. The temptation will be too great for the killer to resist. Booth was engaged to her for mere hours before he lay

dead in the street.”

“Damn it all, Charlie, I do not like this,” Richardson muttered in a low tone. “You’d be a target.”

“Have you forgotten Gibbons? I am already a target.”

Wycliffe sat back in his chair. “When do you plan to make this proposition to Mrs. Huffington?”

“Tomorrow.” Charles glanced to the establishment’s dingy window, where a faint trace of dawn lurked. “Tonight, actually. We are

both invited to Thayer’s musicale, and I shall contrive to escort her home. Once we are alone, I am certain I can persuade her.”

Richardson chuckled but wisely said nothing.

Wycliffe sighed. “I do not know if you are brave or foolhardy, Hunter. Guard yourself well.”

* * *

Charles milled with the rest of the attendees at the Thayer musicale, holding a glass of wine in one hand and a small plate of

pastries that had been forced upon him by his hostess in the other. He had arrived late and hadn’t been able to spot Mrs. Huffington.

The soft glow of candlelit chandeliers cast moving shadows and made it difficult to recognize anyone until he was nearly upon them.

But now that the performance was over, he wandered toward the dais to position himself to view the room.

The soft chords of the pianoforte carried to him as he approached. Ah, and here she was. He deposited his plate on a passing

footman’s tray and paused to watch the scene. Harriett and Mrs. Huffington sat together on the bench, Mrs. Huffington with her hands

poised upon the keyboard. Harriett was giving her some sort of instruction and both were laughing.

For a moment, Charles could almost believe both women had nothing more than the next fete to worry about. Mrs. Huffington’s skin

glowed as warmly as the candlelight. Her gown, sumptuous lavender-blue satin, was cut to emphasize her striking figure, and the

lush swell of her breasts straining at the organdy edging of her bodice was almost more than he could bear. His mind filled with the

memory of their coach ride last night—how the tight little buds teased his tongue, how she had sighed and tangled those same

fingers she now placed upon the keys through his hair and held him closer.

He swallowed a gulp of wine, praying that would douse his rising hunger and other parts of his body that were also rising. Alas...

“Mr. Hunter!”

Drat. Harriett had spotted him. She smiled and waved. “Mr. Hunter! How nice to see you.”

He stepped forward and gave her his best casual smile. “And you, Miss Thayer. A thoroughly delightful presentation, by the way.

Though it does not seem possible, I vow that you and your sister improve each time I hear you play.” He glanced at Mrs. Huffington

and nodded. “Mrs. Huffington. I trust you are well this evening.”

Only the slightest stain of pink rose to her cheeks. “Quite, sir.”

“I was just demonstrating to Mrs. Huffington the technique for sharing a keyboard in a duet. Though she plays quite well, she is rather

clumsy when trying to share the keyboard.”

Mrs. Huffington laughed. “Had I anyone to play with when I was learning, I am certain I’d be better.”

Oh, that simple phrase brought to mind all manner of possibilities. Indeed, he’d have been more than happy to play with her, to teach

her, well, perhaps not the pianoforte.... He finished his wine before he could say something unforgivably crude.

Harriett glanced between him and Mrs. Huffington and stood with a meaningful smile. “I believe I have neglected my duties long

enough. Now that you have someone to keep you company, Mrs. Huffington, I will excuse myself.”

Mrs. Huffington’s mouth opened as if she would object, but Charles offered his hand to help Harriett down from the platform. That

done, he turned back to the object of his search and held his hand out for similar duty. “How was your day, Mrs. Huffington?”

She rose from the bench and smoothed her gown before taking his hand, almost reluctantly. “Well enough, sir.”

Ah, she was in a bit of a pique about last night. Well, tonight would go no better for her. “Did you come alone tonight, Mrs.

Huffington?”

“I live less than a quarter of a mile away, Mr. Hunter.”

He cringed. “Never say you walked.”

“Very well. I won’t.”

He stopped to face her. “Have you no sense at all? Someone may have tried to kill you last night, and you go out in public without a

care to your safety?”

To his amazement, she laughed. “For a moment I thought you were going to lecture me on the unsuitability of a woman arriving on

foot or alone. And I was going to remind you that the only real danger to me occurred in a coach last night.”

He could only look at her wide, innocent eyes and marvel at her impudence. Women did not mention such things—they ignored

them.

She blinked, a tiny smile hovering at the corners of her luscious mouth. “Why, Mr. Hunter, whatever is wrong?”

“I—” He began to stroll again, trying desperately not to like her. He could not afford to lose his objectivity. “I had some matters I

needed to talk to you about, Mrs. Huffington. Matters I think could be of advantage to us both.”

“Then by all means, sir. Speak.”

“Private matters.”

She sighed. “Hmm. Private matters. You do realize the brief coach ride to my home will not allow for...private matters, do you not?”

He glanced down at her, strolling by his side, not sparing him so much as a glance. So that was her game. Turn the tables on him by

laying their intimacy bare? Was that her way of rebuking him? Well, she could think again. He’d trafficked with far too many

courtesans to be embarrassed by sexual nuance. “You seem different tonight, Mrs. Huffington.”

“Do I? Perhaps it is because I am feeling a bit more...familiar with you.”

“I am pleased to hear that, my dear.” He paused to note her reaction to the endearment and was not disappointed. A slight frown

knit lines between her eyebrows. If she was going to toy with him, she had better be prepared for the consequences.

“Are you not frightened for your life, sir? Almost certain death awaits the objects of my affection.”

“I enjoy a bit of danger. Adds spice to the game, eh?”

It was her turn to stop and glance toward the door and long for escape. “Then it is difficult to say which of us is the greater fool.”

“Quite a pair, are we not? And that brings me to my proposition.”

“Proposition? Oh, I think not, sir.”

“My coach is waiting outside, Mrs. Huffington. Shall we discuss it on the way home?”