A Most Dangerous Profession

CHAPTER 1

A letter dated two weeks ago from Mary Hurst to her brother Michael.


The Hurst men are scattered to the winds. You’re being held by a horrid sulfi who won’t release you until we deliver the mysterious onyx box you purchased, which he fancies; William is braving the seas on his way to attempt to free you; and Robert is—(A large ink blot mars this portion of the letter.)

To be honest, we don’t know where Robert is. The last we heard, he was chasing a beautiful redhead through the wilds of Scotland in an attempt to unravel a mystery.

Oddly enough, of the three of you, I’m most worried about Robert.

Bonnyrigg, Scotland

July 16, 1822

Mr. Bancroft stepped onto the wide stone terrace and sighed at the thick mist that swirled about the trees and low lake. “Scotland!” he puffed out in disgust as he bent to wipe fat droplets of water from his shoes yet again with a handkerchief already limp from the damp air. “Who on earth would wish to live in a climate like this?”

Sighing, he reached into his pocket for a cigar, imagining the blessed warmth about to envelop him. He pulled out the cigar and frowned at the feel of it. “It’s damp! Damn this sodden, wet, thick-misted, sopping mess of a—”

“Softly, my dear Bancroft.”

The banker spun in surprise. “Mr. Hurst! Why—I—I—” The banker cast a glance at the house. “You’re a bit early. The sale doesn’t begin until this afternoon, and we’re not yet ready—”

“Let me guess. Things aren’t yet displayed, some aren’t even unpacked, the cases aren’t yet lit, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.” Robert Hurst hung a silver-topped cane over his arm and removed his gloves. “Am I correct?”

Mr. Bancroft nodded, silently admiring Hurst’s perfectly fitted overcoat. It made Bancroft uneasily aware of his own inexpensive, ill-fitting coat.

Hurst leisurely withdrew his monocle from his left breast pocket and viewed the house that rose behind them from the mist. “So this is the famed MacDonald House. A pity it’s not for sale, too.”

“The new viscount would have sold it if it hadn’t been encumbered. As it is, he will have to be content with selling the contents.” Bancroft sent a sly look at Hurst. “I’m not surprised to find you here, sir. There are many interesting artifacts from ancient Greece, Egypt, Mesopotamia—”

“I know exactly what’s to be sold,” Hurst said drily, his dark blue eyes gleaming with amusement. “I received your letter last week and you were quite thorough in your catalogue, which I greatly appreciated.”

Bancroft chuckled. “I shouldn’t have given you such an advantage, but we’ve worked together so often that I felt it only fair.”

“I am honored,” Mr. Hurst said gravely, swinging his monocle to and fro from one finger. “Just as the Earl of Erroll was honored to receive his copy of the exact same letter.”

Bancroft’s smile froze in place. “M-my lord?”

“And Lord Kildrew, Mr. Bartholomew, and God knows how many others.”

“Oh. I didn’t—That is to say, I never meant anyone to think—”

“Please, there’s no need to explain things to me,” Hurst said in a soothing tone. “You only wished to ensure a good number of bidders, which will be difficult in this godforsaken part of the country. Scotland is so . . . Scottish.”

The banker gave a relieved chuckle. “Yes! That’s it, exactly!” Feeling a sudden warmth at his visitor’s understanding air, Bancroft placed his hand on Mr. Hurst’s arm. “I promise you that if I’d had my way, I would have only notified you, sir.”

Mr. Hurst raised his monocle and eyed the hand upon his arm.

Face aflame, Bancroft quickly removed it.

“Just so.” Mr. Hurst lowered his monocle and tapped it gently on his palm. “It’s a pity your letter came to the attention of so many. While I didn’t allow such an egregious error to discourage me from attending, others weren’t so unaffected.”

Mr. Bancroft tried not to look as crestfallen as he felt. “Indeed, sir?”

“My new brother- in- law, the Earl of Erroll, was adamant that he had better things to do than attend.”

“Oh. Oh, no.”

“Yes, indeed. Lord Yeltstome swore he’d never come to another of your auctions unless dragged there by wild horses, which I thought quite overstated.”

Mr. Bancroft pulled out his damp handkerchief and wiped his even damper brow.

“Kildrew, Bartholomew, Childon, Maccomb, Southerland—all said similar things. I won’t bore you with the details.”

“Thank you,” Bancroft said in a faint voice.

Mr. Hurst pursed his lips. “Now that I think on it, I may be the only buyer attending from London.”

Mr. Bancroft cast a gloomy look at the thick fog that roiled knee- high across the lawn and now broached the terrace. He’d been at this house for two weeks and, other than two hours one glorious afternoon, had yet to see the sun. He didn’t think his spirits could handle the weight of the disappointment that surely awaited him at this afternoon’s sale. “The viscount has been relentless in demanding action, and that pressed me into acting hastily.”

“That’s exactly what I told the others. ‘Count on it,’ I said, ‘Bancroft was forced to write those foolish letters. He would never be so devious as to trick us into thinking we were all his favorite client.’ ”

“Of course not. At least you came, sir. I am quite content with that.”

“I came with gold in my pocket, too.”

Bancroft brightened. Mr. Hurst was one of the premier buyers and sellers of antiquities in all of England. It was hard to credit that the handsome, fashionably dressed man was the son of a lowly vicar, as well as being an employee of the Home Office. It was yet another example of how times had changed in the last twenty years.

It used to be that men of fashion treated their civic obligations with disdain and one knew what to expect. Now it was almost required that every member of society have a cause, which meant that men of good breeding frequently mixed with their lessers. Certainly, twenty years ago it would have been unusual for the son of a vicar to win the label of “leader of fashion,” and yet that was a very accurate description of Mr. Robert Hurst.

Of course, it had been rumored for years that Brummell himself had been the son of a valet. Brummell’s true origins were shrouded in mystery, as he’d had the good taste not to flaunt them. Hurst and his siblings, on the other hand, seemed quite easy admitting their humble parentage. And astonishingly, despite having little to no dowries and no connections to society, Hurst’s sisters had all married into the peerage. Of course, the Hursts were blessed with good looks and a seemingly unlimited amount of good taste, qualities often lacking in those born to the velvet.

Bancroft cast a surreptitious glance at Mr. Hurst, whose air quite rivaled that of the banished Brummell. Hurst was perhaps a bit more approachable, which was a benefit to men like Bancroft, for Hurst could be a valuable acquaintance.

“Mr. Hurst, I’m glad you made the trip to see the sale. You won’t be disappointed.”

“I’m prepared to be pleased.”

“Excellent.”

“However, the sale is not the reason I’m here today. There were actually two reasons I’m standing before you. One is that I’m looking for a specific item.”

Bancroft perked up immediately. “Oh? And what might that be?”

“I’m seeking a small onyx box of some antiquity. I don’t suppose you have any in your warehouses in London?”

“Not that I am aware of, but I will check my inventory the moment I return. Do you have details on the piece?”

“I have an excellent rendering. I’ll have a copy sent to your office. Should you find the box, I assure you that I will be most generous.”

The cold, misty day was already looking brighter. “I will be vigilant in finding your object. In the meantime, I hope you’ll find some equally interesting objects at this sale. The late viscount was quite the collector.”

“So I’ve heard. I saw him at many auctions, but I was never quite sure what he was attempting to collect. At one auction, he purchased a very boring Gilpin, and then a French silver set at the next. It will surprise me if there’s anything I might wish to buy.”

“I’m sure you’ll be happy with some of the artifacts. If it will convince you of their quality, I’ll allow you a quick look at the items. My assistant is even now putting them on display.”

Hurst’s gaze warmed. “Ah, yes. Miss MacJames, isn’t it?”

“Mrs. MacJames,” Bancroft said, unable to keep the disappointment from his voice. “She’s worked with me for only a week, but she’s very knowledgeable.”

“Ah. I will take a look at those artifacts, thank you. Mrs. MacJames can assist me if I have any questions while you stay here and enjoy a cigar. I insist you try one of mine, from America. It’s the finest tobacco to be had.” Hurst flicked back a lace cuff, reached into his coat, and withdrew a small silver case. He snapped it open, removed a tobacco leaf, then handed a perfectly rolled cigar to Bancroft, its fragrant aroma tickling the banker’s nose. “The loose leaf keeps the moisture in the case at the proper level.”

The banker sniffed the cigar and rolled it between his fingers, sighing with pleasure. “I don’t normally smoke while working, but it’s so blasted cold here.”

“I completely understand.” Hurst returned the case to his coat and then touched his hat brim. “Enjoy your cigar. I shall return shortly.”

“Please take your time! I’ll just wait here and—” But Hurst had already crossed the terrace and entered the house, the door clicking closed behind him. It wasn’t until Bancroft had almost finished the cigar that he realized that Hurst hadn’t shared the second reason he’d made the trip from London.





CHAPTER 2

A letter from Michael Hurst to his brother Robert over a dozen years ago, after his first sale of an antiquity.


Robert, I’m astonished you received so much money for that small statuette. It appears that you were correct in your assumption that Egyptian artifacts are growing in popularity among the wealthy.

Your silver tongue has always won your way into the beds of London women. I now realize that it can be applied to more lucrative opportunities.

I shall send you more objects to sell. Pray apply your persuasive ability to raising funds for my future explorations with all of the enthusiasm and vigor that you use to capture those beautiful ballerinas, handsome opera singers, and seductive actresses.

Moira MacJames placed two coins on a black velvet cloth. She squinted at the second one, then lifted it to the light. “Athenian, but—” She tilted it to one side. “Ah. Just as I thought.”

“A fake, hmm?”

She jerked upright at the deep, masculine voice, her gaze flying straight ahead to the ornate gilded mirror above the table. Instantly, she found herself looking into the dark blue eyes of Robert Hurst.

Her heart pounded in her throat as her gaze traveled over him. His fashionable coat was smooth over his broad shoulders and cut to reveal a narrow waist, while well-fitted trousers were tucked into ornate riding boots that encased long, powerful legs. He was wearing his black hair longer now, and it fell over his brow, emphasizing his eyes.

“How are you, Miss—Oh, it’s Mrs. now, isn’t it?” His voice and eyes mocked her.

Her cheeks burned and she struggled to calm her scattered thoughts. Damn it all, he knew I’d be here. But how? Until two weeks ago, I didn’t even know that.

The desire to run for her horse had to be tamped down. If she wished to escape from this man, she’d need a good head start and a lot of luck.

If there was one thing Moira was very good at it was judging the best way to make an escape. She not only had a talent for it, but also plenty of practice.

The first step was to keep him from knowing how much she wanted to run. She turned and gave him a smooth smile. “What a surprise to see you here.” She gestured to the artifacts lined up for display. “Among dusty treasures, just like old times.”

“Actually, it’s nothing like old times. For one, I now know who—and what—you are.”

She quirked a brow. “Bitter?”

“No, no. I’ve merely become a realist, my dear.” He leaned gracefully upon an ornate silver-handled cane, his expression cool. “You can’t be surprised to see me; I was invited to the sale.”

Robert wouldn’t carry a cane without a purpose. A hidden sword, perhaps? “I knew you’d be here. I just didn’t think you’d arrive before the doors opened.” At which time she’d be long gone, her pockets lined with a few particularly sellable pieces. Since she hadn’t found the object she was searching for, she’d have to settle for something else to make her time worthwhile.

“I take that to mean that you planned to leave by the time I arrived. It’s a good thing I came early.”

Blast you, Robert. How do you always seem to know my intentions? I hate that. “If I had planned to leave, no one would blame me, since you were so unpleasant the last time we saw one another.”

“Me?”

“You had me arrested.”

“You were a spy and pretended to be Russian royalty. What else could I do?”

“I wasn’t spying. I was simply collecting information about some business ventures for a foreign investor.”

“Who was gathering information to manipulate the market and devalue our currency. And the information you passed on was stolen right from the desk of the Home Office. If you hadn’t escaped you’d have gone to prison, and you know it.”

“But I did escape, so there’s nothing more to be said about it.” Yet she thought about it frequently—especially the way Robert had coldly turned her over to the authorities, as if he hadn’t cared for her one iota.

She reached down for the small velvet-lined box that sat on the table. “Would you like to examine some of the items? These coins are quite rare. They’re Athenian.”

“And fake.”

“One of them.” She picked up the one in question. “It’s an ancient fake, just as old as the original, which gives it value on its own.” She caught the flicker of interest on his face.

“Rare, indeed. Not unheard of, but very unusual.”

She held out the coin in the palm of her hand. “The condition is astounding.”

He sauntered forward, produced a monocle, and regarded the coin.

He was so close, the scent of his soap tickled her nose. Like him, it was sophisticated, masculine, and elusive. The fragrance sent her memory tumbling back to a time when she’d held those broad shoulders, straddled his powerful thighs, and lowered herself onto—

“Fascinating.” His deep voice sent a shiver straight through her. He turned his head so that his gaze was level with hers. “How much is the opening bid?”

Her fingers closed over the coin, aware that her nipples had betrayed her, beaded in anticipation. How can he still affect me like this? It’s been years. This won’t do at all.

She turned and replaced the coin, then stepped to one side to put some space between them. “If you wish to bid on it, you should begin low. Most collectors won’t recognize the value of a fake that is this old.”

“Trust me, I know the value of a good fake,” he returned drily. “Better than most.”

Her cheeks heated, and she forced herself to look away from his eyes. Her gaze took in his French cuffs, and the immaculate stitching of his coat. Many men used corsets to fit into their clothing, but Robert was blessed with an athletic body that didn’t require such measures. She knew that body far, far too well.

She smoothed the black velvet about the coins and said lightly, “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in saving us both time and just tell me what it is that you want from me?”

His jaw hardened. “You know exactly what I want.”

“No, I don’t,” she returned, more sharply than she wished.

“It has to do with the onyx box.” Robert’s large hand, adorned with an ornate emerald ring, cupped the head of the cane as if he were ready to wield it. Though he carried himself with an air of ennui, his hands gave him away. They were strong, purposeful, and lightly calloused from all of the writing and riding that he did.

“I don’t have your onyx box anymore, which you well know. Your brother William took it from me the last time we met. Why do you ask about the box?”

Robert’s mouth thinned with anger. “There is more than one box and you know it. Why are you assisting that reprobate George Aniston?”

Her stomach tightened in a sick knot, yet she said smoothly, “I don’t know a George Aniston.”

“You know him.” Robert moved so quickly that she didn’t have time to whisk herself out of the way, his warm hand closing over her wrist as he towered over her, his eyes blazing into hers. “Don’t play your games with me. You knew I and my family needed that onyx box to win my brother Michael’s release, yet you still took it. And you did so at the behest of George Aniston. I can only be grateful that my brother and I managed to wrest it from you.”

Which had been a bitter loss, too. She managed a cool shrug. “You have the box, so there can be no issue now.”

“That would be true, if there were only one such box.”

She tried to insert a bored tone into her voice. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, but you do. For now I find you here, where rumors have it that another onyx box–an almost exact replica of the other–might be for sale. My dear, that cannot be a coincidence.”

“Do you see such a box among the items? For I do not.”

His brows lowered. “No, but it was rumored it would be here. And we both know it. Now, tell me why you are assisting George Aniston in this quest. I will have the truth.”

She curled her fingers into the palms of her hands to hide their dampness. “My association with George Aniston is none of your concern.”

“Oh, but it is, for he and I pursue the same object. I already have two of the onyx boxes. Now I want the same thing he does; the same thing you’ve chased here—the third and final one.”

She’d give everything she possessed to defeat George Aniston. No one hated him more, and no one had more reason to beat the vile Aniston at his own game.

But first she had to extricate herself from her current situation. She eyed her wrist, still in Robert’s steely grip, then shot him a look through her lashes. “You are hurting me.”

“I doubt that.” Yet he loosened his hold.

She almost winced. Not because he’d hurt her, but because she recognized the inherent decency that was so much a part of him. That decency was also the reason she’d left him; he was a man who would do the right thing come hell or high water. Unfortunately, she hadn’t wanted him to do the decent or right thing. No, her life was too complicated for that.

She set her jaw against an unexpected flash of sadness at the way fate had betrayed her. “You may release me.”

He lifted his brows in silent disbelief and she frowned.

“Have I tried to strike out, attempted to flee, offered resistance of any kind at all?”

His gaze narrowed. “Not yet.”

“I have remarkably little information for you, but I will tell you what I know. For a short while I was Aniston’s messenger where Miss Beauchamp was concerned.”

“He was blackmailing her.”

So he had been. And he’d used Moira to further his evil purposes, damn his black heart. She’d hated delivering the blackmail letters to Marcail Beauchamp, a famed and talented actress. Miss Beauchamp hadn’t been the usual brassy sort one expected to find in a theater, but was instead a very quiet and composed lady. It had been painful to deliver the poisonous communications from Aniston, but by that time, Moira was too deeply in Aniston’s coils herself to do more than offer her unspoken pity.

But it wouldn’t do to admit as much to Robert, so she shrugged as if she didn’t feel the weight of his disapproval. “I didn’t know what he was doing. I was told to deliver and receive various envelopes, which I did.”

“Marcail believed you were afraid of him.”

It showed? That shook Moira so much that she couldn’t speak for a moment. How had Marcail seen through Moira’s carefully displayed façade? Was it as she’d come to fear, that her heart was so engaged in this venture that she’d lost some of her abilities? If that were true, could she truly win her way free from Aniston’s clutches?

Icy doubt made her stomach tighten until she felt she might wretch. She realized that Robert was watching closely and she forced her stiff lips into a tiny, bored smile that was more a sneer. “He’s not a nice man.”

“No, he’s not. Why are you working for him?”

“He pays me well.”

“No, that’s not it.” Robert loosened his hold a bit more. Though his strong fingers remained about her wrist, his thumb was now sliding across the delicate skin almost in a caress. “You are talented and resourceful and could find work anywhere, could be anyone you chose. Is Aniston blackmailing you, too?”

There it was, out in the light. Just as ugly in sound as it was in reality.

She swallowed hard. “It’s a pity you and your brothers didn’t put Aniston behind bars.”

“If we’d found him, he would have been prosecuted. But what about you, Moira?” Robert leaned forward. “You haven’t answered: Is he blackmailing you, too?”

The gentle words filled Moira’s heart with such longing that tears filled her eyes. If only she could tell him, explain things, lean on him, trust him. But she already knew the cost of trust—and she couldn’t take the risk.

Still, for one precious moment, she imagined how lovely it would be if she could. Lately there’d been many moments when she’d had to fight despair. I’m so alone. If only I could trust that he wouldn’t attempt to interfere with my life once he realizes the truth. But I can’t. Robert is driven by his conscience and his pride. I could withstand one, but not both.

I must do this alone.

She pulled her wrist from his grasp, turning away to swipe the tears from her eyes. “Don’t be foolish. What could George Aniston possibly hold over my head? I don’t have a reputation to protect and I have nothing of value that Aniston or anyone else might want. So pray stop suggesting that horrid man has a hold over me. As I’ve already explained, I’m in his employ and he pays me well. Very well. That’s all there is to it.” She watched as Robert’s mouth hardened in distaste and she welcomed it. “That’s all there is to say. I don’t know anything more than that. And I damned well don’t know anything about your precious onyx box.”

“Then allow me to refresh your memory. There are three boxes. This last one seems to be missing . . . for now. The first two have already been in your possession. One of them, which my brother recovered, you took from Miss Beauchamp. The other I took from your lodgings in London.”

“You’re the one who—” She clamped her lips over the rest of the thought.

His smile couldn’t be called “nice.” “Oh yes, ’twas I who stole the box from your lodgings. I admit it freely. But only after you’d stolen it from someone else, a very befuddled professor, a researcher much addicted to Egyptian artifacts who thought you madly in love with him before you absconded in the dead of night with that particular piece of his collection.”

Damn it, she should have known Robert had been the one who’d stolen the box from her lodgings. But she couldn’t afford to let him see how upset she was. Instead of railing as she wished, she lifted her chin and said in a cool tone, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Denial was all she had left. A flicker of something crossed his face—was it disappointment?

“I don’t believe you.”

“Fine.”

His face hardened. “No, it’s not fine, Mrs. MacJames.” He almost spit the name. “I doubt you know your real name anymore, but I do. It’s Moira MacAllister—Hurst.”

She shrugged against his anger. “I don’t recognize that name.”

White lines etched his mouth, and she knew he had only a thin rein on his temper. “Unfortunately, it’s your real name. Thanks to your trickery years ago, we are married.”

Moira glanced down at the thick rug. A horse was tied up just inside the stables; she’d left it there just in case something went amiss. Her gaze flickered to the boxes she hadn’t yet unpacked. She’d already read through the inventory twice and was fairly certain the onyx box wasn’t here, but she’d hoped to search for it herself. She wouldn’t have that luxury now.

She looked back up to Robert. “I am surprised you haven’t had our marriage set aside.”

“I could have, if I’d wished the world to know my foolishness. It seemed more prudent to find you first and then take my tale to the authorities. It will be so much more amusing watching you explain your ruse.”

“The world will still know,” she pointed out.

His jaw tightened, and for the first time, a flicker of fear tightened her throat. He would never exact physical vengeance on a woman, but he wasn’t above making her pay in other ways.

She turned to the open crate that rested on the table and pulled out a flat ivory box. “I hope you don’t mind if I keep unpacking while you empty all of the dark pockets of my past. Mr. Bancroft is anxious that we begin on time.” She placed the box on the table and opened it, displaying a number of small alabaster vases.

Moira’s fingers slid over the smooth surface of the closest one, her heartbeat slowing as she allowed the sheer artistry of the piece to soak into her skin. She traced the perfect curve of the neck and followed the delicate flute with one finger. Immediately, everything else faded, her attention taken by the vases. They were exquisite in design and literally stole her breath. “Oh my.” She traced the smallest one with her fingertips, aware that Robert was now leaning over her shoulder.

“Amazing.”

She welcomed the awe in his deep voice. They’d both loved antiquities; it was one of the few things they’d shared other than physical pleasures. “I’d read the description, but seeing them—” She shook her head.

A faint smile on his lips, he reached past her, using his kerchief as he picked up one of the more delicate vases and examined it with the assurance of an expert. “What do you think these held?”

“As small as they are, I’d guess perfume or some other precious liquid.”

“Yes, they’re too small for olive oil.”

“Which would have been plentiful in this time and not held in such valuable containers.”

He pulled out his monocle and regarded another vase, his shoulder warm against Moira’s. “Hm. 1200 A.D., I’d say.”

“No, I think they’re older than that.” She caught the tremor in her voice and stepped away from him. “Look at the third one,” she said quickly. “There’s etching on it.”

He held the etched surface toward the light.

A distant door opened and closed, footsteps echoing down a hallway and then disappearing. Moira barely heard the noise as she leaned forward to see the etchings.

Robert turned as she moved and met her gaze. Their faces were level, her eyes inches from his. How could she have forgotten how compelling his eyes could be? Framed in thick lashes, the deep and mysterious blue of a sapphire, they captured her imagination and stole her composure. She wanted nothing more than to lean forward and . . .

Her gaze dropped to his mouth. Firm and masculine like a Greek statue’s, it drew her like the sparkle of a diamond. Her breath came heavier as she leaned toward him, her lips closer and closer to his—

He turned and replaced the small vase. “It’s beautiful; you rarely see alabaster of this purity.” He lifted his monocle to examine it better. “You may be right; the etching does seem to indicate an earlier era.”

Robert was surprised his voice sounded so normal, as his heart was thundering in his chest and his cock stood at full attention. But that was the way it always was with Moira. She infuriated, confounded, and seduced him, all at once.

He didn’t know what it was about her, but he would have to watch himself closely to keep from falling for her tricks. He’d almost allowed himself to kiss her; it had taken all of his strength to turn away. Yet even now, he was tense with desire and far too aware of her.

She leaned forward, her red, silken hair already falling from its pins, one thick strand curled over her shoulder. “Did you see the inscription on the bottom of the box that holds the vases?”

Even saying something businesslike, she sounded seductive. He forced himself to turn his gaze on the ivory box and its contents. “I don’t see an inscription—ah. Wait.” He moved to one side so that the light caught the faint lines. “I thought this might be Roman, but I can see now that it’s Greek.” He peered at it through his monocle, then finally turned to her. “It’s an unusual—”

The room was empty.

“Damnation!” He raced to the door and almost ran into Mr. Bancroft, who was just entering.

“Ah, Mr. Hurst!” The man’s gaze flickered to the table behind Robert. “I see Mrs. MacJames showed you the box and vases. Astonishing, aren’t th—”

“Where is she?”

Mr. Bancroft blinked and then peered past Robert. “She isn’t here? But I thought—”

“She left. Did you see her?”

“No. I just came in from the terrace, and the hall was quite empty.”

Robert cursed. He whirled back to the room, his gaze sweeping over the long windows. Could she have gone through them? No, he would have heard them open. Where the hell is she? She can’t disappear in a puff of smoke. She had to—His gaze locked onto a faint line in the patterned wallpaper. In a trice he was at the hidden door, searching for the latch. “How do you open this?”

Bancroft had followed him across the room and now shook his head. “I don’t know. I’d never noticed that doorway, and—”

Click. Robert had found the hidden latch and the door swung open, a hidden entrance for servants who might need quicker access in order to efficiently meet their master’s and mistress’s needs.

Robert ducked his head and raced into the small hallway, which quickly grew dark. The passage was narrow, the flagstone floor worn smooth with use, and the faint scent of freshly baked bread let him know where the final door would open. He had to duck his head so as not to hit the wide timbers that occasionally appeared as he made his way. He rushed along and turned a corner, the light disappearing completely. But Robert maintained his speed by the simple expediency of trailing his hands along each side.

Urgency pressed him forward. He couldn’t let her escape.

“Mr. Hurst!” Bancroft called after him. “When you see Mrs. MacJames, please remind her that the items must be ready soon and . . .” The voice faded as Robert ran down the twisting hallway.

The fool. Moira MacAllister was gone and would never reappear. She had to know something about the onyx box; he’d seen a flicker in her gaze.

Robert cursed as he stumbled down a step, twice bumping his head painfully when an especially low beam crossed the ceiling. The hallway ended at a small door that swung open to reveal the kitchens.

At his entrance, several undercooks turned and stared in astonishment.

One stepped forward. “Pardon, monsieur, but you are lost, no?”

Robert brushed a cobweb from his shoulder. “Did you see a woman come out this door?”

“Oui,” gulped the cook. “She ran through and went on to the stables.”

“How do you know she was heading for the stables?”

“Because she took an apple for her horse.”

Robert muttered his thanks and ran out the door. The stables were set across the small cobblestone courtyard, and he rushed inside and collared the first groom he saw. “Have you seen Mrs. MacJames?”

At the man’s blank stare, Robert added, “An attractive redhead.”

The groom’s expression cleared and he said in a thick Scottish brogue, “Och, tha’ one. She had a mount already saddled and took off like the hounds o’ hell were after her.”

“Blast it!” Robert looked out the stable doors toward the long drive that led up to the house. “Send someone for my carriage. I left my groom walking the horses in the drive and—”

“Lor’ love ye, guv’nor, but ye’ll no’ catch her in a carriage. She dinna go down the drive, but tha’ way.” The man nodded over Robert’s shoulder.

He turned and his heart sank as he faced the wide fields that led into a thick copse of woods.

“Aye,” the groom continued, admiration coloring his voice. “She took tha’ horse right o’er the fence and through the field. Tha’ lassie rides like the wind. She’s a crackin’ good horsewoman.”

“She’s a royal pain in the ass.”

The groom chuckled. “Och, most women are.”

Robert walked out toward the high fence that bordered the field, his gaze on the copse of trees. The wind stirred their leaves, but no other movement enlivened the moment. He fisted his hands, struggling to contain the anger that threatened to choke him.

She’d escaped yet again.

With a muffled curse, he turned on his heel and strode to his carriage.