A Most Dangerous Profession

chapter 16





Diary entry by Michael Hurst from today.


One. More. Day. When will this ever end? I’ve been in this godforsaken place for almost six months and every day seems to last longer than the one before. William has supposedly arrived to free me, yet the sulfi cannot be bothered to meet with him. I attempted to ask that the matter be expedited but was rudely silenced by the sulfi, who seemed insulted by my desire to leave his house, even though I was brought here unconscious and trussed up like a wild boar, and have been held under lock and key and musket ever since.

Miss Smythe-Haughton has advised patience and has gone to speak with the sulfi herself, which is a complete waste of time. Still, at least she is no longer underfoot while I’m pacing my bedchamber from end to end. If I am not released soon, I will be forced to escape, musket-bearing guards or not.

Several hours later, Robert tilted his head to one side and stared at his reflection in the mirror, his gaze narrowing as he examined the intricate folds of his cravat. After a long, silent moment, he nodded. “It will do.”

Behind him, Buffon clasped his hands and gave a relieved sigh. “Oui! Very good, monsieur. I feared the starch would not be to your liking.”

“It’s well enough.” He deftly placed a sapphire pin in his cravat. “I am ready for dinner and there’s still thirty minutes to spare. I’ll wear my robe until it’s time to put on my dinner coat, so it won’t wrinkle.”

“Very good, monsieur.” Buffon went to the wardrobe and removed a brilliant red silk robe.

He lovingly carried it to Robert, who eyed it with disbelief. “Where’s my blue robe?”

Buffon appeared pained. “Monsieur, will you at least try the new robe? It is very fashionable and—”

“The blue robe. Now.”

Buffon’s lips thinned, but he went to the large wardrobe and, with a great show, lovingly hung the red silk robe inside. He yanked out a blue robe from the bottom of the wardrobe, muttering under his breath in French.

“That robe is not a rag.”

Buffon sniffed but held out the robe.

Robert slipped it on. “When you are done pouting, I have a task for you.”

Buffon had turned to put away the cravats that had not been used, but he paused, his dark gaze locking on Robert. “Oui?”

“It may not be pleasant.”

“Your tasks rarely are, monsieur. But you are here on a mission, which is why you are now pretending to be married to madame.”

Robert tied the belt on his robe, hiding a grimace. Telling his servants he was pretending to be married had seemed easier than trying to explain the true circumstances. For some reason, though, hearing his own words rankled. “It’s a very important mission; lives are at stake.” One in particular.

The valet draped the cravats over his arm and stood as if at attention. “What do you need of Buffon?”

“Information. Rumor has it that Ross has a secret chamber somewhere inside this castle.”

“Intriguing!”

“That item I purchased from Ross, the one I told you about?”

“Oui. The onyx box.”

“Yes. It appears Ross has decided to switch it for a copy.”

Buffon gave a visible start. “Mon Dieu! Does he not know who you are?”

“Ah, Buffon, not everyone holds me in such high regard as you.”

“I know what makes a gentleman,” Buffon said loftily. “This Ross is not a gentleman, but a barbarian. And no wonder, for he lives here in this wretched countryside, far from civilization. I daresay he does not even wear a cravat!”

“He wears one, but he mangles the knot. Regardless of your opinion of Ross’s neckwear, I need to find this secret chamber so I can retrieve the original box. It’s possible that the servants may know where to look, and that is where you come in.”

“Of course, monsieur. I shall take great pleasure in discovering where this chamber may be.”

“Excellent. I don’t know the size of it; it may be quite small.”

“Do not worry; wherever it is, Buffon will find it.” The valet put his hand over his heart and said in a voice replete with feeling, “Even if I have to seduce a dozen chambermaids, I will discover the secret.”

“I’m moved by the sacrifices you make for me.”

“I am very loyal, am I not? Fortunately, I do not mind seducing the chambermaids. I have done so for you before, and I will do it again.”

“Considering the number of maids here, I daresay you can find at least one who is attractive. But if you cannot find any unfreckled chambermaids, feel free to glean your information from a casual conversation with a footman.”

“I beg your pardon, but I do not speak with footmen. The butler, perhaps. The housekeeper, oui, for I shall need her assistance when I perform some of my duties for your wardrobe. And I may speak with Ross’s valet, if he is polite—though I daresay he is a fool, for his master cannot tie a cravat.” Buffon bowed. “I shall begin my investigation immediately. Before I leave, shall I assist you into your coat?”

“No, thank you. I can do it myself.”

Buffon gave a haughty sniff. “Very well, monsieur.” He crossed the room with a stately tread and left, closing the door softly behind him.

If there was a secret anything in this castle, Buffon would find it. Robert had learned long ago that servants knew far more of their master’s business than their master knew of theirs.

Robert found his monocle on the dresser and slipped it into his pocket. Then he removed his robe and put on his coat, adjusting his lace cuffs before he stepped out into the hallway.

Instantly, twelve footmen straightened to attention.

“Goodness, but there are a lot of you.” Robert paused by the tallest footman and examined the man from head to foot through his monocle. “Is the entire castle so well staffed?”

“No, sir. Just this wing.”

“How convenient for us all.” Robert walked on to Moira’s door and knocked softly.

A very short, very portly maid with short brown curls clustered about her face answered the door. She curtsied and when Robert informed her that he was Mr. Hurst, she opened the door wider.

Moira called out, “Fiona, thank you. You may go.”

The maid curtsied again and left, closing the door behind her.

“Well?” Moira asked. “What do you think?” She twirled before him, radiant in a gown of bronze silk, the skirt resplendent with a heavy cream lace overlay. The color made her skin look even whiter and her eyes luminous.

The gown appeared very simple, the bodice cut at a decorous level, the sleeves puffed at her shoulders. But the second she walked, the cream overgown parted and the bronze silk was left in full view to cling lovingly to her long, slender legs.

Robert nodded. “That will do very well.”

“Good.” Moira picked up a small cream-colored reticule and slipped it over her wrist.

“How was your personal tour of the castle?”

“Interesting. We didn’t have time to walk through all of it, but I have a fairly clear idea of how the main wing is laid out. I’ll draw up a map after dinner.”

“And our host? Did he behave?”

“Barely.” Moira’s eyes twinkled. “Whenever I felt uneasy, I mentioned your skill with dueling pistols.”

Robert caught her arm and pulled her to him, looking into her upturned face. “Moira, you’re not to put yourself in harm’s way. Do you understand?”

“I was never in harm’s way. And if I ever found myself there, I’d use my pistol.”

“I’m certain that you’re deadly with the blasted thing, but still . . . for Rowena’s sake, please be careful.”

Moira nodded.

Robert released her, his chest oddly tight. “By the way, we’re blessed with an inordinate number of footmen standing in the hallway.”

“How many?” she asked curiously.

“Twelve.”

“Good God, are we at Versailles?”

“You’d think so. I wonder if they’re here to serve . . . or guard.”

Moira’s brow lowered. “That will make searching the castle much more difficult.”

“I shall think of something.”

She sent him a crooked smile. “I’m sure you will. Are you ready to spend a few hours insulting Sir Lachlan?”

“Are you ready to spend a few hours shamelessly flattering him?”

“Indeed I am.”

“Then we are both ready.” He opened the door. “After you, Mrs. Hurst.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hurst.” She swept past him into the hallway.

The next morning, Robert flipped back his curtain, the sun pouring in as he surveyed the courtyard far below. Except for two horses held at wait by grooms, it was empty.

The evening had gone smoothly. Ross had been charmed by Moira, annoyed by Robert, and increasingly curious about their marital relationship. This morning, Moira had gone to breakfast with Ross while Robert stayed in his room, ostensibly too languid to face the sunrise.

If things were going according to plan, Moira was on her way to an energetic ride with her host, leaving the way clear for Robert. Except for those damn footmen. I shall have to do something about that.

The grooms below brought the horses to the front steps as the huge doors opened and Moira came out, her gloved hand upon Ross’s arm. Ross’s deep voice echoed through the yard, Moira’s head bent toward him as she listened.

Her habit was a masterly creation; though buttoned to the neck and showing not an inch of skin beyond her face, it molded to every curve. Ross was much closer to her than politeness dictated, his hand placed over hers in a possessive manner. A flare of red-hot jealousy caught Robert, and his hands clutched the windowsill until his knuckles were white.

How ridiculous. She was doing exactly what she was supposed to be, and doing it well, too. Ross was quickly becoming enslaved.

So why am I so angry? Robert could think of only one reason: he was beginning to have feelings for Moira. Damn it. That will not do.

Buffon’s knock sounded on the door as Moira and Ross mounted their steeds and trotted out of the courtyard. Robert turned from the window and called for the valet to enter.

Buffon carried a breakfast tray, a small note tucked on one corner. “You have dressed! If you’d told me you wished to do so, I would have come immediately and—”

“I didn’t want anyone to know I’m awake.”

“Ah. More intrigue, eh?” Buffon set down the tray and picked up the small note. “From madame.”

Robert opened the note.


Robert,



This morning went as planned. I told Ross you never rise before noon, and he took great delight in disparaging “lazy city ways.” He has quite a distaste for Edinburgh and especially London. Inside is a sketch of the castle from last night’s tour.



My maid let slip that Sir Lachlan is very fond of his study and spends much of his time there. It may be a good place to begin, if you can find a way to get around the footmen. There must be a hundred of them throughout the castle. On our tour, we were never out of sight of at least two.



Now we’re off on a ride. I expect we’ll return at noon or later, if I can arrange it. Best of luck in your hunt.



Moira


Robert glanced at the map, noting the location of the study, and then slipped it into his pocket. “Buffon, have you found out anything of use yet?”

“Oui, monsieur. I discovered that Ross brags of his collections to all of his visitors, and often brings out special items to win praise. He is a bit of a braggart.”

That could be useful. “Good. What else have you discovered?”

“Not much more, although I have made inroads in cultivating various personages below stairs, including”—Buffon made a face—“Ross’s valet. He might know something, which is why I make the sacrifice.”

Buffon picked up the wrinkled blue robe from the end of the bed and, holding it between thumb and forefinger, carried it to the wardrobe and dropped it inside.

“Thank you, Buffon. Now I need to find my way to Ross’s study, but there is a problem. I don’t wish the footmen to know I’m wandering about. Do you think you could create a diversion, to draw them from the hallway?”

“It would have to be a big diversion, but oui, I could do it. I think for this, I will need fire.”

Robert raised his brows.

“Nothing less would draw them all. I will use just a small flame, but much smoke.” Buffon picked up a napkin from the tray and dipped a corner of it into the washbasin. “Shall I begin my diversion now?”

“Yes. I may only have two hours before madame and Ross return.”

“Very good, monsieur. Then I shall endeavor to start a second fire in a different corner around that time.”

“That would do very well.”

Buffon bowed and left. A few minutes passed, then one of the footmen gave out a sharp yell. Footsteps thudded, followed by more yells.

Robert peeked out the doorway as the faint scent of smoke wafted in. The hall was clear except for two footmen who hovered at the end, looking uncertain if they should follow their brethren.

“Bless you, Buffon,” Robert murmured as he slipped out of his room and hurried to the opposite end of the hallway.