A Most Dangerous Profession

chapter 10





A letter to Michael Hurst from his sister Lady Caitlyn Hurst MacLean, two years ago.


Of all the Hursts, you are the most like our grandmother, Mam. No one believes in magic and amulets more. Do you remember the tales she used to frighten us with when we were children? Not for her the soft stories of princesses and knights and good deeds. No, she always told the stories where witches ate bad little children and evil kings ruled their countries by placing a horrid curse upon those who dared rebuke them.

Like the Brothers Grimm, she delighted in sharing the darker side of the world. You loved those stories while the rest of us cowered in fear. Perhaps that’s why you’re the explorer among us; you savor the things we seek to avoid.

Later that same afternoon, Leeds wiped the blood from his nose and looked about the tack room. “Och, tha’ finishes it.”

“Aye,” Stewart agreed, holding a handkerchief to his cut ear. “ ’Twas no’ so hard. After all, they’re but Sassenachs.”

He looked at the six footmen and two coachmen who were now trussed and tied up along one wall. He and Leeds might be sporting some bruises, but the footmen and coachmen were far worse for wear, only two of them even conscious.

“Ye could see Mr. Hurst’s Scottish lineage in the way he fought tonight,” Leeds said.

Stewart cast a cautious glance at the closed door before he leaned forward to say, “There’s no’ many men as can fight like Mr. Hurst, fer all he wears them Frenchified clothes.”

Leeds nodded. “He do dress like he couldna’ lift a fork, much less make a fist.”

“But when he makes a fist—” Stewart shook his head in admiration. “ ’Tis somethin’ to see.”

The door to the tack room opened and Mr. Hurst walked in. He had already tugged his gloves back on, his cane tucked under one arm, his cravat back in perfect repair. Only the faint scrape along his jaw indicated he’d been involved in a glorious altercation. “You’ve tied them securely?”

“Aye, sir,” Stewart said. “Leeds tied ’em, and I checked the lashin’s meself.”

“Good. Thank you for assisting me.”

“Och, now,” Leeds said, grinning. “ ’Twas a pleasure.”

“Aye,” Stewart said, cracking his knuckles. “ ’Twas more fun than havin’ to put up the horses.”

Robert had to laugh at their enthusiasm. “It was a good fight.”

“Wha’ are we to do wit’ them now, sir?” Stewart asked.

“We’ll hold them here until morning, when we’ll put them on the mail coach and send them back to Edinburgh to their damned master.

“It’s a pity we won’t be there to see Aniston’s face when his servants are returned to him.”

Stewart rubbed his chin. “Ye seem a mite put out by this Aniston fellow.”

“ ‘Put out’ isn’t the phrase I’d use.” Robert couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice. Just the thought of Aniston made his chest tighten as if a vise were upon it.

Stewart cleared his throat. “Sir, just to be certain . . . are we to send them back alive?”

“Of course you’re to send them back alive! I just don’t want any of them to follow us. And this will send Aniston a message he’ll not forget.

“You may leave them for now; just lock the door and keep the key with you. I won’t have someone stumbling upon them and letting them all go.”

“What if the servants from the inn need to get into the tack room?” Stewart asked.

“I’ve already spoken to the landlord. He was more than glad to make a few extra coins by renting us this space for the short time we’ll need it.”

“Yes, sir,” Leeds said. “We’ll sleep in the next room so we can keep an eye upon them.”

“Excellent. I shall go inside and bespeak a room. Buffon should arrive within the hour with my luggage. We should reach Balnagown Castle by nightfall tomorrow.” The real work would begin then, and Robert was looking forward to it. “When Buffon arrives, take care of his coach and horses, but do not allow him to unpack my luggage. I have all I need in my portmanteau.”

Leeds and Stewart looked pleased at the prospect of telling Buffon what to do.

Robert left and went out to the inn yard. The inn had been a welcome surprise, much larger than they’d anticipated, considering how far north they’d traveled. The two-storied timbered building dated to the sixteenth century, a style Robert rather liked. He entered the front hall and, upon finding the innkeeper, obtained the use of a private parlor.

The room he was escorted to was cozy, the ceiling so low that he was in danger of banging his head on the broad beams. A welcoming fire crackled in the grate and several well-stuffed chairs sat nearby, while a small table with two chairs were tucked beside a window that overlooked the inn yard.

Robert was glad to strip off his coat and gloves and warm himself by the fire. The innkeeper further endeared himself by producing a decanter of very tolerable brandy, which Robert enjoyed as he awaited his valet’s arrival.

He sipped the amber liquid, savoring its warmth, and wondered how Moira was faring. She would be angry that he’d left her behind, but he’d had no choice.

I have a daughter. The thought rang through him.

His entire life had changed since he’d found out. Yet he didn’t feel different; he didn’t feel like a father. While he was worried about the child, it was more because of her innocence than the fact that she was his.

Was that normal? He sighed and took another sip of brandy. I don’t know what a father should feel. Damn Moira for keeping this from me. I deserved to know.

Yet he couldn’t entirely blame her. Their relationship had been based on lies. She’d been living in London, pretending to be the daughter of a Russian prince. She was very, very good and few people had realized her deception. She’d become the darling of society, welcomed into the homes of the wealthiest and most powerful.

Before long, someone in the Home Office had noticed a slow leak of financial information. After some research, they’d realized that the Russian princess was neither Russian nor a princess, and Robert was sent to investigate by pretending to become one of her admirers.

He had expected to be unimpressed with such a sham. But what he’d found was an amazingly beautiful and intelligent woman who was as charming as she was false. But beneath that falseness, he sensed something else—an almost desperate vulnerability. Who was she? Who was she working for? And how was she able to fool so many people?

The more he’d attempted to learn, the deeper he’d become involved. There was a spark between them from their first meeting and eventually they’d succumbed to it.

Robert now admitted that the attraction had been growing into something more, which was why he’d been so furious when she’d disappeared. He’d foolishly hoped that she would begin to trust him, and tell him the truth about herself and her past. Instead, she’d arranged their sham marriage and then disappeared without a word, taking with her important documents she’d stolen from a high-ranking government official.

The Home Office had demanded an explanation, and Robert hadn’t had one. He’d been too involved in trying to discover who the real Moira MacAllister was, to notice her side activities. Furious at being made a fool of, he’d set out to find her, using all of his resources. After days of near misses, he’d finally caught up with her at a small inn by the docks in Dover. There, her defiant attitude and seeming unconcern had infuriated him even more. He’d reclaimed the stolen papers and, to prove that she meant nothing to him, had left her in the care of another man from the Home Office to deliver her to face charges.

An hour later, the agent had been thoroughly bamboozled and locked in a closet, and Moira was gone.

Robert had never stopped looking for her. As the years progressed, he’d convinced himself that it was just professional pride and curiosity about her motives in tricking him in such a way that drove him on, but now he had to face a few facts about himself—none of which were pleasant. His anger with Moira had nothing to do with his job with the Home Office, and everything to do with the growing feelings he’d had for her when she’d left.

Discovering now that she’d been carrying his child when she’d left, and that she hadn’t bothered to tell him, added to his fury and confusion.

After I get my hands on that damned box and settle the issue with Aniston, she and I are due for a long, long talk.

He settled deeper in his chair, wishing he hadn’t had to leave her at the squire’s. No doubt she thought to set out after him, which was why he’d not only taken all of the horses, but also gone through her clothing and portmanteau to make certain she had no funds to hire a carriage.

“Let her feel the sting of being left behind for once,” he murmured, sipping the brandy. It served her right.

A coach pulled up outside, the traces rattling. Robert stood and crossed to the window, glad to see it was Buffon’s. Robert’s luggage—two large trunks and a number of smaller cases—was strapped to the top, so that it was almost as tall as it was long.

Stewart approached as the coach came to a stop and immediately engaged the valet in an energetic discussion. As Robert watched them, a rider on a large bay trotted into the inn yard, garnering no more than a passing glance from the arguing servants. The man guided his horse around the coach toward the stable.

As the gentleman pulled his horse to a halt he turned his head, his profile in stark relief against the dark stable door.

“Damn it!” Robert slammed his glass onto the table, the brandy sloshing out as he stalked out of the parlor.