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“You know the answer to that.”
“Who would you wed, if not for me?”
“I’ve no notion, nor do I care to think about it until absolutely necessary. Are you suggesting I consider alternatives to you?”
Coming to a halt, Amelia released a sound that reminded him endearingly of a kitten’s growl. “I want to be mad for you! Why is the choice not mine to make?”
“Perhaps you suffer from bad taste?” He laughed when she stuck her tongue out at him. Then he lowered his voice and stared at her with heavy-lidded eyes. “If it’s the mask that arouses you, I can wear one to bed. Such games can be fun.”
When her eyes went big as saucers, he winked.
Her hands went to her hips as she bristled; then her head tilted to the side. “Perhaps it is the mystery that intrigues me so? Is that what you are suggesting, my lord?”
“It is a possibility.” Ware’s smile faded. “I intend to make inquiries about your admirer. Let us see if we can unmask him.”
“Why?”
“Because he is not for you, Amelia. A foreign count? You have always longed for a family. You would not move away from your sister now that you are reunited, so what future do you have with this man? And let us not discount the fact that he may seek to wound me through you.”
She began pacing again, and he watched, admiring the inherent grace in her movements and the way her skirts swirled enchantingly around her long legs. “Everyone appears to believe that Montoya has no interest in me as an individual, only in the people connected to me. I admit I find it rather insulting to learn that those who claim to love me find it impossible to imagine a man desiring me for myself.”
“I can more than imagine it, Amelia. I feel it. Do not take my courtesy as a lack of desire for you. You would be wrong.”
Heaving out her breath, she said, “St. John is also attempting to find him.”
He expected as much. “If the man is hiding in the rookeries, St. John might succeed. But you said the count was finely dressed and cultured. He sounds as if he is a denizen of my social circles, rather than the pirate’s. My search may prove more fruitful.”
Amelia paused again. “What will you do if you find him?” There was more than a small measure of suspicion in her voice.
“Are you asking me if I will hurt him?” The question was not frivolous, as he was a swordsman of some renown. “I might.”
Her beautiful features crumbled. “I should not have said anything to you.”
Straightening, Ware moved toward her. “I am pleased you spoke the truth. Our relationship would have been irreparably damaged if you had presented a lie to hide your guilt.” As he reached her, he breathed deeply, inhaling the innocent scent of honeysuckle. He had long suspected that her body resembled the flower she favored, fragrant and sweet as honey upon the lips.
He cupped her face in both hands and tilted her gaze upward to lock with his. Something new swirled in the emerald depths and he found himself falling into them. “But that does not change the fact that the man knew you were mine and took liberties regardless. A grave insult to me, love. I can forgive you, but I cannot forgive him.”
“Ware . . .” Her lips parted, the seam glistening in the soft afternoon light.
Leaning over her, he bent to take her mouth. Her breath caught as she recognized his intent.
“Good afternoon, my lord. ”
They sprung apart as Amelia’s sister and her husband joined them on the terrace, followed shortly by a maid bearing a new tea service.
“It is a lovely day,” the pirate said in his distinctive raspy voice. “We thought we would join you in the sunshine.”
Ware understood the warning. With a slight bow of his head, he stepped back farther. The former Lady Winter smiled at his perceptiveness. It was a bedroom smile, the one a woman shared with her lover after a bout of great sex. For Mrs. St. John, it was her only smile, and it was a lauded part of her appeal.
“We would enjoy the company,” Ware said, leading Amelia back to their table.
He spent the rest of the afternoon trading inanities with the St. Johns and, later, with those he and Amelia passed during their drive through the park. But part of his mind was actively occupied with the logistics of his hunts—the one for Amelia’s favor and the other for the masked man who sought to steal it from him.
“Are you certain the man’s name is Simon Quinn?”
“Aye,” the tavern keep said, setting another pint on the bar.
“Thank you.” Colin accepted the ale and moved to a table in the corner. The report of a man searching for him was disturbing, even more so because the one making the inquiries was using Quinn’s name. It could be Cartland, or one of the men with him, though the owner of the tavern was fairly certain the man did not have a French accent.
There was nothing Colin could do aside from settling in to wait, using techniques of concealment in which he was well versed. A man of his size could never hide completely, but he could make himself less noticeable by sprawling low to disguise his height and breadth of shoulder. He also left his hair unrestrained, which roughened his overall appearance.
The establishment itself made it easy to lose oneself among the crowd. The lighting was kept low to hide a multitude of faults and dirt. The dark-stained walnut furnishings—round tables and spindle-backed chairs—only added to the dimness of the interior. The air was filled with the smells of old and new ale and crackling grease from the kitchen. Patrons wandered in and out. Several were regulars whom Colin had spoken to previously.
Long ago, in his past life, he had frequented such places with his uncle, Pietro. Those lazy afternoons off had been spent listening to the imparted wisdom of a good and decent man. Colin missed him, thought of him often, and wondered how he was faring. Pietro had instilled strength of character in him and a belief in honor that had stood him in good stead these many years.
Colin’s hand fisted on the table.
One day, they would be reunited, and he would show his uncle how he had heeded those early teachings. He would free Pietro from his life of servitude and establish him in comfort. Life was too short, and he wanted his beloved uncle to enjoy as much of it as possible.
“Evenin’,” greeted a voice to his side, drawing Colin from his introspection.
Beside him stood an elderly gentleman who spent most of his life in the taverns on this street, offering companionship to those who would buy him a drink or something to eat. Occasionally, the man overheard something worth selling, and Colin was willing to pay for it, as he was well aware.
“Have a seat,” Colin replied, gesturing to the chair opposite his own.
Hours passed. He used the time to question those who found him familiar from his previous sojourns there. Many hoped to earn a coin or two by passing along information of note. Sadly, there was nothi
ng of interest about Cartland, but Colin bought a pint for anyone who talked with him and used their company to deepen his disguise.
Then, quite miraculously, the man he most hoped to see appeared in a swirl of heavy black cape. Simon Quinn paused at the bar and exchanged words with the keep, then turned with wide eyes to find Colin waving from the corner.
“By God,” Quinn said as he approached, unclasping the jeweled frog that secured his cloak to his neck. “I have been searching all over London for you, half-starved, and you have been here in my lodgings the entire time?”
“Well”—Colin grinned—“the last few hours, at least.”
Quinn muttered a curse under his breath and sank wearily into the seat across from him. A pint was brought over, then a plate of food. Once he was fully settled, he said, “I come bearing both good and bad news.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Colin said dryly.
“I have been betrayed in France.”
Colin winced. “Did Cartland forfeit the names of everyone?”
“It would appear so. I believe that is how he was able to prove his loyalty.”
“The man has loyalty to no one but himself.”
“Very true.” Quinn stabbed a piece of meat, brought it to his mouth, and chewed angrily.
“So that is the bad news, then. What is the good?”
“I have been able to secure a promise of a pardon for all of us, including you.”
“How is that possible if they hunt you as well?”
Quinn’s smile was grim. “Leroux was valuable to the agent-general, enough so that the capture of his killer is of greater concern than the routing of English spies. I was allowed to leave on the promise that I would return with the murderer—whoever that may be. To guarantee my return, they hold the others Cartland betrayed.”
Colin straightened. “By God . . . we must work swiftly, then.”
“Yes.” Quinn finished off his pint. “And there are conditions to complicate matters. First, I must persuade Lord Eddington to release a French spy whom he has in captivity. Then, we must convince a member of Cartland’s group—a man named Depardue—to vouch that Cartland has confessed to the crime.”
