“But alas, no luck there. Although oddly enough, I did find a rather attractive paisley pattern in dark burgundy and navy that?—”
“Marcus!”
“You do not care for paisley?”
“If you say another word about a color or pattern other than the one which we are seeking, I will finish the job those two ruffians set out to do!”
“Don’t tell me you’ve added a knife to the gruesome assortment of weapons in that reticule of yours.” Before she could retort, he ceased his teasing. “But if you insist, we’ll dispense with your opinion on sartorial splendor. What you wish to hear is the name Shackleford.”
Augusta looked thoroughly perplexed.
“I wouldn’t have thought of his name either. Not my taste at all. But the dreadful fellow was so anxious to curry my favor that he dug around in his workshop until he emerged victorious with several yards of the silk.”
“Oursilk?”
“The exact same. And a rare silk at that. Apparently only one bolt survived a leaky hull and long passage from Peking. He bought it, along with several other remnants, from the shipper at a favorable price.”
“So we may assume that not many garments have been made from the stuff,” she said very slowly.
“I think it is safe to say so.”
“And this Shackleford—he remembers his clientele?”
“He does, though hastening his recall cost me the order of a garment I shall relegate to the waste bin as quickly as possible.”
“Please stop teasing,” she urged. “What did he tell you?”
The earl took a moment to guide his team around a sharp bend, then brought the phaeton to a complete stop among a copse of elm and hawthorn.
“Ludlowe is our man.” he said softly.
“Oh! “ Augusta drew in a shaky breath. “Now we know for certain who is the miscreant behind these terrible crimes!” She leaned toward him with a radiant smile and placed a hand on his arm. “Marcus, how very clever of you!”
“I’ve proven useful, haven’t I?”
There was something about his tone that caused her expression to turn wary. “Yes, indeed you have,” she answered rather hesitantly.
“Then perhaps I should be rewarded for my efforts.”
Her jaw dropped in shock, and for a moment she was unable to speak. “Shame on you, sir!“ she finally managed to sputter. “I had not thought you so mercenary as to expect a sum?—”
“It’s not money I’m speaking of, Gus.”
She bit at her lower lip. “J-Just what did you have in mind?”
There was no answer as he dropped the reins and bent his head toward hers. This time the kiss was gentle, his lips merely grazing over hers at first. She recoiled as if burned, but his hands had come up around her shoulders and stopped her from pulling away.
“Am I truly that odious?” he murmured before taking possession of her mouth again.
Augusta knew that she should do something to put out the flames licking up inside of her but all such resolve seemed to go up in smoke. Leaning into his embrace, she gave in to trail a caress along the line of his jaw. Then, as if knowing that in another instant she would be consumed by the fire, she managed to draw back.
Her hands flattened against his chest, creating some space between them. “I … think you had better take me home, sir.”
“Gus,” he began.
“Please! At once!” She was mortified by the note of rising panic in her voice. Flighty heroines and gothic melodramas had always seemed so laughable to her, yet here she was, enacting her own Cheltenham tragedy. It would have been a most amusing scene, she supposed, had she not been the leading lady.
Marcus looked at her uncertainly. “I’m sorry, but?—”
