Unmasking the Thief, page 14
“And yet,” Francisco said thoughtfully, “one would have thought he had bigger fish to fry than a stubborn almost sister-in-law.”
As though distracted, he had not released her. He still held her by one wrist, his other hand at her back, almost in waltz position, although much closer than was proper. Yet the casual nature of his hold made her hesitate to escape. She didn’t want to make a fuss about it, betray her own increasing awareness when he didn’t seem to notice she was basically in his arms. He wasn’t even looking at her but gazing over her head.
“I suspect my mother’s arrival imbued his plan with some urgency,” she said as calmly as she could. “What are his bigger fish?”
“I’m not sure,” he said. “But he is gathering about himself a large variety of powerful men, of his own party and the opposition. And then there are the generals and militia commanders. And everyone thinks very highly of him.”
Idly, his thumb brushed back and forth across her wrist, causing secret little thrills to spread across her skin. His gaze came slowly down to hers.
“Still looking for my lies and betrayal, Mr. Francis?” she said, rather proud of her steady voice.
A warm, if rueful smile touched his eyes. “No. Truth be known, I’m looking for clues that you like this closeness as much as I.”
“I can’t imagine why you would suspect such a thing.”
“You are still here,” he pointed out, lifting her hand and placing it on his shoulder.
And now, somehow, it was impossible to retreat. “Only because I am supremely indifferent to—”
“Liar,” he said softly. His hand swept down her back, drawing her against the full length of his body.
His heat spread through her like wildfire. She wanted to run. She wanted to lay her head on his shoulder and just…feel. Instead, with some vague idea of bringing one of them to their senses, she thrust her hand over his shoulder and clutched the soft, waving hair at the back of his neck. The word, “Enough!” hovered on her lips, to be commanded in her best governess voice of disapproval.
But an audible sigh of pleasure escaped his lips. His head eased back into her touch with such obvious pleasure that her scold died along with her resistance, drowned in a sudden flood of wonder and desire. She moved her fingers through his hair, caressing his nape, and his hand crept sensuously up her back to cup the back of her head, her cheek.
“Your touch is sweet,” he whispered. “So very sweet.”
She had never seen such heat in anyone’s eyes. It melted her bones, even before she became aware of the hard ridge growing against her abdomen. How could she feel so weak and yet so excited at the same time? She could not even halt the exploration of her fingers in his hair, stroking his nape, dipping beneath his cravat.
His hungry gaze dropped to her lips. Butterflies plunged through her stomach, and her hand at his neck tugged his head lower. A smile flickered on his lips before they found hers and sealed.
Gasping into his mouth, she flung her other arm around his back and clutched his coat as though to stop herself from falling. She gloried in the plunder of his lips and then his tongue. After the first delicious shock, she even returned the kiss. Unable to be still, she gave a tiny wriggle against him, loving the sensation of his hard chest against her breasts. He moved, too, then, sliding a knee between her legs while the amazing kiss deepened yet further.
She was lost in him, in the intensity of her arousal and the pleasure of his kiss, of his entire, caressing body.
His hands cupped her face, slowly loosening the kiss. “Matilda Mather,” he whispered against her lips, “you will destroy me.”
His words made no sense, but at least they brought back reality with an unpleasant little jolt. She drew back a bare inch—it was all she could manage. “What an odd thing to say when it is I who would suffer most if we were seen.”
Her voice sounded odd, a little husky, and not quite steady.
He rested his forehead against hers. “We are not seen.”
“But I will be missed,” she said, still making no effort to remove herself.
Slowly, very slowly, his arms fell away, and he stepped back. She felt curiously forlorn.
“Perhaps it is as well,” he said lightly, “before I forget myself further.”
And that is to be it? A confused weight of half-formed thoughts seemed to land on her, crushing her. A feeling that there was so much more to be said, by her and by him, a sudden fear that she was reading too much into a situation that meant nothing. That he had to be merely persuading her, though to what she had no idea, using her because she was simply not the sort of woman men fell in love with. Certainly not men like him.
But that had been such a stunning, powerful kiss… To me.
There seemed to be nothing to do but turn and walk out. She could not look at him because she had given so much of herself, too much of herself away.
With an attempt at briskness, she nodded and spun away, but she had only taken two steps before he spoke.
“Matty?”
She paused.
“I think you should accept Lady Wenning’s invitation.”
She frowned as she glanced back over her shoulder. “To keep watch on Thorne?”
His lips quirked. “To dance with me.”
For no good reason, a breath of laughter escaped her, and she strode out of the carriage house with a suddenly light heart.
*
It was not just her heart. Over the next few days, her whole being felt light and tingly and sweetly excited. And yet, she had to acknowledge that she should not allow herself to be carried away. It seemed, almost in spite of herself, that she trusted Francisco de Salgado. But she did not know him.
The day after their encounter in the carriage house was Good Friday, so Mrs. Dove granted the children freedom from lessons and gave Matty leave to visit her family if she wished. Meanwhile, all the Doves, including Pup, went to spend the day with Viola.
Matty gave in to the inevitable and walked round to Grillon’s Hotel, where she was pounced on with great glee by her mother and sister.
“We’ve received an invitation to Lady Wenning’s ball!” Mama said triumphantly.
“Thanks to Sir Anthony,” Marion reminded her. “And Matty, you are included! There is definitely an s on the end of Mather.” She grabbed a card from the mantelpiece and thrust it under Matty’s nose. “See? Mrs. Mather and Misses Mathers.”
Matty did not say she had already received her own invitation. She had not yet decided what to do about it, her flat refusal weakened, stupidly, by Francisco’s last words to her: “To dance with me.”
“Even if it is not a slip of the pen,” Matty said, “I still could not go. I have nothing remotely suitable to wear. If I embellish my evening gown at all, it will fall to pieces.”
“You must have a new ballgown, of course,” Marion said. “There is a most generous quarterly allowance from my inheritance, more than enough for our purposes.”
“Marion, it will be a waste of your money,” Matty said flatly. “Even if I went to this ball, there will be no others.”
“There will be once I am Lady Thorne.”
“But I will still be Miss Mather, the governess.”
Mama scowled, and Marion flounced onto the sofa. “Honestly, Matty, why are you so wretchedly stubborn? You cannot like being a governess!”
“Actually, I do like it,” Matty said. “Though it’s true, I haven’t always. Marion, you have chosen your future life, though you know I don’t approve of your choice. I must choose mine also, despite your disapproval. Please, now, can that be the end of it?”
“No,” Mama said, “because yours makes no sense, and I do not agree.”
“Well, if we are going to quarrel, I would be better returning to the Doves and preparing my lessons for next week.”
For a moment, they both regarded her with some consternation, knowing she meant every word, though not understanding why.
“Don’t be petulant,” Mama said without heat. “Have a cup of tea, and then we shall go shopping. You might see a gown you like, and even if you do come to the Wennings’ ball, it does not commit you to others.”
This was, Matty reflected as she accepted a cup of tea from her mother, the same tactic she and Mrs. Dove had used on Sir Anthony Thorne by invoking her required month’s notice.
*
She returned to the Doves’ residence in plenty of time to meet Francisco in the mews. As she threw her old cloak around her and hurried across the small back garden to the gate, she wondered how he would react when she told him she seemed to have agreed to the ball. Would his eyes light up in the way that made her heart skitter? Would he think she was going merely because he had persuaded her? This was loweringly close to the truth, though she would never admit it.
In fact, she would be in control of this encounter. There would be no skulking in carriage houses, no improper closeness, let alone kisses. She could not think when he kissed her, when her whole body was on fire with barely understood desires. So they would walk sedately in the mews and talk. About Thorne and Francisco’s investigation and what could be achieved at the ball, of course, although she was very conscious of the longing to discuss personal things, too, to discover his life, his loves and hates, and everything that made him Francisco.
Her heart drumming with uncomfortable and yet pleasurable anticipation, she closed the gate behind her and walked up the mews lane. She walked to the end of the lane without seeing another soul, then turned and walked back the way she had come.
Someone was lounging near one of the occupied stables—a youth in a cap and the clothes of a stable lad. At first, she thought it was Francisco in yet another disguise, and laughter bubbled up in delight. But no, even Francisco could not shrink by several inches or take as much as ten years off his appearance. This was definitely a boy, though he straightened from the fence and removed his cap as he approached.
“Miss M?” he asked cheerfully.
“Why?”
The boy blinked. “Mr. Francis asked me to pass on a message. Here you go.” He slapped a folded scrap of paper into her surprised hand, grinned, and shambled off down the lane, hands in pockets.
Matty closed her mouth on an inevitable sigh of disappointment, although the note seemed to burn her palm. Perhaps it proposed another assignation…
Surreptitiously, she glanced up and down the lane to make sure no one had observed, then hid the note beneath her cloak and returned to the house. She thought she might scream if the children had come home in the interim and were desperate to talk to her. But all was still quiet, and she made it to her chamber without being waylaid by anyone.
Closing the door, she shrugged off her cloak and threw herself onto the bed, unfolding the note.
Sorry. Called away for a few days. Save a waltz for me. F.
She blinked it at, unreasonably furious. How dare he…?
How dare he what? Do the work he is obliged to? Disappoint someone who has no claim on him?
Or assume she would go to the ball just because he had suggested it? Which, she realized with a scowl, she would.
*
Francisco had spent a great deal of his life traveling. In comparison with many journeys over difficult terrain, in wartime, or through lawless country—or all three—a private post-chaise to Manchester was not a great undertaking.
A few words of intelligence from his instructor had sent him north, his emotions almost resentful as he contemplated his missed moments with Matty Mather. And yet the journey passed without much recourse to his book. The realization that he missed her was a novelty. He hoped she missed him, and not just because it would make her easier to manipulate. In fact, he felt vaguely ashamed of his previous passages with women where this had been his prime motivation.
Emma Carntree, oddly, had been the last to affect him so, which was one reason he had been so unforgivably distracted at Maida the night he had stolen the wrong ring. He allowed himself to recall all of Emma’s considerable charms and found himself utterly unmoved. He began to understand that she had not inspired his desire to retire from his frequently unsavory work. It had really been the other way around. He had come upon her just when his need for a different kind of life had begun to nag at him. And he had wondered.
He supposed that growing need had been Ludovic Dunne’s fault. His old friend was the only other person he knew so dedicated to justice. They had been like sole crusaders on their separate paths, beacons of light in the murky depths of society. Ludovic had largely pursued the law at home for his own and others’ justice. Francisco’s chosen path had frequently taken him outside the law, both here and abroad, for the higher purpose of right. Or so he had always assured himself. But right and his chosen country were not always the same thing. And that had begun to bother him, even before Ludovic had entangled himself in the affairs of Rebecca Cornish and her son and ended by marrying the woman.
Francisco liked Rebecca. She was brave and loyal and fun. He was glad that Ludo had found happiness and a sense of peace with a wife who understood and loved him. She welcomed Francisco to their home and tolerated the all-night drinking sessions that set the world to right whenever he appeared.
And yet, he had more than once thought of avoiding them altogether. For Ludo’s contentment emphasized what was missing in his own life. Something he could never have. Ludo had always needed a Rebecca, he saw now. Francisco had chosen a lonelier path where some faithless, shallow Emma was all he truly deserved, for he had done terrible things for his country, things no decent woman, let alone a gentle lady, should know about, never mind tolerate.
Certainly not Matty Mather.
He should never have touched her, not after that first encounter at Maida. But she drew him. Even in her dull clothes, with her basilisk stare that could turn so sweetly to one of confused passion. She was not indifferent to him. She could love him.
Only she couldn’t. She could love what he showed her of himself—if he were lucky. But if she knew… The face beneath the waves that disturbed his dreams too often rose into his mind, along with other victims, with his own family.
No, he could not be honest with her and keep her. Nor could he be dishonest and pretend he was something he was not. Not to her.
What he should do was leave her alone. He didn’t need her in order to pursue the truth about Thorne, whatever excuses he had been making to himself. Yet the thought of hurting her, of abusing her already bruised confidence, made his stomach roil. He had flirted his way into a situation he could do nothing to right.
And yet his dreams, as he bounced and shuddered along the Great North Road from posting inn to posting inn, were of her, dressed in bright colors, welcoming him home in the sunshine. Of peaceful evenings together before a pleasant fire, children playing in the garden and up and down the stairs. Noise and laughter and peace.
And Matty, lying naked among a froth of pillows, her arms reaching for him in urgent passion.
That, God help him, was the life he wanted. He hoped to God she didn’t want it, too, or they would both be doomed to suffering.
*
The evening of his arrival in the city of Manchester found him in a tavern favored by working men and a few of the middling sort. He stood by the counter for a while, gazing around the patrons and listening to the surrounding conversations.
There were a lot of grumbles over food prices, bosses, family members who couldn’t find work, mixed in with the usual taproom conversations about sport, family, women. But he heard very little of a political nature, which was not promising considering the information he had been given.
At last, ordering another pint of ale from the tavernkeeper’s wife, he said to her, “When she heard I was coming here, my sister-in-law said to look out for her cousin in this tavern. You don’t happen to know Bert Brown, do you?”
“And if I do?”
“Is he here this evening?” Francisco asked patiently.
Unsmiling, she searched his face, looked him up and down, and met his gaze with open ferocity. “You cause him any grief, you’ll be run out of here so fast you won’t walk for a week. And I don’t care if you own a dozen mills or work for the magistrate.”
Francisco smiled. “Neither. I gather you like him.”
“I do,” she said fiercely. “We all do, so remember it. He’s a good man.”
“So I have heard, and he has nothing to fear from me.”
“He’d better not,” she grumbled. “Table by the window. By himself.”
A young, respectably dressed working man sat by the window, writing busily in the poor light. Francisco had noticed him before because he looked too serious and busy for a tavern on a Saturday night. Occasionally people greeted him or clapped him on the shoulder, making him look up and smile before returning to his writing. An educated man, then.
Francisco picked up his ale and strolled across the floor to the window. “May I sit here?” he inquired.
Brown glanced up and waved amiably enough at the vacant stool.
Francisco sat, took a pull of the ale, and said, “Mr. Brown, I believe,”
“That’s me.” He didn’t look up this time.
“Pardon my curiosity, but what on earth can you be writing so busily?”
“Letters. You sound like a man who can write for himself.”
“You’re writing letters for other people?” Francisco asked, intrigued, for he did not seem to be copying from anything. “How do you know what to say?”
“They tell me at the beginning of the evening and take their letters away at the end.”
“Don’t you ever get mixed up?”
“No.” He didn’t stop writing, even for a moment.
“You are a man of many talents,” Francisco marveled. “And I admire your dedication, but I’m afraid I need a moment of your time.”
“For what?” The pen dipped in the ink bottle and scratched across the page.
“You organized political meetings, specifically timed ones. You began the organization of a protest march and then stepped aside.”
