WHAT A WAYWARD LORD NEEDS, page 5
part #2 of LORDS OF HAPPENSTANCE Series
His eyes further narrowed. “Lord Bentley Castlereagh. I am in the employ of the Crown, and a king’s agent tasked with retrieving your arse and bringing you back to England.” The deep tenor of his voice filled the small confines of the hut and reverberated inside her chest with an unexpected thrill.
Then a cold trickle of disappointment slid down her spine. Of course he was a king’s man. That put him off limits, no matter his very presence had awakened something inside she’d long thought buried. “Who do you assume I am?” Perhaps he’d made a mistake and it wasn’t her he sought after all.
A muscle at the corner of his left eye began to twitch, but he didn’t lower his pistol. “Lady Cora Trammel.”
There was no mistake.
Damn it. This man would be trouble to her in more ways than one, for she couldn’t keep her attention from his form. It had been a long time since she’d known physical pleasure or personal fulfillment with a man. Her husband had focused on scientific discovery most of the time they’d been in Venezuela. Yet the specimen standing before her, with annoyance flashing in his eyes and his sensual lips in a scowl, didn’t seem the type bent on a dalliance strictly for the release.
And he was a king’s agent besides. Which meant she’d avoid a personal relationship of any kind with him at all costs.
“You’ve managed to find me, against all odds.” That in itself was impressive, for even with Manuel’s cousin, no one could have known where she’d gone, especially after being dragged from their research camp and held hostage for weeks on end. Her respect for him rose a degree. “What do you want? This is hardly the place for a social call. And time is of the essence.” To her own ears, her voice sounded strident and nervous. Was her American accent pleasing, or did it make her roguish and untrustworthy? She shouldn’t give him the time of day, let alone anything else, for her first priority was continuing her quest.
“Answers.” He adjusted his gloved grip on the pistol, his body rigid and ready for a fight.
She moved her gaze to his messy raven hair. No doubt he’d made every effort to keep it in a current style while at home, but here in the jungle, it was as wild as the rest of him. It suited him. Did he realize that? When she focused upon his face once more, she bit back the urge to sigh. “Stand down, Lord Castlereagh.” Did every man in the whole of England have a title, or had she been unlucky enough to meet a good lot of them? Where were the regular folks? “I will talk, but I intend to carry on with my mission.” She waved to one of the packing crates. “Sit.” Beside the two crates, there was a cot so she wouldn’t need to sleep on the ground. It helped avoid snakes as well as other creepy crawlies getting into the bedding.
When he begrudgingly moved toward the crate and sat upon it, keeping the pistol trained on her, Cora blew out a breath of frustration. “Would you like a cup of tea?” In addition to her weapon’s belt on the other crate, her battered copper tea kettle waited with a chipped ceramic teapot and two cups, one with a missing handle. The pieces were dear to her, for they’d been part of a set her parents had gifted her upon her wedding so many years ago. They were the last mementos from home she still had—at least while living in the jungle. In the evening, she preferred tea, but in the mornings, she took coffee.
“I’m fine,” he fairly growled. His weapon never wavered, and his hair gleamed almost blue in the light of the struggling fire, but at least the rain had ended for the time being, which meant the men—his and hers—would soon tend to the flames and commence cooking an evening meal.
“You would insist on being obstinate.” Of course he would, for wasn’t that how king’s men operated? She settled upon the cot, and suddenly a wave of exhaustion overtook her. What she wouldn’t give to have one day to enjoy doing nothing, not living in fear, not having her muscles on a constant state of alert, not wondering what would happen to her in the future. “Are you always so difficult, my lord?”
“Only when faced with a stubborn problem.” A flash of something briefly lit his eyes, but the interior of the hut remained too shadowed to properly identify it.
Irritation flared in her chest. Is that how her husband’s organization viewed her, as a problem, something unpleasant to be solved and categorized? She shot him a look, but he was impassive. “Where should I start?”
“We’ll begin with the pressing concern and what originally brought me here.” Lord Castlereagh leaned forward, his body overwhelming the packing crate and filling the small interior of the hut, the nose of his pistol pointed at her heart. “Your husband’s business partner, Lord Paddington, was murdered.”
Shock moved through her and sank like a rock in the pit of her belly. “How?” Her hand shook so badly she was forced to return the teapot to the crate. “Was it malaria?”
“No.” His frown deepened. “He died from poisoning. A substance we suspect derived from—”
Oh God. “—poison dart frogs that originate from this area,” she interrupted in a whisper. “The same sort of frogs I’ve worked with.” How was that possible? Lord Paddington had left the jungle even before Michael had.
“Yes. Frogs, the dried out remains of which we found in your London home as well as in the wreck of your research facility, and I use that term loosely.” He lowered his pistol, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps her very real shock had convinced him she wasn’t a threat. “I’m here partly to know why a poison such as that made its way to England and killed a man connected to your husband.”
“When did Lord Paddington die?” His death was as much a mystery to her as it was to him.
“About a month and a half ago. He was at his club in London, and for all intents and purposes, conducting his life as if nothing had been wrong.” He tilted his head to one side, his gaze resting upon her, now brimming with speculation. “The notes I received from the coroner revealed evidence of symptoms of an individual suffering from the malarial disease you spoke of, but the death itself was sudden and violent to suggest poisoning.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Yet how, with the limited views and laboratories of such doctors of death, can he be certain that poison is the one I’m familiar with?”
Lord Castlereagh laid the pistol on his thigh but kept it seated in his palm, his finger on the trigger. “There was a small, slim vial found broken beneath Lord Paddington’s body with a handwritten label saying—”
“From the dyeing poison frog (dendrobates tinctorius), which are quite common in these parts and are the largest of the dart frogs. They’re black and a powder blue, quite beautiful but deadly. The label also contained my initials,” she concluded and briefly closed her eyes. “Yes, I labeled all of my vials that way, but how Lord Paddington would have come by them…” She snapped her gaze to his. “Perhaps my husband gave him samples?”
“Do you not know if he did?” His tone suggested she lied.
Cora huffed out a breath that ruffled a few escaped curls on her forehead. “My husband, as I’m continually discovering lately, was a man of many secrets, so no, I do not know if he gave his partner a vial.” She stared at him. “Do you?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.” Lord Castlereagh holstered his revolver and shifted his weight, sticking his long legs out before him, recalling her attention once more to his well-muscled thighs. “As your husband was leaving the area for England, he asked Santiago to mail a packet to the country of the same, addressed to one Lord Paddington.”
Shock again gripped her chest. “But why? Michael was heading to London to speak with the Duke of Rathesborne. Why would he also ask to have a package mailed?”
“That is something I’d like to discover as well,” her companion said in a low voice that both thrilled and frightened her.
“I see.” Though her hands were no less steady than they were before, she poured out a cup of tea, and knowing he’d refused refreshment before, she handed him the cup just the same. “Drink, Lord Castlereagh. No doubt you’re parched from your journey. Traveling down river is arduous work.” To give herself something to do, she poured out another cup—the one without the handle—and drank of the now tepid tea.
He paused, staring into the amber depths, and then brought the teacup to his lips. After a sip, he downed the contents in two gulps. Once more he found her gaze with his. “Please, call me Bentley. The title is a courtesy only, and I dislike being defined by it alone, for it is empty and meaningless.”
“Ah.” It was an interesting insight into the man. “You have my permission to call me Cora. In the jungle, that is who I am.” A woman without identity while her man was gone, presumed dead. She forced a hard swallow to banish her confusion. “Why is your title empty?”
He held out his cup when she lifted the teapot, and as she filled it, he said, “My father was an earl. He had no subsidiary titles, so when my brother—twin and older by a mere four minutes—came into the title upon my father’s death, I was allowed to choose a title.” He shrugged and crossed his legs at the ankle. “I suppose it’s to take away the sting of not being earl.”
“Did you wish to be?”
“God, no. I much prefer my life as it is now.” He took a deep drink of the tea. “With the exception of traversing this wretched piece of the world and all its dangers and complications.” Then he flashed a wry grin, and Cora nearly gasped at the tingles erupting through her lower belly. It should be a crime that a man, after days of travel through harsh conditions, managed to look so handsome. She’d appear as death warmed over. “It’s better than dancing attendance upon my mother and her matchmaking schemes.”
She hid a grin. He was unattached. How… interesting. When she opened her mouth to inquire about his life, he interrupted her.
“You are an American.” He sounded neither surprised nor disappointed.
“Yes.” She nodded and took refuge in her tea, wished just this once there was stronger liquid in that cup. It had been a trying couple of months with no time to process. “I was born and raised in Virginia. My family lives on an estate that grows tobacco. It’s a lucrative endeavor but requires the work of all of us.” Then she laughed. “Except me. I managed to escape that life and all of the pageantry and the elevation in status such riches afford… until I married.”
Looking back on her past and comparing it to where she was now brought a wry smile. That world and this one were very different. Here, the people were poor—dirt poor—but grateful for their living and ways of life, while at home, everything was taken for granted and there was much waste, not to mention the greed of people to own slaves in order to work the land and turn a profit, where they were too lazy to labor themselves. When she relocated to England after her marriage and found herself within the ton, there were many things that were the same, many things she didn’t agree with among the separation of classes or the exclusion of people with hardships or diseases that made them different, many things she tried to fight.
Still did.
When she came out of her thoughts, Lord Castlereagh—Bentley—watched her, and her cheeks fired with warmth. How ridiculous that was! He was merely a man, the same as any she’d traveled among. “How did you meet Lord Trammel?” Polite interest threaded through the question, but an intensity lit his eyes.
“At the docks. I’d been visiting my father at his shipping offices, on an errand from my mother, and picking up a parcel I’d been expecting. A microscope ordered from London.” She quickly finished her tea and returned the cup to the packing crate. “Michael was there, waiting to board his frigate, returning to England from a trade visit.” She shrugged. “He seemed interesting enough. We struck up a conversation.”
“About?”
What difference did that long-ago meeting make now? But she answered anyway. “About travel. Adventure. I wished to visit England and talk with experts in botany, for I had an interest in rare orchids.” This conversation skirted the edges of her terrible secret. She should stop right now, for once she told this man everything, he would hate her.
They all would, for she was the woman who’d opened a very real Pandora’s Box.
“Did your husband share the same interest?”
“He did, as I discovered on those docks. He held two degrees in botany and chemistry with a decided bent to toxicology. I found that fascinating.” She uttered a self-depreciating laugh. “I was young and impressionable, never had seen the world beyond the Eastern seaboard. When confronted with such a well-traveled man who shared the same knowledge as me, well…” She gave Bentley a tight smile. “Then I discovered he was known, secretly in his field, as one of the best and brightest, and that the university he was attached to had given him a grant to study abroad…”
“Your mutual interest in each other expanded.”
“Yes. He courted me, extended his stay in Virginia. It was a whirlwind romance.” I was stupid, eager for a life away from what I’d always known. She glanced at Bentley, saw the compassion in his eyes and hurt all the more for it. If a stranger could so easily read her story, did others too? “It was Michael who introduced me to the dart frogs and their poison. I was fascinated with his research.”
Softly, Bentley cleared his throat. “What did he promise you that tipped your decision to marry him?”
Her bottom jaw dropped, and she quickly closed her mouth. How did he know? Was that knowledge men used to woo women? “He promised me introductions with the boards of both Oxford and Cambridge, said he could use his leverage to gain me admittance to either of those schools so I could earn my own degree and laurels.”
“Was it a lie? I don’t move in academic circles, and even I know that women have not then or now been admitted to those learning institutions.” He put his teacup on the crate next to hers.
“Yes.” She didn’t trust her voice as she fought off silly tears. What did such reaction matter now? She’d had years to live with Michael’s betrayal, but perhaps speaking it aloud to another person—a stranger—allowed her a bit of closure. “He indulged me in whatever I wanted. After we married and returned to London, he fashioned the stillroom into a laboratory for me. He gave me whatever materials I desired, let me work as many hours as I wished without complaint.”
“Because you had a knack with poison.” Bentley crossed his arms at his chest.
“True. Three years ago, when he proposed a research trip to the Orinoco to attempt locating the Death Orchid, I agreed with alacrity. I needed to be away from England.” She paused and breathed a sigh of relief when he didn’t question why. That had been two years after the death of her daughter, and life had paled. “Those orchids were purportedly only found deep in these jungles. I accepted the challenge, for I love to travel, and this area is teeming with life and opportunities for discovery.”
And all along Michael had kept the knowledge that he was a king’s agent from her. She’d discovered that tidbit well into the trip, when he’d mentioned it in passing, then he’d downplayed his involvement, all the while feeding her exactly what she’d needed to hear and steering her in the direction he’d wanted her to go regarding finding a deadly toxin. “Michael had given me a few dried specimens, but I needed living plants for the nectar.”
“Why?”
Heat infused her cheeks. “A personal quest, let’s say, but it ended far from that.”
Thankfully, Bentley let the matter slide. “Did you locate the orchids?”
“Yes and no. We were able to find a few patches here and there. So we dug up all the plants we could. Some survived the journey back up the river to our facility. Some did not, but I observed once I chucked the dead ones into the water, if eaten, the animal expired within minutes. I knew I was on the right track with my research, and that’s when I made a discovery that’s so chilling in its nature it leaves me quaking with fear.” Drat. She hadn’t meant to tell him so much, but there was something about him that invited confidences. Was that a trick specific to a king’s agent?
He sat up straighter. “Such as?” When she remained reticent, he drew up his legs and rested his forearms on his knees, his hands dangling between his thighs. “Cora, you must tell me. It’s why I’m here.”
Of course it was. In truth, he hadn’t come down here for her well-being. No doubt the king’s agent network wanted her expertise—to make more of the deadly toxin for a weapon. In this, she’d finally be allowed into those damned hallowed university halls… as a prisoner… to figure out how to kill England’s enemies. Her laugh held a bitter edge. She lowered her voice. “When the nectar of those orchids is combined with the poison from a dart tree frog, it becomes a deadly toxin that’s untraceable, colorless, odorless and works all too efficiently.” Her hands shook, and she clasped them together. “If released into a water supply, it will kill anything and everything.”
Horror lined his expression. “How do you know this?”
“I tested it. The animals dissolved into dust right before my eyes over the course of a few days, and that was when my husband left for England.” Not able to remain seated, she launched to her feet and began to pace the tiny confines of the hut, her heart pounding.
“That is terrible enough, but why do you assume it will threaten the world if it fell into the wrong hands?”
She turned on him so sharply, her braid flew and the end smacked her in the face. Cora tossed it back over her shoulder. “There are legends, stories some of the elders in tribes up and down the river tell, that warn of an ancient evil called the Silence.”
“Do I want to know?” His tone suggested she was jumping at shadows.
“You do.” Cora moistened her lips and again wished for a drink to calm her nerves. “The Silence was the belief there was a specific poison that, if mixed with a certain compound, would cause instant death, allowing the body to disintegrate from the inside out. There is talk of a hybrid Inca civilization that inhabited the area between here and Columbia, far more advanced than any known to the history of the area.”
He nodded. “Santiago mentioned them in passing.”
