A Most Dangerous Profession (17 page)

Her gaze narrowed at him. Yet for all of her irritation, she found herself admiring the cut of his jaw and the firm line of his mouth. A mouth that had recently driven her to distraction.

But she wasn’t here to relive their interlude this morning. She glanced down at his riding boots, then placed one of her kid boots beside his large foot.

He didn’t move, so she pressed her boot against the edge of his.

Robert shifted slightly, and slid his foot away.

Moira moved her foot against his again, and waited expectantly.

Nothing happened.

Well, that can be rectified.
She lifted her foot over his and stomped.

“Ow!” He jerked upright and glared. “Blast you!”

“I wish to speak,” she said primly.

“And I wish to sleep. You should do the same.”

“I’m not sleepy.”

He sighed. “Fine. What do you want to discuss?”

“How will we present ourselves? We know Ross likes to pursue married women. Should we be one of those unconcerned sorts of couples, or would that not be enough of a challenge to him?” She tapped her finger on her knee. “We can’t be too obvious.”

Robert shrugged. “I must take his measure. Then I’ll know how to proceed, and you can follow my lead.”

“I am perfectly able to lead this scheme myself,” she said stiffly.

Robert hid his smile, glad to see her sadness replaced by firm resolution. It had been torture to see her so sad, which was only natural. Any man would be upset at seeing a beautiful woman on the verge of tears.
And after all, I was once wildly in love with her.

The thought surprised him.
Where did that come from? I was madly in
lust,
not love.
It was no more than that.

She sent him a glance from under her lashes and he was instantly on his guard. “There is one thing I’ve been wondering. Something you haven’t fully
explained. In the beginning, you needed a specific onyx box to free your brother from his captor. But then things changed. Somehow you discovered that there were three such boxes, and now you want them all. Why is that? What is it about these three boxes that make them so valuable?”

He adjusted his hat so that it would shade his eyes.
Should I tell her? Can I really trust her?
He wanted to tell her everything, only it wasn’t really his secret to share, but Michael’s.

She fixed him with a firm stare. “We
are
partners.”

He couldn’t deny her reasoning so he shrugged. “Fine. I will tell you. There are three boxes, and if you know how to unlock them they open flat.”

“To make a panel?”

“Exactly. And—when they are fitted together, they make a map.”

Her eyes widened. “A treasure map?”

“Yes.”

“So Aniston must know about the map. That explains why he’s so determined to find it.”

“He never mentioned a map to you?”

“No. But I knew there had to be something very special about the first box that he sent me to fetch, so when I had it in my possession, I examined it. But I never saw anything resembling a map.”

“You have to know precisely what you are doing in order to open one.”

“Ah. What kind of treasure do you think the map will lead to?”

Some part of him urged him on. If he wanted her to trust him, he had to show trust in her. “My brother Michael hopes that it will lead us to a lost family heirloom, the Hurst Amulet.”

Her eyes lit with interest. “This just gets better and better.”

“The amulet was in my family for centuries, until a member of the MacLean clan stole it and gifted it to Queen Elizabeth. She kept it for some years, but supposedly became fearful of its powers.”

“An amulet with
powers
?” Her lips twitched. “You can’t believe that.”

“To be honest, I don’t know what I believe. A telling number of people who came into contact with the amulet claimed that it had certain . . . abilities. Michael spent years researching it; he found many mentions of the amulet
and
its powers in old archives, even those in Elizabeth’s court.”

“What special power does the amulet supposedly possess?”

“Michael came upon one account where, at the queen’s insistence, one of the queen’s ladies-
in-waiting wore the amulet. Afterward, the lady claimed to see her own future.”

“That’s too fantastical to believe.”

“So I thought. She said that the amulet showed her whom she was to wed. Much to Queen Elizabeth’s ire, the lady-in-waiting eloped with a courtier the very next day.”

“She thought it would happen, so she made it so. There’s not much magic in that, is there?”

Robert chuckled. “No, not when you put it that way.”

Moira grinned back at him. “Since Elizabeth didn’t approve of the wedding, I take it that she didn’t care for the courtier, either?”

“Quite the opposite: he was one of Elizabeth’s favorites, and she saw the elopement as an insult. She sent her guard to tear the lady-in-waiting from the arms of her new husband. Then she had them thrown into the tower for treason, and threatened them with beheading.”

“Good God.”

“One did not steal one of Elizabeth’s flirts without consequences. She was a very jealous queen. Perhaps it had something to do with the color of her hair, for they say redheads are very passionate.” He looked at Moira’s hair, the deep red free from the dark dye that had covered it. “I would vouch for that.”

“They also say redheads freckle, and I never have. What happened to the star-crossed lovers? Did they languish in the tower and die in each other’s arms?”

“Fortunately, the lady-in-waiting was already carrying her new husband’s child.”

“That was quick.”

He smiled. “Wasn’t it? Elizabeth wasn’t a monster and wouldn’t allow a child to be born in the tower. She released the unhappy couple but banished them from court. According to the records, they lived a long and happy life far from the queen’s attention.”

“It that a true story?”

“It’s well documented; Michael has the papers himself. But I don’t believe the amulet is magic. Perhaps it simply holds heat, or trembles. I once saw a crystal that did both.”

“So Aniston is searching for a treasure map that might lead to the lost Hurst Amulet, which supposedly tells the future,” she mused. “Aniston’s had some financial troubles, and if he can convince others that the amulet is magical, he could name his price.”

“No one would be so foolish,” Robert scoffed.

“You’d be surprised,” she said drily. “There are many wealthy people who believe silly notions,
including our king. George hasn’t been the same since his daughter, Princess Charlotte, died. They say he holds séances in an effort to contact her and has become the pawn of charlatans. He would be ripe plucking for a man like Aniston.”

Robert nodded. “I hadn’t thought of that, but you’re right. As you can see, this map could be very important.”

“But didn’t William take one of the boxes to Egypt to win Michael’s freedom? The map won’t be complete, then.”

“It’s a copy. As you pointed out before, it’s a simple object and easy to falsify. We made certain the fake box still had a portion of the map inside, but with a few modifications.” His grin was wicked.

“Very clever.”

The coach turned then, and they entered the yard of a small inn. Stewart pulled the coach to a halt and Leeds jumped down to open the door. He lowered the step for Robert, and they spoke for a moment before Robert turned to help Moira down.

“Ross’s agent will arrive shortly. Are you ready?”

“Oh yes.” She smiled and took his hand. “I’m more than ready.”

A letter written yesterday to Robert Hurst from his brother-in-law Angus Hay, the Earl of Erroll.

I have no idea where to find you so I’m addressing this to your town house, hoping that you will find it before you leave Edinburgh. You asked what I knew about a certain Sir Ross of Balnagown. I’ve made inquiries and have much to report.

Robert, if you have any dealings with this man, have a care. I hear he is very volatile and his opponents have a tendency to mysteriously disappear and never be heard from again.

T
he inn was very small, only one floor, more of a tavern really. The windows were broad and low to the ground; the yard was neat and planted with flowers that bravely showed their face to the chilly Highland wind.

Robert took Moira’s elbow and they walked inside. A broad-faced innkeeper met them on the threshold of the common room and introduced himself as MacKeith.

While Robert spoke with the innkeeper, Moira stripped off her gloves and wandered about the room. The area was quite large, with wide windows and good seating. Two long, well-scrubbed tables ran along the far wall for meals. There was a fat settee covered in deep-blue flowered chintz, and several chairs made in the Hepplewhite fashion. The broad mantel was decorated with a display of glassware, some of it quite lovely.

“Moira, MacKeith will warm our coats by the kitchen fire while we wait.”

“That would be lovely.” Moira allowed Robert to take her pelisse.

He handed it to the innkeeper. “Thank you, MacKeith.”

“Och, ’tis me pleasure. Do ye need feed fer the horses?”

“And food for the men, too, please. We’re here to meet with an agent of Sir Lachlan Ross’s. Have you seen a Mr. Carmichael?”

“No’ yet, though I was tol’ t’ expect ye. Would yer lady wife like some tea, or a small glass o’ sherry?”

Moira hid a shudder. She hated sherry; it was so sweet, it made her teeth ache. “Do you have any scotch? I much prefer a glass of that.”

The innkeeper looked impressed. “O’ course we do. Can I offer ye a wee dram o’ the water o’ life, too, sir?”

“That would be excellent.”

The sound of a carriage made the innkeeper turn to the window. “Och, there’s Carmichael now—and Sir Lachlan is wit’ him!”

Robert crossed the room to look out the window.

“I’ll fetch yer scotch anon. I’m sure his lordship will wish fer a dram himself.”

“Thank you.” Robert didn’t turn as the innkeeper hurried off. “Ross is riding a brute of a horse.”

“Ah. Then I shall become a horse lover.”

Robert smiled as he turned away from the window. “You are very quick. Are you ready?”

Moira smoothed her gown. “Oh, yes.”

Out in the hallway, swift steps sounded. The door opened and a man entered. He was short set and incredibly fat, sporting three chins under a flushed face. He was dressed modestly, his neckcloth and sober coat befitting a solicitor.

His gaze flickered to Robert, and then blinked with surprise on finding Moira.

Robert bowed. “Good afternoon. I am Robert Hurst. I take it you are Carmichael?”

“Aye, so I am.” The man bowed and said with a soft burr, “I’m Sir Lachlan Ross’s man o’ business.” He cast an uncertain glance at Moira.

Robert flicked a careless finger in her direction. “My wife, Mrs. Hurst.”

He offered no other introduction and after an awkward pause, the solicitor bowed in her direction and mumbled, “Pleased to meet ye.”

She curtsied, then looked expectantly at Robert for a more formal introduction.

Robert pretended not to notice, studying the tip of his cane, as if the silver wasn’t as polished as he liked.

Mr. Carmichael broke the silence with an
awkward laugh. “I’m certain ye’re both tired from yer trip. Sir Lachlan wished to see a colt he’s thinkin’ o’ purchasing, so he came as well. He’ll be most anxious to—”

Heavy footsteps in the hallway announced the approach of Sir Lachlan. Robert stepped to the side, blocking Moira from the man’s view.

Ross was expensively dressed, his boots polished until they shone. He was tall with broad shoulders, and gave off a vigorous air. His reddish brown hair was faded and streaked with white at each temple. His eyes were a startling blue, his nose beaked over a firm mouth, giving him the air of a hawk.

Ross’s gaze flickered over Robert, touching upon the sapphire pin in his cravat and lingering on the sheen of his boots.

Robert didn’t display any interest other than a mild lift of his brows.

Mr. Carmichael cleared his throat in a ponderous manner. “Sir Lachlan, this is Mr. Hurst, who has come to see about the artifact.”

“Mr. Hurst.” Ross bowed.

“Ross.” Robert inclined his head with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

Ross reddened, his jaw tightening in an ominous fashion. “I came to see a colt I’m purchasing or I’d have met you at my castle.”

Robert shrugged. “This is as good of a place as any. Did you bring the box?”

“No, of course not. I didn’t think you’d want to conduct business in a common taproom.”

Ross’s air of superiority disappeared when Robert looked about him in apparent surprise. “A taproom?” Robert pulled out his monocle and peered about the room, moving a few paces as he did so. “My dear Ross, you’ve been too long gone from town if you consider this a taproom.”

Ross’s heavy eyebrows lowered. “Now see here, Hurst, I didn’t come here to—” His gaze locked on something past Robert’s shoulder and all words disappeared from his lips.

Robert hid a smile and followed the man’s gaze to where Moira stood, the sunlight from the window catching the red of her hair and limning the pure line of her cheek. “Oh. My wife, Mrs. Hurst. Moira, this is Ross of Balnagown Castle.”