Scot Under the Covers Page 11

  For a moment he thought he’d finally earned a slap after all, but then she took half a step back and he realized she’d gone up on her toes to kiss him back. And whatever else he might discover today about plots and villains, that seemed the most significant. She’d met him halfway.

  “I, um, I very much doubt that you kiss everyone with whom you make an agreement,” she stated, her chocolate gaze lowering to his mouth and her color high. “It’s not done, Mr. MacTaggert.”

  “Is that so?”

  Miranda nodded. “As your tutor in things English,” she continued, “I should tell you that it’s improper for you to go about kissing women under any circumstances.”

  Amused now, he lifted an eyebrow. “Any?” he repeated.

  “Well, wives and such. But not in public.” Visibly shaking herself, she placed her hand back over his forearm. “But you didn’t come here this afternoon for kissing lessons.”

  “I dunnae need kissing lessons, Miranda. I can prove that, if ye like.”

  “I believe you just did.”

  “And do ye object?”

  “I…” Her shoulders lifted. “I believe I would have told you if I objected.”

  He chuckled. “True enough. Ye’ve nae been shy about expressing yerself, lass.”

  She didn’t object. Not exactly a stirring expression of enthusiasm, but enough for today. Every kiss, every glance, every word exchanged with Miranda Harris had significance. He damned well didn’t want to make a mistake. His parents had made one, had found fire and passion and then realized that beneath that, they were utterly incompatible.

  They managed a few steps during which he took the time to study her profile, or what he could see of it around her straw bonnet. His fingers twitched with the abrupt desire to untie the green ribbons from beneath her chin and pull the silly thing from her dusky hair. Those wishes, though, were for a lass who didn’t have a man attempting to force her into a marriage. He could be poetical later.

  “Did Vale tell ye anything else useful?” he asked, when he realized he’d forgotten about that. Stupid. He couldn’t afford to miss anything here. Anything could mean the difference between victory and disaster.

  This time a grimace touched her face. “Yes. Back to that, then.”

  “It’s important, but if ye’d rather chat about the weather, I’ll walk beside ye all the way to Dover.”

  “I’m not wearing the shoes for that.” She took a breath. “After hearing that last bit about George and him, I fear that everything else he told me may well have been a lie.”

  “Even a lie means someaught. Tell me.”

  “He said he originally purchased a junior lieutenant’s commission in the navy some fourteen years ago. Then he implied that powerful people owed him favors, and that that was the reason he so quickly rose through the ranks to become a captain with his own ship.”

  It wouldn’t have to be powerful people, as long as it was the right people. That, though, didn’t make for as good a tale. “Did he tell ye the name of the last ship he captained?”

  “Yes. It was the Merry Widow.”

  “That gives me someaught to look into. Anything else? Where he grew up? Brothers or sisters? Parents?”

  “I didn’t want to sound like I was digging for information, but he did mention dreary Cornwall winters and a never-sober uncle John. Nothing about immediate family.”

  “That sounds like a bit of truth, or it could be someaught he made up a long time ago because his family embarrasses him,” Aden mused. “Or he embarrasses them.”

  That elicited a dark smile from Miranda. “I hope it’s the former, and they’re so horrid they would ruin his chances of joining the aristocracy,” she put in. “Perhaps they’re drunken smugglers who spied for Bonaparte.”

  “That would be grand, but I dunnae think it’ll be that simple. Even if he becomes a laughingstock, he still has yer brother’s notes.”

  “I could well end up married to him even if he’s actually a smuggler or a farmer and pretending to be related to an aristocrat, you mean. So I could be a smuggler’s wife, or a milkmaid.”

  “The prettiest one in Cornwall, but aye.”

  She glanced up at him, her dark eyes catching his and color returning to her cheeks before she looked away again. Miranda cleared her throat. “He’s thirty-two years old, or so he said,” she went on, “and he claims to have spent the last ten years in India. Or off the coast of India, I suppose. According to him, he frequently captured smuggling vessels, taking a percentage of the goods as a bounty and working closely with the East India Company.”

  Aden frowned. “I cannae sail to India to verify any of that.” The fact that the idea had occurred to him at all demonstrated just how soundly he’d come down on her side in this mess. And he generally didn’t get involved in messes at all. Coll called him slippery, and he preferred that to Niall’s depiction of him as calculating. He liked stealthy, or wily, even more, but the epithet didn’t really matter. He was the MacTaggert brother that fathers weren’t chasing about with swords and pistols—not because he hadn’t dallied, but because he made an effort not to be caught at it.

  In this instance, though, it might well be his wily—or calculating—nature that best served Miranda. His Miranda, hopefully, after he rescued her from the ogre. “I dunnae suppose ye’re acquainted with anyone from the East India Company who happens to be based in London.”

  “I think my father might be. Or perhaps Matthew.”

  “Nae. I’ll ask elsewhere, for now at least.”

  “You don’t trust Matthew not to go running to Captain Vale, do you?”

  “Nae, I dunnae.” Aden narrowed his eyes. “Yer brother’s a menace, lass. And while I’ll keep yer secret, I’ll tell ye to yer face that if he’s willing to toss his own sister to this vulture, I’m nae certain how safe my sister would be in his company.”

  “Which is why we are going to resolve this, after which I will convince Matthew that if he so much as looks at another deck of cards or pair of dice I will break all his fingers. And you will continue to assist me in resolving this, yes? If it can be resolved. We have an agreement.”

  A tremor ran through her fingers where they rested on his sleeve. Aye, she kept logic and a certain sarcastic view of her fellows wrapped about her like a blanket, but she knew precisely how deep a hole she’d landed in. And he was beginning to realize himself that Captain Robert Vale was no novice. “I keep my word, lass,” he said evenly. “I do mean to have a word with yer brother, though, when I reckon it’s safe.” And most useful. He took a breath, mentally shaking himself. “I asked around a bit this afternoon, but my kind, as ye say, tend to come outside after dark. What—”

  Behind them the maid touched her mistress’s shoulder. “It’s getting late, Miss Miranda.”

  Dusk had settled into the nooks and crannies of the houses around them, the sky a chalky blue-brown edging into black at the east. When had that happened? “I’ll walk ye back. Or close by, anyway,” he said, reversing course and escorting her past the maid and a bored-looking Loki.

  As they passed back behind the overgrown length of hedge, she put her free hand on his shoulder, went up on her toes, and kissed him on the mouth. “Thank you for this, Aden,” she said, resuming her place at his side and abruptly hurrying her steps before he could wrap his arms around her.

  He accelerated a bit to keep up with her. Even more this time, the warmth of her mouth, of her breath against his cheek, lingered on his skin. She’d kissed him. That meant something. “Ye’re welcome, Miranda,” he returned. “But I’m nae running down the street because ye’re embarrassed that ye like me.”

  She stopped in her tracks, nearly sending him stumbling into the street. “I’m not embarrassed. I’m … surprised. And somewhat alarmed. You aren’t nearly as dastardly as I imagined, but you still give me pause.”

  That made him grin. “If ye keep flirting with me like that, I’m likely to swoon.”

  Her color deepened, but she onl
y wrapped her hand back around his arm and yanked on him. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said.

  Chapter Seven

  Aden glanced down at his cue sheet to make another mark by the number four. Only one four remained in the deck now, amid a mix of twenty or so other cards. It made sense to bet against the four, but siding with the bank barely netted a lad enough to stay even. All the sevens remained in the deck, though, which explained why each of the other three men at the table had placed bets on a seven coming up the next winner.

  With a sigh he moved his wager to the queen; not as sure a bet, but that made it more interesting. Then he sat back, watching as the dealer turned a seven, making it the loser card, then a deuce. Well, he hadn’t lost, anyway.

  “Damnation,” the bony older man to his left grunted, cradling another pair of chips in his hand before placing them on the rectangle marked HIGH CARD.

  “Do ye reckon that’s enough to keep ye entertained, Crowley, or would ye rather have me buy ye a beer?” Aden asked, leaving his chips where they were.

  Generally, he excelled at faro. Generally, he didn’t require a cue sheet to remember which cards had been dealt and which remained with the dealer. But then tonight he wasn’t playing because he enjoyed it. He was playing because a lass with big brown eyes and a dislike for his kind had asked him for a favor, and he’d decided he’d met his bride. Somehow that had sent him out hunting for a man who looked like a great vulture.

  Crowley chuckled. “A beer’s the most profit I’ll see tonight. Buy me a beer, MacTaggert. Hell, if you buy me two of ’em I’ll be back in the black.”

  “You can’t leave in the middle of a game,” grumbled one of the other players, a diminutive, shrewlike man who went by the name of Basker.

  Aden stood. “I’m nae leaving. I’m shifting over to a table where I can keep my eyes on ye. Ye keep my wager on the queen.”

  “And I’ll be watching you, too, Basker. Clintock, he’ll steal your whiskers if you blink your eyes.”

  The wee man scowled more blackly. “As if anyone would want that tangle of gray fuzz.”

  Hiding his impatience, Aden waited while the two men baited each other, then followed Crowley to a scratched, stained hardwood table a few feet away. The Round Cow tavern was his fourth stop on a long, frustrating evening, and unless he could get some useful information from Crowley, it wouldn’t be his last.

  “I’ve seen you here and there for a few weeks now,” Crowley said, as two full mugs splashed onto the table and Aden flipped a shilling at the barkeep. “Never seen you use a cue sheet before. Or waste your time on three-shilling games.”

  Aden shrugged, unsurprised that Crowley had noticed. Gamblers—fair ones, anyway—were reasonably observant. And Crowley, he’d discovered a fortnight ago, had good reason to like figures and to be proficient with wagering. “A friend recommended using the sheet. I dunnae think it’s worthwhile, though, especially with the other lads at the table looking over my shoulder at it to place their own wagers.”

  “Is that why you mismarked four of the cards?”

  With a grin, Aden lifted his mug. Amusing himself had seemed the best way to endure the evening, and having a bit of fun with the cue sheet masked the fact that he was having the damnedest time keeping his mind on task tonight. “If they cannae count on their own, it’s nae my fault.”

  “But if they lose, it’s not to you. It’s to the bank.”

  “I’m only here for the fun of it.”

  That made the old man snort. “Fun would be Jezebel’s, where all the dealers are pretty young women and they don’t top off the beer with water from the Thames. Or so I’ve heard. That place is too rich for my blood, never mind that my Mary would wallop me if she found out I’d been there.”

  “Aye. Jezebel’s is a sight to behold. I cannae argue with that.” He’d been to that particular gaming den a handful of times. The play was good, but the establishment made money mostly because its members were so distracted by the lasses only one in ten of them even knew which cards they were holding. The mix of disdain and lust wafting off the men of the upper classes as they beheld lasses for whom they generally wouldn’t spare a second glance on the street was fascinating, but he preferred stiffer competition.

  “How are you finding London then, MacTaggert? The rumor is that you and your brothers have been ordered to find English brides.”

  “We have been. My younger brother, Niall, found himself one already. Coll and I are more stubborn.” Aden took another sip of the weak, tasteless beer. “You wouldnae happen to know any likely lasses, would you?”

  Crowley chuckled. “Not a one whose papa doesn’t work for a living.”

  “Ye have any bairns yerself? Ye’re a banker, aye?”

  “I am. For the past thirty years. And yes, I have a daughter. She’s been married for eight years now, to a butcher who sees us with a nice fat pork roast twice a month and who’s given me two grandsons.”

  “I reckon I might marry a lass if she came with a good pork roast.” Swirling the beer in its tin mug, he set a thoughtful look on his face. “I’m acquainted with more than one lad who lost his fortune at wagering. With ye being a banker, ye must have seen that from behind the desk, aye?”

  The banker’s expression sobered. “I have, at that.”

  “And yet ye wager, yerself.”

  “There’s a reason I spend most of my wagering time at establishments like the Round Cow, my boy. I may not win much, but I don’t lose much, either. Believe me, some of the stories I hear from men, young and old, who’ve just sold their last bit of property, or who bring other, harder men with them to the bank and simply sign over horses, carriages, houses—if I ever lose more than a pound in one evening, I take my leave.”

  “Ye’re a wise man, Crowley. There’s the other side too, though, the harder lads who willnae forgive a debt made at a weak moment. Do ye see the same ones over and over, coming to collect their winnings?”

  “I have seen several of them more than once,” the banker admitted, his comically forlorn gaze lowering to his empty mug.

  Aden signaled for another pair of beers. “I’ve heard of one lad, nae here in London for long, who’s leaving naught but destruction in his wake. Looks like a hawk or a vulture or someaught, and likes to wear a naval captain’s uniform. Ye run across him? I’d like to know where I shouldnae be.”

  “I have seen him. Distinctive-looking fellow. He and a round man, a Lord Something or other, came into the Bank of England a few weeks ago. I’m generally in the back doing paperwork, but I felt the need for a cup of tea. Have no idea what they were doing there, but the younger man, the round one, looked decidedly … unhappy.”

  The round lad would be Lord George Humphries. So either Vale enjoyed tagging along while his blackmail victims did their banking, or Lord George had given the captain blunt in addition to claiming him as a cousin. Aden wasn’t certain yet if that was a useful bit of information, but it was damned interesting, anyway. “Ye’ve nae seen him gaming, though?”

  Crowley snorted. “My boy, I play for shillings. This hawk fellow and I do not move in the same circles. I did see him walking in the direction of Boodle’s a week or so ago.” He sent Aden an assessing glance. “You’re a viscount’s brother, are you not? You would likely have better luck than I would at finding him—or if you mean to avoid him as you said, you’re doing so quite well by being here.”

  The banker had realized that this wasn’t a casual conversation, then. Aden had been fairly certain that Crowley and Vale did not travel in the same circles, though, or he would have approached the banker more cautiously. Sometimes finding someone who knew about a man was more useful than finding someone who knew a man. A certain distance lent itself to honesty. Taking another swallow of horrid beer, he shrugged. “I like a challenge,” he said with a half grin.

  “I may not have sat across a table from this man, MacTaggert,” the banker said, lowering his voice and leaning forward a little over the table, “but I do hav
e ears, and I do cross paths with the occasional lordling such as yourself. I don’t know you well, but you seem like a decent fellow. This other man, this captain, though … Well, you might be wiser keeping your distance … as you claim to be doing.”

  “Highlander, you’ve lost your four shillings,” wee Basker chortled. “And so’ve you, you damned cross patch.”

  “That would be me,” Crowley commented, finishing off his beer and rising. “Time to call it an evening. My Mary will be expecting me home anyway.”

  Aden had spent some time reading through Grose’s Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, and it had proved to be invaluable at interpreting what the blue devil most of these Sassenach were talking about. He’d have to look up “cross patch” again, but he was fairly certain it meant peevish—and would better describe Basker than Crowley.

  He finished off his beer and left the tavern, as well. From the church bells it was just past midnight, still early for partygoers and gamblers, but he clearly wasn’t going to find what he sought in the cheap taverns and inns on the fringes of Mayfair and Knightsbridge. If he wanted to learn how Vale played, who he targeted, which games he favored, he needed to get closer before he was ready to sit across the table from the man. And that meant true gentlemen’s clubs—places where his father had vowed never to set foot even if they would have him. Places Coll would detest, with all the pretty lordlings pretending to be consequential.

  How, then, did a Highlander with blue blood but no high-ranking English relations of the male persuasion manage to get through the doors of Boodle’s or White’s or Brooks’s club?

  He blew out his breath, which fogged in the chill night air. Slipping in and out of places suited him. Frequenting ratty gaming hells like the Round Cow barely earned him a glance or two. A club, however, meant introductions, exposure, and speculation. Entanglements. Owing favors. Obligations. Then again, he’d chosen his path. He would set Miranda free so that he could claim her for himself.