A Dangerous Affair Page 5

  His features were bold and distinctive. Thick brows. Strikingly green eyes framed with short, spiky ebony lashes. Sharp cheekbones and a full, sensual mouth. He’d taken off his hat when he entered the store and his thick black hair was slightly flattened and pushed back from his temple, revealing a high, smooth forehead with nary a single blemish.

  He has better skin than I do, Juliet thought with disgust. And as much as she would have preferred he have a bulbous nose, large gap between his teeth, and eyes that were set too close together, there was no denying the man was sinfully handsome. It was a shame, really. If she didn’t know who he was she might have been tempted to flirt with him.

  Men who looked like the runner were few and far between in the East End. A woman could consider herself lucky if she found a bloke who had all of his teeth, let alone one who looked as though he’d just stepped out of a fancy Gentleman’s Club.

  Unfortunately, she did know who he was. More importantly, she knew what he was.

  Her enemy.

  “A lady should never have to open the door for herself.” His throaty voice reminded her of a velvet cloak she’d stolen out of a carriage once. Sinfully soft and deep. “Here, allow me.”

  “That is very kind of you,” she said demurely when he pushed the door open as wide as it would go, allowing in a gust of chilled air. She shivered, although the goose pimples running the length of both arms had very little to do with the rain and everything to do with the large man standing behind her. His rangy body filled the entire doorway, broad shoulders stretching from one side to the other. He frowned when he noted her quick tremble.

  “Don’t you have a parasol?”

  “I…must have left it in my carriage.”

  “Let me go fetch it for you.”

  How noble, she thought with the faintest of sneers. If only he’d been this gallant last night when he’d been chasing her all around St Giles.

  “There’s really no need. I am not made of sugar. I won’t melt.” So get the bollocks out of my way, you bloody bounder, and let me pass, she added silently when he kept one arm braced against the door, effectively trapping her between a hard place and, well, a hard place.

  “Are you sure about that?” he murmured, lowering his head ever-so-slightly to sniff at the delicate curve of her neck as if he was a dog and she was a tasty morsel he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to slowly nibble or devour in one hungry gulp. “You certainly smell sweet.”

  “It must be my new perfume. It’s French. Very expensive.” As her stomach did the same, odd little flutter as it had the night before, she clutched the collar of her cloak and pulled it all the way up to her chin. The wolfish gleam in the runner’s eyes made her feel as though she was standing before him completely naked. It was a vulnerability that had nothing to do with his occupation, and everything to do with his being such a large, attractive, virile man.

  She may have been a virgin, but she wasn’t ignorant. Or completely innocent. She knew of the relations that took place between a man and woman. She’d even been kissed a time or two, although those experiences had left her wondering what all the fuss was about. If lovemaking was anything like kissing – wet and jabby – she wasn’t in any particular hurry to do the deed.

  The first time she had seen a man and woman tupping (one couldn’t grow up in the East End and not witness all manner of perverted acts) she’d been little more than a child and so shocked she’d simply stood there and stared, rooted to the spot, until Eddy found her and dragged her away.

  “What were they doing?” she’d asked, her green eyes wide as saucers.

  Eddy, not much older than she, had struggled to stutter through an explanation. His entire face as red as a doxy’s dress, he’d stared down at the ground and said, “They were having a bit – a bit of fun, is all. Grown up fun.”

  “It didn’t sound like fun! It sounded like ‘e was hurtin’ her. Do ye think we should get Bran?”

  “He wasn’t hurtin’ ‘er none.”

  “How do ye know?”

  “Because I know. Crikey, Jules. Jest forget about it, okay?”

  But she hadn’t forgotten, and with the runner towering over her it was the only thing she could think about. Which was just another reason why she needed to put as much distance between them as possible.

  Immediately.

  She’d been stupid to come here. It had been an impulsive risk she hadn’t needed to take, but she had wanted – she had needed – the see the runner again.

  Well I certainly got my wish, she thought silently as her lips thinned. And now I’ll be lucky if it doesn’t cost me my life.

  “Thank you ever so much for opening the door,” she said, a bit of an edge creeping into her tone, “but if you could let me through–”

  “Have we met before?” As the gleam in the runner’s eyes suddenly shifted from seduction to speculation, Juliet instinctively reached for her knife. She was fairly certain he didn’t recognize her – surely he would have done something by now if he had – but she wasn’t about to put her fate to chance.

  “I am afraid not, sir. I am certain I would remember meeting someone as handsome as yourself.” Her lashes fluttered even as her hand slipped beneath the folds of her cloak and closed around the hilt of her dagger. If she could take the runner by surprise she had a chance at escaping. But she did not have the luxury of hesitation. If she was going to do something, she needed to do it now. The second he recognized her it would be too late. He’d have her wrists in shackles and her arse sitting in the magistrate’s office before she could blink twice.

  With her pulse thrumming in her ears, she started to draw out her knife…

  “I suppose you’re right. I would never forget a face like yours.” One emerald eye flashed in a wink, and once again her belly fluttered. She bit back a frown. Maybe she was coming down with something. Her friend Sam had been sick as a dog for the past two weeks. But if that were true, why did she only feel odd when she was around the runner?

  Wonderful, she thought darkly. He’s probably diseased.

  “Let me accompany you to your carriage,” he said, continuing to play the knight in shining armour. “Young ladies such as yourself should not be walking alone, even in this part of town.”

  With silent sigh of relief, she released the knife and clasped her hands together. Truth be told she hadn’t really wanted to hurt the runner. Not because she felt anything for him. That would be ridiculous. It simply wouldn’t be practical to stab him within spitting distance of Bow Street, and she was nothing if not practical.

  Most of the time.

  “If women are incapable of opening doors for themselves or walking down a street without a man by their side, what are they capable of?” she challenged, arching a brow.

  A wickedly rakish grin tugged his mouth to the side. “An excellent question. Off the top of my head, I can think of nearly half a dozen things a woman is very capable of.” His voice lowered to a husky whisper. “And she wouldn’t even have to leave the bedroom to accomplish them.”

  It was such a Bran thing to say that Juliet nearly snickered. But then she remembered the character she was supposed to be playing and she quickly turned her snicker into a scoff.

  “You have insulted my delicate female sensibilities, sir! I fear I must bid you good day.” Ducking her head, she managed to evade his arm and dart out the door. But she didn’t make it more than five steps before he appeared on her right side.

  “At least tell me your name.”

  “Why?” she said, stepping away from him to avoid a puddle. The rain had slowed to a drizzle and the sky was beginning to clear, revealing a hazy yellow sun struggling to break through the dreary wall of fog that perpetually blanketed the city.

  “Because I’ve asked you for it. Shouldn’t that be reason enough?” He sounded genuinely puzzled that she wasn’t tripping over her own tongue to answer his question. She couldn’t say she was surprised. Looking as he did, she imagined he didn’t suffer rejection ve
ry often. Women probably threw themselves at him on a daily, if not hourly, basis.

  With the exception of Juliet and her ilk, the runners were revered all over London. Women adored them. Men wanted to be them. Children idolized them. Why, she’d even seen a lady stop her carriage in the middle of the street and dash out to demand a runner sign her handkerchief! If only they knew the truth. Runners weren’t dashing, romantic heroes. They were thugs and bullies who would do well to keep their noses to themselves.

  “That is not a reason at all.” Stopping short at the edge of the pavement, she glanced both ways to make sure the way was clear before she cut briskly across the street. Her unwanted shadow followed, his long legs easily keeping pace with her shorter ones.

  “I will tell you my name if you tell me yours,” he said, glancing down at her with a coaxing smile that revealed the faintest hint of a dimple high on his left cheek.

  Flutter, flutter.

  “I do not recall asking for it. But I do seem to remember bidding you good day.” They marched past a baker’s shop and the sweet smell of freshly baked dough made her mouth water and her stomach grumble. When was the last time she’d eaten? If she didn’t have a runner fastened to her hip she would have helped herself to the basket of scones sitting out on the front step to cool, and her resentment towards him grew. Maybe she should have stabbed him. At least then she’d be able to walk in peace.

  “You’re different from the usual sort, aren’t you?”

  “Please go away.”

  “Why would I do that when we’re getting on so well?” He followed her around the corner, extending his stride to match hers when she tried to quicken her pace. “Where did you say your carriage was again?”

  “I didn’t.” She stopped so suddenly he walked past her and had to turn around. Her cloak tented out around her as she rested her hands on her narrow hips and gritted her teeth. It was oh so tempting to tell him to bugger off, but cursing would hardly suit the quiet, well-mannered lady she was pretending to be. “Thank you ever so much for opening the door for me, but I really must insist–”

  “Gertrude.”

  Juliet blinked. “I’m sorry?”

  “Your name.” His head canted to the side. “Is it Gertrude?”

  “No.” She tried to walk past him but he blocked her path, and when her furious gaze darted up to his face she found him looking down at her with a challenging grin.

  “Give me two more guesses. If I guess correctly, you’ll let me walk you to your carriage. If I guess wrong, I will let you pass and you need never speak to me again.”

  She angled her chin. “You could let me pass regardless.”

  “I could,” he acknowledged. “But I am not going to.”

  “You are a man who is very accustomed to always getting what he wants, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” he said simply.

  Well at least he hadn’t denied it.

  A sliver of sunlight peeked out between the clouds, reflecting off a gold button on his jacket. Like the rest of his clothes, the fawn colored greatcoat was impeccably tailored to his long, muscular frame. His snowy white cravat was expertly folded and held in place with a pin that she was willing to bet one of her own teeth was real gold. His Hessians were made of expensive calf leather and the small rowel spurs attached to the back of his heels were antique silver. The man all but stank of wealth and good breeding. Which made her wonder why – and how – he’d come to work on Bow Street.

  A question for another time, she thought silently. The only thing she needed to concern herself with at the moment was getting rid of him and then getting back to the East End as quickly as possible. Being this close to Bow Street was making her skin itch.

  “Oh very well, I will indulge your silly little game. But,” she warned, pointing her finger at him, “you must give me your word that if you do not guess my name you will leave me alone.”

  “I swear it,” he said solemnly.

  “All right then, let’s get on with it. I haven’t all blo – blessed day,” she quickly amended when she remembered who she was supposed to be. Not an orphan who’d been raised in the gutters of St Giles and had to claw and fight and scratch her way to the top of the ladder, but a gently raised lady whose biggest obstacle in life was ensuring the lines on her embroidery were straight.

  “You have to give me a clue first.”

  “A clue?” The corners of her mouth tightened. “You didn’t say anything about a clue.”

  “Didn’t I?” he said innocently.

  “I think I would remember.”

  “It only seems sporting, doesn’t it? Just don’t make it too easy.” He took a step towards her, crowding her back into a pile of crates filled with apples. His head lowered, and she felt the scratchy brush of his side whiskers against the side of her cheek when he leaned close and whispered, “I like a good challenge.”

  Juliet froze as still and stiff as one of the marble statues in Kensington Square. He was so close she would smell the sandalwood on his skin and feel the heat pulsating from his body. Above the rigid collar of his coat the steady beat of his pulse made a mockery of her own racing heart. When she tried to draw a deep breath her lungs burned, as though all of the air had been sucked from her body. And when he tilted his head ever so slightly she was filled with the nearly irrepressible urge to press her lips to the exposed crescent of golden skin under his jaw.

  No.

  No, no, no.

  This wasn’t happening. She was not attracted to a runner. Especially not this one! But even as her head demanded she find him repulsive in every way possible, heat in her belly made it very clear that her body had other ideas.

  Flutter, flutter, flutter.

  Bloody hell.

  Was this what Sam had meant when she’d boasted about finding a man who set her blood on fire? She’d made it sound quite pleasurable, but Juliet took no pleasure in the conflicting feelings battling away inside of her.

  I think I’d rather be sick.

  “Well?” His husky voice sent an unwanted spark of desire shooting from her tingling breasts all the way down to her curled toes. He lifted his hand, one finger curling around a silky auburn curl. “What’s your first clue?”

  “Juliet,” she blurted, just wanting to get away from him as fast as possible. “My name is Juliet.” Twisting to the side, she managed to squeeze between two of the apple crates. She stumbled. Nearly went down to her knees. Managed to right herself using the arm of a random gentleman walking by.

  And then she ran.

  Chapter Five

  For a moment Grant considered going after the red-haired beauty with the oddly familiar green eyes.

  No.

  Not green.

  When the sun had peeked through the clouds he’d seen tiny flecks of gold in the vivid depths of her irises, making her eyes look more amber than emerald in the glittering light.

  “Juliet.” He spoke her name out loud, wanting to taste the sound of it on his lips. It was not a common name, although it suited her. Sweet and romantic, but with a clipped edge at the end that kept it from being too soft. Like a thistle growing in a field of wildflowers. Pretty to look at, but if you tried to touch it without gloves its thorns would draw blood.

  Brow furrowing, he watched as Juliet hurried away. He wasn’t accustomed to women trying to run from him, and truth be told he didn’t know whether to be amused or insulted. A bit of both, he decided as she slipped around the corner of a brick building and disappeared from sight. If he didn’t have somewhere to be he might have followed her, but he had a full day ahead of him and there was no time for chasing after sharp-tongued wenches. No matter how comely they were.

  Waiting for a fruit cart to lumber past, he cut back across the street and returned to the bookstore. The bell let out another jingle as he pushed open the door and the shopkeeper popped up from behind the counter holding a thin rectangular package wrapped in brown paper.

  “You’re back!” he said. “Excellent. I bel
ieve I’ve found just what you’re looking for.”

  “My apologies. I fear I was distracted by a pretty face.” The floorboards creaked beneath his mud splattered Hessians as he crossed the room. “Have you seen that woman in here before?”

  The shopkeeper squinted at him from behind thick spectacles. “There was a woman in here?”

  “Aye, a red-haired lass with – never mind.” With a bemused twist of his lips, Grant shook his head. “It doesn’t matter now. What do you have for me?”

  “Here we are.” Setting the package down on the middle of the counter, the shopkeeper carefully untied the twine binding holding it closed and unwrapped the paper. “It’s not in mint condition per say,” he said with an anxious glance up at Grant. “But I personally believe that only adds to the appeal. Don’t you?”

  ‘Not in mint condition’ was a vast understatement, Grant thought, biting back a snort as he spread the pages out on the counter. There were about thirty in all, written on front and back in a woman’s elegant hand. The ink was faded and blurred in several spots, causing one word to run into the next and rendering entire sentences indecipherable. Some of the pages were creased and smeared with fingerprints. One had been nearly torn in half!

  “What the devil did you do to it?” he demanded, scowling at the shopkeeper.

  “It wasn’t me, my lord. The manuscript was packed away in a wooden crate with several other novels. Unfortunately, the crate suffered considerable water damage when it fell off the roof of a carriage, which is why all of its contents were sold at auction.”

  Carefully stacking one page on top of another, Grant braced his hands on the edge of the counter and regarded the shopkeeper with a steady, unblinking stare. “How much?”

  “I suppose, given its condition, I could let it go for eighty.” Removing his glasses, he rubbed the lenses on the cuff of his shirt. “A bargain, really, considering the author.”

  “Eighty pounds?” This time Grant didn’t bother to contain his snort. “That’s a bloody fortune. I’ll give you twenty.”

  “Seventy.”