Her wide lips curved, and for a precious moment he forgot even his own name.
Nicolas knew then he would never forget that smile, even if he had only been treated to a mere glimpse of its full ravishing potential.
“You can try,” she invited darkly. “But I promise you shall lose a limb in the process. Now I demand—”
“Maryann?” a voice creased with astonishment asked.
She whirled around. “Crispin! Upon my word, you are safe!” The shovel was dropped, and she rushed toward the man tumbling from the hedges, rubbing the back of his neck.
The threat of Nicolas’s presence had been dismissed with astonishing speed. How insulting. Nicolas melted into the darkest pocket of shadow in the garden and waited, all his senses attuned to the night and its possible dangers. Yet a part of him remain fixated on her, and he held himself still at that awareness.
“Who was that gentleman you were talking to?” her brother muttered, glancing behind her. “Where did he go?”
Both turned to stare at the spot he had been, looking around the gardens warily.
“I do not know who that man was, but Crispin, he was wearing your mask!”
Her brother clasped her shoulder. “Did he hurt you?”
“No.”
“Then why did you have that shovel warding him off if he did not act the bounder?”
“It was meant to be a threat for him to reveal what he did with your body,” she said with a light huff. “I was certain he had done you in!”
Nicolas found himself smiling at her dire imaginings. He hadn’t planned on knocking out anyone; the young man had come upon him by surprise, and Nicolas had reacted swiftly, gently pinching that nerve that would put him to sleep for a few minutes. That Lord Crispin had been wearing a mask was a stroke of luck for Nicolas, and it was a good thing he had donned it himself.
“Of course I was not dead,” her brother muttered crossly, and with a heavy dollop of reproach. “You really do need to stop reading those gothic books.”
“What happened to you, Crispin?”
He frowned and glanced toward the hedgerows where Nicolas had left his body after gently knocking him out.
“I was coming to meet you with the critters from the pond and I…I believe I startled something that lingered in the dark. I think…it was a man and not an apparition.”
She lightly punched his shoulder. “Now who is the one reading all those books! Of course it was a man. He clearly did something to you and took your mask. That is rather frightening, for he could have truly done you in!”
She took a deep breath and looked around. “Crispin, he…he actually acted in your stead. Isn’t that simply astonishing? Whyever would he do that?”
Because you caught me by surprise…and I was too captivated to not participate, Nicolas thought, a bit amused with her earnestness.
“Good God, are you smitten?” he asked with a measure of alarm.
No, my good fool, she went back for a weapon. She was a brave spitfire.
Her brother glanced around warily. “Clearly he was up to no good—the bounder knocked me out and stole my mask! Perhaps he is a thief.”
“Do not be a buffoon. Why would I become smitten with a stranger?” she said, whirling around. “Let’s hurry and rejoin the ballroom. Remember you are to act considerably alarmed and appalled when you hear of what happened to Lady Sophie.”
“Never say you went ahead with your mad plan and this man truly helped you.”
“I say!”
She bent to retrieve her discarded coat and then headed back to the house. Her brother muttered something under his breath and obediently trailed behind her. Nicolas waited in the shadows for several more moments before he stealthily made his way around the side of the house, away from the ballroom and revelry. Once there, he peered at the trellis covering the side walls and the balconies. He went around to the back, noting the steps along the walls, the ones the sweepers would use to climb to the roof to unclog the chimneys, tend to any slipped slates on the roofs and the downpipes in winter.
Using the steps, vines, and trellis, he silently climbed to the second floor and hauled himself over the nearest balcony. He tested the window, not surprised to find it had not been latched from the inside. Out here on the edges of Town, a family like the Fitzwilliams would never give a second thought to safety or security. Even if they were in the city, where crimes were rampant due to the poverty and the aftereffects of the war, they would still sleep unafraid and undisturbed, protected by their vaunted wealth and privilege.
Slipping through the window, he entered a darkened room. The pale wash of moonlight revealed it to be a small study. He expected their mansion to be furnished with all the latest modern conveniences and ostentatiously displaying their wealth. He was not disappointed in his assumptions. The room he had entered, though shadowy, was lavish in the extreme.
The sound of laughter, the orchestra, and clinking of glasses echoed through the thick walls and opened windows below, and the music reverberated enough to assault his ears. Despite the advantage of the gathering to cover his steps, Nicolas moved with care as he circled the room, feeling as he went along until he located the tapers and lit them.
He removed the mask and lowered it to the large oak desk flushed against the wall. It took him several minutes to search the room. There he only found a few ledgers, unpaid bills from a society milliner and a notable dressmaker in town, and some letters from one of the Musgroves’ stewards in Hertfordshire. They only discussed some land drainage that the steward considered necessary. There was no hidden panel in the walls or secret compartment in the desk or bookshelves.
Slipping through the door, he made his way to the library. The door was ajar and low, intimate murmuring wafted out to the hall. He waited for several minutes before moving on, listening as the noises became more frenetic and passionate in nature. Whoever occupied that space had no intention of leaving anytime soon. He knew from careful research that there was a larger study a few doors down, and he entered that room after ascertaining no one lingered inside.
Nicolas ensured he clicked the door handle shut so no one could surprise him. A pile of ledgers rested on the surface of a desk and were strewn upon a sofa by the hearth. Those he ignored. People like the Musgroves did not leave their dirty and ruinous secrets in the open. They buried those festering cankers deep where men with purpose like him had to ruthlessly unearth them.
He searched in the blind, not sure what he looked for, only knowing that should he see it, the instincts he had relied on for the last several years would surge to life and guide him. A thorough search of the room—under the Aubusson carpet, bookshelves, wall panels—yielded nothing suspicious.
An irritated hiss slipped from Nicolas, and he reined in the anger stirring to life within. It had taken him almost a year of investigating the pasts of a few noblemen to lead him here. He’d had his investigators study their past travels, their interests, and their secrets.