A Daring Liaison(22)

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Marcus Wycliffe heaved a world-weary sigh as he and Sir Harry Richardson sat at the small table on either side of Charles. “We searched every hole and shadow near Covent Garden. No trace. And, of course, no one saw anything. All we can say for certain is that Mrs. Huffington did not fire the shot.”

“Aye?” Charles took a deep drink from his tankard. “Well, that does not eliminate the possibility that she had help.”

Wycliffe winced. “Are you backing out?”

Charles had had time to consider that option in the hour he’d been waiting for Wycliffe and Richardson to arrive. Anger and desire mingled into a heady brew every time he thought of Georgiana Huffington. Sense told him to walk away. Something dangerous and darker urged him to continue. His darker urges were always stronger. “I’ve already made a beginning. Mrs. Huffington is unaware of the Home Office’s interest in her. Our meeting went well.”

Wycliffe quirked an eyebrow at Charles. Even through the dim tavern light, the man could be intimidating. “Went well? How well?”

Charles had no intention of telling his superior that he’d left the woman in question still trembling from his touch. She might be his assignment, but he was still discreet enough to know that some things were none of the Home Office’s business.

Richardson, however, sat back in his chair and regarded Charles with a sly grin. “Details, man. We want the details.”

“Our conversation was quite enlightening. She is shrewd enough to know how she appears to the ton. She realizes that people are talking, and she has thought ahead to the necessity of finding a palatable answer to the mystery. She has even voiced a concern that she might be next—which is something I do not think we can rule out entirely after the shooting tonight.”

Wycliffe placed his tankard on the table in front of him. “Did anything she said, no matter how subtle, lead you to believe she might be the culprit?”

“She’d be too clever for that and seems to be willing to explore even far-fetched explanations.”

“As a diversion?” Richardson suggested.

Charles had considered this possibility. Mrs. Huffington was certainly intelligent enough to attempt that sort of diversion, but he doubted she was desperate enough for that yet. For a split second, he’d thought perhaps she had set that street ruffian on him, but no. The man had confessed it was Gibbons. He shook his head. “I wouldn’t rule out the possibility, but I do not think she considers me threat enough yet to attempt the deception.”

“It’s that congenial demeanor you put forward. No one ever suspects you’re up to anything deeper than your next pleasure.”

Charles smiled at Richardson’s conclusion. “It has served me well thus far. Mrs. Huffington suspects me of nothing but passing interest. If she were guilty and suspected my intentions, she would be unlikely to risk piquing my attention. In fact, I begin to suspect you only cast suspicion on Mrs. Huffington to persuade me to take this infernal case, Wycliffe.”

Wycliffe gave him a canny grin and signaled the bar for another ale. “So do you suspect something?”

“I don’t believe in coincidence. Someone or something is behind these deaths and attacks. And I was nearly killed on my way here tonight. All these events appear to have a common thread, and that appears to be Mrs. Huffington.”

“Christ! Two attacks in one night? Someone really wants you dead. Do you think she could have hired someone? Paid someone to shoot and miss, just to misdirect suspicion? Then kill you on your way here?”

Charles thought about how close that shot had come, how open she had seemed in the coach, how truly bewildered by events. “The man tonight said Gibbons sent him. As for the incident in Covent Garden, I think we must consider the possibility that Mrs. Huffington could have been the target.”

“Who—”

Charles shrugged. “Her husbands’ families? Someone from her past? I need to know more before I can hazard a guess. I am gaining her confidence. And, should I make the proposal I am thinking of, I imagine there is a fair chance she will take it.”

“What sort of proposal?” Wycliffe asked. He lifted his fresh tankard and watched Charles over the rim.

“Why, marriage, of course.”

Richardson leaned forward, his bright blue eyes widening. “Are you mad?”

He laughed. “Aye, I suspect I am.”

Wycliffe snorted. “I’ve heard she has said she will never marry again.”