A Most Dangerous Profession(9)

The woman blinked rapidly and then coughed loudly. “Och, I jus’ falled.” She waved Moira on, as if annoyed to have been awakened, then tucked herself into a tighter ball in the middle of the walk.

Moira returned her pistol to its sheath and continued on her way. As she reached the corner, the huge clock that overshadowed the square tolled, deep and melodious.

I’m late! God, no! Her heart thudded sickly in her throat as she dashed down the street to the churchyard. Beside the low iron gate sat a large black coach, malevolent in the mist. Moira pressed a hand to her chest, her heart beating with a lonely, deep ache.

I must be calm. I must control this situation and stay strong.

Hands fisted at her sides, she walked across the courtyard. As she approached the coach, she pushed back her hood and smoothed her hair. The mist parted and the coachman yelled for her to halt.

The crest seemed to leer down at her, a red sun overlaid by a stag wearing a circlet of white heather. She hated that crest, yet longed to see it with all of her heart.

The coachman climbed down from his seat past two burly footmen, and went to the door. He knocked briskly upon the curtained panel. A moment later, it swung open and a man stepped out.

George Aniston was dressed like the veriest dandy; his blond locks combed just so, his cravat an impressive size and set with a glittering ruby, his knitted trousers striped in the current fashion.

His petulant scowl made him look half his age. “You’re late.”

“The mist confused me. If I could have come by carriage—”

“You know the rules.” His voice was as youthful as his figure, his face as smooth as a schoolboy’s. When she’d first met him, she’d made the mistake of thinking him weak, foolish, and lacking in capabilities.

She’d only made that mistake once.

“So the box wasn’t there, was it?” he asked.

“You don’t look surprised.” Of course, he already knew it wasn’t there. She hid the bite of disappointment. Knowledge was power, but with Aniston she could never get ahead. He always knew. It was one of the things that made him so dangerous.

“After you left town, I received word that the artifact I seek was sold to a collector in the highlands.”

“So Bancroft never had it.” Anger simmered through her. “You sent me on a wild-goose chase.”

He shrugged. “I can send you on any sort of a chase I wish. I own you.”

No, you don’t. No one owns me. Ever. She burned to rage at him, but there was more at stake than her pride. She said in a tight voice, “I could have done more good elsewhere.”

“Perhaps. I sent you to fetch a different onyx box almost a month ago. If I remember correctly, you failed at that small service, too.”

He called making her an accessory to blackmail a “small service,” and she feared that to him, it was nothing more.

She met his gaze evenly. “Don’t blame me for that. You didn’t tell me Miss Beauchamp had William Hurst with her.”

The heavy lids drooped over the icy blue eyes. “I didn’t expect that development. Still, I would have thought that for someone with your . . . skills, a little surprise like that wouldn’t have been insurmountable. And then there was the time you told me that you’d found one of the boxes in a collection in Edinburgh, but then found you were mistaken.” His gaze narrowed. “I still find that tale difficult to believe.”

“It wasn’t the same style of box. It was gold and onyx, but far too large.” She met his gaze steadily though it cost her dearly. She hadn’t dared tell him the truth–that she’d had one of his precious boxes in her grasp and it had disappeared from her lodgings. Of course, now she knew what had happened, but at the time she’d had no good explanation as to why the box had gone missing and couldn’t risk him thinking that she’d sold it, or worse, and so she’d lied.

“Do you or do you not wish to end this debt between us?”

“Debt?” Her voice was sharp and bitter. “You stole from me; I don’t owe you anything!”

His mouth tightened and before she could say another word, he was before her, his words hissing through his teeth. “Don’t you ever speak to me like that again. I own you, worthless fool that you are, and I won’t take such disrespectful behavior!”

She yearned to use her pistol but she dared not. Not only because of the footmen, who were obviously just paid thugs, but also because Aniston was right. She was completely at his mercy. She couldn’t afford to allow her emotions to lead her into making a mistake. The man was mad and seemed to be sliding further and further into it.