Mistress by Midnight. Nicola Cornick
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not wise to tell Tom of her encounter with Garrick Farne. He would be furious because she had compromised not only her own safety but also his business. If Garrick were to discover her identity somehow and start asking questions he would discover that she worked for Tom and a powerful enemy like the Duke of Farne would be very dangerous for Tom’s livelihood. Besides, she was not sure she wished to relive the encounter. The unexpected affinity she had felt for Garrick, the pleasure of their quick-fire conversation, the sweetness that had ambushed her when his lips had touched hers in that infinitely tender caress … She had not expected to feel any of those emotions. She should not.
Tom was watching her. He was quick; he’d seen her hesitation.
“Well?” he said.
“Unfortunately I sneezed,” Merryn said, “and he dragged me out from under the bed.”
Tom’s reaction was predictable. There was a moment of silence and then he exploded. “Bloody hell, Merryn—”
“I know,” Merryn said hastily. “But I didn’t tell him who I was, or what I was doing there. You don’t need to worry. He doesn’t know I work for you. No one does.”
Tom clenched his fists. “Merryn,” he said, “the work you do is supposed to be secret. The clue is in the word.”
“Of course,” Merryn said quickly. “Sorry—”
Tom made a visible effort to get himself under control. He rubbed his forehead. “I warned you it was dangerous to go there,” he said. “I told you to be careful.”
“I was,” Merryn said defensively. “It was just bad luck.”
Tom gave a sigh. “Well, you have not been hauled up in Bow Street so evidently you got away,” he said. His tone had eased a little. He even managed to give her a half smile. “Did you kick him in the balls and run away?”
“Something of the sort,” Merryn said. She wondered how she had managed to retain any shred of innocence associating with Tom Bradshaw. Her vocabulary had certainly been broadened, if nothing else.
Merryn had never been quite sure how she and Tom had come to be as close as brother and sister. She had first met him three years before when he had broken into a house where she was staying. She had found him rifling through her host’s study and had held him at sword point—there had been a medieval claymore on the wall—until he had revealed to her that the purpose of his illicit visit was to reunite the government with some very sensitive papers pertaining to the war. She had been frankly intrigued by Bradshaw’s business and had thought it would be the perfect line of work to get into. She had a passion for justice, too little money, too much time and nothing to do that remotely interested her. Being a debutante was a tedious business; all the men she met wanted blandness in a woman, a pattern-card wife. Merryn, in contrast, did not want a man at all. She had never met one she preferred to her favorite books.
Tom had laughed at first when she had sought him out at his office and proposed that she work for him. Then he had remembered the claymore. And she had pointed out that she had the entrée into houses that he had to burgle. She could attend balls and routs, speak to people that he could not approach. They had been a partnership ever since.
Tom walked across to a side table that held a dusty crystal decanter and matching glasses. He gestured to them. Merryn shook her head. She was never quite sure what was in Tom’s decanter and suspected that it was villainously bad sherry. Tom poured for himself, took a mouthful and then looked back at her.
“It might be better if you drop this whole matter,” he said abruptly. “When I first found the reference I thought that you had a right to know the truth but now—” He shrugged uncomfortably. “I think it could get us all into trouble.”
“No!” Merryn said. She felt panicked. “It was an accident, Tom. I promise to be more discreet in the future.”
Tom did not answer for a moment. He sat down, placed his glass gently on the desk and leaned forward. “I think your determination to find out the truth leads you to take risks we cannot afford because you are obsessed with exposing Garrick Farne,” he said. “It is not only dangerous.” He took a breath. “It is unhealthy, Merryn. You should let it go.”
Merryn wrapped her arms about herself. She felt chilled and her stomach lurched a little with sickness. She always felt like that when she thought about her brother Stephen and the fate Garrick Farne had meted out to him. The scandalous shadow had dogged her steps for over a decade. She had been thirteen when Stephen had died and it had felt as though the sun had gone out. Everything had changed, every keepsake of Stephen lost when the estate was sold, every link with him wiped out. Stephen had blazed across her life like a wayward star and when Garrick Farne had extinguished that light her whole life had been plunged into darkness. The grief had been like a punch, leaving her stunned with the force of the blow.
“It’s not just about Stephen’s death,” she said. She rested a hand against the window glass. It felt cold beneath her fingers. Down in the alleyway below, two ragged children were playing with a hoop. “We lost our father as well, and our home. We had nothing left. Papa went into a decline and died because he was so broken to have lost his heir.”
“Then he should have valued his daughters more,” Tom said grimly. “He was a fortunate man to have other children, yet he did not appreciate it.” He looked at her. “I do wonder, though,” he added, “if your recollection of that time is quite accurate, Merryn. You were only a child—”
“I was thirteen,” Merryn said. Her stomach did a giddy little swoop. “Old enough to remember everything.”
She turned away so that Tom could not see her face. She had known exactly what had been going on between her brother and the newly wed Kitty Farne because she was the one who had carried their clandestine messages. She was the one who had led Stephen to his death. The old guilt stirred and she shuddered sharply, slamming the door to block out the memories and the pain. It was not her fault. She had never intended it to end in murder. She had to remember that she was not the one who had pulled the trigger and taken Stephen’s life.
“You sound guilty,” Tom said, frowning at her. “Why on earth—”
“Spare me your analysis,” Merryn snapped, angry that he had been acute enough to pick up on her feelings. “I don’t feel any guilt. Why should I? Farne was the one who killed Stephen. And if he did that in cold blood rather than in a duel then he has even less honor than I had thought and he deserves everyone to know it. This isn’t just about revenge, Tom. It’s about justice …” She stopped, gasping for breath.
There was a silence in the little room. “I’m sorry,” Tom said. “I accept that Garrick Farne’s actions were far-reaching.” There was a note of impatience in his voice now. He pushed his chair back from the desk. “But I still think your feelings affect your judgment, Merryn.” He gave a quick shake of the head. “I don’t know … I suppose that I cannot stop you pursuing Farne if you choose since it is not an official case.”
“No,” Merryn said, “it is not. But I think that you have an interest in it all the same. I’ve thought so from the beginning.”
Tom looked startled. “Why do you say that?”
“Because I know you,” Merryn said. “Don’t prevaricate with me, Tom. Is there a client?”
Tom stared at her for a moment and then shook his head. “I cannot tell you anything,” he said. “Client confidentiality—”
Merryn made an exasperated sound. “Tom!”
“Oh, very well,” Tom said. He moved the files around on his desk. “There is someone who is interested,” he said. “One of Farne’s brothers. There is no love lost there.”
“One of Garrick Farne’s brothers wants to see him hanged?” Merryn pressed. She had known that Garrick was estranged from most of his family but still she was shocked. “Why on earth …”
Tom