The Lady Who Knew Too Much

  THE LADY WHO KNEW TOO MUCH

  ______________

  AGENTS OF DESIRE BOOK ONE

  ALYSON CHASE

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  Cover design by Dar Albert.

  Chapter One

  London, 1819

  One would think that being a woman on the run would be an exciting adventure. One heart-pounding moment after the other. In truth, Lady Juliana Wickham had never felt so dull in her life.

  She tugged at the rope holding the window’s curtain back. The drape fell closed. She didn’t want any views of the outside world. Or her own reflection. Neither sight gave her solace. She rose and paced Hyacinth’s bed chambers, the room she hadn’t left for nearly a week.

  Admittedly, it was a large room, with a wide fireplace and a bed big enough to comfortably sleep Juliana and Hy. With just the smallest amount of blunt, Juliana had bought the silence and aid of her friend’s maid, who smuggled meals up to Juliana each day.

  It was the loveliest of prisons.

  Still, a prison it remained. That it was one of her own choosing did little to assuage her irritation.

  She eyed the portable desk Hyacinth had smuggled into her bedroom for Juliana’s use, but even that didn’t interest her. She’d already spent too many hours hunched over the thing, spilling her innermost thoughts, trying to organize them into persuasive arguments. Even if her essays convinced society of the folly of its ways (which she was certain they would), well, even world-changing philosophers needed a respite now and then.

  She flopped to her back on Hyacinth’s bed. Her feet tapped along to the beat of the music resonating from the ballroom below. Turning her head, she met a scornful green-eyed gaze. “What do you say, Mr. Blake? Shall we dance?”

  She reached for the tabby, picked up his wriggling form, and scooted off the bed. She waited for the next melody to start and fell into step, curling the cat close to her chest.

  He swatted her jaw, his claws stinging.

  “Lawks!” She dropped him on the bed and rubbed her chin, watching as he stalked away. Even her friend’s cat was too busy to entertain her. She plopped onto a stuffed armchair. Her next essay would be a treatise on what to bring when on the run.

  More books, definitely. While Miss Hyacinth Butters had many fine qualities, a sufficient library wasn’t one of them. Juliana had fled Bluff Hall with naught but a satchel full of clothes and what funds she could gather.

  Juliana stared at the curtained window. She’d been at her friend’s house for five days now. The first day she’d been quite happy to languish in Hy’s bed. That attack had…well, it was best not to dwell on such unpleasantness.

  Even better not to think of the man who had occupied a starring role in her dreams since he’d saved her that night.

  She closed a door in her brain, shutting out a pair of broad shoulders and a set of piercing blue eyes.

  The second and third day at Hyacinth’s she had begun plotting her next steps.

  And come up with nothing.

  Then she’d written, a pleasant enough pastime, but it didn’t serve to take her mind off her troubles.

  Hy had tried to entertain her, but as her parents didn’t know Juliana was hiding in their house, her friend couldn’t very well spend all her time in her bedroom without drawing suspicion. When the carriages had begun arriving for this evening’s rout, Juliana had felt the excitement of the evening’s festivities to her very bones.

  She longed to be among the dressed-up ladies, dancing across the parqueted floor, and as she wasn’t much of a dancer, that was saying something.

  Being on the run wasn’t for the faint of heart.

  Nor the listless of spirit.

  She should be thinking of new ways to uncover the truth. She was a smart woman. She plucked up the poker and jabbed at the dwindling flames in the fireplace. Her father hadn’t spared a second thought on providing his daughter with as thorough an education as he’d given his son, untraditional as those educations might have been. And at two and twenty, Juliana credited herself with having enough sense and experience to solve life’s problems.

  Yet it had been almost a fortnight since she’d fled home. Nearly a week since Mr. Pickens, her father’s secretary, had been arrested. Two weeks, and she’d yet to learn anything more about his motivation. Whether he’d worked alone or not.

  Whether her father was finally safe.

  She pushed that disquieting thought from her mind. As Rodger Rose, the great modern philosopher and poet, said, thoughts become words, words became deeds, and deeds became reality. In order to create the reality you desired, it was necessary to keep your mind clear of negative thoughts.

  Which was much easier said than done.

  The door eased open, and before Juliana could dive behind the bed, Maisey, Hyacinth’s maid, slipped inside the room.

  She dropped a hasty curtsy. “Begging your pardon, miss, but I saw this on the butler’s tray and brought it here straightaway.” She held out a familiar envelope, and Juliana’s shoulders slumped.

  This was the third letter that had been returned unopened. Was her father’s butler in on the plot, too? His new secretary? Someone was preventing her letters from getting to her father, even when she’d gone through the subterfuge of making it look as though the letters came from a third party.

  She took the missive, tracing the letters of her father’s name. It had been written in her friend’s hand, and if Mr. Butters questioned why he was franking letters from his daughter to the Earl of Withington, he had not yet spoken of it.

  “Thank you, Maisey.” Her mouth went dry, and she swallowed. Her father was in danger. She felt it in her bones. But what good was her certainty when no warning could reach him?

  Not that he’d heeded her previous warnings. He’d laughed when she’d pointed out his horse’s girth strap had been deliberately cut, causing him to tumble. Chucked her chin when she’d urged him to send for the magistrate after a section of parapet had fallen from the roof of Bluff Hall, nearly killing him as he walked below. And the last attempt on his life…

  She pressed her hand to her abdomen. He had been so ill, she hadn’t thought he would survive. She’d said he was poisoned. He patted her hand and said Mrs. Bailey hadn’t cooked the lamb sufficiently.

  But now that his secretary had been arrested, surely he’d heed her warnings. It was true that Mr. Pickens had yet to confess to any attacks against her father. From the little she’d read in the papers, the blackguard had only been charged with assaulting her, because she’d uncovered him stealing from her father the theory went.

  But her evidence was mounting.

  If only her letters would reach her father.

  She tossed the missive down on the side table. She should travel home, speak to her father in person. Icy dread filled her at the thought. It was the same feeling that had gripped her each time she stepped across Bluff Hall’s threshold in the past year. Som
ething was deathly wrong in her home. She didn’t know whether she’d survive her return.

  “Do you want to send another note?” Maisey asked. “I can tell Bobby to give it to a maid instead of the butler. I’m sure she could get it to your father. We know how to get things done.”

  Juliana smiled. “Yes, probably.” What other choices did she have? “But not tonight. Go. I know the servants are having a party of their own down in the kitchens. Enjoy yourself.”

  Maisey gave her a conspiratorial grin. “Bobby did promise me a dance. But are you all right up here? Can I bring you anything?”

  Juliana waved her away. “I’m fine. Enjoy a drink for me.”

  The girl turned for the door. “I’ll enjoy one for myself, as well. And one for Miss Hyacinth, and one for—”

  “Don’t get too carried away.” Juliana chuckled. Though maybe Maisey had the right of it. A bottle of wine to drown her worries tonight wouldn’t go amiss. Or even a dram of whiskey. Her father kept the best whiskey, and never scolded his children for indulging in a glass or two.

  “Have a good evening, miss.” Maisey silently pulled the door open an inch, peered out, then slid through the opening, closing the door behind her.

  Juliana sank onto the bench at the foot of the bed. She couldn’t remain hiding in her friend’s bedroom. Hy’s parents were bound to find out, sooner or later. And she was merely delaying her problems by remaining hidden instead of resolving them.

  The string quartet Hy’s parents had hired turned their instruments towards a waltz. The music was muted but skillful, and the wistful melody had her feet sketching the dance’s pattern on the carpet.

  Yes, she needed to determine if someone still wanted her father dead, but it wasn’t going to happen tonight.

  She rose and faced her friend’s floor-length mirror. She imagined a tall, burly figure, and dipped a deep curtsy. “Why yes, I would love to dance.”

  A hard blue gaze flashed across her imagination. Those eyes belonged to someone completely inappropriate, but this was her fantasy, so she let them linger in her mind. She closed her own eyes and began to sway to the music. She raised her arms, as though holding her imaginary man, and fell into the rhythm of the dance.

  The hem of her skirts whisked across the carpet. She hummed along with the music and wondered what it would feel like to have such strong arms wrapped around her body. The men of her acquaintance were all slender and sensitive.

  Perhaps she should expand her acquaintance beyond philosophical societies. The male members were all kind and intelligent, but none of them sent a shiver straight down her spine with merely one glance. Perhaps—

  One thick band, hard as iron, wrapped around her waist. One rough hand gripped her own, engulfing it.

  Her eyes flew open.

  The pair of piercing blue from her imagination met her gaze.

  A shiver raced down her spine.

  “My lady.” Mr. Brogan Duffy, inquiry agent and the man featuring much too prominently in her dreams, inclined his head. “I’ll take this dance.”

  Chapter Two

  She was soft in all the right places. A fact that was of no consequence to his purpose, but still, Brogan noticed.

  Her plain face gazed up at him, mouth open wide with shock. A bit of pride unfurled in his chest, replacing his irritation. She should be surprised. It had taken some doing discovering the Lady Juliana Wickham’s location. His employers at the Bond Agency for Discreet Inquiries would be pleased. He had only worked there four months, and finding Lady Juliana was the first case he’d been assigned to as principal agent.

  A fortnight to resolve an investigation seemed like an effective resolution…if his employers ignored the fact that he’d found her once before and she’d manage to slip away. The back of his neck heated.

  She stumbled, and her full bosom pressed against his chest. She jerked away as though scalded, and he tightened his grip on her waist.

  “I’m not…what are…” She blew out a breath, a strand of her brown hair lifting and drifting back to her cheek. “How did you find me?”

  “I had a man watching Bluff Hall. He saw your letter to your father. Or should I say, Miss Butters’s letter to your father.” And he’d seen Lord Withington’s butler refuse delivery. Because it was from an unknown sender? From a chit he thought would write nothing but nonsense? If he knew Miss Butters was a friend of his missing daughter’s, wouldn’t he welcome any correspondence?

  No matter. His job was to deliver Miss Juliana, not analyze her father’s correspondence habits. “Would you like to finish the waltz or are you ready to leave?”

  She tried to step back, tugging at his grip. He thought about holding on, but restrained or free, she was no match for him. She would go where he wanted. Hopefully without kicking and screaming. He disliked causing a scene.

  He released her, and she took a quick step back. She rubbed her arms. “Leave? Why would I leave?”

  She was going to be difficult. He sighed. He’d only laid eyes on her that one night, but he’d known she was trouble right away.

  The case should have been easy. A brother worried about his missing sister had hired an inquiry agency to find her. Brogan had discovered her first at the apartments of a set designer she’d befriended. From the intelligence he’d received, Lady Juliana adored the theatre, and tracking her from there had been simple.

  Attempting to be kind, he’d allowed her to remain with her friend until the next morning when Brogan would deliver her home. She’d needed comforting after the attack by Mr. Pickens.

  He should never attempt kindness. It wasn’t a trait he excelled at.

  “An unmarried woman of your station doesn’t just flit about London without supervision. It isn’t proper.” She should know this. He reached for her arm. “Let’s go.”

  She skittered away, putting the bed between them. She crossed her arms under her bosom, giving him an arch look. “Proper? You’re going to have to give me a better reason than that. In fact, if you want to discuss propriety, how proper is it for your agency to accept a commission from a lady’s brother when it is my father who is my legal guardian. If he takes no issue with my ‘flitting about,’ then my brother can’t, either.”

  Brogan inhaled sharply. It was her eyes. That was how he knew she was going to be trouble. Much too assertive than a lady of her years should be.

  “Your father isn’t well.” According to his peers, he hadn’t been for quite some time. After the death of his wife, he’d become disinterested in affairs of state. Taken on some queer ideas. Let his children run wild. At least so said His Grace, Duke of Montague, one of the co-founders of the Bond Agency. And the result of such poor parenting was a daughter running about London like a harridan.

  “Your brother worries for you.” A fact Lord Snowdon had seemed eager to impress upon him. He most likely didn’t want his sister to embarrass the family. His reasons were his own. Brogan circled the bed. “Now, we go.”

  She hopped up on the mattress, scuttling to the center. “You’ll have to carry me, kicking and screaming through the ball. Mr. Butters will stop you.”

  “Mr. Butters doesn’t know you’re here.” Brogan planted his hands on his hips. He wouldn’t have to take her through the ballroom. He’d ascertained all the possible exits. The one through the kitchens would work best.

  She flushed. “That is irrelevant. You can’t be such a monster that you’d abscond with an unwilling woman, taking her back to her doom.”

  He glared at the ceiling. She would have to be dramatic, too. Consorting with aristocrats was going to be an annoying corollary to his new job. “You’re safest with the people who love you best. Your brother. Your father. I don’t want to argue about this.”

  She picked up a pillow and held it to her belly. “Someone tried to kill my father.”

  “There is no evidence of that.” More dramatics, he presumed. Perhaps it was a natural reaction for one of her kind to have af
ter her ordeal.

  His stomach hardened, remembering her cowering before her father’s secretary. The man had deserved a much worse thrashing than he’d received for attacking a woman. But what reason would he have to kill his employer? He’d admitted to being a thief, no more, and his attack on Lady Juliana had been an attempt to escape detection.

  And having a passing acquaintance with the woman, Brogan could understand the impulse to throttle her.

  Her brother had given him some hints of her character. An indulgent father had led to a spoiled upbringing. She looked upon her flight as some grand adventure. Even now her eyes sparkled with excitement.

  He held out his hand. “Take it up with your brother.”

  “Snow doesn’t see what’s happening.” She huffed. “You’re an investigator. Can’t you help me find the truth?”

  “No.” If he was found indulging a chit’s delusions, he’d never hear the end of it at the Bond Agency. Although the five founders of the business never made mention of it, Brogan knew they weren’t the usual toffs. They each had backgrounds assisting the Crown in delicate operations. Word in the agency was they’d saved the prime minister’s arse on more than one occasion. Brogan wouldn’t embarrass himself in front of them, not when he had a decent job for the first time in his life.

  “Lady Juliana, if you do not come—”

  She struck him on the side of the head with the pillow. “I am a grown woman. This will be kidnapping.”

  A grown woman wielding a pillow as a weapon? She acted more like his ten-year-old sister.

  She smacked him again.

  “Desist,” he gritted out through clenched teeth.

  “No. Not until you—”

  He snaked his hand out and grabbed the pillow. He yanked it away, causing her to fall to the mattress in front of him. He gripped her wrist and hauled her to seating. “Now, it is time—”

  “Juliana!” A distressed gasp dragged his eyes to the doorway of the bedroom. Miss Butters, clutching her ruffled ballgown, gaped at them. “What are you doing with this man in my room? On my bed?”