The Allure of Attraction Page 10

“It isn’t as though you don’t have a dress,” he said with a laugh.

  She smiled thinly at the joke. “No, as a dressmaker I do have the luxury of choice when it comes to gowns. I was thinking more of the fact that it’s been so long since I’ve spent any time in society. I shouldn’t know where to begin.”

  A lie. Her mother had drilled into her the correct way to behave among Eyemouth’s tiny group of acceptable families. Only a few had met with Jean Malcolm’s approval, but Lavinia had dined and danced with all of them. That had been the side of her world that Andrew had never been privy to, mostly because her mother and father had made it abundantly clear that he was unwelcome.

  “You should start earlier. Brush some of the rust off,” said Wark.

  “That is an idea,” she said carefully.

  “Come to the opera with me.” He said it as a challenge more than an invitation, as though daring her to go to that very public place where she would be on his arm and on display to everyone. If she appeared at Wark’s side, there would be no stopping the rumors. Everyone from his business associates to her clients would speculate about whether she’d become his mistress and, given the very great difference in their social standing, it would take them no time to decide that she was.

  “I’ve never been fond of opera,” she said.

  Determination fired in Wark’s eyes, no doubt because she hadn’t out-and-out refused him as she had so many times before. “Then share my box at the theater. Or we could dine privately at a restaurant.”

  Private boxes and private rooms. Perfect places for assignations. Exactly the sort of place she didn’t want to find herself penned in with this man. Andrew hadn’t been thrilled when she’d said that she was going to call on Mrs. Wark that morning. He’d probably explode if she agreed to a dining room with a door that could lock and a discreet staff who knew when to knock and when to simply disappear. She wanted to believe it was because Andrew’s deeply ingrained instinct to protect would win out over all else.

  Or she could be horribly wrong. What had he called her? His asset. Hardly a term of endearment for a woman he’d once claimed to love.

  “I have a better idea,” said Wark, cutting through her dithering. “Come to dinner on Tuesday,” he said.

  Her pulse began to race. “Dinner?”

  “Some of my most trusted business associates will be there. We’ll be a small party, with my mother acting as hostess.”

  His associates? Those were the very men Andrew wanted her to find out more about. If they were the ones behind the royal visit, surely they’d be tied to whatever plan Wark was working toward. Lavinia could mentally jot down the names of those men and their conversations, all without risking public scrutiny.

  “How delightful,” she said brightly, even as her hands shook. In accepting this invitation she was taking the next step. This next encounter with Wark wouldn’t be circumstantial. It would have intention, thrusting her farther down this path Andrew had started her on. In accepting this invitation, she was fully in.

  For the two thousand pounds. For Caleb.

  A grin spread over Wark’s face. “Why, Mrs. Parkem, have we finally come to an agreement that it would be far better for us to be friends than to be merely landlord and tenant?”

  She could hear all the implications weighing down his words, but she pushed past all of her concern. “Sometimes circumstances change, Mr. Wark, and, as I said, it’s been so long since I donned a pretty dress and went to a dinner party.”

  His fingers touched hers and slithered up her wrist before bringing the back of her hand to his lips. She wore no gloves when she was working, and the feeling of his cold, slightly damp skin against hers nearly made her shudder.

  The kiss lingered longer than was appropriate, and when his eyes met hers there was no mistaking the desire there.

  “We could always dispense with the formalities of getting to know one another over dinner,” he said.

  Lavinia was tiptoeing on paper-thin ice now. She wouldn’t allow herself to be seduced in the name of Andrew’s cause—that was several steps too far—but neither did she want Wark to believe he would never talk her into bed. This was a man who liked the chase and the victory of a difficult kill. It was what had kept him coming back to her shop over and over these past two years, collecting rent he could’ve sent someone else for.

  “I’ve found,” she said, carefully extracting her hand from his, “everything in life is heightened by the anticipation of wanting it and not being able to have it quite yet.”

  “I’ve anticipated you for two years,” he growled.

  She took a step back, wanting the insurance of space between them. “What’s a few more days to a gentleman?”

  The storminess left his face, and she could see at once that her message had been received. “I shall see to it an invitation is sent to you tomorrow,” he said with something approximating courtesy.

  “You’re certain that your mother won’t mind a late addition to her table?” she asked.

  He cocked a brow. “She’ll do what I say, and you’ll be good company for her. At present there are only gentlemen coming.”

  Mrs. Wark would absolutely not agree about the quality of Lavinia’s company, but she smiled nonetheless.

  “Then I will look forward to your invitation.”

  Wark opened his mouth, but a sharp “Harold” cut him off before he could speak. Mrs. Wark loomed in the doorway, now dressed in a moss-green silk Lavinia had sewn for her four months ago, a fashion plate in her hand.

  “Hello, Mother,” said Wark.

  “I thought you said you had business to attend to,” said Mrs. Wark.

  “Mrs. Parkem,” he said, bowing low over her hand before making his exit.

  When they were alone, Mrs. Wark slapped the fashion plate down on a sideboard with a sharp crack. “My son can be rather familiar. It comes from his good, gregarious nature. I’ve seen many women try to take advantage of that before, but none of them have succeeded, because there is one thing in this world that he loves more than anything else. Me.”

  “His devotion is to his credit,” Lavinia said.

  His mother sighed, but there was no sign of weariness about her sharp eyes. “Several women have tried to catch his eye, even throwing themselves at him, but I’ve yet to meet a woman good enough. The ones who try can be so . . . pathetic.”

  Lavinia’s fists clenched, cutting half-moons in her palms. I’m just as good as you, she wanted to shout. I’m a gentleman’s daughter, even though all you see is a dressmaker with calloused fingers and a deferential demeanor.

  One day she would tell Mrs. Wark exactly what she thought of her. One day she’d see this snobbish, trumped-up woman with few graces and even less taste taken down several notches, and it would be deliciously satisfying.

  Today, however, would not be that day. Instead, she said, “Your son has been a generous landlord and patron of my shop. I will always appreciate that.”

  Mrs. Wark narrowed her eyes, but nodded. “The illustration with the kilting I would like on my next walking dress is on page fourteen. You can see yourself out, Mrs. Parkem.”

  That suited Lavinia just fine. She needed to get away from here and think. This had all escalated faster than she’d expected, and she needed to talk to Andrew. She’d write to him using the cipher they’d agreed upon and leave a note at the drop point. He’d know what to do with the things she’d learned that day. He’d know what to do about everything.

  Andrew sat with the volume of Anthony Trollope’s Can You Forgive Her? that served as his cipher with Lavinia open on his desk. He’d glowered at Gillie when she’d suggested the book for their code, but she’d simply smiled at him with such sweetness he’d decided she was either a maniacal genius sent by Home to subtly torment him into insanity or obliviousness. Given the skill she’d already shown for gathering and coordinating information, he was inclined to believe the former.

  With a final scratch of his pen, he decoded the last word
of the note Lavinia had left at the drop point that afternoon and sat back in disbelief as he read over the last paragraph.

  I have secured an invitation to dine with the Warks next Tuesday evening. He claims his most trusted associates will be there. I will report what I learn.

  Like hell she would. Dinner with Wark in the man’s home with the very men who might be embroiled in this plot? The idea was even less safe than her plan to confront the man that day during his mother’s fitting had been. Too many things could go wrong at the dinner. One misspoken word, one question too many, and suspicion would be firmly on her. Men of Wark’s ilk were ruthless. Even if Wark himself didn’t harm her, if any doubts about her intentions arose, the others might.

  A frustrated growl threatened in the back of his throat. Why couldn’t the woman have followed his instructions and secured an invitation for a walk or maybe a ride through Holyrood Park? A gallery, the theater, the opera—anywhere public where he could’ve kept an eye on her would’ve done. He needed to make sure she was safe. She was, after all, his asset.

  “Gillie!” he shouted.

  A moment later, the young woman bustled in, still wearing the coat and hat she’d put on to run errands. “Your lordship called?”

  He scowled and flipped the translated letter onto his desk. “Read this.”

  She snatched up the paper and scanned it. A smile broke out of her face. “This is wonderful. Good on you, Mrs. Parkem. I thought she had the makings of a good spy.”

  “This is not good. It’s the opposite of good.”

  Gillie blinked. “She’s moving far faster than most assets I’ve ever worked with, and that’s fortunate, given that we have so little time. How is that not good?”

  “It’s possible for an operation to move too fast. We don’t know anything about this man. He could be planning to abduct her.”

  “Or he could be planning to give her dinner, which is the far more likely scenario. Mrs. Parkem is an intelligent woman, and I can promise you that she hasn’t made it through the last decade on her own without developing the ability to sense when a man is a danger to her.”

  Gillie was right. He should step back and assess the situation with the emotional detachment a handler should have regarding any case, but this was Lavinia. Despite everything that had happened between them, he hadn’t lost his old worry for her. He’d carried it with him every day at sea. That and love had driven him straight back into her arms at the end of every voyage. Now, knowing that he was placing her deliberately in the path of a potentially dangerous man, that old worry had reared up again with even more urgency.

  “Wark is clearly smitten with her. That makes him all the more likely to say something stupid to impress her. If you pull her out of this dinner, we have no backup plan. No way to get at him that doesn’t require months of subterfuge. We don’t have months,” Gillie pressed.

  Another point for Gillie. He pinched the bridge of his nose, willing the stress away. “How long do you think we have? Be realistic.”

  Gillie twisted her lips in thought and then nodded once. “I think we should assume that if Wark is the danger Home believes him to be, he and his compatriots wish to make a statement on the largest platform they have. I have the schedule for the royal visit around here somewhere . . .”

  She swiftly unbuttoned her coat and flung it onto an empty chair before diving into a pile of papers sitting on the desk in the corner she’d claimed as her own.

  “Here we are,” she said, and began reading off the page. “That Wednesday afternoon is the arrival and the royal procession to Holyrood Palace. Thursday the prince tours the Fountain Brewery, views the site of a foundry soon to be built, and attends a concert where he’ll listen to works by Chopin and Tchaikovsky.”

  “I don’t care about the concert pieces,” he muttered.

  “Just being thorough,” said Gillie. “There is a luncheon on Friday with members of the committee who organized the visit, and then in the evening the ball.”

  “That damned ball. It’s all anyone talks about,” he said, remembering the way Lavinia had rattled off all of her responsibilities before the event. He couldn’t help feeling guilty that he was pulling her away from that work, but this operation was too important to ignore.

  “You’re annoyed by it and you’ve been in town less than a week. Imagine how the rest of us feel,” she said before handing him the paper. “The rest of the visit is far less grand. A few more tours and openings. A day shooting at an estate nearby. It looks as though there are also several private meetings, but no word on when those will be.”

  He scanned the paper and then nodded. “If something is going to happen, it’ll be in those first three days. My guess would be the procession.”

  “What about the royal ball you claim to hate?”

  He considered it but discarded the idea. “It’s possible, but doesn’t have the benefit of anonymity. Everyone’s eyes will be on the prince, and there will be guards everywhere.”

  “The procession does raise the most opportunities, especially when the royal carriage makes its way down Princes Street or the Canongate. The Canongate is narrower, which poses a problem,” said Gillie.

  “Or creates a greater chance for destruction. We don’t know enough to understand what kind of weapon they’ll use—gun, knife, or bomb—and we don’t even know who the target will be. It could be the crowds.”

  “But the crowds make it more difficult for an attacker to escape,” Gillie argued.

  They both fell silent, neither wanting to speculate further about that possibility.

  “This is why she needs to attend that dinner,” said Gillie.

  He grunted.

  “Nothing will happen to her. You can stop worrying like a maiden aunt,” she said.

  “A what?”

  “And while you’re at it, you can also stop being angry at her. This is not the time to punish Mrs. Parkem for what happened between the two of you.”

  “I’m not angry.” His anger had long ago fossilized and become something entirely different. Colder, blacker, harder.

  “Then why are you looking at that paper as though you wish you could burn holes in it with your stare?” she asked.

  “Do you know why I prefer to work alone?” he asked, pushing away from his desk.

  “Why?”

  “Because then pesky women who don’t know how to mind their own business don’t pepper me with questions.” He put a hand up before she could say anything. “And rest assured that I would find your presence irritating no matter your sex,” he said.

  A grin broke through Gillie’s sternness, and the brown feathers of the tall hat perched on top of her head bounced joyfully. “Well, that’s something.”

  He hauled himself to his feet and grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair. “Do me a favor and look into this Douglas character Lavinia mentioned earlier in the letter.”

  “Where are you going?” Gillie asked.

  He shrugged on his coat and flicked the lapels into place. “To get my asset back into line.”

  Chapter Eight

  AFTER A DAY of cutting a rainbow of gowns, stitching until her fingers were numb, and stacking poor little Fiona up with boxes of finished orders to rush to customers’ homes, Mrs. Parkem’s had finally quieted enough for Lavinia to relax as much as a seamstress could before a royal visit. She’d reluctantly sent Siobhan and the girls home an hour earlier. She hated to keep them as late as ten, but every moment was valuable at a time like this. However, despite the mounting pressure as they got closer to the royal visit, she couldn’t help but enjoy the luxurious silence that fell over her workshop in the very late evening through early morning.

  Her back ached and her eyes felt like she’d plunged them into a bucket of fine sand, but she continued to sew. There was something meditative about the pursuit that filled the spaces of her mind. With a needle in her hand she could simply be.

  She was just finishing the fine stitches that edged a buttonhole
on a heather-blue wool day dress for Mrs. Campbell when a noise caught her attention. It sounded like someone tapping their fingers along glass. Untucking her feet from under her, she stood, the soft petticoats she favored when she was at work falling around her legs.

  There it was again—the same sound, but this time more like a clatter than a tap.

  With a frown, she went over to one of the three windows that looked down into the close at the back of her shop. Something moved in the dark, and she caught a glimpse of pale skin in the faint light of the quarter moon.

  Annoyed that one of the neighborhood children was throwing pebbles, she undid the latch and pushed the glass open so she could poke her head out. She was about to shout down when a low whistle of three cascading notes pierced the night. The three notes were those that Andrew had whistled under her window when they were younger, his signal that it was safe for her to steal out into the night so they could be together.

  She quickly pulled the window shut, locking the latch into place with more force than perhaps necessary. Hand still on the cold metal, she stood there, her breath coming in light pants as she felt as though her chest were being squeezed from all sides. She didn’t know whether Andrew was calling up these little things from their shared past as some coy punishment for the decisions she’d made, but that’s what it felt like—constant reminders that he’d once known her better than anyone and that she’d turned her back on him.

  She heard the whistle again and shook her head. She had a job to do, a reward to earn, and then she and Andrew would both go their separate ways. She’d pay Caleb’s debt and then everything would be normal again. That was what she wanted more than anything.

  She hurried down the stairs and through the kitchen to the back door of the shop. When she opened it, Andrew stepped out of the shadows and into the beam of light streaming out of the door.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked in a rush, glancing around the close. If anyone saw her talking to a man at her back door around midnight . . . Well, every merchant on Victoria Street and then some would know about it by noon the following day.