The Dangerous Mr. Ryder Read online

  ‘Mr Ryder, do I need to remind you who I am? I say where I go and do not go. Besides, I have the key.’ The lights from the various establishments flickered into the carriage, illuminating Jack’s face in flickering bursts. She caught a look of surprise before he had his expression under control again.

  ‘Here? You have the key here? Why on earth would you bring it?’

  It was tempting to pretend that she knew he would need it, but honesty got the better of her. ‘It is in the pocket of this cloak; I forgot I had put it there last time I visited. It was when I discovered about the chemists Antoine is employing—I had gone down one evening to look in the old recipe books, because I had found a perfume receipt up at the castle that sounded promising and I wanted to see whether we had it at the factory already.

  ‘I used to visit all the time, but since Philippe became ill I had stopped going. I don’t think Antoine knows I have a key to the offices. What are we looking for?’

  ‘I am looking for formulae, drawings, equipment—anything that might give me an inkling of what they are up to.’

  ‘We will need to start in the offices, then,’ Eva said, loftily ignoring his carefully selected pronouns. ‘Then we can move to the laboratories if we find nothing there. The actual workshops are unlikely, I think—after all, the production of perfume is continuing as normal, or I would have heard about it.’

  ‘It will be easier if you draw me a sketch.’ Jack rummaged in one of the door pockets and came out with some paper and a pencil.

  ‘I told you, Mr Ryder, I am coming with you.’ Eva pressed them back into his hands. Even in the gloom of the carriage with the occasional flashes of light, she could see from his expression that he had no intention of agreeing. ‘I have a perfect right to be there,’ she said, with sudden inspiration. ‘I can walk in with whomever I like—who is to refuse me? And the caretaker will not think to wonder what I am doing, he is so used to seeing me. It will reduce the risk, and hasten things, if you do not have to break in.’

  ‘That is true,’ Jack conceded. He must have sensed her surprise at his capitulation. ‘I am not in the habit of turning down perfectly good arguments just because someone else makes them.’

  ‘I thought you objected because I am a woman. Or because of my position.’

  ‘Neither. What you do in your position is your choice. I have a history of disagreements with dukes, but not grand duchesses, and in my experience women have an equal tendency to good and bad sense as men.’

  ‘Oh.’ He had taken her aback and it took a moment to recover. Whatever their station, the men in her life made it quite clear—deferentially of course—that she must be treated with respect for her position and with patronising indulgence for her opinions. Even dear Philippe was prone to treat her as though she had hardly a thought in her head beyond gowns, good works and her son. A grand duchess was expected to be a dutiful doll.

  She was beginning to relax a little too much with this man, beginning to like him. In her position it was dangerous to do any such thing just because someone did not treat you like a brainless puppet—and kissed like a fallen angel. ‘Do you treat the dukes with as great a familiarity as you treat me? I have a title which you should use—’

  ‘Your Serene Highness, if I address you as such, then not only will every sentence become intolerably prolonged, but we risk exciting interest at every point along our journey.’

  ‘Ma’am would do excellently,’ she retorted, finding all her irritation with him flooding back.

  ‘What is your full name? Ma’am,’ he added belatedly just as she drew in a hissing breath of displeasure.

  ‘Evaline Claire Elizabetta Mélanie Nicole la Jabotte de Maubourg.’

  Jack whistled. ‘I can see why you are referred to as the Grand Duchess Eva. I think we are here.’

  Eva looked out at the high wall and the double gates with a little wicket set in them. ‘Yes, this is it.’ She found the key and handed it to him. ‘I shall tell the watchman that you are a French visitor from Grasse, interested in seeing how we make perfume here. And do try to remember to address me properly,’ she added as Jack handed her down from the carriage.

  ‘Yes, your Serene Highness.’ The click of his heels was a provocation she decided to ignore.

  Old Georges, the watchman, came out with his lantern before they were halfway across the courtyard. He was pulling on his coat one handed, his wrinkled face a mask of concern at being caught out. ‘Your Serene Highness, ma’am! I wasn’t expecting you, ma’am—is anything wrong?’

  ‘No, nothing at all, Georges. This gentleman is from Grasse where they also make fine perfumes, as you know. He has no time to visit tomorrow, so I am showing him the factory tonight.’

  ‘Shall I light you round, ma’am?’

  ‘No, that is quite all right, just give monsieur your lantern. We will let you know when we leave.’

  She opened the door into the offices, nodding a dismissal to the old man. Jack followed her in and closed the door. ‘That was almost too easy,’ he observed.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Eva opened the heavy day book and began to scan it. ‘There is always just Georges on duty at night. Now, this is the outer office; I doubt if we’ll find anything in here and the day book seems innocuous.’

  ‘If you were operating a secret laboratory, would you leave just one old man on duty? He did not seem at all alarmed by our presence, so he cannot be in on the plot.’ Jack scanned the room, opened one or two drawers, then moved into the next room. ‘Therefore it must be well hidden.’

  ‘I see what you mean.’ Eva picked up her skirts and followed. ‘The laboratories are through here; I have the master key.’

  One after another the doors swung open until she reached the last one. ‘We do not use this one any more. Oh, look—the lock has been changed.’ Suddenly the familiar surroundings of the factory, which she had often walked through at night without a qualm, seemed alien and full of menace. She found she had moved closer to Jack and bit her lip in vexation at the betraying sign of fear. ‘This key will not work on it.’ She held it out as though to explain her instinctive movement towards him.

  ‘I’ll have to pick it, then.’ Jack fished in his boot top and produced a bent piece of thin metal, then hunkered down and began to work on the lock. Eva picked up the lantern and came to hold it close. ‘No, I do not need the light, thank you. I do this by feel and by sound.’

  She watched, fascinated by his utter concentration. Again, the image of a swordsman, balanced and focused, came to her as she studied, not his hands, but his profile. His eyes were closed, his face relaxed as though listening to music, hearing and analysing what he heard at the same time.

  Dark lashes fanned over tanned cheekbones. She saw a small crescent scar at the corner of his eye and observed the darkening growth of evening stubble begin to shadow his jawline. He was a very masculine figure, she thought, aware of the ease with which he balanced, the way his breeches moulded tightly over well-muscled thighs, the warmth of his body as she stood close.

  I am too used to courtiers, too used to velvets and satins and posturing politicians and officials. Even the officers wear uniforms that speak more of the ballroom than the battlefield. This man looks dangerous, feels dangerous. And the biggest danger was, Eva realised, dragging her gaze away from his body to concentrate on the movement of the picklock, that she found him exciting to be with. Infuriating, insolent, casual and peremptory—and exciting.

  It was something she had been wary of, these two years of widowhood, letting herself get close to another man, allowing the chill of her lonely bed to drive her into some rash liaison. You overheard too many people sniggering behind their hands as they recounted the tale of yet another widow of high rank taking a lover. It was risky, demeaning and ruinous to the reputation, for the secret always seemed to get out and, of course, it was inevitably the woman who was the butt of the jokes and the object of censure.

  This feeling of arousal, this sense of hazard, was simply
due to the shock of Jack Ryder’s eruption into her life and the stress of her worries for the past weeks. Everything was heightened, from her fear, her anxiety, to her sensual instincts. That was all it was, all it could ever be.

  ‘Got it.’ The lock clicked and the door swung open. Inside was a room laid out as a drawing office, with two desks on one side, a wide, high table in the middle and two drawing slopes with stools on the other side. Along the back of the room was a range of chests fitted with wide drawers.

  ‘Not a scrap of paper.’ Jack pulled open the desk drawers. ‘Empty except for pens and ink and rulers.’

  Together they went to stand in front of the chests. Eva reached out a hand and touched the dark wood, noticing how heavily the piece was made. ‘Look at the locks. I have never seen anything like that before.’

  ‘Neither have I, and I will tell you now, I cannot pick these.’ Jack straightened up from a minute inspection of the locks, each made of steel, with double keyholes and strange rods and bars on its surface.

  ‘We will just have to smash the chests, then,’ Eva said robustly. ‘There are fire axes in all the rooms. Look, here.’ She lifted the axe from the corner where it stood next to a pail of water and swung it experimentally. It was heavy.

  ‘If I do that, then there is no hiding the fact that we have been here.’ Jack leaned back against the chest, folded his arms and regarded her steadily.

  ‘Of course.’ That much was obvious.

  ‘When Prince Antoine discovers your disappearance from the castle he may give chase, he may not. It is unlikely to be a matter of such desperate urgency to him that he will throw great resources into the pursuit. But if he links your disappearance with a raid on his secret laboratory, he is going to tear the countryside apart to find you.’

  ‘But we must find the proof of what is going on.’ Eva knew she was frowning in puzzlement. Was he really asking her if she would put her personal safety before her duty?

  ‘We have enough to confirm that Prince Antoine is experimenting with explosives. My orders are to get you back safely, not to engage in espionage.’

  ‘Are you telling me that you will walk away from this?’ Eva demanded.

  ‘No, I am asking you whether you want to. It is your life. It is your son waiting in England.’

  Eva found the axe was still dangling from her hand. She propped it against the nearest chest while she tried to sort through her thoughts. Jack was offering her the choice, as he would to another man. He was not trying to hide the dangers from her. He wasn’t happy about it, but she was here inside the factory with him because he was prepared to listen to her ideas.

  ‘If there is a risk that some weapon that might aid him falls into Napoleon’s hands, then I would never forgive myself,’ she said, meeting the cool grey eyes. ‘I married a ruler of a country, albeit a small one. This goes with the territory.’ And she knew that if her life was at risk, then so was Jack’s—at greater risk, in truth, because she was coming to realise that if Antoine wanted her, he would have to go through Jack to get to her.

  His lips curved in a smile that held admiration and a certain wry acceptance that she had just raised the odds stacked against them and that the counters she was pushing on to the gaming table represented both their lives. He held out his hand for the axe. ‘Right, let’s get started.’

  Eva picked up the rough wooden handle, set her teeth and tightened her fingers. ‘No, let me.’ She raised it, her arms aching at the weight, and smashed it into the first lock. Wood splintered and the jolt as the blade hit metal ran up her arm. ‘That is for Fréderic. How dare Antoine try to take what is my son’s? I wish he was here at this moment!’

  Chapter Four

  Jack reached across and prised Eva’s fingers from around the axe handle. ‘Allow me. I fully appreciate your wish to decapitate your brother-in-law, but I think I may be faster at turning these into firewood.’

  She nodded abruptly, letting him take the axe and stepping back, her eyes fixed on the chests with angry intensity. God, that’s a woman with backbone! he told himself as he set to work to hack the locks out of their setting. She should be the Regent, she deserved to be. The way he was addressing her, the approach he had taken to their relationship, was simply because he could not afford for her rank to stand in the way of the mission. It was not through any lack of respect, whatever she might believe.

  What the Whitehall officials who had sent him on this mission would say to him embroiling her in breaking and entering and spying, he shuddered to think.

  The final lock in the first chest yielded in a mass of splinters and Jack began on the next. Beside him he was aware of Eva pulling open drawers, taking out piles of papers and laying them in order on the big table.

  The physical effort of swinging the axe, hacking into the solid wood, made the sore muscles around his ribs where the rope had cut earlier ache savagely. He had not realised the strain his body had been under while he was doing it—the mentally numbing effect of the drop beneath him as he had lowered himself over the battlements was probably enough to account for that.

  Jack made himself concentrate on breaking into the chests as fast as possible. There was too much distraction already in this mission to be thinking about bruised ribs. The revelation about the Regent’s health, the positive identification of Prince Antoine as the source of the treachery, the discovery of this factory and its secrets, were all outside his briefing and must be factored into his plans. And the impact that Eva was having on him was entirely unexpected and was going to need more than a change in tactics to neutralise.

  He was not surprised to find himself admiring her for her coolness and courage, but he had not expected to find himself lusting after her. And that was what it was, there was no excuse for blinking at it. And it wasn’t just beauty that was having this effect. Jack delivered a final blow to the last chest and began to wrench out the drawers. There was something else—a passion behind those steady brown eyes, an energy and anger concealed under cool grace and dignity. And her body in his arms, the sweet fury of her mouth under his when he had kissed her…

  He stepped back as Eva came to lift out the sheets of drawings from the drawers he had just opened. She moved as though in a state reception, but her hair was coming down and her face was flushed from hurrying backwards and forwards in the stuffy room. Her cloak was in a crumpled heap on the floor and she had pushed back the sleeves of her gown to expose strong, slender forearms and fine-boned wrists.

  The drawings were already arranged on the table, he saw, as she darted about, brow furrowed in concentration, sorting the latest collection. Jack put down the axe and leaned back against the splintered chest to watch her. He should never have kissed her, of course, although as a ruse in the crisis they had found themselves it, it had worked very well.

  The frankness of her kiss when she had stopped fighting him, when the officers had gone, should not have surprised him, either. She had been a married woman, she knew what she was about. From the briefing he had received, if she had taken a lover she had been very discreet about it—he may have been receiving the benefit of several years of chaste frustration.

  They had both been under pressure, in danger, and that embrace had been a response as natural as two soldiers going out and getting drunk after a battle—a life-affirming release. It seemed she had dismissed it now, and so should he. Which was easier said than done.

  ‘Mr Ryder. Have you gone to sleep?’ The tart enquiry was sufficient to dampen any wandering fantasies of unpinning the rest of her coiled conker-brown hair and letting it flow over her shoulders.

  ‘No, ma’am, merely keeping out of your way until you had finished.’ The meek response had her narrowing her eyes at him, but he kept his face straight and she turned back to the table with nothing more than thinned lips to show her displeasure. Grand Duchess Eva had a knack of ignoring unpleasantness and skimming straight over it—presumably a useful skill in court life. ‘How have you sorted the papers?’

&n
bsp; ‘These are drawings of different mechanisms, but I think they all go together.’ She frowned and Jack found his hand lifting to smooth away the little crease between her brows. He jammed his fists in his pockets and came to stand next to her. ‘I have stacked each one with the most recent drawing uppermost; they are all dated.’ Eva pointed to a pile of black-bound notebooks. ‘Those are all figures and calculations. Formulae. They make no sense to me.’

  ‘To me, neither.’ Jack flicked through the topmost one and turned his attention to the drawings. ‘These are rockets.’

  ‘Fireworks?’ Eva leaned over close to his side to see and Jack drew in a sharp breath between his teeth. Her body was warm and fragrant and conjured immediate memories of how she had felt in his arms.

  ‘No, artillery weapons.’ Jack shifted round away from her as though to show what he was talking about. ‘They were invented by Congreve and the British have been using them at sea and on land since about 1805. Napoleon offered a reward for anyone who could invent one for the French army—but they haven’t got them yet. They aren’t very accurate, though.’ He leant over to study the other drawings. ‘See, these are frames and carriages for firing the things—I wonder if they have worked out a way to aim them better?’

  ‘And the notebooks might be formulae for the explosive powder?’

  ‘Yes, that could be it. We need to get these back.’ A look which could only be described as smug passed fleetingly over Eva’s face. ‘Ma’am, if you are about to say “I told you so”—’

  Her eyes opened wide in hauteur. ‘I would say nothing so vulgar, Mr Ryder. Just how do you suggest we get them all out past Georges?’

  ‘We don’t. Not all of them.’ Jack picked up a pair of shears and began to cut down the top drawing from each pile, removing every scrap of waste margin. ‘We take the most recent of each of these, the most recent notebook, and we destroy the rest.’

  ‘The fireplace.’ Eva nodded and began to scoop up the remaining drawings, jamming them into the cold fireplace in the corner of the room. She picked up the notebooks and started to tear the pages out. ‘They’ll burn better loose.’