Chapter Ten

"Who's Long Meg?" Ellie asked, as soon as they set off. "A courtesan?"

Harry's dimples flashed. "No. She's an old friend."

"I'm not even going to ask how you became acquainted with her," she said primly, ignoring an inexplicable flash of jealousy that washed over her.

He sent her an amused, chiding glance. "Not that kind of ‘friend.' If you must know, she was the best fence in London until a few years ago, with a shop on Petticoat Lane, but she gave it all up when she fell in love with a Bow Street runner. They run a boardinghouse for veterans now. She's completely reformed."

Ellie smiled in sudden recollection. "When Tess's first husband, the awful old duke, died, we said she should do something charitable with her new fortune. Daisy joked we should open a home for wounded veterans, reformed harlots, and stray dogs. It seems your Long Meg is catering to at least two of those groups."

"Oh, she caters to the soiled doves too, but in another boardinghouse around the corner."

How many of them were his "friends"? Ellie refused to voice the question. His amorous escapades were none of her affair. Even if she was inordinately curious.

"That was a very kind thing for you to do for Sergeant Morris," she said instead.

He shrugged, but she was intrigued to see the faintest flush of pink sweep across his cheekbones. He was embarrassed!

She bit her lip and sternly told herself not to find that attractive.

"It was nothing. Morris was injured defending this country. It's shameful that the government isn't providing enough help for him now that the war's over and he's struggling to find honest work."

"Giving up your beautiful coat was a noble sacrifice to the case," she said solemnly.

Again, he waved off her thanks, as though uncomfortable with it. "It was a fine coat, but I was about to get rid of it anyway. I'd never have been able to look George Brummell in the eye if I'd worn it for a second season."

Ellie shook her head at his ridiculousness.

"So, we're off to Cork Street because you think the tailors who made that coat will be able to tell us who it was made for?"

"Schweitzer and Davidson," Harry said. "And yes, exactly. A man's coat is as individual as the wooden last made for his shoes. They also keep a record book of every coat they've made, with details of the type, and cloth, and cost. I've no doubt they'll be able to tell us the man we're looking for."

Ellie studied him curiously. "Was it true, what you told Sergeant Morris? Were you really a spy during the war?"

His dimples deepened. "That depends on your definition of spy. I certainly heard a number of interesting tidbits as I was traveling around the Continent. And it's fair to say that I passed on any information that might have been of interest to Lord Wellington. I was never officially employed by the government, though. More of a free agent."

"Did you ask for payment for your ‘services'?"

He grinned at her obvious disapproval. "Of course not. I may be many things, but a traitor to my country isn't one of them. And while I very much enjoy French tailoring, cheese, and wine, I don't believe we'd all be better living under Bonaparte's thumb."

Ellie nodded, satisfied. "How did you know to question Morris?"

"To acquire knowledge, one must study; but to acquire wisdom, one must observe."

"That's very profound."

"Isn't it?" He leaned back in his seat, effortlessly elegant. "Morris stood out on that street in the same way a gold sovereign would stand out in a pile of copper pennies. He was awash with inconsistencies—which to an observer of human nature like myself was immediately intriguing."

"‘Observer of human nature,'" Ellie scoffed. "You mean crook ."

He didn't seem the least offended. "Of course. Every thief needs the ability to read his potential target. Why waste time breaking into the house of a man who has nothing to steal? Why take the purse of a woman whose jewels are obviously paste? I never steal from anyone who can't afford to buy it back. You'd be surprised at how many people only pretend to have money."

"A disappointment in your line of work, I'm sure," she said drily.

" Previous line of work," he reminded her. "Like Meg, I'm completely reformed."

She raised her brows. "What about Mr. Bullock's gold watch?"

"Ninety-nine percent reformed," he conceded. "And now all those ill-gotten skills are yours to command. Book learning can only get you so far, Eleanor. There's no substitute for practical experience. Reading about how to do a card trick and understanding how it works, for example, is not the same as becoming a master at it yourself. No book can let you know the exact weight of the cards in your hands, their thickness, how slippery they are, how easy to bend, how it feels when you toss one over another. Nor can it give you the elation when someone falls for your trick and you win their money."

"True. But book learning won't land me on a ship bound for transportation either."

Her tart answer made him chuckle, and her blood heated. He really was a charming scoundrel.

"Is Ambrose Cox another of your aliases, Monsieur le Comte?"

"Actually, it's one used by my mentor, the man who introduced me to a life of crime when I was a bright young lad of sixteen."

"Is that his real name?"

"Goodness, no. But he's a wonderful chap, the closest thing I have to family in this world. Who knows, perhaps one day you'll get to meet him."

"Is he here in London?"

"I haven't the foggiest idea. The last time I saw him was on the arm of a delightfully wealthy widow at the Venice Carnevale, but he's a man who likes to travel. He could be anywhere." He glanced out of the window as the carriage bounced to a stop. "Ah, Cork Street."

Ellie accepted his hand as he helped her down, ignoring the tingle in her fingers, and studied the wares in the window of Schweitzer and Davidson with interest. She'd never been inside a gentleman's tailors before.

The proprietors were suitably impressed when Harry introduced himself as the Comte de Carabas, complete with an ever-so-slight Italian accent inflecting his perfect English. In no time at all he'd got them to agree to helping his "friend" Miss Law, of King & Co.

No sooner had he handed over the overcoat he'd exchanged with Morris, than an assistant was sent to retrieve a large leather-bound ledger from the back room. Mr. Davidson himself came to assist them, and in less than ten minutes, they had their answer.

"The gentleman this coat was made for is John Patmore, Lord Willingham."

Ellie sent the tailor a warm smile. "How wonderful. I'm so glad we'll be able to return it to him."

"May I ask where he misplaced it?"

"Oh, my friend Tess, the Duchess of Wansford, held a ball a couple of weeks ago and this was left behind in the cloakroom," she lied blithely. "Since there were over three hundred guests, it wasn't practical to write to them all individually asking about a lost coat, so we waited to see if anyone asked after it. When nobody did, I promised to look into the matter for her."

Harry raised his brows in silent congratulation of her quick thinking, and she reminded herself sternly that she shouldn't be so pleased by his approval.

She turned to leave, but Harry, it seemed, was in no hurry to go.

"Would you mind waiting just a few moments longer, Ellie, my sweet?" he purred. "Mr. Davidson here has been so helpful that I feel the urgent need to purchase a new topcoat."

The tailor's face lit up at the prospect of a wealthy new client.

Ellie sent Harry an impatient glare behind Davidson's back, which he ignored completely.

"If I could just take Monsieur's measurements?" The tailor helped remove Harry's perfectly fitted jacket, and made a point of complimenting the cut of his waistcoat, which forced Ellie to notice the neat tuck of his waist and the impressive breadth of his shoulders.

She sank begrudgingly into a chair at the edge of the showroom and became an unwilling voyeur as the tailor took various measurements, including chest, neck, and arm length.

When Harry turned his back to her, his beautifully proportioned rear was at a level with her eyes, and try as she might, she couldn't stop herself from admiring the fit of his buckskin breeches as they hugged the strong curves of his thighs and buttocks with loving faithfulness.

She tried not to listen as the two men discussed cut and fabric choices, but when the probable cost of the garment was discreetly mentioned she sucked in a horrified breath. She'd never spent so much on a single item of clothing in her life!

Harry, she was sure, was well aware of her disapproval, and promptly ordered a new riding jacket, too, to be delivered the following week.

"And where shall your purchases be sent, sir?" Davidson asked.

Ellie pricked up her ears, desperate to know where "Henri Bonheur," charlatan extraordinaire, was pretending to live. Perhaps he'd cite the King & Co. offices as his abode?

"You may send them to Cobham House, Thirty-one Norfolk Street."

Ellie stored the information away for future investigation, and was pleased when Harry finally escorted her out of the shop. They walked a little way down the street in companionable silence, waiting for his carriage to return. The driver must have taken the horses for a short walk to prevent them becoming impatient.

"So, now we know Lord Willingham is behind the theft of the lucky prayer book," Ellie said. "That was excellent work."

"Do you know him?"

"I've never met him personally, but I've seen him at various social events. He's a friend of Lord and Lady Holland, who've been quite vocal in their support of Bonaparte over the years. A month or so ago the newspapers reported that they were preparing to send him an ice maker, of all things, to Saint Helena to make his incarceration more bearable."

Harry shook his head. "Some people just can't accept when they're beaten." He glanced down at her. "Out of interest, where do you get your clothes made?"

Ellie bristled immediately in suspicion that he was critiquing her attire. "By Miss Macdonald, of Wells Street. Why, is there something wrong with them?"

He tilted his head, the way he'd done when assessing Morris's coat. "The fit of that dress is acceptable and the style is certainly fashionable."

"I'm sure Miss Macdonald would agree."

"But cotton's such a boring material."

"It's practical," she said, through gritted teeth. "We can't all have coats made from goat beards."

"And that blue…" He shook his head sadly. "Too insipid. With your coloring, you should be wearing something more striking."

"In my line of work, it's better to blend in than stick out," she said testily.

"Yes. You do seem to enjoy the role of wallflower. That's what you were doing last night, at Lady Chessington's: hiding away in that alcove, content to watch the world dance by, instead of taking part yourself."

"Is this more of your ‘doing something is better than watching it' philosophy? What happened to acquiring wisdom by observing? I wanted to dance, if you must know. But nobody asked me."

She sounded peevish, even to her own ears.

He shook his head with an amused smile. "It's perfectly understandable. Deception is an extremely common tactic in the animal world. Blending into one's surroundings, making yourself next to invisible, is extremely valuable. Believe me, you're talking to an expert. But there's also something to be said for allowing yourself to live, instead of merely survive." His dimples deepened. "I'll dance with you next time, Ellie."

Her heart gave an uncomfortable thump at the promise.

They stopped walking, and he gestured to the window of the shop next to them. It belonged to the seamstress Madame Lef è vre, who'd made dresses for Tess, and Daisy, too, but Ellie had never felt flush enough to order one for herself.

The small glass panes displayed three of the most beautiful dresses she'd ever seen, all far more daring and colorful than she'd ever worn. It was impossible not to secretly imagine herself sweeping down a grand staircase to a round of appreciative murmurs.

She shook her head to dislodge the foolish daydream.

Harry pointed to the most gorgeous dress of the trio, a shimmering emerald-green silk with a neckline that looked scandalously low. "You would look ravishing in that."

"It's far too revealing."

"Not at all. One only needs the confidence to wear it. Every man who saw you would fall instantly at your feet."

Ellie snorted to hide her embarrassment. "I'd be the one falling over, without my glasses on. And besides, it's grand enough for a Royal ball. When would I ever get the chance to wear it?"

He shook his head, disappointed yet again by her practicality, and when his carriage appeared at the end of the street, he hailed it with a whistle. It clattered to a stop, and he let down the step and helped her in.

"Was the address you gave to the tailor your real address?" she asked, when they got settled.

"It was."

"Is there no Lord Cobham who wishes to use his family town house?"

"There may well be, but he hasn't been seen for over a decade."

"You mean he's a recluse?"

"No, I mean he's lost . Disappeared somewhere on the Continent years ago. But since there's no definitive proof that he's dead, his relatives have been renting the place out in his absence. It's fully furnished and extremely convenient."

Ellie sniffed. "You'd better hope he doesn't make a sudden reappearance and throw you out."

Harry shook out the cuffs of his shirt. "Considering how long he's been missing, I'd say that is a very remote possibility indeed."

"As soon as we get back to the office, I'll ask Tess and Daisy what they know of Lord Willingham."

"I'd be happy to go and investigate his town house, if you can find out his address."

"If by ‘investigate' you mean ‘break into and search illegally,' then no, thank you. We'll do this without breaking any laws."

He groaned. "But doing things by the book takes so much time . Don't you ever get impatient to see justice done?"

"Of course I do, but two wrongs don't make a right."

He groaned again, like a petulant child, and she suppressed a laugh.

"You clearly don't have the creative mindset needed to be a successful thief." He sighed. "You're far too encumbered with morals and principles."

She chuckled. "Yes, it's most inconvenient."

"I suppose it was inevitable, considering your family name is Law. You were bound to be tiresomely honest. Have you noticed how often you meet people whose name matches their job? Like a turnkey named Locke or an executioner named Hackett."

"You may be on to something. I once met a gravedigger called Mr. Bury."

"It happens all the time."

"Is that why you chose ‘Henri Bonheur'?"

He nodded. "Better to be ‘Happy Henry' than ‘Simple Simon' or ‘Boring Bartholomew.' Do you know the name Eleanor comes from ancient Greek? It means ‘sun ray,' or ‘shining light.'"

Ellie smiled. "I like to think I brighten people's days. Where does Harry come from?"

"It's short for Henry, of course. Which is a good, solid, kingly name. I believe it means ‘ruler.'"

"Rather like Charles King , then."

He lifted his chin and adopted a regal pose. "I like it. It suits me."

She snorted back a laugh. "You have such an elevated opinion of yourself."

"On the contrary, I know my own worth. Which is something you, Ellie dearest, constantly fail to do."

His gaze rested on her face, and she suddenly felt very warm indeed. His propensity to go from teasing to saying something quite profound in a heartbeat was incredibly disarming.

"You shouldn't underestimate yourself, or your abilities," he said softly. "You are remarkable. Never forget it."

The interior of the coach had suddenly become strangely intimate. Heat tingled in her cheeks at his praise, but she was saved from having to answer as they pulled up in front of King & Co.

She pushed open the door as soon as the carriage rocked to a stop, and jumped down without bothering to wait for help.

Harry leaned forward in his seat. "I won't come in. I'll let you and your colleagues start to investigate Willingham. I'll be in touch soon." He blew her a kiss. " Au revoir, ma belle. "

Harry started to whistle under his breath as the carriage pulled away. All in all, that had been a very successful morning.

They'd made excellent progress on the case, and Ellie had been a delightful companion. He'd relished the opportunity to see her at work.

He'd thoroughly enjoyed their verbal sparring, too, and the way she tried to hide her reactions from him was highly entertaining. She liked to think of herself as logical and unemotional, but he hadn't missed the way her cheeks flushed and her eyes had lingered on his body when he'd stripped for the tailor, nor how she bristled at his attempts to get under her skin.

The devil in him couldn't resist teasing her, just to get a reaction. He loved the way her eyes sparkled and her lips parted in exasperation. Unfortunately, that inevitably led to thoughts of how else he could make her eyes sparkle and her lips part—with desire.

Kissing her beneath that mistletoe might have been a mistake. Because now whenever he looked at her mouth, all he could think of was the softness of her skin and the tiny gasp she'd made when their lips had touched.

He wanted to hear it again.