“You said it wasn’t an international incident, so it must be someone in that area. Do they have farms in that part of the country? Perhaps the train tracks were cutting through fields the farmer might cultivate, and he thought an accident might cause the train company to alter the route of the tracks.”
He held up a hand. She was far too astute for her own good. Hew’s suspect was not a farmer at all but a local landowner by the name of Pennywhistle. The gentleman previously owned the land where the tracks had been laid. Hew discovered that recently he’d had surveyors on the area adjacent to the land he’d sold to the railroads. Those men had been looking for minerals—valuable deposits of copper and iron ore. It wasn’t yet clear to Hew whether the surveyors had found mineral deposits, but if they had, the land was worth a fortune. It would be enough to go to great lengths in order to buy it back. That being impossible, Pennywhistle—the landowner—might be able to sneak men on to the land to excavate the mineral deposits, if the railroad was incapacitated for some time. It would take a little bribery, but a few hundred pounds paid to railroad officials was a small price compared to the riches the gentleman might uncover.
Hew couldn’t prove any of this—not yet. It was a theory that needed more investigation, but after the attempt on his life, Hew was beginning to think his theory might have some merit.
Pennywhistle almost certainly was not in London, but if he’d killed three innocent people on a train in order to have his way, he wouldn’t balk at sending men to kill one agent of the Royal Saboteurs.
The question was whether those men would stop at Hew’s death or kill anyone associated with him. Right now they had no reason to kill the Howards, but if Miss Howard or her father got in their way, that could change.
“It might be better if we don’t discuss this further,” Hew said. “The less you know, the better.”
“I’d agree with you,” she said, “except that my father is missing. I can’t protect myself if I don’t know what to watch for.”
“I’ll protect you,” he said.
She laughed. “Right now you are one stiff breeze away from falling over. You can’t even stand.”
Hew knew a challenge when he heard one. “Can’t I?” With determination and sheer tenacity, Hew pushed himself up from the floor, using the door at his back for support. Slowly, sweat running down his face and his injury throbbing, he made it to his feet. He took a step forward, putting the bed behind him in case he fell. But she didn’t need to know he might fall at any instant. He’d more than proved himself.
Hew liked to think there was a glimmer of appreciation in her gaze. But he’d have had to look past the smugness in order to see it. She had a face he could read far too easily, which made him more the fool for giving her exactly what she wanted—access to the door and the exit. Hew groaned as his legs gave out, and he sank onto the bed.
“Very impressive,” she said. “But you should rest and conserve your strength.”
“Don’t patronize me.” He tried to push her hands away as she eased him onto the mattress. He was weak now, and his efforts made no impact. The room spun as he looked up at the ceiling. Miss Howard arranged the covers about him and adjusted his head on the pillow. At least she hadn’t run straight out the door. He knew she wouldn’t listen, but he had to try. “Miss Howard.” No, he needed to make her listen. “Belle.”
Her brown eyes snapped to his face. She was so pretty, her honey-blond hair falling out of its confines, her pink mouth, whose lips made the shape of a bow, and, who could forget those intelligent eyes? It was the intelligence that got to him. He’d known dozens of beautiful women, but the sheer vacuousness behind their eyes made a great many of them lack appeal. The problem was that intelligent women were dangerous. Look at the female agents for the Saboteurs—Bridget Kelly or Lucy Galloway. Both were beautiful and deadly.
Of course, they weren’t a danger to him because he had no interest beyond friendship with either lady. And after what had happened with his late wife—an exceptionally beautiful and intelligent woman—Hew had vowed never to allow any woman to elicit anything stronger than friendship in him again. If a woman stirred anything deeper in him, Hew ran the other way.
Belle Howard was stirring those feelings inside him, but he couldn’t run. He told himself it didn’t matter. She obviously had no interest in him. He was safe.
Except he was not.
She had that face he could read, and when he’d said her name, when he’d said Belle, something in her eyes had flickered. There was a softness there, one she didn’t want him to see, and one that told him she was not impervious to his charms. That shouldn’t matter—that little chink in her armor. He didn’t need to know that she had a weakness for him because he did not intend to seduce her. Hell, he couldn’t seduce her even if he wanted to. He could barely stay conscious.
Still, Hew wished he hadn’t seen that flicker because now not only was she lovely and intelligent, she was dangerous.
“Belle,” he said again, and this time he didn’t look at her eyes. “Listen to me. You only put yourself in more danger if you go out.”
“I won’t—”
He grasped her hand and pulled her down. He must have some strength remaining because she lowered to the bed, close enough that he could see the gold flecks in her eyes. Ah. That was what made them so pretty. They weren’t just brown, but they were flecked with honey-gold, like her hair. “I told you,” he said, trying not to stare at those eyes. Trying not to lose himself in the gold flecks or the lure of unconsciousness. “I’m a trained observer. I know exactly what you’re thinking.”
“Do you? You might be taking more care if you knew exactly what I was thinking.”
He would have grinned if he hadn’t been fighting so hard to stay awake. Clearly, she was annoyed with him. “Besides wanting to hit me over the head, you plan to run out the door as soon as I release you. Don’t do it. You can’t help your father by racing into danger. And when he returns and finds you gone, you’ll only cause him to worry. Stay, Belle.”
“Close your eyes now, Mr. Arundel,” she said. “I’ll get a cool compress.”
The suggestions sounded so good, he didn’t even try to resist. He closed his eyes, and his hand must have released her because a few moments later he felt a cool cloth on his forehead. He was so hot. It was as though he were on a spit, and a fire had been lit beneath him. Except the fire came from inside, originating from his wound, which insisted on pulsing with pain.
The compress was removed and replaced, the coolness barely penetrating the heat. Before he succumbed to the darkness, he heard the sound of the rain on the window, her footsteps as she walked out of the room, and then the silence of an empty flat.
Chapter Eight
Belle closed the bed chamber door and leaned on it, gulping for breath. She’d gathered the tea things before she’d left, and she could hear them clinking together as her hands shook. She told herself she was acting this way because she was afraid for her father, but if she was honest, Arundel’s murmured words had rattled her. He probably hadn’t even meant them for her. He had been barely conscious.
Or he had been thinking of another woman.
