“There are agents in the field counting on us. Friends of mine.”
He sighed. “I know. I know. You’re right.” He set her on her feet and stepped away, raking a hand through his hair, then wincing at the pain the movement must have caused to his injury.
“Holyoake, you should go back and lie down. I can go to Vanderville’s and break in. I’ll see what I can find out and report back to you.”
“No, even if that were possible, I wouldn’t allow you to go on your own. Especially because you won’t ever get inside. I’ve tried. He has more security than Buckingham Palace.”
“I want to see it anyway.”
“Of course, you do. And once you do, we can make a plan to get inside. I don’t think either of us could do it alone, but together...” He trailed off and looked contemplative. “It might just be possible.”
Margaret swallowed and straightened her skirts, the last vestiges of pleasure still thrumming through her blood. His words touched her as much as his hands had earlier. She didn’t dare believe he might mean it, but just the chance made her want to push Holyoake against the wall and ravage him as he had just done to her. But she herself had pointed out that they had more important obligations. And thank God she had a reason to stop herself.
The question was how she would resist later?
***
AMBROSE WATCHED ASMaggie tried to compose herself. He was secretly glad she seemed to be struggling. Her struggle showed him she wanted him as much as he wanted her. But she was right that they had to put that aside. For now.
Finding and neutralizing the assassin should be their top priority.
Of course, now that he wasn’t thinking about how good it would feel to plunge his cock inside her, his wound had begun to ache again. Maggie opened her reticule but instead of withdrawing her ever-present book, she pulled out the vial of medicine. “You look like you need more of this.”
“I’ll take that,” he said, downing it, “and some sausages. I’m still hungry.”
“We’ll buy something from a street vendor after we go to Vanderville’s,” she promised. He’d hold her to that. She never seemed hungry and often forgot to eat, but his empty belly reminded him when it needed filling.
They made their way around to the front of the tavern, and he hailed yet another hackney. This time they managed to make the trip without starting an argument. The coach slowed to a stop on the outskirts of Mayfair. For someone who wasn’t born into wealth, finding a town house in Mayfair itself was almost impossible, but a businessman with new money like Vanderville could afford a gaudy house close to Mayfair, and that’s just what he had purchased.
Ambrose climbed out of the coach and paid the jarvey then joined Maggie on the walk across the street from Vanderville’s residence.
“That is truly hideous,” she said, gesturing at the enormous, overly ornate home taking up half the block. “I have never seen so much scrollwork.”
“I care less about the outward appearance as I do about the impossibility of getting inside. It’s a veritable fortress. He has a man on every door and dogs patrolling the grounds.”
“We need to go inside. We should go through Vanderville’s personal papers and ferret out the name and residence of the assassin.”
“Before I was attacked, I was planning to break in. I’d tried multiple times to gain an audience with Vanderville. I used my calling card”—Maggie glanced at him, knowing he hated to use his title for anything—“and even pretended to be an investor. He was never at home. When I tried to break in, my attempts were discovered within moments.”
“It’s my turn then,” she said. “You stay here as you’re sure to be recognized by the staff.” She started across the street, strides long and gait determined. Ambrose’s research told him Vanderville was not wed, but if he had an interest in women, he didn’t flaunt it. Even so, Maggie wasn’t the sort of woman men who dealt with the demimonde preferred. She wasn’t coy or charming or classically beautiful. She wasn’t amply endowed. If the butler had orders to admit delectable women, the door would close in Maggie’s face.
Which just showed what fools most men were. He’d loved Maggie since they were children. She’d been tall and gangly even then, but she was clever and creative, and he would choose her to play with over any of his brothers or sisters. She didn’t have siblings and preferred to spend her free time reading. She loved to discuss books with him and argue over who was a better hero—Odysseus or Hector.
When he was home from school, he’d try to impress her with his mastery of Latin or Greek, but she’d always kept up with him on her own. And then one year he came home from school and forgot about trying to prove he was better at geometry. He realized she had grown up while he’d been away. Her unruly hair looked lush and lovely. Her too big mouth looked perfect for kissing. And her intelligent eyes were expressive and beautiful. He wanted to kiss her more than beat her at chess.
When he’d confessed as much, she’d laughed and told him it was about time. She’d loved him as more than a friend for years. They hadn’t rushed to marry. He had his education to finish, and her mother sent her to school and went through a bevy of governesses who tried valiantly to turn Maggie into the sort of woman who would make a perfect viscountess. She had a failed Season in London and came home saying the whole thing had been a waste of time and silk. Ambrose had been relieved she hadn’t found some other man to fall in love with and proposed on the spot.
From then on, he was hers and she was his, officially. She’d always been his, unofficially.
Until she wasn’t.
He’d found a railing to lean on while she argued with the butler at the Vanderville residence. His stomach rumbled and his wound throbbed, and he wanted to close his eyes and block it all out for a time. He forced himself to keep watch, though, in case the assassin made an appearance.
A few minutes later, Maggie stomped back across the street. “That man is an idiot,” she said.
He nodded. “Wouldn’t let you in.”
“Wouldn’t even tell me if Vanderville was at home. I think that he is, and I think we will need to break in late at night and take a look at those papers. Not only will we be able to find out the identity of your assassin, we can search for anything that might tie Vanderville to the plot to murder the prime minister’s son.” She glanced at Ambrose. “And you look as though you are about to topple over. Let’s take you back to the flat.”
