Josie nodded. “And my mother and father and brothers. They know about the treasure, though they have no idea I’ve been searching for the other half of the map. But they know the treasure existed. Whether or not they believe it still exists is another question.”
“Very well, if we’re listing everyone who knows about the treasure, then we add my mother and grandmother. My sister as well, though, truly none of them believe in it. Perhaps my grandmother. She did have the last journals.” He was silent, apparently thinking for a moment. “Who else?”
“I can’t think of anyone without thinking of everyone.”
Westman began pacing again.
“Everyone in the ton has heard rumors of the treasure,” she continued, “but that wouldn’t cause any of them to go after us now. It must be someone who is aware of our search.”
Westman stopped before her. “That leaves us with your cousins. How much have you told them?”
Josie shook her head. “Snippets. Nothing, really, but can you truly suspect them?”
“No,” he agreed. “It’s not reasonable. We have to think harder. Someone is trying to kill us, and I’m not leaving until I know who it is.”
Chapter Seventeen
An hour passed, maybe more, and Stephen called for wine, then bread and cheese, then a fire. He and Josephine were safe in their nest and getting nowhere.
They’d added the warehouse owner in Seven Dials to their list of people who might know of their search for the treasure, and that had sparked off a bit of conjecture. Had the owner suspected their true purpose in coming to the warehouse, and, if so, whom had he told?
“What does it matter?” Josephine had asked. She was lying on the bed, and Stephen thought she might be a bit tipsy. She’d drunk a good many glasses of wine, and her speech was slurred. One arm was slung over her head, and she waved the other around expansively when talking.
Yes, she was definitely tipsy.
Stephen was glad. He didn’t want any more trouble from her tonight. The fool girl had actually wanted to go after the men who’d shot at her. He’d had to hold her back.
The little idiot! She didn’t even carry a knife, much less a pistol. Would she argue her way into apprehending them?
He chuckled to himself. She probably could, too. She’d argued her way into his life. She was good at getting what she wanted.
But so was he.
Damn, why hadn’t the little chit just stayed in London where she would have been safe? Correction: Had she stayed in London, they both would have been safe—she from gunmen and bullets and he from her ample charms.
He glanced at her on the bed, where a few of those ample charms were in evidence. Her shirt collar was unbuttoned so he could see the long lines of her throat, and she’d removed her boots, so that her small ankles were on display. He thought about wrapping a hand around that ankle, kissing her there, and then allowing his lips to travel up her calf, to her thigh . . .
He wanted her again.
He knew he couldn’t have her, but as he watched her lie on the bed, watched the subtle rise and fall of her breasts beneath the boy’s shirt, all he could think about was stripping that shirt off and glorying in the treasures beneath. She was a beautiful woman, and she would be a fascinating lover.
She was a bit unschooled, as one might expect, but she’d pleased him immensely—more than he could ever have anticipated.
One night with Josephine Hale, and he was captivated. But it wasn’t just one night. He’d been charmed slowly and over days and days spent in her company, and Westman knew he was a drowning man. He’d known since the first night they’d met; only he hadn’t wanted to admit it.
But he was drowning, all right. Floundering like a fool. What else could he call behavior whereby he knelt naked on the floor and begged a woman to marry him? Especially when he had known what the answer would be.
She didn’t want him. Maybe he should let her face the consequences of her foolishness. Let her be sorry.
He thought of this afternoon, and his gut clenched. Damn it. Was he supposed to stand back and allow the little idiot to get herself killed?
He couldn’t chance another attack. He had to figure out who those men were or face them later, closer to the treasure. Face them tomorrow, quite possibly.
Stephen scoured his brain, thought back on the images he’d stored from the afternoon. One of the men was a complete stranger. He knew he’d never seen that one before. But the other . . .
He put his head in his hands and pulled his fingers through his thick, tangled hair.
“What’s wrong?” Josie asked. She leaned on one elbow and peered over at him.
