Regency Rogues: Candlelight Confessions. Marguerite Kaye

conscience, I don’t have time to tread lightly.’

      ‘Not that you ever do.’

      Lizzie chuckled. ‘Any more than you do. You don’t lack opinions and certainly don’t lack a cause. Why don’t you go into politics yourself?’

      ‘What?’

      ‘I don’t know why you look so surprised,’ Lizzie said drily. ‘What is the point in you berating the likes of Wellington and all the rest.’

      ‘I hadn’t thought.’

      ‘Then think. And when you’ve concluded that I’m right, think about taking a wife, too.’ She tapped his cheek lightly. ‘A woman with a bit of gumption, who can force her way past that barricade of charm you arm yourself with. You see how well I know you, brother dear? You don’t let people in very easily, do you? I expect the army is responsible for that stiff upper lip and all that—it makes sense in war, but we’re at peace now, thank the Lord.’ Lizzie nodded decisively. ‘Yes. What you need is a woman of character, someone who can stand up to you, not some malleable little thing who would bore you to death before the wedding trip was over, no matter how pretty she was. I shall have to redouble my efforts before I go north, but I am quite set on it, so don’t despair,’ she said with a bright smile.

      ‘I shall try my very best not to,’ Elliot replied, as he opened the door for her.

      ‘I wish you would be serious. I know I’ve spoken out of turn, but you’re clearly not happy. I will fret about you down here all alone when I am up in Scotland.’

      ‘You’ve got more than enough to worry about. I’m not unhappy, just not quite sure what to do with myself now that I don’t have the army. I feel as if I’ve lost my purpose.’

      ‘Politics will give you that. Will you at least think about what I said?’

      ‘We’ll see. Did you come in your carriage?’

      Lizzie nodded, deciding against pushing him any further. She was on the step outside when she remembered the package. ‘My book!’ she declared.

      Elliot retrieved the brown-paper parcel from the marble table which sat under the hall mirror. ‘What is it?’

      ‘Nothing. It’s just a novel. Give me it.’

      Intrigued by her cagey look, Elliot held on to the parcel. ‘What kind of a novel?’

      ‘I’m not … it’s just that—well, Alex doesn’t approve.’

      ‘Good Lord, Lizzie, don’t tell me you’ve been browsing in one of those bookseller’s back rooms in Covent Garden.’

      He meant it as a joke, but, to Elliot’s astonishment, Lizzie’s face crimsoned. ‘And what if I did? Oh, don’t look so shocked, it’s not that kind of book. It’s a novel. The latest Bella Donna novel, if you must know.’ Seeing her brother’s blank look, she sighed. ‘The whole ton is agog at her exploits, I can’t believe you’ve not heard of her. Bella Donna is the most shocking literary creation, she’s a sort of voluptuous sorceress. The stories are quite Gothic, extremely racy and wholly entertaining. I personally see no reason why they should be kept under the counter, nor why I, a married woman, should not read them,’ she said darkly. ‘If Bella Donna were a man—well, it would be a different story, if you’ll forgive the pun. It is the fact that she is a woman who treats—intimacy—exactly like a man that is so shocking. She is quite ruthless, you know, incredibly powerful. I think it would amuse you, I shall send it round once I am done with it if you like.’

      ‘Why not,’ Elliot said, surrendering the package, ‘it sounds amusing.’

      Lizzie chuckled. ‘Yes, and now I can tell Alex that you lent it to me if he discovers it. I really must go. You’ll come to dinner then, tomorrow? Oh, did I forget to ask you? Never mind, I won’t take no for an answer,’ she said, turning her back and tripping lightly down the steps to her waiting carriage. ‘I promised Alex I’d persuade you to join us. Lord Armstrong will be there—the diplomat. You can talk politics with him.’

      Wriggling her fingers at him over her shoulder, Lizzie climbed into her barouche without looking back or giving Elliot a chance to refuse her invitation.

      He returned to the parlour, deep in thought. Incorrigible as she was, his sister was all too often right. He could not continue in this mode for much longer. Housebreaking, even if it was for a cause, was hardly a lifelong occupation. And he did need an occupation, though he had always known, as Lizzie herself said, that he was not cut out to play the country gentleman. Perhaps politics was the answer? It was certainly worth considering. Lizzie’s ideas usually were. She did not know him as well as she thought, but she knew him better than anyone else.

      And a wife—was she right about that, too? Picking up the Morning Post, which his man had left, carefully ironed, on his desk, Elliot pondered this question half-heartedly. He hadn’t ever seriously considered a wife. As a soldier with an increasingly dangerous sideline in espionage, it would have been irresponsible to marry. Not that that was the reason he hadn’t. Such a precarious and transient life hardly lent itself to fidelity, but Lizzie was right, curse her, that was just an excuse. The fact was, he didn’t let people in, he was wary of allowing anyone to see past whatever form of veneer he showed them. War made you like that. War taught you how fragile life was. It taught you how easy it was to be crushed by that fragility, too—he’d seen it too many times, written too many letters to grieving widows, listened to the last heartbreaking words of too many of their husbands. Pain like that, he could do without. It could not possibly be worth it.

      He sighed. Blast Lizzie for putting such thoughts in his head. If she only knew that he’d been living like a monk since returning to England. What’s more, until he’d met Deborah Napier, he had been relatively content to do so. Last night had been so—so bloody amazing! Just thinking about it—oh God, just thinking about it. If only he had not dropped the painting. If only he had not allowed Deborah to go in search of a candle, she would not have found her inhibitions.

      ‘Dammit, what is wrong with me,’ Elliot exclaimed, ‘England must be full of attractive, available, experienced women looking for nothing more than a little light flirtation and a few indulgent hours in bed.’ Except that wasn’t what he wanted, not any more. He wanted Deborah. He didn’t just want to bed her either, he wanted to understand her. He wanted to know what went on in her head and what had gone on in her past. He wanted to know why it took breaking and entering to release her passion. And he wanted her to release it again.

      What was it Lizzie said he needed? A woman with a bit of gumption, who can force her way past that barricade of charm you arm yourself with. A woman of character. Deborah was certainly that. Lizzie would definitely approve. Not that he was in any way seeking her approval. Politics, perhaps he would consider. Marriage—no. But the train of his thoughts disturbed him. Elliot shook out the newspaper, seeking distraction. He found it in the middle pages.

      Last night, the Notorious Housebreaker commonly known as the Peacock struck again, this time at the abode of a most Distinguished Member of Parliament who resides in Grosvenor Square. The Villainous Thief has stolen a most valuable painting, the subject of which being a Very Important Personage. Said painting, executed by a Spanish Master, was torn asunder from its frame in the Most Honourable Gentleman’s Study. Once again, the Peacock had the effrontery to leave his Calling Card behind, along with the Rope by which he made his escape. Any Member of the Public who saw anything or anyone suspicious is urged to contact the Magistrates at Bow Street.

      The portrait of the Very Important Person was currently wrapped in oilskin and safely tucked under the floorboards in Elliot’s bedchamber. A certain Spanish official, when approached by way of the intricate web of contacts which Elliot had been careful to maintain from his days in the covert service of the British Government, would most certainly pay a substantial sum for it. Tomorrow, he would set about making the first of those contacts. Today though, he had another alluring, beguiling and altogether intriguing contact to see.

      Folding the newspaper