Scandalous Regency Secrets Collection. Кэрол Мортимер

mansion in town.”

      “Yes, of course, I certainly can see his point,” Dany said, tongue in cheek. “Is he here?”

      “Mercifully, no. But he did suggest we picnic here. Do you mind?”

      Dany nearly snorted at the absurdity of that question. “No, I suppose not. We do need to...talk.”

      Coop took her hand. “There’s a gazebo, discreetly located behind the house, beside the stream. Harry? The basket, if you please. Tend to the horses, and then you’re expected in the kitchens, where you will remain until I call for you.”

      “Yes, my lord, I’ll take m’self off,” the boy said, already grabbing at one of the bay’s bridles and heading along the gravel path that led to the stables.

      “That probably couldn’t have been more obvious, could it?” Coop said, leading Dany in the complete opposite direction, toward the stream. “We’ve dropped many a line into this water over the years, to little success. But the conversation, and the wine, have always been good.”

      “It’s a lovely stream. The gazebo is lovely. I’m certain the food in that basket will be lovely. And wasn’t someone very kind to have spread out that blanket for us. Can we say hello to each other now?”

      He put down the basket, and took both her hands into his, stepping closer.

      She’d been good. She’d been good for an entire hour. Now anticipation curled her toes in her slippers.

      “Hello,” he breathed quietly, bringing his head down to hers, his mouth to within an inch of hers. His green eyes were so darkly intense. He smelled so good. He untied her bonnet and flung it somewhere; she didn’t care if it was now bobbing along downstream, as long as the dratted thing was out of their way.

      And then, finally, he kissed her, and her heart leaped in her chest.

      Last night wasn’t a fluke. It wasn’t the moment. It hadn’t been curiosity. It was the man. It would always be the man. This man.

      She felt him scoop her up into his arms, then carefully deposit her on the blanket, coming down with her, his lips never leaving hers. They couldn’t, really, for she had her arms wound tightly around his neck.

      She was home again.

      He drew slightly away, then kissed her again, his lips slanting against hers, smiling against hers.

      He was happy. She could feel his happiness. Touch it, taste it. As he most surely could touch and taste hers.

      “I’m afraid that will have to suffice for now,” he said, levering them both up and away from the blanket, so that they were sitting, facing each other. He ran his fingertips down her cheek, and then, unexpectedly, ruffled her hair.

      Just as she’d longed to do to him.

      “What does it look like, long?”

      “Prettier, I suppose. But also heavier.”

      “I like it this way. Rigby commented that you could be a pixie. Do you have magical powers? I’ve considered that.”

      “Have I cast a spell over you, do you mean? That would be nice, but I don’t think so. Are you hungry? Because I’m starving.”

      She reached for the basket, hiding her blush at his compliment. At least she’d take it as a compliment.

      He helped her, extracting a dark bottle of wine and uncorking it as she laid out plates and utensils, along with a container of cold chicken and a crusty loaf, a pot of butter and some thinly sliced cucumbers. She loathed cucumbers. Ah, but the grapes, fat and purple, looked perfectly scrumptious.

      She broke off one and motioned for Coop to open his mouth so she could have a clear target.

      “Very good,” she said when he caught it between his teeth before it disappeared into his mouth. “Now, while I deal with this chicken, tell me about the unfortunate Geoffrey Quinton and his broken arm.”

      “Yes, my queen.” He retrieved a pair of wineglasses and poured a quantity into each one. Her portion was rather miserly, but that probably was sensible.

      He began by explaining that Quinton was not anyone’s bosom chum. He was an earl’s son, yes, but a sadly disappointed second son—his older brother having already produced four male progeny with his fertile wife. He possessed no title, no prospects, little allowance and a predilection to breaking noses as often as most people broke bread. He’d avoided fighting in the late war, something that Coop apparently saw as a large black mark against the man, and was whispered to have rented out his fists. He clung to the fringes of Society, but only because of his father’s title.

      “But, at the heart of it, Geoff is a coward,” he told Dany as she settled in with a chicken leg, ignoring the utensils in order to grasp it in both hands. “I’ve never known him to confront anyone remotely larger or stronger than himself. Which brings us to the man’s predicament. Steady yourself, Dany, because you won’t like this.”

      “He beat someone to death? He’s attempted to slaughter his brother and nephews? What? Tell me.”

      “He was instructed to kill me.”

      Dany paused with the chicken leg halfway to her mouth. “Kill you? How?”

      “Messily, as a matter of fact. With his fists. He has fists like small hams, by the way,” Coop told her, looking at her overtop the brim of his wineglass. “The demand for blackmail would go away once I was dead, while punishment for not complying would mean his own death. He was given three days to complete his ‘mission.’ According to Darby, the man was in a high state of agitation, and seemed nearly overjoyed to be able to share his dilemma with him.”

      Dany’s mind was whirling. “So Darby broke the man’s arm, to put him...what? Out of the game?”

      “He told Geoff to consider it a favor, yes. And said he’d return to break the other one if we so much as sniffed one of his cohorts following me. Geoff was ordering his man to pack him up for a visit to his father the earl even as Darby was leaving. Yes, Darby had also suggested that he do so.”

      “I knew the viscount could be dangerous. He’s too silly not to be.” Dany put down the chicken leg, her appetite gone and her hands noticeably shaking. Sucking lightly at each faintly greasy fingertip, she spoke as she thought. “He...but would he have done it? Killed you, I mean. In the next three days? Oh, God, Coop. If we hadn’t...if you and I had never met, if we hadn’t found out about Mrs. Yothers...if we—what do you mean, three days? And who are these cohorts?”

      Coop drained his glass. “I was waiting for you to pick up on that, although I admit to being distracted, watching you at the moment.”

      Dany spoke around her middle finger, which she was just then lightly sucking on, using the tip of her tongue to, she hoped, discreetly coax a bit of chicken out from under her fingernail. “Why are you looking at me like that? I don’t understand.”

      “Good. Now, to get back to what we know. Geoff had been approached over a month ago, for blackmail, to avoid having the world know he supplements his allowance robbing coaches with his small gang of undoubtedly dangerous hired cohorts. Ferdie found out about that—how I don’t know, save to say he’s been planning his revenge on us for a long time. The demand to rid the world of me arrived by note just this morning, in fact, only an hour ahead of Darby. Apparently Geoff’s problem didn’t seem to affect his appetite.”

      “This morning. Because he—Ferdie—knows we’re onto him. We truly have backed him into a corner, haven’t we? And ourselves, I suppose.”

      “We have. Third chapbook or not, Ferdie must believe it won’t be published in time to save him from me.”

      “Because you would go straight at him, chapbook be damned,” Dany said, not without pride.

      “Miss Foster, such language!” He poured them each more wine. “Luckily, our friend Ferdie isn’t aware that