Page 6 of My Lady Melisende (Ladies Least Likely #6)

CHAPTER FIVE

D evlin was dangerous, and he was after something. Melisende knew this—had known it the moment he rose from the chair in the Maplethorne library, all traces of drunkenness gone.

He was a cheat and a spy, and, if rumor were true, there was more than a bit of the roué about him. She needed to know more about him, to ensure he wasn’t a threat to her mission.

But what if he could aid her in achieving her goal?

The library of Fauconberg House was older and far more distinguished in appearance than the Maplethorne library. Shelves of gleaming mahogany stretched around the room in an undulating pattern of recessed curves and tall cases, here and there a statue or decorative urn. An enormous Axminster rug covered the floor beneath smaller occasional tables and chairs set in a square before the fireplace. Melisende tucked her hair beneath her bandeau as she entered. Her father would chide her for looking a peasant, but she knew he plumped himself, in secret, that his daughter wasn’t a milk-and-butter miss who knew little more than how to stage herself in a drawing room and arrange flowers.

Those were fine skills, to be sure, and Melisende could exercise them when the occasion warranted. But if she suspected that beautiful flower arrangements would impress Philip Devlin, then she would have taken that tack.

“Kind morning, Father. Welcome, your Illustrious Highness.” She spoke in Russian to greet the two men sitting across from one another at the hearth, partly out of respect for their visitor, and partly to fluster Devlin, following at her heels.

The second man, older and heavy-featured, rose and took her hand with an exaggerated bow. “The beautiful Lady Melisende. Kind morning to you also, your highness.” He winked and, ever the diplomat, switched to English. “Your accent is becoming more western by the day.”

She laughed. “I suppose it is. Father, Count, do you know Mr. Philip Devlin? Of the—Ireland Devlins.” She knew very little of his family. Or of the situation between Ireland and Britain, though she understood there were legislative efforts underway to grant the Parliament of Ireland more independence. “Devlin, this is my father, the Grand Duke of Merania, and Count Voronsky, the Russian ambassador.”

“Your highnesses.” Devlin made an elegant leg. The man bore himself well; he had performed marvelously in their duel. No woman of discernment could find fault with his figure.

Or his face. He didn’t have the sensitive beauty some men could claim, but neither was he a lumpen mass. His features were finely cut, his nose nearly delicate, his jaw a sharp angle, but the hint of precision was offcut by the firm slash of his mouth and prominent brow. He couldn’t be a very successful spy, Melisende thought, with that distinct face.

But perhaps he merely worked with women, and his tactic was to kiss them senseless until they yielded all their secrets. He would no doubt be quite successful at it.

The count seemed to know something of Devlin’s reputation, for his charming manner vanished. “Mr. Devlin,” he said in clipped English. “Irish born, yet you serve an English king, so I hear.”

“We are all His Majesty’s subjects, sir,” Devlin said blandly.

“So you are Devlin.” Her father looked the other man up and down with curiosity. “You have business with my daughter?”

“Mr. Devlin brought a book he wishes me to see,” Melisende said. “A history of Merania. He has taken a sudden interest in our homeland. What do you make of that?”

Her father’s brow rose. She’d told him, last night when she showed him the tenth volume of the series, that she had located the eleventh, currently in the possession of a Philip Devlin. Her father glanced at the satchel she held to her breast like a cradled infant, and Melisende nodded briefly.

“Merania is a very beautiful country,” her father said. “Two valleys intersected with a river, surrounded by the most magnificent mountains. All a man could wish for lies in that land, and we are one of the more passable parts of the southern Alps. Merania, like all of Tyrol, was an avenue of trade and a culture of civilization well before the Romans found us. Little wonder the Habsburgs couldn’t wait to claim our lands.” A bitter note entered his voice, and he glanced again at the satchel Melisende held, shaking his head.

“I should like to see it someday,” Devlin said with distant courtesy.

Melisende threw him a cutting glare. Moments ago he refused to be turned out of the house, so anxious was he to poke his nose into her business, and now he behaved with complete unconcern? A man who could change his mind on a whim was a man not to be trusted.

Such a man would be of no use to her.

Her father rose. “We’d stay and chat, daughter, but the Duke of Luneberg-Zuwecken is collecting us to see an exhibition at the Pantheon. In fact, that’s him I hear at the door. Will you join us?”

“Ordinarily I would, but Mr. Devlin is quite eager for me to see his acquisition. You needn’t fear we’ll be alone, Father. Bruyit will attend us, and Frau Gamper.”

The Count regarded Melisende fondly. “How I wish you might meet my daughter, but she is away at school for the moment. In fact, I hear she has made fast friends with Zuwecken’s daughter as well. All three of you are the type to stand on your own, as we would say in Russia.”

“I hope I may take that a compliment, sir,” Melisende said, giving her father a quick kiss on the temple as he rose from his chair.

“Oh, it is, it is.” The count’s genial smiled vanished as he regarded Devlin, and he switched to Russian. “As for this one. Be certain to look with both eyes at him.”

“I will, sir.” Melisende cradled her book all the more closely, wondering what the count knew.

Devlin inclined his head to both men as they made their departure, his expression a polite mask. But the moment they left the room, he turned to her, his gaze as sharp as a snake’s.

“You chide me for being a spy, yet you associate with Voronsky?”

Her brows lifted before she recalled it was not wise to betray surprise with this man. “My father does, yes.”

“He will be one reason your father is being watched so closely.”

“Indeed? And what will you British spies do if you discover these foreign men discussing English affairs? Shake your finger at them in warning?”

He narrowed his eyes at her taunt. “I advise you not to dismiss the possible repercussions.”

“What could they be? Your British king will not want to aggravate Catherine of Russia by making an enemy of her ambassador. You may have an impressive navy, but her imperial might, and her resources, spread very far. And my father—he is not a British subject, and currently not the ruler of any principality, so what concern could his opinions be?”

“Your father appears to have resources of his own. Can I ask how an exiled grand duke affords to live in such luxury?” Devlin sent a slow perusal about the library, elegant and expensive and kept in good order, like everything else in the house.

“Who is asking? The British government, or you, a potential suitor trying to establish my family’s wealth?” She carried the precious satchel, not to the desk, but to her worktable, and sent a quick prayer to the goddess Minerva that she would not regret letting Devlin into this sanctuary. She had half a mind to turn him out directly.

“I am not a—” He snapped his mouth closed, realizing too late he had taken her bait. She tipped her head down and bit back her mirth.

“You suppose we robbed someone, or came by our wealth dishonestly.” She slung the satchel onto the table with its tidy rows and columns of books. Her own vehemence surprised her—what did she need to prove to this man? “My uncle deprived my father of his lands and estates but not his personal fortune. He knew it would be unwise to send my father a beggar to the Imperial Diet, where some might be moved to take his part. A rich exile garners no sympathy, and he has my mother’s fortune in addition to what he had stored away.”

“Why not raise an army, then, and take his lands back?”

“You are bloody-minded, aren’t you?” She pulled back the heavy chair and swooped aside the bulk of her skirts to sit.

“I’m not the one who challenged you to a duel.”

“A bloodless duel, and I told you. My father will not demand the lives of anyone’s sons or fathers in a cause he believes he can resolve peacefully. Merania was devastated in the Thirty Years’ War, and my father took pride in bringing the country back to prosperity. He will not bleed his people unless it is necessary to spare them worse suffering under my uncle.”

“How does he plan to get his lands back, then?”

“By marrying me to my cousin,” she said, and pressed her lips together. Not for gold would she let Devlin see how she felt about that plan.

He paused and cleared his throat, drawing near the table where she sat. “In that case, why are you not married already?”

“Because I object to my cousin on personal grounds, and I made a bargain with my father that we would try every other means of recovery before I make myself the property of a—” She caught herself. “Of Rudolf.”

“I can guess at your father’s reasons,” Devlin said. “But I suppose you have some stratagem of your own?”

His scent, blended with his sweat from their earlier fight, was potent and provocative, clouding her senses. Melisende shook her head to clear it. She withdrew his book from the satchel and placed it on the table before her, wrestling with her own contrary impulses. It was unlike her to be indecisive.

There was no logical reason to tell him. There were many logical reasons not to. Yet pride pressed her—or was it vanity? Vanity, she decided, running her fingers over the embossed gilt of the title on the book’s cover. She had seen desire in his gaze last night; many men desired her. But she had seen admiration in his regard for her, too.

Why it should matter that this man admired her, when she traded on male interest like coin, Melisende did not yet wish to examine further. But she wanted him to understand. More than that, she wanted him to believe her.

And she wanted his help. Being entirely unaccustomed to asking others for assistance, she was not at all certain how to go about it.

“Why not take a seat and tell me why you stole this book from Arendale’s library.” She flipped open the cover.

He shrugged and threw himself in a chair, a study in masculine grace. “Cadmus made the treasure sound extremely interesting. A fortune. I am a lesser son, as I told you.”

“And where did this friend Cadmus learn such a wild tale?”

“I don’t recall.”

She gave him a hard stare. “ Do recall.”

He lifted his brows. “What is it worth to you?”

Damned spies, accustomed to trading in information. She leaned back in her chair.

“How far will this tale be carried, should I confide my stratagem, as you call it?”

He met her gaze steadily. “How far should you require it to go?”

She straightened her shoulders. It was a wet spring, and the fire in the hearth drew off the chill in the air, leaving a pleasant warmth that turned prickly as Devlin studied her.

He was an opportunist and a manipulator. Why would any woman of sense tell this man her secrets?

She leaned forward, covering the title page of the book with her hands. Too late she realized she had not replaced the lace at her neckline, and he had a full view of her neckline.

Admirably, his gaze stayed fastened to hers. “If I tell you my plan,” she said softly, “you will agree to assist me.”

“Committing to action as yet unspecified? That seems unwise.”

“There will be no illegal activities. Or, at least, nothing worse than stealing a book from a friend’s home.”

“Borrowing,” he said silkily. “I plan to return it when we’re done.”

She drew a long breath. “You helped me last night.” By kissing her. To throw off Harry Maplethorne, but still. He’d come into the library with Flory to track Melisende. And he’d shown up at her house today. “Now you bring me the book I seek. Why?”

He took off his hat. “May I?” His wig was small and unpretentious, but pure white, which accented the blue of his eyes.

She narrowed her gaze. “If you answer my question.” She wore no wig at all; he’d seen her in the breeches she wore for sword fighting. There was a hint of intimacy to this deshabille, as if they were revealing themselves to one another.

He gazed about thoughtfully, and Melisende sensed there was something more than mere curiosity at work. He was assessing the room, its shape and its exits, judging what each artifact might have to say about the man who possessed it.

And the woman who lived here also.

“I like mysteries,” he said finally. “I like solving them.” His gaze drifted to hers. A curious ache rose deep in her belly. How long had it been since someone had looked at her and seen, not an ally or opponent, not an advantage they wished for, but her ?

“You, Lady Melisende, offer me a mystery.”

“And you are obliged to report my doings to this Charles Fox.” Best to pretend she didn’t know exactly who Fox was, what friends he cultivated, and how many times he had played the gallant during a social event where he paid far more attention to Melisende’s breasts than Devlin was currently exhibiting. Not that she wanted Devlin ogling her.

She merely wanted to be certain she held the advantage here.

His lids lowered into a lazy, satisfied look. “I report what I please.”

“And the other mysteries you might be—solving?”

“I follow my own interests, milady. I am no one’s man.”

“What about a woman’s?” She met his gaze directly.

“Will there be a mistress throwing plates and coming at you with claws to fight over my company, if I am seen with you? Regrettably, I have no female that attached to me, and never have.”

She leaned back, blowing away the curl that fell in her eyes. “I stand to lose a great deal if I confide in you and you betray me.”

He leaned forward, his face intent. “Would you trust me if I had not let you win our bout?”

“You did not let me win!” She stiffened with outrage.

He grinned. “No, I didn’t. You bested me right and proper, and you even handicapped yourself to give me opportunity to make a good showing, which I did not.”

“You made a fair showing,” Melisende allowed. In truth, his footwork was beautiful, his moves full of grace and strength. She’d adored watching him fight. She wanted to see his athletic body in action in other ways.

“But you still don’t trust me.”

“No,” she admitted. “But I could use you.”

Frau Gamper entered with a tray and while there were maids to perform this service, Melisende knew her old friend wanted to inspect Devlin herself. The housekeeper arranged the tray on a small side table while a second maid brought in glasses.

“The cherry schnapps, milady, and cakes,” the housekeeper said in German.

“And a tort as well, I see. Thank you, Frau Gamper.” Melisende answered in the same language. She knew the housekeeper was proficient in English, as she instructed the English maids they’d hired with no barriers to communication. But Frau Gamper knew that men talked more freely in the presence of those they assumed couldn’t understand them, and in that way she was invaluable to an exiled duke’s staff.

“Bruyit is right outside, milady. I’ve sent the hall boy out for oranges.”

Melisende loved oranges, and there was a seller who claimed Soho Square as her domain and roamed there most of the day, smoking her pipe. Melisende had done something to win Frau Gamper’s approval if Gin had been sent on this errand.

“Your servants seem particularly attentive. I hear other society ladies do nothing but complain about their staff being lazy and disloyal,” Devlin remarked, watching the maid move toward the fireplace.

“Frau Gamper came to us in Vienna while my father was petitioning the Imperial Diet. We could not manage without her.” Melisende accepted a glass, noting the housekeeper’s wariness of Devlin. Then again, Frau Gamper was suspicious of everyone.

“But your butler is English, and so are your maids.”

“We met Bruyit in France, actually. He was a prize fighter brought to Lyon for an exhibition, left there by his handler when he lost the bout.”

Devlin leaned back in his chair. “And he stands outside the door. Close enough that you may call for him if I do something to make you cross, but he cannot swear to anything that happened in this room, outside of what you tell him.”

Melisende turned her head to hide the heat in her cheeks. No, Bruyit would not witness an embrace—or more. Did Devlin hope she would let down her guard again? She hoped he would not disappoint her by trying to seduce information from her. No doubt his techniques had been highly effective on any number of targets before her. She did not want to be next on a line.

She must stop thinking of kissing Devlin. “You are fairly astute, for a man.”

“And you have lived many places.”

“Yes,” Melisende said with some surprise, watching the housekeeper cut slices of cake. “That is what happens when you have no home.”

The maid added coals to the fire and moved the fire screen, then made her curtsy and trailed Frau Gamper out the door. Melisende handed Devlin his glass, then settled back in her chair with her glass of schnapps, a plate of cake at her side.

The moment of truth, as the English said.

“Sip your schnapps slowly,” she instructed, “and I will tell you a fairy tale.”

“I would rather hear your stratagem.”

“The fairy tale first. It is good, yes?” She watched his face change as he sipped his drink. Unlike the fruit brandies she had tasted elsewhere, cloying and far too sweet, schnapps made rightly was clear, dry, and very strong.

“This is delicious. I’ve not tasted anything quite like it.” His gaze lingered on her lips as he said this, and with a jolt Melisende recalled how he had tasted her.

“Slowly,” she reminded him. “I need you to remember what I tell you.”

“Does this fairy tale involve a princess whose father lost his throne?” He, too, settled into his chair, crossing one booted foot over his knee. He had well-made legs, all lean muscle. His cravat had loosened in their exertions of earlier and she was distracted by the movement of his throat as he swallowed, the grip of his long fingers around the glass, the way he had held her jaw last evening when he kissed her.

She cleared her throat. “Imagine a land, an ancient land, nestled in a valley in the mountains. It grows prosperous in trade with the kingdoms that surround it. It has its own resources: fish from the rivers, crops that thrive in the fertile soil, timber from the forests, copper and silver in the sides of the mountains. Its people are peaceful and productive. A ruling family emerges, carving out boundaries with their neighbors, and a wise chief rules with his council, bequeathing the land to his sons or daughters.”

She sipped her schnapps, savoring the cherry tartness and the dry burn of the alcohol. Devlin listened quietly, only the whisper of the flames in the hearth and muted noise from the square outside entering the room.

“An emperor comes, calling himself Charlemagne, and the ruler of this land, to secure his loyalty, is made a count. Another emperor comes, calling himself holy and Roman, and the count is made a duke. His realm is small, one major city and a handful of towns. Most of his acreage spreads straight up and down the mountainside. But they are a proud, self-sufficient people, with a language, culture, customs unique to them and a few other valleys close by. They make alliances through marriage and grow rich in wealth and wisdom, though they watch the lands around them struggle and the empire slowly usurp more and more power, threatening the peace and autonomy of the people who have lived her from the dawn of the age.

“Then, one year, there is a rebellion in a neighboring county. It doesn’t matter why. The people are hungry. The laws are unjust. The rebellion is great, and it spreads. The empire stands to lose a significant territory, and the duke fears what the reprisals will be if the emperor gathers an army and attacks. He brokers a peace: the emperor will accept the demand for reforms, and the rebels will put down their arms. All parties will achieve what they wish.

“For these efforts, the duke is rewarded with an imperial patent. No longer a vassal, he is given his land, Merania in all its glory, as an independent duchy, with himself as the grand duke.”

Devin tilted his head to one side. His eyes burned blue. “And this is the land your uncle seized?”

“No, this is a much earlier betrayal. The emperor does not keep his word. He does not grant the duke the freedoms enshrined in the patent. He betrays the rebels, too. There are no reforms. No changes. Everything the duke promised the people is proven a lie.

“When the people protest, the imperial army marches in. They will destroy whatever they find necessary to keep the people under control. So, in desperation, a clever ancestor of mine decides to hide the patent. He slips the precious document into a manuscript and sends it to a friend and family member, a printer, who lives in northern Italy.

“And he is wise to do so, for when the troops sweep in, they take everything. They take the land for themselves, and the titles, the farm and the castles and rivers and mines. The grand duke is a duke in name only, reduced to a vassal, a puppet at the service of a king.”

Devlin sniffed his schnapps, then sipped. “And the patent?”

“The printer—another ancestor—is clever, too. He knows if the patent is hidden in a book and the book is found by the enemy, then the deed, and all hope of independence, is lost. So he prints twelve books and, it is said, hides the patent in one of them. He sells the volumes to twelve different places and keeps careful records of where they have gone. The plan is that when the dust settles and the rebels are calm, the patent can be retrieved and the emperor will be held to his promise.”

“But instead,” Devlin prompted.

Melisende swirled the liquid in her glass. The sharp, clean aroma reminded her of dawn in the valley of Merania. How she missed the light, the air, the soaring mountains. It was a physical ache, like an unhealed wound.

“The emperor passes Merania to his own heir, and the Meinhardin family remain vassals. Faithful vassals, for two hundred years. Struggling as they suffer from the empire’s wars and the rule of Habsburg archdukes who treat the duchy as their personal coffers. Struggling to retain their language and customs while keeping good relations with their German and Italian neighbors. All the while, the family dreams of finding the patent and holding their lands in their own right, free to instate their own rules. To pass the reforms the people still ask for, and the right to practice their own culture and customs and policies.”

“And the books. The twelve books,” Devlin said.

She held the liquid in her mouth a moment, then swallowed, letting the bite steady her voice. “They travel. Pass from hand to hand, buyer to buyer. They become collector’s items, expensive. They are beautiful books. They can command a high price.” She rose and went to study the finely crafted volumes laid open on the table, the leather covers embossed with gilt, the elaborate frontispieces, the clean, clear copy inside.

“Have you found it yet? The patent.” Devlin drained his glass with careless ease, his throat working. She was not prone to noticing details about a man, and it was distracting how much she noticed about this one.

Melisende leaned over the table. “No.”

“But you have eleven of the original twelve volumes, didn’t you say? With the addition of mine.”

“Mine, now.” She opened each, one by one, arranging them in a neat grid on the table. The vellum crackled, stiff with age, and the scent of old leather and ink rose sharp to her nose.

“How did you find them all?”

“It’s taken years. I began with the original catalogue. There were many false leads. And always the fear that a volume could have been lost, eaten by bookworms or mold, burned for fuel. Used for privy paper. It’s a miracle if any of the set has survived. But so far, my task has been futile. None of these volumes holds the patent.”

Devlin rose and came around the table to study the books at Melisende’s side. The portion of her body nearest him acquired a strange sensation, as if she were crushed foil, sparking.

“Where did you find them?”

“Besides the two in London?” She touched each volume, remembering. “The first was Vienna. I borrowed this one from Schonbrunn Palace. The Habsburg who seized Merania was apparently interested in its history.

“The next, Pozsony, in the library of a Hungarian imperial prince. This one, Varna, whence it was brought by a Venetian merchant and made its way to the library of a Russian count. From there to St. Petersburg, where the count had purchased a second copy for a friend. After that,” she touched each volume in turn, “Prague, Dresden, and Rome, where we spent a winter for my father’s health. This one I found in Barcelona, in the library of a Catalan noble, and this one in Lyon, where a Venetian bride had carried it when she married her French marquis.”

“That is a great deal of travel,” Devlin remarked. His gaze rested, not on the contents of the table, but on her face. She felt his regard like a touch, and the hairs on the back of her neck lifted, the response to alarm.

“And a great many friends. An uncountable number of sumptuous meals, balls and waltzes, strolls in pleasure gardens, galleries and museums and art exhibitions. I’ve worn through any number of silk slippers.”

“And lovers, I would imagine,” Devlin suggested.

“Hmm.” Her story had captivated him. Deep in her belly, the schnapps glowed.

“So you think the patent must be hidden in the remaining volume,” Devlin said.

“It must be. Observe. All the books are the same in content, organized in the same order. A history of the land from prehistoric times; a discussion of Ladin culture and customs; a pedigree for the Meinhardin family. An account of flora and fauna, an account of the rebellion of 1578. And then—a map.”

He followed the path of her finger with his eyes. “These maps seem less detailed than the other illustrations. Not crude, only…less elaborate.”

“Drawn quickly, I suspect. And each is different. Together they map out a structure, I suspect Meinhardin castle, but several rooms are missing, and nothing is labeled. There are only these strange symbols scattered about. I can’t think why the map should be incomplete, or why there isn’t a key of some sort—some description to tell us what it means.”

“Perhaps the map is a decoy, quickly prepared, to distract anyone looking for the patent.”

“But why make it more difficult for the rightful owners to find it?”

“To avoid it falling, as you say, into enemy hands. Or giving ideas to any one reader who happened to know the language and studied the book at length. This is as good as a cipher, and a complex one, if you need all the pieces assembled to decode it. Your ancestors were indeed clever.”

Melisende shook her head. “It would take a spy to appreciate the complexity.”

“I am not a spy,” Devlin said. “So where is the twelfth volume?”

“That is the trouble. I don’t know.”

He looked at her in surprise. “You located all the others.”

“I did. But this last one was supposed to be in Italy, in the hands of a ducal family. Someone of their acquaintance seemed to think one of the daughters carried it with her when she married an English lord, but they couldn’t recall the name, and the family wasn’t available for me to consult. I’ve written scads of letters, as many as I dare, but to no result.”

“This is why you need me,” Devlin suggested. “You plan to ransack every lord’s library in London until you find it.”

“Such a search sounds extensive, and exhaustive, and I am bound to be caught,” Melisende said. “I am hoping for a more direct approach. The Duchess of Hunsdon mentioned she has a book in her shop that is an account of some of the more curious volumes held in London’s private libraries. Some scholar at one point made a study of the most unique and rare volumes, and a volume in Ladin, a language not many know about, must seem as strange as ancient Etruscan. My next step is to visit her bookshop and find this catalogue. I’m hoping it will help me narrow down places to look.”

“Then what do you need me for, if not housebreaking?” Devlin inquired.

Melisende drew in a long breath. “Protection. You’re a fair swordsman, and I have an enemy. He will stop at nothing to retrieve this book before I do.”

Before, he’d been dividing his consideration between her and the books on the table. Now she had his complete attention.

“Who is it?”

The prickle on her skin moved, rippling down her shoulders and arms, tapping at her spine.

“If I knew, I wouldn’t need your help. I thought no one outside my family knew the secret buried in these books.”

“How do you know what they’re after?”

“It began in Barcelona. Small accidents. In Lyon, it was—never mind. What’s important is that I locate the book before they do. The twelfth volume is key. If I don’t get my hands on it—all is lost. I might as well give up.”

“And marry your cousin.”

She shuddered. “I’d rather find the patent and give my father a means to restore his duchy to him. Given a choice.”

He shifted his body toward her. He wasn’t much taller than she was, yet he seemed to fill her vision. Surround her. His scent snuck through her senses like a snare.

“If I’m to protect you, I need to know everything.” His voice deepened, taking on a husky quality.

She swallowed. “You do,” she lied.

“You cannot be out in front of me, always one step ahead. That leaves you open to attack. I cannot protect you if you are not at my side.”

Heat, it must be from the fire, snaked around the fire screen, around her middle. “What is all this going to cost me?”

The fire crackled on a sudden draft of air, and the air between them vibrated as Devlin stared at her. The skin across her chest grew taut, her breath shallow.

“I will let you know.”

“You ask me to engage your services without knowing the price? That seems unwise.”

One side of his mouth quirked up as he heard his words come back to him. “I cannot set my fees until I know the nature of the task. And the danger.”

“This isn’t dangerous,” she said quickly.

He lifted his hand between them. She realized only then she had plucked a quill from the table and held it curled in one fist, anchored to her chest as if she might use it to steady her heartbeat. With his long, mobile fingers he stroked the goose feather. Her pulse kicked into a gallop, and the feather trembled on the vibrating air.

“My lady Melisende,” he said softly. “You cannot be entirely unaware of the dangers in store for me.”

“Will you help me?” She wished her voice were stronger, not this whisper.

“Why did you choose me?” His breath held a hint of cherry and alcohol. Her stomach quivered.

“You seem alert to the undercurrents in this town. You know what I don’t.”

Slowly he tugged the quill from her fingers and set it on the table. “If you are going to rely on my assistance, you will have to have to trust me.”

Doubtful. There was too much she didn’t know about him, and so much he didn’t know about her. She was not accustomed to bringing people into her confidence. The chance for betrayal was too great.

She’d rushed into this. And he’d accepted awfully fast, for how little he knew about her. What did he want, really?

You cannot be entirely unaware of the dangers in store for me .

And for her as well.

“You must trust me also,” she reminded him, her voice, against her will, a husky grate. Trust, the biggest risk of all.

“What happened in Lyon?”

“A man accosted me in an alley. I escaped. That is all there is to know of the incident.”

“Hmm.” His gaze on her face was as good as a touch. Her heart sped on in a reckless fashion, the prickles rushing up and down her skin. She recognized the signs of desire.

If he tried to kiss her again?—

She would not give in. She couldn’t afford to.

“So. If we are to trust one another.” Devlin nodded toward the tray and its bottle. “Pour us another schnapps, and tell me everything you know about your enemy.”