Regency Steele
Chapter 1: Sunday

Reno shrank in the back window as Remington and Laura zipped out of town in a rental.  She’d picked a compact since the silly thing would sit in a parking lot for a week, and it was pointless to waste money on anything bigger.  Her partner spent the first fifteen minutes making critical remarks about the lack of legroom, maneuverability and the general “mean” demeanor of the car.

Laura ignored him, propping her chin in her hand on the window sill.  “I still can’t believe it was closer to fly into Reno and drive back to California than to fly into Sacramento.”

“Perhaps we can stay an extra night in Reno on our return.  It might make up for this pitiful excuse of a car if we can counter it with decent quarters and a night on the town.”  

“Don’t tempt me.”  The idea of a fat mattress with soft sheets and room service sounded heavenly—especially if a certain Irishman happened to be there with her. 

Since the case at the Friedlich Spa, she'd been working to see her partner for who he really was--without regard for her own issues.  Without the haze of fear, she'd been able to appreciate how well they meshed as a couple.  For the past month, "crossing the line" with him had been at the top of her “To Do” list. 

But courtesy of a Pick-6 ticket, their untimely death and a caviar king, they’d missed out on any sort of exclusive company.  

They’d spent the last eight days working double time to clear this coming week.  Laura and Mildred had taken the bulk of the appointments.  In the meantime, moving up the security installation at a new upscale jewelry store had caused Remington fits and cost the agency a fortune in overtime to get it finished Friday.  Saturday was spent with the pair of them testing out and tweaking the system.    

All this had left her cranky, tired and itchy beyond belief.  Verbally sparring with Remington on scattered evenings while he taught her a few basics of Regency era dancing--passed on from Daniel in a long ago scheme--had been the only release for either of them.  

He reached out to lift her hand to his lips.  “Throwing the gauntlet down, are we?”

“If I survive this week, I’ll be ready for civilization,” she sulked.  

“We aren’t exactly camping out.  Regency England is quite forward in its own way.”

“How so?”  

“It compares somewhat with the 1920s.  Clothing became less restrictive, and country morals became the norm.  It wasn’t as wild as the Georgian era or as strait-laced as the Victorian.”  

“Sounds lovely,” she groused as she stared out the window.  

“Laura.”  She met his sober glance.  “Thank you.”

A squeeze to his hand was enough.  

The ninety-minute drive took them from downtown Reno into farmland that exploded into lush countryside filled with old trees and grassy lawns. They parked the rental car in an isolated lot at the far edge of Lindermann’s property.  A small carriage house stood nearby, along with a horse-drawn coach with a pair of robust young men standing guard.

Mr. Lindermann waited out front to greeted them with effusive thanks.  He was wearing a tailcoat and breeches of sorts; both emphasized the roundness of his belly even though Laura supposed it was custom-tailored to be a period costume.  

“Oh my, I’m glad to see the pair of you.  Come now.  Your clothes are ready inside the house.  There is a trunk for each of you.  Please store any of your modern accoutrements and toiletries in it.  We’ll see that it gets to your room.  From this point on, you’ll be living in 1815—except for the lavatories.  We do provide that modern convenience for the comfort of our guests.”

Laura yanked her tote out of the car before Remington could reach for it.  He followed her into the tiny guest house.  A costumed young man and younger woman stood beside the door, dipping bows and curtsies as the detectives passed through.   The low slung cottage contained only a scant handful of rooms.  Harold happily showed them the space, explaining it was formerly a summer house—not a carriage house as she’d thought.  He’d converted it into a greeting place to allow guests to shed their modern ways for the week.  He directed them into a room to the rear.  

The detective in her automatically noted layouts, entries and exits.  The first room was apparently for refreshment with its antique sofas and small tables scattered about with lemonade and miniature cakes set on a tray.  The rear—bedroom, she supposed—was for dressing as it contained a pair of privacy screens in opposite corners along with a cheval mirror and a thickly upholstered divan.  A microscopic bathroom proved to be hiding behind a heavy wooden door.  Its dimensions explained the need for the makeshift dressing rooms.  The promised trunks were stacked at the foot of the divan.

Harold continued, “The majority of your clothing awaits you in the main house.  Here you can change into afternoon dress.  I’ll send in the servants to assist.”

Laura shook her head.  She was still annoyed at the setup and had no desire to inflict her sour mood on an innocent bystander.  “No, thank you.  I’ll figure this out.”  I think I can tie a few ribbons.

“But Miss Holt—”

“Mr. Lindermann.  I’ve been dressing myself for thirty years now.  I’ll be fine,” she ground out.  

The man exchanged glances with Remington—who quirked his lips.  With a doubtful look, Harold nodded.  “Very well, Miss Holt.  I will await your presence in the carriage.  The footmen will carry your trunks.  When we arrive at the main house and have had our tea, I will impart the remainder of the information you required of me.”

“That will be fine, Mr. Lindermann.”  After he’d turned away, Laura rolled her eyes at his odd phrasing.  She rounded the screen and dismissed him.  Ignoring the quiet discussion between the two men as they vacated the room, she examined the pale green dress hanging from a hook in the corner.  It was little more than a thin scrap of fabric she might have used for a nightgown.  The material was soft, somewhat like the five-hundred count cotton sheets on her bed, and heavily embroidered with satiny thread.  

Letting the fabric drop, she retrieved the thinnest undergarment—a shift Mildred had called it.  Stockings tied with garters went next.  Atop that, she shrugged on the stays over her head and was surprised by the strip of wood in the front as she settled it into place about her middle--and realized why Harold had suggested a maid.  No matter how much she twisted and turned, with the lacing in the back, it was impossible for her to fasten the undergarment by herself.  

“Mr. Steele!”  She raised her voice, hoping it would carry into the other room.

“Yes, Miss Holt.”

She jumped.  He had returned with his characteristic silent step.  Trying for casual, she popped her head around the edge of the screen.  Somehow, her partner had already shed his jeans and sweater to don a loose white shirt, buff-colored knee length pants of the sort Mr. Lindermann wore, and a vest and boots.  A long strip of white material hung around his neck, as if he’d been about to knot it like a tie.  He raised an eyebrow at her hands holding the front of the stays in place.

“I need help.  But no comments whatsoever.  This whole charade is irritating me, and this costume isn’t helping at the moment.”

“Of course.”  The careful neutrality in his voice lightened her mood--although she didn’t dare crack a smile. As he joined her behind the screen, the contrast between his frank masculinity and the delicate femininity of her own costume made her pause in appreciation.    

“Turn about then,” he lightly ordered, startling her out of her perusal.

Laura held herself erect as Remington deliberately skimmed his fingers along the bottom edge of the fabric.  One of his hands warmed the small of her back as the other began tightening the string with a series of tugs.  His fingers dipped between the rows and pulled.  Tingles danced up her spine, following the path of his hand.  By the time he made it to the top of the fabric, she had to stare hard at the wall to ignore the rush of heat suffusing her body.

“Enough?” he asked.  

She glanced down.  Her small breasts swelled upward with all the support from the stays underneath.  “Ah, yes.  I think.  I don’t really know how it’s supposed to fit.”  

“Lovely.  Absolutely lovely.”  Remington’s smooth voice coming from above and behind reminded her that he had an excellent view of her newly-found cleavage.

“Oh!”  Turning, she gave him a healthy shove.  “Out!  I said ‘no comments’!”

“I was only admiring the view, Miss Holt.”  He gave her a short bow and backed out of her makeshift dressing room.  

“You would,” she called out with a smile he couldn’t see.  She drew on a pair of loose pants tied with a drawstring, another thin dress Mildred said was a bodiced petticoat, and then the gown itself.  By the dint of much awkward reaching, she tied a loose semblance of a bow in the back before fastening the front.  Lastly, she drew on the little bolero-looking jacket that Mildred had called a “spencer.”  The mint color complimented the shy green of the gown.  

She pinned her hair up in a mass of ringlets and retrieved the straw bonnet trimmed in matching mint ribbon.  She felt utterly ridiculous.  She had no waistline at all and resembled a Grecian column.  

Remington’s mouth curved up as she eased out from behind the patterned silk screen.  He had finished knotting his tie—it’s called a cravat, Holt—and was packing his clothing into his trunk. For someone who filled out a tuxedo gorgeously, the fitted knee breeches and vest—a waistcoat—looked delicious on him.  Focus, Holt, focus.  We have a job to do.  

“My, my, my, you look like a spring blossom from an English garden.”  He frankly admired her new attire.  

More of the tension in her frame flowed away at his charming words.  Mr. Steele had a knack for getting her to relax.  With a wry smile, she commented, “I don’t feel like a flower.  I think I’m wearing five layers of clothing.  I feel like one of those musical dolls.”

“The kind with a steel rod in its middle?”

“That’s the one,” Laura said cheerfully. 

He shot her a grin.  “Care to help me with the waistcoat?”

“Of course.”  She stood behind him and fastened the buckle.  “Snug enough?”

“That it is.”

She picked up the tailcoat next and held it out while he slid his arms into the sleeves.  The familiar habit pleased her though she wouldn’t admit thow much she enjoyed it.  He turned around while tugging his shirtsleeves into place.  Laura buttoned his coat and then stepped back to admire him as he made final adjustments to the ensemble.  

He settled a fold here and there and in moments looked as if he’d stepped through some sort of doorway from the past.  He lifted his chin, and the resultant expression made Laura think of the Earl of Claridge at his haughtiest.

Suddenly, he spun her around and indicated the cheval glass where Laura could see the pair of them framed in the long oval.  The antique image of them disconcerted her.  “Mr. Steele, we look as if we’re in one of those old-time photo shops at a theme park. You know, the ones where you dress up and they take your picture in black and white?”

She watched his hand come up to lightly stroke the bare skin in the hollow of her shoulder, just above the trim of the neckline.  His touch made her shiver.  “Laura, you are beautiful in any era.  I have no doubts that you would have taken those Regency chaps on a wild ride before someone snared your affections.”  

In an effort to regain her composure, she waved off the compliment.  “I don’t follow enough rules.  I’d be an outcast in a moment.”

“An Original. Those are the ones worth pursuing.”  He let his fingers skim down the inside edge of the lace.  He’d been touching her like this a great deal lately.  At first, the intensity of her reaction to the sensual contact had made her edgy, as old fears of her personality being overrun flamed bright again.  But Mr. Steele hadn’t changed any other aspect of their partnership, and she'd gradually allowed herself to enjoy the seductive web he was weaving.

She tried to sidetrack him, just for fun.  “Mildred calls you a rake of the highest order.”  

Remington grinned widely and turned her in his arms.  “You know what they say about reformed rakes?”

“Actually, I don’t,” she admitted as she tilted her head back in anticipation of his kiss.  

“Ask Mildred.  I think she’s the Regency expert around here.”  

“Only in romance novels.”  

“Works for me.”  He rubbed his lips across hers until they parted, then kissed her in a lazy exploration that made her toes curl inside the embroidered slippers.  Without thinking, she rose onto the balls of her feet to deepen the connection.  When they parted, the look on his face told her he wasn’t unaffected.   

But he only held out a hand.  “We have business to attend.  Shall we, Lady Holt?”

She laid her fingers over his the way he’d demonstrated two nights ago at his place.  “Of course, Lord … Remington.”  They had mutually decided that the name would serve better than “Steele.”  Both appellations had English roots, but “Remington” was much more notable and would serve as a sort of disguise from the suspects—except, of course, from Daniel.  

Privately, Laura hoped she might learn to call him something other than “Mr. Steele” without thinking of her old typewriter.  If they were to turn the next corner in their relationship, she had to begin with a few changes.  

She took his arm, reminding herself that this was just another undercover operation—one requiring a little more in the way of clothing and pretense.

Harold seemed uncomfortable with Laura in his office, but she was well-versed in the art of ignoring masculine discomfort at her obvious competence.  Deliberately, she paced about the room while Remington perused the list of objects d’art that had vanished over the past half year.  When he finished, he folded it neatly and stuffed it inside the pocket low on his tailcoat.  He rose and Harold followed suit.

“Lady Holt, Lord Remington, please let me show you about and then to your rooms before the others arrive.”  The two detectives followed their client out.  He gave them a grand tour of the elegantly appointed house.  When they ascended the wide center staircase, Harold rattled on about the lineage of various portraits lining the walls.

Laura stifled a grin, amused.  The man certainly seemed to prefer living in the past—in particular, England’s past, not America’s.  She wondered if his accent was affected.  Mr. Steele would probably know.

Harold paused in the hallway and indicated two rooms.  “I’ve taken the liberty of installing the pair of you in our master’s suite.  Each of you will have your privacy, but there is an adjoining door so that you may conference without the others being aware.”  He  showed them the clandestine latch in the paneling that allowed a hidden door to open.  

Laura clasped her hands behind her back innocently.  “Are all the rooms situated as such?”

“Ah, the Duchess room has a small adjoining residence suitable for a maid.  All the others open only into the hallway.  If you please, I will take my leave.  The other guests will be arriving shortly.  We shall meet again at dinner.”  He bowed his head and strode out the door, leaving Remington and Laura alone.  

She yanked the pins out of her hair, shaking it loose so the curls lay on her shoulders.  Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Remington’s frank admiration as he leaned against the wall.  

“You know that only a husband is allowed to see his wife’s hair down in Regency England?” he said lightly.  “We would be married posthaste.”  

“Is that so?” Laura asked.  She strolled to the window, stretching her arms upward until the fabric stopped her motion.  She untied the spencer, dropping it onto the bed, and tried to stretch again.  “Oh damn.  I don’t know how women survived the clothing.”  

Remington came up behind her to press a kiss at the juncture of her neck and shoulder.  “In the same manner as the men, I suppose.  I’ll remember not to drink a great deal of water, in any case.”

She laughed outright.  “Me, too.  I’d hate to have to call a maid to get me out of this contraption.”

“Lady Holt, you have no need of a maid to divest you of such a delightful restraint.  I’ll happily offer my services anytime, day or night.”  

Taking care to affect the English accent she’d been practicing, she turned in his arms and laced her fingers around his neck.  “My Lord Remington, you are quite forward with such an innocent maid as I must be.”

“But I find myself desirous of your company—and your charms.  I cannot tear myself away from you for long.  Thus, I offer myself to you in any manner you desire.”  While he spoke, Remington removed her hands from his neck to place warm kisses in her palms.    

Laura blinked.  He’d sounded serious.  Unnerved by the direction of the conversation, she pulled tingling fingers away from his hands to pace about the room.  “I, ah, perhaps I could see the list again—the one Mr. Lindermann gave you.”  

In the long mirror standing in the corner, she could see Remington rake frustrated hands through his hair.  He fished the papers out of his coat and tossed them on the bed.  “Take a look.  I’ll settle into my room.  Knock when you are ready for dinner.”

The connecting door shut quietly behind him.  

Laura dropped into one of the spindly chairs in the corner, irritated.  She’d done it again—taken a perfectly romantic conversation and ruined it for the pair of them.  Be different, Laura.  Just once.  She stood, took a deep breath—one that was restrained by the stays—and crossed the bedroom to knock on the door.  

Remington opened it, stepping back to make space for her.  Prints of hunting horses and dogs lent the space a distinctly Old World masculine elegance, but she ignored the decor in favor of taking his hands in her own.  Haltingly, she framed her words, staring at his fingers.  “I, too, desire your company.”  Her eyes came up to see velvet blue.  “I prefer you … your presence above all others.”  

He didn’t make fun of her.  Instead, he placed a chaste kiss on her forehead.  “Then let us be in one another’s company for the duration and see what becomes of it, shall we?”  She blinked again, heartened by his words.  “Come now, Lady Holt.  Bring the papers.  We have a case to solve.”  

When she'd retrieved the list, Remington handed her a pamphlet and sprawled onto the bed.  

“What’s this?” she asked.

“A schedule of activities.  We have full days ahead: dining, horse riding, cricket, tea, picnics, dancing.  On Friday there is a grand ball to wrap up the week.”

“How are we supposed to solve the case if we’re scheduled for every moment of the day?”

“Laura—didn’t Mildred tell you about the purpose of these house parties?”  Mutely, she shook her head.  “Pleasure, my lovely partner.  Pleasure.  One is to relax and take part in the revelry.”

“This sounds like a bad romance novel.  But if it gives us time to get Daniel out of trouble, then I suppose I shouldn’t complain.”

“Daniel’s not our culprit.”

Laura tilted her head.  Remington sounded confident.  “How do you know?”

He tapped the list of stolen items.  “Daniel doesn’t deal in these items.”

“Perhaps he’s branching out.”

“He prefers jewelry.  It’s portable and easily fenced.  These items require a specialized dealer to get top dollar.  It’s not his thing, Laura.”  

“But the coincidences?  Every time Daniel comes, something disappears.”  

“Then we look further.”  

Laura closed her mouth, trying not to be annoyed.  She’d known that Daniel Chalmers meant everything to Remington, but she’d found out why only a week ago.  After the debacle over the lottery ticket, she’d found him staring into space more than once.  The tiny peek she’d had into his past had shown her little more than dark, disturbing images.  She imagined they haunted him.  

A few days ago, she’d caught him in a mood.  She’d left a file at his condo the previous evening and stopped in on a Saturday afternoon to retrieve it.

She knocked, didn’t get an answer.  Using her key to unlock the door, she assumed he was at the movies or buying out the grocery store for the dinner he promised to make her that evening.  Instead, she found him on the terrace, lost in thought.

In a quiet voice she rarely heard, he said, "I’ve been so cold that the movie theater was the only place I could get warm.  If I didn’t lift enough quid, I had to choose between eating and sleeping in a safe place instead of a doorway.  Sometimes I didn’t have either—especially in the winter when the chaps keep their coats buttoned up and the blunt is twice as hard to nick.  I still don’t know why Daniel chose me.  I was a foul-mouthed street rat—quick to anger, quicker to throw a punch.”

“How did he … you wouldn’t have gone home with him.”  Laura leaned on the terrace railing, deliberately not touching or looking at him for fear he would shy away from this conversation.  

“No.  He told me I had a quick mind and quicker hands.  He taught me to run cons with him and let me hold the money.  I cheated him, of course, but he would grin at me and tell me to keep the change.  He didn’t miss much.  Somehow he made sure I had enough quid at the end of the day for food and a place to sleep.”

“When did you learn to trust him?”

Remington shrugged.  “I don’t know.  I learned from him.  Learned how to walk, to talk, to dress.  The more I learned, the bigger the payout.  Somewhere along the way, he had a grand scheme taking place on the upper side of London.  We began traveling together.  Crossed over to the Continent for a pair of years until I had a yen to hop a Greek freighter.  When I came back from South America, we worked together time and again.  Until you, he’s the only person who ever gave a damn about me.”

After that confession, he’d abruptly shed his mood with a wink and smile that she hadn’t bought for a minute.  Instead of working, she had stayed—spending the evening with his arms closed about her as they watched an old movie together.  She’d been shaken by the three-day experience of homelessness, and he’d been a rock-solid partner throughout.  If Remington needed her for comfort in the face of boyhood memories, she would supply it without question.

When she’d discovered Daniel was involved in this latest scheme, she’d mentally cleared her calendar.  Her protests had been merely for form’s sake.  In an odd way, her banter with Remington served as a constant reassurance of their evolving relationship.  When the steady flow of quips and witty retorts stopped, it was usually a sign of trouble.  

“All right.  If it’s not Daniel, then the culprit must be either a servant or another frequent participant.  Didn’t Mildred already do checks on the employees to peek at their financials?”

“Yes.”  Remington slid a file over to her as she sat on the edge of the bed.  “She didn’t find anything.  But these are small enough thefts that any one of them could be our culprit.”

Laura paced, tapping her fingers on her elbows.  “One of us should have posed as a servant.”

“Since I did the last pass as a butler, I should think it’s your turn.”  

“I can’t now.  I have to help you keep an eye on Daniel, but—”

Together they said, “Mildred!”  

Laura nodded.  “Harold has a telephone in his office.  I can call her from there and get Harold to come up with a reason for her to be a new employee.  With luck, she’ll be here by morning.  What do we know about the current batch of attendees?”

Remington studied the papers scattered across the bed.  “There are twelve total, including the pair of us.  Six men, six women.  Several are returning.”

“How do you know?”

“Each time a guest returns, he or she ascends in ranking.”

“Ranking?”  Laura was thoroughly confused.

“Each guest starts with the lowest ranking—a baronet if you will—and is addressed as ‘Sir’ or ‘Madam.’  Every time a guest returns to Brighton, he or she ascends in rank.”  

“So what does that mean?”

“We’ve been assigned a rank somewhere in the middle, to help with our cover.  I’m the Earl of Remington; you’re the Marchioness of Holt.  There’s another pair, the Marquess and Marchioness of Langley.  There’s a note here that they outrank you because their first attendance predated yours.”  He paused, then added, “That’s clever, rather like the establishment of—”

“Please, Mr. Steele.  It’s over my head.”  

He grinned at her discomfort as she sat on the bed in frustration.  “In addition, the Duke of Sinclair and the Duchess of Waverly outrank everyone.  But I’ll be your escort for the week since no one attending ranks between us.  There is a viscount, a baron, a baroness, and two newcomers to Brighton.”

“If I’m counting right, that means you’ve been here three times prior to this, and I’ve come four.  Daniel has attended at least five times since he’s a duke.  Do you think it’s all been under the Sinclair name or is Mr. Lindermann adding up all the pseudonyms?”

Remington laughed.  “I have no idea.  We’ll ask.  You’re catching on though, Lady Holt.  We’ll make a peeress out of you yet.”  

“No, thanks.  Being trussed up like a captured criminal in this outfit is bad enough.  Remembering all the rest is insanity.”

“Trussed up, eh?”

“I’m sitting on the edge of the bed because it’s either that or stand.  Did you know this thing has a wooden stick in the front?”  She looked down—then back up in time to catch Mr. Steele looking in the same direction.  

“Lord Remington!” she admonished.

“’Tis like a bakery, My Lady Holt.  One must peruse the goods on display,” he said with mock sincerity.

She pretended to be irritated as she stood and stalked to the window.  In reality, his words only reminded her where he stood on her “To Do” list.  Itchy and annoyed, she stared out the window—then let her jaw drop in surprise.  “There really is a maze!”  

Remington appeared beside her.  “We’ll get lost in it later.”

But he wasn’t looking out the window.  Feeling like an éclair on a display stand, she snapped, “Mr. Steele?”

“Yes, Miss Holt?”

“Stop staring.  We have a case to solve, remember?”

“I’m merely stepping into character.”

“You’re playing a leering Englishman bent on the seduction of a woman who happens to be your senior in rank?” she retorted.

“If I must.”  His humorous resignation shattered her concerns for the moment, and she laughed helplessly.  The glint in his eyes as he joined in filled her with an odd kind of joy.  Maybe this would be a fun week. 

*****

Daniel descended from his carriage, preceding the other guests by virtue of his “rank.”  He concealed his smug grin behind a veneer of charm.  Harry had taken the bait.  

         *****  

Remington tied the ribbons of Laura’s dress.  Her maid had come to lay out appropriate attire for the evening, just as his valet had done.  Once again though, Laura dismissed the young lady in favor of having him lace her stays and tie the ribbons on her dress.  

If she were anyone but Laura Holt, he would have taken the scenario as an open invitation for unfastening those same ribbons later on with pleasurable consequences.  As it was, he resigned himself to keeping the whole thing rather businesslike.  

Then again, she hadn’t been fending off his advances lately—much.

He finished by fastening a deceptively simple diamond and amethyst cross around her neck.  The tiny purple stones echoed the matching embroidery on her lavender dress.  He frowned.  It wasn’t her best color.  He preferred her in darker tones, not these insipid colors suitable for young girls.  

They appeared separately in the parlor to mingle with the other guests before dinner.  Daniel seemed genuinely surprised by their presence, but Remington knew better than to buy the innocent face.  He sipped his glass of Burgundy.  The vintage wasn’t one of his favorites.  He’d come to prefer the taste of California wines, though a good Champagne was never to be declined.

The Duchess and the other Marchioness cornered Laura.  Remington grinned as he overheard them talking fabrics and embroidery—two subjects guaranteed to bore his partner in under a minute.  Laura’s version of clothes shopping involved zipping through a department store, snagging two dozen outfits off the racks, and trying them on in rapid succession.  In thirty minutes, she could buy a whole new wardrobe and be on her way.  

Daniel tried to stay on the other side of the room, but with only twelve people occupying it, the older man found it impossible to evade Remington for long.  The younger man worked the small crowd effortlessly.  

“Fancy seeing you here, my boy.  Come to take in the countryside?” Daniel asked.  

Remington nodded.  “Laura wanted to come.  Thought it might be a pleasant change of pace.”  The lie tumbled from his lips with ease.  

Daniel choked.  “Linda wanted to come?  I thought the restrictions of the era would be … incompatible with her personality.”  

His mentor had her pegged.  “Yes, well, you know women.  Always changing their minds.” Bloody hell, Laura would have my head on a platter if she heard that.   Remington watched Laura navigate around the two women to begin a conversation with another lady on the far side of the room.  “Tell me, Your Grace, what brings you to this part of the world.”  He flicked the older man’s cravat.  “And with such an illustrious title.  You must attend quite often.”  

Daniel only smiled.  “I like a certain kind of company, Harry.  The grace of the era entertains me, and ... the Duchess and I go back a ways.”

Remington raised his eyebrows.  “You mean to tell me this is your trysting hideaway?”

“I wouldn’t put it quite like that, my boy.”  He coughed, clearing his throat with a smile.  “But it’s close enough, I think.  Perhaps Lady Holt will be charmed too.”  The sour look on his own face made Daniel’s eyes twinkle.  “Ah, well.  One can only hope.”

The evening entertainment was designed to give the guests a taste of Regency life.  The four courses of dinner gave them time to relax, and the ambient noise of conversation rose throughout the evening.  When the women rose to depart for the drawing room—presumably for more conversation about fabrics—Remington concealed a smile at Laura’s quiet sigh.

A manservant poured port for the men.  Talk began with the weather and ranged through professions, with a quick dip into politics.  Remington spent his time studying the guests as he made idle contributions to the conversation.  Daniel toyed with his wine glass while chatting up Lord Ratcliff, the marquess of the bunch.  The viscount, Lord Royce, had a rather large ego.  Remington suspected a healthy portion of the week’s entertainment would involve puncturing his pride.  Baron Gray was older, perhaps mid-fifties, and made it clear he was there to indulge his wife’s whims.  

The last chap, Sir Lockwood, had a ready grin to go with his curly red hair and made noises about various diversions during the week—mostly of the female kind.  He seemed to have his eye on the young Baroness but made an admiring comment about Lady Holt.  To which, Remington faintly arched his brow.

Lockwood grinned without offense.  “Ah.  She’s all yours, Lord Remington.  But do let me know if I shall regret my loss.”

“I’m quite certain you’ll find adequate consolation given the level of flirtation at your end of the table.”  

“That I will, old chap.”  Lockwood chewed on his cigar and rocked back in his chair in amused contemplation of his options. 

*****

Daniel noted the exchange, admiring the slickness with which Harry warned off the competition.  Harry, my boy, it’s time you made a change.  Life’s too short to be wasting about in this manner.  He sipped his port, reflecting.  His boy was getting soft.  

           *****

Laura stripped off her gloves, one at a time, with care for the silk fabric, oblivious to the effect she was having on Remington.  He tugged his ear lobe, tried not to think about the satiny, freckled skin being revealed an inch or two at a time, and shifted awkwardly to accommodate the rush of blood to his nether regions.  

She stopped a foot away from him, bare hands on hips.  “You weren’t listening.”

“Of course, I was.”

Laughing, she walked toward her door.  “No, and I can’t blame you.  I was bored silly in there.  Is that all women really talked about?  Fabric?  Stitches?  Men?”  She reached behind her and tugged the ribbons on the ivory gown free.  The front sagged.  She shrugged out of it, pulling it over her head as she disappeared into her room.  

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he stifled his growing frustration as she kept talking from her side of the doorway.  He yanked off his boots and set them on the floor.

She returned, wearing only the stays and the low-cut undergarment.  Her hair was unpinned.  “Surely there is more to this week than sitting around wringing hands over titles.”

He tugged her close so that she stood between his legs.  One thick tress lay at her throat.  He wound it around his finger.  “No, but it’s early yet.  Everyone’s trying to be perfect members of the Regency ton at the moment.  By the end of the week, you’ll be wearing nothing under your gown and dampening your skirts so they cling as you walk.”  The image did absolutely nothing to cool his rapidly developing problem.  

Laura turned.  Looking back over her shoulder, she asked, “Would you unlace me?”  The sly smile should have clued him in, but he was too busy letting his hands slide across her naked shoulders to notice.  He wasn’t really thinking when he pressed a kiss between her shoulder blades as he began to draw the string from the eyelets.  

With the stays loose, Laura drew in a deep breath.  “Ah, oxygen.”  She turned, cupped his cheek and kissed the opposite side.  “The lack of it must account for my forward nature, m’lord.  If you’ll forgive me, I must go change.”  She wiggled out of his hands, leaving him clutching air.  

“Change?”  His strangled voice drew a smile from her.

“We’ve got work to do, Mr. Steele.”  She closed the door behind her.  

Since ripping off the bedpost and tossing it like a Scottish caber wasn’t an option, he cranked the shower on full cold as he divested himself of his own clothes.

Later, modern black jeans and a button down shirt of the same color from his trunk settled him as he dressed.  He eyed Laura’s door.  Only after some of the blood flow had returned to his brain had an appreciative grin crossed his face.  So that’s how we’re playing it now, Miss Holt.   She’d finally, finally, turned the tables on him.  For three weeks now, he’d been running a quiet game of seduction on her.  Had they not been interrupted by Daniel’s mischief, he’d planned to up the ante this week.  It appeared now she’d not only caught on, she wasn’t going to let him deal all the cards.  

That was fine by him.  He always had a spare or two up his sleeves.

Chapter 2: Monday