Page 16 of Lord Appleby's Gorgeous Imposter
“And that of your oldest family member, as well?”
Again, he did not name Charmaine. She was obliged to him for that discretion and that alone. “More, I cannot say.”
He snorted. “I bet you can’t.”
“Sarcasm buys you nothing with me.”
“Really?” He pretended affront. “I thought I was being diplomatic.”
She set her teeth. “Do go away.”
“Why?”
She rode on, ignoring the way her skin heated at the force of his stare.
He was not deterred and rode beside her. When her groom dropped back because of the surging crowd, Tate leaned toward her. “Why, Mademoiselle de Massé? What do you plan?”
The fragrance of his cologne, the nearness of his stalwart body and the memories of how dear he once was to her, roused her heartbeat. But she caught herself. Irritated at his never-ending allure, she shot a fierce glance at him. “I am earning a salary.”Charmaine’s.
He dropped his jaw. Then blinked and nodded. “You are good at it, I grant you. How did you become so accomplished—and rather quickly too, eh?”
“Study,” she snapped.Imitation.
“Books. You read books. Plays.”
“A fine education,” she tossed back at him. “You did so yourself.”
“To pretend that you are something you are not is dangerous.”
She laughed, halted her mare, and glared at him. “And you of all people should know that is true.” She had often told him she suspected he was a spy.
“Touché.” He had the courtesy to blanch, but recovered quickly. “I work for king and country. But what is your motivation?”
She rode on.
“I do not believe you are here only to earn a salary that should go to another.”
“That is your problem, sir.”
“Was your coach attacked by highwaymen?”
She did not flinch. Tate often tried to catch someone off guard by a shift in topic. This question, however, did not surprise her. The manager of her theater had shown her a few gossip sheets with news of the attempted robbery. Evidently, Tate had read them too.
“It was.” She went onward, showing lack of concern for the incident that riled her still. At least it had until Tate Cantrell became a bigger challenge by appearing in her dressing room and disassembling her life.
“Did you defend yourself?”
She frowned. “It pains me that you have to ask.”
“Many reports gave different details.”
“Ah. The way of gossip.”
He grinned. “However, I do believe that anyone who touched you or yours would find themselves shot to pieces.”
“Thank you.” She had learned the art of marksmanship from him. Standing in his embrace, balancing, sighting, calculating, and swooning every moment for his regard, his touch. “They took my pistol. But I surprised them with the carriage shotgunand winged one thief in the arm. My maid frightened off one with her screaming.”
He gave her a pained look of shock. “Your maid is a harpy, is she?”
