“And if it isn’t either of those two groups?” Antonia asked.
Wellington snorted. “Then it could be anyone. Anyone with some wild idea of upending the government. Or, indeed, the Crown.” Several moments passed in silence as the great man cogitated, but then he looked at Sebastian and shook his head. “My advice, young Cynster, is to put aside the question of who is behind this action and, instead, focus on what Ennis rightly identified as the item of critical importance—the gunpowder.”
Sebastian held Wellington’s gaze for an instant, then nodded. “Yes. That needs to be first in our order of battle.”
Wellington grinned. “Your father always knew to keep his priorities in mind…” Wellington’s expression grew distant, then he refocused on Sebastian. “Ring for Moreton again. There’s something I should give you before you go.”
Moreton duly appeared, and Wellington demanded his writing desk. With it balanced on his knees, he swiftly wrote, then signed. After blotting the document, he handed it to Sebastian. “If you run into officious difficulties, just wave that in their faces—it should get you through.”
Sebastian read the document and smiled. “Thank you.” He folded it carefully and tucked it away with the other letters he was carrying. Then he rose and looked at Wellington. “And thank you for your counsel, Your Grace.”
Wellington wagged an admonitory finger at him—at them as Antonia rose and joined Sebastian. “Don’t get sidetracked—locate that gunpowder. Once you do, how much of the stuff has been assembled will give you a clue as to the target. Once you have the target, you’ll be several steps closer to identifying who the devil is behind this plot. Eliminate the danger first, identify the target, then go after the perpetrators.”
* * *
They’d spent longer than they’d bargained for with Wellington; consequently, they galloped most of the way back. It had been years since Antonia had enjoyed such an exhilarating run, with the fresh breeze off the sea rushing past her cheeks. After one brief, assessing glance, much to her appreciative approval, Sebastian concentrated on nothing more than keeping his gray in the lead.
He was only a yard ahead of her when they thundered onto the rear drive. Reluctantly, they drew rein, easing the horses to a trot, then a walk as they turned into the cobbled stable yard. The stable master saw them and sent grooms running to take their reins.
With his usual fluid grace, Sebastian dismounted.
Antonia slid her feet free of the stirrups. But before she could slide down, Sebastian reached her mount’s side and, with his customary high-handed arrogance, reached up, closed his hands about her waist, and lifted her down.
She’d been expecting him to do so and had planned her revenge.
She tipped forward as he lifted her; the shift in her weight had him taking a half step back, then he instinctively locked his legs and steadied…but by then she’d placed herself in the same space, so close that he had to ease her down his body, more or less breast to chest.
She’d thought she’d been prepared for the jolt to her senses.
She’d been wrong.
It was searing, like a sensual flame passing down the front of her, leaving an urgent longing—to seek more of the contact, more of the heat, more of him—in its wake.
Her heart raced; her lips throbbed. She felt warm all over and faintly giddy with wanting.
But the effect on him—the tension that gripped him—was even more telling.
More thrilling and enlightening.
She kept her eyes locked on his as she battled the urge to reach up and drag his lips down to hers—and let the thought shine in her eyes.
His muscles locked; his features set like stone.
He was waging a battle of his own.
If they’d been anywhere more private, she might have added her weight against his good intentions, but…
Instead, she found enough strength, enough determination, to shift one hand and pat his chest while she smiled into his sea-green eyes.
His grip about her waist tightened; his jaw looked like it might crack.
When he finally lowered her the last inch, and her boots touched the cobbles, she made no effort to step back.
Her message was simple: Two could play at this game.
And she was only too willing to engage.
Sebastian recognized a gauntlet when he saw one at his feet, but this was one challenge he’d elected to defer.
The sane part of his mind reminded him of all the good—nay, excellent—reasons why. The rest of his brain was urging him to pick up her gauntlet and counter—to riposte.
This was the sort of game in which that other side of him delighted; the temptation to engage was well-nigh overwhelming.