Samantha (Barrett 2)

"Lady Samantha," Smitty began, "I really don't think—"

"Oh, Smitty," she murmured, interrupting whatever he had been about to say. "Isn't he dashing?"

"His Grace would never approve—"

"Drake. Yes." Her smile was jubilant. "I wonder what my brother will say when I tell him that I'm going to become the Countess of Gresham."

2

"Hello, Boyd."

The stocky tavern keeper looked up and grinned, putting down the mug he'd been filling. "Rem ... I thought I saw you come in. But then you disappeared."

"I was temporarily waylaid."

"Yes, well, I don't blame you. I spied the little chit who waylaid you. Quite a beauty. Well-bred, too. What the hell was she doing in here?"

"Her carriage broke down. She needed assistance."

Boyd's dark eyes gleamed. "And I'll just bet you gave it to her." He shook his shaggy head, sighing with mock dismay. "Ah, why did I choose that particular time to check my supplies? I'd have been delighted to offer her my help ... or anything else she wanted."

Unreasonable annoyance struck Rem, hard. "She's half your age, Boyd—not yet out of her teens." A pause. "She's also Drake Barrett's little sister."

A low whistle escaped Boyd's lips. "No wonder she looked so bloody regal. Well, that changes things. If I were you, I'd stay the hell away from her. You've got enough women nip

ping at your heels without involving yourself with—"

"I'm not getting involved with her," Rem snapped. "I just loaned her my carriage and offered to have hers repaired. I'll return it tomorrow. After that, I'll probably never see her again. Besides," he lowered his voice, "I didn't come in to discuss Samantha Barrett."

Boyd's eyes narrowed slightly—his only overt reaction to Rem's uncustomary loss of composure. "Are you here to see me, or are you meeting Briggs?"

"Meeting Briggs. I take it he's not yet arrived?"

"No. But that shouldn't surprise you. This storm could delay him for hours. Here," Boyd handed him a glass of beer, "have a drink while you wait. Where have you been? I haven't seen you in weeks."

Rem relaxed into a roguish grin. "I've been busy."

"Busy, huh? Which one is it this time?"

"Never one, Boyd." Rem took a deep, appreciative swallow. "In my situation, that's far too risky. Several. Always several."

"The Season's under way. Will you be staying in London or heading back to Gresham?"

"That depends."

"On?"

"On what Briggs needs to see me about." The two men's gazes met in silent understanding. Take the table in the far left corner," Boyd suggested without altering his expression. "The riffraff back there are too deep in their cups to hear or see anything. That way you'll be assured privacy."

"Fine."

"Do you want me to join you?"

"No." Rem shook his head. "Not this time. Briggs specified that he wished to speak with me alone. Let me hear what the Admiralty has to say. Once I understand the nature of the dilemma, I'll give the appearance of leaving, then wait for you behind the tavern. We'll discuss our strategy then."

"Good enough." Boyd reached over to take Rem's glass, his eyes darting to the door as it clicked shut. "Briggs just arrived." Casually, he continued clearing the counter. "Good luck."

Rem waited a full minute, then, without glancing behind him, swung around and headed toward the designated table.