Midsummer Moon Read Online Free PDF Page A

an explosive sigh. “Really, Miss Lambourne, it would not be at all proper for me to discuss such a thing with you. But you may take me at my word. You need a chaperon."
    She stood frowning at him a moment longer, and he knew he had not made the least progress in impressing the dangers of her situation upon her. He lifted his goblet and took a swallow of the bitter wine as she turned back and scanned the shelves. She tilted her head back and mumbled, “What was I looking for?"
    "Salt."
    "Oh. Yes.” She stood on tiptoe and reached once more for the top shelf. In the midst of a thumping and shuffling of jars, she asked, “Are you going to take liberties with my person, Mr. Duke?"
    Ransom choked on his wine, having been caught observing the trim turn of her ankles again. “Most certainly not!” He set down the glass and added in a more controlled voice, “As a gentleman, I do not go about ravishing unprotected females, I assure you."
    "Oh,” she said, without much interest. She stuck her nose in an open jar and sniffed loudly.
    Ransom watched her, amused in spite of himself. She clearly had no notion of what he was talking about. He found her attitude rather pleasing after years of experience with hard-eyed courtesans and simpering young misses who contrived to swoon at the mere mention of a stolen kiss.
    He sipped at the wine again and then set it down with a grimace. He was determined to find a way to rectify the shameful neglect of her station here. He could be certain, at least, that her cousin's irresponsibility was not deliberate. Lord Edward Lambourne had fortune enough of his own, and a brain too small to leave room for more than folly and fashion. No, it was pure self-centered preoccupation that had resulted in this travesty of common familial duty. And as much as Ransom abhorred it, he could see possibilities in the situation which could work to his own advantage.
    Miss Lambourne was proving distinctly difficult to dislodge. He'd spent the afternoon attempting to reason with her, but had succeeded only in gaining permission to take the speaking box and use it for whatever patriotic purposes he might be able to imagine. He could imagine quite a few. Indeed, he wanted to shout in triumph every time he thought of the speaking box and the infinite possibilities of communication through thin air.
    But he needed Miss Lambourne, too. Not only to begin work to improve the instrument, to adapt it to use at sea or on a battlefield. And not only to prevent the secret from falling into French hands. No, it was more than that which made him want to remove her from this place as soon as possible.
    He was afraid for her life. He had not exaggerated the way his agent had come to a violent end. She was in danger, he was certain, and that was why Ransom was sitting here chewing tough mutton and making himself a nuisance to an elderly grump and his muddled mistress. And why he had no intention of leaving without her.
    She gave a crow of success from her stool and hopped down with a dusty jar balanced precariously in one hand. As she set it before Ransom, he could read the large initials N.A.—C.L. on the label, but the quantity of spidery writing underneath was illegible. Miss Lambourne handed him a spoon and sat down, pink and a little breathless from her exertions.
    "N.A.—C.L.” He frowned at the white crystals. “Are you certain this is salt?"
    "Oh, yes. That would be the chemical formula, you see. Sodium chloride. Uncle Dorian often labeled things that way. He was a great chemist, you know.” She seemed to realize that her reassurance might not be quite the thing to make Ransom completely easy in his mind, and added, “But of course, he would never have kept anything poisonous in the dining room."
    "Of course.” Ransom peered dubiously at the label, where among the faded script the words “Salt” and “Co. Lvs.” were legible, along with an abbreviation. “Dare I ask what this ‘Aphro.’ signifies?"
    She