The passion project, p.1
The Passion Project, page 1
part #1 of Laws of Attraction Series
The Passion Project
Laws of Attraction
Laura Trentham
Contents
Blurb
Also by Laura Trentham
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
Also by Laura Trentham
About the Author
Blurb
Stargazer, astrologist, tea-leaf reader… Lady Geneva Dorn has heard the disdainful descriptions bandied about for years. In truth, she is a scientist, an astronomer to be exact. And she is on the cusp of an incredible discovery—a new comet.
* * *
Assassin, hero, soldier for hire… All true to some extent, but Selwyn McKelvey prefers the term opportunist. He’s brought down villains and despots. Now he’s ready to plant roots at a peaceful cottage by the sea. He just has one last criminal to eliminate. Only the brash, beautiful, extremely intelligent Lady Dorn hardly matches the description of a hardened murderess he was given. Something very inconvenient occurs around her. He develops a conscience… and a weak spot for her sharp mind and gorgeous body.
* * *
In order to prove her theory—and finally gain recognition for her work—Geneva has to arrive in Scotland by summer solstice, only one week away. She doesn’t trust Wyn as far as she can throw him (which wouldn’t be far at all), but she needs an escort and he is her only option. It seems more than one faction of the extremely competitive Royal Society is out to steal her research and shut her up for good. But on whose side will Wyn fall?
Also by Laura Trentham
Historical Romance
Spies and Lovers
An Indecent Invitation, Book 1
A Brazen Bargain, Book 2
A Reckless Redemption, Book 3
A Sinful Surrender, Book 4
A Wicked Wedding, Book 5
A Daring Deception, Book 6
A Scandalous Secret, Book 7
* * *
Spies and Lovers Boxset: Vol 1
Spies and Lovers Boxset: Vol 2
* * *
Laws of Attraction
The Courtship Calculation, Book 1
The Marriage Experiment, Book 2
The Passion Project, Book 3
The Theory of Dukes, Book 4
* * *
Contemporary Romance
Sweet Home Alabama Novels
Slow and Steady Rush, Book 1
Caught Up in the Touch, Book 2
Melting Into You, Book 3
The Sweet Home Alabama Collection
* * *
Cottonbloom Novels
Kiss Me That Way, Book 1
Then He Kissed Me, Book 2
Till I Kissed You, Book 3
* * *
Christmas in the Cop Car, Book 4
Light Up the Night, Book 5
Nobody’s Hero, Book 6
* * *
Leave the Night On, Book 7
When the Stars Come Out, Book 8
Set the Night on Fire, Book 9
* * *
The Fournette Family Boxset, Books 1-3
The Cottonbloom Novella Collection, Books 4-6
The Abbott Brothers Boxset, Books 7-9
* * *
Highland, Georgia Novels
A Highlander Walks Into a Bar, Book 1
A Highlander in a Pickup, Book 2
A Highlander is Coming to Town, Book 3
* * *
Heart of a Hero Novels
The Military Wife
An Everyday Hero
* * *
Writing as Leah Trent
Historical Erotic Romance
Fieldstones Adventure Novellas
An Impetuous Interlude, Fieldstones Adventure Book 1
A Naughty Notion, Fieldstones Adventure Book 2
A Mysterious Masquerade, Fieldstones Adventure Book 3
A Dangerous Desire, Fieldstones Adventure Book 4
The Fieldstones Adventures Boxset
* * *
Contemporary Erotic Romance
Bad Boys Breakfast Club
Big Bad Boyfriend, Book 1
Boss in Bed, Book 2
I love to hear from readers! Come find me:
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www.LauraTrentham.com
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Chapter 1
London 1821, Late Spring
Selwyn McKelvey’s intuition had proved itself a trustworthy companion. Therefore, ignoring the niggling sense of foreboding that accompanied the missive would have been foolish, and while Wyn’s formal education had primarily consisted of recognizing the easiest marks for pickpocketing and the best windows to pry open with the intent to steal, he was no fool.
In another life, he could have been top of his class at Eton, as his former colleague, Dawson Shaw—now Lord Westhorpe—had been. Instead, fate had him born not in a mighty house to a rich peer but in a small cottage near the sea to a humble sheepherder.
While the station of his birth hadn’t offered much in the way of advancing his fortunes, the timing had proved prodigious. He’d come of age during a war between Britain and France, and war offered opportunities to the reckless and brave.
Tonight he feared he was acting the former, but desperation could do that to a man.
Wyn tucked himself into the shadows of a stoop. His attention this evening was fixed on the Mayfair town house across the lane. Its smooth stone facade and ornate arched entry was graced by a stone cherub. He’d found nothing amiss in the mews or alleyways. No extra men were hiding, no weapons had been stockpiled, no nefarious plan seemed afoot.
Cool night air, clear of winter’s soot, made the conditions pleasant enough. Staving off boredom and staying alert were the most difficult tasks. That was often the job. Long periods of waiting followed by spurts of taxing, stressful activity.
This summons troubled him. For one, he didn’t advertise his skill set in the Times. For another, he had never met Lord Gramwell. Trust was a commodity beyond price, and Gramwell hadn’t earned it. Wyn should walk away, but since the war ended, demand for his particular talents had fallen. In short, he needed the coin.
The frenzied tapping of a cane against stone pavers announced the arrival of a spry gentleman in a dark frock coat, pantaloons, and beaver hat. He looked over his shoulder before taking the front steps of Gramwell’s town house two at a time.
Another quarter hour ticked away. Wyn was late, but that fit his plan. Stewing increased nerves, and nerves loosened tongues. He stepped into the faint glow of the streetlight.
Boots clacked on stone, and Wyn slid back into the shadows. A different sort of man made his way down the cobblestones. His head swiveled to examine dark recesses on his lumbering approach. A common man’s brimmed hat hid his face. Unlike the man who’d preceded him, his clothes were a mishmash of tailored and secondhand. Like Wyn, this man operated in two different worlds. A Bow Street Runner, perhaps? Whatever his station, he was welcomed into the town house.
Soon after, a coachman brought a carriage from the mews. Black and undistinguished by a crest. Yet another man exited the town house, smallish in stature with a slight belly protruding through his coat, and set off in the carriage. The game afoot had too many players for Wyn’s comfort.
Still, whether he took the job they were sure to offer or not, he owed it to his sister and nephew to at least hear the men out. The coin he sent home might mean the difference between an empty and full belly.
Wyn waited a bit longer, but it appeared as if the pieces were in place. It was up to him to make the next move. After smoothing the lapels of his best frock coat, which had seen two years of wear, he pulled the bell cord.
The door opened, and a well-dressed man darted a look over Wyn’s shoulder. “Selwyn McKelvey?”
At Wyn’s nod, the man waved his hand in a “come in” gesture and closed the door with a bang.
“I wasn’t followed, if that’s what concerns you.” Wyn forced a casualness he didn’t feel into his voice.
“I’m Lord Gramwell, and you’re late.” The man gave Wyn a hard stare, but his voice quivered.
Interesting. Both to be greeted by the lord himself and the anxiety evident in his manner.
Nothing about their surroundings alarmed Wyn. Typical accoutrements of a well-off peer who aimed to impress surrounded him. Two marble obelisks framed a sweeping staircase. A large watercolor of the sea dominated the right wall. Fresh flowers perfumed the air. The candelabra had three tapers lit. Enough flickering light to reveal the wrinkles radiating from Gramwell’s eyes and the grooves bracketing his tight mouth.
“I’ve been enjoying the night air.” Wyn offered a slight smile but no apology.
Gramwell swallowed and shifted on his feet, glancing toward the hallway. “Come, let’s retire to my study and discuss the particulars of your assignment.” He took up the candelabra and led the way.
“If I choose to accept,” Wyn said blandly.
Gramwell whirled. Wyn slid back to avoid singeing his jacket.
“But he said… I was given the impression you were for hire.”
“Indeed I am, but I’ve become more discriminating with age.” Wyn kept his face neutral.
Gramwell, on the other hand, let his emotions run one after another over his face. Surprise, worry, and most importantly, fear. Not of Wyn—even though fear would be advisable. Who could trump his level of intimidation?
Gramwell turned and continued into the study with small, agitated steps. Beeswax tapers were lit, lending a sweet aroma at odds with the tension frothing through the room. The two men Wyn had observed entering the town house occupied cushioned chairs facing a large mahogany desk.
Wyn assessed the situation with experience and speed. The spry gentleman with the cane had no unusual bulges in his jacket, and no metal glinted from his polished boots. His weapons were either well concealed or he was unarmed altogether. Most likely the latter. His station put him above such base worries as daily survival on the streets.
Wyn examined the possible Runner. An obvious pistol bulged from the side of his ill-fitting jacket, and if he was anything like Wyn, he would have a knife or two tucked away in his well-worn boots in case of emergency.
A squat wooden chair waited between the two men. Scooting it back so he could see all three men without turning his head, Wyn sat. Gramwell took the ornate chair across the desk, but the other two men had to shift around in order to see Wyn, putting them at the disadvantage. Exactly how he preferred it.
Gramwell tossed folded papers to the end of the desk within Wyn’s reach. “Details of your assignment. I assume you are literate?”
Wyn made no move to take the papers, anger at the insult stewing in his gut. But could he fault the question? After all, only a twist of fate had provided him the opportunity to learn to read and write. His sister was illiterate, and as far as he knew, so was his nephew. He wanted to give them a chance at a better life.
Wyn made no move to take the packet of papers. Instead, feigning casualness, he crossed one leg over the other and slouched slightly. “Not only am I discriminating in the assignments I accept, I’m particular about who I work with. Who are your associates, Lord Gramwell?”
“Sir Ian Braithwaite, at your service.” The glib words rolled from the man on his left. Blondish hair framed a young, round face. While life hadn’t had a chance to carve its mark, his eyes were ambitious and flinty. Unwise and untrustworthy. The assessment streaked through Wyn.
“Are you at my service, sir?” Wyn asked dryly. Titles meant nothing to him. Death made no distinction. Rich or poor died the same ugly way.
Braithwaite’s smile was replaced with a flare of anger. Good. Fear and anger were Wyn’s greatest weapons, not the knives he had tucked into his boots or the two sheaths hidden under his jacket.
Wyn turned to the third man. “And you?”
The man’s jacket had been tailored to fit another man. One whose shoulders and chest weren’t so beefy. Looking to Gramwell, the man clutched the edges of the chair too tightly, ill at ease with the company or surroundings or both.
Gramwell spoke up. “May I present Mr. Clarke.”
Attuned to lies, Wyn caught a very slight hesitation. The man in the chair, who was undoubtedly not Mr. Clarke, nodded his head without speaking.
Wyn didn’t trust any of these men. Factor in the unknown gentleman who’d left earlier, and the entire situation took on a rather putrid stench. Out of sheer curiosity, Wyn took the papers, tilted them toward the nearest candle, and skimmed. Shock coursed through him. He had expected his target to be a painting or jewels or information. He dropped the papers to his lap.
These men intended murder.
“The mark is a woman? And a lady to boot?”
Gramwell shifted and looked to the wall, his lips twisting. The man’s body language screamed his misgivings.
“Yes, she’s a lady, but by marriage only.” Braithwaite had no such qualms, and his blaring defensiveness set Wyn on edge. “Read on, and you will discover how she murdered her husband, Lord Dorn. He was a much-admired member of the Royal Society. She aims to either sell his research to her French counterparts or take credit for his findings herself. She is an ambitious French whore and murderess.”
Wyn read more carefully. Lady Dorn had been born in France but escaped with her father before the Terror took hold. Father and daughter had lived in Cornwall at Lord Dorn’s estate for more than two decades.
“No mention of her mother. Where is she?” Wyn asked.
“Dead by Lady Guillotine, I assume,” Gramwell said without making eye contact.
Nasty way to go but better than a dull-bladed axe or the hangman’s noose. “I gather her father was employed in some capacity by Lord Dorn, and after the father’s death, Dorn married the daughter?”
“She seduced him in order to obtain his title and research, then killed him.” Disrespect for not only this woman but all women sharpened Braithwaite’s words.
“Her father was a brilliant mathematician assisting Dorn with his research on the movement of the heavens,” Gramwell said in a more modulated tone. “We believe she and her father hatched the nefarious plan. Rumors were rife that Dorn was close to a breakthrough before his untimely death.”
Wyn pulled at his chin. While their explanations had the air of logic, the timing made little sense. “Her father died eight years ago. Dorn has been gone almost three. Quite a long wait for their nefarious plan to bear fruit.”
“Some would wait a lifetime for such a discovery and the recognition and glory that will follow.” Zeal scooted Braithwaite to the edge of the chair, hands clutching the knees of his pantaloons. Knees that appeared too worn for a man in his position, in fact. Was the man perhaps more interested in the coin that would accompany the discovery instead of righting a supposed wrong?
“What of you, Mr. Clarke? Are you a scientist in search of glory as well?” Wyn turned to the hired muscle.
Clarke’s gaze shifted to Gramwell once more. Was Clarke mute?
“Clarke will act as a… courier,” Gramwell said.
Wyn raised his brows. “What would you expect him to convey? Lady Dorn’s body?”
“Good gracious, no!” Gramwell’s shock highlighted the fact the man had no stomach for the work he was attempting to engage Wyn to do.
“After you dispose of Lady Dorn, Clarke will bring Dorn’s research here. It rightly belongs to the Royal Society,” Braithwaite said as if Wyn was a lunkhead like Clarke.
“And soon after, I suppose I’ll read about the miraculous discoveries of Gramwell and Braithwaite in the Times. Are you not being as deceitful as Lady Dorn?”
“Why are you concerned with the morality of the situation? We’re hiring a killer, not a parson.” Braithwaite’s hostility seemed to dwarf the situation. “Concern yourself with what we are paying you to do and nothing else. Ensure her death looks like an accident, find her husband’s research, and pass it to Clarke. That’s all.”
Wyn didn’t consider himself a killer anymore. A mercenary, perhaps, but even more, an opportunist. His past targets had all been unconscionable and unsavory. Some had been downright evil. They’d all been men, and it had been war. Whoever had passed his name to these men didn’t realize Wyn had gotten out of the killing game with the peace accords.
