The Lady is Trouble: League of Lords, Book 1

by Tracy Sumner

  To say he’d placed an immovable wall between them would be a just assessment. After their heated discussion beneath that damned flowering tree, the irrational need to grovel beckoned. His words had come out honestly but indelicately. The wrong reasons now seemed like a crude way to express his indecisiveness. Displeasure crossing Piper’s face was a common occurrence, but firm resolve was rare. And shocking.

  Pride and distress had warred within him at her self-possession.

  Novel in his dealings with her, a grown woman had confronted him. And he wasn’t bloody sure who’d won the battle.

  A knock on the door had his heart kicking as he imagined Piper coming to him. Except, she was avoiding him for the first time in memory, turning the other direction when she saw him coming. He patted the hairpin helplessly as a burst of lightning shot through the window and danced across his desk.

  “Jule?” Finn popped his head around the open door. “Are you free?”

  He crooked his hand to signal entrance, and Finn made an awkward bow into the room, his body having grown faster than even his enormously innate poise could account for. A paternal rush hit Julian hard as the young man took a seat, dusting raindrops from his coat and hooking one leg over the other with the cool finesse of a peer of the realm. Tilting his head, Finn nudged a canvas into view with a boot you could see your reflection in. Julian poured brandy in two glasses, managing to find a clear path between ledgers and paint supplies as he slid one across the desk.

  Finn took it with a crooked smile, a raised brow. Being offered a drink was unprecedented and a signal of his approaching majority. He took a leisurely sip, his posture lowering little for the brandy’s delight. An astute student since their first encounter in the rank back alley of a gaming hell, Finn had sucked in every measure of polite society and looked prepared to expel it back in their faces. Possessed of an amiable nature and a rather indolent manner, Julian suspected the world was set to write Finn off as little more than the harmless, beautiful bastard of a deceased viscount.

  The League would use this lack of discernment to their advantage as the beautiful bastard read every stupid thought in their heads.

  “You came out in this storm. You must have something on your mind.” Lamplight passed through the crystal as Julian turned the tumbler, sending amber facets over his trouser leg and across the desk.

  Finn extracted a sheet of folded foolscap from his coat pocket. Sliding forward in his chair, he ironed the list over the desk’s surface with a broad palm. “We came up with three names for those who visited Madame DuPre on both nights the hotel caught fire.” Finn shook his head, a frown pleating the skin between his brows. “Piper swears neither originated in the parlor she used. It helped when she finally mentioned the earlier blaze, minor as it was.”

  Yes, it had. Julian rotated the list with a quick turn of his finger. A vision of Finn composing it streaked through his mind. “Why would the Duke of Ashcroft visit Madame DuPre? From the little I know of him, he doesn’t strike me as a willing participant to this absurdity. Perhaps his current mistress is intoxicated with the occult, as many in the ton are.” Julian settled back in his chair. “What did he ask her? Did she record his aura?”

  “You’ll have to actually talk to her to find out,” Finn suggested, freeing his opinion and his body as it slid into an elegant sprawl.

  Julian took a reflective sip, alcohol cutting a path through his resistance. Too much discussion with Piper and he’d be throwing paint on canvas, helping her catalogue auras. Then she’d know everything about him, and he’d be wholly and hopelessly destroyed.

  “There’s a benefit to having a woman around who can manage our rather pathetic group of servants, Jule. For one, the house smells better, like lemons.”

  Julian had noticed the changes. An unfamiliar but tantalizing scent clinging to his sheets; vases of flowers in every room; knickknacks he imagined had been packed away sitting atop once lonely mantles. It unnerved him that Harbingdon was more comfortable with her there, the close of a gap he hadn’t identified as essential.

  “Dinners have been on time. I think there’s even a new rug in the hall.” Reaching for his glass, Finn studied it as if his attentiveness would produce more brandy.

  “I’ve given her the gardens. And a horse,” he said and slammed the window at his back shut. The storm was pushing moisture into the room, which was not good for his artwork. Julian had recorded Piper’s journey past the lodge this morning, Murphy at her side, her rolling movement atop the bay snagging him like a hook beneath his skin. While he imagined, vividly, her astride him. Releasing an exasperated huff, he bent the edge of Marianne’s letter in an inelegant fold, where against his will, it still peeked from beneath a battered ledger. “And my dog,” he added, laughing at his puerile reaction to Henry, who, after quiet consideration, decided he was fascinated and clung to Piper like a shadow.

  Like master, like dog, he supposed.

  Turning his glass in a circle on the desk, Julian studied Finn. “Let me guess what happened the other day on the footpath.”

  Finn dropped his head before Julian read the confidences hidden in deep, vibrant blue.

  Julian’s temper sparked. There would be no secrets between them until Finn came into his own, and Julian lost all control. “Is the compulsion to take her gift and keep it for yourself what you’re hiding?”

  Finn’s cheeks bleached like the lodge’s brick.

  “For one glorious moment, her touch soothed, then you had to fight to release her, thinking only of deliverance.” Julian slipped his spectacles off and flipped them to the desk, rubbing his eyes until stars shot behind his lids. “Am I correct or close to it?”

  “Imagine…” Finn swallowed, his throat pulling in a long draw. His fingers drummed an anxious rhythm on the desk. “Imagine someone who cares naught for her being caught in that tempest. I told you about the dream, how that woman killed me without thought. Without hesitation or guilt. And I let her in, somehow, drew her closer to Piper. I’m so sorry—”

  “Stop torturing yourself. We’d know nothing about this threat without your knowledge, Finn.” Julian poured himself another drink, and at the pleading look, splashed a modest dram in Finn’s as well. “We’ll protect her until she marries.” He lifted his glass high and gazed through the faceted liquid, the fractured picture perfectly fitting his tempestuous mood. Imagining another man’s hands on Piper made him want to put his fist through the wall. “If she’ll agree to entertain the suggestion, which she never would before.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Julian laughed when the situation had been an utter disaster. “You were too young to remember. Her grandfather sent her to London three seasons after her father’s death. He sought to gain interest from a family unconnected to the League.” A union with anyone but Julian, as the attraction between them had become noticeable. Innocent, but noticeable. “She hadn’t learned to manage the auras in a country drawing room, much less a ballroom of crows wanting to ogle the earl’s uncivilized, half-American granddaughter.”

  “And?”

  “She stretched the boundaries of polite society until they snapped.”

  Finn slid low, knees bumping the desk. “She had admirers?”

  “At first, flowers arrived daily at the earl’s home in Berkley Square. Calling cards from the best families. Invitations to every event of the season.” He set his glass aside, the brandy making him maudlin. It was just after their kiss that she’d gone to London, agreed to it after a vicious argument where he’d tried to tell her both how he felt and why he could not allow himself to feel it. The earl, with vicious threats and compelling reasoning, had made his position clear. “A dowry was believed to be in existence. Maybe it was, in the earl’s mind, because it was certainly not on paper. I’ve always wondered if he realized the depth of his financial woes.”

  “And now? If she were to agree to entertain the suggestion?”

  “Easy to create a modest inheritance where none exi
sted. I created one for you as well, from the devoted, albeit reckless, deceased Viscount Beauchamp. We’re blessed the old man acknowledged you, or everyone thinks he did, as it will pave your way in life.” Julian removed a tiny paintbrush from a gash in the desk and rolled it between his palms. He ran his thumb across the angled tip, dots of azure spotting the ferrule. The perfect tool for creating thin, crisp lines. Control on canvas, if not in life. “Enlist the assistance of a morally-flexible solicitor, falsify a few documents, and there you are. I used Pearson. Remember him? Best goddamn forger in England.” He swept the ox hair bristles across his skin and wondered at his sudden hitch of despair. It was substantial, although he couldn’t readily locate its source. “I recently floated rumors as I did with you, which caught fire and spread through the ton. Her situation is not as dire as assumed; the earl prepared well, and so on. Although I can’t do anything about the regrettable circumstances of her birth or her unmanageable temperament.”

  His gaze met Finn’s. The boy’s regard was a deep blue sea, scorching him where he stood. “Quit reading me.”

  “I can read your expression, Jule.” He shrugged, polishing off his brandy in a neat move that made Julian question how often he’d practiced it. “No need to delve into your mind.”

  “Hell.” Tossing the paintbrush atop the desk, he bounded from his chair. The wind was creating havoc outside, sending branches tumbling across the lawn. The same turbulence was churning through his body. “No matter what you and Piper think, I’m making this up as I go along.” He rubbed his temple, a headache beginning to pulse. His image, partially reflected in the windowpane, looked drained, wrung out. “I don’t have all the answers. I only pretend I do. My conviction seems to make everyone feel better.”

  “Jule…” Finn’s boot hit the floor, leather squeaking as he shifted. “Piper said something the other day. About being close to ‘getting what she wanted’ before her grandfather died. Any idea what she meant?”

  A lightning strike lit the room, thunder rolling in just after. The storm was on top of them. Julian watched the chaos unfurl, marveling at Finn’s naivete. Thank God for it, however short its life. He had protected the boy like the most diligent of parents for just this sort of innocence.

  He glanced over his shoulder, his lips forming what could only be a grimace. Let the boy read that expression. Or, if not, he was welcome to Julian’s thoughts.

  Finn bobbled his glass. “She meant you?”

  “Impossible…” was all Julian got out in the way of a response. It was impossible, he and Piper, even if he wanted them to be more than he’d wanted anything in his life.

  “Downright frightening,” Finn whispered.

  Exactly. Her desire combined with the blistering rush he experienced every time he saw her made for a combustible problem.

  The lodge’s door flew back on its hinges as Humphrey shouldered into the room, his somber expression one presented before stepping in the ring. “We have a problem,” he said as he shook raindrops from his coat, pushed a sodden mass of hair from his brow. “Messenger just arrived from town.”

  Julian jammed his shoulder against the window ledge, bracing himself. Damned if this day was going anywhere but down.

  “Crowley found someone lurking in your Mayfair office, ripping the place apart looking for God knows what.” Humphrey cracked his knuckles, three slow pops. “Got him locked in the wet larder at present. Maybe someone connected to the woman in Finn’s dreams? If so, this might be a good thing.”

  Life in the rookery had prepared Julian for conflict in a way no amount of proper training could. Rugby and Oxford had provided the sheen when everything underneath was sullied. The poor sod locked in his larder would be terrified should he know how far this middling viscount had gone to protect what was his.

  “Bring him to me,” Julian whispered and gazed back into the pitch night.

  Even amidst a violent storm, Harbingdon maintained a unique, soothing stillness. Piper stretched beneath a crisp bedsheet emitting the faint essence of jasmine, Tennyson’s book of poetry slipping from her hand. Her mother had loved the scent, and one of Piper’s only memories from that time was lying with her in a towering tester bed perfumed much as this one. Adding fragrance to the laundry was one of the minor requests she’d made of Harbingdon’s staff, usually after a healing session, when said servant was bright-eyed and appreciative, better able to complete tasks they had no training for. The house had smelled like a gentleman’s club, or what she assumed one smelled like before she made minor modifications—drapes open to let in the sun, flowers from the garden brought into the house, rearrangement of decor. Everyone knew the nicest rugs went on the main floor, every advance of a level advancing the deterioration.

  She wondered if Julian would mention the changes, but so far, not one peep.

  A door slammed belowstairs, disrupting the calm. Humphrey. No one slammed a door like that man.

  She looked to the window, the drape drawn in and out as if on a staggered breath. Tucking her arm beneath her head as lightning illuminated the room, thunder shook the house hard enough to rattle the glass panes in her wardrobe. The flame from the oil lamp fluttered like a butterfly’s wings, casting dramatic shadows on the ceiling. Tennyson’s warm words were doing nothing to bring sleep this night.

  Tis better to have loved and lost. She frowned at the plaster ceiling cap, overly ornate, and not in step with the rest of Harbingdon. What in heavens name did he know? Loving and losing, or never securing love, was nothing short of horrendous.

  A branch struck the house with a snap, and Piper sat up, sending the book of poetry thumping to the carpet. A boy lingered at her bedchamber door, hair the color of ripe wheat streaking into his face and over his nightshirt collar. His shoulders shook, hand grasping the beveled doorknob like a lifeline. Henry, her morose but steady companion of late, got to his feet and edged closer.

  “He don’t bite, does he?” the boy asked. Evidently, the dog was less risk than the storm.

  “He hasn’t bitten me yet. But I’m not sure he wouldn’t like to.”

  Die being cast on the baize as the boy shuffled from one foot to the other in indecision, she patted the bed, crooked her finger in invitation. “It’s a turbulent night. Company would be welcome.” After a week of evading Julian, this was mostly true.

  The boy came forward with halting steps as if he were being pushed forward and pulled back in unison. He glanced toward the window when another roll of thunder clamored over the house. “I don’t like storms.” When he reached the bed, she held back from helping him as he scrambled atop the high mattress. A rush of affection hit her, a straight shot to the chest. He was a pathetic little thing, too thin by half, bony knees barely covered by fine linen that, if she looked closely, appeared to be one of Julian’s shirts.

  She laughed. “This bed is made for a king, isn’t it?”

  He slid beneath the sheet with a sniff. “Smells right like a king, I reckon.”

  Another chuckle burst from her, and he flinched as if a blow naturally followed sudden movement.

  She breathed in and out twice, quieting her rage, then tucked the sheet closer about him with the gentlest of movements. He studied her all the while with yearning in his deep brown eyes. “It does indeed smell nice.”

  “And there’s no one lurking,” he said with a none-too-gentle nose rub. A streak of dirt trailed up the side of his cheek and into his hairline. Wasn’t someone on the staff, ineffectual as they were, assigned to oversee this child’s care? He needed a haircut, bath, clothing.

  She settled back, her gaze seeking that silly ceiling cap. Molded roses and arrows intertwined, like an image from ancient Greece. “Lurking? Do you mean Humphrey?”

  He kicked his legs, lifting the sheet high. “Lawks, no. The people. The dead ones.” He sighed as if this were an answer she should have known, the sheet deflating to rest on them. “Was hoping they were only city toffs, but nah, in the bloody country, too. Not like folks don’t expir
e here, same as anywhere else.”

  Piper turned her head, the boy’s silhouette in stark relief. She knew little about him. Simon, rescued from St Giles, a pickpocket of extraordinary talent. She’d assumed he would be brought to her when the time was right. “Do they talk to you?”

  Eyes shadowed from exhaustion met hers. The troubled gaze spoke of dreadful negotiations with those living and dead, enlightenment no boy of eight or nine should have. “You the healer?”

  Wordless, she nodded.

  Holding the sheet to his nose, he drew a full breath as his gaze roved the room.

  “My mother loved this scent.” She licked her lips, uncertain how to proceed. She’d not been around many children and had no idea how to converse with them.

  “Roses?” he asked with another sniff.

  “Jasmine.”

  Simon slid from the bed and began a casual inspection of the room. Each burst of lighting gave chronicle of his progress. His touch was tender, curious but contained, his finger tracing the inlay on the wardrobe, toe sketching the twining blossoms edging the carpet. Henry recorded the tour from his place on a discarded blanket. “My ma, she never smelled like this.”

  Piper swallowed, afraid to ask and send the conversation downhill but knowing nowhere else to go. “Where is she?”

  He darted a look over his shoulder, reminding her of a rabid mongrel she’d once seen on the streets of London, caution and fury rolled into a very wearisome package. “Gone. Stepped in front of some bint’s carriage.” Crossing to the open window, he extended his arm, soaking his nightshift to the shoulder. “And don’t be thinking it was any accident. Cause she told me right ‘fore she did it.”

  Piper scooted up the headboard, hugging a pillow to her chest. She opened her mouth to reply but could think of absolutely nothing to say. I’m sorry. What a horrible mother. You deserved more, better. She had lived with her own very imperfect parent and wasn’t sure graceful apologies were of any comfort.

  Simon frowned, noting her discomfiture. What a remarkably astute child. The waters ran deep. “Guessed I was mad as a hatter, she did. Seeing all them souls. Once or twice, they were dearly departeds she’d known in the rookery. When I see ‘em, I see ‘em clear, right down to the buttons on their frocks. The coin was gone, so to the streets for us. The rough life proved to be too much for her.” Turning, he rested his bottom on the windowsill, which she imagined was getting as soaked as his sleeve. “Tried mudlarking for a wee time.”