by Robyn DeHart
“I did. Watched him board a ship bound for the Continent. I sent one of my trusted mates onto the boat with him. I’ve only just received word that they docked in France and the speaker has holed himself up in a brothel in Paris,” Ben said.
“We have eyes on him?” Lynford asked.
Ben nodded. “Yes, and I plan to leave tomorrow to be there myself. Then you can simply send word when you want us to bring him back.”
“Excellent,” Somersby said. “Randow, what is your report?”
“We have two members who have gone to Hanover to speak with King Ernest himself. Until now, His Majesty has claimed to know nothing about this plot to marry his son to the lost princess, but we wanted to ensure he was not participating in such a traitorous plan,” Randow said.
“We are getting closer to ending all of this,” Somersby said. “And thanks to Jason, the princess is safely married and, hopefully, is no longer a temptation to these men and their nefarious plot.”
“I have still been unable to fully identify the other man who was there the night Potterfield was killed,” Lynford said. “But I believe I’ve narrowed it down to three potential men.”
There was a long pause. “Are you going to tell us your suspicions?” Jason asked.
“There’s not much to tell. I don’t believe he has any affiliation with the Brotherhood,” Lynford said.
“That’s good news, I suppose,” Jason said.
“Based on the possible connections with the Speaker of the House,” Lynford said, “I’m investigating Sir Misray, Lord Blakely, and Lord Henry.”
Somersby released a low whistle. “What would those men have to gain from joining in with such a plan?”
“Money, I would guess,” Lynford said. “Someone out there has been funding all of this, Isabel’s schooling, not to mention keeping someone inside the government; that takes a heavy purse.”
“Lord Blakely has a substantial income,” Somersby said.
Lynford nodded. “All three of these men do, but his is certainly the largest.”
If these men were the ones after his wife, Jason would do whatever it took to reveal them as traitors.
He’d start with Lord Blakely.
Chapter Thirteen
Jason made his way back to his townhouse only to find his brother waiting in his study for him.
“Patrick, I didn’t realize you were still in London, I thought you mentioned returning to the country for a while,” Jason said.
“I wasn’t. I made a special trip.” Irritation edged his brother’s usual even tone, giving it a sharper note.
“Something wrong?”
“I should say so,” Patrick said. “I received a visit from Mr. Sandifer, and he had a most interesting tale to tell me.”
Damnation.
This was not how this was supposed to go. It was supposed to happen in the event of Jason’s death. He had a mind to fire that damned solicitor. Shortly after Jason had married Isabel, he’d contacted their family solicitor and had papers drawn up dictating that, should he produce an heir with his wife, the title and estate should still be left to his nephew, Jonathon. Mr. Sandifer had told him at the time that such a document would likely not stand up legally to the laws that mandated inheritance, but Jason had insisted the man create the document.
“Let me explain,” Jason said.
Patrick held up his hand, closed his eyes, and took a steadying breath. “I don’t want to hear your explanation. I have tried to be patient with you, Jason, about all this nonsense. But it seems that no amount of time or patience ever makes a difference. You are the only one who cares about the details of your birth, and you’re allowing that to cloud everything in your life.”
“You know?” Jason asked. He sank into a chair, allowing his brother’s words to settle into his mind.
“Of course. Do you think Mother and Father would not tell me the truth as well?”
“I don’t know.” Jason pinched the bridge of his nose. “I never even considered—”
“No, you did not. You never considered anything, save how you felt about the situation.”
“You are the rightful heir. The estate should go to your son,” Jason said.
“No, it should not. You are the viscount. Right or wrong, it is how our parents decided on it. It is not our place to undo that. The news would create rumors about my own birth. It would destroy Mother, not to mention my family and me. Our father was well respected and well loved, as is our mother now. Can you not simply let things be?”
Jason had no answer. He didn’t know why he could never let this go. In his mind, it was the one thing that defined him, for better or for worse. He could still hear Tom, his real father’s words ringing in his ears: you can’t run away from who you are.
“Jason, do you not understand that I have the life that I want? I love my family as it is. I have no desire to be viscount, and I certainly don’t want that for my son. We enjoy the serenity and simplicity of the countryside. We are well provided for, and we are happy.” He braced his hands on the desk. “You have a wife now. Build your family, produce your own heir. And leave this nonsense in the past,” he said, tossing the parchment onto the occasional table.
“Any heir of mine will not be legitimate, either,” Jason said.
“Not legitimate in your eyes only.” Patrick sighed, and his features softened. “Jason, I know that this is difficult for you. But you simply must stop punishing yourself for something you never did. You deserve to be viscount. You’re certainly a hell of a lot better at it than I would be. And neither myself nor my son will be taking the title from you. I need you to understand that.” He gripped Jason’s shoulder and squeezed it. “Your new wife is lovely.”
“Yes, she is.”
“And this makes you angry?”
“No, it is not that. I have not been particularly kind to her.”
Patrick nodded. “Marriage is not always easy, but I can see that you love her already.”
It was on his tongue to protest.
The clock on the mantle struck the hour. “I have to get back on the road before night falls. You and Isabel should come visit when you get an opportunity.”
“We’d like that.”
We. But there wasn’t truly a we. They weren’t much of a couple, and that was all his fault.
Patrick left, and Jason sank back into his chair. Maybe his brother was right. He needed to simply give up on his desire to leave his nephew his title. Patrick seemed sincere in not wanting any part of it. Which left producing an heir up to him. Perhaps nothing would come of it.
He knew one thing for certain, he wanted his wife, and consummating their relationship, allowing himself to love her body would right his thoughts and make him forget the ridiculous notion of being in love with her.
He couldn’t wait any longer. He was already hard with the mere thought of losing himself in Isabel. Gingerly he knocked on her bedchamber door.
She opened it and nodded at the sight of him. It was on his tongue to apologize, tell her she was right, he’d been selfish, but none of the words came. Instead, he grabbed her and pulled her to him, slanting his mouth across hers. He kicked the door closed, then spun her around, pressing her back against the wooden plane. To his relief, she didn’t shove him away in disgust but rather wrapped her hands around his neck and kissed him back, matching him passion for passion.
Logically, he thought he should slow down, instead he grabbed her bottom to pull her closer, she pulled up her legs and wrapped them around him. Her hands threaded through his hair, and she pushed her tongue against his. God, he wanted her, and she was his for the taking. The thought alone nearly had him spilling his seed.
He walked them over to her bed and sat on the edge, effectively putting her on his lap. His erection pressed against her, but there were too many layers of clothes between them.
“You don’t know how much I want you, Isabel.”
“Then take me.”
“I fully intend to.” With that he bega
n the arduous task of unbuttoning the back of her gown. He took the opportunity of being close to her throat to nibble at her collarbone, kiss the sensitive pulse at the curve of her neck.
Her hips rocked against his, almost frantically, as if she were seconds from going over the edge. Her desire was intoxicating. He shoved the gown down her shoulders, then unlaced her stays, removed her chemise until she sat astride him, her breasts barely covered. He wanted to lave her breasts and nipples in kisses, but he needed to be inside her soon. He’d have the rest of the night to take things slowly. He lifted her off his lap so that her dress fell to her feet. She stepped out of her pantaloons as he quickly removed his clothing.
She crawled into the bed, then held out her hand to him. Ever patient, ever accepting, ever tantalizing. And she was all his. He’d never again take her for granted. Never again ask her to bear the weight of his burden. He might not ever deserve her affections, but he’d be damned if he denied her anything. Ever again.
He moved his body to hers, not fully putting his weight on her. She shifted her hips forward, rubbing herself against his erection. She moaned low in her throat, a sound so unbearably tempting. How had he ever resisted her? How had he thought he could deny himself all that she offered?
He slipped his hand between them. She was already slick with desire. He lowered his mouth to her breast and suckled, and her back arched up off the bed.
“Please, Jason,” she said.
He would deny her no longer. With one smooth movement, he pushed inside her. Hot, tight, deliciously wet. He squeezed his eyes tightly closed, trying his damnedest to not lose control. Sucking in a breath through his teeth, he narrowed his focus. Pleasure pulsed through him, but he turned his attention to her. She was a virgin, so he remained still until she could adjust to him. She pulled her legs up and around his waist, and he knew she was ready for more.
He shifted his body low so that his pelvic bone met the center of her desire. Then every time he moved inside her, he’d rub against her. Her eyes flickered open, then drifted back closed. His next thrust and she pushed her head into the pillow, her breath coming out in short pants.
She was with him. He wanted them to go over the edge together.
“Isabel, look at me,” he said.
She opened her eyes; her pupils were wide and dark with desire. Then he moved out, almost leaving her body, then plunged forward again. “Stay with me, love.”
Her moans grew louder, more frenzied and then he felt her muscles clenching around him. She cried out his name again and again.
“Jason!”
And on the last one, he let go. She was now his wife.
Chapter Fourteen
Isabel stretched her body against the bed, noting the telltale soreness between her thighs. She smiled, feeling much, she suspected, like a cat who’d just snuck a lap of milk. Jason.
They had made love all night long, and yet she felt more rested now than she had in a long time. She sat upright and searched her room, but there was no sign of her husband. Doubt crept into her. Had he regretted their night together? His admission to her, the truth about his birth, had not changed things for her. She certainly didn’t care who his parents had been. She knew him now, that was all the mattered.
She’d hurt for him and the beleaguered young man he must have been when he’d made the decision to punish himself by not siring any children. The next time they spoke, she would tell him as much. Last night hadn’t been the right time; there had been only murmurs of lovemaking exchanged.
When she had dressed and gone downstairs in search of Jason, she’d been told he was out. He had left a message for her informing her that the Brotherhood had made progress with their investigation; he’d meant to tell her the night before. He’d increased security, which explained the footman waiting outside her bedchamber this morning.
The day passed with no sign of Jason, and she was beginning to feel as if she were prisoner in her own home, as she was scarcely alone. She’d asked if she could take a walk, but had been told no. So, she’d resigned herself to sitting in the parlor reading another instructional manual on fencing.
There came a rap at the door, and in stepped one of the new guards who was currently dressed as a butler.
“A Lady Candace to see you, Lady Ellis,” he said in his deep voice.
Isabel nearly winced. Precisely what had she done to deserve an evening call from her?
“Very well,” Isabel said. “Send her in.” Isabel moved away from the window where she’d been standing, but not precisely looking out at anything.
Lady Candace entered the room, grace personified, at least until Isabel glanced at her face. The smugness was nearly too much to bear, but Isabel forced herself to smile.
“Good evening,” Isabel said. “Lovely to see you again.” She resisted the urge to ask the woman what in heaven’s name had brought her back to Isabel’s door.
“This isn’t a social call,” Lady Candace said. “My father asked me to courier this over to you straightaway.” She held out an envelope.
Isabel might be a novice when it came to some proper etiquette, but she was almost certain that it wasn’t customary to send messages through one’s daughter. She took the note. “Would you care for tea? It’s a little late, but I’m certain the kitchen can prepare some.”
“There isn’t time. My father said you should read that immediately,” Lady Candace said.
Isabel’s pulse sped. She knew for certain that this was not customary. She turned over the envelope and slid a fingernail beneath the brown wax seal, quickly unfolding the letter.
Your Royal Highness Isabel Fiona Rindquest, Princess of Saldania:
We have your husband. Should you prefer to see him before he meets his demise, please accompany my daughter back to my address. I shall await your presence with bated breath.
Yours,
Lord Edward Blakely.
She leveled a gaze at Lady Candace. “Do you know what this says?”
The woman’s face went pale at the severity in Isabel’s tone. She shook her head. “Father does not discuss business with me. He merely requested I bring this to you and then wait for you to read it.”
Isabel nodded. This Lord Blakely was clever. He’d obviously known that Jason had Isabel heavily protected. So, he’d sent his daughter on what appeared to be a social call. The guards would not question her leaving with Lady Candace for a dinner engagement. Jason had told her he was trained, that she wasn’t truly putting his life in danger, and she’d wanted to believe him because selfishly she wanted to be his wife. This was her fault. She had brought this onto him. Well, she refused to allow them to hurt her husband.
“We must leave straightaway,” Isabel said. She grabbed Candace’s arm and pulled her to the door.
“Go where?”
“To your townhome. It would seem I’ve been invited to dinner,” Isabel said.
…
Jason stood in the shadows watching Lord Blakely’s townhome. He’d seen this townhome hundreds of times before, as it was directly next to the late Sir Potterfield’s townhome. But Jason had never paid much attention to the brown brick or white columns of Lord Blakely’s home. Jason had met him on more than one occasion, although they did not know each other beyond colloquial greetings.
The man himself had not left the building for more than two days, although he’d had a handful of visitors. His wife and daughter, however, were in and out as if the door spun on its hinges. The younger Lady Blakely had left not more than half an hour earlier.
He wondered if Somersby or Lynford were having more success with the houses they were watching. Eventually they’d uncover the man and money behind this entire traitorous operation, but so much rode on this being solved sooner rather than later. Namely, the safety of his wife.
One of Blakely’s carriages pulled to a stop and the daughter stepped down, followed by another woman. The second lady turned her head, glancing up and down the street, and Jason swore under his breat
h.
Isabel.
And then his world went black.
Jason winced against the pain pounding in his head. He didn’t know where he was and couldn’t manage to open his eyes. He tried to sit up, but a great force pressed onto his chest, pinning him down.
“Leave him alone!” Isabel said, and her voice sounded panicked.
Jason forced his eyes open but was met with only darkness. Fabric brushed against his eyelashes. But he could hear Isabel’s voice.
“The letter said that he would be unharmed if I agreed to come here,” she said. “I demand to see Lord Blakely.”
“We never promised nothing,” a man said, his voice thick with a cockney accent. “We’ll have to kill ’im eventually, since they want you to marry that other bloke.”
Pain radiated from the base of Jason’s skull—the point of impact, he’d guess. The last thing he remembered was seeing Isabel step down from Lord Blakely’s carriage, behind his daughter. They’d lured her here because they’d known he was there. Hiding outside. He’d been careful, but evidently not careful enough, and he’d put his wife in harm’s way.
“Now you two be quiet in here,” the man said. Then a great and heavy door slammed, and his footsteps retreated.
“Isabel,” he whispered.
“Jason!” She moved her hands to his blindfold and peeled it away. “I’m so sorry.”
The look of concern on her face was a knife to his gut. If he ever got them out of this, he’d make things right with her. Treat her as she deserved to be treated. He’d been such a fool.
He sat upright and glanced around the room. Judging by the cobbled stone, they were on the bottom level of the townhome. “On the contrary, I didn’t have any other plans for this evening, and this provides me with an opportunity for entertainment,” he said.
“Stop that. This is not the time for your charming deflections. This is quite serious.” She touched his forehead. “Are you hurt?”
“I’ve had worse.” He continued to scan the room. A heavy door closed them in the dimly lit space.
“He sent his daughter with a letter.”