“Flint, having gotten to know the Fairchild women, I would encourage you to alert Ros to the situation sooner rather than later.” Linc shook his head.
“I shall consider your suggestion. I plan to ask Lucifer for information. If that proves fruitful, I hope I am able to resolve this issue without having to alert her to any possible threat.”
“I assure you, Emily would be furious if Cooper or I kept something like this from her. I do not suggest you delay,” Arthur added his voice.
Flint sighed, he knew they were likely right, but first, he had to convince the woman to speak to him again.
~
Following through on his plan, Flint followed the hulking form of Frank Lucifer’s second-in-command along the gallery overlooking an empty gambling den. He counted himself fortunate that all he earned from a second encounter with this messenger was an aching head that had yet to ease. It, at least, kept his mind off the fact he was walking into an uncomfortable and unpredictable situation.
For the first time in as many years as he could remember, he was not in a position of power. His size and skills were of no use. His wealth was likely to hold little value. His title meant nothing to a man who dealt in information. And since Flint was not in the thick of society, he had little information that could be considered of worth. He was simply a man who needed another man’s help.
He felt vulnerable. Impotent in a way he had never experienced before.
His guide opened the double doors to Lucifer’s office. It was tea time, the late afternoon slipping into early evening for the civilized world—clearly, that did not apply to his host. With his dark hair tousled and a hastily tied robe that left far more chest exposed than Flint was interested in seeing, Lucifer made the fact that Flint had interrupted him more than evident. “This is an unexpected turn of events. How is it that you have come to visit me at such an unseemly hour?”
Flint snorted. “Most of London has been dressed for hours and is sitting down to tea and sandwiches as we speak. I hardly classify this time of day as unseemly.”
Lucifer pulled an unlit stump of a cigar from a metal tube sitting on his desk and rectified that problem. “That may well be true for most of society. After all, they do have all those tedious social obligations to attend to. However, those of us living in the underbelly of London have somewhat different social mores. Turning up on someone’s doorstep at five in the afternoon is akin to paying a morning call actually in the morning.” He drew on the cigar and relaxed back into his chair. “In any event, here you are, and I must say I am keen to hear why.”
Having had little interaction with Lucifer, and certainly none so intimate as a conversation, there was an air of familiarity to him that—though faint—Flint found bothersome. He let the silence draw out between them as he tried to put his finger on what had caught his eye. The elusive notion slipped away as good manners and the rather pressing nature of his business took the upper hand. “I am in need of information of a sort I believe you are uniquely qualified to be of assistance with.”
Lucifer’s brows drew together as he sat quietly across from Flint.
Undaunted, Flint continued. “It seems I have attracted the notice of someone who feels very strongly that I should begin losing my fights. So much so, that they have now accosted me twice on the street, the first time using physical means to attempt to persuade me and, most recently, having made threats against someone important to me. I am inclined to solve the mystery of who is behind these threats.”
“I see. That all sounds fairly ominous. Why haven’t you approached the Metropolitan Police? Certainly, the Raw Lobsters might be of assistance to you in this?”
Flint snorted. “I suspect your going rate would be cheaper than theirs, besides I’d hazard that your network is far stronger.”
“How is it you think I—or my network—may be of assistance?”
Fear, insidious and chilling, snaked down his spine. It was a bitter pill to swallow that this man could easily say no to his request, and he would have little recourse. He would have to find another way to end the threat against Ros. “You are an information broker. Frankly, I don’t know if I have anything you might value, but I am willing to pay for the name of the person at the root of this problem.”
Lucifer remained impassive—inscrutable, even—merely sucking on his cigar. The pop and hiss of the burning tobacco the only sound between them. For long moments, doubt assailed Flint, convincing him the man across the desk would deny him. Turn him away without a by-your-leave, and render him impotent in protecting Ros. It was a truly humbling moment.
Standing, Lucifer stubbed out the cigar carefully, ensuring the likely expensive vice did not heedlessly turn to ash in his absence and returned it to the tube. “I’ll look into the matter and be in touch.” Then he stepped from behind the desk to leave.
Confused and off balance by the abrupt departure, Flint rose and reached out, stopping Lucifer with a hand on his bicep. Lucifer stared at Flint’s restraining touch.
Desperation pushed Flint past any sense of good manners or self-preservation. “When will I hear from you? How much do you want?” He drew back his hand and shoved it through his hair, ignoring the way it shook slightly. “Hell, what do you want as payment?”
Lucifer drilled him with a hard stare. “You will hear from me when I have something to tell you, not before. As for what I want? That will depend.”
Flinching, he cursed silently. “On what?”
“Any number of things.” Lucifer’s deadpan statement offered no balm to Flint’s worry. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have two eager ladies keeping my bed warm until I return.”
With that dismissal, Lucifer walked out of his office through a door tucked off to the side. Alone and with little more hope than when he’d entered the place, Flint retreated. He needed to let his solicitor know he would be postponing that trip to the boys’ home for a bit. In fact, perhaps he’d better find someone to look into that situation? He needed to focus on finding a way to convince Ros to either take him back or, at least, let him protect her. Again. Failure was not an option he could stomach, but what would he do if she sent him packing? He supposed he’d find out soon enough since Ros was his next stop.
Chapter 14
Ros had thrown caution to the wind. She’d left her parasol at home and ventured out with a bonnet that had little enough brim that she could still catch someone in her peripheral vision. Some might say her behavior was shocking. She would have informed them that she had perpetrated far worse atrocities as the wife of a military man, let alone in her pursuit of Lord Flintshire. Strolling without a parasol was hardly a drop in the midst of a London deluge.
“It is quite a fine day, Mrs. Smith. And I am grateful you agreed to accompany me for such an unconventional outing as a stroll in Hyde Park at such an unfashionable hour.” Lord Cunningham grinned as he patted her hand tucked into the crook of his arm.
She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. It had barely been two days since their last visit, but she’d agreed to see him once more. Considering the pressure her mother was applying, she needed to decide if she intended to allow his courtship of her to continue. All things considered, the outlook was not favorable for him. While generally pleasant enough, there was something about him that did not sit well. Considering she could not quite put her finger on the issue, she trusted her instincts enough not to continue the association—or, at least, she once would have.
That was part of the problem.
Between her secretly failed marriage and then her failure to recognize Flint’s desire to part ways, she was no longer sure of her own instincts. Which is how she found herself trotting along a sparsely traveled Rotten Row sans parasol and in need of some reply to Lord Cunningham’s conversational sally. “Well, it is such a lovely day, how could I have said no?”
She was not a practiced flirt, and the entire exchange felt awkward and unwieldy in a way she had never experienced with Flint. A walk with him would have b
een full of comfortable silences and shared amusements. Perhaps even a few discrete caresses. Pushing the unwanted thoughts aside, she forced herself to cease the pointless comparison. It was unfair to Lord Cunningham—to any man, really—and a complete waste of her prudent thought processes. She needed those blasted things to fend off Lord Cunningham while not giving him offense. She sighed. She really must find a way to gently send him on his way.
Her companion looked pleased as punch, his glee causing her insides to twist and tangle. She had once seen a cat caught in a hedge, his body snared by tightly woven branches and leaves. He struggled to free himself, first yanking on his back legs, then twisting this way and that, all to no avail. By the time she’d crossed the field so she could free him, he was positively stricken with the notion that he would never be free.
That was how she felt at the moment.
Trapped. Unable to free herself from her entanglement. And afraid that something awful was bound to happen as a result.
That was when she noticed that Cunningham had slowed their pace. Concern nudged her to speak up. “My lord, is everything well?”
He sighed softly. “I have told you to call me Donald, or at the very least, Cunningham. Your hesitation to be more familiar worries me.”
He stopped them altogether.
“Tell me you are as fond of me as I am you.” Then he leaned in to kiss her, his face alive with hope and anticipation.
Surprised, Ros leaned back and placed a hand on his chest to stay his approach. “My lord, I’m afraid my fondness is more of the friendship variety.”
The hope slid from his face, the light in his grey eyes dimming as he stiffened. “Oh. I see.”
But she didn’t think he did as he had not released her yet. Still pressing away from him, her heart pounded in her chest. For someone who had appeared lean and not very muscular, his hold on her was incredibly strong. Panic surged as blood rushed through her veins, the sound of it drowning out everything around her. For all she would have known, she could have been standing on Bond Street at mid-day. So it was quite a surprise when his lip curled in frustration as he continued to attempt to kiss her, only to have him suddenly release her.
Disoriented and off-balance, she stumbled away from him. As she found her footing, a shout rang out, and she looked up into a wall of black. Black horses and a black carriage were barreling down on her.
A scream strangled in her throat as something slammed into her, knocking her from her feet. As she rolled in the dirt and leaves on Rotten Row, she swore the carriage had hit her, but then she realized that wasn’t possible. Because if it had, she would undoubtedly be dead. And though she felt like a twenty-stone weight pressed down on her, she did not think she was injured other than the aches one would expect after taking a tumble.
“Ros! Ros, can you hear me?” An all too familiar—and at the moment welcome—voice cut through her own self-assessment.
Opening her eyes, she found Flint’s worried countenance a hair’s breadth from her own face. “I suspect the whole of London heard you, my lord.”
While his weight did little to ease the aches she had only just acquired, she was reluctant to lose the intimate feel of him pressed against her once more. It had been far too long since they had been in a similar position.
He pressed up on his arms. “I must be crushing you.”
“Please, don’t get up on my account.” She couldn’t control the huskiness of her voice nor the desire that had snuck in once she realized that she was both alive and unhurt.
Off to the side, Lord Cunningham cleared his throat. “Mrs. Smith! Are you unhurt?”
Flint got to his feet and then reached down to help her up as well. “Ros, are you well?”
Worry still creased his face, but he was, at least, no longer yelling in her face. “I am as well as one could expect to be under the circumstances. Though I suspect I shall feel the impact of your body striking mine for days to come.”
“I am terribly sorry about that, but there was no other way to get you out of the way in time. I saw that blasted carriage barreling down on you and simply reacted. I hope I didn’t cause you too much harm.” Flint glanced about awkwardly.
Ros swore she heard a tremor in his voice. What was the man doing here? Had he been following her again? “I’m certain you caused less damage than that rampaging vehicle would have.” She took a breath—not terribly deep, thanks to her corset—and attempted to still her trembling hands. “I suppose I am quite lucky you were here to save me.”
“I was just about to pull you back when Lord Flintshire barreled into you.” Cunningham huffed and folded his arms, his petulance rather awe-inspiring in the face of her near death.
Annoyance with the overweening man swelled up from deep within. “While I am sure you were about to do any number of heroic things, it seems Lord Flintshire managed to take action. A fact for which I am eternally grateful.”
Flint glared at Cunningham as her brother-in-law and sister drew to a halt beside them. “Good day, Flint, Rosalind,” Wolf paused and seemed to force a final greeting out. “Lord Cunningham.”
“Lord Wolfington, Lady Wolfington.” Cunningham bowed and straightened up.
“Is everything well? Ros, you look as though you’ve been rolling in the grass.” Her sister let one brow lift in punctuation of her statement.
“Such a keen observation, Julia. It seems that I was very nearly run over by a carriage a few moments ago. Lord Flintshire was kind enough to knock me to the ground before disaster could have its way with me.” She offered a mischievous smile.
“Oh, my! Are you hurt?” Julia leaned forward in concern.
“Well, I do feel as though my bones have been rubbed together. But otherwise, I am unharmed.” Ros reached up to pat her head and realized half her hair was dangling from what had been a perfectly lovely arrangement.
“I should think so. Has anyone sent for a carriage to collect you? Certainly, they do not think you should walk home after such a trying event?” Julia stared pointedly at the men who were still standing about rather helplessly.
“We had only just stood up from the ground. I don’t think we had progressed so far as to consider how any of us would make our way home,” Flint offered. “I don’t suppose we could impose on your generous nature and request a ride for your sister?”
Julia beamed at him. “Why we’d be happy to assist you and Ros.”
“Oh, well, my carriage is not far off. I would be happy to aid Mrs. Smith in getting home since I was her escort.” Cunningham looked decidedly unhappy at the prospect of letting her leave with her sister, but more importantly, in the company of Flint.
“Pish,” Julia replied. “My carriage is right here, and she should not be forced to stand here in such disarray any longer than is required. Besides which she is family. Lord Flintshire, you may squeeze in with us since Lord Cunningham seems to have his own means to get home near at hand.”
Grateful for her sister’s intervention, Ros practically climbed into the carriage on her own before Flint reacted and offered his assistance. The man smartly followed her into the vehicle, and before Cunningham could offer any strenuous objections, they were on their way.
As they drove along, the men chatting about some card game that occurred recently, it dawned on Ros that she had many questions about what had occurred. First, she realized that Cunningham had been attempting to kiss her despite her wishes otherwise. Had he not pulled her off the path to do just that, they would have been in far greater peril walking on the path, oblivious to what would have been behind them. Secondly, she had never asked Flint the obvious question, what was he doing there? Surely he had given up following her about after their last argument? Also, why was that carriage driving so fast? Had the driver even shouted a warning for her? She did not remember hearing any such injunction. And finally, how had her sister and her husband appeared so conveniently after her spill?
Her head buzzed with the questions, and with the rather viol
ent tumble she’d taken. Once they returned to her home, she would make a point to ask all of those very excellent questions. In the meantime, she merely wanted to rest and catch her breath.
Upon their arrival, she retired upstairs to put herself to rights. By the time her hands ceased to shake, and her hair was back in a neat coil, she felt more composed. With a determined sense of purpose, she returned downstairs to find her sister and brother-in-law had departed. Flint sat alone, looking somewhat more restored as well.
“I see our erstwhile saviors have gone.” She couldn’t help but suspect something was afoot. Though, she wouldn’t go so far as to think Flint had somehow arranged to have a carriage try to run her down.
“They needed to return home to change for a dinner party.” He sat with his hands gripping the edge of the settee as though his hold were the only thing keeping him anchored.
“Perhaps that is for the best. I have some rather direct questions I would appreciate answers to.” She paused and pressed on. “How is it that you came to be in Hyde Park today right when I was in need of rescue?”
His jaw clenched and released only to repeat the movement again. She might have missed the minuscule motion had she not been looking at him so intently.
She sighed. “You were following me, despite my previous objections.”
Rising to his feet, Flint prowled about the confines of her small salon. After a few moments of his walking back and forth while he muttered to himself and shoved his fingers through his hair, he finally halted in front of her. Then he ground out a reply, however reluctantly. “I did not believe you to be safe under the circumstances. Your safety has always been of prime importance to me.”
Frustration bubbled up and over. “I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. Regardless of what you or my sister think, I am not incapable of a little self-preservation.”
“It was not a question of your capability.” He dismissed her concern as easily as one swatted a gnat. Looming over her, his gaze had turned a stormy gray that reflected the whirlwind of emotions he struggled to control. Then he grabbed her shoulders and hauled her into his arms. “I’ve never met a more capable woman. Capable of marshaling everyone about her. Capable of storming past all my defenses.”
His Not-So-Sweet Marchioness Page 11