The Lady Who Loved Him

by Christi Caldwell

  Leo glanced around the table. “I trust he had information to share that was of value?”

  Lord Rowley pursed his mouth like he’d sucked on a rotted piece of fruit.

  Triumph pumped through Leo’s veins. It was a great thrill as potently strong now as when he’d been proven correct with the information he’d ferreted out as a young man. He’d been right in his suspicions.

  “Immeasurably,” Higgins intoned. “There were forty men recruited for the plot. Only seven and twenty took part. Edwards insists he was given bad information about the Cabinet meeting taking place at Lord Harrowby’s residence.”

  “It was meant to trap Edwards and those determined to overthrow the government,” Leo murmured, the pieces of the puzzle sliding into place.

  “Precisely,” Uncle William confirmed. “Not only would this group of Tories focused upon radical reforms to oppress the masses take full blame for the Cato plot, but it would also allow them to enact their legislation.”

  Leo silently whistled. It was masterful. What men didn’t realize, however, was that ultimately no secret was safe. And when there was one bent on subversion, the truth inevitably came to light and justice attained. “Did he offer the names?”

  “Lords Waterson, Tremaine, Ellsworth,” Rowley grudgingly volunteered, the names coming as if forcibly pulled from him. “They were the greatest proponents of the Six Acts inside and outside of Parliament.”

  Leo smirked. This was why there had been so little a battle required for him to retain his post with the Brethren. “This must be difficult for you, Rowley.” The bastard had to swallow that he’d been not only unsuccessful in his efforts to oust Leo from the Brethren, but also had to admit Leo was correct in his suppositions.

  “Go to hell,” the viscount returned through a tight-lipped smile.

  “Gentlemen.” Higgins thumped the bottle, leveling a sideways glance at each of them. He made a show of refilling each gentleman’s glass and then held his up in another false salute. “We don’t have time for your petty rivalry. Tennyson, you’ve done a convincing job with your recent bride. Keep at it. Her family is close to Waterson. Her sister-in-law was an instructor for Ellsworth’s daughter, but the connection isn’t strong enough to reach the family that way. Another agent will handle Ellsworth and Tremaine.” As he proceeded to fire off commands, he rolled his snifter back and forth between his fingers. “You’ll need another invitation into Waterson’s home, so you can continue the search you started.” Before Leo had been caught with Chloe. “See that you secure that. And you’ll host a soiree with the respective gentlemen present as guests.”

  “Taking advantage of her familial connection may not be as… easy as we had anticipated.”

  Higgins’ brows pulled together. “In what way?”

  Leo measured his words carefully. “The lady’s family has proven less forthcoming with their support.”

  “What family would be elated with a wastrel like you in their midst?” Rowley muttered under his breath.

  That insult rolled off Leo’s thickened skin. He focused, instead, on his uncle and the Delegator.

  “Bloody hell,” Higgins muttered in an unusual public display of his frustration. “The whole reason you wed the damn woman was for entry and access to Waterson—”

  “And the appearances of it all,” his uncle interrupted, a frown marring his lips.

  “If she cannot provide you with all of that, she is useless to us,” Higgins stated with a brutal candor that sent Leo’s hands curling into fists on his lap.

  The lady was many things: clever, determined, spirited. Yes.

  “I’d have a care,” he warned Higgins on a steely whisper. “The lady is my wife.”

  “Then see that your wife gets you that which we need.” The Delegator stood, with Rowley falling into like step. “Tennyson,” Higgins called loud enough for those at nearby tables to overhear. “Again, congratulations on your recent nuptials.”

  Leo nudged his chin up in the expected insolent acknowledgment, fighting the urge to lift a crude finger instead. After his superiors had gone, he swiped his drink up and stared at the half-empty amber contents.

  Both men had been, in fact, correct. The sole reason he’d wed Chloe had been with the Cato case in mind. But that had been before, when she’d been nothing more than a chess piece upon the board, used to maintain order and right for the Crown.

  Now, she was a spirited miss who read the works of female philosophers and aspired to… work, when ladies of the ton aspired to nothing but their own pleasures and pastimes.

  “That bad, eh?”

  “What?” Leo directed the curt utterance at his glass.

  “Woolgathering,” his uncle said with entirely too much amusement.

  Leo sat up in his seat. “I’m not… woolgathering.” That was what innocent misses and lovesick swains did. Not devils with black souls.

  “Defending the lady,” the other man persisted. “As one who has also been bewitched by a young bride, I’d say you are smitten.”

  Smitten. Leo recoiled. “Impossible. Never.” Why, that would have to mean he, Leo Dunlop, was capable of caring for someone. Which he wasn’t. “Egads, you’re… m-mad,” he sputtered.

  His uncle dissolved into a very unducal-like round of laughter. His broad frame shook with the weight of his mirth. “Methinks he doth protest too much.”

  At having that quote so glibly tossed by his wife a short while ago thrown in his face by the man opposite him, Leo felt his skin go hot. “You don’t know a thing about it,” he said tightly. He’d never before shared with a soul any mention of the one woman he had mistakenly opened his heart to… and all the ways he’d broken it and been reborn from that folly. “I’ll never be one who’s smitten or falls in love. That is not who I am.” But it had been… back when he was a boy and hoped for that sentiment… nay… a family. He’d wanted a family. The cynical set of his features reflected in the his brandy. What a fool he’d been.

  All hint of amusement fled his uncle’s face. He dragged his chair closer and, anchoring his elbows on the table, leaned forward. “You think I don’t know anything about it? Loss? About choosing… other obligations before my own wants? I’ve lost as much as I’ve won. I have your aunt, but…” Pain contorted his features. “I knew loss before her.”

  Leo sat in silence. The late Duchess of Aubrey’s death at the hands of foes to the Brethren was known as a cautionary tale to all who entered the ranks of the organization, but the details of her demise remained a long-held secret shared by none.

  “Sometimes, Leo,” his uncle said gravely, finally speaking again, “it is easy to become embroiled in that life that you forget to live. I don’t want that for you.”

  “My work is all I am,” he said automatically, without inflection, and only as a matter of fact.

  “Ah, but it doesn’t have to be. Mayhap Chloe… will be good not only for your assignment, but for you.”

  A flippant denial hung on his lips, but he could not force the words out.

  His uncle fortunately let the matter rest and was, once more, all business, which was good. “In the meantime, you’ll need to gain her family’s assistance. Like Higgins, I recommend a soiree. The only one you require in attendance is Waterson.”

  Leo filed away each recommendation. It was safe. Familiar.

  “Keep your invitations to those Waterson would be most comfortable with. Tories.”

  Leo grimaced.

  “That way, the gentlemen will converse freely about their politics.”

  There was, however, one dilemma. “I still have to convince Chloe to host an event.” For he’d found the unlikely—the one lady in all of London who despised balls and soirees.

  His uncle snorted. “If you convinced that girl to marry you, Leo, I trust managing to elicit her cooperation for a formal affair will be effortless.” He finished off his drink and set his glass down. “Like you, I have a lovely wife awaiting,” he said, heavily obvious with his insinuation. Hi
s uncle stood. “My congratulations, Leo.”

  Leo made his goodbyes and stared after his uncle’s retreating form. The duke cut a swath through the club, earning respectful greetings and calls from the gentlemen he passed. And then he was gone.

  Leo pulled over the bottle and added brandy to his glass.

  His uncle had urged him to return home. Leo, however, was not too proud to admit he was bloody terrified. His wife had begun to probe… and only a few days into their marriage. How was he to maintain the secret of his role within the Brethren when Chloe saw secrets in details everyone else before her looked past?

  Where every other lord and lady was content with the image he presented to the world, his wife challenged it. And he was torn between admiration for her intelligence and frustration for the danger it posed. Regardless, one thing was certain, it was far safer in his club than returning home to her further questioning.

  Nay, that isn’t all. You’re terrified out of your bloody everlasting mind. She is the only person, aside from your uncle, who knows you’re a bastard in every sense of the word.

  He tossed back a long swallow.

  Hours later, after night had descended and his wife was surely abed, Leo finally shoved back his chair. There was nothing else for it. He was a bloody coward, and it hadn’t been a damned assignment that had set him running and humbled, but a slip of a spitfire.

  Leo had made his way to the front of the club when a servant opened the door, admitting a patron.

  Leo stopped in his tracks as his stare collided with the gentleman’s. The other man drew back, his mouth agape, his muscles tense, like one who’d seen a gorgon.

  Oh, bloody hell on Sunday.

  Leo mustered a smile. “Montfort,” he greeted jovially. “I see they’ve renewed your membership. Drinks, perhaps?”

  With a roar, the Earl of Montfort charged him.

  Every part of him thrummed to life with the primitive need to fight. Cursing, Leo stepped aside, avoiding the earl’s hurtling body. “It is not my intention to fight with you,” he murmured, placating.

  “You bastard,” Montfort hissed, throwing a punch.

  Leo angled his head quickly, dodging the blow. He had taken a beating from Lord Montfort, his former rake compatriot turned reformed rake, in the past. Largely because he deserved it. Nonetheless, Leo would rather avoid a repeat performance. With the patrons eagerly watching, Leo planted his feet. “You don’t want to do this, Montfort.”

  “Trust me. I do.” Montfort muttered and then slammed his fist into Leo’s cheek.

  Pain resonated throughout his entire face, with agony exploding from his jawline to his temple. A slow trickle of blood seeped from his nostrils. “Oh, bloody hell,” he mumbled, yanking out a kerchief. He held it to his face. “Bad form beating a man who—”

  Montfort let another punch fly. This one collided with Leo’s stomach with such force it sucked all the air from his lungs. His legs swayed under him, but he fixed his feet, refusing to go down.

  “Fight me,” the earl shouted.

  “Montfort!” someone exclaimed from beyond Leo’s shoulder.

  “I’ll not fight you, Montfort.” And it had nothing to do with the earl and everything to do with the one sin Leo would take back but never could.

  Montfort took another swing. And this blow connected with Leo’s other cheek, effectively bringing him to his knees. The fabric in his hand fell to the floor.

  He dimly registered the Marquess of St. Albans rushing over and gripping the irate earl by his shoulders. His murmurings, however, were lost to the buzzing in Leo’s ears. Not that he gave a rat’s arse what St. Albans had to say this day or any other. Blinking wildly, fighting off unconsciousness, Leo struggled to his feet.

  “My lord.” The butler came rushing forward, outrage written in his stern expressions. “Your membership—”

  “Is revoked?” Montfort growled, spitting on the carpeted floor. “With bastards like this one allowed entry,” he said as he jerked his chin in Leo’s direction, “I’ve no interest in membership to your,” he peeled his lip in a sneer, “esteemed club.” On that, Montfort stalked off, St. Albans at his side.

  “My apologies, my lord,” a servant was saying to Leo. Someone pressed fabric into his hand—a kerchief.

  His mouth throbbed, already beginning to swell. Leo took the scrap with a word of thanks. Forcing a smile around the kerchief, he lifted his other hand in parting. “Gentlemen,” he called jovially and strode forward.

  He stumbled.

  Concerned whispers and gasps went up.

  Gritting his teeth, Leo steadied himself. He accepted his cloak and, clasping it at his throat, took his leave of the club.

  Of all bloody days for Montfort’s membership to be restored.

  He did a sweep of the streets for the boy he’d tasked with watching his mount. The child came springing forward. “Oi, sir, ya look bloody awful.”

  “Undoubtedly,” he drawled, passing off a heavy purse for the child.

  The street urchin’s eyes formed wide circles. As if he feared Leo might change his mind and snatch back that gift, the boy bolted.

  Sucking in a slow, steadying breath, Leo turned his attentions to dragging himself atop his mount. He winced as he settled into the saddle. By God, his ribs burned like the devil. Urging his mount onward, he made a slow, agonizing journey home.

  Chapter 20

  Leo hadn’t returned home.

  Knees drawn close to her chest, Chloe sat on the sofa in the Ivory Parlor. Laying her cheek to her night skirts, she rubbed back and forth, absently contemplating the bronze sculpture atop the hearth.

  Chloe might be a virtuous lady, but she had a former rogue of a brother and enough sense to know that when a gentleman disappeared for hours on end, and into the night, there were few respectable places he might be.

  You’ll hear this first. That rake… the one that has your mother weeping and your brother ready to duel me at dawn? That is precisely the man I am…

  Her stomach muscles clenched, and she hated herself for caring that he was off doing… doing… rakish things. While she? She sat here, alone, as she’d been sitting, waiting for his return.

  Yes, waiting. Because she was not one who’d lie to herself… on either score.

  She hated the idea of Leo off with one of his scandalous ladies, exploring the curve of a cheek and a hip that belonged to another, as he had done hers.

  The soft tread of footfalls punctured the quiet.

  Chloe swung her legs over the side of the couch and quickly rescued Mary Darby Robinson’s works that rested beside her. From over the top of the leather volume, she peeked. Her heart beat harder.

  Leo strode past, and then his footfalls stopped.

  She yanked her attention downward.

  “Chloe,” he greeted with not even the barest hint of enthusiasm.

  “Leo,” she returned, lowering the book. “I didn’t—” She gasped. Abandoning all attempts at nonchalance, she tossed aside the leather tome. It tumbled to the floor, forgotten. “My God,” she breathed, rushing over to where his powerful figure was framed in the doorway. The fire’s glow played off the macabre blood staining his face and the beginning shades of purple and blue bruises setting in. She pressed a hand to her lips.

  “You are still awake,” he noted tiredly.

  “What happened?” she demanded. Taking him by the hand, she tugged him forward. Before he could reply, she pressed her palms against his shoulders and gave a slight push. “Sit,” she ordered. Chloe ran her gaze over his face, assessing his bruises. His right eye had already swelled and showed faint hints of purpling. A faint crack in his left cheek seeped blood. Having suffered through endless rounds of torture at her father’s merciless fists, she well knew the agony of those blows, how a strike to the temple caused a brutal ache. “Oh, Leo,” she whispered.

  “It is fine,” he assured.

  She was already moving. Reaching the bellpull, Chloe tugged the string. Perhaps he’d b
een off with another woman and been discovered and beaten by an angry husband. And perhaps she was a pathetic ninny, but Chloe could not turn a cheek to his suffering.

  Tomlinson materialized almost instantly. He glanced from Chloe to Leo and then back to Chloe. “My lady?” The absolute composure at seeing his employer in his existing state spoke of one who’d seen Leo in this condition before.

  “You needn’t worry, Chloe,” Leo called from behind her.

  “I require two bowls of water, a pitcher, and scraps of cloth,” Chloe instructed, ignoring the useless assurances from her husband.

  Dropping a bow, Tomlinson set off.

  Chloe rejoined her husband at the sofa. Resting one knee on the cushion, she examined his injuries more closely. Her stomach pitched.

  “Never tell me you’re going to faint, love,” he drawled, his voice slightly strained.

  He was hurting.

  Tentatively, she probed a knot at his temple. “I don’t faint.” He winced, and she gentled her touch. Were his injuries a product of a lover’s irate husband? A fight at the gaming tables?

  “Of course you don’t,” he muttered.

  Chloe paused in her examination. “Would you rather I be the wilting sort?”

  Leo captured her wrist, staying her movements. Drawing her hand close, he placed a lingering kiss on the place where her pulse hammered. Delicious shivers radiated from that butterfly-soft caress. “I wouldn’t change you, love,” he murmured, his brandy-tinged breath wafting over her. That always hateful scent, now wrapped in words so beautifully tender, exploded warmth in her breast.

  She bit the inside of her cheek hard.

  Fool. Fool. Fool. Fool.

  Even now, she hurt for a man who neither wanted her fidelity, nor wished to give his to her in return, who likely wore the bruises he did because of another woman.

  But mayhap not.

  A pair of servants rushed in with the requested items. Chloe jumped up, directing them to set the pitchers and bowls down. While they organized the materials on a rose-inlaid table, she hovered at the fireplace, alongside the bronze sculpture.