Rules of Engagement

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  “My little sister is having an at-home today, which I am more than happy to miss,” Cian replied. “I check the time only because I want to ensure we return you home before sunset.”

  “James won’t mind if I come home after dark,” she assured him.

  “Your neighbors might notice.”

  “You brought me home after midnight, a few days ago,” she pointed out.

  “After midnight, nosy neighbors are usually in bed and snoring,” Cian said. “You should care more about your reputation, Eleanore.”

  “My family care enough about my reputation that I have no need to bother,” Eleanore replied.

  “Does your uncle always drink so heavily in the afternoon, by the way?” Cian asked.

  “Coleman? Oh, he was annoyed by the fuss over the book,” Eleanore said. She recalled the tall glass of port he had been drinking. “Now you are involved, I am sure he will drink even more.”

  Cian grimaced.

  “It isn’t you in particular he objects to,” Eleanore assured him. “You do understand that, don’t you?”

  “It is my family name he hates,” Cian said. “He has made it quite plain.”

  “I don’t think he hates you, either,” Eleanore said.

  “That surprises me.”

  “If anything, I think my uncle’s fault is loyalty to my family.”

  Cian sat back. “I don’t understand.”

  “Do you remember…well, of course you remember. The night of Lord Palmerston’s funeral procession, when the horse bolted and took me and the carriage with it?”

  Cian’s smile was small. “I remember it vividly. Every second of it…and what came after.”

  Eleanore swallowed. She remembered what came after, too. It was one of the few memories from before which had returned to her in complete detail.

  “James came to fetch me home from the inn where we waited,” she said.

  “While your father stayed with the funeral procession, so the Queen would not be offended by the absence of the Gainford family,” Cian replied.

  James had been jovial and polite to Cian, although he had pushed her into the carriage more quickly than Eleanore wanted. The carriage set a spanking pace back to Belgravia and the Gainford house.

  James had poured her another madeira when they arrived home. “Father asked that we wait for him to return. He wants to speak to you,” he told her.

  Eleanore’s heart sank. “What about?”

  “About the horse bolting, I suppose.”

  “Does he think I arranged for the lamp to explode?” Eleanore asked, for of the two of them, it was she who most often earned their father’s disapproval. Perhaps he felt she was to blame for tonight’s adventure, too.

  “I really don’t know,” James replied. He hesitated. “He was angry, though.”

  Eleanore’s heart sank.

  Her father and Coleman returned barely an hour later. Coleman, as the new Earl of Carlow, had been included in the procession, just as the Earl of Innesford had been…at least until Cian had jumped upon the runaway carriage to bring the horse to a halt.

  Killian Neville stalked into the drawing room, shedding his coat and tossing the bundled up funeral robe with impatient movements of his arms, while Tennyson scurried behind, picking up everything.

  Coleman moved around the edges of the room to the decanter on the sideboard.

  Eleanore got to her feet, her belly clamping, as she saw real anger in her father’s eyes. His face, which was normally handsome even at the advanced age of sixty-three, worked furiously. His jaw rippled and his black eyes seemed to glow with the anger there.

  He stopped in the middle of the carpet—tall, silver haired and trembling with indignation. “How could you let that Williams man remain in your company, Eleanore?”

  She jumped. “You mean the Earl of Innesford, Papa? But…he saved me.”

  “He took advantage of an opportunity!” her father cried, throwing his hand out in a dismissive gesture.

  Eleanore blinked.

  So did James. “That is not exactly what happened, sir. The horse bolted—”

  Killian lifted his finger in warning. James shut up. He was as familiar with their father’s black Irish temper as she.

  Her father glared at her. “You are in no way to encourage his attention, daughter. Do I make myself clear?”

  Eleanore drew in a breath. “Papa! Really…I do not understand.”

  “You’re betrothed to the Prince,” Coleman said quietly.

  Killian pointed at him. “Yes,” he said flatly. “That, too.” He spun back to face Eleanore. “The Williams family are all criminals and thieves. They’re not fit company for any Neville to keep. Do I make myself clear?”

  Eleanore shrunk back, frightened. What if her father learned of the letters she and Cian had exchanged for more than three years now? What if he learned that her heart belonged to Cian, that she felt as if she fit in his world far more than her own? Would her father be appalled that she knew each of Cian’s family members intimately, despite never having formally met them?

  The bonds between Cian’s family, even the extended Great Family members, was unique, and utterly unlike the formal associations which controlled how her family interacted.

  Killian glared at her. “Do you understand, Eleanore?” he repeated,

  Her father’s gaze made her skin heat and her blood to surge. She could barely find her voice. “Papa…”

  “Do not defy me on this,” her father said, his voice rising. “You may feel some obligation toward him because he cleverly brought the horse under control, but that is a false feeling. It will lead you astray. You are a woman and unable to judge a man properly. I tell you the Williams are unfit company for a descendant of emperors. You will obey me in this. Do you hear?”

  Eleanore pressed her hand to her corset, wishing she could draw a fuller breath. “Yes, Papa.”

  “You, too, James,” her father persisted. “You will limit your dealings with the Williams. Clear?”

  James’ soft eyes grew wider. “I…certainly, Father, if that is what you wish.”

  “I do wish it,” Killian replied, with a snap.

  “We’re heading for Scotland in three days,” Coleman said. “Perhaps, if Eleanore canceled all her engagements between now and then…”

  Killian nodded vigorously. “A fine idea,” he said shortly. “James, oversee your sister’s correspondence tomorrow morning. Make sure all her social obligations are canceled.” He stalked to the sideboard as Eleanore watched him in dismay and poured himself a hefty glass of wine. “You can remain in the house until we leave,” he added.

  Eleanore had not wanted to go to Scotland at all. Now her reluctance turned to dislike. Only, she dared not disobey her father. Not when he was like this.

  “Yes, Papa.” The words tasted like ashes in her mouth.

  Eleanore watched the neat little rows of houses pass the carriage as she related to Cian the events of that night, using dry words. She did not select her phrases or temper them. Cian needed to understand the true depth of her father’s fury.

  “Coleman and my father were closer than most brothers,” she added. “And Coleman is devoted to my mother, too. When Papa died…” She shuddered, as an image of wild, tossing seas, mountainous waves and driving rain slipped into her mind. It wasn’t just the images, either. The roaring sound of the wind and the tossing sea never stopped. It had settled in her mind, stealing thought and hope.

  “When Papa died,” she made herself continue, “Coleman was bereft. He may hold no personal disdain for you, Cian, yet he enforces my father’s opinion of your family because he feels he is honoring my father that way.”

  Cian sighed. “All because of the slight the Williams delivered upon the Nevilles at the Battle of Castlebar,” he murmured. “There is no one left who remembers that time, yet it lingers still, tainting everything.”

  “He was so angry,” Eleanore murmured, recalling how her father’s face had worked, h
ow the tendons in his neck had flexed. Spittle had flown from his mouth as he roared. “It might have been him drummed from the army, not his grandfather.”

  “It wasn’t purely anger,” Cian told her. “He already thought the Williams were blackguards. Discovering you in the company of one of us would have scared and worried him and that increased his anger. Fear always does.”

  Eleanore pulled the shawl around her shoulders, as cold tendrils trailed up her arms. “I wish it were not so complicated. I wish my father had met you while he was still alive.”

  Cian laughed softly. “I suspect he would rather have sold you into slavery than speak to any of my family directly. That is the Irish temperament for you.” He added, “I know it well.”

  Eleanore studied him. “What unreasonable belief are you holding on to, then?”

  Cian’s gaze slid away from hers. “Here we are, I believe.”

  The cab slowed, then halted.

  The street was a narrow one, with larger rooming houses and some small houses jammed together. Most of them were in need of fresh paint. There were no gardens. None of the windows had lace in them and the panes were dirty.

  “Smithers prefers to live here than in our house?” Eleanore said, amazed.

  “Number sixteen is right there,” Cian got out, digging for coins in his pocket to pay the driver. “Stay and wait for us,” Eleanore heard him tell the driver.

  Then he reached back to help Eleanore out. As she stepped onto the uneven pavement, the front door of the house at number sixteen opened and Smithers herself stepped out.

  The woman did not look the slightest bit ill. She carried a shawl which she had wrapped around her possessions. The wool was dark green and blue plaid, with fine white stripes.

  Eleanore gasped. “Why, that is my shawl!”

  Cian turned quickly.

  Smithers’ pale eyes widened when she saw them on the footpath. She glanced from side to side, then backed up a step, holding the shawl against her chest and her other arm over it. The dirty artificial flowers in her bonnet bounced at the movement.

  “Do not run,” Cian told the woman as he strode toward her. “You will just make it worse for yourself.” He grabbed her arm and yanked it from around the bundled shawl. “Let me have that.”

  “No, it’s mine,” Smithers said in her whiny voice. Eleanore had never liked her voice, only she had forgotten until she heard it once more.

  “Fine. Keep it for now,” Cian told her. “You can demonstrate it is yours to the inspector at the police station.”

  Smithers grew pale. “The police station?”

  “That is where thieves go,” Cian replied, pulling her toward the carriage.

  “No, wait!” Smithers cried, leaning backward.

  Eleanore held out her hand. “Let her go, Cian. If she gives me back the shawl, then there is no need to involve the police.”

  Cian looked down at Smither’s white face. His jaw worked. “No,” he said. “There is no regret in her eyes. She has done this before. She will do it again. She can face the judge.”

  Smithers struggled. Cian was unmoved by her attempts to free herself. He maintained his grip, waiting for her to exhaust herself, which she did quickly.

  “Fine,” Smithers spat and shoved the shawl at Eleanore. “It’s not like she missed any of them, anyway! Half the time she doesn’t even remember she has them!”

  Cian’s jaw tightened.

  Black Irish temper. Eleanore could see it flame within him. His cheekbones seemed to grow sharper, his cheeks thinner. His eyes glittered with it.

  His fingers whitened as he hauled Smithers toward the waiting cab. “For that,” he growled, “I will make sure the police dig into your past employment records and find out exactly how much you have pilfered over the years. You will go to prison for this.”

  “Cian, really…” Eleanore said, following them across the pavement to the cab. “This isn’t necessary.”

  “Yes, it is,” Cian said coldly.

  He shoved Smithers into the cab and helped Eleanore up, his expression iron hard. Then he directed the cabbie to the Westminster police station. “There will be no local constabulary there to empathize with you and take it easy on you,” he told Smithers. The woman drew herself into the corner, the shawl still clutched against her chest, this time to protect her, not the contents. She kept her gaze on Cian, as well she should.

  Cian’s anger had changed from the white-hot fury Eleanore was familiar with. Now he was coldly angry, controlling his emotions and making hard decisions.

  At the police station, Cian wrenched the shawl from Smither’s desperate grip and dumped it in front of the inspector standing behind his high desk. “I believe a great many possessions belonging to Lady Eleanore are in that shawl. They were stolen by this former lady’s maid.”

  The inspector’s brows rose. “Is that so? Let’s have a look, then.” He untied the corners of the shawl and spread it open.

  “My book!” Eleanore breathed, delighted. She reached for it.

  “This is yours, my Lady?” the inspector asked, picking it up.

  “It is,” she said. “Lady Audley’s Secret by Miss Mary Elizabeth Braddon. My name is written on the first page.”

  The inspector opened the cover. “Eleanore Regina Neville.” He glanced at her. “A fine family.” He closed the book and put it to one side, then moved his finger through the rest of the items on the shawl, stirring them.

  “My sapphires!” Eleanore said, startled. “And the rubies…oh my!” Most of her jewelry was spread across the plaid wool. “And my…why, my china doll!” She looked at Smithers, puzzled. “Why on earth would you take that? You cannot sell it. It is battered and worn.”

  Smithers’ lip curled up. Her eyes were small and hard. “Some little girl would love it and her da would pay to give to her. You upper-class people have no idea what it’s like in the real world.”

  The inspector sighed. “Oh, dear,” he said softly. He glanced at Cian. “I presume you would like the woman charged with theft, my Lord?”

  “I suspect this is not the first time she has let her resentment guide her quick fingers,” Cian told him. “Perhaps a question or two with past employers might uncover other mysteriously missing valuables.”

  The inspector’s face hardened as he looked at Smithers. “A fine idea, my Lord.” He beckoned with his fingers. An officer came over to the desk and the inspector handed him a big round ring with keys which clanked heavily. “Escort Miss Smithers here to the ladies’ cell, Murphy, would you?”

  Eleanore watched the woman be pulled into the inner workings of the station, guilt stirring. It was because of her that Smithers was now facing a jail sentence and a ruined life. She had not meant for this to happen. She had just wanted her book back.

  The inspector bundled the jewelry, the book and the doll back upon the center of the shawl. “If you care to wait a moment or two,” he told them, reaching for a sheet of paper and the pen sitting in the inkpot, “I’ll take a list of the items and the particulars. Then you may have them back.”

  “Go ahead,” Cian said.

  Eleanore turned away, feeling sick.

  THE SUN WAS DEFINITELY setting when they emerged from the station, which did not help elevate Cian’s mood. He hailed a cab, which smartly turned to the footpath, then helped Eleanore into the carriage and gave the driver the address for the Gainford house in Belgravia.

  Eleanore had not spoken since the maid had been marched away. She peered through the window, her head turned away from him.

  Cian waited. Eleanore was simply unable to bide her time. She would unburden herself soon enough.

  True to form, she stirred and looked at him. “Why did you insist upon having the poor woman charged, Cian? I thought you, of all people, would understand how it ruins a person’s life.”

  The observation jolted him. His anger had been dying by slow degrees as the inspector took down all the details and did not show any sign that he thought the matter
a trivial one. Now his temper sprang back to life with roar. “Because she was stealing from you, Eleanore! For God’s sake…” He gripped the railing beside the door, fighting to hold his fury inside and not spill it all over her. “She took advantage of you, of your faulty memory and that…it offends me so deeply I could have happily throttled her.”

  Eleanore’s eyes widened.

  Cian breathed deeply. Harshly. By inches, his fury retreated.

  She saw that the moment had passed. Eleanore untied the abused shawl and spread it upon her knees. The jewelry glittered in the sunlight passing through the window yet her fingers touched the face of the doll, instead. “I am pleased to have these back,” she admitted softly.

  Cian leaned and picked up the book. The damned book. “This is the thing you made such a fuss about?” he asked.

  Eleanore gasped and reached for it. “No, please, give it back.”

  Startled, he glanced at the title and turned the book over and over in his hands. “It is not gold leaf. It is not even a leather edition. Is it the story which inspired you to turn an entire household on its head?” He fanned the pages with his thumb.

  The book fell open at a page which had been opened so often, the spine of the book was bent to make a permanent bookmark at that location.

  Cian stared down at the open page, all his fury evaporating between one breath and the next.

  Pressed between the pages was a preserved rose. A black one.

  “Ebony rose,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

  Eleanore let out her breath in a deep sigh, falling back against the seat.

  “It wasn’t the book you wanted back,” he murmured. “You wanted what was in it.” His hand shaking, he turned the pages to read the front plate and the date there. “This edition is dated 1868,” he said. He looked at her, his heart thundering. “After you came back.”

  Because her head was averted, the sun fell upon her cheeks. The tear she shed sparkled.

  Cian put the book aside. He knelt in front of her and took the shawl and its contents off her lap and put that aside, too. He cupped her face and gently made her look at him. “You do care,” he breathed and kissed her.