What would have happened if he’d been five minutes later? The precious time he’d lost avoiding Gilmore’s hired guards might have resulted in Lily’s innocence lost.
She led them down the stairs. Back in the main hallway, he pulled her into a slight alcove. It didn’t afford them much privacy, but his bone-deep fear and frustration required pacification.
Lily either underestimated the breadth of his anger or chose to ignore it. “I obtained information, and Gilmore only suspected I was a silly little debutante. That is, until you came bursting through the door and mucked it up.” Disdain reminiscent of her father colored her words.
“Mucked it—I was to search the study. You weren’t meant to put yourself in danger.” He bared his teeth in the approximation of a smile. Guests milled about heading to and from the retiring rooms and gaming area.
“There were guards posted around the perimeter of the house. I didn’t think—”
“No, you didn’t. You were tasked with questioning our suspect in a crowded, safe ballroom. That’s all.” He shook her arm, stirring a decidedly mulish expression to her face.
“Part of my task involves thinking on my feet.”
“First you go gallivanting off into the gardens at Lady Matthews and now this. We involved you in a limited fashion in order to keep you out of situations like this. You are not an operative. Maybe you really are a silly—”
She stomped hard on his instep.
“Goddamn, you little hell cat.” Pain sailed his voice high and loud.
Lord Lumly stared from the middle of hall. Luckily, it was otherwise deserted. A regular in the war office, Lumly was a master code breaker with a quick mind and talent for numbers. It was unfortunate Gray would run across him here.
“Mr. Masterson, is that you?” Lumly moved closer, his eyes the size of small platters.
Forcing his breathing to slow and his lips to untwist, Gray smoothed his hair back with an unsteady hand. “Lord Lumly, how nice to see you away from the office. May I present Lady Lily Drummond, Rafe Drummond’s sister. Lady Lily, Lord Albert Lumly.”
“Lord Lumly, how wonderful to be finally introduced. My brother speaks highly of you.” Lily glided past Gray and held her hand out for the requisite kiss. Lumly seemed dazzled by her charming smile.
Her little show was all for Gray’s benefit. Lumly wasn’t blessed with outstanding looks. Very thin, his arms hung a foot too long for his body, his nose hooked slightly at the end and his narrow shoulders sloped. His entire body seemed drawn downward like melted taffy. The little amount of hair he retained was brown. Lumly’s prominent Adam’s apple bobbed. Struck mute, the man’s mouth opened and closed, discharging only a few animal-like squeaks.
“Lord Lumly,” Lily said, “I’m in need of a partner for the next quadrille. Could it be that you’re available?”
His chest inflating, Lumly found his voice after much throat clearing and answered in a trembling high tenor. “It would be my honor, Lady Lily. May I escort you into the ballroom?”
“Lady Lily, your aunt bid me to tell you she will be ready to depart after two more dances.” Gray held up two fingers and jabbed them with a very thinly veiled threat. “Two.”
Her eyes reeked defiance. If she chose that path, he would relish exacting a punishment. As soon as the thought entered his head, he couldn’t shake the image of Lily over his knees with her dress bunched around her waist receiving a well-deserved spanking—on her bare bottom. The same bottom that swayed under green skirts as she walked away with Lumly.
The truth was she had handled the situation more than capably. The truth was he’d let his feelings for her guide his actions like a green recruit. The truth scared him.
From the top of the stairs, a man approached. A man with a pugilist’s nose wearing an ill-fitting black frockcoat that looked ready to pop a seam across the breadth of his shoulders. Gray had tarried too long. Obviously, Gilmore had recovered enough to send his lackeys to throw Gray out. Actually, a little dustup would be the best-case scenario. Better to take his leave on his own volition.
Gray darted through a small group making their way back into the ballroom for the upcoming quadrille and headed into the narrow galley leading to the servant stairs. Taking them two at a time, he traversed past the butler’s pantry and into the kitchen, where harried maids and footmen scurried.
The red-faced cook held a tray full of scones freshly removed from the oven. Grabbing one as he passed, Gray gave her a salute before ducking out the service door and up to the street. He juggled the hot treat and put long, measured strides between him and the townhouse. A dark, sightless alley between two tall rows of townhouses beckoned.
Now, he would wait.
Chapter Eleven
Should she push Gray to the brink of his patience and stay? Common sense won out. Running into Gilmore would prove awkward to say the least, and she had obtained information. She pleaded a headache and slipped to the front door. Only Minerva eyed her with suspicion.
Steps from freedom, Lord Penhaven blocked her path with a smart bow. Dressed in his typical fashion, he smiled, but a strained charm oozed. “Lady Lily, how lovely you look this evening.”
She glanced to the door and tried to keep the impatience from her voice. “Thank you, my lord.”
He took her hand in both of his and sidled a few steps closer. “My dear, I hoped we could find somewhere to chat.”
“I’m not sure that would be wise.” She preferred to face an angry Gray rather than rebuff Penhaven again. The red slashes of color on his face were not from rouge tonight.
“I wish to apologize for my behavior at Lady Matthews’s musicale. Surely you’ll allow me that?”
“Your apology is readily accepted, my lord. Now, I really must take my leave. My coachman waits and my head…” She schooled her face into a grimace and held the back of her hand to her forehead, feeling like a ninny.
“Is he the only one who waits?” Penhaven’s whisper somehow seemed more forceful than his usual strident tittering.
She dropped her hand to clutch her fan. “What are you insinuating?”
“Only that I’m sure your brother will be interested to hear of your evening. May I call on you one morning for a ride in my new carriage?” His voice lilted once again.
“Certainly, sir. That would be lovely.” She backed away until her heels bumped the first stair. Only then did she turn.
Penny waited outside, his hat pulled low. Not sure why Penhaven made her feel so exposed and vulnerable, she was grateful for Penny’s watchful protection. After the footman closed the carriage door, she tugged off her gloves and relaxed on the soft velvet squab. The rhythm of the wheels dissipated the tension across her shoulders. The evening’s combination of worry, fear and menace left her exhausted.
The far carriage door flew open. A shadowed body swung inside, dominating the small space. Her involuntary screech turned into a sigh. It was only Gray. He slammed the door shut, sat opposite her and glared with arms crossed over his chest. Furrows slashed his forehead, and his mouth was pinched into a short line.
“Impressive entrance. Perhaps that should be my next lesson,” she teased, attempting to lighten his black mood.
“Teach you? Have you bloody well lost your mind?”
While time had diminished her ire, it seemed to have magnified his.
“For your information—”
“Do not say another word.” He checked the streets before twitching the curtains closed. Slowly, he turned to face her. Their knees bumped, and he shifted to bracket her legs. An unspoken threat radiated from his entire body.
“Are you upset because I took the initiative? Based on the extra patrols, I deemed it wise to assume you couldn’t make it inside.”
He removed his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You underestimate me.”
“Not a pleas
ant feeling, is it?” The hard edge of her voice sliced through the building animosity.
He muttered something under his breath.
“I found a hidden drawer in his desk. Inside was a leather book with an appointment listed. It said…” she closed her eyes, picturing the words she’d burned into her memory, “…Whitmire, Tuesday, Fieldstones.”
“You deserve a good, hard spanking.”
“I deserve a thank you.”
“A thank you? You think you accomplished something worthwhile this evening?” At her nod, he barked a laugh that held no humor. “Let’s review, shall we? You opened yourself to extreme, life-altering danger. You exposed my involvement with you, which almost certainly will put Gilmore on the scent of our interest. And, if Gilmore is our culprit, you put your father in further peril.”
“No. You exposed your involvement with me. I didn’t require you to charge in on your white steed. In fact, you owe me additional thanks for incapacitating him.”
“You believe I couldn’t have dealt with the pig myself?”
“On the contrary, you looked ready to butcher him. At the very least, bloody his face beyond recognition. He could have had you taken into custody. This way, he’ll be too embarrassed to admit the truth of what happened. Plus, I didn’t leave a mark on his person.”
He pressed his face into his arm, his voice muffled. “Do you have any idea what could have happened? Gilmore is no gentleman. He would have had you.”
“What do you mean?”
His head popped up. “You can’t be that naïve. Had you. Stolen your maidenhead. Raped you. You think he would have felt remorse? Not a whit. He would have buttoned his pants with your virgin blood still staining him and gone back to the ballroom to flirt with another possible conquest, leaving you on the floor with your dress over your head.” He leaned forward and rested his palms on her squab, effectively caging her with both hands and legs.
“You and Rafe taught me to defend myself. Nothing untoward would have happened.”
“Untoward. How quaint. You took him by surprise because I offered a distraction. If he’d been set on debauching you, this night might have ended very differently. Could you fight a man off? Could you fight me off?”
He grabbed her upper arm without any gentleness. Her mouth grew cottony. This was a Gray she didn’t recognize. This was not the same man who’d watched over her in Lady Matthews’s gardens or kissed her at Wintermarsh. This was a stranger.
Her right arm free, she aimed a punch at his nose. He deflected it. She directed her fist toward his kidney and twisted her other arm out of his manacle-like clasp. He let go, giving her the brief illusion she’d made ground. Before she’d taken a breath, he had both her wrists captured, one in each hand. The darkness was too deep, and his face was a shadowy menace enforcing his rule.
Her lungs heaved from exertion and fear. “You’re scaring me.”
“Good,” came his harsh reply in the dark.
Her training was forgotten. She kicked out with her legs. Something base and primal took over. She was a wild animal seeking freedom.
In a handful of her quickened heartbeats, her back was pressed into the squab and his big body covered her, legs immobile under his heavy thighs. Her hips bucked against him. With a growl, he transferred both her wrists to one of his hands, but his grip didn’t loosen, even though she fought like a caged tigress.
Turning her head to the side, she squeezed her eyes shut, but tears leaked out anyway.
She had stopped fighting him. The haze of his fury receded. The fury had been directed as much at himself as her. She’d been perfectly correct in her assessment—every word of it. But the vision of Gilmore pressing her back against the wall, bigger and stronger and dangerous, circumvented his logical thought processes. He needed to refocus on the point he was trying to drub home. Which was what exactly?
Her body trembled. In fear? Not of him, surely. He would never hurt her, he only wanted her to understand her weakness. His hands opened immediately, but before he could lift himself up, she jabbed the heel of her palm into his throat, illustrating how well she’d learned her lessons.
He sprawled back onto the opposite squab and massaged his paralyzed windpipe, tamping down the instinctive panic for air. By the time the first gulp entered his lungs, the carriage was slowing, and she had pushed herself to sitting. Wet tracks down the side of her face were in sharp contrast with her flinty eyes. She looked ready to commit a perfectly justifiable murder.
“Lily.” Her name croaked from his constricted throat.
He reached out a hand to cup her elbow, but she jerked away. The footman helped her out, and she ran up the steps and through the front door. He jumped out and punched the carriage door closed. The radiating pain offered little absolution.
Rafe waited in the entry. He alternatively looked up the stairs at Lily’s retreat and back at Gray. She stopped on the landing and whirled. Her eyes blazed with hatred, withering him with its intensity.
Shame scored his soul. “Lily, I’m—”
Her voice, trembling but clear, echoed off the marble. “Not a word. Not another word.” She cut her hand in his direction as if she wished it were blade and stalked away. The reverberating slam of the door made him wince.
Arms crossed, Rafe examined Gray head to toe. “What in bloody hell happened?”
“Lily’s mad at me.” His voice was still hoarse from her punch.
“You don’t say,” Rafe said dryly. “I never would have figured that one out on my own. I’ve been on the receiving end of a few of my sister’s tirades. Could you use a brandy?”
Gray followed him into the study. Rafe didn’t wait for a reply and poured them both a drink. Gray paced, his hands linked around his nape. Clunking both glasses on the side table, Rafe took a chair and ran a finger down his scar, his eyes narrowed on Gray.
“Is she hurt?”
“Not physically. I hurt her feelings. Lost her trust. I was…” a villain, a cad, a miscreant, “…not very nice.” He should confess so Rafe could beat him senseless. He deserved even worse.
“If it’s only hurt feelings, she’ll recover faster than you think. She has a forgiving nature. You might want to apologize and buy her a trinket though. Might speed the process.”
A trinket? His head on a platter might make her feel better.
“What did you discover?” Rafe ignored Gray’s devastation. Or perhaps, his mask even fooled Rafe now.
“Gilmore is meeting Whitmire at Fieldstones.”
“That answers the question of Gilmore’s contact in the Home Office.”
“But Fieldstones? A Cyprian’s ball is certainly not Whitmire’s usual haunt. If he isn’t at the office working, he’s at his club.” Gray threw himself in the chair, grabbed the brandy glass and downed it. The liquor settled heavily in the pit of his stomach, feeding his self-hatred instead of offering solace.
“Could Whitmire be dallying with the French? I don’t know the man well enough to fairly judge,” Rafe asked.
Gray shook his head. “The man is the epitome of a straight-laced, stiff upper-lipped, duty-bound Englishman, but anything is possible. I’ll do some digging on the matter.”
Rafe wagged a finger. “Speaking of duty, remember what Sutton told Lily. Something like it’s better to be paid to do his duty. Gilmore could very well be working for Whitmire.”
“Which means another dead end.” Gray banged his head against the back of the chair a few times.
“Probably. You should follow the thread to its conclusion, nevertheless. Have you ever attended a Cyprian’s ball?” Amusement flavored Rafe’s question.
His mind still upstairs with Lily, he could find nothing about cavorting with scantily clad women of the demimonde amusing or appealing. “Never been.”
“If you wander Fieldstones alone, you’ll be deemed ripe for some young co
urtesan’s new protector. You could employ a woman for the night to act as a shield.”
“I’ll think on it.” He cut his gaze to the ceiling. Somewhere above him, Lily was hurt, mad and scared. All he wanted was to go to her and apologize. He’d let her hit him as many times as it took to gain her forgiveness. A hollow gnawing in his chest at her fear sickened him.
Gray paced in misty rain that didn’t fall as much as dampen everything. Her room was dark. Of course, she slept. It was well after midnight. Why should she be awake sharing his troubles? He would get no rest until he’d put things right between them.
He scaled up rain-slickened bricks to her room and jimmied the window open. Sliding inside, he listened for her deepened breathing. Instead, a much more distinctive sound cut through the silence—the cocking of a pistol.
He rose from his crouch with raised hands. He didn’t want to be accidently shot as an intruder. Although, even knowing who he was, she might decide to pull the trigger.
“I’d suggest you turn around and throw yourself back out the window, sirrah, before I put a bullet between your eyes.” Her voice was sleep-roughened but firm.
“Are those my only choices?” he asked lightly, keeping his voice soft.
“Oh, it’s you. Why the devil are you in my room?” Even at a whisper, her tone was unyielding.
He slipped off his sodden coat and sat in the nearest chair to pull of his dirt-caked boots.
“Wh-what are you doing, Gray Masterson? You put your clothes back on this instant.” Her consternation made him smile in spite of his dour mood.
“Your maid might question the large, muddy boot tracks across your floor come morning. Don’t fret. I’m here to talk. May I light a candle?” He didn’t wait for her acquiescence and lit a taper. A soft glow fell over the room.
She sat up in bed and clutched the sheet and the pistol under her chin. “I think I prefer darkness. This is entirely improper.” Hair stuck out of her braid like new growth from a vine. He couldn’t tell much about her nightdress, except that it was as white as the sheet.
An Indecent Invitation: Spies and Lovers, Book 1 Page 14