by Darcy Burke
“Lockwood.”
The deep sound of his name drew Jason’s attention to a corner of the Lamb and Flag’s common room, where Ethan was seated.
Jason weaved past a few tables and took a chair to his left. “I wasn’t sure you would come.”
Ethan’s hand was casually wrapped around a glass of whisky atop the table. “I wasn’t sure I would either, but it seems safe enough for now.”
He couldn’t expect that cryptic comment to go without notice? Jason reached for the bottle of whisky and filled the sole empty tumbler, the rim of which was chipped. “You’re concerned about your safety?”
Ethan held up his whisky. “A toast?”
Jason stared at him a moment, wondering if he could actually share something so . . . civilized with this man. Maybe it would help loosen Ethan’s tongue. Jason raised his glass. “To sharing a drink.”
“I’ll drink to that.” Ethan finished his whisky and poured another. “I’ve been avoiding a certain Bow Street Runner.”
That explained why Jason hadn’t found Ethan at the Bevelstoke. “Why?”
Ethan shrugged. He didn’t appear particularly concerned, though his gaze made a steady and continuous perusal of the premises. “I’m just not in the mood to speak with him.”
How could Ethan be so careless when he was being investigated? Especially when evidence was starting to mount against him—if Carlyle was to be believed. But maybe Ethan didn’t know. “I know why he wants to find you.”
“Oh?” Ethan asked with an air of nonchalance. “I don’t suppose it has something to do with the list that went missing from my bedchamber at the Bevelstoke?”
Jason swallowed a mouthful of whisky before responding. Of course Ethan had discovered its disappearance, but did he suspect Jason or Carlyle of taking it? Jason didn’t plan to lie about being there. “It does.”
“Who gave it to Bow Street?” Ethan’s eyes and voice hardened. “Please tell me it wasn’t you.”
“No. It was Carlyle.”
Ethan’s lip twisted with disappointment. “I figured. I assumed you hadn’t gained expert lock-picking skills. But you went with him?”
Jason shifted uncomfortably. He hadn’t felt right about going into his rooms, but Ethan hadn’t left him much choice. “How else was I supposed to learn your plans? It’s not as if you were being forthcoming.” Ethan’s eyes narrowed slightly and Jason added, “For what it’s worth, I hadn’t planned on showing him the list. He caught me with it just after I’d found it.”
Ethan appeared nonplussed. “Thank you.”
Jason shifted in his chair and took another swig of whisky. He wasn’t sure he was ready for gratitude. “Don’t thank me yet. I’d planned to demand you reveal what the hell you’re doing—something I’m still going to demand.”
“Ah.” Ethan inclined his head. “You want to know why I had a list of addresses—some of them on streets where robberies have occurred as of late.”
Thank God Ethan wasn’t stupid. Jason could suffer a lot of things from his half brother, but didn’t think he could tolerate foolishness. “Yes.”
“I’m afraid that falls under the category of Things I Can’t Tell You.”
Jason slammed his fist on the table and leaned toward Ethan. “Horseshit! I’m sick of this game. Either you want to change or you don’t. You can’t expect me to trust you if you don’t demonstrate a little trust yourself.”
Ethan’s eyes glittered coldly in the dim light of the common room. “It’s nothing personal, brother. I don’t trust anybody.” The words were uttered with an edge of steel, but underneath there was an inflection of bitterness and regret.
That sounded . . . lonely. “No one at all?”
“And just who would I trust?” Ethan set his glass down. “My mother is dead. Our father is dead. You’ve made no secret about the fact that you wish I were dead. Or at least you did until very recently.”
Jason didn’t like the uneasiness creeping up his spine. “What about your mother’s protector? I thought he’d taken you under his wing.”
Ethan’s laugh was dark and hollow. “He was a corrupt magistrate, so yes, I guess you could say he tutored me well. But he was all I had until he was hanged. There is no one I would trust.”
“Not even me?”
“Not even you.” Ethan swept up his glass and took a drink.
Jason gritted his teeth. How could they possibly move forward if Ethan held him in such disregard? Maybe they couldn’t. But Jason would try—just this once. He flattened his palm against the pocked tabletop and took a deep breath. “If you told me, perhaps I could help you.”
Ethan narrowed one eye in a rather skeptical manner. “You want to help me avoid Bow Street?”
That wasn’t the underlying issue, and Ethan knew it. “I want to help you be safe. Not just for now, for good.” Christ, when the bloody hell had that become something Jason would ever want to do? A fortnight ago, he would’ve dragged Ethan to Bow Street, or brought Teague along to this meeting. But for whatever reason, he wasn’t ready to consign his half brother to gaol—or worse.
His mouth slightly agape, Ethan leaned back in his chair. For a moment, he settled his gaze on Jason then he went back to scanning the common room. “I’m not sure that’s possible.” For the briefest moment, Jason detected a flash of something in his eyes—resignation, maybe?
“I won’t know unless you tell me. Christ, Ethan, I’m offering you more than I ever thought I would.” Jason’s patience thinned. “And it’s a singular offer. If you shut me out again now, we’re finished and Bow Street can bloody well hang you.” Though he said so, Jason wasn’t sure he could let it happen.
Ethan leaned forward abruptly and slapped his palms on the table. “You’re a persistent jackass.”
Persistent—like Lydia. Perhaps she was rubbing off on him. He didn’t mind. “And you’re as slippery as Blackfriars Bridge in December.”
Ethan grinned as he turned his hands up and swept his knuckles across the table, holding his arms wide. “I don’t know any other way.” He sobered as he wrapped his fingers back around his whisky glass. “I have a plan. I can’t share the details because I don’t want to endanger you. It’s bad enough that we’re sitting here having a conversation.”
“Who the hell should I be afraid of?”
Ethan lowered his voice. “More quietly, please. You don’t need to be afraid. I’m just dodging Bow Street.” But would there be others? “I don’t want them thinking you’re in league with me.”
Jason didn’t like the sound of that. “It certainly seems as if you’re doing something illegal.”
“It doesn’t matter what I’m doing, it only matters what Bow Street thinks. Anyway, I won’t tell you the specifics.”
“That’s the best you can do? ‘I have a plan.’” Jason shook his head. “Not good enough.”
Ethan glowered at him. “You’ve a surly streak, don’t you? I have a plan that will show I am not responsible for these thefts.”
Jason ignored his taunts, but was vaguely aware their conversation bore many similarities to those between Scot and North. “Does that mean there’s someone else?”
“Yes.” Ethan dragged out the word as if he were hesitant to say more. Ultimately he did, however. “Someone Bow Street isn’t investigating.”
Finally, something remotely informative. But still only remotely. “Who? And don’t try to tell me you don’t know. You’re too intelligent not to have already figured it out.”
Ethan grinned. “Was that a compliment?”
“You’re not answering me.”
“See? Surly.” Ethan sipped his whisky. “Of course I know, but I’m not telling you. Not yet anyway.”
Jason didn’t see any point in trying to persuade Ethan to tell him. So he tried something else. “Tell me how I can help with your plan.”
Ethan slid him a dubious glance, but then nodded. “Try to keep Bow Street off my back.”
Jason couldn’t think of how to
do that. “What do I tell them?”
“I don’t know.” He was quiet just a moment before continuing, “Maybe say you spoke to me and I didn’t know anything about the list? Perhaps infer it was staged in my apartment.” Ethan seemed rather good at coming up with things.
Jason hoped he wasn’t being lied to, particularly when he was being asked to lie. “If I find out you’re using me for some vile purpose—”
Ethan cut him off. He looked a bit exasperated. His expression reminded Jason of North when Scot annoyed him. “I know, you’ll personally cart me to the hangman’s noose.”
Strangely, Jason felt a burst of amusement. It was like they actually were . . . brothers. “Something like that.”
“I should go.” Ethan swigged back the rest of his drink and set the empty glass on the table. “Thank you for your concern. For your help. For . . . everything.” There was a question in his tone, as if he couldn’t quite believe what Jason had offered. But then Jason couldn’t quite believe it either.
Jason finished his drink as Ethan scooted back his chair and stood. “Keep me informed,” Jason said. “I’ll do my best to steer Teague—and Carlyle—but remember that I make a better ally than an enemy.”
“I’ve already determined that.” He gave his head an infinitesimal shake. “And I’ll be damned if that doesn’t shock the hell out of me.”
As Jason watched Ethan leave, he muttered, “Me too, brother. Me too.”
Chapter Eighteen
THE DAY of Jason’s vice-free party arrived, and as Jason made his way downstairs in his evening attire, he was surprised to feel a burgeoning edge of excitement. It wasn’t the same as with his other parties, but he wasn’t loathing the upcoming evening. Perhaps that’s because he would finally see Lydia again. Did she regret making love with him? Damn, what if she was too embarrassed to come?
He swore under his breath, castigating himself for not communicating with her before now. But how was he supposed to do that when Miss Cheswick had ceased her role as go-between?
North moved to meet him at the bottom of the stairs. “You look splendid, my lord.”
Jason had donned full evening wear, including dancing slippers—something he never did for his usual parties, at which he typically wore whatever he damn well pleased. However, tonight was a momentous occasion for several reasons, and he thought he should look the part. “Thank you. I would ask if all is ready, but I know better than to insult your skills. Tell me, though, which do you prefer to execute—a party like this or our usual fare?”
North clasped his hands behind his back and inclined his head. “I must admit your typical parties are easier to coordinate, but perhaps it’s because they have become routine.”
“Ouch.” Jason pretended to flinch. “Don’t let anyone hear you say my vice parties are ‘routine.’”
The barest flicker of humor passed over North’s features. “Never, my lord. I didn’t mean to imply they weren’t exciting. Time to position yourself in the drawing room. Guests will be arriving at any moment,” North said just as the footman opened the door.
Jason hurried to the drawing room and languished only ten minutes before Lydia swept in on the heels of her aunt. His gaze was immediately riveted to Lydia. She was stunning. Her pale blond hair was swept into an elegant style with curls edging her temples. A pearl necklace with an antique cameo graced the slender column of her throat and led his gaze to the delicious swell of her breasts above the lace trim of her dark coral-colored silk gown.
“Lockwood,” the old biddy called out in her nasally grating tone, effectively destroying the desire Lydia had stirred within him. “How sporting of you to invite us into your home after all this time. I haven’t been here since . . . well, I’m sure you’ll recall.”
Jason clenched his hands into fists. The time you provoked my mother into a fit during which she banished you from Lockwood House. He forced an indulgent, albeit nasty, smile. “I’m glad you recognize the magnanimity of my invitation.”
He abruptly turned his focus to Lydia. She looked beautiful, vibrant, and he knew he had to get her alone. If only to apologize for behaving like an utter cad.
He took her hand and bestowed a kiss on her knuckles. He stroked his thumb along her wrist before reluctantly letting go. “You look lovely this evening, Lady Lydia. I look forward to a dance with you later.”
“As shall I,” she said softly, her chestnut-colored eyes searching his face. There was an air of uncertainty about her, as if she was trying to determine his motives. Yes, he definitely needed to speak with her alone.
“Don’t count on Lydia to dance with you,” her aunt nastily interjected. She fixed Jason with a haughty stare. “Come, dear.” She ushered Lydia away from him, and Jason caught sight of North’s wife, Sarah, trailing after them. She’d watch Margaret’s behavior this evening—and keep Jason informed if aught was amiss.
Jason spent the next half hour greeting guests, many of whom hadn’t been to Lockwood House in several years—people he would never invite to his other parties. His gaze kept straying to Lydia, who remained with her aunt. Though he couldn’t hear their conversations, he could see the disparaging way she looked at Lydia, and the meek way in which Lydia responded to her behavior.
Fury boiled inside of him. He longed to throw Margaret out of Lockwood House and keep Lydia under his protection. His fury dissipated as he realized the implications of that. What was he thinking? Was he ready to make a commitment to someone? Could he possibly trust someone enough to open himself in that way? Could he trust her?
He scanned the drawing room looking for Scot and found him stationed near the door to the sitting room. He made his way in Scot’s direction and was pleased when the valet met him partway. “My lord?” he asked, adopting a far more formal demeanor this evening. Jason would’ve been amused if he weren’t trying to figure out how to get Lydia alone.
“Bring Lady Lydia to my office,” he said so quietly he hoped Scot had heard him.
“Now?” Scot asked, verifying Jason’s words had been audible enough.
Jason answered with a quick jerk of his head and then took himself immediately to his office to hopefully improve his disposition with a glass of whisky.
Ten minutes later, the door opened and Lydia stepped inside. He was beside her in an instant, closing the door with alacrity. He took her hand and drew her into the office. Her gaze was guarded.
“You wanted to see me?” she asked, her tone as apprehensive as her eyes.
And he hated that. He wanted to erase the doubt from the lines etched into her forehead. “Of course I wanted to see you,” he said.
Her frame relaxed slightly, but her wariness didn’t vanish. “I wondered. You’ve been dreadfully quiet.”
“Because Miss Cheswick sent me a note asking me not to correspond with you.” But he knew that sounded pathetic. They’d made love a week ago and he hadn’t said a word to her since. He was the worst sort of scoundrel.
She gave a single nod. “My aunt learned I was still helping you with the party. She wouldn’t allow further correspondence.” Her gaze turned questioning. “Would you have written to me?”
He opened his mouth, but realized there was nothing he could say that wouldn’t sound awful. She deserved better. “I’m sorry about what happened.”
Her shoulders drooped for the barest second before she threw them back and lifted her chin. “I’m not.”
Oh, she was a brave and beautiful thing. Why didn’t she do that to her aunt and put the old harpy in her place? Because after years of living in her shadow, Lydia was tired and defeated. He was suddenly and thoroughly sick that he’d allowed her to go back to that monster’s house, and contemplated whether he should whisk her away to Gretna Green. Except he didn’t want to leave London with Ethan in his current predicament.
He cupped her face in his hands. “You are a rare and wonderful woman, do you know that?”
He felt the warmth in her cheek as she turned her face into his palm.
“When you say it, I almost believe it.”
“Believe it,” he said, determined to show her. “I want to take you away from Margaret.”
Her eyes widened. “She’s determined to ruin tonight. I feel terrible for encouraging this party. I should probably stay as far away from you as possible.”
He hated the agony in her voice. He wanted to see her smile. “That’s going to be very difficult when you’re my wife. If you want to marry me, that is.”
Her lips parted, and she stared at him a long moment. “You really want to marry me?
He rubbed his thumbs along her jawline and tried to coax a smile from her lips. “Yes. Is that so difficult to comprehend?”
“Yes.” She shook her head. “I mean no. That is, you can accept me despite my aunt?”
“It’s not as if you adore her and I’ll be forced to endure the Christmas Season in her company.”
Lydia giggled, which released the tension bunching Jason’s shoulders. “No, never that.”
“So you’ll marry me then?” His breath tangled in his throat as he waited for her response.
“Yes.” She reached up and wound her arms around his neck, pulling him down for a kiss.
Her mouth was warm and sweet, her lips parting to invite him inside. His tongue met hers and they danced while her body pressed up into his. Desire flooded his loins, and he worked to keep himself in check. He hadn’t planned on making love to her here. But he’d be damned if images of doing just that weren’t crowding his mind and feeding his lust.
She suddenly broke the kiss and disappointment threatened to cool his ardor—which was probably a very good thing. However, what she said next had the complete opposite effect. “Is the door locked?”
He forced his brain to overpower his body, at least for a moment. “Lydia, we have to go back to the party.”
“We have a little time, don’t we? Besides, I’m your fiancée now, even if we haven’t announced it yet.” Little lines pleated the space between her brows in an adorable fashion. “You’ll have to write to my father, and that will take at least a week. Plus the time to receive a response. Which means the banns won’t be read for probably a fortnight. Jason, it could be weeks until we’re alone together again.”