by Anne Mallory
“Yes.”
It was not the most exciting response she had imagined. “Er, well, before I leave then, I suppose, yes? Allow you to get back to work then?”
“I suppose.”
Had that been amusement in his eyes? She decided to count it in her tally to the positive.
She was ever an optimist.
From there, the conversation turned beautifully awkward. She swallowed her own embarrassment as best as she could and concentrated on exploiting his.
“So, how did the return visit to your tinker go?”
He tapped his finger on the arm of his chair. “It was satisfactory. Mathias was beyond happy.”
She blinked. “Truly?”
“The man would like nothing more than if he could turn everyone into full-scale automatons.”
“And what about Cornelius?”
His body went still, deadly still. “You shouldn’t even know that name.”
She tilted her head. “Is it a danger that I do?”
“I don’t want you involved in any of it.”
“Well, that is too bad, really. Are you going to tell me if I need to worry about you reappearing with a bloody arm next?”
“No.”
She chose to deliberately misinterpret his answer. “Good. I have a care for your safety.”
He didn’t respond.
“Is he dead?”
She didn’t think he was going to respond to that either, but a low-voiced reply emerged. “Yes.” He picked up his pen, not looking at her. “He signed his death certificate on our return from Dover.”
“You hadn’t been planning to kill him before?”
His fingers pressed against the edge of the pen, then released, pressed, then released. “It is complicated. This world is complicated.”
“Very well.” The question pressed though. “Do you plan to stay in this world indefinitely?”
He didn’t answer, and that gave her hope. The Andreas from weeks ago would have responded with an unequivocal yes.
She nodded as if he had answered. “Did you speak to our men in the financial district?”
“Yes. They sealed the fund documents and accounts. Garrett’s reported response was . . . satisfying. I am finishing the pages that will hasten his removal from these shores permanently.”
“Good.” It was good. Everyone would be free once Garrett was gone. She didn’t want anyone else to die. She had a feeling the man across from her understood that. She was surprised he had admitted to Cornelius’s death. She wasn’t going to reward his honesty by being a hysterical nag. She didn’t understand this world. And she wasn’t going to criticize what she didn’t understand.
That didn’t mean she wanted to stay in it, though.
Andreas’s pen made a sudden flourish on the paper, almost as if he had just sealed Viscount Garrett’s fate by doing so. “Garrett’s only salvation was in Cornelius’s winning—and in rebuilding his reputation through your company. I have been steadily ruining him for too long for him to have other opportunities available now.”
“You’ve been corralling him into this spot for a long time.”
He looked at her through his lashes. “It was a different spot a few months ago, but yes.”
She almost asked if he would have ruined them along with Garrett had they not met, but she knew the answer already. She could choose to move forward with him, or argue over decisions that had not occurred in the end.
What was important was that she sensed a change in him. Or the verge of a change. A change that only he could choose to make. To go forward with life—but in a different way and with different goals.
Not that he would ever stop being Andreas Merrick however he chose to continue. Which was well, for she liked him—all of him—grumpiness and darkness included.
“Henry and Edward have both said their father would never agree to banishment.”
And there was the darkness, curving his lips. “If Garrett doesn’t leave England voluntarily, he will be labeled a traitor and run the risk that his title and line will be abolished.” He smiled, utterly satisfied. “Little matters to Garrett more than the knowledge that his own seed will continue the viscountcy.”
“You truly think he will be labeled a traitor?”
“In the same way your father was marked for prison and ruin, people need to blame someone. A financial crisis looms. Mark my words. And those in power see the stirrings.”
“My father—”
“Was a very convenient scapegoat. Circumstances were perfect. He will be fully exonerated within the week.”
She believed him. When he said something in that tone of voice, it happened.
He continued speaking, and she wondered briefly on his apparent ease conversing these days. “You helped me trace and tie Garrett to many of the rotten aspects of the fund speculation. He will take the fall, and rightly so. Easy enough for the word ‘traitor’ to be applied when foreign governments are involved. England will rue its speculations in the Latin quarters.”
He rolled his quill along the desk top, smiling. “And if Garrett does something stupid in the interim, we will be waiting.”
Rolling his pen was an odd gesture. It meant he was likely up to something.
He looked up and his eyes, heavily lidded and intense, met hers.
“I . . .” She wet her lips. “Well, I suppose I should retire for the afternoon. Let you work.” Which had been the promise of their bargain, the current price of a kiss.
He rolled his pen for long moments more. “Very well.” He rose, then walked around the desk.
She nervously watched his advance. It was strange doing this in a less-than-spur-of-the-moment manner, and she regretted a little, her stupidity in suggesting it. But at the same time . . . something said that if she could tolerate a little discomfort, she would be rewarded. The same feeling that had guided her in all her actions with him.
Chipping through the uncomfortable exterior in order to get to the treasure underneath.
He stood in front of her, and oh, he wasn’t going to make this easy on her. She could see it there in his eyes and posture. But he also wouldn’t be here, standing in front of her, if he were opposed to kissing her.
She licked her lips. His dark eyes were intense, holding hers.
She reached up to his chest, straightening an already straight seam. Then she reached up to his shoulders and put a little pressure on them as she lifted on her toes. His lips were warm as they touched hers. And the fire was there, underneath the contact, itching and dancing in her belly, waiting to be ignited completely.
But the kiss was oddly . . . gentle. Between her hesitancy to completely throw herself at him—she did have a little decency after all—and his actions in letting her lead, she supposed it wasn’t really odd. But . . . it was nice all the same. A different kind of feeling than what had happened between them in the kitchens or two nights ago on this desk, and different also from the kiss before she had made that first stitch, but no less intriguing in its own way.
The kiss stretched, her lips not separating from his for long moments.
She pulled back a notch, only enough to see his eyes. “Do you think that you might want to initiate another kiss too? At some point?”
“Perhaps. At some point,” he replied, his voice just the slightest bit uneven.
She nodded and dropped back on her heels, looking down. The slight embarrassment of the request and her forward action in kissing him were trying to overcome the feeling of rightness that she felt when near him.
“Good day . . .” She looked at him, and the impulse gripped her again. “ . . . Andreas.”
She turned to go, but his hand captured her wrist. He had the strangest look on his face. Usually so rock steady, but she could see the very visible fight in his eyes.
She tilted her head. “Is there something you need before I return upstairs?”
“You are the oddest creature.”
She nodded again. “Yes, I have been
told so before.” She wouldn’t let it hurt. She’d pushed the thread that connected such thoughts to her feelings away long ago. Hidden deep down. She was odd, it was true. She had been told so for so long that she accepted it as fact. Better to embrace the oddities and celebrate her strengths. Far easier and more productive. “Did you need something further, Andreas?”
His name easily slipped from her lips again, and she found she liked it there.
“I find it beyond comprehension, but yes, I do.” He reached forward and one finger touched her chin. Her breath caught, heart picking up speed quickly. “You tilt your head when you are curious. Therefore, you do so often.”
She swallowed. “That, and you are quite tall.”
“Or you are just short.”
Had he just . . . teased her? “To you most people likely are.”
His eyes were intense on hers, and so near to hers. His fingers curled around her chin. “You are the oddest creature.”
“Yes. And you are repeating yourself,” she said, a bit disgruntled within the onslaught of tangled emotion.
“You are one of the most confident people I’ve ever encountered, with a core so vulnerable to hurt. Do you realize what you are even doing, showing me such vulnerabilities?”
She swallowed again. “Perhaps it is stupid of me. I cannot help but be interested in you. And”—she looked down for a moment, only his hand and the darkness of his wrist in her view—“I do little by halves.”
“I as well.” It was said in a low voice. He said nothing further for long moments. “When I take something, I take everything.”
She had the feeling that he was giving her an opportunity to turn tail and run.
She tilted her head. “When I give something, I give everything.”
So many expressions chased across his face that she was uncertain what to even attempt to read there. Need, victory, despair.
“I know,” he whispered. His lips brushed against hers, once, twice, one taste, then another. She could barely catch her breath, then his lips were parting hers, opening them beneath, and the tinder exploded into flame. Consuming once more.
Taking everything. She offered it all freely, simply hanging on as every bit of her caught fire. Even the fingernails gripping his shirtsleeve burned.
His mouth pulled from hers suddenly, as if ripped away by will alone, and she gasped.
Strong lips pressed against her ear. “And I will find myself in hell for admitting it, but I have discovered you to be completely undeniable,” he whispered, then pulled away and strode back to his desk.
She stared at him as he walked away. And she thought she probably looked quite foolish if someone were to look upon her, but the beat of her heart thumped so hard in her chest, and the breath had been stolen from her lips, and the thread hidden so deep inside gave a twang, vibrating. Turning her world on end.
He didn’t look up from the papers there, but there was a hesitancy to him that she had never seen before, that her suddenly acute senses focused upon.
“Good day . . . Phoebe.”
Chapter 20
Andreas got a surprising amount done. Focused and determined to do so. Wrapping up things as he went. It was stunning, when he looked at things in a new light, but there were a large number of things he could wrap up and put in the “never again” pile if he so chose.
Life . . . life could be different.
If only . . .
No, he couldn’t think like that. He had carved this empire from blood and steel. And sheer stupid determination, at times. It was what he had.
But what he might be able to have . . .
He twitched and cursed violently as one of the steel bands bit into the junction of his left knee. Mathias had crafted a temporary brace to keep his left leg steady enough so he could walk on it without anyone the wiser until it fully healed, but the disadvantage to making it seem as if there was nothing amiss was that he had to be very careful of new movements.
He was getting rid of the left brace as soon as he was able. He wished he could do so with its counterpart, but the right joint had been too badly damaged. The bone was too prone to popping out for him to get rid of the brace in his line of work.
His reputation had not been gained from hobbling around with a cane.
Still, a line of sweat broke on his brow as he pushed the bands on his left leg back into place. For the moment he was safe from Phoebe’s prying eyes and could give in to the pain. And none of their men would dare enter.
His brother chose that moment to stroll nonchalantly into the room and his life again. “I leave for a month and come back to a bloody building full of fowl.”
Andreas stared at him, but Roman merely blinked at the double desks, then negligently dropped into the chair on the other side of Phoebe’s, looking happy and relaxed and completely pissed underneath it all—a tightly held thread with Andreas’s name on it.
“Real fowl,” Roman stressed. “There are at least fifty birds in the building down the street. Did you suddenly develop an affinity for the taste of chicken?”
“No.” Andreas gritted his teeth and struck the last band back into its slot.
Roman’s eyebrows shot up, but none of the mingled emotions in his eyes changed. “I would say it is good to see you, but you look like shit.”
He wasn’t foolish enough to believe that Roman hadn’t received the shortened version of most of the events that had occurred in his absence. Probably on his way up, the boys tripping over themselves to secure his favor once more by supplying every detail.
He took a moment to look the blond man over, at the healthy and relaxed glow that emanated above the irritation. Good. He could deal with the underlying displeasure. That, otherwise, Roman held happiness in his palm was his main concern. “Where is your wife?”
“At the house.”
Andreas grunted. “One-eye?”
“He stayed to moon over Viola some more.”
One-eyed Bill’s fascination with Charlotte’s mother was enduring. And it served the perfect excuse for him to be near Charlotte and the Chatsworth ladies whenever Roman was absent. Andreas was sure Charlotte wasn’t unaware of that aspect of the situation. There were enough rough-looking men surrounding their Grosvenor Square house, and accompanying the women when they were out and about, to dissuade the devil himself from collecting a soul inside.
And Roman was adjusting to life outside. That was . . . favorable in many ways. And Andreas was always happy to see the stupid bastard.
“How was your trip?”
“Fine.” Roman smiled. “Let’s talk instead about what you’ve been doing in my absence.”
Healthy and relaxed aside, there was no doubt about it, Roman was thoroughly pissed.
None of the tactics Andreas used to distract or remove people would work with his brother. “I took care of matters that required such care.”
“Mmmm . . . and I seem to remember a distinct promise that you made to me stating that you were going to wait to take care of Cornelius until after I returned.”
“Well, you only missed by a day.”
“Andreas.”
“He almost killed Phoebe Pace.”
Roman watched him closely. Andreas didn’t even try to hide his expressions. Roman was a master at reading people, and he knew Andreas better than anyone.
“You were hurt killing him,” Roman said.
It wasn’t a question. That meant that someone had noticed. “How did you find out?”
“Some of the boys saw you limping last night and elaborated on it during their overzealous report.”
Snotty bastards and their hero worship.
“How you put up with those little shits, I’ll never understand.”
Roman waved a hand. “Like you have to anyway. I’m sure you made Milton handle them.”
Andreas said nothing, resignation overtaking him. Consequences were for underlings, dammit, not for him. Unfortunately, that type of previous thinking was what was going to cost h
im Phoebe Pace in the end. Consequences were reaching around and squeezing him like a constrictor on its final press.
“Where is Milton, by the way?” Roman asked far too pleasantly. “At the highway?”
Andreas pinched his lips together. Roman obviously knew.
“Andreas?”
“Shropshire.”
“My God, that bit was true? You sent Milton to Shropshire?” Roman sat forward, looking at him as if he’d lost his mind.
“We needed someone to assess the situation there. You knew that before you left.”
“You sent Milton?”
“Yes,” he said defensively. “He is qualified.”
“Qualified? You could have sent two newer recruits and one of the older boys to do that task. Who has been handling things for you?”
“I’ve managed.”
“You sent away the one person who could have handled everything on my side in my absence, leaving you to your dark hole. What the devil were you thinking?”
He hadn’t been thinking anything outside of keeping Milton away, that was the problem.
Roman’s eyes suddenly narrowed on him. “What did Milton do? No one will say. That means they don’t know.”
“Nothing.”
Roman’s eyes narrowed more on that quick response. He examined him closely. “Milton Fox would not steal.”
“No.”
“He is good at handling your anger.” Roman examined him as if he’d turned into an odd form of ermine in his absence. “He wouldn’t step on your toes.”
“I just sent him on an assignment, Roman,” he said in a surly voice. “He’s not six feet under.”
“What did he do, show interest in Miss Pace?” When Andreas didn’t reply, Roman’s eyes went wide. “Oh dear God. Andreas, you didn’t?”
Andreas didn’t get a chance to respond before Roman started madly laughing. “Charlotte is going to die.”
Andreas had a knife in his hand, twirling it on his desk. “Not if you die first.”
But Roman just continued to chuckle, of course. Andreas’s threats had never worked against him. Ever.
Because he knew, for him, they were empty.
He looked at his brother, at his cheerful expression, fierce feelings running through him. He could still remember that day so long ago, lying crippled in the detritus of the alley, freezing, watching Death stalk closer. And then blond hair had popped into his vision. Talking a mile a minute, the strange boy had pulled a blanket from somewhere and offered him a chunk of stolen bread, talking crudely around a bite of crust he was munching. Never stopping for a moment, even as he’d pushed Andreas onto the blanket and dragged him into an abandoned building, tucking him away.