by Gaelen Foley
If Falkirk stepped in as savior, he might manipulate Drake into revealing the Order’s secrets more effectively than the torturers could ever have done through pain.
Just a month ago, Rohan had seen Drake with his own eyes and confirmed that their brother warrior had become so far estranged from who he was that he had actually shielded Falkirk with his own body when Rohan had had a clear shot at the old man.
Still, Drake’s damaged memory could be a blessing in disguise. If the Promethean torturers had not scrambled his wits, he probably would have exposed them all by now.
In short, they had to get him back, and soon. If Falkirk wanted the Alchemist’s Scrolls in exchange for Drake, that was a price the Order was willing to pay.
“Good night, lads,” Virgil muttered. “Considering these are meant to buy us back Drake’s life, I’d best go put them in the vault, where they’ll be safe.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Good night, Virgil.”
After the old Highlander had stomped off down the hallway, Beau and Jordan also parted ways.
Frankly, Jordan was damned tired, having been up for two days putting everything in order for the mission.
A short while later, he was driving his phaeton home through the dark streets of Town and reflecting on the day’s events.
Every mission held its wild card, experience had taught him—the thing no one could plan for, no matter how meticulous one was. That was why he had to be ready for anything. And he’d thought he was.
But finding himself face-to-face with his old flame had shifted the earth beneath his feet. He had managed to put her out of his mind in order to finish the job, but now…
Somehow he found himself on Great Cumberland Street, taking a restless detour on his journey home.
Past Mara’s house.
He slowed his carriage, rolling to an uneasy halt across from the elegant terraced crescent where she lived, even as he told himself this was a bad idea. What the hell are you doing?
He thought of parking on the street and going up to her front door, knocking on it, going in to see her. To smell her, to touch her…
Don’t be absurd.
He should not even be there; he chalked this foolish error in judgment up to plain fatigue. Yet he stared in the darkness, waiting for just one glimpse of her through the bright, warm windows of her town house on the end of the crescent, its shining fanlight over the door and three bays of windows, where empty flower boxes waited for spring to bloom.
Suddenly, he spotted her breezing past the upstairs windows, laughing. Jordan furrowed his brow and leaned closer. Music room? He could just make out the edge of a pianoforte.
As he watched in curiosity, he saw her catch her little son and sweep him up in her arms like a doll. In the silence of the dark street, he could just make out her merry words to her child, her voice muffled through the closed window: “I got you!”
The toddler screeched happily as she held him aloft in sheer, adoring pride.
His throat tightened. Jordan looked away even before she had drifted out of sight with the boy on her hip.
He looked again, but she had disappeared, and for his part, he could feel the darkness closing in around him.
He could barely think what to do for a second. The despair that washed over him was blacker than this winter night. He steadied himself with a deep inhalation.
He let it out again, a cloud of steam.
At least it appeared she had found a way to be happy. That was all that counted. He was happy, too, Jordan reminded himself. Well, perhaps content was a better word for it. Not too desperately uncomfortable.
Who the hell are you fooling?
“Should have gone to the whorehouse with Beauchamp,” he informed himself aloud.
His horses’ ears swiveled at his voice, but he was merely talking to himself.
Shrugging off the emptiness, he gave his horses a light slap of the reins, urging them into a trot.
But the echo of Mara’s laughter and her child’s followed him home to his stately columned palace in Grosvenor Square—formal, spacious, well-appointed in every regard—and as silent as a tomb.
His sigh rebounded in the marble entrance hall when he walked in, handed off his hat and coat to his butler, and wearily climbed the curving staircase to the dark and cavernous master chamber.
He had a glass of brandy as he peeled off his clothes for bed. But his head had no sooner hit the pillow and he closed his eyes, exhausted, than he was right back in that damned country house…
Order agents traveled light and usually alone, but young earls on holiday came with an entourage of servants who carried their luggage for them, as a rule. Upon his arrival at his hosts’ sprawling country manor, Jordan allowed his valet and footmen to lug his traveling trunks to the wing of the house he’d been pointed toward, then, to the luxurious guest chamber he had been assigned.
Leaving his servants to unpack his things, he had exited his room a short while later and wandered off to find the Breakfast Hall, where the guests had been instructed to gather at their convenience for afternoon refreshments, introductions to everybody else, and to learn what amusements were planned for the next few days.
Strolling down the wainscoted, art-hung hallway toward the main block of the house, he had been musing in anticipation over which British ambassador he might be assigned to when he was soon sent off abroad, when suddenly, he heard the most damnable ruckus coming out of a nearby room.
Jordan paused, raised an eyebrow, and turned to study the door. Barely muffled by the walls, he could hear a woman’s angry voice berating whatever poor, unfortunate souls were in the room with her. He knew he should not eavesdrop, but after all, he was a spy.
Curiously, he cocked his head, listening.
“You stupid gel, you really are the most useless thing! What good is this gown if you did not bring the gloves?”
He frowned. People of Quality ought not to abuse their servants with such tirades.
“God, Mara, you are such a trial to me! Why can’t you do anything right? I knew bringing you here would be a disaster. I would’ve left you at home if I were not so kind-hearted—and this is my thanks?”
“But Mama, the other gloves will match—”
“Don’t you dare talk back to me!”
Crack!
Jordan’s jaw dropped.
“That’s for your insolence, you little hussy! Do not contradict me again, or we are going home.”
Jordan was staring at the door in astonishment. Armed foes were one thing, but an attack from one’s own family?
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Mama.”
His stare deepened to a scowl. Sorry for what, bringing the wrong gloves?
“Please, l-let us stay, Mama. I won’t cause you any trouble.”
“Humph.” A haughty sniff was all the girl got in exchange for her humiliating grovel.
It seemed to be expected of her.
“See that you don’t. I came here to visit with my friends. Try being rude to me again, and I’ll send you home to explain yourself to your father.”
“No, ma’am, please. I am sorry, Mother.”
Jordan was now glaring at the door. It would not do.
It would not do at all.
With righteous anger throbbing in his veins, his first thought was the Rohan approach. Kick the door in and grab the offending party by the throat.
But he was supposed to be the civilized one.
Strategy. Masking his fury at the injustice taking place on the other side of the door, he donned a carefree expression; as he reached for the doorknob, he heard the older woman’s muttered vow. “Believe me, I’ll do aught in my power to find you a husband while we’re here. God knows I’m eager to be rid of you.”
Jordan threw open the door with a sunny smile, then froze in feigned shock. “Oh! Oh, dear me—I’m terribly sorry—I thought this was my room! Forgive me, ladies! Blazes, how embarrassing. I must have taken a wrong turn.”
/> Before him stood a thin, very-refined-looking lady whose eyes narrowed. “No, sir, this is our room.”
“Ah, right. My apologies. You, er, would not happen to know the way to the Breakfast Hall, by chance?”
The lady folded her arms across her chest with an irritated sigh. “Down the hallway, to the left, and down the stairs.”
“The left…um, which hallway?”
You’re not very bright, are you? the woman’s impatient look replied as she tilted head. “Just outside the door.”
Well, she’s pleasant.
“Forgive my manners,” he said abruptly, ignoring her obvious vexation. “I should introduce myself since we are all guests here.” He flashed his best smile. “I am the Earl of Falconridge.”
“Oh! Well!” Her entire expression changed.
Jordan had rather expected it might.
“Are you, indeed? I daresay I have heard of you, Lord Falconridge.”
At twenty thousand a year, he’d bet she had. It was a scheming mama’s duty to keep track of Society’s best catches.
“I am Lady Bryce. My husband is Sir Dunstan Bryce, Baronet, and this is our daughter, Mara.”
“Miss Bryce.” Jordan bowed with courteous restraint to the slim, dark-haired demoiselle who was sitting on the ottoman, her head down.
“Mara, do show the earl some courtesy!” her mother snapped.
Only now, for the first time did the girl raise her gaze slowly to meet his, her dark eyes full of wretched innocence beneath the black fringe of her lashes. Those soulful eyes were so deep a brown they were almost black, like her glossy hair, though her skin was pale—one cheek still rosier than the other from her mother’s slap.
Jordan looked at her, and something inside of him was dealt a sweet mortal wound.
“How do you do,” she whispered barely audibly.
He could not even speak for a heartbeat.
He had to get her out of there. All of a sudden, he was completely obsessed with rescuing her. “Ahem! Perhaps Miss Bryce would be kind enough to show me where this, er, fabled Breakfast Hall is. I understand it’s where we’re all to meet.”
“By all means!” Lady Bryce now beamed at him as though she thought him the cleverest thing in the world. “Mara, why don’t you show His Lordship to the Breakfast Hall, my dear?”
“Yes, Mother.” She rose and toward the door, keeping her head down. “This way, sir.”
He stepped aside with a gallant gesture to Miss Bryce to go ahead of him. When she did, he stepped behind her, placing himself between her and the simpering witch. He pulled the door shut behind him in her mother’s face.
As they proceeded down the hallway, Miss Bryce barely responded to his friendly attempts at conversation. “Where are you from? Have you had a chance to meet the others yet? Fine house, isn’t it? Beautiful gardens, as well. I’m sure we’ll have a very pleasant stay.”
She stopped at the top of the stairs and turned to him all of a sudden; before they went any farther, she stared into his eyes. “You heard the whole thing, didn’t you?”
Her blunt question took him off guard. “Er, sorry?”
She knitted her dark brown eyebrows together impatiently.
He hesitated, trying to spare her pride, but she seemed to prefer the truth. He shrugged and abandoned the thought of lying to her. “I heard enough to know you didn’t deserve that. Are you all right?”
She stiffened and looked away. “I’m used to it. You weren’t really lost at all, were you?”
He shook his head with a rueful smile.
She glanced at him again, searching his eyes rather wistfully. “Thank you for what you did.”
“Anytime.” Then he shook his head, still unsettled by Lady Helen’s barbarity. “Why does she treat you like that?”
She shrugged. “She’s always been that way. She doesn’t really need a reason.”
He stared at her. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right. I don’t expect to have to listen to that much longer,” she murmured as she turned toward the stairs and led on toward the Breakfast Hall.
Jordan followed, watching her in fascination. Her earlier air of defeat had turned to a posture of resolve the farther they went away from her mother. “What do you mean by that?”
“Hm? Oh, nothing.” She cast him a hardened, little smile askance quite at odds with her youth.
He had seen smiles like that before. From Virgil. It was the grim, brave smile of a survivor.
Miss Bryce gazed straight ahead as they went down the hallway. “Will you do something for me?”
“Anything.” The word escaped him rather more fervently than he had intended.
She paused and turned to him once more. “Don’t tell anyone about that.”
He looked into her eyes, realizing there were depths to this young beauty he had never encountered in a girl before. “Of course not,” he whispered. “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me. You have my word of honor.”
The smile of grateful relief that broke slowly over her face could have lasted any young man through a war. “Thank you.” Then those lush, seductive lashes lowered, and she turned gracefully toward the corridor. “Here’s the Breakfast Hall, my lord.”
Jordan couldn’t take his eyes off her as he escorted her into the room. All signs of the hurt and humiliation she had suffered upstairs had vanished completely by the time she paraded into the Breakfast Hall, where she was instantly greeted, nay, thronged by a crowd of young gentlemen to whom she had already been introduced.
Gone, or rather, hidden, was any trace of the fragile vulnerability in her that Jordan had witnessed upstairs.
Miss Bryce had transformed into the very picture of girlish vivacity, laughing, flirting. And while the other girls in the room looked daggers at her, every eligible bachelor appeared as dazzled as he—including the tall, loud idiot, Viscount Pierson.
Jordan was extremely intrigued but was not quite sure he liked what he saw. He realized what her cryptic comment had meant when she had said she would not have to listen to her mother’s tirades much longer.
This was a girl on a mission. Not that he could blame her. As though she could feel him watching her, she glanced past her crowd of admirers; looking through them, she caught Jordan’s eye.
He arched a brow at her; she smiled back with a wry little shrug.
He had snorted to himself. Then he forced himself to turn away and was soon introduced to many more young ladies, but as much as he tried to pay attention to them, Mara Bryce had already staked some mysterious claim on his awareness.
Indeed, as the days unfolded, he kept a discreet eye on her at all times, an ear tuned to the sound of her voice, just in case she needed rescuing again…
Chapter 3
By the next evening, all signs of Thomas’s cold had evaporated, thanks to a long nap and his old nurse’s favorite home remedy: a broth of boiled barley sweetened with Turkish figs and raisins.
To Mara’s relief, the tiny viscount was himself again, curious and energetic as ever, building towers with his toy blocks in the drawing room and merrily knocking them over.
He was now as content as the family cat serenely seated on the windowsill, swishing its tail like a pendulum and gazing out at the evening’s frigid rain.
Mara turned and gazed at the mantel clock, gnawing her lip in indecision. Life had ebbed back to normal once she was convinced anew of her son’s continued survival. Now she realized there was just enough time to dress and go to Delilah’s dinner party, if she was game. The chance to see Jordan. What to do…
She wished she were not tempted, but she reasoned if she did not go, she would likely become a topic of conversation. If everyone was going to gossip about her at table, she jolly well ought to be there to speak up for herself, no?
As the clock ticked on, Mara begrudgingly admitted an irresistible curiosity to hear from Jordan’s own lips what he had been up to these past years.
Perhaps if she went to the
party and had a chance to observe him through the eyes of a grown woman, not a naïve girl, she might form a whole new opinion of her former dream man.
Lord knew, from that first moment he had come bursting into her life, distracting her mother from yet another oppressive rant, Jordan had seemed to Mara some sort of golden Prince Charming sprung to life—chivalry incarnate.
But she had no sooner looked into those sky blue eyes and beheld his air of shining gallantry that in her heart of hearts, she had instantly concluded, wistfully, that she could never have someone like him. He was too far above her.
It was not merely that he outranked her family by several degrees of the peerage. It went much deeper than that. He was better than she as a person—or so she had thought then. Handsome, kind, good; intelligent, amusing; at ease in every situation; good at everything; intimidated by no one. In short, he was a dream, and she was, well, a walking disaster, as Mother liked to say.
Someone as flawed as Mara Bryce could never be worthy of a man as close to perfection as she had ever seen, a veritable knight in shining armor.
Of course Jordan was kind to her. A man like him was kind to everyone. She had judged him innately good-hearted, a true gentleman in every sense of the word. She, on the other hand—! If even a fraction of what her mother said about her was true, then Jordan would want, indeed, deserved someone far better than herself.
With all those assumptions firmly set in her head, Mara had spent most of her time at the country house enjoying every moment in his company but refusing to get her hopes up that he might have any real interest in her.
If he had given her certain signals, she had either not taken them seriously or been blind to them because he had seemed too good to be true. If sometimes he had an enticing look in his eyes when he spoke to her, she was sure it was just her imagination. He couldn’t want her, especially after learning her humiliating secret.
He’d seen for himself how her own family had no respect for her, and they knew her best. Why should a paragon choose a girl who must have so much wrong with her that her own mother could not seem to love her?