by Gaelen Foley
Albert was stone drunk, according to plan, and Jordan was as close to breaking him down in that moment as he was likely to get. “You have friends, Holyfield. If someone is threatening you, you don’t have to face it alone.”
Mara’s interruption in the library still hung over their heads, making this an even more delicate operation: Jordan could not be entirely sure if Albert had decided she had come searching for him in error that night or if the duke was playing games, pretending to be friendly, when in fact, he saw Jordan as an enemy.
Jordan knew he had to be careful. More than that, he had to be patient. As much as he wanted to grab Albert by the lapels, throw him up against the wall, and beat the truth out of him, that wasn’t going to help matters.
Winning Albert’s trust was still the best way, at least for the moment. “If someone is blackmailing you—”
“If only it were that simple.” Albert shook his head, soaked with gin and fraught with desperation.
“Are you being threatened with violence?”
“I’m not a coward!” he slurred.
“Of course you’re not. Tell me what is going on.”
“I can’t speak of it.”
“Why?”
“Because people will think that I’m the one at fault! They’ll think—” His words broke off abruptly.
“They’ll think what?”
Albert swallowed hard, then he looked over at Jordan with fear in his eyes. “That I killed my brother.”
Jordan gave him a hard look. “Did you?”
“God, no! I was right here in London, at a ball, in front of everyone when I heard the news he had drowned! Ask anyone! Everyone saw me there! And yet, still some whisper, most cruelly, that I paid to have it done. Not true.” He shook his head with a woozy swing. “I had nothin’ to do with it. Somebody murdered him and now…”
“Now they’re threatening you?” Jordan finished for him.
Albert’s pleading stare confirmed it, but he was too scared to say it aloud.
“Have you seen the man making the threats?” Jordan pursued. “Could you describe him? Or has it all been through messengers?”
“I’ve seen him, all right,” he breathed, nodding in dread. “Why else would I be in such a pitiful state? Look at me, Falconridge! I’m a wreck! My nerves are shattered. I look like hell—”
“Try to calm down, Holyfield. It’s all right. I’m going to help you.”
“How?”
“Tell me where he is. I’ll get him for you.”
“You and what army?” he retorted, for Jordan had not revealed his identity as an agent of the Order.
So far, he had merely prevailed on him as a concerned friend. “Just tell me where to find him.”
Albert peered bleakly into his cup. “I don’t know. He just pops up like a-a bloody shadow. He’s pure hate.”
“Fine. Then I’ll set up an ambush for him at your house. You summon him by whatever means you would normally use, and when he walks in, I and a few of my colleagues will be ready for him.”
Albert searched his face in trepidation. “You’d really help me?”
“My dear Holyfield.” Jordan stood up from the stool and leaned his elbow on the bar. “Did you really think I was just a diplomat all those years I spent abroad?” he asked quietly.
Albert blanched. “It would only make it worse for me if you failed.”
“I understand that. We can keep you safe. But you’re going to have to cooperate. You can start by telling me what he wanted you to accomplish inside the palace.”
Albert stared at him; Jordan stared back relentlessly.
The duke hesitated, took a deep breath—
Two dainty hands suddenly covered Jordan’s eyes. “Guess who?” teased a familiar voice behind him.
He flung her hands away. This cannot be happening. Not again! “What the hell are you doing?” he shouted, pivoting to face her.
Mara’s eyes grew as round as saucers. She paled and shrank from him. “Surprise,” she said meekly.
He glowered at her, too shocked and furious to find his voice for a second.
“Ahem, I’ll leave you two alone,” Albert said.
“Holyfield, wait—”
“Jordan! Don’t you dare ignore me!”
“Leave me alone, Falconridge. These ladies over here need my attention, and I can see this one needs yours.” Albert slipped away to join the painted harlots on the sofa. They pulled him down onto their laps amid drunken laughter.
“Jordan! What is going on?”
He looked over slowly at his mistress, glaring at her.
Part of him wanted to throttle the woman. He could not believe she had just thwarted his mission again, ruined it for him, probably for good. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I might ask the same of you!”
“You should not have come here. This is no place for a lady. Come,” he said through gritted teeth as he took hold of her elbow. “I’ll see you to your carriage.”
“I’m not leaving!”
“Yes, you are,” he said as he marched her toward the exit.
“You can’t tell me what to do!” She shook her arm free, planted her feet, and turned to him in wrath.
“The hell I can’t,” Jordan growled. “You have no business being here!”
“Well!” She stared at him shock.
Seeing the hurt look in her big brown eyes, guilt began to overtake his fury. He dropped his gaze. “I told you I would call on you when the time was right.”
“What a liar you are.”
He glanced at her in cool surprise.
Mara folded her arms across her chest. “A brothel, Jordan, really? At least now I know where you learned some of your tricks.”
He flinched. But of course, it was true. All those years without the woman he loved in his life, he had made do with whores.
She shook her head at him. “I thought you were better than this.”
“It’s not how it looks,” he muttered, well aware he had already lost this battle.
“No, of course not. You just needed some time to sort out your feelings,” she reproached him. “What a fool I was to believe you! Save your lies for your little virgin bride, my lord! You’re going to need them.”
He furrowed his brow. “What are you talking about?”
She just glared at him, then flicked a contemptuous glance around at the harlots. “So sorry to interrupt your fun. Enjoy yourself, you hypocrite.”
“I will call on you tomorrow to discuss this—”
“Save yourself the trip,” she shot back. “I can assure you, I won’t be at home.” She gave him an icy look, then stalked out, her head high.
“Mara!” When he tried to follow, Delilah blocked his path, stepping in front of him.
“Leave her alone. Haven’t you already done enough damage?”
Jordan narrowed his eyes. “This is your doing, isn’t it?”
“You had her fooled, but I knew from the moment I saw you that you were a cad, just like every other man. Stay away from my friend.”
“You’re no friend to her, Delilah. You dragged her here for the sole purpose of coming between us, didn’t you?”
“I came here to show her you’re a fraud. I don’t trust you, Falconridge. You and your blue eyes.”
“You just want her to end up alone and miserable like you. Misery loves company, Delilah!” he spat.
“I am hardly miserable, I’ll have you know, and I’m certainly not alone! I could have any man here with a snap of my fingers.”
“In your bed, no doubt, but they wouldn’t love you. Not like I love Mara. That’s what you can’t stand for her to have when you’re without it. Some friend.”
He could see in her eyes that his words had struck home. She paled. “You don’t know me,” she ground out.
“Believe me, I know your kind all too well. Women like you don’t have souls. I guess Cole finally figured that out.”
Delilah stared at h
im in shock. She flounced out abruptly, leaving Jordan standing there fuming, at his wits’ end, indeed, nearly ready to explode.
His life of secrets and the lies he had been telling Mara were suddenly intolerable. They were causing more problems than they solved. This was a debacle. Now both his mission and his love affair were strewn in pieces. He would fix them both, but at the moment, he had no idea how.
He shook his head, took a deep breath, and marched back to the brothel’s gaudy parlor to finish this with Albert.
Unfortunately, when he arrived, he found his target passed out on the sofa. Albert was snoring, his head resting on the lap of some painted harlot, who was playing with the duke’s hair and guzzling gin.
Jordan clenched his jaw and began to count to ten. He wanted to punch something, for even he had limits to his frustration.
Not only was Mara furious at him—understandably so—for he realized how bad this looked, but his mission tonight had proved a waste, as well. An unconscious Albert was useless to him as a source of information.
He turned to one of the waiters. “Fetch his servants to cart this idiot home, will you?”
“Yes, sir.”
Before long, Albert’s coachman and groom came in to collect their unconscious master.
Jordan shook his head in disgust as they carried the duke out. Enough of the light touch on this. He was through being nice to that damned coward, that treacherous fool.
He’d clear it with Virgil first, but tomorrow, after Albert had slept off his drunk, Jordan vowed to himself he’d descend on the duke’s mansion in force and resort to more stringent measures to make the weasel talk.
He had just officially run out of patience.
There was a time for diplomacy, and a time to dole out a proper thrashing.
In a very rare, foul temper indeed, Jordan glanced down coldly when somebody touched him.
“Evenin,’ handsome.” One of the girls sidled up to him and caressed his back. “You look like you could use some cheerin’ up.”
It had been a week since he’d enjoyed a woman’s touch, but he just stared at her, as cold and dark as January.
“Not interested.” The edge in his low growl scared the whore away—but what scared him was the terrible thought that Mara might not forgive him for his lies.
If she banished him from her life, revoked her love, then he realized he might be making do with girls for hire for the rest of his dark, miserable life.
Albert awoke—barely—to a fiery headache and a raging thirst after a few deadened hours of gin-sodden sleep. Dried out from drink, his sudden panicked need for water was the only force strong enough to drive him into an upright position, then unsteadily onto his feet, shuffling across his bedchamber through the predawn twilight.
Still dressed in the fine clothes he had worn out the previous evening, even down to his shoes, he had no memory of coming home. He barely remembered being at the brothel.
Then again, not much about his life was worth remembering these days.
Seizing the pitcher of drinking water on his chest of drawers, he brought it up to his lips and, not bothering with a goblet, gulped water out of it directly.
It spilled over the wide mouth of the pitcher and ran down his chin, dripping on his chest, all over his rumpled attire. The former leading dandy of the ton was past caring.
Nausea followed straight on after guzzling the water. His stomach churned; his chamber swirled around him. He sank down heavily on the dainty stool before his dressing table.
Usually, he could not resist the nearness of a mirror, but this morning, he could not even stand to look at himself.
Escape.
He had tried to get back into the Regent’s library at Carlton House; but they watched him all the time though no one accused him. At least not yet.
I should run away.
But what was the point? Even if he jumped aboard the next packet to Calais, Bloodwell’s masters lurked in France, Belgium, Italy. No agreeable place was safe.
They were everywhere, and they’d get him.
Liquor was the last form of escape left to him, but God knew he had overdone it last night. And who could blame him? He was terrified. He still did not have Bloodwell’s list. Which meant he was going to have to talk his way out of this somehow. At the moment, the thought of facing Bloodwell again made him feel sick enough to puke.
He lifted the pitcher again and poured the rest of its contents over his head in an effort to wake himself up.
The water splashed all over him, plastering his formerly perfect hair to his forehead, dousing his celebrated cravat, and wetting the floor beneath him as if a coward had lost control of his bladder.
“It’s time, Albert.”
He closed his eyes, but for once, he didn’t jump out of his skin. No, he had been expecting this. At the sound of Bloodwell’s footsteps sauntering closer, he opened his eyes again wearily.
“I’m here for my list.”
Albert braced himself, then stood, and turned to face him. “I don’t have it. I need more time—”
Bloodwell grabbed him by the throat. “What you lack is motivation, Albert.” He pulled out a large knife. “But I have a notion of how to inspire you.”
Albert cried out, struggling against his hold. He watched in helpless horror as Bloodwell flattened his right hand, splayed, across the top of his night table.
He secured Albert’s thumb against the table, bringing up the knife to whack it off. “I warned you, Albert. Wasting my time is going to cost you.”
“Wait! No! Please, don’t, don’t, please, wait! I-I know what to do. I have another solution,” he begged him.
Bloodwell paused; his leery gaze slid over to him. “I’m listening.”
“They don’t trust me. They watch me all the time at Carlton House now,” he forced out in a panic, cold sweat running down his face. “That’s why I haven’t been able to get in there again. But I know someone who can,” he said with a gulp.
“Go on.”
“Someone who has the Regent’s complete confidence. A person they’d never suspect.”
“Name?”
“Mara—Lady Pierson. V-viscountess. She’s a cl-close friend of the Regent. A fashionable widow. She has far more access to Carlton House, a standing invitation! She can go in w-whenever she wants. She could get your list.”
“One of the Regent’s bed partners?”
“No. The tie between them is her son. Little wee boy. His name, oh, what is it—Timothy—no Thomas. Yes, Thomas that it. He’s her entire world, and the Regent is his godfather. Take the boy, and she will do whatever you ask.”
“This woman lives in London?”
“Near Hyde Park,” said Albert with a gulp. “I don’t know which street. I could find out!”
“Not necessary. I’ll manage. This is good, Albert.”
“Yes! You see, I-I told you I could be useful. I couldn’t get the list myself, but I knew I could at least give you a good alternative, t-to help.”
“If you’re lying to me—”
“No, I swear! I wouldn’t. Will you let go of my hand now, please? Please?”
Bloodwell released his hand with a sly smile.
Albert yanked it close to his chest, guarding it as he cowered before the shadowy man. “Why are you smiling?” he whispered, chilled. “You are pleased with my solution?”
“I could never condone failure, Albert. I’m just happy that I won’t have to hear your whining anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“Get up,” Bloodwell ordered. “You and I are going to take a little walk out to the woods.”
Chapter 17
As the light rose over London, the dawn of the new day found Mara peaked and pale after a night of tossing and turning. Finally, she had won a few hours’ respite from her insomnia, but then awoke late accordingly, and her whole morning routine was quite thrown off. To make matters worse, she was supposed to visit her parents.
It was
now half past nine as she sat alone in the parlor, picking at her breakfast, her heart feeling like a bruised apple that had fallen out of the bushel basket and landed on the floor.
She couldn’t stop thinking about Jordan. How she regretted hunting him down last night.
That’s the last time I listen to Delilah.
He had spoken so coldly to her, had grown so irate.
She was glad, of course, that she had not found him dallying with a harlot. But it really wasn’t much better to see him out carousing yet again with her late husband’s friends from the raucous Carlton House set.
Something really was not adding up. And she was dashed tired of it.
Thomas came barreling into the parlor, banging one of his wooden blocks on the wall as he traveled, and aggravating the headache she already had from crying last night. “Thomas, stop that. You’re going to dent the wall.”
He sped over and tugged on her skirts, clamoring for attention. “Calm down,” she ordered. “I’m trying to eat my breakfast.”
When that didn’t work, he resorted to whining. “Mama! I go outside!”
“Thomas, please—Mrs. Busby!” she called in tense impatience, catching herself almost sounding like her mother.
“There you are, little master! Sorry, ma’am, he got away from me. He’s gettin’ quick for these old bones.”
Mara flinched with guilt as the old nurse hobbled in and collected the viscountess’s rambunctious son. But Thomas didn’t want Mrs. Busby. He began kicking about as the old woman lifted him. “No, no, no! Don’t pick me up!”
Mara put her fork down with a sharp clatter. “That will do, young man! You don’t kick Mrs. Busby, or anyone else, for that matter. Stop it!” She grabbed his little foot and stilled it firmly, giving him a scolding stare. “Behave yourself.”
Thomas scrunched up his nose and pouted at her, but obeyed.
“That’s better. You need to calm down. You’re going to go see Grandmother today, and you mustn’t vex her.”
“Er, my lady, about that—I know we’re all running a bit behind today,” Mrs. Busby said tactfully, glancing at the mantel clock. “Do you know what time you’ll wish to leave for your parents’ house today?”