My Irresistible Earl

by Gaelen Foley

  She arrived presently in a hired hackney. Not the normal mode of transportation for any viscountess, but she had sent Thomas off today in her own carriage.

  All the while, Dresden Bloodwell’s instructions rang through her mind like a death knell tolling. You will go to Carlton House. Enter the main library. Use this key to open the Regent’s cabinet. It will also unlock his desk.

  If Jordan had not told her about the true nature of his work and what was going on in the shadows at Carlton House, Mara would not have been able to hold herself together enough to keep putting one foot after another.

  But thanks to the sketchy information he had shared just this morning in the midst of his apology, she recognized her instructions as the same ones that had been given to Albert.

  Albert must have failed, and after meeting Dresden Bloodwell, there was no question in her mind now that poor, arrogant Alby was already dead—but apparently not before suggesting her as a useful alternative.

  Part of her yearned to run to Jordan, fall into his arms, tell him everything, and beg him to save Thomas.

  But she did not dare. Bloodwell’s commands were very clear. Do not stop anywhere. Do not speak to anyone. Do not attempt to go to the authorities. If you do any of these things or defy my instructions in any way, your child is the one who will pay for your foolishness.

  And if you dawdle, if I do not have that list in my hands by nightfall, the old nurse will be the first to die.

  Mrs. Busby.

  Dear God—please help me.

  Arriving at Carlton House, Mara got out of the hackney, paid the driver with shaking hands, and walked numbly toward the private entrance she normally used when she visited Prinny.

  The smartly uniformed guards, well armed and well trained, greeted her with warm, respectful smiles and a few looks of concern, noticing she was visibly upset. It took all her strength not to start screaming for them to help her, but somehow she refrained, and they, in turn, opened the gates without concern over such a familiar face.

  Going through the motions, Mara thanked them with a nod. She managed a smile, then hid her relief when they told her His Royal Highness was not at home.

  “I’ll just wait for him, then. I just—really need to talk to him.” Her lips trembled. “He’s always been so good to me.”

  The tears in her eyes, though genuine, were apparently more of a weapon than the men were trained to handle.

  “Of course, Lady Pierson. Right this way. Come, I’ll walk you in,” said their captain with the usual highborn chivalry of this class of soldier.

  She followed him in a daze.

  “Perhaps you should sit down,” he said in concern, offering her his arm as though he feared she might faint.

  Did she look that bad?

  “Is there anything we can get for you?”

  “N-no, I’m fine. Really. It’s—it’s just my little boy. A bit of conflict with my in-laws. Nothing new. I just need some advice from his godfather. If I could just sit somewhere out of the way and wait until he returns—?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you mind if I wait in the library?” she asked, steadying herself, though everything in her knew she would surely burn in Hell for this. “Perhaps I could find something to read to pass the time while I wait.”

  “Certainly, ma’am.” The magnificently uniformed soldier showed her down the marble corridor.

  When they stepped into the gleaming antechamber before the library, one of George’s underbutlers spotted her on the guard’s arm. He immediately furrowed his brow, noting her ashen countenance, and hurried over with an equal air of concern. “Lady Pierson, are you quite well?”

  “I’m fine,” she forced out.

  “She’s just a little upset. She’s here to see His Royal Highness.”

  “Ah. I’m afraid the Regent had an engagement earlier today, dedication of a new school out by Windsor. But he should be back quite soon, my lady.”

  “She’d like to have a seat in the library while she waits,” the captain informed him.

  “Of course. Would you care for tea while you wait, my lady? The kitchens just received an excellent new oolong.”

  “Yes, please—you’re very kind,” she choked out. Get him out of here. She felt horrible, on the verge of betraying them all, but she could not afford to have kindly souls hovering over her at the moment.

  “I think Her Ladyship would like to be left alone,” the officer commented discreetly to the underbutler as they headed across the gleaming antechamber.

  “I understand. I’ll bring your tea, Lady Pierson, and I will personally make sure no one else disturbs you.”

  “Thank you both, sincerely,” she choked out.

  “It’s nothing, ma’am.” The officer opened the library door for her and escorted her over to a leather club chair.

  Mara sat down with a shaky exhalation.

  “Here. Just in case,” the captain murmured, offering her his own clean, neatly pressed handkerchief with a manly smile.

  Fresh tears flooded her eyes. She nodded at him and blotted them with his folded handkerchief.

  She did not want to think about what would happen to him or the equally good-hearted underbutler after her treachery was revealed. But neither of them had any reason to suspect her. Everyone here was used to seeing her on any given day.

  “Would you shut the door, please?” she requested, as the captain took leave of her. “I’d rather not have the whole staff see what a watering pot I am today.”

  “Not at all, my lady.” He bowed to her and stepped out, pulling the door closed gently behind him and leaving her alone.

  To betray her country.

  Mara closed her eyes, utterly nerve-racked. But time was of the essence. George was expected back soon, and the underbutler would arrived in several minutes with her tea.

  Mara reached into her reticule and pulled out the key that Dresden Bloodwell had entrusted to her. Gripping it in her fist, she turned and looked over her shoulder at the locked door to George’s private cabinet. She swallowed hard at what she was about to do. For Thomas. She would do anything—anything—to protect her son.

  If she had to betray every loyalty she held dear—her lover, her royal friend, her country—indeed, even if she hanged for this, which she probably would—then so be it. Jordan himself might be sent personally to arrest her for what she was about to do, and he’d probably relish doing so when he found out she had willingly aided his enemy, but the only thing that mattered in this moment was her child.

  Heart pounding, she glanced once more at the library door, waiting to see if the underbutler was coming. But it was too soon. The minutes seemed to drag; each excruciating second seemed to take a month.

  Inside the Regent’s desk, you will find an official list of names, men who are being considered for a special commendation by the Crown.

  She rose from her chair and walked with her heart in her throat to the locked door in the far corner.

  Her shaking hands fumbled to fit the key into the keyhole, but then it entered, she turned it, and heard the bolt click.

  She swallowed hard, again glanced furtively over her shoulder, then slipped into George’s small private office and closed the door behind her in case the underbutler returned before she was ready.

  Her pulse throbbed as she glanced around the little room. George’s desk was just like him—ornate and oversized, with countless gilded flourishes.

  Mara flew over to the huge royal desk and crouched, using the key again to unlock the drawers. Swiftly sorting through the stack of the Regent’s personal papers, she ignored invitations, schedules, a draft of a bill from the Tories, a report from the detail of soldiers assigned to his estranged wife, Princess Caroline of Brunswick…

  A list! But, no, this was a petition signed by wool merchants asking for some change in the trade laws.

  She kept looking until, near the bottom of the stack, she finally came to a simple piece of parchment. It bore two long line
s of male names, about thirty in all, beneath the header, His Majesty’s Secret Services, The Order of St. Michael the Archangel. Someone had scrawled, Recommended for Commendation for Outstanding Valor and Service to the Realm. Mara scanned the list uneasily.

  Sebastian, Viscount Beauchamp.

  Drake Parry, Earl of Westwood.

  Rohan Kilburn, Duke of Warrington.

  Max St. Albans, Marquess of Rotherstone.

  Jordan Lennox, Earl of Falconridge…

  The blood drained from her face as she read Jordan’s name, but she recognized the other names, as well. Horror flooded her as she realized what she was holding in her hand.

  These were his wild, rakehell friends from the notorious Inferno Club. And, standing there, it now dawned on her—the true purpose of their secretive gatherings at Dante House. It was not a gentlemen’s club at all. Only a front for one of His Majesty’s secret services!

  So, this was what Dresden Bloodwell wanted, at the behest, no doubt, of whomever he was working for. With this list, all the agents’ identities would be exposed.

  The Order’s enemies could come and pick them off before they even knew that they had been discovered.

  The very world stopped turning as Mara realized Jordan could die if she went through with this and handed the list over to Dresden Bloodwell.

  And if she did not, that fiend would kill her son.

  She pressed her hand over her mouth, her pulse pounding with sickening force.

  Surely there must be another way. No, I can’t take that chance. She shook her head and quickly began putting the Regent’s other papers back.

  Her course was clear. Jordan and his friends were hardened spies. Thomas was a defenseless two-year-old, and she was his mother. She was all he had.

  Locking George’s desk again, she backed out of his office, glancing about to make sure she had put everything back properly. She pulled the door shut with a low click, locked it, as well, then rushed back to the table where she had left her reticule.

  She paused, staring at the heavy, carved table.

  Searing pain blazed in her heart as she recognized it as the very place where Jordan had made such passionate love to her on the night of the ball. Tears pricked her eyes; she squeezed them closed, her nerves frayed, her wits close to snapping.

  I’m so sorry, my love. I have no choice.

  He probably knew this feeling all too well.

  She shook herself fiercely, flicking her eyes open again. Keep moving! The underbutler would be back at any moment with her tea.

  She quickly put the key to the Regent’s office back in her reticule, then folded the list up small and tucked it in there, too.

  She calmed herself with the vow that she would warn Jordan and his heroic comrades of the danger as soon as she had her child back safely in her arms.

  Until then, Falconridge was on his own.

  She crossed to the library, braced herself, and pulled the door open, only to find the underbutler wheeling a tea cart across the pristine marble antechamber, heading her way. “Oh, forgive me—”

  “My lady?”

  “I no longer want the tea. I’m so sorry. I’ve come down with such a headache. I think it will be best if I just go home for now. I’ll make an appointment to see His Highness later this week. But thank you. I am sorry for your trouble.”

  “It’s no trouble at all, my lady.”

  She offered him a contrite smile. “I’ll show myself out.”

  The underbutler bowed to her. “As you wish, ma’am.”

  Mara nodded to him, then turned calmly and headed for the nearest exit—the grand front doors beneath the famed porte cochere of Carlton House.

  Just before she made a clean escape, however, a familiar voice called her name.

  “Mara!”

  She froze as that deep, cultured voice echoed off the sea of marble in the grand entrance hall of Carlton House.

  The one person in the world she wanted to see even less than the prince.

  Oh, God, please, don’t make me face him now.

  “Mara?”

  She was unnerved. Half of her wanted to run, but she just stood there, paralyzed. In the next heartbeat, she managed to chase all emotion from her face and turned around slowly as Jordan came striding toward her, long and lean. He looked unusually formidable this way, dressed all in black.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Her defenses bristled with guilty defiance. Don’t let him notice anything wrong. “I came to see the Regent.”

  “Oh,” he murmured in chagrin, dropping his gaze as he stopped in front of her.

  She could see by his pained look that he assumed she meant she had come to cry on her royal friend’s shoulder over their falling-out. Of course, he had no inkling of her true purpose here. And he must not find out.

  As a warrior, no doubt he could fight Bloodwell. But he was also a spy, and with his cold heart, he might see Thomas as a pawn in his mission, just like he’d seen her.

  If she told him the situation, he might try to work out some sort of canny strategy to get his enemy.

  Mara did not give one fig about strategy at this moment. Every maternal instinct in her only cared about getting her child back safely.

  Jordan gazed at her, reading her taut expression with concern. “Are you all right?”

  She took a deep breath, realizing she must be careful, or he could easily read her and guess that she was hiding something. She shrugged, and nonchalantly said, “I’m fine.”

  He flinched at her terse answer and looked away, scanning the gleaming hall briefly with that restless, piercing glance of his. “You haven’t seen Albert here, have you? I’ve been trying to track him down all day.”

  “No.”

  He nodded, floundering. She waited, dying to go, but afraid of alerting him that anything was wrong, beyond their quarrel.

  “Mara, about this morning, can I just say—”

  “Please. This is not the time or place.” She did not think she could bear it.

  He dropped his gaze once more. “Of course. Just know that, if you should change your mind, I’m always here. You can call on me anytime.”

  She pressed her lips together, fighting the lump that had risen in her throat. He was so beautiful and courageous—she could not bear to look at him.

  Lying to him about something so huge in this moment was horrible beyond anything she could have imagined. At least now she knew what Jordan went through all the time.

  It occurred to her that she was in exactly the same position he had been in twelve years ago. He had walked from her to protect his friends; now it was her turn to walk away from him in order to protect Thomas. Perhaps this love of theirs was simply not meant to be.

  “I must go,” she forced out. With a trembling farewell nod, she turned away.

  “Mara?” He spoke her name like a caress.

  She flinched. The memory of his touch, his kiss, making love to him in her bed was almost more than she could bear. But she could not refuse the irresistible summons of that voice.

  She turned back carefully, warily, and looked at him in question.

  “I really do care for you,” he whispered.

  Gazing at him through a mist of tears, it took all she had not to throw herself into his arms. She stood in silence for a moment, memorizing him.

  But Thomas was waiting.

  She steadied herself, tore her gaze off him, turned around, and forced herself to walk away.

  Jordan watched her go in an agony of guilt. God, what have I done to her? He had never seen so much pain in her dark eyes. He was utterly deflated to know that he had caused her so much suffering.

  Her feelings for him seemed to have gone completely cold. Just now, she had barely been able to look him in the eyes.

  Determined to carry on despite the heavy burden in his heart, he went into Carlton House and asked the little black-coated underbutler who approached if he could see the Regent.

  “Oh, His Roya
l Highness is not here, Lord Falconridge.”

  Jordan furrowed his brow and eyed the man skeptically. “Didn’t Lady Pierson just meet with him?”

  “No, sir, she waited a while for him in the library, but then she wasn’t feeling well and decided to go home. You might have seen her on the way out?”

  “The library?”

  “Sir?”

  Jordan was already stalking back toward the door. The thoughts whirling through his mind were too dark, too shocking, too impossible to be true. It could not be.

  He dashed out under the portico and glanced around until he spotted her out on Piccadilly. She was just climbing into a hackney.

  A hackney? The elegant Viscountess Pierson?

  His stomach twisted in a knot. At once, he called for his horse, keeping his stare clamped on the battered old carriage she had hailed.

  He took note of the requisite hackney coach number painted on the back, “No. 145,” it read, just as it disappeared into the traffic.

  He cursed under his breath, but a moment later, the attendant brought his horse. Jordan swung up into the saddle without a word and immediately urged his white hunter in the direction she had gone.

  He must not let her out of his sight.

  Farther down Piccadilly, he spotted No. 145 again; he followed, keeping a wary distance.

  She would not do it. She would never betray me.

  He could never believe it of her. Still, hoping against hope, he intended to find out where the hell she was going. Why else would she want a few moments alone in the Regent’s library?

  The route her hackney took was beginning to look all too familiar—the busy intersection at Charing Cross, then the bend where it merged into the Strand. The knot in Jordan’s stomach tightened when her hackney turned in at St. Martin’s Lane and headed northward, up to Seven Dials.

  Still, his mind refused to believe the picture that was coming clear.