“They’re all jealous of my good looks and keen wit. You, however, know the true, inner me.”
Sullivan shook his head. “The only inner you I’ve seen is when you got sliced on the arm. It’s red.”
“Precisely. As are your innards. You see, we have so much in common.”
Obviously Bramwell was bored this evening, and just as obviously Sullivan wouldn’t have a moment of peace until he gave in. “Buy my dinner, and I’ll go with you,” he said, dipping his hands into the washbowl and scrubbing off the dirt.
“Done. And then you can tell me what you’re going to do about your problem.”
His problem. Lady Isabel Chalsey. With a shrug he tossed Bramwell a bottle of whiskey. “She’s not much of a problem,” he said offhandedly, trudging up the stairs to change into evening attire. “She’s had her moment of bravado, so I’ll tolerate her for a day or two and meanwhile make it clear that she needs to keep her pretty mouth shut.”
“Her ‘pretty’ mouth?” Lord Bramwell repeated from the ground floor.
Bloody hell. “Yes, her mouth. Her keeping her nose closed wouldn’t much benefit me, now, would it?”
“That depends on how much time you’ve been spending in the stable with the horse shit.”
The wisest plan for tonight would probably have been to stay at home and spend the ensuing hours before his morning visit to Chalsey House figuring out what precisely he was going to do about Lady Isabel. Sullivan blew out his breath.
He was popular with ladies of quality, and he’d had his share of lovers. This, though, was different. This was complicated. And despite the kiss and the odd…connection he felt with her, he wasn’t certain this difficulty was something he could resolve through physical domination or intimidation. What did spoiled, pretty chits fear? What could he offer or threaten that would convince her to keep her silence? She’d kept his secret to this point, but he had no idea why. And he needed to find the answer to that question without delay.
He pulled on a clean shirt and buttoned a waistcoat over it, then shrugged into a jacket. Jezebel’s had a very mixed clientele, from merchants to bankers to horse breeders to second sons of dukes, but he would be in Bram’s company, and so he would look the part. And to himself he could admit that he didn’t want to appear common. Of course, he wasn’t common. Without his father’s acknowledgment, he wasn’t anything.
“You look lovely,” Bram drawled from a chair by the fire downstairs. “Prettier than me, even. I don’t know that I like that.”
With a snort, Sullivan pulled on his greatcoat and beaver hat. “You’re still the prettiest,” he said, calling for his housekeeper and instructing Mrs. Howard to bank the fires and go home for the night.
“As long as we agree about that,” Bram continued, leading the way to his coach. “So what do you know about the Chalsey family?”
Sullivan took the opposite seat, and the big black behemoth rocked into motion. “Wealthy, two sons and a daughter. The oldest boy is an earl with a fondness for fine horses, the daughter is a light sleeper, and they used to own one of my mother’s paintings.”
“You’re beginning to sound cynical.”
“I am cynical.”
Bramwell gazed at him for a moment, his eyes shadowed in the dark coach. “By some miracle you’re not dead, Sullivan,” he finally said in a quiet voice. “The Chalseys are a straitlaced lot. And their daughter is one of polite Society’s darlings. Don’t take Lady Isabel’s silence for granted. I’d hate for you to end on the gallows after I went to the bother of saving your life in Spain.”
Sullivan narrowed his eyes. “You’re not actually concerned about me, are you, Bram? Because I think I was fairly clear about my intentions when this all began, and you still agreed to point out the locations where I might find those paintings once you spotted them. Nothing’s changed.”
“Someone saw you. That changes things. And even if you can persuade her to keep her knowledge to herself for now, what’s going to happen when you go after the next painting? Will she stay silent then?”
For a long moment Sullivan gazed through the coach window at the moonlit evening. His stable was just outside London, but it felt far more countrified. Yet within a mile or two they’d reached the heart of town again. “The risks are mine, Bram. If you’re backing out of our—”
“No, I’m not backing out. Damnation, you’re stubborn. Get yourself hanged, then. I’ll continue to do my part.”
“That’s all I ask.”
All through dinner he fended off questions from Bramwell about his plans regarding Lady Isabel, and from Molly Cooper about his plans for the rest of the evening. The innkeeper’s daughter was a pretty little thing, but it was rumored that her father kept a loaded musket behind the beer kegs, and Sullivan didn’t feel like the risk would be worth the reward. Aside from that, he had other things on his mind.
Finally Bram pulled a handful of social invitations from his pocket. “These are the ones I’m undecided about,” he said, pushing the stack in front of Sullivan. “Any preferences?”
Sullivan looked through them. They were requests for Bram’s presence at various soirees, music recitals, and private dinners; he already would have accepted the invitations to the more interesting and prestigious events. After all, cynical and jaded as he was, Bram did have a duke for a father.
“The Hardings,” he said, sending one of the cards back in his friend’s direction. “Eugenia Harding already owns two of my mother’s paintings legitimately.”
“So what should I not look for?”
“Two young girls in a flower garden, and Dover at sunset,” he said immediately. Even if he hadn’t remembered them all, his mother had kept very precise records. That was why when he’d returned home from the Peninsula to find every wall in her home bare of her own dearest paintings, he’d known it hadn’t been her idea.
“Are you certain you don’t want those back, as well?”
Sullivan shook his head. “She sold them. I only want the ones that were stolen from her, and from me.”
“I’m merely saying, as long as you’re…liberating items from a house and angering Dunston, why stop at the ones to which you have a legitimate claim?”
“Because I have a legitimate claim to them.” He handed back another folded card. “This one. Barnett’s a collector, and he’s greedy.”
Bram frowned. “But he has two unmarried daughters.”
“And?”
“You know precisely what the ‘and’ is, Sullivan. The only reason I was invited to their dinner was so one of the chits could trap me into marriage. If I attend, they’ll think I’m willing.”
“If you weren’t willing to go, you shouldn’t have handed me the invitation.”
“You are hardheaded.”
“I’m on a course of vengeance, if you’ll recall. It’s supposed to be messy.” Sullivan took a breath. A good friend probably wouldn’t attempt to force his companion to attend something he deemed unpleasant. He knew Bram well enough, though, to have a fair idea that the Duke of Levonzy’s son wouldn’t do anything he didn’t want to, under any circumstances. “Those are the only two that strike a note with me,” he continued, handing back the rest of the invitations.
Bram signaled for another glass of port. For a moment he looked as though he wanted to say something, but he finished off the last few bites of his roast duck instead. Good. Sullivan could think of a few choice words for someone who lived the life that Bram did and then handed out advice to others.
Yes, what he’d chosen to do was dangerous. And yes, he supposed that he’d had the option of making a legal or a public outcry about his missing property. He’d seen the results of such things before, however, and he had a business to protect and employees to support. No, a few thefts were the best way to set things right.
And his burglaries had the added benefit of undoubtedly angering and humiliating the original thief, with the happy knowledge that the Marquis of Dunston could do nothing about it with
out ruining his own good standing with his fellows. After all, failing to acknowledge an illegitimate son was one thing. Stealing from the poor soul, especially when he was a respected fringe member of Society—well, that would just be shabby. And Dunston and his legitimate brood were never shabby. Thieves, yes. But not shabby ones.
With a breath he set aside his own tankard of bitters. “I’d best be off. I wasn’t making up excuses to try to avoid dinner with you, earlier. With Samuel gone, I do want another pair of eyes watching my stock.” He glanced across the table. “And you have to be at Almack’s before long, don’t you?”
“I told you, I’m not going.”
“Mm-hm. It’s not your fault that you’re blue-blooded, Lord Bramwell Lowry Johns. I’ve already forgiven you for that.”
Bram sent him a dark smile. “Yes, but there are other offenses on my head.”
Before Sullivan could ask what he meant by that, Bram paid their bill and rose from the table. In the midst of the noise and drinking and wagering and cigar smoke of Jezebel’s, private conversation was both easy and almost impossible all at the same time, but business was one thing. For Bram, personal matters were another. And there was nothing new about that.
Sullivan hired a hack to drive him back to his three acres of stables, cottage, and grazing land. It wasn’t much by noble standards, he supposed, but at least he’d worked for it and earned it himself. And no one could take it away from him.
Sullivan scowled. No one, that was, except for Lady Isabel Chalsey. Putting him in prison would make his land forfeit. How much of a threat was she, then? Pretty and spoiled, no match for him physically, but she had a mouth on her. Good for kissing, but quite capable of ruining his life. He needed to do something about her. And before his next sojourn through someone’s window.
“Mama, I just wanted a horse,” Isabel stated for the fiftieth time since Zephyr had arrived. She wasn’t any closer to believing it, but she hoped her family was. “Eloise is always going riding, and she says it’s wonderful exercise. So I decided to stop being a ninny about it and learn to ride.”
Lady Darshear looked at her from across the breakfast table. “Eloise Rampling is a lovely young lady, but you’ve never felt the need to imitate her daily routine. If anything, the other girls follow your lead.”
“It’s not about aping anyone. I’m nineteen, Mama. Nearly twenty. I’m past being silly, and I would like to be able to do this.”
“She certainly couldn’t have chosen a better teacher,” her father put in as he entered the breakfast room, pausing to kiss his wife and then Isabel on the cheek before he sat at the head of the table. “And as we’re something of a family of horse lovers, I’m glad you’ve decided to give this a go.”
Isabel half thought his amenability was because she’d secured the great Sullivan Waring to come to the house for the next fortnight or so, but she didn’t say that aloud. She might tend to look for high drama or create her own where none existed, but with her parents—or her mother, at least—expressing concern over her latest project, she’d abruptly begun to realize that she wasn’t just keeping a secret. She was lying.
For heaven’s sake, if she’d had more time to consider how to proceed, or a bit of advance notice that she’d been about to stumble in broad daylight across the man who’d stolen paintings from the house and a kiss from her, she doubted she would have settled on this solution. It wasn’t even a solution, really; it was a stalling tactic to keep Mr. Waring close by until she could…what? Decide how to best him for taking liberties with her? Have him arrested? He was a thief, after all. He deserved to be—
“My lord,” the butler said, sending a glare at the footman with whom he’d just spoken, “a Mr. Waring is in the stable yard, awaiting Lady Isabel.”
“He’s here!” Douglas crowed, bouncing into the room. “He rode that big black again. By Jove, he’s bang up to the echo.”
“Douglas,” the marchioness chastised. “A little decorum, if you please. It’s not as though the Prince Regent’s come calling.”
“This is better than Prinny.”
“Harry, say something to that boy of yours.”
“I’m sorry, my dear, but in this instance I have to agree with Douglas.” The marquis pushed away from the table. “I’ve chatted with Mr. Waring on occasion, but to actually see him work…Come along, Tibby. Let’s go see what the master horse breeder has planned for today.”
Douglas sped out of the room, but Isabel resumed picking at the toasted bread she’d actually finished with five minutes ago. “I’m eating. And he’s a horse breeder, for goodness’ sake. He can wait.”
“Are you certain you aren’t delaying because of the horse?” the marquis countered, shaking his graying brown head at her. “I would understand why. Stay here if you wish. I’ll send Zephyr home with Mr. Waring.”
“I’m not—Oh, bother.” Frowning, she stood up. “Very well, then. Let’s go say hello to the illustrious Mr. Waring.”
She could pretend it was indifference, but the reluctance was very real. It was just that Zephyr wasn’t the only reason for it. Luckily Douglas and her father were too occupied chatting about the next Derby races to notice her trepidation. Shaking out her shoulders, Isabel followed along behind them. It was one thing to be uncertain of her ground. Allowing Sullivan Waring to see that would be quite another.
He was seated on the back of her father’s phaeton as they exited the house through the kitchen. Today he’d dressed less like a gentleman and more like a stableboy, his coat draped over a post and his shirtsleeves rolled halfway to his elbows. Isabel swallowed. She’d been struck before by his hard handsomeness, but taken altogether, he looked like one of the great Greek heroes about whom Homer had spun his tales.
“Good morning,” he said, inclining his head and jumping to the ground. A strand of dark gold hair slanted across one light green eye.
“Mr. Waring,” her father said, smiling as he offered his hand. “I see you’re a man of your word.”
“I thought this might be a bit early,” Waring returned, shaking and releasing the marquis’ hand, “but it needs to be if I’m to deliver two training sessions each day in addition to my other responsibilities.”
“Two?” Isabel blurted. “Each day?”
“That’s the recommended routine,” Douglas supplied, eyeing Waring’s attire as though trying to commit it to memory. “Thirty minutes each, to start with. Isn’t that it, sir?”
“It is.” Waring nodded, facing Isabel. “Shall we begin, then, my lady?”
“Oh, smashing!”
Wonderful. “No, Douglas,” she said forcefully. “I don’t want you stomping about and frightening everything on two or four legs.”
“But you’ve—”
“That’s a very good point,” her father put in. “You’re going to Parliament with me today, anyway.”
“But I—”
“Come along.” The marquis squeezed Isabel’s fingers. “Phipps is about, and what looks like half the grooms and stableboys. You won’t be riding today, and Phipps will keep an eye on things.”
“I’ll be fine. Thank you, Papa.” She hoped he believed her, even with her hands shaking. Of course, he expected her to be unsettled around horses, and she was. They also provided a good excuse for nerves of another sort entirely. The game didn’t seem quite so much a game with her opponent looking straight at her.
“That was handy,” Waring commented as her father and brother returned to the house.
She took a breath, having to look up to meet his gaze. “I’m surprised you waited out here instead of climbing inside through a window or something.”
He took a slow step closer, dust rising around his black boots on the bare ground. “Just keep in mind that I can climb through a window, anytime I choose.”
So that was how they were going to play this game—bluff versus bravado. Except she wasn’t entirely certain that he was bluffing.
Neither, though, was she. Or so she hoped. “And y
ou keep in mind, Mr. Waring, that I can clip your wings, anytime I choose.”
“We’ll see about that, my lady.”
Chapter 4
Isabel followed at a distance as Waring walked into the Chalsey family stable like he owned it. The servants inside all gave him room, apparently under the same misapprehension. That was more than enough of that. “Phipps, please bring my horse out.”
Waring ignored her, continuing up to the small stall where Zephyr had already swung her head around to nicker at him. “Hello, girl,” he said in a deep, soothing voice that rumbled down Isabel’s own spine. He rubbed the mare’s nose as he attached a long rope to her halter.
Phipps opened the stall door, and Waring backed Zephyr into the main part of the stable. Her ears flicked back and forth, but she stayed close by the breeder’s shoulder.
“Do you want to lead her out?” he asked, offering Isabel the folded length of rope.
She put her hands behind her back, trying not to gasp. “A completely untrained animal? I think not, Mr. Waring.”
He drew even with her, and slowed. “Not as bold as you’d like me to think, are you, my lady?” he said in a low voice. “Be careful; your weaknesses are showing.”
Drat. “Well, that’s a ridiculous thing to say, unless you intend to put a horse through my window,” she retorted in the same tone.
Sullivan Waring laughed. The genuinely amused sound surprised her—and she wasn’t the only one. Zephyr lifted on her rear legs in a backward hop. “Whoa, Zephyr,” he murmured, keeping her walking forward and actually giving her more slack on the guide rope. “Easy, girl.”
Isabel backed away herself as they left the stable for the yard. The animal was obviously unpredictable. Or rather, the animal and the horse were both unpredictable.
She smiled a little at her play on words. She knew this man’s character, charming laugh or not. Whether he had everyone else fooled or not. She glanced at Phipps and the other stableboys. They were definitely interested, but far enough away that she could probably manage a private conversation with Mr. Waring. Of course, to do that, she would have to stand closer to him. And to her new, half-wild horse.
After the Kiss Page 4