Nicholas: Lord of Secrets ll-2

by Grace Burrowes

  The footman—the same beetle-browed fellow as last time—blushed, stammered his apologies, and retreated a good distance. Nick nodded his thanks and tucked his hand over Leah’s.

  “He’ll not bother us, provided we look to be flirting.” Nick patted her hand as he spoke. “I understand you met my grandmother.”

  Leah frowned at the fingers he laid over her knuckles. “Your grandmother?”

  “My late mother’s mother, Della, Lady Warne,” Nick said. “I am her only true grandson, though she dotes on the lot of us, including my younger half siblings.” She did not dote on Ethan—nobody did. “You can trust her in every regard.” And what a solid satisfaction it gave Nick to mean that.

  “You cannot think to engage that dear, elderly lady in my father’s schemes, Lord Reston.”

  “I cannot think to keep her out of them. How are you?”

  He asked the question because Leah looked to him, if anything, pale and tired.

  “Hellerington calls upon my father in several days,” she said, not exactly answering Nick’s question. “I cannot be sanguine about that.”

  “I call upon Hellerington this afternoon,” Nick informed her, “and I will soon hold the bulk of his markers and will use them to your advantage.”

  “You’re buying up his debts?” Leah paused to peer up at him. “Why?”

  Nick resumed their progress rather than bear her scrutiny, tugging on her hand to encourage her to move with him. “It’s no great effort. He generally does pay his debts, if slowly, and I can afford it.” He decided not to tell her that with the aid of a discreet investigator, he was also buying up Wilton’s debts, not wanting to unnerve her further.

  “I dislike that you would risk coin on me. I gather I cannot stop you.”

  “You cannot.” Nothing could stop him—Nick had made up his mind on that. “When I assist you down to the water, I will slip another two sovereigns into your glove.”

  “My father may be on to you,” Leah said as they left the path. Nick angled his body around hers, as if they were promenading, his right hand at her waist, his left gripping her left hand. On the damp grass, Leah’s foot slipped.

  “Oh, well done,” Nick murmured near her ear. She was cast against him, momentarily leaning on his greater strength to get her footing. Nick slipped coins into her glove, even as he took a shameless whiff of her fragrance.

  “Gads, you’re strong,” Leah said when he’d righted her.

  “Very, and you need to explain yourself.” He stepped away, finding much to his surprise that he needed the distance. Her flowery scent had teased his nostrils, her lithe shape had felt too right against his chest, and her worry was stirring his protective urges.

  Well, his urges, at any rate.

  “The earl is aware we’ve met here twice,” Leah said, her voice carefully even. “I am to be pleasant to you at all times and keep him informed of further encounters.”

  Nick glanced over at her, resenting the need to use his brain, resenting the way the muddy scent of the pond eclipsed the fragrance Leah wore. “Am I courting you or your sister?”

  Leah tossed a handful of bread crumbs onto the surface of the water, provoking a honking, quacking stampede on the part of the waterfowl.

  “If you court my sister,” Leah said when the ruckus died down, “the earl will reason you can offer for her now and save him the expense of her come out.”

  Nick reached over and appropriated the bag of crumbs. “Leaving you at Hellerington’s mercy and enriching your father to the extent of your bride price. So I had best court you, hadn’t I?”

  “I don’t want you to,” Leah said, her expression damnably serene. “You can’t keep up such a farce, and sooner or later, there will be another Hellerington, or worse.”

  Nick tossed the bread much farther out over the water than Leah could have. “What would make you happy, Leah Lindsey?”

  “Happy is not a useful concept,” she muttered in reply. “Happy would mean I did not dwell with the death of a decent young man on my conscience. Happy would mean my brothers were not saddened daily by my circumstances. Happy would mean I could be completely indifferent to those who still comment on the years I spent in Italy.”

  Nick handed the remains of the bread crumbs back to her but let his hand cup hers briefly in the process. There was more misery and heartache here than he’d first surmised, and it bothered him.

  “Your past is not happy,” he said, watching the ducks, “but your future can be more enjoyable. I like that little fellow on the end there, with the yellowish wings. He’s a scrapper.”

  Leah smiled at the little duck, who was paddling furiously after his share of the crumbs. “He’s dirty.”

  “Scrappers are willing to get dirty in pursuit of their ends,” Nick remarked, making his point, he hoped. “Which one catches your fancy?”

  “That one.” Leah nodded at a swan gliding along across the pond. “She could not care less for what troubles her inferiors.”

  “Above it all,” Nick agreed. “But probably hanging about over there so nobody will hear her stomach complaining. Too proud, that one.”

  “I am not too proud,” Leah said, keeping her voice down. “My father is not to be underestimated, and you will make matters worse with your meddling. When you tire of playing the gallant, I will be left to suffer his displeasure.”

  “Hush,” Nick soothed, seeing she was near tears and hating the sight. “Yon stalwart footman will suspect we are not in charity. Toss some more bread, Leah, and listen to me.”

  She obeyed, to his relief—and did not take umbrage at his appropriation of her name.

  “I am not going to meddle and then lose interest in your situation.” Nick kept his voice low, as it had been in the darkness of the Winterthurs’ parlor. “I will see to your welfare, and without bringing you further misery. You are out of the habit of hoping and trusting, and you grow frantic at the thought of the fate pressing upon you. Trust me, and I will win you free of it.”

  “You must not do this.” She swiped at her eyes with her glove. “You must not.”

  “Ah, now.” Nick’s tone became wistful. “I might have been talked out of it before, but I’ve made you cry. Shame on me, and there’s no help for it now. Compose yourself.” He shifted to stand behind her, not quite touching but shielding her from the gaze of the nosy footman, literally guarding her back while she gathered her wits.

  “I hate to cry.”

  “I’m none too fond of it myself. Are we out of bread crumbs?”

  “Not quite.” She passed the bag back to him, and he sidled around beside her. “Aim for your friend.”

  “But of course.” Nick spied the little duck paddling near the bank and tossed the last handful in its direction. “I’m off to Kent for the next couple of days, but I’d like you to call on my grandmother on Friday morning, and I do mean morning, not a morning call.”

  “I can do that,” Leah said, surprising him. “She invited me in my brother’s hearing, and I’m not sure my father comprehends the connection. He doesn’t socialize a great deal, though he is received.”

  “Then don’t tell him, unless Lady Warne tells you to.” As Nick stood close to her, Leah’s fragrance enveloped him again. Lily of the valley had never struck Nick as an erotic scent, but it was winding through his senses and stirring all manner of feelings.

  “Return of happiness,” Nick murmured, earning him a sharp glance from the lady. “Your scent—lily of the valley?—it symbolizes the return of happiness.”

  “I’d forgotten that,” Leah said, smiling at him slightly.

  “I would not lie to a woman.”

  “You are not the typical titled heir,” Leah said, her smile fading. “I could not abide you were you to lie to me, Lord Reston.”

  For a man to keep certain matters to himself for years on end was not lying. Nick tried to convince himself of this regularly.

  “Call me Nick,” he said softly as they regained the path. “And send a no
te around to Lady Warne. Be warned, though, she’ll stuff you like a goose if you let her.”

  Leah eyed Nick up and down. “I bid you good day, my lord.”

  For the benefit of the footman, Nick adopted the same polite tones.

  “Good day to you as well, Lady Leah.” He bowed correctly over her hand. “And my regards to your dear sister.”

  He appropriated the bench again and watched until she’d left the park, footman in tow. The ducks set up another squawking, and Nick glanced over to see his little scrapper swimming hell-bent for the next offering of crumbs tossed forth from the hand of another pretty young lady.

  Scrappers, he reminded himself, were sometimes not fussy enough about how they gained their ends; and eating just any old handout could leave a fellow with a mighty sorry bellyache.

  * * *

  The solicitor’s spectacled gaze put Wilton in mind of a rabbit tracking the location of a fox at the watering hole.

  “We have yet to receive any indication Lord Hellerington’s intentions are sincere, my lord. There’s been no subtle inquiry, no overt interest, no draft documents sent over by mistake, if you take my meaning.”

  Wilton knew a spike of murderous frustration, because Hellerington’s innuendo had become flagrant—and now this coy behavior. The man intended to offer for the trollop masquerading as Wilton’s oldest daughter; he’d all but announced it at his club.

  “You’ve canvassed his clerks?”

  “We have, my lord. We were particularly encouraged when there was an indication of general interest in your situation, but it came from the wrong firm.”

  “Explain yourself.” Wilton rose to pace, knowing that leaving the solicitor seated would irk the man no end. Petty, self-important little thieves they were, but necessary if business was to be done in a businesslike manner.

  “A junior clerk in the firm is related to some fellow in the offices around the corner,” the solicitor began, “and they occasionally share a pint and so forth.”

  Wilton glowered at the man, lest the roundaboutation go on all morning.

  “A Lord Reston is sniffing about.”

  Wilton paused in his pacing. “Bellefonte’s heir?”

  “Nicholas Haddonfield.” The solicitor shifted in his seat, keeping the earl in his line of sight. “The old earl is rumored to be in poor health.”

  “How poor?”

  “He is not expected to last out the year, my lord. Perhaps not even the month.”

  “Interesting.” Wilton tried to keep his pleasure from showing on his face. This was the same callow swain who’d been sniffing around little Emily’s skirts this past week. “You’re dismissed.”

  The solicitor rose and bowed without comment. In the solitude of his study, Wilton sat back in his cushioned chair and considered Reston’s inquiries. He’d have to see what this Reston fellow was made of. An earl’s younger son was about as high as Emily could hope to reach, but for her to become a countess…

  It was fitting, Wilton decided, a rare smile twisting his lips. Emily was the product of rape, though legally a man could not rape his wife. Still, Wilton had forced himself on his errant wife, as brutally and as often as it had taken to get the arrogant bitch pregnant—and it had taken years. He’d relished her resistance, and relished even more the measures taken to impose himself on her. Full of fight, she’d been, and then she’d been full of his child.

  Having made his point, however, he’d turned from his countess, unwilling to risk the child in further displays of marital discipline.

  If Emily could be married off this year, without the fuss and bother of a Season, it would be her husband’s family who bore responsibility for presenting her at court and to Society as a whole.

  And if Hellerington wiggled off the hook, then other arrangements could be made for Emily’s older sibling. Leah was used goods, and oddly enough, the market for used goods was more brisk than the market for their virtuous sisters. On that thought, Wilton rang for his carriage to be brought around, as a celebratory visit to the fair—and routinely vicious—Monique was in order.

  * * *

  “Who in their right mind has a ball on a Wednesday night? I thought Wednesday was for suppers and theatre outings.” Nick directed his grumbling at Valentine, with whom he was speeding through Town in the Bellefonte coach.

  “Why exactly did we jaunt out to Kent yesterday?” Val asked.

  Nick smiled at his friend. “To check on my holdings, to have dinner with David and Letty, and to admire their wee addition.”

  Val gave a shudder Nick thought only partly feigned. “To me, a child that young does look wee, but then I think a woman must actually birth that small person, and suddenly…”

  “You wonder why we’re not all only children,” Nick concluded the thought. “One must attribute to fathers of multiple children a certain irresistible charm, I suppose.”

  “Or insatiability in their spouses. You’re going to make a wonderful father.”

  Not this again. “On the contrary, I am not going to make any kind of father at all.”

  “You?” Val snorted. “If anybody enjoys the activities that lead to conception, it’s you. And I’ve yet to see the child who doesn’t love you on sight.”

  “And yet there are no baby Nicks underfoot, are there?”

  “Don’t suppose you had measles?”

  “I have restraint,” Nick shot back. “Not as contagious, but equally effective. So how many of your sisters are we meeting tonight?”

  “Probably the three youngest.” Val shifted into a more upright posture on his upholstered seat. “They are the most enthusiastic about this sort of thing.”

  “I like your sisters,” Nick said, donning his hat as the coach slowed. “They are tall, but for Lady Eve, and smarter than they want you to think they are.”

  “You might consider wiping that look of martyred resignation off your face,” Val suggested gently. “Rather defeats the purpose of coming.”

  “I wish there were another way to do this.” Nick looked out at the street on a sigh. “Why can’t a man simply take an ad in the newspaper: prospective earl looking for a duty-countess who will forget he ever married her?”

  In the first hour of dancing, Nick stood up with three wallflowers, each chosen for her height and lack of partners, before he ducked out onto the well-lit terraces for a breath of fresh air. The weather was moderate, which meant the ballroom was quickly heating up, and the well-spaced urns of hothouse flowers were losing their battle with the scent of overheated, overperfumed, underwashed humans.

  “We seem destined to hide in the same places.” Leah’s voice drifted out of the gloom to Nick’s left, and he felt a lightening of both body and mood.

  “My lady.” He bowed over her hand, covertly assessing her appearance in the subdued light. “At least we both hide in pleasant, well-ventilated places. How fare you?”

  “Honestly?” Leah peered up at him. “I was getting slightly nauseated in there. I lost Darius after the first set and thought perhaps to find him out here.”

  Darius being one of her two brothers whom Nick was quietly having investigated. “Darius should not have lost you. Shall I search the gentlemen’s rooms for you?”

  “Not yet,” she said as he led her to a bench several dark yards off the well-lit terrace. “Dare lets me slip the leash on purpose. I see no evidence of Hellerington tonight, so Darius has relaxed his guard. You should not have sent flowers, by the way.”

  “You must not say such things, for I will send twice as many tomorrow.”

  “What do they mean?” she asked after a time. “The flowers you sent?”

  “The snowdrop is for hope,” Nick said, pleased she would ask. He’d chosen the bouquet carefully and visited more than one shop in the process. “The little sprig of wood sorrel is for joy, the wallflowers are for fidelity in adversity, and the lilies of the valley, as you know, are for a return to happiness.”

  “There was a very pretty blue flower as well.
” Beside him, she took a deep breath of the night air. “It reminded me of your eyes.”

  That was a compliment. He was sure of it, and equally sure his eyes had never received a lady’s compliment before.

  “Salvia,” Nick said, finding himself fascinated by the rise and fall of her chest.

  “It has no meaning?”

  “I cannot recall at the moment.” Nick shifted his gaze to the dark foliage around them. What on earth had he been thinking, sending blue salvia?

  “You met with Hellerington earlier in the week?” Leah asked, leaning more closely against his side.

  “I most assuredly did.” Nick forced himself to attend the sense of her words rather than her scent, the pure pleasure of her voice in the darkness, or the warmth of her body next to his. “We had a delicate little exchange, with me giving him to understand I’d appreciate it if those fellows whose vowels I hold would behave in a gentlemanly fashion toward their creditors, particularly before they take on additional familial obligations.”

  “Did he respond to that?”

  “I wish I could tell you he caught a packet for France, lovey,” Nick said, “but I was firing an opening salvo, and he understood it as such. I’ll next make a few pointed remarks at the club, maybe suggest something ought to be put in the betting book at your father’s club, call upon the baron again, and loudly hope I need not reduce my demands to writing or perhaps seek satisfaction through other means.”

  Leah leaned closer still, maybe hunching in on herself but also dropping her voice to a near whisper. “What other means?”

  “Typically, one offers a challenge in such a circumstance or simply beats the stuffing out of the party who’s refusing to pay a debt of honor,” Nick said, letting her scent come to him on the soft night air.

  “Would you go that far?”

  “If I say yes, you will think me a brute beast. If I say no, you will think me a bully who threatens those weaker but backs down at the first hint of risk.”