Lucian shook his head. Philip Barton was one of his brightest agents, but even the brightest made mistakes. And the young man was not entirely to blame. Lucian was suffering his own harsh brand of guilt, his own private anguish. Had he been in London instead of dallying in Cornwall, courting his bride, he could have acted when the courier’s murder was first discovered. In all likelihood he could have prevented the gold theft and the deaths of half a dozen more innocent men, a lapse in judgment he would forever have to live with.
Whether or not the shipment had been smuggled to France yet was anyone’s guess, for the trail had gone stone cold. Lucian had immediately sent men to Cornwall to scour the coast in the event that Sir Grayson Caldwell was involved, but he doubted Cornwall was the transfer point this time. The gold was likely in France by now, bankrolling Napoleon’s armies instead of those of the Triple Alliance-Austria, Prussia, and Russia.
Lucian was seething with helpless fury inside, his gut and heart both aching with dismay. But long practice at concealing his feelings behind a sophisticated mask allowed him to answer evenly. “If I dismissed you, Philip, then I would have to dismiss myself. I was off attending to my own personal affairs, I recall.”
“It is not the same thing, my lord. Your wedding nuptials should come before duty.”
“No.” His resolve hardened. “Nothing should come before duty.”
Lucian turned his head to gaze out the carriage window. Lusting after a woman, even his own wife, was no excuse for forsaking his grave obligations. A few vital infusions of gold into Napoleon’s military machine could prove pivotal in the outcome of the war-the difference between a Europe subjugated under a tyrant’s boot heel and the allies finally being able to crush him once and for all.
Winning the war, putting an end to the death and destruction and devastating misery the Corsican monster had caused, was far more crucial than any one man’s personal considerations, Lucian reflected darkly. He might have regretted having to leave his marriage bed-virtually being dragged away on his wedding night-but his own private desires could not be allowed to matter.
And in truth, he’d been glad for the opportunity to gain some distance from his new bride. It unsettled him, how enamored he’d become with Brynn in such a short time. He didn’t believe in such things as curses, but admittedly he found it hard to explain the driving urgency he’d felt to possess her, the stunning satisfaction of making love to her… his dark dreams.
He’d sent his secretary to make his farewells that night, rationalizing that had he gone to Brynn himself, he would have had to offer some explanation as to his purpose. He had no intention of disclosing his investigation of the gold thefts when her brother might very well be up to his neck in treason.
But the real reason he’d sailed away without a word, Lucian acknowledged grimly, was because of fear: if he went to her, if he touched her again, he might not be able to leave her at all. Away from her, he could try to forget her vibrant beauty, her defiant, intriguing spirit… the dark images that filled his mind.
Or so he’d mistakenly hoped.
Since he’d wed her, Brynn had obsessed his thoughts. Obsessed even his sleep. His dreams were filled with her now. Never before had he dreamed about any specific woman, but since making love to Brynn, he couldn’t stop seeing her whenever he closed his eyes.
Lucian cursed silently. This was not the sort of marriage he’d planned-becoming foolishly enchanted with his beautiful wife. But he couldn’t, wouldn’t indulge his growing obsession for her.
Brynn was no doubt offended that he’d abandoned her so abruptly after compelling her to wed him. But he couldn’t worry about placating her wounded sensibilities. Not when so many men had died as a result of his negligence.
His jaw hardened with determination. For the moment he had to put his country before his marriage and focus every ounce of his attention on his duty.
London
“Of course she will receive me!” a cold feminine voice intoned from the lower reaches of the house. “You will inform her to come down at once!”
Brynn, hearing the imperious command all the way from her upstairs sitting room, gave a start of surprise to think she had a caller. This was her second afternoon in her new home, and thus far her only companions had been loneliness and boredom. She wasn’t accustomed to such inactivity, or to having servants cater to her every whim.
After quickly smoothing her simple blue muslin gown and checking to see that her hair was still tamed, Brynn descended the grand staircase to find a tall, regal, silver-haired lady awaiting her impatiently.
“I should like a word with you in private, miss,” the dame snapped. Turning, she swept from the grand hall and into the adjacent salon, obviously expecting Brynn to follow.
Brynn sent the butler a bewildered glance. “Who in heaven’s name is that?”
Naysmith’s usually stern expression came surprisingly close to a grimace and, more surprisingly, held a hint of sympathy. “Forgive me, Lady Wycliff, but she would not permit me to announce her. That is his lordship’s great-aunt, Lady Agatha Edgecomb. Do you wish me to tell her you are not receiving?”
“No, thank you, Naysmith. I will speak to her.”
Squaring her shoulders, Brynn made her way to the salon. Lady Agatha was facing the door, her spine ramrod straight, as if girded for battle.
“What is the meaning of this outrage?” she demanded at once, brandishing a newspaper in her hand. “I was left to learn of my nephew’s marriage from the society pages, of all things!”
“Our marriage was very sudden,” Brynn answered as calmly as she could, considering the woman’s rudeness. “I expect there was not time for you to be informed.”
“Why the need for such haste? Are you enceinte?”
Brynn blinked at such bold speaking. “No, I am not, my lady. Although I fail to see how that could be any of your concern.”
“Certainly it is my concern! I am head of this family!” Lady Agatha’s gray eyes narrowed in dislike. “What sort of impertinence is this, missy? I will not countenance such disrespect! My nephew will hear of this, I can assure you.”
“You may tell him whatever you wish, Lady Agatha. Indeed, if you have objections to our marriage, you must take them up with my husband.”
“If I have objections! Of course I have objections! Wycliff has completely disregarded what he owes his family and his title. Who are you? Who is your family? Tell me that!”
“My father was Sir Samuel Caldwell of St. Mawes, Cornwall. My mother, Miss Gwendolyn Vaughn.”
“Just as I thought! Wycliff has gone off and married a nobody. And that hair of yours. Only a jezebel would have hair that wild color!”
Brynn drew herself up to her full height. “If you have come simply to harangue me, Lady Agatha, you may take your leave. Otherwise, I would be pleased to invite you to stay for tea.”
The lady’s face turned purple. “I would sooner take tea with a Hottentot!”
Deliberately Brynn stepped aside, making way for her unwanted guest to leave.
Lady Agatha glared in indignation, the feathered plumes of her bonnet all aquiver with rage. “I feared the worst and now that I see you, I realize I was right. Wycliff was seduced by a hussy! A scheming interloper! Well, I am here to tell you, you will not succeed!”
With that dire prediction, she swept from the room in a rustle of silk skirts and creaking stays.
In her wake, Brynn stood rooted to the floor, unable to move. She was unsurprised to find herself trembling with fury and perhaps even a little shock.
It was a long moment before she realized she was no longer alone and that someone stood behind her at the salon door. Stiffening, Brynn turned and looked up, her expression tight with the strain of holding her temper.
“Oh my, I see you have met Lucian’s great-aunt Agatha,” the young woman there said in a low, husky voice.
She was an absolutely stunning beauty, Brynn saw, with raven hair and intensely blue eyes.
&nbs
p; “If it is any consolation,” the visitor added, offering a smile, “Lady Agatha treats everyone that way. Please don’t let her distress you. She can be perfectly dreadful-almost as difficult as my own aunt.”
Her smile held a genuine warmth that Brynn hadn’t felt since leaving Cornwall, and Brynn felt her anger easing.
“May I come in?” the young lady asked. “I should have waited for Naysmith to announce me, but I heard the contretemps and thought you might be in need of reinforcements.”
“Yes, of course, do come in. Forgive my manners.”
“I am Raven Kendrick.” Stepping into the room, she held out her gloved hand. “A friend of Lucian’s. You might say he is my guardian in absentia, since my true guardians recently returned to America. I have been staying with my grandfather in the country for the summer, but when I heard Lucian had married, I had to come to London to welcome you… Which seems fortuitous,” Miss Kendrick added wryly, casting a glance over her shoulder where Lady Agatha had disappeared, “considering the reception you are likely to get from Lucian’s relations. I’m afraid few of them are likely to greet you with open arms, at least at first. They’re eager to claim a part of his fortune and hoped he might remain a bachelor forever.”
“I didn’t expect them to welcome me, but after meeting his great-aunt, I see I should be prepared for outright hostility.”
“At least Lady Agatha is the worst. Lucian calls her a battle-ax.”
“I cannot say I disagree.”
Raven’s laugh was musical and sweetly infectious, and her blue eyes danced when she regarded Brynn thoughtfully. “I heard you were a beauty, and I feared you might be the arrogant sort, but you aren’t in the least, are you? I think I am going to like you.”
Brynn couldn’t help but smile. “You can conclude that after barely meeting me?”
“Oh, I’m an excellent judge of character. And I don’t care at all for the starched attitude of London society. I was raised in the West Indies, where everything is much less formal and conventional.”
“Perhaps you should be concerned that you might be contaminated by a hussy and a jezebel.”
“If you are a hussy, then we will be well-matched. Lady Agatha considers me an utter hoyden. I confess, I have been aching for eons to put her nose out of joint as you just did. No one else dares speak back to her except Lucian.”
Brynn laughed. “Would you care to sit down, Miss Kendrick?”
“Thank you, but do call me Raven. And I would love some tea, if your offer is still open.”
Brynn glanced toward the door to find Naysmith hovering respectfully just outside. He gave a brief nod to indicate that he understood and then disappeared.
When they were settled-Raven on the chintz settee and Brynn in a chair opposite-Raven said with a frown, “Lucian is still out of town, I take it? It was really too bad of him to abandon you so soon after your nuptials, leaving you to face the wolves alone, but I suppose his job requires him to be away. Where is he this time?”
Brynn hesitated, not liking to admit she had no idea where her husband was. “He didn’t say, exactly. Just that he had urgent business to attend to.”
“Well, he is always gallivanting over the globe.” Raven gave Brynn a considering look that was both shrewd and sympathetic. “So you should not take his neglect personally.”
Brynn refrained from replying to that comment, finding it hard to repress her bitterness.
Evidently observant, Raven said in a firm voice, “Well, you needn’t think yourself all alone, for I intend to make up for Lucian’s despicable negligence.”
“Are you always this forthright?” Brynn asked, both bemused and charmed by her visitor’s frankness.
Raven laughed. “Ordinarily I am worse, but I am striving to be on my best behavior with you. Truthfully, though, I can get away with more scandalous behavior than many debs. I am engaged to wed the Duke of Halford, and my grandfather is an earl- which gives me more license. And I am not really showing conceit when I say I can help establish you in society. I mean to try, so consider yourself warned. I intend to take you under my wing.”
“Very well, then,” Brynn said with an answering laugh. “I am warned.”
“London is rather thin of company at present, but there are plenty of other pastimes. Do you ride? ”
“Not well, I’m afraid.”
“I customarily enjoy a gallop in the park early each morning, but I won’t mind curtailing my speed for the pleasure of having your company, if you will join me. Our first outing, however, must be to Oxford Street to shop for my bride clothes. My aunt has been helping me prepare for my nuptials, but her taste is vastly different from mine. Your opinion would be greatly welcome.”
“I would be happy to accompany you, if you think I can help.”
“And of course you must have a new wardrobe. You will need to maintain the height of fashion if you mean to establish your place as the Countess of Wycliff.”
Brynn frowned. “Perhaps I do need a new gown or two, but I cannot see any reason for the extravagance of an entire wardrobe.”
“Trust me, you will need it in order to stare down the despots of the ton such as Lady Agatha. You cannot have them saying Lucian refuses to dress his lady and add even more fuel for gossip after your unexpected marriage. In any case, Lucian can certainly afford it, and he truly should be made to pay for his dreadful treatment of you.”
Brynn felt her lips curving in a smile, finding herself in complete agreement. She was supremely grateful to have found a new friend among the hostile populace of London. And for the first time since coming here, she could look forward to something other than aching loneliness.
Chapter Eight
Despite his best intentions, Lucian felt his heartbeat quicken with anticipation as he mounted the front steps of his London residence. His desire to see Brynn was a powerful yearning inside him-a yearning he had vowed to crush. He wouldn’t allow his craving for his beautiful wife to make him shirk his duty again.
“Welcome home, my lord,” his butler intoned, stepping back to permit him entrance.
“Thank you, Naysmith.” Lucian glanced around him as he handed the servant his hat and gloves, repressing an unreasonable disappointment that Brynn wasn’t there to greet him. “Where is my wife?”
“Her ladyship is not at home,” Naysmith answered.
Lucian raised an eyebrow. His secretary had sent him two different reports of Brynn over the past week, but there had been no mention of any social functions that would keep her out at this late hour.
“She is attending a soiree with Miss Kendrick, I believe,” was the butler’s explanation. “At the home of Lord and Lady Sinclair.”
“Ah.” Damien Sinclair was one of Lucian’s closest friends and one of the few peers who usually remained in London during the warm summer months. Like Lucian, Damien had governmental responsibilities he couldn’t forsake simply for personal convenience, although Damien’s skills lay in the area of finance, not espionage.
“Will you be joining Lady Wycliff, my lord? Shall I order your carriage?”
Lucian considered a moment, then shook his head. It was nearly ten o’clock, and he’d sworn he would try to distance himself from Brynn, try to quell his obsession. It would hardly be in keeping with his new resolve to go running after her the moment he arrived home. “No, I won’t be going out again. I’ll spend the remainder of the evening in my study.”
“Very well, my lord.”
Naysmith preceded him into the study to light the lamps and pour a glass of brandy. He left the hearth untouched, since the August evening was too warm for a fire.
Accepting the crystal snifter, Lucian dismissed the butler and settled in his favorite leather armchair. Yet his thoughts were too restless for him to enjoy the peace and comfort of his home.
His fury and frustration had only grown over the past week. The investigation into the murders and missing gold had reached a dead end, while his search for the elusive mastermind, C
aliban, had been just as fruitless.
His ineffectiveness galled Lucian. He had vowed to find and punish the ringleader, but meanwhile the only action he could take to prevent further thefts was purely defensive. He’d ordered a new schedule of gold transfers drawn up, a schedule that only a handful of people would be privy to this time. But that still couldn’t guarantee the gold would be safe in the future, or that he could avert further murders.
For a moment Lucian shut his eyes, unable to drive away the images in his mind-the bodies of the dead guards littering the road like refuse. The slaughter had left him shaken.
Lucian took a deep swallow of brandy, welcoming its fierce burn. Guilt was a familiar companion to him, he reflected darkly. It had driven him to join the intelligence section of the Foreign Office nearly six years ago, eschewing the self-indulgent, frivolous life of a wealthy nobleman. He’d taken that unusual course to relieve his conscience; he’d felt a vague shame that he had lived while so many others had not.
Many of the dead had been friends-some killed in battle against the French while serving in the army or navy, others while engaged in the dangerous business of espionage. And then, during his last visit to France, he’d experienced the ultimate guilt: killing his friend Giles with his own hands.
Lucian flinched at the memory, even as his mouth curled with cynical self-reproach. He had always possessed the devil’s own luck. He’d been involved in any number of dangerous situations and escaped entirely unscathed-until he’d confronted Giles, barely eluding death himself. Since then his luck had changed radically. He felt it in his soul. And in his dreams. The dreaded nightmare had recurred last night: the stark vision of his own death, Brynn standing over him, her hands wet with his blood.
Lucian stared into his glass, scoffing at his own fanciful imagination. Brynn was no assassin. She was merely a dangerous enchantress who would cause him to shirk his duty if he allowed it.
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