by Alyson Chase
But when Max looked up at her, it was the face of a man Colleen didn’t recognize who met her gaze.
“I’ll have one of my men return you to the club. You’ve performed in an exemplary manner as manager of The Black Rose.” Striding to the wall, Max rang for a servant. “You’re welcome to remain in that capacity as long as you wish.”
Pain stabbed into her stomach and she bent double, her forehead hitting her knees. “I thought—” She broke off and gasped for air. “I thought you’d understand.”
“I do understand.”
She looked up, a seed of hope taking root. Max smiled politely and handed Colleen her clothes.
Everything in her withered and died.
“I understand that when I confessed to you, you remained silent,” Max said. “I understand you are more adept at subterfuge than I’d thought. Even though killing your husband was an accident, you still might have faced criminal prosecution. You couldn’t risk that. Your safety is more important than honesty, after all.”
Mechanically, Colleen slid into her shift and skirt. She shook out her crumpled shirt and slipped her arms through the sleeves. “Believe it or not but being punished wasn’t at the top of my concerns.”
Someone scratched at the door.
Colleen held his gaze. “I didn’t want you to think poorly of me. But I couldn’t keep silent any longer. I didn’t want you to bear the burden of a guilt you didn’t earn. I didn’t want there to be anything between us. Not even a secret.”
“I’m most appreciative.” Max turned for the door and pointed to the floor by the fire. “Your boots are there. When you return to the club, please remember to stay by your guards. They are there for your protection.”
Noble to the end. He treated her as a stranger, but Max treated strangers well. It was one of the things she loved about him. He treated everyone with respect until they showed themselves undeserving of it.
She should be grateful. She’d shown him her worst. Instead of scorn, he gave her a pleasant smile and a polite goodbye.
It hurt worse than if he’d struck her. But it was nothing more than she deserved. Jamming her feet into her boots, she looked around for her waistcoat and put it on. Pulling the gold watch from its pocket, she squeezed it in her palm. She wouldn’t cry in front of him. Her tears would only make him uncomfortable.
She paused by the door he held open. One of her guards stood across the hall, looking at the floor. Colleen ignored him. “I’m sorry,” she told Max. “You’ll never know how much.”
He stared over her head and nodded.
Without a backwards glance, Colleen marched for the stairs. She was a survivor. She’d made it through worse.
Somehow, she’d make it through Max.
Chapter Sixteen
Max slid a second knife into his boot. He smoothed down his trouser leg, making sure the handle of the blade wasn’t visible.
“I can’t believe Zed agreed to this meet.” Summerset flipped his own knife from handle to blade, a mesmerizing blur of silver in the candlelight. They were all gathered at Montague’s townhouse preparing for the night. Zed’s response had arrived swiftly. Dancer had shown up on Max’s doorstep, missive in hand and a large, purpling bruise around his eye.
Max wondered how long Zed would let the man live. The crime lord seemed to have limited tolerance for those that could lead the Crown to him. Dancer had slipped past Max’s men to contact Zed but he couldn’t evade a tail forever.
Why would Dancer, or any man, continue to work for someone after his abuse. Was the money that good or was the sailor as devoted as so many of the others to their mysterious leader? The man didn’t seem like a fanatic. Fear must hold him in place.
Checking the powder in his double-barreled flintlock, Max pushed the lackey from his mind. He needed to push all extraneous thoughts from his head if tonight was going to be a success. If they caught Zed, Max wouldn’t have to worry about protecting Dancer’s worthless life.
He took aim at his reflection in the large gilt mirror across the sitting room. Colleen’s lovely blue eyes stared accusingly back at him. Max swallowed and shook her image from his mind.
Rothchild lounged on a settee and took a pull from his cheroot. “Zed may have agreed to meet, but that’s no guarantee he’ll show. We need to handle this carefully. I’m certain he’ll have just as many men surrounding St. Katherine’s as we do.”
“But he said he’d come alone,” Summerset said, eyes wide, tone mocking. Gripping his knife by the blade, he executed a neat spin and hurled it at the wall above the fireplace. The blade buried deep into an oil portrait of a homely older woman dressed in a stiff-bodiced mantua. The handle of the knife stuck out right between her beady eyes.
“Confound it!” Montague entered the room and slammed the tray he was carrying down onto a low table. Marching to the wall, he yanked the knife out and ran his finger along the puckered slash of the canvas. “This was my great-grandmother, you lackwit. What in the blazes were you thinking?”
Montague’s wife, Elizabeth, put down her own tray and moved to her husband to rub his back. “I’m sure it can be repaired. Until then, I’ll have a footman put her in storage. Besides, this gives us a space now to put up that new Vermeer you bought for me.” Thank you, she mouthed to Summerset behind Montague’s back.
The earl winked back at her. “I need all the target practice I can get to prepare for the night ahead,” he said innocently.
Montague growled and ripped the painting off the wall.
Rothchild leaned forward and picked up a small sandwich. “I don’t believe I’ve ever been served by a duke before. Have you taken a cue from your lovely wife and decided to playact as a servant?”
The smile Elizabeth shot Rothchild wasn’t nearly as warm as the one Summerset had received. “My husband thought it best that our servants weren’t made aware of your preparations for the night. He’s given them the evening off. And if you require anything else, you will have to fend for yourself. I’m off to your house to spend the evening with my sister.” Bending down, she pecked a kiss on his cheek. “And it wouldn’t hurt you, brother, to experience a little of how the other half lives.”
Rothchild took Liz’s hand. “Tell my wife not to worry.”
“How can we not?” She looked to Montague and laid a hand on her abdomen, a look passing between them.
Max’s heart twisted like a wrung-out rag. He recognized the look. Love. Adoration. It was the same one that Colleen had given him yesterday. Before she’d revealed her perfidy. Before he’d told her to leave. He rubbed his jaw, a scratchy bristle. He hadn’t bothered to shave that morning. There was no one to impress.
“Both Amanda and I have tried to think of ways to help you in this endeavor.” Liz straightened and smoothed her skirts. “But all our thinking has come to naught. The best we can do for you this time is to stay out of your way and trust that you will take care.”
“Come.” Montague smoothed a strand of hair from his wife’s cheek. “I’ll show you to the carriage.” Taking her hand, he led her from the room. He whispered something in her ear that made her gasp and smile, and they disappeared down the hall.
Summerset snorted. “The duchess must have—”
“Take care what you say of my sister-in-law,” Rothchild said mildly. “I’d hate to have to kill you defending her honor.”
“—must have a spine of steel to train Montague so well.” Summerset glared at his friend. “I’m quite fond of the duchess and wouldn’t insult her, as you damn well know.”
Max rubbed his forehead and dropped into a chair. He wanted nothing more than to climb into bed and forget the past twenty-four hours. “Gentlemen, can you please shut your traps? I’d prefer to focus on the task ahead and not have to listen to your incessant bickering.” Moderating the level of his voice, he continued. “Let’s go over the plan one more time.”
“What’s to plan?” Summerset dropped onto the chair next to Max, draping a leg over the armrest. “
You go meet with Zed. We try to take out his men before they take you out. Simple.” He nudged Max’s thigh with the toe of his boot. “I’d be much more interested in discussing what’s put your smallclothes in a bunch.”
Montague came back into the room and paused mid-stride. “I fear I’ve come into this conversation at an inopportune moment.”
Rothchild waved a scone at Max. “Sutton is acting like a grumpy bear. Seems to be trying to outdo Dunkeld in the man’s absence.” He took a bite and jabbed the half-eaten pastry at Summerset. “That one is using his extraordinary gift with words to try to learn why Max is upset.”
“Ah.” Montague poured himself a cup of tea. “I can’t imagine it’s easy knowing you will be walking into a trap in a couple of hours. That could account for Sutton’s mood.”
Max sat up straight. “Are you saying I’m afraid?”
“He is getting up there in years,” Rothchild said. “I hear a man starts to feel it in his bones. That could be the problem.”
“I’m a year younger than you!” Max threw himself back in his seat. Truly, his friends were all arseholes.
“You’re both wrong.” Lacing his fingers together, Summerset rested his hands on his stomach, twirling his thumbs. “It’s because of a woman, or a lack thereof. I can tell when someone isn’t satisfied. An excess of vigor that hasn’t been spent can lead a man to snap at his bosom-friends over the smallest of jests.”
Max remained silent. Fuckwits. Each and every one of them.
Three faces swiveled in his direction. Too late, he realized his mistake.
“So that’s it then. Your manager.” Montague raised a golden eyebrow. “Has a rift developed between the two of you?”
A rift. More like a goddamned canyon. “Nothing has developed between us.”
Summerset snorted. “It took you long enough to realize that your Mrs. Bonner didn’t have what is needed to keep you happy. How could a clock-maker’s wife feed your unique appetite? After we apprehend Zed, I’ll take you out, let our little arsonist play—”
“Enough!” Max dug his fingers into the upholstered fabric of the armrest, anything to keep them from throttling his friend of a decade. “She fed me fine.” Perfectly.
“What happened?” Montague asked. He poured a glass of something stronger than tea and handed it to Max.
He downed the whiskey, enjoying the burn along his throat. It distracted him from the pain squeezing his chest. Leaning his head back, he stared at the ceiling. “What I say here goes no further.” He didn’t need to see his friends nod to know they would agree. “You all know I was working for Liverpool when I set fire to the shop next to Colleen’s.”
“Guilt seems like a poor reason to start a relationship with a woman,” Rothchild said.
Max snapped his gaze down but saw no judgment in Rothchild’s eyes. “Perhaps it was. But that point is moot. For it isn’t my guilt that is the issue. It’s hers. She confessed to me that when she saw her neighbor’s shop burning, she accidentally knocked over a lamp, setting fire to her own. She’s responsible for her husband’s death.”
He stared into his empty glass. How the guilt must have wracked her. Kept her up at night as it had him. He didn’t know how he’d missed it. All the signs were there. Her reluctance to wear the clothes he bought for her. How she always fingered that damn watch, her link to her husband. For a man who prided himself on reading people, the lapse was unforgivable.
Summerset pursed his lips. “If it was an accident, what is she guilty of?”
“Of keeping the truth from me.” Of not being the woman he’d thought she was.
“What are you going to do?” Montague asked.
“Nothing.”
“You will continue your affair?” Rothchild nodded. “Good for you.”
Max frowned. “Of course, I won’t continue the affair. It’s over.”
“Why?”
Max couldn’t believe Rothchild even had to ask. “She lied to me. She listened to my confession and kept her own close to her chest. A good woman would have come forward the day after the fire and told the magistrate what had happened, not waited to acknowledge her own guilt until—” Until he’d fallen arse over teakettle in love with her. He bit off his words, not wanting to admit his own folly to his friends.
Scraping his fingers along his jaw, he slouched in his chair. He didn’t blame Colleen. Not really. No one wanted to expose their guilt. But everything he’d thought he knew about her, her character, her honesty, had been a lie. Perhaps if he’d—
A jewel-encrusted boot sparkled in the corner of his vision, lashing out and striking his armrest. His chair rocked up onto two legs. Max wind-milled his arms, trying to regain his balance, but his body slid to the side of the chair and his weight tipped it over. He crashed to his side, his temple bouncing off the Aubusson carpet.
Max blinked in surprise.
“Bloody fucking hell!” Montague yelled. “First my great-grandmother’s portrait. Now my Chippendale chair. Stop destroying my property, you gormless git!”
Pushing up onto one hip, Max glared at Summerset. The man had the audacity to look unrepentant, still aimlessly bobbing his boot through the air.
“Sutton has a tendency to be a self-righteous prick.” Summerset shrugged. “He needed to be tossed on his head.”
Montague righted the chair and wiggled the broken armrest. “You could have done that without breaking my chair.
“Or my head.” Max pushed to his feet.
Rothchild poured himself a cup of tea, stirring in some sugar. “I wouldn’t call him self-righteous, per se.” He took a delicate sip. “I don’t think Sutton thinks he’s a better person than everyone else. But now that Mrs. Bonner has fallen from the pedestal he’d placed her on, she’s no longer worth his time.”
Heat flushed through Max’s body. “What the hell do you know about it?”
Montague laid a hand on his shoulder, and Max shrugged him off.
“Come now,” Montague said quietly. “You can’t deny that you have a rosy ideal of how you think life should be. And that includes romanticizing the women you’re with.” Montague poured him another glass of whiskey, only half full. “Inevitably, you’re disappointed when circumstances and people don’t live up to your expectations.”
“Mrs. Bonner is made of flesh and blood.” Rothchild leaned forward in his chair. “She’ll make mistakes. But I’ve never seen you so torn up about a woman. You’ve certainly never shaved for one before.” He shook his head, his mouth twisting wryly. “Are you certain you want to give her up for one mistake?”
Summerset cleaned his nails with his blade. “To be fair, it was a large mistake. She killed her husband. How could Sutton lie next to her at night easy in mind? She might set fire to the bedsheets.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Max raised his glass to his mouth, paused. “A child’s pour?” He frowned. “You think I’m acting like an infant so give me only an infant’s portion of whiskey?”
Montague sat on the armrest of the settee. “You’ll need all your senses about you tonight. Only being prudent.”
Max grunted and knocked the swallow back. He fixed Summerset with a glare. “Colleen doesn’t make a habit of tipping over lamps.”
“Your money must have been a great inducement to the woman.” Summerset started flipping his knife again. He must have known he would need to have a weapon at the ready by continuing to speak of Colleen such. “A baron in her bed. Quite the step up from a clockmaker.”
“He didn’t make the clocks,” Max gritted out. “Only sold and repaired them.” He didn’t need to defend Colleen’s honor. Such an accusation was absurd. Colleen had never asked him for anything except the money she had earned.
Summerset tapped the blade against his lips. “I suppose it could have been the bed sport that attracted her. A widow knows what she’s missing and must look for comfort somewhere. It’s convenient she manages a Venus club. Now that you’re done with her, she’ll have easy access to a
replacement.”
Blood pounded in Max’s ears. Summerset surely had a death wish. Friend or not, if he laid one more insult at Colleen’s door …
“I hear that Lord Halliwell—”
With a roar, Max hurled his glass at the fireplace. It shattered against the brick the same moment Max’s hands encircled Summerset’s neck. “Shut your filthy mouth.” He yanked John to his feet. “I swear to God, if you say one more word against her, I will knock out all your teeth and shove them down your throat to choke on.”
Montague and Rothchild each took an arm and pulled him off Summerset. The earl bent at the waist, heaving for air. Swiping his blade off the carpet, he straightened. The look he shot Max was much too smug for a man who’d nearly been strangled.
Montague shoved Max onto the settee. “Settle down. Summerset can be annoying, but he’s useful in a fight. We’ll need him tonight.”
“Yes, he’s so shiny and pretty he makes excellent cannon fodder,” Rothchild added. “Everyone’s aim is drawn in his direction. At least let his death be useful.”
“All of you can sod off.” Planting his boot on his chair, Summerset slid his knife under the tight cuff of his pantaloons. “I cut to the truth of the matter much sooner than you all did. We don’t have time to play around tonight.”
“What truth is that?” Max’s chest tightened, his breath drawing short.
Summerset stared at him, his blue eyes losing their superciliousness. They reminded him of Colleen’s, and Max shrugged away that uncomfortable thought. “You’ve never cared about a woman’s next partner before,” Summerset said. “Once done, you wish a woman merry and go about your day. But not with this one. What’s changed?”
His friends waited for his response, all bearing silent witness.
Max opened his mouth. Shut it. He shook his head. “So, I care about her. What does that matter? She …” She hadn’t led a blameless life? She hadn’t conformed to his perfect ideal of a woman? In defending her from Summerset’s attacks, Max was reminded of how grand a woman his Colleen was. One error in judgment didn’t change the rest of her character.