by Anna Bennett
“Precisely,” she said, pleased as a cat. Rounding the chair, she perched on the arm, her legs tantalizingly close to his. “Shall I inform the duchess at breakfast tomorrow that her dearest wish is about to come true?”
“I still don’t like it.” But the citrusy scent of her hair and the sultry look in her eyes clouded his thoughts. “How quickly could you arrange the ball?”
She gazed at the ceiling as though she was making a few mental calculations. “A week.” She blew out a long breath. “It won’t be easy, and I’ll need to fabricate a plausible reason for our haste when I tell your grandmother of the plans … but I think I can make the necessary preparations in a week.”
“No longer. Every day that you remain under my roof, we are tempting fate.” He pulled her off the arm of the chair so that she plopped onto his lap. She shot him an amused smile and rested her head on his shoulder.
“Then it’s settled.” She yawned and cuddled closer to him.
Not quite. “There’s one more thing.”
She gazed sleepily up at him. “Hmm?”
“If we’re not able to catch our man at the masquerade, you and my grandmother will need to leave the next day.” He hesitated. “I’ll need your word.”
* * *
Beth swallowed. She’d already pushed Alex to his limits, and she knew it. But how would she ever accomplish everything that needed to be done in a week? Invitations, costumes, musicians, menus, decorations … all while assisting the duchess with her redecorating project. And at the end of that week, she would also need to say good-bye to Alex—even if his life were still in danger.
Her prolonged silence provoked him. “I won’t negotiate any further, Beth. There can be no more excuses, no more delays. After one week, you and my grandmother will relocate to the country. Do I have your word … or not?”
She had no choice. If she didn’t agree, he’d be packing their bags tomorrow. “You have it.”
“Thank you.” She heard the relief in his voice and wished she felt a smidgen of it.
Their time together was limited—she could almost hear the clock ticking. But at least he was here now, his strong arms wrapped around her, keeping her worries at bay. “Do you think we could stay like this … and rest for a while?”
“I don’t see why not.” His husky voice caressed her skin, warming her like a quilt. She nuzzled her cheek against his bare chest, breathing in his scent and leaning into his solidness.
Sighing contentedly, she savored the feeling of closeness … and wondered if it could possibly last.
Maybe it didn’t always have to be her against the world.
Maybe she had an ally.
She’d always had her sisters, of course, and she always would. But wouldn’t it be lovely to have someone else on her side who was solely hers? Someone like Alex.
With their legs entwined and her hand over the steady beat of his heart, she drifted off. For tonight, at least, he was hers.
When she woke some time later, he was carrying her. She blinked in the darkness. “Alex?”
“Everything’s fine,” he said softly. “I’m taking you to your bed.”
She snuggled into his neck. “Good.” Bed was even better than the chair. They could lie on the soft mattress, his body curled around hers, until the birds began to chirp outside her window.
Tenderly, he laid her down and tucked the coverlet around her. Confused, she reached for him. “It’s not dawn yet. Don’t you want to stay?”
“I can’t,” he said curtly, and she let her arms fall. He pressed a quick kiss to her forehead. “Go back to sleep. Tomorrow will be a busy day.”
Hastily, he stuffed his shirttail into his trousers. “Good night, siren.”
Chapter TWENTY-FOUR
The next night, Alex squinted as he entered the windowless, smoke-filled gambling hell, giving his eyes a moment to adjust to relative darkness. Periodic shouts sounded from the far corner, where peers, tradesmen, and soldiers alike crowded around the hazard table, their fortunes hanging on a roll of the dice. With a glance at each face, Alex could discern whom fortune had favored—and whom she’d frowned upon.
He took a seat across from Haversham at a sparsely populated card table. Foxed, as usual, the viscount reclined with one arm slung over the back of his chair, his belly straining the buttons of his waistcoat. “Come now, Blackshire—give me the chance to win back my money.”
“Your request presupposes that you’ve paid your debt. I think you mean to say that you’d like the chance to reduce the substantial amount you owe me.”
Haversham waved a dismissive hand. “You know full well what I mean. What do you say to a game of vingt-et-un? If I win, my debt is erased.”
Alex snorted. “Those stakes are too high for one of us, and I’ll give you a hint—it’s not me.”
The viscount lit a cigar. “That’s not sporting, duke. You can’t quit playing just because you happen to be up at the moment.”
Rubbing the stubble on his jaw, Alex pretended to consider this. He’d come to Pall Mall looking for Haversham. Not just to escape his town house and the questions in Beth’s eyes, but also because he believed in the adage keep your enemies close.
He had no proof that Haversham was responsible for the attempts on his life, but the man certainly had motive. If he was to blame, maybe he was inebriated enough that he’d say something to incriminate himself. “Very well. But only five hundred pounds on the game.”
The viscount rubbed his hands together. “Excellent.”
Alex played recklessly, taking cards when he would normally stand—and still managed to make twenty-one on two separate deals, winning easily.
Haversham’s jovial mood evaporated. “What’s your trick, Blackshire?” he sneered.
“I don’t employ tricks,” Alex drawled. “I rely on the most basic of math skills and an ounce of good sense.” Both of which the viscount sorely lacked.
“It’s uncanny.” Haversham snorted and narrowed his bloodshot eyes. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you could predict each card before it’s dealt.”
“Tread lightly,” Alex warned. “The last time you accused me of cheating, I blackened your eye. Next time, I’ll aim for your nose.”
“I don’t need to listen to this.” The viscount scrawled a note, then pushed himself up from the table, indignant. “Here is my IOU. You’ll have your payment shortly.”
“By the end of the month, Haversham,” Alex said. He was being far too generous. “A gentleman honors his debts.”
“A gentleman doesn’t attempt to seduce another man’s wife,” he spat.
“Agreed.” Alex stood and smoothed the front of his jacket. “Fortunately for me, I find the wives are all too willing.”
“Bastard!” The viscount shouted, eyes full of venom.
“The end of the month,” Alex reminded him as he walked away. The old codger had plenty of money. It wasn’t as though he’d have to sell his house or pledge the family silver. He’d simply have to pay a visit to his safe.
Though he’d had his fill of cards, Alex meandered through the tables, greeting acquaintances and enjoying a glass of brandy. He didn’t want to give the appearance that he was running away from a greasy-haired man well into his fifth decade.
And he wasn’t quite ready to return home—to Beth.
If he bided his time, she’d retire for the evening and he wouldn’t have to see the hurt on her face. He wouldn’t have to explain to her why he’d sneaked away in the middle of the night, or admit that he was plagued by nightmares that made him wake up drenched in his own sweat and shaking like a frightened boy.
He didn’t like having secrets from her. But the nightmares were worse than his scars. They showed how damaged he truly was.
* * *
“Would a Persian carpet pair well with a gothic bookcase?” the duchess asked. She held two drawings side by side and tilted her head, considering her own question.
Beth set down the invitation list
for the masquerade, padded across the drawing room, and peeked over the older woman’s shoulder. “I like the geometric pattern of the carpet … but I suspect the bookcase is too ornate for the duke’s taste.”
The duchess sighed. “You’re quite right, of course. I should have recognized it myself. How are the invitations coming along?”
“I’ve only half a dozen more to finish.” Including two that she’d address to the men suspected of attempting to kill Alex. But he’d never mentioned their names last night, and she needed to know who they were.
“Why don’t you let me help you?” the dowager offered.
“Thank you, but it’s not necessary. I’m almost done, and you should prepare for bed. Tomorrow we will have the invitations delivered and begin contemplating our costumes.”
“Normally, I’d be too excited to sleep, but I confess that redecorating the study has exhausted me. It is far more involved than I’d imagined. I’m determined to please Alexander … and he’s rather particular.”
“Yes,” Beth mused. “He is.”
“And his particular tastes are not limited to furnishings. Consider women.”
Beth gulped. “I beg your pardon?”
“I daresay, he could have his choice of the misses on the marriage mart. Between his title, wealth, and dashing good looks, I can’t imagine any young lady would refuse him. And yet—none of them has captured his heart.”
Beth glanced sideways at the duchess, wondering if she suspected they’d kissed—and much more. “Maybe he doesn’t wish to be captured.”
“Right you are, dear. But when he finds the right woman, he won’t feel as though he’s being captured at all.” The duchess patted Beth’s shoulder. “Do not stay up too late yourself. We have much to do tomorrow—including the opera in the evening.”
Blast. She’d forgotten, and she had the entire week scheduled, almost to the hour. Oh well, she’d have to make some adjustments. “I’m looking forward to it. Sleep well.”
She tidied the duchess’s desk, completed the remaining ball invitations, save the two for the men Alex had yet to identify, and rifled through the stack, comparing the names on the envelopes to the ones on her list. Satisfied that she’d left no one out, she reached for a blank piece of paper, intending to begin a proper list of potential costumes for Alex, the dowager, and herself. But after taxing her brain for a quarter of an hour and imagining Alex’s reaction to the suggestion that he disguise himself as a Turkish sultan or a harlequin, she stuffed the paper in a drawer, cursing Alex and his particular tastes.
She wandered down to the library and plopped herself onto the sofa, reasoning that she’d accomplished more than enough for one day.
Now, she had naught to do but wait for Alex.
She supposed she could seek him out tomorrow morning and ask him for the suspects’ names, but he was a slippery one, and she didn’t want to risk him getting away from her again. Besides, she missed him.
So she sank into the sofa’s plush cushions, tucked her feet beneath her, and rested her eyes. Sometime after she’d slipped into the twilight between waking and sleep, a creak echoed through the otherwise silent house.
She sat up and listened intently. A faint shuffling, boot heels on the marble floor, a muffled curse.
Alex was home.
Gathering her wits, she reminded herself of the ostensible reason she’d waited—the suspects’ names.
She glided out of the library and found him with one foot on the bottom stair, looking heartbreakingly handsome and, unless she was mistaken … guilty.
His hair stood on end, like a woman had run her hands through it—repeatedly. His rumpled jacket and trousers appeared to have spent a significant portion of the night on the floor. And half of his shirttail hung loose at his side, as though he’d left somewhere in a rush.
Beth swallowed, telling herself not to jump to conclusions. “Good evening, your grace.”
He jerked his head around and closed his eyes, clearly dismayed to have been caught creeping into the house.
“Beth,” he said with forced cheer, “what a pleasant surprise.”
She flicked her eyes over the bare skin at his neck. “You seem to have lost your cravat.”
“What?” He looked around him, as though he expected to find it on the floor at his feet. “How odd.”
“It is indeed. You must have had quite an eventful evening.”
“No, no,” he said quickly. “It was an ordinary night.”
“I’m sure it was—for you.” Hang it all, she couldn’t help herself.
“Wait—you’re under the impression that I—”
“It’s none of my concern,” she interrupted. “I only waited for you because I need the names of the suspects for the ball invitations.”
“No.” He crossed his arms over his vexingly muscled chest.
“What do you mean, no?”
“I’m not telling you who my suspects are. The less you know, the better.”
“I see. You think I’m a frail hothouse flower, too sensitive to handle the truth—that I’ll swoon at the sight of the villains.”
“Actually, I fear the opposite—that you’ll take it upon yourself to interrogate and apprehend one or both of them before I’ve had a chance to gather all the facts.”
She sniffed. “If you take much longer to gather all the facts, you’ll be dead.”
“Allow me to worry about the suspects, Beth. I already regret involving you.”
“That’s not fair,” she protested, pointing a finger at his chest. “You haven’t even given me a chance. How am I supposed to invite the suspects to the masquerade if I don’t know—”
She leaned forward and examined his chiseled cheek. Beneath the stubble was a distinct red smear. “Is that … vermilion lip rouge on your cheek?”
Frowning, he swiped at his cheek, checked his palm, and wiped it on his waistcoat. “It’s nothing.”
“If you say so,” she said breezily—as if the evidence of another woman’s lips on his face barely affected her.
As if she wasn’t going to have a good cry into her pillow at the very first opportunity.
“It’s not what you think.” He let out a long, weary sigh. “Why don’t you show me the invitation list for the ball? It’s possible the suspects’ names are already there.”
Goodness. She hadn’t even considered the possibility, and the idea that a villain could be hiding among the gentlemen on her list was rather terrifying. Somehow, she’d imagined there would be a telltale physical sign of guilt—beady eyes or a seedy mustache or the like.
“Very well,” she said coolly. “My list is in the drawing room.”
“After you.” As he made an exaggerated wave and a slight bow, a flap of fabric near his left knee caught her eye.
“What is that on your trousers?” She was almost afraid to hear his answer.
He looked down, confused, then reached for the flap. “It’s just a tear. Must have caught on something.” As if that were the end of that, he stood up. “Now, let’s have a look at that invitation list, shall we?”
“Wait just a moment. Why, exactly, do you look as though you’ve been dragged through the streets of London?” The skin at the back of her neck tingled. “Good heavens. Have you?”
“Of course not!” He balked, as if the suggestion were the most absurd thing he’d ever heard.
“Then I’m sure you won’t mind if I have a look at that.” She inclined her head toward his ripped trousers.
“Why? So you can alert my tailor? File a report with my valet?” He shrugged and turned back toward the stairs. “If you’ve changed your mind about having me look at the invitation list, I’ll just—”
She hooked a hand around his impossibly hard arm. “Stop.”
Like a thief who’d been caught red-handed, he froze and resigned himself to his fate.
She stooped to examine the rip in his trousers and found his knee bloodied beneath. Slowly, she stood and circled him, observi
ng all the clues. His mussed hair, missing cravat, and hopelessly disheveled appearance weren’t the result of a lover’s tryst.
No, the truth was much worse than that.
Chapter TWENTY-FIVE
“That wasn’t lip rouge on your face, was it?” Beth challenged.
Alex should have let her believe it was. “I told you it wasn’t.”
“Blood?”
Shrugging, he said, “Not mine.” But it could have been.
Her pretty blue eyes clouded with fear. “Alex, what happened?”
There would be no wriggling his way out of this confession. He sat on the second stair and tugged on her hand, pulling her down beside him. “I was at a gambling club in Pall Mall and decided to walk the few blocks home.”
She arched a brow. “By yourself?”
In an effort to lighten the mood, he said, “You may have noticed I’m not a debutante who requires a chaperone.”
“Please, just tell me what happened.”
“It’s barely worth mentioning,” he said, waving a hand. “A pair of ruffians jumped out of the shadows and attacked me—or, they tried to. But I made short work of them. Both will have the devil of a headache when they wake.”
“Were you hurt?” Without waiting for his answer, she took his face in her hands, turning his head from side to side, looking for signs of injury. It was nice having her fret over him. Unnecessary, but nice.
“Nary a scratch. Although, I’ll admit this was my favorite pair of trousers,” he quipped.
“You could have been killed,” she said soberly. “I don’t know how you can make light of such a serious matter.”
Her concern warmed him, but he didn’t want her worrying. “I’m fine. Trust me, I’m perfectly capable of handling a pair of two-bit thugs.” The knives they wielded had made things interesting—but he saw no need to mention that.
“This makes at least four attempts on your life in … what? Three weeks?”
“Yes, but who’s counting?” He grinned.