“Augustus will destroy you,” Quinn finished. He poured more wine into Julian’s glass and his own. “So the most pleasant reason for Hawthorne to follow you is our financial ruin.”
“Yes.” Julian clenched his stomach and swallowed some of the blasted wine. “The other options are worse: social annihilation or my own assassination.”
“Well, then,” Quintus said, his words hardly slurring. “It seems to me that we have no choice.”
Julian met his brother’s eyes and saw his determination mirrored there.
Quinn nodded. “We kill Hawthorne.”
* * *
It seemed like hours later that Messalina found herself in the sitting room again, with Lucretia pressing a hot dish of tea on her.
Messalina glanced up to find her sister gazing at her anxiously.
“He’ll be all right,” Lucretia was saying. “Quite all right, I’m sure. Anybody shouting like that can’t be too badly injured. And you know how men get when they’re hurt. Remember when Quintus fell from his horse when he was seventeen because he was in his cups and he made such a fuss but then wouldn’t let anyone near to help him and locked himself in his bedroom? And then it turned out he only had a twisted ankle, but he insisted on resting it on a pillow in the most annoying fashion for weeks and weeks?”
Lucretia stopped, possibly to draw breath.
Messalina looked down at her tea. It was growing cold, but she was afraid that she might very well cast up her accounts should she drink it.
There had been so much blood on Gideon’s face, and she thought the hair on the side of his head had gleamed with more blood. What if he lost consciousness? What if he was dying at this very moment from the loss of blood?
Why hadn’t he wanted her in his room? Had he come to loathe her so much because of their discord?
She must’ve made a noise—maybe a sob—for Lucretia suddenly took the dish of tea from her hands and pulled her into a tight hug.
“It’s all right,” Lucretia whispered. “He’ll be all right, I promise, Messalina. I promise.”
“I thought you didn’t like him,” Messalina gasped.
“I don’t,” Lucretia murmured. “But you do.”
It was usually Messalina, as the older sister, who gave comfort. Messalina buried her face in her sister’s shoulder and inhaled the scent of violets—wild and free, a perfume that perfectly matched Lucretia’s spirit and exuberantly loving nature.
The door to the sitting room opened, and Mr. Blackwell came in quietly.
Messalina hastily sat up, blotting her face with a handkerchief. “How is he?”
“Better.” He gestured to a chair by them. “With your permission?”
Messalina nodded. “Please.”
He sat, his face grave. “The shoulder was dislocated, but the doctor has been able to set it again.” He winced. “A rather painful process, I’m afraid.”
Messalina gulped. She’d once seen a groom’s arm dislocated. They’d been with a picnic party, several miles from home, and the decision had been made to set the arm there and then.
The groom had screamed as if he were being tortured. She grew faint thinking of the shouts they’d heard earlier from above.
“Is he awake?” She felt helpless, having to beg the information from another when it was her own husband hurt.
Were they really husband and wife in anything but name anymore?
“When I left him, he was,” Mr. Blackwell replied. “But I believe the doctor wanted to dose him with something to make him sleep. Gideon didn’t like the idea.”
Lucretia muttered something about males, sickrooms, and bad patients.
Messalina ignored her. “Did…did he ask about me?”
The pitying expression on Mr. Blackwell’s face made her immediately regret the question. “No. I’m sorry, Mrs. Hawthorne. He was in a great deal of pain, you understand. The doctor thought he might have broken ribs, and there was a cut upon his head that needed to be sewn shut.”
“I see.” Messalina looked down at her clasped hands.
The gilded clock on the mantel chimed the hour, and Messalina was surprised to find it wasn’t yet dinnertime.
Only an hour had elapsed since Gideon had been brought home.
She rallied her hostess skills. “We’d be very pleased to have you stay for supper, Mr. Blackwell. You’ve been such a help.”
Mr. Blackwell’s gaze strayed to Lucretia, but then he shook his head. “I regret I must decline, Mrs. Hawthorne. I’m engaged to dine with a business acquaintance already.”
Messalina raised her chin, pulling the tatters of her pride about her. “Then we shouldn’t keep you any longer from your appointments.”
Mr. Blackwell hesitated.
Abruptly he said, “Gideon and I have been partners for many years. In all that time I’ve never known him to form a connection with a female that lasted for more than a night. Beg your pardon.”
Messalina stiffened. “I’m sure I don’t need to know this information.”
“I’m not explaining myself very well,” Mr. Blackwell said earnestly. “I only mean that Gideon has been alone for a very long time, perhaps his entire life. His family is dead, did you know?”
“He told me that he had a mother and brother,” Messalina said slowly. It felt almost treasonous to be talking about Gideon’s personal life with someone else. “I didn’t think he had any other family beyond that.”
“Then you are one of the very few he’s told even that much,” Mr. Blackwell said. “I only learned about his mother and brother after two years of partnership—and then because Gideon once got drunk with me. He doesn’t drink to drunkenness as a rule. He spoke without any emotion at all of his mother’s death and even of his brother’s. He might have been reading a newspaper. It made me realize something about him.”
He paused, and Messalina could see that he wanted the question from her. Reluctantly she asked, “What is that?”
“You must not be cast down by his insistence that you leave the bedroom. In some fundamental way Gideon is…” He wrinkled his brow as if searching for the right word, then nodded as if he’d found it. “He is wrong. He does not feel the emotions the rest of us feel.”
Messalina stared at him. “You’re saying Gideon doesn’t know how to love.”
Beside her Lucretia made an aborted movement as if to forestall Mr. Blackwell from answering.
But he looked at Messalina steadily. “I’m saying that Gideon doesn’t even know what love is. Not for people, in any case.” His mouth twisted wryly. “He certainly has an affection for money.”
Messalina took a deep breath. “I thank you for your thoughts on the matter. I will consider them.”
She rose, and Mr. Blackwell stood as well.
“Please,” he said. “If there is any way that I may help you at this difficult time, I hope you will send word.” He felt inside the pocket of his blue coat and withdrew a pencil and notebook, bending to scribble an address on it before tearing the paper out and handing it to Messalina. “This is where I can be found. Please don’t hesitate to send a messenger at any time. I’m at your disposal.” He paused to glance at Lucretia, standing quietly beside Messalina. “At both of your disposals, ladies.”
He bowed and departed.
Lucretia sat abruptly on the settee. “Well. I don’t know what exactly to say to that.”
“I do,” Messalina said softly. “Mr. Blackwell only stated what I already knew: there is no hope for me and Gideon.” She glanced up at Lucretia. “Freya urged me to find out Gideon’s feelings, but what if he has none? If the emotion is only on my side, then it’s my soul that is in peril, not just my pride.” She took a deep breath. “We leave as soon as I attain the money.”
Chapter Sixteen
“What is your name?” Bet asked the red-haired man bravely.
But he shook his head. “My name can be used against me, and I have many enemies.”
“Then you don’t trust me.”
/> He tilted his head. “No, my dear. I neither trust nor love you, but our marriage will be pleasant nonetheless. Now come to bed.”…
—From Bet and the Fox
That evening Gideon gritted his teeth against the pain from his ribs as he turned onto his side. The ribs on his right were wrapped. His arm was bound to his chest on top of the bandages so that the joint might heal in place. Altogether he felt like a trussed bird, ready for the oven.
He hated this, hated being injured, in pain, and vulnerable to attack. His men surrounded him—he knew this. There was no danger, no way an enemy could get to him. Even so, something primitive and animal made him want to find a hiding hole, back himself in, and growl at any who dared disturb him.
So of course Messalina walked in the bedroom without so much as a knock at the door.
“Get out,” he said at once.
His sharp words had driven her away earlier, but now she simply drew up a chair next to the bed. He saw she had a bowl of soup in her hands.
“I’ve brought you your supper,” she said, as composed as if she had sat down to luncheon with a bevy of ladies.
“Leave it here and go,” he ordered.
She set the bowl on the bedside table. “Can I help you to sit?”
“No.” He tried to push himself upright with his left hand and bit back a groan as his ribs protested.
“You’re ridiculous,” Messalina said quietly, and put her arms around him to help him up.
It was an undignified and painful process, but in the end he was sitting, even if he was panting.
He frowned at her. “You’re stronger than you look.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You’re only now understanding that?”
“Humph.” A spoonful of steaming beef soup was suddenly held before him. “I can feed my—”
She shoved the spoon in his mouth.
He glared as he chewed what was, he had to admit, a very good bit of tender beef. When he’d swallowed, he opened his mouth to say—
And she did it again.
The smirk on her face was almost worth the indignity. She’d not smiled at him since that night at the ball, and he secretly basked in it even as he retained his glare. God. He’d turn somersaults like a trained monkey if it would keep that smile on her face.
“I think I like this game,” she said as she held out another spoonful of soup.
This time he didn’t bother trying to talk. He wasn’t enthusiastic about the prospect of choking on that spoon.
For several minutes he simply ate as Messalina patiently fed him. It was almost companionable, and he felt a great longing rise up within him.
Gideon turned aside from the next offering of soup. “No more,” he said gruffly. “I’ve had a sufficiency.”
He expected her to depart then, but she simply put aside the bowl and spoon.
“Who attacked you?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Two men, one quite good with a knife. I didn’t recognize them.”
But he had suspicions. He’d been following Julian Greycourt, after all.
Her brows knitted. “Were they intent on robbery?”
“I don’t think so,” he replied dryly, “since they never asked for my purse.”
She paled a little. “Then they wanted to hurt you.”
They’d wanted to kill him, he knew, but he wasn’t about to tell Messalina that.
He shrugged. “Perhaps.”
Her glance was sharp. “Why?”
Gideon should send her away. He couldn’t tell her that he suspected her brother. Or perhaps the duke—though Gideon couldn’t figure why the old man would kill him before he’d completed his task. Windemere would be bad enough, but for all their conflict, Messalina cared for Greycourt.
Messalina cared for so many people.
Perhaps even him.
He wanted Messalina’s company. She was finally talking to him, even if it was only to ask unwelcome questions.
He’d waited too long to answer. She sat back and eyed him suspiciously. “It hasn’t escaped my notice that you’ve been especially prone to footpads attacking you in the last several weeks.”
He blinked.
She rolled her eyes. “You’re surprised I noticed.”
Gideon cleared his throat. “It’s true that I don’t usually attract footpads.”
She cocked her eyebrow. “Who wants you dead?”
He simply couldn’t tell her. “I don’t know.”
“You mean you have no enemies—or that you have too many?”
“I have a few,” he said cautiously. “Your uncle has many more. And since I am his man, there are some who might want to hit at him by…removing me from his service.”
She frowned, looking toward the fire. “Have you done that mysterious job for him, Gideon? The one that you promised him for my hand in marriage?”
Jesus, he had to get her away from this subject. “Not yet.”
She turned back to him, her gray eyes solemn and clear. “Why?”
Because he couldn’t hurt her. Now or ever. Promise to the dangerous Duke of Windemere or not. It was suddenly very clear in his mind that he had no intention of killing Greycourt.
Even if the man wanted him dead. “It’s complicated.”
“You won’t tell me.”
Sweat dotted his forehead. “No.”
Her expression turned resigned. Disappointed. “You don’t trust me.”
He felt as if he’d been punched in the belly, the pain sharper than any hit he’d taken in St Giles.
“Messalina, please,” he said urgently as she stood. “It’s not that.”
She paused and looked back at him, and he could see that her humor was hot as well. “I’m married to you, Gideon, through no fault of my own. If it’s not that you don’t trust me, then why won’t you talk to me?” She shook her head as he remained silent. “You were the one who placed us in this position. If you didn’t want a wife who cared, then perhaps you should’ve studied me better before you made your devil’s bargain with my uncle.”
And with that she swept from the room.
* * *
Messalina was just finishing her toilet the next morning when she paused to take a deep breath. She’d hardly slept last night, turning over and over Gideon’s betrayal, how she felt about him, and whether he felt anything at all for her. Fortunately, she’d spent the night in one of the guest rooms, sparing Lucretia her restlessness.
When she woke there had been a moment—a tiny moment—when she thought Gideon lay beside her.
She swallowed. Her heart ached.
But no. She’d vowed to put the matter of Gideon’s perfidy aside for the nonce. He was injured. Keys had even admitted—after intense questioning that Messalina wasn’t at all sorry for—that Gideon had come close to being murdered. Had Keys not arrived in time…
She shuddered. The fact was, even angry with Gideon for his many wrongs and wrongheadedness, she still felt a pull toward him.
Someone knocked at her bedroom door.
“Come,” she called as Bartlett started putting away the brush and hairpins.
A maid peeped in. “You’ve a visitor, ma’am. Mr. Julian Greycourt. The butler has put him in the sitting room.”
Messalina felt a cowardly urge to tell the maid to inform her brother that she wasn’t home. Julian had brought her only pain since his arrival in London, and he’d shown no remorse for it.
She stared at herself in the mirror and remembered a time when she was very young and had fallen on a wooden floor. A great splinter had embedded itself in her palm. She’d known that the splinter had to be removed, but even at so young an age, she anticipated the pain it would cause her. She’d shied away from the tweezers her nanny had held. It wasn’t until Julian had been called to the nursery and talked to her quietly for ten minutes or more that she was able to let the nanny pull the splinter.
He’d been so kind then, so gentle, and she’d looked up to him as her perfect older brother
.
But she wasn’t a little girl now, and Julian had long ago lost the ability to comfort her.
“Are you all right, ma’am?” the maid asked.
Messalina glanced up. “Of course. Please let my brother know that I’ll attend him shortly, and tell Hicks to send tea.”
She walked down the hallways and stairs mulling on Julian and how far he’d wandered from the laughing boy of his youth. When she looked up, she found herself in front of the sitting room doors. She squared her shoulders, bracing herself to meet her brother before she opened the door.
Julian was standing by the fireplace, gazing into the small fire there, his long braid of hair thrown over his shoulder, his face pensive.
Sometimes she wondered if her brother posed as the romantic poet on purpose. But then he’d been all alone when she’d entered the sitting room.
Perhaps he was truly as lonely as he seemed.
He looked up belatedly as she crossed the room.
“I’ve ordered tea,” she said. “I hope this will be a pleasant visit.”
“I suppose that depends on your definition of pleasant,” he drawled.
She sat on the settee. “Does it? Well, then, I define a pleasant visit as conversation that doesn’t leave me in fear for my new furniture.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I’d hardly attack you.”
“No?” She placed her arm on the back of the settee, eyeing him soberly. “Not physically, of course, but I think you have no compunction about attacking my mental state.”
He pressed his lips together. “Would you have preferred to never know about your husband’s deception?”
“No,” she replied calmly but with bite. “But I don’t think my preferences came into your decision at all. You wanted to score a point against Gideon, and if you had to go through my heart to do it, you saw no problem.”
He stared at her with gray eyes identical to hers—save for the fact that she’d never seen that cold expression in her own mirror.
She turned as the door opened. Two maids entered, bearing an enormous tray between them of tea and tiny cakes.
They were followed immediately by Lucretia. “Why didn’t you tell me we were having tea?” she asked, eyeing the cakes.
When a Rogue Meets His Match Page 26