He’d watched Sesily bathe, for God’s sake.
He’d catalogued the curves and shadows of her body.
He’d fallen asleep aching for her. Woken the same way.
There’d been nothing decent about it.
Sera was still asking questions. “Did she seduce you?”
His brows rose. “No.”
You’re not keeping me from anyone, either.
“Did she offer to?”
The words shouldn’t have bothered him. It shouldn’t have mattered that Seraphina—like the rest of London—believed that Sesily would attempt to seduce him. What was it she’d said? Scandalous Sesily, at best a vapid bright eyes, and at worst a tragic lightskirt.
“You really aren’t playing the doting older brother role well, Sera,” he replied. “You ought to remember that generally they don’t insult the honor of their sisters quite so readily.”
“And again! So droll!” Seraphina said before adding, matter-of-factly, “I’m not playing some archaic role; Sesily can take care of her own honor.”
It was Caleb’s turn to be surprised.
“She’s a grown woman and more than capable of taking a lover safely.” She paused before adding, “Though I would most definitely take issue with you being that particular lover.”
Later, he would hate how insulted he was at the observation, considering he had no intention of being Sesily Talbot’s lover. “Why?”
Sera cut him a look. “You and I both know that you’re emotionally . . . a problem.”
“Excuse me?”
Haven snorted from his table in the distance and Caleb shot him a look. “Something to say, Duke? Shall we rehash your ridiculous love story? Spanning years, continents, and your own head up your—”
“Of course it’s true, Caleb. You’re the kind of problem that cannot help but ruin a love affair. You are so consumed by your inability to love—for reasons unknown and likely unreasonable—that you close yourself off from the whole world.”
“They’re not unreasonable, as a matter of fact.”
“Oh, I’m sure not to you.” She waved a hand in the air as though that bit was sorted, and went on. “What would you like me to say: if you harm my sister in any way, I shall have no choice but to destroy you?”
It wouldn’t be entirely out of line. “Of course not.”
“No, because we’re all better than that,” Sera said. “But you didn’t bring her to me or any of my other sisters. And I know you well enough to know that you were absolutely not planning to take her home with you at the beginning of the evening. So why didn’t she want to come to me?”
“I don’t know.”
“Presumably because she knew what I would say when I discovered her recklessness.”
And there it was. That word Sesily had invoked in his carriage. Reckless.
It wasn’t stupid and it wasn’t reckless and I don’t have to explain it to anyone.
“It wasn’t reckless. She didn’t start the row.” He felt a responsibility to defend her. There wouldn’t have been a row if not for him. He was the one who’d brought Peck to Maggie’s doorstep.
His guilt from the night before returned, harsher now by light of day, when he wasn’t hot with anger and wracked with worry. Crueler now that Sera was speaking the words Sesily had protested so vehemently in the carriage.
She hadn’t been reckless.
I did what any decent person would do—what you did, I might add—I fought.
He came off the bar to his full height, and Sera backed up a few steps to give him space even as her gaze narrowed, as though she saw something curious on his face. He steeled himself for whatever she was about to say—preparing to deny whatever she thought she saw.
Whether or not it was true.
“She’s damned lucky you were there,” Sera said softly.
He’d thought so last night. But now, by the light of day, he wasn’t so sure.
His friend sighed and turned away, making her way down the long bar and around it, her strides long and purposeful as she returned to the box of candles she’d been unpacking.
She lifted a handful of tapers and made for the chandelier on the stage at the far end of the room, and a lesser man would have thought she was through with the conversation.
Caleb knew better.
Not ten feet from the stage, she turned back. “She’s up to something.”
And with those four words, Caleb knew that Sesily wasn’t at all lucky he had been with her the night before.
And he wasn’t, either.
“She’s out until all hours,” Sera added, “routinely sneaking home at dawn.”
“That could be anything,” he said, knowing he shouldn’t get involved. Telling himself not to get involved.
Sera shook her head. “Maybe, but she’s avoiding the rest of us.” The four other Talbot sisters. “Oh, she comes to luncheon or dinner or to the country house whenever she’s invited. But when she’s there . . . she’s different. Distracted.”
Caleb shouldn’t be interested. He shouldn’t care.
Sera looked to him. “On Wednesday evening—Thursday morning, I should say—she was supposed to attend some perfectly boring musicale, but somehow returned home long after it was over with blood on her skirts.”
His brows rose at that. “Whose blood?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“How do you even know it happened?”
“The laundress at Talbot House told the housekeeper, who told me.”
Caleb shook his head. “You’ve got the servants skulking about behind her back?”
Sera cut him a look. “If she weren’t constantly giving us the slip, I might be less inclined to have her followed. Our parents are in France and she’s spent the three months since they left telling one sister she’s staying with a different one, leaving us all to discover that no one has seen her past six in the evening in a fortnight. It’s maddening.”
It sounded brilliant to Caleb. “Does she come here? To the Sparrow?”
“And risk my learning more about what she’s up to? Never. I’m telling you, she’s up to something. And it’s not just carousing at Maggie O’Tiernen’s.”
That was clear, considering the knife she carried in her pocket, the way she’d fought in the brawl the night before—like she’d been trained in a ring—the fearless way she’d absolutely wrecked Totting in the Trevescan gardens.
Memory of that evening flashed, hot and unwelcome.
Sesily in the garden. In his arms.
I swore I’d never do this.
Unfortunately . . . circumstances dictate.
Totting tumbling from the gardens like a drunken ox.
No. Not a drunken one. A drugged one. His sins inked on his face. Deservedly so . . . but dangerously, as well.
Haven’t you noticed, American? I am trouble.
“She was caught up in a raid,” Sera said, her voice wavering for the first time.
Haven heard it, too, and he was up and crossing the room in an instant, pulling her into his embrace, setting his lips to her temple. “She was fine. Caleb was there.”
Don’t make me a hero, Duke.
“It wasn’t her fault,” Caleb said again, softer. “She wasn’t looking for trouble. That raid could have been anywhere.”
Sera nodded. “Half the places in the Garden owned or frequented by women have increased security in the last six months.” She grimaced. “A consequence of our new queen.”
“Have we?”
“Fetu has four bodies on the front door and three on the back,” she said, before looking up at her husband. “Mal has stationed men on the rooftops, and the Bastards have increased their watch as well.” The Bareknuckle Bastards, protectors of the darkest corners of Covent Garden.
Haven pulled Sera tight to his side. “If they try it, they’ll be taken care of.”
Caleb nodded. He should go back to Maggie’s today—help her sort out similar protection for The Place.
“And last night?” Sera interjected. “Who took care of them last night?”
He could tell her. He could name them. He’d seen them all working together, like they’d trained for just such an evening as the one they’d had last night. The Duchess of Trevescan, with money and power to spare. Adelaide Frampton, whom the entire world seemed to think was a simpering wallflower but was able to wield a blade without trouble. Imogen Loveless, who’d knocked a bruiser out with a concoction Caleb never wanted to be on the receiving end of. Maggie, who had eyes everywhere. The others.
And Sesily, like a fucking goddess, up on the bar, red skirts gleaming in the lanternlight, smile on her face and quip on her tongue as she cracked a Bully Boy over the head with a table leg like she was playing shuttlecock.
It was a crew if he’d ever seen one.
A revolution, clad in rouge and silk.
But he didn’t say any of it.
Not only because he’d put those women in danger, bringing Peck inside and summoning the raid. Not only because he’d seen them stand together, shoulder to shoulder. Not only because he’d fought alongside them.
He didn’t say it, because he’d promised Sesily he wouldn’t.
And it was the only thing he could let himself give her. So he stayed quiet, turning back to the row of bottles on the shelf behind the bar, busying himself with them despite absolutely no need to do so.
“Caleb.” Sera interrupted his thoughts, and he looked to her—recognizing the hope in her gaze. Knowing exactly what she was going to ask. Hating it. “I need your help.”
Shit.
“No.”
Whatever she was asking, he wouldn’t do it.
He couldn’t. Not and keep his distance from Sesily.
Not and keep his friendship with Sera.
Not and keep his sanity.
“I would do it myself—”
“You absolutely will not do it yourself.” Haven had put down his papers. “You’re about to have a child.”
“Did you not hear the bit where I told Caleb I could have a child and deliver a facer?”
“To Caleb, fine. But not to whomever Sesily is running with.”
“That’s just the point!” Sera said, her exasperation clear as she looked to Caleb. “Who is she running with?”
He moved from needlessly arranging gin bottles to needlessly arranging whiskey bottles and said, “Send one of the boys in the Garden to find out.” The goodwill across Covent Garden for The Singing Sparrow afforded them access to any number of networks of informants.
“She’s too smart for that. She’ll sniff him out and, if I know Sesily, turn him into an ally. I need someone who is immune to her charms.”
Good luck.
“Caleb . . . you’re possibly the only man in the world who is immune to her charms.”
Haven cleared his throat, and Caleb dearly wished a facer was a possibility for him, too.
“What makes you say that?” he asked, knowing he shouldn’t. Knowing that giving Sera a single inch opened him up to be fleeced of a mile. He should know better than to fuss with the Talbot sisters.
“Well,” Sera said, “she’s wanted you for two years and you haven’t taken her to bed, for one.”
He stilled at the words. They weren’t true, were they?
You’re not keeping me from anyone.
“What?”
“I’ve lived with Sesily for thirty years. I know when she wants something. And honestly, I’m shocked you’ve resisted.” She paused. “Of course, one might argue it is easy to resist from the other side of the world.”
He knew from experience it was not.
She wanted him.
Fucking hell. It was impossible. It could never happen. “Sera. She is your sister.”
And it had nothing to do with the fact that she was Sera’s sister.
Unaware of the riot of thoughts in his head, Sera went on, “Even better. Perhaps you’re not immune to Sesily’s charms—is anyone really?—but you’re absolutely unwilling to succumb to them.”
He didn’t reply, knowing that whatever he said would reveal too much.
The ideas he’d had. The things he’d imagined doing to Sesily . . .
“Let’s be honest . . . if you did succumb . . . you’d be ruined.”
His brows snapped together and he turned to face her, finally, discovering that she was closer than he’d expected. “Don’t you mean she’d be ruined?”
She shot him an honest look. “No, Caleb. If the two of you had an affair, it might end with her heartsick . . . but it would end with you destroyed.”
The words sent a thread of panic through him—something he’d never acknowledge—and he turned his back on her with something about needing to fetch more gin.
When he entered the stockroom, Fetu was crouching low in the corner, his back to the door, and Caleb willed him silent as he crossed to fetch one of the crates they’d just reorganized.
No luck there.
“You’re always watching her, anyway,” the other man said, keeping his focus on his work. “Might as well help Sera in the balance.”
Caleb clutched the crate tight in both fists, bowing his head in frustration. “I’m not always watching her.”
Lie. The woman was storm clouds at sea. Impossible not to watch.
“I’m never here.” He couldn’t be here. If he was here, it put them all in danger. He shouldn’t be here now. He should never come back.
“I suppose,” Fetu said, coming to his full height. “But you did when you were here. When she came here.”
“Why did she stop?”
He’d wanted her to stop. When they’d opened, and he’d had to resist her for two months that stretched like an eternity. Last year when he’d been here for barely two weeks. Less time than he’d planned. Because of her.
“If you keep track of her, you can ask her.”
It shouldn’t have sweetened the pot, but it did. Lifting the crate, he returned to the main taproom, where Sera was waiting to play her final card. “You’re the only person I can trust.”
He gritted his teeth. “To keep your sister—who leaves mayhem in her wake—safe?”
Sera smiled—the smile of a beautiful woman who knew exactly how beautiful she was. The smile of a woman who knew that, eventually, she’d get her way.
“Don’t smile at him,” her husband grumbled with another kiss to her temple, returning to his table in the corner.
You shouldn’t trust me. Not with her.
“You didn’t trust me with her at the start of this conversation,” he pointed out.
“In my experience, I have found it best to begin all conversations with men with severe mistrust.”
He couldn’t fault her that. “Your husband did a number on you.”
“That he did,” she said, “but he pays for it happily, do you not, Duke?”
Haven grunted in the distance, but Caleb knew the truth. There were few men on Earth who loved their wives more than the duke loved his duchess, and that was the only reason Caleb stomached the aristocrat in his tavern.
“Please, Caleb,” she said, her hand stroking over the swell at her midsection. “Just until the babe is born.”
“I’m only here until that babe is born,” he said. “And then you’ll have to deal with your sister yourself.”
Sesily wanted him. She wanted him, and knowing it would slowly destroy him, because he could never have her.
Sera’s brown eyes lit up. “You’ll do it.”
It was a mistake.
The words snaked through him, settling deep in his gut, gnawing at him. He sighed. “Once that babe is out, Sera . . .”
A triumphant smile broke across Sera’s face. “You’re a good man, Caleb Calhoun.”
What a fucking lie that was.
Chapter Nine
“You slept in his bed?”
Sesily made a show of inspecting the detail on a particularly uninspired portrait of the Viscount Coleford, han
ging in the man’s drawing room, and whispered to her friend, “Adelaide. I would prefer all of London not be apprised of the situation.”
Adelaide dismissed the words with a hand wave. “Please. No one pays any attention to us.” She paused. “Well, no one pays attention to me.”
“Yes, well, I think they might change their minds if they overhear your question, considering we are at dinner.”
As the Duchess of Trevescan had promised, Adelaide and Sesily had received invitations to dine at the first dinner hosted by the new Viscountess Coleford, along with the duchess herself and a dozen other guests, ranging from moneyed commoners to a duke who was one of the dullest men Sesily had ever met. And when it came to dukes, that was saying something.
Nevertheless, the duo had accepted with pleasure and arrived that evening, ready to play their parts, and gather the information necessary to bring down Coleford—a likely murderer and an absolute bastard—whom Mayfair should have turned its back on years ago. But of course, men with money and title and power were never turned on. Not even when they should be.
Which was where Sesily, Adelaide, and the Duchess came in.
Earlier that afternoon, the trio had discussed the plan for the evening, each of the women prepared to play their best role: Sesily would divert the attention of the room with a raucous tale or a scandalous game while Adelaide disappeared from the room, found her way to Coleford’s private study, and relieved him of the documents proving his involvement in defrauding the Foundling Hospital. The duchess would ensure all went smoothly.
It was a plan they’d run a dozen times, in a dozen different ways. More. Enough times that it was flawless. And on this particular evening, it would be in motion as soon as the men returned from whatever men did after dinner. Cigars? Scotch?
Ladies did sherry and pianoforte, which was injustice in itself, if you asked Sesily. Excruciating.
So Sesily and Adelaide stood shoulder to shoulder as the viscountess happily played the instrument in the corner, and considered the painting that dwarfed the rest of the art in the room. Finally, Adelaide said, “Dear me, this is hideous.”
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