“Of course I have,” Strathmore said. “You are my wife’s brother, and I love my wife more than I love my next breath. She tells me you are not altogether horrible, and I believe her. She tells me you have good intentions, and I believe that too. I know you love her, and that you did your utmost to see her well-settled and happy, even if you are an overbearing arse.”
He bristled at being called an arse. “Careful, Strathmore. I may be at your mercy now, but I will not be insulted by you.”
Strathmore remained unapologetic. “I speak only the truth. But fortunately for Vi and myself, she has a mind and heart of her own, and she followed both straight to me.”
Vi.
Lucien had always called Violet “Lettie.” But of course, Strathmore had decided upon a nickname of his own. The diminutive was yet another reminder his sister had flown from the nest and had begun a life of her own. Her happiness pleased him, of course, but he felt a keen stab of envy for the joy she had discovered in her marriage.
“I am glad Lettie has found happiness,” he forced himself to say, his voice sounding rusty. “I would not have it any other way.”
“It is my duty to make her happy for the rest of our lives,” Strathmore replied, his tone growing serious.
“Your damned right it is,” Lucien growled.
He had been protecting Violet since she had been a girl, and it still nettled he had been so summarily replaced, even if he had always known the supplanting would be inevitable.
“Tell me what happened this evening,” Strathmore said, effectively changing the subject.
Though Strathmore remained a member of the League, he had been on unofficial leave in the wake of The Incident and his marriage to Lettie.
Lucien sighed. “The abridged version of it is that the railway dynamitards are after Miss Montgomery. She was recognized here in London, and somehow, the bastards infiltrated Lark House and planted a bomb beneath her bed, while she and I were away this evening.”
Strathmore cursed. “Thank God she was not hurt, or worse.”
Ice returned to his veins at the thought of harm befalling Hazel. But he would not allow that fear to consume him now, for what he needed to do most was focus upon apprehending the men responsible, before they made yet another attempt upon her life.
“It is a credit to her impeccable instincts and experience as a Pinkerton agent that she was not,” he said, his throat going thick. “She noticed someone had been in her chamber and was instantly suspicious enough to perform a thorough search of her room. That is when she discovered the bomb.”
“You admire her.”
Strathmore’s assertion startled him. Not because it was untrue, but because he had not thought himself so damned transparent when it came to his feelings for Hazel.
He met his brother-in-law’s gaze, unflinching. “Yes.”
Strathmore’s eyes narrowed, his stare turning speculative. “You more than admire her, in fact.”
He ground his molars. “What does it signify? Miss Montgomery is my partner. If I do not have faith in her abilities as an agent, I am putting myself at unnecessary risk. Of course I admire her intelligence and her daring. She has uncovered more about the Fenians since her arrival here in London than I have in months. Her instinct is impeccable. We are fortunate indeed to be able to avail ourselves of her expertise.”
“You speak with the vigor of a lover, rather than that of a peer,” Strathmore assessed.
Correctly, damn it all.
“Do not make me blacken your eye in your own home, Strathmore,” he growled. “How dare you suggest I have acted as less than a gentleman in regard to Miss Montgomery?”
“I suggested no such thing, but your guilt is betraying you.” Amusement laced Strathmore’s tone now.
Sodding hell.
He had walked rather neatly into Strathmore’s trap. “If you say one word to besmirch her honor, I will do far worse than blacken your eye.”
“Come now.” Strathmore made a clucking sound. “Why would I wish to besmirch the honor of my future sister-in-law?”
The notion of marrying Hazel returned once more. He waited for the inevitable, accompanying sense of dread, but it failed to arrive. In its place, all he felt was the searing warmth of contentment. The slow, steady rush of peace. The fledgling hope that perhaps all was not lost for him. That perhaps he could find happiness with Hazel, if he but dared.
“I am not marrying Miss Montgomery,” he sputtered at last.
Only because she had refused his suit. But Strathmore need not know that.
“Pity. You ought to,” the duke said, his expression grave.
He was not joking or making light of Lucien this time. His brother-in-law appeared utterly serious. “I have no wish to marry.
Still, even to his own ears, and most importantly to his own heart, the denial rang false.
“Why?” Strathmore asked. “Because of your mother? You need not look surprised. Vi has told me all about her madness and how her loss affected you both. But you must know that the unhappiness of your parents need not be visited upon you. Marriage does not have to be a hell, and neither does your life. Do you truly want to spend the rest of your days alone, when the woman you love is within your reach?”
“Love is a fiction,” he spat, because it was what he had believed for so long.
His mother had claimed to love him, and she had left. His father had claimed to love his mother, and yet he had confined her to a life of misery at Albemarle, until she had killed herself. There, in the scars of his past, lay irrefutable, incontrovertible proof that love was nothing more than a chimera, invented by the weakhearted, and clung to by the masses.
Did it not?
Why then, did it feel as if Hazel had reached inside him, filling a void he had not known was empty? Why did the thought of his life without her in it paralyze him with dread and fear?
“Tell yourself that, if you must,” Strathmore said. “But you have only to look at the world around you to see that love is, indeed, real. Do not blot out the sun to spite yourself. Let it burn brightly. Take the chance that it will burn. Allow yourself, for once, to ease your grip upon the reins of the past, and if you dare, let them go.”
Damnation.
Not long ago, he had been determined to see the Duke of Strathmore thrown into Newgate prison for crimes he had wrongly believed he had committed. And now, here he stood, waxing poetic about love and life. Worse for Lucien’s already battered pride, Strathmore was not wrong in a single, bloody word he had spoken.
Hazel was the sun. She was the source of the warmth in his life, everything he needed to sustain himself.
Nevertheless, he could not afford to wallow in these newfound realizations. The hour was late, but he could not rest until he learned how those bastards had gained entrance to Lark House with the intention of harming Hazel.
He cleared his throat. “I have no wish to argue the vagaries of human emotion at this time of the night, Strathmore. I need to return to Lark House and continue overseeing the inquisition of my staff. I trust you will keep the ladies safe until my return?”
Strathmore inclined his head. “I will protect them with my life.”
“Let us hope it does not come to that,” he said grimly, another chill seeping into the very marrow of his bones.
He would fight these villains and bring them to ground, or he would die trying. Either way, he would do everything in his power to see they could never again harm Hazel, or anyone else.
“How long have you been in love with my brother?”
The Duchess of Strathmore’s question gave Hazel such a shock, she almost tripped on the sumptuous carpet of the guest chamber she had been given. After escorting Lady Beaufort to her chamber first, the duchess had accompanied Hazel. Fortunately, she had waited until they were ensconced in the room, away from the vigilant ears of Lady Beaufort, to pose the query.
Hand flying to her heart, Hazel spun to face Lucien’s elegant sister, who watched her with a k
nowing air. “I am not in love with Arden,” she denied, though part of her knew it was futile.
Still, how strange it was to think someone whose acquaintance she had just made that evening, a woman whose company she had been in for less than a half hour’s time, could see the truth so plainly, when it had taken Hazel herself weeks to discover it.
“You are,” the duchess countered. “I could see it in the way you looked at him. But you need not fret, because he is in love with you as well.”
This assertion shocked her even more than the first.
But what left her most stunned was the sudden, almost painful rush of longing the duchess’s words brought to life within her. She wanted Lucien to love her. But that was foolish yearnings, the product of her reckless heart. She ought to be wise enough to know such an impossibility could never come to fruition.
“It does not matter,” she told the duchess, careful to keep the sadness from her expression and her voice both. “Arden and I are two very different people, from two vastly different places.”
“What has any of that to do with love?” demanded the duchess.
Lucien’s sister possessed the heart of a true romantic. She also had the lack of caution of a person who had been given everything she wished her whole life. As the daughter of a duke, she had undoubtedly been coddled and spoiled. What must life be like for a woman who could be anything she wished to be, who was assured of her role in society, her place in life, who had never had to struggle or fight? Hazel would never know, because she had been destined from birth to have to claw her way through the world. She had been born to be nothing, but she had made herself into something.
“Love is an impractical emotion for a woman like me,” she explained. “And I am a woman who does not dare be impractical. I hold your brother in the highest regard, Your Grace, but I am no fool. I do not belong here in your gilded world. I am but a fleeting visitor, though it is a visit I will never forget.”
Indeed, she would cherish the memory of the arrogant duke who had stolen her heart for the rest of her days. He had awakened her from sleep. He had shown her passion with his touch. He had worshiped her with his body. And she would always love him. Always.
“Forgive me,” the Duchess of Strathmore said, moving toward her in a silken swish of amethyst skirts. “I must argue with your fatalism. I know you must be weary after your travails this evening, and the hour is late, but do you think we might sit for a moment?”
“Your Grace,” she protested, “I am already imposing upon you enough by my presence here in the middle of the night. I would not dream of importuning you further.”
“Nonsense,” said the duchess with a friendly smile. “And you must call me Violet. I insist. Your Grace and Duchess are far too formal for us, for I think we shall be fast friends, you and I. Do you not agree?”
Her air was easy and light, and she possessed none of the starch and sternness that were the hallmarks of her formidable aunt. She made Hazel forget the disparity in their social classes.
“As you wish, Violet.” Hazel smiled back at her, and relented, allowing herself to be led to the chamber’s seating area. “And you must call me Hazel.”
What would it be like to belong to Lucien’s family? To have this brilliant, lovely woman as her sister? To have Lucien as her husband?
She banished the questions, for they were a moot point.
“This is far better.” Violet settled her skirts into place and sent another tentative smile in Hazel’s direction. “I find myself becoming tired so easily in my delicate condition.” She laid a hand over her belly.
Comprehension dawned on Hazel. Lucien’s sister was going to have a babe. “Good heavens, I had no idea! You ought to be in your bed, getting rest. Not here with me.”
“Nonsense.” Violet waved a dismissive hand. “I am perfectly well, but do keep it a secret for now, if you please. I have yet to tell Arden, and I want to surprise him with the news he is to be an uncle.”
“I will not breathe a word,” she promised.
An odd thought wound its way into her mind then. She could have a babe of her own, even now. This thought, like the questions and longing rising in her heart, she quashed.
“Thank you.” Violet’s smile faded. “I want Lucien to find the same happiness I have, Hazel. For so many years, he has closed himself off to anything other than duty. First me, then the Home Office. He has carried so much weight upon his shoulders. He deserves love. He deserves a life and family of his own.”
“I hardly think seeing us together, for but a few minutes this evening, could suggest either Arden or myself is desirous of a future together,” she said stiffly.
“He wrote to me of you, as I said,” Violet said. “We have not been as close as we once were since I married Strathmore, and it has grieved me mightily, but I still know him well. His admiration for you is undeniable. I have never known him to be so in awe of any woman, and it gives me hope he can find contentment at last.”
She wanted to look away, but could not seem to wrest her gaze from Violet’s uncompromising green stare, so like her brother’s. “Your Grace—Violet, your brother is an honorable man, and I enjoy working alongside him, but I cannot be the woman to give him the life and family he deserves. I am an American orphan, who has spent her life working in a profession most of the world believes is more suited to a man than a woman. I know nothing of your customs or manners, and as your aunt would be quick to tell you, my comportment is abominable.”
“When our mother drowned herself, Lucien swam into the sea after her. He swam until servants went after him, dragging him, fighting all the way back to shore, before he collapsed from exhaustion himself. And even then, he walked the shores until he discovered her, wet and pale and lifeless, still wearing her finest morning dress. He carried her home that way.” Violet’s voice trembled by the time she finished the harrowing recollection. “That is the sort of young man he was, the sort of man he is. He will do anything for the ones he loves. Give him a chance, Hazel, please. That is all I ask.”
Hazel did not know she was crying, until she felt the wetness of tears trailing down her cheeks. It was the same story Lady Beaufort had told her, but this time in greater, more haunting detail. Her heart broke all over again for the frightened young man he had been, and for the man he had become.
“I have already given him a chance,” she told Violet. “I let him into my heart.”
The trouble was, she very much suspected he was destined to break it.
Chapter Eighteen
Hazel jolted awake at dawn, startled to find herself in unfamiliar surroundings once more, until she recalled where she was and why. She had slept fitfully in her new and temporary bed at the Duke of Strathmore’s townhome. Indeed, she would be surprised if she had even managed two consecutive hours of slumber. Sleeping without the comforting heat of Lucien’s big body already felt foreign.
She yawned and scrubbed a hand over her face as her wits returned. Long after her conversation with Lucien’s sister had ended, Hazel had paced the room, unable to sleep. The events of the evening had weighed upon her. So much had occurred, almost a lifetime’s worth in the course of hours. She had realized she had fallen in love with Lucien. And she had discovered inarguable proof that someone—or to be more apt, the Emerald Club—wanted her dead.
Most frustrating of all was her inability to act upon any of her newfound knowledge. There was nothing she could do with her love for Lucien except hold it inside her, just as there was nothing she could do to defend herself from an unseen foe.
She sighed, for though she was bone-weary, she knew there would be no more sleeping for her this morning. Even with the little slumber she had managed to nab, her restless mind was spinning. First and foremost, she was a Pinkerton, and she had not forgotten the duties which came with such a distinction.
Hazel rose from bed, performed her morning ablutions, and hastily dressed herself, for though Bunton would surely arrive if she rang for her, Hazel was
accustomed to doing for herself. And she needed the reminder the charmed existence in which she found herself—bombs and murderous Fenians out for her blood notwithstanding—would eventually come to an end. She would once more return to her modest life of rented rooms the size of the guest bedchambers in which she stayed, of no servants to cater to her whims, and of breakfasts she prepared by her own hand.
Pacing the floor some more, she set her mind to unraveling the mystery of Sean Flannery and Thomas Mulroney, and any of their unknown confederates. Because most of her journals had been inside her carpetbag when it was stolen, she was bereft of her lists and copious notes. She had not realized how very much she had relied upon them, until they were gone.
On another perambulation of the chamber, she noted the small writing desk set up near a window, with a sheaf of papers and pen and ink upon its glossy surface. She would just have to make her lists again, she decided, storming to the desk with purpose and settling down to begin.
Known Fenians
Thomas Mulroney
Sean Flannery
Drummond McKenna
The Nightingale
Her pen paused after the last, something about the code name used for the Fenian connection in England bothering her.
“The Nightingale,” she repeated aloud.
As code names went, it was damned odd. Nightingales were small and uninspiring in appearance. Dull and drab, with portly bellies and a sweet call they trilled cheerfully in the spring and summer months. Was The Nightingale unassuming? Commonplace?
Hmm, that did not seem right.
Perhaps, she reasoned, tilting her head as she contemplated, The Nightingale was female, and that was the reasoning behind the code name. Or The Nightingale was a man who was short in stature. Or maybe The Nightingale had brown hair. Or he was exceedingly garrulous.
“Hell,” she muttered to herself.
She could not help but to feel now, as she had all along, that uncovering the identity of The Nightingale would unlock the mysteries of the case. If she could find out who The Nightingale was, she would be able to determine the whereabouts of Mulroney and Flannery, and any of their cohorts, she was certain.
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