In the morning, the late morning, Ruan watched her sleep. She lay partly on her side, uppermost leg drawn toward her stomach. A hand clenched into a fist lay on her pillow near the back of her head, the other lax near her chin. Sometime last night her braid had come undone. Flaxen hair spread over the pillow and sheet, a tangled mass. Her chest rose and fell in the rhythm of sleep. Her mouth was slightly open. During the night, the temperature had cooled considerably so the covers hid all but the outline of her shape. Anne was the only woman to sleep in his bed. More, she was the first woman he’d woken next to and found he wanted there again. And again. And again. For as many mornings as a bastard like him had left. She might never love him, but he would make her happy. He’d see to that. She stirred, groaned and opened her eyes.
“Good morning,” he said.
She lifted her head, squinting because she did not have her spectacles. Her eyes were puffy from sleep and a crease in the pillow had put a corresponding line down her cheek. He thought if he woke to such a sight for the next hundred years he wouldn’t mind one bit. The tightness in his chest eased. She was his wife and that nothing would alter.
She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Ohh.”
He snatched the basin Merchant had tucked away in his room and held her until she stopped retching. She groaned as he bathed her face. With one finger, he moved a strand of hair from her cheek and helped her to sit. “And, by the way, happy birthday, my dear.” His heart gave a little hitch at the pleased smile that slowly appeared. You’d think he’d given her a whole casket of jewels, the way she looked at him.
“I didn’t think you knew.”
“I’ll see you at Portman Square tonight.” She stretched, and he put a hand on her belly. “Soon, Anne, when I touch you here, like this, even you will agree I feel our child.”
Anne lay back. When Cynssyr smiled like that, she couldn’t help but return his smile. His fingers stayed on her belly, spreading out in a soft caress that sent fire to her toes and back again. “Our child,” she said, pulling him toward her. “I am so grateful, Cynssyr.” She was thinking of Miss Dancy and the fate they might have shared. Would she have been tempted to find a similar end?
“For my skill in the marriage bed?” He lifted his head from her throat and gave her a wicked smile.
“What would have happened if we’d not been discovered?”
Ruan froze. When his heart started again, he sat swinging his legs off the bed and holding his head between his hands. A dozen smooth lies came to mind, any one of which would adequately deflect the danger. Any of which he once would not have hesitated to tell. “I would not have married you the next day.”
“That’s so.”
He looked at her, and with the finality born of deep conviction said, “I would have found a way to keep you with me. Hell, the minute I felt your mouth on me, I was planning how I could manage it.” Something in his chest eased. “I would have found a way. And I would have fallen in love with you. That sounds like a lie. The very sort I’ve become infamous for telling, I know, but it’s the truth.” He gripped her hand. “What frightens me, Anne, is not what might have happened at Corth Abbey, but what would have happened if I had not gone when I did. What if I hadn’t ruined you?”
“Ah.” Still on her back, she turned her head. He could no longer see her face. “But you are a man who deals in what is. Not what might have been.”
“I used to be many things.” Dobkin chose that moment to tap on the door. “Blast,” he said.
Anne faced him again. “You must show Lord Thrale that ring and the button, too. See what he has to say for himself.”
“Right now, I don’t care.”
She slipped out of bed. “If Thrale did do this, then he must be stopped. If he didn’t, we must know that, too and discover the man who has.” She’d found her nightdress and now stared at it with dismay. He had, she recalled, quite literally torn it off her. From the corner of her eye, she saw his smile of purely male satisfaction. He looked like he wanted to do it again. Oh, but Lord Ruin was a devil. They all believed him. Every single one of them believed he loved her, even Katie had probably believed him. Despite all the past examples against the likelihood, they had all believed themselves the exception.
“My robe is over there.” He pointed even though he thought it a shame to cover her delectable self. Another few minutes, and he might be up to a repeat of last night’s activity. “We cannot afford to assume it isn’t Thrale.”
The faint scent of his cologne rose from the folds of silk that swallowed her. For some reason, it made her feel sad. “You are right, of course. Has Devon learned anything more about Thrale’s household? Disgruntled servants perhaps? Someone who might have taken his coat?”
What would be the harm, she thought, in deciding to believe he loved her? None to him. Much to her when at last she had to face the truth. Would certain agony be worth the brief joy of pretending herself adored by Lord Ruin?
Ruan had half a mind to ask her to come with him, but Dobkin knocked again. “Your grace?” the valet called out. Anne gave the door a wide-eyed look.
“You are my wife. He won’t be scandalized to find you here.”
“I’m nearly naked.”
A grin twitched at his mouth. “Yes, I know. A moment,” he replied to Dobkin, but Anne was already scurrying to her room. He wanted to bring her back, ask her when she would be home, when he would see her again, all the horrible, clinging suffocating things women had done to him. He forced himself to stay put. Patience. Patience. And more patience. He would not redeem himself in a day. “Come in, Dobkin,” he shouted, irritably running his fingers through his hair. His valet covered any shock at being greeted by a nude Ruan sitting on a bed that had plainly seen active use.
Dobkin disposed of the basin Anne had used. Ruan, standing before the wash basin, gave himself a quick bath of the sort he’d taken in the field.
“Your grace?”
“Hmm?”
“I cannot locate your robe.”
He dried his face before answering. “The duchess needed it.”
Dobkin concentrated on setting up the shaving kit. “Indeed, sir?” Had Ruan been looking, he would have seen his valet smile. However, he wasn’t and so was spared the indignity.
“Clear some space in one of my wardrobes.”
“Yes, your grace.”
“Enough for a few of Anne’s things.” Anne might, after all, frequently wake up in his bed. He hoped so. “So she needn’t wear my robe when she gets up.” Sounded damn practical that way. How could anyone object to so reasonable an accommodation? Not even Anne could argue the logic.
“Yes, sir.”
He dressed without paying much attention to Dobkin’s choices, agreeing to whatever was selected before dismissing his valet with a careless wave. He gave in to compulsion. He went to Anne’s room. There was always time...
Tilly stood in the center of the room, holding Anne’s torn nightdress. “Your grace.” She bent a knee, guiltily hiding the ruined garment behind her. Her cheeks flushed pink.
“Has the duchess finished dressing?” he asked. She wasn’t here, he knew that even before Tilly’s answer. The room felt empty. Bereft.
“Yes, your grace. She’s gone to the dower house.”
“Thank you, Tilly.” He left disappointed and disconcerted by the depth of the emotion. Business at the Justice Courts kept him from calling on Thrale much before three. The proceedings went overlong and bored him nearly to death. He thought to find Thrale at the Lords but came up blank there. No luck either at any of the St. James’s Street clubs in which he knew the Marquess had memberships. Or used to. He discovered he’d resigned several of them. At last, he ran him to ground at Thrale’s Charles Street home.
The Marquess greeted him with a somber smile. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit, Cynssyr? Something to drink?” He walked to a sideboard.
“Madeira if you’ve got it.” He took a seat, admiring the parlor in which Thra
le met him. Nothing too fancy. Good quality furniture, excellent paintings, a Gainsborough among the best. He would have expected something dark and dreary from the man but bright colors predominated. Whatever financial difficulties the man had didn’t yet extend to his London home.
Thrale handed him the wine. “I suppose like me you got a taste for it in Spain.”
“The only thing I got a taste for in Spain was getting the hell out.” He sipped the wine, nodded because it was quite good, then put it on the table next him. “I’ve been all over town looking for you. Didn’t expect to find you here.”
He shrugged. “I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you.”
“Aren’t you usually dogging the Divine Sinclair’s heels?” he asked. Once, he’d not been able to think of Emily without a pang of regret. Now, nothing. What a fool he’d been to think Emily Sinclair the woman for him.
Thrale laughed with good-natured chagrin. “I’ve wrangled an invitation to Portman Square later tonight. See you there, I expect.”
“Yes.” Hickenson had bought Anne a very expensive silk shawl. A birthday gift that sent no particular message, declared no particular fondness. A nice, safe gift that would not do at all. He glanced at the wall clock. Twenty past six.
“Miss Emily Sinclair is quite a beautiful woman.” Abruptly, Thrale left his chair to stand stiffly with his back to the fireplace, hands clasped behind him. “I assure you I hold her in the highest esteem.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“Mrs. Wilcott, too, of course. A great beauty in her own way though to be frank, I am partial to blonds. Did you know that damned woman, Mrs. Wilcott, nearly sent me head first into the Thames the other day?” He shuddered at the recollection. “Might have been the end of me. Wouldn’t know it to watch her, but she’s quite intelligent. Keeps her admirers too busy watching out for their heads to notice.”
“All the Sinclair women are intelligent.”
Thrale gave him a sidelong glance. “It’s your wife, you know, who beats them all. Never met a cleverer woman. A great beauty in her own singular way.”
“I married the best of the lot.”
“To be honest, I’d not thought you the sort to appreciate her. Not your style at all. Forgive me if I am blunt, Cynssyr. Surely, you are aware more than one gentleman would champion her if she were made unhappy.”
“Including yourself?”
His eyebrows lifted. “Yes,” he said. “In fact, I would. After all, you just turned up married to her amid whispers that you had to. Through no fault of hers.” Thrale’s eyes turned dark. “‘Tis said you and Bracebridge are at odds over her, which is easy enough to credit.”
“How so?”
“Plainly, he loves her, and she’s no small affection for him. It’s commonly believed Bracebridge wanted to marry her and would have had you not...intervened.” He shrugged. “Seeing the two of you together, though, I daresay there’s more to your marriage than necessity.”
“She is a necessity to me.”
He nodded once. “Is it true she’s expecting?”
“We hope.”
“Congratulations.” He exhaled. “I was engaged to be married once. Two years ago by now. But then my father died and when, over the course of the months following her parents got wind of how much damage had been done to the family fortune...” He lifted his Madeira, admiring the sun filtering through amber liquid. “The wedding never came off. She married some fellow from Italy, a count or some such, and I have never seen her since.”
Curious, Ruan cradled his own wine and said, “You’ve been nursing a broken heart?”
“No time for such nonsense.” He put down his untouched glass. “Too busy pulling myself out of the mess my father left me in. I am not the sort of man who easily lives in debt. It grates on my soul to live beyond my means. A tendency, I assure you, that drove my father to distraction. I never would gamble with him. Nor drink. Had I been a wastrel, he might have had a better affection for me.”
“And have you put things right?”
“Yes. I have. Nearly, anyway. At least to the point where I can consider making a marriage for any reason but money.”
“I am not here, Thrale, to interrogate you about your suitability to marry a Sinclair sister.”
The granite eyes flashed with temper. “Then why have you come?”
“Do you own a signet ring?”
The Marquess went still for two heartbeats. “You are here to question me about those women. Even after it was proved I had nothing to do with the Leander girl?”
“Have you a signet ring?”
He examined the back of his hand. “It’s disappeared. Had to let one of my footmen go over the incident. Still not sure whether he stole it, but I don’t know who else could have. I caught him in my rooms where he had no business. Of what possible importance is that? Ah. I see. You found the ring under circumstances that connect it to those unfortunate women.”
“Yes.”
“You’d know it for mine the moment you saw it.”
“Yes.”
“If it were I, I assure you I would not be stupid enough to leave behind such evidence. Credit me with more native intelligence than that.”
“There is more.” Ruan dug the button from his pocket. “Miss Dancy turned this over to my wife. She claims to have torn it from the coat of one of the men who attacked her.”
“Mine,” he said slowly. “I don’t deny that. Nor can I explain how Miss Dancy could have come into possession of it.”
Ruan stood. “Either you are a monster guilty of murder and worse or someone is out to make me think you are.”
Thrale took the accusation with remarkable aplomb. “Murder?”
“Miss Dancy has died.”
“Dear God. I am sorry to hear that.”
“Her child with her.”
Thrale sucked in a breath. “Were her injuries so severe?”
“A suicide.”
“May God have mercy on her soul. She did not deserve what happened to her.” He offered a grim smile. “There is a reason I am not now married to Miss Dancy, Cynssyr.”
“I should like to hear it.”
“I am a Magistrate in my home parish. On the day Miss Dancy was abducted, I sent a man, a friend, to the gallows for murdering his lover. Indeed, I delayed my return to London long enough to see sentence carried out. By the time I got to town, Miss Dancy had just been found.”
“Easy enough to confirm.”
“Nor,” he added, “was I in town when Mrs. Withers was taken.”
“Have you dismissed any servants recently?”
“A footman. Before that, my valet.”
“Perhaps you’ll give me their names.”
“Clancy Jones and Ned Arrowman. I gave neither a character.” Thrale sat down heavily. “It’s John. It must be. Punishing me for being the elder. And legitimate.”
“How did he get your ring? Your coat?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“If I were you, I’d watch my back.”
A wealth of emotion flickered behind Thrale’s eyes. Then, he nodded curtly. “I appreciate the warning.”
Ruan prayed he hadn’t miscalculated, for if he had he’d just put another woman’s life at risk.
CHAPTER 30
Ruan’s carriage, with its distinctive ducal crest and motto drew up when he stepped onto the curb outside Thrale’s home. Distracted by his conversation with the Marquess, he said nothing when he climbed in. Only his coachman’s second query caught his attention.
“Portman Square, your grace?”
“Not yet,” he replied. Dusk had long since fallen to dark. From the coach window, street lamps flickered over the cobbles. “Jermyn Street first.”
“Aye, your grace.”
At his destination he threw a half crown to a ragged boy delighted to have the task of standing guard. Ruan pounded on the door. The proprietor of the shop was ten minutes responding to the summons. As it was, he merely raised his window and
peered distrustfully down. “What is the meaning of this infernal noise?” Behind him, a light flared, throwing shadows that danced on the glass.
“Open your store, if you would be so kind.”
“In the dead of night?”
“I am Cynssyr.”
“I don’t care if you’re the Prince Regent. Off with you. We’re having our supper.” The man made a shooing gesture. Shadows swirled behind him, then settled. His wife appeared next to him, her cap askew. Would there be a day when he and Anne were so quaint a married couple? Ruan stood with his palms outstretched. This was the shop where Hickenson made the purchases with which Ruan had charged him over the years.
“Cynssyr?” the woman repeated, staring down to the street. “Insincere Cynssyr.” She whispered to her husband, but not low enough to prevent Ruan from overhearing. “Lord Ruin himself,” the good wife said. “As I live and breathe.” She gave her husband a push. “Don’t keep him waiting. Go on down.”
Ruan stepped into the shop while the jeweler’s wife brought in tea and crumpets. He wasn’t the least hungry, but he ate a crumpet, not half bad, and drank some excellent tea while the jeweler, Mr. Cowperth, brought out his wares.
“Gift, did you say?”
“Something extravagant.” Ruan thought of how Anne had tried to match her ballgown to his eyes. How she’d turned down emeralds because their green was not the right shade. He looked through the jewels Cowperth set before him. Citrine. Topaz. Aquamarine beads. He had all the money in the world, enough to buy every piece he looked at and never feel the pinch. Sapphires, rubies, emeralds. Nothing seemed exactly what he was looking for until he saw the box Cowperth set aside in his search for something truly spectacular.
“That.”
“But, your grace!”
“It’s precisely what I want.”
When he arrived at Portman Square, Anne was nowhere to be found. And neither was Devon. The Bohemian, Laszlo Patok, played an exquisitely lovely tune. He’d heard a storm of talk about a composition for Anne. The tones of the violin were untouchable. Perfect. Likely another piece in her honor since he did not recognize the music. Thomas Sinclair had bestirred himself to attend his daughter’s birthday and even to lose his usual scowl. Ruan knew several of the guests. Lady Prescott. A Minister of the Exchequer whose name escaped him at the moment. Lord Sather. Mirthless Thrale who might or might not be a murderer. Ruan’s mother. Julian Durling of all people. Emily, Lucy and Mary. All were in the parlor. But not Anne or Devon.
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