Sarala blinked, stunned. “What?”
“Shay didn’t drag you off unwilling last night. And I won’t allow him to be blackmailed or cajoled into—”
“No!” Sarala strode up to him, anger and indignation and embarrassment warring with her growing worry over Shay. Obviously she needed to tell Melbourne what was going on, or he would never surrender his own opinion of her reason for calling on him. “I was indiscreet five years ago,” she said bluntly. “With Lord DeLayne. He has now threatened to tell everyone in London and ruin both of our families in the process, unless I guarantee him an inclusion in and profits from your business.”
The duke stood, and she had to adjust her stance to look up at him. “And?” he prompted, his eyes ice cold. “I presume this isn’t merely for my edification.”
“No, it isn’t. I told Shay that I wanted to break off our engagement, and advised that he distance himself from me before any of the rumors could begin.” She clenched her jaw. “I have no more love for blackmail than you do, nor do I intend to give in to it. Shay guessed that it was DeLayne making the threats, though, and he’s gone to find him. He said that a dead man can’t gossip.” Gulping air, frantic now to get the tale told, Sarala continued before the duke could interrupt. “I won’t have Charlemagne pay the price for my mistake. You have to stop him.”
Melbourne uttered a single, low curse. “You brought your coach?” he asked, moving around behind the desk and pulling open a drawer. He withdrew a pistol, dropping it into his coat pocket as he strode past her to the door and yanked it open.
Obviously he understood. “Yes.”
“Good. It’ll attract less attention than mine. Stanton, I’m going out.” As he passed the blue room he leaned inside. “You. Come along.”
With a squeak Jenny emerged into the foyer as though propelled by a kick. “My lady, what—”
“You’re chaperoning His Grace and me,” Sarala said brusquely, following the duke out to her waiting coach.
“Do you know where he’s gone?” he asked as he motioned the footman back and pulled the door open himself.
She shook her head. “I don’t think he knows where DeLayne is staying. All I know is that John is residing with his cousin William Adamsen somewhere in Knightsbridge.”
“Adamsen in Knightsbridge. I’ve met him. He has a minor cabinet posting under Lord Beasley. Get in.”
Not taking the time yet to wonder why he wanted her along, Sarala climbed into the coach, half pulling Jenny up behind her. The duke barked an address at Horton and stepped up after them.
“My father probably has DeLayne’s address,” she offered after a moment. “I didn’t think to ask him before I left.”
Melbourne nodded from the seat facing hers. “If Beasley doesn’t have it, we’ll go to your father. At the moment I prefer to keep him away from this, if possible.”
“He won’t gossip if you ask him not to,” she blurted, remembering the Griffins’—and her—previous reaction to his conversation with DeLayne. “It’s just that he’s been away from England for so long, and he never thought to end up as a marquis. He knows business, not political intrigue.”
Gray eyes studied her for a moment. “Your father is friends with DeLayne. If he should hear all of the facts behind this outing, I don’t want to have to pull two men off the viscount. Shay will be difficult enough. That’s why I don’t want him included, Lady Sarala.”
“Oh.” Stupid, stupid.
“A few moments ago,” Melbourne continued, “you said that Shay ‘guessed’ that DeLayne was involved. Would you care to elaborate?”
“I’m not sure how many of the details you need to know, Your Grace.” Though he’d already guessed a few of them, obviously. The man opposite her was clearly as much a master of intrigue and calculation as Shay. “If you’re implying that I invented DeLayne’s threats to encourage Shay to take care of my problems, I assure you that that is not the case. Your brother is very stubborn, and when I told him that I’d changed my mind and didn’t want to marry him, he refused to simply take me at my word.”
“He can be rather single-minded,” the duke conceded, a breath of humor touching his voice.
“I told him I would go back to India, and that he could blame any rumors on me. He knew that any scandal would follow me, rather than him and his—your—family. He wouldn’t agree, even though we both knew it was the logical course of action to take. I don’t need someone else to save me from my own errors.” It had been so indescribably…nice, though, that he’d offered—insisted really, that he would stand beside her.
“If I may be blunt,” the duke said, interrupting her thoughts, “I assume under the circumstances that Charlemagne knows of your…indiscretion, as you put it.”
Sarala lifted her chin. Soon everyone in London was likely to know about it. She’d best get used to hearing it spoken of. “He knows. He didn’t know…who, until today. I think that was another reason he was so angry.”
“Five years ago. You were what, sixteen?”
“Just seventeen. But DeLayne didn’t…That is—I knew what I was doing.” Honesty made her continue. “I thought I did.” She cleared her throat, knowing she must be scarlet. “That is not what’s important, now. I won’t have Shay hurt, physically or socially, because I was a stupid girl.”
The coach rocked to a stop. Melbourne glanced out the window, then stood. “Beasley’s house. Wait here,” he said, pushing open the door. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
Logically Sarala knew that they were proceeding speedily and efficiently. She also knew that Charlemagne would at least have to begin his search for DeLayne randomly, and that she and Melbourne were more than likely closer to finding the viscount than he was. Unless Shay had gone to her father for an address, of course.
“Blast.” He wouldn’t go to her father; he was too angry, and not thinking logically—or at least not logically for him. Undoubtedly to anyone else involved he would appear to be ruthless efficiency personified.
The duke outside said something to Horton, then opened the door and stepped back up into the coach. “According to Beasley we’re less than a mile from Adamsen’s residence,” he said, knocking on the ceiling as he sat.
The coach lurched into motion again.
Sarala shut her eyes for a moment. Thank goodness. Charlemagne had left her house only half an hour ago. Surely he couldn’t arrive before they did. Could he? “What do we do if Shay arrives there first?” she asked, opening her eyes again.
Melbourne was gazing at her again. “I don’t know. And we have another dilemma.”
“You mean DeLayne might not be home.”
“That’s one possible complication.”
“You’re right,” she muttered, turning her gaze out the window at the rows of passing houses. “If Shay isn’t there, how long do we wait for him? And can we risk going to look for him, when at any moment he might arrive to kill DeLayne?”
“We might remove DeLayne from his residence and return him with us to Griffin House,” the duke suggested.
Sarala frowned. “Considering what the viscount seems to do with the information he acquires, I don’t think informing him of Shay’s intentions would be very wise.”
“That’s not precisely what I meant.”
Gasping, Sarala looked down to the pocket of the duke’s coat, where his pistol rested. “I won’t allow you to kill DeLayne, either.”
“You would protect him, then?”
“I would protect you.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “I hardly think that’s necessary.”
It seemed arrogance and obstinance ran deep in Griffin veins. “Men,” she sputtered. “If you think for one minute that I would allow anything to happen to Shay or to the people he cares about because of me, you are very much mistaken, Your Grace.”
“Oh, dear,” Jenny whispered, pressing as far into the corner of the coach as she could manage.
“For the moment I’ll refrain from asking how you would pre
vent me from taking action,” Melbourne said, crossing his arms. “What I had in mind, however, wouldn’t involve murder or kidnapping as much as it would involve cooperation.”
She looked at him. “You…you can’t be saying you would give in to DeLayne’s threats.”
“I’m saying I would appear to do so, at least for the moment. But I will need your assistance.”
If DeLayne believed they would all fall into line with so little resistance, it would certainly give them time to develop a plan. “To gain myself some time to think earlier,” she said slowly, “I told him I would do what I could to gain him access to your wealth.”
“That’s handy.” The coach stopped again. “I doubt he would risk joining us in here, however, whether he believed you or not.”
“If Jenny went to see him with a message, though,” Sarala took up, “I imagine he wouldn’t waste any time getting himself to Griffin House.” She stopped. “If you’re certain you want to do this, Your Grace. I have been reminded several times of your abhorrence for scandal of any kind.”
“Have you, now?” he asked dryly.
“I could just as easily walk in to see DeLayne myself and tell him I’ve called off the wedding and am returning to India with or without my parents.” She meant it, too, and hoped the duke realized that. She willed him to understand that she was serious. Whatever happened, she wouldn’t allow the Griffins to suffer for her mistake.
“I believe that action would cost me a brother,” he said crisply, and faced Jenny. “Your mistress has sent you to see Lord DeLayne and inform him that she’s spoken with the Duke of Melbourne. Rather than allow a scandal,” he went on, glancing at Sarala, “the duke is willing to come to terms—but only if the viscount comes to Griffin House immediately to meet with him. Can you tell him that?”
To her credit, Jenny didn’t hesitate before she nodded. “What if he should ask me what the terms are, Your Grace?”
“You don’t know what they are, but you do know that I’m not very happy.”
Jenny’s shoulders heaved. “I can do that, Your Grace.”
“Then do so at once. We may not have much time. Shay’s a resourceful fellow. We’ll wait for you there,” he continued, pointing, “around the corner.”
The maid stood as Melbourne opened the coach door for her. “Oh, dear. What if Lord Charlemagne should arrive while I’m there?”
“Duck.”
Damned DeLayne hid himself as well as a rat in a sewer. Charlemagne didn’t mind the hunt; with each passing minute his anger deepened into a thick, simmering miasma just under his skin. Not only had DeLayne taken advantage of Sarala’s naivete five years ago, he was trying to use her own sense of honor against her now. The bastard had nearly taken her away—and that could not be allowed to happen.
After an hour of searching, he turned up at Adamsen’s house and spoke to a maid who was all too happy to inform him that her master’s cousin had been summoned to Griffin House. Whatever the devil was going on, Melbourne would not be allowed to step into the middle of this.
As he reached Griffin House, he spotted both DeLayne’s curricle and the Carlisle coach. Had Melbourne summoned Sarala, as well? Had DeLayne said something about her? His heart pounding, Charlemagne handed Jaunty over to Timmons and strode up the shallow front steps.
The door opened as he reached it. “My lord,” Stanton said, stepping aside.
“Where’s DeLayne?” he asked, yanking off his coat and hat and throwing them aside.
“In the blue room, my lord.”
“Good. Leave us be.” He walked to the door and stepped inside. “De—”
Someone shoved him hard from behind. As he stumbled, the door slammed and the key turned in the lock behind him. “Stanton!” he roared, charging the door and hitting it with all his weight. It groaned, and he heard something crash to the floor out in the hallway. Good.
The door at the other end of the room was locked as well. Well, that wouldn’t stop him. Not when he was this close to killing that devil. Charlemagne picked up the writing desk chair and headed for the largest of the front windows. As he raised the chair over his shoulder, the door rattled and opened again.
“Shay! Put that down.”
He did, none too gently. “I know you’re not stepping into the middle of my business, Melbourne,” he snarled, heading straight for his brother and the open door beyond him.
The duke put out his hand. “No, I’m not. But you need to listen for a moment.”
“I’ve listened all I intend to today. Get out of my damned way.”
“Don’t you want to know why he’s here?”
For a second he allowed himself to wonder, then pushed the question away again. “Get out of the way, Melbourne. I’m not going to say it again.”
His brother stepped aside. Eyes narrowed and his breath hard and fast, Charlemagne pushed past him—and stopped. Just beyond the duke, Sarala stood, her eyes wide and worried.
“What—”
She moved up to him, grabbing his clenched hand and pulling him back into the blue room. “I’ll tell him,” she said over her shoulder, her gaze not leaving his face.
With a nod Sebastian closed the door again, leaving them alone in the room. Charlemagne pulled his hand free. “Tell me what?” he snapped.
“You have to stop and listen to me,” she returned, her own voice clipped.
“I’m already rather angry,” he said in a low voice, still pacing. “I’m not certain I want to know what you’ve done.”
“Listen anyway,” she countered. “When you left my home, I came to see your brother.”
“And why is that, pray tell?”
“Because I didn’t want you to kill DeLayne.”
That was exactly what he didn’t want to hear—that Sarala had a reason, any reason, for wanting to protect that bastard. “What did you think would happen after what you told me?”
“I thought you would let me go, idiot.”
That shook him a little. “That’s the second time you’ve called me an idiot,” he ground out. “Explain.”
“If you kill DeLayne, you could be sent to prison, or hanged, or transported. I won’t let that happen to you.”
“I’m not letting you go back to India for any damned reason. So I think we’re at an impasse.”
“No, we’re not. As I said, I talked to your brother. I told him everything.”
“‘Everything.’” Hot anger began turning to cold dread. Melbourne knew about a threat of scandal. A threat through Sarala, for whom he didn’t feel any particular affection. Charlemagne would not let her be sent away, whatever his bloody brother decided. At worst, he would go with her. “And what was Melbourne’s suggestion?” he asked, his voice shaking.
“We’re still working on that. At the moment, the plan is to pretend cooperation with DeLayne until we can determine just how greedy he is, and how much risk he might be willing to take to get what he wants.”
His breath left him with a rush. Charlemagne sat in the chair he’d nearly smashed. “I don’t understand.”
Sarala walked carefully closer. “What don’t you understand?”
“Sebastian wouldn’t do this.”
“But he is. It was his idea, in fact. And if you can assist us, we could certainly use your help.”
“How can you stand to be in the same room with him?” he asked, looking up and meeting her gaze for the first time since she’d surprised him in the doorway.
“Because I don’t want to have to leave London,” she whispered, and a tear ran down her cheek.
His heart thudded in his chest. That did it. Slowly, working to rein in his rampaging temper, jamming his anger and his surprise back down to where he could control it, Charlemagne stood. “What do you need me to do?” he asked.
She swept forward and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “I don’t know,” she said, her voice muffled against his neck. “We’ve been trying to get him to drink and not punch him while we waited for you.”
>
For a long moment he stood with his arms around her, breathing in the cinnamon scent of her hair, before he slowly extricated himself. “Let’s go plan something, then,” he murmured, shifting his grip to her hand.
“You won’t kill him?” she whispered.
“I won’t kill him right now.”
Chapter 19
John DeLayne set aside his glass and stood as Charlemagne entered the Griffin House drawing room with Sarala. Shay saw the viscount dart his eyes toward the poker resting in the fire as they approached.
The bastard would be dead before he ever reached it. Charlemagne half wished he would make the attempt, but after waiting a second for something to happen, he nodded and gestured the viscount back to his chair.
“What have you been chatting about?” he asked, glancing across the room at his brother as he walked to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a generous drink.
“Business,” Melbourne answered from his position by the window.
“Any in particular? What do you fancy, DeLayne?”
The viscount cleared his throat, pushing forward in his chair. “I’m glad you asked that, Lord Charlemagne. The—”
“Call me Shay,” Charlemagne broke in.
“Shay, then. The Marquis of Hanover happened to mention that you’ve entered into some sort of dealings with the emperor of China. That you even have Prinny and Liverpool involved. This is exactly the kind of trade I’m looking to be involved in. High-profile, prestigious, and clearly lucrative.”
“That’s not—”
“Interesting that you should choose that one,” Charlemagne said, cutting his brother off. It was a pity he hadn’t had more time to develop a relationship with Yun and the other soldiers—if he could convince them that DeLayne had been behind the theft rather than Blink, he would consider that a good day’s work. Still, there were several possibilities, and some very sharp-looking weapons. “We’re meeting with the Chinese buyers tomorrow.”
“That’s what Hanover said. I think I’ll join you.”
“Very well.”
Charlemagne wanted so badly to put a fist into DeLayne’s face that passing by him without doing so was actually painful. He stopped by Sarala, brushing her elbow with his hand, seeking control from her appearance of calm. “Our meeting will be at noon tomorrow, just west of the pond in St. James’s Park. Don’t be late, DeLayne. They place a very high importance on promptness.”
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