The Lady's Guard (Sinful Brides Book 3)

by Christi Caldwell

  Just then, a faint whine punctuated the end of that admission, and as one, they looked down. She flared her eyebrows.

  A dog?

  The mangy pup with a coat covered in grime growled back.

  That is what had pressed against her leg. Certainly not a monster. Not even a blasted rodent.

  Feeling Niall Marksman’s mocking gaze on her, Diana dropped her arm back to her side. So, she’d been startled by a dog—this time. That in mind, she searched around for her knife and stooped to retrieve it from a muddied puddle. Her gaze went to the emaciated wolflike creature eyeing her. Poor thing. To calm her frayed nerves, she reached out a hand to stroke his greasy coat.

  “Are ya mad, princess?” Niall hissed, jerking her hand back, loosening her grip on the knife. At that sudden movement, the dog slunk off, leaving Diana alone with the equally snarling man. Gathering her by the wrist, he proceeded to drag her down the alley.

  She dug her boots in, forcing him to stop or pull her to the ground. He stitched his dark eyebrows into a line.

  “My knife,” she blurted.

  He peered at her.

  Diana gestured to the instrument.

  Mr. Marksman muttered something under his breath that sounded a good deal like “Madder than a Bedlamite streaking the halls of the hospital.”

  “That isn’t a knife,” he said.

  He’d called her mad not once but twice. That charge was tossed out casually. It was grating, a reminder of her blood. “Then you’re a lackwit if you don’t realize it is a knife.”

  The guard thinned his eyes into narrow slits; those sapphire irises darkened to a near obsidian. Diana wet her lips as unease skittered along her spine. What did she really know about the man, after all? The head guard at the entrance of her brother’s gaming hell, who, by his forceful grip, could snap a person’s neck with a mere flick of his hand. And none would be any wiser.

  With a mocking chuckle, he turned her weapon back over. Had he followed the path her thoughts had wandered? Do not be a coward. He sees you as an impulsive child visiting a place you have no place visiting and as scared of a dog. She jutted her chin up a notch, and this time when she spoke, she took care to adopt the hushed tones he’d used earlier. “I’m here to see my brother.”

  “Your brother?” he asked with a sardonic twist of his lips that made a mockery of those two words. She was nothing to the recently titled Viscount Chatham. I am nothing to anyone. A pawn for her now imprisoned mother. An afterthought for a father who’d never cared for or loved her mother.

  She thrust aside the useless self-pitying. All these men and their twisted sense of family could go sup with Satan. “Yes. Mr. Black,” she said, sticking out her leg and planting her hands upon her hips. “Your employer.”

  “Ya think he’s my employer?” No person could ever mistake the humor lacing those words as anything of real amusement. Harsh. Mocking. Disdainful. All rolled together to rattle her once more.

  She tugged at the fabric of her breeches. An unsettling thought slid forward, and she inched sideways. “Has he sacked you?”

  “Oi’m one of the proprietors.”

  She opened her mouth and closed it. “Indeed?” Odd, she’d not known Ryker Black had partners. It just highlighted even more how little she knew of the man who shared her blood. Why should he help her?

  Mr. Marksman raked a condescending stare over her person. The kind of stare belonging to a man who’d assessed her and found her wanting, in a look that had become all too familiar in Society. “Ya think only a duke’s by-blow capable of running an establishment?”

  Given the fact she stood in the middle of an alley, in a boy’s attire, it was farcical to be discussing social snobbery with this man. And yet his icy derision struck painfully. Diana curled her hands. The ton . . . all of Society had only ever seen a duke’s daughter. Now, they saw a duke’s mad daughter. As such, this man’s ill opinion should not matter, but the lowly thoughts stung still. He could go to the Devil alongside the lot of them. Ignoring his question, she started past him.

  She made it two steps.

  Mr. Marksman planted himself before her, and she gasped, her mouth going dry. The gentlemen she’d had the misfortune of seeing in Polite Society were pathetic, pale shadows of this life-hardened warrior. Broadly muscled, more than a foot taller than her own five-feet-three-inch frame, and yet he moved with the speed and stealth of a chimney sweep she’d once seen darting over the roofs of Mayfair town houses late one evening. He did a quick sweep of her, his eyes lingering on her breech-encased thighs.

  Diana warmed under that scrutiny, but when he met her gaze, not a hint of emotion shone from within those nearly obsidian irises. He shot out an arm, and she recoiled. His lips formed another contemptuous grin. “After you, princess.”

  She fisted her hands. God, how she despised that moniker. That jeering taunt of a man who’d condemn her for her birthright. Just as other men had condemned her, for altogether different reasons. Well, if she’d had other options, she’d certainly not be here now. But she had none but to humble herself before Ryker Black.

  Holding her head high, she marched forward.

  Chapter 3

  Of all people to be caught sneaking outside his club, it was Ryker’s damned half sister. The privileged chit, born with a silver spoon in her mouth.

  Following close behind Lady Diana, Niall gave his head a disgusted shake. The woman carefully picked her way over refuse and muddied puddles as though performing the intricate steps of those silly ballroom dances.

  The bloody nobility and their sense of privilege.

  The lords who lost their fortunes at the tables of the Hell and Sin, and the ladies in those posh Mayfair residences left behind while they pursued their pleasures, all believed the world was their due.

  His gaze involuntarily dipped to the back-and-forth sway of her generously curved buttocks encased in tight-fitting breeches. He lingered on her rounded hips and shapely legs befitting a woman accustomed to riding.

  He grunted. Mayhap, not precisely like all the other ladies of the ton, in their fancy gowns. After all, how many of them would don a pair of tight-fitting breeches, brandish a fish knife, and sneak through the alleys of St. Giles?

  He clenched his jaw. This was the second time that this same impulsive creature had come. Granted, the first she’d been accompanying her sister, Helena, but now she had taken to donning boys’ garments and prancing around St. Giles alone.

  The bloody twit would get herself killed.

  Lady Diana faltered and then quickly righted herself. Neck heating, Niall ripped his gaze away from her lush form. He’d be damned if he lusted after, appreciated, or had any dealings with a bloody lady.

  They reached the doorway all deliveries came through. Reaching past her, he pressed the handle.

  The lady hesitated, peered inside a long moment, and then looked up. Wariness seeped from her expressive blue eyes. Eyes that revealed all and concealed nothing. She was afraid. A boy, born of the streets, who’d sold his soul to simply exist, recognized that emotion better than he did any other. He’d too often used such fear to make himself stronger. “A little late now for reservations, princess,” he taunted.

  “I do not have r-reservations.” That slight tremor made a liar of her. Then, with the regality befitting the princess he named her, she stepped inside.

  The distant din on the club floor filled the corridor, a mark of the evening’s success. Yes, patrons had returned. He steeled his jaw and glanced down at the golden hair of the braid hanging down her back. The last time a lady had been caught with one of their ilk, the hell had almost been brought to its knees. What would members think of a duke’s daughter, dressed like a boy, in Niall’s less worthy presence?

  “Follow me,” he ordered crisply and, not bothering to glance back, started up the stairs ahead of her. He registered the quick scurry of her booted footfalls as she climbed behind him.

  “I—”

  “Not a word,” he bit ou
t.

  “Because I’m a woman,” she snapped, bringing him to a quick stop. With several steps between them, he towered over her. Squarely meeting his gaze with a directness even he would be hard-pressed not to admire, Lady Diana scrambled to keep up. She paused at the step below his.

  “Oi don’t have a problem with women,” he said curtly, giving her more explanation than her accusation merited. Lady Diana’s eyes softened, and he swallowed a curse. “Wot Oi do have a problem with is ladies.” He fixed a glower on her. “Particularly with bored ones who’d come in here and threaten my club.” Jerking his attention forward, he finished the climb, waiting for her to reach the main landing.

  Lady Diana clasped and unclasped her long, unblemished fingers before her. “It is not my intention to threaten . . .” At his pointed look, her words trailed off.

  Niall ducked his head into the hallway of the main suites. He motioned her forward. The lady hesitated and then fell into step beside him. They moved along the corridor at a brisk clip, with Lady Diana stretching her smaller strides to match his. As Niall and Ryker’s half sister walked, he skimmed his gaze over the floors.

  Whether or not Ryker wished to deal with the truth, Killoran intended to topple their empire. The Duke of Wilkinson’s daughter strolling the halls of the Hell and Sin was just the morsel of gossip that a wolf like Killoran would devour and then spit out and feed to the ton.

  Niall suppressed a growl.

  If the lady were discovered here, the club would never recover. Not again. The nobility had no qualms about tossing coins down at their tables and wagering away their fortunes. Those same lords, however, would never countenance four orphans, raised in the streets, brushing shoulders with their women.

  Ryker had earned himself the title of viscount for saving his brother-in-law, the Duke of Somerset’s, life. As such, a titled lord, even a by-blow, could be forgiven certain affronts.

  Men like Niall, Adair, and Calum would be sent to Hell over even a hint of a dalliance with a lady.

  They reached Ryker’s office. Niall thumped on the door.

  At his side, Lady Diana shifted back and forth on her feet. Her nervousness radiated from her slender frame.

  He knocked again. Empty. Niall dug out his watch fob and squinted in the dark to bring the numbers into focus. At this hour his brother often sought out his office, but with the crush of patrons and the earlier fight, he’d likely remained on the floors. Niall stuffed the piece back in his pocket.

  “He’ll see me, won’t he?” the lady blurted.

  Something had brought the reckless miss here. Most men might feel curiosity, or seek to calm the girl. Niall, however, had been born with an edge of roughness and felt nothing—for anyone.

  Ignoring her panicked query, he pushed open the door and jammed his finger at the upholstered seat recently brought in by Penelope when she’d decorated Ryker’s office. “Sit.”

  She remained fixed to the floor, brow furrowed, while she studied that chair. Footsteps sounded down the hall, and, swallowing a curse, Niall shoved her between the shoulder blades, propelling her forward. He quickly yanked the door closed and looked up.

  Calum stood several feet away. The second in command at the hell, Calum possessed self-control Niall had striven the whole of his life to master. Suspicion glinted in the other man’s eyes. “What happened to your leg?”

  His leg?

  Niall followed the other man’s gaze downward and creased his brow. A wet stain marred the sapphire breeches, that crimson hue turning the fabric black. By God, she’d stabbed him. The bloody chit had actually drawn blood with that pathetic weapon. His neck heated. He whipped out a kerchief from his jacket and pressed the white fabric against his thigh. “Oi’m fine,” he muttered. He’d sooner lose the leg to infection than admit he’d been maimed by a lady with a fish knife.

  “Get Ryker.” He nudged his chin at the door. “He’s got company.”

  The other man’s shoulders grew taut. “Company?”

  “Lurking in the alley.” The last time that had happened, Ryker had ended up married.

  Calum cast another glance at the office. “Ryker doesn’t like surprises.”

  Glowering, Niall put pressure to the crimson-stained fabric at his leg. “And Oi don’t like being sent from the floors like a child.”

  Calum snorted. Then, turning on his heel, he stalked off. Calum gone, Niall returned his attention to the rapidly spreading stain.

  The lady had better have a damned good reason for infiltrating his club—again. Regardless of her connection to Ryker and Helena, Lady Diana was a duke’s daughter, a step shy of royalty. Niall turned a glare on the wood panel between him and that flawless English princess. Those self-absorbed peers could never be trusted.

  Ever.

  She’d been instructed to sit.

  She’d been ordered not to touch anything and to remain in the indicated chair like an obedient pup. Or a well-mannered English lady. In this stilted society to which she belonged, it was really all the same.

  At one time, she’d have followed those very directives issued by the menacing guard, who, with his tousled, too-long, midnight hair, had the look of a dark angel, cast out the gates of paradise. Her heart pounded hard. A man more ruggedly beautiful than any gentleman of London Society.

  “Do not be silly,” she muttered under her breath and gave her head a clearing shake. A year ago, saved from peril by that same man, she’d briefly lifted him upon the pedestal where young girls exalted brave, fearless men who plucked them from danger.

  But she was no longer that romantic, demure daughter all English lords and ladies aspired to raise.

  Disregarding that plush, upholstered chair, Diana attended the whole of the tidy, elaborate space. Welcoming the distraction, she tipped her head. How very . . . peculiar. When she’d rushed inside the club, the crimson carpets and heavy, dark gaming tables had exuded sin and wickedness. Yet Ryker Black’s office, with its broad mahogany desk and floral paintings, was better suited to an elegant Mayfair residence than the most perilous streets in London.

  Restless, Diana wandered over to a rose-inlaid table and set her knife down beside a delicate vase with white-and-pink peonies. Mesmerized, she picked up the porcelain piece. She ran the tip of her finger over the couple painted upon the creamy white porcelain; that enrapt loving pair, twined in each other’s embrace. She briefly closed her eyes and raised the blooms to her nose, inhaling deeply their fortifying scent. With her eyes shut, she could almost imagine she was any young lady other than the whispered-about, maybe more than half-mad woman.

  Mr. Marksman stepped into the room, his broad, powerful frame filling the doorway. “Wot are ya doing?” That raspy baritone rumbled over her shoulder, startling a gasp from her.

  The vase slipped from her fingers, sailed to the floor, and exploded in a spray of glass and pink-and-white peonies. She’d not even heard him. How did a man of his sheer size and strength move with such stealth?

  He scowled.

  Diana swiveled her gaze between the shards of glass littering the wood floor and the sad array of flowers. She dropped to her knees and made to start cleaning the mess. It wouldn’t do to begin a meeting with Mr. Black after destroying his property.

  “Leave it,” Mr. Marksman barked, and she faltered, nearly stumbling backward.

  Diana hurriedly righted herself. “I—”

  “Oi ordered ya not to touch anything,” he snapped.

  She drew in a steadying breath. Don’t be intimidated by him. Just because he’s the head guard in this London underworld and nearly killed you, he . . . Oh, blast, she’d be a lackwit not to fear him. Nonetheless, for all his condescension, she’d braved these streets once before, and she’d not be threatened by Niall Marksman. “No, Mr. Marksman,” she said carefully, in the crisp, polished tones her nursemaids and governesses had ingrained in her since she’d been a babe in the cradle. “You advised me to sit.” Diana paused. “Like a dog.” His slashing black eyebrows dipped,
and the menacing glint in his dark eyes momentarily knocked her off-kilter. Before her courage deserted her, she continued on in a rush. “And I assure you, I’ll not be ordered about by you or a-anyone.” That faint tremble ruined her bold retort. A man who’d wrestle an unknown someone against the alley walls outside would take umbrage with being challenged. Particularly by a lady.

  Yet, Mr. Marksman angled his body in a coolly dismissive manner, flummoxing her.

  Diana squinted in the dimly lit room and then crept forward. Her eyes remained riveted on his leg. Then she stopped abruptly and slammed a palm against her mouth. “My God.”

  He wheeled to face her.

  “I stabbed you,” she whispered. Nausea churned in her belly. “You’re bleeding.” Previously preoccupied with an alternating fear of the laconic guard and a silent appreciation for his chiseled features, she now took in the details that had escaped her a short while ago.

  A hard grin lifted his lips. “Queasy, princess?”

  Ignoring his question, Diana looked frantically about. She couldn’t very well go ripping up any of Mr. Black’s fabrics. She’d already destroyed his vase. Hurriedly shrugging out of her jacket, she raced forward.

  He shot his dark eyebrows to his hairline. “Wot in bloody hell—”

  Blasted gentlemen and their unwillingness to take help. “You’re hurt.” And she’d been the one responsible. Blood will tell. Her gut clenched, and Diana dropped to her knees. Ignoring his furious growl, she wrapped the arms of her jacket around his leg . . .

  And registered absolute silence.

  Picking up her head, she froze.

  Ryker Black stood in the doorway, with Mr. Calum Dabney at his back. Both men moved their gazes from the shattered vase littered about the floor to Diana’s hands. She followed their stares. Hands unpardonably close to the front-fall of Mr. Marksman’s sapphire breeches. She gasped and quickly lowered her arms.

  The surly guard backed away from Diana as though she’d caught fire and he feared being singed by the blaze. Cheeks burning, she shoved to her feet. If I was ruined for running inside this establishment for assistance, what would the ton say to see me now, with my fingers on Mr. Marksman’s person?