Meredith cried out, “My lady, you’ll catch your death.” The plump servant scrambled against the side of the carriage, making room for Diana.
Without a backward glance, Niall slammed the door closed.
A moment later, the barouche dipped as he climbed up beside the driver.
He’d rather face the fury of the storm than keep company with me inside the carriage. Yanking off her sopping bonnet, she hurled it onto the wet floor. Good, let him be miserable. As soon as the uncharitable thought slid in, she sank her teeth into her lower lip, damning that black part of her soul that would wish him discomfort. Just like my blasted mother.
Diana’s teeth chattered. With numbed fingers, she fiddled with the grommets at her throat.
“Oh, my lady,” Meredith fretted. She hurried to help Diana out of the sodden cloak. They slid the offending garment off Diana’s trembling frame. It landed atop the flower-rimmed bonnet. “I knew I shouldn’t have left you.” Tears welled in the servant’s eyes, and despite Niall’s callous treatment, Diana was warmed by that show of concern from her maid.
She hurried to reassure her. “I am—”
“Your father is going to sack me, my lady,” Meredith wailed, and then promptly burst out sobbing.
Shivering, Diana huddled inside her wet gown. This was the truth of her existence. She lived in a world where no one truly saw her. She was an obligation. A chore. And otherwise meaningless to anyone. Including Niall. Especially Niall, the eager-to-be-free-of-you guard assigned her by Ryker.
Moisture flooded her eyes, and a single drop slid down her cheek. Diana swatted at it. I’m merely miserable from a jaunt during a rainstorm.
“Oh, my lady,” Meredith hiccupped. “Are you . . . crying?” With that, she dissolved into another noisy round of tears. And that was how the remainder of the long ride through London went: Diana seeking to reassure her blubbering maid, and Meredith begging forgiveness.
At long last they arrived in front of her pink stucco town house. As soon as the carriage rocked to a stop, Diana shoved the door open and leapt down.
She gasped at the force of her landing. Pain shot from her heel up to her leg.
Niall jumped down from the box. Heart quickening, Diana rushed ahead.
The butler, God love him, stood in wait and pulled the door open.
She sailed inside and, trailing water in her wake, took the stairs two at a time. Determination fueled her steps. As soon as she’d reached her room, Diana pushed the door shut behind her. Ignoring the gooseflesh dotting her body, she made for the small secretaire situated in front of the window.
Diana tugged out her chair, grabbed a pen and paper . . . and proceeded to write.
Chapter 10
The following morning, stationed outside her chambers as he’d been for the better part of an hour, Niall consulted his timepiece—again.
Diana was late.
One hour and fifteen minutes. He snapped the lid closed and stuffed his watch back inside his jacket.
Which should not surprise him. Since they’d returned yesterday from the storm, soaking wet and unbendingly silent, not another word had passed between them. She’d sought out her rooms, and he’d gone to change, grateful for the space between them.
When he’d made for the lady’s rooms, her maid had informed him that Diana would be resting for the remainder of the day.
Other than his nightly check of her windows and locks the previous evening, he’d not caught a glimpse of her since.
For the tenth time, Niall dragged his watch fob out and consulted the time. One hour and eighteen minutes. Tucking it away once more, he folded his arms and leaned against the blue satin wallpaper.
He should be grateful that the lady wasn’t pestering him with talks of tea and pastries or the streets of St. Giles. He’d not come here to be her friend, but to do a job. An assignment that, given her revelation yesterday, had no proverbial end in sight. So why had he awakened eager to go toe-to-toe again with the spitfire?
It was because people didn’t challenge him, and there was something enlivening in being with a slip of a lady, bold and unafraid.
Or she had been unafraid.
He stole a sideways glance at her paneled door. Two serenely smiling cherubs carved onto that white panel met his gaze mockingly. Niall scowled at the insolent, albeit inanimate, angels.
For the first time since she’d gone into hiding, he forced himself to think about their embrace. He’d kissed her with a violent intensity better reserved for the whores he’d coupled with. And by Diana’s hesitation and then eventual abandon, she’d never known a man’s embrace.
That should horrify him. He, Niall Marksman, a man with a made-up name and no definitive birth date, had kissed an innocent noblewoman. There had been a primal sense of masculine pride that he’d been the first to take her lush mouth under his and awaken her to the passion that could be found in lovemaking.
The lady, however, had apparently been of a differing opinion.
With a sound of disgust, he propped the heel of his boot against the wall. What did you expect? That she should take pride and pleasure in being kissed by a guttersnipe? It was an embrace that should never have happened and, as he’d pledged, never again would happen. She was off-limits not only because she was a lady but also because she was in his care . . . and because she was Ryker’s sister. In the fury of the lightning storm, he’d let down his defenses and given in to the violent hungering he’d felt for her since he’d noticed the flare of her hips more than a week earlier. Restless, he unsheathed his knife, finding a comforting weight in the heavy blade. This is what Ryker had spoken to. The reason it had been Niall who’d been sent away.
He passed the gilded handle back and forth between his palms. Since Diggory’s men had infiltrated the club and turned patrons against them, Niall had been shaken. He’d sooner take this blade to his own throat than admit to Ryker he’d been right on that score. With every ill word spoken against the employees of the Hell and Sin, and infiltration from those thugs who sought to avenge Diggory, Niall was proven powerless. And in a world where you had no power, you perished . . . as did the people in your care.
Niall stretched the knife out, pointing the edge of the dagger at Diana’s door. He closed one eye and looked over the weapon at the oak barrier between them. Whether either of them wished it, Diana was now the person in his care. She might despise him for his momentary loss of control, one that had seen her thoroughly kissed. She might hate him for doubting the realness of the threat against her, but he’d a task to do. And she was that task.
Niall lowered his arm to his side.
For her shows of strength and courage, the fact that she hid away from him even now was hint of her fear of him. He recalled her fiery eyes, flashing with outrage, when he’d questioned the threat on her life. Yes, there was no doubt the lady was equally outraged over that, too.
He stole another impatient glance at the door. He’d no idea how to handle a displeased lady. The women he dealt with were raw, real creatures who’d sooner punch a person in the face than hide behind a door, sulking. Not his sister, Helena. Not the former prostitutes turned servants and dealers. Not a single one of them at the Hell and Sin would lock themselves away.
He frowned. Except . . . who would have believed Diana Verney was capable of such prolonged silence? It didn’t fit with the humming, singing, and always smiling lady he’d guarded this past week.
He stilled.
It didn’t fit with her at all.
Warning bells clamored at the back of his mind.
Don’t be stupid. You checked her windows and doors before turning in and were stationed outside her room at the customary six o’clock hour.
Nonetheless, Niall edged closer to the door. Pressing his ear against the wood panel, he strained for a hint of sound. “Diana?” Sliding his knife back in his boot, he knocked once.
Silence.
An irrational, unfamiliar sentiment squeezed his chest—fear. It so
ured his mouth and seared his veins, leaving him motionless.
The distant groan of a floorboard snapped him from his paralysis. He shook his head hard. Don’t be a bloody lackwit. The lady had been clear in her displeasure; her silence now was only further proof of it. Childish games. “Princess?” he challenged, in a bid to startle her from her stubborn silence.
The loud hum of quiet served as his only answer.
Blood pumped quickly through his veins, as it did during every street battle. With slow, careful movements he drew out his pistol. Frowning, he pressed the door handle. It easily turned, allowing him entry. Niall did a swift search of the room, bypassing the neatly made floral coverlet and gold-framed vanity. Gun close, he moved deeper into the delicate, ladylike space. His eyes took in every empty corner and crevice of the immaculate chambers as he struggled for control of his spiraling thoughts. She couldn’t have just . . . vanished. Stopping at the floor-length windows, he tested each lock. Equal parts relief, fury, and frustration warred in a vicious blend.
Bloody hell.
The soft tread of steps in the hall brought him around. Leveling his pistol at the doorway, he drew back the hammer.
Diana’s maid stopped abruptly, her wide-eyed gaze on the barrel pointed at her chest. All the color leeched from her rounded cheeks. She swallowed loudly.
“Where is your mistress?” he demanded, startling a cry from the girl.
“Sh-she is painting, Mr. Marksman.” Tears flooded her eyes.
Unmoved by those crystalline drops that could be turned on at will by a skilled deceiver, he searched for a lie there. “When?” he pressed, taking a step forward.
The servant stumbled, tripping over her skirts in her haste to be away. “This morning,” she cried. “Five o’clock, I believe. It was early. Dark, still,” she rambled, her words running together.
Niall assessed her and then lowered his pistol. “Why didn’t I see her?”
The girl collapsed against the doorway, taking support from the frame. “It was before you awakened, M-Mr. Marksman.”
“Impossible.” The shocked denial burst from his lips. He’d learned to subsist and thrive on nothing more than three hours’ sleep, and what he did take was so light, the distant creak of a floorboard could stir him. Eyeing the woman with a renewed suspicion, Niall advanced. “What are ya doing here?”
Diana’s maid dropped her eyes. “H-His Grace requests your p-presence in his office.” Her voice emerged as a breathless squeak.
The duke. Diana’s father. His neck went hot. Had she told the rotund, witless noble Niall had put his scarred, lowly hands on her? It was the kind of offense that would earn the rage and promise of retribution from any nobleman. Hadn’t the Hell and Sin nearly collapsed after Ryker had been discovered in a compromising position with his now wife? And Ryker was a duke’s son and now titled lord.
It mattered not that Ryker, Niall, and Helena had forged a bond deeper than blood. Such a connection would be insignificant to a high-in-the-instep toff. To whom Niall would never exist as anything more than a dreg of the underbelly. With a curse that sent the girl scampering back several steps, Niall returned his pistol to the waist of his breeches.
He stalked from the room. Mayhap she hadn’t said anything to the duke. Mayhap the man wished to review Niall’s observations and findings in the week he’d been here. Marching down the halls, Niall scoffed. And mayhap he’d been lauded a prince and placed on the throne.
He descended the stairs and started along the corridors leading to Wilkinson’s office. Every step took him past portraits of Diana’s distinguished ancestors. Even memorialized in time, they peered down their hawkish, noble noses at him. The lady’s powerful kin, dead and alive, were not who Niall worried after. Rather, one relative: Ryker Black. The man who’d tasked him with the responsibility of looking after Diana. Not mauling her or lusting after her the way he might a Covent Street doxy.
Reaching the duke’s office, Niall flexed his hands and knocked once. The loud rap thundered around the otherwise silent halls. Then, Niall had never been one of those subservient bastards who scratched at doors like a desperate animal.
“Enter.”
That jovial greeting didn’t fit with a man who wanted Niall’s blood for breakfast. Warily, he pressed the handle. He stepped inside and quickly closed the door behind him.
A wide smile on his fleshy cheeks, Diana’s father struggled to his feet. “Come in. Come in, Mr. Marksman,” he encouraged, tossing his arms wide, drawing Niall’s attention inadvertently to the corner of the room.
He froze.
Ryker and Calum stood shoulder to shoulder in the corner of the room.
And Niall, who was never thrown off-kilter, rocked on his heels. They wouldn’t be here unless either harm had come to one of their own . . . or the club was suffering. “Wot are ya doing here?” he rasped, stalking over.
“Mr. Marksman, please. Sit. Sit,” the duke cajoled, the way those wastrel dandies did their acquaintances at the gaming tables.
Niall opened his mouth to order the grinning lackwit into silence, but one hard look from Ryker and he let the dire threat wither.
“Sit,” Ryker advised.
Sliding into one of the leather wing chairs, Niall sat on the edge.
His Grace claimed the chair beside him. Folding his hands, he trained his focus on Niall. “I appreciate your work this past week, looking after Diana.”
Stiffening, Niall searched the old lord and then the other two men present for a hint of knowing. For a hint that Niall had, in fact, claimed Diana’s mouth, in public, where any passersby might have witnessed her ruin. “I’m not looking for gratitude,” he said gruffly. “It’s work.” Only, it hadn’t been solely that. He’d enjoyed Diana’s chattering and singing and sketching. Those were secrets he’d take to his grave when he kicked up his heels and went on to meet the Devil.
Ryker rested a hand on the high back of Niall’s seat, and he briefly glanced up at his brother.
The duke inched his chair closer, and the wood legs scraped noisily along the floor, reclaiming his attention. “And you’ve admirably overseen your task.” Niall would have to be deafer than a post to fail to hear that exaggerated platitude. “I would not, however, ask you to stay, if it is . . .” His Grace scrunched his brow and rubbed his hand contemplatively over his mouth. Then his eyes lit. “Difficult for you.”
Nothing from ending a man’s life to filching a fancy lord’s purse had proven difficult for him. “Difficult for me?” he parroted, a player upon a stage without the benefit of his lines.
Ryker’s father patted Niall’s hand in an awkward gesture that sent his hackles up.
People didn’t touch him. Not unless they were prepared to swallow their teeth for supper.
He made to grab that offending unblemished palm when Ryker’s father went on, in gentling tones better suited a fearful child than a ruthless killer. “Diana explained all, Niall.”
Uncaring that this pompous lord had commandeered his name, Niall honed in on those three words preceding it. “Oh?” He stretched that single syllable out in an icy steel that had earned him his ruthless reputation. “Just what did she explain?”
Silent until now, Ryker held out a folded note.
“It happens to all of us, Niall,” the duke assured. “Why, I was sad to be away from Eton when I was a boy.”
With her father rambling on about strange places and strange sounds and missing loved ones, Niall unfolded the crisp ivory vellum. He skimmed the page.
Dear Ryker,
Please, let me begin by thanking you. I am incredibly grateful to you for worrying after my safety.
Worrying after her safety. It had been Niall who’d seen to her well-being. It hardly mattered that he’d been forced into the damned Mayfair residence and the lady’s employ. Not that he wanted her gratitude or appreciation, but he didn’t want her crediting Ryker for doing anything. He hadn’t. Tamping down a growl, he resumed reading.
I am also
appreciative that you would provide me with Mr. Marksman’s services . . .
He crushed the pages as a black rage momentarily blinded him to those graceful strokes made in Diana’s hand. Not Niall, as she’d insisted on calling him a few days after his arrival. But Mr. Marksman. What should he expect, given their violent clash in the park?
“Something the matter?” Calum asked, a curious trace of amusement lighting his eyes.
Yes. The lady spoke of him the way she might a damned pack mare. “No,” he muttered. His fury swelling, Niall forced himself to continue reading . . . and then stopped.
Mr. Marksman, however, is . . .
Niall read the handful of sentences several times and then blinked. Surely he’d imagined those words there. He blinked again. But no matter how many times he did, the mocking note in Diana’s hand remained. His hand tightened reflexively on the page, crushing it in his palm. “Homesick?” he choked out.
From behind him, Calum emitted a strangled laugh, and Niall swiveled his head around and locked a dark glare on him. The faithless bastard gained control of his vocal amusement, but the mocking grin on his lips remained firmly in place.
“There is nothing to be ashamed of, Niall,” the duke comforted, bringing Niall’s attention forward.
Feeling burned by that damnable sheet, Niall hurriedly set the page on the edge of Wilkinson’s desk. “I’m not homesick,” he gritted out, shoving quickly to his feet. Then the duke’s words registered. “Or ashamed.” He felt any number of things: Livid. Enraged. Murderous. Ashamed was the least of his damned feelings just then. The vexing chit. By God, she was lucky she wasn’t here. Not only had she sacked him, but she had also shredded his male pride and dignity, and with nothing more than three paragraphs. Niall let fly a black curse.
Red splotches bloomed in Wilkinson’s fleshy cheeks. He glanced desperately in Ryker’s direction.
By the ghost of a smile on his scarred lips, Ryker shared Calum’s amusement. Faithless bastards. The pair of them.
Always the lord over all, Niall’s fate included, Ryker laid siege to the duke’s office. “Wilkinson, will you allow us a moment?”
The Lady's Guard (Sinful Brides Book 3) Page 12
