The Lady's Guard (Sinful Brides Book 3)

by Christi Caldwell

  Pulling the door closed, she turned the lock and on numbed legs made her way from her rooms, through the halls, and belowstairs to where a footman stood in wait with her cloak.

  “Diana,” her father greeted with an absent smile, that empty expression directed at the gold timepiece he now consulted.

  That was it. Three syllables. Her name. And not a single word more uttered as they filed in the carriage and lurched forward, to Ryker’s residence moments later.

  Seated on the velvet upholstered bench, Diana stared at her father across from her. As the sprigged coach rattled along the cobblestones past the periodic street posts, the candlelight played off her father’s features. His heavily jowled face bore more wrinkles, a mark of the sadness and tragedy of this past year. His once smiling eyes bore a vacancy that had killed all earlier glittering warmth.

  “When I was a girl,” she began quietly, as the turn of the wheels over the cobblestones filled the carriage. Her father at last looked to her. “I despised all my lessons in mathematics.” Unlike Helena, whose mind had been born to decipher numbers, Diana had always been useless where they were concerned. “But I was enthralled by Shakespeare. Did you know that about me?” she wondered aloud, that question as much for him as it was for her.

  “I didn’t,” he said with a melancholy glint in his perpetually sad eyes.

  As a girl, she’d placed him in the spheres where mythical kings and magical men of folklore went. As a woman, she now saw she’d lived with a fanciful view that no mere mortal could have dared aspired to. “I often thought of myself as Cordelia and you my beloved papa.” But she’d never truly been the principled heroine. Along the way of life, Diana had confused obedience with honor and lost key parts of whom she’d always been—until Niall. “King Lear banished her for being truthful, and she returned years later, when he was nearly mad.” Her father stiffened, and pain contorted his wrinkled features. “And at last, he gives her his love. He imagines a life with her in it.” Diana’s fingers curled reflexively around her reticule. “It was only until just recently that I realized, Papa.”

  “Realized what?” he asked hoarsely, with more life in that question than he’d shown her since Mother had been carted off.

  “I was never the daughter you truly desired . . .”

  He made a sound of protest, but she spoke over it.

  “I was the daughter you felt obligated to have.”

  “That is not true,” he said, his face crumpling.

  Once, the sight of his suffering would have stifled any further words. She was no longer that dutiful girl, however, putting his happiness before her own.

  “Isn’t it?” she retorted, stripping all inflection from that challenge. “You loved Helena and Ryker’s mother. My mother . . .” She bit the inside of her lip and then forced herself to go on. “My mother was the woman you had no place marrying, and yet you wed her anyway. For that devotion you both showed to your rank and status, you both lost everything—your happiness. Your chance at love. The real families you were meant to have.” Delia Banbury, the woman who’d been her father’s mistress, had known nothing but misery for her relationship with the duke.

  Tears filled her father’s eyes, glazing those blue irises that were Diana’s, Ryker’s, and Helena’s all as one. “I have many regrets, Diana.” The muscles of her stomach knotted as he spoke. “Many times, I thought of that very thing. What if I’d never married your mother? What if I’d married Helena and Ryker’s mother instead?” He painted an image of those three together, a bucolic family of four that Diana would have never been part of, or belonged to. “But there would never have been you, Diana, and I would have never given up knowing you or having you in my life, even for the happiness it would have brought me being with Delia.” He covered her hand with his own, and she stared at his gloved palm. “I am so very sorry I’ve not been a father to you this past year.”

  Tears stung her own eyes. It had been so very long since her father had seen her . . . or spoken to her. “It is fine,” she whispered. He’d lost so much and grieved for even more. That had changed him. She could not forgive his absence these past years, but she could understand it. His misery, however, was also of his own making.

  “I’m not going to marry any of the gentlemen there,” she said quietly, and he furrowed his brow at that abrupt shift in discourse.

  “It is just a dinner to see if you’ll suit,” he assured her, patting her hand.

  “I do not want a societal husband.” Like him. That meaning hung clear as if it had been spoken aloud.

  Her father winced.

  “I’m leaving, Father,” she continued.

  His brow creased. “Leaving? Where . . . ? What . . . ?”

  “With Helena and Robert’s cousin, Captain Stone.”

  He scratched at his head.

  Of course he wouldn’t recognize the name. That was the man he’d been for the past year—one who didn’t see the world around him. Including his own daughter. Before Niall had entered her life, she’d taken her father’s apathy as a mark upon her own character. No longer. She was no more responsible for the actions of her parents than Niall was responsible for those acts committed at force by Diggory. She drew in a breath. “I’m going, Papa.” Whether or not he approved.

  That jerked him to. “You cannot simply leave. Why . . . why . . . you are a young woman.”

  Of course, he’d be of that opinion. It was the same one held by every last lord in Society. Only Niall had proven different. Her heart pulled. “There is nothing for me here.” Niall would never be hers, and staying in her gilded cage when he returned to London’s underbelly would kill Diana’s spirit. She didn’t want to become that woman. Not again.

  “Not even Mr. Marksman?”

  Her lips parted. Closeted away in his rooms, she’d believed her father hadn’t seen anything past his own misery.

  A sad glimmer danced in her father’s eyes. “I’ve been neglectful, but I’m not a fool. You care about him.”

  Nay, she didn’t care about him. She loved him. Her throat moved, and she gave a slight nod. Mayhap before he’d retreated from her, she would have shared everything in her heart . . . including the heartbreak of Niall’s unwillingness to let her inside. Too much had come to pass.

  “You’ll not stay for him?”

  “Do you disapprove?” she asked guardedly.

  He frowned. “I would rather you find a good, honorable nobleman who’ll see you safe and happy.”

  Diana stared sadly back at him. All the years of happiness he’d lost simply for honoring that commitment to rank. “You’ve learned nothing,” she whispered into the quiet. As a girl, she’d seen him only as a benevolent, always smiling lord. Kindly to both his servants and lesser lords. How empty that kindness, in fact, had been. “You, who married mother instead of the woman you loved, would speak to me of wedding a nobleman?” Anger made her voice shake. Given his own betrayals, he’d dare equate that rank with words like honor? All along she’d believed her father blind to her. Only to find he was blind to everything that mattered.

  “I’m not passing judgment on the boy,” her father explained, with more life in him than he’d shown through any of their limited private discourses. “But no father,” he went on, “would ever choose Mr. Marksman for his daughter.” He spoke gently, the way he had imparted scraps of information when she’d been a child.

  Her mouth soured. “Then those men are fools.” Because Niall had more valor in his littlest finger than the whole of the peerage combined.

  “I want you to be happy.”

  Niall makes me happy. Leaving London and this stifling society would make me happy . . .

  However, only the latter could belong to her.

  “Diana—”

  Whatever her father intended to say next came to an abrupt halt, as the carriage jerked to a stop.

  Diana caught the edge of the seat to keep from flying forward.

  Her father pulled the curtain back. “What—?”<
br />
  The carriage door opened, and Oswyn stuck his head inside. “Trouble, Your Grace.”

  “Trouble?” her father squawked.

  The old guard stuck a hand inside toward Diana. “Ya need to come with me.”

  She shot a hand out and then froze, riveted by his callused fingers. Hands not unlike Niall’s with the scars upon them. However, it was not the jagged white marks that earned her notice, but rather his red, swollen knuckles. Unease skittered along her spine, and she edged away from him.

  “What kind of trouble?” her father demanded, pressing his head against the window again, like a child eager to arrive at his destination. “This isn’t Mayfair. Where in blazes?” Diana looked past him out at the streets of St. Giles.

  What . . . ?

  With a vicious curse, Oswyn clubbed her father on the side of the head, and his mouth formed a small circle before he crumpled in his seat.

  Diana’s heart stopped.

  Run.

  Clutching her reticule, she lunged for the other door. Pushing it open, she jumped outside, catching herself quickly. Ignoring the pain radiating up from her feet, she sprinted across the street.

  She made it no farther than three paces.

  Two figures started across the cobbled road, making their way closer. Tall, coarse, heavily pockmarked strangers—men better suited for nightmares than the streets of London.

  Panting, Diana whipped her gaze about. Her panic redoubled as she caught her driver’s and footman’s prone forms slumped in their seats. She made herself go still.

  “That’s better,” Oswyn grunted. “There’s nowhere for ya to go.” The tall, burly guard continued over and grabbed her by the forearm. “Ya ’aven’t made it easy for me. For any of us. Now come—” His voice soared to a high howl as she yanked out Niall’s dagger and thrust it into his hand.

  Free of his hold, Diana wheeled around and raced away from the lumbering strangers hurtling toward her.

  Letting loose a scream to bring down the night sky, Diana ran . . . right into a massive wall. The air left her on a swift exhale as she sailed back and landed hard on her buttocks. Niall’s knife slipped from her hands and clattered noisily as it hit the cobblestones. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she fought through the agony radiating up her spine to push to her feet.

  Oswyn was already there, fury burning from his battle-ready eyes. He shot his fist out and clubbed her on the side of the head.

  Flecks of silver dotted her vision, and a loud humming filled her ears. Diana dimly registered the collection of strangers talking quickly over one another, and then her legs gave out from under her.

  And she remembered nothing else.

  Chapter 21

  Niall hadn’t known a night of quiet in the duke’s household since he’d arrived.

  Now he lay on his borrowed bed—a bed that, since he was being honest with himself, was damned comfortable—staring up at the colorful mural overhead.

  Trying not to think of Diana’s barely concealed hurt as he’d rejected her offer.

  Trying not to think how he’d snuck off and watched her carriage until it had pulled away with her father and Oswyn.

  Trying not to think of her in that damned silk amethyst gown and its damned daring décolletage as she sat alongside some nameless gent, a man her family and all Society would deem a perfect match for the duke’s daughter.

  Trying . . .

  And failing.

  Niall covered his face with his hands. “Shouldn’t you be gone?” he groused.

  Adair’s low chuckle rumbled from the front of the room. Having survived by breaking into some of London’s wealthiest homes, Adair was unrivaled by many in his soft footing. “You heard me enter.”

  Then, Niall’s very life had depended on detecting even the faintest of sounds, and that skill could never be divorced from whom he was now. “I hear everything,” he muttered, and, dropping his arms, he pushed himself up to the edge of the bed.

  Clad in a sapphire jacket and brocade waistcoat, Adair couldn’t look more uncomfortable in his evening wear than had he donned a chemise and been forced to prance through the duke’s town house. “I’m leaving.”

  As Adair’s was a statement more than anything, Niall opted to say nothing on it. Instead, he shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it onto a nearby chair. It fell on the gold satin cushion and rested there.

  “And I take that to mean you have no intention of coming,” his brother mumbled, yanking at his cravat.

  “There’s no reason for me to be there,” he said, taking care to avoid Adair’s gaze. “Oswyn accompanied her there, and Ryker and Calum, and you, will be in attendance.” Why would his brother not just go? Niall didn’t want to be saddled with any further probings. Except . . . guilt slid in. I should be there with her. And this need had nothing to do with a sense of obligation. In his time here, Niall had come to care for her. Love her. I love her.

  His stomach heaved violently, and he fixed on breathing. But there was no escaping it. He had fallen in love.

  Adair glanced around the room, and then, pushing away from the door, strolled over to the carved oak Green Man desk. “You’re certain?” Adair prodded, relentless.

  Niall hadn’t been certain of anything in more than four weeks, since he’d met Diana.

  “I’d rather not suffer through an evening with a table full of . . .” Adair’s words trailed off as his gaze snagged on the top of Niall’s desk. He perused the single item resting there. “Pretty,” his brother observed.

  Neck hot, Niall strode over to the drink cart and poured himself a glass of brandy. “I’m not coming,” he said, sidestepping the questions there.

  Adair continued to eye him and then pushed away from the grand piece of furniture. “Then I’ll leave you to your own company this evening. I expect you’re probably eager for a break from your responsibilities. How else to account for your asking Oswyn to step in for you.”

  Niall stiffened. “Oi didn’t—” Do not rise to his bait. Do not rise to his bait. His brothers had always known better than any other precisely how to get under his skin. Misery loved company, and Adair was determined to drag him along to the lion’s den of Polite Society.

  With a resigned sigh, Adair gave another pull at his rumpled cravat. He lifted his hand in a silent parting and pulled the door open.

  Diana’s maid stumbled into the room. Red-cheeked, she looked between Niall and Adair. “B-beg p-pardon, Mr. M-Marksman.” That pained, nervous timbre to her voice that she’d shown whenever in his presence had not faded with time. The girl went out of her way to avoid him. The only time she’d voluntarily sought him out had been the day Diana had gone off to Bedlam. She swallowed loudly.

  He set his glass down hard. “What is it?”

  “Th-there is someone here demanding to see you.” She dropped her voice to a scandalized whisper. “A child.”

  Adair gave him a quizzical look. “What child would have need for a meeting with you?”

  Niall frowned. “None.” Not here. At the Hell and Sin, plenty of desperate lads and girls sought roles inside the club. Those street urchins wouldn’t be here.

  Meredith fisted her skirts. “Smith.” She glanced to Adair. “The butler,” she clarified needlessly. “He’s been trying to send her away, but she said he’ll have to throw her out by her”—her blush deepened—“arse,” she said on another whisper. “She said arse, and now Smith is gathering the footmen and—”

  Niall was across the room in three long strides. He brushed past the girl. Incongruities represented dangers that only a fool would ignore.

  They raced through the corridors. With every step, the shouts and curses grew, increasing in volume. Questions spun through Niall’s mind. He and Adair reached the top of the stairs. The sight that greeted him brought him to a jerky stop. A small cloaked figure battled a butler nearly four or five decades her senior.

  “If you touch me, by God, I’ll cut your bollocks off,” the girl spat, slashing a vicious blade
at the butler. Two crimson-clad footmen streaking forward jerked to an abrupt halt and looked back and forth between each other. They immediately fell back.

  “This is the Duke of Verney’s residence.” That proud reminder from the butler was ruined by the warble of his voice and the speed with which he stumbled away from her.

  The girl snorted. “I don’t give a rat’s arse if it’s God himself’s kingdom,” she said, and there was an air of familiarity to that voice. Mind racing, Niall tried to place it. “I’m not leaving until—” She looked up. The girl shoved the deep hood of her sapphire cloak back, revealing a familiar bespectacled face. Peeling her lip back, she looked him up and down. “It’s about damned time,” she muttered.

  “You’re looking for me,” he boomed.

  “Marksman,” she said in greeting. His name came out more as an epithet than anything. “We meet again.” The butler grabbed for her arm, and she jerked her chin. “Tell this bastard to get his hands off me, or my brother will gut you both and feed you your guts for supper.”

  “Her brother?” Adair asked from the side of his mouth.

  “Killoran,” he muttered, starting down the stairs.

  “Killoran?” Adair echoed dumbly, following quickly behind.

  If the girl was discovered here, a street war would rage until every last member of Killoran’s gang or Niall’s family was dead.

  “Yes, Killoran,” she called up. “The bravest, most powerful lord of the underworld, and certainly the greatest gaming-hell owner in the kingdom. Who are you?” she demanded of Adair when they stopped before her. “Never mind,” she muttered. “It doesn’t matter. Where can we meet?”

  This diminutive member of the Killoran clan would invade the duke’s household and demand a meeting. Niall had been stabbed by too many lads smaller than this girl to not know proper wariness.

  Smith made another attempt to grab the girl, and she kicked him in the shins. A hiss slipped past the older man’s lips as he collapsed on the floor like he’d been shot.

  Cleo Killoran rolled her eyes. “This one,” she muttered. “Take yourself off,” she ordered. “I’m seeing to business here. Can’t you see that, you silly rotter?”