by Gaelen Foley
Grimly, he picked up his fork again and forced himself to continue eating, shoveling down a few nauseating bites to avoid rousing his friends’ suspicion. He had to seem normal.
He shrugged when they asked him his opinion of the duke’s outrageous claims against someone in the regiment.
“Probably bullshit,” he said.
Of course he knew nothing about it. He shook his head, denying all, as usual. This had nothing to do with him. He was Captain Seth Darrow. One of them. He had the uniform to prove it.
He had long since replaced the missing button, sewing it on himself. His mates were none the wiser. Above all, he refused to let any sign of his other life, his dark side, or his underworld origins show on his face. He knew that his well-born friends would not understand.
His stomach rebelled as he forced the rest of the food down, but it was remarkable what a man could force himself to do after going to war.
At last, when he deemed it safe, Seth wiped his mouth on his napkin, then tossed it down and stood; ignoring the queasy feeling, he bade his fellows good night and left the club.
He slung up onto his horse and rode immediately to the brothel. Darkness was falling as he stalked into Aphrodite’s Cove.
He searched the tavern, shoving women out of his way, then checked the second-floor rooms, interrupting trysts in progress.
But he soon saw that it was as he had feared.
Saffie had vanished.
Oh my God, Father is going to kill me. Panic rose in him as he stood at the top of the dim, creaky stairs. I need to end this before the old man finds out.
He jogged down the steps on shaky legs to go speak to the guards, cursing himself along the way for not strangling her when he’d had the chance. Instead, he’d let himself become addicted to her mindless worship of him.
As if that nitwit’s opinion should matter.
“Where’s Saffie?” he demanded when he found the head guard.
“She left with some men, sir—not customers. Friends of the family or something. Want me to send up another girl for you tonight?”
“No, damn you!” Seth pushed the man against the wall. “What men? Didn’t I make it clear she’s my possession? Where is she?”
“I-I don’t know, sir!” the guard blurted out. “She said it was an emergency.”
“What kind of an emergency?” Seth growled through gritted teeth, gripping the man’s lapels.
The large, beefy man shook his head. “She told us some old man she knows is dyin’. It was hours before we start getting busy, sir. I didn’t see the harm.”
“Oh, didn’t you?” Seth released him in disgust. “Who were these men she left with?”
Another guard with a facial scar came over warily. “Is everything all right?”
“He wants Saffie.” The head of security righted his coat, looking uneasy.
Seth turned to the newcomer. “Did you see her leave?”
The hireling nodded. “Aye, ’twas around six o’clock.”
“What did these people look like?”
“Er, I’m not sure… There were three of them. Or was it four?”
“Seemed like soldiers, I thought,” the head guard said. “I thought they might have been friends o’ yours, sir, so I didn’t worry. Surely…you didn’t mean for us to keep the girl here against her will?”
“Oh!” the scarred man said all of a sudden, holding up a finger. “One of them had an eye patch.”
Bloody hell. Amberley’s men for certain. Seth knew of the old, one-eyed surgeon, having watched the house carefully for weeks.
“Do you know where they took her?”
“No, sir. They said they’d have her back in a couple hours.”
“They were lying. You idiots. They’re not bringing her back here. They’ve taken her.” He turned away, shaking his head as he strove to clear his mind of the clawing dread.
“Is Saffie in danger, sir?” the head of security asked.
Seth couldn’t help but laugh cynically. “No, she’s safe. That’s the problem,” he added under his breath, then marched out.
Outside on the pavement, he stood for a moment under the stars, pulling deep gulps of air into his lungs, trying to steady himself.
Well, what now?
The girl who could get him convicted of murder was out there somewhere in the care of his enemies, all because he hadn’t been able to get enough of her sweet, virginal pussy. What do I do? The question kept thundering through his mind, over and over again.
The answer seemed clear. He had to flee while he still had the chance. He resolved to rush home, throw his most vital belongings into his haversack and a couple of valises, and take the dawn packet to Calais. He was getting the hell out of England before he wound up arrested and hanged.
If Father wanted the last Amberley dead, he could do it himself. God knew he was mean enough, and besides, Seth had already done three of them.
With that, Seth untied his horse once again and rode home, already feeling the hot breath of the hangman on his neck.
But when he tiptoed into the house to collect his things, he was unable to pass by Father’s study unnoticed. He tried to quiet his footsteps as he crossed the entrance hall toward the stairs, but, sure enough, heard a rough, gravelly voice.
“Seth! Get in here.”
His stomach clenched. He swallowed hard. “Coming, Father.”
He braced himself, then trod dutifully toward his father’s study.
Elias Flynn sat in his Moroccan leather chair, his bald head gleaming by the light of the candle burning on his desk. He drew off his spectacles and studied Seth with a piercing glare when he ventured into the doorway.
“Yes, sir?”
The self-made millionaire whoremonger eyed Seth suspiciously. “How’s the assignment coming along?”
Seth hid his gulp and shrugged. “It’s fine.”
“Really?” Flynn countered, unblinking. “Seems to be taking an awfully long time. This has been going on for nearly five months now.” Father raised his eyebrows and gave Seth a look that seemed to peer down into his very soul.
Amberley’s words of a while ago echoed through Seth’s mind as he did his best to hold his father’s gaze.
“Tell him to quit hidin’ like a coward…”
Was that all he really was at the end of the day? A coward? He was on the verge of running away, after all. Wasn’t he?
Seth dropped his chin nearly to his chest and thought of Francis dying in his arms. Little brother, the gentleman, with his lion-cub courage and his big mouth.
A heaviness moved over him, then, as he realized there was no point in trying to flee. Why bother? What did it matter? His life was a misery, anyway, and wherever he went, the guilt that hounded him day and night was sure to follow.
He had to stay and finish this. He owed Father that. For robbing him of his younger son. The one who made him happy. The son he had loved.
“Well?” Flynn prompted.
“It’ll be over Friday night,” Seth said wearily. “I know where he’ll be, and I’m going to blow his bloody head off.”
“Good.” Father nodded. “See that you do.”
CHAPTER 24
Aunt Lucinda’s Soirée
When Friday evening finally arrived, Maggie and the Birdwells piled into Edward’s finest coach, invitation in hand, and set off for Upper Brooke Street in Mayfair, and the home of the Dowager Duchess of Amberley.
Edward complimented both sisters, and Maggie complimented her brother-in-law in turn. The marquess’s black-and-white formal garb of this evening was pristine; indeed, he looked as handsome as she had ever seen him.
Even Delia grumbled begrudging agreement.
His black tailcoat seemed to trim down his portly figure by a stone, and the jeweled cravat pin that adorned his throat twinkled with a sapphire that brought out the blue in his eyes.
Lady Birdwell was dressed as resplendently as ever in a gown of bluish-purple satin with silver lace trim. He
r hair was adorned with an iris bloom, and the effect was striking.
Though her sister had still not apologized, Maggie went out on a limb to offer the observation that the flower’s jewel tone flattered her auburn hair. Delia thanked her but still refused eye contact, and certainly did not return the praise.
No matter. Maggie sat undaunted. Not even Delia’s unpleasantness could dampen her excitement over seeing Connor tonight. She dropped her gaze to her lap, where she clasped her fingers, and smiled privately, complimenting herself.
She knew she looked her best this evening—for her future husband, of course. With Penelope’s assistance, she had chosen a flowing, high-waisted, watered silk gown of pearl white with a hint of pink and a crimson sash to match the rosettes that encircled the skirts at the knee. A white ruffle of lace edged the small puff sleeves and daring décolletage, which sat low around her shoulders.
He’d like that, she thought, biting her lip as it curved into a smile.
She wished she could have found a way to end the bristling silence inside the coach, though, as the horses went clip-clopping through the streets.
When they rounded the corner at Hyde Park, Maggie glanced out the window and felt a twinge of anger to recall being stranded there in the rain. But she flicked the memory away. Tonight, she’d be with Connor, and that was all that mattered.
It had been three days since they’d visited Mr. Trumbull. She wasn’t sure what her darling neighbor had been up to in the meanwhile, but for her part, she’d been busy with various things, not the least of which had been a bit of preliminary daydreaming about their wedding. Each night, of course, she’d kept an eye out her bedroom window for the lantern signal, just in case.
It didn’t come.
She didn’t mind. She would never be the sort of woman who constantly demanded to be the center of his life. They needn’t suffocate each other.
As the Birdwell carriage rolled on, she mused with pleasure on various aspects of the affection she and her wild Irishman had discovered, and the beautiful love she knew would continue to unfold…
At length, traveling north on Park Lane, with the wrought-iron gate that surrounded Hyde Park on their left, and some of the most fashionable streets in London to their right, they turned in at Upper Brooke Street.
Hubert slowed the vehicle just around the corner, where a queue of elegant carriages waited to deliver their guests to a magnificent terrace house on the right.
“Are you going to be in a mood all night?” Edward murmured to his wife as his coach crept forward the last few feet to halt before their destination.
Delia let out a small, aloof huff and looked out the window at the other homes. “I’m only here because she is a duchess, Ed. You can’t say no.”
“Charming,” he mumbled.
Then the footman was opening the door for them, letting down the step. Excitement whooshed through Maggie. Edward got out first, handed down Delia, and then assisted Maggie, the lower-ranking female, as she alighted.
Delia took her husband’s arm and Maggie followed, her heart pounding as they walked toward the porticoed entrance of the dragon lady’s lair.
Smoothing her skirts, Maggie wondered if Connor had been introduced yet to the young ladies his great-aunt deemed worthy to be his bride—and what he thought of each one.
Not that she was jealous. She just wanted the First Duchess to approve of her, too. Then they walked into the entrance hall and her nervous thoughts were blotted out by the buzz of conversation and the distant music of a stringed ensemble playing somewhere upstairs.
Maggie estimated there were about a hundred guests present so far, a fine-sized gathering for this home, though it could have easily fit twice that number.
The duchess’s house seemed about the same size as Edward’s, with four stories and three banks of windows across. Ahead, a magnificent William Kent staircase waited between creamy white Ionic columns to take them upstairs.
With lacy wrought-iron rails beneath the shining oaken banister, the frothy staircase fountained up to two galleried stories, both visible from the entrance hall. The corbelled ceiling soared far above, and from the peachy painted walls adorned with white plaster garlands, a pair of marble busts peered down from round niches.
Liveried footman posted here and there assisted the glittering crowd. Throughout the entrance hall, the candlelight burnished the touches of gilt everywhere, even though the rosy glow of sunset still streamed through the large fanlights over the front door.
Maggie took it all in with wonder, joining the orderly queue of guests ascending the staircase. She carefully lifted the hem of her gown and followed Delia and Edward up the white marble steps.
As they progressed slowly to the main floor, where the soirée proper was taking place, she noticed an opulent sedan chair that had been pushed up against the wall in the ground floor corridor leading from the entrance hall toward the back of the house. For some reason, it amused her.
She had never met the First Duchess of Amberley, but the woman sounded like one of those grand old souls who enjoyed being carried around by footmen like a queen. Delia should probably buy one, she thought with a twitch of her lips.
When they reached the first floor, the splendor continued in the drawing room, where wallpaper with garden vines and delicate flowers adorned the walls above a rose-colored carpet. Small landscape paintings hung here and there, and atop the mantel of the green marble fireplace sat a large mechanical clock under a glass dome.
Ornate lamps of brilliant blue glass dangled from the ceiling, and pocket doors opened up to a music room beyond. On the right lay a small ballroom the same length as the combined chambers on the other side. It had beautiful parquetry floors, handsome pilasters, and three crystal chandeliers.
At the far end of the entire house along this floor, Maggie noticed French doors letting out onto a shallow balcony that overlooked the garden.
She did not see Connor, but realized that the large woman seated beside the empty fireplace was their hostess.
Grandaunt Lucinda wore a voluminous gown of black lace with an ebony toque to match; a cluster of rubies sparkled on the brooch at the center of her hat. Frowning, the heavyset old woman waved a tasseled fan as she presided over the trio of young debs who sat with her.
Maggie’s stare homed in on them. Ah, the approved choices. The first was a rail-thin brunette with a large nose. The second was a tepid-looking flaxen blonde with a weak chin and a wan complexion. The third had curly red hair and a freckled face, and Maggie decided in a glance that none of them would do for him.
All the same, she did not envy them their place of honor at the moment.
None of the girls dared to move as the dowager duchess commanded their attention, holding forth on God knew what subject.
Maybe telling them how to run a home. Or raise a child.
Maggie wouldn’t dream of interrupting. Instead, she gravitated toward the ballroom, where she spotted her friends. While Delia and Edward went to greet some of their acquaintances, Maggie was joyfully reunited with Trinny, Viscountess Roland.
The new mother was wearing a glorious emerald gown in one of those sophisticated jewel tones reserved for married women.
“Lady Roland!” Maggie teased. “You look splendid.”
“Maggie!” Trinny greeted her with a light kiss on the cheek. “So do you.”
“Truly, I’m not just saying that,” Maggie said. “I love this on you.”
“Do you?” The redhead beamed, smoothing her skirts. “I always wanted to wear this color before, but Mother would never allow me.”
Maggie chuckled. “I’m glad to see you here. How goes the soirée so far?”
“Oh, it’s lovely. Her Grace has a beautiful home.” Trinny’s eyes danced as she beckoned Maggie closer. “You’ll never believe what she said when Gable and I were presented to her.”
“What did she say?” Maggie whispered.
Visibly fighting a grin, Trinny lowered her voice as
she imitated the dragon: “‘Only peasants elope, young lady.’ And she hoped I haven’t damaged my younger sisters’ hopes of making good matches with my ‘wild behavior.’”
Maggie gasped. “She really is a dragon lady, then?”
“I’ll say. Proceed with caution, my friend.” Trinny waved the comment off. “I don’t mind. I knew what I was getting into.”
“God love you. How did Gable react?”
“Oh, he laughed, of course, as he always does, the cynic. Then he went to find Amberley. I’m sure the poor duke needed some moral support by that time.”
“Have the Rivenwoods arrived yet?”
“Came and left, I’m sorry to report,” Trinny said, shaking her head.
“What? Why?”
“Well… Serena was not as forgiving as you or I might be about the rude remark the duchess made to Azrael.”
“Oh no. What did she say to him?” Maggie asked, appalled.
“Something about his bloodlines being vile.”
Maggie’s jaw dropped. “Vile? She actually said that?”
Trinny nodded, wide-eyed. “In front of a room full of people. Poor Azrael. He just smirked—I guess he’d rather have people say it to his face than behind his back—but for a moment there, I thought Serena might actually slap her.”
“Good heavens! This woman really is a termagant, then. Oh God,” Maggie added in a low tone, “now I’m terrified to meet her.” She was only half joking.
Trinny shook her head, then glanced toward the drawing room. “How those poor girls must feel, trapped beside her! I would not want to be one of them right now. Why is she holding them prisoner like that?”
Maggie gave her an arch look. “Why do you think?”
Trinny tilted her head. “No…! She’s matchmaking for him?”
“She’s trying, from what I understand.”
“No wonder the poor man’s hiding!” Trinny said with a chuckle.
Maggie grinned. “Have you seen him?”
“Yes.” Trinny smiled, nodding toward the far end of the ballroom. “He’s down that way somewhere with my husband. Those two seem to get on famously, don’t they? Between you and me, Gable is in awe of the man.”
