The Lady Who Loved Him

by Christi Caldwell

  Leo passed his hopelessly bored gaze over Waterson’s guests. Putting to use his disdain, he masked his true interest in the guests circulating around him. As such, the dreadfully dull Earl of Waterson’s ball would have been, at any other time, an event he’d have rather yanked his fingernails out than attend. And yet… the stodgy and boring earl’s conservative political leanings and efforts to wed his unmarried sisters off to equally stodgy Tories had marked him as a suspect in Leo’s investigation.

  Leo lazily studied the guests. The crowd consisted of largely proper lords, most vocal members of Parliament… and their equally proper sisters and wives.

  He grimaced. With the dearth of rakes, rogues, and scoundrels, he was wholly out of place. Hardly his normal crowd… or event. With his dire financial state, however, none would dare question why a man such as Leo was in attendance. They’d take him as any other rake in dun territory, in need of a fat-dowered, desperate-to-be-wed miss.

  “Unfortunate about the lack-of-spirits business,” Carter lamented, still standing at his side.

  “Indeed,” Leo drawled, wholly in agreement with the old earl.

  Seeming to take that first reply as an invitation, Lord Carter continued on. “Some scandal or such when a fight broke out at Waterson’s last affair. A soiree. Lord Bedford imbibed too many spirits and knocked over a candelabra and—”

  And just like that, he’d been provided the means with which to quit the earl’s ballroom and find himself… another place inside the earl’s household. “He still keeps spirits, then?”

  The earl scratched his paunch. “Certainly does. Some of the best French brandy, in fact.” He lowered his voice and whispered the way one might about a delicious secret. “I’ve had the opportunity to sample it myself a number of times when we’ve met to discuss business.” So Lord Carter also had business dealings with the Earl of Waterson… as well as like political leanings in his voting record at Parliament. “Not the inexpensive rubbish most of the younger gents your age are drinking these days.”

  The earl had two daughters and a son married, but Leo had forgotten the man’s eldest, daughter. Suddenly interested by the earl’s appearance and, more specifically, by each tidbit revealed, Leo shifted closer. “Tell me, then, old chap. If a scoundrel was so inclined to partake in a sampling of this treasure, where might one find such a bounty?”

  A glimmer sparkled in the earl’s eyes. “In his office.”

  Bloody lackwit. “Where?” he snapped.

  At the brief lapse in conviviality, Lord Carter blinked.

  “I’m in desperate need of a drink, old chap.”

  “Ahh,” the earl replied, thumping Leo on the back. “I remember those days all too well.”

  Like an Oxford boy plotting mischief, Lord Carter turned over concise directions as to where Lord Waterson conducted business dealings. Leo neatly filed those details away.

  This one’s lips were far too loose to ever effectively engage in subterfuge. Oh, it didn’t mean even lesser men than the one before him hadn’t tried. They had. It was, however, easy enough to size a man up and determine whether he was engaged in anything sinister. “Waterson’s also fat in the pockets,” he put forward in bored tones. “Manner of gent I suspect you’d like to saddle your daughter with.” A few years older than Leo’s thirty years, Lord Carter’s homely daughter had been destined for the shelf the moment she’d made her Come Out.

  “Quite true. Quite true.” Lord Carter stuck an elbow in Leo’s side, pulling a grunt from him. “I’ve tried. Believe me, I’ve tried to orchestrate an arrangement between my Mary and the earl.” He screwed his mouth up. “Alas, Waterson has already set his sights on another.”

  Leo followed the earl’s stare over to their host… presently in discussion with the Marquess of Waverly.

  Lord Carter elucidated, “The marquess’ spinster sister, Lady Chloe.”

  Lady Chloe. Leo tried to recall the marquess’ unwed sister. Alas, he’d put his days of dallying with innocents to rest long ago, and only after he’d cemented his place as one of London’s most debauched rakes. His mind quickly worked. “There is talk of a match between them?”

  “There has been, for several years now. Pretty filly. A fat dowry. Lovely bosoms. Not overly plump, but sufficient enough to earn notice.”

  Leo rubbed at his chin, assessing the two men engrossed in discussion.

  Waverly had recently married a bastard-born woman who’d established a school for scandalous offspring. Both his selection in bride and his support of that institution for women outside the nobility had marked him an unlikely participant of the Cato Street Conspiracy.

  Useful information from Lord Carter officially at an end, Leo touched his brow in thanks. “Carter.” Abandoning his post at the back corner of the ballroom, he quit the nobleman’s side. With the earl sputtering and stammering in his wake, Leo donned his usual rakish grin and wound his way through the crowd.

  Proper mamas yanked their daughters, with dangerous curiosity in their eyes, swiftly closer.

  Those daughters, each and every one of them, would ultimately be ruined.

  Alas, there would have to be another rake to lift them of their innocence.

  Leo took up position beside another pillar, where he was free to study the guests now performing the intricate steps of a country reel. Spirits temporarily forgotten, he surveyed the crowd, now wholly focused on his mission.

  Of the two suspects, only Waterson was present. The other, Lord Ellsworth, had yet to arrive. Over the heads of the prancing lords and ladies, Leo’s gaze collided with a hard, glowering one… inconveniently belonging to the very host who’d not issued Leo an invitation.

  Lifting his head slightly in a mocking acknowledgment, Leo grinned.

  Even with Waterson’s palpable loathing and, no doubt, a desire to toss him out on his arse, the blighter was too polite. Waterson was the manner of man who adhered to the rules of propriety, regardless of how stodgy—as he had with the oppressive Six Acts. Still conversing with the Marquess of Waverly, that equally stodgy bore from Leo’s Oxford days spared barely a passing glance for Leo.

  From the corner of his eye, he spied the lady’s approach before she even draped herself against his side.

  “Of all the places I’d expect to find you, Tennyson,” she purred. “In my bed, in an alcove, in a stable, I should think this dull affair would be the last place we’d again meet.” She was tall, statuesque, and buxom, and had she been any other woman and had these not been Crown-related circumstances, he’d have offered to meet her in the room of her choosing. But she was not. She was one woman with whom a dalliance would end his tenure with the Brethren.

  “Lady Rowley,” he forced in his usual bored tones. “These are hardly your usual haunts.”

  She smiled slyly back, curling her lips up in an inviting grin better suited for a bedroom. “I can show you some of them if you wish,” she enticed. Pressing her breasts against his arm, she leaned into him.

  Silently cursing, Leo did a quick search. Both his uncle and Higgins’ warnings echoed around his mind. He took a step away from the tenacious beauty.

  “Oh, la, Tennyson.” She fingered the plunging décolletage of her dampened silk net gown. “Never tell me you, of all rakes, are nervous of being seen with me?”

  “Actually, I am, sweet. Your husband isn’t pleased with me.”

  She giggled. “When have you ever cared about displeased husbands, mine or anyone else’s, Tennyson?”

  Never. This, however, was altogether different. Another indiscretion with this woman would see him deprived of the only thing he wanted or needed—his work with the Brethren. In desperate need of liquor for altogether different reasons, he searched the room, stiffening when Rowley’s wife cupped him between his legs.

  “Bloody hell,” he bit out. He swiftly disentangled her hand from his person. “I said no.”

  The woman was unrelenting. “My husband is otherwise occupied at his club,” she cajoled, walking her fin
gertips back up his thigh. Bloody, bloody hell. She leaned up and placed her lips close to his ear. “Where can I meet you?”

  He glanced about and found a number of disapproving stares upon them.

  Leo relaxed. With both his exchanges here this evening—first with Carter and now with Lady Rowley—one would never take him as anything other than an indolent rake here for his own pleasures.

  “Waterson’s gardens,” he lied, eager to be rid of her.

  Triumph lit the viscountess’ eyes. With a sultry smile, she sashayed off.

  Staring after her for the requisite prolonged moment, with a suitable degree of pretend interest, Leo then shifted his attention back to the crowd.

  Another figure stepped into his path. This time, a servant. Something akin to horror churned in his gut as he stared at the neat arrangement of glasses upon the liveried footman’s silver tray. “What in the blazes is that?”

  Puzzling his brow, the servant glanced at his tray. “Lemonade, my lord.”

  The expected, rakish response was an instruction of just where Waterson’s footman could take himself. Yet, for Society’s whisperings and statements on his lack of control, Leo had greater restraint than most… when it served a purpose that needed serving.

  Wordlessly, he grabbed one of the earl’s ridiculously fragile cups. Glass in hand, he proceeded to take a turn about the floor. All the while, he scrutinized his host’s every movement.

  His dealings with Waterson were limited. Together at Oxford, they’d both enjoyed their books. But whereas Leo had always concealed his love of literature, the other man had freely embraced his academic pursuits.

  Sniveling, pathetic excuse of a boy… poetry and books… as empty-headed as your mother was… useless… you’re utterly useless…

  He tightened his grip upon the cup. Damn that hated bastard for refusing to stay buried in the grave he rightly deserved. After all these years, he still had sway over Leo’s damned thoughts.

  How ironic to go through the first eighteen years of his life being thought of and derided as useless… only to have proven with his work for the Brethren that he’d far more value than his father ever had.

  From across the ballroom, Rowley’s wife caught his eye. Not even the length of the dance floor could conceal the lusty promise there. Flicking an artful curl over her shoulder, she presented him with her rounded buttocks and slipped out of the gathering.

  Leo sprang into movement. Some gents avoided gazes to avoid discourse. There was and always had been little reason to do so where he was concerned. All the proper sorts tended to step out of his path. Never before had that ever been more convenient.

  Slipping out the same doorway Lady Rowley had moments ago, Leo set off in the opposite direction.

  He’d established a life for himself these past twelve years. And he’d be damned if he sacrificed it for anyone—particularly a woman.

  Chapter 4

  God, how she despised balls.

  All of them.

  The soirees. The masquerades. The intimate, formal affairs thrown by her friends or family.

  All of them.

  Nor was it simply the six Seasons’ worth of those affairs that accounted for her apathy, but rather her family’s unrelenting efforts to see Chloe married off.

  There was the fortunate end that after so many London Seasons, no one paid Chloe much attention. Seated on the edge of the Earl of Waterson’s ballroom, she surveyed the crowd. Couples twirled past, ladies in their white skirts and manufactured smiles waltzed about by respectable gentlemen.

  She stared blankly off.

  “There you are!”

  Chloe looked to the owner of that familiar voice and hopped up from her shellback chair. “Jane,” she greeted with a smile that threatened to shatter her cheeks. This was the first exchange they’d had since earlier that morn when Jane had gently but firmly denied Chloe’s request for employment. Chloe was… at a loss for how to be around her friend.

  Fortunately, Jane had always been one to command situations.

  “He is plotting,” Jane explained in a whisper. Her sister-in-law motioned with her hand, and Chloe followed that subtle point.

  Conversing with their host, the Earl of Waterson, her brother moved his less-than-subtle stare in Chloe’s direction and back to the earl.

  Lord Waterson looked in her direction, lifting his head in slight acknowledgment, a pained look on his face. One that surely matched her own.

  She lifted her fingers in a small greeting. “Dead,” she muttered under her breath. “I am going to kill him dead.”

  “Well, that would certainly eliminate the possibility of a match with him,” Jane put in, her lips twitching.

  It was easy enough to be amused and amusing when one was mistress of her own universe. “I meant my brother,” she said sardonically.

  Jane winked. “I know.”

  At least one of them could find amusement in Gabriel’s tenacious efforts at matchmaking. Since she’d made her Come Out, Gabriel had done everything within his power to attempt to coordinate a match between Chloe and his best friend. “I have no intention of relinquishing control of my life.” Her father had control enough until he’d, thankfully, turned up his evil heels and gone to meet the devil. “And I’ll not cede that power to Gabriel.” Their sister, Philippa, had meekly stepped into the respectable match that Gabriel had encouraged… and what had that gotten her? Nearly killed trying to produce a male heir for her honorable husband.

  Jane sighed. “He means well.”

  Where in the past Chloe would have vehemently debated that point, now she remained silent, in concurrence. Gabriel, as he’d been before marriage, had made it his life’s mission to see all of his siblings—Chloe, Philippa, and Alex—properly wed. Since he’d fallen in love, his motives had shifted—somewhat. “He wants to be free of his responsibility of me,” she predicted, moving her gaze to her sister-in-law.

  Jane made a sound of protest. “He wants you to be happy.”

  “And he expects it is a husband who will do that?” she asked dryly. Though she and Jane had never spoken about the abuse the Edgertons had suffered as children, she’d no doubt Gabriel had shared those darkest secrets with his wife.

  Jane nibbled at her lower lip, carefully weighing her words. “He expects the right husband will.”

  “Do you believe a man who supported the suppression of people’s voices, movements, and freedoms makes for a safe choice?” she shot back.

  To Jane’s credit, she shook her head instantly. “No. No, I do not.”

  The other woman only grew all the more in Chloe’s esteem. Having introduced Chloe to the works of Mary Wollstonecraft, she had ultimately opened her eyes to injustices and the possibility of not only having a voice, but being heard. “I believe the earl is a good man.” She grinned wryly. “Just with bad political leanings.”

  Frustration needled at her, and she put a question to Jane. “What makes a man the right husband?” It was a question she’d never asked because, for her, there had been no traits, qualities, or characteristics that could have persuaded her to relinquish what little independence she had.

  “Love,” Jane said simply. “A gentleman who loves you and appreciates your mind and encourages you to take on whichever causes you wish. Who sees you as a partner and not as a prisoner.”

  Warmth suffused Chloe’s breast. She recalled all over again why she’d come to view Jane as close as a sister—mayhap closer than she’d ever been with Philippa. “Not all ladies are fortunate enough to find that manner of husband,” she said softly. That was as elusive as a pot of gold at the proverbial end of the rainbow, and Chloe hadn’t even wasted a girlhood hope on one.

  Jane stole a furtive glance in her husband’s direction. “I want you to find love,” she said in hushed tones. “If you do not wish to marry, I’ll not allow your brother to maneuver you into a match… or even a dance.”

  “A dance?” she repeated, horror creeping into her voice. To most, a dan
ce simply represented the polite movements all lords and ladies invariably went through. With Gabriel, however, it always began with a carefully coordinated pairing at a formal ball.

  Sure enough, Gabriel and the earl now wound their way through the ballroom—to where Chloe and Jane stood.

  Catching the lace adorning the bottom of Chloe’s gown with the tip of her slipper, Jane dragged it until it snagged, tearing.

  Both ladies stared down at the dangling fabric.

  A twinkle lit Jane’s eyes. “Oh, dear. My apologies. Go, see to that.” She bussed Chloe on the cheek in a show of affection that earned several side-eyed stares from the stodgy lot invited by the earl. “I will keep your brother and the earl distracted.”

  With a murmur of thanks, Chloe gathered her skirts and started in the opposite direction of her rapidly approaching brother. Although Lord Waterson had long been a friend of Gabriel, he would never do as a husband for the very reasons she’d given Jane. After all, as Mrs. Wollstonecraft had once written, every political good carried to the extreme must be productive of evil. A man who’d been one of the greatest supporters of the Six Acts, Waterson would never grant the freedoms Gabriel had Jane… and Miles had Philippa.

  Chloe sneaked from the crowded ballroom and did not break her stride as she continued down familiar halls she’d visited many times before. With only a handful of sconces lit, there was an ominous feeling to the darkened corridors. Do not look. “You are not a helpless child scared of a shadow,” she whispered, needing to hear some hint of sound in the growing silence.

  Despite those reminders and assurances, she glanced at the blood-red satin wallpaper. Eerie shadows flickered and danced upon the walls. A cold sweat broke out on her skin, and she frantically glanced about. There were doors, and the halls were wide and… those silent, desperate reminders fell away. Her breath rasped loudly in her ears, blending with the distant pleas of the past. No… please… I will be good… Do not lock me in here… please…