by Isobel Carr
His sister stepped carefully over the tread they all knew squeaked, skirts carefully held up so she wouldn’t risk tripping over them. Leo did likewise, shoes clutched in one hand. They reached her room without waking anyone, and she dragged him inside.
“Leo?” Though she had washed her face, there was still a smudge of kohl along her jaw. He rubbed it away with his thumb, his anger nothing but ash now that she was safely home.
“Go to bed, brat.”
Beau bit her lip, eyes dropping to the floor. “I wasn’t being so very bad tonight. I swear.”
Leo sighed. Beau always had an excuse.
“It was a lark. Nothing more. I wanted to see Mrs. Whedon, and Charles said she’d be there tonight.”
Leo’s mouth went dry, tongue desiccated to the point of immobility. A strange buzzing filled his ears.
“But when we got there, we got separated in the crowd. And then I couldn’t find him…”
The buzzing grew louder, and a sick, panicked feeling swamped him. He’d never imagined Charles would hurt Beau. Him, yes. Viola, yes. But not Beau. It was his fault. His alone. Beau had every right to trust her cousin, every reason to do so. But not anymore. “I’m so sorry, Beau.”
Beau’s expression changed, the penitent look wiped away by dawning anger. “Are you telling me Charles left me there deliberately? He wouldn’t.”
“I wouldn’t have thought so either, dearest, but he did just that, and I’m afraid he did it because of me.”
“No, Leo. Charles wouldn’t do that. Not to me. Not because of some stupid fight with you.”
The sick feeling in his gut grew stronger. How did you tell someone that a man she’d known her entire life had used her as a pawn in a game that had nothing to do with her?
“Change into your dressing gown and come downstairs. I’ll explain everything, or I’ll try to do so, at any rate.”
Leo slipped down the hall to his own room and ripped off his coat. He was about to break his sister’s heart, and all over what appeared to be a nonexistent treasure. He wished to God he’d never found those damn letters, had never shared them with Charles.
When Beau joined him in the drawing room, she was attired in a lawn dressing gown, with her hair neatly braided and her face scrubbed clean. Just as though she’d never left the house that night but had slipped from bed upon hearing him come home.
He poured them both a drink and claimed a seat beside her. Beau blinked at him and sipped at her brandy. Leo raked his hand through his hair and shook it loose from its queue. His scalp tingled almost painfully.
“What do you remember about Grandfather? About his tales of the family and the forty-five?”
Beau cocked her head. “The same things you remember, I’d guess: family and friendship splintered by the war, his guilt over the ruin of Charles’s family…”
“The prince’s treasure?”
Her eyes widened.
“It’s real, Beau. Or at least it was at the time. I found an extended correspondence detailing it at Dyrham.”
“First you accuse Charles and now Grandfather? Leo!” She shook her head, hair falling to hide her face.
“No. Good Lord, no. Not Grandfather. Mr. Black, whom he bought Dyrham from, seems to have been deeply involved. And Grandfather’s guilt would explain why he bought it—a small, random estate, hundreds of miles from the family seat. He did it so his friend could leave the country before his complicity was found out.”
“And the treasure?”
“The letters trace it back to a house in London and no further. We all know it never reached the prince, and though it may have been stolen by whoever had charge of it when Bonnie Prince Charlie fled, Mr. Black’s letters indicate otherwise. There’s an extended argument about its disposition. Mr. Black arguing for their right to take it; Mr. Connall that they must keep it in trust for the prince, something about leaving it hidden and trusting it to Mr. Thaddeus. Devil knows who that is, for there are no letters from him at all.”
“And you think Mr. Connall won?”
“Yes, but only because Mr. Black was forced to flee the country. There’s evidence that Mr. Connall did as well. And though I can’t prove anything, my gut tells me it’s still where Mr. Connall left it.”
She raised her brows.
“In number twelve Chapel Street.”
“And Mrs. Whedon knows you’re looking for it?”
His expression must have told her the answer, though he could have sworn not so much as a muscle twitched or moved.
“Oh, Leo.” The look of pity on his sister’s face nearly broke him. “She’s never going to forgive you.”
No, she wasn’t, and he was going to have to tell her. It was becoming inevitable. She had to be on her guard, and the excuse of Sir Hugo had been played out.
“And the devil of it is, Beau, I can’t find it. And Charles won’t believe me.”
“I still don’t understand. What has this got to do with me?”
“Nothing, except that Charles will do whatever it takes to hobble me, and ruining you would certainly cause me grief. You know Charles’s temper. When he works himself up into one of his rages… He wants this, wants it badly, and he’s willing to sacrifice whatever it takes to get it. And that includes you.”
“It’s monstrous. I’d say you were making it up—I want to say you’re making it up!—but you’re not, are you?” She twisted her empty glass in her fingers. For the second time that evening, her eyes welled up, but this wasn’t the angry histrionics of the coach. This was far worse. Something vital had been crushed right out of her.
“I don’t think I can stand it, Leo.”
“Don’t you think I understand? Charles always felt more like a brother than Glennalmond, and now…” He let the statement hang in the air. What else was there to say? Their cousin had become a monster.
“So, no treasure, and now your cousin is willing to sacrifice Lady Boudicea on the altar of his ambition?” Sandison, expression somber for once, met Leo’s gaze with a look of concern that Leo frankly hadn’t been sure his friend was capable of. “You are in a pickle, my friend.”
Leo sank lower in his chair, foot propped against the leg of the table. “I’d be willing to let him have the damn treasure at this point, except I don’t think it exists.”
“Not that MacDonald will ever believe that.” Devere leaned forward, propping his chin on his hand, clearly thinking. “Hell, I don’t believe it myself, and I’ve searched that house from cellar to garret.”
“We did find an empty safe.” Thane’s voice rumbled across the table.
“And a secret stair that leads from the main bedchamber up to one of the servant’s rooms.” Sandison waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Very handy for some.”
“And now you have the additional problem of keeping not only Mrs. Whedon safe from your cousin but your sister and possibly the rest of your family, too.” Thane’s expression was pinched with irritation.
“Charles isn’t fool enough to threaten my mother. At least I don’t think he is, and Beau is wise to the game now. But I’d take it as a kindness if you could all keep your eye on her.”
Thane nodded, but Devere and Sandison both smiled. “Are you actually giving us permission to dance attendance on your sister?” Devere asked.
Leo narrowed his eyes at them. “Within reason.”
“Better the wolves you know…” Sandison added, still grinning.
“Something like that,” Leo agreed. “If only it were so easy with Mrs. Whedon.”
“Well, it would be if you’d been honest with her from the start.” Thane’s comment dropped into the circle with the explosive power of a mortar. “You’d have been able to search with impunity. But you were greedy. And foolish. And now it’s too late, and if anything happens to her, it’s on your head.”
The same sickening feeling he’d had when talking to his sister took up residence once more in his gut. Confessing to Viola was going to be a thousand times worse. He’
d been hoping his friends might have some other suggestion.
“But if you tell her, she’s likely to show you the door.”
“And replace you with Throckmorton.”
“Or Darnley.”
“Or any of the other dozen or so men who’re panting to take your place.”
Leo blinked as his friends all chimed in like the chorus in a Greek tragedy. “The dozen or so who’re what?”
Sandison rolled his eyes in disgust. “She’d retired to write her memoir. Now she’s back in the game. There are bets in every book in town as to when she’ll throw you over.”
“You’re not exactly in her normal line, you know,” Devere added helpfully. “Not nearly wealthy enough. None of us are. Well”—he paused as he thought about it—“maybe de Moulines. Bastard or no, his father left him quite a tidy fortune.”
“Are you joking?”
“Not at all.” Sandison knocked back the last of his ale and set his empty glass down hard enough to make it ring. “Even some of her former protectors are keen to reenter the lists. And wouldn’t that complicate things?”
CHAPTER 25
The sequins on Lord Sudbury’s waistcoat shimmered as he stood and took her hand. Viola forced a smile. The earl’s visit had come on top of several posies from various gentlemen and the mysterious arrival of a pair of gold bangles in the shape of twisting serpents. The gentlemen of the ton had clearly decided she was once more on the menu.
Two months ago, she might have jumped at an offer as magnificent as the one he’d just made her. She’d certainly never had such generous terms laid at her feet by any other man. Today she found herself wanting to weep instead.
“I assure you, my lord, should I find myself in the market for a protector, I’ll keep your offer very much in mind.”
“See that you do, my dear. And mind, I’ll best whatever Throckmorton offers you.”
“What has Throckmorton offered?” Leo’s question startled her into yanking her hand from the earl’s. She scrambled to her feet, wiping her hand on her skirt. She had nothing to feel guilty about. Nothing, but her heart was hammering like that of a hare with a hound in fast pursuit.
“My lord, I wasn’t expecting you.”
“So I see.” Leo spoke to her, but his gaze never left the earl.
The earl chuckled to himself and pulled his gloves from his pocket. He slipped them on and wiggled his fingers. “I’ll leave you two children to enjoy your spat. I think I’m late meeting my wife at Drury Lane, and explanations can be so tedious. It’s best to make them unnecessary, in my experience.”
The older man strolled past Lord Leonidas, amusement trailing in his wake. He’d tossed his barb, and it had struck most effectively, judging by the deep furrow between Leo’s brows. The sound of the door closing behind him made her jump. Leo flicked his glance over her, eyes as cold as rumor always made them out to be. She’d been beginning to think his reputation in error, but clearly she’d simply never been on the receiving end of one of his snubs. A muscle jumped in his jaw.
She stared him down, holding his gaze as though she could prevent whatever eruption was building inside him by sheer force of will. She’d had nothing to do with the earl’s visit, but she’d already heard from Lady Worsley that Mayfair was thick with gossip about her supposed efforts to replace Leo. Judging by his expression, he’d eaten the same scandal broth for luncheon.
And he’d believed it. Her rapid heartbeat stuttered, skipping a beat. She’d thought better of him, or at least she’d trusted him to trust her.
“Shopping for my replacement?” Leo glanced around the room, taking in the flowers, his eyes finally locking onto the shagreen box on the mantel that contained the bracelets. Such very expensive bracelets, too…
“And if I were, what business would that be of yours, my lord?”
“None at all, I suppose.” He wandered slowly across the room, stopping to read cards propped up near the flowers. “Darnley, Throckmorton, and Everesley. And Sudbury on top of them all. Quite a triumph for you.”
Viola swallowed hard and turned slowly to face him as he continued his slow approach to the mantel. It felt unsafe to give him her back as he prowled through the room. “Sir Hugo as well. I find I’m suddenly in fashion once again, after having brought you to heel.”
He laughed at that, shooting her a look that promised trouble. His blue eye seemed amused, but his green one, ah, his green one was ever the one to watch. He trailed his fingers along the mantel, tapped the shagreen box, then picked it up.
“Very pretty.” He studied the bracelets, then clicked the box shut. “Very pretty and very expensive. Throckmorton, I suppose?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea.” His eyes snapped up, meeting hers. “There was no card,” Viola added, twisting the knife.
“Well, someone’s feeling generous,” Leo drawled, tone as cold as his eyes. “I wonder what for?”
Jealousy swamped him, the tide rising up to choke him. The sting of her hand across his cheek caught him off guard. He grabbed her by the arm and held her fast.
“You’re hurting me, my lord.”
Viola was panting with fury, but she made no effort to shake off his hold. Her breasts strained against the confinement of her gown. Her tongue darted out to moisten her parted lips. She was as beautiful as ever, and it was killing him.
“Tell me, Mrs. Whedon, am I a fool?” He knew he was. He’d come today with every intention of making a clean breast of things. He’d come with plans to make amends, with every intention of groveling, if need be.
She pulled back. Leo tightened his grip.
“Am I?”
Her eyes narrowed, lashes obscuring the vivid blue. Her nostrils flared. “No more than any other man, my lord.”
He let his breath out in a rush and pushed her away from him. If he kept touching her, he was going to either kiss her or throttle her. Viola stumbled and caught herself against the mantel.
“Then how is it that I thought I loved you?”
She went white, then her cheeks flooded with color. “Get out.”
“It’s not that simple.” If only it were. If only he could leave her to Charles with a clean conscience. If only he’d never set this entire disaster into motion in the first place.
She took a long, strangled breath, hands flexing with suppressed rage. A man would have found a violent outlet for such an emotion. Hell, Beau would have reached for a candlestick and beaten him senseless.
“Then make it that simple. My manuscript has been safely delivered. You’ve seduced your way into my bed just as you said you would. What’s left to do?”
“Vi, I’m—”
“You’re what, my lord? You’re sorry? You’re sorry you caught me playing the whore, or you’re sorry I am one? Whichever it is, you’re certainly not in love with me.” She laughed, even as she blinked back tears. “Give each thing its proper name. If I’m to return to whore, then this is lust. You want me. Even now, when it makes you sick to look at me. You want me.”
Leo stared at her. Heaven knew he wanted her. That had never been in doubt. From the first moment, when she’d come tumbling down the stairs, to now, his desire had never flagged. And the only thing that made him sick was himself. His damnable temper had taken the bit between its teeth and run away with him again, and this time he couldn’t blame Beau, or even Charles.
Viola closed the distance between them, pressed close, breasts against his chest, lips offered for a kiss, hand tracing his cock as it surged to life. “And that makes it all the worse, doesn’t it? Wanting something you so obviously shouldn’t. So you can fuck me or you can leave, but believe me when I tell you, I know what it is to love, to be loved, and whatever this is”—she brushed her lips over his—“it isn’t love.”
She dragged him down to sprawl across the carpet, pulled him over her, skirts riding about her waist, thighs gripping his hips. She bit his lip, scraped her teeth along his jaw, fisted her hand in his hair and pulled hard enough to m
ake his eyes water.
Leo kissed her, teeth clashing with hers. He fumbled with his breeches, freed his cock, and thrust it into her. She made a whimpering sound, but her legs locked around him and she arched beneath him.
She caught his earlobe between her teeth. “You see, simple lust.”
He pinned her to the floor, and she clung tighter. She was wrong. There was nothing simple about it, and it complicated everything.
Viola gasped and twisted beneath him. He thrust and rocked and covered her mouth with his own when she tried to speak again. She bucked and throbbed with her release. He spiraled down to oblivion with his own, brought back by her pushing him off her.
Leo blinked in confusion as she stood and shook out her skirts. “Now get out.”
She took a step, and he latched onto her skirt with one desperate hand. Threads popped as she was brought up short. He always did make bad worse. It was a talent. A curse. But if he could just stop her from leaving, if she would pause only long enough for him to explain.
Eyes blazing, Viola grabbed the fabric with both hands and yanked it out of his grasp. When he reached for her again, she kicked him and strode out of the room as he shook his stinging hand.
Her voice carried back from the hall, instructing his own footman that he’d be leaving and she wasn’t at home, should Leo call again. Leo sat up and cursed aloud. Regret burned through his lungs, ate away at his heart.
He’d made a bloody hash of things, and now she hated him.
What the hell was he going to do?
• • •
The hiss of steel momentarily drowned out all other sound. Leo struck de Moulines in the ribs with enough force to bend the delicate blade into an arch.
“Deux!” The Frenchman took a step back and dropped his foil to a resting position. He brought it back up, the flash of teeth behind his mask distinct. “Très bon! Something has lit the fire in your blood today.”
Leo nodded and surged forward. His breath was warm within the confines of his mask, and blood pounded in his ears. Their blades kissed and hissed with every parry. In its own way, swordplay was every bit as intimate as sex. Though with blunted tips, it was far less dangerous.
