What Price Love?

by Stephanie Laurens

  After the standard half hour, he gathered Rus and Adelaide and steered the three back to the waiting carriages.

  Flick beamed at him; she was thrilled to her teeth that he was behaving as he was. He could only pray she didn’t do anything to give Pris’s nascent suspicions some direction.

  “Celia’s?” He did his best to distract Flick as Rus handed Adelaide into the carriage. He kept his hand over Pris’s on his sleeve.

  “Yes.” Flick glanced at Eugenia, who smiled at him.

  “Lady Celia insisted that we impose on you—her very words were: be sure to bring him, too.”

  Dillon had no difficulty believing that. “In that case, Pris and I will follow in my curricle.”

  Flick waved. “Go ahead. Your horses will hate to be held back behind us.”

  He looked down at Pris. “Would you rather travel in the carriage?”

  The look she bent on him was measuring. Turning, she surveyed his blacks. “Flick’s horses are well enough, but given the choice, I prefer yours.”

  They parted from the others. He led her to the curricle and helped her up to the seat. He was climbing up to sit beside her when she asked, “Can I handle the ribbons?”

  He grasped the reins and sat beside her. “Only after I die.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m perfectly proficient.”

  “Really?”

  While they rattled over the London streets, she tried to persuade him to entrust his prize cattle with their velvet mouths to her. In vain.

  She was distinctly huffy when he drew up outside Lady Celia Cynster’s house, but the gathering inside distracted her.

  He found it distracting, too; he was constantly on pins that one of the assembled ladies—those of the wider Cynster clan as well as many of their connections and a significant collection of their bosom-bows—would make some comment that would alert Pris to his strategy. While the ladies certainly saw and understood it, and were quick to twit him over it, while those like Horatia, Helena, and Honoria came tantalizingly close to saying one word too many in Pris’s hearing, all deigned to let him escape. For the moment.

  The implication was obvious. They expected action. They expected success.

  “The truth,” he growled, in response to Flick’s query regarding progress, specifically his, “is that I’d rather be reporting to the Jockey Club Committee on yet another substitution scam—one I had no notion existed—than face this inquisition if I fail.”

  Flick arched her brows at him. “But you aren’t going to fail, are you?”

  “No. But a trifle less pressure would be appreciated.”

  She grinned and patted his arm. “Gentlemen like you respond best to artfully applied pressure.”

  She swanned off before, astonished, he could reply.

  “Artful?” he grumbled to Vane, Flick’s brother-in-law, when he unexpectedly appeared. “They’re as artful as Edward I—the Hammer of the Scots.”

  Vane grinned. “We’ve all had to live through it. We survived. No doubt you will, too.”

  “One can but hope,” Dillon muttered, as Pris came up to join them.

  He introduced her to Vane. Straightening from his bow, Vane shot him an intrigued glance—as if he now understood Dillon’s uncertainty. None of those who’d run the Cynster ladies’ gauntlet before had had to deal with a lady quite like Pris.

  One in whom the wild and reckless held quite so much sway.

  “I wanted to congratulate you”—Vane included them both, and Rus nearby, in his glance—“on your success in bringing the substitution racket to such a resounding end. It was a significant risk, so Demon tells me, but from all I’m hearing, the results have been extraordinary.”

  “What have you heard?” Pris asked.

  Vane smiled at her. Watching, Dillon noted that the legendary Cynster charm had no discernible effect on Pris; she waited, patently undeflected. Vane glanced briefly at Dillon, so fleetingly Dillon was sure Pris didn’t catch his infinitesimal nod.

  Looking back at her, choosing his words with a care Dillon appreciated, Vane replied, “The atmosphere in the gentlemen’s clubs is one of open glee. Further down the social scale, there’s much nodding and wise comments, and a gratifying spreading of the word to beware of being drawn into such schemes.”

  Glancing at Dillon, he continued, “Lower still, and comments are rather hotter and a great deal sharper. It’s like a seething cauldron, with everyone looking for who to blame.”

  Dillon raised his brows. “No word on who that is?”

  “None that I’ve heard, although there’s quite an army searching.” Vane looked across the room. “But here’s one who might have some light to shed on that.”

  Turning, Pris beheld yet another tall, elegant, patently dangerous gentleman. All the Cynster males seemed to be cast from the same mold; glancing back at Dillon while they waited for the other to finish greeting Lady Celia—from her comments he was one of her sons, by name Rupert—Pris found no difficulty seeing Dillon as part of the crew.

  The same elegance—languid in repose, like a sated cat, but that could change in a flash to a hard-edged ruthlessness that the outer cloak of civilized behavior did little to mute or disguise. The same strength, not just of muscle and bone, although that was plainly there, but a strength of purpose, of decision and execution.

  She narrowed her eyes at the pair of them—Dillon and Vane—trying to put her finger on the other similarity that hovered at the edge of her perception. The same…was it protectiveness?

  Glancing across at the newcomer, she saw that same element in him; as he detached from his mother and made his way toward them the description came to her as an image without words—a knight fully armored, sword drawn. Not in aggression, but in defense.

  Knights sworn to defend. That’s how they appeared to her.

  All three, including Dillon.

  “Lady Priscilla?” The newcomer reached for her hand, and she surrendered it. He bowed. “Gabriel Cynster.” He nodded to Dillon and Vane. “I have news—not as much as I’d hoped, but something.”

  “I was just telling Lady Priscilla and Dillon that the underworld is seething.”

  Gabriel’s gaze remained on Vane’s face for an instant, then switched to Dillon’s. After a fractional hesitation, he said, “I see. Well.” He smiled at Pris. “What I have to report tallies with that.”

  Pris listened as Gabriel—whose mother called him Rupert, just as Vane’s mother called him Spencer and Demon was Harry; there was doubtless some story there, but she’d yet to hear it—described how his contacts in the world of finance had confirmed that numerous criminal figures had been badly singed if not terminally burned by the collapse of the substitution scam.

  “Boswell is under the hatches and unlikely to resurface, and at least three others are close to plunging underwater permanently, too. While no one is openly cheering, many, including the new police force, are exceedingly pleased.”

  Neither Gabriel, Vane, nor Dillon appeared quite as thrilled as she’d expected. Indeed, they all looked a trifle grim.

  “Whoever was behind the scam, they’ve taken a good portion of London’s criminals down with them. Some will survive; others won’t. All, however, will want revenge.” Gabriel cocked a brow at Dillon. “Any word from Adair?”

  “Not yet. He’s out of town, hot on the trail of Mr. Gilbert Martin, supposedly of Connaught Place.”

  Vane humphed. “For Martin’s sake, let’s hope Adair and the police catch up with him first.”

  Pris had remained silent throughout, judging it wise to leave those protective instincts she’d sensed unstirred. She’d been expecting them to try to exclude her; instead, she’d caught Dillon’s surreptitious signal to Vane that he could speak freely in front of her.

  She appreciated that. Appreciated the fact he hadn’t sought to treat her like a child, to be protected and cosseted and patted on the head and told to go and play with her dolls. She knew there were dangerous people involved in
the substitution scam; she hadn’t, however, until Gabriel had spoken so soberly, understood just how dangerous they were.

  Instincts of her own were stirring, even before Vane glanced at Dillon, and said, voice low so the ladies around them wouldn’t hear, “One thing. While I was trawling for news, I heard your name often. If not general knowledge yet, it’s at least widely known that you were the crucial player in bringing the scam crashing down. Everyone, grudgingly or otherwise, regardless of which side of the street they inhabit, is acknowledging your strategy as brilliant—as just the sort of response the villainous least want to see from the authorities.”

  Dillon grimaced. “Once the club stewards were told the truth—by Demon, I might add—it was impossible to put the lid back on the pot.”

  Gabriel shifted. “As matters now stand, you’ll need to stay alert.”

  Dillon met his gaze, then nodded. “I know.”

  Pris wasn’t sure she caught the full implications of that exchange, but Vane nodded, too, then, with his charming smile, gracefully took his leave.

  “You might have a word with young Dalloway,” Gabriel murmured, “although as far as I know, his involvement has remained unremarked.”

  “I will,” Dillon said. “Come—I’ll introduce you.”

  With her by his side, he led Gabriel to Rus. A few minutes later, they left her brother chatting to Gabriel about horses and his future assisting at Demon’s stud.

  A number of ladies waylaid them; when they finally won free, she suggested they stroll by the long windows giving onto the gardens.

  Few ladies present were interested in horticulture.

  She paused to gaze out at a manicured lawn. “Mr. Cynster intimated there was some threat…?”

  Halting beside her, Dillon replied, “Not a specific threat—a potential one.” He caught her questioning gaze, lightly grimaced. “Now it’s become known that I engineered the collapse of Martin’s scheme, it’s possible those who’ve suffered major losses might feel moved to revenge, and in the absence of Martin, or even after they’ve dealt with him, there’s a chance they’ll lash out.”

  “At you?” She searched his dark eyes, calm as night-shrouded pools; she didn’t like the cold, deadening sensation that had locked about her heart. “That’s…monstrous! They took a risk—if they lost, they should…”

  Dillon smiled ruefully. “Be gentlemen enough to accept their losses?” Once, he’d been naïve enough to think the same.

  But her outrage on his behalf warmed his heart, and his smile, as he lifted her fingers to his lips, and kissed. “Unfortunately not, but don’t worry about them.” He brushed her fingertips again and saw her mind shift focus, watched her eyes fix on his lips. He let his smile deepen. “You’ve enough on your plate.”

  She blinked, lifted her gaze, narrowed her eyes at him, but he merely smiled imperturbably and turned her back into the room. And set himself to distract her until she forgot Gabriel’s warning.

  He hadn’t needed to hear it; he’d already seen the threat. But as he intended to spend every waking hour—and as many of his sleeping hours as possible, too—by Pris’s side in the immediate and subsequent future, he would be there to deflect any action against her, which was what Gabriel had meant.

  A threat against him he would have viewed with dismissive nonchalance; a threat to him that might evolve into a threat against her was another matter entirely.

  20

  Pris couldn’t believe it. When Dillon at last returned her to Half Moon Street, a hackney carrying Rus and Adelaide following his curricle, it was nearly time to dress for dinner; somehow she’d spent the entire day with him!

  At the conclusion of Lady Celia’s luncheon, he’d suggested that a visit to the capital, however short, should take in at least some of the more notable sights. As the day had turned cloudy, the wind rising, he’d suggested she, Rus, and Adelaide allow him to show them the museum.

  Rus and Adelaide had been keen; she’d seen no reason not to indulge them all, but as she’d allowed Dillon to squire her out of Lady Celia’s house, she’d glimpsed a certain satisfaction in the older ladies’ faces.

  But Dillon’s behavior had been faultless, even though he’d remained assiduously by her side; although there’d been moments when her senses had leapt, when his fingers had brushed her silk-twill-covered back, or when he’d lifted her down from his curricle, she could hardly blame him for that. That was her witless senses’ fault, not his. And while at times she’d been uncomfortably aware of a flickering of her nerves, of heat beneath her skin, she’d also found it easy to relax in his company—in which Rus and Adelaide had largely left her.

  She’d attempted to remonstrate with her brother, in a whispered aside pointedly suggesting that it was unwise for him to slip away with Adelaide out of her chaperoning sight. He’d looked at her as if she were mad, and uttered one word. “Poppycock!” He’d promptly taken Adelaide’s arm and headed off to view the Elgin Marbles.

  Resigned, she’d remained with Dillon, strolling about a series of exhibits of Egyptian treasures. Somewhat to her surprise, there’d been numerous others strolling about the hall. When she’d commented on the crowd, he’d explained that the recent artifacts from Egypt had caused quite a stir.

  She mentally shook herself as he drew his blacks to a halt before the steps to Flick’s door. Tossing the reins to the tiger, he climbed down and came around to lift her to the pavement. As usual, when his hands closed about her waist, her breathing suspended, but she was growing used to the effect, enough to disguise it. She smiled up at him. For an instant, as his eyes met hers, held hers, he seemed to sober, to look deeper…her heart gave an unexpected flutter, but then he returned her light smile. Releasing her, he escorted her to the door.

  Reaching the porch, he rang the bell, then turned to her. Raising her hand, he caught her eyes, brushed her fingertips with his lips, then, smile deepening, he turned her hand and, her gaze still trapped in his, pressed a hotter, distinctly more intimate kiss on the inside of her wrist. “Au revoir.”

  His deep, rumbling tone reverberated through her, an evocative wave that left a sense of empty yearning in its wake.

  Releasing her hand, with an elegant nod, he turned as the hackney carrying Rus and Adelaide drew up behind his curricle. Descending the steps, he made his farewells to them, then leapt to the curricle’s box seat, took the reins, glanced her way, smiled and saluted her, then gave his horses the office.

  The door at her back had opened. Pris dragged in a breath, turned, and walked into the hall, lecturing her unruly senses to behave and subside.

  She listened with half an ear to Adelaide’s bright chatter as together they climbed the stairs. As they gained the gallery, she murmured, “It’s Lady Hemmings’s musicale to night, isn’t it?”

  “Yes! I’ve never been to such an event—Aunt Eugenia said there’s to be an Italian soprano, and a tenor, too. Apparently they’re all the rage.”

  Pris smiled noncommittally; she parted from Adelaide at Adelaide’s door, then walked on to her own, at the end of the hallway.

  An Italian soprano and a tenor; that didn’t sound like the sort of entertainment at which gentlemen of Dillon’s ilk would be found. Given the state of her treacherous heart, that was undoubtedly just as well.

  Are you truly enjoying this caterwauling?”

  Pris started, then turned; she only just managed to keep her jaw from dropping as Dillon sank into the chair beside hers, then struggled to arrange his long legs beneath the chair in the row in front. Flicking open her fan, she raised it, and hissed from behind it, “What are you doing here?”

  His dark eyes slid sidelong to meet hers. “I would have thought that was obvious.”

  When she raised her brows even higher, he nodded to the front of the room where the Italian soprano had launched into her next piece. “I couldn’t miss the chance to hear the latest sensation.”

  “Shhhh!” The lady in front turned and scowled at them.

  P
ris shut her lips, held back her disbelieving snort. There were a total of five males present, aside from the tenor and the harried accompanist. Of those five, four were clearly fops. And then there was the gentleman beside her.

  Not even Adelaide had been able to convince Rus that he should attend.

  She glanced at Dillon, mouthed, “Where’s Rus?” She’d thought her brother was with him.

  He pointed to the lady in front, and mouthed, “Later.”

  She possessed her soul with very little patience until the soprano had ended her piece.

  “He’s with Vane at the club,” Dillon answered without waiting for her to ask again. “He’s safe.”

  He turned his head and smiled at her, and she wondered if she was.

  She summoned a frown. “I thought gentlemen like you never attended”—she glanced at the buxom singer at the front of the room, shuffling sheets of music with the pianist—“‘caterwauling’ sessions such as this.”

  “You’re right. We don’t. Except on certain defined occasions.”

  She fixed her eyes on his face. “What occasions?”

  “When we’re endeavoring to impress a lady with the depth of our devotion.”

  She stared at him. After a moment, somewhat faintly asked, “You choose the middle of a recital to say something like that?” She had to fight to keep her tone from rising.

  He smiled—that untrustworthy smile she was coming to recognize; catching her hand, he fleetingly raised it to his lips. “Of course.” He lowered his voice as the pianist rattled the keys. “Here, you can’t argue, nor can you run.”

  The soprano gave voice again. Pris faced forward. He was right. Here, he could say what he wished, and she…in the face of his presence, it was very hard to argue.

  Assuming she wished to argue. Or run.

  Her head was suddenly whirling, and it had nothing to do with the musical contortions the soprano unerringly performed. She’d refused his offer, dictated by honor as it had been. He’d followed her to London, refusing to let her go. Now…