Grimm planted a hat atop his head. “You can count on Joseph Grimm, sir. None will harm her tonight.”
When Wyn turned from the closing door, the Falcon Club’s secretary stood in the parlor entrance.
“Welcome home, Yale.”
Wyn took Viscount Colin Gray’s extended hand. The nobleman’s clasp was like everything about him: powerful, steady, confident. Ten years ago Colin had found him at Cambridge, surpassing his masters in every subject, frustrated and restless like a caged animal fed on butchered meat while hungering for the hunt. Colin had brought him here, to help found an agency and do work for which he would rarely be thanked and never feted. Eager to make something of himself through the use of his intelligence, to prove his father and brothers wrong, Wyn had jumped at the chance.
“I have commandeered Grimm.” He released the viscount’s grasp and moved into the parlor, a modest, paneled chamber of quiet elegance that accommodated only five people. Five original members of the club, of which only he and Constance now remained along with Gray. But not for long.
The viscount moved to the sideboard. “What can I pour you?”
“Nothing, thank you.”
Gray’s steely blue eyes barely acknowledged the unprecedented moment. He poured and settled into a chair, glass in hand.
“What brings you here tonight, Yale? The need for Grimm only?”
“Alex Savege’s sister-in-law, Diantha Lucas, is being watched by a hireling of a nasty fellow. I need Grimm to keep her in sight until I can send you word that she is clear of danger.”
Gray nodded. “It was Diantha Lucas, then?”
“What was?”
The viscount stood and opened a small casket set on the mantel. From it he withdrew a folded sheet of foolscap and extended it to Wyn.
The hand crossing the paper was firm and feminine.
Attn: Secretary, The Falcon Club
14½ Dover Street, London
Sir,
Despite the difficulties that my assistant faced on the road in following the member of your club that you call Raven, I do know the identity of this man. I will not disclose it here lest prying eyes intercept this message.
I am telling you this—rather than making it public to the people of England who deserve to know—because with Raven in Shropshire traveled a young lady of Quality. I am not interested in exposing innocent persons to the censure of society, only in uncovering injustice. I do not wish to bring Ignominy down upon the lady, yet I fear that if I reveal the identity of your fellow club member this lady will not escape unscathed. Thus, my hands are tied.
I felt it necessary to bring this to your attention, not only to inform you that I still wish to see your establishment exposed to the public for scrutiny, and its ledgers inspected, but also so that you will know I am quite sincere in my intentions. You, I think, know little of honor and less of gentility. But perhaps your friend, Raven, is another sort of man. I will rely upon it.
—LJ
Wyn folded the paper. “Then you and I needn’t dally in pleasantries any further. Clearly I am finished here, but I still need Grimm to watch her.”
Gray set the letter in the box and returned to his chair. “It will be his sole task until you say otherwise.” He took up his glass again. “But you needn’t be finished here.”
“I am to be dismissed from the club. I know this as well as you. Cut my jesses and set me free, finally, as you have intended these past several months.” The urgency pressing beneath his skin needed this finished now.
“The director has no wish to release you from service. You are valuable to this organization.”
“Come now, my lord. The Duke of Yarmouth is a pustule on the face of this kingdom and Lady Priscilla was a reprimand.” His heart raced. “Although really I didn’t mind it, as it provided me occasion to spend a delightful sojourn in a cramped hunting box in Manchester with a number of whoring gentlemen of little fashion and intelligence and no taste whatsoever in women.” And occasion to encounter a determined lady on a Mail Coach in the rain.
“Whether you wish to leave the club by your own volition is, of course, another matter,” Gray said as though he hadn’t spoken.
Wyn stared at the glass in the viscount’s hand. “You never jest, do you?”
“Rarely.” Gray’s face remained passive, his square jaw, proud nose, and serious regard the portrait of British power. “Do you truly wish to be jesting now?”
The fire crackled low on the grate, and on the street without, beyond the lead-reinforced windows of the Falcon Club’s headquarters, the muffled clatter of a carriage passed.
“The director did not choose this assignment for you as chastisement, Wyn. Yarmouth requested you specifically.”
Wyn sucked in his breath. He might have guessed it, but it made no sense.
“You have done admirable service for England. More than admirable. And you’ve made precious few mistakes.”
“Colin, you know precisely how many mistakes I have made.”
“One.” The viscount’s dark eyes snapped. “For this with Lady Justice cannot truly be accounted a mistake. That woman has had a watch on this building for nearly three years. Blackwood and Seton have not crossed the threshold in that time, and Constance comes cloaked and hooded in an unmarked carriage. I’ve little doubt Lady Justice knows my identity too and is merely awaiting the opportune moment to reveal it to the entire kingdom. But until that day I will continue our work. As you should.”
Gray knew. Not all, but he knew about Chloe’s death. The director knew much more, yet still he wanted him. But now it meant nothing to Wyn, not their praise or their grand designs for his future. Only the safety of a girl with lapis eyes mattered now.
“Colin, I thank you.” He bowed and left the club for the last time.
His flat was as he had left it earlier except in two details. Before his manservant departed for the night, as always he’d neatly prepared Wyn’s boots. And on the table by the hearth rested, as always, a full carafe of brandy and a single glass.
Wyn removed his coat and loosened his neck cloth as he walked to the table. The crystal decanter sparkled in the soft glow from the lamp. With hands steadier now than in months, he lifted the heavy stopper, and the rich aroma of the distilled wine lifted to him. It smelled remarkably good. But not as good as her. Not even close.
He took up the bottle and poured brandy into the glass. Swirling it, he appreciated the familiar weight in his hand, the comforting warmth of expectation, the knowledge that this glass, this decanter, would give him peace.
He lifted the tumbler to his lips and tilted the brandy back. It tasted like lamp oil and some distant memory of salvation. But he knew now what salvation truly tasted of, and the contents of this glass were not it.
The hope in her eyes tonight, even amidst her consternation and worry, told him that she would not be easily deterred. She believed him a good man, a man worthy of her steadfast heart. And so, although it would be the most difficult task he had ever set himself to, in the morning he would prove to her that he was not.
Chapter 27
Too excited to sleep properly, Diantha awoke to gray splotches beneath her eyes. The maid insisted on cucumber slices, and she submitted, though since Wyn had seen her looking far worse, she hardly thought it mattered.
Still, when the maid arranged her hair carefully and fastened her into a pale yellow muslin gown with rosebuds across the skirt, she smiled. In the glass she looked almost like a London lady, except for the bright anticipation in her eyes, which after nearly three weeks in town she knew wasn’t the least bit sophisticated.
Sophistication could go rot! He would come, he would make her a formal offer, and somehow they would convince Tracy not to be such a horse’s ass.
Serena and Alex had returned home close to dawn and did not appear for breakfast. Diantha poked at her food, but she had no appetite except for the man she was about to see.
The clock was striking half past ten and she wa
s picking out yet another botched stitch from her embroidery frame and endeavoring to ignore the snoring of the maid in the corner when the door opened and a footman announced, “Mr. Yale,” sending her heart into her slippers and stomach into her throat.
He entered, hat and riding crop in hand and glancing about the parlor offered her an elegant bow. “Good day, ma’am.”
She could not wait for him to cross the room. She sprang up and went to him.
“I forgot to ask you last night, how are Mrs. Polley, and Owen, and Ramses? How I miss them. It seems an age since I have seen them.”
“Softhearted minx.” He smiled, but the smile did not reach his eyes. The silver seemed dimmed this morning. Rather, shrouded. “They are fine as can be in the wilds of nowhere.” He tossed his hat and crop onto a chair and sat down in the chair beside it, crossing his legs loosely and hanging an arm over his knee. Despite the casual pose, he was beautiful in the angular, masculine way that made her heartbeats falter. He wore a carefully tailored black coat and trousers and snowy white linens, but his waistcoat was of burgundy silk.
“You do look very well,” she said when he didn’t speak and his gaze traveled about the room again with mild interest, passing over the maid then the open door at which the footman lingered. “The wilds of nowhere seem to have been beneficial to you these past weeks.”
“Bucolic rustication does wonders for the constitution,” he mumbled, his attention finally coming to her. Then it dropped to her bodice. “Town life is much to be preferred, however.”
She tried to laugh. “I don’t know that I agree with you. London is interesting, but it is always so busy. I think I prefer the country.” In the country he hadn’t looked at her like this, staring and yet seeming to look right through her. She glanced at the maid, then back at him, and lowered her voice. “Stop staring at my bosom. It is unnerving me.”
“Your nerves are my fondest friends, Diantha. I have been obliged to conquer them any number of times in order to get on with business.”
Her throat thickened. “Wyn?”
He looked back toward the door. “Is the family awake?”
“Not yet. But—”
He patted the arm of his chair. “Then I recommend you make haste to this chair, Miss Lucas.”
“That chair? The chair you are sitting in?” She wanted him to kiss her. She wanted to twine herself about him and let him take her to heaven like he had at the abbey. But this was wrong. Now his eyes were hooded, his gaze again on her body.
“Come now. Will you turn missish after all? I hadn’t imagined it of you, minx. But some girls will hold out until the ring is on the finger, whatever’s come before, I suppose.” He looked away, this time to the window, and gestured languidly with a hand.
Diantha’s knees felt weak and she was obliged to grip the back of a chair. “Wyn, what is going on?”
His attention slewed back to her, abruptly focused and—like in Knighton—predatory. He stood up and, with a slight sway, bowed.
“You required my attendance this morning, Miss Lucas. I am here.” A wolfish grin crooked his mouth. “I’ll admit that after your eagerness last night I was supposing you would make it worth my while.”
She backed away, stomach tight, imagining perhaps that she dreamed and would at any moment waken. But her dreams last night had been gorgeous, and this was ugly. In the corner the maid, fully awake now, stared with saucer eyes.
“Did—” Diantha pressed words past the knot in her throat. “Did you come here this morning to offer for me?”
He laughed. “I said I would. And why not?” Now his eyes did not seem to focus, dipping again to her breasts. “You’re a remarkably pretty girl, Diantha Lucas. A man would be fortunate to have you in his bed every night.”
She pressed her hands to her belly, her face flaming hot. “You are drunk.”
“I may be.” He lifted his brows and nodded. “Probably am, in fact.”
“I—I thought you meant to . . .” It hurt, in the pit of her stomach, but so much greater even than the hurt of his lies before. She tried to press it in, to be the lady she knew she must. She should ask him to leave and to return when he was sober. She should ask him to leave and never return. But she could not. She loved him. Oh, God, she loved him. “It—It isn’t even noon yet,” she uttered.
“Just saying to the fellows at the club last night that you’re a clever girl. A lady who can tell time is to be admired.” He nodded in mock admiration.
“You were speaking about me? At your club? When you had been drinking, after—” A sob clogged her throat. But she could not cry. Would not.
“Not precisely my club, if you’ll have the truth of it,” he mumbled. Another grin ticked up his lips. “More of a French convent. As it were.” He winked.
A choke of misery escaped her.
“There now, my girl. Can’t get a man all worked up then expect him to whistle his way to sleep without satisfaction, can you?” He shrugged.
She pressed her fingertips to her eyes and found that, despite her resolve, tears had already come. “This cannot be happening.” She had berated herself for her infatuation. She had worried she was not enough of an elegant lady to hold his interest. She had suffered over his lies, and hers. But she’d spent her days wondering and anguishing over all the wrong things. She saw this now. Too late.
“Now, don’t cry, minx,” she heard him say from across the room. “A man’s bound to drink a bit too much when he’s with his friends. If you like, I won’t once the vows are said. Only on Sundays, that is. Now there, how’s that for a promise?” His voice seemed oddly hoarse but her tears were coming too heavily for her to see him clearly.
“I will cry if I must.” She searched for her handkerchief. “And you will stand there and watch me cry, Mr. Wyn Yale. You owe that much to me.”
“Don’t owe you anything but a ring, really.”
Her head shot up and she dashed away the cold wetness upon her cheeks. “You owed me your promise that you will fulfill the honor that is in you. But clearly you have failed in that.”
He stood without expression now, watching her. “Easy for a girl to speak of honor.”
“It is not. Do you know what I thought of you once? I thought that there could be no other man as gallant and honorable. But I was wrong.” Valiantly she swallowed back a sob, and it was like torture to Wyn. “You owe me yourself, but that is not what you are offering me now. I don’t wish to marry you. Not now. Not any longer.”
He had succeeded. With the clarity born of a sleepless night spent convincing himself that this must be done, Wyn watched her fight to contain her tears and ached to tell her the truth. But that was not what he had come here to do. He had come to sever the ties that had so swiftly and unwisely been made between them upon the road, to convince the duke’s man that there was nothing between them, nothing that would encourage Yarmouth to use her in order to hurt him. He could not allow another girl to be harmed because of him—especially not this precious girl.
But he must be certain of one matter before he carried this charade to its end.
“Come now, minx. Don’t make a fuss over it.” He pressed the words through his lips, allowing a slight slur, each syllable an effort. “It’s not as though you’re in the family way, after all.” He gestured flippantly to her waist, then blinked hard and peered more closely. “Are you?”
“No.” She crushed her fist to her breast and her beautiful eyes flared. “You know, I don’t believe in love—at least not the kind between a man and a woman. So you haven’t broken my heart. But if I did believe in it, I think you would have been the man I fell in love with. But I can see I am justified in my skepticism, because instead all you are is—is u-unworthy. Of both of us.”
She was wrong. If he knew nothing else at this moment, he knew this, because his need to wrest the unhappiness from her eyes could not be more violent. He believed in the sort of love she now decried because he was, quite simply, hers.
He nearl
y spoke, the words upon his tongue desperately seeking escape, aching to take it all back and tell her the truth. But he clamped his jaw shut and watched her, with her hand over her mouth, swiftly move to the door.
Sir Tracy stood in the aperture. Behind him hovered three servants not bothering to hide their interest. Wyn would have applauded his own wildly successful plan if he had the spirit to do so. Within minutes of his departure the entire household would know of this scene. Within hours the duke in Yarmouth would have word of it. And she would be safe.
“Yale,” Lucas growled, his face blotched with red. “You’ve done it again.”
“Tracy!” Diantha’s lashes fanned wide. “What did you hear?”
“I don’t need to have heard anything.” He scowled. “Your tears speak for themselves. Can you see now why I didn’t want this for you? This fine gentleman? Go upstairs. I will speak with you after I have escorted him from the house.”
“No need to banish her to the belfry, old chap.” Wyn retrieved his hat and crop and sauntered toward the doorway. “On my way out anyway.”
“You won’t be welcome here again,” Lucas snarled. “I’ll thank you to remember that.”
“Your servant, sir. Ma’am.” He executed a sloppy bow, donned his hat at a foppish angle, and went onto the street to claim his horse, and after that, his future without her. A future he began to hope would be brief after all.
Diantha wrapped her arms around her waist, numb everywhere. She was vaguely aware of Tracy dismissing the servants and shutting the parlor door.
“Sis, don’t let that blackguard—”
“The things he said . . .” Hurtful things. If he were any other person, she might imagine he had intended to hurt her.
“Here. Sit down.” Tracy guided her to the sofa. “Have a cuppa.”
She gripped his wrist, sloshing tea across her skirt. “Tracy, how do men usually behave when they are badly foxed?”
“Like cads. Beasts, some of them. Fools, at the very least. Then there are the quiet ones like our father.”
How a Lady Weds a Rogue fc-3 Page 28
