The Love List

by Deb Marlowe

  —from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

  He’d done the right thing. Though it meant he’d have to live missing the curve of her breast in his hand and the feel of her pressed tight to his cock, though he would always regret not being the one to fully claim that promise that lived in the corner of her mouth, still, for the rest of his life he would take cold comfort from the fact that he’d done right by Brynne Wilmott.

  She’d endured so much already. He recalled the abuse he’d seen Marstoke hand her and shuddered at the thought of how near she’d come to a life of cruelty and violation. He thought of her father, who’d used her less violently, but no less selfishly. As for her future, hard work and trouble lay ahead, no matter the outcome of their mission.

  He couldn’t save her from it. Though she couldn’t know it, his interference could only put her at risk for further pain. She wouldn’t wish him to save her, in any case. She’d determined to fight back, to find her own way, and he couldn’t take that from her. But he’d given her one, small thing to use in the battle.

  Women might be mysterious, mercurial creatures, but he understood this much—a woman with confidence in her own power and appeal was a force to be reckoned with. She deserved to have that weapon in her arsenal, at least.

  His cock stirred again and he redirected his thoughts. Moving under cover of the dark, they’d reached the house. He stopped at the top of a short flight of stairs. At the bottom lay the kitchen entrance.

  “Stay here,” he whispered to Brynne, gripping her arm. “I’ll get us in. If you see any light or movement, any sign of life at all, speak up.”

  She nodded acknowledgement. Her warm skin slipped from beneath his and it felt like a punishment. When he lay on his deathbed, counting up his regrets, he knew this moment—the unslaked passion in his blood and the ache in his chest—would rank high.

  He turned to make the descent. He had the key with him and the door unlocked in a moment. Reaching for the knife in his boot, he swung it slowly open.

  Nothing. He waited, letting his eyes adjust to the darker black inside.

  “Anything?” he said quietly over his shoulder.

  “No.”

  He glanced back. The half moon rode high now, shedding a faint light onto the scene, but he saw that she had crouched on the stairs and would be nearly invisible until someone tried to descend. “I’m going to go in. Keep watch. We’ll need to know if our exit is no longer clear.”

  “I’m coming in, too,” she whispered.

  “In a moment.”

  He turned and slipped inside. Placing his feet carefully, he moved about the kitchen, checking the larders. In one he found a wrapped cheese and a loaf of bread, gone only slightly stale.

  “Stay here for a moment,” he whispered.

  His heart rate accelerating, he switched his knife to his left hand and drew a pistol from the inside pocket of his coat. Carefully, he moved out.

  It was a long, slow walk to the tower rooms, nearly the length of the house. But he knew where the tables and objet’s d’art were placed in the halls, where the floorboards sloped or creaked. Room after room lay silent and empty. He heard nothing from Brynne, no sound of life in the place save for the careful sawing of his own breath.

  He quieted even that as he reached the tower parlor. The door stood slightly askew. Only the faintest moonlight showed through the crack.

  Disappointment surged. He’d been so sure that Tru would come here. With a silent curse, he shrugged it off. If his brother was here, and half the man Aldmere thought him, then he’d be pressed to the other side of that wall, waiting to slice an intruder in half.

  He braced himself and readied his weapons. “Tru?” The whisper sounded loud. Slowly he nudged the door open with a foot and surged through.

  No attack came.

  He spun around. No one. Nothing save the gleam of moonlight bouncing from the embossed wallpaper. He frowned. A great deal more moonlight than expected.

  He turned on his heel again. There was far more of the faint light than usual in the room—because the great, curved window was bare, the heavy draperies torn down and lying in a heap. The cozy nest he’d shared with his brother had been destroyed. All about him lay a ransacked mess.

  Oh, God.

  “Tru? Tru!” No need to keep quiet now. He called again and dived in, digging beneath overturned furniture, cushions, and lamps.

  They’d got here before him, the bastards. Likely the earlier chase had only been a means to delay him. But had Tru been here when they arrived? Or not? Holding his breath, he tore through the wreckage.

  “Aldmere?” Brynne’s voice sounded from the passageway.

  “In here!”

  “I could hear the commotion from the kitchens.” He heard her gasp as she reached the doorway.

  ‘Come here and help me lift this screen. There’s room for someone underneath.”

  “Just a moment. I brought candles from the kitchen.”

  Seconds later light flared. A huge candelabra lit a circle of devastation.

  “Stay back from the far end of the sofa,” Aldmere warned. “I think there’s lamp oil spilled there.”

  “I see. There are a few more candles here, too.” She set about lighting the room. “Good heavens,” she breathed as the extent of the shambles became clear.

  “Help me, here,” he ordered. “Hold that end steady while I lift.”

  But there was no one beneath the screen. Or anywhere in the room, it would appear. “But was Tru here when they arrived?” he asked urgently. “Look about, see if you can find a sign of him.” He struck out for the window, where his brother’s favorite armchair had sat. The chair had been flipped over, but he blanched at the sight of the table beside it. Still standing, it held yesterday’s Times and half of a cigarillo. In a daze, he picked up the half-smoked thing.

  “Aldmere.”

  He turned at her strangled tone.

  “Look.” She pointed to the mantle.

  A thick vellum note had been propped there, his name scrawled across it. Stumbling over, still holding the cigarillo, he snatched it up.

  I told you once that older brothers should never try to solve the younger brother’s problems. You did not listen and now look at the mess we find ourselves in.

  I have what you came here looking for. I do NOT have what I came for. So now you must solve this problem, as well. Your tiresome brother has destroyed one copy, damn him. Under duress, he has admitted the existence of another. I will have it, Aldmere. Bring it to his rooms, tomorrow evening, 6:00 sharp, should you wish to see him again.

  Brynne had come to read over his shoulder. “Under duress?” she said weakly. She sank down onto the edge of the overturned sofa.

  “They won’t damage him. Not permanently. Not yet.” He sat too, his thoughts clouded with shock and grief. “They think I have the last copy?” He looked around. “If it’s not here, where could he have hidden it?” He groaned in dismay. “The thing could be anywhere!”

  Brynne shook her head. “No. They are wrong. Lord Truitt had both copies yesterday afternoon. There has been no word or sign that he’s working with anyone else. He would have been excited, in a hurry yesterday, wanting to get straight back here after his escape from the print shop. Surely it must be here.”

  Disbelieving, he stared at her. “Look at this place.”

  “Yes. Do look at it.” She glanced about with a disapproving frown. “It’s a mess. It speaks of a hurry. Carelessness. Nervousness, perhaps.” Her head shook again. “I’ve watched gifted politicians for years as they maneuver for information. In the last months, I’ve seen a fair number of women snoop through someone else’s belongings, looking for something and not wanting it to be known. The secret to doing either, successfully, lies in being methodical.” She waved a hand. “Whoever did this was not methodical. It’s too easy to miss something this way.” She straightened. “And if they missed it, we’ll find it.”

  Aldmere watched her stride
over to a fallen bookcase. Seating herself beside a pile of heaped books, she picked them up, rifling through them one by one and setting them aside in a neat pile.

  He should join her. Deep down he felt the urgent need, knew he must get moving, do anything and everything to help his brother. Yet he didn’t budge. Too late. The words echoed in his head. Always he learned his lessons too late. The knowledge left him cold and numb.

  “Aldmere? Aldmere!”

  He blinked. Made the effort to focus. “Yes?”

  “This place was special to you and your brother, you said.” She stood next to the now-sorted bookcase. “Tell me more. What did Lord Truitt enjoy about this place? What did the two of you do together?”

  He shook his head, refusing to think of Tru in Marstoke’s clutches. Staring down, he noticed the cigarillo still clutched in his fingers. He held it up.

  “We smoked too many of these,” he replied. “I would sit, writing at the desk, while he lounged in that chair and read the sporting accounts.” He waved an arm. “Cricket. He read everything he could about it. And prize fights.”

  She crossed over to the spot where Aldmere had been, just a moment before. She picked up the chair and began to explore along its seams.

  He’d got caught up in his memories. “That time I told you about—when I ran away? It was not long after our parents’ deaths. I went straight to the school where Tru had been banished. I got a message to him and he sneaked out, but we were caught almost immediately. They punished him.”

  Something in his tone must have alerted her. She looked up. “How?”

  He shrugged. “Caning was the usual consequence, but I begged Tru’s headmaster to go easy on him. It had been my fault, you see. I just felt . . . I had to see him.”

  “The headmaster didn’t listen?”

  “He agreed to take a book strap to Tru instead of a cane.” He swallowed. “My punishment was worse.”

  She frowned. “How could he punish you?”

  “He bade me watch—or he’d double the strokes. Lord Landsey, a crony of my grandfathers and one of my trustees, had arrived to take me back. He agreed.” He took in a long breath. “The headmaster beat Tru about his back and shoulders, and did a damned thorough job of it, too. Near the end, though, the buckle worked loose. It struck Tru in the face and laid open his cheek. He bears the scar to this day.”

  She bent back to her task with a sigh. “And you bear the guilt.”

  He didn’t answer. “I didn’t make the mistake again. Tru didn’t understand. He went a little wild, trying—” He swallowed and stopped. “He sought my attention with his antics. For a while he would do any damned thing.” A grim smile fought loose. “But later, here . . .” He gestured. “Here, I believe he tried to impress me with his maturity. We talked about a thousand things.” He grinned. “Although we also indulged in some cricket, ourselves, out on the lawn.”

  Brynne’s head popped up again. “Cricket? It keeps turning up, doesn’t it? Yes, Mr. Bunter mentioned cricket as well.” She stared wildly about, then hurried over to a corner, where a tall urn had been knocked over, spilling umbrellas and cricket bats across the floor. “This thing is so narrow, I’m surprised they all fit.” She lifted a bat and shook it. Holding it by the blade, she explored the handle, trying to disconnect it.

  But Aldmere was staring at the cigarillo again, his mind churning. “There used to be a humidor full of these.” He raised his head, staring across the room. “Over there.” He rose and headed for the desk. “Have you seen it?”

  “No.” She’d got down on her knees now, and lifted the urn, staring into it. She shook the urn too, then worked her arm in. Staring over at him, she nodded with her chin. “Perhaps under the desk?”

  “Yes, it’s here.” He swooped the box up, eagerly wrenching it open. It was empty of cigarillos—and of anything else, as well.

  “Aldmere!”

  His name left her on a whisper, and a note of wonder. He whipped around to meet her gaze. Those endearingly odd green eyes shone with triumph. With a flourish she pulled her arm out of the urn, a thick sheaf of papers clutched in her fist. “They were curled tight around the tapered bottom!” Hurriedly she removed the string binding the packet and began to examine the sheets. “Yes! This is it!” She glowed at him. “We did it!”

  “You did it.” Ecstatic relief flowed through him, and undeniable appreciation. His heart wrenched a little, grateful for her determination and optimism, qualities he’d left behind long ago. Dusty, disheveled and flushed pink with victory, her grin lit the room brighter than the candles.

  He started toward her, intent on sharing in her victory—until the truth hit him hard and fast, a cricket ball between the eyes. Flinching, he snatched his hands back. Paused in mid-step.

  She was rifling through the thing, examining the pages at the back. “We were right, Aldmere,” she whispered. “It’s an attack on the Princess of Wales. It’s all here—nasty, horrible tales.” She looked up. “This is it. The proof we needed. We can stop Marstoke now . . .” Catching his expression, she paused.

  It ripped his heart—the easily read progression across her face. Confusion to dawning realization. Dismay quickly gave way to near-panic as she gazed down at the papers in her hand, then clutched them tightly to her chest.

  Fury erupted in his. “He’s changed the game.” It came out hoarsely. “Marstoke has done it. Drawn us in and turned the tables on us.”

  She shook her head. “Don’t use his vernacular.”

  But anger and frustration had begun building in his chest almost from the moment she’d first barreled into him, back in Lord Dalton’s library. Now it erupted up and out of him in a fiery blaze. “Why the hell not? Look what he’s done! With only one manuscript left, he’s turned it all upside down—and us against each other.”

  “No,” she whispered.

  “No? We’ve been working together, you and me. Sharing information, combining skills—” He stopped himself there. “By God, I hope that’s been a bitter pill for him to swallow. I hope it stuck in his craw until he choked on it.” He gave a short, bitter snort meant to pass as laughter. “But he’s struck back now, and masterfully. Turned our purposes against each other.”

  Her arms still crossed protectively over the manuscript, pressing it to her bosom, where he’d so lately worshipped.

  “Now that he has Tru, he thinks only one of us can win,” he said relentlessly. “We can destroy those pages, stop the outbreak of protest and scandal even while we protect your friends and your future. Or we can turn them over to Marstoke and save my brother.”

  “The authorities,” she said, breathless, searching for hope. “Bow Street. The Home Office, perhaps.”

  “Before, we had no proof. Now, we have no time. We’ll do what we can. Inform the right people. But tomorrow evening? Less than twenty-four hours? It would take any of them longer than that just to discuss whether to take on a man like Marstoke.”

  Damn the man, a thousand times. Marstoke and his plot were as nothing compared to the blow this was going to strike Brynne Wilmott.

  Regret struck Aldmere hard, now. This was punishment for his sins. For defying his own principles and allowing things to go too far with Brynne.

  Far enough that he understood what this choice was going to do to her. He wished like hell that he didn’t. Or that he didn’t care. Too late. Now he knew that giving up this manuscript meant more than harm to her friends or the ruin of her plans for the future. Handing those papers over meant giving up the fight, letting Marstoke win. Panic showed in her eyes and in her white-knuckled grip because losing meant going back, losing the progress she’d made, and believing herself helpless once again.

  He spun away, cursing himself as seven kinds of a fool. Instinct warred with judgment, the need to save Tru with his reluctance to harm Brynne. He paced to the door, then back again, stopping halfway across the wrecked room. He met her stricken gaze and summoned the strength to do what he must.

  “I’m no
t going to force you, Brynne. Or take it from you.” He could. He could pluck the damned thing—without a struggle—away from her in about half a second. But she’d been handled so callously already. To suffer so again would be a terrible blow. He could never diminish her in that way.

  “You must decide.” Unable to look at her any longer, he turned back, headed for the door. “One way or another I’ll keep that appointment. I’m not a fool. I expect some other sort of treachery out of Marstoke. This is a bold act. Clearly he’s growing desperate about something.”

  He spun about on his heel. “You must decide, Brynne,” he repeated. “Desperation means weakness. And that means that Marstoke is mine. I fully plan to walk in there with that List—and to leave with it, and my brother too. But it’s a risk. You must decide—decide how far you can trust me.”

  He reached the door, braced his hands on the frame. He could barely contain the storm whirling inside of him. “Stay here. I have to go. Alone.”

  She made a sound of protest.

  “There’s no danger now. They’ve done what they set out to do. Now I must do the same. I have arrangements to make. I’ll send a pair of grooms from the livery to see you back to The Horns. The Bunters will see you back to Hestia’s in the morning.”

  One quick glance over his shoulder. She stood small and alone, yet ramrod straight, in the center of the devastation. “Marstoke is mine either way, but I won’t lie. The List would be a valuable tool to bring to the fray. Send a courier with the manuscript to my home, should you care to.”

  Looking ahead into the darkness, he strode away.

  * * *

  The truly emotional moments of your life are often too deep for tears. Her mother had said that, once. Watching Aldmere disappear, she felt fully qualified to authenticate the notion.

  The dark swallowed him. She looked down at the papers she still clutched tight and wondered why no one had ever told her that you could feel the exact moment you fell in love?