Alexandra’s smile deepened.
“What? I…I thought they stopped once you were…intimate.”
“Well, goose, then you don’t know as much as you think you do. They stop, Victoria, when you’re with child.”
Chapter 16
Dark, worried anger coursed through Sinclair at the sight of his Victoria in that bastard’s arms. Whatever the cause, however important it was, he didn’t want her anywhere near Kingsfeld. Wally said something, but he barely noted the comment, or his own reply. He wasn’t jealous; this was hotter, more pure than that. He was terrified—that something might snatch Victoria away from him. They were so close to the end, but if it meant losing her, it wasn’t worth it. Not any longer.
Sin took a step away from his companions. He had loved Thomas, but his brother was gone. Victoria, vibrant and warm and beautiful, was alive, and she was placing herself in danger—for him. He’d been wrong when he’d claimed he would do anything for the mission. If it came down to a choice between finding a killer and being with Victoria, he knew the answer. He didn’t just admire Vixen; he loved her with every bit of his heart, and he would do anything—anything—to keep her from harm.
A hand clamped down on his shoulder. “What are you doing?” Crispin murmured.
“Getting my wife away from that—”
“He’s not going to do anything here. Just wait.”
“I don’t want to wait.”
“You don’t want to make a mistake now, either, Sinclair.”
Crispin was right. His jaw clenched, Sin watched them dance about the room, his willpower stretched to the breaking point. Only when he saw they’d fallen into their familiar pattern of arguing did his heart lurch and begin beating again. As Alexandra escorted Vixen from the room, he shook himself and returned to his conversation. She was safe, he kept telling himself. All he needed to do was keep her that way.
He concentrated on returning his breathing to normal as Kingsfeld strolled over to rejoin them.
“Your wife is a splendid dancer,” he said, accepting a glass of port from a footman.
“You acquitted yourself well also, Astin,” Kit said, grinning. “I didn’t see you step on her toes once.”
With a quick glance toward the door through which Victoria had vanished, Kingsfeld put his hand on Sinclair’s shoulder. “Might I have a quick word with you, Sin?”
Sinclair forced himself to answer in a normal tone. “Of course. Excuse me a moment. And don’t wager anything with Kit, Wally. You’ll lose.”
“Damnation, Sin. Stop warning my victims.”
Astin strolled across the room to the far windows, and with growing worry, Sin followed him. They obviously weren’t supposed to be overheard, whatever it was the earl was up to. He blinked, trying to pull himself together. She was safe, and he had very nearly caught a killer. Well, then, Vixen would just have to understand if he ended up doing a little spying this evening, after all.
“I hesitate to say anything,” Kingsfeld began in a low voice, “because I don’t know how deeply you’ve permitted Vixen to become involved, but I thought this was important.”
At the mention of Victoria’s name, Sinclair’s tension rose another notch, and he wondered whether Kingsfeld knew how close he was to dying, proof of his guilt forthcoming or not. “What is it?”
“I know you wanted your investigation kept quiet. While we were dancing, though, your wife kept chattering on and on about Marley not being the killer, and about mysterious documents which only she knew about which would prove the identity of the murderer. Needless to say, I was quite concerned, Sin. If it hadn’t been me she spoke to, or if she has spoken to anyone else in the same fashion, she might have destroyed all of your hard work—and endangered you and your family.”
Sin couldn’t breathe. A frightened fury unlike anything he’d ever felt jolted through him, cold and hot and dreadful. He clenched his fists to keep from throttling Kingsfeld right in the middle of his drawing room: the bloody blackguard was so damned self-confident that he’d actually dared to threaten all of them to Sin’s face. An equal part of Sinclair’s anger, though, was directed at Vixen—for putting herself so squarely in the path of danger.
“I’ll speak to her at once,” he hissed, “the silly chit.” The last comment was for Kingsfeld’s benefit; his own choice of vocabulary over Victoria’s reckless behavior was much stronger. Not daring to say anything else, he strode from the room.
She wasn’t in her sitting room, or her bedchamber, and without bothering to knock he slammed open the conservatory door. Victoria sat in a chair, sobbing, while Alexandra Balfour rubbed her back. They both jumped as he charged into the room.
“Lady Kilcairn,” he growled, “I require a word in private with my wife.”
The taller woman straightened. “Vixen is overwrought at the moment, my lord. Can this wait?”
“No. It can’t.”
“It’s all right, Lex,” Victoria managed, her voice breaking.
Giving him a warning look, Alexandra released her friend’s hand and left, shutting the door softly behind her. Sin wanted to stomp up and down the room to vent some of his anger, but the floor was covered with kittens, puppies, squirrels, and rabbits, all gathered around their weeping mistress.
“I would like to know,” he said, his voice tight and barely controlled, “what in God’s name you thought you were doing, gossiping about all of your suspicions to Kingsfeld?”
She gazed at him, teary-eyed. “I was helping,” she sniffed. “And I wasn’t gos—”
“Helping? Helping? Do you have any idea how much…trouble you might have caused?” He’d almost blurted that she’d put herself in danger, but that would have meant admitting that he’d lied to her again, this time about his suspicions regarding Kingsfeld. If she knew how close she was to the truth, she would never back off.
Victoria wiped at her eyes. “Is it true,” she whispered, “that you married me just to spite Marley?”
He blanched, his brain stumbling over the topic. He hadn’t expected it, and he had no lies—or truths—at hand with which to comfort her. “Who…”
“Kingsfeld told me. Is it true?”
Astin Hovarth had certainly learned his Roman military history; he’d managed to divide them in the space of a four-minute waltz; all that was left was the conquering part. The earl had left him with no time to make explanations, or even to protest his love for her. She wouldn’t believe it now. “I want you, and Grandmama Augusta and Kit, in a coach headed to Althorpe first thing in the morning. If you—”
“No! I won’t g—”
“If you,” he hammered over her outburst, “are going to say…stupid things to people just to provoke them, then I…can’t have you here. I can’t watch you play games and attempt to catch a murderer at the same time.”
Standing there and watching the hurt and bewilderment and disappointed anger in her eyes was the hardest thing he’d ever done. With every fiber in his body, he wanted to take her into his arms and tell her that she’d put herself in so much danger that he didn’t dare allow her to remain anywhere near London and Kingsfeld. Just as he realized he couldn’t stand to lose her, he needed to make her angry enough—he needed to hurt her enough—that she would leave.
Her ploy was indeed likely to flush the earl out—but just far enough to kill her. It was brilliant, but he wasn’t about to put her at such risk. “You are leaving in the morning,” he repeated harshly. “Is that clear?”
Another tear ran down her cheek. “Yes. Perfectly.”
“Good.” He turned on his heel and left the room.
Sinclair didn’t attempt to disguise the fact that he and Vixen had had a terrible argument. It would put Kingsfeld more at ease, and it would explain why Victoria left London in the morning. Just in case it didn’t quite convince the earl, though, he wanted Augusta and Christopher out of harm’s way, as well. If he lost any of them…He couldn’t even think about it without breaking into a cold sweat.
/> Once their guests left for the evening, Sin posted Milo in the upstairs hallway to make certain both that Victoria stayed put and that no one else attempted to get in to see her. Even so, he didn’t want to be out of earshot of the house while she was there, so he gathered his lads in the dark stable.
“What in damnation happened?” Wally asked as Sinclair slipped in through the door.
Another, less familiar voice spoke from the near darkness. “My wife wants to strangle you,” Lucien Balfour said calmly.
“I hope she has a chance to do so,” Sin replied. “Thank you for joining us.”
“Let’s just say you’ve piqued my curiosity.”
Sin decided he’d worry about that later. “Crispin, what did Kingsfeld do when I left the room?”
“He went over t’chat with your grandmama,” the Scot said. “Nothing important; just comparing social calendars for the rest of the week.”
Cold dread jolted through Sinclair again, but he managed a grim smile. “I’m glad you didn’t listen when I said no spying tonight. He thinks Victoria knows something the rest of us don’t about the murder. He’s checking to see where everyone’s going to be for the next few days.”
Lord Kilcairn’s dark form stirred. “Then no one should be where he expects.”
“I’m sending them away tomorrow.”
“It’s none of my affair,” the earl continued in his low, dry voice, “but how are you making Vixen leave?”
“I deliberately made her angry. She’ll go.”
“Where d’ye want us, then?”
Sinclair took a deep breath. “Kilcairn, if you could help a few rumors along that Vixen has left me and I’ve spent the night getting very drunk, I would appreciate it.”
“Easy enough. I take it you’ll be absent from Parliament tomorrow, then?”
“I’ll make an appearance, just to make sure Kingsfeld’s there. It won’t be pretty when I leave.”
“Are we going into Hovarth House?” Roman asked, the light of battle gleaming in his eyes.
“You’re not. I want you with my family.”
The valet looked at him skeptically. “And how are you going to explain that?”
“Vixen’s the only one who knows who you are. Be a groom. Just watch over them.”
“Your Vixen’s the one I’m worried about.”
For a moment Sinclair closed his eyes. After this, if he had to beg for Victoria’s forgiveness every day for the rest of his life, he would consider it a small price to pay. “I don’t think she’ll be paying much attention to what’s around her,” he said slowly. “Stay out of her view if you can.”
“This is not going to go well,” the valet muttered.
Wally patted Roman on the shoulder. “And Hovarth House?”
That was going to be the tricky part. Too subtle, and they would be wasting their time. Too bold, and they would alert Kingsfeld. The earl, though, had already been alerted.
“He won’t have kept anything to tie him to the murder,” Sin decided, “but I want him good and rattled.”
Harding cursed. “Sin—”
“Crispin, Wally,” Sinclair interrupted, “don’t let anyone see you, but I want to be damned certain he knows someone was in his house, looking through his things.”
“No. With you vanished from Parliament, he’ll think it was you,” Crispin countered, shaking his head. “Setting yourself up to be dead won’t solve the murder—and it won’t keep your loved ones safe.”
“That’s not the plan,” Sinclair countered. “Not yet, anyway.”
“Where will you be, then?”
“Seeing Marley arrested.”
Lucien chuckled in the shadows. “I’m somewhat relieved we’ve become allies, Althorpe.”
“Kingsfeld will have to come to me to find out what’s going on. We’ll see what kind of tale I can spin.”
“It’d better be a damned good one, Sin, or he’ll kill you.”
“Not if I kill him first.”
“But—”
“He should feel relieved with Marley arrested and me drunk. Tearing up his study will unsettle him.”
“It unsettles me,” Wally muttered.
“And it’ll coax him here to find out why,” Sin continued. “I’m going to have to ask for one more key piece of evidence in order to assure Marley’s conviction. The rest of that letter, I think, since he made it fairly clear that he had nothing else of it left. Don’t take it, if you find it. When he produces it, that’ll be when we take him.”
“Jasus,” Crispin muttered. “I hope Bates gets back before the fun’s over.”
“So do I. I need to send him back into the Parliamentary records to make sure a few items there don’t disappear. I’ll get you a list of what I need.”
Crispin looked at him. “We’d best go, then. Me ’n Wallace have a few things to do before morning.”
“As do I,” Kilcairn said, and offered his hand. “Good luck, Althorpe.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Victoria wondered whether, fairy tales aside, anyone had ever actually died of a broken heart. All night long she’d sat in the conservatory, wondering what she could do, what she might have done, to fix things. If he had never cared for her, though, there was nothing to fix. She’d finally lost her heart, apparently to a man who knew nothing of love.
But he had to feel something for her; her mind refused to accept that every kind thing he’d said, every gentle, pleasurable touch, had been a lie. And now she wasn’t the only one affected by her stupid faith and trust. Now she carried his child. Yesterday she would have wept with delight at the news. Today, she just wanted to weep.
“My lady?” Jenny said softly, opening the door from the sitting room. “His lordship told me to pack some things for you.”
“Yes. Please do.”
“But…how long will we be gone?”
She stirred, lifting the sleeping Lord Baggles down from her lap. “I don’t know, Jenny.” After Sinclair finished his investigation, he wouldn’t need her at all. It was entirely possible that he would abandon her at Althorpe or one of his smaller estates where she would become a hopeless recluse.
Finally she rose to go change out of her evening gown, putting on something suitable for traveling. She could stomp her feet and make a scene and refuse to leave, but if he didn’t love her, it seemed pointless. Part of her, too, was angry—angry for falling in love with him when she knew better, and angry that his few, cutting, uncaring words had so completely upended her world.
“What about your babies, my lady?” Jenny asked, as she laid out a light traveling cloak.
Victoria started, giving the maid a sharp look. “My—”
“I’ll have Milo look after them.”
Sinclair stood just inside the bedchamber doorway. Unlike her, he looked composed and calm, and not at all upset at the prospect of her leaving. But then, he hadn’t wanted her there in the first place.
Shaking herself, Victoria stood. “I would like to leave now,” she stated.
He gave a small, abrupt nod. “The coach is waiting.”
At his signal several footmen hurried into the room to collect her luggage. Sinclair remained by the door, looking at her, though she didn’t know what he expected to see. Defiant anger swirled through her veins. She certainly wasn’t going to weep again—not in front of him, anyway.
She followed her things out the door. At the top of the stairs Sinclair offered her his arm. “I would sooner break my neck,” she murmured, and descended on her own. It wasn’t true, of course, but if he touched her she was entirely likely to do something stupid and humiliating like clinging to him and begging to be allowed to stay.
“This is for your own good.”
“This is for your convenience. Don’t pretend otherwise.”
Ignoring his hand again, she allowed Milo to help her into the coach. Jenny joined her luggage in the second vehicle. She knew she should tell him about their child, but now was certainly not the
time. It would just sound as though she was asking to stay, or even worse, trying to gain his sympathy.
“Augusta and Kit are waiting for you at Drewsbury House. From London it’s an easy two days to Althorpe.” Sinclair reached out his hand as though to touch her cheek, then lowered it again. “This will be over soon, Victoria.”
“Yes, I imagine so. Now you won’t have anything to distract you from what’s important.”
With another stiff nod he softly closed the door. A moment later, the coach rocked into motion. Belatedly Victoria realized that with the way he seemed determined to ignore her advice and suspicions, she very well might never see him again. She sat back and wept.
Sinclair Grafton, you are going to Hades for this. He watched the coach out of sight, part of him wishing Victoria would come out of her doldrums enough to stop the coach, stalk back up to him, and punch him. He would have let her do it. Obviously, though, he’d done such a fine job of angering and humiliating her that he’d be damned lucky if he could convince her to return at all.
“Damnation,” he muttered and turned back to the house. Milo and the footmen stood glaring at him, more balefully than they had when he’d first returned to London to claim the title.
Going to Parliament drunk would have been easy, because he wanted a stiff whiskey almost as much as he wanted Victoria back in his arms. The best, swiftest way to achieve that, though, was to finish this and arrest—or preferably shoot—the Earl of Kingsfeld.
“Will there be anything else this morning, my lord?” Milo asked stiffly.
“Yes. I’m going to the House of Lords this morning, but I expect to return here for luncheon.” In case Kingsfeld came looking for him, he wanted to be easy to find.
“Very good, my lord.”
With a last look down the street in the direction his Victoria had vanished, Sinclair went back inside the house. It was time for the final act to begin.
He arrived at the House of Lords precisely twenty-seven minutes late. As he staggered through the tall old doors into the main chamber, he noted that both Kilcairn and Kingsfeld were present. As he’d expected, after he’d purposely excluded Marley from their party last night, the viscount hadn’t made an appearance.
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