by Darcy Burke
Unless he already knew she’d been spying upon him. Wouldn’t that make life easier, if he already knew? But she’d have no chance to turn the story to her benefit if he’d already made up his mind. Her gaze flitted to his face, yet his gray eyes were unreadable, a calm sea when she longed for a storm to indicate his intent. His lips flattened into a thin line as he peered down the bridge of his hawkish nose at her.
He did not speak. When her own words died in her throat unspoken, he gestured for her to follow him deeper into the conservatory. Wall to wall glass window panes ensconced in white window frames faced the garden, allowing the onlooker to enjoy the beauty of the outdoors without exposure to the elements. Allowing Sauveterre to see inside. Was he looking now, as she trailed after Abermont? As she handed over her life’s fate to another powerful man whose moves she could not anticipate?
The sound of her steps seemed akin to the coronach played at Evan’s funeral. Onward they walked, until they reached the center of the room. Several whitewashed iron benches grouped around a marble fountain featuring three women, each with a hand extended to the giant basin atop their heads. She’d loved this spot. The tree ferns placed strategically all around the little alcove had made this spot secluded, cut off from outside problems. Here, she’d felt free.
She did not feel free now.
But the alcove in the conservatory was private. The ferns surrounding them were tall enough that no one outside in the garden would be able to see them. A few short years ago, she would have been expected to have a chaperone any time she was alone with a man such as the duke. Now, she would gladly embrace that scandal, if it meant her true misdeeds would never see the light of day.
How quickly the tides of her life had changed. From a viscount’s ward to a governess to a criminal in a few small jumps.
Abermont sat down on a bench, looking expectantly at the spot next to him. She gulped. Too close to him. Instead, she sat on the opposite edge of the bench, as far as she could get from him without disobeying his order.
Abermont turned on the bench so that he faced her. “You said you needed to speak to me. Was there a particular matter that concerns you? Is my brother not doing well in his schooling?”
He did not know, then. For if he knew, his voice wouldn’t sound so bloody emotionless, whilst every breath she took in was a fight against panic. He must suspect something, but not the real truth.
“Thomas is fine.” An automatic response, born out of rote. When he relaxed against the bench, she remained stiff, her shoulders back, her chin forward. An imitation of strength, when she felt none. “I have not been honest with you.”
His brows knit. “I’m not sure I understand. What, precisely, have you lied about?”
“Everything.” She could not meet his gaze. Instead, she looked at the potted fern farthest from him, beginning to count the number of branches. One. Two. Three. Twelve.
Abermont’s tone was still unbearably even. “Everything is a very broad term.”
“I suppose everything is not correct,” she granted. “My name is truly Vivian Loren, and the family history I gave your sister when applying is quite true. Even the references from my uncle’s friends were genuine, all born out of their sympathy from seeing me reduced to service.”
She chanced a look over at him and instantly regretted it, for he was nodding along with her words. Not pity, but the factual acknowledgment that she’d been reduced in circumstances. She didn’t want him to think of her like that, a fraction of what she’d once been.
“The story you told me of your brother’s death.” The smallest hint of emotion lined his voice, belying his imperturbable mien. “Was that true?”
“Yes, though I wish it wasn’t.” If only that had been a lie. If only she could bring Evan back with the power of her words.
Was it her imagination, or did Abermont seem relieved by the fact that their shared pain was not fabricated? She did not know how to perceive that. She ran her hand down her skirt, smoothing out a nonexistent wrinkle. Once, twice, thrice, until the gesture was more about keeping her hands busy than the semblance of normalcy.
“My brother’s death was not a random act of violence. He was murdered.” She forced the words out, for it was so much harder to say this to him than it had been to anyone else. Her fate lay in his hands—but there was something else she did not want to acknowledge, yet she felt it all the same. The fear that he might not believe her. The shock that his opinion mattered.
He waited for her to continue, his reactions not fitting at all with what she’d predicted. Where were the questions? The fury? She’d anticipated following his prompting. But in this as in all other things, she was alone.
“I came here because I wanted to find out who killed him.” Damn the tremble of her voice, that fragile weakness when she wanted so badly to be fierce.
Abermont’s intense eyes fastened on her face, his complete attention upon her. “And did you?”
“Yes.” She opened her hand, half-expecting to see yellowed teeth upon her glove. Their absence did not make her stomach seize less.
Abermont tracked her motion, a spark of concern lighting upon his face. “I believe you’d better start at the beginning, Miss Loren.”
So she did. She let her mind fly back to the very beginning, the night of Evan’s death. It did not take much coaxing to bring back all the details. The overwhelming odor of chemicals could not hide the nauseating stench of decomposition from the various corpses in the coroner’s office. She’d had to cover her nose with her lilac-perfumed handkerchief just to be able to breathe without choking. And when the coroner drew back the sheet from Evan’s body, the rank pungency made her gag. It reminded her of the pig they’d once found on uncle’s estate, mauled by wild animals and left to rot.
“A Runner came to our townhouse in Clerkenwell. It was a Thursday. I remember that because Evan always left early for work on Thursdays, so that he’d be able to leave the bank before three and take me to the circulating library.” She reached for her handkerchief, her fingers fisting in the scented fabric, just as they had that day after she’d identified his body. “I hadn’t seen him since the night before. If I’d known it would be the last time I’d ever see him, I would have held onto him and never let him go. I would have told him I loved him.”
“I am certain he knew that,” Abermont murmured. So many people before him had tried to tell her that—but when Abermont said it, she believed him, because he too had experienced the regret of a last day. She wondered what he wished he’d said to his sister.
“The Runner asked me to come with him to the coroner’s office. He said they’d found my brother dead in an alley in Seven Dials. The damage...” Her nails sank into the fabric of that handkerchief, but she could not stop her voice from breaking. “The damage done to his body was so extensive that had I not sewn a label with his name in it into his coat, they would have just thought he was another dead drunk in the stews.”
Abermont brushed his hand over hers. His soft touch anchored her in the present. “That was clever of you. I shall have to tell my valet to sew labels into all my coats.” He released her hand, catching her eye.
A short, biting laugh escaped. His attempt at gallows’ humor had broken some of the tension within her.
“It is always good to plan ahead,” she rejoined, with some steadiness to her voice. “Were you to check the collar of my dress now, you’d find my name stitched into the muslin.” She tried to play that fact off as a light—albeit morbid—joke.
Abermont sat up straighter, his eyes narrowing. “Do you fear for your life, Miss Loren?”
His directness caught her off-guard. She’d grown used to his not asking questions, yet she couldn’t shake the notion that he’d been waiting for her to reach a certain point in her narrative. As if he’d ferreted out the reason behind her coming to him, and all the rest before it had been inconsequential.
He saw a problem, and he was going to fix it.
She nodded, relea
sing her hold on the handkerchief and spreading it across her lap. Digging into her pocket, she dropped Sauveterre’s notes into it, and lifted up the handkerchief by the ends so that it formed a small purse. A half hour ago, after her initial search for him had been fruitless, she’d gone back to her room to collect the notes. At least then she’d have evidence of her claims.
Abermont watched her, his hand out to receive the makeshift bag, but she did not give it to him. Not yet.
“My brother was beaten to death in an alley in Seven Dials. When I asked the Runners why he’d been in Seven Dials, they couldn’t give me a reason.” She clenched her teeth, her grip on the bag like iron. “You told me you’d avenged Louisa’s death. So you must understand; you must be able to imagine, how it feels not to have answers. To not be able to get revenge for your loved one.”
Abermont nodded again. Such a simple gesture, yet it conveyed more anguish than any of the pithy sayings repeated to her in the last year and a half. That nod, combined with the sorrow in his eyes, was enough to get her through the next few sentences.
“I lived without answers for almost a year. A horrible, exhausting year, in which I did nothing but search for something that would tell me why my brother died.” For a second, she closed her eyes, letting the darkness soothe her. She’d always felt better in the blackness, for it was what she deserved. “Evan had enough money saved that after the townhouse was sold, I was able to let a small flat in Clerkenwell too. But everything reminded me of him, and then the money ran out.”
“Did you think of going home?” Abermont asked. “Not home, per say, but to your other relatives.”
She shook her head. “My cousin, Viscount Trayborne, wants nothing to do with me. My grandfather has never met me. Grandfather stopped recognizing Papa as kin as soon as he married Mama. Supposedly, Grandfather didn’t agree with the match.”
“Still, maybe...”
She raised her chin higher, meeting Abermont’s inquiries with fire. “I would rather work myself to the bone than rely on the charity of others.”
“I admire that.” The tiniest smile creased the duke’s lips. “So you became a governess. But I still don’t see how this has anything to do with lying.”
She held up the bag. “For six months, I have been receiving instructions from a man named Sauveterre. He wrote to me, and I didn’t question it. I should have, I know. A missive arrives on your doorstep with no return address, signed by an obvious pseudonym. Usually, people want to know where it’s from.”
“But you didn’t.”
“I think I was scared to question it,” she said. “Every attempt I’d made in investigating Evan’s death met with failure. Here was this person who promised me the keys to everything I wanted—answers and employment. I didn’t want to look deeper and find out it was a ruse. I just wanted to believe for a little while, I had a chance at revenge.”
Her grip on the handkerchief shook as she breathed in. Nothing would ever be right again, and she’d done nothing to stop it. “But I failed. I failed my brother, and I failed you, because the very man who killed my brother is the same one who claimed he’d help me.”
Abermont did not focus on that detail. “What did he want in exchange?”
“Information on you.”
There it was, the marked change in Abermont’s countenance. The suddenly autocratic tilt to his neck, as he looked above her, no longer keeping her gaze. The way he swept back in his chair, putting distance between them.
“Who could you possibly fear more than me, Miss Loren? You must know what I could do to you as duke. Yet you confess your treachery to me...” He paused, dragging his hand through his hair, an expression she’d come to mark as him being lost in thought. “You come to me as if you think I can help you.”
Her resolution lagged. She’d made a terrible mistake coming to him. What would he want with a governess who had hurt his family? She’d be better off running, for then at least she’d be independent. But then what would she do? She couldn’t get another position without references from this one, and the duke would surely tell all his friends not to hire her. She couldn’t go far on what she had saved.
So she had no choice. Convincing him to help her became her only salvation. For herself, and for Evan—for the Runners worked on a reward system, and they’d be much more willing to look into Evan’s murder again if they thought they’d get a hefty sum from Abermont.
“I can explain, Your Grace.” She handed him the makeshift bag. “That is every letter I ever received from the man who calls him Sauveterre. I have carried the last letter on me since I received it yesterday, as a reminder of the true nature of this blackguard.”
He took the folded handkerchief, emptying the contents on his lap. She had numbered the margins on each note, so that he could follow the story.
With each note, the impassiveness of his features contorted, until the raggedness of his emotion washed it away entirely. The fury that had shone in his eyes spread to his cheeks, even to the tip of his crooked nose. She saw it in the death grip he had on the notes, in the way his shoulders hunched over the paper. When he deposited the notes into his coat pocket and turned to her, she expected to be blasted with his ire for what she’d done to him.
Yet something had changed. She would have bet an entire year’s salary on that. His eyes were so bright and full of fire that her breath stilled in her throat.
“A man who threatens a woman is the worst sort of man,” he said finally, his voice so gravelly, so raw that it sent a shiver up her spine.
Never had she heard him sound so…candid.
So dangerous.
He’d thrown his arm around her before she could react. God’s above, he should be furious with her. Instead, he’d taken compassion on her. She leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder, the superfine of his coat smooth against her flaming cheeks. Yes, his body was as hard as she’d imagined. Yes, he was as strong as she’d always thought. His body was rough and toned, reminding her of a warrior.
And though she knew it was the pinnacle of insanity, she wished he’d be her warrior.
But she’d betrayed him. She’d broken his trust. She’d hurt him and his sisters, all for some false promises made by a man she did not know and could not find.
“He’s going to kill me.” Droplets of water streamed down her cheeks. She’d dreamed of being wild and free, but this was something differently entirely. Giving in to the knowledge that she was doomed, no matter what she did. “He sent me my brother’s teeth.”
Abermont shuddered. That such a robust man as him was repulsed by Sauveterre’s actions did not comfort her.
“He’s going to kill me like he did my brother and I’m never, ever going to get revenge for Evan. Everything I have done for the last six months has been for nothing.”
He pulled her closer, his big hand heavy against her arm.
“No. Nothing is going to happen to you, Miss Loren.” His rich, clear voice rang out in the conservatory, his unshakable determination making her believe him, even though she knew the odds were against them. “I’m going to protect you.”
Chapter 7
In the space of five minutes, Vivian Loren had transformed from a traitorous enemy to the asset he needed to keep safe.
During, his time in the field, he’d learned to judge when a person was lying. Her voice did not lower; she did not slant her head to the side before responding; she did not stare at him without blinking. Miss Loren was as real, as broken as Louisa had been that day when she’d begged him to send her after Nicodème. He’s hurting innocent women by forcing them into prostitution, she’d pleaded. We have to stop him.
He’d thought that since he’d grown up with four sisters, and worked countless missions where he was required to turn women against their own traitorous husbands, that he was prepared for crying women.
He’d thought wrong.
As tears splashed down Miss Loren’s face, his grip on impartiality did not just loosen. It
released completely. Her frail body trembled so badly. He couldn’t help it—he’d thrown his arm around her before sense took hold. Before he knew what was happening, he was promising her he’d keep her safe. He’d left a trail of bodies in his wake. Justified countless morally deficient decisions with his duty to the nation.
And once the words were said, he couldn’t take them back. That vow became like a brand upon his soul. He had not saved Louisa, but by God, he would save Miss Loren.
All thoughts of turning her into Wickham fled his mind. The spymaster would interrogate her for hours upon end, and even after he’d discovered that she knew relatively nothing about Sauveterre or their true occupations, she’d still be kept in gaol on the very slight chance she might present more of a threat down the line.
Under his watch, no one would ever hurt her again.
He tugged her closer to him, snug against his body. They did not speak; no words were needed now. She leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder. He wanted to tunnel his fingers through her flaxen hair, see if it was as silky as it appeared.
He ought to release her. Yet he slid his hand down her arm, relishing the satin of her bare skin. Her walking dress had cap sleeves, leaving a tiny space between her elbow-length gloves and the edge of her sleeve.
Already, the stirrings of arousal slid through him, hardening his cock. Never had the touch of a woman undone him so, yet the mere act of holding her to his chest affected him more than the nakedness of any of the women he’d seduced for the Crown. She was too warm, too soft in his arms. And oh God, she smelled delicious. Roses, sweet but with an under-layer of spice. He breathed in deeply, thinking the scent of her soap most apt—that hint of something more beneath the surface, a minx disguised in the prim trappings of a spinster.
She was far too tempting. She made him forget who he was. Who he’d been. He did not deserve to forget.
He pulled back from her, settling back on his side of the bench. The distance did not make him less aware of her presence. Her eyes, reddened from crying, focused on him as if he’d provide her with all the answers to her questions. As if he was the only one who could solve her problems.
