by Laura Landon
“Before they join us, I’d like to ask you a question.”
Griff’s statement stopped Fitzhugh from opening the panel.
“Do you think there’s a chance someone’s still out there who wants me dead?”
Griff was desperate for Fitzhugh’s opinion, an opinion he valued. His blood rushed through his head while he waited, the pressure building behind his eyes. He wasn’t sure which answer he wanted, a no, which would mean he probably wasn’t in danger and Fitzhugh never thought he had been; or a yes, which would only confirm that no one was safe anywhere near him. If the answer was the latter, it would be best if he left London before he was responsible for another death.
Griff studied Fitzhugh’s hesitation, then felt his gut tighten when the colonel shook his head.
“I don’t know. But after the night we met at the docks, I realized we couldn’t take any chances. You implied we’d let one of the Russian spies escape.”
A wave of unease washed over Griff. “I don’t remember everything I said.”
“I don’t doubt it. You probably have several months you don’t remember.”
Fitzhugh lowered his hand from the lever that would open the secret door and turned back to Griff. “After that night, Johnston, Hawkins, and Turner have taken turns watching you.”
“They were good. I didn’t notice.”
Fitzhugh laughed. “They could have followed you in a lumber wagon and you wouldn’t have noticed. What were you trying to do? Drink England dry?”
Griff shook his head. “Something like that. It didn’t work.”
“I’m damn glad you finally failed at something.”
Fitzhugh turned back to the bookcase and lifted the lever. A secret door opened, and Barry Johnston and Matt Turner walked in.
“Good evening, Captain,” they said to Griff. They took turns shaking his hand.
“Good evening, Johnston. Turner. It’s been a long time.”
“Too long,” they said in unison.
“Colonel Fitzhugh tells me you took turns watching my back. Have either of you seen anything?”
“No, sir,” Turner answered. “If someone did try to kill you the night they shot Brentwood, they haven’t tried again.”
Griff raked his fingers through his hair. “Maybe I’ve lost it.” He walked over to a large map of London that hung on the wall and stared at the familiar streets and roadways. “Maybe I’m just imagining all of this.”
“No, Blackmoor,” Fitzhugh said from behind him. “If you don’t think that the man who killed the marquess was a robber, then that’s good enough for us. Maybe he realizes you’re being watched, and he’s waiting until we get lax before trying again.”
“Could be,” Griff said, although every instinct told him the killer should have tried again before now. There had been plenty of opportunity. “Colonel, do you have the files on the four spies we executed?”
“Not here, but I can get them for you.”
Griff nodded. “I’d like to see them.”
“Come back tomorrow. I’ll have them by then.”
Griff turned to the two fellow agents. “Thank you,” he said to Turner and Johnston. “And tell Hawkins when you see him. I appreciate it.”
“Anytime, Captain.”
Griff moved to leave, but Johnston’s words stopped him.
“Don’t worry, Captain. We’ll watch your back, like you watched ours.”
Griff nodded, then walked out of the office and down the narrow alley. When he reached the opening, he stopped to look in both directions. Around the corner was his club, Waterman’s. It was too early to go home yet. Adam and the ladies would not have returned from the Edington dinner. He could go there and sit for a while. Have a drink. Just one.
He turned the corner and saw the subtle lights glowing from behind the familiar beveled glass doors. He took a step closer, then stopped. Dr. Thornton’s words came back to haunt him. You will never lose the craving for a drink, Mr. Blackmoor. You’ll always want one. But once you take your first drink, you’ll be back to where you are right now. Worse. The next time, it will be even harder to stop. Eventually, the liquor will kill you.
Griff swiped his hand across his jaw. He didn’t doubt Adam would send Anne away if he took even one drink. His threat was the leverage he held over him. But it wouldn’t work.
He could stay sober until she found a husband. He told himself he didn’t want a drink that badly. That he could just walk away from his old life without a look back.
He looked again as the door to Waterman’s opened and two men he recognized stumbled out. He could do this—go without a drink one more day. But, bloody hell, it was hard. He wanted a drink. In fact, he wanted more than one.
That thought scared him to death.
Just stay with me and I’ll help you. Day by day. One day at a time.
He walked down the street in the opposite direction, taking the long way home. When he reached the earl’s residence, Fenwick opened the door. The pensive look on his face was filled with concern. Was he worried that Griff had been drinking?
“Good evening, Mr. Blackmoor. How was your evening?”
“Fine, Fenwick. I needed to go for a walk.”
Fenwick studied Griff a moment longer, then a smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “I’m glad to hear it, sir.” The butler lifted Griff’s jacket from his shoulders and folded it over his arm. “Although perhaps it would not be a good idea to let His Lordship find out you left for the evening. He might not agree that you’re strong enough to leave the house yet.”
Griff smiled. “Perhaps you’re right. It might be better if we said nothing.”
Fenwick nodded his agreement. “Are you ready to retire, sir?”
“No. I think I’ll wait for the earl in his study. Would you tell him I’m up when he returns?”
“Of course, sir. May I get you some tea while you wait?”
“Yes, thank you. That would be fine.”
Griff took a chair before the small fire burning in the fireplace and rested his chin upon his steepled fingers. It bothered him that Colonel Fitzhugh didn’t think whoever had killed Freddie had a connection to the four spies they’d executed during the war. There wasn’t a finer officer in Her Majesty’s service than Fitzhugh. Griff trusted his opinion even above his own. Still, there was a reason the sniper had come after him. But if it wasn’t related to the spies he’d had a major role in capturing and executing, what else could it be?
The bullet that had killed Freddie that night hadn’t been fired from a robber’s gun. Of that Griff was certain. What other explanation could there be but that the bullet had been intended for him, and Freddie had stepped in the way to protect him? But why hadn’t the killer tried again?
Griff got to his feet and walked to the window. He stared out at nothing while Fenwick brought tea and poured him a cup.
“Thank you,” he said, taking the cup from Fenwick. Griff looked down at the dark liquid swirling in his cup and took a sip. What he wouldn’t give for something stronger.
Griff pushed that thought to the back of his mind. He couldn’t want a drink that badly. That would mean he was a…
Thankfully, the door opened and he didn’t have to face what his mind told him. He turned and watched his brother and wife and their guest enter the room.
“Hello, Griff. I didn’t expect you to still be up.”
“I—” His gaze rested on Lady Anne’s face and he couldn’t stop a smile from forming.
She was beautiful. The satiny fabric of her midnight-blue gown shimmered in the firelight.
A narrow strand of pearls was her only jewelry. The delicate strand rested on her porcelain skin just above the rise of her creamy breasts, which were, in his opinion, revealed to excess by the low cut of her gown. He wanted to cover her exposed flesh. One would think she was making an effort to draw attention to her body, to all the attributes with which she’d been blessed—which, of course, she was. How could he not have noticed before?
>
Their gazes met and held. Griff tried to look away but couldn’t. In the span of just a few interminable seconds, a blazing heat rushed through his body and seeped to every extremity. His breath caught as rapid little pockets of air struggled to find their way into his lungs. Thankfully, she turned her head to the side, releasing their locked gazes.
Only when she looked away did he notice the rosy hue to her cheeks, as if she, too, thought the room overly warm.
“I wasn’t tired,” he finally said. “I wanted to hear how your evening went.”
“It was marvelous,” Patience said. The excitement in her voice was impossible to miss. “Lady Anne was the belle of the dinner. She had such a group of admirers surrounding her that one could hardly get to her for the crush.”
Griff raised his eyebrows as he fought the tension that pulled inside him. Why was he bothered? This was what he wanted. This was the reason he’d brought her to London. He should be glad she’d been received so enthusiastically.
“Wonderful,” he said, turning his gaze back to Lady Anne. Her cheeks remained a rosy hue, which only added to her appeal—and his frustration.
“Well, it’s been a long day,” Patience said. “I think Lady Anne and I will retire. Tomorrow night we’ve been invited to the Countess of Fillington’s. It promises to be another late night. If you’ll excuse us.”
“Of course,” the earl answered.
“Good night, Griff,” the countess said before she left.
“Good night, Patience. Lady Anne.”
“Good night, Mr. Blackmoor.”
Griff took one last look at Anne before she was gone. She was, without a doubt, a beauty.
Adam closed the door behind the two women and sat in the chair next to Griff’s.
Griff barely waited until he was settled before he asked, “So, did she catch the notice of anyone in particular?”
“Yes,” Adam answered, drinking from his cup of tea. “You should have seen it. Baron Jamison’s son, Bradley, nearly tripped over himself trying to be the first to be introduced to her.”
Griff shot him an angry look. “Bradley Jamison is a pup. He isn’t old enough to be out of the schoolroom yet. What was he doing ogling her?”
Covington laughed. “The same as every other eligible male in attendance. Harvey Barnes, and the Earl of Portsmouth, and Lord Franksly, they all tried to be first to gain introductions.”
“Lord Franksly? You can’t be serious. He doesn’t have a penny to his name. And the Earl of Portsmouth? I thought he was dead.”
Adam laughed. “He isn’t that old, Griff.”
Griff didn’t like the smirk on Adam’s face and told him so. “You can wipe that grin off your face, Adam. I asked you to escort Freddie’s sister around so she could meet someone who’d fit her needs. Not to have her lusted after by every male in London who wouldn’t recognize quality if it ran over him. Or only wants to steal a kiss.”
“It wasn’t like that at all, Griff. Lady Anne truly had a wonderful time. She met several interested suitors, and added a little variety to the same old faces we see at all the events. Tomorrow will be even better.”
Griff didn’t doubt it would. He also didn’t doubt that this time he’d be there to pick and choose the men Anne would meet. Obviously, marriage had dulled Adam’s talent for spotting someone who would make Anne a good match. Griff would be much more particular. He didn’t intend to let just anyone have her.
Chapter 11
The crush gathered around her at the Fillington ball was suffocating, yet Anne kept the smile on her face while the Marquess of Candlewood told a humorous story he’d heard while having tea with his grandmother. When he finished, Anne laughed, as was expected.
The marquess was quite charismatic, tall and extremely good-looking, with golden blond hair and pale-blue eyes. He was also personable, she supposed, but that was it. Nothing more. As was Mr. Camdorn, Baron Fillmore, the Earl of Pendron, and the Marquess of Lancheister. They each paid her court during the evening, asking for the customary dance or two, offering to fill her punch cup, or suggesting a walk in the garden. Which of course she refused.
But not one of them interested her, and it was his fault entirely. Griffin Blackmoor’s.
She snapped her fan against her skirt in an uncustomary show of temper. When she lifted her gaze, she found Patience watching her.
Patience turned to the Marquess of Candlewood and Lord Mechon, then gave them one of her smiles. “Would you mind getting us a glass of punch?”
They both hurried to do her bidding, and Patience led Anne to the side where they could be alone. “Is something wrong?”
“Oh, no,” she said, seeing the frown on Patience’s face deepen. “Everything’s perfect.”
“You seem uncomfortable.”
Anne smiled. “Perhaps I am just a little. This is all so new.”
“You don’t like them, do you?”
“What?”
“The crowds, the parties, playing the belle of the ball. All the attention you are receiving.”
“Is it that obvious?”
Patience patted her hand. “I’m certain I’m the only one who’s noticed so far. Everyone else thinks you are reveling in this newfound popularity.”
“I simply feel so exposed. As if everyone knows the reason I’m here.”
“Nonsense.”
“It would not be more noticeable if I had worn a sign reading, ‘Wanted: Husband with sizable fortune to provide for destitute aging spinster and her younger sister.’”
“Don’t, Anne. You’re not that old, and your situation is no different than anyone else’s here. Just look around you. Most of the ones still unattached are seeking the same thing. A husband with an impressive title, or a wife with a sizable dowry.”
“But I don’t have an attractive dowry. I’m penniless.”
“I’m certain that will not matter. There are any number of unattached young men who are not seeking a large dowry.” Patience squeezed Anne’s fingers. “There are other reasons people marry, you know.”
Anne looked into Lady Patience’s eyes, searching for confirmation that there could be more. “Is love a possibility?”
The countess hesitated, then smiled. “That remains to be seen.”
“Did you and the earl marry for love?”
“No. But many marriages begin without love, then change.”
Anne thought of how stiff and formal the Earl and Countess of Covington appeared in public. Even in private, there seemed little difference—the earl seldom shedding his austere exterior, the countess always the epitome of decorum.
Anne thought of what her future might hold. She didn’t want her marriage to begin without love. Her mother had lived her whole life desperate to win her husband’s love, then lost her will to live when she failed. She didn’t want to live the same fate.
“Don’t worry, Anne. Enjoy yourself tonight and perhaps, when you least expect it, you’ll find that perfect match. Everyone in the room is in awe of you already. How could they not be? You look absolutely stunning.”
Anne fought the wave of guilt. Even though it was less than the customary six-month mourning period for a sibling, Patience had talked her out of wearing mourning colors. “It’s the gown. I had no idea when we chose the material that it would make up so grand.”
She ran her fingers over the beautiful peach silk moiré and sighed. The gown was remarkable on its own, but what made it even more so were the three wide lace flounces overlaying the peach, each one gathered at various lengths around the skirt by large peach bows. The exposing, off-the-shoulder bodice was trimmed with the same lace.
Anne suddenly felt very bold and daring—and beautiful. She smiled as Candlewood and Lord Mechon came toward them, each carrying two glasses.
“Here is your punch,” Candlewood said, holding out a glass. Lord Mechon handed Patience a glass at the same time.
Anne thanked the men and took a swallow, grateful to find the liquid still a little cool.
She was introduced to even more strangers as the group of men and women surrounding them increased in size. There were so many that it was doubtful that she would remember their names after tonight—or wanted to. The shallow men and tittering women simply reaffirmed her distaste for city life. The crowds made her uneasy, the packed ballroom was too confining, and the false laughter assaulted her ears.
She waved her fan in front of her face to cool her burning cheeks. She prayed she could find a way to escape from the confines of the crowded ballroom.
If she hadn’t been so uncomfortable with her surroundings, she might have realized sooner than she did that he was close by. But she didn’t.
There’d been no sounding alarms or gunshots fired to warn her. Only the goose flesh that rose on her arms and the ghost of a whisper that ran down her cheek as an indication that he was near. These were all the warnings she needed.
Before the person next to her mentioned his name, Anne was aware that he was watching her.
Her heart picked up speed, but she refused to turn to face him. She decided to pretend his presence wasn’t important, that she didn’t care that he’d come to watch her every move. Just as she tried to forget that it was impossible not to compare every male she met to Griffin Blackmoor—and find them all lacking.
Anger welled inside her, anger directed more at herself than at him. She was here to find someone suitable who could be her husband, not have her thoughts muddied by visions of a man she would never consider, a man she’d rarely seen sober since he’d walked into her life.
She turned her thoughts back to the crowd around her. She laughed at their conversations with greater enthusiasm, spoke with more animation while discussing the opera with the Marquess of Candlewood, and batted her eyes when he paid her the most flattering compliment. Just as she’d seen a few of the other debutantes do.
“Would you care to dance, Lady Anne?” the marquess asked, holding out his arm.
“I would love—”
“I’m sorry, Candlewood. This dance is promised to me.”
Blackmoor’s deep, rich voice sent a shiver of apprehension down her back. She turned to face him, to tell him with a glance she didn’t appreciate his interference. He barely noticed as he focused his challenging glare on the Marquess of Candlewood.
