She raised a brow. “Thank you for the advice, Your Grace.”
She needed to find someone to marry her in haste, and this man was not he. Gainsaying her father would only earn her the most vicious bruises imaginable, all strategically placed where no one’s eye would ever chance to fall. He liked to hit her in the stomach. He knew how to pull hair without ripping it from the root while causing the maximum amount of pain. His booted foot could do the most damage, she’d discovered the last time she’d gone against his wishes.
That grim knowledge was the ultimate source of the desperation propelling her—the frantic need to escape both her father and the life he’d predestined for her. If she had a choice between marrying Lord Breckly and anyone else, she’d decided anyone would do. Anyone at all who could help her to avoid a detestable marriage to a brute or another raised fist.
“Perhaps your American customs are not the same, Miss Vanreid,” the Duke of Trent said then, his tone patronizing. “Only one thing will come of you awaiting Lord Bolton in this chamber for an assignation, and it most assuredly will not benefit you. You’ll be ruined.”
Truly. For a man who wanted nothing to do with her, he was an odd sort. Unless…her mind grappled with their brief exchange, with the handful of times she’d caught him watching her.
Her pride had made her second-guess herself, but her common sense now reminded her that he had come to this chamber. He had intentionally sought her out. Their gazes had briefly clashed earlier, and she’d hoped he would follow in her wake after she exited the ballroom. And he had. Something about him was decidedly not as it seemed.
Either way, her patience was at an end. If he didn’t wish to kiss her, she didn’t have any further need of him. For she required to be ruined. Compromised. The sooner the better to avoid becoming Viscountess Breckly and escape her father’s wrath.
She stalked forward, intending to quit the chamber. “Good evening, Your Grace. If you won’t leave, then I shall. And if you don’t mind, seek someone else to harass in the future. Ducal condescension isn’t to my liking.”
But when she would have slipped past him, he caught her upper arm in a firm yet gentle grip, forcing her to face him. His scent hit her, a masculine blend of shaving soap and musk. She drank in the sight of him despite herself. Something about all that flawlessness made her long to disturb it. To muss up his hair, flick open a button.
He was perfect, handsome symmetry: hair the color of mahogany, high cheekbones, sculpted lips, cleft chin…even his philtrum seemed somehow too perfect, stubbled by the shadow of the day’s dark whiskers in an invitation to sin.
For a breathless beat, she imagined pressing her mouth there, in the groove just above his. Those whiskers would be rough to her lips. And she would inevitably slide her lips lower, until their mouths fused. The Duke of Trent would not kiss like a fish or taste of algae. She could tell.
“Why do you seek to ruin yourself, Miss Vanreid?” he demanded, as though he had every right to her answer. “Is there someone in New York you wish to return to?”
She thought fleetingly of Padraig McGuire, the man who oversaw the operations of her father’s factories in New York. She’d cared for him once. Not any longer. Both he and her father had seen to that.
But she allowed nothing of her thoughts to show as she faced the duke with defiance. He was a stranger to her, and he had no right to ask such an intimate question. No right to invade the chamber she’d escaped to, no right to touch her, no right to offer unsolicited advice.
No rights at all. “How dare you presume to ask me such a thing? In your words, Your Grace, I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”
He sneered, the perfect picture of arrogance. “If there is a young man in New York, you’d do best to forget him. Just as you’d do best to stay away from Bolton.”
Daisy wrenched herself free of his grasp. “While we’re dispensing advice, Duke, you’d do best to stay away from me. I neither need nor want your interference. If you fancy yourself a Galahad, go do it with someone else.”
Without a backward glance, she quit the chamber. After tonight, she had only six days left. Cerberus was at her heels, and she meant to secure her liberty by whatever means possible. The supercilious Duke of Trent could go hang for all she cared.
’d wager everything I have that the chit knows nothing about any Fenian plots,” Sebastian announced to the Duke of Carlisle as they rendezvoused in a private room of their club the next morning. “She’s smarter than she allows others to realize, but her most pressing concern appears to be ruining herself by any means possible.”
And that means last evening had been first the Earl of Bolton and then himself. For a brief, unwanted instant, he recalled the soft feel of her creamy skin beneath his fingertips. The scent of bergamot would forever be tainted by thoughts of a golden-haired American vixen who’d dared him to kiss her.
Blast.
Carlisle took a sip of his steaming coffee and settled the cup back into its saucer before replying. He was a quiet man, brooding by nature, the sort who observed without ever seeming to participate in the world around him. Now his dark, assessing gaze pinned Sebastian to his seat with the cutthroat precision of a dagger. “Since when have you taken to wagering anything, Trent? I didn’t know you to be a gambling man.”
He fought the urge to shift into a more comfortable position. With images of Miss Daisy Vanreid flitting through the corruptible corner of his mind, his trousers had grown deuced tight. “Merely a figure of speech, Carlisle.”
The duke continued his practice of inwardly dissecting the person he engaged in dialogue with. He’d developed a method of studying tone, body language, words, and mannerisms that had half their brothers in arms believing him a mind reader. Sebastian had never found himself on the receiving end of the treatment before, and he had to admit he damn well didn’t like it.
“I dislike figures of speech,” Carlisle said at last. “They have a way of rendering precisely what one intends to say so bloody imprecise. Tell me, what did you learn from her at the Beresford monstrosity?”
He took great care to remain still and keep his expression blank, for as much as he trusted Carlisle and had worked directly beneath him for the past five years, something about the bent of this interview sent misgiving down his spine like a chill. “Nothing of import.”
“Nothing?” Carlisle raised an imperious brow. “I understand you followed her to a chamber during the ball. The two of you remained in the chamber together for eight minutes. Surely a great deal can be said during such a generous span of time.”
The misgiving blossomed in his chest, tight and heavy. Jesus, was he suspect? He hadn’t been compromised. There was no damn reason for Carlisle to have a man following him. “You had someone watching me last night?”
“You know our credo, Trent.” Carlisle’s tone was calm, offhand, as though he described something as inane as a recent visit to the opera. That too was his gift, never allowing anyone to see beneath the masks he presented to the world. “Eyes and ears everywhere.”
Of course he knew the goddamn credo, but he’d believed he was the ears and the eyes. He stiffened before he could check himself. “Ears and eyes on your own men? For what purpose?”
“Only a fool trusts blindly,” Carlisle quipped. “Eight minutes, Trent. Did you spend them wisely?”
No, damn it, he had not. He had lost his footing for a moment—for the first moment in as long as he could recall—and he’d been struck by Miss Vanreid’s undeniable beauty. Not to mention her boldness.
Perhaps you would like a turn.
He still couldn’t believe the minx had uttered those provocative words to him. She’d shocked him. Worse, he had wanted to do as she invited. To kiss that full, pink mouth of hers, yank down her bodice completely to reveal the bounty of her breasts and discover whether or not her nipples matched.
His mouth was drier than an old, worn shoe. But he wouldn’t show his weakness to Carlisle. Not today. Not after dis
covering he’d been followed. “I learned that Miss Vanreid is exactly as I’ve suspected over the month I’ve been observing her. She is beautiful, clever, and manipulative. She… seems to have little concern for her reputation. I inquired whether or not she had a beau at home in New York as you requested, but she refused to answer one way or the other.”
Carlisle nodded as though none of the information came as a surprise to him. “I imagine she turned her wiles upon you, Trent.”
Hellfire. It took all of his years of training to suppress the heat that wanted to rise to his cheekbones. “I requested this meeting so that I could be relieved of my duties in regards to Miss Vanreid. Nothing I have uncovered over the last month has led me to believe she has any knowledge of dynamite production, Fenianism, or any plans to otherwise aid in the setting of bombs throughout London, to say the least of what happened in Salford. I respectfully request reassignment, as I can think of innumerable ways to better utilize my time and talents than chasing after an American minx as she flirts her way through the ton.”
Carlisle was silent for far too long, sipping his coffee as if he hadn’t a care. The only sounds in the room were caused by his cup tinkling back into its saucer. At last, he deigned to speak again. “I beg to disagree. Have you forgotten just who the girl’s father is?”
Of course he hadn’t. James Vanreid was well-known to the League, his entanglement with Fenians in New York undeniable. Though his father had been Dutch, his mother had been an Irish immigrant, and Vanreid had not forsaken his roots. He was sinfully wealthy, having amassed a fortune as a shipping magnate, and presided over no fewer than a dozen thriving factories. One of those happened to be an armament factory. And an inordinate number of illegal Vanreid firearms had recently been circulating in London. Vanreid had strong ties to the most aggressive of the Fenians in America, he had ships, he had an endless well of funds from which to draw, all beneath the guise of his various business holdings, and he was, simply put, a grave danger to England.
Sebastian had known all of those facts the first time his eyes had lit on Daisy Vanreid amidst a ballroom crush. But like the many men who hovered about her, drawn by the blinding combination of her sultry beauty and her fortune, he hadn’t cared. For the first time in his years with the League, his assignment had been to gather intelligence on a woman as harmless as a reticule. He’d been drawn to her first, irritated second, and confounded by his inconvenient attraction to her last.
All that aside, he had been watching Daisy Vanreid closely. And he was a damn good spy. He wasn’t about to allow Carlisle to run roughshod over him. His instincts were rarely wrong. Coupled with the fact that his observation of her had produced the same results as he would’ve anticipated had he been monitoring any other debutante, Carlisle’s insistence that Daisy Vanreid was some sort of secret menace was ludicrous.
“I know bloody well who her father is,” he gritted. “I also know that she eats eggs, poached with hollandaise for breakfast, she can’t abide by strawberries, she prefers chocolate over tea, she receives callers from one o’clock to three o’clock in the afternoon, she reads as if it’s her occupation, and that she enjoys courting scandal. Her aunt is meant to chaperone her, but the old biddy gets soused instead, and Miss Vanreid leads her suitors on a merry dance while good old Aunt Caro is snoring into her bosom or having a go at a randy rake in a dark alcove.”
He paused, attempting to rein in the anger that had begun to burn within him as he spoke before silencing his superior with a raised hand and continuing in his diatribe. “Jesus, do you hear how ridiculous this sounds, Carlisle? Do any of those insignificant details seem important, by God? Our nation’s security is at risk, and I’m chasing a vixen about ballrooms and running intelligence through her bloody chambermaids so I know which ball to attend. I feel like a lad in leading strings playing at being a spy with his younger brother.”
Carlisle raised an imperious brow. “Have you finished with your little tantrum, Trent?”
Tantrum. Bloody hell, Sebastian longed to smash his fist into the perfection of Carlisle’s long, aquiline nose. “I’m not having a goddamn tantrum. I am informing you that this nonsensical assignment must come to an end. Daisy Vanreid is as dangerous as an elderly governess, and I’m tired of trailing her about like a bloody spaniel.”
“She’s incredibly valuable to our cause.” Carlisle slammed his fist down. Coffee splashed over the rim of his cup, the delicate china clinking in protest. “She’s the daughter of the man responsible for financing the Fenians in New York, a daughter who is undoubtedly privy to all manner of information that could prove useful for us to possess. Keeping close to her keeps us close to Vanreid. The more we know about Vanreid, the better we’re prepared to dismantle his web and prevent him from harming anyone on our watch. We need to do everything—bloody well anything—we can to uncover the identities of the dynamitards hiding in our midst. If we do nothing, more will come, and we’ll be bloody well inundated. They’ll stop at nothing until they see England brought low.”
“I understand the importance of the task at hand,” Sebastian snapped. “I merely question the wisdom of wasting so much time and resources upon one bloody female.”
“The Home Office believes she has strong ties to the Fenians herself.”
“Ties to the Fenians?” He couldn’t contain his cynicism. Daisy Vanreid, a luscious heiress whose greatest concern was which ball gown to wear and what gentleman she ought to kiss? Who flitted about society like an exotic butterfly that made every man in London want to catch her and make her his? It hardly seemed likely. Indeed, it seemed laughable. Unbelievable.
The information the Home Office had received from their American contacts was ballocks.
Carlisle gave a short nod, warming to his cause. “Miss Vanreid was betrothed to a Mr. Padraig McGuire in New York. The engagement didn’t last long for reasons that remain unclear. However, what is clear is that Padraig McGuire is a vocal Fenian and a known member of the Emerald Club. He’s also Vanreid’s right hand. McGuire is believed to be the lead man for the Fenian skirmishing fund, which supports their bloody endeavors along with Vanreid’s purse.”
Sebastian had heard whispers about McGuire from his sources in America as well. Knowing she’d been engaged to the bastard certainly did make her a bit more intriguing, but hardly enough to justify his continued trailing of her. “You believe he’s raising money to facilitate the manufacturing of dynamite?”
“I know it. Over the last few weeks, he’s been engaged in a public speaking tour to win financial support for his cause. Given the reports of cheering throngs greeting him, it seems only a matter of time before things escalate. The intelligence coming to us from America is quite dire. The Fenians and their sympathizers grow stronger, larger, and more determined by the day. You know as well as I that the consequences promise to be deadly, Trent. An innocent boy has died at the hands of these monsters.”
All the heat that had been building within his body since his encounter with Daisy Vanreid the previous evening suddenly fled. He was left with the aching, cold chill of winter. The kind of cold a man felt in his bones.
Irish-American groups had been calling for Irish home rule by any means for years. But recently, their call had grown ever more vicious. Increasingly, they sought to achieve their goal by the use of violence, waging a campaign of fear, destruction, and death, with dynamite as its chief weapon.
Three months earlier, Salford had seen the first demonstration of the Fenians’ deadly capabilities when a bomb exploded at the armory there. A lad who’d had the misfortune to be walking by at the time of detonation had been killed.
If Miss Vanreid had been betrothed to a man bearing leadership positions in a known Fenian organization, it was nearly impossible for her to be ignorant of the plans being put into motion. England’s network of spies in America had made it clear that a bomb detonation within London was imminent.
Sebastian and his fellow operatives on the ground on their native so
il were doing everything within their power to see that such an atrocity never became a reality. London was a great deal more populated and vulnerable to blows than Salford. The casualties would be far greater than one boy, though that lone boy had been one casualty too many.
He took a breath to digest the information his superior had just revealed. Of course, it was Carlisle’s way to only give him a grain of fact in an ever-changing sea of truths. He’d been told Miss Vanreid had suspected knowledge of the dynamite campaign originating from the Fenians in America. And so he had watched her flirt and kiss her way through every ball, musical, and supper thrown for the last month, trailing after her like a man wearing a blindfold.
Could it be that she was even wilier than he’d imagined? And had everything between them last night been an act? An attempt to distract him from his course? An attempt to glean information from him?
What was it she had said to him in her bold, stubborn way? Ah, yes. Foxes don’t frighten me. They never have. He was beginning to get a different picture of Miss Daisy Vanreid, and he didn’t like it. Not one bloody bit. For it seemed that perhaps she was the fox after all, or at the least the mistress of one.
With grim determination, he clenched his jaw and faced Carlisle. “What would you have me do?”
Carlisle paused in the act of raising his cup for another fortifying sip of coffee. “I’m afraid the answer to that question isn’t one you’re prepared to hear.”
The misgiving spreading through him turned into grim foreboding. In the name of Crown and country, he’d been stabbed, shot, and almost burned to death. What could possibly be worse?
“What is it, Carlisle?” he demanded. “It could hardly be more difficult than anything I’ve endured while under your command.”
The duke settled his cup back into its saucer without taking a sip, and for the first time in Sebastian’s acquaintance with him, revealed a tell. He grimaced.
Her Reformed Rake (Wicked Husbands Book 3) Page 2
