by Lauren Smith
Starting tomorrow he’d never again pester or tease Horatia, or be cold to her for that matter. He would maintain a polite but hopefully warm distance from her. And once this dreadful business with Waverly was over he would start looking for a wife. If Godric could settle down, then Lucien could too. It just couldn’t be with Horatia.
Cedric would never condone that marriage. If Lucien were in his place, he wouldn’t have allowed it either. Cedric had seen him sleep with two women at once, and knew Lucien had done things in bed even some of the League shied away from. Stupidly, he’d boasted of such conquests and the cunning methods of seduction he’d used.
No, Cedric would never allow his sister to marry a man like him. Nor would Lucien find a woman who would rouse his passions, but then he’d always known he’d be doomed to a loveless marriage. He’d find some quiet unobtrusive girl, marry her quickly and be done with it. If Horatia saw him married, then she’d be able to move on herself. And the past will be truly buried, he thought.
A sleek, furry, black body appeared in the drawing room doorway. Muff had returned. Lucien, too weary to go and summon a hackney to return to Half Moon Street, decided to stay here, warm by the fire, still burning with the memory of Horatia’s form against his. He walked over to the couch against the wall, puffed a few pillows and threw himself down on it. The fire crackled, the only light in the room after he’d extinguished the candles. Muff gave an odd little chirp and pounced on Lucien’s chest.
Lucien, like Cedric, was a lover of all animals and he scratched the wizened cat behind the ears. The responding purr was loud but soothing. As sleep started to close in on him, he wondered if he could spend the rest of his days as a bachelor, with nothing but a cat like Muff for company. Or perhaps he would spend his days at the Midnight Garden, whose ladies were always eager to make his dreams come true.
It wasn’t ladies he dreamed about however, but one teary-eyed beauty in a torn silver gown. A Cinderella whose Prince Charming had not danced with her at the ball, nor kissed her before the clock struck midnight. In the dark moonlit palace of his dreams, he held a lone silver satin slipper and wept, for what he did not know.
Chapter Eleven
The next morning, Horatia donned a morning dress of twilled French silk in a dark rosy pink and went down the main stairs. The house was quiet, which meant that Cedric and Audrey were still asleep. Her normally soft steps became tiptoes as she trod through the house. She passed by the drawing room, paused in puzzlement and retreated back a few feet to gaze discreetly through the open doorway.
In the far corner, Lucien was stretched out on his back, asleep on the daybed. Muff, the little feline devil, was stretched out on his back across Lucien’s stomach, one paw raised in the air, tail twitching at the very tip. Lucien had one hand flat over the cat’s belly, his fingers surprisingly graceful as they caressed him. It was the sort of caress a person made half-asleep, or half-awake.
Horatia felt an ache rise in her as she watched. She would never know if Lucien would stroke her this way in bed. Only then did it occur to Horatia that Lucien hadn’t left last night. A flash of remorse shot through her. She’d been a horrible hostess. A room should have been prepared and a bed turned down for him. Lucien should not have suffered the discomforts of a daybed.
Horatia took a tentative step inside, but Muff shifted upon seeing her and began to purr. Fearing she’d wake Lucien, she retreated to the breakfast room where a hot meal was already awaiting her. The coffee was fresh and the rich scent danced out into the hall. Horatia, preferring tea, saw to preparing herself a warm cup with plenty of sugar. She’d only started to bite into her toast when a sleepy-eyed Lucien joined her.
Even as he yawned and ran a hand through his tousled red hair he was a god among mortals. He gave her a surprisingly sheepish smile which would have sent her straight to the floor had she not already been seated. It reflected a bashfulness for having done something devilishly intimate the night before. Horatia’s breath caught as he tugged his rumpled waistcoat down and tried to straighten his cravat. Was this how his mistresses saw him after a night of passion? If they had they would have insisted on getting him straight back into bed. At least that’s what she would have wanted. The thought made her blush but Lucien didn’t seem to notice.
“Morning,” he said, taking a chair opposite her.
“Good morning,” she managed to reply. It had startled her, this change, this lack of cold hostility or casual flirting. What was he playing at?
“Is the coffee still hot?” he asked.
“Yes, it’s been freshly brewed.” She leaned forward to pour him a cup.
“Wonderful. Two sugars, please,” he asked when she started to slide the cup and saucer over.
She hastily dropped two cubes into his cup. Odd, she always thought he’d take it black and strong.
Lucien noticed her puzzled look and grinned.
“I can never stomach the stuff unless it is sweet. It has been noted, according to my brother Lawrence, as one of my greatest faults.”
Horatia giggled, despite her intention to remain stoic.
“Then perhaps you should know that I once saw Lawrence put three sugars into his tea one afternoon last spring.” She relayed this in a conspiratorial whisper. “He tries to do so when no one is looking.”
“That cur! Tea I can drink straight, and the little weasel dares to needle me? Oh the things I endure!” he bemoaned theatrically, clutching his chest. “I will get even with him the next time I face him in the boxing ring.” Lucien threw this out with dramatic flare.
Horatia winced at the image of Lucien striking his younger brother in the nose hard enough to draw blood. But men often did the most foolish things. Her own brother was clear proof of that.
“I trust you slept well?” Lucien changed the topic of conversation.
“Yes, well enough, but oh…you should have had the servants prepare a room for you, Lucien. To sleep on that daybed must have been wretchedly uncomfortable.” She could feel her face warm as she spoke. It was a clear admission of her failure as a hostess. Thank goodness her mother wasn’t alive to witness it.
He shrugged and sampled his coffee. “Nonsense, it was fine. A bit stiff, but nothing less than I deserved. Which brings me to the point I must speak to you about.”
Horatia shook her head as she tried to stop him from saying anything that would ruin such a pleasant beginning to the day.
He held up a hand and any protests she had died on her lips. “Now hear me out, Horatia. What happened last night, everything I said, I apologize unreservedly. I was childish and cruel. I have no reason to ignore you or be so cold. So please accept my apologies and tell me you agree that we should let bygones be bygones.”
He reached across the breakfast table, offering one of his hands. Before Horatia could stop herself she was sliding her fingers into his firm grasp.
“Friends?” he asked. This simple connection was more intimate to her than any kiss he’d given her before. It was a touch he’d offered out of friendship with good intentions, not because he was toying with her—and it scared her. It reminded her that she would always want more, but this she would take happily.
“Friends,” she agreed.
“Excellent,” he said. He eyed the newspaper lying near her elbow. “Is that the Morning Post?”
“Yes, would you like it?” She slid the paper over.
Lucien loved the news. Whether he was actually concerned with the latest political or social gossip, or merely using it as a shield at breakfast, she wasn’t sure, but it was a habit he’d had as long as she’d known him. Horatia watched him take the paper and whip it up, hiding him from the world. She understood that need better than anyone. Every year she used his Christmas presents, the books he gave her, as a refuge of sorts. She’d spent more than one afternoon tucked away in the library reading, rather than join Audrey and Cedric on a to
ur of Hyde Park. It was easier to hide than to face the realities of the world. She didn’t want to be husband hunting, not when she was already in love with a man.
“Care for toast?” she offered, pushing a tray in his direction. His paper wall wilted over his fingertips, allowing him to peer over the pages to eye the tray.
“Sounds lovely.” He reached for the tray and after retrieving a piece he returned to his paper. Horatia blinked. Was it possible they were actually getting along? Unfortunately, her quiet reflection of this question was disrupted when Audrey and Cedric arrived in breakfast room, squabbling like children.
“A day? A single day? Cedric, I can’t be ready by then! That’s barely enough time for my maid to pack my hats, let alone my entire wardrobe! Must we go so soon?”
“I’m sorry. I’ll ask the lurking assassins in the shadows to give you more time to prepare, shall I?”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” said Audrey. “It doesn’t suit you.”
“What’s in a day?” Horatia asked politely, hoping to quell Audrey’s rising temper. Her younger sister spun on her, seeking an ally.
“Tell him, Horatia. Tell him that one day to pack for Kent is not nearly enough time.”
“Lucien, help a man out and tell her that she need not bring every article of clothing with her?” Cedric begged as he threw himself into the seat next to his friend.
“Why are we going to Kent?” Horatia asked. There was only one place in Kent she’d ever been to, and surely Cedric wasn’t sending them there. Not after what she’d done the last time. She had been a child, but the embarrassment pulled at her as if it had been yesterday.
Lucien stirred a spoon in his coffee, raised it to his lips and met her gaze over the top of the rim. “You, Audrey and Cedric have been invited to join my family for the Christmas holidays. We leave for my estate tomorrow, before first light.”
“See! No time at all!” Audrey punctuated her complaint with a glare at Lucien, who had abandoned his paper and was smiling rather too sweetly back at her.
Horatia knew that look well. Her little sister had better watch out, or Lucien would trick her into doing something she didn’t want to do.
“Surely we would be an unnecessary burden, especially during the holidays.” Horatia gave a pleading look at her brother, seeking his support.
“Sorry, Horatia, but Ashton has given me orders.”
“Do you always let him dictate your life?” Audrey snapped.
Cedric didn’t answer, but Lucien did.
“Your brother listens to reason from his friends when your safety may well depend on our guidance. I would not become too upset, ladies. My mother will insist on taking you to town shopping until you have more clothes than your trunks can carry. Wouldn’t that be nice?” Lucien was nothing if not a charmer.
Audrey flounced into the chair beside Horatia and sighed. “I suppose I can endure that. I do so love Lady Rochester. She reads La Belle Assemblée you know.”
Lucien smiled and Horatia’s heart turned over. Everyone who knew Lady Rochester was privy to her obsessions, fashion being among them.
“Hmm…indeed,” he murmured as he sipped his coffee.
Audrey started a lengthy discussion on the various modes of neck cloths and the proper styles for an evening out. The men responded with low grunts of agreement whenever she seemed to pause and wait for their attention. Not that she seemed to care what their response was, nor did they. Had she asked for a thousand pounds and a new horse they no doubt would have agreed as well, strictly to keep up appearances that they were listening to her talk.
Horatia finished her breakfast and quietly slipped out of the room, something she found easy to do whenever Audrey discussed fashion. Horatia would be packed and ready to leave in a mere two hours. But there was nothing she could do about the flutter in her stomach as she realized the four of them would be squashed most uncomfortably in a carriage for several long hours. Despite Lucien’s new desire to be civil to her she still carried a deep-seated uneasiness inside. He had to be up to something, and she dreaded what he might have in store for her.
Chapter Twelve
Something wasn’t right. Ashton shifted uncomfortably in his knee-high black boots. The actual gardens behind the Midnight Garden were chilly and his breath puffed out in small pale clouds as he waited in a concealed area of tall shrubbery to see where the two men from last night might rendezvous.
Lucien had been positive that he’d heard Waverly’s voice as the one giving orders to the hired assassin. But it was easy to let prejudices color a man’s memory. Ever since the League had confronted Waverly that night by the River Cam, when he’d attempted to drown Charles, Waverly had transformed from mere mortal to bogeyman. An innocent man had perished during their struggle and enmity had been born. It was only a matter of time before someone would pay for the life lost that night.
Ashton knew it was nonsense to lay the blame for every misfortunate at Waverly’s door, but the man did seem to have a knack for spreading pain and trouble. Ashton had done his best to remain detached from such thoughts. Still, if Lucien had heard correctly, then Waverly was finally trying to make good on his threat.
Ashton could still hear Waverly’s cruel shout from the shore opposite them after they fished Charles out from the river. “You’ll pay! Each and every one you! Not one of you rogues will know peace or a long life! Do you hear me? You are all damned!” Their enemy had been clutching the body of the man who’d died. It was a sight Ashton couldn’t erase from his mind, nor the guilt lurking behind it. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps they were damned.
It was Charles who suffered the worst. He still sometimes woke in a fit of screams, unable to recognize a soul around him and crying out about the water filling his lungs. When they happened to be under the same roof for a night, Ashton was adept at quieting Charles and doing it so quickly that he never woke up anyone else. It was why the poor man always slept so late.
Godric joined him, crouching down, his boots crunching in the snow. “I don’t like it, Ash. This place is far too quiet.” The two of them had arrived first thing in the morning to see if anyone had witnessed Waverly or if any evidence existed that could lead to the man or his hirelings. So far, they’d come up with nothing, not that Ashton expected differently. Most of last night’s visitors had crept away by coach or foot in the early hours before dawn to return to their daily lives.
“I don’t either. It’s too bold, too much of a coincidence that Lucien overheard them.” Ashton knelt into a low squat, balancing on the balls of his feet as he traced a gloved fingertip over the indentions made by a boot. A pattern of prints had led away from the meeting spot last night just through the area where he and Godric now waited and hid.
“Do you think he has another target in mind?” Godric asked.
“You mean have us scrambling to protect Cedric, when it is another of us he plans to kill?” Ashton raised a brow. “It is certainly possible. I wish I knew how to better protect us. If we scattered it would diminish our strength in numbers, but we’d be harder to find. If we kept ourselves together, it’s easier for him to focus his resources. Either way we will be in danger.”
“Sometimes it is a pity we have a standard of morals. I for one would love to put that sniveling piece of filth in his grave.” Godric’s eyes were sharp as jade daggers.
“If I didn’t have some concern for the state of my immortal soul, I would have ended his life back in Cambridge,” Ashton agreed solemnly.
Godric placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Our souls were stained enough that night, and we had to rescue Charles from a watery death. If we had it to do over again, I would still let Waverly escape. I’d choose Charles’s life over Waverly’s death every time,” Godric said.
“It’s not a choice I regret, but Waverly is a menace. Something has to be done.”
“Agreed.
” Godric rubbed his gloved hands together to warm them.
“It is half past ten now,” said Ashton, examining his pocket watch. “We should send word to Lucien before he and Cedric leave. I think that the rest of us should remain in London, but keep in close contact. I want everyone to report in to your townhouse Godric, every night by ten o’clock. I don’t want anyone getting hurt by not paying attention.”
“I’ll have Jonathan move in with Emily and me so you won’t have to worry about him,” Godric suggested.
“He’s fine where he is. I’d actually prefer to keep him under my roof. He has excellent instincts. I think I’ll have Charles move in for the holidays as well. I’ll keep them both with me until this is over, and we can continue our investigation here.”
“Then we’ll only have to defend against Waverly on three fronts.”
Godric and Ashton started walking back through the hedgerows when a man in a cloak and cap exited the nearest door, heading straight towards them. They ducked behind a tall cluster of trees as the man strode past them, cloak unfurling behind him like a black flag. He walked directly to the spot just beyond where Ashton and Godric had been moments before and seemed to be waiting, most impatiently.
“Do you think that’s one of the men?” Godric nodded at their suspect.
“I think it highly likely,” Ashton whispered. “Stay here and watch the door to the Garden’s house. I shall endeavor to get a closer look at our mystery fellow.”
Ashton used the cover of more bushes to conceal himself as he crept along the nearest path created by the shrubs. Through the thick foliage he could make out the fluttering of the man’s cape as he paced back and forth. There wasn’t a clear enough view through the bushes for him to get a glimpse of the man so he had to chance raising his head or peering around the last bush when the path ended. He opted for peering around rather than over the bush.
A fallen twig snapped beneath his boot and the sound drew the pacing man up short. He spun, and their eyes met. Not long, but long enough for Ashton to see cold caution change to decisive action. The man drew a pistol from his cloak and fired. The shot rang out like a crack of thunder and a spike of fire surged through Ashton. He cursed and clutched his left arm. When he pulled his hand away, his black leather glove gleamed with the sheen of blood.
