by Alyson Chase
“I do understand,” she said finally. “Peoples lives are more important than one woman getting her flower shop. It still doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.”
“I know,” he said quietly.
She rapped on the ceiling of the carriage, and they lurched into motion. The driver turned down Duke Street. Their pace slowed, the street congested with carts and horses, and by the time they reached the shell of her old home, they were at a crawl.
She gasped and poked her head out the window. “It’s gone!”
“I know.” Max rubbed her back. “I had it demolished so a new building can go up. I should have done it months ago.”
She stared at the square lot of dirt. The flat space bordered by two high buildings looked forlorn. Out of place. Colleen rubbed her hands down her skirt, twisting them in the stiff fabric.
“Are you upset?” Max asked. “I thought, not having to see it every time you went past, that it might be better for you.”
She sank back into her seat. “No, it’s fine. It’s time it was rebuilt.” She tried to figure out what she was feeling. Relief? The void of the lot matched the hollow feeling in her chest. That void had been filled with guilt and regret for the past six months, so the emptiness was a reprieve. The blank lot rolled to the edge of the window and out of her sight.
Max snuck his hand into hers, and she instinctively clutched it. Even through the thin layer of leather, she could feel his warmth.
“I want to show you something.” Max edged closer, his thigh brushing hers. “Will you let me?”
Colleen stared out the window. She should go back to the club. Even though she’d decided to give him her body, she couldn’t give him her soul, not if she wanted to live happily alone back in Wapping. Max was already coming to mean more to her than he should.
“Yes.” She sighed. She was weak; she freely admitted this. But her need for a connection with Max overrode her disappointment in herself. Her husband had slept next to her, worked beside her, and never once asked her opinion. Never tried to determine what made her smile or laugh. She didn’t fault Mr. Bonner. She had been little better as a wife. But now that she knew how it felt for a man to truly take an interest in her, she wanted to cling to that feeling a little while longer. “Yes, if you’d like to.”
Leaning over her, Max shouted an address up to the driver. He settled back, keeping hold of her hand, pressing it to his thigh. They rode to his destination in silence. The only communication they had was the stroke of his thumb against the patch of bare skin between her glove and her sleeve.
They stopped before a large five-story townhouse in Mayfair. The sun slanted low in the sky, casting the bottom half of the honey-colored stone building in shadow.
Max handed her out and turned to the driver. “You can return to the club. I’ll take Mrs. Bonner back.”
“This is your house?” Colleen shouldn’t be surprised a baron had such an elegant residence, but she’d thought Max’s home would be a bit rougher around the edges, like the man himself.
“Yes.” He guided her up the steps to the front door, and it swung open before them. A footman clicked his heels together and dipped his head.
“Good afternoon, Jackson. Have I received any correspondence?” Max handed his hat over to the young man.
“Not since you left this morning,” Jackson said. “But I do believe the Marquess of Dunkeld is expected in a couple hours for dinner.”
Max pursed his lips. “I’d forgotten.” He glanced at Colleen. “I’ll have taken Mrs. Bonner to her home and returned before then.”
Jackson nodded. “I’ll take your spencer and gloves, Mrs. Bonner, if you’d like.”
Her fingers fumbled on the buttons. The footmen at the club held the doors for her, of course, but she was a working woman, of a servant’s level. She’d never been a guest in such a grand house before, and it wasn’t a comfortable feeling. Max helped her slide the garment from her shoulders.
Jackson’s eyes flared when he took in her man’s shirt and waistcoat, but he remained ever polite, taking her spencer with a small bow.
Max lead her through a grand foyer and down a wide hall. Her heels clicked softly against the marble floor. The swirling mosaic on the ceiling matched the tile pattern on the floor, and Colleen stumbled against Max’s back, taking it all in.
He steadied her and threw open the double doors to a large sitting room. The back wall was made entirely of glass framed in diamond-shaped iron trusses and looked out onto a tropical jungle.
Colleen’s step faltered. “What on earth …?”
“Since you admire flowers so, I wanted to show you my conservatory.” He cleared his throat. “This sitting room and the conservatory are my favorite rooms. I read in here most afternoons, enjoying the feeling of being among nature.”
“I can see why.” She drifted to the sheer wall and pressed her palm against the cool glass. She was facing another world, one of towering palm trees and wide ferns interspersed with explosions of colorful plants and bountiful citrus trees. Gravel paths wound through the lush garden, and the sun shone down through the clear ceiling, exposing the wildness and beauty of the space.
Max opened a glass door, removing the barrier between her and the flora. “Come. I’ll show you around.” He led her down narrow paths, identifying each plant and flower with its Latin and common names. The humid air hung heavy with fragrance, and she stopped frequently, smelling a bloom here, feeling the soft velvet of a petal there. The sky purpled above the glass enclosure. They were in a pocket of greenery surrounded by stone townhouses. It was beautiful.
“The conservatory in my country estate is, of course, much larger.” Max pulled a knife from the top of his boot and cut a white rose from its stalk. The tips of the petals were splashed with pink. “But I spend so much time in London I had to build this. I find working with plants to be peaceful.” He handed her the bloom, and she took it, careful to avoid the thorns.
Cleansing fire play at night and quiet gardening by day. The baron seemed to be a man in search of serenity. Not for the first time, she wondered about his work. Was seeing a man cut his own throat a matter of course when it came to spy work? Some men reveled in intrigue, but Max didn’t seem to be one of them. Why did he do it?
She brought the bloom to her nose and inhaled. The scent was faint, delicate. “Perhaps when I buy my flower shop, you can be one of my suppliers. If I buy the shop,” she added, her smile fading.
Max led her to a stone bench nestled between a blue orchis plant and a broad fern. Pulling her down next to him, he gripped her hand. “About your flower shop—”
“Let’s not speak of it.” Not when the sting of its loss had dulled into semi-acceptance. Cupping his jaw, she burrowed her fingers into his soft beard. “I’ll leave it in God’s hands. If he finds me worthy to have the shop, then Mr. Ridley will wait to sell it to me.”
“Worthy? Why wouldn’t you be worthy?”
She clenched her fingers in his beard. “People have to be held accountable for the choices they make. I haven’t always made the right ones.”
A wrinkle creased his forehead with his frown. “Are you speaking of last night? Of our affair? Because nothing about that choice felt wrong and everything about it felt damn good.”
Colleen swallowed. She hadn’t been thinking of that decision, but it was sure to be added to her list of mistakes. “Just because something feels good doesn’t make it right.”
“It doesn’t make it wrong, either.”
She shook her head. “I’m a widow. A Christian. I can’t find it within me to regret what I’ve done with you, but that doesn’t mean it was moral.” She stared at his white cravat. “I try to act decently but around you, I fail.”
He jerked his head away from her caress and stood. “Is it all that black and white to you? No room for mistakes? Or forgiveness.”
Colleen blinked and slowly lowered her hand. “I would hope,” she said, carefully choosing her words, “that when we all ge
t judged that there is room for forgiveness. Especially if we regret our mistakes.” She needed that to be true. The alternative was unthinkable.
Max paced to the end of the greenhouse, and she followed, unsure. His mood had changed so quickly.
Crossing his arms over his wide chest, he stared out into the gathering dark. “You want accountability. I don’t know if I can give that to you. But at the least I can give you the truth.”
She rested her hand on his arm. “What are you talking about?”
“Your husband.”
“Joseph?” Now she was really confused. What on earth did her husband have to do with Max? Unless, he knew. Colleen felt the blood drain from her face. Did Max know her secret?
“The night your husband died, I was tasked with a job.” Max caught her gaze in the reflection of the glass. His eyes looked darker than usual, black orbs that sucked in all the light. “A man had given his brother letters to keep safe. Letters from a young, unmarried daughter of a well-respected banker.”
“What—”
“Let me finish. Please.”
Colleen nodded.
“The man was a footman in the young lady’s home and had started a flirtation with her. From the girl’s account, the letters she wrote to him were fairly innocuous. But after the bastard had assaulted her, stolen her innocence, they could be looked upon in a different light. That’s why he kept them. As protection against retribution. He told the father that if he were prosecuted, he’d publish the letters, show that the daughter had encouraged him.”
Colleen’s stomach churned. The world could be a horrible place. But she still didn’t understand why Max was telling her this.
“The girl’s father didn’t want disgrace to fall on his daughter. Willing or not, her reputation would be ruined. She was no longer a maid. So, he didn’t turn to the authorities. Rather, he turned to a friend in a high place.” Max’s shoulders bunched, hard as boulders. “Word came down that messages should be sent. I was to deliver the message to the brother. That familial bonds don’t extend to concealing illicit letters or aiding brothers who had angered the wrong man. Someone else delivered a different and harsher lesson to the footman.”
She shook her head. “I don’t understand. Why are you telling me this?”
He continued like she hadn’t spoken. “Since it’s known that I have a talent for setting fires, I was called into service. On a night when I knew the brother would be away from home, I broke into his house and set up hot spots. Small fires fueled by hastening agents I knew would burn out quickly. The brother’s home, those letters, and the chandlery below, would burn. But nothing else.”
“A chandlery?” She fell back a step. Her heart pounded painfully, and she pressed a hand to her chest.
Max turned, piercing her with his gaze, not letting her hide. “I set the fires and escaped across the street to watch. You see, I like to watch.” He advanced a step, and she retreated, not wanting to hear this. But he wouldn’t let her escape. “I watched as the flames cast flickering shadows through the windows. Then as the small fires met and grew into a larger conflagration.”
Colleen’s hip smacked into a raised flower bed, the corner of the wood box sending an arc of pain down her leg. She kept stumbling back. “You set the fire?”
“So many things went wrong that night.” He shook his head. “The fuel didn’t burn out as quickly as it should have. The winds shifted, blowing embers next door.”
Her shoulders hit a glass wall. “You set the fire,” she breathed out.
The tips of his top boots nudged her toes. He loomed above her, his expression harsh. “Yes. It was no accident, as had been reported. No candle that burned too close to a curtain. I was supposed to destroy the man’s livelihood. Burn the girl’s letters.” Flexing his hands, Max raised them to her shoulders, hesitated, then dropped them to his sides. “I’m responsible for your husband’s death. You’re a widow because of me.”
She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. The light streaming from the sitting room focused into small pinpricks in Max’s eyes, everything else going dark.
The Baron of Sutton hadn’t randomly appeared in her life. He wasn’t a kindly landlord trying to help her recover. He was an arsonist, and a liar, and was as guilt-ridden as she.
Her chest caved in on itself, and she sucked down gulps of air.
And he still didn’t know the truth.
That he wasn’t the one responsible.
That it was Colleen who had killed her husband.
Chapter Ten
“Will you move your arse?” Max growled at his friend. “But do it slowly, or you’ll tip over the damn phaeton.”
Dunkeld shifted, dropping the flannel-wrapped bricks he’d been arranging on the floor. Sinking back into his seat, he raised one burnished eyebrow. “Well, someone’s got their smallclothes in a twist. And I’m not the one who chose this dainty little contraption over our usual carriage. Why did you put two hulks like us in a phaeton?” Dunkeld peered over the side. “The springs will never be the same.”
“Who gives a flying fuck about the springs of a rented phaeton?” Max cracked his neck. A breeze drifted under his beard, cooling his throat. He tried to remember how the air felt against bare jaw, before he’d grown his beard as a way to distinguish himself from the rest of the sots of the ton. Colleen thought the beard made him look like a goat. He swallowed. That was most likely the kindest thing she would think of him from now on.
“We should have stayed for a round at The Boar’s Head after learning that your Dancer was at sea. Your demeanor would be much more pleasant with a drink or three in you.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my demeanor,” he bit out. “And the man’s not my bloody Dancer.” Absurd name.
“What’s the matter?” Dunkeld asked. “The lovely widow turn you down?”
Max clenched his jaw and refused to take the bait. If a friend couldn’t take a little unreasonable carping, then what good was he?
Dunkeld’s gaze sharpened on their target. Pinkerton emerged from a bakehouse, a long baguette wrapped in paper tucked under his arm. Twitching the reins, Max set a slow pace to follow the American.
“I ran into Lady Fletcher on St. James street the other day,” Dunkeld said. He leaned back in his seat and propped one boot up on the front bar. “She asked after you. If you need to rid yourself of excess energy, I think she would be more than willing to accommodate you.”
“Not interested.”
His friend swiveled his head to look at him. “That woman has the ripest breasts in London and she’s generous enough to share them. And you’re not interested?”
They were spectacular breasts. And Lady Fletcher was as adventurous as she was well-endowed. But his cock didn’t even twitch at the prospect. Besides, “They aren’t the ripest in London.” Those belonged to the woman who was probably even now plotting her revenge. His mouth watered, remembering the velvety softness of her nipple on his tongue. The succulent pink of her areolas. The way the delicate skin had puckered under the heat of the flame.
Shifting in his seat, Max could feel his friend’s incredulous stare. Fuck it, he didn’t owe Dunkeld any explanations. And he wasn’t going to share any stories about Colleen. His friends already knew too much about his bed sport. He wouldn’t subject Colleen to their scrutiny.
“And who, pray tell, does that honor fall upon?” Dunkeld shifted onto one hip. “Not your bonnie new manager, by any chance? Are you ranking her breasts higher?”
“Don’t talk about her that way,” Max growled. Pinkerton stopped at a haberdashery, and Max pulled the phaeton to the side of the road. The American looked up and down the street, nodding at Max and Dunkeld before slipping into the store. Max pressed his lips together. The man made a terrible spy.
“So, it’s that way, is it.” Shaking his head, Dunkeld heaved a sigh deep enough to rattle their chaise. “My bachelor friends are dropping like flies.”
“No. It’s not like that.” Max gl
ared. “She’s a good woman and doesn’t deserve our ribaldry. Now, can we focus on the task at hand and stop talking about my sexual pastimes?”
“Or your lack thereof?” Dunkeld smiled blandly at him. “Of course, but we need something to pass the time. Zed is being most uncooperative by not trying to kill our fellow.” He shifted his weight, and the springs squeaked in alarm. “We’ve been following Pinkerton for two hours hoping someone would attack him. My arse is sore. I think the least you could do is entertain me with your sad love life to take my mind off of it.”
It had been a mind-numbing two hours. They’d told Pinkerton to go about his daily business, but to make sure to keep them in sight. With the way Zed handled betrayal and failure, Max figured eliminating the American would be his next step. When Pinkerton’s handler didn’t report back, Zed must have suspected something was awry. And the crime ring’s leader was crazy enough to kill first and ask questions later. He’d want to shut Pinkerton up permanently. But after trailing the man to the barber, the tailor, and the public library, even Max was tempted to take Pinkerton down. Anything to ease the boredom.
“Your manager seems a wee bit puritanical.” Pulling a small flask from an inside pocket, Dunkeld took a swig and handed it over to Max. “I don’t think she’d be the type to play. Perhaps you should look for a more hospitable lass.”
Max grabbed the flask and resisted the urge to chuck it at his friend’s head. “I’m cutting you off. Your civilized accent is slipping.”
Dunkeld made a rude gesture, and Max bit back a smile. He knew the Scotsman meant well. He and his friends wanted more from a lover than just a willing lay. Why choose a woman who couldn’t fulfill all one’s needs? It was only setting oneself up for disappointment.
But Colleen had responded to his play. Had arched her body into the flame. Max tipped the flask to his lips, felt the whiskey burn a path down his throat. And he’d killed her husband.
Why the fuck had he told her? If he was only to have a brief affair with her, there was no reason to confess. But she was so forthright and honest. She deserved to know who she was giving her body to.
