“One that can’t come soon enough,” Henry said with a nod. “I intend to speak with North and Lady Langlevit on my return to Essex this afternoon. Then I plan to chuck that wager book into the fire.”
The duke barked a laugh and leaned in, raising his glass and keeping his voice low. “Then may I be the first to offer my unofficial congratulations to your forthcoming nuptials.”
“Thank you, though the lady and her guardians still have to accept.”
“Lord and Lady Northridge should find no fault with your offer,” Hawk said. “I think Lady Northridge wants those wager sheets destroyed as much as you do. Things have gotten out of hand.” He signaled the dealer for another card. “As far as your Princess Irina, if she’s anything like Briannon, I can only wish you fortitude and forbearance, and an endless supply of patience.”
The devoted look on Hawk’s face was at odds with his words. It was clear that he adored his wife even if he claimed she did try his patience, and it was also clear that Hawk would not have it any other way. Henry thought of the warmth he’d noticed between them, much like the connection he’d seen between North and Lana. Both strong men, North and Hawk had chosen to wed equally strong women, and they seemed more content than they’d ever been.
As much as Henry joked about ripping his hair out, he knew he would not change one thing about Irina, either…not her spirit, her daring, or her spontaneous joie de vivre. He liked her cheeky humor and her intelligent, albeit argumentative, opinions. He especially liked that she did not conform to what society expected of a lady. No such debutante could have run his course and completed it, nor would she have expressed an unabashed desire to do it again.
No, he wanted her exactly as she was. Fearless and unapologetic.
Henry’s eyes fell on a tall newcomer who joined the throng, and the noise rose rapidly upon his arrival. His fingers gripped the snifter as pieces of the conversation reached where they sat.
“We have a new winner!”
“Well done, mate!”
“It still needs to be verified.”
“Christ,” he muttered as Hawk shot him a sympathetic smile over the table. Henry nodded to the factotum to finalize his account. He’d had enough, and clearly, the raucous celebration of whatever new favor Lady Irina had given away was not about to conclude any time soon.
“Why, there’s the man who can verify the wager was met,” a familiar voice drawled, making the air in Henry’s lungs compress into a tight aggravated space. “Sitting right over there. Lord Langlevit, in fact.”
Henry’s eyes narrowed on the approaching horde with Lord Remi at its center. “Verify what?” he growled.
“That Lord Remi escorted Lady Irina into the arbor at Lord and Lady Dinsmore’s soiree,” a young buck said in a bawdy tone, making Henry instantly want to knock the man’s teeth into the back of his throat. “The winnings are one thousand pounds, but we must have proof. A witness must confirm the claim!”
A bloody fortune, Henry thought.
Henry had no intention of willingly besmirching Irina’s reputation by confirming any such intimate tête-à-tête with Remi in the garden. A muscle tensed in his jaw as he set down his cards and folded his murderous hands into his lap. A brawl in the middle of White’s would not be a wise idea, though every nerve in him screamed for such satisfaction.
“I witnessed nothing of the sort,” he said coolly.
Remi’s stare never wavered from his, though a challenging smile played about his lips. “Is that so?” he said. “I seem to recall you finding us in a very compromising position when you announced that Lady Dinsmore was looking for her delectable young charge.”
Henry’s chair scraped back on the carpet, and the noise died down to hushed whispers. He rose, menace fairly rippling off of him. The duke stood as well, dispersing most of the closest spectators with a lethal glance. “I caution you, Lord Remi, to reconsider your words,” Henry said in a deadly quiet voice. “The lady’s honor is in question.”
Remi laughed, unperturbed. “Alas, that was not the bet, otherwise it would be a compromising situation indeed, would it not, Lord Langlevit?” He waved a careless arm as if unconcerned for his own safety. “Luckily the wager was only for a private and delightfully chaste stroll with the lady in the arbor.” He paused. “Which you can confirm, of course, upon your word as a gentleman.”
Henry tensed, every muscle within him itching to lay the arrogant man flat on his dandified back.
“Never you mind,” someone shouted from the rear of the gathering. “Lord Everton saw Lord Remi and Lady Irina enter the arbor from the balcony and can corroborate Lord Remi’s claim. The wager is won.”
The crowd dispersed, but Remi remained standing before Henry, triumph in his eyes for a long moment as tension spiked between the two men. He leaned in, his voice whisper soft. “You don’t know her like I do.”
“You disgrace her,” Henry said through clamped teeth.
Remi smiled. “I’ve never done anything Her Highness did not want done.”
“What do you mean by that?” Henry snapped, his self-control wavering as visions of Remi’s neck in his hands made him see red.
“Like I said, Lord Langlevit, you will never know her like I do.” His smirk widened. “Whose idea do you think all of this was?”
Henry faltered. Was Remi insinuating that Irina had encouraged the wagers? Advocated placement bets on his behalf? His brows slammed together. Never had Henry wanted to give in to his savage inclinations more than he did at that exact moment. His entire body shook as he willed himself under control, his fist clenching and unclenching at his side.
“Easy,” Hawk cautioned from beside him.
“I’m fine,” he ground out.
“I see you’ve taken my meaning,” Remi said, “and if you don’t believe me, ask her. I have nothing to hide, after all, and neither does she. I certainly did not intend to set my cap in a ring.” The young man eyed him with a singular smile. “You are aware of my tastes, after all. I have nothing to gain.”
“You have a fortune to gain.”
“I have more than enough coin at my disposal, my lord.”
“You were cut off from your family,” Henry hissed. “You have no income.”
“But I do have many, many friends.” Remi bowed in a mocking pose before turning on his heel and striding away to collect his winnings.
Ah. He had sponsors. Much like a mistress, Remi was kept by his guarantors in lavish style in return for the favors he performed, Henry realized. Which was why he never seemed to want for money. Or company.
“I must take my leave,” Henry bit out to Bradburne, and he called for his carriage in the same breath. He would not be responsible for his actions if he remained in the room any longer.
The ride to his house was quick, and Henry hoped to God that his horse was ready. The sooner he could put an end to the betting, the better. Even if Irina had been a part of it at the beginning, he knew that she would not have encouraged it now. She was impulsive, certainly, but she was not foolish.
“Stevens,” he barked with impatience as he strode through the entryway, noting the complete lack of noise. “Where the devil is everyone?”
Stevens rushed into the foyer, his normally stoic countenance ruffled. He held a folded piece of parchment on a silver tray. Henry’s eyes narrowed on the note, and his first thought was that it was from Irina. “What is it?”
“It’s from Dr. Hargrove, my lord,” Stevens said. “It arrived not long ago by express delivery.”
Henry snatched the letter. It was about his mother. She’d taken a turn for the worse, and Dr. Hargrove had instructed Henry to leave for Hartstone at once. The strength drained from his limbs, cold fingers taking hold of his heart. “Where’s my horse?”
“Ready and waiting in the mews, my lord.”
Henry did not want to waste a sing
le minute changing into traveling clothes. He strode toward the back of the house and headed for the stables. The young stableboy had his mount saddled out in the front.
“Thank you,” Henry said, hauling himself astride and turning the horse about.
As much as he wanted to race out of London, he kept the pace sedate as he rode along Cranbourn Street leading out of the mews, careful not to trample anyone walking underfoot. Turning onto a far less crowded street toward Charing Cross Road, he came upon a carriage standing clear in the middle of the road. Its owner, a richly dressed lady, seemed to be in dire need of assistance. She was waving madly at him as he approached and placed herself directly into his path.
Henry wanted to lead his horse around. He did not have the time to stop. He did not want to stop, but years of good breeding demanded he do so.
“Please, my lord,” the lady begged. “Can you please help? Our carriage wheel broke, and I fear my daughter’s leg is injured. She fell. She’s only three.”
Cursing beneath his breath, he alighted. “Where is she?”
“Inside, my lord. I am Lady Barnelby. Please, I beg you, help my poor Sadie.”
As he approached the carriage, his irritation mounting by the second, Henry blinked, taking in the woman’s tear-streaked face and her obvious distress. A thick strand of pearls lay at her throat, though her richly embroidered dress seemed threadbare upon closer scrutiny. His gaze dropped to her gloveless hands, noticing the brown sunspots discoloring her skin. They seemed odd and out of place. Other things like her pronunciation of “you” niggled at him.
The street suddenly seemed unnaturally quiet as they stopped at the entryway to the carriage, the door hanging open drunkenly on one hinge. There was no coachman in sight, either. Henry’s entire body tensed as his brain analyzed the details he’d seen, putting them together and coming up with a tableau that did not make sense. Now he understood why the sunspots had bothered him and why she had an accent. They weren’t out of place, but the gown and jewels were.
Because she was no lady.
She was a highwayman.
Instinct alerted him to the movement of a person inside the carriage far larger than that of a small child. Her accomplice, he presumed.
Henry reached into his own jacket pocket for his pistol and gnashed his teeth. He had not bothered to change into his riding clothes. He had not even stopped to retrieve his bloody pistol for the six-hour ride to Essex.
He felt the cold butt of a gun poke into his ribs as the women in distress pressed close to whisper into his ear. “Inside we go, love. Careful, now.”
Henry wasn’t afraid. He could handle one woman and one gun. What he didn’t know was how many accomplices lay in hiding, not counting the large one inside the carriage. His brain calculated the odds of escape and survival as she shoved him toward the side of the coach.
“I don’t want to have to hurt you,” he warned through his teeth.
“Do ye now?”
Henry lunged forward, knocking the gun out of her palm with one stroke and sending it skidding across the dusty road. He had seconds before the hulking person in the carriage came to her assistance. His pulse pounding in his brain, Henry kicked a leg out, catching her in the backs of hers. She went down like a sack of bricks. This was it. His opening to escape.
Out of the corner of his eye, he detected movement. Another assailant? No, it was someone on a horse that looked vaguely familiar. A boy. Squinting, he recognized one of his stableboys from the mews and the leather harness he carried. Along with his pistol. Stevens must have sent him to deliver it.
Henry hesitated, deliberating whether to run toward the boy or into one of the nearby houses for cover as he’d planned to do.
“Get ’im, Crow,” the woman on the ground screamed.
Henry turned to run, but his hesitation cost him dearly as something unforgiving crunched into the side of his head. Pain flowered in angry waves behind his eyes, making him reel and sway. Dully, Henry looked around to see Crow the coachman, an ugly lumbering beast of a man, wielding a wooden log in hand. The log came toward him again, but Henry was far too disoriented to duck.
It caught him square in the skull.
The last thing he saw as his vision ebbed was the boy riding closer. Henry wanted to warn him to stay away, but no words came. And soon, his thoughts disappeared altogether.
Chapter Twenty-One
Even as a morning person, waking alert and ready without the hazy grog so many others complained about, Irina had always enjoyed a quiet breakfast, especially one after a brisk morning ride.
She preferred chocolate to tea, and would sip it slowly while reading through whatever material was available at the table. Countess Langlevit had always kept papers and journals and pamphlets in the breakfast room, and at Bishop House, Lord Dinsmore would part with his copy of the Times as soon as he was finished with it, though there were always little tsks of disapproval from Lady Dinsmore, should the countess be seated with them. Irina would claim to only be reading the gossip columns, but would happily peruse all the pages, sometimes reading whole articles, other times scanning them quickly.
The morning following her outing to Yardley Botanical Gardens, Irina sat at the breakfast table without her usual calm. Her short ride in Hyde Park had done nothing to temper her anxious spirits. She tapped her foot, the inked headlines made little sense, and she had drained her chocolate within minutes. She couldn’t concentrate on anything it seemed, and the flutter of restless energy in her stomach and chest also made her limbs feel achy with idleness. It was as though her body knew she had to do something but her mind was at a complete loss as to what.
“My dear, are you quite well?” Lord Dinsmore asked from his chair at the head of the table. It wasn’t a long and grand table like the one in the dining room, but a smaller, square table that seated no more than a half dozen people. They were the only two breaking their fast at the moment, though Lady Dinsmore would be arriving shortly, Irina imagined. She nearly wished the countess would arrive, if only to fill the silent room with her chatter.
“Oh yes, of course,” she answered, knowing it was the only acceptable answer. The truth was certainly impossible. Admitting to the Earl of Dinsmore that she could not stop thinking about the salacious way Lord Langlevit had knelt before her in broad daylight, in a public space no less, and set his mouth to the most private part of her body would have given the man a case of apoplexy.
It had even been giving her heart stutters and random flashes of heat and longing. If only they hadn’t been interrupted…if only he could have continued stroking her, caressing her with his tongue and teeth, making her feel equal parts goddess and sinner. It was deliciously wicked, the effect the man had on her.
A rash of warmth swept over her chest, and Irina forced her mind back to her plate and the half-consumed toast and marmalade. She wasn’t hungry, though.
Braxton, the Dinsmore’s butler, entered the breakfast room with his straight-backed, hiked-chin posture and a silver salver in his hand.
“Her Highness has a letter,” he announced and bringing the salver to Irina, bowed as she reached for it. He was, Irina noted with amusement, even more starched with her than he was with his employers. She smiled at his show of propriety as she slit the envelope. The stationery was of Lady Langlevit’s pale-pink stock, and Irina was anxious to hear news of her health. Its downward turn over the last handful of weeks had been startling and concerning, and there was a small palpitation of fear as she unfolded the letter. However, as she noted Lady Langlevit’s own scrawling script upon the paper, the tightness in her chest abated.
Dearest Irina,
Let me put your mind at ease by announcing that I am feeling leagues better than I have been of late. Truly, Doctor Hargrove has commented numerous times over our last few visits that I seem to be on the mend. He has even given me the nod to take a short holiday in Brighto
n with Lady Umbridge, which I will be departing for on the morrow.
Irina eyed the date at the top of the letter. It was dated from two days before, and so by now Lady Langlevit was already on her way to the southern coast. If she recalled correctly, Lady Umbridge was Lady Carmichael’s mother, who lived in Breckenham. Two days ago, both the countess and Lady Umbridge would have still been in the dark about the dissolution of Henry and Rose’s engagement. Perhaps it was for the best for now…they could take their holiday in Brighton still anticipating the joining of their families. If it made Lady Langlevit happy and helped to improve her health, more the better.
Irina finished reading and folded the letter again.
“Good news, I take it?” Lord Dinsmore said as he guided another kipper onto his fork. “You’re smiling,” he added.
She felt the grin upon her cheeks then. “Yes. The countess is feeling much better and is on her way to Brighton.”
“Ah, yes! I have read that sea bathing is quite the restorative. The salt, they say, and the temperature of the water helps improve circulation.” He took an excited breath and continued, “Did you know, there are bathing machines they draw right into the water at the coast? A covered cart really, and the ladies can bathe in complete privacy. I have thought about a trip myself…”
Irina listened politely as he expounded on the benefits of sea bathing, but her mind had already turned a corner ahead and was thinking how Henry must have received a similar letter this morning. He would be glad to hear that his mother was making strides in her health.
It would also make him happy if he knew that Irina had called all of the nonsense off with Max. The betting book at White’s was too far out of her control to stop, but at least Henry would know that she would not be encouraging Max’s suit or accepting any offer. And if he had meant what she’d thought he’d meant yesterday, about making things right, she had to make things right, too.
My Hellion, My Heart Page 26
