The eyes swung away from her and she sighed in relief as Catherine began to chatter. Lilias stepped into the room and edged along the wall. There was a potted plant only a few feet away with conveniently abundant foliage. It would do for the pistol’s short-term hiding place.
“. . . But I did tell Lilias she should dance more often.”
The eyes came her way again. She huffed out a breath. The plant was only a few steps away. She could drop the pistol into it—if only they would look the other direction.
“I do love music.” That bright tone sounded idiotic coming from her mouth. She looked at the dowager, hoping to deflect attention. “Lady Angelstone, do you like music? You seemed to enjoy the concert.”
The eyes swung away again.
“Yes, I do, indeed. Particularly violin music.” The dowager’s severe face softened. “My son plays, you know. He’s quite accomplished.”
Lilias’s fingers convulsed. The pistol fell into the potted soil with a dull thwack. The eyes turned to her again. “I didn’t know.” The whisper tumbled from her lips.
Angel had lied. She’d thought perhaps she’d been mistaken. She couldn’t think why it would matter, except—no, there was no reason why he should lie. What did they share? Sex? Murder? There was very little holding them together.
Yet she felt an inexplicable something luring her in to bind her to him. She wanted to know he played the violin. She wanted to know his favorite food. Whether he preferred winter or summer.
“Yes. He plays the violin.” The dowager spoke again. Her voice was sweeter, her eyes brighter.
“Has he played since he was young?” Did those words come from her lips? Lilias moved forward. Part of her thought of the pistol and hoped it wasn’t visible through the leaves of the potted plant. The other part of her thought of Angel’s long fingers moving over the strings of the violin. The same fingers that skimmed over her skin with such expertise would play a violin with heat and desire and pain. All the things needed to create beautiful music.
She felt the pang in the deepest part of her heart. Music was of the soul. It would be Angel’s soul. Yes, he would guard that.
“He started playing when he was only six.” The dowager’s dark eyes were fathomless.
“He plays almost every day. The instrument comes alive under his hands.” The widowed marchioness, Elise, spoke softly. “Sometimes it makes me cry.”
Lilias dropped into a chair. She didn’t notice the plush cushion, but she did feel the tightening of her pelisse as she tried to snatch a breath. Swift fingers unbuttoned the garment.
“I have never heard him play.” But oh, she wanted to.
“He is attempting to teach my daughter, Maggie.” The widow of the second son, Lady Whitmore, laughed. “She’s abysmal, but he keeps trying.”
“Do you play?” the dowager asked Lilias.
“Not even a little. I cannot play any instrument. Nor can I sing, I’m afraid.” She intended her laugh to be merry, but it sounded strangely sad. “I do enjoy music. Very much. The violin particularly. It has the most—” She struggled to find the word. “Emotion. Depth.”
“Ah.” The dowager’s eyes focused on her. Lilias fought the urge to squirm as silence descended.
Catherine broke it. “We were just discussing the opera. I was hoping to see Miss Byrne in The Beggar’s Opera in the next few days. Have you seen it yet? I have heard her performance is stunning.”
“We are attending the opera next week.” Elise, the younger marchioness, smoothed her pink pelisse over her lap.
The dowager turned her head to look directly at Lilias. “Perhaps you and your mother-in-law would like to accompany us. There is enough room in the box, and Angel is escorting us.”
Tentative approval. She recognized it in the slight curve to the dowager’s lips, the tilt of her head. Unfortunately, the dowager would be thinking marriage. But there was nothing between her and Angel besides lust and espionage. Marriage was not even a glimmer, nor did she want it to be.
She almost said no, they could not attend the opera. She would not lead his family to believe there was more between them. But she wanted to see him again somewhere that was not clandestine. Somewhere not under the cover of darkness.
“We would enjoy it very much,” Lilias said.
“Good.” The dowager stood. “We must take our leave. But I look forward to seeing both of you later this week.”
The rest of the women stood and moved toward the door. Platitudes fell from multiple lips. The dowager set a hand on Lilias’s arm and held her back.
“Mrs. Fairchild, thank you for receiving us today.” Dark eyes held Lilias’s gaze. The hand on her arms squeezed lightly.
“Yes, of course.” She looked down at the dowager marchioness’s kid glove. Tiny fingers, but they held strength. She would have thought them comforting, if she weren’t being eyed by her lover’s mother.
The dowager leaned closer. “I don’t think the dirt will be good for the pistol. You might want to retrieve it quickly.”
“Ah.” What could she say? “Hm.”
“I won’t ask why you have it—though I should—because I learned long ago with my son not to ask such questions. And if you can receive us so graciously with a pistol behind your back, you shall do nicely for my son.” The dowager squeezed her arm again, and this time the squeeze radiated approval. “When you are ready.”
With a final, brilliant smile, the dowager and her daughters-in-law left Fairchild House.
Lilias dropped into the salon chair and ignored the bevy of feminine footsteps in the hall.
She had once been married to an assassin. She couldn’t possibly spend the remaining days of her life married to a spy.
A woman could not make that many poor choices in a single lifetime.
Chapter 22
“WHAT THE BLOODY hell do you mean, ‘Mrs. Fairchild approached Hawthorne with a pistol?’”
Very slowly, very deliberately, Angel stood. He set his hands on the desktop and stared menacingly at his informant. It wasn’t quite rage gripping him. Disbelief, perhaps. Shock, even. Utter incredulity, most certainly.
“She approached Hawthorne with a pistol, my lord. I caught a glimpse of it in her hand as she left Fairchild House and entered the carriage.” Jones did not blink. He simply continued in his report. He might have been recounting his dinner meal. “The carriage then went to Hawthorne’s lodgings. A boy was hired to take a message to the door. Hawthorne joined her in the carriage and they proceeded to drive around the block a few times. Then Hawthorne was set down in front of his lodgings again.”
Lilias had approached Hawthorne. With a weapon. She must have confronted him. There was no other possibility. Damn the woman, if Hawthorne were an Adder she had tipped his hand. Four years of secrets and grief and hard work, gone in a fit of temper.
He set his hand over the round medallion on the corner of his desk. Small and silver, and washed of Gemma’s blood—but never clean.
“Where is Mrs. Fairchild, at this moment?” He needed to know so he could throttle her.
“At home, my lord. It is nearly eleven in the evening, and she did not attend any social engagements this evening. I believe she has already retired.” Jones stepped aside as Angel strode past.
He didn’t bother calling the carriage. He went to the mews to saddle his horse himself.
He knew which bedroom belonged to Lilias. He had spent numerous nights these last weeks standing watch outside Fairchild House. He knew her nightly habits. She would read. A light novel, perhaps. Poetry. Then her light would be snuffed out and she would sleep. Sometimes the candle would be relit in the early hours of the morning. Nightmares, he suspected. He had seen the pattern a few nights himself and Jones had noted it as well.
The room was still lit when he tapped on the glass of her window. He could have entered on his ow
n—there were ways to accomplish such things—but it would be faster and easier for her to open the window. And he was clinging to the side of Fairchild House like a damn spider to a chandelier, miles above the earth and just as precariously.
Her head jerked up, her eyes unfocused for the briefest of moments. The book she read fell from her hands to the bed. He might have noticed the long rope of braided hair over her shoulder. Or perhaps the candlelight playing on her collarbone as she pushed back the coverlet.
He was too infuriated by the case of dueling pistols set prominently on a chest of drawers.
Then she was flying across the floor in a blur of white linen and bare feet. The window popped open and her fingers scrabbled for the lapels of his coat. She drew him in, over the windowsill and onto the carpeted floor. He’d be gratified under other circumstances at her hurried movements. Just now he was itching to battle with her.
“Have you no brains in your head?” She shoved lightly at him, then turned toward the glass. “You are three stories above the ground!” The window closed with a snick.
“You confronted Hawthorne today.” The idea of it, the picture of Lilias trapped in a carriage with a potential assassin, chilled his blood.
He saw only her back as she reached for the window latch, but it went rigid. Shoulders tightened. She stilled, hand poised just above the fastener. He did not have even an ounce of sympathy for her.
“I did speak with Hawthorne.” She did not turn around. Her hand landed on the fastener, twisted it to lock the window. Her skin shone translucent in the candlelight, revealing blue veins beneath. Then her fingers flexed and dropped away. She turned to face him, eyes bright, color high. “He is not an Adder.”
She might have compromised everything. Everything. Years of investigations into assassinations. Monarchs, politicians, countries. Alliances with Britain. So many men and women murdered by the Death Adders. Gemma. Even her husband.
“Do you know what you’ve done?” He stalked across the room toward the chest of drawers. The pistol case lay atop it, as volatile as if the weapons were alive.
“I believe you are about to enlighten me.” Temper sparked in her voice.
Well, he had temper of his own. “If Jason Hawthorne is a Death Adder, you’ve warned him. He’ll go to ground before I’ve gathered enough evidence to—” He stopped the flow of words. Link Hawthorne to Gemma’s murder. The words were just there, on the tip of his tongue. He swallowed them. “To link him to the Death Adders.”
He flipped open the lid of the pistol case. They were exceptional pieces. All the more reason she should not touch them.
“Hawthorne isn’t an Adder. I’m sure of it.”
She stalked forward and flipped the lid of the case down. It snapped on his fingers and he stupidly jumped back, no better than a small boy caught doing something he shouldn’t.
“Did you confront him with a pistol?” He flipped the lid open again. The pearl handles of the pistols glowed yellow-gold. He picked up one of the weapons, tested the weight, the shape. “With one of these?”
“Yes. They were Jeremy’s. And don’t insult me by asking if I can use them.”
It didn’t matter if she could use them or not. He sighted down the barrel, aiming it at the wall. “You might have died, Lilias. Even with the pistol, if he were an assassin, he could have killed you before you even fired a shot. It was an utterly foolish idea.”
“He is my close friend. I have every right to—”
“No, you don’t.” He turned to look at her, still aiming the weapon at the wall. That she even thought she could approach an Adder was beyond bearing. Voice cold and even, he said, “This is my investigation. The government’s investigation. You are impeding and interfering with an investigation affecting His Majesty.”
She sucked in a breath. The linen of her nightgown rose with the indignant movement. “This affects my life as well. It was my husband that was an assassin. My friend who is under suspicion now.”
She reached for the weapon in his hand. Did she think to wrest it from him? It might be loaded. This proved she was incapable of understanding the gravity of her actions. He lifted it high above his head. She would be unable to take it unless she climbed up his body.
“You’re being ridiculous.” Eyes narrowed to dangerous slits, she began to circle him. “Have you been reduced to childhood games? Keep the toy above your head, so other children can’t steal it from you?”
Confound it, she had a point. But he didn’t lower his hand. “I want your word, Lilias, that you won’t interfere again.”
“I won’t give it.” She pressed her lips together and set her hand on the lid of the case, though she did not touch the second pistol tucked into the velvet. A subtle threat. “I’m part of this.”
“Only when I allow it, and I do not.”
Her eyes went dark with fury, her chin rose, spine straightened. If possible, she’d grown by inches. “Only when you allow it?”
He lowered his hand, slowly and carefully, keeping the pistol pointed at the ground. He knew he was breaking some tie between them. Whatever relationship was building on their attraction would be broken. But he could not think of another way to keep her safe. “There is no reason for you to be involved. I have gathered all the information I need from you. I will manage Hawthorne.”
She stepped forward, making no move toward the weapon. She must have learned not to approach an armed man. But her eyes were just as lethal as the pistol. “Bastard.”
He did not answer. So he was—at least in character.
Color rose high on her cheeks. Not embarrassment. Anger. “Get out of my room.”
“Do not approach Hawthorne or any other Adder alone. Ever. Stay out of the investigation.”
She ignored him. “Give me the pistol.” She held out her hand, palm up.
He was tempted to take the set with him. He should, for her own good. But leaving her unarmed didn’t sit well, either. She’d only obtain another pistol, he was sure. He knew that much about her.
“Is it loaded?”
“No. Jeremy taught me how to safely unload a pistol when—” She broke off, let her hand drop. “Your mother and sisters-in-law called upon me today. Your mother saw the pistol.”
“I beg your pardon?” He couldn’t quite understand what she’d said. The words did not make sense.
“Your mother called upon me. Did you ask her to?”
“I did not.” His mother had been in Fairchild House, on a social call. That was not good. In fact, it was very, very bad for his marital prospects. He’d have to explain the pistol away as well. “I’ll set her straight. She won’t inconvenience you again.”
“It is not your mother that is the nuisance. It is you.” She held out her hand again, her eyes daring him to keep the pistol from her.
Oh, it stung to give her the weapon. But leaving her with nothing—he narrowed his eyes and watched how she handled it. Gingerly. Respectfully. And quite comfortably. Frighteningly so.
“Stay away from Hawthorne,” he ground out. “Don’t embark on any more personal missions.”
She paused in the act of setting the pistol in its velvet bed. “Not even when it elicits information? Such as the fact that Hawthorne has a bastard daughter? That he has no knowledge of Jeremy’s actions?”
“Damnation,” he whispered. He scrubbed a hand over his face. Jones hadn’t discovered the bastard. Yet.
She had learned something useful. And wasn’t that a thorn in a spy’s side. She knew it, too. He couldn’t let that matter. One incorrect step, one word in the wrong person’s ear, and she would be dead.
“Do you think Hawthorne would not lie to you?”
“Yes. If he were an Adder, he would.” She turned to face him, her eyes cold and distant. “I do not believe he is lying.”
“You do not believe.” Well, they would see abou
t that. “No more, Lilias. Your word.”
None of the sensual warmth he’d come to recognize was visible in her face. Only disinterest. She angled her head. Not a gesture of assent, not a refusal.
That, too, did not matter. For the foreseeable future she would be watched by his agents.
“Good night, my lord.” Not Angel, nor even Angelstone. My lord.
Very well. “Good night, Mrs. Fairchild.”
He strode to the window and opened the latch. It took only a moment to push it open, hoist himself onto the ledge and reach for the rope hanging from the roof.
“Do take care not to fall to your death,” she said. “It would leave a nasty mess in the morning.”
Chapter 23
SHE FOUGHT HER way out of slumber riddled with dreams. Jeremy’s face blurring with Angel’s. Hawthorne. Grant. They were all a tangle in her mind.
Fog muddled her brain. The throbbing behind her eyes told her the tears she’d wanted to shed after Angel’s departure still lingered there. When she opened her eyes the nearly complete darkness smothered her. But perhaps it was only the coverlet tucked close around her face. One part of her mind thought to pull the warm, thick coverlet aside and free herself from the heavy darkness.
But she didn’t move.
Awareness slid into her, a sense of unease that sent her pulse skittering. Breathing evenly and carefully, she let her eyes roam the room. Beyond the coverlet, moonlight filtered in to create silver shadows. She let the disquiet hum beneath her skin for a moment. A breeze fluttered over her face.
Her mind screamed the warning. Move!
She rolled fast and hard, over and over until she dropped onto the floor beside the bed. Scrambling up, she looked through moonlight to the other side of her bed. Fear shot through her as the figure dressed in black leapt nimbly onto the bed. The cloth he wore over his nose and mouth fluttered with his breath.
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