Behind the Marquess's Mask (The Lords of Whitehall Book 1) (5 page)

“Stop. I—” Her voice broke.

Grey didn’t bother looking down at her or slowing his pace at all. If he ignored her, perhaps she would just lie still and keep quiet for him.

“I want you—” she rasped.

He scowled down at her with a glare designed to silence, and it worked. Though, he could have picked better timing if he wanted to stay angry.

“You want me?” he asked after a short silence, one side of his mouth twitching and curling up. “If only I had a guinea for every time a troublesome girl said that to me after I gallantly saved her from a fate worse than death”—he shook his head, looking straight ahead again—“I would have exactly one guinea.”

Kathryn frowned. “Put me down!”

“You can’t walk,” he pointed out.

“I don’t need a giant brute like you to carry me,” she insisted breathlessly. “Go away.”

“What do you plan to do? Crawl home?”

Kathryn wisely did not reply. Grey almost wished she had kept arguing with him just so he could hear what came out of her mouth next. The woman was refreshingly acerbic and unpredictable. If only she wasn’t so much bleeding trouble.

Two silent minutes later, they arrived at the mews, and she was carefully settled inside the Grenville crested carriage with two of Grey’s own livery set to guard her.

“Thank you,” she muttered. Though to Grey, it sounded more as a reluctant nicety.

He leaned in through the open door of the carriage. “Now I
know
you have been told this before, and I understand women hate being told something twice.” He sent her an imploring look. “Please stop walking about on your own at night.”

She pursed her lips together.

“Monsters can be found even at the most elite of parties,” he added matter-of-factly as he straightened. “And since I saved you from one so gallantly, I expect tea and cakes.” He raised a finger for emphasis. “Tea and cakes, Kathryn.”

The door snapped shut.

“I am sending your mother to you, so in the name of all things holy, stay in this carriage!”

She nodded, and then Grey left her to return through the garden and have a conversation he could very well have done without this evening, mostly because he was positive the first thing Lady Grenville would do when she arrived home was write to Lord Grenville.

He ought to think about settling a larger annuity on his mother.

Once the Grenville carriage was off with Lady Grenville and Kathryn, Grey turned with relish back toward the garden. He had been terribly inconvenienced tonight, so someone had to pay for it, someone who’d had this coming for a long time.

Bexley was constantly throwing trouble in Grey’s direction. Twice, he had sent out false invitations for Ainsley House whilst Grey had been entertaining ladies of the demimonde. That stunt had almost cost Grey the mission, as he had been working to obtain a bundle of incriminating documents from one of the courtesans. Another time, he had sent a magistrate to a duel between Grey and the Earl of Haverton in hopes of getting him thrown in prison. He had also accused Grey of cheating at cards with the ambassador to the Austrian Empire. Grey had narrowly avoided execution on that occasion, and even that hadn’t been the worst of it. The list was endless.

Grim anticipation settled over Grey as he made his way through the dimly lit paths. His hands itched for what was coming—he craved it—though it would hardly satisfy him. Each corner of the path was rounded deliberately, without speed or over-excitement, until Grey reached the moaning heap precisely where he had left him.

“Bexley, is that you?” Grey asked in a deceptively friendly tone as he approached.

Bexley rolled to sit upright, one hand rubbing the back of his head. “Ainsley, I have been attacked!” he said.

“You don’t say!” As soon as Grey reached Bexley, he pulled him up by his cravat with one fist then powered the other across his jaw without warning.

Bexley’s head flung to the side with a surprised yelp.

“Then again, perhaps you deserved a good thrashing,” Grey added.

“You are mad!” Bexley bared his teeth as he twisted from the grip at his neck and sent a fist powering through the air, aimed at Grey’s chin.

Grey jerked back, narrowly missing the unexpected strike.

“A gentleman does not get sloshed in the presence of ladies,” Grey said icily, sending another blow to Bexley’s jaw, bloodying his hand.

Bexley spat out a mouthful of blood.

“A gentleman does not force himself upon a lady against her w—”

Grey was cut off with a hard blow to his jaw, slicing the inside of his mouth against his teeth.

He smiled dangerously. “And a gentleman certainly does not hurt a lady, even if he hits like a schoolmarm.”

Bexley growled, hunching over and lunging at Grey. Grey bent forward and gripped him by the waist at the impact. Twisting him to the ground, he dropped his knee on Bexley’s chest with an audible crack to hold him there.

Bexley wheezed, no doubt from a few cracked ribs.

“The lady’s father is a close friend of mine. What would he think if I allowed some sodding pig like you to have his way with her?” he said through clenched teeth and then spat blood out on the ground next to him.

Bexley grunted then chuckled to himself.

Grey clenched his jaw, applying just a little extra pressure with his knee. Bexley groaned painfully before Grey eased himself up, stepping back to gain some distance.

The late Lord Bexley had been a friend of Grey’s, and that was enough for Grey to hold himself in check, though he wanted to kill the whelp for what he had done to Kathryn.

“If you touch her again I shall have no issue smearing your brains across the cobblestones with my bare hands,” Grey rumbled. “Do I make myself plain?”

Bexley nodded, wiping blood from his mouth.

Grey looked on icily as Bexley rolled to sit upright, grunting painfully and holding his side. Then Grey turned around and left for the mews. It was far past time for him to leave, and he was terribly late for his after-an-incredibly-painful-societal-function decanter of scotch.

The stuff wasn’t going to drink itself into oblivion.

T
he next morning
, Kathryn sat at her writing desk, looking out the window at the garden below. She had written and rewritten an apology to Lord Ainsley, thanking him for his kindness and discretion. Nevertheless, hours later, six attempts lay balled up in the wastebasket beside her, and she still had no idea what to say.

Her cheeks flamed again at the memories, all of them: her insulting dismissal, his wicked reaction to it, and him saving her from ravishment.

Her arm still bore the bruises of the struggle, and her lip was still somewhat swollen where it had split under the pressure of the drunkard’s mouth. Otherwise, she hadn’t any injuries, certainly no lasting ones except, perhaps, the loss of her peace of mind.

Kathryn was wretched, finding some small comfort in hot chocolate and novels. When those failed, she tried to keep herself too busy to think about the marquess, but nothing worked overly well. She spattered her favorite muslin attempting watercolors since she had forgotten her cover; repeatedly pricked her fingers on embroidery since she had forgotten her thimble; and then made her fingers throb on the pianoforte since she had forgotten she had pricked them.

After a day or two of that, she went back to the safe diversion of novels and poetry. They seemed much less hazardous. Or so she had thought. She read until the words blurred on the pages. She then awoke with her eyes aching behind their lids, and by the time she fell asleep, they were throbbing.

Even so, that wasn’t nearly as painful as when she had nothing to occupy her thoughts. Then she was weighed down with loneliness, emptiness, and a desperate feeling of being a complete stranger to herself, not to mention excruciatingly bored.

“Lady Kathryn, you have a gentleman caller.”

Kathryn visibly startled, swinging her head around to find Jenkins, who had apparently snuck into the library with the finesse of a thief.

“I shall see him in the drawing room.” She took a deep breath, trying to calm her pulse back down to a safe pace. She had survived so much; it would be a pity if she expired from being startled to death by her own elderly butler, in her own library, no less.

Jenkins bowed and left to escort the guest to the appointed room. After he left, she realized she should have asked her caller’s name, though who else would call on her? It must be the marquess.

Kathryn licked her lips nervously, deliberately walking along all the shelves before returning her book to its proper place. She cleared her throat, and with a deep breath, she forced herself to walk to the drawing room, not stopping until she stepped through the doorway.

She was surprised for a moment as she watched a somewhat round man with white hair taking tea on the settee. She donned a warm smile and greeted him, both relieved and somewhat disappointed.

He stood as soon as she stepped into the room.

“Welcome to Grenville House,” Kathryn said kindly as she gave him her hand and sat.

“Lady Kathryn,” greeted the older man with a smile. “You look lovely.”

“Thank you. If you have come for my mother, I am afraid she’s not in. She’s out to Bond Street today.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Oh? Did Jenkins tell you?” Kathryn asked. She was surprised the reserved butler would supply any unnecessary information. He had barely told
her
where her mother had gone.

“Never mind that,” he replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I came here to see you. I heard you were recovered, and I wanted to see for myself.”

“Did you?” she asked, raising her brow at his frankness. “Well, as you can see, I am perfectly well, Mr.… er…”

“Matthews,” he interjected then cleared his throat soberly. “Just Matthews.”

“Of course,” Kathryn replied, nodding as though the name bore some significance. Apparently, the man did not like to be forgotten.

“Have you heard from your father recently?” he asked, his bushy brows lifting in inquiry.

“No,” Kathryn answered. “Mother writes him often enough. She hopes to have him back from France soon. I do, as well. I imagine it’s still dangerous so soon after the war.”

“The war.” Matthews chuckled. “We were both there years back, fighting together against the French. We were quite the formidable band of soldiers.”

“I would hardly call two men a formidable band,” Kathryn said, taking a sip from her tea.

“Not just Grenville and I. There were Captain Sharpe and Major Wells, too—that is, Lord Ainsley and Lord Pembridge before they came into their titles. They were young bucks back then, but they were brave and fierce. Outshined us veterans, I am ashamed to say, and proud. I taught those boys everything, and they excelled at it as no one could.”

The revelation shouldn’t have been a shock. She ought to have suspected the marquess would have joined in the war. A man with his thirst for violence would.

Kathryn raised her brows. “I see. I understand how Ainsley would be useful on the battlefield, though I heard he has a temper. Surely, that was bothersome.”

Matthews’ brow furrowed with indignation. “That boy cut down more enemies and saved more lives than I care to remember. If he loses his top once or twice, I don’t think it’s too much to ask to turn a blind eye.”

As strange as the thought was, she couldn’t argue. The man had saved her life, hadn’t he?

Matthews cleared his throat again, shaking his head. “It was good to find you out of the sick bed, Lady Kathryn.” He stood and bowed over her hand, taking Kathryn off guard.

“Leaving so soon?” she asked in bewilderment.

“I am afraid so,” he replied. “I wish I had more than these few minutes, but I can never be away from the office for long.” Then he was striding from the room and down the hall, his heels sounding against the marble once he reached the vestibule.

“Oh, fishtails,” Kathryn mumbled, taking a sip of her tea. Talk of the war must have upset him. She should have been more careful and thoughtful than to speak of violence and temper so cavalierly. Now she had offended a friend of her father’s and the only person who had thought to visit her.

She set her teacup on the saucer with a clatter. “Fishtails!”

* * *

T
he minute Grey
laid his eyes on Matthews he had no doubts in his mind something had stuck in that man’s craw. Grey leaned lazily on the doorframe with his arms crossed as he took in the sight of his director’s misery in the dim, smoky room. Matthews sat scowling at a scrap of stationery from under deeply furrowed brows with a half-empty decanter of bourbon close by. His desk nearly disappeared under stacks of reports and random bits of scribbled on paper. His white hair had been mussed from leaning his head on his hands, and his waistcoat had been unbuttoned a quarter of the way down. The man looked about to hang himself, and it was only midday.

“Death must be behind on his quota,” Grey drawled from the door then added with mock sympathy, “and it doesn’t look as though he will make it today. I hope you can manage the disappointment of living to tomorrow.”

Matthews lifted a sour face to Grey, narrowing his eyes in immediate annoyance before focusing his attention back on the papers in his hand.

“You are concentrating too hard, Matthews,” he said carelessly. “Nothing can be this distressing. If there’s a problem, send me and I shall deal with it. That’s what I am here for.”

“Some things require tact. This department is not all search and destroy, Ainsley,” Matthews retorted.

“Sure it is.” He chuckled in dark anticipation. “Come now. I have been back more than two months, and you have not thrown me one bone. There must be someone you need out of the way. Someone to assassinate for the good of England; some horrific psychopath gone mad since Napoleon was imprisoned, cutting up the English populace; some murdering lunatic the local authorities can’t handle. I am not particular.”

He sauntered toward the desk and reached for a glass of bourbon no doubt meant for Matthews. It was one of three. The director must have lost the first in the mess of papers and poured another, twice.

Grey plopped down into a chair facing the desk and relaxed deeply into it.

“No assassination, exactly. There’s a situation with one of our own,” the older man muttered down toward the papers under his nose. “They had a nasty accident.”

“They know the risks when they join the ranks,” Grey said casually, though his chest tightened painfully. “It’s war whether the world sees it or not. There’s no glory or job well done. There’s rarely room for mistakes and second chances. That’s just the way of it.” Grey felt his hand flex around the snifter, and he stretched his legs, fixating on relaxing his muscles.

“I cannot accept that, lad. Not this time,” Matthews said, shaking his head. “Something has to be done.”

Grey was stoically silent as he watched sweat bead over Matthews’s forehead. “Do we not have a protocol in place for this kind of threat?” he asked offhandedly. “
Your
protocol, I might add. Send the man away and me in to remove the threat. Then reassign the bungler—if you dare.”

Matthews scoffed.

Grey took another drink from his glass. “Or at the least, put him in a country cottage and give him back his life. He’s a liability and would be much better off quitting this business. Better for him and better for us by a damn sight.”

“Impossible. The attack nearly killed her, but she survived,” Matthews muttered with a scowl. “Her memory was not so fortunate. She has no idea about any of this.”

“All the more reason to leave her be. Her loss of memory is a gift. If she…” Grey trailed off with a knit brow. He set down the snifter and began flexing his hand into his thigh to avoid shattering the glass.

Matthews shook his head despairingly. “She will not stand a chance without protection. She won’t even see them coming. Even if she
could
remember, she was never trained for this sort of thing.”

“Matthews,” Grey asked hesitantly, “you didn’t employ a
girl
, did you?”

“Not just a girl,” Matthews muttered. “Grenville’s daughter.”

Grey stared unbelievingly at the older man, calmly ignoring the deafening pounding in his ears. “
Whose
daughter?”

“She wasn’t meant to be involved in anything dangerous, just gossip,” he insisted. “Nonetheless, she got her hands on something which seemed entirely insignificant. I still don’t understand why it happened.”

“It happened,” Grey ground out irritably, “because she’s an innocent girl, and you put her in the company of men who kill people!”

“How many of our men have been attacked in London, Grey? It’s just not done.”

“Look at me, Matthews,” Grey said, his voice raised. “
I am
in London! How many men have
I
killed?”

“Men!” Matthews shot back. “You have killed men!”

“And you thought she would be safe because she’s a woman?” Grey asked incredulously.

“Yes!”

“Poppycock!” Grey shouted angrily. He glared dangerously at the director from across the desk before he forced himself to calm down.

Matthews couldn’t understand the responsibility Grey felt. He didn’t know about Grenville’s request and the debt Grey owed.

“We have both seen what our enemies can do to a body,” Grey said then paused for a deep, steadying breath. “And we both know what happened to Kathryn was not out of the realm of possibility, nor was it the worst scenario, but that hardly matters now. What’s done is done.”

Matthews nodded grimly. “It is. I am glad you see it. Now, I want you to—”

“Oh, no,” Grey interrupted with a grim chuckle. “This is
your
error, Matthews. You may have the pleasure of explaining to Grenville how you managed to employ and endanger his daughter. I shall have none of it except to hunt down the bastard who raised his hand to her.
That,
I shall gladly do.”

“I am afraid there’s more to it than that, Ainsley,” another voice broke in on their conversation.

Grey turned in his chair to see Saint Brides standing in the doorway.

“The Chief Operating Officer is involved in this?” Grey asked with a raised brow.

“I am,” Saint Brides confirmed. At only four and twenty, the Earl of Saint Brides was the most respected man at Whitehall for his sense of justice and analytical superiority. He might not be the most charismatic gentleman in government, but he was beyond a doubt the most intelligent.

“And
you
are authorizing this little charade?” Grey asked. “You, who are the most tight-arsed stickler for rules and regulations I have ever known?”

Saint Brides frowned. “I don’t like it, but I can’t do much else. Being the daughter of a Member of Parliament, she’s under our protection.”

“Ship her off to Italy,” Grey suggested. “Hide her there. No one will expect it.”

“And if they find her a thousand miles from home?” Saint Brides shook his head. “No, it’s much easier to keep an eye on our enemy if he’s in our backyard, and we want this target eliminated. At the same time, this is a delicate situation. We must take her family into consideration.”

“What do you know of her family?” Grey asked icily.