“Even now?” Grey asked softly.
“Even now,” she said firmly.
Caro had found love, which he never had, and she was happy. Grey believed Blackbriar was vicious enough to kill her if he found out about the affair. Her lover had not come to her rescue when she’d been blackmailed. As her friend, Grey had. In his view, if her lover was too much of a coward to have helped her, he wasn’t worthy of her love.
But there was no point trying to make Caro understand that.
“Even though I’m afraid,” she said, eyes sparkling, “love is worth it. Someday you’ll understand, Grey.”
“I’m not going to fall in love, Caro.” Nor did he want to talk about it.
“What’s wrong, Grey? Is it about the money? I know it is a lot of money—”
“Who could have found out the child isn’t Blackbriar’s?” He asked the question more tersely than he’d intended. “You said you were careful, so how did this man get hold of the truth? Could your lady’s maid have guessed?”
“You asked me this before, Grey. I don’t know how anyone could know! I’ve never said a word to anyone. I’ve only met him here, using Cynthia as my reason to leave the house.”
“Could your maid have guessed you had been undressed and redressed?”
Earnestly, Caro shook her head. “Lady Ponsonby has always provided a maid for me. I would bathe before returning home, for I know there is a scent after making love.”
“Caro, if no one could have known, how could you be blackmailed?”
She stared at him, gnawing her lip with her teeth. “I don’t know! But you do believe me, Grey? That I’ve made sure no one found out?”
She looked desperate, ready to burst into tears. He hated the sound of a woman’s tears. They reminded him of his sisters’, and how he had failed them both. “I believe you.”
“I saw that terrible story about your father in one of the newssheets,” she said. “It’s not true, is it? Your father killed himself. That’s been the secret you worked to protect. That your father took his own life.”
He hadn’t admitted the truth to anyone. Not Caroline. Not even Caradon or Saxonby, his most trusted friends. “He killed himself.” Essentially it was true. His father wouldn’t be dead if he hadn’t been such a sick, selfish, perverted bastard.
“You haven’t found the blackmailer yet, have you? You haven’t put an end to it yet?”
Her questions speared him with guilt. He’d promised to protect her. “Not yet.”
“This is the thing that could destroy me.” Caroline trembled and went pale. “If this blackmailer were to go to my husband—”
“That’s not going to happen. I’m going to find out who he is.”
Seeing Caroline’s frightened face, Grey knew what he had to do. He had to get at the truth through Helena. Even though no one had recognized her picture, logic told him she had to be involved with the blackmailer. The blackmailer must have sent her to discover his private secrets, so he would become a victim too.
His cock wanted to believe differently. It wanted to believe Miss Winsome was innocent.
Innocent women didn’t rifle through desks.
What he had to do was end this. Find the blackmailer. And Miss Winsome was his only connection.
You care for her too much to frighten her. Or hurt her.
He scrubbed his hand over his jaw. It was true, but he had to push it aside. He couldn’t care for her—
“Oh, thank you, Grey,” Caro breathed, her face glowing with relief and hope. “Thank you so much. But I must go now.
He
might come to me tonight. I wrote him a letter, begging to see him. Surely he will finally come to me . . .” She hurried to the mirror over the mantelpiece, tidied her hair, and slapped her cheeks lightly to put color in them.
It amazed him she would go from desperate fear to desperate desire in seconds. The “he” was her lover, who had distanced himself from her once she got pregnant. “I’ll leave first,” Grey said.
He slipped out the door and returned to the main salon. Across the room, he saw Sax, who was pulling on his hair in frustration. Gut tightening, Grey reached Saxonby in a second. “Damnation, you’ve lost sight of her, haven’t you?”
Sax raked his hand through his silver hair. “She sent me to get more champagne, and while I turned to summon a footman, she hurried over to Lady Ponsonby. Said I’d admitted to being madly in love with Ponsy and it was my fantasy to bed her. By the time I managed to break free of busty Ponsy, your mistress has disappeared. Who is she, by the way?”
“That doesn’t matter, damn it. What matters is where she is. . . .”
He knew where she was, and Ponsy was here.
With Lady Ponsonby blocking Greybrooke, Helena knew she had only minutes to do something dangerous and bold. She hurried toward the double doors of the salon, where Greybrooke’s mysterious woman had vanished—
A man grasped her by the arm. “My dear, accompany me on a stroll? Out to a private balcony. I would enjoy rogering you beneath the stars.”
The man was masked and dressed in elegant evening clothes. “Please let me go.” Then desperately, she added, “I came with the Duke of Greybrooke.”
“Just because he is the horse you brought to the stable doesn’t mean you can’t take another stallion for a ride.”
“But he’s my favorite and he’s hardly broken in yet,” she threw back.
Her retort surprised the man, and she wrenched her arm free. She slipped away, weaving through the crowd filled with the most elegant people of Society.
She blinked wildly as she plunged from candlelight to gloom. A door opened ahead of her and a figure in a black cloak stepped out. Helena rushed forward and put her hand on the woman’s shoulder. “I must talk to you about Greybrooke.”
Huge, dark green eyes stared at her. The woman was as white as a sheet. “Why? Who are you? Did he send you—did my husband send you?”
“No. I came with the Duke of Greybrooke. He came here to meet you, didn’t he? Why?” She had remembered Greybrooke’s confrontation with the blackmailer. When they had spoken of a woman Grey was trying to protect. Helena had assumed it must be one of his sisters. It was a hunch, but she asked, “Is Greybrooke protecting you from a blackmailer?”
“Did he tell you? How could you
know?
”
“No, he didn’t tell me.”
The woman grabbed her arm, her grip strong enough to leave bruises. She dragged Helena back into the room and shut the door. “If you are working for my husband, I will pay you for your silence. I will give you anything you want.”
“Of course I’m not. I don’t even know who your husband is.”
But the woman was too careful to reveal his name. She rested her hand on her tummy, just as Lady Winterhaven did—
“Oh, you are expecting a child.”
The woman looked panicked. Helena’s stomach roiled. “It’s not . . . Greybrooke’s child?”
“No! It’s my husband’s.” But the woman was blushing, shaking. It was obvious her words were a lie. “Grey and I have never been lovers, but we have been friends since we were children. Oh, I would have wed him happily when I was sixteen, but Grey refuses to marry. He’s been a devoted friend and he’s helped me. But I can’t tell you anything else. I
won’t
.”
“You
are
the woman Greybrooke is protecting from the blackmailer.”
“I won’t talk about it. You must go!” The woman waved wildly at the door.
It didn’t make sense. What secret could the blackmailer have against Grey that endangered this woman too? If it wasn’t a love affair, what could it be? Could this woman have been involved in treason?
“You must tell me. Greybrooke has given this man thousands of pounds. What hold does this man have over him?”
Her eyes wild, dilated, the woman rushed to the fireplace and snatched up the poker. She waved it in a sweeping arc. “Leave me alone! If my husband finds out any of this, he will kill me. Do you understand? He will strangle me or shoot me or throw me in the Thames. He will kill my baby and me, and he will enjoy doing it. If it weren’t for Grey’s protection—”
The woman broke off, holding the poker back behind her head, ready to strike. She choked down sobs, making desperate hiccupping sounds.
“This is something you must know,” Helena said firmly. “Greybrooke confronted the blackmailer in a brothel, and the man threatened him with a pistol. This man is dangerous. Perhaps deadly.”
“D-did he shoot at Grey?”
“Not this time. But Greybrooke is hunting this man, and if he gets too close, very possibly this villain would kill to save his own life—”
“I had no choice! I wasn’t worried about me, but about the baby. I went to the baby’s father at first. But he is married, and he said he couldn’t help me. I couldn’t pay blackmail. I don’t even receive pin money. Blackbriar would not even allow me that, in case it gave me the ability to run away. He wants me trapped. I know Grey thinks the baby’s father is a coward, and I am beginning to see Grey is right. He used to meet me here, and he never comes anymore. He always has excuses. Even if they were true . . . if a man loved you . . . he would come to you when you needed him, wouldn’t he?”
Helena knew she must give the truth. “Unless he was a scoundrel.”
The woman sank to a chair. The poker clattered on the floor. “I’ve been a fool. I was so terribly alone. I couldn’t face a future without ever having love. I even tried to seduce Grey—”
The woman broke off. “You look horrified. Grey refused me, you know. He said it would ruin the precious friendship we have. Don’t judge me. My marriage is worse than unhappy! I’ve spent years waiting for Blackbriar to beat me to death. To finally kill me. I live a wretched, awful nightmare. I married a demon. And if he found out my child is not his, he would kill me. I owe my very life to Grey!”
A sharp rap sounded on the door. It rattled. Greybrooke’s voice, dark and ominous, sounded on the other side. “Winsome, open this door now or I will kick it in.”
Helena turned, but the blond jumped to her feet, hurried to the door, and turned the key in the lock. Greybrooke threw the door open.
He looked from the shaking, beautiful blond to her. “How much does she know?” he asked the blond—the Countess of Blackbriar.
“I—I suppose everything now,” the countess said. “But she isn’t working for my husband.”
“No, I don’t think she is.” He stalked across the room; his face as black as thunder. Helena gasped as he grasped her arm. He yanked her to him; she fell against his chest.
“I know you searched my desk. Now you’re spying on me. Who in hell hired you?”
Her heart leapt in her throat. Greybrooke’s green eyes were dark, like a storm-filled sky. How did he know she’d searched the desk? She needed a story—she couldn’t give him the truth.
He must have known since before he put her in the town house, before he bought her clothes and jewels, before he took her virginity.
It explained why he had seemed so cold and angry when he had said she would be his mistress. But he had made love to her so many times in so many ways . . . he had coaxed her to trust him to let him spank her and tie her up.
She’d seen him come with her, looking so vulnerable her heart ached. She’d seen him smile at her. He’d sketched her, sharing with her a talent he’d never told anyone about. He’d read to her. He’d given her the very first waltz she’d ever danced. He had asked, in a self-depreciatory way, if he met her expectations.
She’d thought something special had been growing between them. She’d thought that he did trust her. That she had touched him in a way no one else had.
All along, he’d been pretending. Lying to her.
Oh God, why had he done all this if he had known she was spying on him? Her tongue was paralyzed with shock—with guilt.
“You wanted to be my mistress,” he growled. “I assume it was so you could spy on me. Well, my dear, you are going to get more than you bargained for.”
“I
am telling you the
truth,
Greybrooke. I don’t know anything about the blackmailer.”
“You don’t lie particularly well,” Grey said as he led Miss Winsome up her town house stairs to her bedroom. All the way here, she had insisted she knew nothing.
He remembered the way she had given in to tears after the man had held her hostage. Deep in his soul, he wanted to believe her.
But he didn’t trust himself. He used to hope for his parents’ love. Yearn for it like a pitiful dog that was constantly kicked, yet kept returning in the hopes it would be patted.
“Please, believe me. I was just being . . . curious. Your desk was so beautiful and I just looked at the things in it. I know it is wrong, but . . .”
She lifted her chin and looked at him with her remarkable self-possession, just as she had done on the first afternoon he’d met her—when he’d scooped her and Michael out of the way of a speeding carriage.
“You wouldn’t tell me why you wanted to do naughty things with me,” she said. “I wanted to understand you.”
“You wouldn’t go through my desk to do that. You wanted information, and you wanted to obtain it secretly. That reeks of blackmail.”
He hauled her into her bedchamber. The fire crackled in the grate. Candles flickered on an armoire, and the glowing light caressed the curve of her cheek, the graceful column of her neck. It danced across the swell of her breasts, reminding him how round and delectable they were, especially when she was nude and they swayed, bounced, and jiggled. God, he remembered how much fun it was to be in bed with her.
He remembered how beautifully she’d danced with him, how special that moment had been when she’d admitted she’d never danced and she’d looked so unspeakably happy.
Grey’s heart pounded. Miss Winsome was his. He shouldn’t trust her as far as he could throw her. But he desired her. Wanted her.
“What are you going to do to me?” she asked.
“You’re my mistress. You agreed to obey.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Not without question. I want to know what you intend to do.”
“I want to make love with you,” he said.
“
What?
But you know I looked through your desk. You said you didn’t trust me.”
He had to beat down this desire for her—this desire for more than sex. After the waltz, he’d wanted to dance with her again. He’d had to force himself to leave her to meet Caro. He had to expunge any fragment of emotion for this woman.
“I never trust the women I fuck,” he said.
Now she knew the blackmail had nothing to do with Greybrooke being a traitor. He had been protecting Lady Blackbriar. From clues in Lady Winterhaven’s journals, Helena believed he might have killed his father. She didn’t know exactly what had happened, but he’d done it to protect his sisters.
Greybrooke was loyal, deeply protective.
Even though she had no proof one way or another, she couldn’t believe he was a traitor.
But it didn’t matter now. He knew she had rifled through his desk, knew she was a liar. He was walking into her bedroom and she didn’t know what he was going to do.
He prowled around her. Slowly. “Greybrooke, I can explain—”
“You will. You will answer every question I ask. When I am ready to ask them.”
Truly, she was afraid. “How can you want to—to make love to me when you think I’m a liar? Why would you do something so intimate with me when you don’t trust me?”
Greybrooke stood behind her. Hours ago, she would have been aroused to sense him so close, to smell his unique male scent, tinged with spicy cinnamon, sandalwood, the rich smoke of a cheroot.
Now she found it unnerving.
“If you do as I ask, I won’t hurt you. Cross me and I may lose control, Miss Winsome. When I’m really angry, I’m capable of anything. Ask the men I’ve faced in duels.”
Something black suddenly covered her vision. He had draped a blindfold over her eyes, and he tied it deftly, without even tugging her hair. “What are you doing?”
“Whatever I desire, angel. This is about anticipation.” He undid the first button at the back of her dress.
She couldn’t see him, but he was so close she knew where he was by the creak of the floor, the whisper of his cheroot-scented breath. She was shaking. “This is about fear. You’re trying to frighten me. I don’t like this! I don’t like not being able to see. I don’t want you to touch me when I’m afraid like this. You need to be in control, not for pleasure, but out of anger, or fear, or something. Please don’t touch me like this. Please—”
“Stop,” he growled.
She heard his fast, harsh breathing.
“I know you have reason not to trust me, but why don’t you trust other people? Why do you need me tied up—as if you are afraid I’ll hurt you? Is it . . . because of your father?”
“Do as I ask. You don’t have anything to fear from me.”
Velvet slipped around her wrist. He had her hands together in a heartbeat and tied them with the rope in two pounding heartbeats more. But he stepped back from her. She heard the sound of his footsteps moving away.
His voice came from a few feet away. “You are forbidden to ask questions. I want you to tell me who you really are.”
She didn’t answer. She feared her chest might burst open so her galloping heart could leap out. What lie could she give him? She could tell him she ferreted out scandals, but that would tie her to the newspaper. And he was furious over the story about his father. Which was worse—to admit she was related to Will or that she’d spied on him to prove him guilty of treason?
“What are you going to do to me?”
“Nothing. Just tell me the truth. Who are you?”
His voice chilled her to the bone. “I told you. I’m Helena Winsome, and I was a governess.”
“Why did you search my desk?”
“I—I was just curious.” She could hear him move, but she could not see him. She wanted to see the look on his face. Know what danger she was in. Would he hurt her? He believed she had helped to hurt his friend, and given how protective he was—
“Not good enough.” His soft baritone growled close to her ear and made her jump on the bed. “Was it to help your partner, the damned blackmailer? To steal from me? What do you want?”
“I am
not
involved with the blackmailer! A man offered to pay my family’s debts in return for—for—”
Oh God, she’d said too much.
“For what, Miss Winsome?”
She was too confused to lie anymore. “He said you were a traitor. He is an agent of the Crown.”
“That is the most ridiculous lie I’ve ever heard. I should punish you severely for that, Miss Winsome. But first, I can’t resist making you come.”
His words stunned her. She’d told the truth but he didn’t believe her. He was going to punish her—
His lips touched her neck. He kissed her there, a luscious, sensual kiss that made her tremble. Made her wits melt. Was that what he wanted? To make her so she couldn’t think?
But to have pleasure like this—“No, please stop. Not like this. Not with you angry at me, hating me, not believing me.”
Greybrooke drew back. “You’re correct. I can’t do that to you. I can’t push you when you’re afraid. But if you give me the truth, you will have nothing to fear.”
“Please untie me. Take off the blindfold. I need to make you understand.” Bound and blind, she was helpless. Was he testing her—trying to find out what she knew because he really was a traitor? Helena expected him to ignore her plea.
But something cut through the bonds at her wrists. Gently, he drew the blindfold up, off her head. She blinked, saw his face.
Pulled back.
Not because of the anger she saw in his face. It was the pain she saw there. His mouth was tight and twisted with it. His eyes projected such agony, she winced.
“You are correct, Miss Winsome. That’s not what my games are about. It’s not why I play them. Not to cause pain and terror. You were vulnerable, and I had no right.”
His admission stunned her more than anything. He had every right to be furious. “What I told you is the truth. A man from the Crown approached me, since I worked for your sister. He told me you are suspected of being a traitor—of having sold secrets to the French during the war. If I found proof you are a traitor, he promised my brother’s debts would be paid.”
Greybrooke paced on the floor, between her bed and the windows. “He told you the Crown—men who work for the king—believe me to be a traitor? That’s ridiculous.”
“He seemed quite convinced,” she pointed out.
“What was his name? What proof did you have that he is actually an agent for the Crown?”
“He gave his name as Mr. Whitehall. And he didn’t give me any proof. I saw no reason to ask him for any. Why would he invent this tale?”
“That, Miss Winsome, I don’t know.”
Miss Winsome. It seemed so strange to think he had done intimate things to her body, yet he still called her that.
“I assure you it’s a lie.” He frowned. “You agreed to be my mistress when you believed I was suspected of treason. Were you playing at being a spy, hoping to learn my secrets by fucking me?”
Her cheeks had gone beyond scarlet—they burned so much they actually hurt.
“I suppose I’ve been a disappointment, since I’ve given you no proof of my dastardly acts against my country.”
“I—I quickly began to see it couldn’t be possible. How could you be so beloved by your family if you were the kind of gentleman who could be a traitor?”
“I would expect, in most cases, the family is the last to know.”
“Your Grace, I would have thought you would try to convince me of your inno—”
“I am not trying to convince you of anything. I am telling you I’m innocent. That is sufficient.”
From her perch on the edge of the bed, she looked up at his profile. “I told you my secret. I answered your questions. Will you answer some of mine? Why do you have scars on your back? Why were you punished so brutally? Was it your father who did it?”
“If your plan was to seduce the truth from me, I wouldn’t want to interfere with your cunning plot. You are free to try to fuck it out of me. When I’m about to come, I might be vulnerable enough to give you an answer.”
Was he trying to shock her? Scare her? Or—“Are you trying to trick me into doing naughty things to you?”
He gave a soft, rueful laugh. “No, I was angry and I lashed out. Again, my apologies.”
“You cannot joke about this,” she whispered. “Are you angry with me? What are you going to do to me?”
He scrubbed his jaw, looking so serious Helena swallowed hard. “I haven’t decided yet.”
A rap sounded on the door, and her heart leapt in relief. “Who is it?” she called. Whoever it was, she was going to let them inside at once.
“I’m so sorry, miss, but he said it’s urgent. I was to fetch you right away, miss.”
The voice belonged to Betsy. Helena got up, hurried past Greybrooke, and opened the door.
“I know I’m not to interrupt,” the girl cried, “but the Duke of Caradon is downstairs. His Grace says he must speak to His Grace—I mean you, Your Grace—at once.” She turned to Greybrooke and gave a hurried curtsy. “His Grace—the Duke of Caradon—is in the blue drawing room, miss.”
“Caradon?” Greybrooke frowned. “What does he want?” He was already striding to the door.
Helena followed him, hurrying downstairs. But he was far ahead of her, and she reached the bottom of the stairs when she heard him say, “Caradon, what is it? What is so urgent?”
She heard another man’s voice, filled with sympathy, answer, “Grey, sit down. I have something to tell you—”
“What is it?” Greybrooke’s voice was cold, all the emotion drained out of it. “Is it my sister? Something about the baby?”
Helena reached the door to the drawing room, as Greybrooke left Caradon and was at the door, passing by her, shouting for his carriage to be brought at once.
“Steady on, Grey.” Caradon came running across the room. “No, it’s nothing about Jacinta. I received a message from Blackbriar’s house, demanding that you come at once. Grey—” Caradon broke off. His face was unnaturally pale, his blue eyes grim.
“He’s killed her, hasn’t he? Goddamn it, I knew it would happen. I knew he’d take it too far, hurt her too much. I’m going to kill him.”
She was about to rush after Greybrooke and desperately try to stop him when Caradon went over to him and laid his hand on Greybrooke’s shoulder.
“Blackbriar isn’t to blame. Caro took her own life. She filled her tea with an overdose of laudanum and drank it down.”
“I don’t believe it,” Grey snarled. “It was Blackbriar. He must have forced the stuff down her throat. He must’ve found out about her child, and he killed her for it. Now I’m going to string him up by his cowardly balls and make him pay.”