“S
he did what?”
The young man before him visibly quaked under the onslaught of North’s rage. “She snuck out in the middle of the night—”
“I heard you the first time.” Scowling, North raked a hand through his hair. Christ on a playbill, what had she hoped to prove? If she wanted to terrify him, anger him beyond his limits, then she had succeeded. It had been incredibly stupid of her to go to Harker.
Yet, furious as he was, he had to admire her for finding the bastard. How had she managed it? North himself had searched that club and found nothing. He would ask her that very question after he shook her even more senseless than she already was.
Had his words not gotten through that thick skull of hers? He had told her to stay away from him—out of his business. To most women that would have been sufficient enough good-bye, but obviously not for his Vie. No doubt she thought she was doing him some great service, proving
her loyalty to him by putting herself in harm’s way.
Or perhaps she had done it for revenge—a spiteful way of making him worry about her the way she claimed to have worried about him. Or better yet, she had done it to make him suffer for rejecting her, for telling her to take her love and give it to someone else.
She loved him.
Him
. It was his most secret dream and darkest fear. Octavia loved him not just as a friend but as a man, but she belonged to another. Belonged
with
another. Spinton would give her a good life, keep her as she was accustomed. Granted, North had ample fortune—enough that, coupled with Octavia’s inheritance, they could live quite comfortably for the rest of their days and leave enough behind for their children as well.
But society would never accept him, would they? He hadn’t been wanted all those years ago, why would they want him now? And he would not have his children suffer as he suffered. Octavia’s children should be allowed into society, not sneered at because their father had the misfortune to be born a bastard.
Misfortune. Had it been? If he had been legitimate, he might never have known Octavia. He wouldn’t trade that for all the legitimacy in the world.
And yet, had he been a true Ryland, he might have met Octavia at a ball or a party and fallen in love with her there. There would be no objection to their marriage. But then he wouldn’t know the truth about her past. They wouldn’t have the connection they had now. No, things were the way they were meant to be.
He
was as he was meant to be. Born to neither world, he’d been content to make his own. But now…Now, it was perhaps time to choose.
Octavia loved him. And he—he would never admit, not even to himself, how deep his own feelings went. They were better locked away deep inside, where he didn’t have to name or face them. It would be folly to act any other way.
“Sir?”
He looked up, meeting the questioning gazes of those select few of his men who were present. How long had he been distracted by thoughts of Octavia? He should be thinking of Harker and how to finally capture the bastard, not allowing his emotions to run away with him.
“What is it, Morris?” he asked more peevishly than he intended.
The young man’s eyes widened. “We were wondering what you would have us do.”
Ah yes, they expected orders, his being their leader and all that. Maybe he should turn control of the operation over to Francis. He wouldn’t be so distracted.
“Is Harker still at the club?”
Morris nodded, forelock tumbling over his shiny brow. “Unless he has some secret exit that we don’t know about.”
Which was entirely possible, knowing Harker.
The coat he pulled from the back of the chair was the same deep blue as the upholstery. “If I am not back in two hours, alert Bow Street and storm the club.”
Francis scowled at him. “You plan to go alone?”
Shrugging into his coat, North nodded. “I do.”
“In God’s name, why?”
Facing the brawny man, North schooled his features into a blank mask. If his eyes held any of the rage he felt, Francis would know for certain what his intentions were. “As it stands, we have nothing on Harker—nothing that will send him to the hangman. The worst he will face is deportation. I want him dead.”
Something must have shown in his gaze because Francis’s gaze narrowed. “That does not explain why you are going after him alone.”
“The minute he knows I brought reinforcements, he’ll bolt. If I go alone, he’ll see it as bravado and retaliate. He’ll
want to rub my face in the fact that so far he’s gotten away with everything. That arrogance is what will get him caught.”
Francis nodded, his expression revealing his lingering doubt. “So we will be watching him round the clock after this?”
“Exactly. He doesn’t take a shite without us knowing how big it was.” It was a good plan. Too bad he didn’t intend to stick to it. He was through with planning. Through with waiting.
Francis was obviously satisfied now. “What about Lady Octavia?”
North faced the rest of his gathered men. “Those of you who have been watching the Vaux-Daventry household will continue to do so until further notice. I want to know who comes and who leaves. Keep yourselves hidden. I don’t want O—Lady Octavia to know you are there.”
One of the men chuckled and nudged Morris in the side. “No more peeking in her bedroom window then, Morris old man.”
It was most likely an innocent jest, but it sent a fresh rush of rage coursing through North’s veins. He glared at Tommy Fields, who made the remark, and at Morris, who flushed in embarrassment as the men around him laughed at his expense. Then he turned his glare on the others.
“Anyone who cannot behave in a professional manner or doesn’t think he wants to follow my orders is free to leave now.”
Eyes downcast, the men shuffled their feet. No one moved.
North nodded sharply. “Good. Now get out of here.”
Once the men emptied out, Francis closed the door and turned to North. “Do you think it was necessary to be so hard on them? They were only having a bit of fun.”
North fixed him with an uncaring stare. “At Octavia’s expense.”
The broad, hairy man nodded as though he understood, which of course he didn’t. “Ah, of course. What do
you
plan to do about Lady Octavia?”
North didn’t even pretend to misunderstand him. “Nothing at all.” But that wasn’t true. If things went the way he planned, he was going to see Octavia when this was over and give her the tongue-lashing of her life—and not in a pleasureful way either.
But dealing with Octavia would have to wait. He had something more important to do first.
He was going to kill Harker.
Octavia was still in bed when Beatrice came bustling into her room late that morning.
“Stop it!” she growled, pulling the blankets over her head as her cousin flung open the heavy cream brocade drapes.
“What in heaven’s name are you doing still in bed?” came the muffled demand.
Lowering the bedclothes, Octavia squinted at the bright sunlight. Of course Beatrice would find it strange that she was still in bed. Beatrice hadn’t been up visiting one of London’s most notorious criminals in the middle of the night.
“I
was
sleeping, no thanks to you.”
Fresh-faced, dressed, and glowing with energy, Beatrice flounced onto the bed, the skirts of her lemon yellow gown spreading around her like the petals of a flower. “Well, it is far too nice a day to spend it sleeping. Get up!”
Brow furrowed, Octavia leaned back against the pillows. “Get out.” At her cousin’s giggle she added, “I am serious.”
“I know you are.” Smiling, Beatrice braced a palm by Octavia’s hip. “And you do not frighten me, Miss Grumpy Face.”
Grumpy Face? “Why are you so blasted happy?”
Beatrice shrugged. “Why are you so grouchy?”
A tight smile pulled her lips. “I did not sleep well last night.”
Her cousin’s smile faded into an expression of genuine concern. “Are you unwell?”
Sighing, Octavia closed her eyes. “I believe so, yes.” She had to be to pull the stunt she’d pulled.
Warm fingers touched her brow. “You do not feel feverish.”
Octavia opened her eyes, her gaze locking with her cousin’s. “That is not where I am unwell.”
Beatrice’s eyes widened into saucers as a flush crept up the smooth flesh of her cheeks. “You are not…?” She made a vague gesture around her stomach with her hand.
Octavia’s scowl returned with renewed exasperation. “Of course not!” And she wasn’t, thank the Lord. Her menses had come after North sent her home and lasted but two brief days, as though her bodily functions didn’t want her either.
And she ought to be thankful. Pregnancy was one complication she didn’t need in her life. Although a baby might be just the thing to bring North to his senses. He wouldn’t want his child to be born a bastard…
How could she entertain such an awful idea? She would never try to trap North like that.
Beatrice breathed a heavy sigh of relief. “Oh thank heaven.”
Yes, that and North’s fairly regular use of sheaths, but her innocent cousin didn’t need to hear about those.
Wide doe eyes gazed at her in sympathy. “You miss him.”
Why bother deny it? “Yes.” She also wanted to throttle him for his oh-so-noble rejection of her those few days ago. It felt like years.
“Is that why you have been so miserable ever since you returned home?”
Octavia nodded. God, she was tired.
“What are you going to do, Tavie?”
She shrugged. “What my mother and grandfather expect of me, I suppose.”
Beatrice must have found her mournful tone somewhat amusing because she smiled sympathetically. “Do you truly believe either of them would want you to go against your own desires?”
Octavia stared at her. “Perhaps not my mother, but Grandfather…yes, I think perhaps he would. I do not think my happiness was a consideration. Contentment, maybe.”
Beatrice tilted her head, her sable curls bobbing about her ears. “And do you think that was his hope for Spinton as well?”
“I think his only hope was that between Spinton and myself we would have enough Vaux-Daventry blood to purify the family line.” Perhaps it was wrong of her to speak so ill of the dead, but she had secretly thought it for years.
Beatrice looked horrified. “That is awful!”
Octavia shrugged. “It is the way of the
ton
.”
“Well, it is wrong. People should marry for love.”
A bitter smile curved her lips. “That is very romantic of you, Bea, but not very realistic.”
Beatrice’s stare was shrewd and piercing. “I remember, years ago, when you and I first became friends, you told me that only love would induce you to marry. You wanted to marry Norrie Sheffield and live happily ever after.”
God help her, that was what she still wanted. “I grew up.”
“You mean you gave up.”
“Take your pick.”
Sighing, Beatrice lowered herself onto the bed, stretching herself out beside Octavia and laying her head on another pillow, so that their faces were no more than a foot apart.
“I do not believe your mother would want you to give up your dream.”
What did it matter now? “I do not believe I have a choice.”
Beatrice blinked. “Whyever not?”
Her throat tightening, Octavia fought the urge to cry. “Because Norrie Sheffield does not want me.”
She expected her cousin’s sympathy, not the scowl that occurred instead. “Have you taken complete leave of your senses?”
Now it was Octavia’s turn to blink. “I beg your pardon?”
“If that man does not love you, then he is a very good actor.”
And a liar. And a friend. And a lover. “He is.”
Beatrice’s scowl deepened. “Not that good. Maybe he can fool Spinton and maybe he can fool the rest of the world, but I have seen the way he looks at you when he thinks no one will notice. I have heard how his voice changes when he speaks to you, how it softens and sounds more Scottish. The only reason he would reject you is if he believes it is in your best interest.”
There was that damnable phrase again. Her
best interest
. Had she not told him that he had no idea what her best interests were? Obviously he hadn’t been listening because Beatrice was right. He might have rejected her, but he had done it because he cared about her. Even she was smart enough to decipher that—at least when she stopped feeling sorry for herself long enough to think clearly.
Blinking back the tears, she met Beatrice’s soft gaze. “He loves me.” Realizing it, embracing it, was almost as wonderful as hearing him say the words himself.
Beatrice nodded, smiling serenely. “Yes, although I doubt he has accepted it himself.”
Knowing North, he hadn’t. He was so good at explaining things away, making them fit where he wanted, or avoiding them all together. After all, what was this determination to not be a part of society when it was obvious society wanted
him? They had rejected him once; he wasn’t about to give them a second chance.
And she had left him once for a “better life.” No doubt he was afraid to give her a second chance as well.
Stupid idiot, she would have gladly left that “better life” if he had just asked her to.
But he wouldn’t ask her to. He was too afraid. Afraid of being turned away. Afraid of rejection.
What did he know of rejection? At least he had known his father. At least his mother hadn’t brushed him aside every time she took a new lover. He had known he was loved. And now he knew that she loved him as well because she had told him as much.
What had he given her? His martyred version of love—giving her up because he didn’t think he was good enough, didn’t believe she could be happy staying with him for the rest of her life when she could have everything he had ever wanted but hadn’t been allowed.
Oh, he was infuriating! Stupid, silly man! How could he willingly do this to both of them? How could she have hung on to duty and responsibility so very long? It seemed so foolish to her now, keeping to a vow that she knew was wrong. What an idiot she had been. How afraid. She’d been hiding behind her promises to her mother and grandfather, just as North had hidden behind his own stupid notions. Only because they had thought it was the right thing for them to do. She believed she owed it to the two people who looked after her, and he believed he owed it to her to stay way.