Kathryn Smith (19 page)

Daniels met his gaze, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. Something in his expression made Wynthrope pause, kept him from moving any closer. Then he felt a pinprick of sensation against his ribs. He didn’t have to look down to know what it was. Daniels had pulled a knife on him. It was probably the same knife Wynthrope had seen him use to threaten others years ago. It was a lovely blade, Spanish made with an ivory handle, and sharp enough to cut a man to ribbons with little more than a flick of the wrist.

Slowly he opened his fist, releasing his hold on Daniels. The old man didn’t move, but he regarded Wynthrope with a look of pure venom. This was the real Daniels. To think he had once looked up to this man, had wanted to emulate him. His actual father would have made a better mentor than this.

“Don’t ever do anything that stupid again, boyo.” Daniels’s voice was as dark and poisonous as his expression. “Not unless you want to get hurt.”

Wynthrope met his stare. “I don’t care what you do to me.”

Daniels’s lips twisted. “No, but you do care about your brothers and even the lovely widow. I know you, boy. I know you wouldn’t want their ruination or their blood upon your hands. You’d feel that too keenly.”

He didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. Daniels already knew the truth. And now he knew just how much Moira meant to him, all because he couldn’t keep control of his temper. What the hell was wrong with him, tipping his hand like that?

“Now, are you going to do what I tell you, or do you need a little convincing?”

Daniels’s idea of convincing usually involved something painful and personal. In this case it wouldn’t be a physical pain. He would strike at Wynthrope through the people he cared about. It wouldn’t necessarily be family either. It might be a friend. It might be a lover.

It would be Moira.

Swallowing the bile and pride bunched in his throat, Wynthrope lifted his chin. “I will get you the tiara.”

If Daniels had noticed that he hadn’t agreed to do what he told him, he didn’t let on. He simply smiled. “That’s me boy. I knew you’d see reason. When?”

Wynthrope shrugged. “I have to find out where she keeps it.”

The older man lifted the knife, pointing it directly at his throat. Wynthrope didn’t move, didn’t even flinch. Daniels wasn’t going to hurt him—he needed him too badly. The old man might have been something in his day, but he was just an old man now, and there was no way he could break into Moira’s house and find the tiara on his own without being caught. Wynthrope knew that, and Daniels knew it too.

“You have until Twelfth Night. The longer you make me wait, the more impatient I’m going to become, and you know how I get when I lose my patience.”

Wynthrope’s reply was a slow blink. Yes, he knew how Daniels got. He had to find the tiara soon or the old man would make good on his threat to start hurting people.

“I said I’d get it and I will.”

Lowering the knife, Daniels backed away. “Good. We understand each other then.” He sheathed the knife in his sleeve. “I’ll be in touch in a few days. Don’t disappoint me, Wynnie.”

Wynthrope watched him leave in stony silence. It wasn’t
until Daniels was gone that he allowed his shoulders to slump. He crossed to the door and reset the lock, resisting the urge to put a table in front of it as well. Daniels wouldn’t be back, not tonight.

He went to his bedroom and undressed, crawling into bed with a sigh. Lying on his side, he stared out the window at the night and brought his knees up toward his ribs. Closing his eyes, he refused to think of Daniels and his threats. Instead he made himself think of pleasant things.

He thought of Moira, her smile and her wit. He thought of how little alcohol it took to turn her into a complete wanton, and when his throat tightened and the backs of his eyes burned, he kept on thinking about her. He thought about her until he felt the wetness seep from between his lashes onto his face, and then he stopped.

Because Wythrope Ryland hadn’t cried since he was a boy and he would be damned if he’d do it now, just because he felt like one.

T
welfth Night came as surely and unwelcome to Wynthrope as a storm cloud on the day of a spring picnic.

He dressed as he might for a friend’s funeral—carefully and with great consideration, as though clothing made a difference on some level. His black trousers were the perfect length and fit. His shirt and cravat were white as freshly fallen snow. His waistcoat was unblemished ivory and his coat hugged his shoulders and torso like second skin, yet allowed freedom of movement. He would at least dress the part of the perfect gentleman, even though he was far from it in truth.

As he checked his appearance for the third time in his looking glass, he felt as though he were about to go to his execution, though he was not the one who would suffer if he didn’t have the tiara for Daniels by the morning.

He had spent much of the past few days with Moira. Every chance he had, he searched her house for a safe, but found
none. He plied her with carefully worded questions and received no satisfactory answers. Maybe he hadn’t asked the right questions. Maybe some part of him had purposefully sabotaged his own perfidy just to postpone the inevitable.

Tonight was the night; the last night he would spend with her. He had decided sometime since the new year that there was no way he could deceive her and continue to see her on a personal basis. As much as he wanted to continue their relationship, he couldn’t allow it to grow on a lie. It was a decision that part of him cursed, because there was a side of him that wanted to be with her so badly, it didn’t care if he had to lie to her. It didn’t see the problem with carrying on. After all, it wasn’t as though Moira would ever know he was the culprit.

She would never know that he was the man who stole a priceless gift given to her by her dead husband. He might not have learned where she kept the damn thing, but he knew everything else there was to know about it—such as the fact that she hardly ever wore it because she was afraid of something happening to it. Or at least that was the impression he got from her.

If it weren’t for the fact that Daniels might hurt North or Dev, or Moira herself, he would say to hell with it all. But Daniels knew just how to get to him, and he knew that threatening someone Wynthrope cared about was the only way to control him. The old bastard would follow through on his threats, if for no other reason than to keep Wynthrope under his thumb.

“We have outdone ourselves, Mr. Ryland,” his valet said with more than a touch of pride.

Wynthrope couldn’t even summon a half smile. “Indeed. Take the rest of the night off, Charles. I won’t be needing you.”

The valet asked no questions, simply nodded, said good night, and left, leaving Wynthrope alone with nothing but his
conscience as he slipped into his greatcoat. It was black as well, as were his hat and gloves and shoes. It was really no different from what he wore to any evening party, but tonight he felt very much like an undertaker.

His carriage was waiting outside as he exited the building. The crisp night air smelled of snow and horse and city. The cobblestones beneath his feet were dry for now, but that storm cloud that hovered somewhere over his head was sure to bring a tempest before morning. If he managed to get to Moira’s house, he would have to do so before the snow fell. It wouldn’t do to leave tracks of any kind for Bow Street to follow.

He climbed into the carriage and rapped his knuckles against the roof for the coachman to depart. Too bad he wasn’t a hopeless drunk like his father and Brahm. He would dearly love to lose himself in a bottle, but as much as he wanted to be a coward, he couldn’t afford to be. Or rather his family and Moira couldn’t afford for him to be.

It was time to face the consequences of his past.

What an idiot he had been. Young and full of piss and vinegar, he had jumped at Daniels’s offer to serve his country during the war with Napoleon. It never occurred to him to investigate Daniels, to go to the Home Office, or to ask detailed questions. If he had gone to North, all of this might have been avoided, but he had believed Daniels when the Irishman told him that all the secrecy was necessary for England’s safety. That in itself was a testament to just how young he had been, but it was no excuse for his stupidity.

If he hadn’t grown up in the shadow of Brahm the heir, he might not have done it. If he had felt as wanted by their father as North so obviously was, perhaps he wouldn’t have fallen for Daniels’s deception. But the truth was, he had wanted so desperately to prove himself as worthy as Brahm the future viscount and North the fearless Bow Street Runner that he had made the biggest mistake of his life to do it.

No, the biggest mistake of his life had been staring back when he caught Moira watching him in the street that long ago day. He shouldn’t have paid any attention to her. If he hadn’t, she would not matter to him now. Certainly she would still be his intended victim, and perhaps he would even be trying to seduce her to get to the tiara, but he wouldn’t care about her, because he would never have gotten to know her. Moira’s appeal, her charm, her very essence was like a fine wine. To get to the flavor of the bouquet, the process took labor and patience and a degree of concentration. To appreciate Moira, one had to take the time to get to know her. And
that
had been his folly.

Because, as with any fine wine, the more he had of Moira, the more he wanted.

There was no point obsessing over it any longer. Thinking about it only made things worse. He was going to take advantage of this night—their last night—and then he was going to walk away from her. Not right away, of course—that would cause suspicion. He would have to wait at least a few days for news of the theft to die down, then he would end their acquaintance. He would have to take up with someone else. Lady Dumont was still interested. Perhaps he’d dally with her for a while until Moira was convinced he was a heartless bastard, then he’d go back to being alone.

He hated being alone. Almost any company was preferable to his own.

It was almost a relief when his carriage rolled to a stop. Arriving at the party put him that one step closer to betraying Moira, but at least it would provide a bit of a distraction as well. There was some comfort—albeit a very little—in knowing it would all be over soon.

Stepping out of the carriage, he donned his hat and slowly climbed the steps to the front door of the Elizabethan manor. Another carriage pulled up as he knocked.

Tonight’s gathering was at the house of Leander Tyndale, the new Viscount Aubourn, a bachelor whose sister Annabelle was playing hostess. They welcomed Wynthrope with smiles and great cordiality, surprising since Wynthrope wasn’t well acquainted with either of them. Perhaps they were closer to Moira than he had been led to believe. He could see no other reason for his invitation.

The ballroom was well lit; the crystal drops of the chandeliers casting tiny rainbows all around. Jewels sparkled on a number of illustrious persons chatting and dancing. Laughter and music filled his ears. Perfume filled his nostrils. He wanted to turn around and leave—not just this party but England. Just for a second, he allowed himself to entertain the idea of running away.

Then he saw her. Of course he saw her. His eyes had refused to see anyone else since that night she’d told him to leave her sister alone. God, how could she have ever thought he would be interested in Minerva when she was there?

She was with Octavia and one of her new friends, the Countess Angelwood. Both Octavia and the countess were attractive women, but they faded into the woodwork next to Moira. She laughed at something Octavia said, her lips parting sweetly as her multicolored eyes sparkled.

She wore a gown of deep plum that revealed the slender line of her neck and the delicate rise of her bosom. The color of her gown was bland compared to the natural wine of her wide, curved lips. The diamonds at her ears and throat were dull compared to the sparkle of her eyes. She had turned him into a goddamn poet and he couldn’t even bring himself to be annoyed about it.

His natural inclination was to go to her, perhaps ask her to dance or drop to his knees and confess everything. He would gladly suffer every public humiliation if it meant she and his brothers were safe, but fate was not that kind. The idea of
Daniels harming her in any way was worse than having to hurt her himself.

But he didn’t go to her. He went to his brothers instead. North, Devlin, and Brahm stood just to his right. That he chose Brahm as company was a great indication of just how badly he wanted to avoid Moira. In fact, he was astounded that Brahm had been invited. Most of society avoided his eldest brother, and with good reason. Brahm might be sober now, but at one time he had been the kind of drunk that ruined more than just parties. He had ruined lives and reputations as well.

“Good evening,” he said brightly as he joined them.

All three of them looked at him. Their faces were so different, but the expression was the same. They knew there was something gnawing at him.

Brahm said nothing. Devlin said, “Good evening, Wyn.”

North said, “Moira’s here. Why are you not with her?”

Wynthrope attempted a look of mock innocence. “I thought I would stop and greet my brothers first. You were on the way to the lady, after all.”

Luckily, that seemed to appease his nosy brother, and it was all Wynthrope could do not to sigh in relief. He daren’t do anything, lest North catch on. The one thing he did not want this night was a former Bow Street man watching him, especially not one who knew about his past. Once word got out that Moira had been robbed, North would immediately turn to him. His brother didn’t share Moira’s naive trust of him. North wouldn’t want to think him responsible, but the investigator in him wouldn’t be able to ignore the evidence—or his gut.

“Now that I’ve fulfilled my familial duty, I believe I will greet the lady. She is much prettier than you lot.” It was a carelessly tossed remark, delivered by that part of him that he donned like a suit whenever in a social situation. It was a
part of him Devlin and North were much accustomed to. Brahm, on the other hand, didn’t seem quite convinced.

For a second, Wynthrope’s gaze locked with that of his eldest brother. Brahm’s whiskey brown eyes weren’t judgmental, they weren’t filled with disappointment. No, it was worse than that—they were filled with understanding. He could take almost anything from Brahm but understanding.

Brahm did
not
understand him. He never had and he never would.

Devlin and North said farewell. Brahm continued in silence, but he smiled. His smile was understanding as well. Wynthrope was torn between wanting to hit him and wanting to beg for his help. A bastard he might be, but Brahm was still the eldest, and there were some things that even resentment couldn’t change.

His heart hammering, he approached Moira and her companions. As if by magic, the other women drifted away when they saw him. Normally it would have been amusing that they knew he was there for Moira and Moira alone, but tonight it disturbed him. Would no one come to her rescue?

“Mr. Ryland.”

He bowed. “Lady Aubourn. May I say how lovely you look this evening?”

Moira smiled, a delightful blush suffusing her cheeks. She colored so easily, like an inexperienced girl rather than a once-married woman. It was every bit as charming as it was annoying. Why couldn’t she be jaded and cynical? Why couldn’t she be one of those women who didn’t believe a word he uttered? Why did she have to believe them all?

No, that wasn’t it. A few weeks ago she wouldn’t have believed him because she didn’t think herself lovely at all. She only blushed now because she knew
he
believed it.

“You look very fine yourself, sir.”

There was faint fluttering in his chest, as though his heart
were trying to preen under her praise. He smiled, then deliberately allowed his gaze to travel down to the gentle slope of her cleavage before rising to the stones around her neck. As he had hoped, his appraisal of her breasts disconcerted her.

“I hope you keep those baubles in a safe place.”

She eyed him curiously, rose still staining her cheeks. Damnation. He should have known not to be so blunt with her. Moira was not a stupid woman—it was one of the things he adored about her, but now it was a definite obstacle.

“You have shown an abundance of concern about where I keep my valuables as of late.”

He shrugged, trying to seem disinterested while his heart pounded like mad. “I worry about you and Minerva living alone as you do. You are prime targets for a thief.” If she only knew how prime she was.

She smiled at him. Perhaps she wasn’t that intelligent after all. No, that was the hardened side of him trying to make this easier for him. She smiled because she believe him, because she trusted him. It wouldn’t occur to her that he was someone she should protect herself against. Why would it? He had played her so very well.

“That is very sweet, but you may put your mind to rest. I have a safe in my bedroom where I keep all my jewelry.”

His heart dropped. “Is it well concealed?”

She obviously mistook the irritation in his voice for trepidation, because she answered without hesitation, “Of course. Behind an oil of Narcissus that Tony painted.”

Finally his questioning paid off. Wynthrope waited for some part of him to triumph, but there was nothing but a feeling of sickness in the pit of his stomach.

“A painting is the first place a thief would look.”

Now it was she who shrugged. He wanted to shake her, make her realize just how gullible she was being. “If someone takes the time to break into my bedroom, search behind
my paintings, and break the combination on my safe, they are welcome to the contents of it.”

His fingers clenched into fists. “You might feel differently if it ever happens. There has been a rash of thefts lately.” Yes, thefts that he himself was behind. Nothing major, a necklace here, some silver there—small things that had all turned up at local fences and been reclaimed by the owners with little effort. It had taken a bit of planning, but he had succeeded in letting the
ton
know there was a thief about, but not enough to raise much alarm.