Kathryn Smith (34 page)

She swallowed hard. “Of course.” She turned to walk away. She knew he had some frightening reason for saying these things to her, but it didn’t change the fact that he still did not trust her with the truth. She didn’t need it all—and she didn’t need it right now. All she needed was the knowledge that he might someday confide in her; then running the risk of someone hearing this humiliating conversation would be worth it.

He stopped her by stepping in front of her, shielding both of them from potentially curious eyes. “Moira, I know I have no right to ask, but I need you to trust me. If you can do that, I promise that when this is all over I will tell you everything.”

Hope bloomed in her breast. “You will?”

Wynthrope’s gaze was intent, steady, and sincere. “I will.”

“Fine.” It was all she could do not to grin like the village idiot. Maybe he didn’t trust her now, but he was going to confide in her later. Her urge to smile faded. He wasn’t going to confide in her until it didn’t matter anymore. That didn’t quite equal trust. That would be like her telling him she had been a virgin after he discovered it for himself. What was the point?

“I will stay away and wait for you to come to me.” Bitterness coated her words.

He sensed her malcontent. His eyes pleaded with her. “You will not have to wait for long.”

“Mm hmm.” She stepped to the side, rounding the obstacle that was him. “Do not make any more promises, Wynthrope.”

He frowned. “Why not?”

She shot him a sharp glance before walking away. “I just might expect you to keep them.”

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

Wynthrope watched Moira as she swished across the room, every inch a queen in a confection of cream that made her breasts look temptingly bountiful. She needn’t have gone to the bother if her appearance was for his benefit—or for spite. He would find her beautiful in sackcloth and ashes.

But where did she find the nerve to tell him not to make her any more promises? He had never promised her something he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, deliver. She was just angry because he wouldn’t tell her what he was up to. Of course he wouldn’t. If he told her he was going to risk his own life to bring Daniels to justice, she would tongue-lash him within an inch of his life. She might also do something foolish to try to help him. Women did not act with reason when it came to the concerns of men. Had not Octavia confronted the very
man who tried to kill North because she thought she could make a difference? Granted, Octavia had been acting out of love. Wynthrope might not be so fortunate to have Moira’s love, but he knew how protective she could be of those she cared about.

She had already been sweetly foolish enough to give him the tiara. He would not have her do more, especially not at the risk of her own safety. If Daniels got ahold of her…Well, Daniels would end up dead, but there was no way he could guarantee Moira’s protection. And he wasn’t going to risk losing her, not when he had yet to win her again.

The next hour that passed was as painful as having a tooth extracted. Both Blythe and Octavia suspected he had done Moira some kind of injury, and their disapproving expressions followed him wherever he went. And then there was Moira’s true champion, Minerva. If looks could kill, Wynthrope would have stuck his spoon in the wall several times over already.

It was time to leave. Moira hadn’t spoken to him again, in fact she was doing a very good job of pretending he didn’t exist, but that wasn’t why he was leaving. He was leaving because later that evening he was going to be meeting Daniels to exchange the tiara for the information Daniels had on Wynthrope. He had to prepare. He had to make certain things were in order just in case something went wrong. He had to ensure that if he died, Moira got the chess set Brahm had given him that had been their father’s. She would appreciate it, and perhaps the note he had written to go with it.

Of course there was the chance that Daniels wouldn’t kill him, and then he would be able to tell her the contents of the letter in person. It was that outcome he hoped for.

He approached North as soon as he saw his brother standing alone. “I’m leaving now.”

Instantly North’s entire body tensed, though his expression remained the same. “Already?”

“I have a few things to take care of first.”

North eyed him suspiciously. “You are not going to try to get the jump on us, are you? That would be stupid.”

Chuckling, Wynthrope shook his head. “No. I will be at the house on Russell at midnight. See you then.”

North grabbed his arm as he started to walk away. “Be careful.”

Wynthrope smiled. “Of course. Playing the reckless hero is your style, not mine.”

But as he left his brother’s home, Wynthrope was aware of just how bloody reckless he was being. And all because of a woman.

The woman he’d betrayed.

The woman he didn’t think he could live without.

“Do you have it?” Daniels’s tone betrayed his anxiety.

It was dark inside the Russell Street address, save for a fire flickering brightly in the hearth. It did little to relieve the chill in the air, the house having been empty for some time. Would someone find the fire suspicious? Wynthrope could only hope.

It was just after midnight, and Covent Garden was a dark and dangerous place to be, even for the criminals who haunted it. For instance, if one were to barge into this place right now demanding to know what was going on, he would more than likely end up with Daniels’s blade in his chest, the old man was that much on edge.

It was time to put an end to this.

Wynthrope lifted the box. “Show me the papers.”

Daniels flashed a string-wrapped folder thick with pages. “Satisfied?”

Not quite, but soon. Wynthrope gestured with a nod. “Set it on the table.”

“You first,” The old man insisted.

Wynthrope smiled coolly. “You.”

They stared at each other, and finally Wynthrope won. Daniels set the folder on the rough-hewn tabletop. Wynthrope gingerly reached out and slid it toward himself, never taking his eyes off his former mentor.

“Now you,” Daniels demanded.

First Wynthrope flipped the folder open to make certain the information contained was what it should be. When he was satisfied that it was, he set the box on the table, pushing it toward Daniels.

The Irishman snatched it up, his face bright with greed and delight as he opened the lid. “Ah, boyo, ye did me proud.”

Wynthrope didn’t acknowledge the praise. Having earned it by losing Moira, he didn’t take any pleasure in it. “You will leave England now, and never return.”

The older man nodded absentmindedly. Likely he hadn’t even noticed that it was an order and not a question. “Yes, yes. Whatever.”

Wynthrope was just about to relax when Daniels snapped the box shut and pulled a pistol from his pocket. His heart tripped heavily against his ribs. “What now, you are going to kill me?”

Daniels made a tsking noise. “’Tis just a wee bit of insurance, lad. I just want to make certain you don’t try any funny stuff as I make my escape.”

“Funny stuff. Me?” The words sounded falsely innocent, even to himself. And just what the hell was “funny stuff” anyway? There was nothing amusing about this situation, although bashing Daniels’s head against the table might give him a smile.

Daniels’s eyes narrowed. “Aye, like tryin’ to be a hero or some such nonsense. You be the type of man who would try to wrest this pretty from me to win the fair maiden’s heart.”

“She’s not a maiden,” Wynthrope replied. “And there’s not enough shine in the world to win her heart.” Why he was
telling this bastard anything about Moira was beyond him. He knew only that the urge to defend her had outweighed any common sense that might have helped him conceal his true feelings for her.

“So she’s one of those then.” Daniels shot him a look of pity from behind the gun. “Too bad for you. I hope she never finds out about our transaction, boyo. She’ll not forgive ye for it.”

The words hit closer than Wynthrope was comfortable with. Since when was Daniels an expert on women? He had known plenty, to be sure, but he’d never had a lasting relationship that Wynthrope knew of. He knew nothing of what Moira would or would not do.

But he had struck a tender spot, that was certain.

“I would love to discuss the details of my private life with you, but you have a country to get the hell out of.”

The old man smiled. “So I do. Good-bye, lad.” He backed toward the door, the tiara tucked under his arm, safe in its box. At the door he reached behind his back to depress the latch, never taking his eyes off Wynthrope. Then the darkness swallowed him, the door shut, and Wynthrope was alone with the sinister shadows and crackling blaze.

He wasted no time. As soon as the door latch clicked back into place, he opened the folder and began removing the papers several at a time. He tossed them into the fire blazing in the hearth, watching with grim satisfaction as they withered and turned to ash. He was so intent on his task that he chose to ignore the commotion outside. No doubt it was better that way.

With the last of the papers gone, and the blackened remains of his past turned to ash, Wynthrope tossed the folder into the fire as well. That was it. The end.

He stirred the embers with a poker just to be certain there were no traces of evidence left before slipping on his gloves and hat. It wasn’t that he was so confident that Daniels had given him the only copy of the evidence, it was simply that
he did not want to be caught with those papers in his possession. Slowly he walked across the creaking floor and opened the door, stepping out into the cold, noisy night.

There were a dozen men on horseback with rifles trained on a man kneeling on the ground. Two men had just shackled his wrists and ankles and were pulling him to his feet. A third held the oaken box in his hand. Wynthrope gazed at his back as he approached, the sound of the prisoner’s raving echoing in his ears.

“I had nothin’ to do with it! It was all Ryland. He’s the man you want. I have evidence that he’s the Ghost!”

The man with the box turned as Wynthrope approached. “Is that true, Mr. Ryland?”

Daniels ceased struggling long enough to glare at him. For the second time that evening Wynthrope realized how lucky he was that looks could not kill.

Wynthrope flashed a cool smile at the chief magistrate of Bow Street. “With a brother like mine, Mr. Reed? I would never be able to conceal it.”

Duncan Reed didn’t look quite convinced, but Wynthrope didn’t really think he cared. The Ghost was old history, and Bow Street had caught Daniels redhanded with the Viscountess Aubourn’s missing tiara—reported stolen on her behalf by North Sheffield-Ryland.

“He’s lying!” Daniels shouted. “I can prove he’s a thief!”

Wynthrope shrugged. “I have no idea what he is talking about, but you are more than welcome to search the house as well as myself.”

Reed considered that for a moment before shaking his head. “There’s no need. It is obvious to me who the real villain is here. Thank you for your assistance apprehending the criminal, Mr. Ryland.”

“Assistance!” Daniels fought against his restraints like a wild man as the Runners dragged him away. “You will pay
for this, Ryland! I swear to God you will pay!”

His rantings were reduced to muffled, incoherent shouts as the officers loaded him into the wagon and locked the door.

With Daniels gone and the scene a tad more quiet, Reed turned to face Wynthrope. “I have a great deal of respect for your brother.”

Wynthrope nodded. “I know. He respects you as well.”

“I never pressed for an explanation why he left Bow Street, and I do not want one now. As far as I am concerned this investigation ends here. Am I speaking plain enough, Mr. Ryland?”

Swallowing against the dryness in his throat, Wynthrope smiled. “Perfectly.” Thank God for his luck. Thank God for North and his connections. Otherwise the magistrate might be tempted to look a little deeper in Wynthrope’s past.

“I would appreciate it if you could come by Bow Street in the morning. I would like to get a written statement from all involved. I am particularly interested in how Mr. Daniels thought you would steal the tiara for him.”

No doubt he was. Obviously North hadn’t thought to make something up, so now Wynthrope would have to. Wonderful. What the hell kind of explanation could he possibly think of?

“He knew I had been courting the viscountess and threatened to make a scandal out of our relationship if I did not help him. Of course, I went straight to my brother.”

Reed nodded, his face impassive. “Of course. Good night, Mr. Ryland. I will see you in the morning.”

“Good night, Mr. Reed.” It wasn’t until the magistrate was safely tucked away inside his own carriage and following the prison wagon down the street that Wynthrope released the breath he had been holding.

“Good job,” North commented, coming up behind him. “I found a copy of the evidence in Daniels’s rooms.”

Wynthrope sighed as Brahm approached from the other side. “Excellent.”

The sound of a thud and heavy footfalls behind them caused them all to turn. Devlin walked out of the darkness, his Baker rifle tucked under his arm.

“Where the hell were you?” Bramh demanded.

“The roof,” the youngest Ryland replied. “You three didn’t really think I’d stay away, did you?”

Wynthrope laughed. That whole time Devlin could have picked Daniels off like a fly and no one would have ever known what happened. Of course, his brother wouldn’t kill indiscriminately. It wasn’t his nature.

“Let’s go,” Brahm suggested, herding them all down the street to where they had left his carriage. “Morning will come quickly, and two of you have appointments with Bow Street.”

“Thank you,” Wynthrope said as they reached the carriage. “All of you. You have no idea how much I appreciate your help.”

North clapped him on the back. “You should have come to us sooner. We could have spared you a lot of trouble.” He climbed into the carriage, followed by Devlin.

Brahm stopped Wynthrope with a hand on his shoulder as he went to step into the carriage. “We could have saved you a lot of heartache if you had only trusted us.”