Kathryn Smith (5 page)

He smiled. He really shouldn’t find her as amusing as he did. “I thought that might make you change your mind.”

Some women would have flushed, others would have chuckled flirtatiously. Moira Tyndale stared at him as though they were two dogs after the same bone. “If you are trying to get to my sister through me, it will not work.”

Wynthrope didn’t bother trying to hide his amusement. “My dear woman, I would rather lay upon a bed of nails than go through you for anything.”

That brought a darker shade of pink to her cheeks. “Then why are you doing this? Why this sudden interest in me?”

“By God, but you are a bold baggage.” He wasn’t certain if he liked it or not. Yes, yes he did.

“I am not bold,” she replied, her gaze not quite so sure now. “I have simply been made a fool of often enough that I have no wish to have it done to me again.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about. I simply like the look of you and had a mind to make your better acquaintance.”

Her eyes widened. “You do?”

He still had no idea what she was talking about. Did she refer to his ignorance, the fact that he liked the look of her, or that he wanted to know her better? Or perhaps she meant all three. Regardless, Wynthrope was beginning to wonder if perhaps the viscountess didn’t require more effort than any woman deserved. It was unfortunate, really.

“Why don’t I just walk away?” he suggested, disappointed. “We can pretend this never happened.”

He had just turned his back when a hand on his arm stopped him. “Wait. Please.”

He faced her again, half expecting her to toss a glass of champagne in his face, or accuse him of wanting her pretty sister again. Perhaps she’d surprise him with some other act of lunacy.

Instead she bowed her dark head, the stones in her tiara glittering violently under the chandelier. She looked like a queen—a white queen. Then, she raised her gaze to his.

No, not a white queen. She was the black queen—with a solemn dark beauty and hidden secrets and depths yet unexplored. There was vulnerability in her hazel gaze, along with a steely strength Wynthrope could not explain. If he didn’t know better, he would almost think she was afraid of him, challenged by him.

He waited for her to make her move.

She swallowed, the fragile length of her throat straining with the effort. Good Lord, it wasn’t as though he’d asked her to run away with him—just for a dance. “Forgive me, Mr. Ryland. I was inexcusably rude to you just now.”

He nodded. “Yes, you were.” He let her digest that before adding, “But perhaps I have given you reason to be wary.”

Her gaze never wavered. “You have. I am not accustomed to such…attention.”

Why the hell not? Were the men of England so bloody stupid they didn’t know a treasure waiting to be discovered when they saw it? Moira Tyndale was a diamond still rough and uncut, odd for a widow married so many years.

He wanted to be the man to discover her facets—all of them. Never before had he felt such an attraction to a woman. As unnerving as it was, he wanted to follow the pull wherever it led him.

“I would be honored to help you become accustomed to such attention, my lady.” It was truth, not flattery.

She blushed as though he had told her he wanted to strip her naked and kiss her from foot to head. Not a bad thought, actually.

“Good evening, Mr. Ryland.”

Wonderful. The sister had returned. He met her with a cool smile. “Miss Banning. You look lovely this evening.” The chit always looked lovely—not as compelling as her sister, but pretty in a totally uninteresting way.

Minerva dimpled. No blush, no fluttering pulse at the base of her throat. She was as accustomed to such flattery as her sister was not. “What are you and my sister discussing?”

“Dancing,” Moira surprised him by answering. Her gaze met his for one brief, hot moment before turning to the younger woman. “Mr. Ryland just asked me to dance.”

Was it Wynthrope’s imagination, or did Minerva look as though she’d like to kick Moira in the shins?

“I am still waiting for your answer, my lady.” If she asked her sister for permission, he’d walk away. He really would.

But Moira cast only the briefest—and most apologetic—glance at her sister before offering her hand to him. “I would love to.”

Relieved beyond reason, Wynthrope took her gloved fingers in his and led her out into the crowd of dancers without so much as a glance at Minerva. Getting this woman to allow him access to her was going to take more effort than he was used to exerting. A moment ago he had thought she was not worth that exertion. Now he began to entertain the notion that she might be, after all.

Good thing there was nothing else he would rather spend his energy on.

The music signaled a waltz. Had she realized that before agreeing to dance? No, there was no way she could have. Finally fate was being kind to him. He could have her all to
himself for a few minutes with no chance of interruption.

“I think your sister wanted to dance with me,” he remarked, placing his hand on the small of her back. How delicate she was.

Her slender hand curled around his. “She is eighteen and you snubbed her. She regards you as a challenge that must be conquered.”

“How do you regard me?” He would gladly be conquered by Moira.

Her chin lifted. “I have not yet decided.”

He chuckled at her candor as he guided her through a gentle turn. “You are a hard woman, Lady Aubourn.”

She stiffened in his arms. “I am sorry. I have offended you again.”

“Relax.” He splayed his fingers against her gown, softly massaging the rigid flesh beneath. “You have not come anywhere near offending me, I assure you.”

“But I thought—”

“Ahh, but you think too much.” He grinned at her.

She smiled then, an unexpected flash of straight white teeth. Wynthrope’s heart gave a mighty thump at the sight of it. No doubt that knocked some of the dust off.

“I have made a decision, Mr. Ryland.”

This sounded interesting. He could feel the tension easing out of her as he guided her through another turn. She wasn’t a bad dancer at all when she relaxed. “About what, my lady?”

Her gaze was level but incredibly shy and uncertain. “I believe I have a mind to make your better acquaintance as well.”

A thrill shot from the middle of Wynthrope’s chest straight to his groin. The black queen had made her first move. Now it was his turn. He had a kiss to collect.

But not tonight. Tonight he would enjoy this small victory, and allow Moira to think she was in control of their game. She might have started the play, but he intended to win.

He always won.

Wynthrope arrived at his apartments several hours later to find a lamp burning in the parlor. His valet must have forgotten to snuff it out. It wasn’t until he was well into the room that he noticed he wasn’t alone. There was someone else in the room.

Someone who looked very much like a man he’d once thought of as a father. A man who’d lied to him and betrayed him right to the bone. A man whose very presence was like a shard of ice in Wynthrope’s chest.

It couldn’t be him. God, don’t let it be him.

“Hello, boyo.”

T
hose two words cracked the façade of composure Wynthrope tried hard to always project. This was a nightmare—his worst nightmare—coming true.

He launched across the room to where his uninvited guest lounged. Seizing the older man by the lapels, he hauled him to his feet with a snarl, his heart hammering wildly in his chest, blood thrumming in his veins. Their faces were mere inches apart and yet his “guest” did not flinch. At one time he had respected this fearlessness, now he despised it. He wanted to pound it off his face until there was nothing left.

“What the hell are you doing in my house?”

Smiling easily, William Daniels pushed at the hands creasing his coat. “Easy, boyo. Is this any way to treat an old friend?”

“You were never my friend.” What the bastard was, was lucky—lucky Wynthrope had some control over himself and didn’t just kill him.

Some of the leprechaun charm faded from the older man’s craggy features. “Let me go, boy. I’ve a proposition for you.”

Strangely enough, Wynthrope did as he was bid. Releasing Daniels’s coat, he dropped the Irishman back into the winged chair. He should have killed him when the thought occurred to him.

“You have five minutes to explain yourself before I throw you out.” Why was he even giving the bastard a chance to talk? Had he not learned the hard way that William Daniels was not to be trusted? The longer he spent in the Irishman’s company, the worse it would go for him.

Daniels watched him with an expression that bordered on amused. He straightened his coat haphazardly, seemingly unconcerned with Wynthrope and his rage.

The son of a bitch always had been too cocksure by half. To think that one time Wynthrope had looked up to this man; thought of him as more of a father than his own father had been. Of course, that had been the plan. Daniels knew exactly what to say to him, the things to do to make Wynthrope a willing participant in his illegal activities.

And when Daniels hadn’t been able to give Wynthrope what he wanted to hear, what he wanted to see, he made it up—never to the point of actually lying, however. Daniels was a master of bending reality to his will.

“Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?” the Irishman asked lightly, his tone as smooth and oily as the pomade in his salt-and-pepper hair.

Folding his arms across his chest to ease the shaking in his muscles, Wynthrope leaned against the solid frame of his desk. “You will not be here that long.”

That got a grin from the old man. “M’boy, you of anyone should know how fast I can toss back a whiskey.”

How could he talk as if nothing had happened? Wyn
thrope had betrayed him after discovering the truth. Daniels was not a man to forget such a cross. “I know you will talk that much faster without one.”

Daniels sighed, regarding Wynthrope as a father might a disappointing son. It was a look Wynthrope had received often enough from his real father. “You’ve become a hard man, Wyn.”

“I wonder why.” He couldn’t keep the sarcasm from his voice.

“Ah, so it’s my fault, is it?”

Was five minutes up yet? “What do you want, Daniels?”

He tugged a crease from his sleeve. “I have a job for you.”

That was it. This was the reason for the chummy attitude. Daniels needed him. He had humored the old man long enough. “Get out.”

Daniels stayed where he was, an arrogant expression settling over his lamp-shadowed features. “I do not think you want to toss me out just yet.”

“Yes, I do.” He wanted to do more than toss him out. He wanted to hit him, pummel him with his bare fists until Daniels couldn’t smile that mocking smile anymore. He wanted to make Daniels tell him why he had betrayed him as he had, why he had played him for a fool. But most of all—and most pathetically—he wanted to ask if Daniels had been lying when he told Wynthrope he thought of him as a son.

“There is something I need,” the old man told him. “I want you to get it for me.”

Wynthrope choked on bitter laughter. “There is no payment you could offer to make me work for you again.”

Some of the old man’s pleasant façade faded. “No payment, boyo. You owe me.”

Owe him? If either of them was owed anything, it was Wynthrope.

A few years ago Wynthrope had been a thief, and a very
good one. He enjoyed the risk and danger of his job, and he had been still young enough that he enjoyed the approval Daniels lavished on him. But that was before he had found out that it was all a sham. North had come to him all grim and anxious. Did Wynthrope work for a man named William Daniels? Was he aware that William Daniels was little more than a high-class fence?

Wynthrope hadn’t been aware. He had been told that Daniels worked for the government. He had been told that he too was working for the crown, that everything he stole, every intrigue he involved himself in, was to benefit England and the war effort against Napoleon. Daniels’s ruse had been elaborate and convincing, but that didn’t stop Wynthrope from feeling thoroughly stupid when the truth was finally revealed. He would not be so stupid again.

Daniels’s gaze locked with his, dark and deadly. “I see your brother has taken up political ambitions.”

Wynthrope said nothing, the blood in his veins turning to ice. He should have seen this coming.

“It would be a right shame if his adorin’ public was to find out he purposely tampered with a Bow Street investigation to save his brother from a prison cell.”

“Who would believe you?” It was more bravado than certainty, and Wynthrope despised himself for it.

Daniels shrugged. “No one, most likely. They might believe the evidence I have, however.”

“What evidence?” But dread was already taking hold of his soul.

The cocksure expression returned. Daniels was enjoying this. No doubt he’d been planning it for some time. “Come on, boyo, you know I kept records of everything. A package to Bow Street, and Duncan Reed would know all about you workin’ for me. A smart man like that wouldn’t take
long to realize you were the reason your brother left Bow Street.”

No, it wouldn’t take long. “You still cannot prove it.”

“I don’t need to prove it. I just have to make people wonder. I send this information to the newspapers, and your brother will find himself at the center of a nasty scandal. What do you think that will do for his political aspirations?”

Wynthrope’s tenuous grasp on his control snapped. Once again he grabbed Daniels by the lapels, but this time when he hoisted the older man to his feet, he didn’t stop. He hauled him toward the door, even as Daniels protested and dragged his feet in an effort to stop him.

Pausing only long enough to open the door, Wynthrope tossed his former employer into the corridor and glared at him, breathing heavily from exertion and rage.

“Get the hell out of my sight,” he rasped. “Do not come near me again.”

Daniels brushed the wrinkles from his dark green coat once again. “Do not be so hasty, m’boy. I know you don’t want to be the ruin of your brother’s career, not after all he did for you.”

Grinding his teeth, Wynthrope inhaled deeply. Any second now he was going to lose all control and strangle Daniels with his bare hands.

“I’ll give you a few days to think about it,” the older man continued in his charming tone. “It’s just a small job, one you could do in your sleep. You’d be repayin’ me for that little double cross years ago, and think of all the embarrassment you would be keepin’ from your family. I’m sure your oldest brother would appreciate that.”

Former father figure he might be, but Daniels knew exactly where to strike. He knew Wynthrope would not want anything to happen to North. He also knew that Wynthrope
would do almost anything to keep Brahm from finding out just how royally he had made a mess out of his life.

But he would not allow himself to be blackmailed, especially not by an Irishman as adept at lying as he was at picking locks.

Slowly, his gaze unwavering, he closed the door, the heavy oak eventually obliterating Daniels from his view.

“Three days, boyo,” the singsong lilt carried around the closing door. “I’ll expect you to have changed your mind by then.”

The door shut with a click that echoed in Wynthrope’s mind like the sound of a hammer on steel. Let Daniels come back. It wouldn’t make a difference.

Three days wasn’t going to change anything.

“I cannot believe he chose you over me.”

It had been two days since the party at Octavia and North’s, but Moira did not need her sister to explain who “he” was. Despite her usual chatter about her various beaux and their marriageability, Minnie kept coming back to one topic: that Wynthrope Ryland had wanted to dance with Moira rather than her.

“You are being very rude,” Moira told her without sympathy. They were having breakfast in the front parlor, the morning sun twinkled through the windows warming the pale blue walls. “Mr. Ryland undoubtedly has sense enough to know that he is far too old for you. Unfortunately, I believe that very sense is what makes him so attractive as far as you are concerned. Please pass the jam.”

Minnie shot her a pointed look as she handed her the porcelain pot from the other end of the gleaming oak tabletop. “Do not eat too much. You do not want to get fat again.”

Moira froze. Her breakfast consisted of toast and tea,
hardly cause for concern, yet she was tempted to push the plate away and listen to her sister.

Which was just what the brat wanted, of course. Minerva didn’t like being tossed over for her plain, older sister. The girl absolutely
had
to be adored by all who met her or life was a disaster. Lord knew their parents weren’t very capable when it came to showing affection for their children, perhaps that was why Minnie wanted it from everyone else.

In fact, Moira was amazed the girl hadn’t gotten herself compromised.

“Whether or not I am fat is no concern of yours,” she replied, deliberately slathering her toast with a thick coating of strawberry jam. Of course she didn’t want to be fat again, not when Countess Lieven had complimented her on her looks just a few months before. Of course, some of her gowns were a bit big on her now, but that couldn’t possibly be a bad thing, could it? And it certainly meant she could afford to eat a little extra jam on her toast.

“I doubt Mr. Ryland likes fat women.”

Moira didn’t even look up. “Then perhaps you should reconsider eating that third sausage.”

Minnie’s fork clattered against her fragile cream china plate. “You are so cruel!”

Sipping her tea, Moira cast a glance at her sister. “So are you. Do you suppose that means we are related?”

Oddly enough, that remark drew a smile from the younger woman. “It is silly to argue over a gentleman, isn’t it? After all, there are so
many
of them out there.”

Moira couldn’t help but chuckle. She couldn’t stay angry at her sister for long. “That’s the spirit.”

“Still—” Minnie took a thoughtful bite of that third sausage. “I am envious. Wynthrope Ryland is very handsome.”

“Is he?” Lifting her cup, Moira pretended innocence. “I had not noticed.”

Now it was Minerva’s turn to laugh. “I am not quite ready to give him up to you just yet.”

Moira rolled her eyes. “He is over thirty, Minnie. You are not even twenty yet.”

“So? Father is fifteen years Mama’s senior.”

Was that the best example she could think of? “Yes, and we both know what a happy union that has been.”

Her meaning was not lost on her sister. “Good point. I will take it under advisement.”

A smile curved Moira’s lips. Sometimes, when Minnie wasn’t being a terrible headache, Moira rather liked her younger sister. She might even miss her when she was gone. She would not, however, miss her mother’s frequent letters demanding to know what Moira was doing wrong that Minerva wasn’t betrothed yet.

The only thing keeping Moira from inviting her mother to come to town and take over the search for Minnie’s future husband was the fact that Moira couldn’t stand her mother. It was an awful thing to admit, but Moira couldn’t bring herself to feel too badly about it. Most people who met Eloise Banning didn’t like her. She really was a deplorable woman.

How thankful Moira had been to meet Anthony Tyndale. She hadn’t had many friends in her life, and dear Tony was probably the most significant. She jumped at the chance to marry him, to bid farewell to her family and never look back. It hadn’t occurred to her at the time that she might have regrets, that she might one day wish her husband could love her—that she could love him—the way husbands and wives should love.

Life as a viscountess was very demanding. Never had Moira thought that parties and balls could ever be a chore, but there had been times when she would have rather had a
tooth pulled than leave the house again. She had lost more weight in her effort to become elegant and regal. Tony cautioned her not to become too thin. Was there such a thing?

And then there were the nights that they entertained in their own home. Tony had given Moira carte blanche to do whatever she wanted with the house, and she had taken full advantage, making sure their staff was top-notch and pristine in their duties. She made certain every room was a study in style and elegance, that the fabrics were soft to the touch, the colors pleasing to the eye. She had made it her career to be the best viscountess she could be, so no one would find fault with Viscount Aubourn’s wife.

She read countless books on etiquette, manners, and entertaining. She read the papers so she could discuss current events with gentlemen, and
La Belle Assemblee
so she could converse with the ladies. She made herself familiar with all the popular poets and novelists—and even some of the more obscure ones. She practiced her needlepoint even though she hated it and made certain she could play at least four selections on the pianoforte and two on the harp. No one ever asked her to play, however. Thank God they never asked her to sing. She even learned to play whist and piquet, although she still wasn’t certain she understood all the nuances of the games. She had never been much of a card player. As a viscountess, however, she was exemplary.