Night of Pleasure (28 page)

She expected him to say something.

He didn’t. He still silently held the newspaper high enough to cover his face.

It was the only view she had of him in the last five minutes since he sat down at the table with her to have breakfast. He hadn’t bothered with his plate of food or his coffee. Nor had he rustled with the newspaper to turn a new page. It was obvious he’d been staring at the same two pages for the past five minutes.

She knew he was waiting for her to start the conversation. And given she hardly slept, getting up on the half-hour to wind her music box throughout the night to ease her distress, she was done with choking on misery.

She lifted her teacup to her trembling lips, taking a calming warm sip and set it back down onto the saucer. It tipped and spilled, soaking the tablecloth. She winced and used her napkin to address the mess. She eyed Derek.

He continued to stubbornly hold up his newspaper.

Setting her empty cup back onto the saucer, she confided, “I’m sorry about last night. I was…I was overwhelmed.”

His newspaper flopped down. “Is that what you call it?”

An exasperated breath escaped her. “You’re very forceful and passionate in nature, Derek. It leaves very little room for us to get to know each other outside of your passions.”

“Is that how you see it?” Without meeting her gaze, he folded the newspaper and set it aside onto the table beside his plate. His gruff features appeared all the more severe given he was not looking at her. He took up his fork, his gaze still lowered and turned it back and forth against his fingers. “So are you saying Nasser knows more about you than I do?”

Poor Derek. It was like he didn’t understand what men and women
needed
to share. “Yes. He knows a lot about me. In fact, he and I talk about everything.” Knowing he needed an explanation she wouldn’t be able to offer him without betraying Nasser’s secret, she quickly added, “I cannot speak for Nasser, given I am sworn to protect his name, but I will give you the name of a man who will be able to at least answer some of your questions. Go to him first and set aside your doubts. His name is Brayton.”

His brown eyes snapped to her face. “
Brayton
? As in…Lord Brayton?” he echoed. “Doesn’t he live with my brother?”

She nodded. “Yes. He was tasked to investigate your family for the Persian crown.”

His eyes widened, reflecting the horror of knowing that a British aristocrat was working with the Persians and that it had treason slapped all over it. “Does my brother know he has been living with a spy?” he demanded.

“You needn’t worry about Andrew’s safety, Derek. The Persians have no reason to attack England. Not when they are dealing with Russia. And Nasser, although he revels in playing a fierce leader for his father, is far too kind in nature to ever bring harm to anyone.”

Derek fisted the fork he was holding until his large knuckles went white.

Everything grew quiet. So quiet, she could hear herself breathing.

“You speak so highly of him.” His cool tone indicated that he was struggling to keep his voice respectful. “Certainly more highly than me.”

A breath escaped her. “No, Derek. That isn’t true. For heaven’s sake, he and I—”

“Forget it. I’m not looking to argue. I’m done with that.” He tossed the fork onto the table and stood, his chair scraping the hardwood floor. “We aren’t talking about him ever again. Because it’s obvious he means more to you than I do.”

Everything was falling apart. Just as she knew it would. She knew if she stayed and loved him, he would set fire to everything with his damnable passions. The sort of passions she had vowed to avoid all her life after choking on it since childhood.

Rounding the table, he veered in and lingered by her chair. He rugged features softened, as did his voice. “Clementine.” His voice cracked. “What do you want from me? Tell me. So I can do it. I don’t want to lose you.”

He wanted to genuinely love her. She could see it in his face and his eyes. And that was more than enough for her to want to love him in turn.

She rose and lifted her gaze to his, her misery making it almost impossible for her to breathe. She turned toward him, her skirts brushing his trouser-clad thighs. “Derek, it isn’t any one thing you must do. It’s what we both must do. I’m transitioning into a new way of life I wasn’t prepared for. And it’s obvious you yourself are transitioning into a life you aren’t prepared for. All I ask from you during our marriage is that you…please stop treating me like an object. Get to know me. Not as a woman but as a person.”

He nudged her chin upward with the curve of his hand, his brown eyes intently searching her face. “How am I to know you as a person if you aren’t even willing to tell me things? You told me last night there are things you can’t tell me. Where does that leave us?”

She swallowed, knowing he was right. “And that is why I am sending you to Lord Brayton. Because the one secret you want is not mine to give.”

He hesitated, his expression turning to anguish. “I see.” He released her and stiffly stepped back. “I’m uh…I’m going to talk to Lord Brayton in the hopes he’ll be able to answer some of my questions. Because although I want to trust you, right now…I don’t.” Without meeting her gaze, he rounded her and strode out of the room, his steady footfalls leading down the corridor announcing that addressing Lord Brayton was next.

Sometimes there was such a thing as a calm before the storm.

She had seen it too many times.

Her heart popped. She scrambled around her chair and the table and bustled toward the entrance of the breakfast room. Peering out, and noting he was gone, she dashed straight for the nearest footman so she could be ready to leave in time knowing there was only one way to prevent two men from hurting each other: getting between them.

An hour later - 11 Berwick Street

Derek thudded the ceiling of his coach with a gloved fist, signaling it to stop when the hackney he’d followed all the way from his brother’s quarters in an effort to talk to Lord Brayton, pulled to a halt in what appeared to be a quaint neighborhood of merchants.

Derek leaned toward the window.

On the other side of the street, a gruff-looking, well-muscled man who would have easily sent fear into a constable holding a pistol, hefted himself out of the hackney, those broad shoulders over-stretching his wool coat. Lord Brayton effortlessly landed onto the cobbled street just before the pavement leading toward a long row of townhouses. Tugging down a dark wool cap over his brow, he dragged up his coat collar, extending it high enough to hide what appeared to be a long jagged scar on the side of his face.

Derek paused in astonishment. Someone had clearly taken a blade to the man’s face.

Lord Brayton trudged past one of the black iron fences that belonged to a whitewashed townhouse with shutters framing all of the large windows. Moments after twisting the bell, a butler opened the door, took his card, and let him inside, the door closing behind them.

Damn it. He knew he should have gotten to the man sooner.

Using the tips of his gloved fingers, Derek quickly angled his top hat forward as the footman opened the door to his carriage and unfolded the steps. Derek rose and without using the steps, landed onto the cobbled stone. “Return within a half hour. If I’m not outside, go down another street and come back in another fifteen minutes after that.”

The footman inclined his head. “Yes, my lord.”

Adjusting his morning coat, Derek crossed the street and stepped onto the pavement. He strode up the small set of stone stairs, toward the door Lord Brayton entered and paused. The polished brass numbers ‘11’ beside the door glinted in the sunlight as he reached beneath it and twisted the bell.

He glanced behind him toward the narrow cobbled street, waiting.

The clattering of carriages and the occasional shouts of various vendors selling wares in the far distance floated in the late spring air that smelled, not of countless flowers in bloom, but rather, of acrid coal smoke from surrounding chimneys.

He turned back toward the door and twisted the bell again.

The door swung open.

A portly, gray-haired gent in well-ironed, dark blue livery observed him from beneath the thick, fuzzy tufts of his brows. “Do you have an appointment, sir?”

Derek cleared his throat. “Ah, no. Forgive me, but I don’t. The name is Lord Banfield. I apologize for the intrusion.” He gestured toward the foyer behind the man. “I would actually like to speak to the gentleman who just entered. It should only take a few minutes. Can I please step inside to speak with him? Because I would rather not do this in public.”

The butler lowered his round chin onto his stiff collar before holding out a gloved hand. “Five pounds will see you into the foyer. And ten pounds will see you straight to the gentleman himself.”

Derek shifted toward the man in disbelief. “Are you asking that I pay you to see him?’

The man sniffed. “Was I not clear in that, my lord?”

Something told him this wasn’t the first time this man held out a crooked hand. “Where is your mistress, sir? I’m asking to speak to her regarding your outrageous behavior. Does she know you’re soliciting money from her guests?”

Those thin lips retracted. “Judging by your tone, and that you have been watching this house and the gentleman who entered it from a carriage you were hiding in across the street, perhaps I ought to not only close the door but call for Scotland Yard. You don’t appear to be friendly and I doubt your intentions are either.”

The old man had been watching him. “I’m not looking to hurt him.” Yet.

“Have you seen the size of the man? I doubt you would be able to.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “Given you aren’t worried for his safety, may I please speak to Lord Brayton? It’s important.”

The man’s bushy brows popped up. “It would be rude of me to allow anyone to intrude on his appointment. You do realize that, my lord, yes?”

It was obvious where this was going. It’s not like he was financially struggling. Far from it. He was officially worth three million and could probably buy his way into heaven. Derek unbuttoned his morning coat and pulled out his leather pocketbook. Flipping it open, he yanked out one of
many
bank notes he had: a fifty pound one. A month ago, he would have panicked at the idea of parting with so much money. Now? It was like handing over a shilling.

Derek held it out between gloved fingers.

Those eyes widened as the older man glanced up. “I will ensure you are given a glass of our best port to go along with your visit. Is there anything else you require?”

There was no doubt money was power. It was downright dangerous. “No need. I only require entrance.” He still held out the bank note. “Now take the money.”

The butler took the bank note. “Thank you. You are beyond generous, my lord, I…thank you.” Tucking it frantically into his pocket, he pulled the door wide open and cleared his throat. “Shall I take your coat and top hat, my lord?”

Derek stepped into the foyer, removing his top hat. “No, thank you, sir. I’ll hold onto my hat. I don’t plan on staying long.” He made a promise to himself and he was keeping it. Resolve and go. Not punch and go. Resolve and go.

The door closed, darkening the quiet foyer.

The sweet smell of mulled wine floated in the air and a clock chimed in the distance, somewhere upstairs, before clicking back into silence. The butler glanced toward the stairwell beyond, as if to ensure no one was coming, then sidled up to him and imparted in a low tone, “I will notify madame that you are here. Lord Brayton is in the parlor to the right. Whatever you do, I ask that you not rile him.” With that, he strode past and hurried up the stairs.

If his brother was still sharing quarters with the man, how bloody dangerous could he be? Derek shifted his jaw and slowly made his way into the adjoining room and across the wooden inlaid floors of the parlor. He paused at finding Lord Brayton seated in a single gilded chair set in the middle of the receiving room.

Lord Brayton’s ice blue eyes veered toward him.

Derek paused, realizing that the room was eerily devoid of carpets, side tables, lamps or anything else that might have made it look mildly welcoming. More disturbing was seeing four life-size, marble statues of well-muscled, nude men lining the section of the empty receiving room across from where Lord Brayton stoically sat.