Maybe. Until the selfsame lord told the true story. While she was glad she hadn’t actually killed him, she wasn’t all that delighted he was still going to be able to torment her. Madeline stood there, trying to imag ine the rumors that would surface if Fitch spread the word that she’d invited him to come to her home, and twisted the reason why. He’d been smart enough to not actually blackmail her, so no real crime had been com mitted except some repugnant comments. All he had to do was deny he had the journal and accuse her of attacking him without cause.
The facts were the facts. If he’d been spiteful and sly before, he’d be tenfold worse now if he recovered.
If.
She took in a shuddering breath, clenching her hands into fists at her sides. Luke had sworn he’d take care of it.
That was another matter entirely.
Of all people, she’d called on Luke Daudet, the no torious and sinful Viscount Altea, sending her footman haring first to his club, and then apparently to one of the most shameful gaming halls in England.
Which was worse? Held captive by Lord Fitch’s mali cious amusement, or being beholden to Luke?
She wasn’t sure, but certainly counted
this
as one of the worst evenings of her life.
Chapter Three
“A
ny thoughts?”
Michael Hepburn, the Marquess of Longhaven, gazed at his companion across the breakfast table. Luke smeared jam on a piece of toast, his brows lifted in question, his pose seemingly casual, but Michael wasn’t fooled. He said, “Well, for one, any time you write down words you’d prefer others besides the intended recipient not see, you take a chance something exactly like this might happen. I burn all private correspondence.”
“I feel certain you do.” It was a dry observation. “I agree also that jotting down intimate details of your sexual moments with your wife is a poor idea, but a private journal is just that: private. I am sure Lord Brewer did not expect to expire at such a young age. Besides, he is not the first person who chronicled the experiences of his life on paper each day. Many people keep diaries.”
“True,” Michael admitted, though if he happened to be so inclined, it would be a breach in security that would make the Crown very unhappy indeed. He thought Lord Brewer foolishly sentimental, but refrained from saying so. Luke didn’t open up easily, and he had a reason for arriving on the doorstep at such an early hour. “It was an error in judgment, but not everyone anticipates such a contingency as someone with low moral values prying into your life.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” Luke seemed absorbed in taking a bite of sausage, chewing carefully and swallow ing before asking, “If you were me, what would you do next?”
“About Lady Brewer’s dilemma?”
Or
, Michael thought privately,
about the lady herself?
“Something has to be done about Fitch.”
“Are you asking me for advice, or do you wish me to step in?” Michael picked up his coffee cup and looked pointedly at his old friend.
“I’m not sure. You are much more versed in matters of this sort.”
“Bloodied, senseless gentlemen in the house of one of my paramours? No, I have to say that is out of the realm of my experience.”
“She isn’t my paramour.” The words were clipped. “Madeline is an acquaintance—that’s all.”
The beautiful Lady Brewer felt free to call on Luke in a moment of dire need, and considering his prickly at titude about the woman in question, Michael somehow doubted
acquaintance
was the right word, but he let it go. Lately Luke had been touchy and more restless than usual, and maybe it had something to do with her. He kept late hours, and this morning in particular looked urbane and collected as usual, but there was a tired line to his mouth.
The morning was bright and clear, the sky outside the windows of the informal breakfast room showing a sea of cloudless blue. After a sip of coffee, Michael set down his cup with deliberate care. “You say you returned him to his town house and told his majordomo you’d found him unconscious in an alley outside our club?”
“I thought it sounded like a plausible explanation.” Luke’s lean body held a subtle but discernable tension. “He summoned the physician, who pronounced the wound superficial and said he thought Fitch was more foxed than anything, if the smell of brandy was an in dication. I can confirm the man reeked of it, and when I put him in the carriage an empty flask fell from his pocket, though I doubt his excesses of the evening were confined to that one container.”
“But we are still left with the dilemma of Lord Brew er’s private writings somehow in the possession of the nefarious Fitch, whether he recovers or not, correct?”
“Correct.”
“I believe I can probably take care of that.”
For the first time since his arrival, Luke smiled, and while it didn’t have the same effect on him as it did on the susceptible ladies of society, Michael was glad to see the normally careless Viscount Altea resurface for a moment.
Luke murmured, “I thought you might be able to help.”
“For Lady Brewer’s sake?” The question was deli cately put.
Luke ignored the insinuation. “It seems prudent to take steps now.”
“Fitch was unpleasant before last evening’s incident, so it is a logical assumption that his mood isn’t going to be improved with the addition of what I have to assume is a colossal headache this morning.”
“The doctor said between the liquor and the blow to his thick skull, he might not remember how he came to be injured.”
“That would be best for everyone, but until we know, you should take care to protect her one way or the other.”
“It’s hardly my responsibility.” Luke shrugged, but Michael thought it didn’t reflect a true indifference.
“No,” Michael said mildly, “but yet you are here, en listing my aid on her behalf.”
Luke tossed down his napkin and rose with his usual nonchalance. “Speaking of which, let me know when the journal is rescued and I will return it to its rightful owner. I’d promise to give you due credit, but I doubt Madeline would appreciate that I told you about it in the first place.”
In his profession, credit was not advisable, so that was for the best. Michael elevated his brows. “I will be in touch.”
“Thank you for breakfast.”
“Of course.” He paused and said neutrally, “Did you really wager twenty thousand last night on one hand?”
Luke lifted his brows in a sardonic arch. “Gossip trav els quickly as ever, I see.”
“In our circles, most certainly. I knew by midnight.”
“I’m not quite sure why I took Cayne’s challenge.”
“I think I can take a guess.” They’d been together in Spain during the war, and as a result, their demons were not a secret to one another.
“Don’t.” The single word was clipped. “I don’t need a father confessor, Michael, but I would appreciate that journal.”
After his friend departed, Michael sat and stared thoughtfully at the doorway. He knew, of course, the beauteous Lady Brewer. Pale gold hair, exotic dark eyes, a body that any healthy male would appreciate, but she’d been devoted to her husband and withdrew from society for an unfashionably long time after his death. She was reputed to be uninterested in any type of attachment, casual or permanent.
He had to admit he found it worthy of note that the lady turned to Luke for aid. He wasn’t aware they knew each other well, and certainly Luke had never as much as mentioned her in his presence. The only time he’d ever seen them even exchange a word was at their mu tual friend Joshua’s wedding to Lady Brewer’s cousin. Come to think of it, Michael mused as he leaned back in his chair, coffee in hand, at the time he remembered noticing the stilted chilliness in Madeline May’s voice when she greeted Luke. With his looks, fortune, and fac ile charm, most women fell at his feet.
Or into his bed.
But Luke said she was not one of his lovers, and she certainly did not have a reputation as a woman who in dulged in casual liaisons. Luke didn’t believe in any other kind, so it was probably the truth. All that taken into consideration, they didn’t make likely friends either.
It was interesting but immaterial to the problem at hand. Michael finished his coffee and left the breakfast room for his study.
He needed to send a message. He had connections that could handle this sticky little matter with ease. Ei ther Antonia or Lawrence would take care of it quickly and discreetly.
He was never indecisive, and it irritated him when, with his hand lifted to knock, Luke dropped it and consid ered leaving. Logically it made perfect sense if after the events of last evening, he called to see how Madeline was feeling and to tell her he hoped to have her hus band’s journal returned to her soon. But there was a certain part of him that reminded him Lady Brewer was dangerous to his peace of mind.
He didn’t
have
to see her. A brief letter would do.
Had the door not opened he might have remained there on her front step, waffling like a nervous adoles cent for God alone knew how long, but it did open and Madeline herself appeared, a startled look on her face as she saw him standing right there. “Oh. Lord Altea.”
It slammed into him. He should have sent the letter.
The sunny day, the busy street, the neat bricked steps, any possible watching eyes . . . it all faded away. This morning she wore a soft lemon yellow day gown with short, ruffled sleeves and lace shirred underneath the bodice, which drew the eyes to the curve of those full, firm breasts. Her shining hair was pinned back, and in her hand she had a reticule, which made sense, for she was obviously on her way out.
As beautiful as she looked, all delicate, fascinating female, it was the faint dark circles under her eyes that moved him the most. Those telltale, fragile smudges were a reminder of what she’d been enduring alone. How much had she cried . . . alone? Lain awake and wondered if she was about to be humiliated by having the most private part of her life put on display?
That was why a note wasn’t sufficient.
“Good morning, Lady Brewer,” he said formally, in case there was a footman within hearing or her butler was near the still-open front door of her town house. “I thought I might call, but I can see you have an errand or appointment. Perhaps I can escort you or offer my carriage.”
She was composed and her smile merely polite, but her gaze searching. “That’s very kind of you, my lord. I was going to walk over to visit my sister-in-law, as the weather is so pleasant, but we could use your carriage instead so you are not forced to walk back.”
Her dark eyes, so unusual in contrast to her blond beauty, gazed at him in open, unhappy question. He said, “It would be my pleasure to give you a ride.”
Instantly he wished he’d used different wording, for his anything-but-innocent mind envisioned giving her a different sort of ride than a polite jaunt in his carriage, the kind of journey that began with slow, melting kisses, then involved discarded clothing, and ended with her straddling his hips as they moved together toward a common erotic destination. . . .
One night. They’d shared one night together almost a year ago, and his body traitorously remembered it whenever she was nearby. A whiff of her perfume, a chance glimpse of her profile at a crowded event, the sound of her low, musical laugh, and his cock begged him to forget why he’d declined to pursue an affair. Madeline was one of those rare women who was refined, sophisticated, and glib in public, and deeply passionate in the bed room. Moreover, he admired her intelligence and sense of humor as much as he did her physical allure, and the combination filled him with the deepest sense of alarm.
This was a woman men fell in love with, not one they casually bedded and left behind. He wasn’t all that sur prised that the literary minded Lord Brewer had rhap sodized over his wife’s charms, for they were well worth recalling.
Having once loved and lost, Luke knew he wasn’t interested in such emotional pain again. Back in Spain, amidst war and all the hell that accompanied it, he had met the woman of his dreams. It remained just that, an illusion, and he woke each morning aching for the loss. The ordeal was too agonizing to risk a repeat per formance. In obligation to his title, he would probably marry eventually, but at thirty, he wasn’t interested at all in that change in his life right now. When he did decide it was time, he had every intention of selecting his wife in the most dispassionate way possible. He might even—God help him—let his mother give him advice on whom to select as a suitable bride.
“I expect if anyone sees me getting in or out of your carriage,” Madeline murmured as he politely assisted her inside the vehicle, “there will be gossip.”
“Your virtuous reputation can probably withstand a few whispers,” Luke replied in cynical amusement at her prim tone, though he did understand her reservations. No one would care if he was seen with her, but the other way around
did
matter. “Now, then, where does your sister in law live, so I can give my driver instructions?”