The Rebel Heir (13 page)

“Gypsies who lived in much the same way as you do once stopped at the border of our estate. They told fortunes and gave out tonics said to heal any disease—for a price. Is that what you do?”

And there it was standing before him—truth. Lost in the depths of her eyes, he stammered, “It's a bit more complicated than that. I…”

“Ash, I speak of only the weather and fashion to everyone I know. Your secrets are safe here.”

“That is what you say now,” he said, knowing everything would change between them soon. For the first time ever, he dreaded the day that he would collect his reward and take his leave. “What about when it comes time for me to leave?”

“I'll point out how positively leafy I find a tree while you walk away.”

“Why?” She shouldn't promise to protect him. She wouldn't if she knew the full story.

“Because I want to know the truth.” She twisted slightly in her seat and brought her other hand to his, capturing his palm between hers.

“No.” He shook his head, trying to regain his good sense. That was pointless while he was in her company, but he attempted it nonetheless. “Why would you assist me when I leave?”

“Because leaving is what you want,” she said with resignation negated by the fact that she clung to his hand as if he were the last ship in the harbor.

“Do
you
wish me to leave?”

The moment slowed between them like cold honey clinging to a spoon. Neither of them was quick to speak, neither quick to look away. She clearly lacked the preparation required to answer.

He gave her a warm smile, letting her know there was no need for words. He wouldn't push her. Not yet, anyway. The more he knew of her, the more he understood that there was more truth in what she left unspoken than in what she said. She spoke through the look in her eye, the clinging of her hand. It was nuance, and he examined every piece of it. What had frightened her to make her so fearful of expressing her thoughts? He would peel away her layers until she was laid bare before him, but today that meant revealing more of himself than he cared to admit. It was a risk—but one he couldn't walk away from.

“How did you begin in this particular field of study?”

“Field of study?” He laughed, breaking the tension between them. “It began in school, I suppose. When I left home, I was able to become someone else. For the first time, I wasn't irresponsible Ash, youngest of four. I was whoever I chose to be—the benefit of calling an island home, I suppose. Off the island, no one knew me or my family. I could begin anew, be anyone. That was when I discovered that people—people other than you—believe what they're told.”

“What do you tell people other than me?”

“You already know, Evie.” His gaze dropped to where the end of one ribbon from her hat caught in the breeze that had picked up in the past few minutes. The length of shining blue satin tickled the exposed skin along the top of her shoulder. Lifting the ribbon between his fingers as he spoke, he moved it away from her neck. Then, because he wasn't one to resist temptation, he traced the path that the ribbon had taken, the backs of his fingers brushing across her pale skin. “I haven't been honest with you either, yet somehow you guessed the truth.”

“That is true,” she said, not shying from his touch. “I believe you may need to hone your skills.”

“This has been my life for seven years, and you think
now
my skills need work?” he asked, his fingers continuing to follow the line of the back of her neck down to the ridge of her shoulder. She didn't flinch under his question or his touch. In fact, the only sign that he was having any effect on her was the hold she now had on his other hand. He was sure she didn't realize that she was caressing his fingers and gazing into his eyes as she did so.

“You should consider improvements. I wasn't taken in by you for a moment,
Lord Crosby
.”

“Not even for a moment?” He grinned. “What about last year? What of the servants' hall? I thought I was quite compelling on that occasion.”

“Those are different skills entirely.” She seemed to become aware of how she was holding on to him because she made to pull away—at least until he tightened his grip and held her still. How could she tease him about kisses while maintaining such a prim facade?

“A shame. I think I would prefer honing
those
skills with your assistance.” Right now in broad daylight with every chance of being seen. He wanted her. He couldn't sit here, allowed to touch her shoulder, her neck, even that tendril of hair that escaped her hat, and not want to feel her lips against his. He wanted to touch every part of her, to taste her, and discover every secret she held beneath that veil of perfect ladyship.

“I-I don't think… That won't be necessary,” she stammered, yet she didn't move away.

“Later, then,” he promised, more to himself than to her.

She looked down, focusing on some benign point on his shirt as she spoke. “I'm sure you practice such things in every darkened hall across England. I was simply the lady present that night.”

Did she think that was true? All right, perhaps there was a hint of truth in it. Very well, a great deal of truth. But that had been before he knew her, before… He couldn't put a finger on what had changed, but it had. She was different. “You were
not
simply the lady present.” He moved to lift her chin with a knuckle until she was looking at him again. “You're Evangeline…Evie,” he added.

“I suppose the fact that you remember my name now is something to be pleased over,” she murmured, still looking troubled.

He'd pushed too far. With others he could always judge that line and where he stood in relation to it, but not with her. And now she was pulling away from him. He dropped his hand to the seat behind them. “I did forget your name, Evie. I admit that much, and I am sorry for it. I did not, however, forget you.” He remembered everything about her. Everything, it seemed, but the one detail that mattered.

She cleared her throat and glanced away, allowing the subject to drop with a curt nod of her head. When she turned back, all emotion had been stripped from her face. Whether she'd forgiven him or didn't wish to discuss it further wasn't clear, but everything about her stated that they were to move on. “Even with the pleasant change from your home, why choose to be a…”

He blinked at the sudden change of subject for a second before finishing her question for her. “Salesman? …Swindler?”

“I was searching for kinder terminology, but yes. Surely there were other professions that appealed to you.”

No other profession would gain back what his family had lost, not to mention that no other would fit his temperament so well. It had been a natural decision. But did it still fit his temperament? He'd never stopped to ask the questions Evie was now posing. He shot a glance at the horses, which were growing restless beneath their harnesses. The reins still lay wrapped around the edge of the phaeton as the horses shifted and pawed the ground. He should retrieve the reins and continue on, but he remained still, not wanting to leave just yet.

Looking back at her, he said, “It suits my needs…and it simply came about. Have you ever had something come to you so easily that you didn't think about the decisions that led you there?”

“Yes, once. Or I suppose twice, now.” Her gaze dropped to his lips for a second before she blushed and looked away.

He kept quiet, sensing that he was about to cross the line again. He didn't want her to pull away just now.

“Younger siblings do have options beyond a life of crime, you know,” she said after a moment.

“Ha!” he let out, thinking of the large headquarters across town filled with other gentlemen just like him, younger siblings who had come together for survival in society.

“You could have joined the ranks of the military,” she suggested. “Their uniforms are quite smart. A life lived to the beat of the drum and all.”

“Do you know how early they must rise in the morning?” he asked, drawing back in shock.

“You live a life of crime so that you needn't rise early?”

“Of course. Isn't that how everyone makes life decisions? Don't enjoy rising early? Life in the military or life as a baker, for that matter, are off the table.” He shrugged and gave her an unrepentant grin. He had other reasons for choosing his path—his promise to his mother, for one—but he'd never considered the military as an option. His choices certainly ran deeper than when he would be forced to rise in the morning, but regrettably not by a large margin, he was beginning to realize.

“And the pay in the military is not vast,” he added in an attempt to sound more reasonable. “I don't earn a king's ransom, but I do well enough to enjoy a certain style of life. I was brought up with an appreciation for certain niceties. Niceties not often found on the field of battle.”

“Very well. Not the military, then. What of the vicarage? Dedicate your life to serving others and doing the Lord's work?”

He started laughing. He hadn't an answer. Ash—a vicar. Another round of laughter shook his body and brought tears to the corners of his eyes.

“I didn't find the notion nearly that amusing,” she grumbled, but a hint of a smile threatened to show on her face.

He continued to laugh for moment before wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. “A vicar,” he muttered.

“I suppose a swindler is the only option for you, then.” She shook her head in clear exasperation.

“I don't take advantage of people, if that's what you're imagining. I find people with excess means, people who have wealth and are doing no good with it…those who don't deserve it. And even so, I don't leave town with all they have. I couldn't live with myself if I did that to an unsuspecting gentleman,” he said in all honesty. That's what her father had done, and Ash would not rob from another family in the same fashion.

Another family other than her own. But he wasn't willing to think about that now. Not with Evie here.

“Only those who have earned the loss of their funds through their misdeeds? There are quite a few of
those
people in society, aren't there?”

“I'm good at it, Evie. It's simply who I am,” he tried to explain.

“I disagree.” Her words were quiet as she spoke in the small, frail voice she used when others were about. “You are capable of much more.”

He looked into her eyes, hanging on to the belief in him that resided there. It was odd that such strength could come from such softly spoken words. Was he capable of more? For now, he only wanted to be capable of the task before him. He would think about
more
in a few weeks, once he was on the road out of town. “Perhaps,” he finally muttered. This was to be his largest scheme. He needed to be capable of more than he had been in the past, even if he knew that wasn't what she'd meant.

“You're courting me as cover for your plots, aren't you?”

Her question was sharper than the slap to his face had been that night at the ball. He didn't know what the devil he was doing with her, but it certainly wasn't helping his plots—or his plight, for that matter. “It's never been my intention to use you, Evie.”

“If you are in such a line of work, what dealings do you have with my father?”

There it was—the question he'd been dreading. “That's business of another sort.”

“Do you have another sort?” she asked, concern filling her eyes.

“Evie, I've been disgustingly honest with you. The thought of it makes me a bit ill.”

“And honesty isn't a requirement for rides in the park. This isn't conversation over tea, after all,” she said, but not with the same light tone she would have used only a few minutes ago. She directed her gaze forward down the path. “It was wrong of me to ask. Of course you aren't taking advantage of my father. You wouldn't be here with me if that were true. It was a silly question. I shouldn't suggest such things.”

He wrapped her hand within his and squeezed it. If he stayed he would eventually have to tell her the truth. He inhaled a sharp breath at the ease with which staying had crept into his thoughts. He didn't stay—ever. He couldn't, could he?

“Ash, are you courting me in truth?”

“I have no idea what I'm doing.” Courting Evie was by far the worst idea he'd ever had, and yet he couldn't walk away. Not yet.

“Do gentlemen like you often accidentally court ladies without a purpose in mind?”

“It would seem so,” he grated out.

“Not even a purpose that involves business with my father?” she clarified. The intent look on her face almost bordered on haunted.

He'd been honest with her, more so than he had been with anyone perhaps ever. Therefore, it pained him to do what he must. He gathered the reins, turned to her with a kind smile, and lied. “Of course not.”

* * *

St. James,

Although my last report was positive in nature, I have encountered a delay. The gearing necessary for the machine we discussed is of a nonstandard size and must be fabricated. I found a blacksmith in Leeds…

Ash looked up from the paper in his hand, but as usual, St. James's face revealed no information. “Gearing for what machine? What is this about? Oliver Dean—is that who drew the diagrams?” he asked, handing the letter back to the man and shifting the large rolled-up diagrams in his arms.

St. James had stopped Ash in the main hall of headquarters. His meeting with Lord Rightworth was in less than an hour, and it wouldn't be wise to make the man wait, let alone for a letter Ash didn't fully understand. But it must be of some importance for the leader of the Spare Heirs to share it with him because St. James wasn't prone to sharing anything at all.

“He's referring to your steam machine, Crosby.”