—LJ
Wyn folded the paper. “Then you and I needn’t dally in pleasantries any further. Clearly I am finished here, but I still need Grimm to watch her.”
Gray set the letter in the box and returned to his chair. “It will be his sole task until you say otherwise.” He took up his glass again. “But you needn’t be finished here.”
“I am to be dismissed from the club. I know this as well as you. Cut my jesses and set me free, finally, as you have intended these past several months.” The urgency pressing beneath his skin needed this finished now.
“The director has no wish to release you from service. You are valuable to this organization.”
“Come now, my lord. The Duke of Yarmouth is a pustule on the face of this kingdom and Lady Priscilla was a reprimand.” His heart raced. “Although really I didn’t mind it, as it provided me occasion to spend a delightful sojourn in a cramped hunting box in Manchester with a number of whoring gentlemen of little fashion and intelligence and no taste whatsoever in women.” And occasion to encounter a determined lady on a Mail Coach in the rain.
“Whether you wish to leave the club by your own volition is, of course, another matter,” Gray said as though he hadn’t spoken.
Wyn stared at the glass in the viscount’s hand. “You never jest, do you?”
“Rarely.” Gray’s face remained passive, his square jaw, proud nose, and serious regard the portrait of British power. “Do you truly wish to be jesting now?”
The fire crackled low on the grate, and on the street without, beyond the lead-reinforced windows of the Falcon Club’s headquarters, the muffled clatter of a carriage passed.
“The director did not choose this assignment for you as chastisement, Wyn. Yarmouth requested you specifically.”
Wyn sucked in his breath. He might have guessed it, but it made no sense.
“You have done admirable service for England. More than admirable. And you’ve made precious few mistakes.”
“Colin, you know precisely how many mistakes I have made.”
“One.” The viscount’s dark eyes snapped. “For this with Lady Justice cannot truly be accounted a mistake. That woman has had a watch on this building for nearly three years. Blackwood and Seton have not crossed the threshold in that time, and Constance comes cloaked and hooded in an unmarked carriage. I’ve little doubt Lady Justice knows my identity too and is merely awaiting the opportune moment to reveal it to the entire kingdom. But until that day I will continue our work. As you should.”
Gray knew. Not all, but he knew about Chloe’s death. The director knew much more, yet still he wanted him. But now it meant nothing to Wyn, not their praise or their grand designs for his future. Only the safety of a girl with lapis eyes mattered now.
“Colin, I thank you.” He bowed and left the club for the last time.
His flat was as he had left it earlier except in two details. Before his manservant departed for the night, as always he’d neatly prepared Wyn’s boots. And on the table by the hearth rested, as always, a full carafe of brandy and a single glass.
Wyn removed his coat and loosened his neck cloth as he walked to the table. The crystal decanter sparkled in the soft glow from the lamp. With hands steadier now than in months, he lifted the heavy stopper, and the rich aroma of the distilled wine lifted to him. It smelled remarkably good. But not as good as her. Not even close.
He took up the bottle and poured brandy into the glass. Swirling it, he appreciated the familiar weight in his hand, the comforting warmth of expectation, the knowledge that this glass, this decanter, would give him peace.
He lifted the tumbler to his lips and tilted the brandy back. It tasted like lamp oil and some distant memory of salvation. But he knew now what salvation truly tasted of, and the contents of this glass were not it.
The hope in her eyes tonight, even amidst her consternation and worry, told him that she would not be easily deterred. She believed him a good man, a man worthy of her steadfast heart. And so, although it would be the most difficult task he had ever set himself to, in the morning he would prove to her that he was not.
Chapter 27
Too excited to sleep properly, Diantha awoke to gray splotches beneath her eyes. The maid insisted on cucumber slices, and she submitted, though since Wyn had seen her looking far worse, she hardly thought it mattered.
Still, when the maid arranged her hair carefully and fastened her into a pale yellow muslin gown with rosebuds across the skirt, she smiled. In the glass she looked almost like a London lady, except for the bright anticipation in her eyes, which after nearly three weeks in town she knew wasn’t the least bit sophisticated.
Sophistication could go rot! He would come, he would make her a formal offer, and somehow they would convince Tracy not to be such a horse’s ass.
Serena and Alex had returned home close to dawn and did not appear for breakfast. Diantha poked at her food, but she had no appetite except for the man she was about to see.
The clock was striking half past ten and she was picking out yet another botched stitch from her embroidery frame and endeavoring to ignore the snoring of the maid in the corner when the door opened and a footman announced, “Mr. Yale,” sending her heart into her slippers and stomach into her throat.
He entered, hat and riding crop in hand and glancing about the parlor offered her an elegant bow. “Good day, ma’am.”
She could not wait for him to cross the room. She sprang up and went to him.
“I forgot to ask you last night, how are Mrs. Polley, and Owen, and Ramses? How I miss them. It seems an age since I have seen them.”
“Softhearted minx.” He smiled, but the smile did not reach his eyes. The silver seemed dimmed this morning. Rather, shrouded. “They are fine as can be in the wilds of nowhere.” He tossed his hat and crop onto a chair and sat down in the chair beside it, crossing his legs loosely and hanging an arm over his knee. Despite the casual pose, he was beautiful in the angular, masculine way that made her heartbeats falter. He wore a carefully tailored black coat and trousers and snowy white linens, but his waistcoat was of burgundy silk.
“You do look very well,” she said when he didn’t speak and his gaze traveled about the room again with mild interest, passing over the maid then the open door at which the footman lingered. “The wilds of nowhere seem to have been beneficial to you these past weeks.”
“Bucolic rustication does wonders for the constitution,” he mumbled, his attention finally coming to her. Then it dropped to her bodice. “Town life is much to be preferred, however.”
She tried to laugh. “I don’t know that I agree with you. London is interesting, but it is always so busy. I think I prefer the country.” In the country he hadn’t looked at her like this, staring and yet seeming to look right through her. She glanced at the maid, then back at him, and lowered her voice. “Stop staring at my bosom. It is unnerving me.”
“Your nerves are my fondest friends, Diantha. I have been obliged to conquer them any number of times in order to get on with business.”
Her throat thickened. “Wyn?”
He looked back toward the door. “Is the family awake?”
“Not yet. But—”
He patted the arm of his chair. “Then I recommend you make haste to this chair, Miss Lucas.”
“That chair? The chair you are sitting in?” She wanted him to kiss her. She wanted to twine herself about him and let him take her to heaven like he had at the abbey. But this was wrong. Now his eyes were hooded, his gaze again on her body.
“Come now. Will you turn missish after all? I hadn’t imagined it of you, minx. But some girls will hold out until the ring is on the finger, whatever’s come before, I suppose.” He looked away, this time to the window, and gestured languidly with a hand.