In the Night (27 page)

Brahm’s finger beat against the table, punctuating his words as he spoke, “Then you keep trying, and she will eventually see you.”

Oh yes, that was a wonderful idea. Wynthrope sneered. “Because I’ve worn her down?”

Brahm looked as though he’d dearly love to cuff him. “Because she’ll know you are sincere.”

Would she? If he kept trying, if he refused to let her go so easily, would Moira finally give him a second chance? Would she listen to his whole sordid tale? Would she believe the truth after he had deceived her so badly? He could only hope so.

Right now hope was all he had.

R
ain came upon London with a vengeance, turning the snow to slick ice, then to thick dirty slush before washing it away completely. Even when the streets ran clean and there was no snow to be found in any nook or gutter, the rain continued. Sometimes it was an almost imperceptible drizzle, invisible to the eye until one felt the sheen of it on one’s face or saw the diaphanous mist covering one’s coat. Other times it was stinging, frozen pellets, or fat, cold drops that chilled and drenched until it seemed there was no chance of ever being dry and warm again.

Sometimes, as was the case today, the rain fell in sheets; a wall of water that poured down from the heavens, flooding drains and casting the entire city in a dismal, sopping-wet gray.

Moira stood at the window, watching the black horse pick its way down her sopping drive. The man on its back had his collar pulled up around his face, the brim of his hat pulled
low. What did he hope to accomplish by acting so foolishly? He should be in a carriage where it was warm and dry. Did he think to win her sympathy by appearing on horseback, subjecting himself to the elements? Well, it was working, damn him. He was going to catch his death this way, the idiot.

As was becoming his habit, he turned his face toward the window as he rode past. The endless streams of rain made it difficult to discern his features, but Moira felt the impact of his gaze as surely as a blast of sunshine through the clouds. Her heart imagined it could see sorrow in his eyes, penance even. She knew better than to trust it. Her heart had already proven itself to be blind as a bat.

This time he turned away before she did. It was a small thing, surely not that significant, but it felt as though the world had tipped beneath her. Was he losing patience so quickly? She had thought he’d continue this charade a little longer than this. Perhaps she had underestimated him in all aspects, not just where trust was concerned.

“I do not need to tell you who that was.”

Smiling sadly, Moira turned from the window to face Nathaniel as he entered the room. Thank God for her friend. He had been a source of much-needed strength for her these past few days.

“Eventually he will stop coming.” As soon as he saw that it would take more than a few martyrish rides in the rain to turn her head, he would give up.

Although why he was trying in the first place was a mystery. Did he hope to somehow worm his way back into her life so he could steal the tiara, or was he truly sorry? Perhaps she should simply face him long enough to ask him herself, but she was frightened of what else might happen if she saw him. That weak, puny side of her missed him so very terribly and wanted to believe that he was as much a victim as she, that it was sure to believe anything he told her. And she
didn’t know if the rest of her was strong enough yet to resist him, so strong was the pull to forgive him, to take him in her arms and tell him everything was all right.

She wanted there to be some awful reason that he needed her tiara. She wanted to be right about him. She wanted him to be the man she believed him to be. That was why she refused to see him, because she feared she would find out just how wrong she was.

Or, God forbid, that she had been right after all.

More importantly, he kept coming to see her. Did he not realize the risk he was taking? Most women would be threatened by his attention and run straight to the authorities, but not her. She didn’t have enough sense to be afraid of him—not in a physical manner. What was he trying to prove? That there was more to his betrayal then he had told her? That he truly cared for her?

So which of them was the bigger idiot now? Him for riding in the rain, or her for wanting to believe his visits actually meant something?

Nathaniel poured himself a glass of sherry from the crystal decanter on the sideboard. “For the past three days he has come to see you, and every time you have me turn him away. I do not think he is a man who gives up easily. Sherry?”

She shook her head. “No, thank you. You are right, he does not give up easily, but sooner or later, he will have to.”

Her friend tipped his brows as though he thought cessation might be a long time coming. “Are you certain you will not see him?”

“I cannot.” She hugged herself with her arms. If only she could get this chill from her bones. “The pain is still too fresh. If I see him now, I will not be able to discern lies from the truth.”

Nathaniel sipped his sherry, his expression sympathetic. “Do you not at least want to know what he has said?”

“No.” She hugged herself tighter. “What did he say?”

“Let me see…oh yes. Yesterday he said that he would keep coming back until you saw him. Today he simply said to tell you he missed you.” Another swallow of sherry. His brow puckered as though he were in deep thought.

Moira’s heart pinched. He’d said that, really? It had to be lies, but she wanted it to be truth. She was so torn. Her heart said one thing, her mind another. To which did she listen? Or better still, how to get the pair of them to just shut up for a while?

“Oh—and that first day he said to tell you that he would keep his promise, and that the white king is yours, whatever that means.” Shrugging, Nathaniel topped up his glass with more wine.

Closing her eyes, Moira struggled against the spinning that threatened to claim her. She knew what it meant—what he had wanted her to think it meant. He was always white, every time they played chess. Often times he referred to her as the black queen, and in jest, to himself as the white king.

“He means that
he
is mine.
If
I want him.”

Nathaniel’s lips parted as a pained expression crossed his face. “Oh dear. That is terribly romantic. Terribly romantic indeed.” He gave his head a rueful shake. “I swear, Moira, if you can resist this man you are a stronger person than I.”

“He just said those things in hopes that I would be stupid enough to believe. He wants the tiara, nothing more.” If that were true, why did neither her heart nor her head quite believe it?

Obviously Nathaniel didn’t believe it either. “If he wanted nothing more than the tiara, why not just come get it some night?”

“He doesn’t dare.” Bravado didn’t suit her. It sounded stilted coming out of her mouth.

“Whyever not?” Nathaniel’s tone wasn’t cruel, merely cu
rious as he walked away from the sideboard. “He has you over a barrel, or at the very best the two of you are at an impasse. You cannot turn him in without risking having your own secret revealed and he cannot reveal your secret without risk to him as well.”

Moira made a face. “As though anyone would believe me. No doubt he’d make me sound like a fool—a vindictive woman he tossed aside once he’d bedded her.”

Nathaniel considered her words. “Which makes it all the more plain that he is after more than the tiara.”

It was all Moira could do not to strike herself in the chest as her heart tripped hopefully against her ribs. “All it makes plain, Nathaniel, is that he is not to be trusted. He can’t very well come steal it with you here, can he?”

He raised his glass to her to make a point. “Something which cannot continue much longer or the scandal will have us married.”

“Just a little while longer, please.” How whiny she sounded, just like a child. She was a grown woman and had survived on her own for the past two years. “Just until I’m sure he will not come back.”

Nathaniel must have missed the panic in her voice because he continued on with his terrifying hypothesis, “If he’s half the man I think he is, he will keep coming back. He’s not after some bit of swag, Moira. He’s after you.”

“That’s not true.” If she hugged herself any tighter she’d faint. “The reason he hasn’t tried to steal the tiara is that he wants to avoid a physical altercation with you.”

Her friend laughed at that. “Darling,
you
are more manly than I am. Wynthrope Ryland is not afraid of making me scream like a little girl. If anything, you would end up protecting me from him. He wouldn’t risk alienating you even more by harming me.”

Nathaniel made him seem superhuman rather than a mere
mortal—a fact that made her sneer in response. “Wynthrope Ryland is not above doing anything to get what he wants.”

“Then you had better hope it is just the tiara he wants.” Nathaniel dropped onto the sofa, without spilling a drop of sherry. “Because if he wants you, that man is going to have you.”

Moira turned back to the window. God help her, but she hoped he was right.

Wynthrope walked into North and Octavia’s house in Covent Garden half hoping, half dreading to find Moira there as well. Unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on how he looked at it—she wasn’t.

In fact it appeared to be a family-only affair—family being Devlin and Blythe’s respective families. Miles and Varya were there, as well as Brahm.

It was unlike Octavia to host a dinner party and not invite Moira, so why wasn’t she there? Had Moira told Octavia that she would rather stick pins under her nails than see him? Or was something else afoot? If it weren’t for Miles and Varya’s presence, he’d suspect his family of plotting against him. But to what end? He had yet to confide anything about Daniels and his blackmail, and aside from Brahm, he hadn’t talked to any of them about Moira. Brahm might not be his favorite person in the world, or even in this room, but he trusted his brother to keep his confidence.

North was on him the minute he stepped into the drawing room and greeted everyone.

“What did you do to Moira?” he demanded in a harsh whisper as he yanked Wynthrope into the far corner of the room. It had been a long time since North had resorted to physical brutality with him—not since that night he discovered Wynthrope was the thief he’d been chasing.

Wynthrope made a show of brushing the wrinkles out of
the sleeve of his coat. It gave him a moment to regain his composure. “What makes you think I did anything?”

“Because the last time Octavia called on her she said Moira was not herself. She was withdrawn and pale.”

Wynthrope’s conscience winced at the description. The idea of his Moira as anything but vibrant and warm was heartbreaking. To know that he was the cause was insufferable.

“Perhaps she ate something that did not agree with her.” The words were harsh, even to his own ears.

“Damn it, Wyn. Do not play the cold bastard with me.”

“What makes you think I am playing?” It was not a flippant remark, it was an honest question.

North withdrew a step, frowning as he regarded him. “You are not yourself either.”

This was not the time and place for this. “If I am not myself, then I have no idea who I possibly could be.” Lately he’d been wondering that very thing himself. Who was he? Was he the man Daniels thought he was, or the man Moira thought he was? Or was he the man everyone else thought he was? Perhaps some strange combination of all the above? Perhaps that was why he hardly seemed to know himself. Perhaps that was why he didn’t seem to be able to decide what to do, because there were so many options depending on whom he was trying to please.

North gazed at him as though he didn’t know who he was either. “Something has happened. What is it?”

Wynthrope pulled a face. “That overly developed imagination of yours is running away with you once again. Nothing has happened.”

“It is never my imagination where you are concerned. If anything good falls in your lap you always seem to toss it away.”

Toss?
North thought he had
tossed
Moira away? Ire sparked deep within him. Did his brother think he would
willingly give up someone like Moira if he didn’t have to? It was
his
fault Wynthrope had lost her. If North hadn’t stuck his face in all those years ago, Daniels wouldn’t have had anything to blackmail him with. Of course, he would have had to leave the country or suffer time in prison, but what did that matter now? He’d rather be in France where there was no Moira Tyndale, or wasting away in some fetid cell, than bear the pain of knowing he had hurt Moira.

Even her parents had never hurt her so badly; she had said so herself.

“You want to know if I tossed Moira, is that it?” he asked with a forced sneer. “Of course I tossed her. Tossed her skirts over her head and—”

North held up his hand, his expression one of disgust. He didn’t say a word before turning his back on Wynthrope and rejoining the group. Wynthrope watched him go with less regret than he should have. There was no pleasure in angering his brother, but at least he had saved himself from answering questions he didn’t want to answer.

All he wanted was one night without the memory of her filling his head, plaguing his thoughts. He should be able to do that among his family, even if all he could think about in this room was how he had caught Moira as she tumbled off a ladder while hanging mistletoe. He had known the second his arms closed around her that he would never be satisfied with simply holding her, so he had tried to steal a kiss, and when he finally claimed it, he had known that he would never be satisfied with just one.

And now that he knew what it was like to be inside her, part of her, he would never be satisfied by any other woman ever again. He had to have her back, even if it was just for one fleeting moment. He had to have her again.

Christ, he had just arrived and already he was consumed by thoughts of her. How could he have thought that he could
escape her here? He could leave, but there was nowhere he could go that she would not follow. She was in his head, in his heart, and she dogged his steps and haunted his every waking moment.

Today he had been the one to look away first, just because he could not bear to watch her turn away from him again. Hell was not some fiery pit of damnation. No, hell was knowing you had hurt someone you cared for and not knowing if you could ever make it right.

Salvation came in the unlikely form of Brahm. Something nudged Wynthrope’s calf, and he looked down to see the tip of a cane pressing into his leg. He raised his gaze, and his eldest brother seemed to smile without moving his lips.

“I was going through the attic the other day and found some old effects of Father’s. I thought perhaps you might like to come by and sort through them.”