Kathryn Smith (9 page)

Wynthrope shook his head to clear it, for surely he had not heard her correctly. “I beg your pardon?” He couldn’t have heard her correctly.

Finally she peeled his hand away from her hip and released it. “I will be blunt; do you pay attention to me in order to win a wager for yourself or someone else?”

He’d be affronted if it wasn’t such a ludicrous suggestion. “Do you try to offend me on purpose, or is this just some kind of defect of your character?”

The flush that rode up her neck and face was nothing short
of magnificent. “I would rather offend you than end up the object of ridicule again.”

“Again?” That meant it had happened before. Who had dared ridicule her? He’d have the bounder’s head on a platter—his balls too.

Now she looked away. “After the death of my husband, while I was still in mourning, I was befriended by a gentleman. I thought him a friend, at any rate. He was a great comfort to me and I trusted him.” Raising her chin, she turned a level gaze on him, allowing him to fill in the rest.

“He made a wager concerning you?”

Moira nodded. “He and his cronies thought it would be good sport to play with my emotions. The only reason he befriended me was in the hopes of worming his way into my bed, and five hundred pounds.”

Wynthrope held her gaze despite the urge to glance away. He knew such things happened. Men made foolish wagers all the time in the books at White’s and various other clubs—bets concerning everything from when someone would sneeze to when someone would die. Women were considered fair game.

He could apologize for his sex, but not all men were such scoundrels, and he didn’t want to sound as though he had something to apologize for. “The only prize I want to claim is you.”

She smirked. “Yes, I can well imagine.”

“No, I do not think you can,” he replied dryly. “There’s much more to you than just your body. I want
you
.”

The skin between her brows puckered as she tried to process the meaning of his words.

If he had to spell it out for her, then he would. “I want more than one night in your bed.”

Her eyes widened. “How much more?”

Wynthrope shrugged. What the hell was he doing? He had no idea, but it felt so right, he couldn’t stop himself.
“Much more. As much of you as I can possibly take. I cannot make you any promises—neither of us can at this point—but I do not think one night could possibly be enough for either of us.”

“You are very sure of yourself.”

“Yes.” Why deny what was true? “Sure of you as well.”

Her eyes narrowed. She seemed to be trying to peer inside his mind. He wished her luck getting past his thick skull. “And you swear you are not making sport of me?”

“Hand me a Bible, I’ll swear on it. Give me paper and I shall sign an oath—in blood if you want.”

“That will not be necessary,” she replied, a strange, thoughtful expression on her face, even as she smiled. “I will take you at your word.”

For some reason her words sent a shiver down his spine. Dread or delight, he couldn’t tell. “So you will allow me to seduce you?”

A hand on his chest pushed him back when he tried to come in for another kiss. “You may try.”

Wynthrope grinned. “Excellent.”

“But not tonight.” She gave him another push and a smile that a mother might give a child—a sweet, kindly smile that brooked no opposition. “Now it is time for you to leave.”

There was no point in arguing, and he didn’t want her to feel pressured. He didn’t want her to succumb to him because she felt she had no choice—he didn’t want there to be a choice at all.

“Fine.” He rose to his feet as she did. “When may I see you again?”

“Two days from now,” she responded. “Octavia and North are coming for dinner. You may join us.”

Spectators were
not
what he had in mind. “Until then.” And he kissed her—hard and brief and not nearly thoroughly enough to last until he saw her again.

She closed the door behind him, and Wynthrope stared at it for but a minute before finally willing his feet to move. It was colder now, the snow falling in fat flakes that were quickly piling up on the grass. He jogged through the garden, following the path around to the street and then down to where his carriage waited. The coachman was inside as Wynthrope had instructed. It wouldn’t do to have the man freeze to death while his master was doing his best to wet his wick.

“Home, John.”

“Aye, sir.”

At one time “home” had been Creed Manor, where he and his brothers had grown up. It wasn’t far from Moira’s in the wealthy confines of Mayfair. Now he lodged in apartments suitable for a bachelor of his station on Grafton Street, a situation that put him close enough to Mayfair to be fashionable, and far enough away that he didn’t feel as though he was living in a fish pond. It was a comfortable arrangement. He had a valet that attended to his fashion needs, a woman who came once a week to clean, and he ate whenever and wherever he wanted—usually at North’s house. He lived his life on his own time and by his own rules. Anyone would envy him his existence.

But not if they knew how bloody lonely it was at times.

There was a lamp lit in his study. Wynthrope’s heart stopped. He had company.

“Hello boyo.”

Wynthrope closed his eyes.
Not again
. “I really must get my locks changed.”

“Not a lock on this earth I can’t open.”

“There has been at least one.” The holding cell at Bow Street, for example.

Daniels chose to ignore his barb. “It’s a quick in and out, my boy.”

“No.”

“Be a real shame for your brother’s supporters to find out about his involvement in your escaping Bow Street’s notice. Mayhap the two of you could share a cell in Newgate. The Marquess of Wynter probably wouldn’t like findin’ out his sister married the brother of a dirty thief neither.”

Daniels was right. “I should kill you.”

“If I’m not back at my lodgings in half an hour, a package will be delivered to Duncan Reed at Bow Street detailing your involvement with my gang—and all the details of the cover up by Sheffield. And if you think of double crossing me, I’ll see your family ruined, I swear it.”

Clenching his jaw, Wynthrope faced his former mentor, fighting to contain his hatred for the man. “If I do this, you’ll go away and never come back?”

Daniels nodded. “I can’t wait to put as much distance between myself and England as I can. I don’t have to tell you that I have more enemies than friends here.”

That was true. Daniels had turned in many of his contacts in the underworld as part of a bargain with the authorities. He escaped the noose by sending others in his place. Wynthrope could just tell him to sod off and let his enemies do him in, but he couldn’t risk ruining North or Devlin.

“What do I have to do?”

Daniels’s weathered face lit up. “Appropriate a bit of glitter for me—a trinket really. A tiara from a wealthy widow. No doubt she’s got a dozen.”

Wynthrope nodded, barely listening. “She lives in Mayfair, I take it?”

“Aye. In a house she bought after her husband stuck his spoon in the wall.”

“And do you know where the tiara is kept?” He couldn’t believe he was asking these questions. Common sense told him to go to North, but he couldn’t risk it, not after all his brother had sacrificed for him already. North would want to
get involved, and that was a chance Wynthrope wasn’t prepared to take.

“No. You’ll have to find that out on your own. The lady’s beyond the sphere of most of my acquaintance, that’s why I’ve come to you.”

Wynthrope tilted his head, his face as immobile as granite. “Why are you doing this?”

“Let’s just say I’ve been offered enough money to make certain I never have to work again.”

Wynthrope made a scoffing noise. “You’ve never worked a day in your life.”

The old man smiled, revealing the myriad lines around his eyes. “Well, it wouldn’t do for me to start now, would it?”

He might have smiled were he not so damn angry. “So I do all the work and get none of the reward.”

“You’ll protect your family.”

Wynthrope nodded. So that was it then. It had been years since he’d stolen anything. He thought he had left that life well and far behind him. Now he was being forced back into it, and a part of him…

A part of him was
excited.
Not so much about committing a crime, but about taking the risk. It had always been about the risk for him.

“Who is this widow I’m supposed to relieve of her ‘trinket’?”

“A viscountess,” Daniels replied. “A Moira Tyndale, Lady Aubourn.”

T
his was a jest—a cruel jest that normally Wynthrope would appreciate with a healthy bark of laughter. He’d laugh now if he didn’t think he’d choke on it.

“No.”

Daniels looked puzzled. “No?” Then his expression changed to something crafty and calculating. “You know her.”

Shite. That’s what speaking before thinking got him; in deeper than he wanted to be, and dragging Moira with him.

“Not well,” he replied, his tone deceptively casual. “I know her to speak to her, of course. We do travel in the same circles.”

Daniels wasn’t quite convinced. “Then why the hesitation?”

“She’s just come out of mourning for her husband. It wouldn’t be right.” How easily the half truths rolled off his tongue, and he was glad. Daniels had always been good to him when he was younger, but the old Irishman wasn’t
above using Moira to force Wynthrope into doing what he wanted. He might think twice about hurting her, but in the end, he’d do it if it meant the difference between getting what he wanted and not.

And to think Wynthrope used to admire that aspect of him.

Daniels shrugged. “Just means she’s still vulnerable. She’s a pigeon just beggin’ to be bagged.”

Hearing Moira described in such a cutthroat manner set Wynthrope’s blood to simmering. He couldn’t argue, couldn’t defend her because Daniels would figure out he had been lying about not knowing her. He had already indicated that his employer was a wealthy man. If he was a member of the
ton
, then he might be feeding Daniels information—including the fact that he and Moira had been seen together.

Stealing from Moira. Christ, why couldn’t Daniels have picked someone else? He’d do it in a minute if it was someone else, if for no other reason than to protect his family. Now it seemed he was going to have to betray Moira and their fledgling relationship. He had no choice. If he tried to go to the authorities, his family—and possibly Moira—would suffer. If he killed Daniels, his family would suffer.

If he stole Moira’s tiara, only Moira would suffer. No, not only Moira. He would suffer as well, but he would deserve no less.

He moved to the oak sideboard and uncapped a decanter of whiskey. He didn’t bother to offer any to the Irishman as he poured himself a glass. “Do you have a sketch of the tiara?” There was no turning back now.

Daniels grinned—such a unthreatening expression. “I knew you’d come round.”

Coming “round” had nothing to do with it. Daniels had him over a barrel and he knew it. “Well, do you know what it looks like?” He took a swallow of whiskey. It burned and tasted bitter.

The Irishman took a folded paper from his inside jacket pocket. “Here.”

Wynthrope took the paper, the bitterness in his mouth intensifying as he did so. He should have known there would be no outrunning his past. He should have known he would have to pay for what he had done.

The urge to laugh came upon him once more as he gazed at the sketch. The tiara was none other than the very one Moira had worn that night—the one that made him think of her as a queen. How appropriate that it be his prize.

“It shouldn’t be difficult for a charmer such as yourself to sweet talk your way into the lady’s life,” Daniels was saying. “Might as well have yourself a bit of sport while you’re at it—provided she’s to your tastes.”

This time Wynthrope did laugh—bitterly, harshly. To his tastes indeed. A bit of sport. This couldn’t be real. There was just too much irony involved. It had to be a dream.

“No,” he agreed, his lips twisting into a malicious smile. “It should not be difficult at all.”

It was going to be hell.

“I have died and gone to heaven!”

Lounging on a sofa, Moira glanced up from her book with a welcoming smile as Nathaniel swept into her library, his fur-lined greatcoat billowing about his buckskin-clad legs.

“What’s his name?” she asked, amused by Nathaniel’s animated behavior.

Her friend slipped his coat off his shoulders, carelessly tossing it on a chair as he approached. “Matthew.”

Moira eyed the discarded outerwear. “You should hang your coat up.”

“That is exactly what Tony would have said.”

Anthony had been forever after Nathaniel for being so nonchalant with his personal effects. Their good-natured
bantering about it always led to flirtatious remarks that usually made Moira feel like an intruder—and more than a little envious.

“So tell me about this Matthew,” she suggested quickly, not wanting her friend to slip into melancholy at the mention of his late lover. It was time for Nathaniel to move on. She had loved Tony as well, and she missed him still, but he wasn’t coming back. Holding on to the past didn’t make for much of a future. And Tony wouldn’t want either of them to stop living just because he had.

Gesturing for her to move her legs, Nathaniel plopped himself down on the other end of the sofa. Moira immediately took advantage of the situation and propped her feet on his lap. How grateful she was for this relationship, this ease between them. Theirs was an intimacy that she could not have with anyone else, as no woman could provide the same friendship, nor could a man who preferred female “companionship.”

“Matthew,” Nathaniel began with a dramatic roll of his eyes as he patted her knee, “is an angel. Definitely worthy of these walls.”

Moira smiled. She hadn’t heard her friend express this much enthusiasm for anyone since Tony. The fact that he believed this Matthew to be worthy of Tony’s talent spoke volumes.

“And does he share your enchantment?” Could he hear the trepidation in her voice? Nathaniel had to be so careful about whom he set his cap for. If the wrong person found out about his preferences…

“I believe so. He has been very flirtatious, and made a point of telling me that he was going to a particular coffee house this afternoon.”

“Well, that is encouraging.” It certainly sounded it, but she had no idea how these things worked between two men.
Perhaps they understood each other better than women could. “Are you going to just happen to be there as well?”

“Yes, and you are coming with me.” Shoving her legs aside, he leaped to his feet, almost knocking her to the floor. “Now.”

Laughing, Moira allowed her friend to pull her upright. “Fine, I will go, but you are buying me chocolate.”

“Done.” He didn’t release her hands, but squeezed them in his own. “Thank you, my friend.”

Moira shrugged off his thanks, even though it warmed her to the bottom of her feet. “One of us should at least be happy.”

Nathaniel’s grin was nothing short of wicked. “Oh, I believe Wynthrope Ryland could put a smile on your face.”

“You really are incorrigible.” She couldn’t help but grin at him, though.

“A boy has to have something to recommend him.” Still holding her by one hand, he pulled her toward the library door. “Come, let us get you into a warm coat and gloves.”

Moira stumbled behind him. “Anxious?”

“Of course,” he tossed over his shoulder. “Unlike you, I have realized I actually want to fall in love again.”

Again? “I do not believe I’ve ever been in love.”

He came to a dead stop and whirled to face her, his expression one of anguish. “Oh, dearest.”

She placed her free hand against his chest lest he attempt to hug her. She would no doubt do something foolish like burst into tears if he embraced her. “Do not pity me, Nate. Not everyone is meant to have the kind of love you and Tony had.”

His gaze was so honest and sincere. “Perhaps not, but you are.”

Moira only smiled. “Thank you. Now, no more of this depressing talk. Take me to see this angel of yours.”

They took Nathaniel’s carriage to Blakney’s coffee house
in Covent Garden, where such establishments flourished. Blakney’s however, had no political distinction, nor was it a thinly disguised brothel. Both gentlemen and ladies alike were invited to sit and partake of the various refreshments, which included not only coffee, but tea and chocolate as well. Today it was far from full, but neither was it lacking in patrons as Moira and Nathaniel entered.

They had barely sat down when Nathaniel pointed out Matthew. True to his earlier description, the young man certainly looked as though he had just fallen from heaven. He also made a great show of pretending not to watch Nathaniel out of the corner of his eye.

Perhaps men weren’t that different from women after all.

“Oh my God,” Nathaniel murmured, stripping off his gloves. “We were meant to come here.”

Moira, whose back was to the door, tried to peer over her shoulder to see what he was looking at. The brim of her bonnet obstructed her view, blast it. “Why?”

“Do not look, but your Mr. Ryland is here.”

She froze. Surely her heart had stopped in mid-beat. “He is?” Oh, why didn’t she have her maid do something with her hair before she left the house? Thank heaven for her blasted bonnet.

Nathaniel nodded, his blue eyes bright. “And he’s coming this way. Dear Lord but there should be more men like him in the world.”

“One is quite enough, I assure you.”

“Good afternoon, Lady Aubourn. Caylan.”

Moira inclined her head in greeting, afraid to open her mouth and do something stupid like call him by his Christian name, or kiss him. He looked so fine indeed in a dark wine coat and tan trousers.

Nathaniel smiled brightly. “Good day, Mr. Ryland. Will you join us?”

Moira kicked him under the table. To his credit, he didn’t make a sound, he hardly even winced.

“I am meeting someone,” Wynthrope replied, glancing toward the door, “but I would be honored to join you until they arrive.”

Moira watched helplessly as he pulled out the chair next to her own and sat down. He set his hat on the table and tucked his gloves inside. Raking a hand through his thick, dark hair, he smiled at her. “How are you today, Lady Aubourn?”

“Very well, sir. You?” And just who the devil was he meeting? A man or a woman? Hardly a question she had the right to ask, given her own situation, but jealousy stabbed at her breast anyway.

“I cannot complain.”

“Oh look,” Nathaniel remarked brightly, interrupting their banal exchange. “There is Matthew Sedgewick. I must say hello. Will the two of you excuse me?”

Were it not for the fact that he was up and out of his chair before Moira could reply, she would have kicked him again. The traitor.

She cast a glance at Wynthrope. There was something different about him—a tension she couldn’t quite identify.

Well, one of them had to speak eventually. “It is a fine day, is it not? How lovely that the snow hasn’t been rained away yet.”

Wynthrope turned his head to meet her gaze. “What is your relationship with Caylan?”

Well, that was blunt and to the point. She made a show of removing her gloves so she could avoid his gaze. “What business is it of yours?”

He didn’t seem the least bit perturbed by her brusqueness. “I would like to know if I have competition.”

It occurred to her that she had never thought before this
day to ask whether he was already involved with someone. She had simply assumed he wasn’t. “Perhaps I should ask whether or not I can expect the same courtesy?”

“Of course.” His expression was one of extreme boredom. She already knew him well enough to know it was false. “One woman is trial enough.”

She smiled. “The same could be said for men.”

“So you are not involved with Caylan?” Was it her imagination, or did he sound hopeful?

“No. We are merely friends.” Perhaps she was revealing too much of her life to him, but if their relationship continued, he was going to discover much more about her than the fact that she and Nathaniel were just friends. If she wasn’t honest with him from the very beginning, she would never feel as though she could truly trust him—nor would he feel as though he could trust her.

“Friends,” he repeated, as though he had never heard the word before. “Such devotion is a commendable trait in a friend.”

“Yes, it is.” Moira ran her finger down the side of his hat, which sat beside her on the table. It was velvety. “I do not know what I would have done without him after my husband’s passing.”

“No doubt he will be there for you should you ever need him again.”

This was such a strange conversation. “I expect so.” She dared to glance at him, noting the color the frosty day had placed upon his cheeks. “Do you have such a friend, Wynthrope?”

He nodded, directing his gaze to the door once more. “My brother, North.”

That must be who he was waiting for. “How fortunate to be so close to a sibling. I am not close to any of mine, although I am enjoying becoming better acquainted with Minerva.”

He seemed surprised by that answer. Surprised enough that he jerked his gaze back to hers. “Really?”

Moira chuckled at his candor. “Really. She is simply young and spoiled. There may be hope for her yet.”

“If there is it will be all thanks to your influence.”

She regarded him thoughtfully. He was so very serious, not his usual glib self at all. Whatever was the matter with him? It was so very difficult not to wonder if she had done something to offend him, or if he had changed his mind about wanting her. “You flatter me.”

He shrugged. “I am honest.”

“Are you always honest?” It was an awful question to ask, and she knew it.

“No. Who is?”

“True enough.” Silence followed. “Are you quite all right, Wynthrope? You seem different.”

He seemed surprised that she noticed. How could she not? “Forgive me. It is no reflection upon you, I am simply preoccupied with something.”

“Would you care to talk about it?”

Again, he seemed surprised by her suggestion. “Thank you, but no. It is merely one of those bothersome things which must be done and cannot be escaped.”

Moira nodded. “I understand.”

He looked at her as though there was no way she possibly could.

“It will not prevent you from coming to dinner tomorrow evening, I hope?” Lord, there was nothing like being overly obvious. If he didn’t know how eager she was for him now, he never would.

Wynthrope’s head tilted a bit as he shook it. “No. I would not allow anything to interfere with seeing you again.”