Promise Me Heaven (19 page)

Thomas was even angrier with himself. He had been grossly negligent. He should have recognized hatred so intense, even had Seward tried to mask it. Thomas’s life had so often depended on his ability to clearly sense the motives and impulses that drove other men. But he hadn’t read Seward, not at all.

The list of “shoulds” unrolled in a damning litany in his mind. He “should” have recognized Seward’s hatred and thus “should” have been prepared for his betrayal. He “should not” have trusted Seward to keep Cat at the Pavilion. He “should” have realized that his suite’s open door would have acted as a challenge—perhaps even as titillation—to a woman like Daphne. He “should” have walked from the room at Daphne’s first suggestive overtures.

His carelessness had made him an accomplice in his own betrayal. But, he still held Seward accountable. He still intended to thrash the man to within an inch of his life. Perhaps rending Seward’s flesh, as Thomas felt his own heart had been rent, would help assuage the pain that racked him ever since he had seen Cat’s horror-stricken face in the dim mirror and flung Daphne from him.

Daphne had cowered on the floor, recoiling in fear and fleeing when he’d heaved the heavy chair against the wall, splintering it apart. It was well, for had she remained, he would have added the crime of murder to his sin-encrusted soul.

He’d spent the rest of the night in darkness, hunched in a wing-backed chair by a long-dead hearth fire, the scent of brandy and the chill sea air his only companions. The hours grew immeasurably long, the killing rage superseding his growing despair. He had lost Cat. Not merely her physical presence, but all of her.

God help him, he had thought he might keep some small portion of her regard. To be able, in the years unrolling before him, to comfort himself with the notion that should they ever chance to meet, Cat would smile. No more than that. He closed his eyes, unaware that the brandy glass had shattered in his hand.

Cat’s face haunted him. Innocent Cat, so intent on acquiring sophistication, she had blindly transgressed its ultimate law: Trust no one. And yet she had trusted him. A tortured sound rasped from his throat. There was nothing he could say to Cat, nothing that would erase that tawdry exhibition from her memory. He had to see her, to feel the lash of her scorn, to let her voice the pain he had caused. Hopefully, in allowing her pain expression, its poison might be diminished.

Feeling damned beyond recognition, he waited until he heard the first clattering of the hotel’s maids bringing chocolate and toast to the guests. Then he went to her room and knocked.

Silence met him. Again he pounded his open palm against the paneled door. She did not answer. Of course not. The thunder of his hand against the oak door reverberated into the enveloping predawn hush.

“Shouldn’t I answer it, milady? Maybe it’s just the girl come with a spot of tea. You could use a touch of something, please,” he heard Fielding say from the other side of the door, the worry in her voice making her words a plea.

He could not hear the reply.

“No, I won’t. I promise,” he heard Fielding soothe, “but you must let me fetch you something. I’ll just slip out—”

“
No!
”

He heard her clearly that time. He closed his eyes, tormented by the panic the thought of seeing him caused her. He pushed himself off the door, his anger once more white-hot and lethal.

In his room, he splashed water from the basin onto his face, raising it to stare at his reflection with red, sleep-deprived eyes. He saw her face instead. With an oath, Thomas grabbed the coat he’d earlier hurled into a corner, intent on finding Seward. He hoped it had amused him greatly to send Cat to his room after having arranged for Daphne to be there, because it was going to cost him. Dearly.

Every entertainment had its price.

A giant stood on the front steps leading to Jack Seward’s rented Brighton town house.

His legs were braced apart, arms hanging loosely at his sides. His slate-streaked locks fell forward, unkempt, upon high cheekbones. A rumpled black coat stretched in deep wrinkles across his broad back. His pose was preternaturally still.

The footman who’d sleepily answered the thunderous banging backed away from the black-eyed brute’s intimidating figure. The dark man’s gaze scoured the interior of the hallway before finally coming to rest on the footman.

“Fetch Colonel Seward.” His quiet rasp was a frightening contrast to his ravaged appearance.

“Colonel Seward is not receiving visitors,” stammered the footman.

The big hands curled at the giant’s sides. “If I do not see Colonel Seward within the next five minutes, I will find him. Do I make myself clear?”

The footman gulped, bobbing his head. Uncertain whether he would be able to choke any words past the constriction in his throat, he ushered the towering man toward the morning room then carefully closed the door before running to get Colonel Seward, praying his master would be able to deal with the madman.

Fixing his eyes on the mantelpiece clock, Thomas silently willed the promised five minutes to pass that he might have the pleasure of ripping the room apart. Four minutes and ten seconds elapsed before the door swung open.

Seward looked done in. Warily regarding Thomas, he finished knotting the silk dressing robe around his waist. His hands, Thomas noted with detached disappointment, did not shake.

“I am going to beat the bloody hell out of you, Colonel,” Thomas said conversationally. “I only tell you so you might call for assistance. I welcome the opportunity for further violence.”

Seward raised his chin. “I am not going to call for reinforcements.”

Thomas sighed, genuinely weary. “You needn’t bother to simulate integrity. It isn’t necessary. I am even willing to admit my own hand in the little scene you orchestrated last night. You see, I had judged you incapable of such gross duplicity.” He laughed. The sound was frightening. For the first time, Seward realized how very, very dangerous Thomas Montrose might be.

“Amusing, is it not?” Thomas said in the same frighteningly calm tone, approaching him until they stood within arm’s reach of one another. “You have so often pointed out my jaded skepticism, and yet I was so easily gulled.”

The man looked drunk, or drugged, thought Seward. He could not tell which. And then he had it; he remembered men with that peculiar gait, their abnormal calm, those fevered eyes; Thomas Montrose looked like the survivor of a massacre.

“I hope the enjoyment you received was worth it,” Thomas said. “Despite what you think you know of my history, I really am well acquainted with discomfort. Come, Seward.” He stood in a relaxed pose, nay, more nearly an exhausted one, only his size and the promise in his soft words threatening. “I will amuse you further by admitting an unwillingness to strike the first blow. Pathetically proper, isn’t it? You should have no problems, though.”

“I won’t rise to the bait, Montrose, though I doubt I would be as easy an opponent as you think,” said Seward.

“Try. We shall discover together,” Thomas said, and now his smile was gentle. He closed his eyes, swaying back. Seward instinctively reached out to steady him, but before he could touch him, Thomas’s lids opened a slit, and Seward saw a feral light gleam. He snatched his hand back. With a gentle smile and soft words, Thomas Montrose would break his neck.

During the course of a highly hazardous career, Jack Seward had dealt with many types of men. He knew the most dangerous, the most unpredictable opponent, is the one with nothing left to lose. Thomas Montrose looked like such a man.

“No, not before you listen to me,” Seward said, surprised he wanted to ease Thomas’s despair.

“I am not interested.” Thomas took a step forward.

Seward held his ground. “I do not know what occurred last night,” he said. “I can only surmise that, whatever it was, it had something to do with Lady Catherine’s early return to the Old Ship.”

Immediately Thomas caught Seward’s lapels in his fists and jerked him forward. “I am credulous only once. Do you ask me to believe you didn’t plan this as some sort of warped retribution? And retribution for what? My social position? For my leaving the Foreign Office? Do you ask me to believe that Daphne Bernard did not run to heel as soon as your plan had been carried out?” His voice was a whisper. “Did you laugh, Seward, when she described the revulsion on Cat’s face? Or was she too busy at my body to attend? How disappointing for you.” He gave Seward a violent shake and, suddenly, casually, flung him away.

Seward stumbled backward, reaching blindly to stop his fall. Montrose was incredibly strong. But it was not his physical strength that caused Seward to blanch. It was his words.

Seward had not known. But he’d guessed. Daphne Bernard had arrived, disheveled and shaken at two o’clock in the morning, demanding money as she scribbled down what she knew. When asked why she hadn’t given her information to Thomas, she flew into gutter French epitaphs, swearing to return to Paris as soon as possible.

Seward had spent the rest of the night trying to convince himself there had been no real betrayal. His concern was pointless; Lady Catherine had had an uneventful return to her suite. He had sneered at what he considered Montrose’s ethical affectations. But maybe, Seward conceded darkly, what he had really been sneering at was his own inability to embrace a code of honor. Any code of honor.

Because behind the rage that made the huge man facing him seem a lethal animal was an all-too-human anguish. In an instant of stark self-examination, Seward suspected he was incapable of such feelings. The knowledge filled Seward with self-loathing. Like an angry child who cannot ride and thus proclaims to hate horses, he had fashioned his character from his very inability to understand such concepts as honor, integrity, and morality.

Seward had never sought to justify himself to any man. He did not do so now. But he felt the need to educate Thomas Montrose as to the extent of Lord Barrymore’s hatred.

“I am not your enemy, Montrose.” Seward’s last word was cut off by his own gasp as he doubled over in excruciating pain. He had not even seen the blow coming, so lightning quick was it delivered. Thomas stood still, once more relaxed, his arms at his sides, his breathing even.

“Once more, I have misjudged you, Seward. I congratulate you. I never suspected you to be a coward, too.”

Now Seward’s own ire was inflamed. Aiming his blow at Montrose’s jaw, he attacked. His fist was caught, the impact halted inches from Thomas’s face. It was an act of monumental strength and reflex, and yet the expression on Montrose’s face stayed blank.

“Thank you,” Thomas murmured, and Seward felt the bones in his hand grind together as Montrose twisted his wrist back, bringing Seward to his knees. He clenched his teeth against his groan, knowing his hand was being broken.

“Too easy,” muttered Thomas, releasing him. “Tell me again you are not my enemy.”

“Bloody hell!” Seward snarled, kicking out his foot, slamming it into Thomas’s kneecap. Montrose stumbled back. Seward surged upward, driving his elbow into Montrose’s jaw before dancing back.

Thomas’s head lowered, blood appearing at the corner of his mouth. He looked up from beneath his dark brows, and Seward saw the evil fire, unbanked.

“Once more, my thanks,” Thomas said, moving slowly toward him.

“Damn you, Montrose! You will hear me! If only to save your Lady Catherine!”

Now there was nothing casual or deceptive in Thomas Montrose’s expression. Pure rage, lethal and focused, emanated from his black eyes.

“Do you think to threaten her?” he roared, lunging forward. But Seward was ready this time. He flung up his arm just in time to ward off the blow. His forearm took the impact, transmitting it to his shattered hand.

“Not I!” he gasped, lights of pain exploding before his eyes, the ground heaving beneath his feet. “Barrymore!”

“Barrymore?” Seward dimly heard Thomas ask, unaware Montrose even held him up until he felt himself released. Seward staggered unsteadily on his feet.

“Aye, Barrymore. ’Twas he who hounded your lady from the Pavilion. He leered and badgered and dogged her, making no attempt to disguise that he would make a spectacle of her with his gross attention. She fled,” Seward ground out between his teeth. “In this I am at fault. I should have stopped her. I had promised you. I was wrong to order the carriage she demanded. I did not foresee her flying to your side. Again, I misjudged. But I did not send her there!”

Montrose’s eyes narrowed. “Are you lying?” The blood was flowing freely from his split lip, staining the open collar of his shirt.

“Why should I lie? In all the years we have been associated, when have personal feelings colored my actions? Whatever I have done, whatever I have ordered others to do, no matter how unsavory or abhorrent, I have done for the sake of my office. What reason would I have to alienate you? Hatred? You give me too much credit, Montrose. That is a human emotion.” His voice was rife with self-contempt.

The passion slowly receded from Thomas’s eyes as he considered Seward’s words.

“Does he threaten her?”

“Yes. But only if it is convenient.” Seward cradled his broken hand against his chest. “As long as she does not put herself in his range, I judge her to be safe enough. His actions are unfocused, small, and vicious, but given the chance he would destroy her. She made him look a fool, something he will not forgive.”