“Thank you, sir.” The lady pressed her trembling fingertips into Leam Blackwood’s palm. “
In the iron mist of the moonless December night, he lifted her hand and placed the softest kiss upon her knuckles.
“God be wi’ ye, lass.”
Twin fountains of gratitude sparkled on her cheeks.
“You are too good.” She pressed his kerchief to her quivering lips. “
With a gentle shake of his head and a regretful smile, he handed her into the carriage and closed the door. The vehicle started off, clattering wheels and hooves shrouded by the hush of fog enveloping London’s wee hours.
For a moment, Leam stared after. He released a long breath.
’Twas a night like every other night.
’Twas a night like no other night.
’Twas a bushel of bad poetry, quite like the bad poetry of his life for the past five years. But tonight it would come to an end.
Straightening his shoulders, he buttoned his coat and raked his fingers through the itchy beard. By God, even his dogs didn’t go about so scruffy. It was a sorry day when a man wanted a razor more than a brandy.
“Well, that’s that.” His voice held no trace of Scots, the thick burr of his homeland he’d trained his tongue to suppress as a youth. And yet five years earlier, in service to the crown, he had reclaimed that Scots. Five numb years ago. Quite willingly.
But no more.
“Bella. Hermes.” He snapped his fingers. Two giant shadows emerged from the park opposite.
He’d brought the dogs along tonight to sniff out the woman from a scrap of her clothing provided by her husband. Sight hounds by breeding, they were helpful enough in a pinch. The manager of the seedy hotel in which they had run the woman to ground hadn’t minded the animals, and the agents of the Falcon Club had once again found their quarry. Yet another lost soul.
Of course the pup, Hermes, had stirred up trouble in the hotel kitchen. But Bella hadn’t bothered anyone. She was a good old girl,
That made one of them.
“Quite sure you wish to give this up, old chap?” The gentleman on the sidewalk behind Leam murmured into the damp cold. From the tone of Wyn Yale’s voice, Leam guessed his expression: a slight smile, narrowed silver eyes. “Must be satisfying to wrap lovely matrons so easily around your little finger.”
“Ladies admire tragic heroes.” Beside Yale, Constance Read’s soft voice lilted with northern music. “And my cousin is very charming, as well as handsome, of course. Just like you, Wyn.”
“You are all kindness, my lady,” Yale replied. “But alas, a Welshman can never best a Scot.
History proves it.”
“Ladies don’t give a fig about history. Especially the young ladies, who like
“The hotel manager’s wife called him a ruffian,” Yale added.
“She was flirting. They all flirt with him. She also called him a tease.”
“They haven’t any idea.” The Welshman’s voice was sly.
No idea whatsoever.
Leam passed a hand over his face again. Four years at Cambridge. Three after that at Edinburgh.
He spoke seven languages, read two more, had traveled three continents, owned a vast Lowlands estate, and was heir to a dukedom possessed of a fortune built on East Indian silks and tea. Yet society imagined him a ruffian and a tease. Because that was the man he showed to the world.
By God, he’d had enough of this. Five years’ worth of enough. And yet
Good Lord. Shakespearean thoughts in the wake of silly females and bad poetry. Brandy seemed an excellent idea after all.
Leam swiveled on his heels.
“If you two are quite finished, perhaps we might go inside. The night advances and I have elsewhere to be.” He gestured toward the door to the modest town house before which they stood. Like the falcon-shaped knocker, the bronze numbers 14? above the lintel glistened in the glow of a nearby gas lamplight.
“Where elsewhere?” His cousin Constance, a sparkling beauty who at twenty had already sent a hundred men to their knees in London drawing rooms, lifted azure eyes full of keen curiosity.
“Anywhere but here.” He drew her up the steps.
“Don’t set your hopes on that too securely, old chap. Colin has plans.” Yale pressed the door open and winked at Constance as she passed through.
“Colin can go hang,” Leam muttered.
“I would rather not.” At the parlor threshold, the head agent of the Falcon Club, Viscount Colin Gray, stood as he had any number of nights, calmly awaiting their return from yet another assignment.
The edge of his mouth ticked up ever so slightly. Gray rarely smiled. His was a grave sort of English rectitude, one Leam had admired since their school days. He met Leam’s gaze, his indigo eyes sober.
“But if you wait long enough, my friend, you might get lucky.”
“More likely to be a guillotine than a noose, though. Hm, Colin?” Yale moved directly to the sideboard. The young Welshman’s speech never slurred nor did his gait falter. But Leam had watched the lad drink an entire bottle of brandy since noon.
A brace of candles illumined crystal decanters. Glass in hand, Yale settled into a chair as easily as a boy. But nothing ever looked as it seemed. Leam had learned that years ago.
The dogs padded in, Bella settling on the rug by the fire, her pup greeting Gray, then following him to the hearth.
“How did matters proceed tonight at the hotel?” The viscount leaned against the mantel. “Mr.
Grimm has gone off in the carriage and you are all here, so I must assume you found the princess and that she is now on her way home.”
“To the loving bosom of her anxiously awaiting husband.” Yale smiled slightly.
“Leam flirted with everything in a skirt.” Constance paused at a window, drawing open a drapery to peer out into the darkness.
