Behind the Marquess's Mask (The Lords of Whitehall Book 1) (18 page)

“I couldn’t very well let you drown, much as I wanted to,” he challenged. His hands fisted in his lap, well out of view. The rest of him remained a relaxed façade. “I told you it was an asinine pursuit the minute you told me what the devil you were planning.”

“He would have given me a good thrashing had you told the truth,” she said, watching him carefully.

“You have never had a good thrashing in your life,” he returned flatly. If she had, they would never have been tangled up in this mess.

“Not with you there to act as my whipping boy,” she said.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Grey protested. “You are not about to blame me for your being spoiled just because I told a few white lies.”

“A few white lies,” she drew out thoughtfully. “A few white lies to save me from death and a thrashing. Is that what this was?”

“In a way,” he admitted.

“Vague,” she said accusingly.

She stood across the room, a slender bit of fury focused directly at him, and he felt every ounce of it.

“I had hoped my presence might jog your memory a bit,” he lied. “If I simply told you who I was, then seeing me wouldn’t be necessary. Surely, you understand why I was reluctant to give up my only excuse for visiting.”

Her expression told him his attempt to appeal to her sentiment was not satisfactory. Too bad. It was the best she was going to get until he knew exactly how much she remembered.

She held up a small finger with a shining gold band matching his. “Taking things a bit far, aren’t we?” she said curtly.

“The scandal was unfortunate,” he replied.

As soon as the unsettlingly disputable words were out of his mouth, he could see it happening. She had kept her temper tightly in-check throughout the conversation. Then he said the one thing he would think the least likely to agitate her, and
whoosh
! The whole room was suddenly engulfed in the fiery blaze that was Kathryn’s temper.

“
Unfortunate?
” she shot back, her hands fisting at her sides. “Unfortunate! You lumbering boob! You thick-headed ogre!”

Grey recoiled. “I am hardly either of those things.”

She growled in frustration. “This
unfortunate
scandal was the entire reason we wed, you despicable rake!”

Grey’s attention shifted to the side table holding three priceless vases he had stolen from someone who had stolen them from Versailles; a small yet solid metal box of cheroots; and a heavy, crystal decanter of scotch. All of them were far too close to Kathryn for comfort.

His brow knit. “It wasn’t as if I
wanted
to marry you,” he argued, hoping to talk some reason into her.

She straightened and glanced around. The side table only a few feet from her noticeably caught her attention. She took a step toward it.

“Kathryn!” he urged.

She stopped to glare at him.

“You are angry,” he said soothingly. “I am a lumbering, thick-headed ogre boob. A rakish one. I understand. I agree.” He took a deep breath whilst she regarded him suspiciously. “I am sor—”

She suddenly turned and fled in a flurry of skirts, slamming the door behind her.

He stared after her, forcing himself to keep his thickheaded, rakish ogre bottom securely fastened to his chair. Going after her would solve nothing. He could tell her nothing. Furthermore, she obviously didn’t want to hear his apology.

Why the devil did he want to go after her, anyway? She was spitting mad and about to throw priceless works of art at his head. He was no besotted fool, so desperate for her approval he would have allowed her to pelt his thinker with whatever she found handy, which was what she would do if he ran after her.

His jaw tightened painfully as his hands fisted.

“I am not besotted,” he muttered to the empty room. “I am entirely incapable.” He glared at the door. “Sexually-deprived is what I am. Pleasure-starved.”

All he needed was a tart identical to Kathryn who would gaze up at him with those adoring, giant, blue pools passing for eyes.

Eyes. What an insufficient word.

He merely needed someone who touched him the way Kathryn had. The way that had made him forget his ugliness, from his black heart to his mottled white scars.

He needed sunshine. Adoring, blue pools. The touch of an angel.

“Damn me to hell.”

* * *

K
athryn blindly stumbled
into her room. By the time she reached the door, she couldn’t see through the tears blurring her vision. They lined her face, falling to dot her new, silk gown beyond repair.

He had practically thrown her hurt, humiliation, and idiocy right back in her face. Sure, he had started to apologize, but that was only to keep her from breaking his head open with a decanter of his best scotch. He was no sorrier for hurting her than he was for hurting the scores of women before her.

She wanted to know the real reason he had shown up when he had. It was too coincidental that he had barged into her life immediately after the attack. But she obviously wasn’t getting any more information out of Grey. Nick wouldn’t tell her any more than he already had, either. Thick as thieves, they were. The only person left who might know something was Matthews.

It was time she pulled herself together to pay the gentleman a visit.

I
n less than thirty minutes
, Kathryn sat in Matthews’s front parlor, awash as it was in dark reds and prints with wainscoting and wood paneling.

Matthews leaned back in a plush wingback chair facing her, interlocking his thick fingers over his belly.

“This is quite unexpected, Lady Ainsley,” he said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Matthews,” she began hesitantly. “I want to speak with you about the work I did for the Home Office.”

Matthews’s expression of mild interest didn’t change, nor did he reply. After a moment, Kathryn thought perhaps his hearing was deteriorating.

Before she could decide whether repeating herself would offend him, he sighed heavily.

“What is there to say?” he asked. “You did what all ladies do. Only, you did it with a very specific purpose.”

“Strategic gossip,” she interpreted.

Matthews grunted.

“I assume my accident had something to do with my work,” she said, trying to sift through the memories slowly coming into focus.

He frowned. “You still don’t remember?”

“No,” she admitted disappointedly. “I don’t remember that night at all. I only know what I was told: that I was found beaten half to death and left for dead in an alleyway.”

It was too bad Grey hadn’t been in that alley to rescue her. It seemed he was around to pull her out of everything else, almost as though he were her guardian angel. Or hired bodyguard.

Kathryn’s heart skipped a beat, and she bit her cheek to keep from swearing.

How could she have been so blind? The precautionary measures at the inn, the confident gray eyes challenging armed highwaymen, the muscled body of a man accustomed to pushing his limits, the scars too well mended to have been treated on a battlefield.

The way he had told her he killed people…

Good grief!

Kathryn gathered her thoughts. She mustn’t let her imagination get the better of her. Many gentlemen worked for the Home Office in some capacity or another. It hardly explained why he had suddenly popped into her life as though the last ten years hadn’t happened. Nor did it explain why he had lied to her.

She couldn’t know for sure unless she found out from Matthews.

“We don’t know any more than you have mentioned,” Matthews said grimly, pulling a cheroot from his waistcoat. “If you have come for clarification, I am afraid you have come to the wrong place.”

“No.” Kathryn shook her head and focused. “Well, yes, of course I would have liked to know more about why that happened, but that can wait.” She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “You may find this an impossible question, but I must know.”

“I am listening,” he mumbled around the cheroot as he lit it.

“Why Ainsley?” she asked, hoping she sounded as though she knew what she was talking about. She needed to exude unquestionable confidence even though she couldn’t be sure Grey worked for the Home Office in the first place. She could be completely wrong.

But she doubted it.

Matthews took his time drawing and puffing smoke from the cheroot. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I should think any one of your agents skilled enough to handle a couple of highwaymen,” she pressed. “And I should think it political suicide to use one who would sully my reputation. Father is quite the power in Parliament.”

“I hadn’t realized you were so fond of riddles, Kathryn.” Matthews smiled, setting the cheroot on a crystal ashtray.

“Is it a riddle to you, Matthews?” she asked, smiling guilelessly. “I admit, it took me a shamefully long while to solve it myself,” she continued casually. “With him being an old friend and all.”

“Kathryn, really,” he said impatiently.

“He made mincemeat of those highwaymen,” she interrupted smoothly. “He killed them without batting an eyelash.”

Matthews stared back at her sullenly. “Once a soldier, always a soldier.”

Kathryn raised her brows. “I didn’t know combating highwaymen was so common amidst Captains of the Light Dragoons.”

His expression darkened.

“Matthews, I know he was ordered to protect me,” she lied matter-of-factly. “What I want to know is
why.
”

“Why, indeed,” he muttered. “Ainsley was chosen for his skills, why else?”

He hadn’t simply missed her, then. It was what she had expected, but it hurt all the same.

“Why?” she asked.

“The men who attacked you at Covent Garden weren’t quite done with you yet,” he answered, regarding her gravely. “Your father thought Ainsley most qualified to keep you safe.” Matthews shrugged. “He’s a little rough, but he is the best we have.”

“Why did they attack me?” Kathryn shook her head. “What did I do to become a target?”

“We rather hoped you would tell us,” Matthews said soberly. “You took a mission that was never meant for you. There were no precautions taken, no agents stationed nearby in case something went wrong. I am sorry this happened, Kathryn, but we know less than you do.”

“I know it was my fault,” Kathryn said.

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

“I haven’t the slightest.” Kathryn forced a smile and rose from her seat. “Thank you, Matthews. I shall see myself out.”

She left Matthews just as befuddled as she had been when she arrived. She understood now why Grey had appeared out of nowhere and kept close enough to use the same toothpick. What she didn’t understand was why he had pretended they were strangers or why he had bedded her when they could have had the marriage annulled. He had never been ordered to make love to her. Most of all, she wondered why she didn’t completely hate him, knowing he was simply toying with her affections whilst his own were never engaged.

It was an assignment.
She
was an assignment. No doubt, he was expecting a quiet separation once this was all through. She ought to be thrilled at that. Married women were given much more freedom than unmarried ones. She could be as improper and adventurous as she wished.

She would never have to see him again.

She ignored the ache in her chest from the thought.

He was a rake. He had manipulated her emotions on purpose. He had never cared for her, and she would get over him.

* * *

G
rey sank back deeper
into his chair, propped his feet up on his desk, and folded his hands behind his head. His eyes were closed, his face lax in peaceful repose, and his mind was rife with unspeakable chaos, wreaking havoc on every orderly and miserable corner of his villainous life.

He had nearly drunk himself into a stupor, but instead of quieting like good, little voices, they raged more and more loudly, growing even more tumultuous.

What the devil was he to do?

He was
not
besotted, but he did care for Kathryn. Of course, he cared. He had become attached long ago, no matter how hard he had fought it. He had tried his damnedest to keep his distance for her sake, to protect her from what he had become, but for all his efforts in ignoring her for the past ten years, the fact was that they had grown up together, and he had spent the better part of his life keeping her alive.

That was all he had to do now. He just had to keep her alive. He had to stop Bexley. He had to make sure no one else would be coming after her once Bexley was gone. And he had to find a tart.

Very important tasks, all of them.

Grey had heard Kathryn leave over an hour ago. Five of his men had followed her. Now, as he sat trying to decide which task to tackle first—Bexley or the tart—he heard her footsteps in the hall once more.

He moved not one muscle, his thickheaded ogre bottom firmly fastened to a plush cushion. However, the plush cushion was becoming uncomfortable under his increasingly sore, ogre bottom, and he needed a refill on his scotch.

He opened one eye to peer down at his snifter. It barely had anything left in it at all. Nearly half empty, at least. Almost.

He lowered his feet and stood, taking the snifter with him to the sideboard and filling it… and spilling it. He stared at the puddle of scotch dripping off the side of the dark, wooden sideboard.

“Damn near ten pounds’ worth of scotch,” he mumbled. At least that was what it sounded like in his head. What came out of his mouth wasn’t English. He wasn’t exactly sure what it was.

He turned and headed straight for the door. All of the chairs in his study were insufferably uncomfortable all of a sudden. He needed to sink into something soft.

If only he had known what an odyssey getting to his own bed would be.

The stairs proved surprisingly tricky for a man with his practice climbing stairs. He had been doing it for at least thirty years. Maybe more. Math was also tricky with this amount of scotch swimming in his veins.

In the end, he closed his eyes and pulled himself up the length of them using the banister with precious little cooperation from his legs.

The hall was much simpler. He was used to the walls moving and the floor falling from underneath him. He only grabbed the wall for support once before he arrived at his room. Even then, he met with resistance.

The bloody door was jammed or, for whatever reason, difficult to open, almost as though it was locked. Of course, it could also be that his faculties were impaired. Either way, he managed to force the door open.

His coat came off easily enough. He doubted more than two or three buttons flew off in the process. He tossed it onto what he assumed was a chair. He likely missed whatever it was. Then he untied his cravat and threw it over his shoulder.

“Life. Short,” he mumbled incoherently, attempting to quote Hippocrates. “Art long.”

His fingers began fumbling with his waistcoat buttons by the time his bed came into view.

“Crisis. Crisis. Christ! These bloody buttons,” he muttered as one popped off his waistcoat.

“Crisis fleeting. Experience
bloody
perilous,” he kept mumbling.

Two buttons. And another. And another. The most difficult buttons he had ever fought with now littered the floor.

“Decision difficult,” he said as the last button fell. Then he paused, frowning. “No, decision damned
impossible
.”

He began peeling off his waistcoat, but then he wasn’t a contortionist, now was he? And he was having a devil of a time with it. He was just about to give up and throw himself, half-clothed, onto the mattress when he heard the sound of pure hatred.

“What, may I ask, do you think you are doing?”

He straightened at the clearly articulated death threat, pulling himself up to his full height and doing his damnedest to appear sober and dignified in naught but his trousers, shirt, and a buttonless waistcoat. He had practice with sobering very quickly, but even he could only do so much to retain dignity.

He turned around to focus as best he could on the slight form sitting at the vanity.

His room didn’t have a bleeding vanity.

He bowed and stretched his arms out at his sides. “Madam Wife, what does it look like I am doing?”

He couldn’t quite make out her expression, but he thought it might be somewhere between indignant and offended.

“Get out,” she ordered calmly. “Continue your Armageddon against fine tailoring elsewhere.”

Ah, so he had managed to speak clearly enough to be understood. That was a good sign. Nevertheless, he had detected no small amount of “or else” in her words.

One side of his mouth turned up in a crooked smile. He slipped out of the silk waistcoat, suddenly as nimble as a damned acrobat, and stepped toward the blurry vision.

“Stop,” she warned. “My father was wrong. I do not need a guard dog, and I certainly do not need you.”

He stopped short a few feet from her, and every inch of her insufficiently clad body came into focus. She was dressed for bed with her auburn hair plaited over her shoulder.

“You understand what I do, then.” Grey began unbuttoning his shirt at the neck. “Good. Now I can brag about my exploits. Do you know the worst part about being an unsung hero? It’s the unsung bit by far.”

“You lied to me,” she accused, those blue pools glaring up at him.

“I would be a sad excuse for a spy if I were honest,” he returned, swallowing the self-disgust. His fingers moved, deftly unfastening the buttons halfway down his chest. “I hope you appreciate the lengths I went through. I have dragged you out of a myriad of sticky situations, but this is the first time I have ever had to marry you to keep you alive.”

Her eyes narrowed as her hands fisted in her lap.

“A simple ‘thank you’ would suffice,” he suggested.

By the time the last word was out of his mouth, Kathryn had flung herself off her chair with her arm raised.

The prickly thing was about to strike him.

Grey caught her wrist then grabbed the other just in case she had similar ideas in mind for that one. Then she was wriggling to get free, bringing the pea-brain in his trousers to attention. It was frustrating. He hauled her into him, pinning her arms to his chest, and wrapping his tightly around her. It stopped the wriggling, but now she was glaring up at him with those giant, blue pools a man could drown in. He could feel every curve of her luscious body except where her little fists were pressed against the ugly scar peeking out from the opening in his shirt.