Behind the Marquess's Mask (The Lords of Whitehall Book 1) (19 page)

Pea-brain was suddenly the only brain he remembered having.

“Come now,” he prodded, nearly drowning. “A week ago, you said I was the most beautiful man you had ever seen.”
And I would give my right hand for you to say it again. My right arm. Both arms. I would happily die if those were the last words I ever heard, because you were the first person ever to make me feel like anything more than a monster.

“I hate you,” she seethed.

“I know,” he muttered, his smile fading and the stabbing pains coming back in his chest worse than before.

He ought to see Dr. Meade about those.

“Why did you have to—” Her voice cut off, and she shook her head. “We could have had an annulment.”

“There will be a separation when it’s safe for you, and you may do as you like.”
And your father will more than likely toss my body into the Thames. An unrecognizable heap to be added to the list of the unidentified dead littering Saint Brides’s desk.

“Good,” she said, scowling at his chest. “I never want to see you again.”

His arms tightened around her. It was a natural reaction. He had been protecting her since she could walk. It had nothing to do with the strange pain in his chest or the thought of never seeing her again or how oddly fond of lilies he had become.

She drummed her fingers against his chest impatiently. “Are you going to let me go now?”

“No.”

He was not besotted. He just wanted her close so he could make sure she was safe. He wanted her under him because he was a man, and she was lovely. He wanted to go back to his twentieth birthday and sell his commission so she wouldn’t hate him so much, simply because that would make his life easier.

He was not besotted. He was male.

“I am not besotted,” he said aloud, scowling.

A finely arched brow rose at him. “No one accused you of being besotted. I doubt you are capable.”

He agreed completely. Attachment had nothing to do with it.

“It’s just that I have not been properly thanked,” he reasoned just before his mouth covered hers.

She stiffened when his lips slid over hers, coaxing them to open for him with undemanding nips and light touches. His tongue trailed along her bottom lip, longing for even the smallest taste of her.

When she relaxed into him, he deepened the kiss, reveling in the sensation of her tongue mingling with his. His hands roved over her, finding every curve through the thin fabric. Her hands drifted up to tangle in the hair at his nape.

Sunshine. Lilies. Angel.

“My lovely,” he murmured against her lips then trailed kisses down her jaw.

He wanted to tear off the flimsy night rail and take her hard against the vanity. Every ounce of primal need pumping through him demanded he claim her as his in the most basic way, to pump his throbbing cock into her soft body until the world melted around him. He needed to feel her shatter in his arms in the throes of her climax, to lie in bed afterward, holding her captive in his arms well into the next week.

Instead, he cupped her face delicately, feathering kisses over her temples, forehead, cheeks, nose, eyelids, and finally back to her sweet mouth. He stroked her cheeks with his thumbs. It was the softest skin he had ever touched.

“So sweet,” he murmured.

His tongue met hers, tasting with slow and deliberate strokes. He couldn’t get enough of her.

He continued the achingly slow kiss, refusing to stop until he understood where the sunshine came from, where it was she hid the warmth and light and lilies.

Her small hands covered his still cupping her face as he kissed her. Then she pulled away. And he, being the idiot he was, let her go.

“No,” she said breathlessly. She shook her head, steadying herself on the vanity. “You are drunk.”

Drunk. Oh, yes, he was that. That would explain his momentary lapse in sanity.

What the devil was he doing? Where the bloody hell had his brain disappeared to whilst his body was making a giant codpiece of itself?

He stumbled backward a step.

“Don’t you dare touch me again,” Kathryn warned in a constricted voice.

“Of course.” Grey bowed, exhibiting ballroom-worthy coordinated ease. An elusive talent, that. One would never guess a thousand tiny devils had just begun pounding little pickaxes into his skull. The small fortune in scotch had not lasted half as long as it ought to have done.

His legs, the same ones which had traitorously taken him to the wrong room only minutes before, now obediently carried him to the connecting door, through it, and on into his own apartments where he intended to fall flat on his bed in hopes he might never wake up.

Hang his shirt, his trousers, his shoes, and socks. He could sleep in his clothes tonight. It wouldn’t kill him.

Unfortunately.

Double hang the rest of his buttons and ruined silk waistcoat, coat, and cravat strewn all over Lady Ainsley’s boudoir. The cactus could keep them or, more than likely, burn them.

“Armageddon, indeed,” he muttered, facedown in his pillow. “I am leagues past Armageddon. I am in hell.”

S
aint Brides gritted his teeth
, keeping himself seated at the card table by sheer willpower. He had been there for two hours—two long, agonizing hours, playing cards with swindlers, crooks, and debauchers. The men ought to be put away, and if not for money and power, they would have been. It made him ill.

Regardless, this was where he
had
to be because Ainsley had decided to fly the coup. How shockingly surprised Matthews had been by it, the dolt.

“How bloody typical,” Saint Brides had said when Matthews had stormed into his office with the news.

Now Saint Brides was the one sitting in the seat Ainsley should have been occupying, playing a game no one particularly liked with men no one particularly cared for. But one of these blackguards was Lord Bexley, who seemed more than a little suspicious considering who had been on his payroll at the time of Kathryn’s
accident
. The other men, Mr. Wheeling and Mr. Broadhill, were only loosely affiliated with Bexley, but no less unpleasant.

Saint Brides had lost fifty pounds. Not too bad, he supposed. Most men of his position lost that every night of the week. He wouldn’t mind losing five times that if he could just get the information he needed.

Information they should have already had.

He had been telling Matthews for weeks to send Ainsley after Bexley. Ainsley would have had this business done ages ago. Now they might never get it. Saint Brides wasn’t versed on this side of the field. It wasn’t his gift, not that he would consider Ainsley’s skills a gift, per se.

Speaking of the devil.

He watched as Ainsley stepped over the threshold, scanning the tables.

Saint Brides threw down his cards. “Gentlemen,” he said, attempting not to sound disdainful. “That was all I had time for, I am afraid.”

I must now be off to commit a crime worthy of death.

The protests he had expected to hear were issued from each player in some capacity or another: a taunt, an offer, an outright plea. None of them was in a hurry for him to be replaced by someone who could actually play the blasted game.

Still, he rose from the table, his green eyes locked on the reason for his fruitless torture this evening—the unpredictable, tantrum-throwing death machine.

India, next week. Malaria, next month. He would have to find solace in that.

He had begun making his way toward that giant blot on his career when something stepped into his line of vision.

“The devil!” he muttered. He started to walk around the obstacle, but it was a futile endeavor. The blasted thing
moved,
always in the way.

“My lord,” it said.

Saint Brides blinked, allowing his tunnel vision to unfasten from Ainsley and focus on the obstacle. His secretary.

“Yes?” he asked in his you-had-better-talk-quickly-or-not-at-all voice.

“This just in for you, my lord,” the young man said, handing him an envelope.

Inwardly, Saint Brides’s shoulders fell. Outwardly, he remained in his authoritative stance, accepted the missive, and read it. There were words like
immediately
and
imperative
thrown around all over the neatly scrawled letter, and the signature at the bottom could not be ignored.

“Ainsley always did have the devil’s own luck,” he muttered. He turned back to his secretary. “We are leaving. Now.”

* * *

B
exley’s ballroom
was brightly illuminated and filled with society’s elite. Colorful dresses and black eveningwear swirled around the marble floor whilst several other groups stood off to the side, laughing in conversation.

It was the absolute vision of civilized conviviality, a sight that ought to be painted and hung in someone’s parlor. So perfect was it, in fact, that none would ever guess the host was a murderous villain bent on violently beating one of his female guests to death.

Grey stood in a corner with Nick, sipping passable brandy as they watched the merriment.

“Kathryn is dancing with Chesham again,” Nick mentioned as the two whirled by in a waltz.

“So she is,” Grey muttered.

Not that he hadn’t noticed the last five times they had whirled around the floor. He had only just been able to stop fantasizing about the many different ways he could seriously harm his friend. Now he imagined beating Chesham’s head in with one of the sconces. He had already gone through a snifter, pocket watch, potted plant, lady’s fan, and a shoe, ending each one with throwing the too-handsome bachelor through a window.

“They dance rather well together,” Nick went on, apparently oblivious to the grave he was digging for his friend. “Chesham moves like he’s on water.”

“Indeed,” Grey said. Which begged the question, how well could Chesham move if he truly
were
on water? Or under water with an anvil tied to his ankle?

“You ought to be dancing with her yourself, you know.” Nick sent Grey a sideways glance.

“I have work to do,” Grey said tightly. It was a poor excuse considering, at the moment, he was doing a whole lot of nothing other than waiting.

“About that,” Nick said, knitting his brow. “I heard you turned this into a private investigation.”

Grey fought a groan. “Spoke with Matthews, have you?”

“He didn’t give me much of a choice,” Nick muttered.

“He never does.”

“As your friend, I recommend leaving this with the Home Office,” Nick said, uncharacteristically sober. “You need their support, and they need to feel in control. As always.”

“They couldn’t spare the men I needed,” Grey explained. “And as long as you are watching over Kathryn, I should have no problem pinning our target to a fencepost.”

Nick’s out of place frown deepened. Grey’s heart rate tripled.

“You do intend to keep an eye on her, don’t you?” Grey asked, turning back toward the dancers to hide his concern.

Grey couldn’t explain his panicked reaction to the thought of Kathryn being open for attack. He didn’t want to explain it. He wanted to ignore it in hopes it would go away.

“Of course I do. It’s only—” Nick stopped mid-sentence, nudging Grey with his elbow. “Steel Breeches, nine o’clock.”

Grey turned to see the Chief Operating Officer heading straight for him.

India must be lovely this time of year.

“Pembridge,” Saint Brides greeted with a half-nod. Then he turned his austere regard to Grey. “Ainsley.”

“Saint Brides,” Grey returned.

“Saint Brides.” Nick grinned. “You are the last person I expected to see at a fête like this. How will the Office get on without you?”

“It’s near midnight, Pembridge,” Saint Brides pointed out, puzzled.

“Yes, so it is. I do hope you left a note.” Nick’s eyes twinkled with mischief.

Saint Brides only sent him a blank stare, no doubt masking the rant going on behind that disciplined, green gaze. He and Grey were perhaps more alike than Saint Brides realized, or that he cared to admit, at any rate.

“Why
are
you attending this evening, Saint Brides?” Grey asked, not forgetting the sight of the chief sitting cozily with Bexley only a few nights before. Nor could he forget what Finkel had said about there being an authority at the Home Office helping the little whelp.

Saint Brides’s green eyes narrowed on Grey, if only just. “I understand I was shirking my duties by staying away. I came to appreciate the ladies and soak up all the useful information I could from men such as our host.”

“Bexley?” Grey’s brow furrowed.

Was the boy-genius seriously taking advice from Bexley? The little prick was even younger than Saint Brides, and twice already, he had nearly run his estates to ground. Saint Brides, on the other hand, had managed to run his estates quite neatly whilst simultaneously running the Home Office.

“I thought I saw you in what appeared to be deep conversation with the fellow,” Nick said, saving Grey from uttering something offensive.

“Indeed,” Saint Brides muttered. “I have spent the last hour with him and lost a great deal of my cerebral acumen in the process.”

Nick laughed, holding out his snifter of brandy. “Here.”

“Ah.” Saint Brides frowned at the proffered beverage and shook his head. “No, thank you. I have no desire to lose my dignity, besides.”

Nick shrugged. “You must understand that few possess the brain capacity you have. Actually, not many can boast much brain capacity at all, over what’s needed for eating, drinking, and moving about. Even then, not all at the same time. Truth be told, we are surrounded by insufferable imbeciles. The sooner you realize that, the better. In the meantime, you may find brandy helpful. Or perhaps a game of cards might distract you.”

Grey didn’t stick around to hear Saint Brides begin his tirade about how much he detested cards. He had work to do, and he would rather do it before shoving off for India. He would thank Nick for playing distraction later.

* * *

K
athryn shuffled
through the ballroom to the outer ring of guests after her fifth or sixth dance with Lord Chesham. She supposed it was scandalous, but it was either Chesham, who was charming and enjoyable, or one of the other aggravating gentlemen curious about who had caught the attention of the notorious rake Lord Ainsley. Or Mr. Wheeling who seemed to pop up from time to time at her elbow.

The man was unsettling with his ability simply to appear.

She ducked into an adjoining room as quickly as she could and disappeared behind a small side door she prayed wasn’t a closet. After a quick glance around—noting the settee, a couple chairs around a small table, small sideboard, and more importantly, a connecting door—she sighed in relief.

The other door led out into an abandoned hall, and with a few lucky turns, she found the library. She was hoping to land in the study, but she hadn’t time to go on searching for it.

She started in the most obvious place: the desk. It was a large monstrosity tucked against a far wall. Not a desk she would have placed in a library, not that she would place
any
desk in a library, but it looked like it had many drawers, so why complain? The bigger the desk and the more drawers, the better for sifting through.

The top drawer was locked. No surprise there. She tried the others, but the servants must have kept this place sealed up tight against the chance of wandering guests.

She snatched a hairpin from her coiffure and jammed it into the lock. With a bit of twisting and wriggling, the drawer clicked open.

“Books,” she mused incredulously. “Who locks up books?” The first two were a compilation of the history of English nobility and their estates, and the last was an old society page from over a decade ago.

“
Lord Bexley mourns the loss of the late Marquess of Ainsley, whilst taking the young heir into his bosom
,” she read quietly. This must have been the previous Lord Bexley.

Was that what their rivalry was all about? Jealously for a father’s attentions?

Just as she had expected, none of the drawers held anything to enlighten her as to why Bexley would want her dead, a fact she wouldn’t have concluded had Chesham not delivered Nick’s note.

She righted the desk and hurried back to join the rest of the guests, making sure to avoid servants along the way. It wouldn’t do her any good for her absence to be noticed.

Soon, she was once again surrounded by ladies who had more scuttlebutt to spread than she thought anyone could possibly remember. But this was what she did. She knew how to pick out the half-truths, the outright lies, and the small bits of facts littered throughout an elaborate tale. Furthermore, she knew precisely how to mold them into what she needed them to be. She could turn a saint into a courtesan and a courtesan into a queen inside of a week.

“You seem to be having a splendid evening.”

A warm shiver skittered down Kathryn’s spine when she heard Grey’s deep drawl behind her. She couldn’t control her reaction to him. All she could hope to do was keep it hidden, at least until she could get away from him.

“I couldn’t very well look miserable, could I? That would be rude.” She kept her gaze trained on the festivities, but she couldn’t hear a sound over the man standing beside her. His sheer presence was deafening.