Behind the Marquess's Mask (The Lords of Whitehall Book 1) (20 page)

“No, I suppose you couldn’t.” Grey flicked a glance over her. Heat followed his gaze as though they were back at Roseleaf and every inch of her was bare to him. “All the same,” he continued, “try not to throw yourself so openly at Chesham. If you cause a scandal, I shall not grant you a divorce and be made a fool. I shall do nothing more than sit back and watch society eat you alive.”

Kathryn mentally counted to ten, then twenty. She wanted to claw his eyes out.

Grey, damn him, held himself as though he were merely speaking of the weather. He would wear the same expression were he to mention the whole of Spain had just crumbled into the sea.

I think the sun will come out later, and by the by, had you noticed Spain is no longer with us?

Well, anything
he
could do…

She turned adoring eyes toward Chesham who was standing with a group of other gentlemen across the room. Poor Chesham glanced from her to Grey then back to her with a decidedly worried expression. Kathryn smiled and nodded at him. He did not nod back.

“If my dear Chesham and I have difficulty suppressing our deep affections for one another—”

“Deep?” Grey cut in, his brow knitting over stormy eyes. “You only just met the man.”

Kathryn lifted her chin. “Who are you to tell us how to love?”

That muscle in his jaw began to tick, and he smiled icily.

Kathryn bit her cheek to keep from backing down. She would not be intimidated by a thug. Whether she was being completely truthful or not was irrelevant. It was the principle of the matter.

“Who am I?” he asked with not a sliver of warmth. “I am your husband. I practically own you. Every prickly, troublesome inch.” His attention flicked again to the other side of the room. “As for Chesham—”

Kathryn didn’t give him a chance to finish that sentence. Her face turned a bright crimson, and before she knew what she was doing, her hand was raised and quickly landed hard, earning several surprised gasps and whispers.

For a moment, he regarded her through narrowed slits of gray whilst a large, red mark slowly appeared on his cheek.

She had never seen him so furiously calm.

“You seem a bit upset, my dear,” he said, affecting a hint of concern. “I shall escort you home, post haste.”

The warning in his voice was unmistakable. She had made a mistake, a terrible mistake. She had let her anger get the better of her.

“I think it would be best if we departed separately,” she said with false bravado.

“You think wrong,” he murmured, barely moving his lips. Onlookers might not have even known he had spoken.

He offered his arm, and she took it. She had no choice. If she refused, he might fling her over his shoulder and carry her out. To hell with society.

It might make the society pages in the morning:
Marquess of A at it again.
But it would sound so old hat it would be buried with the rest in the scandal sheets. In fact, her little mistake would no doubt be pushed aside in favor of more interesting victims.

Once in the carriage, Grey struck the roof hard with his cane. “Home, Coachman.” Then, setting his hat on the seat cushions, he ran a hand through his hair. His head was bowed, obscuring his expression.

A minute or two passed before those piercing eyes turned up toward her. He rubbed his cheek, the one she had struck.

“You put on quite a display this evening,” he said. “Don’t let it happen again.”

Indignation and hurt welled back up in her chest, bolstering her courage. “I shall not be dictated by you. I am not your property, regardless of what you think,” Kathryn said. “And I am not the one with a history of losing my temper.”

He cocked a brow and lounged back in his seat, his large hands splayed over muscular thighs as he regarded her.

“It’s true,” he murmured. “I know better than anyone how important it is to keep one’s head. So take my advice when I say striking me in public is not good for operations. Likewise, if you decide to take a lover, the thing needs to be done with a modicum of discretion.”

She was still glaring, but his shadowy figure began to blur. She turned from Grey to face the window. It was well past dark, but the darkness of the street was better than the blurry devil lounging across from her.

Half an hour later, Kathryn was alone in her room. Her tears had dried. Now, she was wide-eyed and blanched of all color, staring down at a letter addressed to her. She had found it on her vanity with an elaborate seal and signed with a grand flourish.

It was a letter from Lord Bexley.

A
insley struggled
all morning to focus on the accounting books in front of him. No matter how hard he tried, all of the numbers danced around the page, and he couldn’t keep track of what he was looking for. He was making far better profits than anticipated; that much he knew. The numbers he was able to figure up were good numbers. Still, he needed to know
how much
he was bringing in. It all came into account when he made decisions for repairs and replacements. Moreover, his man of business would be expecting him to be prepared to make these decisions. Lives depended on it.

At least there he had managed to do things right and keep people alive so far. However, his mind was on Kathryn.

He had been too hard on her. He had seen red when Chesham had led her out onto the floor and twirled her about… all six times. He had become even more infuriated when she had looked to be enjoying herself.

It wasn’t just anger, though. He was mad, stark, raving mad. Unhinged, obviously. His property, indeed. He had never had one beautiful inch of her.

He was a fool for taking this mission. He knew that. He was even more of a fool for thinking a beautiful woman wouldn’t sabotage the entire operation, that Kathryn wouldn’t sabotage it. If only she trusted him to handle everything, if only she had stayed in the dark a little while longer.

He ran his hand through his hair as he began to pace. After several minutes, he walked to the fireplace and slumped into one of the cushioned chairs.

He would have to put a detail on her. Nick couldn’t be with her every second, and he wouldn’t allow her to be alone and unprotected, not again. At least now, he could send his own men, not those imbeciles Matthews had sent with him to Roseleaf. Those incompetent sods couldn’t track a bleeding horse in the snow.

* * *

G
rey awoke
the next morning with a clear agenda. He needed to get all of his estate business finished since, after an entire day of attempting to sort it out, he had somehow managed to turn it into something beyond all comprehension. Now he either would have to figure out what it was he had scribbled over or work at deciphering what he had written. Either task would be near hopeless.

He ought to be used to those situations by now. It had been his life for the last ten years.
What’s on the schedule today? Retrieve papers I won’t recognize from a building guarded as though it were a high security compound? Assassinate a ghost who eats people in the Yorkshire moors? Seduce an archduchess of Austria, steal a packet of letters, and manage to sneak out of a bloody castle in the middle of the night? Make impossible decisions with little to no information? Fantastic, just a typical day, then.

Once his golden silk, embroidered waistcoat was buttoned, starched cravat secured fashionably, and dark blue trousers and boots fit to his usual town perfection, he donned his matching coat of dark blue superfine and locked himself away in his study. He hoped having this responsibility out of the way would clear his mind, so he could focus on the pressing business of finding the dashed villain.

It was worth a try, at the least.

* * *

K
athryn had been locked away
in her room for two days, ever since she had read that letter.

Lud, that letter.

She looked down at the creased paper in her hand, scanning the words as though they might rearrange and render themselves harmless.

My dear Lady Ainsley,

I never congratulated you on your wedding. Do forgive me, but I cannot offer my congratulations for any venture doomed to failure. If that episode at my soiree was any indication, the downward descent has already begun. A rapid deterioration of your marriage would make what I require of you a fraction less unpleasant, however. Perhaps even enjoyable, which brings me to my point.

I shall ruin Lord Ainsley utterly, and you will help me. You will give me everything I need to send Ainsley running to Europe for good. Then we shall both be free of him. Until then, I trust this will be kept confidential.

Whilst we are about this business, do not forget to care for your mother. I do hope she lives to see seventy years or more. She is such a gentle woman. I hate to imagine the perils of London life for a woman of her age.

Bexley had laid out her choices clear as a bell. Either Grey was ruined, or her mother died.

She read and reread the harsh strokes, racking her mind for some sort of leverage. There must be a way to turn this around, but if there was, she didn’t see it. He hadn’t threatened her mother outright; it was implied. Moreover, Bexley could afford a very competent lawyer who could easily turn her into a paranoid and unhappy wife whilst making the letter out to be no more than uncouth correspondence from a man eaten with jealousy. She would be pitied at best.

Grey had lied. He was a fraud and an unfeeling profligate. Still, he had also saved her from ruin, death, and ravishment. He might be a despicable human being, but she could not help bring about his ruin. Her honor would not allow it.

On the other hand, she wasn’t about to watch her mother die, either. She could not give quarter on either side, so she might have to fabricate a few tidbits for Bexley until she could come up with a way to stop him. She only hoped a few inconsequential bits of nonsense would not wear his patience too thin, too quickly.

I
t felt
as though the maid had deliberately taken her time with the buttons, tapes, and clasps that comprised Kathryn’s evening gown and all that had gone with it. Through the entire hour and a half, Kathryn had kept her mouth shut. She would not announce that she was staying in. Again. She was not staying in.

Bexley had not frightened her into becoming a recluse. She would go to the soiree, put on a good show, and leave.

And whilst all of this was going on, perhaps she could come up with a dashed plan. A week had passed, and she had not a single idea. Nick had been kind enough to send a concerned note, mentioning the wonderful library she could disappear to if she would just attend the soiree this evening. At the very least, she could hide there until it was time to go home.

In the carriage, Kathryn twirled her ring around her finger through her glove. The wound was still raw, and being an arm’s length away from Grey was grating.

She needed to focus. She needed a plan. What she did not need was to be thinking about clawing Grey’s eyes out or jumping from a moving carriage just to get away from him. After all, even though she was angry as all hell, she was still a woman, and he was a terribly attractive man.

She forced a different face into her mind’s eye, Bexley’s. Just thinking the name was enough to send a chill down her spine. She could still feel his hands on her. She could still taste the bile rising in her throat.

“Kathryn, are you feeling well?”

“Yes, I am fine,” she answered softly, though she might have just answered to a memory. She was staring out at the wet, London streets passing by, or what she could see of them in the lamplight at least.

Perhaps she could find some
way to take away Bexley’s leverage. That was the only other possible angle. Had she been looking at this the wrong way?

“Of course, you are.”

“Of course,” she muttered.

Of course, that would be the only way to go about it. Perhaps she could convince her mother to take a holiday. Bexley wouldn’t chase her mother around the globe for some petty rivalry, and Italy would be lovely this time of—

Something warm enclosed around her hand. Kathryn’s heart jumped, and she became very still. She glanced down at the large hand covering hers. Then she was gazing straight into piercing gray eyes.

“You haven’t been eating,” Grey said, scowling at her through the dim light of the carriage. “You haven’t so much as left your room for a week.”

“Do you wish to dictate my schedule as well as my conduct?” she asked curtly.

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “I said the wrong thing,” he continued. “If I had known it would upset you this badly, I would have bitten my tongue. At the very least, I ought to have offered you my other cheek and suggested you break your little, wooden fan across it.” He let go of her hand and was once again settled deeply into his seat.

Kathryn stared back at him, speechless.

“Chesham is a fine gentleman,” he muttered. “Honorable. Decent. Fine choice. If Chesham is what it takes to keep you from running yourself into a decline, then I won’t stop the two of you.”

Kathryn barely kept her jaw from dropping. Greydon Sharpe had apologized of his own volition. Hell had finally frozen over, sending its icy shards hurling straight into her heart.

“
Fine choice?
” she asked dumbly.

“Certainly. It could have been much worse,” Grey muttered. “You might have fancied Pritchard.”

Kathryn straightened. “I do not
fancy
Chesham.”

“No?”

“No,” she repeated firmly. “I was goading you, you thickhead.”

Grey straightened. “I am not blind,” he said. “You danced with him all night. Waltzed with him—”

“I wasn’t monopolizing Chesham as much as I was avoiding the alternatives,” Kathryn said, loath to face a repeat of the nightmare this evening. “Chesham is far too gentle and too proper for me.”

“You don’t want someone gentle and proper?” He leaned forward, once again catching what little light passed in through the windows. It glinted off his shiny, black curls and silvery eyes.

“It’s boring,” she said, swallowing the fatal urge to tangle her fingers in those silken curls. “I want some degree of adventure.”

Grey’s brows lifted in a mild show of surprise and possibly exasperation. “Have you not yet had your fill?”

Kathryn felt her mouth pull into a reluctant smile, and she shook her head. “I shall never be a good, little wife to some mild-mannered gentleman. I am difficult enough for you. A gentleman like Chesham would be a wreck in less than a fortnight.”

Grey was certainly not gentle, not like Chesham, but he could be tender in a way that broke her heart. He was only just proper enough to be a gentleman. How could it be that the only man she could imagine being happy with was a rake who was incapable of loving anyone?

Kathryn swallowed past the lump forming in her throat and turned back toward the window just as the carriage began to slow.

“Enough for me,” Grey muttered, raising a brow at his hat on the seat beside him. “Adventure.”

Kathryn ignored him. She needn’t be reminded of what she had so foolishly let slip. If he understood what she had implied, the only thing she would gain would be his pity or his ridicule. Nothing had changed simply because he had apologized. He had never loved her, and he never would.

The carriage door was swung open by a waiting footman. Without pause, Grey stepped out onto the street then offered Kathryn his hand as though her heart weren’t shattering to bits.

She slid her hand into his and stepped down, allowing him to tuck her hand into the crook of his elbow. Heat seared through her glove and stabbed her chest painfully.

His leg tangled in her skirts as they walked. She had seen couples linking arms with enough space between them for the Prince Regent to pass through. A starved fly couldn’t squeeze through with how close he was keeping her.

Grey didn’t release her until after they had greeted their host and entered the grand ballroom to join Nick, who was standing along one long wall with an unobstructed view of the entire room.

“Kathryn,” Nick greeted cheerfully, stuffing a small square of paper into his waistcoat. “It’s been an age.”

“It’s been a week,” she corrected when he took her hand.

“Ah, but for this wretched scoundrel, a week without the light of your smile is an eternity in darkness,” Nick returned smoothly.

“Poetic,” Kathryn said with a laugh.

Grey raised a brow. “Don’t tell me that line actually works for you.”

Nick winked at Kathryn before turning his attention to Grey. “Everything works for me. I wish I had your timing, though. It would save me hours of waiting,” he said, gesturing discreetly to the large, double doors opening up into the ballroom. “Bexley’s crony, Mr. Broadhill, has just arrived.”

Grey’s expression turned eerily familiar—cold.

“Grey, I think you are wrong this time,” Nick said.

“There’s only one way to know for sure,” Grey muttered, his gray eyes never leaving the gentleman near the door. “He’s headed for the card room.”

Kathryn watched the two of them set off across the room without another word, weaving through the bodies like fish through water. Then they were swallowed up by the crowd as the music transitioned to a waltz.

It seemed as though guests materialized out of thin air in order to flood the middle of the room. For the next twenty minutes, there were very few left standing to the side as Kathryn was. Only a few older women and shy debutantes remained, along with three or four men who refused to dance with either of the former.

One of those men spotted Kathryn just as another waltz was starting up and began to circumnavigate the room in her direction. Mr. Wheeling watched her as he walked along the perimeter of the dance floor.

What a nuisance.

A quick glance to her left confirmed what she had already suspected. Lord Chesham was whirling around the floor with graceful aplomb, utterly unaware of the irritating man stalking toward Kathryn.

She would rather eat a box of cheroots than carry on a conversation with Mr. Wheeling, much less dance with him. She had to get out of there quickly.

Fortunately, she was close to an exit. Her eyes fastened on the simple wallpapered door behind her. She had no idea where it went, but anywhere was better than here at the moment.

She turned the knob and slipped through, opening the door only as much as she had to.

A parlor. She let out a whoosh of air in relief. Thank God, it wasn’t a broom closet. Standing for any length of time in a broom closet would be difficult to explain. A parlor, on the other hand, held a wealth of excuses: fatigue, headache, fixing a rent gown—the list was endless.

Still, it was too close to the ballroom for comfort. Wheeling might follow her. She ought to pass through a few parlors. If he didn’t see her in the first or second, he would give up. Surely.

She crossed the room to another door.

A library, a grand one with giant bookshelves lining the walls and an overstuffed sofa piled with throw pillows.

Two rooms ought to be sufficient.

Kathryn smiled girlishly as she studied the walls stacked floor to ceiling with shelves and shelves of books: new books, old books, encyclopedias, novels, books on philosophy and science, and so many, many more. She stood in awe for a moment, taking it all in.

If a small click hadn’t sounded behind her, she might never have realized she had left the dratted door open. Whoever had followed her had not, and she had a good idea whom that was.

* * *

G
rey raked
a hand through his hair and cursed. He and Nick were still standing in the study after Broadhill had scrambled out of the room. The interrogation had proved fruitless with not one single bit of information gained. Certainly no witness, as Grey had hoped, who could pin Bexley with a crime.

Nick crossed his arms over his chest as he leaned back onto a thick, mahogany desk.

“I could have sworn Bexley would have one of his cronies in on it,” Grey said, resting his forearm on the mantle of a marble fireplace. “Someone to take the fall if the water got too hot.”

“The water is boiling,” Nick said pointedly.

“I know,” Grey muttered.

“Perhaps he did find a patsy,” Nick suggested. “We could have missed something considering this entire investigation is one giant hole. A jigsaw puzzle with half its pieces, a treasure hunt with no map, a riddle without beginning, middle or—”

“I think you have made your point,” Grey interrupted moodily. “But Broadhill wasn’t lying.”

“Speaking of that,” Nick said, amusement lighting his blue eyes. “Not that the little swindler didn’t deserve it, but do you think giving a man a bloodied nose at a fashionable soiree is a good idea when we are trying to belay scandal?”

“It isn’t as though he’s strolling back into the ballroom with blood streaming down his face,” Grey countered. “It hasn’t been five minutes, and I have no doubt he is halfway to Bristol by now.”

Five minutes plus however long the interrogation had taken.

Grey glanced at the clock next to him on the mantle, dread filling his gut like a lead ball. Kathryn had been alone for far too long. If Broadhill could be halfway to Bristol, Kathryn could already be tied to the stake somewhere in South America, about to become the village feast.

“Still,” Nick said ruefully, pulling Grey’s attention from the clock and his irrational imaginings, “now Bexley knows we know. It doesn’t help that the Home Office is against you, as well.”

Grey had figured as much. Matthews didn’t like being left out of anything, much less a mission with political influences hinging on its completion. Neither did Saint Brides, for that matter.

“Do you think Saint Brides hates me enough to have me arrested?” Grey voiced as he started for the door. “Perhaps Matthews would out of spite, but on what charges? Tampering with an investigation?”

Nick sighed, puffing out his cheeks. “Gad, I would imagine deciding which of your transgressions to charge you with would be the dilemma,” Nick argued then smiled crookedly. “By now, half His Majesty’s agents think you are immortal, and bringing you in would be a first-rate sport, more revered than the Olympics.”

“Don’t you paint a pretty picture,” Grey said. “I almost want to challenge myself to a fight to the death.”

“That is an appallingly long line. You may die of old age whilst waiting your turn,” Nick quipped. “Assuming the worst, what are we going to do?”

The worst? No, she was still in the ballroom. It had barely been half an hour. An officer like Chesham could keep Kathryn in a ballroom for half an hour.

After all, if Bexley got to her…

“What we always do,” Grey said, flexing his hand over the doorknob.

Nick raised a brow. “Grey, we can’t go around killing everyone; it’s too suspicious. This is London. People would talk.”

Ah, the voice of reason.

One side of Grey’s mouth curled up. “Then I suppose we shall have to rely on Dame Fortune as always. Still, we ought to keep a backup in our pocket in case my luck has finally run out.”