Twice Fallen (13 page)

He might also be a murderer.

There was the matter of the missing Niles Hand, the valet of a very prominent man.

Unless, of course, the young man had simply left of his own accord. But according to Charles, all his belongings were in his room, and he’d been a faithful servant whom no one thought would abandon his post without due notice. When the rest of the staff had been questioned, one of the footmen had confessed that Hand had seemed preoccupied and edgy, and mentioned the name Kinkannon in connection with some meeting just a few days before he disappeared.

If Kinkannon was responsible in some way, he’d made a grave error, for it had brought him to the attention of Charles Peyton, and anyone who had something to hide should avoid that possibility at all costs.

“What do you want?”

A figure materialized on the path outside the neatly trimmed trees, his stance unmistakably tense even in the uncertain light. Damien stood back, deep in the shadows, silent and unmoving.

“Lawson, unless you pay me, you will be exposed for the wastrel you are.”

The new arrival was a slim young man who clenched his fists at his sides, his face working. “I couldn’t pay my debts. How can I possibly pay you?”

“You’ll think of a way.”

“Damn all, Kinkannon, don’t you think if I could I would have by now? Why are you doing this to me?”

“Just helping out a friend.”

“By buying my markers and asking for twice as much?”

“Do you think Lord Hanover would let you near his precious daughter if he knew the current debacle you’ve made of managing your inheritance? You’ve squandered every farthing and then some. If you are at all fond of Hanover’s winsome daughter, and the idea of debtor’s prison is unappealing… well…” Kinkannon spread his hands and shrugged. “I’ll give you a week.”

In the starlit garden, Lawson’s face was bone white. “You’re trying to ruin me.”

“Pay and I won’t.”

“I
can’t
.”

Raw desperation held a singular note that always touched Damien’s soul. It did not, however, have the same effect on Kinkannon. He said coldly, “You are an addle-brained fool to find yourself in these circumstances in the first place. You gambled away a decent
portion and now your lady love might not be interested after all. That’s hardly my affair. All I want is my money.”

As Damien watched, the young man turned away, shaking. “I’ll… I’ll get it somehow. The last thing I want is for him to know, but my uncle Charles will help me.”

Uncle Charles
.

As in… Charles?

Damien’s attention sharpened. No wonder there was such keen interest in a possible blackmail scheme. Charles had a habit of being cryptic, but the request for this surveillance now made sense. His uncle, Damien hated to tell the young man, evidently already knew.

“There’s another choice.” Kinkannon’s voice was silky smooth. “I gave you the note on our last meeting.”

“No. Never.”

“You might want to reconsider.”

“No!”

“As you wish.” Kinkannon shrugged.

“I
can’t
.”

“I’ll expect payment soon, then,” Kinkannon said scathingly and turned away.

Damien waited for them both to leave, Henry Lawson stumbling down the path first, and then Kinkannon strolling along later after him, his features set in a mask of self-satisfaction. Charles had wanted complete discretion, and it was no wonder. His own family was involved.

It had taken the efficient Alfred Sharpe all of a day to gather information on their suspect, including the fact that he was going to be at this event. Edgar Kinkannon was a bit older than the rest of the circle of youngbloods he kept company with, and oddly enough, there was little to no information on his background but some vague
story of being in the army. It seemed, too, he was getting richer, though his investments were modest.

Recently, one of Henry’s friends, the son of a viscount, had committed suicide.

Damien wondered, as he stood there in the darkness, if he didn’t know why now. This could be more of a problem than Charles imagined, for he’d already determined Kinkannon didn’t act alone.

What was the second choice Henry declined?

At home there was a book by her favorite chair and no doubt her nightdress on the neatly turned down bed. She could order up tea and read by the fire.…

But for now Lily had to waltz with Sir George Hardcourt, who seemed to be inescapable after tea the other afternoon.

Damn all.

Part of the trouble was James was right. Sir George was basically a nice man. There was nothing disrespectful in the way he looked at her, or in the way he treated her, and he didn’t seem at all reluctant to be obvious about a possible courtship. All of that was thanks to the duchess, she had no doubt, for even with her father’s status, she’d seen the way supposed
gentlemen
had looked at her after her botched elopement. Those sly, lecherous glances were both embarrassing and infuriating. The double standard held her accountable for that infamous night at the inn, but Arthur had emerged from the scandal unscathed enough he still made an advantageous marriage.

She’d fallen in love with a man who had effectively fooled her in every way. At least Sir George was everything
he seemed. Bluff, a little too earnest maybe, but… a good sort.

Nothing at all like the much more mysterious Damien Northfield.

As quickly as the dance ended, she smiled and escaped, fleeing toward where the duchess held court in one corner, surrounded by her entourage, most of them ladies of a similar age. Lily smiled at the sharp look she received as she sat down, doing her best to seem artless and innocent, but…

The Dowager Duchess of Eddington wasn’t easily fooled. She leaned over once the music started again and asked, “Was it really seemly to go outside with Rolthven’s younger brother?”

“He can’t dance, so he invited me for a moment on the terrace instead.”

“Oh.” The duchess looked nonplussed for a moment, which didn’t happen often. Of course, she recovered at once. “I suppose he can’t. I’d forgotten.”

Lily smiled serenely, adjusting her skirts with a languid hand.

“But still, he is an unmarried young man and—”

“And do not worry—he can hardly ravish me. I believe I can run faster, so I felt safe enough should Lord Damien’s intentions turn lascivious.”

It would have helped if at that moment she hadn’t recalled how his warm breath felt feathering across her neck. While she was intensely curious as to why he’d reacted in such a way to the arrival of the man whom he’d asked her to watch leave the terrace, she couldn’t quite shake off that one singular moment.

There were times when Lily thought possibly
—though a bit of imagination was required to picture it—the duchess had a sense of humor. Just perhaps her lips quirked a little, but then she settled into a stony glare.

“Lord Damien’s mobility aside, you cannot afford a single blemish this season.”

The issue wasn’t her complexion, but her reputation. She knew it, and that is why she’d shied away from society for four long years. The only reason she’d complied with this return to social events was her family. Jonathan had all but ordered her out of her self-imposed seclusion and she was willing to do it until Betsy and Carole were settled. Mildly, Lily pointed out, “He’s the younger brother of an irreproachable duke.”

“Perhaps.”

“I don’t think the bloodlines are disputed.”

“I meant”—the duchess looked severely disapproving at the levity of her tone—“that I am not so sure Rolthven’s immaculate reputation outweighs that of his younger brother. Robert Northfield was a rake of notorious stature before he married. Of the three brothers, Lord Damien is an enigma to the
ton
, and as such, of interest.”

Lord Damien, as far as Lily could tell, was no doubt an enigma to everyone, including France’s finest intelligence officers. However, she found herself thinking about how tantalizing it had been to feel his lips whisper soft on her throat, tracing a trail down from her ear, and the warm clasp of his hand at her waist. She revealed almost involuntarily, “He mentioned he might call on me.”

The music had started again and the duchess seemed not to hear, her gaze fixed on the swirling melee of dancers before she murmured, “That is interesting.”

“I agree,” Lily acquiesced, because it was the truth. Damien Northfield could easily sit in a drawing room and sip tea and converse politely, because she guessed he could do almost anything easily, but she doubted it was his entertainment of choice.

Why call on
her
? He was handsome, and he had that inexplicable aura of quiet competence that signals power, and power was somehow very attractive… look at the fawning Lady Piedmont.

Yes, if he undertook a seduction, he would find success. No doubt there had been many women in his life and he knew exactly what to do in the bedchamber.…

It startled her to realize she was even thinking about such an unladylike subject as Damien Northfield’s masculine appeal on a sexual level. Since Arthur, she hadn’t so much as experienced even a slight stirring of interest in any man—not that there had been much opportunity to meet any during the four years she exiled herself to the country.

It wouldn’t startle anyone else though, she imagined with a stab of cynical reality. All of England had already tried and condemned her as a fallen woman, and if it hadn’t been for her prestigious family and the duchess, she would not now be sitting at a ball, and while not immune to the gossip, at least buffered from it.

“Do you object to Lord Damien?” Lily would not have dreamed of asking such a direct question even a few weeks ago, but in truth, even with her formidable presence, the duchess was more approachable than she appeared. Lily suspected she missed her granddaughter very much now that Jonathan had whisked his wife away to the country for the duration of her confinement.

“Sir George is rather a better prospect, my dear.” Pale blue eyes regarded her as if assessing her reaction. “The man is interested. I’ve heard from more than one person he’s making it quite public he’s a serious suitor.”

“Despite my tarnished past. How decent of him.”

For the hint of sarcasm, she won a reproving look.

Lily cleared her throat. “He’s two decades my senior.”

“He’s a baronet with a solid fortune.” Almost as soon as she finished speaking, the duchess sighed. “But you are young and beautiful and Northfield is quite an attractive young man despite his disability, and much more intriguing, I’m sure, than Sir George. Let’s see if he actually calls, shall we?”

If there was a way to retort to that, she would have found it, but she wasn’t quite sure either if Lord Damien had been sincere or not, as he certainly had wanted to be rid of her.

“I suppose we shall,” Lily murmured.

H

Of a painting.

It was ridiculous.

Or was it? Art was her passion. How disheartening to be second best.

James ran his fingers through his hair and crossed his feet at the ankles, staring moodily at the window, sprawled in his chair. He hadn’t seen Regina in well over a week, and when he’d finally called because he’d heard nothing from her and couldn’t wait any longer, she’d been sequestered in her studio and refused to see him.

His first true love affair was not going as he’d imagined it would.

Nursing a glass of brandy, he acknowledged to himself that the rejection stung, and moreover, he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t the beginning of the end. Regina did not keep her lovers.

“Damn,” he muttered and took a drink, and the melancholy call of a night bird drifting through the half-open window reflected his restive frame of mind. It was cool out, the air scented with chimney smoke, but warm by the fire in his personal study. He’d declined to go out,
disconcerted by his chaotic emotions when he was usually calm and content with his well-ordered life.

His eclectic lover had that effect on him and…

“Sir?”

He turned, unaware anyone else was within hearing, and found his valet in the doorway. While James handled business affairs in the family home in Mayfair and dined there often, he had his own set of modest apartments a few blocks away, privacy and autonomy much preferable to a busy household with all of his cousins in residence. Branson shifted his weight, looking uneasy. “Forgive the interruption, but I’m to give you this.”

James eyed the envelope and then glanced at the clock. It wasn’t late by
ton
standards. Not even midnight, but still an odd time to receive a note. “Who sent it?”

“There’s no return address, I’m afraid, and a servant delivered it and departed.”

Did he want to play this game? James recognized the elegant handwriting on the extended envelope and knew he’d play… no matter that she set the rules. “Thank you,” he said in a clipped tone, and rose to take it, waiting until Branson had discreetly closed the door before he tore open the missive.

We’re ready now.

What the devil did that mean? No one else he knew would send a cryptic message like that without an explanation except Regina.

Now
. It held an immediacy he responded to on a primitive level, but should he go running there when he’d been turned away before?

Fifteen minutes later the answer was yes when he dismounted his horse in front of her town house, his pride
be damned because he couldn’t resist her if he tried and the plain facts were he wasn’t interested in trying.

She answered the door herself, attired in an interesting ensemble, considering the time, in a blue day gown and paint smock, her fingers stained, and her eyes alight. Loose dark hair brushed her shoulders and hung down her back, and there was a unique freedom in her brilliant smile. “I’m finished.”

It was cool enough James had donned his greatcoat, and he slipped it from his shoulders. “Maybe I should come in and we can discuss what the devil you mean.”

“Yes.” She took the coat, but as he stepped in, she dropped it on the floor and caught his shirt, pulling him close so their mouths were inches apart. “I may show you later. I haven’t decided.”