Twice Fallen (28 page)

The luxury of the furnishings was telling, Damien decided, his gaze scanning the sumptuous bed hangings and thick carpet, the occupants of the room unlikely to notice the cracked door. Not that he didn’t already know this, but it was evident Kinkannon was getting his funds from somewhere other than the modest living he supposedly had inherited from an uncle.

“Touch her.” The words were thick, almost lethargic, and the subject of Damien’s investigation moved a hand in languid gesture. “Do it.”

Obediently, one of the women—brunette and reasonably
attractive—slid her hand down the belly of the other girl, touching her intimately between her legs. As he wasn’t particularly enthralled by voyeurism and he had business to attend to anyway, Damien decided that waiting for the progression of the evening was not going to fit into his schedule and he went ahead and shoved the door open and stepped inside. “Good evening.”

The pistol in his hand might have been unnecessary, but then again, he was fairly certain Kinkannon was a killer.

One of the prostitutes gasped, and they both scrambled up to their knees. Even Kinkannon seemed startled, and maybe the opium fog was not as deep as Damien imagined, for he leaned over and jerked open a drawer on the side table by the bed.

“Don’t,” Damien drawled with lethal emphasis, his weapon loosely held in his gloved hand. “I’d love any excuse to kill you, trust me.”

“Who the devil are you?” Kinkannon reluctantly dropped his hand, his eyes glassy in the candlelight.

Instead of answering the growled question, Damien gestured casually with his weapon at the discarded clothing on the floor. “Get dressed, ladies, and make sure he pays you before you depart.”

“Are you daft?” The blonde, thickly built, with a mane of ungovernable hair she tossed over one shoulder as she slid off the bed, said, “We make this bleeding bugger pay in advance.”

“Bitch,” Kinkannon muttered, his gaze glittering, jerking the sheet up to his waist, his eyes not precisely clear but definitely wary.

She didn’t respond, nor did the brunette, drawing on
their clothes, and when they slid past him, both of them gave Damien a saucy look, which he returned with an amused smile.

As the door closed, he leaned a shoulder against the wall and murmured, “It seems you aren’t a favored client. Now, then, with that mentioned, let’s talk about your employer. I assume that is how it works—he hired you to do the unsavory part of your little scheme.”

“Get out.” His unwilling host snarled the words.

Damien smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Who is he? I’ve already ascertained how he gets some of his information… from you. You patronize brothels, ask about certain men who visit and pay the girls well for the information, and then pass it along to whoever is paying
you
.”

It was one matter to sneak up on a quarry when they were wary and aware, but this was not particularly a challenge. Naked, his reflexes affected by the drug, Kinkannon was not an adversary to be taken seriously—at the moment anyway.

The other man said thickly, “I don’t know what the blasted hell you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do. We’ll begin with the blackmail and address the murder later.”

“Murder?” The word was said with bluster, but it was hardly convincing.

It was telling that the accusation of blackmail didn’t have the same effect. Damien chose a chair across from the bed and sat down, though his pistol was still loosely held in hand. “You haven’t noticed the recent rise of suspicious deaths among the elite gentlemen of the
ton
? Word has it a communication from you is the light to the fuse.”

“What a lot of nonsense.”

The denial was vehement, but Damien noted a sudden sheen of perspiration on the other man’s face. “They aren’t suicides or accidents, are they?”

“I’m not—”

“Innocent? No, you are not.” Damien wasn’t interested in the untruthful denials. He’d been in other situations like this one where interrogation was essential because other evidence was just not obtainable. Human beings, in his experience, were the best source anyway. “How lucky is Henry Lawson to still be alive?”

“Don’t recognize his name.”

“You should, because you attempted to extort money from him. As it happens, I was at the same social event and witnessed firsthand your conversation, Mr. Kinkannon. That established, I am interested in the alternative you offered him to paying back his gambling debt. At the time I thought it was a straightforward transaction, but looking back, your comment that he had another option seemed to upset him more than the demand he repay the notes you now hold.”

At first it seemed like Kinkannon was going to deny it, but then he sullenly shrugged. “I was just going to give him more time.”

“That,” Damien murmured disparagingly, “is not even a good attempt at a convincing lie.”

“I… I don’t even recall what I said to the bloke.”

Damien adjusted his position in the chair, his gaze fixed on the man in the bed. “Don’t you?”

“No.”

Futile denial. It really was like being back in the war, with cryptic exchanges and little to no information except
from those adversaries who really understood the stakes, only Kinkannon was not a professional by any means.

“Tell me the truth.”

“Why should I?” Kinkannon asked, staring at him with bloodshot eyes.

“It is in your best interest.” It wasn’t bluster or an idle threat. With lethal sincerity Damien said, “I always get the answers one way or another. It is much easier on you to cooperate now before this meeting becomes… unpleasant. Now, tell me why you began this in the first place. Who set you on the path? I don’t believe for a minute you are alone in this. You aren’t clever enough.”

“What do you know about me?”

“Edgar Kinkannon, born in Ireland in 1780, the youngest son of an Irish peer who no longer acknowledges your existence, from what I understand. You served in the English army, but hardly with any distinction, not rising above sergeant, and you’ve been in London for the past year, trading on your father’s title for admittance into the social whirl. Word has it you’ve become a bit more affluent as of late, and we both know why.” For emphasis, Damien raised the pistol and cocked it. “Now, who is procuring for you the information you use to torture your victims?”

“If you shoot me, someone will hear.”

“And I will fade into the night. I’ve done it before.”

Kinkannon went ghostly pale, his face working. “Can’t tell you who it is. The notes come in the post, I swear it. It was he who suggested we do this.… The first letter came without so much as a seal on it, suggesting the game… and it sounded easy… and it is. He gives me
the names and I put the pressure on. I get my money whether or not they agree to pay.”

That had to be significant, but as of yet, made no sense. A blackmail scheme in which a partner is paid whether or not money is collected? For instance, in the case of Charles’s nephew, who had gambled his money away, how could he even be expected to have the funds?

Unless murder was the initial intention.

“And you kill them if they refuse?” Damien asked it matter-of-factly.

“No, no!” Kinkannon’s thick body shook and he looked longingly at a pipe set on a small tray. “I’ve never harmed a one of them.”

“I think they might take issue with your definition of harm. So what is the alternative choice to paying for your silence? And do not prevaricate. My benevolence is slipping.”

Kinkannon stared at the gun in Damien’s hand and shook his head, his voice little more than a slurred whisper. “I don’t know. I receive sealed notes to give them the first time we meet, when I get the initial information.”

Damien lifted a brow skeptically.

“I’ve never looked,” Kinkannon mumbled, huddled under the sheet. “After the first one died, I didn’t even want to know.”

It was well after midnight and Regina rolled over, glanced at the face of the clock, still visible in the glow of the dying fire, before she tucked her hand back under her cheek. The silken sheets were warm from her body, her eyelids perversely heavy, and yet she couldn’t sleep.

“I’m late.”

Startled, she half sat, propping herself on one arm as she watched James, who had shut the door quietly behind him, sit down in a green velvet chair to remove his boots. “How did you get here?”

“My darling, you gave me a key.”

It had been a stupid question, but she’d been half dozing for hours and the room was warm, and he was finally there and it disconcerted her how much she needed him. Pulling the sheet up under her chin, she murmured, “I meant it’s quite late and if you were out squiring your cousins—”

“I wasn’t.” James stood up and swiftly unbuttoned his shirt. “I was visiting your brother.”

“Luke?”

“Yes. Do you have another?”

His breeches went next, and then he was climbing on the bed and settling in next to her, drawing her close to his lean body, the cool touch of his fingers drawing a path along her hip. He kissed her shoulder. “Now, go back to sleep. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

She could confess she hadn’t slept well without him.

But, no, she wasn’t ready for it.

Nor did she want to destroy this moment by disrupting the gentle caress of his hand or the way he rested his cheek on her outspread hair. Regina shifted then, turning in his arms, so her hand slid to the small of his back and pressed there, bringing their bodies closer together. She kissed him, lightly at first, and then with greater hunger.

“Should we?” he murmured against her lips, though his body had immediately reacted, his cock stiffening between them. “The child… is it safe?”

“It’s fine.” Regina had no idea how to put into words her current whirlwind state of emotions, but she knew she craved that closeness, the connection they’d shared from the moment they’d looked into each other’s eyes at that dinner party— not just the rush of sensation but the intimacy of touch, and kiss, and mingled sighs.

“You’re sure?” He didn’t move, just holding her.

“I’m sure.” She’d specifically asked the doctor if they could still make love. He’d expressed caution if she had any unusual symptoms but otherwise indicated it was still safe and mentioned some women were more amorous when breeding.

Somehow she’d always imagined when she fell in love again it would be with someone like Rene Fortescue. Dashing and suave, with a dangerous air and the ability to beguile innocent young maidens.

As flawed as that experience had been, she’d just assumed those character traits were what had attracted her in the first place.

Only James was the antithesis of that sort of man. He wouldn’t seek to seduce any maiden, innocent or not, nor would he set out to charm deliberately. Actually, he was rational and calm always, but when they were like this together, she somehow felt he understood her.

He wasn’t like her. No, not at all. Quite the opposite. Where she was unpredictable, he was in control; where she faltered; he stood firm; where she dreamed, he made practical decisions based on logic. But at the moment, neither of them was interested in practicality of any kind.

“That is certainly just about the best news you could impart at this moment.” James rolled to stretch out on top of her, his mouth tracing the line of her throat in a
leisurely trail that was a contrast to the hard, hot length of his erection. “I want you, but then again, I always do.”

“Why do you think I went to bed without clothes?” She ruffled his hair, her fingers skimming through the thick strands.

“You always sleep nude.” His tongue traced her collarbone.

“Since you.” Regina tugged his head up and playfully bit his lower lip. “So much more convenient.”

“Now that we’ve found each other, you mean.” He kissed her lightly, his knees gently parting her thighs.

Luckily, his entry made her catch her breath, and it was an excellent excuse to not respond as she arched into the penetration, opening and accepting, pleasure spreading outward and inward in a warm wash of sensation. She pressed him closer, lifting her hips as he began to move, and she let the whispered phrases of love caress her like her lover’s hands, the words both tender and evocative.

I love you… I love our child already… God, Regina, hold me tighter.
…

In the lassitude of the aftermath of shattering climax, hers more intense than usual—which made her wonder if that was typical, and if so, she was going to enjoy this pregnancy very much—James proposed again.

“Marry me.” Propped on one elbow next to her, he lifted her right hand and kissed each finger, one by one, his blue eyes gazing into her hers. “I’ll make you happy.”

“You don’t need to make me happy, James.” Supine next to him, she was comfortable, sated, warm, damp, satisfied, and languid. “Why is it men always think a woman’s happiness is dependent on them?”

Had she hurt him? For a moment his face went still and his lashes lowered, but then his mouth curved into a rueful smile. “Shall I rephrase? Let me try again. Will you
please
marry me, Lady Regina, and make me the happiest of men?”

“Ah, the selfish approach,” she hedged in a teasing tone, not wanting to answer the question, sure, but not sure, the quandary uncomfortable. “Now your happiness is dependent on me?”

She wasn’t being fair, and she knew it. Yet thirty-five years of independence in a world where women did not normally govern their lives was difficult to give up, even for someone like James.

“Unintentional,” he murmured, watching her… maybe even really
seeing
her. “You needn’t answer now.”

“I’m tired,” she said truthfully, “so thank you.”

“There’s no time limit on the offer.” He touched her hair, his features blanched by the moonlight. The fire had long since died down. “But tell me… you waited up for my arrival. How did you know?”

Sleep hovered, and she almost didn’t catch the question. “Know what?”

“That I would come? Altea invited me to spend the night. It was late. I might have just stayed.”

“I knew you would come,” she whispered as she surrendered and drifted off in his arms.