Twice Fallen (7 page)

He was still looking at her with an inquiring expression on his face and she shrugged, now wondering if it had been wise at all to bring him to her studio. If what she wanted was to detangle herself from this relationship, this wasn’t how to do it.

It was time to send him on his way.

But she wasn’t ready.

Regina sat down in one of the chairs and deliberately let her dressing gown drape open. “Do we really want to discuss biblical applications of artistic endeavors, or shall we explore yet again the more earthy aspect of the term
biblical
?”

He grinned. “I favor the latter.”

I

Only in her case, Lily thought as she stirred her chocolate and took a small sip of the steaming beverage, Lord Damien was not precisely a prince but instead a somewhat cynical ex-spy with dubious skills such as wielding a picklock, the danger had been social rather than physical, and the secret passage about the least romantic dank staircase imaginable. Besides, she’d never read a story where the heroine—she was hardly qualified for that role—stripped off her gown before a man she didn’t know. In retrospect, she couldn’t believe she’d done it, but then again, maybe it was worth it.

There
was
a happy ending.

They’d managed it. After all the bad luck that had gotten her into the situation in the first place, a ray of light had glimmered. She’d slipped back into the crowd seamlessly enough even with James catching her out, and Lord Damien was nowhere to be seen the rest of the evening. Whether or not he’d left to avoid Lady Piedmont
as he’d said he would or was in one of the card rooms, she had no idea, but the impression she had of him was that if he chose to remain out of sight, he could do so easily enough.

She had to admit, while most of the gentlemen she knew were rather dull, he’d at least been
interesting
.

The duchess had accepted the excuse that Lily had felt rather dizzy and had gone to lie down for a bit—not all of it was a lie, she wasn’t a swooning kind of female but she’d definitely had a horrified moment when the key broke off in her hand—and since the library door had been locked when the duchess went looking for her, the explanation was plausible enough.

A knock interrupted the reverie. Reclined against the pillows, Lily called out, “Come in.”

Her younger sister, Betsy, entered, attired in a day gown of striped lemon yellow and cream, her hair tied simply in a satin bow. Immediately her brows rose. “Still in bed? That isn’t like you.”

It didn’t seem prudent to describe the harrowing experience when she’d brushed up against potential scandal, so Lily just maintained what she hoped was a neutral expression. “I was tired. Tell me, is Harold Dougherty calling again today?”

Betsy’s blush well enough answered that question. Good, her sisters were both being courted by quite respectable gentlemen, for Carole also had Lord Davenport sending flowers and showing an avid interest and all Lily wanted was for them both to be happily married to men of their choosing.

“Jonathan quite likes him.” Betsy settled into a chair, her bright skirts in a froth of muslin around her. “That is
quite a coup. I think Mr. Dougherty was fairly terrified of him at first.”

It was true. Their brother was only half English, and the other half was about as barbaric as possible in the eyes of most of society, being a mixture of French and an American Indian tribe. His unusual dark looks did lend him a dangerous air among the pale polish of the
ton
.

Amused, Lily murmured, “Yes, well, he might be an earl, and have recently married the daughter of a duke, but I still think the beau monde expects him to at least exhibit some sort of savage behavior or they will be sorely disappointed
.”

“You forbade him to act anything but the gentleman.” Betsy’s smile was mischievous. “I think he might be just a little afraid to disobey you, Lily.”

To picture Jonathan, so tall and utterly capable of taking on any danger, afraid of anything brought a laugh. “I think he took my advice so he could impress the lovely Lady Cecily and win her as his wife. It is quite different. Now he is the besotted husband and sequestered in the country with his wife. Not exactly the savage, but remarkably like a refined English lord.”

“Perhaps.” Betsy paused. “What will you wear to the tea this afternoon?”

It was delicately asked and Lily had to stifle a groan. “I’d forgotten,” she muttered, setting aside her chocolate. “I’d rather not attend at all, but—”

“But the duchess is doing it just for you and you beg off often enough as it is.”

“I never asked to be thrown into her clutches,” Lily pointed out acerbically, which was absolutely true. It was all Jonathan’s doing, drat him.

Yet to her benefit, and that of her sisters, so how could she complain?

“She is a bit daunting,” Betsy admitted, her fingers plucking at her skirt. “I swear if she looks at me I practically freeze into position like a garden statue. However do you stand it?”

“I look back,” Lily said tartly. “Not that I don’t appreciate the effort she is undertaking on my behalf, but it isn’t for me precisely, but for the sheer sport of it, I imagine. She is much too well bred to admit she finds it a challenge to try to marry me off.”

“Not such a challenge. You’re lovely.”

“You might be biased.”

Betsy shook her head. “I’m simply telling the truth. Had it not been for Lord Sebring—”

“It wasn’t entirely his fault,” Lily interrupted, her tone quiet, not precisely defending the man who had destroyed her reputation but not willing to defame him either. “Let’s all recall I agreed to the elopement. That makes me equally culpable in my downfall.”

“You are too fair.”

“I am realistic.”

“You are stubbornly protecting a man who does not deserve it.”

Well, there was a reason she loved her sisters after all. Loyalty was as precious as gold. Lily picked up a scone, took a quick bite, and chewed and swallowed, changing the subject. “So I take it Mr. Dougherty will be at the tea and that is why you are so concerned over my attendance.”

“And Lord Davenport, so both Carole and I want you to not pull one of your infamous disappearing tricks.”

The evening before, the “disappearing trick” had gone severely awry. Or almost so. Perhaps it was a sign she should conform better and not try to sneak off, even if it meant excruciating formal balls and boring teas with her sisters’ suitors. “I will be there,” she murmured and finished her chocolate.

The house was rather modest, the exterior weathered a bit, and if the servant that answered the door was any indication, the staff limited. Damien relinquished his cloak—the weather had done an abrupt turn from the lovely morning and the day was cool and rainy—to the stolid steward. He then allowed himself to be escorted into the presence of one of the most powerful men in the British Kingdom.

Naively, and he was so far past naive he could not believe it had happened, he’d thought his involvement with Charles Peyton was all over. His host glanced up, set down his pen, and gestured at a chair. “Northfield. Have a seat.”

He sat, the antique chair creaking under his weight. It wasn’t that he hadn’t been in shabby houses before—this was luxurious compared to some of the places he’d stayed in his checkered career—but it was somewhat of a surprise, though he had to admit the view out the window of the Thames was quite spectacular. “Sir.”

“I summoned you here for a purpose.”

“You do nothing without a purpose, so I suppose that is not a difficult deduction.”

The prime minister’s most trusted adviser gave him an enigmatic smile. “I wouldn’t dream of wasting your time, my lord.”

That declaration made him wary indeed. Damien realized he was unconsciously rubbing his aching thigh and stilled his hand at once. His smile was wry. “What do you need, Charles?”

“It’s a small matter, really.”

No, he was sure it wasn’t. Nothing that concerned Sir Charles Peyton was ever a small matter. “I see.” Damien settled back, crossing his booted feet in seeming nonchalance. “Go on.”

“A mere formality really.”

“Ah, well then, I am sure you have any number of lackeys that can handle it for you.”

Middle-aged, mild-mannered but sharp as a honed rapier, Charles chuckled, his pale blue eyes suddenly direct. “If so, I would not have sent for you.”

“I believe I was relieved of duty when I was wounded and half-dead on the field as the war ended.”

“Men like us never retire.” Charles sighed and set aside his pen, looking out the window for a moment, his expression contemplative. Then he said, “I think we have a problem. I told Liverpool I would talk to you. His response to consulting you was very flattering, I assure you.”

Whenever the prime minister’s name came into play, it really was a problem. Damien deliberately looked blander than ever. “Was it?”

Charles was not easy to fool. “You’re interested. Good.”

“I’m not—”

“You
are
.” Peyton leaned forward, picked up a pair of spectacles and put them on, his hand carelessly scooping up a piece of vellum from the cluttered table. “I saw it in
your eyes. I assume you will be available if I need you, then.”

“You aren’t going to tell me exactly what you want me to do now?”

“Did Wellington?”

Ah, so what he remembered of Charles Peyton held true. Wily, evasive, and one of the best manipulators in the business. “Eventually,” he commented, knowing a dismissal when he heard one. “Usually at the least opportune time,” he added dryly.

“Is there ever an opportune time?”

“It depends on the task. We are no longer at war.”

“Aren’t we? And here I thought you were English. Surely you took history at Cambridge. We are always at war.” Charles shook his head. “Don’t be so ingenuous.”

Damien was fairly sure he hadn’t been called that since he was in knee britches. “Care to explain?”

“I don’t often—you know that.” Sir Charles stood then and inclined his head. “I’ll be in touch.”

Damien had to admit he was mystified when he rose and left the room. Even when he walked up the steps to his club nearly an hour later he was not quite sure what the purpose of the summons had been. The interior was familiar, the lighting subdued, the scent of brandy and tobacco in the air, and the sound of voices punctuated by the occasional laugh. The furniture was dark and heavy, the carpet thick, and there seemed to be a fair number of members having either an early dinner or a drink or two. He absently handed his cloak to the attendant and it was a pleasant distraction to be informed his oldest brother was present.

Not that Colton would approve of his recent visit to
Sir Charles, but because Damien occasionally needed a solid dose of stalwart common sense.

If the current Duke of Rolthven was anything, he was pragmatic and dutiful.

“Have a whiskey,” his brother said as Damien approached, pushing a half-full glass across the table. “I’ll get another.”

Damien almost argued, but his leg
did
hurt and he sank down gratefully and picked up the tumbler. Very rarely was his older brother intuitive, so he must have been showing the strain. “Thank you.”

“Not at all.” Colton glanced at the waiter and the man hastened to bring another glass and the decanter. “You look a little pale. Is something amiss?”

Well, there were treacherous secret staircases and lovely maidens and cryptic spymasters such as Charles Peyton… but otherwise life was utterly calm. Damien smiled—he couldn’t help it. Perhaps he was just destined to be in the midst of intrigue. “No. Not at all. I had a meeting. I didn’t realize you were in town. How is Brianna?”

Colton’s blue eyes narrowed as if he wasn’t fooled at all, but he said readily, “Fine. The doctors assure me the pregnancy is healthy and normal.”

“She looks quite as beautiful as ever to me.”

“She has some moments when her stomach is unsettled, but if it is like it was with Frederick, it will pass soon. I make sure the basin is handy in the mornings.”

The idea of the very austere Duke of Rolthven assisting someone as they tossed up their breakfast was comical enough Damien had to fight a grin. But the whiskey was smooth and of the best quality and he savored the
next sip before he commented. “I’m not sure I am envious of that part of the process of fathering a child.”

“Are you envious of any of it?” Colton asked bluntly, his mouth quirking. They resembled each other with the same chestnut hair and Northfield features, but his older brother was definitely more serious, though his marriage had wrought a miraculous change in many ways. He was devoted to his beautiful wife and adored his young son and he smiled now more often. His ducal duties were still important, but no longer the focus of his life.

The change was a welcome one, but Damien found his once self-absorbed brother’s recent interest in
his
life and future an irritant. Why was it all married men found a sudden urge to spread the state of matrimony to all single males of their acquaintance like it was a contagious disease?

“I believe I’d enjoy the actual conception,” he said dryly. “But I have no obligation as you did to marry and sire an heir for the sake of name and title. There are some advantages to being a younger son. If at some point I meet a woman who captures my interest and keeps it long enough for me to consider a permanent arrangement,
then
I will worry about the less-than-desirable scenario of having to keep a basin on hand for those tricky moments.”

“Brianna has said to me more than once that it is far better to be the one holding it than the one using it.” Colton refilled his glass, at ease in his chair, long legs extended.

“A valid point,” Damien agreed with a laugh. Brianna was a refreshingly candid person. “There are some advantages to being a male.”

“And some disadvantages also, such as the privilege of going to war. I’m assuming the drawn look is because of your leg.”