Page 1 of How to Tempt An Earl (Wed Within a Year #2)

Late August, London, 1826

K ieran Parkhurst had set a personal attendance record: two churches in less than two days. Usually, he was lucky to set foot in a church once a year for Christmas, and that was only to please his mother. Sentiments of faith and hope had no place in the world he inhabited. Kieran swung off his horse in front of St Luke’s— Old St Luke’s, to be precise, and he was always precise. Details saved lives.

He patted the sweat-soaked shoulder of his horse. They’d ridden hard and fast, straight from his brother’s wedding in West Sussex. Now, Tambor was as lathered as he. Kieran wiped a hand across his brow. He wouldn’t mind a bit of Christmas at the moment, given the state of the London weather, which was so hot and humid that one’s clothes stuck to one’s back after the slightest physical exertion, and his exertions had not been slight. He wondered if he smelled as bad as he looked—probably—but there was nothing to do about it now.

He squinted up at the stone church with its tower and ordinal chapels, wondering if his contact had already arrived. Given the choice, he preferred to take possession of the ground first in his encounters, but there was no question of dashing in and claiming his ground just yet; his horse took priority. Grandfather’s urgent business for the Crown would have to wait a few minutes more; he wouldn’t leave Tambor outside, sweating in the heat without care. His horse needed water. There must be some nearby… Ah yes, there was, next to the church.

He led Tambor to an elevated water trough and flipped a coin to the desperate-looking urchin who stood beside it. The boy’s eyes, too big for his thin face, lit up. That coin would mean bread for a week. Kieran had lived too long in London not to be aware of the plight of the city’s poor.

‘Business looks slow today.’

Kieran took in the boy’s ragged breeks and tatty vest. Business would be slow until November, when society came back to town from the cool northern grouse moors. Boys such as this one depended on the spontaneous trade of gentlemen—to hold their horses, sweep street crossings, hail carriages, run impromptu errands and deliver messages; anything to earn a coin. When Parliament recessed, so did the London economy.

The boy’s gaze was sharp with wariness—a consequence of living on the streets. He answered non-committally, offering no more than the required words. ‘Yes, sir.’

Kieran ought to correct the boy. He should be addressed as ‘my lord’. He was the Earl of Wrexham but he’d only held the title for six weeks. It hardly seemed fair to make someone else ‘my lord’ him when he could barely remember to do it himself. In fact, he’d prefer not to remember it at all. The title was a reward for bravery, having averted sabotage regarding a shipment of money and arms to aid the Greek War of Independence. But it was also a reminder of loss: his brother, Stepan, had not survived that night. The Four Horsemen—England’s elite, covert band of dark diplomats—had been cut down to three.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked the boy, keeping his eye on Tambor to make sure the horse didn’t gulp the water. He didn’t need a colicky horse on his hands.

‘Samuel. What’s yours?’ This was asked in cheeky challenge, as if the boy didn’t expect the courtesy to be reciprocated.

‘Kieran.’ He nodded to the church. ‘You have a good view of the building. Has anyone gone inside?’

The boy shook his head. ‘Most people nowadays go to the new St Luke’s.’

Which would also be bad for the business of water tending when one’s trough was at Old St Luke’s.

‘Is there a trough over at the new church you could mind?’ Kieran made the casual suggestion.

‘There’s other boys that work that spot,’ Samuel answered sullenly and Kieran’s heart went out to him. The boy was too young to know a life of quiet desperation. At his age, Kieran and his brothers had whiled away summers at their home, Willow Park, swinging on ropes over a shady swimming hole to cool off.

‘Are you certain no one has gone in recently?’ If the boy was right, there was still time for him to claim the ground.

‘No one, just a widow in a veil.’ The boy gave a shrug. Samuel clearly didn’t count the widow as a person of notice any more than he counted himself of any import. Only grown men were of note in London. They were the ones with the money, the power. ‘She went into the south chapel just before you came.’

Kieran was instantly alert. Women and children, socially and legally, were designed to be invisible. Which was why, in his experience, they were such excellent…spies. He’d learned early not to discount anyone and he had the scar an inch to the right of his liver to remind himself in case he ever forgot. Invisibility was a gift; being a male who sported a height of six foot two inches, it was not a gift that came naturally to him. He had to cultivate his own invisibility in other ways.

Hmm. So, Grandfather’s informant was possibly a woman. Unease prickled at the back of his neck. Women were often more dangerous in this game than the men.

Kieran took out another coin. ‘Can you watch my horse? Make sure he doesn’t guzzle the water; it will make him sick. I have business inside the church. I shouldn’t be long.’ Just long enough to meet Grandfather’s contact and determine if the person in question and their information were legitimate. He gave his limp cravat a cursory tug in a futile attempt at improving his appearance and set out for the church and whatever lay beyond its doors.

Inside, the church was dim, a blessed respite from the sticky heat outside. Kieran let the coolness of the interior wash over him. If churches were good for one thing, it was providing sanctuary from torpid summers. He gave his eyes a moment to adjust before he approached the south chapel. He could not count on stealth here. He must be ready from the first step he took. Stone floors and boots made poor partners in silence. He’d be expected and he would be heard, which was of no real importance as long as the informant had come alone.

Out of an abundance of caution, Kieran loosened the pistol beneath his jacket and checked the knife in his boot. Just because one said they were an informant didn’t mean they were. Assumptions were death wishes in disguise, especially if a woman was involved. Frankly, if this was a trap, it wouldn’t surprise him. The intelligence the informant purportedly possessed was almost too juicy to be true. It was exactly the kind of information that would tempt his grandfather and lure the Four Horsemen into the open—information they couldn’t afford to overlook; information that could lead them to the man responsible for Stepan’s death. For that, much would be risked.

Pillars flanked the entrance to the south chapel, calling rather stark attention to the reality that there was only one way in and out. A veiled woman knelt at the rail, her back to him: Samuel’s widow. If it was a trap, he’d be in tight quarters for fighting. Kieran did not relish that. On the other hand, churches had more weapons available than one might expect. Candles meant fire. Long, slim, iron-wrought candle stands could be converted to cudgels and spears in a pinch. He’d fought in churches before. He’d fought with women before.

Kieran quartered the space with his eyes before approaching, his gaze seeking lurkers in the chancel pews, or someone pretending to piousness across the way in the north chapel. But his visual sweep revealed no one. The boy at the water trough had been right: only the woman had entered. Perhaps the informant had come alone and was indeed what they claimed to be. How novel, for now…such truthfulness wouldn’t last. Already supposition was taking root in his mind. Was she truly a widow, or was the veil a convenient disguise? In his line of work, no one was ever wholly what they seemed. Everyone had secrets. It was his job to uncover them. Lives, his included, depended on it.

His boots clicked on the stone floor, the sound echoing in the chancel. The woman did not turn but her shoulders straightened and her posture tightened. Her body’s awareness of him was confirmation: he was expected. It was her, then; she was his contact. With a final glance at his surroundings, he approached the rail and knelt beside her.

‘Pax tibi,’ he murmured quietly: peace be with you .

‘Et cum te.’ And also with you , came the required reply in low, throaty tones more suited for a bedroom than a chapel. If Latin had sounded like that at Oxford, he might have attended class more often. Contact had been established but her face remained fixed on the altarpiece.

‘I believe you have something for me.’ He, too, kept his gaze fixed straight ahead but his eyes dropped surreptitiously to her bare hands where they gripped the rail tightly. She was tense; nervous, even. Whoever she was, passing information was not her usual mode of conduct. Those hands prompted speculation. Was she nervous because of him? That implied she’d been sent by someone to draw him out. Or was she nervous because of someone else? Did she fear she was being watched or followed, because she was acting independently? He glanced again at her hands. She wasn’t a widow. He didn’t need to see beneath her veil to safely deduce that.

‘Do you think it’s just that easy? That I will tell what I know to a stranger in a church simply because he asks?’ Nervous or not, the woman had the ability to keep her wits about her. Kieran gave her credit for that, especially if this was not her usual game. But the question chased itself around his mind— why was she nervous? Followed by another question: if she was nervous because she worried she’d been followed, why not tell him and go? She’d want to expedite the meeting, not draw it out.

‘Your knuckles indicated you were eager to depart,’ Kieran murmured. ‘Lingering makes you nervous. Should I be expecting company?’ That company would come in one of two forms: those who also wanted her information for themselves or those who didn’t want her information to get out. He did not want to play host to either form.

‘I do not think I was followed.’ There was defiance in her tone as if what she really wanted to say was, I was not na?ve enough to be followed .

‘Forgive me if I don’t trust the assessment of a novice.’ Kieran growled impatiently. ‘Remember, you summoned me . How do you recommend we resolve this slight impasse?’

Her long, slender fingers curled around the prayer rail. ‘How do I know I can trust you ?’

Yes, clearly a novice if she thought trust was on the table, that its presence mattered as a means of guiding discussion. Trust, like faith and hope, did not exist in his world—not after Sofia had nearly gutted him in a bed chamber for the contents of his diplomatic pouch.

‘You can’t, no more than I can trust you.’ Kieran gave a dry laugh. ‘Did you think you were the only one with something to risk? Did you stop to think what I risked in coming here? This might be a trap and your supposed information the lure. But, still, I am here. Perhaps that is proof enough that I am who I say I am.’ He edged closer to her and she reflexively brought a hand to her nose.

He gave a quiet laugh. ‘You cannot doubt I am a Horseman now. Forgive me for the fragrance. I rode hard and there was no time to change. Your message indicated a certain urgency.’

Kieran covered her hand with his. People confessed to all nature of fears and feelings when they were touched. Touch inspired confidence. Perhaps she needed a dose of that now in order to open up. ‘We’ve established who I am. Now, my lady, who are you?’

* * *

Who was she? Such a complex question; Celeste hardly knew any longer. Once, she would have said she was a wealthy man’s ward, a boarding-school-educated young woman who’d spent her youth on the Continent. Up until two weeks ago she’d been that same man’s pawn, a tool he used now that school was behind her. It wasn’t a very flattering picture of who she’d been, but it was accurate.

Now, kneeling here in the church, she was a fugitive, a woman on the run with nowhere to run to …all because she’d eavesdropped on the wrong conversation, which had been the final straw.

‘It doesn’t matter who I am. It matters what I know.’

His hand was warm on hers and, despite the fact that he smelled of sweaty horse and worn leather, his touch felt… good …like reassurance. And for a moment it felt as if she wasn’t alone, that she was safe at last. It was an illusion only. Men betrayed; she knew it empirically. If he knew she was the ward of the Continent’s most notorious arms dealer—the man responsible for his brother’s death, the man he was hunting—it would go poorly for her.

Still, for a few brief moments she would allow herself the luxury of the illusion, a chance to refresh herself after two weeks of looking over her shoulder, of doubting everyone she came into contact with; two weeks of being scared twenty-four hours a day. Even when she managed to sleep, her sleep was filled with nightmares of being caught, of being returned to her guardian and the unpalatable fate that would await her.

She lived in a zero-sum world now. There was no margin for error, and she was in over her head. There was no other choice. She simply could not live in her guardian’s world any longer. She wanted out. Every day she stayed was a day closer to becoming like him, to being dragged irrevocably down a path of violence and corruption from which there would be no escape. The Horsemen were her ticket to freedom.

‘What do you know?’ The Horseman’s voice was quiet, encouraging, his thumb running a slow caress across her knuckles.

Celeste swallowed. After hoarding her secret for so long, it was hard to let it out, to give someone else knowledge of it.

Just tell him , her mind cried. Then you can lay down the burden.

This was what she’d come for. She was so close to the finish line. ‘Cabot Roan has left his munitions factory in Brussels. He is coming to England for revenge. He is hunting you.’ She’d surprised him. She felt his thumb stop for an infinitesimal moment.

‘Why?’ His thumb started its caress again but she had all his attention now. She’d become an expert at reading men. Her survival had depended on it.

‘He is personally hunting the Horsemen in retaliation for the killing of Amesbury and foiling his chance at an arms deal to Greece.’ She was glad his chance had been ruined. Roan was already supplying the Ottoman forces arrayed against the Greeks. He took perverse delight in selling firearms to both sides, prolonging the war as long as it pleased him and thinking he could control the outcome of that war.

The man beside her slid her a considering look with eyes like sharp agate, his tone quiet. ‘Have you come to warn me or simply to deliver Roan’s message on his behalf?’

Are you his tool or his enemy?

Celeste jerked her hand away as if his touch suddenly scorched instead of comforted. Her temper flared, its fuse shortened by exhaustion and hunger. ‘How dare you insinuate I am that despicable man’s puppet?’ That very fate was among the many reasons she’d fled. To be accused of it was the height of insult, if only he knew it. ‘If you understood what I have endured these past weeks, you would know I would not lower myself to be his messenger.’

‘You are not the only one who has suffered recently.’

There was grit in his growl. He was thinking of his brother, no doubt, the one who’d been lost. His gaze swung towards her, giving her a glimpse of his face in full for the first time since he’d knelt beside her. His eyes flashed with dark fire and his jaw was lined with dark stubble, perhaps evidence of his claim that he’d ridden hard.

She was suddenly and keenly aware of his size: the breadth of his shoulders; the strength in his hands. It was difficult to reconcile the earlier offer of comfort with the sheer ruggedness of him. He could overpower her with little effort if he chose. Her previous sense of safety evaporated. A shudder rippled through her. She knew big men and how they used their strength. Roan surrounded himself with them and had no compunction about turning them loose on those less powerful in order to get what he wanted. She’d been on the receiving end of that once. But not ever again—not from Roan or from any man.

It was time to leave before she lost control of the interaction. Celeste rose somewhat awkwardly, her joints stiff from kneeling so long.

The Horseman rose with her. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

‘It’s of no consequence to you. Our business together is finished.’ Her task here was done. She could get on with claiming her freedom. Roan would be too busy with the Horsemen to care about her. At least, that was what she hoped.

His hand was on her arm and she flinched before she realised his touch was stalling her, not grabbing her. ‘I have questions. Who are you? How did you know to contact us?’

‘Those answers are not relevant. I’ve delivered the news I set out to impart.’

She could not control whether the Horseman with dark eyes and dark unruly waves chose to believe her or not. She met his eyes with a steely gaze of her own.

‘I rather thought you’d be more interested in my news. You’ve already lost one brother. Roan is coming, not his minions. He is coming. His need for stealth will slow him.’

By law, Roan was not allowed to set foot on English soil on penalty of arrest. ‘You have a little time to lay your plans and protections for those you care for: your brother’s new bride, that bride’s father, your sister and her husband. I believe they’re expecting a child. Your parents…’

She felt his grip tighten on her arm at the mention of family. She could see his next question ripple behind his eyes and she answered before he could ask it. ‘It doesn’t matter how I know.’

‘Oh, I think it does. Are you just going to walk out of here?’ the Horseman challenged as their eyes held. ‘Do you think Roan is going to stop coming for you because he’s coming for me and mine instead?’

She gave too much away in those moments. Yes, that was exactly what she thought. If the secret was out, he would have no urgency to find her. Stopping her would solve nothing.

‘You see the flaw in your reasoning, surely?’ The Horseman gave a long-suffering sigh that said, Lord, save me from fools . ‘He’ll come for revenge. Whoever you are, Roan won’t let you go unpunished even if he can’t stop you from spreading his secret.’

Secret s , plural… She knew more than one secret about Roan. What she held against him went beyond this vengeful episode.

‘Then it is more important than ever that I leave here as soon as possible.’

She was proud to get the words out without a tremble in her voice. Inside, she was collapsing. She’d convinced herself she’d be safe if she could get this far. That she could become a person of no consequence, that she could slide away and disappear once her message was delivered. But the chase was not over. It might never be over. She’d made a serious miscalculation.

She stepped away from the Horseman and fled, even as he called to her.

‘Wait!’ The single word echoed in the emptiness of the chancel. But she could not wait. She had to hide. She had to run. After Roan had come for the Four Horsemen, he’d come for her. She needed whatever head start she could manage.