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

K ieran gave her the briefest of head starts. Enemy or ally—although he was leaning towards ally; she was too na?ve—he could not let her leave. It was absurd that she thought he would. How far did she think he’d let her get? Or how far would Roan let her get, for that matter? Whoever she was, she was clearly untutored in the rules of espionage. The most basic rule of them all was that, once begun, the game was never done. One could not simply step aside and choose not to play. One did not win the game; one merely survived it.

He caught up to her before she reached the heavy doors leading out into the street. ‘Wait, please. I want to help you.’ He kept his tone calm and even. Beneath her aplomb, he recognised the presence of fright, although not the source. Was she afraid of him? Of Roan? Of circumstances that had led her to deliver the warning? Maybe all three factored into her fear. Perhaps she recognised in full for the first time what it meant to summon a Horseman and that she was in well over her head.

He put a gentle but firm hand on the door, holding it shut. The fewer who saw her or who saw him with her, the better, until he had things straight. A picture was starting to emerge, but it was not yet fully formed and he needed to be right before he went further.

She turned to face him. He caught a glimpse of eyes flashing beneath her veil. ‘Do you mean to trap me here?’ she challenged.

Kieran did not rise to the bait. Sparring in the chapel had got them nowhere. ‘I mean to determine who you are and how best I can help you. You are in danger, perhaps more danger than you planned, regardless of your role. But I think you’ve realised that.’

‘You still don’t believe me. You still think I might be in league with Roan.’ Beneath the veil, her chin went up in defiance.

‘I think there is still much we should discuss before decisions are made—yours or mine.’ And they could not discuss those things here. He’d already lingered in the church longer than he’d have liked. He was exposed here, and she was too. ‘Where were you going?’

‘Back to my rooms.’ She offered no address. It was time to do something to earn her trust, at least for the short term; trust enough to get her talking so he could determine how best to deal with her information and with her. For that, he needed her to doubt herself, to be more wary of Roan than she was of him.

He nodded. ‘I am sure Roan will expect that.’

‘He’s not here, not yet,’ she countered.

‘No, but if you’re escaping him, if you are truly here to warn me out of the altruism of your heart, then that means Roan’s men are chasing you. What you know is not something he wants to get out. It steals his element of surprise. He’ll know you’ll head to London because that’s where the Horsemen are. Your trail is not a mystery to him.’

He watched her body tense at the mention of Roan’s henchmen. That told him she was close enough to Roan to know how he operated, how his men operated, and that she knew they were cruel. Kieran ran the options in his mind. Was she Roan’s wife? His daughter? A niece or female relation? Roan was obsessively private. They knew nothing of his family, or even if he had one. If he did, his roots were hidden deep. In Roan’s line of work, family connections were a weakness to be exploited.

‘So, you do believe me,’ she pressed again. ‘If I’m not your ally, keeping me here doesn’t make sense.’

‘Keeping you here keeps you alive,’ Kieran replied patiently. ‘If you’re my ally, it will make it easier for me to keep you alive. If you’re Roan’s messenger, you’ll be dead the moment you go back to your rooms, perhaps even the moment you step out into the street.’

Lucifer’s balls, he wished he could see her face. He wanted to rip that damned veil off and see her reaction. Had his words shocked her? Had they frightened her as they would anyone who didn’t realise how perilous it was to discharge one’s assigned duty and serve no more purpose for their overlord?

‘He’ll have no use for you if you’ve done your job. He certainly won’t want you running about in possession of his plans, free to tell anyone you meet.’ Kieran gave a nonchalant shrug. ‘Either way, you’re dead. It’s just a matter of how soon.’ He let her have a few long seconds to take that in before offering her a lifeline. ‘Unless you want to come with me.’

‘My protection at what price?’ she countered shrewdly, showing off again that intriguing mix he couldn’t quite sort out—the na?ve peppered with the sharp. Which was real? Which was ruse? His very life could depend upon it.

‘Information is the currency the Horsemen deal in. You know that much because you’re here. I want to know who you are and what has brought you to this point. In exchange, I pledge you my protection and I will see to it that you are free from Roan.’ If she was Roan’s messenger, she would have to turn traitor. He hoped he’d given her reason enough to consider it if that was the case.

She did not answer immediately, her gaze shrouded behind her veil as she thought. At last, her words came. ‘All right. I’ll go with you.’

Kieran slowly released a breath. He’d not wanted it to come down to throwing her over his shoulder and manhandling her home. It would be far better this way, where she thought she had a choice in the matter.

‘When we step outside, I am going to put my arm around you and pull you close, as if I am supporting you. Perhaps it is the anniversary of your husband’s death and you are overcome with grief. The closer I can keep you to me, the more difficult it will be for any potential snipers to get an accurate shot off. My horse is at the watering trough outside; we will take him to my townhouse.’

And, in the meantime, all Kieran could do was hope no one took a shot at him. Some might argue it would be better to put her in a closed carriage, but carriages had no manoeuvrability in traffic or flexibility in a chase. Racing a bulky hired cab on London streets was not nearly as reliable as Tambor in a tight spot. Between his horse or a carriage, he’d always choose his horse.

Outside, they met with no resistance other than the late-afternoon heat. He helped her mount, paid Samuel a few more coins and encouraged him to keep his eyes open for anyone out of the ordinary. The boy had proven himself observant. Such skill wouldn’t go amiss over the next few days. He checked Tambor and swung up behind his nominal widow. He settled in the saddle, his arms about her in order to hold the reins.

‘Comfortable?’ Tambor was an intimidating horse. One could see the world from atop his height. One didn’t want to fall off, though; it was a long way down.

‘I’m fine, thank you.’ But her body told a different story. She remained tense, alert, although Tambor might not be the source of that tension. She was not gripping the saddle with white knuckles. It wasn’t the horse that unnerved her, it was the circumstance.

‘Do you ride?’ She seemed at home aboard his horse. If they ran into trouble, it would help to know if she could.

‘Yes, some.’ Her response was curt. He could forgive her for her shortness. She had a lot to think about at the moment and she’d just consented to ride off with a man she didn’t know to a place she’d never been. ‘Might we stop at my boarding house to collect my things? It won’t take more than a few minutes.’

Ah, so her lodgings were close by. ‘No, I’m afraid we cannot. Did it occur to you that you might not have been followed to the church because they knew where you’d be afterwards? They could be waiting in your rooms now.’ They could be waiting for her or for him. If she was working for Roan, perhaps she’d been meant to lure him back there after their meeting.

‘You’re trying to scare me,’ she argued.

‘I’m trying to help you think about your situation more broadly.’ He swept the street with a practised eye and turned Tambor into the meagre traffic.

‘All I have in the world is in that room,’ came the protest. Someone less seasoned than himself, someone who’d not nearly been stabbed in the liver, might have seen this plea as further proof she was Roan’s messenger, sent to lure him. Kieran did not. He knew better. Her words confirmed it: messengers would not bring their worldly goods with them on a trip. A messenger expected to return to wherever they’d come from. They packed light. That she was travelling with everything she owned suggested she was on the run. Still, he had no intention of going there at the moment.

‘Either way, the boarding house is too dangerous now. If you’re his messenger, perhaps you are to lead me to them so they can take me unawares.’ He clucked to Tambor. ‘I will not be shot down like a dog in the street. If that’s the plan, Roan will have to try harder. And, if you’re running from them, you certainly don’t want to find out the hard way they’ve caught up to you.’

‘I resent the implication that I am an accessory to premeditated murder.’ She seethed. He could practically feel the anger roll off her, mixed with the scent of a light summer floral toilet water—hyacinth tempered with orris root to turn it powdery. A fresh scent, too delicate, too youthful, for a widow who made church Latin sound like an invitation to sin. He filed the contradiction along with the others.

‘I’ll send someone to collect your bags later tonight.’ The compromise would serve him. Sending Luce to retrieve her things would be a chance for reconnaissance. He’d pay the landlord to keep up the pretence that she was still in residence. If Roan’s men hadn’t arrived yet, the facade would alert him to their arrival when they tracked her to the room.

She wanted to be innocent; so be it. He’d give her a chance to prove it. Kieran withdrew his pistol. ‘Can you shoot?’

‘If I don’t have to shoot too far.’

‘We’ll work on that.’ He handed her the pistol. ‘Truly, can you manage it if needed?’ he asked in all seriousness.

‘Yes,’ she replied solemnly, settling the pistol across her lap. He felt her shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath. There was a stalwartness to her, a bravery, that he appreciated even if it also came with some na?vety. They’d work on that, too. The na?ve didn’t live long in his world and he’d like her to live long enough for him to know who she was.

* * *

So, this was where the Horsemen lived. Celeste shielded her eyes and looked up at a bright-white, pillared townhouse with black shuttered windows and three storeys soaring into the summer sky in the middle of Mayfair, as if the Horsemen were ordinary gentlemen of the ton. Why was she surprised? Of course they lived here, she scolded herself. They were grandsons of an earl. Where else would they live—in a dark cave where they only sallied forth when England was in need? Although, at present, it was difficult to imagine the man seated behind her on the horse as a society gentleman with his stubble, unruly dark waves and potent need of a bath. He wasn’t alone in that last attribute. At this point, she needed a bath too.

The ride from Old Church Street in Chelsea had been hot, dusty and full of noxious street smells. There was no glamour to summer in a city. Those smells had helped take her mind off other things, such as the press of his granite-hard thighs and the rocking of his hips as he moved with the horse—all very natural movements but they offered intimate awareness, nonetheless.

He steered the horse around to the mews and swung off first, taking the pistol from her before he helped her down. ‘We’ll use the back entrance,’ he directed after turning his horse over to a groom with strict instructions. ‘There’s always a full staff at Parkhurst House. You’ll be well looked after.’

There was that duality again—the rugged gentleman, rough around the edges with his stubble and gruffness juxtaposed with the mannered gentleman within who offered comfort and discretion to a woman he wasn’t convinced he could trust and gave too many coins to a street boy.

Inside, he led her through the kitchen, introducing her to his cook before leading her upstairs to the public rooms. Celeste peered inside a drawing room that seemed more St James gambling hall than Mayfair mansion. It was filled with card tables, a piano set against one wall. The room was empty except for two men idly playing a hand of something at one of the tables. She pictured the room full of people and laughter, different high-stakes games going on at each table. She slid a covert glance at her host, a realisation becoming clear: the Horsemen were hellions in public, heroes in private.

The Horseman gestured to a maid who stood nearby. ‘This is Liana. She will take you upstairs and see to a bath. We installed running water a couple years ago. You’ll enjoy that after weeks of travel. You must excuse me, now. I have arrangements to make, so I will see you at dinner.’

Was he leaving her alone in this big house? Celeste felt a sudden sense of being bereft, adrift in a strange world where she knew no one. ‘Wait,’ she called to him. ‘Might I have your name first?’ That she didn’t know his name threw into sharp relief the risk she’d taken in coming here. This man was a stranger.

He turned with a smile, his agate eyes dancing. ‘You most certainly may, just as soon as I have the pleasure of yours, m’lady.’ He made a bow and was gone.

* * *

The bathing chamber was a pleasure for the senses with its dark-blue marbled floor veined with silver to resemble the ocean itself, and the sound of rushing water as it filled the white porcelain tub. Celeste shed her travel-worn garments with alacrity, looking forward to the bath. It felt like something out of a fairy tale to be here alone, one of those tales in which the castle beast left during the day only to return at night. Although, the Horseman was hardly a beast.

Celeste slid into the lavender-scented water and closed her eyes, letting the peace of the chamber and the susurration of the water against her skin soothe her body, even if her mind remained alive, moving from thought to thought. She wasn’t really alone here. There were servants; he’d been quick to point that out. At the time, she’d thought it an act of comfort, letting her know her needs would be met. Now, she wondered if it had been a reminder he’d be aware of her every movement. If she roamed the house, he would know. Someone would tell him, if not the servants then perhaps the two men in the drawing room. Did that make her a guest or a captive?

One did not usually allow captives baths and thick towels. Then again, comfort and luxury had their own seductive properties. Had he decided, if he couldn’t have her secrets outright, he’d seduce them from her with the comforts of home? Kindness was an effective ruse when employed on the unsuspecting.

Cabot Roan had used that trick aplenty. After her father had died, Roan had sent gifts on her birthday or at Christmas: a locket or set of barrettes. He’d seemed gracious and kind, a true best friend to her father and a devoted guardian to her. It was not until she’d finished school and Roan had sent for her that she’d realised he expected payment for that kindness; that he’d been grooming her to take her place and more in a world that was dark, dirty and dangerous. She’d been wary of gifts and kindnesses ever since.

And yet, she’d gone off with a man whose name she didn’t know. She knew why: his reputation spoke for him. He was one of the Four Horsemen and the antithesis of all Cabot Roan stood for, and her father. She could not forget that, as much as she would like to. The two men she’d admired the most in her young life had not been what they’d seemed. It was hard to reconcile the idea that she’d loved her father but hated what he’d done. Not so with Roan. He was rotten clear through, and so she’d run to the only people she could think of who might possibly help her.

She slid deeper into the water and sighed. She ought to be celebrating. She’d done it—she’d found the Horsemen. That was no small thing. She was in their home. She’d delivered her warning. They could fight Roan and she would be free. After years of living under Roan’s thumb, the concept of being free was both heady and unformed. Where would she go when this was over? She could go anywhere, assuming she might cajole some funds. What would she do? That was more complicated. A woman had few choices. She knew what she didn’t want to do and that was answer to a man; to give up her freedom in service to another. But those were worries for another time, a later time, after Roan was defeated.

At last, her mind quieted and she imagined sending her thoughts away on lily-pads down the gentle stream of lavender-scented consciousness, drifting…drifting…

‘Miss? Miss? Wake up, we can’t have you drowning, now.’ A gentle shake of her shoulder was enough to bring her back, as was the cooling water. Perhaps she really had drifted off. Celeste reluctantly opened her eyes and pushed herself up a little higher in the tub. Liana was holding a thick, white towel. Celeste wondered where her relaxed limbs would find the willpower to get out of the bath. At the moment, it seemed like a gargantuan effort.

‘We’ve got to get you dressed for supper,’ Liana coaxed.

Celeste groaned. ‘I don’t have anything to wear.’ She did not relish the idea of putting on her dirty clothes again after getting clean. ‘Perhaps a tray in my room…’ she began, but Liana shook her head.

‘You’re not to worry, miss. There are clean things laid out for you in your chamber. M’lord had Madame Dumont send clothes for you.’

‘And Madame Dumont is who?’ She hoped Madame Dumont wasn’t the Horseman’s mistress. She was in no position to be finicky, but the idea sat poorly with her. She’d been forced to dress the part of the whore before.

‘Madame Dumont is a dressmaker near Bond Street—very respectable. All the fine ladies get their gowns there. She had some items that had not been claimed.’

Curiosity at the prospect of new, clean clothes propelled her out of the tub, as did the thought that the Horseman had sent for clothes for her, that he had done this especially. The nuance was not lost on her. This was not merely the culling of closets to see what might have been left behind by other visitors. He’d sent for clothes specifically for her. That was an extreme kindness and must be treated with extreme wariness, even as excitement fizzed through her.

Liana produced an ivory silk dressing robe—another item that must have been sent over by Madame Dumont—and helped her into it. ‘Your chamber is through here.’ Liana gestured to an open door that gave on to an airy room done in soft powdered blues: her chamber . Another type of gift—the gift of privacy, the gift of owning space. The maid said the words as if she was a welcome guest, someone who would be staying a while. It was a lovely thought but an unlikely one.

On the wide bed, with its carved mahogany posts, lay an array of garments: chemises, stockings and a gown of cool white muslin decorated with tiny green flowers. Not a single item had been overlooked.

‘Hair first, I think.’ Liana steered her towards a lady’s dressing table where more surprises awaited: a hairbrush and a small bottle of a light floral scent that nearly matched her own. By the time her hair had been put up, scent dabbed at her pulse points and the muslin gown with its green sash dropped over her head, one thought ran rampant through her mind: the Horseman wanted more than her name. She’d best be on her game tonight.