Page 6 of How to Tempt An Earl (Wed Within a Year #2)

T he Serpentine sparkled beneath the sun and a light breeze blew on the water. Oaring the boat gave Kieran an excuse to rid himself of his coat and roll up his shirtsleeves while Celeste sat in the bow, prettily arranged and wielding her parasol for shade. The sight of her provoked a thousand thoughts, many of them prompted by manly insights. What had life been like for her with Roan? That man did nothing unless it gained him something. What had she done for him that had warranted him allowing her to live under his roof, to gown her, to financially support her? Had he used her beauty? Was that why, now, she was careful to conceal it?

She was no innocent miss. The way she’d so subtly flirted with him today at Somerset House suggested more of that worldliness he’d glimpsed yesterday in the church. She seemed to be inured to the world of men. He did not hold it against her. Often a woman’s survival depended on that expertise. But these were questions he could not ask her…yet. If he rushed his fences, she would become skittish and the wariness he’d worked so hard to minimise would return. She might flirt with men but she didn’t trust them. That was a part of her personal past he’d not yet unwrapped.

As they rowed near another boat, a feminine hand waggled in greeting as a male voice called out, ‘Lord Wrexham, a beautiful day is it not?’

Kieran managed a tight smile. ‘Lord Hadley, well met. Lady Elizabeth, good day.’ He gave an especially hard pull on the oars and ensured his boat passed theirs quickly.

Celeste twirled her parasol, a smile teasing her mouth. ‘Not friends of yours, Lord Wrexham ?’ She invited explanation.

‘Hadley’s a pompous, self-righteous fellow who thinks too much of his own consequence, and I spent a few weeks this Season squiring the lady around for work purposes only. I needed access to her father.’

Her father had been a potential player in Roan’s arms sabotage, along with Caine’s father-in-law, but that didn’t need to be said. He wanted nothing to remind them of their business just yet. Today was for peeling the onion, as his grandfather called it. Onions and people had layers, both of which were delicate and must be revealed subtly, which meant slowly. He was starting with personal details of seemingly little consequence to their business. He told stories so that she’d reciprocate. The exchange would be the beginning of a bond, of comfort between them. From there, he would move on to the more strategically important questions. That they were also enjoyable discussions was a bonus.

‘And the “Lord Wrexham”? I was unaware you had a title.’ She was doing a little onion-peeling of her own but that was how it worked. To peel another’s onion, one had to peel their own as well. Otherwise, it would indeed look more like the interrogation she’d accused him of and less like the conversation he wanted.

‘My brothers and I were awarded titles for our efforts at Wapping.’ He leaned on the oars, letting the boat slow and drift. ‘It’s a Welsh earldom, on the border with Cheshire. It’s nothing grand. From all reports, the estate is in disrepair, although it has untapped resources of coal beneath the ground.’

‘Have you not been to visit?’ she queried and he heard the want in her voice—the want for a home, for a place that one never had to move from, a place where a girl who’d lived in boarding schools could put down roots and know that those roots were not grappling for purchase in rocky soil.

‘The title is blood money for Stepan.’ Kieran picked up the oars again and steered them a little further out, away from the other boaters. ‘As if a price could be put on my brother’s life, on his sacrifice.’ That still galled him. ‘To rub salt in the wound, those titles are only on loan unless we meet certain conditions within the year.’ That galled even more.

Celeste leaned forward, her slim brows knitting. ‘That sounds intriguing. What might those conditions be?’

‘Marriage. The Crown has decided it is time for the notorious Parkhurst boys to wed. The ton’s mamas are tired of we rakes flirting with their daughters. The public at large is in the dark about the details from Wapping. All they know is that the titles are for patriotic service and an inducement to wed. Matchmaking mamas have been throwing their daughters at us all Season, quite a change from the usual.’

‘Your brother wed.’ She trailed an elegant hand in the cool water.

‘Yes, but not one of them . His marriage was a bit of a scandal. Mary’s father wanted a duke for her, not an upstart marquess with an inconsequential title and a not-so-inconsequential reputation.’ There was more to it than that and likely she knew what that was without him trotting it out. Mary’s father had been deeply implicated in the arms sabotage at Wapping through his own ignorance of with whom he’d been doing business—Roan himself, although Roan had used an intermediary. ‘You’d like Mary. She’s practical and kind and honest.’

‘Commodities that are not always available in our world,’ Celeste offered with a hint of sharpness. ‘I suppose I should be pleased you think I would like her, that I also value those things.’ She gave her parasol a twirl. ‘Does the ton know you and your brothers are the Horsemen?’

‘No. It’s an interesting duality. It’s not a secret, per se. Grandfather’s world knows who we are, but the ton is more facile. They see only what is right in front of them—four, I mean three , men in need of wives to bring them to heel. Marriage is everything for the ton, there is nothing else.’ His gaze drifted to the shore, fixing on a lone rider ambling along the path to the pace of their little boat. The paths were not crowded today. The rider could have chosen his pace and yet he seemed to let their boat dictate it. He’d have to keep an eye on that. It might be nothing but, then again, given the circumstances, it might be something.

He let them float a while longer, letting her conversation wash over him as she regaled him with stories of boarding at the Smolny Institute and he indulged in pretending he’d found someone like her to court; that he, too, could make a match as Caine had. All the while he kept one eye on the shore until the rider disappeared. Good riddance. Perhaps it had been nothing after all. There was only one way to find out.

‘Time to go ashore. I was thinking ices at Gunter’s and perusing some shops.’ If the rider was following them, he would reappear. Kieran discreetly loosened the knife in his boot. He would be ready for him.

The rider did not appear again as they continued their day, but Kieran still couldn’t shake the sense of being followed. He turned a few times only to discover no one of note behind him or across a street. He was starting to think he was his own worst enemy. Having fabricated a foe at the Serpentine, he’d let that fabrication take over his senses. He thought about cancelling the visit to Soho and the Russian eatery but then thought better of it. He didn’t want to worry Celeste over nothing he could prove and, if they were being followed, the fellow would turn up there.

The question was what was the intention? Were they being followed by someone with the intention to do them harm or with the intention to report back to someone else? If it was the latter, it would explain why the rider had disappeared. His job was done. But Kieran’s was just beginning.

* * *

Something had been bothering Kieran since Gunter’s. Despite the relaxed atmosphere and cool ices, Kieran had been tense. As a consequence, it was also bothering Celeste. ‘Are we being followed?’ she asked as he swung her down from the curricle, his tiger running to hold the horses’ heads.

His hands lingered at her waist, and his mouth was close to her ear in a most intimate fashion that sent ripples through her imagination. This close, she could breathe in the scent of him—cinnamon and cloves with a hint of something smoky undercut with vanilla. He smelled more like the autumn that would come than the summer that lingered relentlessly, but he also smelled like comfort. ‘Possibly, but we may have lost him,’ he murmured.

‘Or he found what he needed to know and has sheared off,’ she replied in low tones, unmoving. Anyone passing them on the street would think them lovers instead of co-conspirators. She held his gaze, willing him to see the message in her eyes. If there had been a follower, it meant Roan’s men were here and they’d found her.

‘That’s a big if. Don’t do that to yourself,’ Kieran cautioned, tucking her arm through his and strolling down the bustling street. ‘We’re going to enjoy our evening until we have reason not to. This is one of my favourite places in the city because it has become so diverse. Some people complain because the property values have fallen, saying it’s no longer a prime neighbourhood for the ton and their sort. But I think it teems with life. There’s French émigrés, and Russians and Poles, and people from all over Europe looking to make a life.’ He pulled her aside. ‘Shut your eyes and just take a listen. How many languages do you hear as people pass by? How many different foods do you smell? You could eat yourself across the Continent here in a single evening.’

She did as she was told, letting her worries leech away as she breathed in Soho and listened to its rhythms. She heard it—the Russian, the German, the Yiddish, the Slavic languages she couldn’t quite distinguish from one another, and dinner-time smells from the cafés. Oh, they were delightful reminders of other times and other places.

She opened her eyes and smiled. ‘I smell piroshky .’ She was hungry, she realised. Her nerves had settled. If Kieran thought it was safe to be out, then it probably was. And, she reasoned, if Roan’s men were here she wouldn’t have many more nights of freedom left to her. She ought to seize the opportunity while she could.

The streets were crowded with clerks returning from work and merchants closing shops. Unlike Mayfair, which was empty, the denizens of Soho wouldn’t be departing for country estates and cooler climes. Due to the heat, bistros had moved their tables outside to the pavements so that the streets took on a festive air as people sat down to dine.

The Russian eatery wasn’t far and Kieran was welcomed as a regular customer by the owner—a largish man called Grigori who wore a huge white apron—and his son, also Grigori. ‘There will be music tonight, and dancing. Will you stay?’ Grigori said to Kieran. ‘Show off for the lady a little? You need to bring Nikolay by. He doesn’t come as often as he used to.’

Kieran laughed. ‘We’ll see. Our plans may not be our own tonight. We’ve come for your wife’s piroshky , and don’t tell me there aren’t any left. We could smell them streets away.’

‘And vodka,’ Grigori suggested.

‘No vodka tonight. I need a clear head.’ The banter between the two men faded.

Grigori nodded solemnly. ‘Horseman business tonight?’

‘Possibly. But not before piroshky .’ Kieran smiled and the big man bustled off, shouting orders.

‘I like this place.’ Celeste looked about her at the others seated on wooden benches at long wooden tables. ‘Imagine the stories that must be dining with us. Everyone looks ordinary, but they’re not. On the surface, the proprietor has a very simple goal: to feed his countrymen the food of the motherland while they’re away from home. Yet, he is first-name friendly with a Kubanian prince, an ambassador’s daughter and an English espionage agent. Who knows who else is on the list? Those are just the ones I know.’

‘No one is what they seem. I learned that early.’ Kieran gave a shrug.

‘Not even you?’ she challenged playfully.

‘Not even me. Not even you.’

‘You still think I’m working for Roan? That I am trying to infiltrate your home, your circle?’ She grimaced, surprised, confused and even dismayed. ‘I thought we’d made more progress than that today. If Roan wanted infiltration, he’d have sent an assassin.’ How interesting to note that she cared about his opinion.

‘ Are you an assassin?’ he asked, and she thought she detected some teasing. He was playing with her now, which meant he did indeed believe she was ally and not enemy. It was an adequate sop to her pride and she made her own tentative attempt at teasing in return.

‘Now you’re being ridiculous. If I was, you’d already be dead. I wouldn’t be spending the day telling you stories about boarding school!’ She huffed. ‘I would have quietly slipped a knife between your ribs at the church and been done with it. This is far too much work and I’m not that good of an actress.’

The piroshky arrived, hot and fresh. Kieran held her gaze until the waiter left. ‘To clarify, I meant my remark earlier more personally. None of us are what we seem on the outside. Everyone hides something: scars, doubts, the past…’ He smiled. ‘Now, eat.’

He bit into his piroshky and she would not forget the expression on his face. Gone was the Horseman, gone were the strategies and games he so carefully employed. In their place was the look of someone who was fully enjoying the moment. She yearned for that, craved what was in his face and in his being at that very point in time. ‘Oh, this is heaven—absolute heaven,’ he murmured. ‘Try yours.’

She bit into it, the savoury spiced meat and the sweet crust flooding her mouth while memories flooded her mind. It was as good as he’d said, and all thoughts of testing one another’s trust fled. There was only this moment, this meal, this man. Grigori came to the table and regaled them with stories that had them laughing. She’d not enjoyed an evening as much as this one, perhaps ever. The sun went down, gaslights were lit and this part of Soho came alive. Musicians tuned up and Grigori clapped Kieran on the shoulder as he prepared to leave the table. ‘I expect to see you dancing.’

Couples moved into the dancing space and Celeste was filled with the urge to join them. It was irrational: she didn’t know the steps; she didn’t belong with these people; she was a stranger to them. She certainly didn’t have any business encouraging further intimacies with Kieran.

Watching him oar the boat in his shirtsleeves, arm muscles flexing, had been temptation in the extreme. She’d not wanted to get out of the boat. She could have watched him row all day. It didn’t help that he flirted naturally with his words, with his dark eyes that lingered just long enough on her mouth to make her wonder what it would feel like to kiss him or to be kissed by him. Such thoughts were proof she needed to exercise some restraint. But those reasons fled when Kieran held out his hand. ‘Shall we? We can’t disappoint Grigori.’

‘You’re not serious?’ Celeste protested with a half-laugh. ‘I don’t know these dances.’ Her protest was valiant but not-surprisingly short-lived. She wanted to dance with him; wanted to look up into that wide, laughing smile he flashed so easily; to fall into those dark eyes; to lose herself in the dance; to lose herself in him, if only for a moment. Surely she could afford that small luxury for a few minutes?

He laughed her protest away or perhaps he read her thoughts and knew the resistance was pro forma. He tugged her after him before she could launch another protest she didn’t mean. ‘You can do it; it’s just a polka-style dance and no one cares if you know all the steps. Just keep moving and follow my lead.’ Oh, he was good fun. Under different circumstances he would be quite intoxicating. He’d overwhelm a girl until she forgot why she was wasting time resisting.

His hand was at her waist, her hand at his shoulder as he grinned down at her, those eyes skimming her mouth for the briefest of moments. ‘Ready?’ He breathed as the music began and he swung them into the fray. Really, there was no other way to describe it—just a glorious fray of turns, trot steps and whirling. It was the most fun she’d ever had on a dance floor. Her dances were usually careful, structured steps full of protocol, nothing like this.

She was breathless with laughter when Kieran pulled her up hard against him, his mouth at her ear, his expression grim. ‘Follow my lead.’

‘I have been…’ Her laughter trailed off mid-sentence. This wasn’t about the dance anymore. Her gaze darted about the crowded room. What had he seen? She looked past his shoulder towards the entrance and froze. Ammon Vincent was here. Dear God: Roan had sent his bulldog after her. Her heart raced. She stumbled, paralysed with fear.

‘Eyes on me,’ he coached, righting her. ‘Keep smiling, keep laughing; give nothing away.’ He danced them through the crowd towards the back of the small restaurant. With a final spin, he twirled them into the kitchen and grabbed her hand with single word, ‘Run.’

In that moment she knew this was why he’d danced with abandon, and why he’d eaten the piroshky as if it had been his best meal. Because, for a Horseman, it might be—a last meal, a last moment, particularly when he was accompanied by Cabot Roan’s missing ward.