After the Kiss (11 page)

It was more trouble; that’s what it was. Sullivan knew it. And as he’d done since he’d first set eyes on Isabel Chalsey, he decided to walk straight into it. At least things were more interesting, these days.

“Oliver, it’s very thoughtful and generous of you to offer,” Isabel said, taking another lump of sugar for her tea, “but I don’t wish to leave London during the Season.”

“Not even for the amusements of Brighton?” Lord Tilden persisted. “Ask anyone along you like. My father’s given permission for me to hold a house party there for as long as the next fortnight.”

“I’d much rather stay here,” she returned, risking a glance out the sitting room window only when Oliver dropped a spoon and bent down to retrieve it.

She couldn’t see anything that might be transpiring in the stable yard. For the past three days she’d barely caught a glimpse of Zephyr, much less her trainer. Obviously Oliver had figured out Sullivan’s schedule, because he called every morning just before Mr. Waring was due to arrive, stayed until his departure, and then dragged her out to some diversion or other which would last until Zephyr’s afternoon training had begun and ended.

Whatever her own feelings on that circumstance, she considered it pure luck that Sullivan hadn’t robbed anyone in the interim. She wasn’t certain why, since he hadn’t seemed to take her threat very seriously.

“Any particular reason that London is suddenly so dear to you?” Oliver asked offhandedly. “When I mentioned an excursion with our friends a few weeks ago you seemed delighted by the idea.”

“Well, now that the Season has begun, I’m having such a splendid time that I’ve changed my mind.” When he opened his mouth again she held up a hand. “Please, Oliver. I know perfectly well why you wish me elsewhere, and I assure you that there is no need. And I don’t wish to speak of it again.”

He shoved to his feet, setting his cup and saucer aside with a clatter. “He’s here every day.”

So are you,
she thought. “That’s what we hired him for,” she said aloud. “I’m sorry if you don’t deal well together, but I hired him without knowing of your animosity.”

“And yet now that you do know, you still haven’t sent him away. Even when I’ve recommended a perfectly suitable replacement.”

Phillip had objected to Oliver’s suggestion of Tom Barrett and his services even more strongly than Douglas had. Carefully she set her own cup on the serving tray. “If you’re going to persist in this…obsession, Oliver, I’m going to have to ask you t—”

“Did you see it?” Douglas burst into the room, flinging open the sitting room door and nearly knocking the maid who sat behind it to the floor. “Oh, I say. Apologies, there.”

“See what?” Isabel asked, smiling at his obvious excitement. “And what in heaven’s name is all over your boots?”

“Horse shit, of course. Or mud. Don’t know for certain.” With a wide grin he swiped his hand across his face, leaving another streak of the stuff there. “Come and see.”

At least she had an excuse now to venture into the stable yard. Her father had nearly ordered her to do so, of course, but not even he could insist that she spend time with a horse
rather than with a beau. Stifling her amusement because Oliver was clearly annoyed, she took his proffered arm and followed Douglas back through the kitchen.

“You know, he’s been letting me assist him,” her younger brother was chattering, happy as a cat with a box of mice. “It’s fascinating, the way he works. Don’t even own spurs. And the whip’s like a tickle, just to remind the animal what he wants.”

“I’d like to remind him of some things,” Oliver murmured very quietly.

“Beg pardon?” Isabel asked, even though she’d heard him quite clearly.

“Nothing, my lady.” He smiled. “It’s good that Mr. Waring has some skill with horses. Otherwise he might be mucking out the stalls or delivering vegetables or whatever it is that commoners do for money.”

That hadn’t been very subtle. As if she needed to be reminded who stood where in Society. “Do you ever wonder where you would be if your parents had been unmarried?”

Oliver slowed, turning his head to look her directly in the eye. “No, I don’t. I was born for a purpose, as were you. I was not the product of some heated exchange in a coatroom.”

Douglas turned around as he pushed open the kitchen door. “I say, Tilden. That’s hardly fit conversation in front of my sis.”

In all fairness, she’d begun it, but she wasn’t above sending her brother a grateful nod. Whether Oliver had a point or not, it simply seemed ill-mannered for a viscount to demean someone below his station—whatever their much-rumored connection.

“Of course you’re correct, Douglas,” Oliver said easily. “I shouldn’t allow my sense of propriety to get the best of me. Do you forgive me, Isabel?”

She smiled, most of her attention already on the tall, lean man halfway across the stable yard. “You know I do.”

Douglas led the way to the center of the yard. Once she’d told her brother the circumstances surrounding Sullivan’s presence, she’d worried that he would behave so hostilely toward Mr. Waring that he would find himself bruised and bloodied. Instead, her brother looked like a puppy prancing about its master. What the devil had happened between them, she had no idea. To herself, though, she could admit that she was glad she wasn’t the only one who continued to enjoy Mr. Waring’s company despite knowing of his background and recent illicit behavior. It certainly removed some of the guilt she felt at their continued association.

Isabel held on to it for a moment, the feeling of anticipation before she turned to look full at Sullivan Waring. It felt like Christmas, just before she opened her first present. It was silly, of course, and no one knew that better than she. Sullivan was interesting, and different, but certainly no one she could be…romantic about. Should be romantic about. Even so, she supposed
thinking
about kissing him couldn’t do any harm.

“See?” Douglas crowed. “Look, Tibby!”

She looked.

Zephyr trotted in a wide circle around Sullivan, her head up and her ears perked in his direction. On her back she wore the saddle Isabel and Phillip had purchased, and the lead line was now attached to a bridle rather than to her halter, which she also wore.

“Stunning,” Oliver said dryly. “A saddle horse that can carry a saddle.”

A wave of nervousness ran through her bones. If Zephyr carried a saddle, then sooner rather than later she would be expected to ride.
Oh, dear.

“Well, what do you think, Tibby?”

She shook herself, looking from Douglas’s happy expression to Sullivan’s much-harder-to-read one. “That’s brilliant,” she said aloud. “You’ve made amazing progress.”

“Zephyr’s a quick study,” Mr. Waring noted, bringing the mare to an easy stop. As far as she could tell, he hadn’t even glanced at Lord Tilden.

“So I assume that means you’ll be finished here soon, Waring.” Oliver kept his tone cool and low, but Isabel could hear the disdain and anger in it.

“You have to decide, Lady Isabel,” Sullivan went on, as though his half-brother hadn’t spoken, “whether or not you wish to practice your seat on an old, staid horse before you take on a fresh mare.”

Another shiver ran down her spine. Why hadn’t she hired Mr. Waring to find a horse for Douglas or something? No, she’d had to say she wanted a horse for herself. To ride, dash it all. When she realized all three men were looking at her, she nodded. “I’ll consider it,” she managed.

“I have an old mare that might do,” he went on. “I’ll bring her by tomorrow so you can see if you get along.”

“With a horse?” Oliver countered. “Yes, and perhaps they can go out for tea and biscuits afterward.”

“Oliver,” she chastised. “Yes, Mr. Waring, I think that would be a fine idea.”

Lord Tilden took her hand. “Come, Isabel. I want to take you for a drive in Hyde Park. It’s far too fine a day to be standing about in the mud.”

For the first time Sullivan’s ice-green eyes flicked in Oliver’s direction. And then, as he looked back at her, he smiled. “Have a pleasant day, Lady Isabel. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Oh, goodness.
She drew a short breath as she returned to the house with Oliver. It made no sense; she was in the com
pany of a very pleasant, handsome man, about to go for a pleasant, amusing outing. And all she could think of, even knowing she’d probably be expected to pet another horse, was that tomorrow she’d be able to spend thirty minutes with Sullivan Waring.

Sullivan glanced toward the street. At this time of night only the very inebriated elite roamed the streets of Mayfair. The coat of arms on the passing coach confirmed that—the Marquis of St. Aubyn was actually returning home early; Sullivan had seen the marquis on several occasions still in his evening clothes well into the next morning.

All that concerned him at the moment, though, was that the coach continued past him. Once it was gone, he ducked around the picturesque stand of elm trees that clustered at the north corner of the Duke of Levonzy’s main London property. He tied on his black bandit’s mask, then one by one checked the windows on the ground floor of Johns House. No luck. All of them were secured. Levonzy had always been a cautious fellow, and naturally that translated to his household staff.

With a silent curse, he circled around again to the south side of the house. The trellis for the climbing roses seemed steady enough, so he pulled on his heavy work gloves and began to climb. He couldn’t avoid crushing a few of the white blossoms, and their spicy sweet scent hung heavily in the air around him.

This would have been a little easier if the duke had been away from home, but not by much. With the presence of his substantial staff, any housebreaking attempt had its drawbacks. At least he’d been able to convince Bram not to join him, though with the list of items his friend had given him to liberate, he almost felt like he was embarking on a shopping excursion rather than a burglary.

Halfway up he stretched out sideways and pushed up on the nearest window with his fingertips. The glass lifted a fraction. He opened it another few inches, then grabbed hold of the ledge with his leather-covered fingers and kicked away from the trellis. For a long moment he hung suspended in midair, the abrupt ache in his left shoulder reminding him that he’d taken two balls there within the past year. With a breath he pulled himself up and then in through the window.

That had been a one-way trip; once he had a painting with him he’d have to leave through another exit, preferably on the ground floor. He stood in the billiards room for a moment while he ran his mind through the floor plans with which Bram had provided him. It was unfortunate that he couldn’t go into a house immediately after Bram had been there and both of their recollections were fresh, but he damned well didn’t want suspicion falling on his friend for his own so-called misdeeds.

The door into the hallway stood open, but he couldn’t detect any lights at all inside the house. As a soldier going into
battle he’d always felt a hard excitement coupled with a sharpening of his senses. He’d expected to feel the same way as a thief going into someone else’s territory, but mostly what he felt was anger. Not anger toward the house’s residents, but toward Dunston. It hadn’t been enough to deny him a birthright; the marquis had attempted to deny him his inheritance. The one heritage that had been left to him—his mother’s.

But he could only reclaim it as long as he didn’t pit himself against any of these aristocrats legally. If he brought charges against any of them for having his property, Dunston would find a way to tie it all up neatly, to make certain that the Sullivan family had done nothing improper, and that Sullivan Waring never even existed, much less deserved his mother’s paintings. Bloody nobility. If he couldn’t take their money by daylight or in darkness, they wouldn’t be worth anything.

Except that he couldn’t make those sweeping statements any longer. One of those aristocrats didn’t precisely make him angry. Neither did her family. And he hadn’t been prepared for that, for feeling some sort of affection for them. For her.

In a few hours he would be at their home again. Or in their stable, rather. Two of them knew how he spent some of his nights, and though they didn’t like or understand it, neither seemed inclined to turn him in. It wasn’t just that, though. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was he felt around them, but he knew the wisest course of action would be simply to disappear for a few months. Especially with Oliver Sullivan involved.

What the devil did Isabel see in that fool, anyway? Other than wealth, power, rank, and a handsome face, of course.
And there
he
was, raised and educated to be a gentleman, with no expectation of becoming one.

Somewhere in the large house a clock chimed, and he shook himself. Now was not the time or the place to be distracted, for Lucifer’s sake.

Half the items Bram had wanted liberated seemed to be in this room, so he walked over to the weapons display on the far wall. A very nice pair of silver-handled dueling pistols were bracketed one on top of the other, and it only took a minute for him to pry them loose and dump them into his pockets. The cigars took another few seconds. He left the carved mahogany box there, but emptied the contents into his inner coat pocket. If Bram wanted a share of them, he was going to have to find the location of those last three Francesca W. Perris paintings first.

Finished with the billiards room, Sullivan padded silently down the wide, winding staircase. A pair of stone griffins guarded the bottom of the banister, but since he’d come in from above they seemed fairly useless. He clinked one of them on the head with a knuckle.

The duke’s office was exactly where Bram had said it would be. He paused for a moment after he slipped inside.
A Young Fisherman’s Dream of Glory
hung at eye level behind His Grace’s desk, a slanted corner of moonlight illuminating it dimly. “There you are,” he murmured.

It was too large for his carrying pouch, but he pulled off the blanket he’d slung across one shoulder and bound it carefully. For good measure he pocketed the silver inkwell on the desk, then caught sight of the hated Burmese fertility statue Bram had mentioned.

Good God
. Its cock was nearly a foot long, and given that the figure stood barely twice that high, the fellow looked
distinctly front-heavy. There was no way in hell he was going to carry that anywhere, so with a quick prayer that he wasn’t about to call bad luck upon himself, he reached over and snapped the fellow off at the root. With a wince he dropped the penis into his last free pocket. “Sorry, old boy, but we can’t have you being pasted back together.”

He tucked the painting under his arm and made his way back out to the hallway. The front door was bolted and locked—as a man who evidently considered his possessions at risk, Levonzy needed only take more care with his upper-story windows to make his mansion a bloody fortress.

The morning room windows were also latched, but thankfully didn’t require a key to open them. Sullivan set the painting aside and shoved at the window overlooking the garden at the side of the house. Nothing. “Damnation,” he muttered.

In the dark it took a moment to make out the thick layer of paint sealing the ground-floor window closed. Given Bram’s dislike of his own father, Sullivan had never been particularly fond of the fellow, himself. Now, however, “not fond of” was swiftly sliding toward “damned annoyed with.”

He pulled the knife from his boot and dug it along the bottom of the window. The wood parted from the paint reluctantly, and with a whining moan the window raised a few inches.
Damnation
. He did not like lingering in a house after he’d recovered his property. Not all households sported residents as enchanting and sweet-tasting as Lady Isabel Chalsey.

Working as quickly and efficiently as he could in the near-dark, he slipped the painting out through the narrow opening and then went to work with the knife again. It gave a half inch with every hard shove. Levonzy needed to hire a carpenter to repair his damned windows. The man had more
money than Croesus, so he could bloody well afford a better paint job.

A bright flash lit the room. Instinctively Sullivan ducked sideways as the boom of a weapon followed. A ball whizzed past his ear and shattered the window.

“You damned thief!” the Duke of Levonzy bellowed. “I’ll see you stretched on the gallows!”

At the sound of another pistol being cocked, Sullivan did the only thing he could. He dove out the window. Broken shards of glass showered around him as he landed hard in a bed of daisies. Whipping back to his feet, he scrambled against the wall for the painting—just as the duke reached the window.

Sullivan dodged around the corner of the house as another shot exploded from the window. The tree trunk beside him erupted into splinters, and something slammed into his thigh, making him stumble. Clenching his jaw, he gripped the painting, sheltering it with his body, and ran for it.

“Why didn’t you wake me earlier?” Isabel snapped at her maid, shoving aside bedsheets and scrambling to her feet.

Penny produced a blue sprig muslin from the wardrobe. “Apologies, my lady, but you didn’t specify. And you were out so late last night, I—”

“No mind,” she interrupted, slipping out of her night rail and hurrying into the gown. “I just don’t want to hear from Mr. Waring when he’s prompt and I’m late out to the stable yard.”

The maid sent her a quick glance in the dressing table mirror.

“What?” Isabel asked, scowling.

“Nothing, my lady.”

“Penny, I do recognize that look.”

“Very well, my lady,” the maid said, taking a brush to Isabel’s tangled hair. “You said that you don’t want to hear from Mr. Waring, but he works for you. I can’t imagine he would say anything unbecoming while you—”

“Yes, yes, of course. It was a figure of speech. I said I would be available at ten o’clock, and I didn’t wish to be late. It’s a matter of my own pride.” That didn’t explain why she was blushing, or that she knew full well she and Sullivan
would
have words—or that she was looking forward to it.

As soon as she finished dressing, she hurried downstairs. Alders stood halfway between the foyer and the breakfast room, clearly ready to move in whichever direction he was most needed. “Alders,” she greeted, “I’ll be outside with Zephyr and Mr. Waring.”

“Mr. Waring hasn’t yet arrived this morning, my lady,” the butler intoned.

She stopped. “He hasn’t? But it’s fifteen after ten.”

“Yes, it is, my lady. Perhaps you wish some breakfast? I’ll inform you as soon as he arrives.”

“Oh. Yes, of course.”

As she made her way into the breakfast room, a footman joined the butler behind her. She heard them muttering, and she made out the word “burglary.”

Her heart lurched. Isabel turned around, nearly stumbling in her haste. “What was that you said?”

Alders shoved the footman back toward the servants’ quarters. “Nothing you need trouble yourself about, my lady. Just belowstairs gossip.”

“About what?” she persisted. “I insist that you tell me, Alders.”

The butler motioned her into the breakfast room. “Very well,” he said, holding out her chair for her. “Stevens heard
from Cook, who heard from the milk peddler, who heard from the Duke of Levonzy’s cook, that His Grace’s home was burgled early this morning. By the Mayfair Marauder, yet.”

Her heart accelerated even further. “Oh, my,” she said, swallowing hard as she took her seat. He’d done it again. She’d warned him, and blast it all, he hadn’t listened. “Did anyone say what was taken?”

“My information is obviously not very reliable, my l—”

“I understand that, Alders. What did you hear?”

“Gossip has it that several things were broken, and some silver, a painting, and a handful of cigars went missing. The old duke apparently got several shots off at the scoundrel, so never fear. They’ll probably find him in an alleyway dead. I hear His Grace is a crack shot.”

She’d heard the same thing.
Oh no, oh no
. Shaking, she pushed to her feet so hastily she nearly tipped her chair backward. “Oh, dear, I’ve forgotten I’m to meet Barbara this morning. Is Douglas risen yet?”

“I don’t believe so, my lady.”

“Please see to it. He promised to escort me.”

“Right away.”

As Alders hurried out of the room, Isabel paced to the window and back. She couldn’t see the stable yard from there, so she went down the hallway to the sitting room. What if the duke actually had shot Sullivan? What if he was…

She took a breath. He was a thief; she’d caught him in the act. And she’d warned him, damn it all. So why in heaven’s name was she so worried that something might have happened to him?

But she was worried. Very worried. For a bare second she contemplated running out to the stables and commandeering
a horse. The thought terrified her, though, and even if she had drummed up both the courage and the skill, she had no idea where he lived.

“What the devil is it?” Douglas asked, stumbling into the sitting room behind her. He was only half dressed, his waistcoat unbuttoned and only one boot on.

“Close the door.”

Scowling, he did so, then flopped onto a chair to pull on his second boot. “I was up until nearly dawn playing whist with Phillip, you know.”

“The Duke of Levonzy’s house was burgled by the Mayfair Marauder last night,” she managed, her words coming out in a breathless rush. “The duke took several shots at the thief. And now it’s after ten o’clock, and Sullivan isn’t here.”

Her brother sat bolt upright. “St. George’s buttonholes. Levonzy’s a crack shot.”

“I know that, blast it all. Take me to see Sullivan.”

“What? Why do—”

“Who else can help him if he’s injured?” she insisted, striding over to pull him to his feet. “And I don’t know how to get there.”

“Maybe I should go by myself, Tibby. It ain’t seem—”

“Don’t you dare tell me it’s not seemly, Douglas Raymond Chalsey,” she snapped. “Go have the curricle made ready.”

He stood up, sighing irritably. “You’re heading us into trouble, Tibby. I hope you realize that.”

“I know.” She took a breath. Logic would suit her better than panic. Especially when she couldn’t decide why she felt so anxious. If logic ruled, however, she would be deciding how best to contact the authorities so that Mr. Waring could be arrested—if Levonzy hadn’t killed him. Obviously this
wasn’t about logic. And it wasn’t about any kind of mysteries or secrets, either. “Thank you for assisting me.”