After the Kiss (6 page)

“That’s better.” Her pretty brown eyes gazed at him. “I will be out late tonight, and will be sleeping in. You will therefore be here promptly at ten o’clock in the morning.”

“You want me to come back?” Sullivan asked, deeply surprised.

“We have an agreement. And I’m still trying to decide what to do with you.” She looked from him to Zephyr, took a breath, and turned on her heel.

“I’m truly sorry I frightened you,” he said to her back, half wondering why he felt the need to apologize. Frightening her was probably in his best interest. He’d certainly never prove himself harmless to anyone’s—to her—satisfaction.

She slowly faced him again. “Yes. Don’t ever do that again. It was unfair.”

“It wasn’t aimed at you, Isabel,” he said quietly. “And I won’t. Ever do it again, I mean.”

Isabel took another breath, clearly assessing him. What she saw in his face, he had no idea, but her expression finally relaxed a little. “I’ll take you at your word, Mr. Waring. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have guests.”

Again she didn’t say anything about Oliver and their so-called connection. “I’ll see you in the morning, then,” he said as coolly as he could.

“At ten o’clock.”

“Promptly at ten.”

He watched her back out the wide stable doors. She’d left Oliver inside the house to come and talk to him. To make certain he’d be there in the morning. Isabel Chalsey liked him, which was bad for all concerned. Even worse,
he
liked
her.

Though Barbara left to go home and change her clothes for the Edlington soiree, Oliver Sullivan stayed at Chalsey House for dinner and then offered his coach to escort all of them to the party. The five adults squeezed into his carriage while Douglas stood in the drawing room window upstairs and made faces at them. For once she wished she was three years younger so she could avoid attending, as well.

It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy the dancing and the music. Generally—until tonight, in fact—she considered them to be the best part of the Season. After today, though, she felt more in need of silence and a very long while to think about what she needed to do next. Tonight, waltzing and smiling seemed a bit of a bother.

From her father’s careful queries during dinner about the state of Zephyr’s training, clearly he knew that Oliver and
Mr. Waring were half-brothers, and also that the relationship was strained, to say the least. Douglas appeared baffled, only rousing from his talk of the latest wagers reportedly going into the book at White’s Club when Sullivan Waring’s name was mentioned. Phillip just as quickly changed the subject of discussion, so he knew the truth, as well.

Blast it all, why had no one told her? She didn’t know that it would have altered what she did, but the knowledge would certainly have saved her at least one of the shocks of the day. And now she couldn’t ask any of the additional questions that kept popping into her mind, because Oliver was with them, and he would likely have an apoplexy.

All the same, she wondered what he would say if she informed him that the culprit who had stolen the painting he’d given her family was none other than his own half-brother. She glanced at him from her seat squeezed between him and Phillip. Not once since they’d left the stable yard for the house had he even glanced in its direction. He’d given no sign at all, in fact, that he had any idea his half-brother was just outside. Or that he even had a half-brother.

“You’ll have to come stay with us at Burling after the Season,” her brother was saying, leaning around her to talk to Oliver. “I can’t wait to ride my new hunter after a fox.”

Lady Darshear sighed. “Phillip, you talk about that animal more than you do about…ladies. I’m going to have to declare you on the shelf if you don’t begin courting someone very soon.” She sent an exasperated grin at Oliver. “Apparently Mr. Waring breeds very fine horses.”

“So I hear,” Oliver said, the muscles of his jaw flexing.

Oh, dear.
“Barbara was telling me today,” Isabel interjected hurriedly, “that Lord Aysling is going to propose to Lady Harriet Reed tonight.”

“Tonight?” her mother echoed, sitting forward. “At the
Edlington soiree? Harry, we must find a seat close by her mother.”

“Yes, dear.” Lord Darshear patted her on the hand, then turned his attention to Oliver. “Your house hasn’t been burglarized, has it?”

Oliver’s expression became very still. “No. Why do you ask?”

“Ours was. Just two nights ago. Tibby here surprised the blackguard and frightened him away.”

“But not before he managed to make off with two paintings, a porcelain dove, and a very pretty crystal bowl,” Isabel’s mother continued. “And one of the paintings was the Francesca Perris you gave to us at the beginning of the Season, I’m sorry to say.”

Isabel watched Oliver as closely as she could without being terribly obvious about it. And she realized something else almost immediately. As soon as he’d heard the news, he’d known instantly who’d stolen the painting from them. How and why, she wasn’t certain, but he knew it had been Sullivan Waring. Which meant that he knew the identity of the Mayfair Marauder, and he’d done nothing about it.

Given his obvious dislike for Mr. Waring, she had no idea why he hadn’t gone to the authorities with his information. Of course, she had the same information and had done nothing about it, but that was different. She wanted to discover his motives. And yes, despite her growing sense that this was more than a game for all concerned, she liked having Mr. Waring at her beck and call. She could always report him later when—if—it came to that. Oliver had no motive for keeping his half-brother’s secret that she could see. They hated one another. Another mystery for her to uncover, apparently. They seemed to surround Sullivan Waring on every side.

They were mobbed as soon as they entered the ballroom at the Edlingtons’, and it was twenty minutes before Isabel found a space to breathe. As she waved her fan in front of her face, half listening to several of her friends speculating on the impending surprise marriage proposal that apparently everyone knew about, she spied Lord Minster. The earl stood with his usual group of peers, his shock of gray hair standing straight out from his head like a hedgehog’s quills.

Glancing over to see her mother occupied with pretending not to congratulate Lady Reed on her daughter’s impending betrothal, Isabel slipped away from her friends and approached the earl. “My lord?” she said quietly, when the conversation about war finance slowed for the moment. “Lord Minster?”

“Eh?” He turned around, gray eyes looking about for a moment before they settled on her. “I know you, don’t I? Lady Isabel Chalsey.”

She curtsied. “Yes, my lord. May I ask you a question?”

“Of course.” He looked at his fellows. “Excuse me, gentleman. Someone much more attractive than you wants a word with me.”

While the rest of them chuckled, Lord Minster motioned for Isabel to precede him to a stand of chairs a few feet away. “Thank you,” she said, taking a seat. “I know this isn’t the most opportune time for any kind of conversation.”

“That’s why we have the same conversations over and over again at gatherings. After a time everyone knows their parts, even when it’s too noisy to hear anyone but oneself. What may I do for you, my lady?”

Isabel mentally squared her shoulders. If no one else wanted to give her answers, she’d find them for herself. “Your townhouse was burgled a few weeks ago, was it not?”

His expression grew more somber. “It was. And I’d give fifty pounds to anyone who handed me the names of those bloody…” He cleared his throat, his face reddening. “I beg your pardon, Lady Isabel. My late wife always said I had too much spleen. I heard that Chalsey House was robbed, as well.”

She nodded. “Yes. And I was wondering, would you tell me what was taken from you?”

“It’s not for a lovely young lady such as yourself to trouble over unpleasant things like that.”

Drat.
“I ask on my father’s behalf,” she improvised.

“Ah. I will send him a list in the morning, then.”

Forcing a smile, Isabel dipped a shallow curtsy. “Thank you, my lord. I’ll tell Papa.”

As she turned around, Oliver, two glasses of Madeira in hand, appeared through the crowd. “There you are,” he said with a smile. “Minster wasn’t trying to wheedle a space on your dance card, was he?”

“No. Just being sociable. Besides, thanks to you my dance card is full.” In fact, he’d taken the three best dances for himself.

His smile deepened. “Good.”

“Well, that is a shame,” another deep voice drawled from beside her. “That’ll teach me to get my hopes up, I suppose.”

She looked sideways. “Lord Bramwell. If one of my partners breaks a toe, you shall be the first substitute.”

He sketched an elegant bow. “Then consider me appeased.” He glanced over at Oliver. “Ah, Tilden. Seeing you puts me in mind of something I saw at the British Museum earlier.”

Oliver lifted an eyebrow, his stance stiff. “And what might that something be?”

“They had a new pharaoh’s mummy on display,” Lord Bramwell said smoothly, smiling. “Likeness on the sarcophagus handsome as Adonis.”

“Well, thank—”

“And on the inside, sloppily wrapped cotton bandages covering mold and putrified flesh. With the corpse completely hollow of everything but some old straw.”

Oliver took a hard step forward. “Apologize,” he snarled.

Lord Bramwell Lowry Johns didn’t move. Instead his smile deepened, though it didn’t touch his black eyes. “I am sorry you haven’t been able to stop encouraging people to say such nasty things about you. You really must work on your character.” He winked at Isabel. “Remember, any broken bones, and I’ll sweep in.” With that he strolled back into the crowd.

Isabel had no idea what to say. Obviously she couldn’t pretend that she hadn’t heard the exchange. What was surprising was that she’d never noticed the animosity between Lord Tilden and Lord Bramwell Johns before. As she thought about it, they’d never socialized that she could recall. Was it because of Sullivan Waring?

It had to be. She’d seen Waring and Bramwell together at the horse auctions, and Barbara had said the two men had served together on the Peninsula. They were friends. And she’d been swirling about so happily in her own little world that she’d never noticed anything. It was beginning to seem that Sullivan Waring had done more than kiss her. He’d…opened her eyes to the edges of rooms, to every muttered conversation. Now everywhere were questions, and nothing was what it seemed on the surface. Not even her.

“I’m sorry you witnessed that,” Oliver said abruptly, taking her hand and wrapping it around the sleeve of his coat. “Bramwell Johns is a poor reflection of his family’s grace
and favor, with even worse taste in both humor and friends. I’ve heard that he and the Duke of Levonzy barely speak.”

That wasn’t precisely a well-kept secret. “Everyone is entitled to their own opinion,” she said carefully. “That doesn’t mean it is shared by anyone else.”

He lifted her hand again and kissed her fingers. “Well said, my dear. Now let’s put this unpleasantness behind us and dance, shall we?”

“By all means.”

She still had a great many questions. Oddly enough, though, she felt more comfortable with the idea of asking Mr. Waring than the man who’d been courting her for the past weeks. As for why that might be, well, that was yet another question.

Sullivan was well into his second mug of bitters when Bram finally pushed his way through the noisy, smelly crowd overflowing the main saloon of Jezebel’s establishment. He generally liked the place with its ramshackle clientele. Tonight, he didn’t like anything.

“I got your note,” Bram said, motioning the barman for a glass of his own.

Silently Sullivan pulled a pistol from his pocket and set it on the table between them. “Enjoy your drink,” he said, deliberately taking a swallow of his own, “because it’s going to be your last. I’m just trying to decide whether to shoot you in the chest or in the head.”

“The chest, if you please,” Bram said calmly. “I’d like to leave a handsome corpse.”

“Why the devil didn’t you tell me that Lady Isabel’s being pursued by…” He paused, reluctant even to say the name. It was like invoking ill luck on purpose. “By Oliver Sullivan?” he finally forced out.

“Firstly, you’ve been itching to confront one of the Sulli
vans for weeks, since they seem to be content with cringing in their holes while you rob all of their friends.”

“I didn’t want a confrontation in a place where I have to watch my tongue!” Sullivan snapped, setting his drink down so hard it sloshed over the pistol. Wonderful. Now the powder was likely wet. “Not in front of—”

“Of a chit you fancy?” Bram broke in.

“I don’t fancy her. She’s blackmailing me. Which is another reason for me to avoid speaking freely in front of her, by the by.” He glared at his friend. “And what the bloody hell does it matter if I fancy her, anyway? She’s a marquis’ daughter.”

“And you’re a marquis’ son.”

Sullivan snorted. “Don’t even pretend you believe that signifies.”

“It would if he acknowledged you.”

“Which he won’t. We’ve had this conversation before.” He jabbed a finger at Bramwell. “And you should have told me, you rat.”

“Yes, you’re right. I should have told you about Tilden. Apologies.” Bram leaned his elbows on the table. “I do have a bit of news that might cheer you up, though, Sully.”

Immediately Sullivan’s attention sharpened. He recognized that tone of voice. “You found another of my paintings.”

“I did. And you’ll never guess where.”

Sullivan eyed him. “You know, I’d give just about even odds over whether that pistol will fire or not. Shall we give it a go?”

“Very well, let’s pretend you’ve frightened me into revealing my information. But you have to give me your word that you won’t interrupt until I’m finished speaking.”

“Are you going to be speaking about where you found the painting?” Sullivan asked skeptically.

“Yes.”

“Then I give you my word. No interruptions.”

Bram nodded graciously. “You know I was summoned for an audience with His Grace this afternoon. Well, I was sitting in his office and he was informing me that I’m a wastrel and on the verge of being cut off both from his money and from the family in general, and my gaze wandered to the wall behind him. And there, my boy, was a large Francesca W. Perris painting of a young lad fishing in a stream. A lad who bore a rather striking resemblance to you.”

Sullivan closed his eyes for a moment. “It’s called
A Young Fisherman’s Dream of Glory
,” he said. “She painted it when I was eight.”

“Interesting, don’t you think, that your father gave my father a gift?”

“One that wasn’t his to give.” For several hard beats of his heart he gazed at his friend. Revenge versus loyalty. It was all becoming so complicated. “This is your family, Bram. I won’t break into your father’s house without your permission.”

“By all means, break in. And dispose of that idiotic Burmese fertility statue while you’re at it. It’s also in his office.”

Sullivan grinned, relieved. “Anything else?”

“If those silver-handled dueling pistols he used to threaten me with are still in the billiards room, I certainly wouldn’t miss them. There used to be a large inlaid mahogany box of cigars in there, as well. You’ll have to share those with me, though.”

“I can only carry so much.” Sitting back, he finished off the mug of bitters. “Why didn’t you tell me that I had a good chance of running across Oliver?” he asked more quietly. “The truth, Bram.”

“Are you still tendering your services to Lady Isabel?” Bramwell countered.