After the Kiss (7 page)

“You make it sound sordid. Yes, I’ll still be working Zephyr for her. She asked me to stay.”

“Did she, now?”

“Stop changing the subject. Why, Bram?”

Lord Bramwell Johns took a deep breath. “Honestly? Because you annoy me.”

Sullivan stopped what he’d been about to say. Instead he concentrated on keeping his expression even, determined not to let Bramwell see how much that little statement had hurt. He didn’t have many friends, and he counted Bram as the closest among them. Since he’d returned from the Peninsula, Bram and Phin Bromley’s family were practically the only members of the peerage he could tolerate. If the—

“Do you have any idea how talented you are?” Bram broke in on his thoughts.

That hadn’t been what he’d expected to hear next. “What?”

“Waring Stables. People brag about owning one of your horses, Sullivan. I’ve seen men come to blows during an auction for one of your hunters.”

“They were drunk,” Sullivan countered, beginning to realize that Bram’s annoyance was something different than he’d thought.

“Beside the point,” Bram said dismissively. “If you would just stop examining people’s pedigrees before you sell to them, no one would ever need look for another breeder.”

Sullivan scowled. “I do not judge people by their—”

“You won’t sell to anyone who’s known to have a close friendship with the Sullivans. And don’t try to convince me otherwise, because I won’t believe you. So I didn’t tell you
about Isabel Chalsey and Oliver Sullivan. And you sold two horses to the family, and you’ve been having fun with it.”

“She saw me inside her house, half-wit.
That’s
why I sold them two horses.”

“
That’s
my point, then, nickninny. You didn’t know their connection to Oliver, and I didn’t know whether he would make an appearance or not. In the meantime, you’ve expanded your business and have another satisfied horse owner telling everyone who’ll listen to him what a fine animal he received from Waring Stables.”

“So you lied for my own benefit.”

“I
omitted
for your benefit. Not everyone cares about
your
pedigree, my friend. Your skills speak for themselves.”

Sullivan scooped the pistol back into his pocket and stood. “I know you like playing games with people, Bram, but don’t play them with me. From now on I expect the entire truth. Not just the convenient bits.”

With that he wound his way through the crowd and back outside into the damp, dark streets. So he picked and chose to whom he sold his horses. That was his business. And this mess had only happened because he’d been forced into it. If Dunston and Tilden hadn’t stolen his property in the first place, he wouldn’t have broken into Chalsey House to get it back, and he never would have seen, much less kissed, Isabel Chalsey. Ultimately it all came back to George Sullivan, the Marquis of Dunston. It always did. It probably always would.

Isabel awoke well before ten o’clock in the morning. Groggy, she managed to don a walking dress with the help of her maid before she made her way downstairs for breakfast. Three hot, strong cups of tea later, and her eyes finally stayed open instead of drooping shut every few seconds.

No one else had risen yet, and considering that they hadn’t returned home from the Edlingtons’ until after three o’clock, she didn’t expect to see anyone for several hours. It would be nice if her family slept until Sullivan Waring had come for the morning’s lesson and gone again, but she doubted her luck would hold that long.

Lord Minster probably still slept, as well, but she couldn’t risk missing the note he’d promised to send over. If her father saw it, he would have no idea what was going on, and then she would have to explain that she was looking for
some common threads in the two robberies. He would then probably send her home to Burling to keep her from getting into trouble. Little did he know it was far too late for that.

As she buttered a fourth slice of toast, though she’d barely begun eating her second piece, she tried to decide how and if she wanted to approach the growing conundrum that was Sullivan Waring. Isabel sighed. She loved puzzles, but this business of Waring and the questions surrounding him had stakes much higher than she generally dealt with. And he interested her much more for that very reason.

The front door knocker rapped, and the butler left the breakfast room. A moment later he reappeared, taking his post at the room’s entrance once more.

“Who in the world is calling on us so early?” she asked, doing her best to feign innocent curiosity.

“Lord Minster sent over a letter for Lord Darshear, my lady,” Alders answered.

“Oh, he’s been expecting that.” She pushed to her feet, nearly flipping her plate onto her lap in the process. “I’ll take it upstairs to him.”

“His valet says he’s still to bed, my lady.”

“Then I’ll take the blame for awakening him.” When the butler still didn’t move, she lifted an eyebrow. “Please fetch the letter for me, Alders.”

A muscle in the butler’s gaunt cheek twitched, and he nodded. He left the breakfast room again, then returned a few seconds later with a silver salver in one hand, a single letter resting atop the polished surface.

“Thank you,” Isabel intoned, lifting the folded paper free and pocketing it because otherwise she’d be tempted to rip the wax seal open and read it immediately. “And you may clear my breakfast. I’ll be in my bedchamber—after I deliver this to Papa.”

Alders nodded. “Very good, my lady.”

Keeping her hand over her pelisse pocket, Isabel made her way upstairs. She passed by her parents’ adjoined bedchambers, pausing there for a moment in case anyone downstairs happened to be listening for her footsteps. After counting to twenty she continued on to her own room and quietly closed the door behind her.

“Now let’s see what you’re up to,” she murmured, walking to the window and fishing the missive from her pocket to break the seal. Her hands shook a little as she unfolded the paper, though she felt more intrigued than nervous. She already knew Sullivan Waring to be a thief, after all. The Mayfair Marauder, no less. What she wanted to know was what he’d stolen from Lord Minster, and why he’d done it.

She sat in the deep sill to read. The viscount’s letter was brief, stating only that according to her father’s request as delivered by the delightful Lady Isabel, he’d listed below the items taken several weeks ago from his home. One pair of silver candlesticks, a small jade statue, a painting by Francesca W. Perris, his new boots from Hoby’s, and a plain gold ring.

Another painting, and by the same artist. There were robberies all the time in Mayfair. But even if she supposed that two missing paintings made a coincidence rather than a trail, she also remembered the tone of Sullivan’s voice when he’d declined to put the painting back. Right before he’d kissed her.

Setting the missive aside, she went over to her wardrobe and dug into the silk bag she’d hidden inside the neckline of her ugliest dress, a brown monstrosity that she’d worn once to please her great-aunt and then had relegated to oblivion at the back of the shelf. Glancing at her closed door, she pulled a black half-mask out of the bag and looked at it. Why those paintings? And why steal them?

She ran her finger along the brow of the mask, then retrieved Lord Minster’s letter to stuff it and the disguise back into their hiding place inside the ugly dress. Yes, puzzles were marvelous things. Because she loved finding the answers. And the person who could provide the answers to this particular mystery would be at Chalsey House at ten o’clock. Promptly at ten.

However reluctant he might be to discuss himself or his so-called business, she didn’t intend to give him any choice in the matter. He didn’t have to know that whatever thoughts she’d had of turning him in were crumbling. In fact, it would be much better—for her, certainly—if he didn’t know.

At six minutes before ten o’clock she went downstairs again. Douglas and their mother were in the breakfast room now, but Phillip and her father were apparently still asleep. Good. The fewer gawkers standing about the stable yard this morning, the better.

After a quick greeting to her mother and brother she made her way out the back of the house. She reached the yard just as Mr. Waring rode up on his monstrous black horse. It wouldn’t surprise her at all if the beast ate small animals.
Good heavens
. But she still wouldn’t be willing to wager over which of the two was more dangerous—the horse or the rider.

As Sullivan rode into the Chalsey House stable yard, he spied Lady Isabel leaving the house. At the sight of him on Achilles she stopped short, putting her hands behind her back in that endearing, vulnerable manner she had. It seemed so at odds with her sharp tongue. Immediately he dismounted, handing Achilles’ reins over to one of the stableboys. As far as he now stood from being anything resembling a hero, frightening a woman for no good reason simply cut him wrong.

That applied to a woman who was presently blackmailing him, apparently. He took off his jacket and slung it across Achilles’ saddle, then rolled up his sleeves as he approached her. “Promptly at ten,” he said, pulling on his leather gloves so he wouldn’t be tempted by the absurd impulse to take her hand, to touch her skin.

“My congratulations to your nicely wound clock,” she returned.

Not quite an insult, but not a compliment, either. He wouldn’t mention, then, that he’d been pacing Achilles up and down the next street over for the past twenty minutes. “I’ll just get started, shall I?”

“If you don’t, your promptness would be rather pointless, don’t you think?”

“You’re the one giving the orders, my lady.” Sullivan walked toward the stable to meet Phipps, who had Zephyr and a longeing whip already waiting for him. “I’m just doing the work.”

“So why are you here, Mr. Waring?”

He cocked an eyebrow at her. So she’d figured out something about him and decided it was time to learn the rest. “I’m training a horse, I believe.”

“That’s not what I meant,” she countered, following behind him. “And I have several other questions to ask, as well.”

“Then ask. I seem to be at your disposal for the foreseeable future.”

“You’d best keep that in mind, Mr. Waring.”

“Thank you, Phipps,” he said to the head groom, accepting the lead line. “She seemed a little skittish yesterday. I’d appreciate a bit more room today.”

“Of course, Mr. Waring.”

As soon as Phipps pulled his people back and then made
himself scarce, Lady Isabel cleared her throat. “Don’t order my servants about.”

“I’m not. I made a request.” He faced her. “Before you begin interrogating me, I have a question for you.”

She lifted her chin, pretty brown eyes showing almost amber in the sunlight. Immediately he wanted to kiss her upturned mouth again. Sullivan shook himself.
Idiot
. What the devil was wrong with him? “Is Zephyr solely your excuse to keep me under your heel, or do you actually intend to ride her?”

From the way the muscles in her jaw jumped, she hadn’t expected the question. Good. He’d long ago learned the benefits of a surprise attack. He waited, Zephyr standing patiently beside him, while she considered her answer.

“Of course I mean to ride her,” she finally stated. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Then come here.”

She folded her arms across her chest, which drew his attention to her breasts. They seemed just the right size; as Bram had been known to say, anything more than a handful was a waste. “I give the orders,” she stated. “Not you.”

“Then please come over here, my lady,” he revised, reflecting that it was a good thing he’d learned to have patience when faced with willful creatures. He wondered whether she’d realized that he needed to decipher her intentions as much as she seemed to want to determine his.

“No.”

“If I haven’t injured you thus far, Tibby, you can be fairly assured that I won’t be doing so. Just hold out your hand.”

“No. And my name where you’re concerned is Lady Isabel. Or my lady.”

Deciding the protest was merely a delaying tactic, he ignored it, looking from her to Zephyr. The mare was a good
animal, but no horse did well with a fearful rider. It wasn’t fair to either of them. He supposed it would help to know what precisely it was that frightened Isabel, but first things first. If she wouldn’t make a single step forward, he would take the horse back and let her find another way to blackmail him until each of them had satisfied their curiosity.

Shifting his grip from the lead line to the harness strap beneath the mare’s chin, he took a firm hold. Then he placed his right hand flat on the mare’s shoulder. “Stand behind me and put your hand on my shoulder,” he said.

“That seems pointless.”

“Your right hand on my right shoulder, if you please.”

She sighed irritably—or that seemed to be her aim, anyway—then moved directly behind him. Her skirt swished against the backs of his legs, and then warmth touched his shoulder through the rough cotton of his work shirt.

“Happy?”

“I’m becoming so,” he returned. Every nerve in his body seemed attuned to that one spot of warmth. Even his breath hesitated. “Now move to my elbow.”

“Mr. Waring, this—”

“Please.”

Lady Isabel slid her palm down to his elbow, her soft touch like a caress. Arousal spun down his spine.
Good God.

“Anything else?” she asked, her breath against his shoulder making him shiver. “Perhaps you’d like me to sew on a button, or polish your boots.”

He shifted a little to cover his uneasiness, just as she was jabbering to cover hers. She wouldn’t let him call her by her name, and he didn’t want to continue calling her by her title. “Now my wrist, poppet.”

Since he’d rolled up his sleeves halfway to his elbow he
wasn’t certain she would comply, but with another even less steady breath she shifted right a little bit and ran her hand down his bare arm to the safety of his glove. By now he’d begun to think that she was being deliberately tantalizing, but since she was also obviously nervous, he let it go without comment.

It was a good thing she stood behind him, though, because otherwise he would probably be doing something foolish like smelling the citrus scent of her hair. Since her reach was shorter than his, he’d bent his arm quite a bit. Even so, they were very close to one another. If not for the obvious goal of the horse and their position in the middle of the yard, they would never have gotten away with this.

“Put your hand over the back of mine,” he instructed.

“You’re not going to trick me and throw me onto her back, are you?”

“No. She’s not ready for that.” Neither female was, actually. “No tricks.”

After a long moment she laid her hand flat over his gloved one. Sullivan wished he’d left the gloves at home, but this way was probably for the best. He held still, aware of her cheek against his shoulder and her left hand gripping the back of his shirt for balance.

“Now what?” she whispered.

“I’m going to move my hand back along her ribs. Stay with me.”

Her hand on his trembled a little, but she complied. They repeated the motion twice, and then he paused again with his hand halfway along Zephyr’s side.

“Can you feel her breathing?”

“Yes.”

“If I stay right here, will you slide your hand next to mine?”

Her breath stopped. “Tomorrow,” she whispered unsteadily. “I’ll do that tomorrow. If you’ll be standing right there.”

“I will be.” At that moment he felt willing to fight off Bonaparte’s entire Seventeenth Regiment single-handedly for the privilege.

The lesson seemed to be over, but she didn’t move from her stance against him, her smaller hand over his. He could swear that her cheek rubbed against his shoulder. Every muscle and bone ached from being held so rigidly, when all he wanted to do was turn around and pull her into his arms. He would barely have to move. Just a slight shift of his feet, and—

Zephyr snorted and stomped a hoof. Instantly Isabel gasped and jumped backward. Blinking, Sullivan concentrated on patting the mare’s side until he could be reasonably certain that he wouldn’t throw himself on Lady Isabel. Then he turned around.

Her older brother, Phillip, Lord Chalsey, stood at the edge of the stable yard.
Damnation
. With a slight nod at him, Sullivan picked up the longeing whip he’d tossed aside. “You did very well, my lady,” he said as he led Zephyr to one side of the yard.

She cleared her throat. “Thank you for not teasing me,” she said, following him at a safe distance.

He shrugged. “You faced something that troubles you. There’s nothing to tease you about.” Shaking out the lead line, he sent Zephyr into a walk.

“Who is Francesca Perris to you?”

He froze.
Devil a bit
. It had taken her, what, three days to figure it out? And he’d had the rest of the
ton
—with the exception of Bram and the two people whom he wanted to know—running themselves in circles for the past six weeks.
Of course, Isabel Chalsey had the advantage of having seen his face.