Beyond A Wicked Kiss (11 page)

"So you were made curious."

She nodded. "I listened on the other side of the door, though I should not admit it. I was certainly of an age to know better. Long past that age, in fact, so it does not speak at all well of me. I meant only to learn the man's name and perhaps later find an opportunity to ask Westphal about him. The name I heard, though, was yours. It was confusing at first because the man did not call you by either your Christian or surname."

"Oh?"

"He called you West."

"I see." Nothing about West's expression changed, though the pain he felt was real enough. "That was indeed confusing for you."

"Yes. I'm afraid I spent considerably more time at the door than I meant to in order to work it out."

"But you did."

"In the end. It was clear to me they were speaking of you when you were also referred to as the duke's son. I knew better than to suppose they meant Tenley. He was not on the Continent, but enjoying himself in the gaming hells at the time. Perforce, it had to be you."

West's only acknowledgment of this was a soft grunt at the back of his throat.

"They had talked at length by then, and I learned something about your work in the foreign office."

"Not enough, apparently. You did not even realize I was in Madrid."

"Well, no, but then I was not able to ask questions, and neither man was entirely straightforward. It is easy to suppose they knew what they were talking about, but it was not as clear to me."

"So you filled in the gaps with twaddle about spies and intrigues."

"I did not conceive it was twaddle," she said quietly, "but yes, you have summed it up."

"Sums," he said succinctly. "My forte." West closed his eyes a moment and rubbed them. "This man, the one who spoke of me as West, do you recall his name?"

Ria thought back. "I remember he carried a walking stick," she said, "and that it was no affectation. He leaned heavily on it to get to the library doors."

West nodded. That bit of information was every bit as good as having a name.

Ria's head lifted sharply as she snapped her fingers. "Blackwood. Colonel Blackwood. What do you think of that?"

West knew that she was looking for approval for having remembered the name from so long ago, but he could not give it to her. "What I think," he said with quiet menace, "is that I will do murder."

Chapter 3

West wished himself anywhere but where he was. The service at the Abbey had been interminable and he had not been wrong to anticipate the attention he received. He had intercepted more furtive glances than he cared to think about, and there had been almost a constant hum of whispering at his back. Now those closest to him, those who had known him as well as he permitted anyone to know him, were gathered in his home. It was not to mourn the late duke that they came—because there was no one present who had been particularly fond or forgiving of the man—rather, they came to pay their respects to the late Mr. Evan Marchman, who now and forever would be known as His Grace the Duke of Westphal.

It was not to be borne.

Yet, what choice did he have? Entailment being what it was, he could not give the title to Tenley no matter how much his brother might covet it as his own birthright. Neither could he give his brother legitimacy, for that had been taken away from Tenley the moment the duke had revealed the truth about his marriages. Whether Tenley might be able to apply to the Prince Regent to have the question of legitimacy raised again was still unclear. West hoped that his brother would have that recourse and that Prinny would be generous. Tenley could find some small solace that he remained the earl, a title that came to him from his mother's side of the family and was not subject to the same strictures as the duke's title and holdings. Unfortunately, there was little in the way of money or lands that accompanied the honor of being the Earl of Tenley. It was not that Tenley was destitute, but that his circumstances and prospects had been vastly reduced.

Seeing Tenley at the service had been deuced uncomfortable, though West thought that each of them had comported themselves well enough. At least there had been no pistols drawn, and West counted that as a good beginning. He could allow that Tenley's adjustment was harder than his own and was not without sympathy for him. Every one of his brother's expectations had been dashed, while he had long ago decided that survival meant having few of them, especially as they related to others.

West's contemplation ended when Lady Benton-Reade came determinedly to his side and engaged him in conversation. Standing on the opposite side of the drawing room at the green-veined marble fireplace, was Southerton. West was careful not to allow his attention to be diverted in that direction overlong, but from between the swaying plumes of Lady Benton-Reade's bonnet, West thought he glimpsed evidence of South's unholy gleam. It was proof that he could not expect rescue from that quarter, and he resigned himself to enduring the soliloquy that passed for the lady's conversation.

He did eventually manage to excuse himself as Northam and his wife came to offer their condolences and announce they were leaving. Looking from one to the other, West could not help but be aware of the strain that existed between them. Was it only last night at the club that North had been teased for being distant and contemplative? It seemed that nothing had changed since then. Although everything in North's manner was correct, West could not help but wonder if anything was as it should be between Elizabeth and her husband. The countess's complexion was pale and her eyelids were faintly swollen. It was grief he saw in her face, and he knew very well that it was not this solemn occasion that had brought it about. North's own countenance gave little of his thoughts away, which in itself was telling to those who knew him. West counted himself among that set. Watching these two, their combined pain so palpable, he felt very much like an intruder in his own home.

He made them as easy as he could, escorting them to the door himself so they would not be waylaid by his other guests. When he returned to the drawing room, he saw immediately that South had disappeared. It did not require any special talent to know where he'd gone. West could see that the door to his study was closed and understood that South would have made his way there to speak to the colonel. Northam and his countess had been in conversation with Blackwood earlier, and when West glanced over at Eastlyn, it seemed to him the marquess was looking as if he meant to have a turn with the colonel as well.

That was all right, then. West knew he could afford to give his friends first crack at Blackwood. Perhaps it was even better that the others saw him first. The colonel might be moved to take his leave when West was finished serving him a few home truths.

* * *

John Blackwood, that adviser in the foreign office who directed the activities of the Compass Club, tucked a rug about his thin legs, then pushed his wheeled chair closer to the fire. He had allowed himself to be persuaded not to attend the services for the duke this morning, but neither his doctor nor his valet could keep him from West's home tonight.

Now he wondered if he shouldn't have listened to them, not because they were right that the evening away from home would fatigue him almost beyond bearing, but because so little good had come of his presence. His dear Elizabeth, not to put too fine a point on it, had abducted him from the drawing room and wheeled him into West's study. Short of making a scene, he could not have stopped her and wasn't certain that he wanted to.

She had argued with him, pleaded even, to turn her husband away from the assignment he'd been given to find the Gentleman Thief. He, who thought there was nothing he would not do for her, could not grant her this boon, nor could he tell her anything that would ease her mind on the matter. The thief must be caught and it must be done soon. North was in every way the man for the task. To place that considerable responsibility in someone else's hands would set them back months, and so he had refused her.

He was very much afraid she would not speak to him again.

On the heels of that encounter, South had begged a moment of his time. The colonel smiled a little grimly as he poked at the fire.
Demanded,
not
begged,
was the proper word for it. South had demanded his time and called him a bloody bastard, a term usually reserved for the late duke. The viscount had been witness to the unhappy tension between Elizabeth and Northam and wanted absolution for having played even a small part in bringing about their union. The colonel was slightly more optimistic than South that all would be made right in the end, but he absolved South of responsibility anyway, just as if he were a priest, and took it upon his own less-than-robust shoulders.

The interview had not ended there, for there was still South's assignment to be managed. What South had managed to do was set all of London talking about the disappearance of Miss India Parr. The most beloved actress at the Drury Lane had missed two performances, and her devoted audience, largely male, had almost not been prevented from burning the place down. If it became known that Southerton was responsible for Miss Parr's absence, he would be run to ground, then drawn and quartered. There were moments during his discussion with South that he had contemplated leading that charge.

He had only just dismissed South when Eastlyn arrived to take up the empty chair. The marquess had himself in the very devil of a coil, compliments of a spurned mistress, and had no simple way to extricate himself. The rumors of his engagement to Lady Sophia Colley would not be silenced and presented yet another obstacle to the completion of his assignment. There was nothing for it but that he be taken to task.

The colonel jabbed hard at the fire again, his knobby knuckles perfectly white with the strength of his grip on the poker. He had not tread lightly with East, but forced the younger man to examine his situation carefully and come to a decision of how he meant to go on. Matters related to his task of martialing support for the East India Company could not be accomplished without East putting his own house in order. Indeed, it seemed that success demanded that East place one before the other. Blackwood sympathized but did not relent.

The colonel had just replaced the poker when the door opened. He did not look up. "I've been expecting you."

"I thought you might be," West said. "The others have had their audience. It seems only fair that I have a turn myself."

Blackwood did not think he was imagining the chill edging West's tone. His dark eyes narrowed faintly as he wheeled around and took measure of the man stepping into the room. No line of West's trim frame conveyed that he was in any way easy with himself. The rigid set of his shoulders made his carriage stiff, and his long-legged stride had none of the casual grace he might otherwise have affected. There was a tautness to his mouth, and the gravity of his thoughts had drawn the skin of his face tightly over the bones. He looked gaunt. It would not be hyperbole to say he looked vaguely haunted.

The colonel pushed his chair to the drinks cabinet. "Will you have a whiskey?"

"No." West saw the empty tumblers left by his friends. It seemed Blackwood had been successful in plying them all with alcohol, no doubt enjoying the opportunity to imbibe freely himself. His doctor and his valet restricted him as much as was possible in his own home. "But you must help yourself," he said.

Blackwood shook his head. "I've already done that. I am quite aware of my tolerance and find that I have reached it."

West sat down as the colonel pushed his chair closer. Blackwood was still a handsome man; the wasting disease that had laid siege to his legs had not robbed him of his fine looks nor dulled his mind. His reflexes were slower now and a tremor could sometimes be spied in his hands, but he held his own, fixing his quarry with a dark glance that was at once an appraisal and a challenge. Though no longer muscular, he was still fastidious about his appearance and took some pains to make certain his stock was folded in the latest fashion.

West knew the colonel's legs were weaker than they had been, even this summer past. Then Blackwood had been able to travel to the Battenburn estate for North and Elizabeth's wedding and make his way down the center aisle, aided by two sticks and the wiry strength of his own arms. Only five months later, West doubted that such a thing would be possible, though he would not underestimate the colonel's tenacity. There was evidence enough of that in the pronounced creases at the corners of his eyes, the faint frown that was present even in his relaxed state. Except for a light thinning at the crown and a few seeds of gray, the colonel's shock of black hair was not conceding either to his illness or his advancing years.