A Risk Worth Taking (11 page)

A
nne sat on a stone bench in Lord Covington’s garden and pretended interest in the book she’d selected from the earl’s library. But she couldn’t feign interest in mere words when she had the real-life memories that refused to leave.

It had been nearly a week since she’d sat with Mr. Blackmoor. For two days and two nights she’d gone to him at various times when he was the most distraught, and pretended to be his dead wife. For two days and nights she begged him to stay with her. Promised that if he stayed, she’d help him. Day by day. One day at a time.

That’s what he needed to hear. Those were the only words that calmed him. But those words bound her to him in a way that refused to lessen.

It was wrong of her to continually think of Mr. Blackmoor. Wrong of her to remember so much about him. Since those days and nights, he’d been a dream that wouldn’t go away. A dream that appeared each time she closed her eyes. Sometimes even when her eyes weren’t closed.

A noise from down the path interrupted her and she turned her gaze. The Earl of Covington walked toward her.

“I’m glad I found you,” he said when he reached her bench. “I want to thank you. I know asking you to help
Griff this past week was a great imposition, one hardly appropriate for a lady of quality. But I was desperate and—”

“How is Mr. Blackmoor?” She stopped the earl from explaining something that was obviously uncomfortable for him to talk about.

“Much better today. He was able to eat a little broth for lunch and was out of bed for a while this morning.”

“I’m glad.”

“He’s even threatening to leave his room,” he said with a slight smile. “He says the walls are too confining.” The earl looked to the ground. “I don’t know if you realize what was…wrong with Griff, but—”

“Yes, my lord. I do.” Anne closed her book and placed it in her lap. “My father went through the same torture when he tried to quit drinking. Unfortunately, his efforts failed. He wasn’t strong enough to stop.”

The earl lifted his gaze and stared at her, his face filled with regret. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

She looked away to the pretty flowers just beginning to bloom. “Not many people did. We were fortunate he stayed in the country as much as he did and away from Society’s eyes.”

“Griff was not always like this. It wasn’t until your brother was killed that he…got worse.”

“I see.”

“I’m confident that he won’t return to his former ways once he’s cured,” he said, as if trying to convince himself at the same time he was trying to convince her. “Dr. Thornton assures me he has an excellent chance.”

“I hope so.” Anne didn’t feel nearly as confident. Her father had proved to her every day of his life how impossible
it was not to take another drink when your body wanted liquor more than it wanted air to breathe. She’d seen firsthand the grip alcohol had on Griffin Blackmoor the days and nights she’d pretended to be his wife. The times when being with him shifted her world on its axis. That had been nearly a week ago.

A week since she’d sat with him. A week since she’d held his hand, told him she was his wife. Told him she loved him. She hadn’t been able to erase from her memory every detail of those times.

She still heard him call for his dead wife, Julia. Still felt his hand clench hers. Still felt the hard muscles on his shoulders, arms, and chest when she soothed his burning body with cool cloths. She remembered the rugged planes of his face when she wiped the sweat from his brow, the bristly stubble when she touched his cheeks and jaw, and every magnificent inch of him beneath her fingertips. A hidden part deep inside her still burned with a yearning she refused to acknowledge.

“He doesn’t remember I was there, does he?”

“No. He remembers nothing from that night or the next two days when you sat with him. Nothing after the time he went upstairs the night you arrived.”

She nodded, absently rubbing her thumb along the smooth leather binding of the book in her hands.

The earl straightened his shoulders. “Lady Covington reminded me again at lunch that she had accepted invitations to a tea this afternoon at the Duchess of Wallingsford’s and a dinner hosted by the Marchioness of Edington later in the evening. Do not worry that you will have to go unescorted. I promise to be at both.”

“You do not owe me for what I did, my lord. It is enough that you have given me refuge and have offered to sponsor me in Society. It would be impossible for me to find anyone to marry without—” She stopped, unable to go on. “If there’s anything more I can do to repay you for what you have already done, you have only to ask.”

“I am certain there is not. From now on we will—”

The earl’s gaze lifted to a movement coming from the terrace and she turned her head to see Mr. Blackmoor coming down the walk.

“Griff! Bloody hell, man. What are you doing out of bed?”

Griffin Blackmoor walked toward them, tall and so very distinguished looking. His dark hair was still longer than was fashionable, yet it suited him perfectly. He was clean-shaven now and had a shirt and jacket to cover the parts of his body she tried without success to forget. He seemed much improved, although his face was still pale and his eyes had not regained their luster. Even recovering from several days in bed, he was, without a doubt, the most handsome man she’d ever seen.

“I couldn’t stand those four walls any longer, Adam. I thought I would sit outside for a while.”

“Dr. Thornton said you were to stay abed a full two weeks. It’s only been one week.”

“One was enough.” He locked his gaze with Anne’s and nodded in greeting. “If I had known you had such pleasant company, I would have come earlier.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Blackmoor. Would you care to sit?” She moved her skirt to make room for him.

“Yes. Unfortunately, I am not as strong as I thought. I have been…ill.”

“Yes. Lord Covington told me you were stricken with an ailment after we arrived. Traveling can sometimes do that. I hope you are much improved.”

“Yes. I’m much better now.” He sank down on the stone bench and breathed a shaky sigh. “Have you settled in adequately?”

“Yes.” She tried to ignore how his nearness warmed her flesh through all the layers of her clothing, but failed. “Lord and Lady Covington have been most generous. They have been the perfect hosts. Yesterday I met the earl’s three sons. They were all perfect gentlemen.”

“I am looking forward to seeing them.” He smiled. “Let’s see. Simon should be nearly six months old now, right?”

“He will be a year in six weeks’ time,” Adam answered.

“I see.”

Anne wanted to take Griff’s hand in hers and hold it like she’d done before. She wanted to comfort him and tell him he would be all right, that in a few days he would be better and would learn all the events that had happened while he was not sober. But she couldn’t. She’d learned from her father that tomorrow might be exactly like last week, and the day after like all the others before them, and he would never be sober again.

“Patience and I will be taking Lady Anne to an outdoor tea this afternoon, hosted by the Duchess of Wallingsford. It should be quite the affair. Lady Anne will find it quite interesting.”

“Are you looking forward to it?” Griff asked, his gaze riveted on hers.

A warm rush swirled through her body. She wished he would not look at her like that. Having him so near did strange things to her.
If only I hadn’t touched him. Held him.

“That is the reason I came to London.”

“There is no rush,” he reminded her. “You came to find a man who would suit you. Not to marry the first man to offer for you.”

She lowered her gaze. “I am quite aware of what I must do. My requirements are not that difficult.”

Mr. Blackmoor frowned. “Adam, perhaps you could make a list of the nobility in attendance and we can peruse it when you return. That way we can eliminate anyone unsuitable and save Lady Anne a great deal of wasted effort.”

Lord Covington smiled. “You make it sound like we’re hiring someone to fill a post, Griff. Perhaps we should let Lady Anne decide if anyone she meets intrigues her. Or better yet, perhaps we should let her enjoy her first London gathering without added pressure.”

Blackmoor’s shoulders stiffened and he dragged his hand over his jaw. “I only thought we might save Lady Anne from making a huge mistake if we warn her in advance of any suitor she should not consider.”

She felt the heat rush to her cheeks. “I know your concern. You take your promise to Freddie very seriously.”

“Yes, and that is why—”

“You don’t need to concern yourself,” she interrupted, “that I will make any rash decisions. No one is likely to offer for me today, and if they do, I promise I’ll refuse them.” She rose from the bench. “Now, if you gentlemen
will excuse me. I think it’s time to get ready for Lady Wallingsford’s tea.”

She followed the garden path back to the terrace that opened off the drawing room. Her face burned with embarrassment. Discussing her purpose for being here was more humiliating than anything she’d ever done. Especially with a man whose nearness caused her heart to race.

Picking out a husband should be no different than picking out an already-made gown from the seamstress’s rack. But she knew that if she did not like the husband she picked out, she could not return him like she could a gown.

She didn’t doubt that choosing a husband would be an easy task. She had few requirements. Looks weren’t a concern. Neither was a title. All that concerned her was that the man she married had enough wealth to provide Becca with a Season. And that he wouldn’t be a drunkard like her father.

Like Griffin Blackmoor.

G
riff had no intention of following Adam’s orders to remain in the house and retire early. He refused to give up his search for the man who’d killed Freddie.

Griff waited until Adam’s carriage drove away from the house, then took his greatcoat from the cloakroom and left by a side exit. He kept to the shadows as he left the house, hoping to lose the man following him but knowing that wasn’t likely. Any of Fitzhugh’s men were too good for him to escape their notice.

Griff walked to the nearest corner and hailed the first hackney he saw. He gave the driver an address several blocks away, then stepped inside. The second the cab lurched forward, he relaxed against the squabs and breathed a sigh.

He was still bloody weak. More than once during the last week he thought he might not survive. Ridding his body of the liquor he’d consumed over the last several months was a hell unlike any he thought possible. Only the soft voice urging him to stay with her had kept him from giving up.

He closed his eyes until the cab slowed, then got out when the cab stopped several blocks from his intended destination.

When the horse and driver pulled away, Griff wrapped his fingers around the pistol in his pocket and made his way through the dusky darkness of London’s narrow backstreets. He kept in the shadows until he reached a hidden doorway at the end of an alley that very few in the city even knew was there. After a cautionary glance over his shoulder, he leaned forward to work the lock. A few seconds later, he turned the handle and let himself into the building that housed the secret offices of British Foreign Intelligence.

The entryway was unlit, and he stood in the darkness until his eyes acclimated to the lack of light. When he could make out vague shadows, he made his way down the dim hallway. He stopped in front of the third door on his right and stepped inside.

Except for the faint glow from beneath the door on the far wall, this room was as dark as the rest. Griff listened, then walked to Colonel Rupert Fitzhugh’s office and turned the handle. He came face-to-face with his former commanding officer.

“I must be losing my touch,” Griff said, closing the door behind him. “There was a time you wouldn’t have heard me until it was too late.”

“You haven’t lost anything, Griff. I’ve been expecting you.” Colonel Fitzhugh walked around his desk and relaxed into his chair. “Come in and sit down.”

Griff crossed the room and sat in a worn leather chair in front of Fitzhugh’s desk. “Which one of your men is following me?” he said, crossing the ankle of his right leg over his left knee.

“Johnston and Turner.”

Griff lifted his eyebrows. “Both of them?”

“Just a precaution. It’s been well over a week since you’ve surfaced. They didn’t want to miss you.”

Griff’s breath caught. “I’ve…had things to do.”

“I’m glad. You look a damn sight better than you did the last time I saw you.” Fitzhugh shuffled several papers on his desk, then focused on Griff. “Now, why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”

Griff leveled a pointed glare at Fitzhugh. “As you know, I don’t believe the Marquess of Brentwood was killed by a robber. He was killed by a sniper. Someone I think was after me.”

Fitzhugh removed his spectacles and laid them on the desk. “That’s what you told me several months ago. What proof do you have?”

Griff shook his head. “Just a gut feeling that tells me the shooting was intentional. Since Brentwood didn’t have an enemy that would want him dead, my instincts tell me that I was the one the killer wanted. Not Brentwood.”