Behind the Marquess's Mask (The Lords of Whitehall Book 1) (17 page)

* * *

W
heeling wasn’t
an easy man to ward off, but finally, Kathryn had managed by gently hinting at how uncomfortable she had become after drinking so many glasses of the weak punch. Wheeling had raised his brows and cleared his throat, mentioning some nonsense about seeing a friend he simply must speak with.

Satisfied with the sight of Wheeling’s back disappearing through the throng of guests, Kathryn finished her punch and placed it on a tray held by a passing footman. She needed to seek out Pembridge to take her home. She considered the night a success, and she would rather leave it that way.

She moved down the hall to the room where some of the gentlemen were said to be playing cards. The ladies were forbidden to wander back this far, but she was in no mood to wait for him, and she didn’t know any other gentlemen who could fetch him for her, not any she cared to speak with, at any rate.

The large doors were closed, so she peeked inside to scan the five or six tables for a familiar face. The room was loud with laughter and the voices of men in their effort to be heard over the din. Only three women were in the smoky room, ones Kathryn didn’t recognize who wore their dresses inappropriately low cut. Snifters of amber liquid dotted every table and whorls of smoke rose to the ceiling from the dozens of cheroots either being puffed or sitting in a tray whilst the men studied their cards. There was a different air in this room, a raw, masculine air, but no Pembridge.

She was about to turn and try another room when someone else caught her attention. The face from her nightmares was nose deep in a hand of whist.

Her heart raced and breathing became a monumental task that had her chest rising and falling shakily. Her hands trembled, and her knees felt weak. She was paralyzed, her eyes locked on a man who, by all accounts, appeared as civilized as any other man in the room.

His dark hair was neatly styled, his sideburns trimmed, his clothes finely tailored, and his black eyes completely devoid of malice as he studied his cards. The lines around his mouth held nothing of the bitter hatred that had been burned into her memory.

She frowned. Then she was spinning. She was whirled around and suddenly found herself staring straight into the bluest eyes she had ever seen.

“Nick!” Something familiar raced through her mind, but it was gone almost instantly.

He grinned. “By Jove, you remember me. I was worried. You looked a little lost there for a moment.” He tucked her hand into his arm and urged her down the hall.

“I saw…” Her voice faded out as she realized she didn’t know the man’s name.

He raised his brows and lowered his head, prompting her on.

She shook her head. She couldn’t ask who he was. Pembridge might want to know why she wanted to know, and she couldn’t tell him that.

They turned toward the main hall and on into the vestibule, retrieving their hats and coats and his cane. Then he led her to the waiting carriage.

Soon, they were seated, and the carriage rumbled into motion with the sound of wheels and hooves hitting the cobblestones. Nick was uncharacteristically quiet.

“Aren’t you going to tell me I shouldn’t have been peeking into the card room?” Kathryn asked, breaking the silence.

The carriage took a corner, sliding Kathryn several inches before she caught herself, quickly gripping a handle under the window.

“So, you
do
know when you are misbehaving. I knew we had more in common than our taste in poetry.” He smiled as he sat comfortably, seemingly unaffected by his coachman’s erratic driving. “I just won five pounds.”

“You must think me very foolish,” she said ruefully.

Pembridge shook his head. “No, not very. In fact, our sort of behavior is rather commonplace in America. I understand they are all troublemakers there.”

Her behavior was being compared to a rake’s. What was worse, she couldn’t argue.

Kathryn sighed, staring out her window at the dim lights of the city passing by. If she weren’t constantly putting herself into these situations, she might not be in the colossal mess she was in. She might never have been attacked in a garden, saved by a rake, and forced to marry the rake in scandal. No doubt, she was the reason she had been attacked at the opera, too.

Nick leaned forward. “Come now, m’girl. It’s dangerous and cruel to leave a man to guess what a woman is thinking.” Nick suddenly took on a panicked expression. “You are not sailing for America.”

Kathryn frowned at the absurd outburst. “Of course not.”

“Of course.” Nick straightened and nodded. “Precisely how deep is my grave, then?”

“Pardon?”

The carriage lurched around another corner, interrupting their conversation, one she was apparently partially absent for.

“It isn’t a race,” she muttered, righting herself on her seat. She hoped they were on the street where she lived so taking another corner as though they were being chased by a band of brigands would not be necessary. She peeked out the window.

“Profoundly deep,” he muttered. “I am fairly confident Grey will be doing penance, perhaps indefinitely,” Nick went on. “Gad, I would wager he doesn’t even realize his mistake. I, on the other hand, am willing to make it up to you.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “Would you accept a cottage?”

“Nick, if you don’t explain yourself, I
shall
be angry,” she exhorted. She was exhausted, her feet hurt, her head hurt, the night was endless, and her life was a complete and utter mess. Making the best of this was like making the best of mud stew. Not to mention, the monster from her nightmares looked distressingly like a normal man.

“Forgive me for not staying in touch,” Nick said cryptically. The intense look in his eye belied his casual tone. “It is monstrously difficult to clear the schedule of a scoundrel, even for a troublesome girl overly fond of sweet rolls.”

Her attention turned back to Nick, ready to rail on him for his infuriating riddles. The set down was on the tip of her tongue when she froze, staring as though seeing him for the first time.

He smiled. “It’s good to have you back.”

She realized then what it was she had remembered when he had found her at the card room’s door: those eyes, his name, a blond-haired boy with incredibly blue eyes laughing with her, acting like a big brother because she had none of her own, and he had no sisters.

But there was also another boy there, one with ink-black curls and intense, gray eyes, and he was laughing along with them. He was running with them and stealing sweet rolls. He was hiding her under the table when Cook came in, taking blame for the theft and being run out with a rolling pin.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked past a lump in her throat.

“I was not at liberty. When you called me by name, I figured…” His voice trailed off as he studied her. “Are you all right?”

She nodded jerkily then shook her head. “Why didn’t
he
tell me?”

“Grey?” Nick raised a brow. “You would have to ask him.”

She sniffed, blinking back hot tears. She had trusted him. She was losing her heart to him just as she had as a naive little country girl, thinking he would return from war to sweep her off her feet. She had been a fool! Grey had come back from war all right, but not for her. She might not have existed for all the attention he had paid her. It was as though their childhood friendship and experiences had meant nothing to him.

Her brows drew tightly together. “Why would he show up now?”

Nick leaned back into the squabs. “He may have been concerned over your health. That was a nasty accident you had.”

She snorted at the thought. “Not likely. How would he even know about my health?”

“Perhaps your father wrote him,” he suggested casually. “Why ask me? Why don’t you ask him?”

“And why would he
marry
me?” The wrinkle between her brows increased.

“You could ask him.”

“Why wouldn’t he tell me we knew each other?” She bit down on her bottom lip.

“I am sure I have no idea,” came Nick’s slightly annoyed voice from across the carriage. “You could
ask him.
”

Kathryn kept the rest of her thoughts to herself until the carriage slowed to a stop in Berkeley Square. Even leaving the affair early, the house was fast asleep. The servants had all gone to bed hours before.

She quietly made her way to her bedroom and closed the door solidly behind her. Her maid startled where she had fallen asleep by the fire and quickly rose to help Kathryn out of her gown and into a night rail.

“That will be all, Emily,” Kathryn said as she tied the fastenings of her dressing robe in a little bow at her waist.

“But your hair, my lady.”

“I can handle my hair. Go on to bed. You look absolutely exhausted.”

Emily curtsied with a grateful smile then quietly slipped out of the room. After the maid had left, Kathryn sat at her vanity, removing her jewelry and the pins from her hair as she sifted through her new memories, trying to understand why.

She remembered her childhood now with painful clarity. She remembered their escapades and races, how he had taught her to fish with her mother’s hatpin when she was eight years old. He had been her dearest friend before he had gone off to war, but war had turned him into a stranger who was known only to laugh at vice and debauchery. It had made him violent.

At least, that’s what she was told. Everything she had learned of him since then had been from gossips. He had never come back to visit her. He had never danced with her at her coming out. He hadn’t even attended. The next morning, she had learned he had been found drunk as a sailor in Piccadilly with two buxom redheads.

It had broken her heart. She had decided immediately to avoid him as diligently as he avoided her. As long as he was a rake, she would have nothing to do with him.

She shook her head. How could she have forgotten so much?

She was still sitting there an hour and a half later, her forehead creased and sore and her eyes glossed over from exhaustion. She knew memories were still missing, important memories. Giant gaps lay strewn across her past, making the task of connecting the dots frustratingly hopeless. How had she ended up in an alley, bleeding and unconscious? Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, she knew Matthews was involved, but how? His voice echoed in her brain, but the words were muffled.

This was useless. She was holding her throbbing head in her hands, barely able to keep her eyes open. She forced herself up, somehow managing to reach her bed without collapsing onto the floor. With one last bit of effort, she extinguished the candle then slid under the bedclothes.

G
rey sat silently
in the plush chair in his room. The candles he had lit had long expired, and he did not have the will or the want to light the hearth in front of him. It was long past midnight, and still, he sat fully dressed in the dark, facing an unlit fireplace.

In a word, pathetic.

He had spent all day gathering his sources, scrounging for any tidbit of useful information. When he had arrived home, he had begun devising his next steps with frustratingly insufficient results. His brain simply refused to think clearly anymore. He needed sleep.

He’d had only one good night’s rest in months.

He stared at the connecting door to Kathryn’s room. She might have already been asleep when he had arrived home. She might be asleep in bed at this very moment or lying awake. If she were awake, she might be worried or scared. She might miss him as much as he missed her.

He ought to check.

He began to rise from the chair, but his trained ears picked up faint footfalls in the hall. Then her door opened.

He couldn’t see the clock, but it was late. Quite late. What the devil was Nick thinking keeping Kathryn out at all hours of the night?

Grey eased back into his chair. He would wait. If she wanted him, she would come to him. He hoped so, at any rate. He couldn’t forget he was the one who had hoisted her onto his closest friend, despicably casting her aside as though she were a soiled copy of last week’s
Harold.

He waited for what felt like hours for her to open the door and come to him, but the light went out, and all was quiet again.

* * *

G
rey had been rising
before the sun since returning to London. He was not fond of the habit, but he had much to accomplish and precious little time with which to do it.

He met with his personal Runners daily, intercepted Bexley’s incoming and outgoing posts, and searched like hell for the blasted shadow who had somehow vanished before his men could identify him.

That was really of no consequence. If Grey’s hunches were correct, catching the shadow would be useless in getting to Bexley. The man had brutally tortured and killed Smith. A man like that didn’t get where he was by succumbing to Grey’s sort of persuasion.

No, what Grey needed was to strike at the source. He needed proof that Bexley was behind the whole arrangement, and he was determined to get it. In fact, if his sources were correct, his opportunity might strike within the next two weeks, and Grey would make it count.

Just like the last several days, Grey returned home long after Kathryn would have left for the evening’s entertainments. Nick would be smiling charmingly with her fastened to his arm, reintroducing her to society as the Marchioness of Ainsley, championing her, and allowing her to recapture the capricious hearts of the ton
.

In short, what Grey ought to have been doing.

He was jealous. Sick with it. And wracked with guilt. Worse still, it was driving him batty.

It was a completely irrational state to be in. After all, he had made those arrangements himself in order to keep Kathryn alive. Since Nick knew what they were up against, he was obviously the best choice for chaperone. It was the only logical solution and possibly the only way Grey would be free to spend his time getting to the bottom of this mess.

Grey had retired to his study, taking a much needed break to read the papers. His morning had been spent in the East End again, and he was bone tired after digging up his seedy connections there.

It would do him no good to be run ragged. That and he was waiting for a report from one of his sets of eyes in Old Nichol, one that was oddly absent this morning.

If James doesn’t show up by tomorrow, Grey might need to send someone after him.

Grey took a mouthful from the snifter of brandy in his hand before his eyes fell on an especially intriguing article. His brows rose with interest. This was what he had been waiting for.

It seemed his not-so-friendly acquaintance, Lord Bexley, was hosting a rather large to-do next Tuesday. That might be worth escorting Kathryn to himself. Securing an invitation would be simple enough for the Marquess and Marchioness of Ainsley. If not through proper channels, then he would secure the invitations through other means.

He would have simply broken in to search the place if the whelp hadn’t employed guards after their little encounter in the garden. If Grey knew what he was looking for and where to find it, he could easily find his way around the sentries. However, he didn’t know either of those two very important pieces of information. Fumbling around in the dark would be too slow going, and he couldn’t risk being seen, not without the proof he needed.

His lips curved into a satisfied smile. Finally, he had an opening, something to look forward to. Now he could enjoy his evening.

He was midway through the political columns when he heard a soft knock on the door.

“Yes?” he answered distractedly, now engrossed in an editorial on Parliamentary reform.

“I hoped I might have a word.”

Kathryn’s voice broke through like a ray of sunshine on an already promising day. He dropped the paper, turning to her with a genuine smile. His eyes devoured her from head to toe and back again. But the way she looked back at him was all wrong.

Those weren’t the same eyes that had told him he was beautiful or gazed at him affectionately when she had woken up in his arms the next morning.

She seemed suspiciously cactus-like at the moment.

“Of course,” he said. His chest constricted painfully, like a dozen tiny knives stabbing at his heart, the black heart he wasn’t supposed to have.

* * *

K
athryn stepped into the room
, but only just, standing with her back against the door.

She had puzzled all morning over the darkly handsome contradiction sitting comfortably before her. She couldn’t accept the logic telling her the man she had given her heart to was the same man who strutted about London, confident as a king, breaking more hearts than a well-cast Othello production. The same man who stood aloof and heartless as a statue, bent on destroying the entire female populace, one idiotically swooning numbskull at a time.
He
was the same man who had touched her as though she were a deity, and he was happy merely to be at her feet. The same man whose heated gaze told her he had seen more than some pint-sized troublemaker when he had looked at her. The same man who, as a boy, had been her dearest friend.

She couldn’t reconcile it. There must have been a reason, an explanation for his actions. And she meant to have it through rational conversation. Then she saw him, and all her hurt and anger bubbled back up.

She could practically hear the steam whistling out her ears. He had deceived her then stolen her heart under false pretenses. He was a liar and a thief.

“I am glad you came. I have missed you,” he said.

A part of her wanted to believe him, but she knew better. He was a rake. This was the game he played, and she was the numbskull who had fallen for it.

“Have you?” she asked, adopting his chilling tone.

A flash of emotion flickered behind his eyes, but they immediately returned to their typical stony expression.

He shrugged. “Business can be so tedious, and I have not had any distraction since returning to London.”

She knew precisely what sort of
distraction
he was referring to. The question was whether he meant her or his mistress. Or mistresses, whatever the case might be. The thought turned her stomach to lead.

“Have you not?” she asked, feigning a lightness she did not feel. “I had assumed the great rake Lord Ainsley would have a veritable harem hidden away somewhere.”

“You must have heard some captivating tales I have not been privy to,” he muttered, leaning back in his chair and looking up at her lazily.

“Oh, but I was promised they were the truth,” she said, “every god-awful word.”

She was straying off topic, but she was angry and getting angrier at the thought of those
tales.

He focused stoically on an inkwell as he turned it in place on the edge of his desk. “Kathryn, those stories—”

“Scandalous,” she interrupted, forcing herself to ignore those long fingers and what they were capable of. “It’s a wonder you have not been run off like Byron. I must hand it to you, though. Some of those feats took incredible imagination and ingenuity.”

“Ingenuity?” he asked, still playing with the small bit of decorative glass and ink.

She nodded and smiled as though it weren’t killing her to raise the subject. “And stamina.”

At that, he glanced up at her with raised brows.

What was she doing? The conversation was upsetting her more than him. She deserved it, though. Someone needed to remind her what he was, because something deep inside her still ached for him.

“What poppycock,” he said impassively. “Half of that tripe is the result of an overactive imagination.”

“Yours, apparently,” she returned.

“I don’t have one,” he said.

She smiled. “You used to.”

Grey stared blankly at Kathryn. “I don’t recall.”

“I do.”

* * *

T
here it was
—the irrefutable proof. She remembered.

His heart thudded in his chest, the one she had so carelessly resuscitated back into painful existence. He could add that to her list of aggravating stunts.

“Do you?” he asked, leaning back to balance his chair on two legs with practiced ease. “Do tell. What precisely do you recall?”

Her arms folded at her waist, and one brow shot up. Cactus.

“You told Papa I fell into the pond in my Easter dress because you pushed me in,” she said defiantly.

Grey frowned, and all four chair legs were back on the floor with a thud. He was doing his best to play his role of the calm and collected aristocrat, but she was muddling everything. The way she stood, her voice, the infuriating way she raised her eyebrow—it was all terribly distracting, so distracting he hadn’t been able to prepare for the nonsense that had just issued from her mouth.

“Pardon?” he asked.

“You said you were experimenting to see if my puffed sleeves would keep me afloat,” she continued, “or if all the frivolous material of my gown would suck me to the bottom.”

“That has nothing to do with imagination. Any child can come up with a dozen excuses for an escapade.” Grey swallowed past the lump in his throat as furtively as he could manage and forced his rising pulse to slow.

He remembered the incident all too well. He had been frightened to death she would drown.

“I fell in because I wanted to catch a fish with my bare hands from the bridge,” she continued, her eyes narrowed on him. “Papa took a riding crop to you for it.”

“Having a sudden fit of conscience, are we?” He raised his brows. “Well, you can’t blame
me
. I didn’t ask him to strike me, you know.”

“No,” she mused, her eyes still narrowed as though she did blame him. “He thought you nearly killed me. He had no idea you saved my life.”