Lord of Fire (46 page)

“I am aware of the unpardonable way my brother has behaved toward you. I know what happened, and I know you are not to blame for what befell you. It is entirely his fault. He knows better.” He shook his head with a look of contained fury. “When Caro told me—”

“Caro told you?” she interrupted.

“Yes.”

“Oh.” She was taken aback to realize that Lucien had been telling the truth last night. He had not boasted to anyone about his conquest of her.

“I cannot help but feel somewhat responsible for my brother’s actions.”

“Not at all, my lord,” she murmured, even as she recalled Mr. Whitby’s assertion that Damien had appointed himself his brother’s keeper years ago.

“Nevertheless, I mean to ensure that no further harm comes to you,” he said soberly. “I shall not allow my brother to dishonor our family name or you. The reason I wished to see you was, uh—” He cleared his throat; then his words rushed at her like a veritable cavalry charge riding to her rescue. “I have come to offer you the protection of my name—to make you my wife if you will have me. You will not go unprotected after what my brother has done to you. I will make it right. As for the past, as I said, I’m well aware that it wasn’t your fault. My stature in society is such that this . . . mishap . . . need never come back to haunt you.”

She stared at him, astonished by his offer when she had thought so ill of him. She lowered her gaze, humbled and chastened by his chivalry. Though his speech was well rehearsed, she found the big warrior’s uneasiness entirely endearing.

While he waited for her reply,
Alice took a brief mental glance at the possibility that he was offering. The man was a godsend, in truth. She would not have to explain her lack of virginity, nor would she be blamed for it. He was a national hero with a sterling reputation, a man known for his courage and integrity. As his wife, she would be a countess, a respected member of Society—and better still, a wife and mother. But slowly,
Alice laid her hand on his forearm and gazed wistfully into his deep gray eyes.

“What a dear, decent man you are. Please accept my deepest thanks. Though I am honored beyond words by your generosity, I cannot accept.”

He furrowed his brow. “Why?”

“I’m in love with your brother,” she confessed softly.

He frowned. “Miss Montague, do not be foolish. Men and women marry every day without love. You will be ruined, and I need a wife anyway. I am offering you a lifeline. I advise you to take it.”

“It would hurt him too much.”

“So what if it does?” he asked, scowling just like Lucien. “How can you harbor any tenderness for a man who seduced you without a qualm and then abandoned you?”

“I
love
him,” she said more determinedly. “He has hurt me, yes, but I don’t want to punish him or take revenge on him. What happened between us was not
all
his doing, after all. He wooed me, but it was I who surrendered. I was the fool who gave him my heart.”

“And now he has broken it,” he said in a hard tone, studying her.

She lowered her gaze. “I apologize for my rudeness to you last night at the ball. I feared you had less than honorable intentions.”

“Understandable. Do not trouble yourself. Unlike my brother, I am quite thick-skinned, and as he would claim, thick-headed to match.” He cracked a rueful smile as he rose and handed her his calling card. “I realize this must be a difficult time for you. If you reconsider over the next few days and wish to change your mind, you can reach me at Knight House on
Green
Park
. My offer stands.” He gave her a curt bow, then marched back to his horse, pulling on his hat. Gathering the reins, he swung up into the saddle and tipped her a vague salute, then reeled his white horse around and cantered off across the drab green field.

Alice
watched him ride away and hoped she had not made a huge mistake.

 

“You
idiots
!”

Lucien’s bellow carried through the halls of the

Bow Street

justice offices.
He had officially reached his wit’s end,
he thought. He turned away from the huddle of bewildered French immigrants, emigrés, and tourists waiting behind bars in the holding cell and glared at the Bow Street Runners who had detained them. Even the duke of
Devonshire’s haughty French chef had been taken captive. Marc and the others stood around waiting to assist, shifting their weight uneasily while Lucien vented his temper on the

Bow Street

officers.

“How many times are we going to go through this? I told you Bardou is a big man—bigger than me, blond haired—look at these men! This is what you bring me? Have you even looked at the sketch I made up?”

“Yes, we have. My lads are doing their best, but the fact is, you’re the only one who has ever laid eyes on this man,” their captain protested while the Runners stood around, their hands on their hips, eyeing him sullenly.

“If this is your best, it’s not good enough,” Lucien clipped out. “People are going to die if this man is not found. God damn it! Release them.”

As the harassed Frenchmen were freed and sent on their way, Lucien brushed off the Runners and stalked out, his young associates marching in a tight V behind him. He pushed open the doors and paced restlessly on the pavement, his hands in his pockets. He racked his brain, to no avail, and somehow restrained himself from punching the brick wall beside him. The day had come—it was three in the afternoon of Guy Fawkes—yet somehow on the paramount day when he should have been deducing Claude Bardou’s plot, all he could do was obsess over finding out what Alice’s answer had been to Damien.

Bloody hell, if he were Damien, Bardou would have already been captured, thrown in the Tower, and executed,
he thought in vicious self-contempt.

“You didn’t have to bite their heads off,” Marc muttered to him as he paced by. “Now they’re going to be even less cooperative.”

“Does it still bloody matter?” he said. “It’s too late. We’ve already failed.”

“Don’t say that! You can’t give up hope yet.”

Lucien knew he was right, but his mood was frayed and raw after having slept a total of ten minutes the night before. He rubbed his forehead. “They’re incompetent.”

“Yes, but the captain had a point. Frankly, your drawing is terrible.” Marc grimaced wryly. “You can draw topographical maps with marvelous precision, my lord, I’ll give you that, but your sketch of Bardou—well, it barely looks human.”

Lucien ran his hand impatiently through his hair. “It’s no “Mona Lisa,” but how can any idiot confuse a fair-haired man of forty who’s over six feet tall with a little five-foot chef? They are
dunces
!”

“You’re the only one of us who has ever seen this man, my lord. Clearly, we need to unite you with someone who specializes in portrait drawings,” Talbert said.

“Miss Montague could do it,” Kyle said under his breath.

“I don’t want to hear it. I will not have her involved,” Lucien warned.

“Sir, people are going to die. You said it yourself!”

“And she will not be one of them,” he answered darkly.

“Now that we know she’s in Town, anyway, we might as well make use of her talents. She’s good at faces,” Jenkins argued.

“He’s right,” Marc insisted. “If three dozen of the constable’s watchmen and Runners and we ourselves have seen neither hide nor hair of Bardou, obviously, he is nowhere nearby. Where, then, is the danger in your simply going to her and asking her to help us? We will stand guard outside her house to ensure her safety, if you wish. All you have to do is describe Bardou’s face and let her draw it. She could be our only hope!”

“What makes you think she’ll help?” Lucien bit back. “I am not exactly in her good graces.”

“She would never refuse, knowing people’s lives depended on it,” O’Shea said sagely.

“Isn’t it the perfect excuse to go see her?” Talbert asked with a grin.

Scowling, Lucien turned away, but his heart had begun pounding at the mere thought of seeing her. Simply being near her strengthened him, and today he needed all the help he could get. The lads were right. She
was
talented at portrait work. He had seen that for himself. And God knew he was dying to find out what her answer had been to Damien.

He let out a huff full of bravado. “Oh, very well. I can’t believe I’m letting you little bastards talk me into this.”

“Do you know where she lives?”

“Could get there blindfolded.”

“Did he just blush?” Talbert asked Marc as Lucien strode over to his black stallion and swung up into the saddle.

“I heard that,” he retorted.

A short while later, he dismounted in front of the Montagues’ townhouse in

Upper Brooke Street

. Leaving his horse with his men, he strode up to the front door, braced himself, and knocked. God’s blood, he was as nervous as a youth—dry-mouthed, his pulse racing, his heart thumping in a state of jealous, tortured love. The minute or two that he waited on her doorstep felt like an eternity. He took his fob watch out of his waistcoat.
Twenty past three
. He snapped it shut again and tucked it back into his pocket just as a pleasant-looking little butler with a well-polished bald head answered.

“Good afternoon, sir. May I help you?”

“Er, good afternoon,” Lucien forced out brightly as he fidgeted with his riding crop. “I am here to see—” He swallowed hard. “—Miss Montague.”

“Whom shall I say is calling, sir?”

“Lord Lucien Knight.”

The butler’s amiable face instantly turned severe; his posture stiffened. Lucien realized in dismay that the good servant obviously recognized his name from his earlier adventures with the baroness.

“Begging your pardon, my lord,” the butler said, lifting his chin to a haughty angle. “Did I understand you correctly? You wish to see Lady Glenwood?”

“No, you impertinent flea. Miss Montague, please,” he repeated, his face coloring with—
was it shame for his past behavior
? he thought.
Good God, what was happening to him?
He was as bewildered as a snake that had begun to shed its skin.

“One moment.” Glaring with affront, the butler shut the door in his face.

This did not look promising. He turned away, tapping his riding crop against his leg with jittery impatience. What if she refused to see him?

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a flutter of motion in the window as the curtain moved. He looked over quickly, but whoever had been peering out at him had vanished. He narrowed his eyes. Was the chit planning on hiding from him, pretending she wasn’t at home, perhaps?

Watching the window a moment longer, however, he lifted his eyebrows as a small, downy-blond head appeared. Young Master Harry must have climbed up onto a piece of furniture, for presently, he peeped out the window at Lucien, looking altogether pleased with himself. Lucien smiled slowly, charmed by the tot’s sparkling, china-blue eyes and babyish grin.

When Lucien bowed to the tot, Harry ducked out of sight. Lucien frowned. A second later, the toddler looked out at him again, playing peekaboo. Lucien laughed softly and decided to rob Miss Montague of the chance to evade him. He opened the front door and poked his head in, bringing
Alice’s whispered, worried exchange with the butler to an abrupt halt. They were standing in the entrance hall.

“—Am I to tell him you are not at home?”

“Lucien!” she forced out, her eyes widening. Then her cheeks blazed. “Oh, Lord! You cannot just walk into someone’s house!”