No Good Duke Goes Unpunished (22 page)

He shook his head, holding her hand at bay. “Who made that swill?” He looked to the woman who’d brought the pot in. “Didier?”

The Frenchwoman came forward, tears of relief in her eyes. “
Oui
, Temple.
Je l’ai fait
.” She nodded again. Found her English. “Yes. I made it.”

He looked to Mara, wariness in his gaze. “And you didn’t touch it?”

She shook her head, finding her tongue. “Only to pour it.”

He pushed the glass to her. “Drink.”

Her brows furrowed. “I don’t—”

“You drink it first.”

Understanding dawned, and then she did laugh, the sound light and foreign and remarkably welcome. As welcome as his black gaze, free of hallucination.

Something lit in those handsome eyes, and he pushed the glass toward her again. “Drink it, Mara.”

Her name was beautiful on his lips.

“What on—” the Marchioness of Bourne stepped forward, stayed by Bourne. She turned on her husband. “It’s preposterous.”

“It’s Temple’s choice.”

He didn’t trust her.

He was conscious enough to mistrust her.

She lifted the glass to her mouth and tossed the liquid back before opening her mouth and sticking her tongue out wide at him. “I am not in the market to poison you today.”

He watched her carefully. “Good.”

She ignored the pleasure that coursed through her at the word, turning instead to refill the glass. “That is not to say that you do not drive a woman to consider it.”

His hand met hers, guiding the tea to his lips. “Another day, then.”

She wanted to smile. Wanted to say a dozen different things. Things he wouldn’t hear. Things he wouldn’t believe.

Things she couldn’t say.

So she settled on: “Drink, you great ox.”

And he did, the whole glass. When she began to move away, he clasped her hand in an unyielding grip, his skin somehow warm despite his shocking loss of blood. Her gaze flew to his.

“You made me a promise.”

She stiffened at the words. “I did. I said I would return to Society. Prove you not a killer.”

“I’m not talking about that promise.”

She looked to him. “What then?”

“You promised me answers. You promised me truth.”

Her blood roared in her ears. She had not imagined that he could hear her as she’d nursed him. As she’d whispered to him, fear and hope warring for control of her words. “You remember.”

“My memory is a rare thing when it comes to you, I know.” He drank again. “But you will tell me the truth about that night. You will keep your promises.”

Promises for vengeance. For truth. As long as he lived.

And here he was, alive.

She nodded. “I shall honor them.”

“I know,” he said.

And then he slept.

T
hree mornings later, Temple sank into the brutally hot water in the great brass bathtub that had been custom built for his post-fight ablutions at The Fallen Angel.

He hissed at the pain that shot down his left arm when he lifted it, careful to keep his bandaged wound from the bath, not wanting to give the as yet unhealed injury any reason to return him to fever or infirmary. He rolled his shoulder tentatively, grimacing as he leaned back into the curved brass, resting his head on the lip of the bath.

He let out a long sigh, and closed his eyes, letting the steam and the heat engulf him, taking his thoughts with them.

Most of his thoughts.

Thoughts that did not include
her
, with her pretty, soft hair and her strange, irresistible eyes and her strength beyond measure. Thoughts that did not make him question just why she had done what she’d done so many years ago. What she had done that night in the ring. Whether she’d aided her brother in his quest. Whether she’d passed him the knife that had ended up in Temple’s breast.

Thoughts that did not make him remember the kindness with which she had washed his wound the morning he’d regained consciousness. The way she’d served him tea. The way she’d healed him. Thoughts that did not have him wondering what it would be like to have that kindness again. More frequently.

Or worse, what that kindness meant.

He swore harshly in the quiet, steam-filled room.

He did not want her kindness. He wanted her remorse. Her repentance. Did he not?

He moved his arm carefully, disliking the twinge of pain that came with the motion. Disliking the way his arm seemed to be trapped in sand when he used it. Disliking the fear that came with thoughts of the limitation.

The feeling would come back. The strength, too.

It had to.

A memory flashed, fresh from the evening of the fight—Mara at the edge of the ring, meeting his gaze, terror in her large eyes.
He’ll kill you!
She’d called out to him. Warned him, but he’d been so damn transfixed by the worry in her gaze—by the thought that she might care for him—that he hadn’t understood the words until the knife was in his chest.

Until later.

Until he’d danced in and out of consciousness and her voice had whispered promises in his ear.

You will live.

You will live, and I will tell you everything.

He had lived.

And she would tell him the truth about that night and her decision to run. She would tell him why she’d chosen him. Why she’d punished him.

Why she’d stolen his life. And how she would give it back to him.

“Do you know what you’re about?”

He did not show his surprise at the intrusion, even as his heart beat slightly faster at the realization that someone had entered the room without his notice.

“I don’t doubt you’re going to tell me,” he said, opening his eyes to find Chase at the end of the bathtub. “How long have you been watching me bathe?”

“Long enough for London’s female half to become quite jealous.” Chase dropped onto a nearby stool and leaned forward, legs spread wide, elbows on knees. “How is the arm?”

“Painful,” Temple said, fisting the hand of the bad arm and attempting a slow uppercut into the air. “Stiff.”

He left out other words.
Numb
.
Weak
.
Useless
.

“It hasn’t been a week; give it time,” Chase said. “You should be abed.”

Temple shifted in the water, wincing at the way the movement sent a pain through him. “I do not require a keeper.”

“Nonetheless, every night you are out of the ring is a night we lose money.”

“I should have known that you weren’t concerned about my well-being.”

They both knew it wasn’t true, and that Chase would raze London if it would help Temple’s recovery. But they pretended nonetheless. “I’m concerned about your well-being as it relates to my profit margin.”

Temple laughed. “Ever the businessman.”

They were quiet for a long moment before Chase spoke again. “We have to discuss the girl.”

Temple did not pretend not to understand. “Which girl?”

Chase ignored the stupid question. “She has requested to return to her post.”

He hadn’t seen her in days—had wanted to recover before he saw her again. He’d wanted his strength back before they did battle again. Before he faced her.

But he did not want her far from him. He refused to consider the reason why.

“And the brother?”

Chase let out a long breath and looked away. “Still missing.”

“He can’t stay that way forever. He hasn’t any money.”

“It’s possible the girl funded the plan.” Chase ran a hand through blond locks. “After all, she’s something of an expert at hiding in plain sight.”

It wasn’t possible. She was too concerned about money. “She didn’t help him.”

“You don’t know that.”

Except he did. He had played the fight over again and again. “I saw her at the fight. I saw her try to stop him.” He paused, her whispered promises in his mind. “She saved me. She healed me.”

“She had little choice.” Chase was ever skeptical.

Temple shook his head. She hadn’t tried to kill him. He couldn’t believe it. He wouldn’t.

Chase’s brows rose. “You champion the girl?”

“No.”
Liar
. “I simply want to be clear that her punishment is not her brother’s.”

“And how shall her punishment be meted out?”

“I need West.” Duncan West, one of the wealthiest members of the club and the owner of half a dozen London papers.

Chase nodded and stood, understanding Temple’s plan without having to be told more. “Easy enough.”

So it began.

Did he want it this way? He’d been so sure. He’d imagined it night after night, this moment where he revealed her to London and took his justice. He imagined her ruined. With no choice but to leave again. To start over. To know what it was that she had done to him.

But now . . . “It will be on my terms, Chase.”

Brown eyes went wide with feigned innocence. “Who else’s?”

“I know how you like to meddle.”

“Nonsense.” Chase straightened one sleeve, brushing a speck of lint from the cuff. “I merely remind you that women are excellent actresses, Temple. Yours is no different.” Temple resisted the thread of pleasure that coiled through him at the possessive. “She was scandalizing London and causing the biggest distraction the Angel had ever seen minutes before her brother stabbed you. The whole situation stinks of collusion.”

“Then why didn’t she run, too? Why did she stay?” The questions had rattled through him for days, since he’d woken from stabbing-induced sleep to find her at his bedside looking grateful. Pleased to see him alive.

Beautiful.

His.

No. Not his. Never his.

“Bourne wasn’t about to let her go,” Chase replied. “The point is, she’s not to be trusted. Your wound isn’t healed, and you’re half the man you were a week ago. Allow her to leave. Asriel will watch her.”

Temple stiffened at the words, disliking their truth. Disliking his weakness. Disliking the way the idea of anyone watching Mara unsettled him. She was his responsibility. His path to truth. “I can’t risk him losing her.”

Chase cut him a disbelieving look. “Asriel has never lost a thing in his life.” When Temple did not reply, the founder of The Fallen Angel leaned in. “Christ. Don’t tell me you’re after her.”

“I am not.” Temple stood, water sloshing over the edge of the bathtub to form great pools on the floor.

He wasn’t.

He couldn’t be.

Chase threw him a linen towel from nearby and tossed another into one of the puddles. “She robbed you of your life—metaphorically, then nearly literally. And now you’re intrigued by the chit.”

Temple dried haphazardly, unable to use his bad arm. “She remembers everything about that night. I remember nothing.”

“What’s to remember? She drugged you, fled, and left you holding the debt for a murder you did not commit.”

There was more. The whys. The hows.

The repercussions. The boy with his hair and her eyes.

He wrapped the towel around his hips, and pushed past Chase, returning to his chamber. “She will tell me everything about that night, and she will prove my innocence to the rest of the world. That’s why I’m—as you say—intrigued by her. That’s why I worry that Asriel will lose her.”

But that’s not all of it.

He ignored the thought that should have sounded like Chase but instead sounded like himself. He was not intrigued by her. Not by her strength and her will and her fearlessness. Not by her long neck or her full lips, either. There were thousands of women in London more beautiful and more biddable.

He was not intrigued by Miss Mara Lowe.

Intrigued seemed a tame description of how he felt about her. Drawn. Tempted.

He was consumed by her.

Chase was silent for a long moment, watching as Temple dressed, sliding into trousers, then a white lawn shirt, and the sling that had been designed for his injured arm.

He did it all with one arm. Perhaps Chase wouldn’t notice.

Chase noticed everything. “How does it feel?”

It doesn’t.

“I could still fell you.”

A golden brow rose. “Big words.” Chase headed for the door, one hand on the handle before a thought occurred. “I nearly forgot. We’ve been watching the orphanage since Lowe attacked you.”

Temple was not surprised—Lowe had no money and no allies now that he’d crossed the Angel. He could not show his face anywhere in London without threat. He only had his sister.

Anger threaded through Temple at the thought. “And?”

“He sent her a message. We intercepted it.”

Idiot boy. “What did it say?”

Chase smirked. “What do you think? He needs money.”

Memories flashed: Mara’s second-in-command hinting that the orphanage could use a charitable donation; the threadbare skirts she wore when she did not expect him; her bare hands, red with cold.

“She doesn’t have what he needs.”

“She doesn’t have anything at all.”

“Did we take the note?”

“No. We read it and let it pass.”

They had set her up to help her brother. To betray Temple.

Again.

“I want to speak with her.”

I want to see her.

I want her.

Chase was quiet for a long moment, then said, “Send her back to MacIntyre’s, Temple. Asriel will have a half-dozen men watching the place ’round the clock.”

Temple’s gaze shot to Chase. “MacIntyre’s.”

Chase hesitated. Chase
never
hesitated.

Temple pounced. “MacIntyre’s. You are not the type to care about the name of some half-house filled with aristocratic by-blows.”

“Not typically, no, but are you surprised I know of it? Of course I know where our members send their bastards.”

It was information Chase had to know. Information that kept the Angel in power. It was information Temple could not stop himself from wanting. Christ, did he want to shout the question from the rafters.

Is one of the boys mine?

Is one of them hers?

Ours?

He settled on: “Did you know she was there?”