Passion (16 page)

He was in trousers, barefoot, shirtless,
smoking a cheroot and at the far window. He had neither spoken,
looked, nor touched her, since he had left the bed in a swift
movement after spilling his seed.

Gabriella did not have any tears left. She
had no intention of not finishing what they started either. She did
not dwell on what happened between them. It was something she urged
past his intent. Nevertheless, she would never, ever, regret
it.

“In that packet is a list of influential
people he has blackmailed. One of the letters I glanced at in the
coach has the name of a Sir George Crowley. You will find he is
blackmailing your brother, Jules. He in turn, was blackmailed by
Stratton—likely, to come up with something on Stoneleigh. Stands to
reason, doesn’t it, if you’re in the business of blackmailing,
you’d pick the richest man in London, who has the most to
lose.”

Raith did not look from the window. He drew
on the cheroot and released smoke, his face as blank as she knew he
could make it when he was walling himself off in ice.

She headed for the door. “—It appears your
brother was paying up.”

Her hand was on the latch when she heard
Raith ground out in tone that seemed to scrape past his throat with
difficulty, “You do not have to go back there.”

“We both have our final act to play.” Looking
over her shoulder, she eyed his profile, that flexing cheek. “I’m
not asking your permission. I expect you to do as planned. We will
end this—for my mother, and for Suzette. Hopefully, Raith…for you
and I, too.”

Gabriella turned and walked out the door.

Down the stairs, in the hallway, just before
the entry door, she heard him shout her name.

Turning, she saw him standing on the landing,
feet bare, shirtless—his savage masculinity both sending a shiver
down her spine and giving her assurance, that he would end it. He
could no more walk away at this point, than she could.

They locked eyes over that distance, his so
black they looked like polished coal in that iron hard visage. Hers
steady and now dry of tears, determined—else the sacrifice, the
pain, the exhausting emotions, was for naught.

“Make it mean something, Raith,” she finally
spoke when he did not. “Make all the hell count for something.” She
swallowed, searing that image of him into her head. “And live—just
to spite the devil.”

The poignant smile on her lush lips was a
goodbye—that neither of them would say, an acknowledgement that
their long years together, their contract, was almost over. Their
lives, if they lived, were once more their own.

* * * *

It was early morning. Blaise and Ry took the
coach to the Duke’s mansion. Jules was immediately sent for. All of
them were assembled in the study when Ry relayed what he had heard
of Raith. No one interrupted or asked questions until he was
done.

Artis supplied first, “I confirmed he’s
living in the house. Not by the neighbors, mind. It seems you are
right, he rarely ventures out during the day.”

Jules, who was passing round the coffee, then
took his over by the fireplace and offered, “I’ll go, try and find
him, speak with him.”

“What do you make of this mistress he was
flaunting?” Blaise asked.

“They could have very well been within feet
of me and I’d not have seen them, so crowded are the hours the ton
is present there. Could be, she was just that, a mistress.” Jules
supplied. “It’s difficult to know. But if she was part of his
revenge, we need to find her and speak with her.”

The Duke ran a hand through his hair, pacing
now and shaking his head. “Who sent me that note? I just cannot
fathom why no more came, once I was here. Obviously, they knew I
would come to London.”

“This…revenge is something he’s been obsessed
with for years,” Ry put in. “Unless you know something of the
underworld, what it’s like on those streets at night, you never
understand the minds of people who walk them. It is not a world
just any man can stomach, or survive in. A few gents play at it,
but he has lived more there than anywhere. He is a smart and shrewd
man, so we can’t guess what we don’t know.”

Jules finished his coffee. “I’ll ask
discreetly at the clubs. I have an appointment to keep. I shall get
word to father after I’ve seen Raith, and he can catch you up,
Blaise.”

“Fine.” Blaise nodded. “Ry is going to make
rounds on the docks and in taverns. I will spend the day in the
coffeehouses. Chances are that a female who looks and drew as much
attentions as she apparently did, will be remembered.”

“Hopefully he will be there and he’ll see and
talk to me,” Jules supplied before taking his leave.

Blaise and Ry left shortly after.

The Duke went out an hour later, going to the
park where he walked—and yes, prayed. He did not like it. Not the
stories that dubbed his son an obsessed ghost, ones describing a
fierce and haunted man who obviously still was devastated by the
murder of his wife. That part he could understand, but the fact
that he had not been there for the son who needed him, when he
needed him, clawed at his heart. He felt sick, sick with what Raith
had suffered, and at the cursed fates that would deal such a blow
to him.

No love or acceptance in his life before,
nothing but coldness, bitterness, and lies. It was apparent Raith
had found someone to love him, who he loved in return, and look
what had happened—more anguish and pain.

His chest squeezing, Artis sat himself on a
bench. He was only half-aware of buggies, strollers, and riders
going by, vaguely conscious of the nods of respect. There was a
black fear in him, a writing guilt. He wanted desperately to let
his son know he loved him, that he would do anything in the world,
for him.

He was horribly afraid, he would never get
that chance.

* * * *

Caroline knew something was wrong the moment
she met the Captain in front of the coffee house.

“What’s amiss?”

His face was tense, body language too. “It’s
a private matter, something I regret, that demands my presence
elsewhere.”

She studied his face. “Is there anything I
can do?”

“No.” He took her arm, leading her not inside
but up the street toward the shop they had stood in front of the
night before. “How thick is the traffic?”

“Not bad.”

He cupped her face and kissed her.

Caroline responded shockingly fast, her body
seeking to be closer, her mouth loving the flavor and texture of
his. She should be frightened of the passion between them, the
sudden intensity with this man—but truthfully, it set her own free
and set her aflame.

Blaise released her, his breath accelerated.
He stepped back and leaned against the brick, though it was obvious
by his expression now that he would rather be nearer, embracing
her.

Laving her tingling lips, Caroline murmured,
“Are you in some sort of trouble? Or, someone you know? Let me help
you.”

He smiled tightly. “No. not me. Yes, someone
I know. But I have….others, that are able to help.”

Caroline frowned. “You look…upset.”

Shaking his head, he said merely, “I am
sorry, about our evening.”

“Don’t be. Certainly, you must take care of
whatever 'tis that concerns you. You must not think I—“

“It’s not that,” his voice was deeper. He
straightened, his face reflecting now his deep state of thought.
“There could be events that...might change…things.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I know.” He lifted his hand and perceptibly
wanted to touch her, but let it drop. A muscle flexed in his cheek
and he murmured, “Shall we continue our safe game Lady M, or dare I
say what we both know aloud? If I say it, then you cannot pretend,
and I cannot believe what I choose to hope would happen between
us.”

Caroline’s heart fluttered. Her stomach
tensed. She whispered, “I don’t care what happens. I will find a
way to see you again.” She rose to her tiptoes and kissed him.

Settled on her feet again, their mouths
reluctantly parting, she peered through those lenses and knew since
he could not see her, she must put her honest emotions into her
words. “If you discovered our future lay a million miles apart,
would you regret a moment we’ve had?”

“No.”

“Neither do I. I did not expect this. I never
expected to meet a stranger, feel everything I do right now. I do
not even know myself when I am with you, but I like that part of
me—more than any other. I feel more… alive.”

He breathed out heavily, “I understand.”

“Though my existence and obligations—things
that were set in stone long before I met you, may not be changed,
or rather, not in my power to change. This has meant more to me
than any event in my life. I’ve felt more…”

His hand came out and drew her into his
embrace for long moments.

She whispered, “I don’t want it to end here.
It cannot. Not yet.”

“You know where wanting leads.” He kissed her
brow, her cheek. “Do you know what this kind of intense feeling
means?”

His hold and small kisses were passionate. “I
know I feel it, and that’s enough.”

His lips covered hers. The kiss was deep,
hungry, before he set her from him with a whispered bloody hell,
then, “Can you have your coachman wait?”

“I hired a hack.”

“Is it still nearby?”

“Yes.”

“Lead the way.”

She did, and he ordered the man to drive
around for a half hour, and then set him out on another street,
after they were inside. Closed in the carriage, he turned and took
her in his arms. Pushing her hood back, his fingers went to her
hair, touching it, feeling it before he cupped her jaw.

Caroline put her hand on his side, under his
jacket, feeling the heat and strength in him. Gazing at his face,
her eyes adjusting to the gloom, she murmured, “Kiss me. Make me
feel like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.”

She heard him groan before his mouth covered
hers, and from the first hot rush and silken thrust of his tongue,
nothing did exist, but the man who made her feel like no other ever
would.

* * * *

The street where Raith lived was gloomy and
narrow, the mansion old and gothic. Jules muttered how it fit the
restless specter everyone spoke of as he climbed out of the coach
at the corner, telling the driver, “Wait here,” before he headed
toward it.

The drizzle was more a mist amid the fog. He
was glad for his great coat, mentally muttering next that his valet
would have a coronary at the condition of his boots. The cobbles
were hooved up and broken, undrained water lay rank in places he
could not avoid. The iron entry gate was broken, rusted and hanging
at an odd angle. How very apt and fitting, he ground dryly. He
proceeded through that entry and up a short walkway, banging the
knocker several times.

Huddled in his coat, he looked around,
waiting, and was eyeing the damaged gate when a figure rushed
through. Although wearing a cape and striding fast, he knew from
the height it was Raith.

“Raith!”

The figure came up short, and even in the
gloom Jules saw the stark and on-edge features—the chill in those
black eyes.

“What in bloody hell are you doing here!”
Raith’s voice rasped—different, mature—filled with something that
put chills down Jules’s spine.

“Since you obviously recognize me. Invite me
in. I need to speak with you.”

Raith stepped close and grasped the shoulder
of Jules’s coat, just as the door opened. The light was not bright,
but enough so the brothers saw each other clearly. “Get back in
your coach, wherever it is, and get the hell away from me.”

Shocked, Jules felt his coat released. He
turned in time to see Raith head through the door, and heard him
bark something at the butler.

Cursing, going after him, Jules entered and
shut the door loudly, seeing the butler hurry away seconds before
he caught up with Raith—who was taking the stairs two at a
time.

“Raith.”

Yanking off his coat, hair wet and clothing
stained Raith ignored him, reaching the landing and heading for his
rooms.

Jules did what he could not know others never
had, he followed—and used his hand to block the door Raith tried to
shut. He forced his way inside that stark domain.

“Get out!” Raith snarled and flashed him a
black glare, taking off his shirt. He was then hurrying to pour
water in a bowl.

Though disturbed by the atmosphere, the tomb
like feel of the chamber, Jules watched him scrubbing his face and
hands.

“Raith. Please—just give me a moment of your
time.”

“I don’t have a bloody moment.” Raith rinsed
his face.

Reeling from the image, the voice, and look
of Raith—dark and fierce, so bloody imbued with bitterness, Jules
murmured, “My God, what is that? What have you done?” Jules went
over and sniffed the shirt. “Is that gunpowder and…ethanol? Jesus
Christ. Tell me what you are doing, brother. Please, Raith, talk to
me!”

Drying and rushing to the wardrobe, yanking
out a black shirt, Raith growled, “Get out of my house,
Stoneleigh.”

Feeling as if he was dealing with a mad man,
Jules rushed, “We know it all Raith…about your wife, that she was
murdered.”

Buttoning the shirt Raith flashed black ice
at him again and sneered, “You—don’t know a bloody thing.” He
finished and scrapped his hair back with his fingers. Sitting down,
Raith tore off his boots and fetched another pair, hastily grabbing
a wool coat.

As alarmed by his movements, as he was the
evidence on his shirt, Jules watched Raith slide open a slim drawer
and take out a knife that he tucked in his boot.

“We can help you, Raith. We will help you.
Myself, father, Blaise.”

“It’s too late to help me.” Raith strode out
the door.

On his heels again, Jules attempted, “Mother
lied to you. She lied about who your mother was, and about father.
She was being cruel, and was livid that you would have an
inheritance. It was bad for all of us, but father wants you to know
the truth. He needs…to talk to you. We are all sorry, Raith. God
dammit! Please, listen...” He grabbed Raith’s arm as they exited
the door.