The Dangerous Lord (3 page)

The woman wiped her damp and reddened hands on her skirts, then stood aside. “Do come in.” As he entered, she added cheerily, “I'm Mrs. Box, the housekeeper. Where's Mr. Winston today?”

“He was called elsewhere. I'm taking his place.”

“Oh. Well, you wait here, luv, and I'll fetch the article.”

“Actually,” he began as she started for the imposing oak staircase, “Mr. Pilkington wanted me to speak to your master in person.”

“My master?” A bewildered expression deepened the lines on her forehead. Then she burst into laughter. “That Mr. Pilkington, he's so naughty. Didn't tell you, did he?”

“Tell me what?”

“Never mind. I won't spoil his little joke. I'll go tell the ‘master' you're here.” She lifted her skirts and took her time about ascending the stairs, all the while murmuring, “The master, eh?” between little fits of laughter.

He stared after her. Odd servant. She hadn't even taken his coat and hat. And was there no butler, no footman? What an eccentric household.

Crossing to a cast-iron hat rack, he set his coat and hat on it, then surveyed the marble foyer. Six years as a spy had taught him how to use observation to unearth a subject's secrets, but these surroundings were as enigmatic as their owner.

An understated room, devoid of the gimcrackery some preferred. A mahogany lowboy that held only a silver salver for letters. The tall mirror above it continued the griffin motif in small, delicate carvings. It was strange that a man who wrote so boldly about society's underbelly could have such refined tastes.

Perhaps the man's wife was responsible for the décor. That would explain the feminine touches—an edging of lace here, a softened line there. But if a woman was in the picture, why was the house so ill kept? The banister's brass fittings badly needed polish and the carpets needed sweeping. Where were the servants busily working at this time of the morning? The strong scent of tallow meant the man couldn't afford beeswax, but that wasn't so unusual.

As time dragged, Ian began to pace impatiently. He wanted this done, so he could go to Katherine's and settle this marriage business once and for all. He'd delayed seeing her since the column's appearance, telling himself she needed time to get over whatever pain the article had caused her. People already murmured behind her back,
about her plain looks, timid manner, and poor chances of finding a husband. To have the allegedly beautiful mistress of her prospective fiancé lauded in the paper would torture Katherine, so he'd told himself his presence would only make it worse.

But he was a bloody liar, and he knew it. The truth was, when he was with her, he wanted to be somewhere else. It continually irked him the way she either agreed with his every word or remained utterly silent. When she did attempt conversation, her naïveté annoyed him.

Most men would be pleased to have a naïve docile wife. Indeed, he'd chosen her precisely because she would cause no trouble, especially in his fight against his uncle. So why did the thought of marrying her make his blood run cold?

He wouldn't think of that. He
would
marry her, no matter what his selfish impulses protested. She suited his requirements. Besides, indulging one's most powerful emotions inevitably led to ruin. One must think before one acted, ignoring the siren call of desire or even anger. He'd learned that most painfully ten years ago, and his efforts to banish such temptations had ensured his survival ever since. They would also be what won him this current battle, not only with Lord X, but with his bastard of an uncle.

He strode toward the stairs, then retraced his steps. That's when the ceiling caved in. A whoosh behind him made him whirl around in time to see a hunk of plaster hit the floor inches from where he'd been standing.

His eyes narrowed. No, not plaster. He kicked at it. When it crumbled, then clung stickily to his boot, he was surprised to discover that the misshapen blob was actually a pile of dirty snow, barely starting to melt on the marble floor.

Boyish voices wafted down the stairwell. “'Ods fish, it's not him!” said one. A similar voice echoed, “It's some other gent.” He glanced up to find himself the object of shocked scrutiny by three pairs of eyes. Identical eyes in identical
heads that bobbed over the railing on the top floor like imps out of some farce. He blinked a couple of times, but there was no mistaking it. The three young urchins at the top of the stairs were identical. And one of them held an empty bucket in his hand.

“Hello there,” he called up. “Do you greet all your guests with such hospitality?”

A new face appeared at the railing, an older boy whose alarmed expression directly contrasted with the curious ones of the other boys. “Oh, Georgie, what have you done now? Lissy will have our heads for this!”

Lissy? Their nursemaid, perhaps? For these must be Lord X's children. Hmm. Identical triplets, a rarity. He added that to his store of information, although for the life of him he couldn't think of any gentleman who'd bragged of siring identical triplets.

The boy who wasn't a triplet raced down the stairs, with the others tumbling after him. At closer examination, his resemblance to the triplets was obvious. “Please, sir,” the older boy said as he skidded to a halt before Ian. “They didn't mean any harm.”

“Didn't they?” Leaning down, Ian poked around in the filthy snow. “Coal dust. Three or four small rocks. Lump of ice.” He picked out a roughly cylindrical shape and dangled it between thumb and forefinger. “An apple core? I'd say this lot would wreak quite a bit of harm on a man's head. And certainly his clothes.”

“We weren't aiming for you, sir,” one of the triplets said helpfully. “We thought you were Mr. Winston.”

With great difficulty, he suppressed a smile. “Not a favorite of yours, I take it.”

“He gawks at Lissy,” the older boy muttered.

Ian straightened, drawing out his handkerchief to wipe his hand. “Who's Lissy?”

“Our sister,” another triplet announced.

“I see.” Four sons and a daughter. Lord X had quite a
family to care for. “Well, I thank God I'm not Mr. Winston. And that your aim is faulty.”

“We're truly sorry, sir,” the older boy said penitently. “We don't usually do this sort of thing. If we hadn't been expecting the gentleman from the newspaper—”

“I've come in his place,” Ian broke in.

“Then you're a writer like Lissy?” one of the triplets asked.

“Not exactly.” Inexplicably, he balked at lying to the child. “Your sister's a writer?”

“Oh, yes, she writes all sorts of things,” the triplet continued eagerly, “but—”

“Be quiet,” the older boy told his brother firmly. Then he cocked his head to stare at Ian. “I could tell you're not a writer.”

“Could you?”

“All true writers have ink stains on their fingers. And you don't.”

Ian examined his hands with mock solemnity. “I believe you're right.”

“Lissy has ink stains on
her
fingers,” one triplet offered. “'Cause she writes—”

“I told you to hush, Georgie,” the older boy said sternly. “We're not supposed to talk about it. Lissy says it's not ladylike for her to write stories.”

Ian bit back a smile. He could easily imagine their sister, a budding novelist of fifteen or so, trying to imitate her father's profession while also clinging to her training in “proper” female behavior.

The housekeeper suddenly appeared at the top of the next floor. When she saw the children, she called out, “Stop bothering the gentleman, lads!” As she hurried down, she caught sight of the rapidly melting pile of snow, which they were ranged around like surgeons around a troublesome patient.

White brows furrowing, she shouldered the boys aside.
“I suppose you children got this from the balcony, eh? I swear, Father Christmas shall bring you naught but lumps of coal in your stockin's this year, 'specially if he has a word with your sister.”

The panicky looks that the triplets cast each other roused Ian's rusty protective instincts. “Actually, one of the footmen came in and shook a great amount of snow off his coat,” he remarked, hoping there
were
some footmen around somewhere. “I might have slipped in it if the boys hadn't hurried down to warn me.” When their grimy faces lit up gratefully, he tempered his sudden burst of feeling with a stern glance. “I'm sure they'll clean it all up for you. They're very helpful lads.”

“Yes, we'll do that, won't we, boys?” the older one ordered his brothers.

“Oh, yes, we want to help—”

“Let us do it—”

“We'll do it right away—”

“Very well, lads,” Mrs. Box said, the edges of her thin lips twitching from the urge to smile. “You may clean it up. James, run and fetch a mop. Georgie, you can use that bucket you happen to have handy.”

She faced Ian, her smile breaking out over her face. “Thank you, sir, for bein' so understandin'. They're wild boys sometimes, but they can be dears when they want.”

He tried to imagine that and failed. “I gather they don't like Mr. Winston.”

“To be honest, sir, none of us do. And speakin' of that, the article ain't quite ready, but you can go on up and wait for it.” She glanced back to where the boys were spreading more snow than they picked up. “Do you mind findin' your way yourself, luv? If I don't keep an eye on them, they'll have the whole foyer slicker than a cow's spit by the time they're through.”

“It's no trouble.” It might give him a chance to glimpse Lord X unobserved.

“The first door to your right upstairs.” Mrs. Box pointed up to the next floor. “Go on in. It's open.”

“Thank you,” he murmured, then hurriedly mounted the stairs.

When he found the room, he started to enter, then halted in the doorway. He must have misunderstood the housekeeper's directions. This room contained a woman, a petite young thing standing before a desk with her profile to him. He studied the profile with interest. She had a strong jawline and dramatic coloring, all russets and burnished ivory instead of the shell pink and alabaster so popular among young ladies these days.

She must be the boys' sister, Lissy. Judging from her size, she was probably only half his age, yet he couldn't tear his gaze away. Her hair was what drew him, a welter of cinnamon curls haphazardly piled atop her head and held in place by two crossed knitting needles. He'd never seen a female so unconcerned about her appearance. Indeed, the hem of her azure dress was soiled, and her shoes could use a cobbler's services.

Then she bent to open a desk drawer, and his mouth went dry. My God, what a derriere, its sweet curves perfectly outlined beneath the thin muslin of her gown. It was perverse of him to look, but how could he not? She might be young, but she already possessed the well-proportioned figure of a courtesan. No wonder Mr. Winston gawked.

It took all his self-control to wrench his gaze away and scan the hall for another open door. There was none. Thinking to ask the young woman to direct him, he cleared his throat.

Just as he registered the fact that she was writing something with the ink-stained fingers described by her brothers, she said without turning, “Come in, sir. I need only to make this one little correction, and then you can take it.”

Two things hit him at once. One, her calm, assured voice
indicated that she wasn't as young as he'd thought. And two, she was obviously expecting a visitor.

Mr. Winston.

Bloody hell
, he thought, cursing himself for his slow-wittedness.
Lord X is a woman
.

F
elicity scratched out a word, then scribbled another in the margin. “I'm sorry I'm so late with it,” she said, still scanning the page for other errors. “It's been a frenzied morning.”

A masculine voice, smooth as good French brandy, answered. “Take your time, madam. I'm enjoying the view.”

The instant the man's insolent meaning registered, she whirled around, preparing to give this new employee of Mr. Pilkington's the same sharp setdown she'd given Mr. Winston on
his
first day. Then she froze. The man with the cool, collected gaze who stood outside the door to her study was definitely not from the
Gazette
.

The Viscount St. Clair. She would recognize him anywhere.

Drat, drat, and double-drat. What was
he
doing here?
Clearly Mrs. Box had mistaken him for Mr. Pilkington's man and sent him up. But that didn't explain why a titled lord would call on her.

He smiled, or rather his mouth did. The rest of his expressionless face didn't indicate why he'd come. He stepped into the room. “I take it you know who I am.”

She certainly did. Though she'd never seen him this close, she'd noticed him at countless social occasions. Who wouldn't notice a man like that, nearly as tall as two of the triplets? Besides, few men filled out their coats and breeches so well in this age. And few men were so obviously
not
dandies. His face, with its sharp angles and rough lines, provoked comment wherever he went, especially when coupled with the olive complexion he'd inherited from his Spanish mother.

Not to mention those eyes…the exotic hue of India ink with pupils that seemed to spiral down into a black soul. They weren't called “devil's eyes” for nothing. Women either shrank from them or lost themselves in the depths…

She shook herself. She wouldn't be losing herself in those depths. What was wrong with her?

Yes, she knew him, only too well after following him down Waltham Street last week. Could that be why he was here? Because of the mention in last week's column?

But he couldn't possibly know she was Lord X: Mr. Pilkington guarded her identity well. Nor had Lord St. Clair any reason to protest her article. Men of his ilk loved having their mistresses praised.

Still, it wouldn't do for him to discover the truth. Quickly, she shoved her article under some papers behind her, then pasted a smile to her face. “Good day, Lord St. Clair. You must excuse my surprise. I didn't think we'd ever been introduced.”

“We haven't, madam.” Reaching behind him, he closed the door, an action that substantially increased her unease. Then his gaze narrowed on her. “But I know who you are.”
He said it as if surprised to discover it. “I've seen you at some of the balls. You're Miss Felicity Taylor. Your father was Algernon Taylor, the architect.”

“Quite so.” Good Lord, this was strange. He'd come to visit her, yet he'd only just now realized who she was?

“I was sorry to hear of your father's death last year.” His words were suitably sympathetic, but his expression still impossible to read. “I saw his work at Worthing Manor and Somerset House. He was quite talented.”

A lump choked her throat. “Yes, he was.” Talented and foolish. His talent had led him into the company of men of rank; his foolishness and open temper had prevented him from recognizing the dangers of living beyond one's means. He'd died as he'd lived—recklessly. She had no illusions about the father she'd adored and despaired over. Or the men of rank he'd cultivated. Her voice hardened. “Thank you for your condolences, Lord St. Clair, but if you'll excuse me, I'm rather busy and—”

“I see he isn't the only talented member of the family,” the viscount went on, as if she'd spoken to the wall. He gestured to her cluttered desk. “Apparently, you're equally talented with the pen…Lord X.”

The blood drained from her face. He knew!

Or perhaps he only thought he did. She must tread cautiously. “You mean that dreadful man who writes articles in the newspaper? Surely you don't think I have anything to do with him.”

He advanced on her like a threatening army. “Miss Taylor, don't assume I'm a fool merely because you think you know my secrets.”

The agitation in her chest increased. She backed up, only to be halted by the unwelcome presence of her very solid desk. “Only a fool would believe me to be Lord X. Whoever gave you your information was grossly misinformed.”

He halted within inches of her, much too close for propriety, and she cast him an outraged glance. She wished
she could put him in his place and wipe that smug smile from his insolent mouth, but the top of her head barely cleared his chin, which made it impossible to look down her nose at him without seeming like a complete ninny.

“No one gave me any information,” he said. “I did my own research. I unearthed Pilkington's minion, Winston. Then I followed him here, dispatched him elsewhere, and took his place.” Angling his large frame around her small one, he rummaged among the papers on her desk. Bay rum spiked his heat with scent. “Your housekeeper was gracious enough to send me up to fetch your article.” He suddenly stopped rummaging, a wicked smile touching his lips. Holding a sheet of foolscap up, he said, “This one.”

No point in dissembling any longer, was there? She tilted her head up—way up—to stare at him. “Very well. You've discovered my secret.”

“Yes, I have.”

His eyes met hers, even more unreadable at close range. They were as mysterious as midnight…and just as seductive.

Jerking her gaze away, she fixed her eyes on a point somewhere beyond his broad left shoulder. “I can't imagine why you've gone to all this trouble to find me.”

He tossed the paper onto the desk, but didn't move away. “Because you wrote lies about me in your column last week, and I dislike being the subject of false speculation.”

Her gaze shot back to his. Had she written something other than those comments about his mistress? “Those are harsh words indeed, Lord St. Clair,” she said flippantly. “I'll have to call you out for impugning my honor.”

One jet-black eyebrow arched upward. “I warn you, Miss Taylor—you would lose any duel with me.” His gaze drifted down her nose and cheeks to fasten on her mouth. “Although it would make for interesting sport until you did.”

The devil—he was as much a philanderer as she'd sus
pected. Now she understood why some women found him fascinating. And why her timid friend, Katherine Hastings, found him terrifying.

“You said you came here to discuss my column,” she remarked, annoyed by the rapid thudding of her heart. “I confess to being confused about which one offended you.”

“Don't play games with me—you know which one I mean. The one about my supposed mistress on Waltham Street.”

“
That
is the source of your objection? Please humor my stupidity a bit longer—precisely what in my comments gave you offense?”

“The fact that they are untrue,” he said, enunciating every word with growing impatience, as if speaking to a child. “I already explained that.”

He hovered so near she could see each neatly cropped strand of his hair, glossy as fine velvet. His proximity, coupled with an annoying glint of determination in his eyes, began to worry her. In times like these she would give a fortune to be taller. And possessed of a gift for fisticuffs.

Something about the man disturbed her…a dark purpose beneath the civilized appearance, like a falcon's hooded head. She suddenly had a profound desire to be near an exit before the hood came off and the bird of prey struck. Easing from between him and the desk, she edged toward the door.

“Don't even think of leaving before we're finished,” he commanded in a steely voice, turning to follow her movements.

She halted in her tracks. “I-I wasn't.”

Though she wanted to. She had dealt with stupid men. She had even handled furious men, who were merely larger versions of her petulant brothers. But this man, with his intelligence and eerie calm, was outside the realm of her experience. This man compelled obedience by his very
manner. She didn't want to discover what would happen if obedience wasn't immediately forthcoming.

“What I wrote about you wasn't untrue.” She attempted to match his calm. “It was a speculation, one I based on several facts.”

“Such as?” Keeping his gaze fixed on her, he rested his hip on the desk. When he crossed his muscled arms over his chest, a shiver rippled over her skin. Being alone with him gave her an entirely new perspective on the man. When she'd seen him in public, surrounded by his peers, it had been easy to dismiss the air of danger he wore like cologne. But now that he stalked her in Papa's old study, it was anything but easy.

“Well, Miss Taylor?” he asked, jerking her back to the business at hand. “What are these facts?”

“Ah, yes.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “The house in Waltham Street was taken by you over a year ago for the woman who resides there. She's beautiful, relatively young, and obviously enamored of you. And her name is Miss Greenaway.”

Her one other point she kept in abeyance. She might need it later, if matters grew complicated. No need to provoke this fearsome viscount any more than necessary.

A moment of dead silence ensued. Then he shoved away from the desk and straightened to his full intimidating height. “Those are indeed the facts—for the most part.” He paused, his gaze examining her with uncanny precision, as if to discover her weaknesses. “You did make one subjective statement: that she's ‘obviously enamored of me.' What led you to that conclusion?”

“I spoke to her in person.” Though that was stretching the truth a bit.

“In person?” An undercurrent of anger surfaced briefly in his voice before he mastered himself. “And Miss Greenaway told you she was enamored of me?”

A hot flush stole over her cheeks. “Well, not exactly…
I-I mean…” For a moment, the mad impulse to lie seized her. But she had the oddest feeling that he'd know if she did. “To be honest, she wouldn't speak of you at all. She confirmed her name and that the house belonged to you, nothing more.” She'd only said
that
much because Felicity had flustered her by taking her by surprise in the street outside the house. But the moment Felicity had raised the subject of his lordship, the woman had blushed and fled back into her sanctuary. Surely that sufficiently proved the woman's status.

“How did you conclude she was ‘enamored' of me?”

Her blush told me so
, she thought. But he wouldn't take that as proof. “She was very secretive. She clearly wanted to protect you from—”

“Nosy gossips?” His voice rumbled with sarcasm. “I can't imagine why she'd want to do that.”

She glared at him. “If her connection to you is innocent, then why should she hide anything?”

“Because she prefers her privacy perhaps?”

“Or because she feared your disapproval. You must admit you're known for your discretion, for not telling anyone, even your closest friends, about your activities.”

Rubbing his chin, he circled her. “I suppose you're referring to all the rumors about what I did while I was abroad.”

“Well…yes.”

Thanks to his notorious reticence, discovering anything about him
but
rumor had been nigh on impossible. The few facts were that he'd disappeared from England at the age of nineteen, and he'd returned after the death of his father a few years ago. No one knew where he'd gone or what he'd done. Tales had ranged wildly from assertions that he'd been a spy for the French and the lover of a Spanish don's wife to one man's claim that he'd seen Lord St. Clair begging in the streets of Paris.

The point was, the viscount was more secretive than a
priest hearing confession. And Felicity disapproved of secrets.

Amusement flickered in the gaze that locked with hers. “Which rumors have you heard? That I was a paid assassin? That I seduced Josephine after her divorce, and Napoléon called me out for it?”

She pricked up her ears. “Not that last one.” Good Lord, that would be quite a tale for the column.
If
she could coax him into confirming it, which wasn't likely.

“And I suppose you believed every rumor.”

“Hardly. But in the absence of other information—like the sort you yourself might provide—what else would you have me do?”

He halted in front of her. “You might mind your own business instead of sowing rumor and gossip in your wake.”

“I do
not
sow rumor and gossip!”

“Ah, yes, I forgot: You make speculations based on fact.”

“I do what any good member of the press does,” she said loftily.

He snorted. “The good ones write responsibly. They concern themselves with matters of national importance. I hardly think Miss Greenaway qualifies as that.” When she started to retort, he held up his hand. “So you saw the woman, found out I provide her with shelter, and determined that she was my mistress, is that it?”

“It was a logical deduction.”

“But wrong.”

They were back to that again, were they? “If indeed I've mistaken the situation, I'll happily write a correction. So far you've told me nothing to prove me wrong.”

“And
you
have failed to explain why you're so interested in my personal affairs.” Strolling back to the desk where her papers were scattered willy-nilly over the scarred oak surface, the man actually had the effrontery to sort through her notes. “Tell me, what possible reason could you have
for writing about me? Have I unwittingly offended you?”