The Love List (28 page)

So she’d looked to Hestia as her model then, as she did now.  Hestia who had faced the same sort of predicament and fought back, created a place where she did so much good—and would always belong.

God in heaven, but Brynne had wanted that.  Longed with every fiber of her being for the certain knowledge that she’d never face this terrible emptiness again.   And so she’d fallen back on her strengths.  Gone about with industry and yes, control, as she’d set about sorting the puzzle pieces, fixing the problem, and working to make her own, unassailable place in the world. 

Everything she’d told Aldmere was true.  She fiercely wanted to help girls like Francis Headley, to give them the chance to dream, to grant them choices and opportunities like the one she was forging for herself.  But it was time to acknowledge that she was also attempting to build a safe place for herself, where she would be wanted, needed and always belong.

The fear of losing the progress she’d made toward that goal had indeed fueled her need to stop the publication of the Love List.  It had comprised part of her reluctance to turn the List over to Aldmere.  But if now was the time to be brutally honest, then she had something far more frightening to face.

The important, terrifying truth was that she
had
found somewhere to belong—with Aldmere.  In his arms.  At his side.  Even in the midst of their adventures, she’d never felt safer.  Even though he was horridly reluctant, she’d never felt more cared for.  He saw her so clearly, understood her needs in a way that no one—not even Hestia—ever had.  And he had the strength and generosity to give her what she needed, as best he could.

And therein lay the rub.  How much could Aldmere give her?  He was tied by his circumstances and hers.  And tangled hopelessly by . . . what?  Something had happened to convince him to live apart, to impose that distance on the rest of the world.  She’d already pushed him.  How much farther could he go? 

As far as an affair?  A short, blazing few weeks as his mistress? 

She could picture it.  Her pulse raced at the thought of how it would be, how they would be, together.  There would be laughter and ease.  An equality that no one looking in could possibly understand.  Passion and soul-searing desire.  She swallowed.  And was oh-so tempted.  She wanted to reach for that with both hands.  Wallow in happiness while she could.

She glanced over at Hestia, shocked to see that the sun had risen high in the window behind her.  Brynne knew that her mentor wouldn’t hesitate in this situation.  For that was Hestia’s truth.  She could seize the blessings that life gave her today, secure in knowing that she had the strength to face tomorrow’s hardships alone.

Brynne’s sad truth was that she could not.  Aldmere had so much to offer her—and so little.  And it was her own weakness that she was too afraid to taste the bliss that they could share, knowing it would be taken away.  The darkness and emptiness would be so much worse when he had gone—and she would be lost. 

She shook her head.  Hestia was right, it truly was the hardest thing, to leave yourself vulnerable.  Aldmere had the power to hurt her far more deeply than either her father or Marstoke ever had.  Could she let him?

She gasped, suddenly, and straightened.  She was asking the wrong question!  Why should she let him?  She’d identified the problem—what she needed was a new answer.  If she was going to risk everything, then why did she not have the courage to ask for what she wanted?  Everything she wanted?

She stood, her mind racing.  “I’m going to deliver that List myself, Hestia.”

Her friend looked up, approval in her gaze.  “Good girl.”  She looked back at her desk.  “I’ve done what I can through the post.  Now I need to start paying visits, reminding our patrons of our good work and preparing them for the drama about to be unleashed.”  She smiled.  “But let’s get you ready, first.  This is to be an eventful night, in many ways.”

Brynne bit her lip.  “I need to bathe.  And get dressed—differently.”  She flushed.  “I cannot go as myself.  I’ll need some assistance.  And perhaps to borrow a few things.”

Hestia climbed to her feet.  “Let me help you.”  She tilted her head.  “And Letty, perhaps.”

“She’s back?”

“Yes.  And she owes you a favor.”  She sighed.  “I think I shall send Callie out on an errand or two.  It wouldn’t be fair to ask her assistance.”

Brynne hesitated.  “What I’m planning may not be exactly what you think best.  I’m not going to let Marstoke get away with this.”

Hestia smiled.  “As long as you think it best, then I am satisfied.”

One of the weights she was carrying drifted off of Brynne’s shoulders.  “Then let’s go.”

Seventeen

I will not speak of that night, save to say that my new husband came to me in the dark and the proceedings were accomplished in silence and surprising haste.  The details of the night are of no importance, in any case.  But the morning’s revelations—ah, they shape my life, even to this day.

—from the Journal of the Infamous Miss Hestia Wright

Rudd’s Print Works was no more.  The doors were left swinging and the inside had been stripped.  Even the hulking press was gone.  Aldmere stood in the back room and frowned at the only thing left in the place—a finished order, boxes of broadsheet ballads stacked against the back wall. 

He picked up one of the pamphlets of historical ballads.  Surely the destruction of his pet printer had not been part of Marstoke’s original plan.  It was another sign of hurry, of adaptation and compromise.  He acknowledged a certain amount of satisfaction at the notion, but a bit of trepidation as well.  Hurrying Marstoke’s timing might not be an advantage.  He turned to Flemming, waiting at his side, and begun issuing the first of many orders.

A footman dispatched to the Rudd’s home found the place hurriedly vacated as well.  No sign of Joe Watts had been uncovered.  Aldmere sent the man to find what he could of the boy.  He sent another ahead to Tru’s rooms, to warn Gorman and set other, specific plans in motion.

He requested urgent meetings with several officials, none of which were granted.  He personally knocked on paneled doors in Whitehall, but found only minor clerks and harried secretaries at their posts.   The Regent and his coterie of visiting foreign dignitaries were back in London, it seemed, and occupying everyone’s efforts.  It was to be a day of ceremonies, crowned by a visit to the theater, and it seemed all of London had joined in on the fun.  The streets were awash with roaming, celebrating masses.  Crowds of them had gathered outside the Pulteney Hotel, where the Tsar Alexander and his sister were staying and where several receptions were to take place.

Damn it, if he had to thwart Marstoke entirely on his own, then he would.

Or perhaps not entirely on his own after all, it appeared.  Aldmere arrived home to find a forlorn figure awaiting him.  Joe Watts, exhausted and full of righteous ire, had quite a story to tell.  Aldmere listened carefully.  When the boy had finished, he sat silent for several minutes.

“Flemming!” he called eventually.  To his harried secretary and an increasingly excited Joe Watts, he outlined his plan.  “Go now,” he ordered.  “And take a couple of men as reinforcements, as well.  Watch the place closely, and if it looks as if Mr. Watts’ suspicions are correct, then be sure you make the switch in time.”  He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder.  “You’ve done exceedingly well—but the real danger may lie ahead.  I hate to send you into this without me, but we’re left with no choice.”

“You can count on me, your Grace,” Joe said fiercely.

“I already have,” Aldmere returned with all solemnity.  “This is an incredibly important task, gentlemen.  I know of no one I’d rather entrust it too.”

“We’ll be careful, sir,” Flemming assured him.  “And we’ll look out for the boy.”

Thus, in a flurry of activity, Aldmere plotted Marstoke’s downfall, cursing the marquess all the while, and keeping an eye and ear open for word from Brynne.  He’d be damned if he’d let Marstoke manipulate him into hurting her.  He’d be damned if he let Marstoke succeed in his plot.  In fact, he’d be damned if he allowed Marstoke to see the next day from anywhere but a holding cell. 

At last all was in readiness and there was nothing to do but wait.  He’d taken to pacing the house and staring out of windows.  He stood in the hallway on the second floor, paying no heed to the occasional footsteps behind him, but as the afternoon slipped away, the hiss of a cautionary whisper finally caught his attention.

“Step quietly,” an upstairs maid hissed to a footman.  “His Grace has gone into a rare, vile brood again today.”

He reared back.  Brood?  He wasn’t
brooding
.  Merely waiting.  And pacing.  And perhaps barking at anyone unwise enough to address him.  He sighed.  He supposed he was brooding, after all.

But he wasn’t worrying.

He retreated to his study, where he could pace and not worry without disturbing the staff.  The first hints of afternoon shadows had begun to creep into the room.  He took up a stance at the window and waited.

Right here.  Here he had stood and glimpsed Brynne Wilmott storming his home, just days and a lifetime ago.  She would do so again.  Or perhaps send a messenger.  But the Love List would arrive today.  On that point his confidence never wavered.

Why? Because he knew her.  Knew that beneath that fragile, fey exterior lay courage and honesty, loyalty and steel.  It wouldn’t be easy.  She was going to have to trust him when her every instinct would be warning her not to, when she truly hadn’t a good reason to.  But he knew Brynne Wilmott, and she would never selfishly keep the List while his brother’s welfare rocked in the balance.

No, it wasn’t worry that had him pacing, but knowledge.  The realization that she knew him nearly as well as he knew her.  That she was the first person in years to look beyond the duke to the man beneath.  She’d pushed boundaries, asked questions.  She’d seen parts of him that no one had.  Angry, resentful bits whose existence no one else suspected.  And still she accepted him with such ease.  Gave him back simple faith and amusing banter, not to mention a blazing passion that seared his soul.

Yes, it was knowledge that had him turning away, pacing again.  Knowledge that Marstoke, by forcing Brynne to choose between her own needs and his, might have already won the most important battle of all.

He paused at the mantle, caught by a distant sound.  The door-knocker?  Just as he’d done days ago, he crossed quickly to his desk, picked up a folder and blindly opened it.

A discreet knock, and the door swung open.  “You’ve a . . . messenger, your Grace.”  Billings’ eye twitched.

She’d come herself.  Pushing back the hood of her cloak, she entered.

Confusion reigned within him.  In so short a time, he’d come to expect the quiet, to count on the sense of peace her presence brought. 

She’d left it behind today.

He shifted his stance.  He stood immobile behind his desk, yet she threatened to knock him off balance and forced him to put out a steadying hand.  Eyes wide, he stared.

It was Brynne Wilmott before him, and it was not.  Something had been done to her.  Her complexion glowed alabaster smooth, her cheeks and brows faintly accented by someone with a dab hand at cosmetics.  Her glorious dark hair had been most gracefully arranged—and then mussed the slightest bit.  Her slightly open cloak showed the creamy skin at her throat and shoulder. 

She was delicate, disheveled elegance.  A girl who had been readied for the ball, but elected to stay for a tumble with her lover instead.

Aldmere felt like he’d been struck with a hammer.

Billings withdrew and she tossed back her cloak.  His gut tightened further.  Not done up like just any doxy, instead someone had dressed her like a courtesan of the highest order, with fine embroidery and quality fabric cut just the smallest bit too tight and too low.  This was a woman to tempt princes and kings.

Or a duke.

From the folds of the cloak she produced the List.  Sauntering over, she dropped it onto the desk.  She pursed her lips and waited.

He couldn’t respond.  Her mouth.  She’d painted it a dark, subtle crimson.  The promise that lived there—the covert temptation of that kiss,
his
kiss—remained a secret no longer.  It shone like a beacon, there for everyone—every man—to see.

He tore his gaze away, focused on the stack of papers.  “Thank you.”  He cleared his throat.

She didn’t answer.  Only that kiss spoke, silently beckoning.

He shifted.  “I know that this was difficult for you.  There was no need for you to bring the List yourself.  I do appreciate the effort, however.  And all of your help, of course.”

Her chin elevated. 

“It does seem odd to say that I’ve enjoyed our association, under the circumstances,” he continued.  He was dancing on damned eggshells, trying to dismiss her without sounding dismissive.  “And yet I have, truly.”  His fingers ruffled the edges of the List.  “I shall be sure to send around a note, to report once Tru is safe and sound.”

She put her hands on her hips.  Her gown, a rich ivory that contrasted grandly with her dark hair, was adorned with elaborate crimson embroidery at the bodice.  The color exactly matched the glossy paint on her mouth.  Together they delivered two quick, successive punches to his gut.

“Is that to be it, then?” she asked.

He steeled himself.  “I’m afraid so.” 

She crossed her arms.  “I’ll be damned if it is.”

“Good God!”  Annoyed to be feeling defensive, he swept a hand, indicating the painfully tempting length of her.  “Well, if there’s to be more, then why don’t you start by explaining . . . this?”

“
This
is because I suspected you would be difficult.  So I made a few of my own plans.”  She raised a brow.  “Don’t look relieved.  I’m not letting you escape so easily.”  She reached out and planted her hand on top of the List.  “I’ve brought you the manuscript, but it comes at a price.”