Seven

St. James,

I hope you’re enjoying this little game of ours. You must have known when you ended the last round by placing me behind bars that it wasn’t the end. That was too easy. This competition between us will never be over. Having me thrown in prison only interrupted our fun. And now our game continues. The move is mine, and I’ve selected a lovely pawn. I believe you know her.

Her name is Lady Isabelle Fairlyn. I’m certain you remember her father. I know I do. It was interesting to watch you with his daughter on the terrace that night. Quite enamored with her, aren’t you? That should make this game entertaining to say the least—for my part anyway. Does her family know of your interest in her? What a mess that would be. They couldn’t possibly approve. You should know that gentlemen like us don’t get the girl. Or do we?

As you may have already pieced together, I’ve decided to pursue Lady Isabelle. She’s a beautiful lady, and her company is tolerable enough. For some time now, she’s thought of me as her secret admirer. How did I manage such a feat and keep it from your notice? It was simple, really. I sent her flowers and jewelry, and she told me her secrets—all her secrets. The lady is simply in too valuable a placement on our game board for me to overlook.

That she’s Fairlyn’s daughter was enough, but when I saw the way you looked at her, I knew what I must do. Of course she’s hasn’t any idea about this contest of ours, but she’s certainly going to be fun to toy with while you watch. You, Fallon St. James, great protector of the land, can do nothing to stop me. And I will know of any attempt you make. Just like you, I now have eyes and ears everywhere. Can you guess where? How close to home? I would warn you to be careful what you say, but you always have been the silent one.

Do you see the perfection of my move yet? Allow me to elaborate. If you warn her away from me, she dies. If you warn her father of my plot, she dies. You will watch while I destroy Fairlyn’s lovely daughter and the man himself in one move of one perfect pawn. I hope you weren’t too fond of her.

Best of luck. You’ll require it.

—RG

• • •

Fallon dropped the letter he’d practically memorized to his lap with numb fingers. He couldn’t look at the words written there any longer. Of course, he also couldn’t look away. The carriage pulled to a stop, but for a moment, he didn’t move.

Fallon had thought he was making the correct decision last night when he allowed Isabelle to seek happiness with a gentleman in a position to marry. He’d meant what he’d told her about deserving such things. And from across the ballroom last night, he’d watched her try on men like shoes. All had been as it ought to be, no matter how he wished he could talk to her a bit longer, hear her laugh, see her eyes light up at some idea. He’d convinced himself that she must move forward, away from him. But he’d had a vague sense of unease that lasted the remainder of the night.

He’d dismissed it, knowing the emotion that surged through him was an irrational one. This morning, however… This morning was a different story. He swallowed and stared at the words on the paper. If he warned anyone, she would die? There was always a countermove to be made. Always. And until he discovered what that move was, he would be following Isabelle…everywhere.

* * *

A brightly lit museum wasn’t where Fallon would have thought to find Grapling, but that was indeed where the man was this afternoon. Strolling. Perusing the art. And the part that made Fallon want to commit murder was the man’s attention to Lady Isabelle Fairlyn. The only thing missing from the scene before him was damned dancing and laughter. Was there something he could have said at some point to stop this from happening? But Fallon knew Isabelle wouldn’t listen when it came to her dreams of romance—she never had. And now that beautiful quality was being exploited by the worst sort of gentleman. Fallon shouldn’t have left her alone at the ball last night.

Grapling had called her his pawn. But what exactly was the man after? What torture did he have in store for Isabelle? Fallon had to do something to stop this, but he couldn’t risk Isabelle’s life. Every unanswered, feverish thought pulsed through Fallon’s brain with a painful thump against his skull.

Fallon stepped behind a tall marble statue, waiting for Isabelle and Grapling to pass by. Flaxen hair created from boiling lye? He let out a harsh breath at the lengths Grapling would go to in order to escape capture. Fallon should have alerted his men to potential changes in Grapling’s appearance. He ticked off another shortcoming on the great list in his head. This entire situation was Fallon’s fault.

His blood boiled with the knowledge that this villainous man, a man who had committed murder and theft, was just beyond Fallon’s reach, both literally and metaphorically. Strolling through the museum, chatting with Isabelle as if he hadn’t a care in the world. His Isabelle! Granted, she wasn’t his Isabelle. But she was a damned sight closer to Fallon’s than blasted Grapling’s.

“This is where you spend your days?” Grapling asked Isabelle with a wide smile. Too wide, in Fallon’s opinion. “It suits you. I’ve always enjoyed places where the rooms are swept clean of the city’s dust and good society can stroll about…and appreciate art, of course.”

Ha! Amusing for a man who reveled in getting his hands dirty. Fallon shifted so that he could continue to hear their conversation without being seen.

“I hadn’t considered the cleanliness of the museum as a benefit to volunteering here, but there are maids on staff,” Isabelle replied as they moved deeper into the maze of the upper rooms of the museum.

“A building this size would need a sizable staff to function. Who works in this area with you?”

Fallon nodded to an older gentleman who passed, but on receiving the man’s curious glare, Fallon was forced to move. Slipping to the opposite side of the room, he clung to the wall beside the open door, listening for anything he might have missed.

“It depends on the time of day. It’s quiet in the mornings from what I hear. In the afternoons, I assist Mr. Jasper, the librarian. There’s a nice man who services the wobbly frames in the back workroom. He makes tea for me on occasion and tells me stories about his family.”

“They are fortunate to have such a giving lady in their employ,” Grapling stated. Fallon could almost hear the sickening smile in his voice. He held himself back from vaulting out to knock the false look from the man’s face. Giving—Grapling had no interest in charitable endeavors. He never had. What was he after besides taunting Fallon with his closeness to Isabelle? Murder again? But in the letter he used the word destroy. A scandal that involved Isabelle? Perhaps, but what scandal? And when? Fallon had to understand the man’s intentions if he was to protect Isabelle.

“I’m a willing volunteer. I’m the fortunate one, to be able to spend my afternoons amid such beauty,” Isabelle returned. Her voice was closer, as if they were looking at the painting on the other side of the wall.

“Your own beauty exceeds that of these paintings.”

Fallon closed his eyes and forced himself to remain still. This was the worst part of gaining information. There always came a point when it became difficult not to rush in with fists raised. But information could be just as valuable as an enemy with a bloody nose. Often more so. Fallon knew that, but with Grapling leering at Isabelle on the other side of the wall, he was having trouble remaining still.

“Oh. Thank you,” he heard her gush, most likely smiling and blushing. Fallon released a harsh breath.

“I’m honored to have you give me this tour.”

“We share a love of art,” Isabelle replied. “A tour is the least I can do.”

Fallon shook his head. Of course Grapling had convinced her that he appreciated the pieces here; he was trying to use her. He was Reginald blasted Grapling! He used everyone. But there was nothing to be done for it now. All Fallon could do was listen and wait for some piece of information that would turn the tide in his favor.

“How long will this collection be on display?”

“For the remainder of the season, then it will return to our home. For a time anyway,” Isabelle replied, her voice growing distant as she and Grapling moved farther from the open door where Fallon stood.

“It belongs to your father?” Grapling asked, making Fallon tense and listen more carefully. He would need to move in a moment to get closer.

“For now. He’s a custodian, really.”

“Meaning?”

Fallon tipped his head around the corner into the next room and spotted a display of ancient pottery. He ran for it and came to a stop behind a raised display featuring bowls and pitchers of various sizes. He could now catch glimpses of the two as they perused the artwork.

“It was my grandfather’s collection,” Isabelle was saying. “One day soon, once my sister is settled, it will be displayed in her home as part of her dowry. All but this one painting.” She pointed up to a large painting of a castle on a hillside that hung on the wall. “For now, it’s here for all of London to enjoy.”

“Only one painting will go toward your dowry? That hardly seems fair. Your family is unjust.”

“It’s the centerpiece of the collection,” Isabelle cut in with obvious affection for the painting of the distant land. “I don’t mind that I can keep only this one. It’s my favorite anyway.”

“Even still…”

“They were catalogued and divided when I was only a baby. Father didn’t have his title then. It was all he had to give us for us to marry well. Things change, though. Father inherited unexpectedly, and then there was the fire at my grandfather’s home. Most of my portion of the art collection was destroyed. But that only increases my appreciation for what remains. These paintings survived. I like the beauty of that.”

The circumstances of Isabelle’s childhood were ones Fallon knew well—ones many younger siblings with families had to overcome. He’d spent the past few years ensuring that his men could provide a stable life for their families. Without an inheritance and with a social inability to delve into trade, gentlemen like Isabelle’s father didn’t have many options. For Fallon, everything always came back to the Spare Heirs.

Further resolve to take Grapling down and stop whatever game he was playing in town seeped into his bones. Enough watching. That was what Grapling wanted him to do. Fallon was done giving Grapling what he wanted. This man was constructed of lies. Nothing Grapling told Isabelle today would help Fallon be rid of him for good.

Fallon shifted, and a piece of the pottery clanked against the display.

“Survival can be difficult at times.” Grapling’s eyes flashed to where St. James stood behind the pottery, having just become aware of his presence.

Fallon straightened to his full height and moved forward, his focus on Grapling. He was so close. Fallon could grab him now and end this mad chase around London. But the thought of Isabelle in danger stayed his hand. However, nowhere in Grapling’s rules of this game did it say Fallon must make it easy for him to win. Fallon edged closer. Isabelle’s back was thankfully turned, or she would have seen the menacing gleam in his eyes. Her pirate fantasy had come to life.

“Have you had perilous adversity you had to overcome?” Isabelle asked Grapling. “Perhaps a fearsome foe or a fight to near death?”

“Yes, Grapling,” Fallon added. “Have you a fearsome foe while playing your little parlor games?”

“St. James!” Isabelle exclaimed as she turned to greet him, surprise widening her eyes. “What are you doing here? You two are acquainted? I wasn’t aware…”

Fallon stepped closer under the pretense of greeting Isabelle, but should things become violent, he could pull her from harm’s way. He gave her a polite nod. “I was in the area and thought I would take some time for a leisurely stroll and enjoy the art like my old friend Mr. Grapling.”

“You? A stroll through a museum?” Isabelle asked with a smile.

Apparently”—his gaze slid back to Grapling as he spoke—“I’m interrupting. I believe Mr. Grapling was about to tell us of the troubles of his unfortunate life.”

“I have no troubles.” There was a tense moment in which Fallon was reminded of the look in an opponent’s eye just before pistols were drawn at dawn.

“No? How odd. The last time we met, you seemed to be in a bit of an unfortunate circumstance.” Fallon could remember it quite well. The sadness at the situation. The sense of betrayal that one of his own had turned on him. The relief at having him placed behind bars.

“That was quite a long time ago, St. James,” Grapling said with a false levity that didn’t reach his eyes.

“A shorter time to some than others,” Fallon returned.

Isabelle let out a nervous laugh, clearly sensing something was off between the men. “Have either of you seen the exhibit from the plains of Africa? Truly extraordinary.”

“Mr. Grapling’s expertise is in other areas. He enjoys displays of weaponry, knives in particular… Or that’s what I hear.”

“You’re misinformed as usual, St. James. Where do you get your information? It’s quite flawed.”

“Oh?” Fallon mused. “It has been some time since we’ve caught up. Where have you been, and what brings you to town after such a long absence?”

“It’s London. You know I simply can’t keep away from its charms.”

Charms. Fallon had heard the man describe a woman in such terms before, mere days before she’d learned too much of his plans and he’d killed her. The present day was four years too late to save one woman’s life, but he could certainly save Isabelle’s now.

“The city is charming, isn’t it?” Isabelle smiled and clasped her hands together.

The motion was one of such pure happiness that it made Grapling look that much sourer by comparison. He didn’t deserve to be anywhere near this lady. Yet the man was here at her side as if he belonged there. The thought brought Fallon’s anger to the surface in an instant. Grapling wouldn’t turn his filthy gaze on Isabelle while Fallon was present. He wouldn’t allow it.

“I love the life this city has, both day and night,” she added, clearly unaware of the tension surrounding her.

“As do I, Lady Isabelle,” he murmured. Fallon would not allow this man to harm anyone of his acquaintance, especially not Isabelle and her family. He would not allow this man to cause havoc in the city he called home. And he would not stand here for another second and watch that smirk on his face grow larger. In that moment Fallon—always aware of his actions and thinking five steps ahead—didn’t think. He swung.

His fist collided with Grapling’s jaw in a manner that would make Ayton proud. Grapling staggered backward, shock mixing with pain in his eyes.

He heard Isabelle’s sharp intake of breath over his shoulder. “No,” she called out. “What are you doing? Please don’t fight. I don’t… I can’t…”

“He has misgivings about my presence here with you, my lady,” Grapling stated as he turned to look at Fallon with an amused gleam in his eyes. “Are you the jealous type? Interesting.”

“Jealous?” Isabelle drew back in more surprise than she’d shown when he’d punched Grapling. “You have it all wrong. We’re only friends.”

“Apologies, my lady, but—”

Anything Fallon would have said was cut off when someone grabbed his shoulder and hauled him backward.

Grapling watched, his reddened lips twisting up in pleasure as he mused, “Close call, there. I’ll be watching, as will you.”

“You got him. That’s the one. I knew when I saw him creeping about the place he was up to no good,” a man said from the door to the next room. The gentleman from earlier must have alerted someone downstairs. Fallon glanced up to see the giant of a footman who was dragging him away from Grapling.

“Let go!” Fallon commanded as he watched Grapling move steadily toward the opposite door, abandoning Isabelle with a quick bid of farewell. He would lose the man. This game with Isabelle. That look in his eyes… Fallon couldn’t allow any of it to continue. He couldn’t let him get away. Not now! Not ever! Fallon cocked back an elbow that made the man grunt but not release him, and the heels of his boots only scraped the wooden floor.

“Unhand him,” Isabelle cried out at his side, hitting the man on the arm to no avail. “This is all some sort of misunderstanding. Isn’t that right, Mr. St. James?”

“St. James? This is Mr. St. James?” The large footman pushed him upright in an instant, St. James’s coat falling back into place on his shoulders. “Terribly sorry, sir. I meant no disrespect. Misunderstanding… Will never happen again.”

But it was too late. The damage was done. Grapling was gone.