Alex had been sent to hell.
His leg had been cauterized and stitched from his hip to his knee, and he’d battled a fever for almost ten days before both it and the puffy redness in his thigh had receded. Angelique had stayed until his fever had broken, or at least that was what the battle-ax named Marjorie had told him. But then Angelique had left for London, leaving him weak as a kitten and at the mercy of a highwayman, his wife, and their nine children.
He had been given his own pallet in the two-bedroom cottage that was his prison, and since he’d regained his senses, he’d been bombarded with little sticky fingers, offering bowls of gruel, bits of bread, and favorite toys that were no more than sticks and pieces of ragged fabric tied together. Marjorie had regularly poked and prodded at her handiwork along his leg, grumbling and threatening to hogtie him if he didn’t stop moving so much. He endured it all, knowing he owed her a great debt. He was fortunate that he would leave this cottage outside of Harrow in possession of a long scar and his life.
But a week after he’d regained his senses, Alex had been ready to climb the walls. After a fortnight, he’d considered throwing himself down the nearest well.
Matthews had visited once after that first week, but Alex’s pleas to whisk him back to London had fallen on deaf ears. His driver was properly terrified of Marjorie, and Alex wasn’t sure if he’d ever be able to forgive him. Matthews had, however, brought him a copy of the Times, the story of the heroic actions of one Gerald Archer, Marquess of Hutton, splashed across the front page. In covert cooperation with Bow Street, Alex read, the young marquess had risked his own safety in a ruse meant to catch an innocent girl’s killer. Vincent Cullen, Baron Burleigh, was now wanted for murder. Unfortunately, it seemed that both the baron and his mother had fled the country. Not a trace of them could be found anywhere.
That entire story had Ivory Moore written all over it, though it was clear that the Duke of Alderidge had become as skilled at managing scandal as his wife. There was not a whisper of the late Marquess of Hutton. No mention of extortion, no mention of a fortune lost, no mention of anything that linked the Cullen and Archer families save the efforts of the marquess to bring a killer to justice.
And there was no mention of Angelique. And Alex’s inability to speak with her, to touch her, to be near her, was killing him more surely than a bullet wound might have.
I love you.
She had said that to him in the carriage. When she had probably believed him to be dying. People said strange things when faced with the possibility of death, and Alex wasn’t at all sure that this wasn’t one of them. Because now that she knew he was recovered, there had been no word from her, as if she was deliberately putting space and distance between them. There had been messages from Jenkins about his club along with a handful of forwarded documents requiring his signature. There had been a loving, if scathing, message from his sister, accusing him of bringing a knife to a gunfight and promising that she’d never forgive him if he did it again. But there had been nothing but silence from Angelique.
He’d attempted to write to her, but each attempt had ended in agonizing failure. How did a soldier turned gaming hell owner ask the daughter of a marquess to stay with him forever?
She didn’t need him anymore, he knew. Her brother was no longer a criminal, but a hero, and the ton would be falling all over themselves to reassure him that they never once believed that he could have done what he’d been accused of. Knowing the Duchess, it was even possible that some of the Hutton fortune might be quietly recovered. Angelique could return to whatever life she wished.
And so he’d signed Jenkins’s documents, replied to his sister, left Matthews with a handful of instructions, and watched him disappear for another week, aching for something he wasn’t sure was attainable. Aching for something he hadn’t ever believed he’d wanted until it had slipped away from him.
* * *
Angelique was sitting at her desk, a stack of ledgers in front of her, frowning in concentration. This was trickier than her usual cases in that she wasn’t searching for anomalies and inefficiencies, but rather, she was searching for a way to make these numbers appear to be something that they were not.
Smugglers were a complicated lot, she muttered under her breath, though she couldn’t deny that she enjoyed the challenge.
There was a knock on the door, and Jenkins stuck his head in. “Did you want the vingt-et-un tables prepared now, my lady?”
Angelique glanced over at the clock on the mantel, startled by how late the hour was. She should be getting ready. The ledgers would have to wait until tomorrow.
“Yes.” Beyond the door, she could hear the sounds of music competing with a sizable crowd. Attendance had been up as of late, and it pleased Angelique to no end. “Could you please send in Esther to help me dress?” she asked.
“Right away, my lady.” Jenkins nodded and closed the door.
She glanced in the direction of the bedroom and the turquoise silk she could see laid out over the end of the bed. Angelique sighed, her thoughts drifting as they always did to the man whose presence she missed more with every breath she took. At least another week, Matthews had said when he’d last returned from Harrow. Marjorie wasn’t going to let Alex undo everything she had done just because he was in a hurry to get back to a club in London. It had been hard leaving him, but Angelique knew he was in good hands. She could do more for Alex here than sitting next to him in a cramped cottage. And if she wanted to be brutally honest with herself, she had retreated if only to stay reality for a small window of time.
She had told Alex she’d loved him because that was the truth. Ironic, really, because it was probably the only truth she had never uttered to him amid the raw candor that had been characteristic of so many of their conversations. She had no idea if he’d even heard her from that carriage floor, half-insensible from blood loss. Which was probably just as well. Alex had never promised her his love.
He had never promised her more than he could give.
She stood, tidying up the stacks of paper and putting her inkpot and quills safely aside. She heard the door open and close.
“Thanks for coming, Esther,” she said, without looking up.
“Esther isn’t coming.”
Angelique whirled, a startled gasp escaping her.
Alex was leaning against the door, looking like sin. He was dressed impeccably in black evening clothes, his complexion rich against the snow-white of his shirt, a faint shadow of stubble over his jaw. His eyes were the same color as the amber liquid he was swirling in the crystal glass he held in his hand. He looked dangerous and divine, and in a heartbeat, an unbearable and familiar longing rose.
Her pulse stumbled, her breathing accelerated, and desire pooled low in her belly. It had been like this from the beginning. No matter how much time and space that might be put between them, it would be like this until the day she died.
“Alex.” She stood awkwardly beside the desk. “I didn’t know you were here.” Her thoughts had scattered.
“Mmmm. I instructed Matthews to bring me some civilized clothes when he came to fetch me so that I might come through the front. See for myself how my club had fared in my absence.” He made no move toward her.
“Ah.” She bit her lip, waiting for him to continue. When he didn’t, she asked, “How are you feeling?” She winced, hating the utter inadequacy of the question.
“No longer dying, thank you.” He took a slow sip of his whiskey, considering the bottom of his glass. “Did you know,” he said looking up from his drink, “that I witnessed a young man serving liquor in my club on my way in?”
“Ah.”
“Since when does Lavoie’s have men serving drinks?”
“Since over a third of your clientele are women.”
He blinked at her.
“Your female customers are three times more likely to purchase liquor if they have a very handsome, very…attentive young man serving them. The experience is positively decadent. Or so I’ve heard.”
“Three times?”
“Yes. I kept track over the course of five evenings. You don’t think I hired two male servers on a permanent basis without having the numbers to back it up?”
“I see.” She couldn’t read his expression. “I was also informed that my club now serves rum.” Now his lip curled slightly.
“It does.”
“Did Alderidge get into my cellars? Because that seems like something a pirate would suggest.”
“No, that was my suggestion. It’s mixed with a variety of fruit juices and a splash of absinthe, given an exotic name, and sold for twice that of a glass of French brandy.”
“But rum is cheap.”
“Nothing gets by you, does it?” she said wryly.
“And it sells?”
“People like exotic, even if it’s only an illusion. I’m fairly certain it was you who taught me that.”
“Mmmm.” Now his expression changed, and he pushed himself away from the door and came toward her. “You’ve been busy.”
Angelique forced herself to keep her ground. “You’re welcome to reverse any changes I’ve made now that you’re back.” She was pleased with how evenly that had come out. Because right now, her heart was hammering so hard against her ribs that she thought her chest might simply explode.
“Mmmm.” He stopped in front of the desk. “Tell me, how is your brother?”
“Sober.”
“Good.” He was quiet for a moment. “Matthews told me he has decided to do a bit of traveling? See the sights of the Continent? Expand his horizons, as it were?”
She nodded. “Miss Moore thought it best if he was removed from the entire situation. Just until things…settled.”
“You mean until a new scandal arises that makes the Marquess of Hutton wholly forgettable.”
“Something like that. My brother has, however, left the overseeing of the Hutton fortune in the hands of one Duke of Alderidge, who has generously offered his significant experience and guidance in the area of shipping, specifically import and export with India.”
“The Hutton fortune?”
“Did you know that purveyors of fine art are also purveyors of fine forgeries?”
She saw comprehension dawn across Alex’s face, and his eyes hardened. “King.” His fingers were white around his glass.
“Yes. A fascinating collection of books he keeps,” she said. “Took me almost a whole day to get through them, which is saying something. He’s very particular. And precise. But then, so was his forger. You can’t imagine how relieved the Hutton solicitors were to recover the deeds of ownership and income, as well as the supporting documentation from the bank. They, like me, truly had no idea my father had invested so heavily in shipping. Almost everything was recovered and accounted for. Life can now resume as normal.”
Alex’s face was like granite. “As normal. Of course. And what, exactly, does that mean to you?”
For the briefest of moments, Angelique felt like she was nineteen again and was standing on the edge of a dance floor, trying to work up the courage to step out.
She picked up a card from a stack on the desk and handed it to Alex.
“What’s this?” He held it up to the light.
In the center of the card was the silhouette of an angel, the form unmistakably female, wings spread gracefully up and out. Underneath, in bold letters, was written Book Keeping and Accounting Services, and under that, the address of the club.
“It’s my card. I’ve always wanted one,” Angelique said carefully.
Alex’s eyes flickered to her and then to the pile of ledgers on the corner of the desk. “Those aren’t mine.”
“No.”
“Whose are they?”
“A client’s.”
He gazed at her, his thoughts infuriatingly hidden. “You’ve gone into business?”
“Yes. I used your address. I hope that is all right. I—well, Gerald, sold the Bedford Square house. It seemed silly to have it if no one was there.”
He put his glass on the edge of the desk. “What are you still doing here, Angelique?”
“The club wasn’t going to run itself,” she said, raising her chin.
“The club could have been closed. Or Jenkins could have managed well enough to insure the doors opened and the place didn’t burn down.” He came around the desk to stand in front of her. “Why are you here?”
Angelique felt her pulse roaring in her ears, felt the breath slowly being squeezed from her lungs. She had come this far. She would not hide anymore. She needed to step out onto the floor.
“Because this is me.” She gazed around the office. “This is what I’m good at. Numbers. Books. Cards.”
He smiled at that, a smile that set her insides on fire and made every fiber of her body spark. He lifted a hand and ran his fingers down the side of her face. “Yes.”
“And because I think you and I could be very good together.”
She heard his breath catch, saw something shift in his eyes. “Yes.” His fingers trailed lower along the column of her neck and down to the edge of her bodice.
“Because I love you.”
His hand stilled, his eyes closing briefly before they opened again. “I’m not dying.”
“What?” She stared at him.
“I thought maybe you said that because you thought I was dying.” His voice was hoarse.
She laughed, a slightly desperate, ragged sound, because she was terrified of the emotion that was playing over his face now. Terrified to hope. “Bloody hell, Alex, if I thought you were dying, I would have asked you where you kept the key to your desk drawer.”
He made a muffled noise, and Angelique suddenly felt herself yanked up against him, his mouth on hers, his arms around her. “I love you, Angel. So much. Please stay. Stay with me.” They were mumbled words, rough and urgent against her lips.
She pulled back from him, an overwhelming surfeit of joy and love making her entire body shake. “There is nowhere else I want to be,” she whispered. “There is nowhere else I belong.”
He let out a shuddering breath and rested his forehead against hers. “Nowhere else you will ever belong.” After a moment, he straightened and reached into the inside pocket of his coat. Very carefully, he withdrew a worn, folded square of paper that had once lain in the bottom of a wood and ebony box. A corner of it was now stained dark with dried blood. He held it out to her.
“Perhaps I should have destroyed this earlier,” he said. “But I wanted to put that power in your hands. Where it belongs.”
She took it from him, the secret that had cost so much already. Without unfolding it, she simply moved to the hearth and threw it on the glowing coals. The edges smoked and curled before the paper burst into flame. It was oddly anticlimactic, she realized, as she stared down at the tiny wisps of ash crumbling through the coals. While she recognized the need to bury this secret forever, to secure and protect the futures of her brothers, Angelique herself felt strangely removed.
Because she already knew who she was. And it had nothing to do with who her parents had been.
“Nothing in the past can make you any less than a lady,” Alex said, as if reading her mind.
She looked up, a fierce happiness flooding through her. “Nothing from the past can make me anything less than whoever it is I wish to be.”
She started moving toward him, desire coming hard on the heels of happiness. She saw him shift, saw his own arousal flare in his eyes. She stopped in front of him, aware that she was breathing too fast.
“Tell me who it is that you want to be,” he said. He was leaning back on the edge of his desk, his hands braced on the edges.
“I want to be the partner of an assassin and a spy,” she said, coming to stand a whisper away from him, his legs on either side of hers. “I want to be his lover and his friend. His forever.” Her hands went to the ties of her dress, and she loosened the bodice, letting it fall to her waist. She heard him suck in his breath, saw his fingers tighten on the edges of his desk. She turned her attention next to her stays and her skirts, and they too fell away, leaving her standing only in her chemise.
She leaned forward, brushing her lips over his, savoring the taste of him. Her hands ran down the lapels of his coat, over the buttons of his waistcoat, stopping at the fall of his trousers.
“Angel,” he whispered thickly, his own hands reaching for her and sliding up the length of her back, over her shoulders, and along the tops of her breasts. She felt his fingers pull at the ribbon at the neck of her chemise, felt the soft fabric loosen and slip over her shoulders. His hands were resting over her heart, and she raised hers to encircle them.
“Sometimes, when it suits me, I will wish to be a fine lady,” she said. She met his beautiful eyes that were shining with love and not a little wickedness. “And sometimes, when it suits me,” she whispered with a smile, pulling his hands away and feeling her chemise drift to the floor, “I don’t wish to be a lady at all.”