23rd May, 1881
Your Grace,
You will perhaps be happy to learn that I’ve made a great number of friends in your absence. There are ever so many gentlemen eager to make my acquaintance now that the Duchess of Leeds has taken me under her wing.
In particular, the Earl of Bolton is a noble and generous man, and not at all as you described him. It is such a pity that your “private” and “urgent” matter keeps you from London, as I think you would get on with him as well as I do.
Sincerely,
Duchess of Trent
Daisy stared at the man who had once been her betrothed and fought back the familiar burst of nausea that had been striking her on and off for the last month. Tall and lanky, with black hair and flashing blue eyes, he was just as handsome as he’d been the day she’d first met him in New York at one of her father’s dinner parties. Padraig McGuire, with his lilting accent from Ireland’s shores, his easy smiles, and wicked charm.
She’d fallen for those charms once upon a time.
Strange where life had led them, their diverging paths bringing them to this moment. Now, when she looked upon him, she saw a stranger. What a naïve girl she’d been to think she’d been prepared for marriage to him. She knew now that the girlish fancy she’d felt had been predicated by the burning desire to escape her father more than any other emotion.
And some two years later, here she stood, an abandoned duchess in a foreign land, no happier as the Duchess of Trent than she would’ve been as Mrs. Padraig McGuire. Two years, and she’d learned nothing about entrusting her heart to the care of men. How sobering.
“Why have you come, Mr. McGuire?” she asked into the silence that had fallen between them.
She stood by the window in the small salon where she received callers, a sliver of sun warming her face. The chamber was filled with flowers, a testament to the last month’s efforts. Her arrangement with Georgiana was proceeding with success. Together, they had managed to set the ton on its ear with all manner of gossip in the hopes that they would cause enough furor to bring their husbands home and get the answers they so badly deserved.
Hugo sat at her feet, guarding her as was his wont. The boisterous pup had proved far more devoted to her than any person had ever been.
Padraig took a step closer to her, and Hugo growled.
“Bloody hell, Daisy. Must you have that mutt present?” He cast a jaundiced eye toward her beloved companion.
Her chin rose. “Yes, I must, and you’re far too familiar, Mr. McGuire. You may address me as ‘Your Grace’ or you may leave.”
Another step brought him nearer, and for a moment she wondered if she should fear him. After all, he ran her father’s businesses. She should not have received him again today, his fourth visit in the last fortnight since his abrupt reappearance in her life. And especially not since he was using a false name for reasons he refused to divulge. Indeed, she would not have had he not dangled the one lure before her that she couldn’t resist.
Bridget.
Her sister had abruptly quit her position with Madame Villiers, and she had disappeared. Daisy had not heard from her, and she was dreadfully worried. Madame had no notion of where she’d gone or why, leaving Daisy adrift.
“Forgive me, Your Grace.” Padraig’s tone was mocking, but he stopped where he was, the boldly patterned replacement carpet she’d chosen between them. “Are you happy then? As a duchess? Is it the life you wanted?”
Her own husband had abandoned her as if she were of no greater import than the newspaper he’d discarded the day before. And she had given her heart to him, or at least to the man she’d imagined him to be. For the real Sebastian was an enigma to her. A mystery she could not seem to solve. Of course this was not the life she wanted, spending each day in frivolous amusements, working with Georgiana to cause as much gossip as possible in the hopes she might get the answers she so desperately sought.
Where are you, Sebastian? she wondered silently. And, more importantly, who are you?
She forced a smile to her lips. “This is the life I’ve been given. I am… content. But that is enough idle chatter, Mr. McGuire. You said you had news of my sister that required an audience. I don’t wish to hear anything you say if it doesn’t concern her. May I remind you that your other visits have been fruitless? That each time you claim to have information regarding her whereabouts, they lead to dead-ends?”
Padraig’s mouth flattened into a harsh line. “You loathe me.”
Did she? Once, perhaps, she had, but time, distance, and knowledge could heal any wound. Now, she looked upon him and felt nothing. He was not the man she’d believed him to be, and she was no longer the girl he’d once known. “You are my father’s emissary. My distaste for you stems from that fact alone.”
“I’ve told you I’m not here at his behest.” Padraig’s gaze searched hers as a frown furrowed his brow. “He doesn’t know I’ve been speaking with you, though I’ve made no secret of it. I don’t answer to Vanreid.”
She wasn’t sure she believed that, but she didn’t wish to discuss her father with him. Her every tie to him except her sister had been severed, and she intended to keep it that way forever. “Have you news of Bridget or not?”
“Yes.”
His single-word response did little to quell the apprehension unfurling within her. “And? Where is she? What has happened?”
Padraig strode toward her, closing the distance. Hugo growled again, making him stop short of reaching her. “She’s no longer in London. Her precise location is unknown, but I fear she’s in danger.”
Danger. The apprehension iced into fear. Her hands clenched in her skirts. “What sort of danger?”
“Bombs, Daisy,” he said simply.
And she didn’t bother to correct his familiar address this time, for her inundated mind was too busy attempting to make sense of what he’d just told her. “Bombs.”
“Dynamite, to be specific.” His expression tightened. “The danger is grave.”
Good, sweet heavens. The papers had been abuzz with talk of the explosion in Liverpool and talk of Fenian uprisings. Daisy had never imagined such evils had anything to do with her sister’s disappearance. “Do you mean to say she’s involved with the Fenians?”
Padraig inclined his head. “I cannot say. All I will say is you should trust no one, including me.”
He caught her hand then, and Hugo gave a small yip of protest as he raised it to his lips for a kiss. Daisy snatched her hand from his grasp, staring at him, questions and dread rushing through her like flood waters. “Why are you telling me this? Padraig, are you connected to this? Is that why you’ve come calling using the name John Greaves instead of your own?”
He shook his head slowly. “The danger is grave,” he repeated, bowing to her. “Be wary of those closest to you, and take care of yourself.”
She watched him turn to leave, clutching her hand to her madly thumping heart. Just before he reached the door, he turned back to her, a brief ghost of a smile flitting over his lips. “If it had been within my power, I would have kept him from hurting you,” he said in an odd tone. “Know that. Goodbye, Daisy Vanreid.”
As quickly as he’d re-emerged in her life, Padraig McGuire was gone, the paneled door clicking closed at his back. She stared at the space where he’d been, knowing somehow that this was the last call he would make upon her.
“Daisy Trent,” she corrected, not that it mattered.
25th May, 1881
Dear Sir,
As we prepare to enter the third month of your absence, I write you with unexpected news. I am expecting your child. Though you’ve amply demonstrated your lack of sentiment for myself, I cannot help but hope you may be somewhat less reticent in regards to an innocent.
In other matters, I hope you don’t mind that I’ve recently replaced all the carpets with a fine Axminster at 8 shillings a yard. Redecorating the old nursery will prove even more costly, I fear.
Sincerely,
Duchess of Trent
“Surely even you can concede she’s become a liability now, Trent.”
Scowling, Sebastian looked up from the Home Office report the Duke of Carlisle had offered up for his perusal. Following the blast at the police station, Carlisle had joined Sebastian and Griffin in Liverpool. They’d arrested three Fenians responsible for the dynamite operation on Castle Street, but there were literally hundreds more suspects and clues to pursue. The last fortnight had been a blur of running more leads to ground.
But now, a different sort of blur descended upon Sebastian. Words rattled about in his mind, attempting to form into coherent thoughts. The anger crashing through him wouldn’t allow a complete sentence to form. The words, separately, meant little.
Trousers. That explained the fortune she’d spent at an establishment owned by a Madame Blanc. Wild parties. And that absolutely explained the thousands of pounds in expenditures he’d noticed disappearing from his accounts. He read on. Scandal. Artists and playwrights. The Earl of Bolton.
Trousers. Goddamn it. The Earl of bloody Bolton?
The image of Bolton touching Daisy—of taking her in his arms and kissing her soft pink lips, of hearing her satisfied sighs and stripping away her layers and losing himself in her delectable body—made him want to smash his fist through the table. Through a wall. Through the Earl of Bolton’s fucking face.
What had she said that first night at the Beresford ball?
Thank you for your unnecessary concern, Your Grace, but foxes don’t frighten me. They never have.
The devil. If she had allowed Bolton to touch so much as her hand, he’d… What would he do? Hadn’t he left her behind without a word? He’d been gone nearly three months, a far longer span of time than the fortnight he’d known her. His fault. He had pushed her away. He had chosen duty over her.
But if the contents of the report were to be believed, she was faithless. A soul-crushing ire seared through him at the thought. She could have waited for him to return. By God, she’d claimed to love him. Lies, whispered a voice inside his mind. She lied to you. What other lies did she tell?
He tamped down the bile. Forced himself to calm. Took a breath. Two.
There. He felt nothing. Thank Christ Carlisle had chosen to deliver this report in private while Griffin was out reconnoitering with some men from the Home Office. And then, he felt something again. Sudden and explosive, directly in the vicinity of his chest.
“The Earl of Bolton? Tell me, Carlisle. Is she fucking the Earl of Bolton?” He hadn’t meant to snarl out those particular questions to the brick wall of a man staring him down. But they’d emerged, raw and visceral, from somewhere deep within him.
“Likely bewitched Bolton the same way she’s bewitched you,” Carlisle said, his tone sour. “Does she have a magical cunny?”
Sebastian clenched his fists. He would not strike the leader of the League. He would not. “Go to hell.”
Carlisle raised a brow. “Perhaps we ought to ask Bolton.”
Sebastian launched himself from his chair so forcefully that it toppled over behind him. He was going to beat Carlisle to a pulp. “Fuck you, Carlisle.”
“I once thought you unshakeable.” Carlisle whistled, cocking his head to consider him as though viewing him for the first time. “The man who survived a fire and an assassin’s blade brought low by a conniving bit of American skirts. But do read on, Trent. It would appear there’s someone else who may have enjoyed her ample charms as well.”
Damn Carlisle. He was like a lion pawing at a mouse, and Sebastian couldn’t shake the feeling that part of the man enjoyed this. Enjoyed tormenting him. His body teemed with fury and the need to smash something or someone. Belatedly, his training returned to him. He forced the tight muscles of his body to relax, his face to become expressionless. If Carlisle meant to provoke him into doing something stupid, he wouldn’t facilitate the bastard.
Sebastian caught the report back up and hurriedly scoured the contents, returning to the last three paragraphs he’d missed. The blood turned to ice in his veins.
Padraig McGuire called upon Her Grace and was received upon four separate occasions, the first lasting one quarter of an hour, the next lasting twenty minutes, one-half hour the third…
The remainder of the report swirled before his eyes. She had been closeting herself with her former betrothed. A dangerous man, and one that perhaps she had never stopped loving. Betrayal, sharp and sudden as any blade, twisted through him.
He was going to kill McGuire.
When the time came, he would savage him and take great pleasure in it. A knife to the gut, maybe, after water torture. But Daisy… What the hell would he do with his beautiful vixen of a wife if the report was true? Bolton and McGuire? Trousers and scandal? It sounded much like the Daisy Vanreid he’d first met.
Perhaps that was the real Daisy. Mayhap everything had been a lie, from her father’s abuse to her fear. Had that sickening scene with Vanreid the day after their wedding been staged for his benefit?
Dear God, his wife was courting ruin and taking lovers. The last few months he’d spent away from her, he’d been a man torn between his duty and the woman he’d married. How many nights had his thoughts strayed to her? How many times had he longed for her scent, the sight of her burnished curls, her mouth and body ripe beneath his? How desperately had he ached for the sound of her voice, the touch of her hand? How thoroughly had his love for her eaten him alive?
And all the while, she’d been scheming and taking other men to bed. In his own bloody home. Was it possible that the entire time he’d thought he was using her, she had in fact been using him? The notion was too ugly to contemplate, the implications too far-reaching and severe.
His stupid, bloody heart thudded in his chest. Had everything been a ruse? If it had, he needed to be put down like a lame horse. How could his instincts about her have been so wrong? How could he love someone capable of such deception, he who had been trained better than anyone to recognize even the most cunning subterfuge?
“Trent?” Carlisle’s voice—tinged with something he’d swear was concern if he didn’t know better—pierced the fog of wrath that had infected his mind.
“What would you have me do?” he rasped.
Carlisle’s chiseled face hardened even further. “You’ll need to return to London at once. Griffin will accompany you when he returns. According to all the intelligence the Home Office has been able to gather, signs indicate quite strongly that she’s been tasked with infiltrating the Special League. It would appear that you are her target.”
Her target.
The two words echoed in his mind, a taunt. It all made perfect, disgusting sense. A beautiful heiress who’d set the ton on its ear. She’d danced her way through a series of suitors and balls, setting off wagging tongues but avoiding ruination. Daisy was the siren meant to lure his ship into the jagged rocks. She’d put on a pretty show of fearing her father. And he’d been sympathetic. His honor had demanded he protect her, even in the face of all logic, reason, and yes, duty.
He was no one’s target, damn it. He was one of the finest spies in all of England. There was no way in hell he would allow himself to be outfoxed by a sultry siren who smelled of bergamot and made him hard simply by being in the room.
He straightened, forcing himself to focus. “I return to London and then what? Wait for those bastards to set off another bomb?”
A strange expression crossed his superior’s face. “No. You need to keep a watchful eye on your wife. Find out how much she knows. Discover her connections. Gather as much information for us as you possibly can so that we can send more double operatives to infiltrate their ranks. And do whatever you must to break her and gain the information we need.”
To break her.
The notion shouldn’t fill him with… what, sadness? He couldn’t define the sensation hollowing him out. Didn’t want to. “As you order, Your Grace.” Suddenly, he needed to escape. He felt as if the air had been sucked from the chamber and he couldn’t properly breathe. “I will take my leave and begin preparations for my return posthaste.”
He pivoted on his heel, ready to flee. Trying not to run from the room. From the demons. From the price of doing what he must. From the burden of duty.
“Trent?”
Sebastian halted, turning back to his superior.
Carlisle had the appearance of a man at his mother’s funeral. A foreign sensation crept through Sebastian, filling him with dread. He knew what the duke was going to say before the words ever left his mouth. His entire body tightened, bracing for it.
“Prepare yourself, Trent,” Carlisle said finally. “She is a woman, I know, but under the proper circumstances, a bolder course of action may have its merits, if you take my meaning.”
He was sure he did, but he wanted to be certain. “You want me to… kill her?”
Asking the question filled him with ice. Dread expanded in his chest. Disgust curdled his gut.
His superior inclined his head, his gaze steady. “I want you to take whatever action you deem necessary as you carry out your duty to the Crown and the innocents under our protection.”
Jesus. Sebastian’s mouth went dry. The Duke of Carlisle wanted him to murder Daisy. He was giving him permission. An indirect order. Even if she was guilty of every crime Carlisle suspected her of and more, women and children were… damn it, they were women and children. Men could be gutted, shot, hanged, or drowned. Burnt alive. Any number of torturous ends could be their fate in the name of duty. But not women.
Not Daisy.
Not his wife, regardless of how duplicitous and conniving she may be.
He’d sworn an oath to the League, to his Crown, yes. But he’d also sworn an oath before God. An oath to her. And even if she was the most deceptive viper in all of England, he still loved her. Bloody hell.
Without another word, he stalked away. He made it out the door before he cast up his accounts into the mud and dung-caked street.