Marriage to Chloe was going to be a problem, and not for reasons Leo could have ever foreseen.
When Leo was around Chloe, he alternated between a maddening hunger to make love to her… and admiring her for being more damned clever than any tutor and Oxford instructor he’d had combined.
But this cleverness, her innate ability to see everything, was something far more perilous than a simple lust that could be sated with sex and sinning.
He’d shared parts of his past with her. He’d discussed the late marquess with no one—not even his uncle, who’d finally wrestled Leo away from any further torture at that bastard’s hands—yet, Leo had let Chloe inside, and he’d shown her too much. More than could ever be safe.
Leo urged his mount on to a faster gait through the fashionable streets of London. Again, she’d called into question what he was.
The lord doth protest too much, methinks…
He’d been careless in what he’d revealed, and because of it, Chloe insisted on seeing something in him beyond a callous rake. Nay, it was more than that. She questioned gossips and wondered at his knowledge of literature and his ability to memorize a page at a mere glance. Under his gloves, his palms grew moist. For God help him, until her, he’d forgotten that there were other pleasures to be had outside the carnal ones. There had been just one he’d let close enough to see… back when he was a boy just out of university, romantic and foolish enough to believe he could have a life within the Brethren and a bucolic life with a loyal woman.
And after the blunder he’d made one night with that woman, Leo had turned his back on the bookish pup he’d been and fully embraced the life he’d been born to.
Chloe, however, was different than any other woman before her.
Leo gripped his reins hard. What had he done? He’d been a fool to believe he could perpetuate the lie that was his life so long as Chloe resided under the same roof.
Guiding Sin down St. James’s Street, Leo brought the loyal horse to a stop.
After fleeing his wife, her family, his townhouse, and his upheaved life, Leo found himself outside the last place he ever cared to be—White’s.
In fact, he’d made it a point to avoid the damned establishment altogether since he’d been beaten to a pulp and nearly strangled to death by the irascible Earl of Montfort two years earlier. Montfort had been summarily banned afterward, so there were no worries of another encounter. It had been a deserved thrashing, but one he’d rather avoid a repeat of, nonetheless.
Yet, respectability called—for his mission, anyway. Leo had been summoned. Leo tossed his reins off to a nearby street urchin, with a coin and promise for more. As he strode up the steps, his attention should be solely focused on his upcoming meeting.
Instead, Chloe retained a tentaclelike grip on his thoughts.
A servant admitted Leo and accepted his cloak.
All eyes within the club swiveled to the front of the establishment, settling on Leo.
A resounding silence fell, and then the room dissolved into a flurry of whispers.
Bloody fucking nobs. Leo yawned. Fortunately, he’d grown well accustomed to the tediously predictable response to his presence. Infusing a deliberate laziness into his gait, Leo started for the infrequently visited tables reserved for him. Given his lecherous reputation, the doors of White’s should have long been closed to him… and would have been shut to any other man. The empty-headed sots who sipped their brandies and played their dull games of whist didn’t have the sense to question the oddness of Leo maintaining a membership. Leo reached his table and waved off a servant coming forward to drag out his chair.
“Leo!” A booming voice broke across the still-buzzing whispers. “My dear boy.”
On cue.
Leo hesitated a long while, deliberately stretching out the length of his insolent pause. And then, with feigned reluctance, he faced the owner of that cheerful greeting. Seated at his tables in the far left corner of the club, the Duke of Aubrey was joined by Higgins and Rowley, two of Society’s most respectable, proper gents.
“Why the hesitation, dear boy?” Uncle William shot a hand into the air and waved him over. “Come, come! Join me.”
Abandoning his table, Leo cut a path through the club, kicking up frenzied whispers in his wake.
“Uncle,” he drawled when he reached the trio.
They went through the false show for their audience’s benefit. Leo, the reluctant, slightly disrespectful nephew; the duke, a benevolent and expecting-to-be-obeyed uncle; and two lords, who remained seated as the nephew joined them, because it would be unpardonably rude to quit a duke’s company.
In all, it was the perfect ruse and one that had proven exceedingly helpful through the years.
Hiding in plain sight, as his uncle called it, allowed one more freedom and security than even the darkest corner.
“I understand congratulations are in order,” Higgins remarked. The graying man gestured over a footman.
A moment later, a glass was set before Leo. The Delegator poured a snifter full and handed it over.
“I never thought I’d see the day.” A patent disdain dripped from Rowley’s words as each gentleman held his drink aloft in a formal toast to the end of Leo’s bachelorhood.
“Ah, but that is the power of love, is it not, Rowley?” Uncle William waggled his eyebrows. “That even the most hardened rake or rogue can be reformed by its power.” The duke smiled at Leo, again lifting his glass in his nephew’s direction. “And when the Hellings fall, we are known to fall hard and fast. Isn’t that right, Leo?”
How different the requisite reply to his uncle’s assertion would have been just days ago. Now, Leo played a new part: devoted husband to a delectable spitfire. He smiled loosely. “My wife is unlike any other woman,” he said quietly. Except, the layer of truth contained within those words made them spill forward easily. His fingers curled tight around his glass, and he took a long, desperate swallow, letting the spirits blaze a sharp trail down his throat. He’d set his glass down hard and reached for the bottle to add another fingerful when he felt three sets of eyes boring into him.
Neck heating, he swiftly released the bottle.
Rowley’s expression set in a smug knowing… when the sod couldn’t see anything with clarity. For Leo himself couldn’t make sense of the murky cloud of his life. Sitting back, he lazily cradled his glass between his fingers to keep them steady.
“From what I hear, you were seen carrying the lady through the streets of London,” Higgins remarked.
The Delegator or not, his superior could go hang before Leo revealed the abrupt departure and fight that had sent Chloe fleeing her family’s residence. “The lady wished to walk, but I was unwilling to allow her to strain her ankle after a recent fall.”
“Hmph,” Rowley grunted, tossing back his drink.
“And I also hear,” Uncle William leaned his elbows on the table, “you were seen reading to the lady earlier today in Hyde Park.”
There was more than a question there, one that moved beyond this façade they carried out for the benefit of the crowd. Leo shuttered his expression and cursed the duke’s ability to see below anyone’s surface, including Leo’s. A smile ghosted his uncle’s lips, and he winked.
They maintained the casual dialogue until the other patrons’ attention throughout the club drifted away from them.
Lord Higgins picked up his glass and raised it to his lips. “We’ve uncovered proof you were… are correct,” he said without preamble.
Even as every last muscle in his being jumped at the admission, Leo gave a casual roll of his shoulders. “Oh?”
“As you know, the Home Office was unwilling to use spies in court to bring down all those involved in the Cato Event. Criminal charges were dropped as long as Adams and Monument,” two leading figures in the conspiracy, “supplied evidence to convict the rest of the gang. Which they did in the form of names names. George Edwards was never called to bring forth information on the event.”
Leo sat up straighter, homing in on that latter admission. “They never interviewed him?”
“No, they did not,” Uncle William said, his glass carefully held close to his mouth, hiding his lips as he spoke. “One of the Brethren tracked him down and conducted that long-overdue interview. And with some persuasion, he proved… cooperative.”
Leo glanced around the table. “I trust he had information to share that was of value?”
Lord Rowley pursed his mouth like he’d sucked on a rotted piece of fruit.
Triumph pumped through Leo’s veins. It was a great thrill as potently strong now as when he’d been proven correct with the information he’d ferreted out as a young man. He’d been right in his suspicions.
“Immeasurably,” Higgins intoned. “There were forty men recruited for the plot. Only seven and twenty took part. Edwards insists he was given bad information about the Cabinet meeting taking place at Lord Harrowby’s residence.”
“It was meant to trap Edwards and those determined to overthrow the government,” Leo murmured, the pieces of the puzzle sliding into place.
“Precisely,” Uncle William confirmed. “Not only would this group of Tories focused upon radical reforms to oppress the masses take full blame for the Cato plot, but it would also allow them to enact their legislation.”
Leo silently whistled. It was masterful. What men didn’t realize, however, was that ultimately no secret was safe. And when there was one bent on subversion, the truth inevitably came to light and justice attained. “Did he offer the names?”
“Lords Waterson, Tremaine, Ellsworth,” Rowley grudgingly volunteered, the names coming as if forcibly pulled from him. “They were the greatest proponents of the Six Acts inside and outside of Parliament.”
Leo smirked. This was why there had been so little a battle required for him to retain his post with the Brethren. “This must be difficult for you, Rowley.” The bastard had to swallow that he’d been not only unsuccessful in his efforts to oust Leo from the Brethren, but also had to admit Leo was correct in his suppositions.
“Go to hell,” the viscount returned through a tight-lipped smile.
“Gentlemen.” Higgins thumped the bottle, leveling a sideways glance at each of them. He made a show of refilling each gentleman’s glass and then held his up in another false salute. “We don’t have time for your petty rivalry. Tennyson, you’ve done a convincing job with your recent bride. Keep at it. Her family is close to Waterson. Her sister-in-law was an instructor for Ellsworth’s daughter, but the connection isn’t strong enough to reach the family that way. Another agent will handle Ellsworth and Tremaine.” As he proceeded to fire off commands, he rolled his snifter back and forth between his fingers. “You’ll need another invitation into Waterson’s home, so you can continue the search you started.” Before Leo had been caught with Chloe. “See that you secure that. And you’ll host a soiree with the respective gentlemen present as guests.”
“Taking advantage of her familial connection may not be as… easy as we had anticipated.”
Higgins’ brows pulled together. “In what way?”
Leo measured his words carefully. “The lady’s family has proven less forthcoming with their support.”
“What family would be elated with a wastrel like you in their midst?” Rowley muttered under his breath.
That insult rolled off Leo’s thickened skin. He focused, instead, on his uncle and the Delegator.
“Bloody hell,” Higgins muttered in an unusual public display of his frustration. “The whole reason you wed the damn woman was for entry and access to Waterson—”
“And the appearances of it all,” his uncle interrupted, a frown marring his lips.
“If she cannot provide you with all of that, she is useless to us,” Higgins stated with a brutal candor that sent Leo’s hands curling into fists on his lap.
The lady was many things: clever, determined, spirited. Yes.
“I’d have a care,” he warned Higgins on a steely whisper. “The lady is my wife.”
“Then see that your wife gets you that which we need.” The Delegator stood, with Rowley falling into like step. “Tennyson,” Higgins called loud enough for those at nearby tables to overhear. “Again, congratulations on your recent nuptials.”
Leo nudged his chin up in the expected insolent acknowledgment, fighting the urge to lift a crude finger instead. After his superiors had gone, he swiped his drink up and stared at the half-empty amber contents.
Both men had been, in fact, correct. The sole reason he’d wed Chloe had been with the Cato case in mind. But that had been before, when she’d been nothing more than a chess piece upon the board, used to maintain order and right for the Crown.
Now, she was a spirited miss who read the works of female philosophers and aspired to… work, when ladies of the ton aspired to nothing but their own pleasures and pastimes.
“That bad, eh?”
“What?” Leo directed the curt utterance at his glass.
“Woolgathering,” his uncle said with entirely too much amusement.
Leo sat up in his seat. “I’m not… woolgathering.” That was what innocent misses and lovesick swains did. Not devils with black souls.
“Defending the lady,” the other man persisted. “As one who has also been bewitched by a young bride, I’d say you are smitten.”
Smitten. Leo recoiled. “Impossible. Never.” Why, that would have to mean he, Leo Dunlop, was capable of caring for someone. Which he wasn’t. “Egads, you’re… m-mad,” he sputtered.
His uncle dissolved into a very unducal-like round of laughter. His broad frame shook with the weight of his mirth. “Methinks he doth protest too much.”
At having that quote so glibly tossed by his wife a short while ago thrown in his face by the man opposite him, Leo felt his skin go hot. “You don’t know a thing about it,” he said tightly. He’d never before shared with a soul any mention of the one woman he had mistakenly opened his heart to… and all the ways he’d broken it and been reborn from that folly. “I’ll never be one who’s smitten or falls in love. That is not who I am.” But it had been… back when he was a boy and hoped for that sentiment… nay… a family. He’d wanted a family. The cynical set of his features reflected in his brandy. What a fool he’d been.
All hint of amusement fled his uncle’s face. He dragged his chair closer and, anchoring his elbows on the table, leaned forward. “You think I don’t know anything about it? Loss? About choosing… other obligations before my own wants? I’ve lost as much as I’ve won. I have your aunt, but…” Pain contorted his features. “I knew loss before her.”
Leo sat in silence. The late Duchess of Aubrey’s death at the hands of foes to the Brethren was known as a cautionary tale to all who entered the ranks of the organization, but the details of her demise remained a long-held secret shared by none.
“Sometimes, Leo,” his uncle said gravely, finally speaking again, “it is easy to become embroiled in that life that you forget to live. I don’t want that for you.”
“My work is all I am,” he said automatically, without inflection, and only as a matter of fact.
“Ah, but it doesn’t have to be. Mayhap Chloe… will be good not only for your assignment, but for you.”
A flippant denial hung on his lips, but he could not force the words out.
His uncle fortunately let the matter rest and was, once more, all business, which was good. “In the meantime, you’ll need to gain her family’s assistance. Like Higgins, I recommend a soiree. The only one you require in attendance is Waterson.”
Leo filed away each recommendation. It was safe. Familiar.
“Keep your invitations to those Waterson would be most comfortable with. Tories.”
Leo grimaced.
“That way, the gentlemen will converse freely about their politics.”
There was, however, one dilemma. “I still have to convince Chloe to host an event.” For he’d found the unlikely—the one lady in all of London who despised balls and soirees.
His uncle snorted. “If you convinced that girl to marry you, Leo, I trust managing to elicit her cooperation for a formal affair will be effortless.” He finished off his drink and set his glass down. “Like you, I have a lovely wife awaiting,” he said, heavily obvious with his insinuation. His uncle stood. “My congratulations, Leo.”
Leo made his goodbyes and stared after his uncle’s retreating form. The duke cut a swath through the club, earning respectful greetings and calls from the gentlemen he passed. And then he was gone.
Leo pulled over the bottle and added brandy to his glass.
His uncle had urged him to return home. Leo, however, was not too proud to admit he was bloody terrified. His wife had begun to probe… and only a few days into their marriage. How was he to maintain the secret of his role within the Brethren when Chloe saw secrets in details everyone else before her looked past?
Where every other lord and lady was content with the image he presented to the world, his wife challenged it. And he was torn between admiration for her intelligence and frustration for the danger it posed. Regardless, one thing was certain, it was far safer in his club than returning home to her further questioning.
Nay, that isn’t all. You’re terrified out of your bloody everlasting mind. She is the only person, aside from your uncle, who knows you’re a bastard in every sense of the word.
He tossed back a long swallow.
Hours later, after night had descended and his wife was surely abed, Leo finally shoved back his chair. There was nothing else for it. He was a bloody coward, and it hadn’t been a damned assignment that had set him running and humbled, but a slip of a spitfire.
Leo had made his way to the front of the club when a servant opened the door, admitting a patron.
Leo stopped in his tracks as his stare collided with the gentleman’s. The other man drew back, his mouth agape, his muscles tense, like one who’d seen a gorgon.
Oh, bloody hell on Sunday.
Leo mustered a smile. “Montfort,” he greeted jovially. “I see they’ve renewed your membership. Drinks, perhaps?”
With a roar, the Earl of Montfort charged him.
Every part of him thrummed to life with the primitive need to fight. Cursing, Leo stepped aside, avoiding the earl’s hurtling body. “It is not my intention to fight with you,” he murmured, placating.
“You bastard,” Montfort hissed, throwing a punch.
Leo angled his head quickly, dodging the blow. He had taken a beating from Lord Montfort, his former rake compatriot turned reformed rake, in the past. Largely because he deserved it. Nonetheless, Leo would rather avoid a repeat performance. With the patrons eagerly watching, Leo planted his feet. “You don’t want to do this, Montfort.”
“Trust me. I do.” Montfort muttered and then slammed his fist into Leo’s cheek.
Pain resonated throughout his entire face, with agony exploding from his jawline to his temple. A slow trickle of blood seeped from his nostrils. “Oh, bloody hell,” he mumbled, yanking out a kerchief. He held it to his face. “Bad form beating a man who—”
Montfort let another punch fly. This one collided with Leo’s stomach with such force it sucked all the air from his lungs. His legs swayed under him, but he fixed his feet, refusing to go down.
“Fight me,” the earl shouted.
“Montfort!” someone exclaimed from beyond Leo’s shoulder.
“I’ll not fight you, Montfort.” And it had nothing to do with the earl and everything to do with the one sin Leo would take back but never could.
Montfort took another swing. And this blow connected with Leo’s other cheek, effectively bringing him to his knees. The fabric in his hand fell to the floor.
He dimly registered the Marquess of St. Albans rushing over and gripping the irate earl by his shoulders. His murmurings, however, were lost to the buzzing in Leo’s ears. Not that he gave a rat’s arse what St. Albans had to say this day or any other. Blinking wildly, fighting off unconsciousness, Leo struggled to his feet.
“My lord.” The butler came rushing forward, outrage written in his stern expressions. “Your membership—”
“Is revoked?” Montfort growled, spitting on the carpeted floor. “With bastards like this one allowed entry,” he said as he jerked his chin in Leo’s direction, “I’ve no interest in membership to your,” he peeled his lip in a sneer, “esteemed club.” On that, Montfort stalked off, St. Albans at his side.
“My apologies, my lord,” a servant was saying to Leo. Someone pressed fabric into his hand—a kerchief.
His mouth throbbed, already beginning to swell. Leo took the scrap with a word of thanks. Forcing a smile around the kerchief, he lifted his other hand in parting. “Gentlemen,” he called jovially and strode forward.
He stumbled.
Concerned whispers and gasps went up.
Gritting his teeth, Leo steadied himself. He accepted his cloak and, clasping it at his throat, took his leave of the club.
Of all bloody days for Montfort’s membership to be restored.
He did a sweep of the streets for the boy he’d tasked with watching his mount. The child came springing forward. “Oi, sir, ya look bloody awful.”
“Undoubtedly,” he drawled, passing off a heavy purse for the child.
The street urchin’s eyes formed wide circles. As if he feared Leo might change his mind and snatch back that gift, the boy bolted.
Sucking in a slow, steadying breath, Leo turned his attentions to dragging himself atop his mount. He winced as he settled into the saddle. By God, his ribs burned like the devil. Urging his mount onward, he made a slow, agonizing journey home.