Nineteen

Dear Isabelle,

I’m sorry. If there were stronger words than those that captured the pain I’ve caused you, I would say those as well. I never deserved having you in my life. It was a fact I knew well, but I was weak in the one area where I should have been strong. You were hurt as a result of my carelessness, and I’ll carry that knowledge with me forever. Someday, long from now, I will see you waltzing at a ball in the arms of an honorable gentleman, and I hope to see you smile. It won’t be a smile for me, of course, but I long for it nonetheless. I will always love you—

• • •

Fallon lifted the paper from his desk and wadded it into a ball in his fist, tossing it across the room into the fire. His words sizzled, popped, and then turned to ash just like all the others he’d written since she had walked out the door. His love for Isabelle, just like so many other secrets in his life, would never be spoken aloud. It was over.

* * *

The wind blew through the rough-hewn doors of the old stone building, stirring whirls of dirt on the floor. Soon it would be time.

Fallon glanced out the nearest window. The street outside was still quiet. Knottsby’s carriage had arrived only minutes before, and Fallon’s men had sent the driver on around the corner. Fallon wanted only Hardaway and Knottsby inside the abandoned building with him—Knottsby to identify the art as the originals and Hardaway because he enjoyed violence.

Wooden columns stood scattered across the open space, but it was otherwise as empty as it had been for years. On clear nights, the clerestory windows lit the building enough for an exchange of funds or an interrogation. Fallon knew the space all too well. Tonight, however, the clouds kept the corners of the room shadowed, which worked in the Spares’ favor. The three of them could easily wait out of sight until the paintings were brought inside.

“I came alone as instructed, but I see you didn’t,” Knottsby said as he joined Fallon beside the window.

“Never,” Fallon replied as he scanned the street once more. One of the Spares lingered in a doorway at the bend in the road, but there was still no sign of Grapling.

Hardaway moved in behind them and greeted Knottsby. “We have men stationed around the building. Nothing will move in or out of here without our notice.”

“Always on top of things,” Knottsby murmured.

Not always, or tonight would be quite different. He would have seen through Grapling years ago. He would have met Isabelle under different circumstances, and perhaps she wouldn’t despise him. It seemed the only thing he could manage in his life was a successful operation.

“The intelligence behind this exchange seems to be accurate,” Fallon said, eyeing the empty street outside and the harbor beyond that. The place held all the usual marks of being a sale location—proximity to a ship scheduled to leave port by morning, a quiet building, and a lack of homes in the area. For these same reasons, Fallon had used it on occasion. Unfortunately, he’d trained Grapling well.

“Was there bad information before?” Knottsby asked in surprise. “Hardaway, you’re going too easy on your informants.”

“He’s been distraught ever since the wedding,” Fallon answered with an innocent shrug of his shoulders for Hardaway’s benefit. Fallon was still on edge from their talk earlier, and the chitchat while they waited for Grapling wasn’t helping matters. “Heartbroken, wasn’t that the term you used?”

“Ha!” Hardaway exclaimed.

“Keep your voice down.” Fallon jabbed Hardaway in the ribs with his elbow.

His friend drew back and narrowed his eyes on Fallon in the dim moonlight. “Is this sharing of confidences time, St. James? Because I know a thing or two that I could say. You wouldn’t want me to say what I could say, but say it I would.”

Fallon almost grinned—almost. “Hardaway, would you say it? I am not certain I understand if you would say something.”

“Bloody know-it-all,” his friend ground out.

“About the wedding,” Knottsby cut in. “Hardaway, you have my utmost apologies for—”

“Not now,” Fallon bit out as a carriage drew to a stop outside the building. This was it.

He took a step back into the shadows and nodded for the others to do the same. They watched from the edge of the window as Grapling stepped down along with two young men. They each possessed the rough look of boys who had grown up on the streets. Their wary eyes darted around, and pistols were visible at their backs. Grapling, on the other hand, walked as if he owned the air around him.

They paused outside the carriage, a swaying lantern lighting the scene. Grapling was giving directions to the driver, appeared to be instructing one of the men to stay behind. The artwork could be in the carriage. Unless there was another conveyance still to come.

“He has blond hair?” Knottsby asked. “When did that happen?”

“When he discovered Isabelle’s fondness for fair-headed gentlemen and attempted to court her.” Fallon shifted back from the window to avoid being seen.

“Grapling shouldn’t be allowed in the same room as Isabelle.” Knottsby’s gaze lingered for a second on Fallon’s dark-brown hair and frowned in an all-too-obvious thought.

Fallon had never been right for Isabelle. She would go on to marry some lordly man who had the hair color and principles that she preferred. He swallowed down any further thought about what could have been, focusing on their present situation. “I tried to warn her away, attempted to alert you—as best I could, anyway, without endangering her life, but I failed on both counts. He lured her to the museum that day for revenge against you…and me. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you he was the culprit. He’d threatened to kill her if I spoke.”

“On her sister’s wedding day… I’ve neglected my family for too long. I don’t even know what happens in my own home. Did you know that Grapling sent my Isabelle that blasted necklace and she wore it to a ball?”

Yes, as the jewelry now resided in Fallon’s own desk drawer. He was still angered that for a time he’d thought this was about recreating a crime from years ago and not about art theft. Only someone who knew Fallon would know how to manipulate him in such a manner.

“My daughters are running amok,” Knottsby said at his side. “My family’s art collection has been stolen. It’s all because of my own inattentiveness. I got caught up in having this blasted title and all that went with it. This is my fault.”

“No. The blame is mine,” Fallon stated.

“Not everything is your responsibility, St. James.”

That wasn’t the least bit true, but he didn’t argue. A door opened a fraction on the other side of the room, and he heard light footsteps. Glancing back, he noted that Grapling was still outside, only just coming up to the nearest door. Fallon squinted into the dark of the opposite corner but saw nothing. He’d instructed his men to remain outside the building. Whoever had gone against his orders would have to be dealt with.

Just then the door banged open and Grapling entered, drawing Fallon’s attention away from the noise and the dark corner.

“A fine night for wealth and revenge.”

“We can drink to that tonight,” the young man replied.

“We shall. As soon as we’re rid of the paintings, my boy.”

“Never would have thought some paint would fetch that kind of price.”

“That’s why you have me about. I know about the finer things and how to get them. You just have to follow my lead.”

“Yes, sir,” the young man said as he leaned back to look out the door. “When will he be here?”

“Not long. You should always arrive early to meetings such as this one. It gives you the advantage of knowing your surroundings. I can teach you much about this business.”

Hardaway glanced to Fallon, and Fallon curled his fingers into fists. Arriving early was his advice to new recruits. He’d told it to Grapling in similar circumstances, only he hadn’t acted like a high-handed arse when he’d said it. Little did the man know that he hadn’t arrived early enough.

Something moved outside the building, and Fallon turned. The buyer. Fallon watched as another carriage arrived. He could feel the anticipation radiating off of Knottsby and Hardaway. A second later the door opened, and two men stepped inside. Grapling greeted the first man, finely dressed in tailored clothing and with a refined look about him. He must have been the art dealer. The buyer nodded to his man, and a leather bag was produced. Fallon waited.

“Where are the paintings?” Knottsby hissed in his ear.

Fallon held up a hand to silently tell the man to be patient. These things couldn’t be rushed. They had to move at just the right time, or the entire operation would fall apart. Lives would be put in danger.

A moment later there were loud scratching and banging sounds outside the door. Knottsby shifted forward, but Fallon caught his arm. It was nearly time but not quite.

“Easy with that,” Grapling called out as the man he’d left by the carriage heaved one end of a large crate into view.

“Sorry, sir. It’s blasted heavy.”

The crate started to shift, something slid inside, and it toppled farther. The young man was going to drop the crate, but there was nothing Fallon could do at this distance but wince for the paintings inside. Hopefully they were well packaged to survive their journey.

Except there was a flash of movement at his side, and Knottsby was already out of range of Fallon’s grab. He ran forward into the central lit area of the building even as he reached for his pistol.

“Always was impatient,” Hardaway mumbled at his side, and then he and Fallon were off as well, running into a fight two minutes too early.

Fallon checked the location of his pistol at his back and noticed Hardaway already had one in each hand. Backup in case one misfired or was needed elsewhere, no doubt. Fallon sped forward, all the while doing the math of their situation. Most of his men were stationed around the building to prevent escape. Inside these walls, it was five men against three. Hardaway had two weapons, which would leave them evenly matched as long as the art dealer wasn’t armed. It was a gamble, and one he didn’t like the odds on.

Knottsby was moving toward the boy with the crate while Hardaway was at his side, focused on the two young men on the other side of the crate. Fallon wanted to pummel only one man tonight, and he was headed straight for him. Grapling looked up as the three moved out of the shadows, but had no time to react. Fallon reached the crate and dug one toe of his boot against the edge, launching himself over the top to come down on top of the man.

He’d been longing to punch the man again after their fight at the museum had been cut short, especially after what the man had done to Isabelle. His fingers dug into Grapling’s shirt, and Fallon pushed him hard down onto the floor. Landing with an echoing thud, Fallon wasted no time landing a punch in the man’s stomach, then kneeing him in the side. Grapling tore at Fallon’s clothing, but he was no match for Fallon’s size; he never had been.

Fallon had lost sight of the rest of the fight, but only one opponent truly mattered—the one who had dared hit Isabelle. Fallon’s fist collided with Grapling’s jaw with a satisfying thwack, but a second later he was pulled off the man and slung onto the floor.

Knottsby’s opponent must have gotten away from him. Grunts and blows sounded all around Fallon as he scrambled to his feet searching for his attacker. Grapling was on his knees now, slowly climbing to his feet. Fallon chanced a quick glance to the side. Hardaway was fighting two of the men by using his pistols as clubs, while the buyer stayed back and clutched his bag of money to his chest. Perhaps he should have wagered on the outcome of this fight after all.

Hearing a struggle behind him, Fallon turned just in time to see Knottsby fighting for control of a pistol. Pulling out his own pistol, he reached for the man’s shoulder. Knottsby was a solid fighter, but he had thirty years on his opponent. Fallon had to help, or someone would get shot.

As he moved, he saw motion in the shadows. And a flash of an image where the light fell—soft blond curls framed round eyes. But he blinked, and the vision was gone.

Isabelle? It couldn’t be.

How had she slipped past his men? Why was she here?

Fallon turned back to Grapling just in time to see the man raising a pistol and aiming it at Fallon’s chest. He held a knife loosely at his side. Throwing knives had always been his specialty.

Fallon raised his pistol as well. A shot fired into the air behind him, and everything went quiet, aside from the ringing in his ears. Fallon glanced to the side. Pistols were raised around the room. Blast it all, Knottsby’s opponent must have had a second weapon. No one was getting out of this alive. But it wasn’t his life he was thinking of just now. It was Isabelle’s.

* * *

Isabelle backed away from the fight with hurried footsteps, her borrowed black dress blending her into the dark stone walls behind her. Bumping into something solid, she jumped, but it was only one of the wooden columns. She slipped behind it and peeked out from the edge. The wood was rough under her bare fingers, but she held on anyway. Watching.

Had Fallon seen her? She was almost certain he had.

Looking at him now was like watching the ghost of a lost loved one. Hair she’d once run her fingers through, lips she’d once kissed… She wanted to rush to him, but there was no longer anything there to hold on to. He was standing still now, pistol raised just like the others. She had no business being here tonight, but it seemed Fallon did have business to attend to—murderous business.

She’d been so wrong about him. But in the end, she’d been right—he was a villain just like the rest of them. Oddly, that confidence in her actions offered her no comfort. She looked over the scene. Pistols were raised in every direction, holding everyone in check. Every man in her life was in this room: Fallon, Lord Hardaway, Mr. Grapling, even her father. All dogs fighting over a bone. She’d been wrong about more than just Fallon. He wasn’t the only villainous gentleman here tonight. Perhaps there were no noble knights in reality—there were only untrustworthy men, all guilty, all out for their own gain.

She straightened her spine a bit. She was Lady Isabelle Fairlyn, and she didn’t require saving by any of these so-called gentlemen. Once she had answers to all of her questions, she could put this mess behind her and walk away—only this time for good. Leaning against the column, she listened.

“Fallon St. James,” Mr. Grapling crooned. “You found me, just as I’d hoped you would.”

“Could have fooled me,” Fallon retorted.

“I couldn’t make it too easy for you though, could I? Where would the fun be in that?”

“My idea of fun is quite different from yours,” Hardaway cut in.

“You’re bluffing,” Fallon accused. “You’re only sorry that you finally slipped up and got caught.”

“Neither of you likes my little party?” Grapling sneered. “It wouldn’t be an evening with St. James without his pet, Brice.”

“It’s Hardaway now, you miserable sod,” the man ground out.

“Oh, that’s right. I would congratulate you on the new title, but I would wager you weren’t pleased about receiving it at all. Did it put your membership in jeopardy with the secret club for the titleless? I suppose not, since you’re here. The rules never apply to St. James’s true friends. All the other Spare Heirs are there only to do your bidding, aren’t they, St. James? No questions allowed. Everything done in the name of serving the great master.” He waved at Fallon with the barrel of his pistol.

“We’re a brotherhood. Something you never understood, Grapling.” Fallon shifted on his feet but otherwise didn’t flinch.

“Three years. Three years I did as I was told! Three years I collected coins, wrote up accountings of events, assured the good women of the Westminster Boardinghouse that I would see to their needs on behalf of the great St. James.”

“You were paid for your services,” Hardaway cut in. “You were well taken care of. You were given rooms, food, and a weekly stipend.”

“While he became wealthy,” Grapling retorted, fixing his pistol aim between Fallon’s eyes.

“It was never enough for you,” Fallon mused. “Nothing was ever enough. I should have seen your greed and your ambition then. Is that why you’re doing this? You think you can destroy Knottsby, steal from him, and take me down in the process? I have an army of men who beg to differ. Men who are loyal to this organization—something you never understood. They won’t go quietly, and neither will I.”

“Such a poignant speech, oh great leader. Tell me, when you rally your troops with words of togetherness and survival, do you mention the whores and the down-on-their-luck gentlemen you gather your coins from? We’re no different, you and me.”

“I’ve never killed for sport or siphoned funds simply to fill my own pockets. You’re a murderer and a thief. I’m far from ideal, but everything I do is to help those around me. I may gather coins—as you put it—but I keep the people working in the establishments no one cares for safe from harm, from both the unjust law and men like you. I’ve never taken anything we didn’t earn. I’ve never struck a lady over the head and left her for dead, placing the blame for a crime on her shoulders. I’ve never murdered—”

“Are you still on about that? It was four years ago, and she was a whore.”

“She was an innocent woman, and you killed her.”

“Those women are there for men’s entertainment. And I found my time with her quite entertaining.”

“And Lady Isabelle? Did you find that amusing? You could have killed her!” Fallon’s words echoed off the walls of the abandoned building.

Isabelle swallowed. The truth struck her as directly as any one of their bullets might—Fallon might still be a criminal or even a villain, but she couldn’t deny one thing: he still cared for her. “Her life or death was inconsequential. Sometimes pawns must be sacrificed to win the game. It’s simple strategy.”

She’d danced with this man. She’d worn the blasted locket he’d sent to her. How had she fallen into such a trap? The thought of it made her ill.

“The scandal will still fall on Knottsby’s shoulders. I knew if you rushed to her rescue, then she would serve as a distraction while I took my time and enjoyed the city as I stole from your good friend here and blamed it on his daughter. And if you didn’t come to her rescue… Well, we both knew you would attempt to save the girl’s life. You have no idea how much I’ve treasured watching the great St. James powerless to stop my plans.”

Isabelle sucked in an unsteady breath. He really was awful.

“I should have filled you with lead four years ago. Sending you to prison was too lenient.”

“And become a murderer—just like me?”

Suddenly everything became clear. Well, perhaps not clear, precisely, but far less muddied. Grapling was the villain here. It was just as she’d realized in his carriage—only somehow worse now that she knew the reasons behind his actions. He was the one who’d murdered some poor girl. He was the one who’d arrived with her family’s artwork in crates, who’d stolen her diary and used the contents in whatever sick game he was playing. Fallon might not be the perfect gentleman she had previously thought him to be, but neither was he villainous. Yet she’d painted his heart black in her mind all the same.

She’d wondered for some time now who Fallon St. James was, and she had to admit that, even now, she still wasn’t certain. But she took a step toward him anyway, leaving the cover of the column behind.

She watched as Fallon shifted his weight, his focus on Mr. Grapling. Then movement beyond them grabbed her attention.

Her father lunged forward. “I’ve heard enough. You stole from me, and I’ve come to take back what’s mine.”

No! In the cover of the shadowed perimeter of the room, Isabelle moved forward. She had to do something. She had to help them. Her private thoughts in her diary had caused this, had led this madman to threaten everything she held dear.

Father wasn’t watching the men, only Mr. Grapling. In his inattention to the raised pistols all around him, one of the men cocked his weapon, aiming it at her father. Isabelle leapt forward just as Fallon turned to knock the pistol from the man’s hands. Time seemed to slow.

She saw it all in the span of a heartbeat.

The gleam of victory in Mr. Grapling’s eyes. Fallon’s head still turned toward the pistol as it fell to the ground. The knife in the moonlight that lit the center of the room. Fallon.

Mr. Grapling raised his arm and threw the knife. Fallon didn’t see it as it flew through the air. Fallon. Fallon! Her mouth couldn’t form words of warning fast enough. She dove for the knife. Hot, slicing pain. Silencing pain. A bellow of rage. Grapling’s shocked face. Footsteps. Gunfire.

Fallon. Secure arms holding her. Warm brown eyes watching her. Her name on his lips…

* * *

The building had erupted into chaotic madness all around him, but Fallon was still. His knees pressed into the wood plank floor as he held Isabelle in his arms. He brushed the hair back from her face and caressed her cheek.

“Isabelle, you’re going to be all right. I’ve got you, love. Stay with me, Isabelle. Stay with me. Dear God, you have to stay with me. Please, Isabelle. Please don’t go.”

Her eyes were already closing. He was losing her.

“Isabelle? Isabelle!”

He could hear his men’s footsteps as they swarmed through the doors. Hardaway had somehow ended up on top of Grapling, pinning the man to the floor with his forearm. Knottsby was in front of Fallon, crouched in front of his daughter. But Fallon didn’t care about any of them. None of it mattered.

“I need a doctor!” he screamed.

“He can’t arrive here fast enough, St. James,” Knottsby said in a low voice that was hollow with fear.

Fallon blinked through the tears that filled his eyes and looked at the knife that still punctured her side, deep red now covering the black of the dress she wore. “Give me a knife and a length of cloth…your cravat.” He sniffed, knowing what he must do.

“You’re going to remove the knife yourself,” her father accused him, already removing his cravat. “She’ll bleed out. You can’t!”

“I have to try,” he said, still looking down at Isabelle, still warm in his arms.

“St. James, let me do this.” Knottsby moved closer, holding the knife in his hands. “She’s not completely gone. If we attempt this… If she wakes when I pull the knife out, you must hold her still. You have to trust me. You can’t do this alone. You need my help.”

Fallon swallowed and looked up at Isabelle’s father. “Make sure the dress is cut back from the wound to prevent infection. If even a thread of fabric—”

“I’m her father. I care for her too. Trust me.”

Fallon nodded, unable to speak through the knot of emotion in his throat. This had to work. He couldn’t lose her completely. She had to live on and find happiness. He only brought her pain. But if she lived, was he strong enough to let her go again, as he had before?

Tightening his grip on her shoulders and bracing her head in the crook of his arm, Fallon looked back down into Isabelle’s ashen face. Right or wrong, he would always love her. And right or wrong, he would never let her go.

Her father ripped the dress back from the hilt of the knife and braced a hand against her rib cage. But then he looked up, stopping. “We can’t do this. We need a doctor. We could kill her.”

Fallon couldn’t speak, but he gave Knottsby a grave nod.

“Where should I take Grapling?” Hardaway asked from what seemed a great distance away.

Fallon was watching shaking hands tie the cravat tight around Isabelle’s waist, putting vital pressure on the dressing, holding it—and the knife—in place and stopping the blood that made his hands sticky and warm.

Isabelle didn’t move. There were no screams of pain or instantly alert open eyes as he tightened the dressing even more. There was only silence.

Knottsby had done a nice job with the field dressing even if it didn’t save Isabelle’s life. Fallon couldn’t have done any better.

“St. James,” Hardaway said again in an attempt to draw his attention.

The Spares, he had to finish this mission. “Send for…” he began, but his mind was consumed by the woman in his arms.

Hardaway kept talking. “I’ll see to the men and send for the authorities. It’s time this man returned to prison where he belongs. I’ll make sure he receives the worst treatment possible, you can be sure. And I’ll have the artwork returned to Knottsby’s home. The doctor will be here in a few minutes.” Hardaway gave him a nod and moved away, for once not speaking a single word that wasn’t necessary.

But there were a few words that Fallon owed his friend. “Hardaway,” he called out. “Thank you. For taking charge.”

“You’ve done the same for me a thousand times over, my friend. I’m glad I can help you in return. All of us are.”

Fallon glanced around at the men under his command. Stern, sorrow-filled faces met his watery gaze. They watched as the most heart-wrenching, private moment of his life was laid out before them for all to see. But the truth these men were witness to didn’t weaken his position as their leader, as he had always assumed it would. It made him stronger. It made them stronger. He had these men at his back, just as he was there to support them.

He trusted these men, and he trusted Isabelle. If she lived, he would tell her so every day. Please live so that I might love you forever, he silently begged.

The room was silent as Grapling, his men, and the art buyer were bound, gagged, and gathered together against the far wall until assistance could arrive. Outside there was the sound of a carriage coming to a stop.

“The doctor is here. She can still be saved,” Knottsby muttered at his side, the desperation clear in his voice.

But Fallon didn’t have the strength left to hope. He hugged Isabelle to his chest and squeezed his eyes shut as he took a last inhale of her hair, pressing his lips to the top of her head. It was too late—too late for the doctor to save her and too late for Fallon to tell her how he felt for her.

“I’m so sorry. No more secrets,” he whispered to Isabelle. “I’m a wicked gentleman who has done a great deal wrong in this life, and I will love you for the rest of my days. You saved me, my lady. I wish I could have done the same for you.” He sniffed and kissed her forehead, refusing to let her go. “Rest well, my love, and dream of fairy tales with…” He choked on the emotion of good-bye for a second as a tear traced down his cheek before whispering, “Happy endings for all.”