Four

Dear Lord Knottsby,

I hope this note finds you well. You asked long ago to be advised if there ever came a situation that might affect your new title or family. While I am investigating this unfortunate matter myself to ensure the safety of everyone involved, you should know that there is a potentially dangerous situation at hand. Please be on your guard. Your vigilance is appreciated and will be remembered in the future.

—St. James

• • •

There he was, blond hair blowing in the breeze. His eyes danced across the crowd gathered in the garden. Sunny strands of his deliciously overlong hair whipped across his tanned skin even as he smiled into the face of the unfortunate weather. After such a clear evening, today was bringing quite the change. The brisk wind that had blown in was doing nothing to calm the nerves of Lady Marksby, their host for the outdoor gathering today. But it suited Mr. Brice perfectly. This must be what he would look like atop a horse as he raced across a field on his way to save a small child from harm.

Isabelle adjusted the locket at her throat, sighed, and stared. Had he sent her the locket to wear? Thus far, her mystery gentleman was just that—a mystery. And all she could do was wait. Somewhere behind her, conversation continued over her friend Roselyn’s new shoes and moved from there to news of her cousin Evangeline’s outing to the park earlier, in the company of some gentleman. Normally Isabelle would have jumped upon the retelling of such a romantic event, but not when she was deep in a dream of her own romance. At any moment Mr. Brice would look in her direction and their eyes would meet across the lawn. He would see the locket at her throat, and he would know that she wore it for him. He would sweep toward her and meet her just like the wind on this blustery day. Then they would—of course—be married, since his love for her was so grand. Unless it was another gentleman who had sent her the necklace… But she would worry about that later, if necessary.

Mr. Brice was sporting a blue waistcoat today. Not dull gray like the one Mr. St. James was wearing at his side. “St. James,” she muttered to herself. He knew nothing of fashion, not like Mr. Brice. Everything about Brice was perfection. And he would be the perfect husband for her, if he would ever look in her direction again.

Just then Brice turned, apparently sensing her gaze on him.

One should be careful what one wished for. Now he was certainly noticing her existence, but there was no accompanying violin music like in her dreams of this moment. How odd. Where was musical accompaniment when it was needed? Why wasn’t he sweeping in her direction like the wind?

She needed something to do to look collected at such a pivotal moment. Remain calm and allow him to sweep in your direction, you ninny! Her fan! Thank heavens she remembered the piece she held in her numb fingers. She’d forgotten it entirely in her excitement.

Flicking the fan open, she nearly dropped it, to land in the grass at her feet. But just in time, she caught it in midair and gave it a wave. She was the picture of wifely elegance. She smiled and gave it one more wave.

“Must you carry a fan?” Victoria asked, leaning away from her. “Someone will no doubt lose an eye with all that flapping about. It’s as if we’re socializing with a flock of angry birds, and it’s windy enough as it is.”

“Roselyn told me I ought to practice after you ripped my last fan to shreds for apparent misuse,” she replied without looking in her sister’s direction. Eye contact with Mr. Brice was far more important than conversing with Victoria, although the man’s curiosity must have been satisfied just then, since he turned away mid-bat of her lashes. St. James, however, was watching her every move. Isabelle huffed and turned to face her sister. “Anyway, I thought today was the perfect occasion to heed Roselyn’s advice.”

“Really, Roselyn?” Victoria mumbled. “You know she requires no encouragement.”

“I said she should practice,” Roselyn hedged with a shrug of her shoulders, her dark brows drawing together in concern. “I suppose I should have included in the privacy of her home to my instructions, but it’s no matter. I think she’s quite getting the measure of it now.”

Isabelle glanced over her shoulder to see if Mr. Brice was looking her way and noticing her skilled fan work but saw only St. James’s eyes on her. What did he know about fans? Not a thing. Although he had been interested in her locket last night. There may be hope for him yet.

She turned back to the ladies in front of her with a flourish of her fan that almost hit Victoria in the nose and made Evangeline draw back a fraction to avoid contact. “Thank you, Roselyn, for your kind words. I’m following your example.”

“And a fine example that is this season,” Roselyn said with a laugh. Tiny ringlets of dark hair had escaped on this breezy day and circled her rosy cheeks. But it wasn’t the constant struggle with her hair to which Roselyn was referring now. Their friend had spent the first few minutes of the garden party telling them of her first, somewhat-disappointing attempt at spying on the new Lord Ayton. Roselyn’s original plan to wear black and stick to the shadows had somehow changed yesterday to dressing in a footman’s clothing and attending a pugilism exhibition at Gentleman Jackson’s. It sounded like quite the adventure, though Isabelle was certain there were details of the day her friend was omitting. It still struck Isabelle as odd that Roselyn would put such effort into spying on a man she claimed to despise. She would have to pry for more information later.

“Better than Evie’s example,” Victoria said.

“I’m not certain what you’re implying, Victoria,” Evangeline retorted, but Isabelle noticed her blush as she returned her gaze to the gathering around them. The shadow of the Marksby’s stately graystone house kept Isabelle and her group in the shadiest corner of the lawn, but no shadow was strong enough to hide Evangeline’s rare look of guilt.

“I don’t imply. I state fact. Were you not on a clandestine ride through the park with a mysterious gentleman only hours ago? And now that your mother is about, you appear to be carved of stone. Would you like me to distract Lady Rightworth so that you might breathe? You haven’t inhaled in at least ten minutes in an effort to hold that pose.”

“I’m quite comfortable,” Evangeline said with her chin raised against the wind.

“Did anyone else notice that Evie didn’t refute the claim that her ride in the park was clandestine?” Victoria asked as she took a sip of her drink, which was no doubt hiding something stronger than lemonade.

“It was all quite aboveboard,” Evangeline said, still unmoving from her pose. “He collected me in that red phaeton that belongs to—”

“Mr. Brice!” Isabelle cut in with her eyes wide on her cousin. “How did he manage such a thing?”

“The gentleman who escorted me is acquainted to some degree with Mr. Brice.”

“Are we to discover this gentleman’s name or simply guess at it?” Roselyn asked.

“I could venture a guess,” Victoria said with a smirk from behind her glass. “If any of you would like to take a wager…”

Isabelle swatted her fan at Victoria’s arm at the mention of gambling. “Never mind that. What was it like to sit atop such a fashionable conveyance?”

“Never mind you. Don’t hit me with that thing,” Victoria challenged as she rubbed her forearm.

“We’re supposed to admonish people with a flick of a fan. I’m only doing as Roselyn suggested,” Isabelle said in place of an apology. Victoria simply needed to become used to London life and the prominent use of a fan in conversation. Isabelle turned her attention back to Evangeline to ask, “Now, what was the ride in the phaeton like?”

“Tall.”

“Evie, you must tell me more than that,” Isabelle begged, taking a step closer to her cousin.

“Very well… It was quite enjoyable, perhaps too much so.” Evangeline blushed a dark pink, and her mother started in their direction, her eyes narrowed.

“Evangeline, darling,” Lady Rightworth called to her as she neared. “We must leave at once. This dreadful wind will have your cheeks raw from exposure. You’re growing red as we speak,” she added in a desperate whisper. “I should have known better than to attend an outdoor event. You know I dislike the weather.”

“Yes, Mother,” Evangeline said in a soft voice, giving the others a nod of farewell before she turned to follow her mother away. Evangeline always did as her mother wished. And as honorable a quality as that was in a daughter, it was unsettling to watch when it involved Lady Rightworth.

“I would love to see Evie tell that woman no just once,” Victoria muttered as she watched them leave.

Isabelle hit her sister with her fan once more. “Shh! That woman is our aunt and she could hear you.”

Victoria jumped back, rubbing her arm again as she stared Isabelle down.

“Who do you think Evangeline’s mystery gentleman could be?” Roselyn said, stepping between them in a clear attempt at ending a sisterly squabble. “She’s being so secretive about him.”

“I know,” Victoria boasted. “It’s terribly obvious, just like Isabelle always is.”

“What have I done that’s obvious?” She adjusted the locket at her neck, hoping her sister hadn’t noticed the sudden appearance of her new piece of jewelry.

“The eyes you’ve been making at Brice hide nothing, Isabelle.”

“Oh, that. Well…I don’t know what you mean,” Isabelle lied, glancing across the open lawn to the man in question and sighing the second her eyes made contact with him.

“You’re correct, of course. Your infatuation isn’t obvious at all to everyone who sees you. Look, you’re even gaining the attention of his friend with all of your longing looks in their direction.”

Isabelle flicked her fan closed and hit her sister’s arm with it. “That is Mr. St. James. We’re…”

But her words drifted away as Victoria grabbed the fan from her fingers and snapped it in half.

“…friends. St. James and I are friends,” Isabelle finished, staring at her second broken fan in a week’s time.

“Right. Well, you may have this back now,” Victoria said in a chipper voice.

“My, what is the time? Is that Lily calling me? On my way,” Roselyn called out and scurried away from the corner of the garden where they’d gathered.

The wind whipped a strand of Isabelle’s hair from its confines, and she tucked it behind her ear as she glared at her sister. Polite chatter surrounded them, but Isabelle said nothing.

“I’ll go to Bond and buy you another fan tomorrow,” Victoria said after shifting on her feet and heaving a sigh.

“Is that a promise?” Isabelle asked.

“Of the most sacred sort.”

“Good. I don’t want to forget all that I’ve learned by lack of ability to practice,” Isabelle stated.

“Yes, none of us would want that,” Victoria muttered at her side, but Isabelle was already looking across the garden to where Brice still stood talking to St. James.

Brice seemed to be telling some tale. Isabelle wished she could hear him. She liked elaborate stories. She was sure she could listen to his stories forever, and someday she would. St. James, on the other hand, stood in silence, watching the event, the people chatting, the movement of the crowd as if looking for something or someone. Then their eyes met, and he gave her a nod. He wasn’t smiling, but there was a heartfelt quality to the warmth in his eyes. It was an improvement at any rate.

She smiled and adjusted the locket at her neck. And for a fraction of a second, she saw something quite different in St. James’s eyes than she’d ever seen there before: worry.

* * *

Fallon should have gone to her yesterday at the garden party, but the lawn between them might as well have been a canyon. He’d watched Isabelle chat with her friends while the wind billowed her dress out behind her. His hesitation to go to her wasn’t for the social implications involved with crossing the grass to speak with a lady but what he would have said once he reached her.

She was happy, a true innocent in a dirty world. Yet Isabelle was still wearing that necklace, unaware of its dark history. He needed to tell her. Truth could be cleansing or some such, couldn’t it? He was certain he’d heard it claimed somewhere, just not within these walls. As soon as he told her about what hung around her neck and the danger she was in while wearing it, the innocent light she possessed would dim a fraction. He couldn’t do that to her yesterday, but he needed to soon.

He braced his hands on his desk and stared unseeing at the documents strewn across its surface. Fallon had always strived to be in control of every situation he encountered, but there were times when keeping everyone around him safe was a difficult task.

He needed only a bit of sleep or another pot of tea or two. But he knew no amount of sleep or tea would make this problem solve itself. Reaching for his cup, he drained the warm liquid inside, but his mind was no clearer on the subject of Isabelle than it had been a moment before. Straightening the papers on his desk, he glanced at the clock on the mantel across the room. He would need to get dressed for tonight’s ball soon. But before he’d taken a step away from his desk, Ash Claughbane banged the door open as he flew around the corner into his library.

“There’s a problem.”

Fallon stared at the man—his newest recruit to the Spare Heirs and a young con artist selling investments in the future of steam. He was crossing the room, out of breath from running. “Is it Rightworth? I told you to be careful there. If you need to leave town—”

“It isn’t investments for my steam works that are in jeopardy. It’s Brice.” His eyes were wide, and he was clearly shaken by whatever he knew. “There’s a fire.”

“Where?” Fallon asked, already rounding his desk, hoping the conclusion he’d jumped to was wrong.

“Bond Street. He was in—”

“Ayton’s family’s jewelry store,” Fallon finished for him. Brice had gone in search of documents that could help in Ayton’s brother’s murder investigation. But there had been a fire? How had that happened? Fallon had to help; he had to fix this. Brice was one of his oldest friends and associates, as was Ayton. “How much damage? Is Brice all right?”

Claughbane tugged at the untied cravat that hung loose around his neck. “He was escaping the flames when I left. St. James, you should know, there was a lady with him.”

“A lady?” Brice would never take a lady along on a mission, no matter how many of them filled his free hours.

“One of the Fairlyn twins, I believe.”

Isabelle. Fallon had to reach her. Had she followed Brice again? And she’d trailed him right into a fire this time.

But Fallon didn’t know that it was her. It could be her sister. Either situation was terrible, but Isabelle couldn’t be hurt. She just couldn’t be. He took a breath through an ever-tightening throat and ground out, “Which one? Which twin? Isabelle or Victoria?”

“I don’t know, mate.” Claughbane shuffled his feet and sighed. “But this is bad business. Is there any way I can assist?”

“No.” Fallon was already moving toward the door. “Informing me was the right thing to do.” He paused to clasp a hand on Claughbane’s shoulder in appreciation, then kept moving. He had to get to Bond.

* * *

Isabelle had been safe at home when Bond Street was ignited, a fact that should give him peace of mind, and it did. Yet the result of the fire yesterday was a waking nightmare no matter which sister had been present for it. Brice, Lady Victoria, and two charred London shops…

Fallon braced his elbows on his desk and fought to keep the grimace from his face, but it lurked just under the surface of his expression. If someone had told him earlier this week that Brice would soon burn down a portion of town, he wouldn’t have believed it.

Yet somehow that was exactly what had happened.

He stared down the two men across the desk from him. “Now that we’re not standing in a pile of ashes, you have the next ten minutes to explain to me how you managed to incinerate a portion of Bond Street.”

It was late afternoon, a full day since the damned fire began, and these two were only now appearing at headquarters for an official report. Fallon hadn’t slowed since he’d heard the news, and he’d yet to hear an apology from his men for his inconvenience. Though the two men before him did look a bit worse for wear as well. Brice still wore yesterday’s clothing, and Ayton, though clean, had a dazed look about him that brought even more questions to mind.

Fallon had known both men since their school days. The Spare Heirs had been only a vague notion then. A dream, really. Fallon had just acquired their headquarters and needed younger sons to help in the club’s establishment. Kelton Brice and Ethan Moore had been just the gentlemen to assist him. He’d relied on them then. Now? Fallon sighed. He still relied on them, but the two men were in rather unfortunate situations.

Then again, weren’t they all?

Ethan Moore—now Lord Ayton—had recently returned from a long stay on the continent and inherited his brother’s courtesy title and a pile of trouble along with it. He was tracking a killer, and though he wouldn’t admit it, the lady whose name had been tied to his brother’s held a great deal of importance to him. Fallon would be more concerned about the murderer on the loose, but if anyone could handle himself in a London alley, it was the large-framed boxer.

Then there was Brice, who’d been given the simple task of retrieving some documents from a jewelry shop on Bond as part of Ayton’s search. And now that shop and the one beside it were smoldering ruins.

“There were lots of hats,” Brice began before Ayton stopped him with a raised hand, his dark head shaking to keep his friend silent for once.

“We have the documents Brice went to the shop for,” Ayton said, trying to place a positive light on the incident even though he must have been furious. His family’s inventory had been destroyed with the jewelry store, along with the milliner’s next door. “I know it wasn’t a perfect mission…”

“Do you remember the Hinklebent fiasco?” Fallon asked, leaning forward over his desktop to grab the teapot. There was not enough tea in London for all he was left to repair today. He’d been in his fair share of near misses and tight situations but had always navigated the group to safety. Now he must do it again.

The two men winced at the mention of one of their higher-ranking failures.

“Lord Fistershot?” Fallon continued as he refilled his cup.

“That’s hardly fair,” Brice cut in. “We were young, and he—”

“This is worse,” Fallon confirmed. “You started a fire on Bond Street.”

“I didn’t intend to burn the place.” Brice leaned back in his chair, somehow managing to look uncomfortable even as he lounged and stretched his legs. “It was that damned lady, Lady Victoria Fairlyn. She spotted me and…”

“Go on then. Tell him.” Ayton groaned as he scooted his chair away from Brice a fraction. Clearly he didn’t want to be cooked in the same pot as his incendiary friend.

“She threw hats at me,” Brice ground out with his brows raised as if his explanation said it all.

Only it didn’t explain a thing.

Fallon abandoned his cup and stood from his desk. Turning away from the two men, he looked out the window. Bracing his forearm on the window frame, he watched a carriage roll down the street below. There was nothing to be done about the fire except assist in the repairs—and do so without attracting London’s notice. The Spares may have quiet hands in most profitable endeavors, but they didn’t leave destruction in their wake. He’d spent last night in meetings to begin the process of covering up their involvement, and that was only the beginning. He would have to meet with more than a few gentlemen to set this fire business right. Not to mention the matter of Victoria Fairlyn.

On top of Ayton’s murder investigation, Claughbane’s steam investments, and any number of other orders of business he was overseeing, there was now a fire to clean up, and a lady’s reputation in serious danger thanks to the Spares.

And even with all of this, the image he couldn’t shake from his mind was a different lady—Lady Isabelle Fairlyn with that blasted locket hanging around her neck.

He needed to repair the damage quickly before it was beyond even him.

If Fallon could distract society for a while—give them some splendid show to keep them away from the sleight of hand that was occurring at the same time—the Spare Heirs and their involvement in the fire might slip by unnoticed. Much could be learned about manipulation of a crowd by watching a magician. Claughbane, resident swindler of the ton, would be pleased with him. Though Fallon would never tell the man. His head would swell to twice its normal size.

What Fallon needed was a diversion—a bright, shining, beautiful diversion. To cover the scandal of a fire on Bond, it had to be big. Something happy. Something the people would be excited to see. Something that involved Brice…

There was one clear option, of course: a wedding. One lady and one gentleman happened to be involved in this scandal, which meant the participants were already in place. Everyone always enjoyed watching a confirmed bachelor fall to the trap of marriage. And Lady Victoria was beyond beautiful in looks—she was Isabelle’s twin sister, after all. Brice would complain, but in the end it wouldn’t be a terrible burden.

Fallon had always believed that the straight and clear path to resolution should be plan A. All of the numbers added up—Kelton Brice’s marriage to Lady Victoria had to be this first option. As for plan B… There wasn’t time to consider a plan B. Not if there was any hope of saving the Fairlyn family from potentially irreparable harm. More than that, he had important things to do—beginning with finding Reginald Grapling before he could do anyone harm. If he hadn’t already.

He had to protect Isabelle on both fronts. She would be devastated by the news of the wedding, of course, but her life was more important than temporary pain. As long as this issue lingered, he couldn’t devote his time to catching Grapling. Fallon had seen the way that man had looked at her. She wouldn’t be safe while Grapling was roaming London’s streets.

Friends don’t do things like this to each other, a voice that sounded an awful lot like Isabelle’s accused him. But his friend, Brice, had left this problem on Fallon’s doorstep. When presented with problems, Fallon solved them. He would do what he must.

He turned back to face Brice and Ayton. They were looking to him for direction. Everyone looked to him.

Shaking his coat into place and steeling himself for what was to come, Fallon stared back into the seeking faces of his men. “Brice, I’ll need you to do what you do best.”

“Beat a man until he sees reason? Or break in somewhere to steal papers?”

“I wouldn’t claim that stealing documents was what I do best just now,” Ayton mumbled under his breath.

“Neither. Today I need you to make the rounds in society. Act the hero. Talk of how you rescued Lady Victoria from harm.”

“You want him to call attention to this madness?” Ayton asked.

“Yes. Like I said, I need him to do what he does best—talk.”

“Which would further associate my name with Lady Victoria’s… St. James, you can’t be considering what it seems you’re considering. I know that look on your face.”

Fallon didn’t say a word. There were no words. He was asking his friend to give up his freedom to save a lady’s reputation and the future of the Spare Heirs. It was a heavy price to pay and one that couldn’t be coated in sugar to make it more palatable.

“Absolutely not! You know what that would mean for me…for her!”

“I do. But is marriage a worse fate than allowing her to face this scandal alone? You have the ability to fix this situation. I can see that the repairs are made quickly, but the talk of it… Brice, you know as well as I how long that will linger.”

He hesitated, clearly wanting to argue…then slumped back, decision made and fate sealed. “I suppose it was blasted honorable of me, carrying Lady Victoria out of that fire like I did,” Brice finally conceded with a sigh. “It appears that, in the end, I won’t be as unsuitable as my family has always believed. All right: I’ll marry the girl, for her sake and the Spares’.”

Ayton clapped a hand on Brice’s shoulder. “Whiskey?”

“A damned leg shackle. Yes, I’ll take a whiskey, Ayton. And I’ll have yours as well.”

Fallon eyed his friend with more than a small amount of sympathy for a moment before standing and murmuring, “Thank you.”

With the final words on the subject spoken, Fallon left the men to drown themselves in spirits and moved toward the door. He had a wedding to orchestrate with Lady Victoria’s father. It had been some time since he’d paid a visit to Lord Knottsby. It seemed today was the day to call in an old favor.