Summoner of Sins (The Duke Fraternity #3)

Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

Max stood under the shade of the tree, watching the fragile beauty who held a child in her arms. Was she a mother?

His fist clenched at his side. She was a means to an end. He’d danced with her to make a point to Lord Whitehouse and his henchman, the weaselly Plimpton.

He knew who they were. He was watching them too, and he was ready for them to come try and get him.

Lord Whitehouse had been attacking the members of Max’s club, the Duke Fraternity. Lord Whitehouse had a cousin who went only by the name of Adam, who’d killed two of their members and attacked two of his compatriots’ wives.

Adam was dead now, but they’d only removed the hand of the killer. The head remained. Whitehouse.

And this woman was attached to him. Which meant that Max ought not to care that she was a mother. Nor should he acknowledge the unwanted attraction that had flared within him the moment she’d run smack into his chest.

Oh, how soft she’d been.

She was a small thing. If he’d expected her angles to be hard, he’d been mistaken. And then there were her large brown eyes, her pert little nose, the fullness of her mouth. She made a man ache. He was not a man prone to aching. He hardly ever indulged in his needs at all. He’d learned from a young age that women had fangs, just like men. Letting one close meant that he risked being bitten.

He scrubbed at his jaw as he watched her. Her hands were so gentle with the child, her soft singing caught the breeze and reached his ear. Her voice was beautiful. He knew that she was supposed to be Plimpton’s niece. He didn’t see the resemblance. Nothing in her physical appearance or her comportment bore any familiarity to the man he found odious.

He’d been watching Plimpton closely. With the death of Adam, Plimpton was moving up in Whitehouse’s ranks and becoming his number two man.

Now it appeared as though Plimpton were living with Whitehouse, bringing his niece with him. Was it a coincidence that she’d been moved into Whitehouse’s estate right after he’d danced with her? That thought made something unpleasant settle in his gut. He didn’t know why. She was Plimpton’s niece. Of course, nothing bad would happen to her.

He edged closer, staying under the trees and moving behind the shrubs. He ought to have brought his investigative partner with him. The Duke of Ironheart was excessively annoying, but the man could always charm the ladies. However, the very idea of him charming this particular lady made Max’s skin crawl. He knew he’d left Ironheart out of today’s investigation for a reason.

He didn’t wish for Ironheart to know Miss Sophie Wren. Max already knew that Ironheart would like her. First, because he liked all women. Blonde. Brunette. Curvy. Willowy. But Ironheart especially liked beautiful women, and Miss Wren was that.

When he’d gotten within a few yards of where Miss Wren sat, he stopped, staying in the shadows.

“Do you remember the country?” she asked the child. “With its tall grasses and the sound of the birds?”

“I do,” the child picked up her head. She had the same brown hair, pert nose, and big brown eyes. She was so beautiful; she looked almost angelic. “I do remember.”

“What else do you remember?”

“Mama singing,” the child sighed and laid her head back down. “I miss her.”

“I miss her too, lamb.”

A jolt of surprise made him pull upright. Not a mother, but perhaps a sister? Orphans?

“Do you miss Papa?” the little one asked.

“Very much.”

“Tell me about him again,” the little one said. “I don’t remember.”

The child couldn’t be more than four. If she remembered her mother, that loss had to be recent.

“He was tall and handsome,” Miss Wren began. “He could hold your body in one arm, and he’d sit with you in his lap and tell you stories.”

“What stories?”

“His favorite and yours was Little Red Riding Hood. He’d make the funniest noises when he pretended to be the wolf.”

The child lay her head back on Sophie’s shoulder. “Do we get to have a real family again?”

Sophie held the girl closer. “We are a real family, my little lamb.”

“Not Uncle. He doesn’t tell me stories.”

Miss Wren rocked the girl. “He feeds us, Abigail. And he keeps a roof above us and clothes on our backs. We should be grateful for that.” She began to hum again.

“He has angry eyes,” the girl said and then yawned. “I don’t like them.”

“Grateful,” she whispered back as she softly rocked the little girl.

His gut clenched. The child had the right idea, but then again, he supposed, Miss Wren did as well. If they were truly orphans, life could be harsh.

The very idea of a woman like herself having to survive, being sent to a workhouse, or needing to sell her body… He revolted at the idea of it, his muscles tightening. It was then he knew. He’d have to do the thing he dreaded more than any other. He’d have to speak with her.

It was odd. He’d stopped talking with anything but his fists years ago. He only spoke to a select few people, and then only when necessary. But the quieter he’d become, the more others seemed to seek him out. He knew the reverse would be true.

Once she learned his secret, she’d shy away from him, no matter what he offered her. He hesitated. He ought to wait and speak with her another time, or only if necessary. Why set himself up for rejection if it could be avoided?

Her singing quieted and became nothing more than a whisper. He looked down to see that the child was asleep. They had privacy, no one was there to witness her rejection, and she was likely to remain on the bench with the child asleep. If he had things to say to her, to ask her, there would be no better time.

The alternative was to have Ironheart do the talking for him. That was the final thought that pushed him forward, out of the shadows and onto the sunlit path.

It was a mild day, and the sun warmed him. His boots, which had been muffled in the grass, crunched on the gravel path.

Her head lifted and her eyes widened as they caught his. “It’s you.”

“Me,” he answered, speaking slowly. Carefully.

“What are you…” Her voice died off as a bit of fear colored her eyes.

He stopped. Had he frightened her at the ball? Of course, he had. He’d not said a word, but instead, had dragged her onto the dance floor. How did he assure her now that he meant no harm? He dropped into a crouch.

Her eyes went from wide to narrow in an instant as she assessed him. “What are you doing here?”

A fair question and the obvious one. Why hadn’t he crafted an answer before stepping out of the shadows? He opened his mouth and closed it again.

“Are you following me? Do you mean me harm?” Her voice trembled at the last words.

He swallowed down a lump. “I-I came to apologize.”

Her brows drew together. “Apologize?”

“I’m Lord M-Maxwell Armstrong.”

“I know,” a ghost of a smile touched her lips. “Dancing with you has caused quite the stir.”

He grimaced. He’d been afraid of that. “B-bad?”

Miss Wren looked up at the sky for a moment and then back at him. “You’re a curious man, my lord.”

His fist clenched as he covered it with his other hand. “Mmh.”

“You drag me on the dance floor without a word, and now I happen to find you outside my home. Why?”

Why? The answer was far too long, he’d never get it out, and he ought not to tell her anyway. “H-h-how l-long—” Damn him and his infernal stutter! He hated the sound of it, grating his ears. His head dropped, not wanting to see the shock, disgust, or judgment that would surely color her features.

“How long what?” she asked, her voice perfectly neutral. He looked up to see an expression of mild curiosity, nothing more, on her face.

“H-have you li-lived with Plimp-Plimpton?”

“Who is Plimpton?”

Now he was the shocked one. “Y-y-y-your u-u-uncle.”

“My uncle is Lord Allister Stanley.”

His mouth hung open, all his worries forgotten. Something was very wrong.

“Goddamnit, Sophie, where are you?” Another voice called from around a corner.

Miss Wren sat up a bit, drawing in a quick breath. “I’m here.”

Standing, he looked back down at Sophie. “See you soon.” He stepped back into the shadows, disappearing behind a hedge. Taking his hat off, he crouched down, determined to get more information.

Sophie might very well tell her uncle exactly where he was hiding, but he’d take the risk. Pulling out a pistol, he slowly loaded a lead ball.

“Who told you that you could leave the grounds?”

“Oh. My apologies. I just assumed. At home I was allowed?—”

“At my townhouse, I don’t have gardens. You’re not to wander off again.”

Sophie cleared her throat. He heard the rustle of her skirts as she stood. “Apologies, Uncle. It won’t happen again.”

“Good. Now come on. Lord Whitehouse is spitting mad that you cried the nanny off.”

Max shook his head. Was Plimpton impersonating her uncle? An earl’s son, even a second son as Allister was supposed to be, did not say things like spitting mad. He’d say furious or frightfully angry.

Did Sophie know? He’d guess not. Which meant she wasn’t tucked in with family at all. They’d moved her here because they had some plans for her. But what would they want with a beautiful young woman? Shaking his head, he had a few ideas, none of them good. She could be bait. She’d been brought to his ball.

And then he’d danced with her. He hadn’t been enacting a plan; he’d been participating in theirs. At least that was one theory, but any other was even worse. Which meant Miss Sophie Wren and the little girl were in deep trouble. It wasn’t his place to do anything about it. He hadn’t caused any of this.

As he watched her walk away, he couldn’t quite shake the urge to rush to her side, punch Plimpton in the face, and carry her off. He couldn’t. She’d only be marginally safer at his side. He’d set himself in Lord Whitehouse’s path, which meant he could end up like the other men in his club. Dead.

He could not afford to care about a woman now. The very idea was ridiculous. That could only mean one thing. He’d gone mad, maybe from the silence? Either that or for the first time in a long time, he was attracted to a woman. Which was way worse than having lost his mind.