Chapter 11 #2
“I had no idea your father and brother treated you so abominably,” Alistair said. “You told me as much, but to see it—” He shook his head. “It is remarkable you survived at all.”
She stared down at her gloved hands, twisting them together. “It was hard,” she admitted.
Alistair leaned forward, his eyes fixed on hers with an intensity that made it impossible to look away. “Life can be ironic at times because, in the end, some of your greatest pains become your greatest strengths.”
She studied his face, searching for any hint of doubt. “Do you truly believe that?” she asked, her voice tinged with both hope and skepticism.
“I do,” he replied. “Because you, my dear, not only survived an unbearable situation, but you thrived.”
Her breath caught, and she felt the faintest curl of warmth unfurl in her chest. “I did, didn’t I?”
His answering smile was gentle, but his gaze held steady, as if he could see through every defense she’d ever built. “And now,” he started, “you can put your father and brother behind you. They belong to your past. You, Jane, have an entire future ahead of you—one that they have no claim upon.”
She let his words settle around her like a warm cloak, the truth of them sinking in.
For so long she had felt tethered to her family’s cruelty, as though their disdain defined her worth.
But here, with Alistair’s steady presence and quiet conviction, she felt the faintest shift—small, but real.
Perhaps her past did not have to own her future.
The carriage drew to a smooth halt before Lady Cosima’s townhouse, the polished black lacquer of its panels catching the late afternoon light.
Alistair stepped down first and turned to offer his hand to Jane.
Her fingers rested in his palm as he helped her to the pavement.
He kept hold of them a moment longer than necessary before releasing her, telling himself it was simply out of courtesy.
As they walked side by side towards the townhouse steps, the faint rustle of her skirts and the clipped rhythm of his boots on the paving stones filled the space between them.
He glanced over at her and asked, “Would you and your aunt care to join Charlotte and me for dinner?” The words left him before he had considered why he was issuing the invitation.
“That sounds wonderful,” she replied with a smile.
He returned it—an unguarded, genuine smile—and said, “I will look forward to it then.” And heaven help him, he meant it. Why had he invited her? They had dined together only the previous evening.
The main door swung open, the butler standing in silent readiness. Jane ascended the steps, and he stopped short of following. “This is where I leave you,” he said lightly, though there was a weight to the moment. “But I shall look forward to you dining with me… er… with us, this evening.”
If she noticed his slip, she gave no indication, only saying, “Until later, Alistair,” before disappearing inside.
Once she was safely within, he turned away, making the short walk back to the carriage with a curious tightness in his chest. What in the blazes was happening to him?
Feelings—real ones—were edging their way past his defenses, and that was dangerous.
He had always intended to marry with reason, not affection.
His parents had married for love and had lived in mutual misery. He would not repeat their mistake.
He had scarcely settled into his seat before the carriage door jerked open. Lord Warwicke climbed in and dropped onto the bench opposite.
“We need to talk,” his friend said without preamble.
Alistair stiffened. He hadn’t even seen Warwicke approach. He was slipping, and it was Jane’s fault—at least partly.
The driver leaned back. “Is everything all right, my lord?”
“Yes, just drive,” Alistair ordered. When the driver turned away, he fixed his gaze on Warwicke. “What is it?”
Warwicke settled in, his eyes keen. “I couldn’t help but notice you weren’t surprised when that prisoner claimed he’d been set up or when the note was mentioned to be in French.”
“I wasn’t,” Alistair admitted.
One dark brow rose. “Perhaps you will be good enough to explain why.”
Alistair exhaled, realizing there was no sense in holding back any longer.
“During the war, I led a four-man team into a French camp to kill a general. We expected to die in the attempt, but luck—so we thought—was on our side. The general’s daughter saw the deed, and we took her with us to keep her from raising the alarm. ”
He dragged a hand through his hair, the memory a mix of smoke, shouts, and the metallic tang of blood.
“She found me here and warned me that her brother intended vengeance. Two of my men are already dead, and Lord Rupert narrowly escaped an attempt on his life. After which, his attacker confessed about receiving a note under his door with some coin.”
Warwicke’s expression darkened. “Was the general’s name Leclerc?”
Alistair blinked. “It was. How do you know that?”
“This is bad,” Warwicke said grimly. “You killed Jules Leclerc’s father.”
The name meant nothing to him. “And who is that?”
“A smuggler—no, more than that. A man who makes people disappear for a price. The wealthy and desperate pay him to erase them from their enemies’ reach. Dangerous. Wanted. I heard his name often enough in the Army and since returning.”
Alistair frowned. “His father was a general. It is rather surprising his son chose a life of crime.”
Warwicke leaned forward. “Jules isn’t merely a criminal; he’s a strategist. He’s built an empire on disappearance and survival. No one gets close—he’s always on the move, surrounded by mercenaries.”
“No man is untouchable.”
“Perhaps not, but he’s as close to it as any I’ve seen. If I were you, I’d hire more guards and keep to your townhouse.”
Alistair tilted his head. “Will this threat pass?”
“Not without effort. I’ll ask my contacts at Bow Street to sniff out a lead.”
“And if they find nothing?”
“Then we’ll find another way. But don’t second-guess the past now,” Warwicke said. “Focus on surviving it.”
Alistair huffed. “That is easy for you to say. Two of my men are dead and it is all because we let someone live.”
Warwicke’s eyes held compassion. “You let an innocent live. You did the right thing.”
The carriage slowed to a halt outside his own townhouse. Warwicke stepped out with a parting, “I’ll be in contact.”
Alistair sat for a long moment, watching his friend disappear into the street. Every turn of events seemed to knot the noose tighter. And now Jules Leclerc—another enemy of the lethal sort—was added to the list.
“My lord?” the footman prompted, holding the door.
Alistair stepped down, stripped off his gloves as he entered his home, and handed them to the butler. He needed counsel. Not the kind found in a drawing room, but from someone who had seen him through fire before.
He strode up the stairs, down the corridor, and into his bedchamber. Danvers was there, folding linen.
“We need to talk,” Alistair said, shutting the door.
Danvers straightened at once. “What has happened?”
Alistair shrugged out of his coat and tossed it onto the bed. “Have you heard of Jules Leclerc?”
Danvers’s eyes narrowed. “I have. That’s not a name you want spoken in connection with yours.”
“Too late. He’s the son of the man I killed. He wants me dead.”
Danvers’s reply was blunt. “Then he won’t stop until one of you is.”
“Precisely. Which is why I need to end this before he does.”
Danvers moved to hang up the discarded coat. “I’ll see more guards posted. And you’ll stay here until this is resolved.”
Alistair hesitated before adding, “I’ve invited Lady Jane and her aunt to dine with us tonight.”
Danvers glanced over his shoulder, a knowing gleam in his eyes. “You’re spending a great deal of time with Lady Jane. Any reason for that?”
“No reason,” Alistair rushed out.
“She is beautiful.”
“She is,” he conceded, “but we are friends. Don’t overthink it.”
Danvers’s smile was infuriatingly unconvinced. “If you say so, my lord. I’ll inform the cook of your guests.”
When the door closed behind his valet, Alistair looked towards his bed. He could rest. Or he could work. There was always work to be done.
Coming to a decision, Alistair crossed the bedchamber in long strides and pulled open the door.
The corridor beyond was quiet save for the muted tick of the long clock in the entry foyer.
He intended to head for his study, but as he passed the open doorway of the front parlor, movement caught his eyes.
Charlotte sat at the small writing desk near the window, her head hunched over. Her quill flew across the page in quick, decisive strokes, the faint scratch of ink on paper filling the stillness. She was so intent upon her task that she did not notice him until he stepped across the threshold.
“Charlotte,” he said.
Her head snapped up. “Alistair! What are you doing here?”
“I do live here.”
“Yes, you do,” she allowed, with a pointed look, “but what are you doing here?” Even as she spoke, she folded the paper with swift precision and tucked it deep into the folds of her gown, her movements far too deliberate to be casual.
He advanced a step, folding his arms. “What were you writing?”
“Nothing.”
“It didn’t look like nothing,” he said evenly, unwilling to be put off by her tone.
She pushed back her chair and rose. “My, aren’t you nosy today,” she said with airy indifference. “I think I shall retire to my bedchamber for a rest.”
“What are you about?”
A faint, mischievous smile tugged at her lips. “Nothing nefarious, I assure you.”
“That didn’t answer my question,” he countered.
Charlotte only stepped closer and placed a sisterly kiss on his cheek, the gesture light but evasive. “I will be down for supper.”
He watched her glide towards the door, every inch the picture of unruffled innocence—except he knew better. Charlotte was hiding something; she always was these days.
As she reached the doorway, he said, “Lady Jane and her aunt will be joining us for dinner.”
Charlotte paused, glancing back at him with one perfectly arched brow. “Did we not dine with them just last night?”
“We did,” he admitted, aware of the weakness in his explanation, “but I thought it polite to extend another invitation.”
Her look suggested she saw directly through him, though she said nothing. That was the problem with sisters—they rarely needed words to voice their suspicions.