Chapter Nine
Calliope stared at the mess of her shop. She’d been ushered next door so fast, she hadn’t gotten a proper look last night, but now, in the cold clarity of morning, she stood in the threshold, disheartened at the destruction.
The damage, she supposed, could have been worse.
Already, men were sweeping splinters and shards into neat piles. A new door stood propped against the wall, ready to be hung. Another man—broad-shouldered, sleeves rolled—was fitting fresh hinges into the frame.
Maxen Fury worked fast.
The response was rather impressive. Her landlord also hadn’t left her side once. No wonder he’d insisted on breakfast first. The man had everything under the thumb of his hand. Food had been delivered, workers had been enlisted, and Prince had been fed and taken for a morning walk.
“Oh, dear me!” a feminine voice exclaimed. “What on earth happened here?”
Calliope turned just as Holly the marchioness and Violet Sharpe entered her battered shop, their eyes wide and expressions caught somewhere between horror and curiosity.
“Are you all right?” Holly asked, stepping carefully over a stray shard of glass.
Miss Sharpe’s concerned gaze found her, too.
“I’m fine,” she assured them. “Honestly. It looks worse than it is.”
“You were robbed?” Miss Sharpe whispered, aghast.
“Marauded, more like,” Calliope said. “Late last night.”
Holly’s brows snapped together. “Did you catch the blackguard?”
“That’s . . . still being figured out.” She dared not say anything else, lest she provoke more questions from them she couldn’t answer. She still hadn’t gotten the whole story of how Maxen had come to spot and catch the intruder.
“How dreadful,” Miss Sharpe murmured. “And terrifying. Was anything taken?”
“Not that I’ve noticed.” Calliope shifted, hating to spin the truth. “But I haven’t done a full inventory yet.”
“And you were here when it happened?” Miss Sharpe asked, eyes darting round.
Calliope nodded. “Upstairs.”
“This is rather troublesome,” Holly said. “You must have been stricken with fear.”
“I had Prince.” She pointed at the dog, lying on his pillow, overlording the workings. “And my landlord fortunately came across the scene and dealt with it.”
“This is indeed troubling,” Miss Sharpe agreed. “I hope this isn’t a new trend in Brighton.”
Oh, right. She had her own store. Calliope wished she could set her mind at ease, but at the moment, she couldn’t do anything that wouldn’t reveal more than she dared. “I hope so too, Miss Sharpe.”
“Please, call me Violet, and you must not have slept a wink last night,” Miss Sharpe, Violet said. “You are more than welcome to . . .” she trailed off as her gaze landed on something behind Calliope. She glanced over her shoulder.
Or rather someone.
Maxen.
All black and brooding, leaning against a shelf, arms and ankles crossed, staring at them.
Stars, did the man have to look so intimidating?
And ruthlessly handsome?
“Who is that?” Holly asked, the intrigue in her voice almost making Calliope laugh.
“That is my landlord.”
Holly fanned her face. “That doesn’t look like any landlord I’ve ever seen.”
Calliope arched a brow. “Your husband must be one, no?” He was a marquess, after all. He must own properties, have tenants.
Holly cast her A Look. “Yes, but he doesn’t count. He also doesn’t lurk in corners like a gothic novel hero waiting to pounce.” She gave a thoughtful pause. “Oh, no wait, he does do that, but he still doesn’t count.”
Calliope did laugh at that. “Ah, well, my landlord is merely . . . tall.” And all the other things.
“An understatement,” Holly supplied.
“He’s also glowering,” Violet murmured.
“Another understatement.”
“That’s merely how he looks.” And Calliope found it hard to believe, given Maxen’s identity, Violet wasn’t leasing from him. “You’ve never met your landlord?”
Violet shook her head. “My lease was brokered through the man of affairs of the owner.”
Heh. Probably the same Fury “man of affairs” who brokered hers. Or another Fury. Then again, perhaps the almighty Furys did not own all the land.
“Is he always dressed like that?” Holly asked. “Like he’s in mourning? Is he in mourning?”
Calliope paused. She never thought of that. “I don’t know, honestly.”
“Holly,” Violet chastised. “He’s standing right there.”
“I know,” the woman said sweetly. “He’s been standing there like a statue for some time without uttering a word.” She smiled at Calliope, her voice dropping to a whisper. “And his gaze follows you like a shadow.”
Really? “I’m not moving.”
“But it would if you moved.”
Calliope shook her head, chuckling. “Ladies, may I remind you that my shop was broken into?”
Maxen, for his part, said absolutely nothing even though he must have heard most of their conversation, if not all. But she did feel his amusement, if that were at all possible from the man, in his silence.
“My shop is set to open in the next few days. Should I postpone?” Violet asked.
“No!” Holly said vehemently. “We should not let something like this stop you.”
Calliope nodded. “Just be a bit more vigilant.”
Violet reached out and squeezed her hand. “You don’t have to go through this alone, you know. If you need anything at all, supplies, extra hands, cake, you can always come to me.”
Something soft blossomed inside her.
“Oh!” Holly perked up. “And I’ve just received a fresh delivery of lemon tarts. You simply must come by for tea this afternoon. It will do wonders for your nerves.”
“I appreciate that, truly,” Calliope said, though she wasn’t quite sure she’d feel at ease anywhere just yet. Her shop was meant to be her sanctuary, and it had been violated. And she wouldn’t be at ease until they discovered why. “But I shall pass this time.”
“You’re certain you don’t need any help?” Violet asked. “Anything at all?”
She shook her head. Nothing they could provide. In fact, she’d rather not take the chance of placing them in any danger.
Their attention flicked past her shoulder again.
Calliope turned, and locked eyes with a hot stare. Maxen uncrossed his arms and pushed off the shelf, moving toward her like something carved from shadow. The workers all straightened the moment he did, and the hammering paused mid-stroke.
She wondered if she could ever command such attention one day. That would be quite marvelous.
A man stepped up to Maxen, jolting her back to the present. “I have the additional lock you ordered, sir.”
Calliope glanced at Maxen, who offered, “You can never be too careful.”
“Oh,” she murmured. “Thank you.”
His gaze held hers for a moment even more breathtaking than any other before. “No one’s getting in again,” he said gruffly.
Lord, my heart.
He turned to leave without another word, striding through the mess and out the door.
What on earth . . .? Where was he going?
Violet let out a sigh. “Well, that was something.”
“What was?” Calliope asked, trying to ignore how her pulse quickened.
“That,” Violet said, eyes still fixed on the door. “The way he looked at you. Like you are a treasure of unfathomable value.”
“Nonsense.” Had he?
“Your landlord is quite protective,” Holly pointed out, still fanning her face.
Calliope didn’t know what to say to that. Perhaps. Perhaps not. If they knew the full truth, they might see matters in another light. The word spy had been circled, for Saints’ sake! She turned back to the chaos of her shop, suddenly very aware of how much had changed in the span of a single night.
“Come,” Violet said gently. “Let’s help you sweep up a bit. We have a bit of time on our hands.”
Holly grinned. “I love a good sweeping.”
Was this woman really a marchioness?
Calliope let out a soft laugh despite herself. Nothing about this was right. But perhaps with a mop, some friends, and a terrifyingly attentive landlord—she just might be.
*
Maxen needed air.
Lots of air.
He pressed his spine to the brick wall opposite the shop, the cool stone biting through his coat—useless against the heat simmering beneath his skin.
He hadn’t meant to listen to the women. But damned if their teasing hadn’t hit a nerve.
Two nerves. Perhaps three. The moment one had called him a gothic novel hero, he’d felt like a deuced villain.
Lurking in corners, watching a woman he had no business watching.
But this wasn’t just watching, was it?
It was wanting.
He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, ignoring the bite of stubble.
She twisted something inside him already knotted. She had merely looked at the mess in pain and he wanted nothing more than to rip the blackguard responsible apart and teach him the true cost of fear. The kind that persisted long after the blood was cleaned away.
He balled his fists, the leather that covered his hands pulling tight. He hadn’t felt this out of control since . . . Christ, since his mother’s death.
A shadow moved at the edge of his vision.
Saint.
Silent as ever.
“You’ve got news?” Maxen asked without turning.
His brother nodded.
Maxen straightened, instincts bracing. “Where are Drake and Reaper?” They were the usual barnacles on his arse.
“Caves.”
Maxen frowned. That was not a casual errand. “Why?”
“Went looking for Serpent.”
Maxen stiffened, a sense of dread prickling along his scalp. “He hasn’t accounted for himself?”
“No.”
Coldness settled in his blood. Serpent never failed to send word. Never. Something had gone very wrong.
Saint’s expression gave nothing away, but the rigid line of his shoulders told Maxen he was just as unsettled.
“What’s the news then?” Maxen asked, forcing his attention back to the matter at hand. “Our captive?”
Saint shook his head. “Laughing. Like a damn lunatic.”
Christ. That was worse than silence. “Maybe I should be the next to visit.”
“He’s either mad or smart. Either way, he’s not talking.”
“You think he’s playing for time?”
Saint shrugged. “But that’s not all.”
Maxen waited.
“Rollings.”
The name landed like a thunderclap. Him again? “I thought we were done with him. We let him go with a warning.”
“Knight trailed him to the post office and,” he reached into his coat and withdrew a letter, seal already cracked, “intercepted this. It’s addressed to John Fitz.”
Calliope’s solicitor.
Maxen unfolded the thing and cursed. Then cursed again. Only one line scrawled there.
She’s been exposed.
“Damn it.” Damn it all to hell.
“Does this mean she’s trouble?” Saint asked.
Devil take it and devil if he knew. “Could be many things.” Exposed to danger. Exposed to them. “Where is Rollings now?”
“In the wind.” Saint glanced toward the shop. “Might be connected to last night.”
Maxen grunted. “I don’t believe in coincidences.” But. “She claims this was not because of her.”
Saint didn’t argue, but his silence said enough.
If last night’s invasion wasn’t because of her, it could only be because of them, and that meant Calliope had been targeted because .
. . she was his tenant? Had someone gotten the wrong idea?
It couldn’t be because of the gunpowder.
No one except the brothers knew about that.
The rumored treasure? The culprit of last night was no treasure hunter.
“Targeting her makes no sense,” Maxen muttered. “She’s not anything to us.” The lie tasted bitter the moment it left his mouth.
His brother shrugged. “Doesn’t mean they don’t think she is with the way you’ve been acting.”
Maxen froze. “She’s not part of this world.”
Saint didn’t spare him. “She’s in it now.”
The words settled like a ton of bricks.
Calliope Turner had walked into their territory, their turf, with secrets, a dog, and no knowledge of who she’d rented from. He wanted the situation to stay that way until her lease was up. Until she was gone. He didn’t want her in this world.
But his enemies clearly didn’t care what he wanted.
“Do you have eyes on Peregrine?”
“Dagger.”
Maxen raked a hand through his hair. “Get word to Knight. Tell him to find Rollings but not engage. If Serpent is missing, we’ve got a bigger problem.”
Saint nodded.
“And Saint?”
His brother paused, looked at him.
“Keep out of trouble.”
Saint’s eyes flicked back to the shop. “That may no longer be possible.”
Maxen bit down on his jaw. “Be careful anyway.”
Saint gave a single nod. “She’s something different, isn’t she?”
Maxen shot him a hard look.
“You’ve been watching her.”
Why was every damn brother of his saying that? “I watch everything in Brighton.”
“She’s not Brighton.”
“Don’t make me beat your arse.” Maxen turned his gaze toward the shop, toward the faint silhouette of Calliope moving inside, conversing with the women. The dog was stationed near the door now, ears twitching like he sensed the gathering storm outside. “Do you know those women?” Maxen asked.
Saint looked over. “No.”
“I believe one of them has a shop nearby. One of ours?” Little here was not theirs, but it was possible.
“I could find out.”
“Get Dagger on it when he returns. This whole lease debacle is his fault, and if this is another slip, I’m going to throttle him.”
“Done.”
“We need to locate Serpent,” he said. “That takes priority.”
Saint nodded once. “I’ll head to the caves.”
“No. Let Drake and Reaper handle that for now. Someone needs to man the tavern. Whoever is behind this might want us scattered. But send a runner to dig up everything they can on John Fitz. Quietly. If someone knows Calliope’s background, it should be him.”
“If there are traps . . .”
Maxen met his brother’s gaze. “Then we’ll be the ones to spring them.”
Saint gave a rare smile—sharp and humorless. “Very well.”
He turned to go, but Maxen called after him. “If Rollings or Peregrine so much as twitches wrong, I want to know.”
Saint tipped his cap then vanished down the street.
Maxen turned the paper over in his hand before crumbling it in his fist.
Exposed . . .
In their world, that single sentence might get a person killed.
Damn Rollings. He’d tried hard to convince them she had no part in his shady dealings.
Then, who, exactly was John Fitz? More than a solicitor?
More to Calliope? He’d seen enough cryptic messages in his life to know this one wasn’t a bluff.
Rollings wanted Fitz to act. And act fast.
So Calliope could run?
So she could hide?
If he were a better man, he’d allow it. He was not.
He smoothed the letter and folded it again, sliding damning missive into his inner pocket. His hands were steady, though every muscle in his body quivered with the urge to strike first and ask questions never.
She might be his enemy yet.
God help them both if that were the case. But then, better men had fallen to less.