Chapter 12 #2
Something in his tone, or perhaps the sight of him, dislodged a distant memory. She tilted her head, studying him. “One of the Johns who protected Lady Saunton last year?”
“Uh … yes.”
“You are not pretending to be a footman this time?”
“No, milady.”
She clasped her hands before her, the muslin tight at her wrists as she tapped her fingers thoughtfully. “Lord Filminster hired you to protect me?”
“Aye, ’e had Lord Saunton ‘ire us in this mornin’ an’ told us to make sure you was safe.”
“Us?”
“Me mate … John … ’e’s downstairs. We’ll be takin’ turns watchin’.”
“And you are to follow me around? In my own home?”
“Aye, m’lady.”
“Why? Did something happen?”
He dropped his gaze to his scuffed boots. “I wouldna know, milady.”
Lily clenched her jaw, inhaling through her nose.
With no answers forthcoming, she swept past him, the hem of her morning gown brushing the floor as she marched toward the staircase.
The old treads creaked beneath her hurried steps, steps that would no doubt have earned her a reprimand from Mama had she been present.
John followed at a respectful but ever-present distance. He moved with surprising grace for a man of his bulk, though the weight of his tread and the faint rasp of his breath made it impossible to forget his proximity.
She checked the breakfast room, the blue salon, and the morning room. Each stood silent and empty. When she reached the study, she paused and placed her ear against the heavy wood. Not a sound. The room was not in use.
Behind her, John waited silently, arms folded across his chest like a sentinel carved in flesh and bone.
Where the blast is my husband?
She turned sharply. “Did Lord Filminster leave me a note to explain?”
“I wouldna know, milady.”
A huff of frustration escaped her lips. It was not even nine o’clock, and Brendan was gone.
No note. No word. Just this rough-edged stranger and his promise of protection.
Lily wrapped her arms around herself and turned toward the grand entrance hall.
The hush in the house was absolute. Without Brendan’s presence, Ridley House felt bleak once more, a grand, echoing shell draped in memories and dust.
Yet the presence of John, silent and solid, reminded her that Brendan had not left her wholly unguarded. Perhaps, in his own frustrating way, this was a gesture of care.
Even so, the ache of his absence had settled in her chest.
Brendan alighted from his carriage to stand at the edge of the teeming road.
Pulling out his timepiece, he confirmed the hour to be a few minutes past nine o’clock.
He was late. His meeting with Halmesbury, Richard, and Briggs at the club had been set precisely for nine, but the unruly snarl of London traffic had conspired to delay him.
The capital was thoroughly awake. Horses jostled in their harnesses, wheels clattered over cobblestones, and the morning rush turned St. James’s Street into a river of motion.
“Brendan?” The dulcet voice halted him mid-step. He turned sharply to find Harriet peering at him from several feet away, one hand poised delicately on the open door of her waiting carriage.
His spine stiffened.
The widow looked striking in striped muslin and a feather-tipped bonnet, her gloved fingers raised to conceal a coy smile. Brendan forced himself to lift his beaver and bow.
“Lady Slight.”
“So formal,” she teased, stepping down lightly from the carriage.
He did not have time for this.
Suppressing a sigh, Brendan offered a polite, measured smile, even as every instinct urged him to make for the door of the club.
There were too many eyes upon them, and he had no wish to be entangled in street gossip.
That she had dared approach him in public, knowing he was recently wed, betrayed either foolishness or an unsettling boldness.
Still, he was a gentleman. And a gentleman did not walk away from a titled lady on a bustling street.
Harriet approached, her presence wrapped in rosewater and memory. Her gaze swept over him as if appraising the man she might have claimed. That she had once considered him beneath her was a truth that left ashes in his mouth. And now?
“Is it true that you wed the silly chit from my street?”
It was a crude question, asked with the softness of velvet and the sting of vinegar. Brendan’s smile did not waver.
“I married Miss Abbott yesterday. I have found her mind to be remarkably lively.” He paused. “Not so silly, after all.”
“My commiserations,” Harriet murmured.
His smile faded.
Brendan had no desire to discuss his wife—his warm, thoughtful, intelligent wife—with a woman who had stepped aside rather than stand beside him when he had needed her most.
He would have left it there, but Harriet stepped closer. Too close.
The cloying sweetness of her perfume reached him, evoking no warmth, only the jarring sense that she belonged to another time, another self he had shed.
She raised one gloved hand and, with calculated ease, traced her fingers down the edge of his lapel.
He stepped back, discomfited by the familiarity. The gesture, once welcome, now struck him as absurd. How had he ever thought her touch beguiling? Honey and cheerful conversation and soft kisses, those were the scents that lingered in his thoughts now.
“Feel free to visit, Brendan,” she said lightly. “There is no need to be a stranger. Now that you are respectable again.”
Her tone was light, but the insinuation struck like a whip. He narrowed his eyes.
“That will not be happening.”
Harriet’s mouth curved into a smile both coy and cruel. “We shall see. The little debutante is bound to bore you. And now that you are a married man … Why, it is all rather perfect, is it not?”
Before he could respond, she turned with practiced grace and mounted the carriage steps, vanishing behind the velvet curtains as the footman shut the door.
He stared after her for a moment, not with longing but with grim clarity. He would not chase her. To do so would draw attention, and he refused to create a scene in the middle of St. James’s Street. Let her have her games.
Brendan turned and strode toward the club, jaw tight. He would be better prepared next time they crossed paths. But right now, he had far more urgent matters at hand—namely, the safety and happiness of the only woman who had chosen him for all that he was, and not what he could give.
Brendan made his way inside, quickly spotting his party seated at a corner table set a modest distance apart from the other patrons.
As he crossed the floor, he became aware of conversations pausing.
Several gentlemen turned in their seats to track his progress, eyes narrowing with unspoken curiosity.
He kept his gaze ahead and his expression unreadable, pretending not to notice.
Upon reaching the table, he pulled out a chair and sat with a little too much force, exhaling as he settled.
The low hum of conversation resumed cautiously, as if the room itself were deciding whether to treat his presence as scandalous or simply noteworthy.
Brendan suspected that, in several corners, he and Lily were already being discussed.
“Thank you for meeting me.”
Briggs inclined his head. Richard, seated beside him, was fiddling with his snow-white cravat, an unmistakable sign of agitation.
Halmesbury remained the most composed of the trio, leaning back with his arms crossed over his chest, the navy sleeves of his coat stretched taut over his broad shoulders.
“Is Lily in danger?” The question shot from Richard like an arrow, his emerald eyes sharp with concern as he leaned forward on the table.
Brendan answered with quiet urgency. “Something happened last night that confirms Briggs’s suspicions.
I judged it wiser not to discuss the matter where servants might overhear.
There is no direct threat against Lily, but I am grateful you arranged for the Johns to be present.
Until we know more, caution is essential. ”
Richard exhaled heavily and slumped back in his chair, his brows drawn tight with worry. “We should have taken steps sooner. If anything happens to her …” He trailed off, waving a hand as if swatting at the dreadful possibilities. “Sophia would be beside herself.”
Briggs cleared his throat gently. “If I may, your lordship, what occurred?”
Brendan rubbed at his temple, then recounted the events of the early morning hours with precise brevity. As he finished, a stillness settled over the group.
Halmesbury rubbed his jaw, his gray eyes narrowing in thought.
Richard clenched his fists against the table, then abruptly raised a hand to summon a server. “I need a drink.”
“It is barely past nine.” Halmesbury arched one brow.
“A small one. But a drink nonetheless.” Richard’s tone was dry, laced with fatigue. “This feels far too reminiscent of the mess Sophia and I endured last year. I would like to settle my nerves before facing her with this.”
“Your wife will have opinions about you imbibing,” the duke murmured with some amusement.
Richard sighed, lifting a hand to dismiss the server before placing an order. “She usually prefers that I maintain a clear head. And rightly so. These past two weeks have been unrelenting. Still …” He drew a long breath. “Clarity is vital now.”
Brendan turned to the runner. “Where do things stand with the servants?”
Briggs appeared to be chewing over the question.
“I am still investigating Stanley and David, but as of now, Michaels is the only one with any discernible motive. The baron has not set foot in Town in two decades. It complicates matters. If something has been stirred up, the roots may be older than we can estimate.”
“Are there others to consider? Visitors to Somerset, those with homes in the area?”
Briggs gave a slow nod. “Perhaps a handful. But it is unclear if any would have cause to act.”