Chapter Three
Diana couldn’t endure Ian’s protracted silence on the walk home.
Evening fog clouded the pristine streets of Mayfair, making everything appear as ominous and insubstantial as what had transpired at his father’s bedside moments before they left the house.
Her mind was still reeling with it. She impatiently waited for Ian to say something first, so she wouldn’t have to. But he wasn’t cooperating.
When they approached her street, she finally blurted, “You stopped writing to me.”
His weekly letters had ceased four months before. She’d kept writing hers. She’d pretended his silence hadn’t impacted her a wit, while she racked her brain for what she could have done or said to offend him so greatly that after years of friendship, he’d given her the cut.
If he’d written her back, she could have confessed she was worried about her own father’s health. Or how, halfway into her debut season, everything about society exhausted her.
And she was anxious for his opinion about the mysterious missives she’d received from someone who only identified themselves as “Widow.”
Then again, if she told him about the letters, she feared he’d discourage her from giving them any credence, and that would put her in a quandary. She very much wanted to believe Widow represented a clandestine organization dedicated to saving women’s lives. And they’d chosen Diana to join them.
But mostly, if Ian had written her, she would have said that after the way he’d held her when they’d danced at her coming-out ball, she missed him more than she’d ever had in the fifteen years they’d known each other.
He kept walking, as if movement could conceal him from her interrogation.
“You stopped writing,” Diana repeated in a distinctly louder voice. “Don’t pretend you didn’t receive my letters.”
“I wouldn’t do that.”
When he refused to look at her, or slow his pace, she halted abruptly on the footpath. “I came to London to find out for myself if you were still alive.”
The acid in her tone finally stopped him in his tracks. “I’ve been busy. As you saw, Father can’t do much these days.”
Mr. Holt’s illness was the excuse Diana had offered to call at the house. She never thought Ian’s father would ask her for a private moment with him. And only her dreams could have conjured the message he delivered from her mother.
Promise me, lass… Promise you’ll honor our wishes. Marry my son.
Ian had overheard everything. And had said nothing to Diana about it.
He must have been too overwhelmed with his father’s condition to think about anything else.
“I know he’s had a bad go of it, but I thought your father was in good form tonight,” she said optimistically.
“Today was a good day. An exception. The doctor says his heart will never recover. He has weeks, maybe a few months left.”
Ian kept his voice low, but she still heard the pain he tried to cover. She clutched her coat in her hands to avoid reaching for him.
“You shouldn’t have to face this alone,” she said. “Why is Jared persisting with his Grand Tour? It’s been two years.”
“Now he finally has something to entice him home.”
The rancorous insinuation cut like a knife.
Ian believed his father wanted Diana to marry his brother.
And that she’d agreed to it.
As rain misted around them, she searched for the words to contradict his false assumption. She was livid that she had to. Grief must have scrambled his mind if he imagined she would ever promise herself to Jared.
How could he think she'd do something so unimaginably cruel to him? Or to herself?
The only acceptable option to preserve her pride was to whirl gallantly past him and march ahead on the footpath.
A shadow darted out of the side lane and blockaded her progress.
“Evenin’, luv,” drawled a man in a rumpled coat. The scarf tied around his mouth muffled his voice.
Ian rumbled from behind her, “We’ve no coin for you.”
“Now that’s a shame, innit?” The man drew a pistol from his pocket and whistled.
Three more toughs brandishing knives quickly surrounded them.
Diana’s lungs fought for air. Breathlessness was never something she’d had to account for in all her years of training with her fencing instructor. It irritated her beyond measure.
Ian swiveled so his back brushed against hers. His protective stance momentarily soothed her galloping heart, until the assailant whistled again and cocked the gun’s trigger.
“Hands up, where I can see ’em, mate.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Diana saw Ian slowly comply as he mumbled an Italian curse.
“Find it ’ard to believe you’re the only toff walkin’ about these streets wiv no coin,” said their assailant. “So I’m gonna do a wee inspection. You get defensive, you’ll get personal wiv me pistol, and me men will get personal wiv your lady, ’ere.”
The thieves guffawed, but Ian’s feral rasp silenced them. Diana could only imagine the glower he was giving them. She appreciated that he’d captured the attention of the thugs, so none of them would notice her slipping her hand into the hidden pocket of her skirt.
The leader stalked toward them and eyed Diana. “Ain’t you a pretty dove. Reckon I’d like to keep you in a cage.”
Diana could feel Ian’s back muscles tense; he was primed to spring at the man.
“Easy,” she murmured.
The brute chortled, thinking she spoke to him. She seized on the distraction and beamed her brightest society smile at the lowlife.
The man halted and blinked.
The rest of his crew were equally stunned when she shouted for Ian to move before she hurled her throwing knife at the assailant’s throat.
Ian shifted so quickly, he blended in with the misty night and the fog curling around them. He knocked out the next man with a blow that solicited an audible crunching of bones. Diana shook off the sound with a shudder.
One of the goons recovered his wits and barreled toward them.
She drew a breath. Reached again for her pocket. And let her steel fly.
The man met the end of her second dagger and collapsed to the ground.
After that, she lost sense of how time unfolded. There was an ensuing scuffle, and more rain swirled around them. Ian seized the pistol the first thief had dropped. Shots reverberated.
Diana didn’t surrender her attention from the felled bodies until Ian’s harrowed face bent toward her.
“Are you hurt?”
A flush burnished the fine planes of his handsome face.
Somewhere in the altercation, he’d lost his hat, and his black hair tumbled over his forehead.
These days, he always dressed in shades of black and gray.
The starched collar of his shirt was his lone splash of brightness. A spot of blood now marred it.
“Diana?”
Slowly, she shook her head. Her gaze returned to the bodies on the footpath.
Ian stole across and examined each of the men before confirming, “They’re all down.”
“Down or…” She couldn’t bring herself to say dead.
“Doesn’t matter.” He retrieved her knives and wrapped them in a handkerchief. With his free hand, he clasped hers and towed her down the street. “Come quickly. There could be others following.”
They broke into a run. Ian directed them through the back lanes to the service gate of her father’s London house. The familiar sight of the little stone bench where the servants sat to smoke made Diana’s knees buckle. She fell upon it, dragging Ian with her.
“I think I might have killed those men,” she whispered.
“They had it coming. Don’t worry about the scene. I’ll sort everything out.”
She tightened her arms around him. “Don’t go alone.”
“I won’t,” he murmured against her hair in a soothing voice. “We’re both safe for the moment. Thanks to you. Have no remorse for defending yourself. It was…brilliant.”
His hand stole under her chin and tipped her face toward him. “You are brilliant. And beautiful.”
The awed expression he wore made warmth bloom in her chest and quieted the riot in her stomach. If he kept looking at her that way, she was going to kiss him. She wouldn’t be able to stop herself.
“You were quite remarkable too,” she said, leaning closer. “Where did you learn to shoot like that?”
The transformation in his countenance was like a cloud blocking the sun.
“It’s all part of the job.”
“What job?”
He slowly released her and stood up from the bench. The sudden absence of his warm embrace made her fight off a shiver.
“What job?” she repeated. “What does that mean?”
“My legacy. I made a promise to my father too. When he first fell ill.”
When he’d stopped writing to her.
Ian threw a hand at the street. “What happened back there wasn’t an opportunistic crime. Those men came here because of that promise. They came for me.”
Diana staggered to her feet. “Then we’ll go to the police—”
“They won’t get in the middle of this.”
She refused to accept the defeat in his voice. He was starting to frighten her, more than the toughs. “Tell me what this is all about, and we’ll find a solution. Your father—”
“This isn’t something he’d want you involved in.”
The arrogant dismissal stoked her temper. If he thought she would give up that easily, he knew nothing about her. “If that were the case, he wouldn’t have asked me for my promise.”
Ian carefully removed her knives from his pocket and wiped them clean with his handkerchief. As he handed them to her, he avoided brushing his fingers against hers.
“You’re mistaken,” he said in a soft voice. “The promise Father asked of you was to marry Jared. For your protection. From the promise he asked of me.”