After the Kiss Page 11

  “No hats,” she interrupted, closing and latching the door behind him.

  “Oh. Good, then.”

  “I can trust you, can’t I, Douglas? Truly trust you?”

  He stopped his pacing and jabbering to face her. “Of course you can. I’m your brother.”

  Douglas had proven trustworthy before, but that had been when she’d temporarily misplaced their mother’s ear bobs and when she’d decided to go ice-skating and had nearly fallen through the frozen surface of Burling’s pond. This was much, much more serious. But she couldn’t tell any of her friends, and informing her parents or Phillip about what she knew was just out of the question. They would take it all away from her control, and she refused to let that happen.

  “You must promise that this will remain between us. No one else can know, Douglas.”

  “Zooks. You didn’t murder anyone, did you?”

  “Promise me,” she insisted.

  “Fine, fine. I promise.”

  “Truly promise.”

  “God’s blood, Tibby, do you want me to stab my eye with a needle? I promise.”

  “Very well.” Isabel blew out her breath. Plunking herself down on the overstuffed couch, she mentally crossed her fingers. Sullivan had threatened to take action again, and so she had to, as well. “I saw the face of the man who broke into the house,” she said.

  “What?” Obviously she’d captured Douglas’s notoriously unreliable attention. “You said he wore a mask!”

  “He did.”

  “Then how did you—”

  “I took it from him.”

  Douglas frowned, his brows lowering. “You fought him? Tibby—”

  “Will you shut up and let me tell you?”

  He dropped into the chair opposite her and folded his arms across his chest. “Tell me, then. I won’t utter a peep.”

  She doubted that. “I surprised him, as I said, but he didn’t turn and run. He…he kissed me.”

  Douglas lurched forward. “He—” With a quick breath he sat back again. His face turning bright red, he gestured for her to continue.

  That was why she couldn’t tell any of the adults in the household. She’d be halfway home to Burling, wrapped in nun’s robes, before she finished speaking. And that wasn’t just her being dramatic. “He just did it to surprise me, to keep me quiet while he escaped. I didn’t know who he was until I caught sight of him the next day at Tattersall’s.”

  Now Douglas looked as though he was choking on a bug, but other than uttering a few strangled sounds, he kept his silence.

  “It was Sullivan Waring.”

  This time her brother shot to his feet. “Oh, no no no! If you’ve changed your mind about having a horse, that’s well and good. But to ruin a man’s reputation just because—”

  “He’s taking back paintings done by his mother. She was a very talented artist. Lord Dunston took them after she died. That’s the reason for his thievery. That’s what Mr. Waring claims, anyway.”

  “But Dunston is…”

  “His father. I know.”

  “And you and Tilden are…” He flung his arms up in the air. “You’re going to give me an apoplexy before I’ve ever kissed a chit, you know.”

  “It might help if you stopped referring to all the young ladies you know as ‘chits,’” she said dryly. “And Oliver has absolutely nothing to do with this.”

  “What?” he said incredulously. “Are you mad? Maybe he’s not part of this as far as you’re concerned, but I’d wager you a hundred quid that neither he nor Waring would say that.”

  Isabel looked at the sixteen-year-old for a long moment as he resumed pacing aimlessly about the room. She truly hadn’t known about Oliver and Sullivan’s relationship until well after the break-in. But Oliver knew they’d been robbed. In all likelihood he’d known by then not only who’d done it, but that Chalsey House would be at risk of a break-in before it happened. As for Sullivan’s actions, her social connections weren’t precisely a secret. Had he known when he’d kissed her that Oliver was courting her?

  “I think I must be missing something,” Douglas was saying. “You hired Waring knowing—knowing—that he’d broken in here and kissed you?”

  “I wanted to be able to keep an eye on him,” she admitted, “until I decided what to do.” It had begun as a bit of a game of mystery and revenge for that kiss, but it was turning into something more important than that. In fact, her original excuses seemed a bit silly, now.

  “‘What to do,’” he repeated. “Has he kissed you since then?”

  “No!” she lied. “Not that it’s any of your affair.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you what to do. Tell Father.”

  “I can’t very well do that now, Douglas. Be serious.”

  “Why can’t you?”

  “Because I’ve hired him. Papa will be convinced that I’m…infatuated with him or something. There will be bloodshed, I’m certain.”

  “I’m infatuated with him, and I still say we should hand him over to the authorities.”

  “What if he had good reason to do what he did?”

  “Are we still talking about him kissing you?”

  Isabel growled. “We’re talking about how something was stolen from him, and how he’s attempting to recover it.”

  “By stealing.”

  For goodness’ sake, this sounded like the same argument she’d just had with Sullivan. Except that now she seemed to be taking his side. “When Oliver gave us that painting, all he said was that it was a gift from his family to ours. Did you have any reason to think differently? Because I didn’t.”

  “No, but—”

  “If some horse breeder knocked on the front door, would you let him inside the house?”

  “If it was Sullivan Waring, yes, I would have.”

  “Would you have given him the painting?”

  “I…” He trailed off. “Well, can he prove that it belonged to him?”

  “I doubt it.”

  Douglas paced to the window and back again. “You have to tell him not to steal anything else. If he were to be caught, and people were to realize that he was the one who stole from us and then you hired him, well, that would be very ugly.”

  “That’s why I’m telling you; he has threatened to steal something else.”

  “Then if you can’t turn him over to Bow Street, you have to send him on his way.” He scowled darkly. “And I can’t believe I’m saying that.”

  “Oliver did suggest someone else who might complete Zephyr’s training,” she offered reluctantly. Perhaps Lord Tilden had been correct about Sullivan’s character, after all.

  “Who?”

  “I’m not certain. Barnett? Something close to that.”

  “Was it Tom Barrett?”

  “Yes, that’s the name.”

  Douglas shook his head. “He’s a plug. Can make a horse run like the wind, but the animal’s just as likely to drop dead afterward as to win another race. He don’t know anything slower than a gallop.”

  “That’s awful. Why would Oliver recommend him?”

  “You really are a very silly chit,” her brother observed. “Barrett’s not Waring. That’s why. Of course, he probably don’t know about your fright around horses, but I’d never have Barrett train a lady’s mount anyway.”

  “So you still trust Waring more, even though you know what I know.” Well, not everything, but close enough. “You see? That’s where I am, as well.”

  “I…I trust him with your Zephyr, I suppose. But that’s horses, and he does know horses. As for the rest, you have to give me more than a minute to think about it, Tibby.”

  “Fair enough. He’ll be back this afternoon.”

  “Oh, yes. I should have everything figured out by then.” He sent her another incredulous look. “I take it back,” Douglas continued, sinking down into the chair again. “This may take an entire day. You’re certain I can’t tell anyone else?”

  “I’m very certain.”

 
“A day should do it, then. Definitely.”

  She knew her brother was being sarcastic, but part of her hoped that he would have an answer or two that she could live with. Because when she wasn’t angry and frustrated with Sullivan Waring, she still could think of little else but kissing him again. And nothing good could come of that.

  Chapter 10

  “‘And that is a warning,’” Sullivan sneered as he swung down from Achilles and handed the reins off to one of the Bromley House grooms. “Her kettle’s black. She should leave mine be.”

  The front door opened as he reached it. “Welcome, Mr. Waring,” a stout, white-haired man in blue and black livery said, inclining his head.

  “Graves. Is Lord Bramwell here yet?”

  “His lordship sent word that he would be late, if he was able to attend at all.”

  Just as well. Bram was far too observant and cynical. Tonight he wanted some bloody space to breathe. “Thank you,” he said belatedly.

  The butler nodded. “Lord Quence is in the drawing room, sir.”

  Handing over his greatcoat, he trotted up the curving staircase to the first floor. He tried to tell himself that it didn’t feel odd, walking into a grand house through the front door, but it did. Generally the only occasion for him to use the main entry was in the middle of the night when the household was asleep and he wore a mask. Not here, though.

  “Ah, Sully,” a warm male voice said as he walked through the drawing room door. “You heard that Bramwell had another obligation.”

  Sullivan nodded. “His father’s in Town.”

  “So I gathered. Elizabeth is here, however, so at least we’ll have something pretty to look at.”

  With such precise timing that she must have been listening behind the door, Quence’s younger sister swished into the drawing room. “Mr. Waring, I’m so pleased you could join us this evening,” she chirped, her ginger curls bobbing as she curtsied.

  “Miss Bromley,” he returned, smiling. “I hadn’t realized that you’d come to London.” And her presence definitely explained Bram’s absence. The girl was like a moth to his candlelight.

  “I fled East Sussex,” she said brightly, her hazel eyes dancing as she swooped over to kiss her older brother on one pale cheek. “Talking to myself all the time is tiring.”

  “Can’t imagine why,” Lord Quence intoned dryly. He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “Here. Give your letter to Sullivan. It’s nearly a month old; apparently the weather in Spain has been abominable.”

  “It’s from Phin, then?” Sullivan asked, masking his impatience as the seventeen-year-old, letter in hand, strolled over to him. The missive was addressed to Elizabeth Bromley; as far as he knew, Phin never wrote his brother.

  “It is,” she answered before her brother could, finally handing the missive over. “He asks after you.”

  “He can read that in the letter, Beth. Please inquire with Graves if dinner is ready, will you?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “You might just ask me to leave you in peace for a few minutes. There’s nothing wrong with being direct. In fact, I think—”

  “Beth, please go away for a few minutes and leave us in peace,” the viscount interrupted.

  “Oh, very well.” With a last, brilliant smile she swirled out of the room.

  “Good God, I dread her debut next Season,” Quence muttered. He motioned at the footman standing behind him, and the fellow pushed his wheeled chair away from the hearth. “I’ll leave you to read the letter.”

  “Nonsense,” Sullivan countered, lowering himself onto the couch and trying to look at ease with the motion. “I have a question for you anyway, William, that I’d rather not ask…well, with—”

  “With the magpie anywhere about?” Quence finished. “Ask away, then. I doubt she’ll stay absent for long.”

  “I’m training a mare for Lord Darshear’s daughter,” Sullivan began, watching the other man’s expression carefully as he spoke. And there it was, the flinch of gaunt cheek muscles, quickly disguised. Quence knew of her, then. Or of who had been in pursuit of her, at least. “How long has Tilden been courting her?”

  “Shouldn’t you be asking Bramwell? He’s certainly more intimate with London social machinations than I am.”

  “Bram always suspects ulterior motives and asks too many questions.”

  “Hm. Which questions don’t you wish asked?”

  Sullivan shifted. “Never mind that. I’m asking purely to avoid any…unpleasantness,” he lied, “since I am obligated to spend time in Darshear’s stable yard for at least the next fortnight.”

  The viscount nodded. “Tilden’s been calling on her since just after the beginning of the Season, as far as I know. Last year it was Lord Mayhew and Clark Winstead and some other fellow, so I have no idea whether this pursuit is serious or not.”

  Sullivan wasn’t surprised to hear how sought-after Tibby was. But at least three beaux last year and only one this year…. “Do you think he’ll offer for her?” As he asked the question his jaw clenched, the last word coming out as a growl. Lucifer’s balls, it couldn’t be jealousy. Not after two kisses and thrice that many conversations. Arguments, more like.

  “I think he might,” Quence said. “Dunston has no reason to disapprove the match, and I can’t think that her family does, either.” He tilted his head, the early gray at his temples showing silver in the firelight. “Does that help with your avoidance of any unpleasantness?”

  With a small, grim smile, Sullivan nodded. “She seems fairly agreeable; I suppose I can’t help a bit of astonishment when I encounter anyone contemplating a voluntary association with Dunston and his oldest whelp.”

  “Ah. I thought so. It’s only my legs that don’t work, Sully. My mind’s still fairly spry yet.”

  “You still ask fewer and less annoying questions than Bram.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment. Read Phineas’s letter, and Andrews here will fetch us some claret.”

  While Quence sat in his wheeled chair by the window and silently contemplated the deepening dusk outside, Sullivan unfolded Phin Bromley’s letter. Phin was the reason he’d been invited to walk through the front door of Bromley House in the first place; apparently the family was desperate enough for news of the captain—no, major now, according to the letter—that they would welcome anyone. He certainly couldn’t think of another reason Quence would allow a rake of Bram Johns’s reputation in the same room with his younger sister, whoever seemed terrified of whom. Aside from that, he thought Quence was trying to reel Phin back into civilization by degrees. Friends first, then the man himself.

  But despite the ulterior motives and the oddness of him being invited to dine with a viscount and his family, he was glad of it. William Bromley and his younger brother Phineas were very much alike in their intelligence and wit, and he’d come to feel nearly as much affection toward the family’s crippled patriarch as he did for both Phin and Bram. Brothers-in-arms, they’d called themselves, and so they were. He certainly felt closer to them than he did to his actual half-brother. Reputed half-brother, since no one had bothered to claim him in any legally significant manner.

  He shook himself. Reminiscing had never been something of which he was overly fond. Too often it left a bitter taste in his mouth. The present suited him much better. And peculiarly enough, that was even when it included Isabel Chalsey and her associated complications.

  Sullivan sat bolt upright. Downstairs the high squeak of his front door opening had stopped, but he knew he hadn’t imagined it. He’d left the squeak for a reason—old soldiers’ habits died hard.

  As he rolled off the bed and silently pulled on his trousers, he glanced toward the curtained window. Only the dimmest sliver of light showed along one side of the heavy blue material. Barely dawn. Too early for his housekeeper, and none of his other employees would ever enter the house without knocking.

  He pulled a pistol from his bedstand. As footsteps ascended his staircase, he settled his back aga
inst the wall right beside the bedchamber door. His heartbeat held fast and steady as he ran through the list of who his visitor might be. At the top of the list was Isabel. Somewhere in the middle would be a thief, with extra points for the irony of that, and down at the bottom were the members of his own so-called family.

  His door rattled and eased open. Sullivan leveled the pistol against the intruder’s ear. “Do not move a muscle,” he murmured.

  The fellow shrieked and jumped backward. Lunging forward, Sullivan slammed his head into the wall with his free hand and shoved him to the floor.

  “For God’s sake! Don’t murder me, Waring!”

  Sullivan stopped his foot midkick. “Douglas Chalsey?”

  The boy covered his head with both hands. “Yes!”

  “Sweet Lucifer,” he muttered, setting the pistol on the bed and reaching down to haul the boy to his feet. “What the devil are you doing here?”

  “I wanted to speak with you.” Douglas gingerly touched his nose. “You’ve disfigured me!”

  “It’s not broken,” Sullivan muttered grudgingly, eyeing it critically. “Go down to the sitting room. I’ll be there in a moment.” He tossed the boy a clean cloth from his small dressing table.

  Once Douglas returned downstairs, Sullivan dressed quickly. He didn’t want the young lord wandering about the cottage and finding the small, concealed room off the kitchen—especially since several items previously belonging to the Chalsey family were inside.

  What the devil was the boy doing here? Logically he could come up with three reasons for the predawn visit: Douglas knew Sullivan had kissed Isabel; he knew about the thefts; or he wanted some horse advice. He hoped it was the third one. If it was either of the first two, the lad should have brought someone larger and more menacing along for company.

  Yanking on his work boots, he clomped down the narrow stairs. His guest, holding the cloth to his nose, sat on the front edge of a chair. “What are you doing here?” Sullivan snapped, squatting before the hearth to stir the coals and set in some fresh tinder. “I’ll be at your residence in…” He lifted his head to look at the mantel clock. “In three and a half hours.”