After the Kiss Page 12

  “I wanted to speak with you,” Lord Douglas said nasally, his nose pinched shut. “In private.”

  So it probably wasn’t horse advice the boy was after. Bloody wonderful. Sullivan stood again. “What is it, then?”

  Douglas eyed him. “First, are you going to hit me again?”

  “No promises. But I didn’t hit you; I encouraged you into the wall.”

  “That ain’t much of an assurance.”

  “You broke into my house.”

  “Then we’re even.”

  Thanks to years of hard discipline, Sullivan held on to the mildly annoyed expression he’d put on upstairs. “Beg pardon?”

  “Don’t pretend innocence, Waring. Tibby told me everything.”

  The muscles across Sullivan’s back tightened. Taking a breath, he lowered himself into the chair opposite the boy’s. “Have you considered that breaking into the home of someone you believe to be a criminal might not be the wisest course of action? Particularly when you’re alone, and when you haven’t informed anyone else of your whereabouts?”

  Lord Douglas paled, then forced a laugh. “Never been accused of being brilliant. But I didn’t come here to see you arrested. I ain’t a shab rag.”

  “And you apparently have balls, if not brains,” Sullivan admitted. “What did you want to speak to me about?”

  “I wanted to tell you to leave my sister be. Tibby thinks you’re mysterious or dangerous or some such thing, and that she’s clever enough to deal with you.” He lowered the cloth to examine the blotch of red on it. “She’s only three years older than I am, you know, and I can see that she’s going to get herself into trouble.”

  She thought he was mysterious. Much better than ordinary or beneath notice. For a moment Sullivan dwelled on that, ignoring the remainder of Douglas’s prattling. Mysterious. To him that implied one thing over any other consideration—she was interested in him. That second kiss…He wasn’t a fool, and he’d seen hints, but it still surprised him to hear it said aloud. Catching the boy’s suspicious expression, he snorted. “I don’t know whether to be flattered that you consider me a threat, or insulted that a schoolboy’s come to ballyrag me.”

  “I’m not threatening you,” Douglas said shakily. “God’s sake.”

  “Yes, you are. More politely than most, I’ll give you that, but it’s still a threat.” He stood. “So should I gullet you and bury you beneath the floorboards? Or perhaps I’ll have a horse kick you in the head and leave you to be found in the stable.”

  “Look here, Waring,” Douglas countered, shooting to his feet and drawing himself up to his full height—which was about to Sullivan’s nose. “Just train Zephyr as we’ve paid you to do, and leave us be. You keep your mama’s painting and those other bits and bobs. But Tibby ain’t for you.”

  She actually had told her brother everything. Shoving his growing annoyance and the knowledge that the boy made a good argument back into his chest, he eyed the young man. “Lord Douglas,” he said deliberately, keeping his voice even and quiet, “I am not going to ruin my own reputation with your kind by mucking about with one of Society’s precious gems. Believe you me, I know how the world—your world—works.”

  “Oh. Very good, then.”

  “Mm-hm. Anything else?”

  “Since you asked…don’t burgle anyone. Once we know your intentions and we keep quiet about it, we’re bad as you.”

  “Then turn me in.” That was beginning to seem like the only way he could be assured of getting Dunston’s attention, anyway.

  “Don’t want to.”

  Obviously this was going nowhere. “Then I declare a stalemate. Now, don’t you think you should trot yourself back home before someone misses you?”

  The boy’s face flushed bright red. “Actually, I was wondering if I might give you a hand with your stock this morning.”

  Sullivan lifted an eyebrow. “Beg pardon?”

  “Well, it’s just that you’re quite famous, you know, and the other lads at university will turn cabbage-green when they find out I’ve been getting pointers from Sullivan Waring himself.”

  So they could learn from him, as long as he stayed away from their sisters and daughters. He shook himself. He’d learned that lesson a very long time ago. Still, the young fellow did have courage. And he could provide some leverage against Isabel, which might turn out to be useful. Sullivan shrugged.

  “Leave your coat here. You might wish to work in a stable for a morning, but I doubt you’ll want to look—or smell—like it.”

  Douglas grinned. “Oh, that’s splendid, old trout.”

  It was more trouble; that’s what it was. Sullivan knew it. And as he’d done since he’d first set eyes on Isabel Chalsey, he decided to walk straight into it. At least things were more interesting, these days.

  “Oliver, it’s very thoughtful and generous of you to offer,” Isabel said, taking another lump of sugar for her tea, “but I don’t wish to leave London during the Season.”

  “Not even for the amusements of Brighton?” Lord Tilden persisted. “Ask anyone along you like. My father’s given permission for me to hold a house party there for as long as the next fortnight.”

  “I’d much rather stay here,” she returned, risking a glance out the sitting room window only when Oliver dropped a spoon and bent down to retrieve it.

  She couldn’t see anything that might be transpiring in the stable yard. For the past three days she’d barely caught a glimpse of Zephyr, much less her trainer. Obviously Oliver had figured out Sullivan’s schedule, because he called every morning just before Mr. Waring was due to arrive, stayed until his departure, and then dragged her out to some diversion or other which would last until Zephyr’s afternoon training had begun and ended.

  Whatever her own feelings on that circumstance, she considered it pure luck that Sullivan hadn’t robbed anyone in the interim. She wasn’t certain why, since he hadn’t seemed to take her threat very seriously.

  “Any particular reason that London is suddenly so dear to you?” Oliver asked offhandedly. “When I mentioned an excursion with our friends a few weeks ago you seemed delighted by the idea.”

  “Well, now that the Season has begun, I’m having such a splendid time that I’ve changed my mind.” When he opened his mouth again she held up a hand. “Please, Oliver. I know perfectly well why you wish me elsewhere, and I assure you that there is no need. And I don’t wish to speak of it again.”

  He shoved to his feet, setting his cup and saucer aside with a clatter. “He’s here every day.”

  So are you, she thought. “That’s what we hired him for,” she said aloud. “I’m sorry if you don’t deal well together, but I hired him without knowing of your animosity.”

  “And yet now that you do know, you still haven’t sent him away. Even when I’ve recommended a perfectly suitable replacement.”

  Phillip had objected to Oliver’s suggestion of Tom Barrett and his services even more strongly than Douglas had. Carefully she set her own cup on the serving tray. “If you’re going to persist in this…obsession, Oliver, I’m going to have to ask you t—”

  “Did you see it?” Douglas burst into the room, flinging open the sitting room door and nearly knocking the maid who sat behind it to the floor. “Oh, I say. Apologies, there.”

  “See what?” Isabel asked, smiling at his obvious excitement. “And what in heaven’s name is all over your boots?”

  “Horse shit, of course. Or mud. Don’t know for certain.” With a wide grin he swiped his hand across his face, leaving another streak of the stuff there. “Come and see.”

  At least she had an excuse now to venture into the stable yard. Her father had nearly ordered her to do so, of course, but not even he could insist that she spend time with a horse rather than with a beau. Stifling her amusement because Oliver was clearly annoyed, she took his proffered arm and followed Douglas back through the kitchen.

  “You know, he’s been letting me assist him,” her younger brother
was chattering, happy as a cat with a box of mice. “It’s fascinating, the way he works. Don’t even own spurs. And the whip’s like a tickle, just to remind the animal what he wants.”

  “I’d like to remind him of some things,” Oliver murmured very quietly.

  “Beg pardon?” Isabel asked, even though she’d heard him quite clearly.

  “Nothing, my lady.” He smiled. “It’s good that Mr. Waring has some skill with horses. Otherwise he might be mucking out the stalls or delivering vegetables or whatever it is that commoners do for money.”

  That hadn’t been very subtle. As if she needed to be reminded who stood where in Society. “Do you ever wonder where you would be if your parents had been unmarried?”

  Oliver slowed, turning his head to look her directly in the eye. “No, I don’t. I was born for a purpose, as were you. I was not the product of some heated exchange in a coatroom.”

  Douglas turned around as he pushed open the kitchen door. “I say, Tilden. That’s hardly fit conversation in front of my sis.”

  In all fairness, she’d begun it, but she wasn’t above sending her brother a grateful nod. Whether Oliver had a point or not, it simply seemed ill-mannered for a viscount to demean someone below his station—whatever their much-rumored connection.

  “Of course you’re correct, Douglas,” Oliver said easily. “I shouldn’t allow my sense of propriety to get the best of me. Do you forgive me, Isabel?”

  She smiled, most of her attention already on the tall, lean man halfway across the stable yard. “You know I do.”

  Douglas led the way to the center of the yard. Once she’d told her brother the circumstances surrounding Sullivan’s presence, she’d worried that he would behave so hostilely toward Mr. Waring that he would find himself bruised and bloodied. Instead, her brother looked like a puppy prancing about its master. What the devil had happened between them, she had no idea. To herself, though, she could admit that she was glad she wasn’t the only one who continued to enjoy Mr. Waring’s company despite knowing of his background and recent illicit behavior. It certainly removed some of the guilt she felt at their continued association.

  Isabel held on to it for a moment, the feeling of anticipation before she turned to look full at Sullivan Waring. It felt like Christmas, just before she opened her first present. It was silly, of course, and no one knew that better than she. Sullivan was interesting, and different, but certainly no one she could be…romantic about. Should be romantic about. Even so, she supposed thinking about kissing him couldn’t do any harm.

  “See?” Douglas crowed. “Look, Tibby!”

  She looked.

  Zephyr trotted in a wide circle around Sullivan, her head up and her ears perked in his direction. On her back she wore the saddle Isabel and Phillip had purchased, and the lead line was now attached to a bridle rather than to her halter, which she also wore.

  “Stunning,” Oliver said dryly. “A saddle horse that can carry a saddle.”

  A wave of nervousness ran through her bones. If Zephyr carried a saddle, then sooner rather than later she would be expected to ride. Oh, dear.

  “Well, what do you think, Tibby?”

  She shook herself, looking from Douglas’s happy expression to Sullivan’s much-harder-to-read one. “That’s brilliant,” she said aloud. “You’ve made amazing progress.”

  “Zephyr’s a quick study,” Mr. Waring noted, bringing the mare to an easy stop. As far as she could tell, he hadn’t even glanced at Lord Tilden.

  “So I assume that means you’ll be finished here soon, Waring.” Oliver kept his tone cool and low, but Isabel could hear the disdain and anger in it.

  “You have to decide, Lady Isabel,” Sullivan went on, as though his half-brother hadn’t spoken, “whether or not you wish to practice your seat on an old, staid horse before you take on a fresh mare.”

  Another shiver ran down her spine. Why hadn’t she hired Mr. Waring to find a horse for Douglas or something? No, she’d had to say she wanted a horse for herself. To ride, dash it all. When she realized all three men were looking at her, she nodded. “I’ll consider it,” she managed.

  “I have an old mare that might do,” he went on. “I’ll bring her by tomorrow so you can see if you get along.”

  “With a horse?” Oliver countered. “Yes, and perhaps they can go out for tea and biscuits afterward.”

  “Oliver,” she chastised. “Yes, Mr. Waring, I think that would be a fine idea.”

  Lord Tilden took her hand. “Come, Isabel. I want to take you for a drive in Hyde Park. It’s far too fine a day to be standing about in the mud.”

  For the first time Sullivan’s ice-green eyes flicked in Oliver’s direction. And then, as he looked back at her, he smiled. “Have a pleasant day, Lady Isabel. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Oh, goodness. She drew a short breath as she returned to the house with Oliver. It made no sense; she was in the company of a very pleasant, handsome man, about to go for a pleasant, amusing outing. And all she could think of, even knowing she’d probably be expected to pet another horse, was that tomorrow she’d be able to spend thirty minutes with Sullivan Waring.

  Chapter 11

  Sullivan glanced toward the street. At this time of night only the very inebriated elite roamed the streets of Mayfair. The coat of arms on the passing coach confirmed that—the Marquis of St. Aubyn was actually returning home early; Sullivan had seen the marquis on several occasions still in his evening clothes well into the next morning.

  All that concerned him at the moment, though, was that the coach continued past him. Once it was gone, he ducked around the picturesque stand of elm trees that clustered at the north corner of the Duke of Levonzy’s main London property. He tied on his black bandit’s mask, then one by one checked the windows on the ground floor of Johns House. No luck. All of them were secured. Levonzy had always been a cautious fellow, and naturally that translated to his household staff.

  With a silent curse, he circled around again to the south side of the house. The trellis for the climbing roses seemed steady enough, so he pulled on his heavy work gloves and began to climb. He couldn’t avoid crushing a few of the white blossoms, and their spicy sweet scent hung heavily in the air around him.

  This would have been a little easier if the duke had been away from home, but not by much. With the presence of his substantial staff, any housebreaking attempt had its drawbacks. At least he’d been able to convince Bram not to join him, though with the list of items his friend had given him to liberate, he almost felt like he was embarking on a shopping excursion rather than a burglary.

  Halfway up he stretched out sideways and pushed up on the nearest window with his fingertips. The glass lifted a fraction. He opened it another few inches, then grabbed hold of the ledge with his leather-covered fingers and kicked away from the trellis. For a long moment he hung suspended in midair, the abrupt ache in his left shoulder reminding him that he’d taken two balls there within the past year. With a breath he pulled himself up and then in through the window.

  That had been a one-way trip; once he had a painting with him he’d have to leave through another exit, preferably on the ground floor. He stood in the billiards room for a moment while he ran his mind through the floor plans with which Bram had provided him. It was unfortunate that he couldn’t go into a house immediately after Bram had been there and both of their recollections were fresh, but he damned well didn’t want suspicion falling on his friend for his own so-called misdeeds.

  The door into the hallway stood open, but he couldn’t detect any lights at all inside the house. As a soldier going into battle he’d always felt a hard excitement coupled with a sharpening of his senses. He’d expected to feel the same way as a thief going into someone else’s territory, but mostly what he felt was anger. Not anger toward the house’s residents, but toward Dunston. It hadn’t been enough to deny him a birthright; the marquis had attempted to deny him his inheritance. The one heritage that had been left to him—his
mother’s.

  But he could only reclaim it as long as he didn’t pit himself against any of these aristocrats legally. If he brought charges against any of them for having his property, Dunston would find a way to tie it all up neatly, to make certain that the Sullivan family had done nothing improper, and that Sullivan Waring never even existed, much less deserved his mother’s paintings. Bloody nobility. If he couldn’t take their money by daylight or in darkness, they wouldn’t be worth anything.

  Except that he couldn’t make those sweeping statements any longer. One of those aristocrats didn’t precisely make him angry. Neither did her family. And he hadn’t been prepared for that, for feeling some sort of affection for them. For her.

  In a few hours he would be at their home again. Or in their stable, rather. Two of them knew how he spent some of his nights, and though they didn’t like or understand it, neither seemed inclined to turn him in. It wasn’t just that, though. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was he felt around them, but he knew the wisest course of action would be simply to disappear for a few months. Especially with Oliver Sullivan involved.

  What the devil did Isabel see in that fool, anyway? Other than wealth, power, rank, and a handsome face, of course. And there he was, raised and educated to be a gentleman, with no expectation of becoming one.

  Somewhere in the large house a clock chimed, and he shook himself. Now was not the time or the place to be distracted, for Lucifer’s sake.

  Half the items Bram had wanted liberated seemed to be in this room, so he walked over to the weapons display on the far wall. A very nice pair of silver-handled dueling pistols were bracketed one on top of the other, and it only took a minute for him to pry them loose and dump them into his pockets. The cigars took another few seconds. He left the carved mahogany box there, but emptied the contents into his inner coat pocket. If Bram wanted a share of them, he was going to have to find the location of those last three Francesca W. Perris paintings first.