After the Kiss Page 13

  Finished with the billiards room, Sullivan padded silently down the wide, winding staircase. A pair of stone griffins guarded the bottom of the banister, but since he’d come in from above they seemed fairly useless. He clinked one of them on the head with a knuckle.

  The duke’s office was exactly where Bram had said it would be. He paused for a moment after he slipped inside. A Young Fisherman’s Dream of Glory hung at eye level behind His Grace’s desk, a slanted corner of moonlight illuminating it dimly. “There you are,” he murmured.

  It was too large for his carrying pouch, but he pulled off the blanket he’d slung across one shoulder and bound it carefully. For good measure he pocketed the silver inkwell on the desk, then caught sight of the hated Burmese fertility statue Bram had mentioned.

  Good God. Its cock was nearly a foot long, and given that the figure stood barely twice that high, the fellow looked distinctly front-heavy. There was no way in hell he was going to carry that anywhere, so with a quick prayer that he wasn’t about to call bad luck upon himself, he reached over and snapped the fellow off at the root. With a wince he dropped the penis into his last free pocket. “Sorry, old boy, but we can’t have you being pasted back together.”

  He tucked the painting under his arm and made his way back out to the hallway. The front door was bolted and locked—as a man who evidently considered his possessions at risk, Levonzy needed only take more care with his upper-story windows to make his mansion a bloody fortress.

  The morning room windows were also latched, but thankfully didn’t require a key to open them. Sullivan set the painting aside and shoved at the window overlooking the garden at the side of the house. Nothing. “Damnation,” he muttered.

  In the dark it took a moment to make out the thick layer of paint sealing the ground-floor window closed. Given Bram’s dislike of his own father, Sullivan had never been particularly fond of the fellow, himself. Now, however, “not fond of” was swiftly sliding toward “damned annoyed with.”

  He pulled the knife from his boot and dug it along the bottom of the window. The wood parted from the paint reluctantly, and with a whining moan the window raised a few inches. Damnation. He did not like lingering in a house after he’d recovered his property. Not all households sported residents as enchanting and sweet-tasting as Lady Isabel Chalsey.

  Working as quickly and efficiently as he could in the near-dark, he slipped the painting out through the narrow opening and then went to work with the knife again. It gave a half inch with every hard shove. Levonzy needed to hire a carpenter to repair his damned windows. The man had more money than Croesus, so he could bloody well afford a better paint job.

  A bright flash lit the room. Instinctively Sullivan ducked sideways as the boom of a weapon followed. A ball whizzed past his ear and shattered the window.

  “You damned thief!” the Duke of Levonzy bellowed. “I’ll see you stretched on the gallows!”

  At the sound of another pistol being cocked, Sullivan did the only thing he could. He dove out the window. Broken shards of glass showered around him as he landed hard in a bed of daisies. Whipping back to his feet, he scrambled against the wall for the painting—just as the duke reached the window.

  Sullivan dodged around the corner of the house as another shot exploded from the window. The tree trunk beside him erupted into splinters, and something slammed into his thigh, making him stumble. Clenching his jaw, he gripped the painting, sheltering it with his body, and ran for it.

  “Why didn’t you wake me earlier?” Isabel snapped at her maid, shoving aside bedsheets and scrambling to her feet.

  Penny produced a blue sprig muslin from the wardrobe. “Apologies, my lady, but you didn’t specify. And you were out so late last night, I—”

  “No mind,” she interrupted, slipping out of her night rail and hurrying into the gown. “I just don’t want to hear from Mr. Waring when he’s prompt and I’m late out to the stable yard.”

  The maid sent her a quick glance in the dressing table mirror.

  “What?” Isabel asked, scowling.

  “Nothing, my lady.”

  “Penny, I do recognize that look.”

  “Very well, my lady,” the maid said, taking a brush to Isabel’s tangled hair. “You said that you don’t want to hear from Mr. Waring, but he works for you. I can’t imagine he would say anything unbecoming while you—”

  “Yes, yes, of course. It was a figure of speech. I said I would be available at ten o’clock, and I didn’t wish to be late. It’s a matter of my own pride.” That didn’t explain why she was blushing, or that she knew full well she and Sullivan would have words—or that she was looking forward to it.

  As soon as she finished dressing, she hurried downstairs. Alders stood halfway between the foyer and the breakfast room, clearly ready to move in whichever direction he was most needed. “Alders,” she greeted, “I’ll be outside with Zephyr and Mr. Waring.”

  “Mr. Waring hasn’t yet arrived this morning, my lady,” the butler intoned.

  She stopped. “He hasn’t? But it’s fifteen after ten.”

  “Yes, it is, my lady. Perhaps you wish some breakfast? I’ll inform you as soon as he arrives.”

  “Oh. Yes, of course.”

  As she made her way into the breakfast room, a footman joined the butler behind her. She heard them muttering, and she made out the word “burglary.”

  Her heart lurched. Isabel turned around, nearly stumbling in her haste. “What was that you said?”

  Alders shoved the footman back toward the servants’ quarters. “Nothing you need trouble yourself about, my lady. Just belowstairs gossip.”

  “About what?” she persisted. “I insist that you tell me, Alders.”

  The butler motioned her into the breakfast room. “Very well,” he said, holding out her chair for her. “Stevens heard from Cook, who heard from the milk peddler, who heard from the Duke of Levonzy’s cook, that His Grace’s home was burgled early this morning. By the Mayfair Marauder, yet.”

  Her heart accelerated even further. “Oh, my,” she said, swallowing hard as she took her seat. He’d done it again. She’d warned him, and blast it all, he hadn’t listened. “Did anyone say what was taken?”

  “My information is obviously not very reliable, my l—”

  “I understand that, Alders. What did you hear?”

  “Gossip has it that several things were broken, and some silver, a painting, and a handful of cigars went missing. The old duke apparently got several shots off at the scoundrel, so never fear. They’ll probably find him in an alleyway dead. I hear His Grace is a crack shot.”

  She’d heard the same thing. Oh no, oh no. Shaking, she pushed to her feet so hastily she nearly tipped her chair backward. “Oh, dear, I’ve forgotten I’m to meet Barbara this morning. Is Douglas risen yet?”

  “I don’t believe so, my lady.”

  “Please see to it. He promised to escort me.”

  “Right away.”

  As Alders hurried out of the room, Isabel paced to the window and back. She couldn’t see the stable yard from there, so she went down the hallway to the sitting room. What if the duke actually had shot Sullivan? What if he was…

  She took a breath. He was a thief; she’d caught him in the act. And she’d warned him, damn it all. So why in heaven’s name was she so worried that something might have happened to him?

  But she was worried. Very worried. For a bare second she contemplated running out to the stables and commandeering a horse. The thought terrified her, though, and even if she had drummed up both the courage and the skill, she had no idea where he lived.

  “What the devil is it?” Douglas asked, stumbling into the sitting room behind her. He was only half dressed, his waistcoat unbuttoned and only one boot on.

  “Close the door.”

  Scowling, he did so, then flopped onto a chair to pull on his second boot. “I was up until nearly dawn playing whist with Phillip, you know.”

  “The Duke of Lev
onzy’s house was burgled by the Mayfair Marauder last night,” she managed, her words coming out in a breathless rush. “The duke took several shots at the thief. And now it’s after ten o’clock, and Sullivan isn’t here.”

  Her brother sat bolt upright. “St. George’s buttonholes. Levonzy’s a crack shot.”

  “I know that, blast it all. Take me to see Sullivan.”

  “What? Why do—”

  “Who else can help him if he’s injured?” she insisted, striding over to pull him to his feet. “And I don’t know how to get there.”

  “Maybe I should go by myself, Tibby. It ain’t seem—”

  “Don’t you dare tell me it’s not seemly, Douglas Raymond Chalsey,” she snapped. “Go have the curricle made ready.”

  He stood up, sighing irritably. “You’re heading us into trouble, Tibby. I hope you realize that.”

  “I know.” She took a breath. Logic would suit her better than panic. Especially when she couldn’t decide why she felt so anxious. If logic ruled, however, she would be deciding how best to contact the authorities so that Mr. Waring could be arrested—if Levonzy hadn’t killed him. Obviously this wasn’t about logic. And it wasn’t about any kind of mysteries or secrets, either. “Thank you for assisting me.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. And you don’t need to use my full blasted name. Meet me outside in five minutes.”

  He stumbled off, calling for Alders and coffee, while she went back to pacing. She’d already dressed for going out-of-doors, so all she could do was wait. And the longer she waited, the more anxious she became.

  If something had happened to Sullivan Waring, everyone would probably say he deserved it. He broke into people’s homes, after all. He was the blasted Mayfair Marauder. Keeping his secret was one thing, but now he’d gone too far. What was she supposed to do?

  As for her worry, she could tell herself it was just a natural concern for a fellow human being. Yes, that was it. As soon as she saw the stableboys moving the pair of bays into position at the front of the curricle, she snatched up her wrap and hurried for the door.

  “My lady, shall I tell Lord and Lady Darshear how long you and Lord Douglas will be gone?” the butler called after her.

  “I’m not certain, but it won’t be long.”

  She didn’t wait for a reply. Outside, Phipps handed her up beside Douglas, and her brother clucked to the team.

  “Thank you for not complaining that this would have been faster on horseback,” she said after a moment, mostly to take her mind off the fact that they were traveling quite swiftly through some rather crowded streets.

  “Horseback ain’t an option,” Douglas returned shortly, then whistled at a rag-and-bone man to get his cart out of the way. “And I suppose I needed to come downstairs in the next two or three hours, anyway.”

  “Very funny. You’re the one panting after Mr. Waring. I expected you to be awake and waiting for him.”

  “You’re anxious enough for both of us.” Douglas glanced at her as he maneuvered through the crowds. “And you’d best stop it.”

  “Stop what? Being concerned that someone with whom I’m acquainted might be injured?”

  “He ain’t a servant or anything, but he ain’t exactly someone you should be mooning after, either.”

  Isabel clubbed him on the shoulder.

  “Ow! I’m driving, damn it all!”

  “For your information, Douglas,” she said stiffly, refusing to consider anything but her precise words, “I am not mooning after Mr. Waring. He’s a horse breeder. Just because we’ve kissed a few times doesn’t mean—”

  “‘A few times’?” he repeated. “You said he kissed you once, so he could escape!”

  Dash it all. “Oh, what does it matter?” she retorted. Hopefully volume and violence would overcome logic. “He’s…he’s rather like a…a friend. Aren’t you worried about him?”

  “Maybe. A little. I told him to stop his thieving before he put us all into something sticky.”

  “You did?”

  “I did. And you didn’t need to hit me.”

  “Oh, heavens, Douglas. You have so much padding on your shoulders you probably didn’t even feel it.”

  He stiffened. “I’ll have you know that this is all the fashion. I’d wager that Tilden pads his shoulders.”

  She had no idea whether he did or not. Sullivan didn’t. “How much farther? Where does he live, anyway?”

  “He’s got a huge stable, and about three acres. Another mile or so.”

  So he’d been riding three miles twice each day to train Zephyr. That seemed significant, whether he’d been paid to do the work or not. Of course, she’d blackmailed him into it, but from what she’d seen he didn’t seem to do much that he didn’t truly wish to.

  And at this moment, she truly wished that no one had shot him last night. She wished that very much.

  Chapter 12

  Sullivan winced as he pulled on his boots. The bandage around his thigh held this time, but it was going to play havoc with any riding he did today. And he would be doing a great deal of that, naturally. And that would be after he explained his tardiness to Lady Isabel, though he actually looked forward to that—which was why he’d declined to send one of his men over with a note when he’d realized he would be late.

  Hm. Him, looking forward to a dressing down by an aristocrat. Things had changed over the past few weeks. But it wasn’t necessarily the dressing down he looked forward to; it was seeing her again. She’d been nervous yesterday when he’d suggested that she attempt to ride a more mature horse before she mounted Zephyr, but her reluctance made sense. As did teaching her to ride on a more experienced, sedate animal. Teaching her wasn’t strictly a part of their agreement, but nothing much was, now.

  Of course, if it were up to him, he would still be practicing the trot and walk with the mare, and Zephyr would be nowhere close to ridable. Even Isabel’s younger brother had realized that Zephyr’s progress had been…methodical. That was the word Sullivan had used to explain it to Douglas, anyway. Admitting that he’d been stalling in order to have more days with Isabel—that could be fatal to both their reputations.

  He limped downstairs to see whether the water he’d hung over the fire had begun boiling yet. Unused as he was to rising so late, he knew a hot cup of American coffee might not help his leg mend more quickly, but it would soothe his temper. His housekeeper, Mrs. Howard, would be in at any moment, and he preferred to have himself and his limp gone by the time she arrived for the day.

  Someone rapped on his door. “Mr. Waring? It’s Halliwell.”

  “Come in,” he called, nearly burning his finger as he poured the water into a pot. Perhaps he should have waited for Mrs. Howard after all.

  “You have a customer, sir. He wanted to know if he could meet you in here.”

  Damnation. He was already going to be nearly an hour late to Chalsey House. But he wasn’t nearly well off enough to pass up on meeting a customer. “Send him in, Halliwell. And make certain Achilles is saddled, will you? And Molly, with a sidesaddle.” Molly was a companion mare for his sick or nervous animals—the steadiest, calmest animal he owned. She would be a good first ride for Isabel.

  “I’ll see to it.” Halliwell stepped back from the doorway and motioned whoever stood behind him to enter. “This way, my lord.”

  Despite being shot at last evening, Sullivan had begun feeling a bit more charitable toward his supposed betters. They could all thank Isabel Chalsey for more reasonable prices from his stable, though none of them could ever know that. He turned around. “Good morning, my—” His blood froze. “Get out of my home.”

  George Sullivan, the Marquis of Dunston, closed the door with the tip of his walking stick. He was probably worried over catching a commoner’s infection if he touched anything. He’d be lucky if he didn’t catch a commoner’s knife blade in his gut. “I’m interested in one of your hunters,” the marquis said, taking off his hat but keeping hold of it and his stick.


  “I’m bloody well not selling you anything, and I’m not playing any of your bloody games. Now get out before I toss you out on your damned arse.”

  “I only ask that we have a civil discussion, Mr. Waring.”

  “Mr…. it’s just the two of us here. Why bother with the pretense?”

  Sullivan was surprised that his voice sounded steady. Every muscle clenched, and he held himself still to keep from striking the man—the only man in London who refused to admit that Sullivan Waring was his son. It had been nearly six months since they’d last seen one another, and while he would have liked to say that the old man looked older, or at least remorseful that he’d stolen his own son’s inheritance, Dunston looked as fit and arrogant as he always had.

  The marquis didn’t respond, so Sullivan took a reluctant step closer to him. “Get out of my house. I’m not going to say it again.”

  “I’m not here for banter, Mr. Waring,” the marquis said in a low voice, still not moving, and still looking ready for a confrontation.

  Sullivan glared at him. Over the years he’d set eyes on the marquis a handful of times, mostly when Sullivan had still lived with his mother and well before he’d decided to fight on the Peninsula. George Sullivan had been a handsome man, though the years had now rounded his gut, and constant disapproval or fear of it had pinched his cheeks and narrowed and shortened his mouth.

  “You will stop this thievery at once,” Dunston went on. “I heard that Levonzy shot at you last evening. There’s no logic in risking your life for this…nonsense.”

  “Nonsense, is it?” Sullivan returned, resuming the task of making himself some coffee mainly because it enabled him to turn his back on the marquis.

  “Yes. It’s absolute nonsense.”

  “Not to me, you high-handed arrogant snake. Your kettle is blacker than mine, Marquis.”

  As Sullivan faced Dunston again, the marquis’ fair skin had paled even further. “How dare you? You, a bastard horse breeder, calling me—”

  “You made me a bastard,” Sullivan broke in. “That was none of my doing.”