After the Kiss Page 7

  Glancing over to see her mother occupied with pretending not to congratulate Lady Reed on her daughter’s impending betrothal, Isabel slipped away from her friends and approached the earl. “My lord?” she said quietly, when the conversation about war finance slowed for the moment. “Lord Minster?”

  “Eh?” He turned around, gray eyes looking about for a moment before they settled on her. “I know you, don’t I? Lady Isabel Chalsey.”

  She curtsied. “Yes, my lord. May I ask you a question?”

  “Of course.” He looked at his fellows. “Excuse me, gentleman. Someone much more attractive than you wants a word with me.”

  While the rest of them chuckled, Lord Minster motioned for Isabel to precede him to a stand of chairs a few feet away. “Thank you,” she said, taking a seat. “I know this isn’t the most opportune time for any kind of conversation.”

  “That’s why we have the same conversations over and over again at gatherings. After a time everyone knows their parts, even when it’s too noisy to hear anyone but oneself. What may I do for you, my lady?”

  Isabel mentally squared her shoulders. If no one else wanted to give her answers, she’d find them for herself. “Your townhouse was burgled a few weeks ago, was it not?”

  His expression grew more somber. “It was. And I’d give fifty pounds to anyone who handed me the names of those bloody…” He cleared his throat, his face reddening. “I beg your pardon, Lady Isabel. My late wife always said I had too much spleen. I heard that Chalsey House was robbed, as well.”

  She nodded. “Yes. And I was wondering, would you tell me what was taken from you?”

  “It’s not for a lovely young lady such as yourself to trouble over unpleasant things like that.”

  Drat. “I ask on my father’s behalf,” she improvised.

  “Ah. I will send him a list in the morning, then.”

  Forcing a smile, Isabel dipped a shallow curtsy. “Thank you, my lord. I’ll tell Papa.”

  As she turned around, Oliver, two glasses of Madeira in hand, appeared through the crowd. “There you are,” he said with a smile. “Minster wasn’t trying to wheedle a space on your dance card, was he?”

  “No. Just being sociable. Besides, thanks to you my dance card is full.” In fact, he’d taken the three best dances for himself.

  His smile deepened. “Good.”

  “Well, that is a shame,” another deep voice drawled from beside her. “That’ll teach me to get my hopes up, I suppose.”

  She looked sideways. “Lord Bramwell. If one of my partners breaks a toe, you shall be the first substitute.”

  He sketched an elegant bow. “Then consider me appeased.” He glanced over at Oliver. “Ah, Tilden. Seeing you puts me in mind of something I saw at the British Museum earlier.”

  Oliver lifted an eyebrow, his stance stiff. “And what might that something be?”

  “They had a new pharaoh’s mummy on display,” Lord Bramwell said smoothly, smiling. “Likeness on the sarcophagus handsome as Adonis.”

  “Well, thank—”

  “And on the inside, sloppily wrapped cotton bandages covering mold and putrified flesh. With the corpse completely hollow of everything but some old straw.”

  Oliver took a hard step forward. “Apologize,” he snarled.

  Lord Bramwell Lowry Johns didn’t move. Instead his smile deepened, though it didn’t touch his black eyes. “I am sorry you haven’t been able to stop encouraging people to say such nasty things about you. You really must work on your character.” He winked at Isabel. “Remember, any broken bones, and I’ll sweep in.” With that he strolled back into the crowd.

  Isabel had no idea what to say. Obviously she couldn’t pretend that she hadn’t heard the exchange. What was surprising was that she’d never noticed the animosity between Lord Tilden and Lord Bramwell Johns before. As she thought about it, they’d never socialized that she could recall. Was it because of Sullivan Waring?

  It had to be. She’d seen Waring and Bramwell together at the horse auctions, and Barbara had said the two men had served together on the Peninsula. They were friends. And she’d been swirling about so happily in her own little world that she’d never noticed anything. It was beginning to seem that Sullivan Waring had done more than kiss her. He’d…opened her eyes to the edges of rooms, to every muttered conversation. Now everywhere were questions, and nothing was what it seemed on the surface. Not even her.

  “I’m sorry you witnessed that,” Oliver said abruptly, taking her hand and wrapping it around the sleeve of his coat. “Bramwell Johns is a poor reflection of his family’s grace and favor, with even worse taste in both humor and friends. I’ve heard that he and the Duke of Levonzy barely speak.”

  That wasn’t precisely a well-kept secret. “Everyone is entitled to their own opinion,” she said carefully. “That doesn’t mean it is shared by anyone else.”

  He lifted her hand again and kissed her fingers. “Well said, my dear. Now let’s put this unpleasantness behind us and dance, shall we?”

  “By all means.”

  She still had a great many questions. Oddly enough, though, she felt more comfortable with the idea of asking Mr. Waring than the man who’d been courting her for the past weeks. As for why that might be, well, that was yet another question.

  Sullivan was well into his second mug of bitters when Bram finally pushed his way through the noisy, smelly crowd overflowing the main saloon of Jezebel’s establishment. He generally liked the place with its ramshackle clientele. Tonight, he didn’t like anything.

  “I got your note,” Bram said, motioning the barman for a glass of his own.

  Silently Sullivan pulled a pistol from his pocket and set it on the table between them. “Enjoy your drink,” he said, deliberately taking a swallow of his own, “because it’s going to be your last. I’m just trying to decide whether to shoot you in the chest or in the head.”

  “The chest, if you please,” Bram said calmly. “I’d like to leave a handsome corpse.”

  “Why the devil didn’t you tell me that Lady Isabel’s being pursued by…” He paused, reluctant even to say the name. It was like invoking ill luck on purpose. “By Oliver Sullivan?” he finally forced out.

  “Firstly, you’ve been itching to confront one of the Sullivans for weeks, since they seem to be content with cringing in their holes while you rob all of their friends.”

  “I didn’t want a confrontation in a place where I have to watch my tongue!” Sullivan snapped, setting his drink down so hard it sloshed over the pistol. Wonderful. Now the powder was likely wet. “Not in front of—”

  “Of a chit you fancy?” Bram broke in.

  “I don’t fancy her. She’s blackmailing me. Which is another reason for me to avoid speaking freely in front of her, by the by.” He glared at his friend. “And what the bloody hell does it matter if I fancy her, anyway? She’s a marquis’ daughter.”

  “And you’re a marquis’ son.”

  Sullivan snorted. “Don’t even pretend you believe that signifies.”

  “It would if he acknowledged you.”

  “Which he won’t. We’ve had this conversation before.” He jabbed a finger at Bramwell. “And you should have told me, you rat.”

  “Yes, you’re right. I should have told you about Tilden. Apologies.” Bram leaned his elbows on the table. “I do have a bit of news that might cheer you up, though, Sully.”

  Immediately Sullivan’s attention sharpened. He recognized that tone of voice. “You found another of my paintings.”

  “I did. And you’ll never guess where.”

  Sullivan eyed him. “You know, I’d give just about even odds over whether that pistol will fire or not. Shall we give it a go?”

  “Very well, let’s pretend you’ve frightened me into revealing my information. But you have to give me your word that you won’t interrupt until I’m finished speaking.”

  “Are you going to be speaking about where you found the painting?” Sullivan asked sk
eptically.

  “Yes.”

  “Then I give you my word. No interruptions.”

  Bram nodded graciously. “You know I was summoned for an audience with His Grace this afternoon. Well, I was sitting in his office and he was informing me that I’m a wastrel and on the verge of being cut off both from his money and from the family in general, and my gaze wandered to the wall behind him. And there, my boy, was a large Francesca W. Perris painting of a young lad fishing in a stream. A lad who bore a rather striking resemblance to you.”

  Sullivan closed his eyes for a moment. “It’s called A Young Fisherman’s Dream of Glory,” he said. “She painted it when I was eight.”

  “Interesting, don’t you think, that your father gave my father a gift?”

  “One that wasn’t his to give.” For several hard beats of his heart he gazed at his friend. Revenge versus loyalty. It was all becoming so complicated. “This is your family, Bram. I won’t break into your father’s house without your permission.”

  “By all means, break in. And dispose of that idiotic Burmese fertility statue while you’re at it. It’s also in his office.”

  Sullivan grinned, relieved. “Anything else?”

  “If those silver-handled dueling pistols he used to threaten me with are still in the billiards room, I certainly wouldn’t miss them. There used to be a large inlaid mahogany box of cigars in there, as well. You’ll have to share those with me, though.”

  “I can only carry so much.” Sitting back, he finished off the mug of bitters. “Why didn’t you tell me that I had a good chance of running across Oliver?” he asked more quietly. “The truth, Bram.”

  “Are you still tendering your services to Lady Isabel?” Bramwell countered.

  “You make it sound sordid. Yes, I’ll still be working Zephyr for her. She asked me to stay.”

  “Did she, now?”

  “Stop changing the subject. Why, Bram?”

  Lord Bramwell Johns took a deep breath. “Honestly? Because you annoy me.”

  Sullivan stopped what he’d been about to say. Instead he concentrated on keeping his expression even, determined not to let Bramwell see how much that little statement had hurt. He didn’t have many friends, and he counted Bram as the closest among them. Since he’d returned from the Peninsula, Bram and Phin Bromley’s family were practically the only members of the peerage he could tolerate. If the—

  “Do you have any idea how talented you are?” Bram broke in on his thoughts.

  That hadn’t been what he’d expected to hear next. “What?”

  “Waring Stables. People brag about owning one of your horses, Sullivan. I’ve seen men come to blows during an auction for one of your hunters.”

  “They were drunk,” Sullivan countered, beginning to realize that Bram’s annoyance was something different than he’d thought.

  “Beside the point,” Bram said dismissively. “If you would just stop examining people’s pedigrees before you sell to them, no one would ever need look for another breeder.”

  Sullivan scowled. “I do not judge people by their—”

  “You won’t sell to anyone who’s known to have a close friendship with the Sullivans. And don’t try to convince me otherwise, because I won’t believe you. So I didn’t tell you about Isabel Chalsey and Oliver Sullivan. And you sold two horses to the family, and you’ve been having fun with it.”

  “She saw me inside her house, half-wit. That’s why I sold them two horses.”

  “That’s my point, then, nickninny. You didn’t know their connection to Oliver, and I didn’t know whether he would make an appearance or not. In the meantime, you’ve expanded your business and have another satisfied horse owner telling everyone who’ll listen to him what a fine animal he received from Waring Stables.”

  “So you lied for my own benefit.”

  “I omitted for your benefit. Not everyone cares about your pedigree, my friend. Your skills speak for themselves.”

  Sullivan scooped the pistol back into his pocket and stood. “I know you like playing games with people, Bram, but don’t play them with me. From now on I expect the entire truth. Not just the convenient bits.”

  With that he wound his way through the crowd and back outside into the damp, dark streets. So he picked and chose to whom he sold his horses. That was his business. And this mess had only happened because he’d been forced into it. If Dunston and Tilden hadn’t stolen his property in the first place, he wouldn’t have broken into Chalsey House to get it back, and he never would have seen, much less kissed, Isabel Chalsey. Ultimately it all came back to George Sullivan, the Marquis of Dunston. It always did. It probably always would.

  Chapter 7

  Isabel awoke well before ten o’clock in the morning. Groggy, she managed to don a walking dress with the help of her maid before she made her way downstairs for breakfast. Three hot, strong cups of tea later, and her eyes finally stayed open instead of drooping shut every few seconds.

  No one else had risen yet, and considering that they hadn’t returned home from the Edlingtons’ until after three o’clock, she didn’t expect to see anyone for several hours. It would be nice if her family slept until Sullivan Waring had come for the morning’s lesson and gone again, but she doubted her luck would hold that long.

  Lord Minster probably still slept, as well, but she couldn’t risk missing the note he’d promised to send over. If her father saw it, he would have no idea what was going on, and then she would have to explain that she was looking for some common threads in the two robberies. He would then probably send her home to Burling to keep her from getting into trouble. Little did he know it was far too late for that.

  As she buttered a fourth slice of toast, though she’d barely begun eating her second piece, she tried to decide how and if she wanted to approach the growing conundrum that was Sullivan Waring. Isabel sighed. She loved puzzles, but this business of Waring and the questions surrounding him had stakes much higher than she generally dealt with. And he interested her much more for that very reason.

  The front door knocker rapped, and the butler left the breakfast room. A moment later he reappeared, taking his post at the room’s entrance once more.

  “Who in the world is calling on us so early?” she asked, doing her best to feign innocent curiosity.

  “Lord Minster sent over a letter for Lord Darshear, my lady,” Alders answered.

  “Oh, he’s been expecting that.” She pushed to her feet, nearly flipping her plate onto her lap in the process. “I’ll take it upstairs to him.”

  “His valet says he’s still to bed, my lady.”

  “Then I’ll take the blame for awakening him.” When the butler still didn’t move, she lifted an eyebrow. “Please fetch the letter for me, Alders.”

  A muscle in the butler’s gaunt cheek twitched, and he nodded. He left the breakfast room again, then returned a few seconds later with a silver salver in one hand, a single letter resting atop the polished surface.

  “Thank you,” Isabel intoned, lifting the folded paper free and pocketing it because otherwise she’d be tempted to rip the wax seal open and read it immediately. “And you may clear my breakfast. I’ll be in my bedchamber—after I deliver this to Papa.”

  Alders nodded. “Very good, my lady.”

  Keeping her hand over her pelisse pocket, Isabel made her way upstairs. She passed by her parents’ adjoined bedchambers, pausing there for a moment in case anyone downstairs happened to be listening for her footsteps. After counting to twenty she continued on to her own room and quietly closed the door behind her.

  “Now let’s see what you’re up to,” she murmured, walking to the window and fishing the missive from her pocket to break the seal. Her hands shook a little as she unfolded the paper, though she felt more intrigued than nervous. She already knew Sullivan Waring to be a thief, after all. The Mayfair Marauder, no less. What she wanted to know was what he’d stolen from Lord Minster, and why he’d done it.

  She sat in
the deep sill to read. The viscount’s letter was brief, stating only that according to her father’s request as delivered by the delightful Lady Isabel, he’d listed below the items taken several weeks ago from his home. One pair of silver candlesticks, a small jade statue, a painting by Francesca W. Perris, his new boots from Hoby’s, and a plain gold ring.

  Another painting, and by the same artist. There were robberies all the time in Mayfair. But even if she supposed that two missing paintings made a coincidence rather than a trail, she also remembered the tone of Sullivan’s voice when he’d declined to put the painting back. Right before he’d kissed her.

  Setting the missive aside, she went over to her wardrobe and dug into the silk bag she’d hidden inside the neckline of her ugliest dress, a brown monstrosity that she’d worn once to please her great-aunt and then had relegated to oblivion at the back of the shelf. Glancing at her closed door, she pulled a black half-mask out of the bag and looked at it. Why those paintings? And why steal them?

  She ran her finger along the brow of the mask, then retrieved Lord Minster’s letter to stuff it and the disguise back into their hiding place inside the ugly dress. Yes, puzzles were marvelous things. Because she loved finding the answers. And the person who could provide the answers to this particular mystery would be at Chalsey House at ten o’clock. Promptly at ten.

  However reluctant he might be to discuss himself or his so-called business, she didn’t intend to give him any choice in the matter. He didn’t have to know that whatever thoughts she’d had of turning him in were crumbling. In fact, it would be much better—for her, certainly—if he didn’t know.

  At six minutes before ten o’clock she went downstairs again. Douglas and their mother were in the breakfast room now, but Phillip and her father were apparently still asleep. Good. The fewer gawkers standing about the stable yard this morning, the better.