The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(103)

She’d been so wrong about him. But in the end, she’d been right—he was a villain just like the rest of them. Oddly, that confidence in her actions offered her no comfort. She looked over the scene. Pistols were raised in every direction, holding everyone in check. Every man in her life was in this room: Fallon, Lord Hardaway, Mr. Grapling, even her father. All dogs fighting over a bone. She’d been wrong about more than just Fallon. He wasn’t the only villainous gentleman here tonight. Perhaps there were no noble knights in reality—there were only untrustworthy men, all guilty, all out for their own gain.

She straightened her spine a bit. She was Lady Isabelle Fairlyn, and she didn’t require saving by any of these so-called gentlemen. Once she had answers to all of her questions, she could put this mess behind her and walk away—only this time for good. Leaning against the column, she listened.

“Fallon St. James,” Mr. Grapling crooned. “You found me, just as I’d hoped you would.”

“Could have fooled me,” Fallon retorted.

“I couldn’t make it too easy for you though, could I? Where would the fun be in that?”

“My idea of fun is quite different from yours,” Hardaway cut in.

“You’re bluffing,” Fallon accused. “You’re only sorry that you finally slipped up and got caught.”

“Neither of you likes my little party?” Grapling sneered. “It wouldn’t be an evening with St. James without his pet, Brice.”

“It’s Hardaway now, you miserable sod,” the man ground out.

“Oh, that’s right. I would congratulate you on the new title, but I would wager you weren’t pleased about receiving it at all. Did it put your membership in jeopardy with the secret club for the titleless? I suppose not, since you’re here. The rules never apply to St. James’s true friends. All the other Spare Heirs are there only to do your bidding, aren’t they, St. James? No questions allowed. Everything done in the name of serving the great master.” He waved at Fallon with the barrel of his pistol.

“We’re a brotherhood. Something you never understood, Grapling.” Fallon shifted on his feet but otherwise didn’t flinch.

“Three years. Three years I did as I was told! Three years I collected coins, wrote up accountings of events, assured the good women of the Westminster Boardinghouse that I would see to their needs on behalf of the great St. James.”

“You were paid for your services,” Hardaway cut in. “You were well taken care of. You were given rooms, food, and a weekly stipend.”

“While he became wealthy,” Grapling retorted, fixing his pistol aim between Fallon’s eyes.

“It was never enough for you,” Fallon mused. “Nothing was ever enough. I should have seen your greed and your ambition then. Is that why you’re doing this? You think you can destroy Knottsby, steal from him, and take me down in the process? I have an army of men who beg to differ. Men who are loyal to this organization—something you never understood. They won’t go quietly, and neither will I.”

“Such a poignant speech, oh great leader. Tell me, when you rally your troops with words of togetherness and survival, do you mention the whores and the down-on-their-luck gentlemen you gather your coins from? We’re no different, you and me.”

“I’ve never killed for sport or siphoned funds simply to fill my own pockets. You’re a murderer and a thief. I’m far from ideal, but everything I do is to help those around me. I may gather coins—as you put it—but I keep the people working in the establishments no one cares for safe from harm, from both the unjust law and men like you. I’ve never taken anything we didn’t earn. I’ve never struck a lady over the head and left her for dead, placing the blame for a crime on her shoulders. I’ve never murdered—”

“Are you still on about that? It was four years ago, and she was a whore.”

“She was an innocent woman, and you killed her.”

“Those women are there for men’s entertainment. And I found my time with her quite entertaining.”

“And Lady Isabelle? Did you find that amusing? You could have killed her!” Fallon’s words echoed off the walls of the abandoned building.

Isabelle swallowed. The truth struck her as directly as any one of their bullets might—Fallon might still be a criminal or even a villain, but she couldn’t deny one thing: he still cared for her. “Her life or death was inconsequential. Sometimes pawns must be sacrificed to win the game. It’s simple strategy.”

She’d danced with this man. She’d worn the blasted locket he’d sent to her. How had she fallen into such a trap? The thought of it made her ill.

“The scandal will still fall on Knottsby’s shoulders. I knew if you rushed to her rescue, then she would serve as a distraction while I took my time and enjoyed the city as I stole from your good friend here and blamed it on his daughter. And if you didn’t come to her rescue… Well, we both knew you would attempt to save the girl’s life. You have no idea how much I’ve treasured watching the great St. James powerless to stop my plans.”

Isabelle sucked in an unsteady breath. He really was awful.

“I should have filled you with lead four years ago. Sending you to prison was too lenient.”

“And become a murderer—just like me?”