The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(29)

Fallon had trained the man personally, had taught him how to blend into shadows and look for opportunity in every situation. Damn his own thoroughness! Now finding the one who’d gone rogue and returning him to prison where Fallon had sent him once before was proving to be difficult. He hadn’t spotted the man since that night on the terrace with Isabelle some days before. He could continue his search later today. Now, however, Fallon needed to discuss matters with his friend. Surely a wife and title weren’t the end of the world like he was making them out to be…

“I did tell you to play the hero. Clearly you were successful with your mission,” Fallon said, weighing his words so as not to make matters worse. The title hadn’t been part of his plan, but it must be dealt with now that it had happened.

“All for following damned orders.” Hardaway leaned forward, a concerned look crossing his face as he looked at Fallon. A tense moment of silence lingered between them before Hardaway finally asked, “I’m not tossed out, am I? The rules…this title. I don’t want it. If I could give it back…”

“If only I could be rid of you that easily.”

“Of all times, this is when you joke? St. James, what am I to do about this?” Hardaway pushed away from the table and grabbed a decanter of whiskey and a glass before falling back into his chair. Once there, he poured and mumbled, “A wife and a title? I only went in to get some damned papers.” He tossed back the contents of the glass and continued. “This is all her fault, you know. That opinionated woman with her blasted hats. And now I’m stuck with her at my side for life? How will I work? How will I enjoy anything ever again?”

“Perhaps once you know more of the lady—”

“I’ll learn she’s worse than I believe her to be at this moment? It would be a difficult feat to be a less appealing wife, but I think that one might be up to the task.” Hardaway refilled his glass.

“Her looks are passable,” Fallon hedged, not wanting to reveal to his friend how lovely he found the lady’s sister.

“I suppose I should be grateful I didn’t rescue some hag with sharp teeth, claws for fingers, and a bony arse. How fortunate I am.”

His friend might have been disappointed with the dish he’d been served in life—and Fallon sympathized, truly he did—but Fallon only had the next few minutes to console Hardaway and end things in some kind of positive light. He needed to return to his work before tonight’s ball, or he would be buried until morning and unable to attend. He needed to say something. He had to pull his man up from the muck. “You’ve survived worse,” he finally offered.

“Have I?”

“Yes, remember that time you burned down Bond Street? How everyone spoke of your villainous ways and you were shunned from all entertainments in society for the remainder of your life? The Spare Heirs Society was discovered to be involved, and it was forced to disband. You were left with no work, no income.”

“I—”

“Not to mention what your family thought of the scandal,” Fallon said, knowing he’d thrown down the winning card.

“You believe that you’re clever,” Hardaway accused.

“I am clever.”

“Bollocks. I have to accept that the title is mine in addition to agreeing to marry that woman, don’t I?”

“You do.”

“But I can keep my membership to the Spares?”

Fallon nodded.

“To unwanted marriages and titles.” Hardaway raised his glass and tipped the whiskey into his mouth.

Fallon stood, preparing to leave his friend to drink the whiskey, the day, and his problems away, and surveyed the room. His men were either conversing amicably or relaxing after some job. For the moment, all of his problems resided outside the walls of this house. And tonight he would meet those problems head-on.

Would he see Isabelle at the ball tonight as well? He hoped he would at least catch a glimpse of her. Though if she’d somehow discovered the truth about his meddling, he should stay well away from her. Wood nymphs were dainty creatures, but he would imagine they grew quite violent when pushed to anger. And if Isabelle ever discovered the truth, her anger would put the worst of the classical gods to shame.





Six


“Stop admiring blasted Brice! I’m ill from reading this syrup-covered drivel!” Reginald bellowed, tossing the diary across the room.

It landed with the pages splayed open on the worn floor in front of the door of his rented room. A second ticked past while he settled his breathing and stared at the small book. Then he moved to retrieve it.

Anger wouldn’t help him now. Calculation, on the other hand, was just what he needed. He would use every drop of knowledge he gained of this lady to end her father—and St. James by association. And with the season now gaining momentum, he was almost ready to make his move. He pulled the old necklace from his pocket and ran his thumb over the golden surface before returning it to his side for now. Opening the diary once more, he turned to the next entry written in Isabelle’s hand.

“Soon, Isabelle. Soon. And then your father and St. James will regret ever placing a finger on me.”

Isabelle Fairlyn’s Diary

February 1817

I’m worried over Victoria. She’s across the parlor even as I write this. She’s shuffling a deck of cards over and over. It’s a soothing sound against the cold winter rain pattering against the window, but is she practicing for something in particular? I don’t mind her enjoyment of a wager, but Father said he would send her back to our estate if she gambled again. I love the London season—the balls, the excitement of city life—but I don’t want to be here without Victoria. She may push me over my limits at times, but I adore her. She’s my sister. I hope she never reads this. She would taunt me with my words of love for weeks if she knew what I was writing.