The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(49)

—St. James

? ? ?

Fallon signed the bundle of documents in front of him and handed the stack off to the man waiting at the corner of his desk. “See that this reaches Lord Elandor with the treasury,” he stated, watching as one of the newer members of the secret society stuffed the papers into his pocket and turned for the door.

The young man had been filling in where necessary until Fallon could fully assess his strengths. It was one of the many roles Fallon filled for the Heirs—that of assessing people for proper utilization. Some men were an instant fit, like Ash Claughbane, his new partner in the steam engine industry, but others required some guidance. If only he hadn’t failed so miserably years ago at assessing Grapling’s character, Fallon’s current situation would be quite different. Isabelle wouldn’t be upstairs in his bedchamber. He wouldn’t be considering returning to check on her at this very moment, nor would he have been thinking about it every other moment thus far today…

He shook off the thought and focused on the young man now leaving his library. Soon Fallon would have to find a more permanent position for the man. Fallon could tell by the sharp look in his eye that he could take on more for the organization. Hopefully this time Fallon wasn’t being deceived. His mind returned to the woman three floors above him, unable to return to her home, injured, stolen from, and all done as part of some sort of revenge against the Spare Heirs—against Fallon. He grimaced to himself as he scrawled out a note to follow up with the young man who’d just left the room and another about taking Isabelle some food as well as the trunk her father had sent for her that now sat in the corner of his library.

Fallon had slipped past Isabelle last night and again this morning while she slept. He hadn’t had as much good fortune as she when it came to rest last night, but his lack of sleep had given him more time to set his plan against Grapling in motion. He was already receiving updates on the search for the man, the art, and the other copies of the incriminating letter. The search had proven fruitless so far, but his team was only hours into the job.

There were fewer men than he’d like stationed around London, but with constant communication with them, Fallon was free to manage the operation from headquarters—and check in on Isabelle throughout the day. It was customary to check in frequently on someone suffering from a head wound. At least that was how he justified his actions to himself today. Tomorrow was another story.

He read through the report in front of him. He should take Isabelle some tea at least. She would surely be awake by this time of day.

A second later, the door opened amid the sound of heavy footsteps. Fallon didn’t have to look up to know who had entered—even his boots were loud against the floor.

Fallon tensed at what he knew awaited him once he looked up from the reports on his desk. He owed the man some type of condolences for the mire his wedding had become. But what was there to say? Fallon didn’t know where to begin. His friend hadn’t even wished to marry and was now the center of the talk in town after that wedding hadn’t happened. And Hardaway was enduring it all for the sake of a lady’s reputation and the future of the Spare Heirs. This couldn’t be mended with a simple Sorry, ol’ friend. Tough break, that. It was best to keep the man distracted until the scandal settled down. Hardaway was always happiest when he was busy with work.

Fallon sighed and glanced up at Hardaway. “Have you had any luck at all finding Grapling’s known associates?”

Hardaway sat down hard in the chair and glared at Fallon from across the desk. “No ‘How’s your day? My, my, Hardaway, my friend, you were left at the altar in front of most of London society only yesterday morning. Are you certain you’re ready to return to your work?’”

“Was that supposed to be me?” Fallon asked as he shuffled the pile of papers in front of him into a stack and set them aside for something to keep his hands busy. “I would never say ‘my, my.’”

“Nice to know you care, St. James.”

Fallon eyed his friend. Fallon did care, but he also knew what Hardaway most needed. It hadn’t slipped Fallon’s notice that his friend had stayed the night at headquarters.

Hardaway stayed in his room here only when he was having difficulties with his father. It was an easy bet that he’d stay tonight as well. It couldn’t be pleasant to have everyone whispering your name as you passed.

“This outcome was never my intention,” Fallon stated. Public humiliation wasn’t an easy thing to endure. On the other hand, he’d known Hardaway for years, and the man was made of tougher material than what town talk could rip apart. Still, he didn’t like seeing his friend in such a situation. “What can I do to help matters?”

Hardaway batted his question away without a reply and tilted his chair back on two legs to prop his boots on the edge of the desk.

“I hear you’re still up to terrorizing the local taverns. Wild time of it last night?” Fallon asked, changing the subject.

“All to mend my broken heart,” Hardaway said with a hand clutched over his chest.

“I wasn’t aware that barmaids had that ability.”

Hardaway chuckled. “I’m back today, ready to focus on a proper job.”

“I thought you might feel that way. We have a mess that needs to be sorted quickly and quietly.”

“My specialty.” He lowered his chair to the floor with a loud thud and leaned forward.