The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(82)

And then the truth was in front of him. How had he not considered it before?

Nothing about this situation or his actions in it was logical as he had come to be accustomed in his life because love wasn’t logical.

Fallon ran a now-shaking hand down her bare arm. He loved Isabelle. He loved every fanciful thought in her head, the way she curled up beside him in the evenings, the sparkle in her eyes when she looked at him, and the way she offered the generosity of her heart to anyone who might be interested.

He was more than interested; he loved her beyond reason. And the implications of that fact were more frightening than any seedy London alley he’d ever walked down at night.

*

Fallon stared out across what once had been a drawing room. The gentle clank of balls from the billiard table accented the leather-scented air. It was a quiet afternoon at headquarters, and he sat back in his usual chair in the corner.

He had founded the Spare Heirs so long before that he couldn’t remember what it was like not to govern over a large band of men. He couldn’t recall having an excess of free time in his early days in town, but how had he filled his hours without his endless rounds of meetings? One thing, though, hadn’t changed a bit in all that time: Kelton Brice, Lord Hardaway, would still talk his ear off whether he was listening to the man’s story or not.

“You won’t believe what he said to that. He told me that he’d never set foot in Tattersalls—when he bought that horse out from under me not a fortnight ago. And when I compliment his new mount, what does he do? Not act sheepish about it, I know that much. No.” He drew out the word and stretched his arms to the sides. “Instead he suggests we race. There I was an hour later…”

Perhaps the length and frequency of Hardaway’s stories were the reasons Fallon lacked time for himself. If he had less responsibility to the Spares, would he have enough hours left to devote to Isabelle? She may think Isolde’s life pleasantly dramatic, but a life surrounded by talk and scandal wasn’t a reality that would suit her. She deserved to be happy. Happiness was all she wanted—happiness with an honorable gentleman in a normally functioning home. He couldn’t offer her anything but the first. After all, he wasn’t the least bit honorable. He’d flouted more rules of society than he could count, and he was skilled with numbers. His entire life’s work had been built upon creating his own law, his own fiefdom within the land in which they lived. And how he lived…the men who milled about this room from day-to-day relied on him. His home was far from average.

Survival. Conventional notions such as honesty and virtuous actions couldn’t always be adhered to if one was to survive, let alone manage the lives of others when they would otherwise have nothing.

If Isabelle knew the truth of who he was, what he’d neglected to tell her about his past with Grapling, what he did every day in order to protect and maintain the Spares, would she even consider him a friend anymore? She teased him about being a pirate, but she didn’t really want a future with someone who secretly lived outside the bounds of law and society as he did. Last night she’d been pliable and warm in his arms, and he wanted to hold her close again. He wanted to allow her the freedom to wander wherever pleased her, not just secluded gardens where her view of his life was limited. Perhaps it was time to change a few things at headquarters. It was his home, after all. And he loved Isabelle.

“And that’s when Lord Forth and I swung from the stars and slid down a merry arse beam of moonlight to dance together in Hyde Park because you are not listening to anything I say.”

“I’m glad to hear that your evening was amusing,” Fallon said in an attempt to reassure his friend.

“Damn, St. James! That was disgraceful. I’ve long admired your ability to hear me without truly listening. You’re the only man I know who can think of three things at once and give them all his full attention. But this—” He broke off with a wave of his hand that nearly knocked the drink decanter off the table. “This is a shameful show of your talents.”

“Apologies for disappointing you.” Fallon rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t had much sleep last night. Not that he was complaining about the particular events that had kept him from his bed.

“I’ve never seen you in such a state. Perhaps if you took up drinking. I know you’re opposed, but you can’t do much worse than what I see here. A nice glass of whiskey makes me a bit more cheerful about my circumstances, I know that.”

“I’m plenty cheerful.”

“Oh, yes. You’re correct, of course. When I think of you, I think, ‘Now there’s a cheerful fellow.’”

“I’ve been practicing my smile. Laughing more often as well.” He’d actually smiled more in the past few weeks than he had in years. Isabelle had that effect on people. She’d lured him into the light, and now that he was there, he wasn’t certain what to do with the darkness in his life.

“Your grin is positively blinding. And I’m sure your distraction has nothing to do with the lady you have locked in your suite of rooms—for her protection, of course.”

Fallon stared his friend down. He owed Hardaway no answers. But for all the words this man had poured into Fallon’s ears over the years, Hardaway was now quietly listening.

“With Crosby Steam Works predicting a healthy profit as well as a few other endeavors here and there, perhaps it’s time for the Spare Heirs Society to change. We could invest in more legal ventures. End the schemes. No more dark alleys or exchanged sacks of coin. Fewer men lingering about the place. We could live on the proper side of the law, not dirty our hands with threats or payoffs. We could be proper gentlemen, noble and honest even…”