The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(83)
“The Steam Works Claughbane set up for us does show potential. I don’t know, stepping away from the shady side of society would be a change. But what of the others? The Spares is bigger than the few of us who began this misguided venture all those years ago. Not to mention that we’d no longer have allies to keep us aware of potential threats.”
“Proper gentlemen don’t require such things.”
“Then you have no wish to hear about the arrival of three different men in our fair land with interests in importing a specific set of stolen goods?”
“You talked of your jealousy of a horse’s flanks for twenty minutes when you knew we had word about the Fairlyn art theft?” Fallon asked, leaning forward to pin a glare on his friend.
“It was an amusing story, and you didn’t even listen to half of it.”
“Is this word from the docks, or does Grapling have someone who talked?”
“The barmaids in London are a wealth of information. Grapling hasn’t been back to the tavern where I got the information yet, but if he returns, I’ll hear of it.”
“Do we know anything about the potential buyers? And how perceptive is your barmaid? Grapling already applied dye to his hair once. He could escape even those who remember him.”
“St. James, we’ll find him. I wasn’t the one who heard of the arrival of the buyers, or I would have tackled Grapling to the ground right there. You know, the type of devious activity you don’t want me to do anymore.”
“I’m only trying to—”
“Please Lady Isabelle?” Hardaway cut in.
Fallon fell silent, watching his friend. To be brutally honest, he was torn. He wanted to be good enough for Isabelle. The best way he knew to solve her problems was the way he worked for everyone around him—in an underhanded, scheming manner. But as soon as he did, she would be gone.
Hardaway pushed his empty glass of whiskey away and leaned his forearms on the edge of the table. “Let’s keep her safe and alive for now by using every underhanded, illegal trick that we have.”
“You’re only saying that because you want to bash in Grapling’s skull,” Fallon countered.
“That’s true. But, St. James? The Spares do a great deal of good as well. My grandmother always told me—”
“I’ve already suffered through a story of a horse. Now I’m to hear Grandmother’s wisdom as well?” Fallon sat back in his seat, preparing for a long tale.
“I’ll summarize then. Balance—it’s all about balance. Good, bad, it’s quite relative.”
“Your grandmother told you that being bad was acceptable?” He raised a brow.
“Hers was a story involving rotten fruit and jams for winter. It’s a nice tale, though I always thought she lacked my sense of excitement. Now if she’d added a wager on a nice piece of horse flesh…”
If his problems were as simple as setting aside jam for winter, he wouldn’t have the lady he loved locked upstairs while he planned crimes against good sense. But balance wasn’t a bad concept.
Fallon stood from his chair. “I’ve sat here long enough.”
“You don’t want to hear more? I’m quite knowledgeable about life after a glass of whiskey,” Hardaway said as Fallon rounded the table.
“Like you said, it’s about balance.” And right now, he was leaning in Isabelle’s direction.
Sixteen
Isabelle Fairlyn’s Diary
March 1817
Today is a perfect day! The first hint of spring is in the air. The flowers in the garden will bud within the week, greeting the most cheerful of seasons with their first blooms. I ventured to Bond Street with Mother and Victoria for the last necessary item before tonight’s ball—dancing slippers to match my pale-blue gown. Although I’ve attended a number of events thus far, tonight’s ball is anticipated to be one of the largest of the season. I’m having trouble containing my excitement. Soon music will fill the air, and I will twirl around the ballroom beneath the glow of a thousand candles. I do hope the beads on my dress sparkle there the way they do in my bedchamber. Their shine reminds me of starlight. I will savor every second this night has to offer and every swish of my gown as it billows out around my ankles.
—Isabelle
? ? ?
“Oh, sweet, sweet Isabelle. You have no idea what I have in store for you this season.” Reginald chuckled and tossed the diary back into his bag where he’d found it this afternoon.
If only he could see her weeping face now. Being locked away in St. James’s home was enough to make anyone sob, and Isabelle had been there for some time now.
He clucked his tongue. “Protect the little pawn, St. James. Don’t let her father down in such a horrible fashion.”
He moved to the table in the corner of his new room where he kept a bottle of whiskey and poured a glass. He smiled as he brought it to his lips and took a swallow.
“I’m going to win, you know,” he muttered to the empty room.
With the addition of St. James’s own maid Emily to his ranks, Reginald would now know every move that was made inside the man’s precious headquarters. If Isabelle flinched, Reginald would know of it within the hour. The man couldn’t hide her away forever, imprisoned in his home. At some point, she would want to wear those ball gowns and dancing slippers she was so fond of discussing in her diary. And whenever she showed her sickeningly sweet face, Reginald would be waiting. He drained the last of his whiskey and set the glass down with a loud clunk. “I promise.”