The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(98)

Fallon nodded, more to bring an end to this conversation than as a sign of agreement. Although this was, in truth, going better than he’d anticipated. Hardaway had never been one to mince words or pull a punch.

“So when I see you acting like a horse’s arse and overworking your men and yourself simply because you lost your lady love—”

“There it is.” Fallon should have known the worst was still to come. There was a reason he always sent Hardaway to handle the difficult situations for the Spares, and this was it. Fallon just wasn’t usually on this side of the lecture.

“As your friend, I have a responsibility to stop you from destroying everything you’ve built.”

“By asking them to work?” Fallon asked. “What harm am I doing here?”

“St. James, you look like shite, and you’re being a complete arse to everyone around you. When was the last time you stepped away from this desk to even eat a proper meal?”

“Food is for the weak. This is what I do. The Spares are my life, and my friends deserve my full attention.”

“You’ve moved on, then. Lady Isabelle was just a quick diversion. This…”—he waved his hand about Fallon’s desk before continuing—“is normal.”

“It has to be,” Fallon said as he straightened a stack of papers on the edge of his desk.

“I caught sight of her when I returned her trunk to her home.”

Fallon froze and looked up at Hardaway. “And?”

“Oh, now you want to hear about it? You don’t have three reports to review at the same time or something of that nature? Since this is normal and all.” Hardaway shrugged. “She was sitting in the drawing room with the door open when I arrived. She barely spared me a glance before returning to the book she was reading. Knottsby said she seemed relieved to be home. St. James, you should know, he also said she was taken by Grapling on her way there and jumped from a moving carriage to escape.”

“Is she hurt?” he asked, pushing to his feet, ready to send for the doctor for her once again.

“She’s well and at home with her family. She’s where she should be. I’m sorry Claughbane lost her trail. Could have been disastrous, but she survived. Knottsby said she’s been quiet about things.”

Quiet and relieved to be home—of course she was relieved to be back with her family. It was where she belonged, after all. All was as it should be. Still, a part of him was hurt that she was so pleased to be away from him. And being quiet about things didn’t sound like Isabelle. “You’re certain it wasn’t her sister who you saw?”

“Oh, I would know the difference,” Hardaway ground out. “That lady needs to keep her distance from me.”

Fallon shouldn’t want to know more, but he knew he would never stop searching ballrooms for even a glimpse of Isabelle or clinging to mentions of her in conversation around town. It was wrong, but so was he in every way possible. “How did she look?”

“Like a lady reading a book in a drawing room.” Hardaway shrugged. “Well, I suppose.”

“Good. That’s…good.” Fallon stared down at the piles of papers in front of him. This was where he belonged and where he would stay. The Spares needed him.

“For the best. Isn’t that what people say in these situations? In similar circumstances, I told Claughbane the story of my uncle showing his bits and pieces around town, and that seemed to help at the time. I could repeat it. It’s a fine tale.”

“The night of the Rightworths’ ball?” Fallon raised a brow at the mention of the night Claughbane tried to destroy himself. “This isn’t even close to the same circumstances. He lost his mind and was trying to get himself thrown into prison.”

“And you’re trying to waste away to nothing. I don’t see much difference from where I’m sitting other than the comfort of your surroundings. You’ve put yourself in the same chains ol’ Claughbane did.”

“Shove off.” Fallon bristled at the accusation.

“Very well.” Hardaway stood from his chair and took his time adjusting his coat on his shoulders as he watched Fallon. After taking a step away, he paused and turned back to his desk. “While I’m thinking of it, did you still want information on that stolen artwork? It’s being sold tonight.”

Fallon sat forward in his chair, suddenly on alert. Isabelle’s paintings. “You went on about my work habits when the art is changing hands tonight? What’s wrong with you?”

Hardaway grinned. “I knew you wouldn’t listen to the rest of it if I led with the informative bit. I’ve known you long enough to know that.”

“You’re such a bastard,” he said, rising from his desk. He had to meet with his men, form a plan of attack…

“St. James, can I ask you one last question?”

“At this point, I don’t see why not,” Fallon muttered as he ran a hand through his hair. There was much to do to be ready for tonight.

“Is this about stopping Grapling from taking his revenge on us for tossing him in prison? Or is it about retrieving Lady Isabelle’s paintings and acting the hero?”

There was no hope where Isabelle was concerned. Acting the hero would do no good. Isabelle was gone and had no desire to return. If he could return the paintings and wrap up this scandal for her, perhaps he could see her smile one last time as he walked away. “What time is the meeting?”