In the Arms of a Marquess(88)

“Have you found Lord Crispin yet?” he said, moving toward the exit to the street.

“Yessir,” Sully replied. “He’s back at his rooms. I was coming to tell you when this happened. Thought it might be more important.”

“Fine. Maintain a watch on him.” He would deal with Crispin soon. But tonight he had other business. He pushed open the door and crossed the street. Candlelight flickered through cracks in draperies in the upper windows of Hauterive’s.

“Milord.” A thick-muscled footman bowed and stepped back to allow him entry. From the gaming chamber a woman’s laughter tripped—sultry, inebriated. But Styles would not be playing at the tables tonight, not after what he had just done. Ben turned toward the parlor.

Styles lounged in a chair by the hearth, an empty glass hanging from the tips of his fingers, his gaze upon Ben as he entered. Swathed in imported silks and brocades, the chamber boasted only a handful of patrons at this late hour. By now most had either gone to their beds, to someone else’s, or upstairs. The décor may have altered, but the purpose of this club so many blocks from St. James’s never did.

Ben moved across the parlor, gesturing for a footman to bring him a drink, and lowered to the chair opposite the baron.

“I stopped by your house today. Your people said you had gone into the country.”

Styles twirled the glass between his fingers. “My business there was brief.” He assessed Ben, his blue eyes clear. “What brings you here in the middle of the night, Ben? Does the fair Miss Pierce fail to please, after all?”

Ben’s blood chilled. He pasted a confiding grin on his lips.

“Still following my flirtations, old friend? How curiously flattering.”

“I saw you leaving her house the night before last, before that route at Savege’s. Rather late for callers, I would say. And you seemed somewhat distracted.”

Ben received the glass from the footman.

“I have business with St. John Pennworthy. Noisome arrangement.” He lifted the brandy to his lips.

“Convenient, I should say, in your pursuit of the lady.”

“No pursuit there. Merely appreciation of a beautiful woman.” He sipped then set the glass on the table. “Now that the mystery of the fire at the hunting box is solved, I find I have more leisure to enjoy the simple pleasures of life—shooting on my property, admiring lovely females, sharing a moment of calm after midnight with an old friend.”

“The fire?” Flame-light glinted off Styles’s gilt hair and across his face, casting shifting shadows. “I did not know there was a mystery to be solved there.”

Ben leaned forward and clasped his hands between his knees.

“At the time, I ignored the cause of the fire. I assumed it was an accident. But, do you know, Walker, I think it preyed upon me. I did not realize quite how greatly until I finally addressed it.”

“And what did you find?”

“I spoke with Andy, the old groom at the cottage, the only survivor of that night. You would not remember that, of course.” He looked into the fire. “But Andy did. We talked at some length and I am satisfied with what he told me. I feel I know everything I must now to move on.” He brought his gaze back to Styles. The other man’s face was hard.

“I am glad for you.”

“Thank you.” Ben stood.

“Leaving so soon?” Styles came to his feet. “Why not remain? Ladies Carmichael and Nathans are both in the drawing room now. Either one, I suspect, would be glad to see you here. After all, enjoying the simple pleasures does not preclude partaking of the more satisfying ones.”

Ben grinned and shook his head. “Too complicated. I am not interested in becoming involved in that sort of game.”

“Or perhaps you are simply too distracted elsewhere to appreciate such bounty? Are you certain the fair Miss Pierce does not command your attention more than you care to admit?”

Here it was upon a silver salver for Ben, a threat meant to make him fear, a pointed addendum to the anonymous note he had sent. Styles could no more than suspect his involvement with Octavia. But suspicion might be enough.

He must wait for his old friend to confess voluntarily. He could not risk making his own business public enough to assure Styles’s public condemnation. But clearly Styles would not surrender easily. He still expected to win. Members of the old English aristocracy always did, no matter the odds.

“Why this encouragement, Walker? Haven’t you faith in my initiative any longer?”

“Rather, a suspicion that you are limiting yourself unnecessarily.” There was no warmth in his voice, no fellow feeling or raillery. They both knew of what they were speaking. Ben had only to wait out his rival, to not be the one to flinch first.

“A useful reminder,” he said with a thoughtful nod. “Thank you, my friend.” He headed toward the drawing room, Styles behind him just as years ago when nights such as this had been both a game and a penance to Ben. Now it was neither, but the safety of the woman he loved. If Styles needed proof of his disinterest in Octavia, he would provide it. And tomorrow, when she no longer rested in the safety of his house, she would still be safe because Styles would no longer believe he could use her to hurt him.

He paused at the drawing room door. Priscilla Nathans’s emerald gaze snapped up, sharp with instant calculation through the haze of cheroot smoke and insufficient candlelight. At another table, Abigail Carmichael hung upon the back of a gentleman’s chair, her expensive dress revealing a deep bosom and her stunning face mottled with drink. Her fogged gaze rose to his. Ben lifted a hand and gestured, a mere indolent flick of his fingers. But the beautiful widow responded, moving to him without hesitation and tucking her hand around his arm.