In the Arms of a Marquess(94)

“He has had any number of occasions to harm me. He will not now.”

“He already has. What he does not understand is that I will not abandon you because of it.”

Her gaze retreated and she stepped back. “I will not ask the same friendship of you any longer, Ben. It would not be fair to Octavia.”

He studied the lines across her brow, the sorrow in her eyes. Octavia had brought her here. She had not shied from Constance’s distress or dependence on him. She had only sought to remedy the trouble, as she wished to do for Crispin and his lover. Her heart knew no subterfuge or jealousy. It only knew how to give.

Samuel appeared at the door. “My lord, Mr. Sully has sent word.”

He must have located Crispin. “Have Kali saddled.” But his conversation with Crispin must wait. Styles as well. He must see Octavia now and tell her everything. He should have done so earlier when she was standing before him, her eyes filled with intention and confusion at once. He should not have let her go without knowing about Styles. Now young Jimmy was keeping watch over her from the street, and surely Abha from within the house. But Ben could not entrust her safety to another man for an hour more. Never again. That was his job.

He paused on the threshold. Constance stood beneath the tiger portrait again in shadows, the great beast looming over her in an attitude of princely power.

“Will you be all right?”

She nodded. “Make it well again, please.” Her voice was thin.

“I will.”

“You always do.”

Samuel met him at the front door with greatcoat and hat.

“Where is Lord Crispin?”

“At his club, sir, a quarter hour past.”

“Is Mr. Sully still here?”

“No, sir. He’s gone back to the office in the event that his boys send news, as you wished.”

“Samuel.”

“My lord?”

“Have that large painting in my study removed and remounted in the drawing room over the mantel.” He started through the door. “It needs more light.”

“Miss Pierce is not in, my lord.”

“Not in?” Ben stood perfectly still in the foyer of St. John Pennworthy’s house. “Did her manservant accompany her out?”

The butler stiffened. “I believe so.”

But Abha had, after all, allowed her to meet Crispin’s lover. And there was every likelihood that if she wanted to see Crispin now, Abha would take her to him again.

“Where did she go?”

The servant’s face seemed to lengthen. “I haven’t an idea of it, my lord.”

Ben headed in the direction of St. James’s Street. Above carriages and carts, horsemen and pedestrians, the November day hung heavy with coal dust and fog, the sort of chill-to-the-bone weather Ben had struggled for years to become accustomed to as a boy. That had been in the countryside, at Fellsbourne and Eton, where trees and green fields at least gentled the harsh transition from tropical heat to foggy gray.

But he had forced himself to adapt, molded himself into the perfect English boy despite the constant torment of his peers. At the time, he told himself it was for the best—for his family’s honor, his uncle’s needs, his own peace—a private peace in life he had always yearned for yet never achieved. She gave him that peace, with her unrehearsed touch and speech, her genuine smile and thirst for life. She had from the first.

Except at the present moment.

She could not go into a gentleman’s club, but Ben would not put it beyond Octavia to wait on the sidewalk for Crispin to emerge. She had never been shy when she wanted something.

Despite his anxiety, he smiled.

But no beautiful minx with hair the color of fire opals stood on the block in front of Brooks’s. Ben entered the club and scanned the chambers. Gentlemen peppered the subscription room, playing at cards, backgammon, and politics.

One man sat alone hunched over a corner table, hand on his brow, the other around an empty glass. Ben slid into the seat across from him. Crispin lifted his head and his face crumpled.

“No,” he uttered and looked to the wall.

“What have you to tell me?” Ben asked quietly.

“Rather, how will you punish me? You needn’t, you know. I have been punished sufficient for a lifetime.”

“A somewhat melodramatic response, and not particularly lucid.”

“Need I be more lucid?” He swung his head back around. “You are here on his errand or your own. Either way, I am thrice damned.”

“Tell me of the first two damnations and I will offer you assurances concerning the last. Possibly.”

“Do you truly believe you could make it any worse for me now?”

“Undoubtedly.” Ben held his gaze. “My lord, my patience thins.”

“You don’t know?”

“Apparently not. Enlighten me.”

“He took Tabitha.” He lowered his brow into his palm once more, masking the gesture here amongst his peers in an attitude of weariness. Even in grief, the baron calculated his persona.

Ben’s blood hummed with impatience.

“Tabitha is the girl you keep, I am to understand. The one for whom you sent dozens of others to their deaths?”

“Not all died,” he muttered. “Sixty reached Madras in the last shipment.”