“I understand,” he replied gently. “He’s asked for your hand?”
“Three times, and each time I refused him in no uncertain terms.”
“And what does your brother, Lord Blake, have to say about all this? Surely he cannot wish to see his sister the recipient of unwelcome advances.”
She scowled. “He thinks I’m a fool for saying no.”
That earned another lift of his eyebrows, and Vivien silently cursed. Too late, she realized their discussion touched too close to home.
She waved a dismissive hand. “Truthfully, I don’t think Cyrus cares one way or the other about my suitors. I suppose he’d like to get me off his hands, but he doesn’t favor the prince over any other man.”
“And do you have many suitors?”
Vivien hunched her shoulders. Not only was this discussion veering into dangerous territory, it was downright mortifying. She had no desire to talk about her suitors with anyone, especially not St. George.
“No more than the usual,” she said stiffly. “And lately, none of any note. Besides Prince Ivan, that is.”
“And how does your—”
She cut him off. “It’s ridiculous to think Prince Ivan might have a role in my abduction. I don’t like the man, but he’s a
prince
and a guest of the Crown. Princes don’t go around acting the part of the villain, now do they?”
His lips parted in a smile that looked more like a snarl. “Have you met any of the king’s sons, my lady?”
He had a point. King George’s sons were an appalling group, which anyone with half a brain understood.
Vivien pondered that fact, then finally let out a sigh. It wasn’t Khovansky—she’d stake her life on it. She had a fairly good idea who was behind her kidnapping, but she had no intention of sharing that bit of news with St. George or anyone else.
“Truly, my dear sir, I don’t like Prince Ivan but nor do I think he had anything to do with my abduction. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he’s already given up on me. In fact, I hadn’t seen him for several days before I was attacked in Mayfair.” She’d ended their last encounter by kicking him in the shins. The prince hadn’t appreciated that move one bit.
St. George inclined his head. “I’ll take your word for it. I do have a few more questions, though, about your brother, Lord Blake.”
Vivien’s heart skipped a few beats. “Please, no more. My head is spinning and I can barely stitch together a coherent sentence. You must forgive me, but I cannot answer any more questions tonight.”
Her voice quavered, which she made no attempt to hide. In fact, she hoped she looked as frazzled as she felt.
His gaze was dark with suspicion, but finally he relented. “Very well.” He brushed aside the window drape with one finger and studied the sky. “We should be reaching the outskirts of London by dawn’s break, in about an hour. We can talk later.”
Swallowing a sigh of relief, Vivien gave him a grateful smile as she settled back in her seat, closing her eyes and willing herself into a doze.
She’d managed to put him off for now but she’d have to be on her guard. The situation was much more appalling than St. George even suspected, and only she could fix it. Because it wasn’t a Russian prince who’d been the catalyst for her abduction. No. The culprit was much, much closer to home.
Chapter Seven
The carriage turned into Upper Wimpole Street just as faint tendrils of light cut through the smoky darkness of the city. Aden stretched his cramped limbs, more than ready to see this night to a close. He’d been awake for over thirty hours and even he had his limits. But Lady Vivien’s situation threatened to deny him much-needed rest. His brain restlessly searched for patterns and explanations that made sense, but there were none. The fact that the lady was withholding information only added to the mystery.
He didn’t like mysteries. In his line of work, he’d grown used to them. But the best thing about any mystery was solving it, and the one he currently found himself embroiled in seemed far from reaching its conclusion.
As light filtered into the carriage, he studied the heart of the conundrum, curled up on the opposite seat. Once she’d fallen asleep, she’d fallen hard, barely stirring when he’d eased her down onto the bench and covered her with the blanket. Even when he’d smoothed her pale golden hair away from her face she hadn’t moved. Her vulnerability touched him, as did the trust she obviously felt in his presence. Knowing now the strength of her character, he recognized that Lady Vivien would never have allowed herself to fall asleep if she didn’t think he could see to her safety.
Too bad she didn’t trust him enough to tell him the truth about what she knew. She clearly had suspicions as to the culprit behind her abduction, and equally clearly had no intention of sharing them. That probably meant what Aden had suspected all along. Namely, that her brother Lord Blake was involved. The reason was yet obscured, but Dominic would get to the bottom of it.
Cases involving families or friends always ended badly. Whenever emotions clouded judgment, as they were bound to do, mistakes were made. Aden hated those cases, and he had every intention of handing the whole damn thing over to Dominic. That included Lady Vivien, too.
The carriage jerked to a halt in front of Dominic’s town house. Even then, Lady Vivien did not stir, although she drew in a shuddering breath and curled her hand up under her chin. She looked so young and innocent, her smooth cheeks flushed from sleep, her mouth soft and vulnerable. Something twisted in Aden’s chest and he had to resist the impulse to go down on his knees beside her and kiss her awake.
His hand clenched into a fist with the effort to resist the demented impulse. Yes, it was definitely time to hand Lady Vivien over into Dominic’s safekeeping.
Reaching for her shoulder, he gently shook her. “My lady, it’s time to wake up.”
Another one of those shuddering breaths and her eyelids fluttered open. She gazed at him with drowsy, sapphire-colored eyes and gave him a sleepy smile. For a second, a very long second, that smile robbed him of breath.
He shook it off. “We’ve arrived at Sir Dominic’s town house, Lady Vivien.” Deliberately, he looked out the window, thankful to break the unnerving connection between them.
She yawned and pushed herself upright. The blanket slid down to her waist, revealing the white skin of her shoulders and gently curving breasts. As she stretched like a kitten, those pretty breasts plumped up over her bodice. With her tousled hair and heavy eyelids she looked like she’d just recovered from a good romp between the sheets.
His body approved of that look, reacting with inconvenient dispatch.
He repressed a frustrated sigh and reached across to rearrange her mantle around her shoulders. Their gazes met and held. Her eyes widened and her pupils seemed to dilate as her cheeks flushed a brighter pink. Then she seemed to retreat, giving him a cool smile as she brushed his hands aside to tie the velvet tasselled cords of her mantle firmly shut.
Irrationally irritated that she was putting distance between them, he brusquely flipped up her hood and pulled it close around her face.
Startled, she frowned. “Are you quite finished with arranging my clothing to your satisfaction, sir?” she asked in a frosty voice.
Aden stared at her with disbelief, biting back his instinctive response. He could think of many ways to rearrange her clothing, but all of them involved removing them from her body.
A second later, she blushed scarlet as she realized the implication behind her words. A better man would ignore her flustered reaction. Clearly, he was not a better man.
“Satisfaction? Hardly,” he drawled. “And as much as I enjoy a good debate on semantics, we need to get you inside.”
She rolled her eyes and muttered something unflattering about men under her breath. Perversely, that lightened his mood. She had an uncanny knack for amusing him in the most bizarre circumstances, and Aden had to admit he’d miss that.
Signalling her to be quiet—which earned him another eye roll—he opened the door and let down the steps. He carefully scanned the street. No activity, no one watching. The first carts would soon be rumbling along the streets, but for now Upper Wimpole Street still slept.
Aden lifted Lady Vivien to the pavement. She clutched at him, stumbling a bit in her damned oversized clogs, and he wrapped an arm around her waist to hold her steady. He steered her down the steps to the basement entrance while John Stevens set the horses to a brisk trot. A few moments later, the carriage disappeared around a corner and silence fell like a shroud.
Shielding her with his body, Aden tapped out the signal on the basement door. Only then did the latches pull back. He urged her across the threshold as he cast one last glance over his shoulder.
Nothing suspicious, he was certain of it. He shoved the door closed and slid the bolts. He leaned against the door and closed his eyes, letting some of the tension flow from his body.
He’d done it. He’d transported her safely home.
“Mr. St. George, are you unwell?”
He opened his eyes to meet her concerned gaze as she hovered just a few feet away. She was almost dead on her feet from fatigue and still she apparently worried about him. That touched him more than he cared to admit.
Dredging up a smile, he shook his head. “I’m fine, but let’s get you upstairs where it’s warm.”
He glanced at Wilkinson, one of Dominic’s servants, who stood quietly awaiting instructions.
“Is Sir Dominic awake?” Aden asked as he took Lady Vivien’s arm and nudged her along the basement passage that ran the length of the house.
“He is, sir, as is Lady Thornbury. Sir Dominic sent Lady Blake home last night, but Lady Thornbury refused to leave until the young miss was returned safely home.”
Aden cursed under his breath. Why the hell had his mother decided to hang about? Besides the fact that she would likely complicate matters, she would want something from him. She always did these days, although he couldn’t figure out why. She’d spent a great many years doing her best to ignore him, but ever since his stepfather died she’d been relentlessly doing her best to interfere in his life.
“Thank God,” exclaimed Lady Vivien. “I was terrified she and Mamma might have been injured in the abduction.” She glanced up at Aden. “My mother could do nothing but scream, but Lady Thornbury fought back. I have the distinct impression she even broke somebody’s nose.”
Aden could well believe it since his mother had an iron will. The only person she’d never stood up to had been his bastard of a stepfather.
“No need to worry about her ladyship,” Wilkinson said cheerfully, looking over his shoulder. “Lady Thornbury is as tough a nut as a body could ever be.”
Aden smiled as Vivien stared up at Dominic’s genial giant. Wilkinson was always a sight at the best of times—well over six feet tall and broad as a barn, with an old scar down the left side of his face, and a heavy, bristle-covered jaw. The man looked like something out of a nightmare, but had an incurable soft spot for children, puppies, or any innocent thing that stumbled into harm’s way.
He was also the deadliest of assassins, one who could kill a man with his bare hands in ten different ways and not blink an eyelash.
“Ah, I’m glad to hear that, um . . .” Lady Vivien stuttered.
“Wilkinson, my lady,” he said.
Wilkinson led them past the kitchen, occupied at this early hour only by Peter, the scullery boy. Even Peter could handle a pistol, and like all the servants he possessed one key attribute—fanatical loyalty to Dominic.
When they reached the steps leading up to the main house, Wilkinson stepped aside to let them pass. After starting Lady Vivien up, Aden turned around. “I don’t think anyone saw us. But make another check and have Peter stay on alert,” he said quietly.
The big man nodded and slipped back down the passage.
Aden took the stairs two a time, catching up with Lady Vivien as she hesitated at the top.
“This way,” he said, taking her hand.
They crossed the short entrance hall to a closed door. Aden tapped once and ushered her into Dominic’s study. He placed his back against the door, standing guard, as she rushed across the room and threw herself into his mother’s arms.
Not that Aden really had to stand guard. Not here in Dominic’s inner sanctum. But it gave him a task and allowed him to maintain a safe distance from his mother.
“I’m so happy to see you safe,” Vivien choked out as the older woman held her in a fierce embrace.
They clung together. His mother stroked Vivien’s pale hair, holding her close with obvious affection. As much as he tried, Aden couldn’t squash a flash of resentment. He couldn’t remember the last time his mother had hugged him like that, or shown much concern. And yet, with Vivien, she did it easily.
Then again, Vivien wasn’t the bastard child whose very existence had blighted the famous Lady Thornbury’s life, particularly since that child was the result of an affair with the Prince of Wales, now England’s Regent. Aden’s mother had subsequently spent years trying to erase the damage caused by her reckless indiscretion, which seemed to include keeping her ill-gotten son at a polite distance in an attempt to regain her cuckolded husband’s trust. The logical man in Aden couldn’t blame her, but the boy inside the man obviously still did.
As for his relationship with his natural father, Aden had made a point of keeping the Prince Regent at a coolly polite distance for years, so he supposed he took after his mother, in that respect. But it was the only way the Thornbury household—his stepfather and half siblings included—had been able to maintain a united front against the scandal that had once rocked the family at its very foundations.
While the two women hugged, talking to each other in low, emotion-laden voices, Dominic unfolded his lanky frame from behind his desk and strolled over to greet Aden. One of Dominic’s rare smiles lit up his usually impassive façade as he extended his hand.
“Well done, Aden,” he said. “Lady Vivien seems to be in remarkably good shape, all things considered.”
“Yes, we were fortunate in that respect.”
His chief cocked an eyebrow. “Ah. Then she wasn’t—”
“No, she was spared that degradation, thank God. They drugged her, but they obviously had instructions not to do her grievous harm. But she wasn’t well treated, which tells me something.”
Dominic frowned, the harsh angles of his face looking grimmer than usual. And since he almost always looked grim, that said something to Aden too.
“Was she able to tell you anything useful?” Dominic asked.
Aden started to answer but then glanced at Lady Vivien, still nestled in his mother’s embrace. She had not cried once during her entire ordeal this night, but now she was sniffing like a heartbroken child, tears trickling down her face. What the devil had his mother said to upset her?
Dominic glanced over at the women, then back at Aden. “She’s fine,” he said. “It’s just relief, now that she’s safe.” A mocking smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “Of course, you could always go over and give her a hug.”
“With all due respect, sod off,” Aden growled.
Dominic simply snorted in reply.
His chief could frequently be annoying as hell, but Aden was also irritated that he actually
did
want to hug Lady Vivien. Fortunately, his mother prevented the need for him to act in so idiotic a fashion by murmuring something that brought a watery smile to the girl’s face. She settled Lady Vivien onto the settee in front of the fireplace, before finally deigning to acknowledge his existence.
Aden braced himself against the rush of emotions that swept through him whenever he met his mother.
As always, reluctant admiration warred with bitterness. His mother stood barely five feet tall and was as slender as a reed, but she packed a formidable will in her petite frame. Few could stand against that will when she chose to exert it, and Aden remained convinced she could have exercised it to protect him from his stepfather’s resentment—hatred, even, toward the child who was living proof that his wife had betrayed him, and with a prince, no less. Only once had his mother intervened, when Lord Thornbury had raised a hand to him when he was thirteen, striking Aden across the face. Then, she had stepped between them, telling her husband in a quietly lethal voice to never again lay a hand on her son.
Thornbury had turned on her with a snarl, but his mother had simply placed a restraining hand on her husband’s chest and stared back at him. To Aden’s everlasting amazement, the old bastard had retreated. Aden’s mother subsequently never mentioned the incident, and although his stepfather didn’t stint on the tongue-lashings, Thornbury never struck him again.
“Good morning, Aden,” his mother said. “Why are you skulking by the door? Can you not give your mamma a proper greeting?” She finished with her most charming smile, clearly wishing to take the sting from her words.
Too bad it didn’t work.
Not bothering to repress a sigh, he trod wearily across the library to pay his respects to the one person who still had the ability to make him feel like an awkward schoolboy. He also couldn’t help glancing at Lady Vivien, whose sleepy eyes had just popped open with astonishment. She stared at him for several long seconds, her lips thinned into an irritated line. “You are Lady Thornbury’s son?” she asked.