Lord Ruin (15 page)

“Be what?” Ben said with exaggerated innocence.

“The man you’re after.”

“Who said we’re after anyone a’tall?”

“Oh, please, Aldreth.”

“Why couldn’t it be Thrale?” Ruan asked, interested to know the reason for her certainty.

“He’s not capable of violence.”

“Given sufficient compulsion, every one of us is capable of violence, Anne,” Ruan said. He lifted one eyebrow. “Did you not learn that for yourself just tonight?”

“Not the marquess,” she protested over a furious blush. “He simply could not.”

“That’s a quick defense for a man you hardly know.” For the second time in one night, he was jealous and not equipped to deal with a reaction so entirely foreign to his experience. Anne didn’t reply. She just accepted what must to her have seemed a rebuke.

“Enough of this,” Devon interjected. “This is a ball, and we are keeping Anne from her triumph. Besides—” He bowed, eyes and voice rich with sensual undertones. “I’ve yet to dance with you.”

Ruan scowled. Was he going to have to kill his best friend, too?

“May I?” Anne asked with a carefulness that struck to Ruan’s heart and brought a frown to both Ben and Dev.

Ruan summoned all the calm at his command, a niggardly portion that didn’t feel like nearly enough. “Dance with whomever you like. If you are up to it.” It wasn’t enough. He came off sounding like he’d couched a criticism of Anne in a sarcasm directed at Devon. He could not fathom how the evening had turned so horribly wrong. He’d not minded so much that Anne had been leered at by every damned man present. Dressed as she was, a man would have to be blind not to look and keep looking.

Looking was one matter. Having Anne preyed on by Wilberfoss was another, entirely. But worst of all was having her walk in on him and Katie. Though she pretended otherwise, he’d seen the betrayal in her eyes. Of all he’d done to Anne, this was by far the worst. Tonight, he’d damaged something precious. Really, he didn’t see how the evening could get worse except, to top it all off, Ben and Devon believed he mistreated her, and he’d had enough trouble with those two over Anne.

Ben grasped Ruan’s arm when he would have followed Anne and Devon from the room. “You are my good friend,” Ben said in response to Ruan’s questioning expression. “You have my admiration and esteem in almost every respect. But I tell you honestly, the thought of you taking Anne to wife made my blood boil. If I’d seen any other way—any way at all. . . What happened at Corth Abby was entirely your fault. My God, man, you violated her. You stole her innocence. You robbed her of the chance to marry someone not afraid to admit his feelings for her. And yes, I do mean Devon.” Benjamin jabbed his finger in the direction of Ruan’s chest. “You owe her. Good God, man, don’t you see she did
you
the favor, not t’other way round? She deserves better from you than damnable gossip about how much time you spend with bloody Katie Forrest.”

Ruan felt the chill of those clear blue eyes. “Are you quite done?”

“No.”

“Pray continue.” Ruan waved one hand toward his friend in a hurry-up motion.

“Anne has spirit. Real spirit, Cyn. The kind that runs deep and true. A man doesn’t often find a woman like that, and when he does, why”—he made a grabbing motion with one hand—“he snatches her up before it’s too late. I know, for Mary got her spirit from Anne. Anne’s the best of the lot. For all that I love Mary, that’s plain truth.”

“Then why didn’t you save me a pack of trouble and marry her yourself?”

Ben drew a silver case from his coat pocket from which he extracted a slender cigar. Ruan refused the offer of one. “Don’t think,” Ben said, examining his cigar, “that I didn’t notice her.” With elaborate care, he lit the end and watched Ruan through a cloud of smoke. “Those exquisitely long legs. Good God, I love to watch her walk.” He shrugged, and tossed his spent match into the fireplace. “I wanted to take her to bed the moment I laid eyes on her. But by the time I met Anne, I was hopelessly in love with Mary. I didn’t admit that, of course, but I loved her madly.” Another column of smoke went spiraling to the ceiling. “Doesn’t Mrs. Forrest bore you to tears by now? She ought to. I should think Anne would be a breath of fresh air.”

“She is.”

“If ever you harm her—If ever I see a mark on her—”

“Damnation!” He faced Ben with fisted hands, itching to lay into him, to anyone at all. “I will not have this. Not even from you.”

Ben shifted his balance to the balls of his feet. “Go ahead, Cyn. I’d like to see you try.”

Ruan turned on his heel and went to the fireplace. He gripped the mantel, staring into the embers. He would die before he hurt Anne. Or let anyone hurt her. The certainty consumed him like fire devoured tinder. “Have I so far managed this marriage well?” he asked of the fireplace. “I’m the first to admit I have not.” He faced Ben. “Have I given Anne anything like the affection she deserves from her husband? No, I admit I have not. But harm her physically? That I have not done. Nor shall I ever. Do not believe me capable of lifting a violent hand to her.”

“If you harm her in any way, Cyn, I’ll come after you.”

“Be my guest, Aldreth.” Ruan laughed. “From the look of things, there’ll be a long line.”

Ben drew on his cigar. “You poor bastard. If she didn’t hate you before,” he said, “she must by now.”

The hell of it was, Ruan was afraid she might.

Ruan lasted three hours at his Whitehall office before he gave up believing he could concentrate on anything meaningful. So far, he’d snarled at anyone who came by and sent more than one man running to safety. Hickenson hadn’t left the anteroom since the last time Ruan had practically taken off his head for his pains. He shoved away the pile of papers before him. He’d made no inroads in the height of the stack.

Plainly, working was an unachievable goal. Going to one of his clubs didn’t appeal. He didn’t want the company of men. Blast it. He wanted to be with Anne. Read her a poem, perhaps, or just talk. He wanted to see her lovely, seductive smile. For pity’s sake, he was a fool and nothing else. But he still wanted to be with her. He grabbed his coat and stalked out. Anne, unfortunately, wasn’t any too pleased with him. Ever since she’d seen him with Katie, she’d been cool as ice. Cooler, even. And he didn’t blame her for it, either.

Hickenson shot to his feet. “Your grace!” He pulled so hard on the lapels of his coat the garment fairly snapped to his shoulders.

“The afternoon is yours,” Ruan said.

“Good day, your grace.” Hickenson quickly bowed but not before Ruan saw the man’s relief.

“Good day.”

He found himself on the street outside Whitehall with no notion of what to do with himself. Finding himself at loose ends for an afternoon, he would normally call on Katie. Perhaps even spend through the late evening with her. For the last three years, Herriot Street had been his home away from home. He made a mental note to send Hickenson to fetch his things. Half his clothes and his best boots were there, yet to be collected. He didn’t regret the break with Katie. No other woman interested him. Only Anne.

He went home.

Calling cards with corners bent to convey one meaning or another filled the salver on the table kept by the door for the very purpose of collecting such mementos. He put his hat on the table and glanced through them. A veritable register of London society. Lord Eldon. Lord Fenrother. Sather. Kinross. Brenley Cooke and his wife and daughter. Richmond, Portland, Essex. Lady Prescott. Sir Reginald Dinwitty. The Fairchild mother and daughter. Julian Durling. Durling, the great ruddy sod, had scrawled an extempore poem on the back of his engraved card.

Durling had written the last line so that it curled around to the top right of the card. “Precocious bugger,” Ruan muttered as he climbed the stairs. He paused outside Anne’s door and wondered why he knew she was inside. Ridiculous, to feel so certain. All the same, he knew she was.

“Come in,” she called out when he rapped lightly on the door.

His heart beat a familiar drum when he saw Anne. She rose from the desk where she’d been writing a letter. Her violet gown fit well. Not low cut, but nipped tightly under her bosom and narrow at the hips and of a flattering color that deepened the blue of her eyes. Slipping Durling’s card into his pocket he inclined his head. She looked delicious. Delectable. He wanted to take her in his arms and make love to her right now.

“Anne.” His pulse raced as he watched her lean over to blot the page.

“Sir.”

It struck Ruan that Anne, who of late existed on a diet of toast and porridge had lost weight. “I must consult with Dr. Carstairs about whether it’s usual for a woman to be so ill and tired.”

“I’m fine.”

“If there is cause for concern, I want to know. You are pale. Are you certain you are well?”

“Yes, sir.” Anne could not help staring at Cynssyr. He moved with the lithe, powerful stride that always threatened to strike her dumb. No weakness, she chided herself. From now on in, she would be strong and as impervious to feeling as ever she’d been in Bartley Green. And she tried to be. She really did. But she felt so out of place in her clothes, the ridiculous violet silk more suited to one of her sisters, and Cynssyr so impossibly beautiful that it was difficult to maintain her equanimity.

She retreated to her desk, sitting to fold her letter and write a direction on the outside. Cynssyr did not leave. Nor did he say anything, but she could feel him standing there, a vital presence. She closed her eyes, trying to make herself feel nothing. “Someone called while you were out,” she said.

“Indeed.”

“A man.” Having gotten herself under control, she turned on her chair and faced her husband. “My sisters were here. He told the most amusing stories you can imagine. Even Emily laughed at him. But I could not make myself like him. Something about him unsettled me. He claimed he knew you from the war. But he did not strike me as someone with whom you would have an acquaintance.”

“Who was it?”

“Mr. John Martin.”

“Martin? A bad bargain.”

“I thought he was not much a gentleman.”

“I was his commanding officer in Spain and Portugal. He cashed out when the fighting got rough. No one was sorry to see him go. Least of all me.”

“I cannot say I am entirely surprised.” She took up something on the desk. “Someone else called, too. She gave me this.” She held out her hand and dropped the object onto Cynssyr’s palm. A signet ring.

His long fingers turned the heavy ring over and over.

“You recognize it, then,” Anne said, determined to keep her distance, physical and otherwise. But, dash it all, he was in her room, and he just took over the space.

“Who gave it to you?”

“A—woman.” She faltered because she had known the woman was no proper lady. “A, a loose woman.”

His eyebrows shot up. “You received a prostitute?”

She matched his aplomb. “I give alms to anyone who asks. If Merchant is not present, then another is.”

“And this—woman gave you the ring?” He looked at her sharply. “Why?”

“She said she’d heard you were paying for information.”

“True enough. What made her think I would pay for this?”

“About a month ago, her best friend was beaten.”

“Not so uncommon among her class, I’m afraid. The life is often violent.”

She pressed her lips together, gathering herself. “She died, Cynssyr. The woman’s friend died. And this woman, she was frightened to her very soul that she’d been followed here. A month after the fact, she was that frightened. She refused me her name, but once I’d given her money, she gave me that.” She pointed at the ring. “She told me it belonged to the man responsible for beating her friend.”

“Did she see him? Get a look at his face, perhaps?”

“Briefly. When he chose her friend over her. But she had no details other than he was a gentleman. With gold buttons on his coat.” She watched Cynssyr’s face, his intense concentration as he examined the ring. She took a step back. How easy it was to be drawn in again.

“
Talbot passant
,” he said, brushing a finger over the medieval hunting dog engraved in the burnished gold. “With trefoil, bar dexter and coronet of rank.” He closed his fist around the cold metal.

“I looked it up,” she said.

“Then you know it’s Thrale’s crest.” He held the ring so the golden carving faced her.

“Yes.”

He looked at Anne. “It doesn’t fit the pattern. She was a cyprian, not a woman of society. And, as I’ve said, the life is often violent.”

“If money is the reason behind the attacks, why hurt any of them? Why not just ransom?”

“I don’t know.” He bowed his head, but after a moment he spoke in a low voice. “You have something there, Anne. I don’t think money’s the reason he does this. He didn’t start asking for ransom. It’s only the last few he’s done that. He’s more like a hunter taking the tail of a fox for a trophy. He’s taken something from each of them.”

“To remember the moment.”

“This is perfectly clean. Not a speck of blood.” He frowned, thinking of how, among the victims, the injuries were progressively severe.

“Of course,” Anne said slowly. “There are any number of explanations for this. Perhaps it’s not his. Or he lost it and someone else found it.”

“It’s his. He may have worn gloves. Or removed it first, and then forgotten it.”

“I can’t believe Richard would do something so awful.”

He looked up sharply. “Richard, is it?”

If tomorrow’s affair of honor left him dead, he wondered, would Thrale and Devon fight over Anne? And which would win? Either result opened up a hole inside him so wide and so deep he swore he’d come back from the flames of hell to fill it.