“No, not really. I just—I’ve heard that Marcus Langdon is seeking to prove you’re not the rightful heir.”
What did that have to do with their arrangement? How had she heard? And how had he not? Still, he wasn’t about to let on that her words had taken him by surprise.
“You sound concerned. I assure you there’s no cause to fret. He’s threatened to do this on numerous occasions. Usually when he wants an increase in allowance.”
“You provide him with an allowance?”
“Don’t be shocked. It’s not uncommon for a lord to see after those entrusted to his care.
The old gent requested that I see after them, and so I do.”
“Out of guilt?”
“Why can it not be out of kindness?”
“Are you a kind man then?”
He laughed. “Hardly. You know what I am, Catherine. Or more importantly, what I am not. I’m not the rightful heir. I’m not the true grandson to the previous Earl of Claybourne. But he entrusted his titles and his estates to my keeping, and keep them I shall.”
“Do you not worry that I’ll go to the courts and speak on Mr. Langdon’s behalf?”
“I don’t worry in the least. We’re partners in crime now, Catherine, you and I. Seek to drag me down, and you shall fall with me. You’ll have to explain when I told you. And when it comes out that you’ve been in my company all these many nights…”
He let his voice trail off into the velvety darkness, with the unspoken promise of retribution. One he’d never carry out. He was not in the habit of harming women—in any fashion. Not that she’d know that. She’d expect the worst of him. Even though there were moments when he thought she was different, he knew that deep down she saw him as everyone else did: a cad, a scoundrel, a man whose life was built on the foundation of deception—and sooner or later, the façade would crumble.
And he saw her as…a lady. High-born. Elegant. Her rose scent had begun to invade his clothes, take up permanent residence in his nostrils. Throughout the day, he’d discover times when he thought he could smell her. He’d find himself looking around, wondering if she were near, if she’d somehow managed to sneak up on him. When he was walking the crowded streets, he’d sometimes think he heard her voice. He wanted to keep as much distance as possible between them, and yet, she was somehow managing to weave her way into his life.
He wanted to ask her how her day was. What she’d talked to her friends about. He wanted to know which one of Dickens’s works was her favorite. Who else did she read?
What did she do that Jim wasn’t able to spy on? What made her happiest? What made her sad?
A horse suddenly whinnied, the coach jostled then stopped.
“What the devil?”
“What’s going on?” she asked.
Luke reached for the cane sword he kept beneath the seat, because he never knew when he might be required to walk through the London streets. “Stay here.”
He leapt out of the coach and closed the door firmly behind him. It was so very late and the street was empty.
Save for the six ruffians who now stood before him. One man held a knife to his footman’s throat, another did the same with his driver. He imagined they’d come out of the shadows, leaping onto the coach, taking both men by surprise—even though Luke had trained them better.
It was very easy to become complacent.
“Is this a robbery, gentlemen?” he asked calmly. He could see other knives, as well as wooden instruments that could be used for bludgeoning.
“It will be, m’lord, once we’ve sent ye to the devil.”
Catherine’s heart was pounding so hard that she could scarcely breathe. She moved the curtain aside only a fraction. There was more shadow than light but she could see Claybourne was surrounded. His only weapon was his walking stick.
Then in a lightning-quick movement, he pulled it apart to reveal a rather nasty-looking swordlike instrument.
“I believe, gentlemen, you’ll be breaking fast with the devil this morning, not I.”
He lunged toward the man who held his footman and the footman somehow managed to break free of the hold and send the ruffian to the ground.
Claybourne’s move was a feint, Catherine realized, a ploy to simply distract that man so the footman would be at an advantage, because no sooner had Claybourne made a motion to go one way, he reversed direction, making a jabbing motion toward the man who held his coachman. But the coachman had already elbowed his captor and was skillfully avoiding the knife.
