Which meant the bastards responsible were still out there, somewhere. Still capable of attempting to hurt Hazel again.
A chill settled over Lucien. Though he stood in the familiar confines of his study along with Hazel, Colonel Olden, and Winchelsea, the four walls seemed suddenly foreign. Someone had trespassed upon his home. Someone had infiltrated his staff, breached his defenses, and roamed the halls of Lark House in his absence, with the intent of murder and destruction.
There was no truer way to bring home the grim reality of the war they were waging against their faceless foes than this. The battle had been waged beneath his roof. But this battle was personal, because it had been an attack, not just upon him, but upon Hazel. Someone had hidden a bomb beneath her damned bed.
Someone had meant to kill her. The thought of Hazel sleeping peacefully in her bed when the device beneath it exploded sucked the air from his lungs. He felt as if a vise was squeezing his chest. A great roaring sound rushed in his ears, and for a moment, his vision darkened.
“Arden?” prompted Winchelsea.
He cleared his throat, realizing belatedly he was staring at Hazel, consumed by old fears and ghosts that were mingling with new. She was pale, all the joy from their earlier romp at Madame Tussaud’s vanquished by the horror of having discovered the bomb beneath her bed. Thank God she was as skilled an agent as she was, and she had taken note of the subtle indications someone had intruded in her chamber. Lesser detectives than she may never have noticed.
But three pairs of eyes were upon him now, awaiting his reply, and he could not afford to continue to wallow in the unexpected feelings assaulting him. He cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon, Winchelsea. What was the question?”
“The timing of the invasion of your home,” Winchelsea elaborated, looking as grim as Lucien felt. “What would you aim it to be? You mentioned that both yourself and Miss Montgomery had been away on an outing this evening. Do you believe it occurred then?”
“Unquestionably.” He nodded, resisting the urge to pace the length of his study. Or worse, to take up some helpless object and send it hurtling through the mullioned windows overlooking the street.
“I do not believe you mentioned the nature of your excursion,” the duke said.
Blast.
“Miss Montgomery and I had concluded our investigative toiling for the day, and we aimed to seek some distraction by paying a visit to Madame Tussaud’s Waxwork Exhibition,” he explained, careful to keep his tone and expression neutral. The last complication he needed was to cause issues for Hazel by allowing the Home Office to discover they had been intimate.
“Waxworks?” Winchelsea’s brows lifted simultaneously.
“At my request, Winchelsea,” Hazel chimed in, lying, presumably to protect him. She worked her lips into a thin attempt at a smile. “Arden was kind enough to indulge me in my childish fancy to explore London as a tourist for a few hours.”
“Ah,” Winchelsea said, his expression guarded, his gaze quizzical as it met Lucien’s. “Howgoodof Arden.”
Devil take it.Winchelsea was not a stupid man.
“Arden is very kind,” Hazel said, her accent more pronounced with her heightened emotions. “I am thoroughly sorry I am the cause of such danger being brought to Lark House. If those men had not recognized me at the hotel, this never would have happened.”
“You cannot blame yourself for your attack,” Lucien countered. “Your courage and intuition in attempting to find the suspects has given us the best information we have thus far in finding the men responsible for the railway bombings. You suffered enough as a result of that mishap.”
Though the wound on her head was nicely healed, the reminder of her suffering filled him with a surge of impotent rage. Coupled with the fury resonating within him—the daring of these bastards, infiltrating his home with the intent to do Hazel harm—he was left feeling as if he needed to smash something. Or someone.
“Miss Montgomery, we are grateful for your presence,” Winchelsea assured her, smiling smoothly in Hazel’s direction. “Your service has been invaluable. Our goals moving forward are twofold: to find the criminals responsible for these outrages, and to keep you safe. It is apparent Lark House will not be suitable any longer.”
“I must agree,” Colonel Olden said. “The devices are getting more complex, and the danger is real. The bomb discovered here this evening is the first I have seen of its kind, with a mechanical means of enabling delayed detonation. An alarm clock was rigged to a pistol inside the box. The likelihood of severe damage is undeniable. If they are capable of breaching the defenses here at Lark House and planting bombs such as this, I shudder to think what else they are capable of.”
So did Lucien. An even greater fear was blooming inside him, the fear the men who had recognized Hazel and attacked her in the hotel would not give up until they got what they wanted. And that appeared to be her eternal silence, since they had failed previously.
“I propose you stay at my townhome,” Winchelsea told Hazel, “as an honored guest. We will keep your whereabouts a secret, and no one will be the wiser as to where you have gone.”
“No,” Lucien found himself saying quickly. Far too quickly.
But the thought of Hazel sharing a roof with Winchelsea? The possessive beast inside him roared in denial. He would not allow it. She was his responsibility. After all, she was his partner, was she not? She was his to keep safe.
He ignored the part of him, deep inside, the primitive beast, that said she washis. That she was his, full stop.
He had no right to lay any claim upon her. And neither did she wish him to. She had been clear in her rules. He was clear in his. Except somehow, along the way, his rules had become rather murky. Somehow, the incessant need to have her, to touch her, to kiss her, to be inside her, had driven his blasted rules into the muck.
He ought to allow Winchelsea to harbor her at his townhome. It would be the sensible thing to do. Rational. Reasonable. Best for the both of them, quite likely. He could turn his full attention back to the gravity of the menace facing them, and the real possibility the men responsible for the railway bombings were still in their midst.
To hell with that.
Sensible, rational, and reasonable could sod off. He wanted Hazel at his side. Not just in his bed, but…he had rather grown accustomed to sharing his days with her. He looked forward to seeing her each morning, to dining with her, to sharing part of himself. More than just the physical. They had a deeper joining. And it ought to alarm him, but damn it, he could not deny the way he felt.
