Colleen’s hip smacked into a raised flower bed, the corner of the wood box sending an arc of pain down her leg. She kept stumbling back. “You set the fire?”
“So many things went wrong that night.” He shook his head. “The fuel didn’t burn out as quickly as it should have. The winds shifted, blowing embers next door.”
Her shoulders hit a glass wall. “You set the fire,” she breathed out.
The tips of his top boots nudged her toes. He loomed above her, his expression harsh. “Yes. It was no accident, as had been reported. No candle that burned too close to a curtain. I was supposed to destroy the man’s livelihood. Burn the girl’s letters.” Flexing his hands, Max raised them to her shoulders, hesitated, then dropped them to his sides. “I’m responsible for your husband’s death. You’re a widow because of me.”
She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. The light streaming from the sitting room focused into small pinpricks in Max’s eyes, everything else going dark.
The Baron of Sutton hadn’t randomly appeared in her life. He wasn’t a kindly landlord trying to help her recover. He was an arsonist, and a liar, and was as guilt-ridden as she.
Her chest caved in on itself, and she sucked down gulps of air.
And he still didn’t know the truth.
That he wasn’t the one responsible.
That it was Colleen who had killed her husband.
Chapter Ten
“Will you move your arse?” Max growled at his friend. “But do it slowly, or you’ll tip over the damn phaeton.”
Dunkeld shifted, dropping the flannel-wrapped bricks he’d been arranging on the floor. Sinking back into his seat, he raised one burnished eyebrow. “Well, someone’s got their smallclothes in a twist. And I’m not the one who chose this dainty little contraption over our usual carriage. Why did you put two hulks like us in a phaeton?” Dunkeld peered over the side. “The springs will never be the same.”
“Who gives a flying fuck about the springs of a rented phaeton?” Max cracked his neck. A breeze drifted under his beard, cooling his throat. He tried to remember how the air felt against bare jaw, before he’d grown his beard as a way to distinguish himself from the rest of the sots of the ton. Colleen thought the beard made him look like a goat. He swallowed. That was most likely the kindest thing she would think of him from now on.
“We should have stayed for a round at The Boar’s Head after learning that your Dancer was at sea. Your demeanor would be much more pleasant with a drink or three in you.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my demeanor,” he bit out. “And the man’s notmybloody Dancer.” Absurd name.
“What’s the matter?” Dunkeld asked. “The lovely widow turn you down?”
Max clenched his jaw and refused to take the bait. If a friend couldn’t take a little unreasonable carping, then what good was he?
Dunkeld’s gaze sharpened on their target. Pinkerton emerged from a bakehouse, a long baguette wrapped in paper tucked under his arm. Twitching the reins, Max set a slow pace to follow the American.
“I ran into Lady Fletcher on St. James street the other day,” Dunkeld said. He leaned back in his seat and propped one boot up on the front bar. “She asked after you. If you need to rid yourself of excess energy, I think she would be more than willing to accommodate you.”
“Not interested.”
His friend swiveled his head to look at him. “That woman has the ripest breasts in London and she’s generous enough to share them. And you’re not interested?”
They were spectacular breasts. And Lady Fletcher was as adventurous as she was well-endowed. But his cock didn’t even twitch at the prospect. Besides, “They aren’t the ripest in London.” Those belonged to the woman who was probably even now plotting her revenge. His mouth watered, remembering the velvety softness of her nipple on his tongue. The succulent pink of her areolas. The way the delicate skin had puckered under the heat of the flame.
Shifting in his seat, Max could feel his friend’s incredulous stare. Fuck it, he didn’t owe Dunkeld any explanations. And he wasn’t going to share any stories about Colleen. His friends already knew too much about his bed sport. He wouldn’t subject Colleen to their scrutiny.
“And who, pray tell, does that honor fall upon?” Dunkeld shifted onto one hip. “Not your bonnie new manager, by any chance? Are you ranking her breasts higher?”
“Don’t talk about her that way,” Max growled. Pinkerton stopped at a haberdashery, and Max pulled the phaeton to the side of the road. The American looked up and down the street, nodding at Max and Dunkeld before slipping into the store. Max pressed his lips together. The man made a terrible spy.
“So, it’s that way, is it.” Shaking his head, Dunkeld heaved a sigh deep enough to rattle their chaise. “My bachelor friends are dropping like flies.”
“No. It’s not like that.” Max glared. “She’s a good woman and doesn’t deserve our ribaldry. Now, can we focus on the task at hand and stop talking about my sexual pastimes?”
“Or your lack thereof?” Dunkeld smiled blandly at him. “Of course, but we need something to pass the time. Zed is being most uncooperative by not trying to kill our fellow.” He shifted his weight, and the springs squeaked in alarm. “We’ve been following Pinkerton for two hours hoping someone would attack him. My arse is sore. I think the least you could do is entertain me with your sad love life to take my mind off of it.”
It had been a mind-numbing two hours. They’d told Pinkerton to go about his daily business, but to make sure to keep them in sight. With the way Zed handled betrayal and failure, Max figured eliminating the American would be his next step. When Pinkerton’s handler didn’t report back, Zed must have suspected something was awry. And the crime ring’s leader was crazy enough to kill first and ask questions later. He’d want to shut Pinkerton up permanently. But after trailing the man to the barber, the tailor, and the public library, even Max was tempted to take Pinkerton down. Anything to ease the boredom.
