“I understand that when I confessed to you, you remained silent,” Max said. “I understand you are more adept at subterfuge than I’d thought. Even though killing your husband was an accident, you still might have faced criminal prosecution. You couldn’t risk that. Your safety is more important than honesty, after all.”
Mechanically, Colleen slid into her shift and skirt. She shook out her crumpled shirt and slipped her arms through the sleeves. “Believe it or not but being punished wasn’t at the top of my concerns.”
Someone scratched at the door.
Colleen held his gaze. “I didn’t want you to think poorly of me. But I couldn’t keep silent any longer. I didn’t want you to bear the burden of a guilt you didn’t earn. I didn’t want there to be anything between us. Not even a secret.”
“I’m most appreciative.” Max turned for the door and pointed to the floor by the fire. “Your boots are there. When you return to the club, please remember to stay by your guards. They are there for your protection.”
Noble to the end. He treated her as a stranger, but Max treated strangers well. It was one of the things she loved about him. He treated everyone with respect until they showed themselves undeserving of it.
She should be grateful. She’d shown him her worst. Instead of scorn, he gave her a pleasant smile and a polite goodbye.
It hurt worse than if he’d struck her. But it was nothing more than she deserved. Jamming her feet into her boots, she looked around for her waistcoat and put it on. Pulling the gold watch from its pocket, she squeezed it in her palm. She wouldn’t cry in front of him. Her tears would only make him uncomfortable.
She paused by the door he held open. One of her guards stood across the hall, looking at the floor. Colleen ignored him. “I’m sorry,” she told Max. “You’ll never know how much.”
He stared over her head and nodded.
Without a backwards glance, Colleen marched for the stairs. She was a survivor. She’d made it through worse.
Somehow, she’d make it through Max.
Chapter Sixteen
Max slid a second knife into his boot. He smoothed down his trouser leg, making sure the handle of the blade wasn’t visible.
“I can’t believe Zed agreed to this meet.” Summerset flipped his own knife from handle to blade, a mesmerizing blur of silver in the candlelight. They were all gathered at Montague’s townhouse preparing for the night. Zed’s response had arrived swiftly. Dancer had shown up on Max’s doorstep, missive in hand and a large, purpling bruise around his eye.
Max wondered how long Zed would let the man live. The crime lord seemed to have limited tolerance for those that could lead the Crown to him. Dancer had slipped past Max’s men to contact Zed but he couldn’t evade a tail forever.
Why would Dancer, or any man, continue to work for someone after his abuse. Was the money that good or was the sailor as devoted as so many of the others to their mysterious leader? The man didn’t seem like a fanatic. Fear must hold him in place.
Checking the powder in his double-barreled flintlock, Max pushed the lackey from his mind. He needed to push all extraneous thoughts from his head if tonight was going to be a success. If they caught Zed, Max wouldn’t have to worry about protecting Dancer’s worthless life.
He took aim at his reflection in the large gilt mirror across the sitting room. Colleen’s lovely blue eyes stared accusingly back at him. Max swallowed and shook her image from his mind.
Rothchild lounged on a settee and took a pull from his cheroot. “Zed may have agreed to meet, but that’s no guarantee he’ll show. We need to handle this carefully. I’m certain he’ll have just as many men surrounding St. Katherine’s as we do.”
“But he said he’d come alone,” Summerset said, eyes wide, tone mocking. Gripping his knife by the blade, he executed a neat spin and hurled it at the wall above the fireplace. The blade buried deep into an oil portrait of a homely older woman dressed in a stiff-bodiced mantua. The handle of the knife stuck out right between her beady eyes.
“Confound it!” Montague entered the room and slammed the tray he was carrying down onto a low table. Marching to the wall, he yanked the knife out and ran his finger along the puckered slash of the canvas. “This was my great-grandmother, you lackwit. What in the blazes were you thinking?”
Montague’s wife, Elizabeth, put down her own tray and moved to her husband to rub his back. “I’m sure it can be repaired. Until then, I’ll have a footman put her in storage. Besides, this gives us a space now to put up that new Vermeer you bought for me.”Thank you, she mouthed to Summerset behind Montague’s back.
The earl winked back at her. “I need all the target practice I can get to prepare for the night ahead,” he said innocently.
Montague growled and ripped the painting off the wall.
Rothchild leaned forward and picked up a small sandwich. “I don’t believe I’ve ever been served by a duke before. Have you taken a cue from your lovely wife and decided to playact as a servant?”
The smile Elizabeth shot Rothchild wasn’t nearly as warm as the one Summerset had received. “My husband thought it best that our servants weren’t made aware of your preparations for the night. He’s given them the evening off. And if you require anything else, you will have to fend for yourself. I’m off to your house to spend the evening with my sister.” Bending down, she pecked a kiss on his cheek. “And it wouldn’t hurt you, brother, to experience a little of how the other half lives.”
Rothchild took Liz’s hand. “Tell my wife not to worry.”
“How can we not?” She looked to Montague and laid a hand on her abdomen, a look passing between them.
Max’s heart twisted like a wrung-out rag. He recognized the look. Love. Adoration. It was the same one that Colleen had given him yesterday. Before she’d revealed her perfidy. Before he’d told her to leave. He rubbed his jaw, a scratchy bristle. He hadn’t bothered to shave that morning. There was no one to impress.
