The horses’ hooves clacked in a soothing rhythm as they rolled over the cobblestone.
“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t wish to,” Malum said, his tone deliberately casual, his shrug effortless.
He flicked his gaze to her, lingering just a moment too long. She sat stiffly, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Her vulnerability tugged at something so deep in him that he couldn’t even name it.
“My father came to me, just before the fire,” she murmured, barely above a whisper, as if speaking more to herself than to him.
Malum stayed silent, his grip tightening slightly on the reins.
“He gave me something…” Her voice choked off, trembling with the weight of memory. Gathering the reins in one hand, Malum reached over with the other, clasping her slender wrist with a steadying grasp. What might her father have given her?
The opium connection wasn’t common knowledge, but from what Malum knew, her uncle, the former Earl of Standish, her cousin, father, and eldest brother had all fallen prey to its lure. The hunting lodge had been their den of escape, a place cloaked in secrecy and ruin. When the lodge burned, the investigation had revealed signs of arson, fueling suspicions that pointed to Standish—the sole person who had benefited from the tragedy.
What the devil had her father given her?
She straightened beside him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It doesn’t matter, really. Not today, anyway.” Her cheerfulness was forced.
“It matters if you think it does.” He moved his hand lower from her wrist, and her fingers wrapped around his tightly.
Hyde Park was coming into view, the greenery now visible through the trees lining the street. They were passing Apsley House, the grand residence of the Duke of Wellington.
Malum cast a sideways glance at her, noticing the lingering tension in her jaw as they joined dozens of other carriages, riders, and fashionable pedestrians gathered along the main routes.
She was looking just a little too pale.
“Brace yourself,” he murmured, “For the finest display of staged superiority—a parade of peacocks, if you will.”
She swung around to look up at him, and he was pleased to see a hint of surprise and then genuine amusement spark in her eyes.
“Peacocks?”
“Indeed,” he answered, the corners of his mouth curving in a wry smile. “See the barouche turning into the park just ahead?” He gestured with a slight tilt of his chin and leaned closer, a jolt of intimacy sparking as a trace of lemon and roses teased his senses.
“The blue one?”
“With the white horses.” Dropping his voice, he prepared to break one of his cardinal rules from theDomus. “They are Lord and Lady Beasley. Did you see his speech in the papers last week?”
She tilted her head to meet his gaze, curiosity brightening her eyes. “The one about the dangers of novels and theater?”
“And the licentious forces corrupting our poor, innocent youth,” he added, feigning a solemn tone. “Proper, eh? Or so he’d have you believe…”
A flash of intrigue flickered in her gaze, her earlier pallor giving way to color. “He’s a member at your club?”
Malum let out a low chuckle. “He is.”
“Really?” Her brows shot up.
“Very active, actually,” he said, watching her expression with satisfaction.
“So… he is a hypocrite,” she said, with a touch of relish.
“Quite,” he agreed, finding himself damn near delighted by the edge in her tone. It was far too easy, he knew from his younger days, to feel diminished by the arrogance of people like the Beasleys.
He could have gone on, pointing out member after member, revealing the hidden duplicity behind their polished façades. But no—he’d already achieved what he’d intended. Her shoulders were more relaxed, and the color had returned to her cheeks as she sat beside him, her gaze brighter, more spirited.
Malum steered them toward the row, following behind those who’d arrived earlier, and eased their pace to little more than a crawl. Already, eyes landed on the pair of them, curious and judging and entertained alike. It was just as they’d intended.
From here on out, they could not falter.
