Weston shrugged, as unconcerned as a man in the midst of newly wedded bliss could be. “The two hours it took to scrub paint from my skin did give me time to think.”
Ever stared into his glass.Say it.He tipped it back, finished the last swallow, then set it on the desk with care. “You need totalk her out of considering me. Point her in another direction, aside from the Marquess of Ireton, who is no longer a candidate.”
“Interesting.” Weston let out a short, humorless laugh. “Why would I do this? You’re the first man she’s shown any interest in, theonlyman, and your blasted Seasons exist to put hundreds in her path. Moreover, Penny likes you, and my wife is frighteningly hard to please.”
Ever composed a list in his mind of what he could say and what he could not. The truth was, the rules made protecting her impossible—rules he’d never broken by admitting his profession, unless it was part of an assignment. Aside from tellingher.
“Cough it up,” Weston said in his blunt American manner.
Ever shoved to his feet and strode to the sideboard. The next drink, more generous than the first, settled his nerves a bit. “I’m engaged in a rather hazardous profession, though I’d much prefer everyone continue to assume it’s nothing more than managing a declining earldom whilst pickling my liver.”
Weston cursed sharply, soon joining Ever at the sideboard. “This courtship business is a nightmare. Marshalling my children through England’s social channels is going to kill me. I actually believed we were close to an announcement with you.”
I thought so, too,Ever echoed morosely, and downed his brandy.
“We know about your financial situation,” Weston said, dinking his glass against Ever’s. “Mercer had his imperial bevy of solicitors look into you days ago. No one cares. Least of all Isa. So that better not be it. Our steam enterprise will make you richer than any duke if you give me a year or two.”
“I’m an intelligence officer, and earlier this evening I received a communication informing me that Isabella’s nameis being bandied about in the lower criminal circles, shall we say, as someone of interest to me.” He glanced up then. The stunned surprise on Weston Whitaker’s face offered marginal relief, even as his heart broke—the bloody thing he’d been trying to avoid from the start.
Everyone, absolutelyeveryone, believed that Tipsy Trentham rubbish.
“You see, she’s the only woman I’ve ever shown genuine interest in,” he added, the admission loosening memories inside him. Isabella’s lips parting in ecstasy. The feel of her closing around him. The crooked smile that told him she loved him back. “Someone with a grievance against my work has taken note. I must return to the city to rectify this mess.”
A solution likely involving blackmail, with a strong likelihood of violence.
“So,” Weston said, “your answer is to flee in the middle of the night without telling her you love her? At least I faced Penny, even with a weapon in her hand.”
Ever rolled his shoulders. “No, I?—”
He couldn’t say he didn’t love her.
He couldn’t say he wasn’t bolting.
But he couldn’t promise she’d be safe.
Weston waited him out, a keen skill in mental combat. At last, he perched his hip against the sideboard and said, “Mercer has associates from his military days, rough blokes who work in security. Better than any you’re likely to find among your colleagues, because they won’t have anyone to answer to but you. Until time passes and you mean little in that world, you can make sure she’s safeguarded. We can, as a family.”
Family.
Ever let out a breath, brandy swimming in his head, the word settling like a weight on his chest. He hadn’t known family in so long it felt like a distant dream.
Isabella could not be told the truth, or she’d come to him;no one who knew her would doubt it. She would be angry, hurt, perhaps beyond mending.
It was a gamble with the highest stakes of his life.
“She must keep her distance, long enough for me to settle this. Attention follows attachment. So does talk. And if you tell her the truth, she’ll find me.” Ever placed his glass on the table with a measured click. He set aside the part of himself that wanted her and relied instead on the one that made him lethal at his work. “The solution is silencing the threat, and I can. I have before. But she needs to step back while I do it.”
Weston studied him for a long moment, his gaze sharp, then shook his head. “I’m the last person to delve into a man’s personal life, but the way she looks at you, the way you look at her…” He lifted a shoulder and let it fall. “You can’t fake that. Trust me, I know. And you can’t disappear.”
“I wasn’t planning to. I’m finishing this, so the rest can start.”
Weston pushed off the sideboard, his expression grim. “Go, I’ll handle it. Get her back to the city, make sure she’s safe. But you might want to prepare the utmost apology known to man while you’re at it.”
Ever’s laugh was short, raw. “That straightforward, is it?”
“Nothing is easy with this girl. One week. That’s how long I’ll make excuses for your idiotic behavior,” Weston said. “Believe it or not, I’m good at tense negotiations. Turns out not sounding like an aristocratic nob makes me more likable.” He tipped his glass, the brandy catching the light as he took a measured sip. “Harrington is hosting one of his outdoor affairs next Tuesday—another horror of a high-society event. Meet her there. Grovel like your very existence depends upon it. Make this real, Trentham. Do whatever brutal, underhanded nonsense you need to in the meantime, then come to her like a man who isn’t afraid of his own life.”
Ever didn’t debate the tight deadline—any longer and he might lose his nerve. And he didn’t dispute that he looked at Isabella like a man struck with love.
