Chapter 20

“What has ye looking so guilty?”

Thorne startled, realizing he’d been staring out the window without seeing for the last—uh, what day was it? Hour, at least—and unfolded his arms from in front of his chest.

“What?” he barked at Fawkes, who was frowning down at the billiards table.

His cousin straightened and tapped his billiards cue against the edge of the table. “Ye’ve been staring at that pigeon for a while. Pigeons are no’ that interesting. And nae offence, Thorne, but ye’re fooking easy to read. Ye’re looking guilty about something.”

Thorne wanted to bristle, to claim that nay, he wasn’t easy to read; his years working with Blackrose had taught him that. But unfortunately, Fawkes was right. He was guilty.

“Ye’re thinking of Kit, aye?”

Scowling, Thorne leaned his hip against the edge of the billiards table. “She’s fine.”

“Aye, she is. Ellie’s beyond ecstatic, to be helping, ye ken. It was generous of ye.”

As part of the planning for the musicale, Georgia had announced Kit would need a different gown than the orange one she’d worn to the Stallings assembly, and since Fawkes and Danielle were staying at Stroken House, it was easy enough to recruit Danielle to help.

Kit and her cousin had visited Danielle’s old modiste earlier in the week, and tonight the women were upstairs putting the last touches on the gowns. Or making certain their tits were straight, or whatever it was that they did.

“It wasnae that generous. Some new gowns,” he mumbled, waving away his cousin’s words.

The other man snorted softly. “Some. Ye ken verra well Ellie ordered a dozen for yer lady, and another three for herself. I told her ye had more money than Midas and could afford to treat her.”

It wasn’t a question; instead, Fawkes’s gaze dared Thorne to object to the high-handed claim. Thorne merely grinned.

“I do have more money than I ken what to do with, and I’m happy to have Danielle spend it on Kit and herself.” He knew Fawkes spent every penny that Hangcok Hill earned on the property and tenants. And wee Merida’s education. And the occasional treat for his mother. “I’m glad I could help. Are ye going to take yer shot?”

“I’ve taken all my shots, and ye are distracted if ye havenae noticed ye’re winning,” Fawkes grumbled. “Yellows are cursed on this table.”

As Thorne gripped his cue stick and moved into position to pot a red ball, his cousin continued. “Ellie doesnae need fancy dresses anymore. We’re no’ in Society any longer, hiding up in Scotland as we are. Unlike yer lady, who is just stepping into it, whether she’s ready or no’.”

Unfortunately, Fawkes had said that just as Thorne was lining up his shot, and the words sent a jolt down his arm that completely fooked up his hit.

That had been the second time his cousin had called Kit his lady. And he loved the sound of it. His lady. She was. She was.

And she’d never be, not forever, if he couldn’t work up the ballocks to tell her what he’d done. What he’d read.

Thorne had lain awake too long last night, struggling with the knowledge. This…this burden, he would never have chosen it. It was his own fault, his own curiosity, and he would not burden Kit with it. Not yet. Not when she had so much still to face.

But he couldn’t wait forever.

Chuckling darkly, his cousin stepped into position, likely pleased he’d distracted Thorne into missing his shot. Well, two could play at that game.

The game of distraction, that was, not the game of billiards. Although two could play that game too. As they were.

Ye’re rambling.

Aye, well, he was just preparing.

Thorne waited until Fawkes was lining up his shot, then nonchalantly offered, “I asked her to marry me.”

He was delighted to see his cousin’s ball skip erratically across the green baize. Fawkes turned to frown at him.

Thorne shrugged, as if he hadn’t done it on purpose. “If I can convince Kit to marry me, I have nae doubt she’ll charm Society in nae time.”

Fawkes scowled. “She’s brash and bold and a bastard.”

Grinning at his cousin’s wry tone, Thorne eyed the lay of the remaining red balls. “And talented and witty and fun to be around. They’ll see that soon enough.”

“Another charmer.” Fawkes snorted, stepping out of the way. “If ye can convince her to marry ye? Ye really did ask?”

“I really did,” Thorne sighed. “She laughed.”

“She laughed?”

Scowling, he pretended great interest in the table. “I surprised her. I ken I want her to be my wife, aye? I love her.”

“And…she doesnae love ye?”

A pit, rather empty, formed in Thorne’s stomach. “I…I dinnae ken. She hasnae said so.”

“But she turned down yer proposal.”

There was no way he could expect to make this shot, but it was easier than looking at his cousin when Thorne admitted, “She said nay. Because of how we met. Because of who she is.”

“Blackrose’s daughter?”

Oh fook. He was going to have to confess to Fawkes before he confessed to Kit? Thorne struck the cue ball, which careened wildly across the baize, missing the last red ball entirely.

Sighing, he tossed down his snooker cue. “She thinks Society wohldnae accept my duchess if they found out she’d worn trousers and worked as a footman. And then my valet. And I fell in love with her when I thought she was male.”

He could hear Fawkes’s wince when his cousin murmured, “Och, well, she might be right.” The other man sighed. “Surely there’s a way to control the narrative?”

“My people are loyal to me. I dinnae think Titsworth or any of the servants would spread rumors, but all it would take would be a whisper to get out, even years later…”

“Unless ye could get ahead of it,” Fawkes offered, propping the butt of his cue against the floor. “Perhaps put out the word she was doing it because she was Blackrose’s daughter? Then she’d be seen as brave and clever. Assuming we make his crimes public, that is.”

Thorne braced his palms against the baize and slowly lowered his weight, considering the possibilities. “That…might work. I’d just have to figure out a way to spin it.”

“The musicale is tomorrow evening. Ye’d better figure out that spin quickly.” Fawkes hummed. “Of course, that’s no’ yer only problem. As Kit said, who she is might matter more. I’m speaking as a bastard myself.” His gray gaze was serious when he held Thorne’s. “I went to school with all of ye rich and powerful arseholes, and I kenned then what I ken now; being born on the wrong side of the blanket is no’ easy. They’ll no’ accept her, any more than I was accepted.”

Shite.

Hell, he had to tell someone. The truth was burning in his soul and he had to release the tension.

Thorne dropped his head. “She’s no’ a bastard,” he mumbled.

“What?” his cousin asked sharply. “Thorne, what? Because it sounded as if ye said—”

“She’s no’ a bastard,” Thorne admitted with a sigh.

Fawkes cursed sharply. “Then why did ye let us all assume—? The way she explained it…”

Swallowing down a sigh at his own stupidity, Thorne straightened. “Because Kit thinks she’s illegitimate. It’s what she was told, by her mother. I thought she was illegitimate until Bull broke into Blackrose’s safe and…I found his file on her.”

Fawkes’s cue clattered to the floor. “And?”

“And I found the marriage certificate between William Stoughton and Gloria Pastorino. Dated a year before Kit’s birth.”

“Oh, shite, Thorne, that’s…” Shaking his head, Fawkes gaped. “Damnation.”

“Right?” Thorne dragged a hand through his hair. “It makes her fit for a duchess.”

“Duchess, hell, Thorne.” Fawkes pointed a finger at him. “It makes her a future countess. She’s Blackrose’s heir presumptive now, as his legitimate daughter. If he marries Lady Emma and produces a son, then—nay, wait, he cannae marry Lady Emma. I assume Kit’s mother is still alive?”

Thorne scowled. Philistine. “How do ye no’ ken these things? Aye of course Kit’s mother is still alive. Ye haven followed Gloria Pastorino’s career?”

“No’ all of us are as stupidly obsessed with opera and music and—and—whatever else ye’re obsessed with,” Fawkes dismissed. “So if Blackrose marries the Earl of Stallings’s daughter, he’ll be a bigamist. Another crime to add to his list.”

“Aye. So unless Gloria dies, Kit is his heir.”

“Fook. And he kens it. He kens he cannae marry again, cannae have a chance at a son he’ll get to rear, if Gloria is still alive.”

Thorne nodded grimly. “Why do ye think I’ve insisted the modiste come here? I havenae let Kit out of this house without me escorting her since she met her father at that ball. I even wrote to her mother and warned her of the danger.”

Fawkes was shaking his head. “Blackrose has connections, aye, but no’ loyal men. Remember? That was the point, to purge anyone who might ken his secrets. There’s nae one left to send after her, no’ if he himself is here in London.”

The guards at the ball Blackrose hosted…had they been loyal, or merely hired for the night? The remainder, the unknown, didn’t set Thorne’s mind at ease.

“What are ye going to do after tomorrow?” Fawkes prompted. “If Blackrose doesnae come to the musicale, he’ll be expecting Kit to show up at his home with the evidence.”

Thorne grimaced, placing his cue back in the cabinet. “Aye…but he’ll come to the musicale.”

“Ye sound all grimly determined when ye say that. What makes ye so certain?”

Like a small lad caught in a crime, Thorne winced, then sighed. He turned back to the table and grimaced again when he admitted, “Because…because tomorrow morning, Olivia has assured me that the front page of her paper will run a headline about the musicale, and how the Earl of Bonkinbone’s daughter from his current—and verra much extant—marriage will be entertaining a group of Society’s finest, with her father as the guest of honor.”

Fawkes stared.

He stared some more.

Finally, he whispered, “Holy shite, Thorne.”

Thorne nodded grimly. “Do ye think he’ll come?”

“He’ll have nae choice,” his cousin rasped, then shook his head. In a stronger voice he said, “With one headline, ye ruin him. He’ll be branded a liar, his contract with the Earl of Stallings will collapse, Society will abandon him. And if he doesnae attend the musicale…”

“He’ll be viewed as a coward as well. If he cannae support his heir in her moment of glory, then he doesnae deserve their respect.”

Fawkes bent to retrieve his cue stick. “Unless something happens to Kit between now and tomorrow evening.”

Thorne grimaced. It was an involuntary movement and one he should not have made, because—

His cousin slammed the butt of his cue against the floor. “Aright, out with it!”

“What?” muttered Thorne, mulishly.

“Ye’ve been looking guilty for ages and ye keep wincing like I’m poking at a sore tooth. What is it? Ye havenae told Kit yer plan?”

This time Thorne’s wince was really more of a grimace. “No’ exactly.”

“No’ exactly as in Aye a bit, but no’ all of it? Or I told her and she thinks it’s a bad idea? Or She’s completely in the dark about all of it?”

Thorne sighed. “No’ exactly as in…Kit still thinks she’s a bastard.” He met his cousin’s stunned gaze. “I didnae tell her about the marriage certificate I found. She still thinks she’s a product of an affair between her parents, and he abandoned his lover. She doesnae ken he abandoned his wife.”

Fawkes opened his mouth.

Fawkes closed his mouth, his expression still shocked.

Fawkes finally opened his mouth again, jaw moving a bit before he finally spat out, “Why in the fook did ye no’ tell her, ye dobber?”

Blowing out a breath, Thorne began to pace. He always felt better when he moved, thought better, too. “Because!” The word burst out, and he tried to figure out how to explain. “Because. I didnae want to burden her, I thought it didnae matter at the time, I kenned it would change her life, change her world—and I love the woman, man, I want to protect her! And it doesnae matter because Kit had turned me down already. She’d made it clear all she wanted from me was a bit of fun. When I told her I loved her, she dismissed it.”

“Really?” He could hear Fawkes’s frown.

“Aye,” Thorne sighed, dragging his hand through his hair and whirling toward the dark window. “I told ye, I asked her to marry me, and she said nay. I’ve tried hard to give her what she wanted…just a bit of fun.”

Suddenly, Fawkes burst into laughter.

Oh hell, no’ again. Scowling, Thorne turned back to his cousin to see the other man wave apologetically.

“I’m—I’m sorry.” He clutched his stomach. “It’s just—ye have to admit, a bit—ironic?” Managing to control himself, Fawkes grinned. “Ye, the charmer. How many women have ye turned down? And now ye fall in love and propose marriage and she says she’s just looking for pleasure? Hard to believe.”

“Would it help if I came over there and shoved yer cue down yer throat?” Thorne growled. “Or my boot up yer arse?”

Fawkes tried for a somber expression. “Och, I’m no’ into that sort of thing, although I dinnae judge others’ kinks.”

When Thorne took a step toward him, Fawkes held up both hands, palms out, the laughter sneaking through again. “Och, nay, Pax! I’m sorry, Thorne, it’s just…ironic.”

“Do ye think I dinnae ken that?” Thorne bit out and, sighing, turned back to the window. “I wanted to give her what she wanted. The freedom to turn me down. She doesnae want me forever, just for now.”

“Ye think that’s the truth?” his cousin asked quietly.

Thorne stared at the dark gardens from the window. “It’s what she told me. She’s never said anything about love or a future. She laughed when I offered marriage, but to be fair, she’s absolute shite at romance.”

Chuckling softly again, Fawkes said, “I kenned I liked her. Did Kit say why she turned down yer offer of marriage?”

“Aye, her excuses were the same ye guessed. My reputation would be ruined if word got out how we met. And she’s a bastard, unfit for a duchess.”

“But ye ken ye could mitigate the damage to yer reputations if ye controlled the narrative,” Fawkes pointed out. “And she’s no’ a bastard.”

“Aye,” Thorne whispered again, his fingers rising to rest against the cool glass. “But what if those were just kind excuses?” What if she doesnae want to be with me? “I was trying to give her what she wanted: excuses. If I had immediately surprised her with the news of her parents’ marriage, would she accuse me of just trying to manipulate her into getting what I wanted?”

His cousin sighed and finally said, “I dinnae ken, Thorne. Does she think ye’re manipulative?”

“She surely thinks I’m flighty, only interested in fun and pleasure. Selfish.” His forehead dropped to the glass. “I’ve been using her, Fawkes. Using her.”

“How? For pleasure?”

“She takes care of me. She sees me. It’s selfish, aye, but I didnae want to lose that. And when she appeared on my arm at the Stallings assembly, just as Bull guessed, nae one doubted I was wooing her.” When he sighed, his breath fogged the glass. “I used her again. Thanks to her, I’ll no’ be pestered or trapped into marriage by some Society chit I dinnae love. Kit has saved me again.”

“So ye think ye’re being selfish with her?”

“I ken it,” Thorne growled, pushing himself upright. “I’m trying no’ to be selfish by giving her what she wants! I’m trying to listen to her, no’ push her, so she can deny a future together, if that’s what she wants.”

“But no’ what ye want,” Fawkes said softly. “But ye still have to tell her, Thorne. Give her all the information and let her make the decision. Ye dinnae want her to find out from a newspaper. Perhaps it wasnae just an excuse, and she honestly believed it to be the truth.”

“Aye,” Thorne agreed duly, watching a hired brougham slowly move down the street in front of Stroken House. “Perhaps she did.”

When he told her she was legitimate, and the heir to an Earldom, what would happen?

Well, it’s no’ as if she’d suddenly become a different person. She’d still be Kit. Yer Kit.

Aye, that was the truth. He needed to get his head out of his arse and stop being such a coward.

Slowly, he straightened.

He had to tell Kit.

He had to tell Kit before he told the rest of the world.

Tomorrow was the musicale. If they could get through that, then he could tell her. Even if Blackrose didn’t attend, Thorne would give her a few more hours of blissful ignorance, then confess. Then, if she was still willing to speak to him, they could work to figure out how to bring down her Father.

He couldn’t tell the world before he told her.

“I have to stop the printing,” he murmured.

“What?” Fawkes prompted.

Thorne turned away from the window. “I have to get to the printing offices and stop the paper printing that story tomorrow. Will Olivia be there?”

His cousin hummed as he lined up his shot. “The Duchess of Effinghell? I sincerely doubt it. She’ll be here at the musicale tomorrow with her husband—she insisted.”

Thorne was already stalking toward the door. “Aye, but I need to reach her now. I’m going to their house. Then she can take me to the printing offices and knock some heads together—they’ll no’ listen to me on my own!” The last was said from the corridor, where a footman was already hurrying toward him.

From inside the billiards room, Fawkes called out, “For fook’s sake, let me win this game first!”

But Thorne had already issued orders for his hat and coat. “There’s a brougham outside,” he snapped to the footman by the door. “Dinnae bother with the carriage, I’ll take that.”

He hurried down the front walk to the carriage the servant had flagged down and nodded his thanks. “If my cousin ever decides he’s had enough of knocking balls together, tell him where I went, eh?”

The footman barely had time to nod before Thorne had yanked open the door and thrown himself inside the dim interior.

And then second-guessed his rash decision.

Och, perhaps ye should’ve waited for the town coach after all.

Because this brougham was already occupied.

“Good evening, Your Grace,” Blackrose said softly from the other side of the bench seat where he lounged, brandishing a revolver. “Kind of you to join me.”

Fook fook shite fook.

His old employer’s grin grew. “I can imagine right now you’re wishing you had heeded my teachings about hired vehicles.”

“Aye,” Thorne finally managed, trying to appear relaxed as he leaned toward the closed door. “I was foolish.”

“Foolish, yes, and soon you’ll be dead.” Blackrose pounded on the roof to indicate the driver should get going. “I can’t kill you here, of course. Down by the river, I think, so it’ll look as if you were attacked by common footpads.”

The carriage didn’t move. “Why do ye want to kill me at all?” Thorne asked, hoping to buy time. He needed the bastard to be distracted, to let down his guard, so Thorne could throw himself out the door.

He needed to live. Live to apologize to Kit, if nothing else.

Tell her the truth: about her parents, about his heart, about his hopes.

In the dim light, Blackrose’s grin flashed. “Because, you idiot, I’ve learned you still have the evidence against me. Killing you isn’t an ideal solution, I know, but it’ll buy me some time to search your home. I need to prevent you from turning it over to the Crown tomorrow evening.”

Thorne’s mind raced, trying to remember what he was supposed to know. This confounded scheme was like a tiered cake. Or possibly a trifle. Or an onion. Layers—that was the point!

Blackrose believes ye have the evidence and will turn it over tomorrow evening to the Crown’s representative. He believes Kit is on his side. He believes Kit is going to steal the evidence for him, so this is just insurance. He doesnae ken that Kit has told ye all of this.

Fook. Thorne had been useful because of his grace, his athletic skills, his ability to sneak into places, and above all, his charming personality. Not his conniving skills.

So he settled for a mere, “Hmmm?” and raised brows, hoping he looked surprised.

“That’s right,” sneered Blackrose. “Your charming houseguest told me all about your plans!”

“Housegu—oh, Kit—Katherine?” Shite, subterfuge was harder than it looked. “What does she have to do with it?”

“Right now,” Blackrose lifted the gun, “nothing at all.”

Time had run out.

But four things happened right after each other, and it was the distraction Thorne needed.

One, Blackrose pounded on the roof again. “Move!” he barked.

Two, it became obvious why the hired brougham driver hadn’t started into motion, when the door was yanked open once more. Clearly the man had been hoping for another fare.

Three, Fawkes stuck his head into the vehicle, already scowling. “Thorne, why the fook—”

Four, startled, Blackrose swung his revolver toward Fawkes, outlined perfectly by the light spilling from the house behind him.

Time slowed.

Thorne could see his nemesis’s finger tighten around the trigger, knew the man would shoot Fawkes to remove witnesses.

Fawkes had Danielle—and Merida and his mother—to live for. After years of hell, Thorne’s cousin deserved a happy future.

And Thorne could give it to him.

As Fawkes recognized the danger his eyes widened, and his mouth opened to shout…but Thorne was already moving.

He wasn’t a genius, wasn’t talented when it came to managing estates or planning…but he could move. He could dance.

And really, throwing himself forward, twisting midair so he hit Fawkes with his shoulder, tucking himself around his cousin…wasn’t that a kind of dance?

The sound of the gunshot was louder than it ought to be in the confines of the carriage, and Thorne jerked as the bullet struck the side of his head, gouging a line of fire through his hair above his right ear.

And then he and Fawkes hit the cold ground outside. The driver, clearly spooked by the gunshot and the two bodies flying out of his carriage, finally whipped the team into action.

Thorne rolled off his cursing cousin in time to see the vehicle barreling down the street, door still ajar, with no sign of Blackrose.

Fook.

“Thorne? Good Christ, man, that’s a lot of blood.”

Woozily, Thorne allowed his head to rest on the pavement outside Stroken House. Already he could hear Titsworth yelling orders. “It’s a good thing I ken a chemist, then,” he murmured.

“Chemist, hell, we’re going to need a surgeon!”

“Nay, just a scrat—” Thorne suddenly rolled to one side as his stomach heaved, spewing his dinner beside him. It was likely a result of the excitement and fear, but even he could admit this wasn’t good.

Warm hands took him, cradled him, and he looked up at his cousin. His friend, who had become his family. Just as Kit had become a friend, then part of his heart.

Darkness was edging into his vision as Fawkes snapped directions, but Thorne’s lips curled into a grin.

Friends. Family. Lovers. The categories could intermingle, couldn’t they?

As he closed his eyes and allowed the darkness to claim him, he heard his cousin yell, “Find Kit!”

Aye, find Kit. Kit. Love ye, Kit.