Chapter 8

He was a heel.

Of that, Julian had little doubt, as he found himself—again—on Sloane Street.

He must've covered five miles by now, as he paced up and down its length.

In his defense, he hadn't intended to seek out Lady Tessa at her home. He'd gone to The Archangel first, where he'd been informed by the implacable doorman that this was her night off. A forbidding narrowing of the eyes and the arch of a single eyebrow had accompanied the information.

Which was how Julian ended up on Sloane Street, wearing a rut in the cobblestones.

Steeling his resolve to do the right thing.

To let her off the hook.

To tell her the debt was forgiven…And they could each go their own merry way…And perhaps look back upon the entire misbegotten episode with fondness and a laugh.

That was what he would say, anyway.

And he would say it the way he said everything—with good humor and amiability.

She would believe him.

Even if he didn't.

His entire life was constructed of falsehood. Why should his interactions with Lady Tessa be any different?

Indeed, why?

Why did his interactions with her feel different?

Feel...true?

But what did he know about the truth?

Or how it would feel?

Once he'd had enough of this limbo he'd created for himself, he strode across the street and practically leapt up the five steps to her doorstep. He gave the knocker three firm raps before he could reconsider.

This was the correct course of action.

Of course, it was.

A minute passed, and no answer came, but he could see an orange glow around closed curtains.

She was home and awake.

Unease sheered through him. He clenched a fist and began a genuine harassment of the door. He would give it another minute, then action would be taken. It was a solid enough door, but he didn't like its odds against the heel of his boot.

Of a sudden, the door swung open, and a thoroughly piqued Lady Tessa stood in the center of the doorway, her cheeks flushed, a question in her eyes. Like the first time he'd knocked on her door, she wasn't wearing cravat or waistcoat, but a man's shirt tucked into her skirts, her thick red-gold hair in a loose plait.

She was dressed like a woman not expecting company.

Annoyance flared through Julian. "Do you open your door to every man who bangs upon it?"

"Just you, it seems," she said, dry.

Julian was in no mood to be chastened. "Did you not hire a butler?"

She exhaled a long-suffering sigh. "Seems to have slipped my mind."

Blasted frustrating woman.

"If you could please state your business?" The instant the question was out of her mouth, her brow crinkled and a blush stained her cheeks. "Are you here about?—"

"Debt settlement, yes," he said, suddenly as uncomfortable as she.

As that had been her term for it, she would immediately take his meaning.

Wordlessly, she stood aside and allowed him entry.

It was the aroma filling the air that assailed him first. If Heaven descended to Earth, this would be how it smelled. "What is that scent?" he was unable not to ask.

Her head canted. "What is the first note that comes to mind?"

"Note?"

"Scent."

"Jasmine?"

She nodded, slowly, weighing his answer. "Of course." Her head canted. "And the second?"

Julian considered for a moment. "Smoky…rice?"

That answer didn't make a great deal of sense to Julian, but it got an approving smile from Lady Tessa. "Exactly." She led him into the drawing room. "You'll have to excuse the mess. I wasn't expecting visitors."

Here, Julian located the source of the heavenly aroma. Except…"What am I looking at?"

Populated atop two large rectangular tables were individual piles of what appeared to be leaves and dried flowers and…were those citrus rinds?

"Since my sisters moved into Gabriel's mansion, I've started an endeavor I've been itching to try."

She spoke the words as if the goal of the endeavor were obvious to the casual observer.

"Are you in training to become an apothecary?" It was his best guess and not a bad one, given the evidence before him.

A smile hovered within her silver-blue eyes. "Tea."

"Tea?"

"Well, the blending of it."

"Ah," he said, remembering she'd mentioned as much the morning she'd made him tea.

"I have a fondness for tea," she said with her customary unapologetic directness. "So many flavors can be blended into it, not to mention the number of varieties of tea itself to be had."

"I'm more of a coffee man myself."

She scrunched her nose. "Coffee is a bit heavy on the palette for my tastes."

"Ah."

She indicated he take a seat on an ancient settee whose damask had been worn to fraying threads from decades, perhaps centuries, of use. She perched on the chair opposite. Before him sat a woman who wouldn't have noticed the state of her furniture, save that it was clean, tidy, and functional. How many sisters of dukes thought thusly?

One, as far as Julian knew.

"The smoked-rice scent you caught in the air?"

His brow wanted to gather at the seeming non sequitur. "Yes?"

"It's a rare green tea that comes from China. Sencha."

"I suppose you buy that at Twinings?"

She laughed. "Oh, heavens no. I have a source who deals with a Dutch trader who procures it directly from a merchant in China. I can only get it once a year."

Before Julian sat a woman who would, literally, go to the ends of the earth for tea.

A useful thing to know about a person.

"Tea is my one indulgence."

"Just the one?" he asked. "You're a lady now; you're entitled to all the indulgences the world has on offer."

Fervor and passion shone in her eyes, and a feeling stirred within Julian—a feeling at odds with what he'd come here to say.

A feeling that held a demand.

Rather than forgive the debt, he should claim his right to payment.

He should claim his right to her for one night.

His right?

This was the year 1822, not 822.

He had no right to her.

But that knowledge didn't prevent parts of him from wishing it were so.

The spark of humor faded from her eyes. Perhaps she'd caught a glimmer of medieval stirrings in his.

She was waiting for him to state his business.

He cleared his throat.

"Someday," he began, "perhaps we might look back on this whole episode with a laugh."

Her brow lifted. "This whole episode?"

He'd begun in the wrong place. "After we've each gone our merry way."

"Our merry way," she repeated. Her eyes narrowed upon him. "Have you recently suffered a cosh to the head?"

He snorted. "Not that I'm aware of. But then, I might not remember, mightn't I?"

A little humor never went amiss—except the theory would explain a great deal about his recent, erm, wagers.

She watched him for ten held-breath seconds before shifting forward. She'd made up her mind about something. "Let's speak openly, shall we?"

"I believe that would be to both our benefits."

She nodded, her steady eyes trained on him. "Have you come to collect your one night?"

How was that for directness?

"I've come here to?—"

Forgive the debtwould've been his next words—if the deafening crash of shattering glass hadn't filled the room the next instant.

A large rock whizzed past Lady Tessa's head, missing it by a few inches, and landed at Julian's feet. Instinctively, he lurched forward and reached out to grab the nape of her neck and duck her head down. If the assailant yet lurked, he wouldn't have an easy target.

"Stay here," he shouted, as glass clattered to floorboards.

"But I?—"

"Stay."

Her jaw clamped shut; mutiny shone in her eyes.

On a low crouch, he rushed toward the smashed front window that overlooked Sloane Street and peered around the curtain now swinging with the night breeze, ready to give chase at the least sign of the assailant. As he could have predicted, they'd legged it.

"They'll be long gone, won't they?" came Lady Tessa's contralto voice just beyond his shoulder.

Annoyed, Julian half turned. "I thought I told you to?—"

"Stay?" She shook her head. "You need to know two things about me, Lord Ormonde."

Julian felt the reflexive flinch—Ormonde—and saw her take note. Interest sparked in her eyes, but she continued her scold, "I am not a dog who can be commanded, and I make my own decisions about my person."

"Do you know who did this?"

"I have a decent idea."

A few beats of silence ticked by as he waited and she continued to say nothing. "Would you deign to enlighten me?"

"Oh, it's surely Blaze Jagger. Well, not him directly. He would've had one of his toadies throw the rock. But it was done at his behest, definitely."

She spoke as if she were reciting the shopping list, completely without emotion or concern. If she was rattled or shaken, she was doing a bang-up impersonation of someone who wasn't. While he understood and respected her desire for autonomous personhood, now wasn't the time for urbane, rational discussion.

Now was the time for action.

"Well, then I suggest you gather what you'll need for the night," he said, meeting the coolness of her voice note for note. "You're coming with me."

Instinct had a quick refusal poised on her lips. Except Lady Tessa wasn't a person guided by instinct, but rather by good sense. She considered herself a rational and pragmatic woman, and as such, she couldn't quite utter the no that so wanted airing.

She pivoted on her heel, tossing over her shoulder before she exited the room, "Meet me at the front door in two minutes."

The thrill of triumph that shot through Julian was completely inappropriate given the circumstances of her acquiescence, but he'd won an exchange with Lady Tessa and he would take his victories where they came.

The reason that had brought him to her door—the wager—was no longer the important thing.

Keeping Lady Tessa safe was.

The marquess hadn't broughther to his primary London address, Tessa understood that much.

That address would've been located in either St. James's or Grosvenor or Berkeley Squares.

Instead, she was crossing the threshold of an unassuming townhouse on Little Thomas Street in Cheapside.

As she followed Ormonde into the drawing room just off the small entry hall, it struck her this townhouse held all the comforts of a home with its low fire burning in the hearth. Discreet servants accustomed to their master coming and going at whim kept this house.

He crossed the room and lowered himself onto a burgundy velvet settee, resting an ankle on a thigh and stretching his arms along the back of the sofa. Gone was the amiable golden lord of the ton and in his place was a man in control, serious and confident.

And attractive.

Oh, he was always attractive, but this attractiveness extended beyond handsomeness.

This was the sort of attractiveness that sent a quiver tracing up a woman's thighs.

Better she remained standing, rather than take the chair opposite him.

"So," he began, the first word he'd uttered in her direction since they'd vacated Sloane Street. "I take it you and Jagger aren't friendly business associates."

She stepped to the back of the armchair and rested her forearms. "I'd never met the man until Derby Day."

"Right."

He was waiting for her to continue.

"It's this Race of the Century business." She didn't owe Ormonde an accounting of her affairs, yet she continued, "Gabriel and the Duke of Richmond are cutting the blacklegs out of the race day betting post."

"That'll be hundreds of thousands of pounds."

"It will."

"Why not let Jagger have a piece of the pie?"

Tessa understood why this golden lord would wonder as much, but he knew nothing of how the London underworld was ordered. "Whether I agree or not, Gabriel drew the line. Jagger knows the rules."

"Which are?"

"If we make that concession, then Jagger will demand another and another until we're thoroughly and inextricably in his pocket. Next thing, we'll be doing his bidding."

Ormonde's brow gathered. If his expression wasn't quite thunderous, then thunderous adjacent. "You're going to fight him."

"Fight is a strong word." She gave a shrug. "A fight wouldn't benefit anyone. I don't want to fight Blaze Jagger. I want to solve him."

Ormonde cocked his head. "In case you hadn't noticed, Jagger's a flesh-and-blood man, not a mathematical equation."

Tessa tried not to let her annoyance show. But really, this lord had been—correctly…irritatingly—taking her measure.

"I know precisely what he is, Lord Ormonde," she said. "He's angry, ambitious, ruthless, calculating, and capable."

"All qualities which make him a dangerous adversary."

She couldn't disagree. But this marquess needed to understand something vital—something she was under no obligation to tell him, even as the words were flowing from her mouth…"He's the sort of person Gabriel and I could have easily become."

Ormonde's brow gathered with curiosity. "Pardon?"

She would have to explain. "Surely, the ton's gossip mill has provided you an outline of our family's history."

Ormonde's gaze remained fixed on her. "A grandfather who cut and ran from his family. A great uncle who died without legitimate issue."

She nodded. "When I was nine years old, our parents died within six months of each other."

"Blast."

"Then Gabriel was given a scholarship to attend Eton College."

Tessa caught the instant the import of that statement sank into Ormonde's mind. "Leaving you and your sisters to fend for yourselves in London."

"Gabriel didn't desert us." That needed to be understood. "Him being educated at Eton was our family's best hope."

"Hope doesn't put food on the table."

"I worked odd jobs and kept us going."

His ankle unhooked from his thigh, and he shoved forward with sudden distress. "What about living quarters?" he asked. "Did you have a roof over your heads?"

She nodded. "After Mama and Papa died, we invented an uncle who never happened to be home when the rent was collected. It was how we were able to keep our small flat of rooms in the early days." She gave a dry laugh. "Of course, the irony isn't lost on us that we did, indeed, have a long-lost uncle. Anyway," she continued, "I dressed in Gabriel's old clothes and did any odd job that came my way to keep us out of the workhouse. Chimney sweep…assisting washerwomen…helping mend clothes for resale at pawnbrokers…Some days, I begged. Others, I wasn't above picking a random pocket or two. Whatever was available, and where I could bring my sisters. Nothing that held us together was out of bounds, then or now, if it comes to it. Then Gabriel made a discovery. The lordlings at Eton were willing to pay him for doing their schoolwork."

"Enterprising."

"It might not seem all that impressive to you, my lord, but our luck changed that day." She felt strangely prickly and defensive. "We did everything it took to keep our family together and our sisters safe."

"You are impressive, Lady Tessa."

The praise crept through Tessa, warming places inside her long gone cold. She tried to shake off the feeling and continued, "My point in telling you is Jagger's is the life we could've led if our lives hadn't zigged when it could've zagged. Fate is that simple. A different turn here or there can set the course of a life in a whole new direction."

Enigmatic emotion passed behind Ormonde's eyes. Something in her words had affected him. Silence woven through with complex feelings and memories expanded into the air between them.

She'd said too much—revealed too much of her past…of herself. Exposed, that was her in this moment.

Right.

"I must send a note to my family," she said, brisk efficiency in her voice. "They tend to arrive unannounced on my doorstep. I can't be missing and put them through that worry."

After Filthy Habit had won the Derby and Ormonde their wager, she'd informed Gabriel of the possibility that she might take an impromptu holiday. He hadn't asked too many questions—save one.

With someone?

She'd snapped a dismissive retort worthy of an older sister to a younger brother and that had been the end of it.

Except that hadn't been the end of it.

Here, she stood in a townhouse owned by the Marquess of Ormonde, poised at the beginning.

Of…something.

Exactly what yet eluded her.

A few beats of time ticked past before he unfolded his long body and stood. "Of course. Follow me."

Alone in an upstairs bedroom, Tessa dashed off a quick note to Saskia and Viveca and handed them off to the housekeeper who appeared to have materialized from thin air. Ormonde must've sent her.

Only then did she properly take in her surroundings.

The room was surprisingly opulent, all done in gold accents and deep mahogany wood and silken purples that bordered on black.

Thiswas the bedroom of a marquess.

In Cheapside.

A bureau on the opposite side of the room caught her eye. Curiosity had her closing the distance and considering the solid structure—the top half with two closed doors and the bottom half with three large drawers. Her palm smoothed across the fine surface of inlaid woods worked in an intricate floral motif.

Temptation beckoned…How easily she could slide a drawer open…Ormonde would never know.

She shouldn't.

But what rose above that rather weak objection was possibility—the possibility that within this bureau lay something personal to the Marquess of Ormonde.

Something that would help explain him.

For here was what now gnawed at her about the golden lord—the longer they were acquainted, the less she felt she knew him.

Unbidden, memory flashed.

Of him in the back room of Blanton Co….

Of the long, jade-green cylindrical object he'd slipped into his pocket.

Was that object in one of these drawers?

Determined fingers hooked a brass pull…

"You might rethink doing that," came a low rumble behind her.

A startled, guilty Tessa swung around. Though Ormonde stood on the other side of the room, his voice vibrated through her as if he'd uttered the words in her ear.

"Why?" she asked, more defiant than she had a right to be.

Of course, he was under no obligation to answer.

"You won't be able to unsee what's in there."

A light scoff escaped her. "Are you in possession of stolen treasure, perchance?"

His scoff answered hers. "Hardly."

Tessa's desire to open the drawer transformed into unrequited physical need. Heart racing, her palms experienced a light slick of perspiration as she pulled and it glided open on silent waxed runners.

Anticipation pulsing through her, it took a full three seconds for her eyes to register what they were beholding. Her brow gathered, and she blinked. "Feathers?"

Across the black velvet drawer lining lay every sort of feather—striped pheasant, fluffy quail, dazzling peacock, extravagant ostrich…

"Disappointed?" No mistaking the indulgent smile in the question.

And she understood.

She was disappointed.

And that reaction told her something.

Not about him—but about herself.

"Were you expecting to find something else?"

They both knew what something else he was referring to—the object he'd slipped into his pocket at Blanton Co.

He was toying with her.

Of course she'd been expecting that something else.

Nay, not simply expecting.

Wanting.

She faced him, and in doing so, faced her wanting. "Since you came to my house about debt settlement tonight," she began. "Is this to be our one night?"