The Edge of Desire (Bastion Club 7)

Swiveled on the seat of her carriage, Letitia looked into Christian’s face.

He waved. “Just a figure of speech. A joke of sorts.”

She frowned direfully. “I know you’re not planning an evening of dissipation. What I wish to confirm is that you are, indeed, planning on going into some dangerous, far from salubrious area of the slums, there to meet with some man named Gallagher, who’s the sort of acquaintance with whom both Trentham and Torrington judged you need physical support.” She glared at him. “That’s what I’m asking—as you damned well know!”

Christian’s lips lifted; he tried to straighten them. Reaching out, he closed a hand around one of hers. “Sssh. You’ll scare your coachman.”

“He’s been with me for years. I could scream and he—and his horses—would simply plod on. Don’t change the subject.”

“Which subject was that?”

“The subject of you swanning off on some dangerous enterprise at the first opportunity.” She wasn’t sure why the point so exercised her; it simply did. “Bad enough you were gone for twelve years plunging into God knows what dire situations, but there’s no reason—none whatever—that you need do so now, and certainly not on my account.” Perhaps that was it? Yes, obviously. “I don’t want you on my conscience. All very well to have Torrington and Trentham at your back—who’s going to be protecting your front? You men never think. I want you to promise me you won’t—absolutely will not—take any unnecessary risks. Any undue risks—for that matter I think this whole excursion qualifies as an undue risk. Learning about the likely buyer might be important—especially as I wish to pursue the sale—but I’m sure if we just wait, he’ll contact us, or Trowbridge or Swithin. You don’t have to go and consult some nefarious underworld figure—I assume from the fact that Torrington and Trentham both knew his reputation that he’s some sort of criminal magnate—who knows what he’ll demand in return?”

Her voice was rising, growing suspiciously unsteady. Christian squeezed her hand. “Meeting Gallagher’s price won’t be a problem.”

“He’ll have a price? Great heavens—he should help you for the honor of it, in repayment of his debts. You’re a damned war hero, and I’m quite sure he—whoever he is—has never bestirred himself in the service of his country.” She barely paused for breath. “I’m really not happy about any of this.”

“Yes. I know.” Raising her hand, Christian placed a kiss on her fingers just as the carriage rocked to a halt outside the house. He’d always wondered how she’d viewed his secret service; now he knew—she thought him a hero. He’d always wondered if she’d worried about him while he’d been on the Contintent; apparently she had. To now hear her so agitated over him perversely left a warm glow about his heart.

Releasing her, he opened the door, stepped down, then helped her to alight. Meeting her gaze levelly, he calmly stated, “Regardless, I’ll be meeting with Gallagher tonight.”

She made a frustrated sound like steam escaping. She went to wave her arms, but he’d kept hold of her hand.

Smiling, he raised it and kissed her fingers again. “I’ll see you tomorrow, and tell you what I learn.”

She blinked at him. “Tomorrow? What about tonight?”

Releasing her, he stepped back and saluted, battling a grin. “No telling what time I’ll get back. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Turning, he sauntered off up South Audley Street. He could feel her dagger gaze boring into his back, but he didn’t glance back.

He didn’t whistle, but he felt like it.

Seeing Barton’s carroty head peeking over the edge of another set of area steps, he waved and, surprisingly content, continued on his way home.

Chapter 17

At ten o’clock that night Christian, with Tristan at his heels and Tony a few paces behind, walked down a narrow alley in the labyrinth of lanes between Cannon Street and the Thames. In Mayfair’s wide streets the moon shone down, but here the tenements and warehouses hemmed the lanes in; it was nearly pitch-dark. This close to the river, fog had already thickened, wisps wreathing about their greatcoated shoulders, clinging as they passed. Their boots fell softly on ancient cobbles.

“I’m glad you know where you’re going.” Tristan’s voice came in a whisper from behind. “I just hope you know the way back.”

Christian’s lips quirked.

Five yards farther on he halted and faced a plain wooden door. Raising a fist, he knocked once, waited a heartbeat, then knocked twice.

A moment passed, then a small screened window in the door slid open. There was no light within. Another silent moment ticked past, then a hoarse voice demanded, “Who is it?”

“Grantham.”

The window slid shut.

Tristan tapped his arm. Christian glanced his way, saw Tristan’s raised brows, whispered, “Previous title.”

“Ah.”

They waited, patiently, for several minutes, then they heard heavy bolts sliding back.

A huge bruiser hauled open the door. He nodded to Christian. “The master’ll see you.”