Montagu stilled. Was it only her imagination that made her believe he blanched? The colour left his face so quickly she couldn’t be certain it was not a trick of the light. The day was dark and grim, the daylight in the gallery not so bright as one would hope for viewing pictures, but surely Montagu looked pale, did he not? Did it truly matter to him? He turned away from her and her scrutiny.

  “You don’t give a damn for Mr Burton,” he said and, though the words were quietly spoken, she could hear his anger.

  “He’s a decent man,” she retorted, finding she could hardly breathe.

  Montagu made a harsh sound. “He’ll suffocate you and snuff out all that makes you vibrant and alive. You must be the model wife for a man like that, perfect in every way, and heaven help you if say or do anything he doesn’t agree with.”

  Matilda fought down a prickle of unease, remembering Mr Burton’s obvious disapproval when she’d helped Harriet and Bonnie. They had proved that Lady Frances had tried to trap Kitty’s fiancé into marrying her instead, and Mr Burton had not been pleased. She thought of all the times he’d made his displeasure clear when she’d danced with any man but him. It was only natural, she told herself; he was protecting her. Yet there had been glimpses of something proprietary that had made her uneasy.

  “You would say that,” she retorted all the same, nettled that he could undermine her decision with such ease. “And I suppose you’d be different, oh, but I forgot, I would never be your wife, so it’s hardly the same.”

  “With me you’d be free!” Montagu swung around, grey eyes glittering with such fury that Matilda drew in a sharp breath, but Phoebe came running up to them and he clamped his mouth shut, forcing a smile to his face for his niece.

  “Have you decided if the monkey is eating oranges or peaches yet?” he asked, sounding quite calm and in control of himself.

  “Yes, definitely peaches,” she said, grinning up at him and showing a perfect set of dimples.

  Ridiculously, Matilda wondered if she’d inherited them from her uncle. If she had, Montagu had never smiled with such unrestrained pleasure as to make them visible.

  “I’m glad we cleared up that mystery, Bee.”

  Matilda felt her throat tighten at the tenderness in his voice as Montagu touched a hand to the girl’s cheek. He turned abruptly away, walking to the other side of the gallery and leaving them alone together.

  Phoebe watched him go, a tiny frown between her pale eyebrows, the expression such an echo of Montagu’s that Matilda’s breath caught.

  “What’s wrong?” Phoebe asked, looking up at her.

  Matilda heart clenched, struck that the girl should pick up on her uncle’s mood with such ease.

  “There’s nothing wrong, love,” Matilda said, crouching down to the little girl, who was still watching her uncle.

  He was staring at a painting, though she doubted he saw it. Every inch the ice-cold, untouchable nobleman, she reminded herself. He was far from her reach. Phoebe glanced uncertainly at Matilda and then back to Montagu.

  “Are you sure?” she asked, taking Matilda’s hand and glancing back at her uncle. “He….” The little girl lowered her voice, and looked around to check no one was close before speaking again. “He gets sad sometimes, though I’m not supposed to tell anyone. But you won’t say anything, will you? You’re his friend.” She hesitated, giving Matilda an oddly penetrating look. “He has got no other friends, you see. He’s not at ease with most people, but I think he likes you. You are his friend, aren’t you, Miss Hunt?”

  Matilda swallowed, hard. “I… well…. Yes. Yes, I suppose we are friends, and of course I won’t tell a soul, not ever, but… but what do you mean? Everyone is sad sometimes, Phoebe.”

  Phoebe shook her head. “Not like him. I don’t like it when he’s sad. He tries very hard to pretend he isn’t, but I can always tell because he tries too hard. His eyes don’t look the same. It’s like he’s not really there, like he’s gone somewhere else.”

  Matilda stared after Montagu, willing away the urge to go to him, trying to squash the feelings she’d told Helena she wanted to experience and now wished she’d never hoped for.

  “Are you lonely?”

  “I do not lack for company.”

  She’d sensed it in him before, something untouchable and desolate, but he’d not answered the question and, when she’d pressed, he’d evaded it altogether.

  There are some things I can choose for myself.

  He’d chosen her.

  You are not like the others.

  Matilda looked up as Montagu returned to them. His face was a mask of indifference, closed off.

  “Phoebe, go and look at the monkey again. I think perhaps they were oranges after all.”

  “But, Uncle….”

  Montagu raised one eyebrow just a fraction and Phoebe sighed.

  “Yes, Uncle.” She walked away, dutifully returning to the painting.

  Matilda waited as Montagu watched her go.

  “Have you accepted his offer?” There was no emotion to the question, he may as well have been enquiring if she thought it would rain again.

  Matilda stared at him, trying to find a crack in the mask, some clue to what it was Phoebe had meant about him being sad.

  “No,” she said, when his expression remained aloof. “He hasn’t asked me yet, but he’s going to.”

  Montagu nodded.

  “Thank you for coming today,” he said, scrupulously well-mannered. “I hope you enjoy the rest of the exhibition.”

  Matilda watched, a little astonished as he gave her a polite nod and walked away, collecting Phoebe before leaving the gallery. She let out an unsteady breath, her thoughts all in a jumble, her throat tight with anxiety and regret. Well, that was that, then. She was safe from Montagu, just as she’d hoped. He’d leave her be now, surely?

  She walked to stand by the window, discovering it overlooked the front of the gallery. Looking down, she saw Montagu emerge a few minutes later, holding Phoebe’s hand as their carriage moved forward. They stood, waiting as a footman opened the door and put down the step. Phoebe looked up at her uncle, staring at him in silence, and then covered the hand that held hers. Both tiny white-gloved hands held Montagu’s larger one in such a tender gesture of comfort that Matilda’s eyes burned.

  Chapter 16

  Mr Glover,

  I read your report with great interest. I want comparisons to other mills in the country to discover if safety standards are as poor as they would appear to be in the two you have investigated. I also want the names of all those injured. I would ask you to continue your investigations at the mills located in Derbyshire with all haste and return your findings to me without delay. I suspect you will discover more of the same. I have made funds available should you need to employ more men and to cover any further expenses. Speed is essential, no matter the costs involved. The personal information I requested also remains a priority.

  I expect to hear from you in no less than a week.

  ―Excerpt of a letter from The Most Honourable Lucian Barrington, Marquess of Montagu to Mr Richard Glover.

  24th January 1815. Church Street, Isleworth, London.

  Inigo sat, drumming his fingers on the kitchen table. He’d lit the fires in both his bedroom and the kitchen, laid the table ready for lunch, and tried to work on his paper for a full hour before conceding defeat. He took out his watch, glared at it when it still insisted it was gone three o'clock, and muttered a curse under his breath. Where the devil was she?

  A knock at the door had his chair screeching across the kitchen tiles as he stood up and ran for the door. Wrenching it open, Inigo scowled to see a messenger boy in the Duke of Bedwin’s livery.

  “For you, Mr de Beauvoir,” the boy said, handing over a letter bearing the duke’s seal.

  Inigo’s stomach somersaulted. Had Bedwin discovered his affair with his wife’s cousin? Perhaps this was to inform him he was being called out. Before he could tear it open, the boy leaned forward and withdrew another letter from inside his jacket.

  “And this one is from Miss Butler,” the lad whispered with an accompanying wink that only made Inigo scowl harder.

  Good God, the reckless little fool! Now she was bribing Bedwin’s staff to send messages? He flushed hot and cold in quick succession.

  “Wait,” he said tersely, closing the door and ripping open Minerva’s letter first.

  My darling Inigo,

  I’m so sorry. Prue is standing guard and I simply cannot get out of the house today. Tomorrow will be easier as she is going with Bedwin to visits friends. Bedwin is holding an impromptu and informal dinner tonight though, and he has sent you an invitation. Please accept it, my love. There are to be some important men here tonight and you may have another opportunity to talk to him about your work. It will be torture to see you and not touch you, but better than not seeing you at all. Do come.

  With all my love,

  Minerva.

  Inigo let out an unsteady breath before opening the letter from Bedwin and discovering an invitation for this evening. He scrawled a reply and opened the door again, pressing a coin and his acceptance into the boy’s hand before grasping his other wrist.

  “And if you breathe a word about that other letter to another living soul, there won’t be a place in the whole country safe enough for you to hide in.”

  The boy grinned at him, shaking his head. “Don’t you worry, none, mister. Miss Butler’s a good ’un, I won’t ever tattle. She did me a kind turn once and I ain’t forgot.”

  Inigo nodded and let the boy go, seeing sincerity in his eyes. “Thank you.”

  The boy nodded and then hesitated, narrowing his eyes. “You gonna do right by ’er?”

  “Yes! Not that it’s any of your business, cub,” Inigo retorted, fighting back a surge of guilt under the boy’s judgemental gaze.

  “Well, that’s all right and tight, then.” The cheeky blighter doffed his hat and stuck his hands in his pocket, whistling as he walked off.

  ***

  The evening of the 24th January 1815. Beverwyck, London.

  Inigo tugged at his coat and fought the urge to yank at his cravat, which was bloody strangling him, as a footman announced his name.

  There were more guests than he expected, perhaps a dozen, though there was only one that he was interested in seeing. He glimpsed a sunshine yellow gown and his breath caught, but before he could move forward a hand gripped his arm.

  “Inigo?”

  He turned, and met piercing dark blue eyes and a chiselled, handsome face with a familiar cynical expression.

  “Gabe?”

  “Didn’t blow yourself up yet then, professor?”

  Inigo gaped, looking the impeccably dressed man up and down in astonishment. “I heard the rumours about the notorious Mr Knight,” he said, shaking his head in wonder. “And I knew it was you, I just knew it.”

  “I told you I’d make a success of myself. No matter what.”

  “Christ, you even sound like a bloody toff,” Inigo said, laughing a little.

  Gabriel snorted. “Not quite, but as near as I can get without feeling like a complete prick.” He looked Inigo up and down, grinning now. “Not too shabby yourself, Professor. You’re famous.”

  “Not as famous as you,” Inigo remarked, accepting a drink from a passing servant.

  Gabriel gave a wry smile. “My bank balance is famous. I’m glad you’re here, though. I’ve been wanting to speak with you. I think we can help each other. I need an alchemist.”

  Inigo rolled his eyes. “We had this conversation when we were boys. I can’t turn lead into gold, you numbskull, so don’t ask me, and I’m a natural philosopher, not a bloody alchemist.”

  “I see you are as charming and pedantic as ever,” Gabriel said, grinning. “I can’t imagine why so many of the boys wanted to beat you up. For the record, I wasn’t going to ask, you jawed me to death the last time explaining why I was so addled to believe such a thing possible. I do, however, need a natural philosopher.”

  “What the devil for?” Inigo said, his eyebrows going up.

  He rolled his eyes as Gabe touched his nose with one finger. Gabriel Knight had ever been thus. In the foundling hospital, it was Gabe who could get stuff… for a price. He traded information in return for goods and, even as a lad of twelve, he had been big enough and damn near insane enough to take down a guard by himself. Mostly he was too clever to use his fists unless it was inescapable or worked to his advantage. Knowledge was power and Gabe had learned to use bribery, his wits, and an innate instinct for making money. Inigo knew Gabe was one of the main reasons he’d survived the orphanage with all his limbs intact. They’d not been friends exactly, but Gabe had looked out for him, protecting him from too many beatings, and Inigo would not forget that. Admittedly, that was because Gabe found Inigo was useful to him, being cleverer than the adults who ran the place by the time he was ten, but still.

  “We’ll talk another time,” Gabe said, patting Inigo’s shoulder. “But I’ll make it worth your while.”

  He winked at Inigo and sauntered off.

  “A friend of yours?”

  The familiar voice had Inigo’s heart beating double time as he turned towards it. His breath caught as he saw Minerva, and all the reasons why she would be out of her mind to settle for him crashed down upon him with force. She was stunning. The yellow dress brought out the gold in her hair and, set against those eyes, she was the embodiment of a summer’s day. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, could do nothing but stare at her and despair at how damn hopeless it was to feel this way. It was like longing to embrace the sun, though you knew you’d be burnt to cinders before you even got close.

  Minerva looked back at him and then blushed, glancing around to see if they were observed.

  “Inigo,” she whispered, her voice pleading. “Stop looking at me like that.”

  With a herculean effort, he tore his gaze away from her.

  “Sorry,” he managed, his voice sounding odd and scratchy.

  “I don’t mind,” she said, a soft note of amusement in her voice. “Only everyone will know what happened between us if you don’t stop.”

  Inigo cursed himself, knowing she was right and trying desperately to take himself in hand.

  “Forgive me, Miss Butler,” he said, once he could say something halfway intelligent. “May I say how… how exquisite you look tonight.”

  “You may.”

  The look of pleasure in her eyes at his compliment almost undid him all over again, but he downed the drink he held and gestured a servant over to give him another.

  “Am I to take it you know Mr Knight?” Minerva asked him.

  Inigo narrowed his eyes. “Yes. Do you?”

  Minerva looked far too pleased by the note in his voice which was not jealousy, but she mistakenly seemed to believe was.

  “We were just introduced this evening,” she said, taking a sip of her drink and looking around the room. “I have a friend who finds him rather fascinating, though,” she added, giving him a speculative glance.

  “Tell her to run far, far away,” Inigo said softly.

  “Why?”

  “Because women love him and there’s never been one yet who’s held his interest for above an hour, as far as I know. He’s dangerous to any well-bred lady. He despises aristocrats, but he’ll use them in any way he can to get what he wants.”

  “And what does he want?”

  “Money. Power.”

  Minerva looked troubled by that and he hoped her friend wasn’t as reckless as she was. He might be a bastard, but Gabriel was ruthless.

  “You know him well?”

  Inigo shrugged. “We grew up together.”

  “The foundling hospital?” Minerva said in surprise.

  “Yes,” Inigo agreed, doing his best not to look at her as he spoke, for his hands were itching to touch her, to slide over the butter-soft satin that encased her breasts, to pull her to him. He let go of a breath, trying to concentrate on the conversation. “We lost touch over the years, but I very much doubt he’s changed.”

  Minerva’s gaze moved over the room to where Lady Helena was standing, speaking with Lord St Clair. Inigo cursed, realising Harriet must be here too. Not that he bore her any ill will, nothing of the sort, but Harriet knew him better than most and he didn’t doubt their circle of Peculiar Ladies shared all the latest gossip. Did that mean she knew about him and Minerva? As he watched, Harriet appeared, moving to take St Clair’s arm. The earl turned, covering her hand with his and sending her such a look that Inigo felt an odd sensation in his chest. St Clair loved his wife. It was an odd realisation, to see the difference between something that was pure lust, and the strange mixture of adoration, desire and… and something else. Familiarity?

  He wondered how it would be to attend an evening like this with Minerva as his wife, and felt as if he’d had the air knocked from his lungs, his longing for it was so fierce. Was that what love was?

  While St Clair’s attention wandered, so had Lady Helena’s, and Inigo saw her stare across the room, her gaze fixed intently on Gabe. Oh, holy God. That was a disaster looking for a place to happen. Relieved to have someone else’s fate to dwell upon for a moment, he focused on that.

  “It’s Lady Helena.”

  Minerva looked up at him, a question in her eyes.

  “The friend who is fascinated with Gabe—Mr Knight, I mean. It’s Lady Helena.”

  Minerva bit her lip and then nodded.

  “Tell her to stay away,” Inigo warned her. “He has no scruples. He’s too damn rich to fear anyone, and ruining a duke’s sister is not something he’d have any scruples about.”

  Minerva blanched but gave a taut nod. “Thank you for the warning. I’ll tell her, but—”

  “But she’s just as pig-headed and self-destructive as you are,” Inigo finished with a weary sigh.

  Minerva flashed him a mischievous smile. “You’ve not destroyed me quite yet, Mr de Beauvoir,” she said, a wicked glint in her eyes as she moved away from him to mingle with the other guests.

 

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