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I should not have done that.
Poppy was still pondering the statement when James shut the carriage door in her face. She scowled when he ordered the driver to take her home. He was such an arrogant, hot-headed beast setting her aside like this. She could have boxed his belligerent ears. Why did he insist on treating her like a wayward child?
The stab of disappointment confused her. The feeling spreading through her was unwelcome. Why had he kissed her if he was only going to get upset about it?
She wasn’t upset.
Lord, how could she be with those lips?
They were satiny. Demanding. Utterly irresistible. Poppy had felt the weight of his desire in that kiss. Even before, hiding behind the sofa, his body had reacted much like hers. Heat had pooled at her core.
James Shaw found her desirable.
That both surprised and thrilled Poppy. She had been the one to kiss him first. And that had been calculated, even if she found him thoroughly dashing. This time, he had kissed her, and she hadn’t been in any sort of disguise. It had been as if he had kissed Poppy for, well, Poppy.
Which was why his curt dismissal stung.
Perhaps she would box his ears when she saw him again. She blinked a few times and changed her train of thought. She did not want to think about the beast at present. Poppy would rather solve the mystery that was Elliot Jennings.
It felt good to have been right about him, even though the actor was not entirely innocent.
Poppy replayed the gripping incident with Jennings and Walker in her mind. She must be going crazy, but she could have sworn she caught sight of skirts in the brief glimpse she managed from behind the sofa. But that couldn’t be right, could it? It must have been a trick of the light. James had hauled her back so fast.
Her brows scrunched together as she recalled Jennings uncertainty over the snapped beam. He believed it either an accident or, if done purposefully, could have been meant for any one of them—Marks, Jennings, Charlotte. Did that mean there was another villain at large?
Poppy hoped not.
One was quite enough.
The carriage drew to a halt, and Poppy sighed. She waited for the driver to let her out, but when the door swung open, it wasn’t the driver, but Beatrix, fully attired as Charlotte, who poked her head inside.
Poppy opened and closed her mouth. “Beatrix?”
“I followed you from the theatre,” Beatrix admonished. “You were not supposed to return there.”
“I know, Beatrix. I’m sorry, but I had to at least try one last time.”
Beatrix sighed. “I saw Mr. Shaw deposit you in the carriage and send you off. I also saw Jennings and Mrs. March. Did they catch you? It didn’t seem like it, but I had to make sure.”
Poppy frowned, pulling Beatrix into the carriage and shutting the door. “You saw Jennings with Mrs. March?”
Beatrix nodded. “Did something happen?”
Poppy explained what transpired in Jennings’s room. “We still do not know who this man is.”
“I am of no help. I didn’t see Mr. Jennings with a man, only Mrs. March.”
Poppy tilted her head, a possibility forming her mind. “Are you sure there was no else besides them?”
Beatrix nodded. “I’m certain.”
“What is Mrs. March’s full name?”
“Temperance March.”
“Temperance March. . .” Poppy repeated slowly.
Terrance Walker. “Dear Lord, Beatrix! I think I solved the mystery.”
Beatrix leaned forward in her seat. “What is it?”
“We overheard the other man’s name is Terrance Walker.” Poppy inhaled deeply, eyes fixing on her friend. “Terrance, Temperance. Walker, March. Beatrix, Terrance Walker is Temperance March.”
“I don’t know, Poppy. The names do seem like an incredible coincidence.”
Poppy’s mind raced. The silent woman reading the book next to Jennings. Jennings sparring with Marks and making a belated comment about storage. The skirts she thought she had imagined in Jennings’s dressing room.
“Coincidence or not, Beatrix, there is only one way to find out.”
“How?” Beatrix asked with a small frown.
Poppy rapped on the roof. “Driver! Take us back to the theatre.”
“Please tell me we are not going to confront Mrs. March?”
“Of course not, that would be dangerous if my suspicions prove correct. Marks made an offhanded comment about Jennings using the theatre’s storage. I did not think much of it at the time but if Jennings is helping Walker, unknowingly or not, the answer lies there.”
“Should we not send for Mr. Shaw?”
Poppy shook her head. He would only send her home. Would dismiss her hunch. And, “I could be wrong. It’s a rather far-fetched theory, I suppose. But if I am right, we shall send for him. Do you know where the basement of storage is located? We have precious little time to waste.”
Beatrix nodded. “I’ve been there once. I should be able to find it without trouble.”
True to her word, Beatrix led them straight to the basement when they arrived at the theatre. The building was empty of any workers.
Poppy followed right on Beatrix’s heels, heart beating hard in her throat. Her fingers tingled and the hairs on the back of her neck rose. The basement was wet and murky, and a foul smell sat within the walls, as if creatures had died and rotted here. Crates were stacked everywhere, some covered in dusty cloth and others not.
“What are we looking for?” Beatrix whispered.
“I don’t know. Anything suspicious,” Poppy said, marching to a stack of crates and lifting the cloth to peek inside. Books and props were all she found.
A gasp from Beatrix drew her gaze over to her friend, on the opposite side of the crowded space.
“Poppy,” she breathed.
Poppy hurried over to peer inside the crate Beatrix was gawking at, and let out a startled gasp of her own.
Double Barrel Flintlocks.
“Are those props?” Poppy asked.
“No,” Beatrix breathed.
A chill shot down Poppy’s spine.
They searched all the crates in the west corner, fear mounting in Poppy as each container revealed the horrid truth of their content.
Hundreds.
There were hundreds and hundreds of pistols.
“This is much worse than we imagined,” Poppy whispered.
Beatrix had spoken of beheading as a metaphor. What Poppy saw with her own eyes wasn’t far from that. Whoever these crates belonged to, they could very likely attempt to topple a government. Should the government be caught unaware . . .
“I still can’t believe you put together that Mr. Jennings is storing contraband for this reprobate.”
“How exactly,” a voice drawled from the shadows, “did you put it together?”
***
James scowled at the sight before him.
It was unexpected, unwanted, and bloody unwelcome. His body, still on fire from what transpired with Poppy, chilled to the bone with each passing second.
Madeline, along with his brother, slowly rose from their cozy little nest in the drawing room. This was James’s Home. Derek’s home. A sanctuary. Not hers to intrude upon.
“What the hell is she doing here?” James demanded from his brother, lips curling up in displeasure. He glared at Derek, but his brother’s face remained clear of any emotion.
“James,” Madeline said, tears gathering in her eyes. “I was just telling your brother how you have grown up into strong, capable men.”
“Did you not, days ago, berate us through our solicitor for our choices?”
A blush stained her cheeks. “I admit, I spoke out of anger then.”
James curled his lip upward at the statement. But since his aunt was here, he had some questions. “How did you recognize me in the first place? It’s been fifteen years.”
She lowered her lashes. “You look just like your father.”
James flinched. Not what he wanted to hear. No more questions for Madeline. He looked at Derek. “What is she doing here?”
“Perhaps you should sit,” Derek suggested.
Not bloody happening. Derek had said he’d handle Madeline, yet here she was.
Well, he’d give his brother some credit. At least this was no dinner.
“I merely wish to talk, James,” Madeline said in Derek’s defense. “I didn’t give Wolverton any choice.”
Both men jerked at the title.
“I found your home on my own,” she went on. “He was just as surprised at my arrival as you and had no choice but to accept me.”
“I fairly doubt that. Derek doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to do.”
“You may turn me away, James, but will you turn away my son?”
A thousand lashes to his back could not have prepared James for the jolt of pain shooting through his spine.
And here it was.
The true reason she sought them out.
“I want you to meet your nephew.”
James shut his eyes.
“Wolverton won’t agree to a meeting without you, James. Please, he is your family.”
His eyes snapped open at that. “You mean he is in line for the dukedom if Derek or I don’t provide heirs, as family could not possibly mean anything to you, a woman who abandoned hers fifteen years ago,” James growled. Madeline paled. He spared no mercy. “And never use that title in our presence.”
“You know why I had to leave.”
“I know why you left. Whether you had to do it is still a matter for debate.”
“You were young men when I left.”
“We were seventeen—young, impressionable, with no parents. We needed family. We needed you.”
Madeline blanched and glanced at Derek, who remained as stiff as a tree trunk. He kept his face averted. She would get no aid from him.
“I have no wish to meet your son,” James announced.
Derek’s gaze shifted to him, unreadable. This was what no one outside or inside their circle understood. They all thought James the mildest of the brothers because he always had a charming smile at the ready, whereas Derek said little, revealed even less with his stony mask of indifference. Yet behind each man’s visage hid a deeper nature. A softer heart that enemies would take advantage of, or in James’s case, a hardened heart that had lacked mercy too many times to count.
Derek said nothing, however, merely remained rigid as a statue waiting for James to set the course of their evening.
“He is your nephew,” Madeline implored. “Surely that must mean something?”
“How old is he?” James demanded even though the answer already materialized in his head. “What is his name?”
“His name is Alexander Derek Demikov. He is nine years old.”
“You gave him our family name?”
She nodded. “He is the firstborn.”
“So for nine years he has lived a life without us,” James growled. “Another nine years will not matter.”
“How can you be so harsh? He is your nephew. You might be angry with me but my son is just a boy. If you will please sit, I will explain.”
“I’m not in the mood, Madeline.”
“I am sick, James. I have consumption.” She paused. “I am dying. Alexander is going to need his uncles.”
James shut his eyes. He felt prickles in the region of his heart, telling him he was bloody thawing. Madeline had just said the one thing that would give him pause. That could force him to reconsider. Neither he nor Derek could walk away from a woman or child in need. It went against their nature. Some found that to be courageous, at times. James thought it a burden more than not.
“What about your Russian family?”
She averted her face. “They never approved of me.”
James fisted his hands. “Neither do we.”
Derek shifted on his feet.
“How do we know you are not spinning a convenient tale?” James was a bastard for asking, but he had to know, observed her face carefully as emotion flashed across her features.
“How dare you accuse me of lying, James? Do you know how long it took for me to come to terms with my illness? I am growing weaker by the day. The journey to England only worsened my condition. You wish to be angry with me, very well, but do not punish a small boy for my sins.”
James stiffened. She was right, dammit. And once he looked past his own grievances, the slight strain around her eyes, the pallor to her skin became all too indisputable.
“Please, meet him,” Madeline entreated, and James sighed.
“Fine, if Derek agrees to meet your son, I will, as well.”
The tension visibly eased from his brother. “It’s settled then. Set up a meet.”
James turned on his heel and strode from the room. “If you two will excuse me.”
“Wait!” Madeline called out. “I just arrived, James. We have much to discuss. Please stay awhile.”
James turned to them once more. He wanted to snap at her to leave him be, but he mistakenly made eye contact, and the hiss died on his tongue before reaching his lips.
He inhaled deeply. “We have agreed to meet the boy. Let’s leave it at that.”
“James—”
“Madeline,” Derek warned as she began to argue. “Let him go.”
Geoffrey, one of James’s trusted men, chose that suspenseful moment to burst into the drawing room, out of breath and deathly pale.
James felt the blood rush to his toes. Geoffrey had been tasked to follow Poppy. “What happened?” he demanded urgently.
Geoffrey glanced uncertainly at Madeline.
“James?” Derek advanced a step.
“Is she alright?” James growled, his whole attention on Geoffrey as crippling dread scorched his skin like hot water. “Dammit, spit it out man.”
“Sir—” Geoffrey’s answer was stolen by another man, Harrington, striding into the room, face grim. He was the man Derek had put on Miss Rose.
Harrington’s eyes flicked between Derek and James. “There’s been trouble at the theatre.”
James took off at a dead run.