Her eyes widened, and for one fleeting moment, Pearce would have sworn he saw her old affection for him in their green depths. But then they narrowed in anger…and with something else he couldn’t quite identify.
“Stop this carriage.” Beneath her icy request, the temperature inside the compartment surely dropped twenty degrees. “Please be a gentleman and go away.”
“I can’t do that, Amelia.”
“Then I’ll leave.” She pounded her tiny fist against the side of the carriage to signal to the driver to stop, her gaze never leaving his. As if she didn’t trust him not to vanish into thin air. Or pounce. From the mix of emotions swirling across her face, he couldn’t have said which.
Damnation. He’d known from the way she’d fled last night that she wouldn’t be happy to see him today. What had happened on her sixteenth birthday had certainly humiliated her, and she’d probably blamed him for it ever since. She wouldn’t be wrong. After all, he’d certainly blamed himself for being so careless that her father caught them together, for not having the control to keep himself away from her.
But her anger bothered him. More than he wanted to admit. A part of him had stupidly hoped that she’d be happy to see him again. God knew he was thrilled to see her. At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to pull her into his arms and hold her close, to prove she was real and not merely fantasy.
Apparently, though, all Amelia wanted was to flee. She put her head out the window and called up to the jarvey. “Please stop!”
“He won’t listen to you,” Pearce told her calmly as the team drove on.
Ignoring him, she pounded her fist once more against the compartment wall, harder than before.
“You’re going to hurt yourself.” Biting down an aggravated curse that she wanted to be away from him so badly, he gently took her by the wrist. “And what a damned shame it would be to bruise such tender flesh.”
She gaped at him, stunned.
He shamelessly took advantage of her breathless reaction by raising her hand to his lips so he could place a lingering kiss on the backs of her fingers. After so many years of not seeing her, of not knowing what had happened to her, he simply couldn’t resist even this small taste of her.
That caused her mouth to fall open in an O as round as her big eyes. In that reaction, Pearce glimpsed the girl he remembered, the one who had never been good at hiding her emotions. He nearly grinned. The Amelia he’d known still lurked beneath the facade of the beautiful woman she’d become. Thank God.
He could barely believe that she was here. But the nervous trembling of her fingers against his lips was certainly real.
So was the wariness in her eyes.
When she slowly pulled her hand from his grasp, he resisted the urge to snatch it back. Instead, he leaned against the leather squabs and casually angled his long legs across the small compartment, hoping he looked relaxed even though his heart drummed against his ribs.
“The driver has orders to ignore you,” he explained.
“Why would he do that?” Her voice emerged surprisingly husky, and thankfully more curious than angry.
“Because I paid him to.”
“You…” She blinked. “Why would you do that?”
“Because we need to talk,” he explained. “And I couldn’t be certain after last night that you wouldn’t try to run away.” Again.
The undulation in her throat from her nervous swallow proved him right. She would have done just that. “We have nothing to talk about.”
“A great deal.” He leveled his gaze on her as the carriage rocked around them, swaying them in their seats. “Starting with why you were at Le Château Noir this morning.”
Her fingers tightened around the reticule she held in her lap as she defensively tossed back, “Why were you?”
“I’m a former soldier turned peer. Visiting brothels is practically a requirement.” He couldn’t tell her the truth. That he’d followed her there. Not until he’d learned how much she knew about what her brother had been doing. But instead of drawing a smile, that teasing comment surprisingly darkened her expression. So he continued cautiously, “What I’d like to know is why would a respectable lady and the sister of an MP?”
“Don’t confuse the two,” she countered dryly. “They’re not necessarily inclusive.”
His lips curled in amusement. The sharp woman who’d verbally fenced with him last night had returned. “Why were either of them at Lord Torrington’s masquerade, then?”
“The dancing,” she quipped, dodging his question. “I’d heard the waltzing there would be unparalleled.”
“It was. Damned shame that your brother got in the way.”
Her eyes locked with his. “We were finished.”
Her quiet words slapped him. She didn’t mean the waltz. He said quietly, “Not due to my choosing.”
“Wasn’t it?”
He knew better than to answer. She was picking a fight, the way she used to as a girl to worm her way out of uncomfortable situations, most likely in hopes that he’d grow angry, stop the carriage, and leave.
But he wouldn’t be so easily deterred. “Why were you at the masquerade?” Unbidden jealousy made him ask, “What would you want with a man like Varnham?”
“What would you want with a woman like Madame Noir?”
He sat up. Her question came out of nowhere, taking him completely by surprise. “Nothing, I assure you.”
“She showed me the emerald bracelet you gave her.” Controlled iciness dripped from her voice. “How thoughtful of you to give her a bauble that matches her eyes.”
He went completely still, his gaze locked with hers across the compartment. This wasn’t simply another attempt to stir up a fight. “I did not give that woman any jewelry.”
“She seems to think you did.”
“I did not give that woman a bracelet, emerald or otherwise,” he said as firmly but calmly as possible. “The only woman I’ve ever given jewelry to…” Damnation. His eyes lowered to the gold locket at her throat.
Her hand rose to grasp the locket, and her voice trembled with uncertainty as she asked, “Then why would she say so?”
He grimaced. “Knowing Madame, just to see if she could draw a reaction from you. Did you give her one?”
“No.” She stared at him intently for a long moment, as if trying to reconcile the lad she knew with the man sitting before her. Finally, she whispered, “I believe you about the bracelet.”
“Well then,” he drawled. “Good to know you’ll take the word of a brigadier over a brothel owner.”
A faint but uneasy smile pulled at her lips, and she released the locket, her hand dropping away. “Barely.”
He chuckled. She was just as sassy as he remembered. And in more trouble than she knew.
His amusement faded, and he leaned forward, hands folded between his knees. “Tell me—why were you at Le Château Noir this morning?”
She hesitated, her doubt over trusting him visible on her face. But then she admitted, “I was returning a dress I’d borrowed. Why were you there?” She swept an assessing gaze over him, hiding behind her sardonic teasing to keep from having to hold a meaningful conversation. And to keep from having to answer his questions. “I doubt she has anything in your style.”
He couldn’t resist volleying back, “It’s not the cut of the gown that matters—”
“But how a man wears it?”
He grinned. She’d read his mind, just as she’d used to do.
Sweet Lucifer, being with her felt like old times. The sensation emerged with a vengeance, forming a hollow ache deep inside him. He hadn’t realized until that moment exactly how much he’d missed her. The way a desert misses the rain.
“And speaking of cuts…” She tilted her head, studying him. “What did you do last night after you left the masquerade?”
He admitted truthfully, “The usual. Got drunk, stripped off my clothes, and ran around the city half-naked.”
“Just another evening in Mayfair, then?” she asked dryly.
“Terribly dull life.”
“Hmm. Well, this wasn’t there last night when I danced with you.”
She reached across the compartment to touch the bruise on his jaw.
He stilled immediately beneath her fingertips. Except for his heart, which leapt into his throat, and his cock, which flexed shamelessly in his breeches. “You noticed something as small as that?”
“We waltzed,” she reminded him, her fingertips brushing gently across his brow. “How could I not have noticed when you were that close? Or that your jaw has mysteriously turned black and blue overnight?” Her eyes softly searched his face for more evidence of what he’d been up to last night, yet he found the sensation oddly soothing, as tangible as her touch. “Or that you have a cut—just there—at the corner of your left eye?”
“I like to spar occasionally,” he admitted. “After I left the masquerade, I went to a match.”
“Still getting into fights,” she murmured and traced the features of his face to soothe his wounds. “Just as you used to in Birmingham with the men from the factories.”
Her touch stirred a forgotten familiarity whose ache seeped into his bones. He rasped out, suddenly hoarse, “You remember that, from so long ago?”
“I remember everything about you.” Then, as if realizing who they were and what she was doing, she dropped her hand away and pulled back against the squabs. “As they say…” Sadness laced her trembling voice. “Know thy enemy.”
Her words cut him. “I’m not your enemy, Amelia. I only want to protect you.”
Slowly, careful not to startle her, he leaned toward her. But damnation if she didn’t draw further back into the squabs, not at all convinced by his reassurances.
“I told you.” Wariness flared in her eyes. “I don’t need to be protected.”
“More than you realize,” he said solemnly.
Her lips parted in surprise.
Frederick Howard was playing with ruthless men. Amelia wasn’t part of it—he didn’t want to believe that of her. But he also needed to discover the truth. Yet how much could he tell her to ease her fear without exposing her to additional risk? “Your brother has been illegally using his influence to secure government appointments. He’s placed at least twelve men so far.”
“Isn’t that what all peers and MPs do? Peddle influence.” She casually threw his earlier words back at him. “It’s practically a requirement.”
“Except that most of the appointments he’s secured are simply titular, a few have limited power, and none are able to provide political favors in return,” he explained. The carriage was circling Berkeley Square now, with Hill Street only a few minutes away. He was running out of time and had no more answers than when he’d jumped inside. “Not the kind a young MP on the rise could draw on to improve his political leverage or his bank funds. So why is he doing it?”
“I don’t know.”
A lie. He could read it in every inch of her. What the devil was she hiding from him? “Is Varnham involved? Is that why you wanted to speak to him?”
“No.” This time, the lie was accompanied by a telltale fidget.
“Your brother is involved with dangerous men, Amelia,” Pearce said bluntly. The time for sparring was over. “Ones willing to commit murder to get what they want.”
Her face paled. Good. Maybe she’d understand now how serious he was. How much danger she was in.
“Were you at the masquerade because of them?”
“No! I went there because—” She choked off, her confession unfinished.
In that unguarded moment, he saw beneath the facade she’d erected, and it wasn’t anger or annoyance he glimpsed in her now. It was fear.
The realization washed over him like ice water. That’s what he’d seen when he first stepped into the carriage, what had flashed over her face last night when she’d fled. Her earlier anger had been nothing but a shield to keep him away.
But why? He’d given her no reason to be afraid of him. Never.
Had she been threatened by Scepter? Was that why she’d been at the masquerade? Had she been coerced into helping her brother?
“Amelia, you can trust me,” he entreated, moving to the edge of the seat to bring himself closer. “You don’t have to be afraid of—”
“I’m not afraid of you!” She forced a stiff laugh at the absurdity of that, but her reaction didn’t ease the apprehension that pulsed from her. It hovered around her as tangibly as her rose-water perfume.
“Good. Because I want to keep you safe.” His shoulders eased down under the weight of the past. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted. You know that.”
She stared at him, saying nothing. But her lips parted tentatively, as if she ached to confide in him but couldn’t yet bring herself to do it.
“But you have to help me.”
“How?”
The word was little more than a breath, yet it stirred hope inside him. “By telling me the truth. Why were you at the masquerade?”
Her hands clutched tightly at her reticule, as if physically fighting back the urge to trust him. Good Lord, he wished she would!
When she didn’t answer, he offered gently, “Let me help you.”
“As I told you last night,” she rasped out quietly but resolutely, as if attempting to convince herself as much as him, “I don’t need your help.” Yet her face darkened with that ever-present fear that he now couldn’t help but see in her, no matter how much bravery she attempted to exude. Dread, panic, apprehension, distrust—a kaleidoscope of it shone in her eyes. “Forgive my bluntness, but in my experience, when a man says that he wants to help me, what he really means is that he wants to use me.”
He sat back, her words landing like a punch. Did she mean her father? Gordon Howard certainly hadn’t hidden how he’d planned to use her as a stepping-stone into the aristocracy. Or did she mean her brother?
Pearce had no answers, but at least he could assure her, “I am not one of those men.”
“Aren’t you?” The wounded whisper emerged as pure accusation.
“No.” But the forcefulness with which he said that didn’t register any visible trust in her.
The hackney turned onto Hill Street and stopped in front of a row of terrace houses. When she glanced out the window, relief flashed over her face. She was home.
And he was out of time.
He reached across the compartment to place his hand over hers to keep her with him a few moments longer and tried not to let himself notice the way she flinched at his touch.
“Whatever’s wrong, whatever trouble you’re in, I can help you. But you can’t keep secrets from me.” Ignoring the ball of lead-like dread forming in his gut, he pulled in a deep breath and forced himself to ask, “Have you been assisting your brother with the appointments?”
Her gaze shot back to him. “Have I—” Then a shocked laugh fell from her lips as she pulled her hand away from his. “I could ask the same of you!”
He jerked up straight. “Me?”
“Frederick said that you supported the idea of putting a turnpike across our properties.” Her voice shook from the churning emotions that visibly gripped her. “He was practically crowing this morning over how excited you seemed to be about it. Said that you couldn’t wait to start.”
Bloody hell. Pearce couldn’t deny it. He’d sent her brother a message just that morning claiming exactly that—that he was interested and wanted to know more about Howard’s plans and the men who would be made trustees.
But it wasn’t for the reasons she thought, and he couldn’t defend himself without giving away what the men of the Armory planned to do. He would never betray their faith in him.
“You’re wrong about me,” he said instead, the only answer he could give.
“Oh, but I don’t think I am.” Her voice was raw and intense, just like the gleam in her eyes. “You see, unlike others in your new life as a peer, I know you. I know how restless you are, how driven…how compelled to keep moving forward. At all costs.” A slight pause, so small no one else would have noticed, yet he heard it. A world of accusation lived there. “That’s why I can’t trust you, Pearce.” The quiet fierceness with which she uttered her next words cut him like a blade—“And that is why you’re my enemy.”