Page 6 of The Dangerous Lord

She wrenched her attention back to her article. Drat. She hadn’t finished reading it over for errors, and there was that troublesome phrase in the second paragraph that she had intended to amend ...

Down in the street and out of Felicity’s line of vision, Ian stood in the shadows watching Mr. Winston fumble through his pockets for the fare. Quickly Ian stepped forward and hailed the driver.

Producing a few coins, Ian paid him and said, “Wait a minute, will you? The gentleman has somewhere else to go.” Then he flashed the newspaperman a smile. “Pilkington will be relieved that I caught up to you.”

Winston regarded him curiously. “Who the devil are you?”

“I’m the new man Pilkington hired this morning.” Actually, Pilkington was still interviewing the applicants he’d advertised for, but Winston couldn’t know that. “He needs you at Haymarket. Told me to come here and redirect you. He said since I’m new, I could handle the Lord X article.” When Winston looked suspicious, he added, “There’s a riot going on, and he wants you over there right away.”

“A riot?” The sudden light in the man’s gimlet eyes told Ian he’d judged his subject correctly. Winston was virtually licking his lips over the prospect of violence in the streets. “I see. Well ...” After a cursory assessment of Ian, he was apparently satisfied by Ian’s great coat of cheap wool and beaver hat, intended to make Ian look like a working man. “All right then. Just knock at the door and tell them who you are.”

As Mr. Winston jumped in the hack and ordered the driver on, Ian smiled to himself. Three days of bribing clerks and following Mr. Winston around had finally paid off, thanks to techniques Ian had honed during the war. He didn’t need Lord X’s real name now. He’d located the man’s house and that was enough.

Carefully navigating the town house’s icy steps, he noted the door’s Gothic design and unusual griffin knocker. The knocker looked familiar. Where had he seen one like it? When the answer didn’t immediately come to mind, he filed the information away for future consideration. Then he examined the town house façade through the snow that had been steadily falling all morning. The house was a superior example of the Gothic style, with pointed windows and excellent tracery work. A gentleman’s house, but then he’d expected that.

Lord X’s poison pen was definitely aristocratic. Ian had studied the man’s columns thoroughly, and though he still considered them gossip, he now understood why duchesses held back dinner to read them, and why every chambermaid and footman in London spent their hard-earned pence to buy the Evening Gazette.

No wonder Pilkington protected his major resource so assiduously. Lord X was any publisher’s dream—sharp and witty with an engaging style and an uncanny ability to discover the most hidden secrets. He provided both praise and censure in an entertaining manner. Like one of Ian’s masters at Eton, who’d eschewed the usual canings for the subtleties of sarcasm, Lord X criticized with finesse. His subjects were principally those members of society exemplifying its worst traits—haughty disregard for the needs or feelings of others, misplaced arrogance, and love of licentious living.

No doubt that was why Ian had appeared in the column. Given the many misdeeds attributed to the Viscount St. Clair, Lord X probably considered him the son of the very devil. Ian shrugged. That might be half true, but true or no, Lord X needed to learn more discretion in his choice of subject. And Ian intended to teach him that lesson.

A sharp rap with the iron knocker brought an instant response, although the snowy-haired woman who answered the door seemed perplexed by the sight of him. “Yes, sir? May I help you?”

He doffed his hat, sending snow flying off the brim. “I’m Mr. Lennard from the Gazette.” Might as well use his real surname—Lord X probably knew him only by his title. “I’m here to pick up the article.”

The woman wiped her damp and reddened hands on her skirts, then stood aside. “Do come in.” As he entered, she added cheerily, “I’m Mrs. Box, the housekeeper. Where’s Mr. Winston today?”

“He was called elsewhere. I’m taking his place.”

“Oh. Well, you wait here, luv, and I’ll fetch the article.”

“Actually,” he began as she started for the imposing oak staircase, “Mr. Pilkington wanted me to speak to your master in person.”

“My master?” A bewildered expression deepened the lines on her forehead. Then she burst into laughter. “That Mr. Pilkington, he’s so naughty. Didn’t tell you, did he?”

“Tell me what?”

“Never mind. I won’t spoil his little joke. I’ll go tell the ‘master’ you’re here.” She lifted her skirts and took her time about ascending the stairs, all the while murmuring, “The master, eh?” between little fits of laughter.

He stared after her. Odd servant. She hadn’t even taken his coat and hat. And was there no butler, no footman? What an eccentric household.

Crossing to a cast-iron hat rack, he set his coat and hat on it, then surveyed the marble foyer. Six years as a spy had taught him how to use observation to unearth a subject's secrets, but these surroundings were as enigmatic as their owner.

An understated room, devoid of the gimcrackery some preferred. A mahogany lowboy that held only a silver salver for letters. The tall mirror above it continued the griffin motif in small, delicate carvings. It was strange that a man who wrote so boldly about society’s underbelly could have such refined tastes.

Perhaps the man’s wife was responsible for the décor. That would explain the feminine touches—an edging of lace here, a softened line there. But if a woman was in the picture, why was the house so ill-kept? The banister’s brass fittings badly needed polish and the carpets needed sweeping. Where were the servants busily working at this time of the morning? The strong scent of tallow meant the man couldn’t afford beeswax, but that wasn’t so unusual.

As time dragged, Ian began to pace. He wanted this done, so he could go to Katherine’s and settle this marriage business once and for all. He’d delayed seeing her since the column’s appearance, telling himself she needed time to get over whatever pain the article had caused her. People already murmured behind her back, about her plain looks, timid manner, and poor chances of finding a husband. To have the allegedly beautiful mistress of her prospective fiancé lauded in the paper would torture Katherine, so he’d told himself his presence would only make it worse.

But he was a bloody liar, and he knew it. The truth was, when he was with her, he wanted to be somewhere else. It continually irked him the way she either agreed with his every word or remained utterly silent. When she did attempt conversation, her naïveté annoyed him.

Most men would be pleased to have a naïve, docile wife. Indeed, he’d chosen her precisely because she would cause no trouble, especially in his fight against his uncle. So why did the thought of marrying her make his blood run cold?

He wouldn’t think of that. He would marry her, no matter what his selfish impulses protested. She suited his requirements. Besides, indulging one’s most powerful emotions inevitably led to ruin. One must think before one acted, ignoring the siren call of desire or even anger. He’d learned that most painfully ten years ago, and his efforts to banish such temptations had ensured his survival ever since. They would also be what won him this current battle, not only with Lord X, but with his bastard of an uncle.

He strode toward the stairs, then retraced his steps. That’s when the ceiling caved in. A whoosh behind him made him whirl around in time to see a hunk of plaster hit the floor inches from where he’d been standing.

His eyes narrowed. No, not plaster. He kicked at it. When it crumbled, then clung stickily to his boot, he was surprised to discover that the misshapen blob was actually a pile of dirty snow, barely starting to melt on the marble floor.