If the Viscount Falls (4 page)

“Lord, I hope not. We're parents now; we have to show
some
decorum.” She tucked a stray tendril of hair behind her ear. “Though it's difficult since Max likes me a little . . . indecorous.”

“Good God, I don't even want to think about that,” he said irritably. “Stop talking about all the ways Max likes you.”

“Why? Because it makes you feel lonely?”

“Because you're my
sister
.”

“It's your own fault you're lonely, you know,” she said, ignoring his answer. “You've got Jane right under your nose at Rathmoor Park while she's staying with Nancy, and instead of taking advantage of that to court her, you're hiding over here at our brother's estate.”

“I am
not
hiding,” he said coolly, though perhaps he
was. “Besides, why would I court Jane? She's engaged to another man. And if you'll recall,
she
was the one to jilt me, not the other way around.”

“So you say.”

That brought him up short. “You think I'm lying?”

“I think that the woman I met at your betrothal party years ago was so in love with you she wouldn't have jilted you over any loss in station or fortune. Which means you must have done something to run her off.”

Damn. Lisette was fishing for information, as usual. And hitting uncomfortably close to the mark.

By the night of that blasted ball where he'd maneuvered Jane into breaking with him, Lisette and Tristan had already fled to France to avoid George's wrath. So all his sister knew of what had happened was what she'd pieced together from gossip.

Dom wasn't fool enough to tell her and Tristan the truth. They would never let him hear the end of it. They already brought Jane up more often than he could stand. “None of that changes the fact that Jane is engaged to someone else.”

Lisette released an exasperated breath. Clearly she'd been hoping for an explanation. She ought to know better by now.

“So even if I wanted to ‘court' Jane,” Dom continued, “I could not.”

“Still, she seems in no hurry to marry her fiancé,” Lisette pressed on, undaunted by the facts. “She came running up to Yorkshire almost the minute George died.”

“To be with George's
widow.
I would think less of her if she did
not
try to comfort her cousin.”

“Don't be obtuse, Dom. It doesn't suit you. She came because she's desperate to see you before she marries a man she has to know is wrong for her.”

“Desperate? Hardly. She's been staying with Nancy at the dowager house a mile away from the manor, and I haven't come across her once during her entire visit.”

“No doubt you went to great lengths to make sure of that.” When he didn't rise to her bait, Lisette turned pensive. “How is Nancy doing, anyway?”

“How the blazes should I know? I just told you—I don't see them.”

“I hope you realize how rude that is. You should at least pay them a visit from time to time. To show there are no hard feelings.”

“Hard feelings? Are you mad?” He eyed her askance. “Nancy doesn't care about my feelings toward her. She undoubtedly hates me and Tristan both. Because of us, George is dead.”

“He was going to murder you two!”

“A minor detail that she will undoubtedly overlook in the face of George's death,” he said dryly.

“I always found it odd that they married in the first place. I mean, if he'd been trying to get back at you over your helping Tristan, why didn't he just go after Jane?”

Because George had believed what he'd seen that night at the ball—that Dom wanted Nancy for her money. So, resentful of Dom as ever, George had set out to gain the woman for himself. That was undoubtedly what Nancy
had intended when she'd somehow arranged for Jane to stumble upon them with George in tow.

Though that probably hadn't turned out as well as Nancy had planned. George couldn't possibly have been much of a husband, even for someone as shallow and undiscriminating as Jane's cousin.

Leaning back in his chair, he clasped his hands over his stomach. “George didn't go after Jane precisely because he knew Jane would never have married him after how he'd cut me off. Besides, Nancy was more his sort of woman—pretty, but vapid and malleable.”

“Nonetheless, even she deserved better. And now she's a widow beholden to the very man her husband hated. Thank heaven she's got Jane to help her deal with that.”

“Yes, thank heaven,” he echoed absentmindedly.

And thank heaven Jane had apparently held Nancy blameless for that scene in the library years ago. At least his subterfuge hadn't torn her from the woman most like a sister to her.

Though sometimes it irked him that Jane had believed the lie so easily. That she'd instantly accepted the picture of him as an unscrupulous fortune hunter. That's what he'd wanted, of course, but it rankled.

Because he was an arse who wanted to have his cake and eat it, too.

“So,” Lisette said, “
are
you joining us for services this morning?”

Thank God the inquisition about Jane was over. “Afraid not. As soon as I put the seal on this document
that you and Max are carrying back to Victor, transferring the running of Manton's Investigations to him, I'm returning to Rathmoor Park.”

He sat up and bent over the papers laid out on the desk. “I'm still dealing with those tenants George mistreated. We must reach some sort of agreement about how to compensate them fairly without bankrupting the estate, so I'm meeting with them tomorrow morning.”

“And does this urgent meeting involve Nancy? Might you see Jane?”

Good God, Lisette was like a trickle of water that wore away at the stone until it cracked.

He concentrated on melting the sealing wax onto the parchment. “Actually, Jane is gone. She left from Hull the day before yesterday by packet boat to return to London.” To her fiancé, the man Dom wanted to throttle simply because Blakeborough got to have Jane for the rest of his days.

So much for excising Jane from his mind.

“Aha!
That's
why you've been so cross.” Lisette huffed out a breath. “I swear, you're impossible. You'll let the only woman you ever cared about marry some other fellow, even though you now possess everything you need to support a wife. For a man who's faced down thieves and murderers unflinchingly, you can be quite the coward, Dom.”

Grimly, he pressed his signet ring into the wax. ­Lisette would never understand. Jane might have been his once, but she despised him now and that was that. Even if he told her the truth about that night, they'd
spent so many years apart that whatever she'd felt for him had clearly withered.

Otherwise, she wouldn't be marrying Blakeborough. Dom, of all people, knew that Jane wouldn't get engaged to a man she didn't love.

When he didn't respond to his sister's barbs, her gaze grew calculating. “You know, you ought to carry that document to London in person. I'm sure Victor has hundreds of questions about the running of the agency. Besides, you still haven't met little Eugene. I know he'd be delighted to see his Uncle Dom.”

He chuckled at her blatant attempt to manipulate him. “I doubt little Eugene delights in anything but being nursed and having his swaddling changed. He's what, two months old? Has he even learned how to sit up yet?”

She glared at him. “Sometimes you can be so . . . so . . .”

“Practical?”

“Unsentimental. He's your very first nephew. Don't you
want
to see him?”

So he could be reminded of all he'd lost because of George? No. Though he supposed he must, eventually. “I will happily come to visit little Eugene once he's old enough to recognize me. But I do have a meeting tomorrow, so I can't run off to London.” He patted the document on the desk. “Would you make sure Max gets this before you leave?”

With a murderous glance, she whirled on her heels and headed for the door.

“Don't I at least get a goodbye kiss?” he called after her. “I probably won't see you for some weeks.”

“Foolish gentlemen who don't know what's good for them don't get goodbye kisses,” she said as she kept going.

Her peevish tone made him grin. “I suppose I should be glad you're not stabbing me toward Jane with your embroidery needles.”

She halted to cast him an arch glance. “Would that work?”

Good God, she might actually do it. “It would not. And don't be angry. I'm fine as I am, really.”

“Liar. Anyone can see you're not the least bit fine.”

It frightened him sometimes, how well she knew him. “I'm content, at least. I inherited the estate I never expected to own. What more can I ask for?”

“A wife. Children. Happiness.”

“Those three don't always go hand in hand, dear girl.”

“Especially if you make no attempt to acquire the first one.”

“Lisette, give it over,” he said softly. “Being angry at me won't change the past.”

An oath escaped her. “I'm frustrated by your obstinacy, stymied by your reserve, and perplexed by your acceptance of this ridiculous state of affairs between you and Jane.” She apparently noticed the tightening of his jaw, for her expression softened. “But not angry. I could never be angry at you.”

She marched back to plant a kiss on his cheek.
“There. That should prove it.” With a fond smile, she said, “Do take care not to work too hard, will you?”

“Certainly,” he lied.

He waited until she left before wandering over to the window to watch the family leave. She didn't understand that he welcomed the work. It kept his mind off the “ridiculous state of affairs” between him and Jane.

An image of his former fiancée as she'd looked in London a few months ago sprang into his mind. He'd been shocked to encounter her at the soiree thrown by Zoe's father. It had only been the second time he'd seen her in their years apart, and the first had been so fleeting he'd scarcely had time to register that she was there before she was gone.

Not so at the soiree.

He'd been unable to look away from the glory that was Jane in a blue evening gown. In the time they'd been apart, she'd filled out just enough to have lusher curves. Wrapped in expensive satin, those curves had been quite enticing.

It had been all he could do to keep his gaze on her face. Especially since her brown eyes had sparked fire at him. It was as if no time at all had passed since that horrible night at Blakeborough's.

He had expected her to lose her anger over time, but her eyes had been hot, her words cool, and her tone a mix of condescension and implied meanings he couldn't decipher. He'd only endured the encounter by taking on his investigator persona—aloof, unruffled, and always certain of his position.

But her enigmatic comment about tiring of waiting for her life to begin had rattled him. It still did. What the blazes had she meant? Surely she hadn't been waiting for
him,
not after what had happened.

Her remark had plagued him for months. Because if she really
had
been waiting all these years . . .

God, the very notion was idiotic. She hadn't. And if she had, it didn't matter. He couldn't have renewed his attentions toward her, even if she would have accepted them.

He'd spent his first two years at Bow Street proving himself. His next few, during the years of political unrest, had been an endless series of missions for Jackson Pinter and occasionally even Lord Ravenswood, undersecretary to the Home Office—secret,
dangerous
missions.

He stroked the scar carved into his right cheek. More dangerous than he'd ever imagined.

Those years were a blur. But they'd earned him the respect of the other runners and better chances at more lucrative cases. He'd saved enough to open Manton's Investigations. And then he'd had new challenges to contend with, new missions to absorb him, all of which kept him from starting up again with Jane.

You can be quite the coward, Dom.

He clenched his jaw. It wasn't cowardice—not a bit. He'd been busy, damn it. And too aware of how deeply he had hurt Jane to want to risk it again.

Now she was betrothed, and that was that. So he would put her behind him—put that part of his life
behind him—and learn to be happy with what he had. It was more than he'd expected, after all.

With that settled, he returned to the desk. He penned a quick note to Max and set it atop the document for Victor, weighing them both down with a paperweight. Then he tidied up his mess and headed out the door. He'd called for his equipage earlier, so his bag should already be stowed. He merely had to—

“If I give you my name,” said a painfully familiar voice from the foyer, “will you promise to make Lord Rathmoor come out here to talk to me? And not put me off with some nonsense about how he's not here? I
know
he's here. I saw his phaeton out front. And it's imperative that I speak with him.”

Dom's stomach knotted. How could it be? Why would
she
be here?

“I understand, madam,” the butler was saying as Dom hurried toward them, “but if the matter is so urgent, why will you not tell me what name to announce—”

“It's all right,” Dom said as he approached. “I know Miss Vernon.”

Jane started, her pretty eyes widening as she caught sight of him. Today she wore a riding habit of purple wool that nipped in at the waist, ballooned at the hips, and accentuated every curve to good effect. Looking agitated and windblown and heartbreakingly beautiful, she sucked the air quite out of his lungs.

God save him.

“I need to speak with you at once.” With a furtive glance at the butler, she added, “Privately.”