Chapter Two
London—1813
‘You must do it.’ Bartholomew Dyer banged Frederick Chambers, Fifth Earl of Fallworth, hard against the wall, trying to knock the fight back into him. The unprovoked swing the Earl had taken at Bart gave him hope it could be done. ‘We need you.’
‘I can’t, don’t you understand?’ Freddy growled, fingers biting into Bart’s forearms. ‘I’ve given enough. I won’t give any more.’
‘Let go of him.’ The lady behind him punctuated her command by cocking a pistol hammer.
Damn. Bart cursed under his breath. She’d just made the weapon more dangerous. If she wasn’t competent with it, the ball would tear through him and the Earl under his elbow.
Bart took his arm off Lord Fallworth’s chest and stepped back.
‘Moira, it’s not what you think,’ Lord Fallworth choked as he leaned away from the wall and tried to wave his sister off.
Bart ground his teeth at the mention of Lady Rexford and the way it made his neck, and something much lower down, tense. A maid or the elderly aunt would have been preferable to Lord Fallworth’s sister, and his one-time fiancée, having stumbled in on them. The young Dowager Countess of Rexford was as stunning as she was a complication Bart didn’t need.
‘Then what is it?’ She kept the pistol pointed at Bart’s chest and her beautiful green eyes fixed on his.
She’d changed since he’d last seen her five years ago when she’d been a young lady new to London and he an ex-soldier beginning his career as a barrister. The innocent, uncertain tilt of her head was gone, replaced by a confidence he imagined widowhood and the deaths of her father and sister-in-law must have given her. It made her sharp cheekbones set in an oval face and framed by blonde hair more striking and more tempting. He knew better than to fall for it. He had no desire to hear again from her family how he wasn’t good enough for her or to have his official duties curtailed by her incorrect reading of this situation.
Bart bent into a bow. ‘Good evening, Lady Rexford. It’s a pleasure to see you again.’
‘I can’t say the same, Mr Dyer. If you weren’t one of the most celebrated barristers in England with as many magistrates in awe of you as the public, I’d put a ball through you and end your scourge on this house.’
He opened his arms to increase the size of her target. ‘Why not take the chance?’
She frowned at his defiance, the disapproving yet intriguing downturn of her mouth tempered by the still-raised weapon. ‘Since I have no desire to be hanged for murder, I demand you leave at once and never return.’
Any other day her order would have been charming. This morning it was merely irritating. ‘Your aunt used to make the same request and it didn’t work.’
‘I’d like to think I’m a touch more persuasive.’ She nodded at the still-raised pistol.
He admired her desire to protect her brother, even if it was woefully misguided. However, what had brought him here in defiance of her widowed aunt’s dictates was far more important than his or anyone else’s life.
‘Moira, it’s all right. Leave us be, we have business to discuss.’ Lord Fallworth took up his drink and drained it.
‘What business? Which gaming hell to visit?’ she challenged. ‘Don’t think Aunt Agatha didn’t write to me about what you got up to with Mr Dyer when you were in London two years ago. I won’t have you ruining yourself again a mere week after we’ve returned to town.’
Bart suppressed a growl of irritation. If Lady Rexford knew the real motives behind those nights out, she’d lower the pistol, throw her arms around his neck and thank him for his service to their country.
‘Freddy, I won’t leave you to the influences of a man like this.’ Lady Rexford waved her free hand at Bart. ‘Not with you already so vulnerable since Helena’s—’
‘You needn’t say it.’ Lord Fallworth snatched up the brandy decanter and refilled his glass.
Bart opened his mouth to tell Lady Rexford to step out of things she didn’t understand, then closed it again. With her brother slipping into a liquor-induced fog, his suitability for this mission waned while Lady Rexford’s possible involvement played on him like a hunch. She stood straight, one foot in front of the other to make her gown drape across her shapely thigh. The firm set of her full lips beneath eyes as focused as a fox’s made him take more notice of her than the pistol or her reluctant brother. No one would suspect a woman. Bart knew better. ‘You’re friends with Lady Camberline?’
A crease of confusion appeared between her shapely eyebrows. ‘Not friends so much as acquaintances. We’re both patrons of the Lady’s Lying-In Hospital.’
‘But you know her well enough to call on her and to receive invitations?’
‘No, Bart, don’t do it,’ Lord Fallworth warned.
