And then he’d have to explain everything to this man shrouded in darkness and mystery, who was reviled and adored in equal measure. Sometimes by the same person. He thought of Georgiana again, knowing that her actions had, from the start, been the result of Chase’s threats. Of Chase’s power.
West left the house, the main door closing sharply behind him, loud enough for him to hear its meaning – Do not return.
Surely she reviled Chase more than she adored him.
Shouldn’t she?
He thought of his mother, who had never found the strength to choose revulsion. Dear God. Was it possible that Georgiana was the same?
His mind reeled. Now, with Tremley’s secrets known and his own valuable enough to threaten his future, West had no choice but to go after Chase. And if he did, the outcome was not debatable – he had to win without hesitation. Without any question.
And to do that, he had to go after the only thing Chase held dear.
His identity.
Tit for tat. Chase’s name to protect his own.
To protect Cynthia.
To protect Georgiana.
But what then? Georgiana still wouldn’t be his. She still couldn’t be his. He couldn’t marry her. Couldn’t give her the life she deserved. The life she wanted.
It did not matter, he realized as he stood outside his enemy’s home, all of Mayfair around him, as he’d still not be enough for her.
You can’t give me the title.
He wondered how many times he’d hear those words before he forgot the sound of them on her lips. He couldn’t give her a title. But he could get her free of Chase. And in doing so, free himself.
He caught a movement across the street – a man leaning against a tree, hands in his pockets, who should not have been worthy of notice, but whom West noticed nonetheless.
With the longtime training of a skilled reporter, West did not look, and yet saw everything. He saw how the man’s collar was tipped up against the cold, as though he’d been standing there for a long while. He saw broad shoulders beneath beautiful clothing – broad enough to be built somewhere beyond butcher shops and boxing rings. This man was no common appearance. He was clearly trained for his size.
Duncan headed to his curricle, pretending not to notice the brute. He could be there for any reason – Tremley had no doubt given spies enough reason to pay close attention.
But those spies did not travel in a carriage with blackened windows, altogether too like the one he’d ridden in the previous evening.
First, he thought it was she. That she’d followed him. And he struggled to decide if he was furious at or exhilarated by her presence. But as he moved closer to the conveyance, the guard came off the wall, making it clear that Duncan would have to fight for proximity, which, considering the activities of the previous evening and her obvious willingness to continue them, seemed off.
And then he realized that she wasn’t there.
And that the carriage was not supposed to have been noticed.
He was being followed.
As though he was a child.
He moved more quickly, the guard moving to stand in front of West as his destination became clear and his temper became hot. He met the guard’s gaze and spoke, without hesitation, all the anger and frustration of the morning roiling within him.
“I am certain you were told not to lay a hand on me.”
“Don’t know who you are, sir.” The words were a long, low drawl.
West lifted his chin. “I wonder what it would take to restore your memory.”
The thug smiled, a gap in the expression where one of his front teeth should have been. “I’d like to see you try, gent.”
West threw a punch, but at the last second – while the bodyguard flinched and prepared to block the blow – he feinted, turning, instead, to the carriage and opening the door to peer inside.
Recognition dawned.
The Marquess of Bourne was inside the carriage.
He was being followed by The Fallen Angel.
Goddammit. He moved to lift himself into the coach, but the pause as he recognized Bourne gave the man outside enough time to recover and catch West’s coat sleeve, pulling him back.
He turned on the guard. And this time, his punch connected. Intentionally. The security detail at the Angel were not amateurs. The guard hit back, quick and economical, hard enough to sting. Before West could attack again, Bourne spoke.
“Enough. It’s Mayfair in broad daylight.” Bourne grabbed West’s shoulder and stayed his blow. “Get in the damn carriage. You’re shocking the ladies.”
Sure enough, there were two young women across the street in their pretty outdoor finery, eyes wide, mouths agape at the utterly unprecedented scene. West removed his handkerchief, pressing it to his nose to discover that he was bleeding. The brute had excellent aim. The other man’s eye was swelling shut, which gave West a modicum of pride. Removing his hat, West slapped the man on the back and turned him to face the ladies. “Good morning, ladies.”
He was impressed that the women’s eyes did not escape their sockets, particularly when his companion bowed and said, “Lovely mornin’.”
“Christ,” Bourne said from inside the carriage, and West returned his attention to the matter at hand. He released his opponent, and lifted himself into the carriage, placing himself across from the marquess, who opened his mouth to speak.
“No,” West said, anger having turned to fury. “I don’t give a damn why you are here. I don’t give a damn what you want or what you think or what you have to say. I am through with the lot of you – managing me, following me, negotiating with me. Fucking manipulating me.”