Page 26 of The Confessions of a Lady
Liam bit his cheek and focused on the sharp pain. The last thing he needed was distraction from the task at hand. Heshould be thinking about all the ways to threaten a snivelling, snotty, squirming baron’s son. Not imagining how various hues of wool would look against Miss Smith’s cream-and-cinnamon skin. Or even better, how that skin would grow pink as he unwrapped her from that wool and used his own body to keep the chill away.
Not helpful!
Liam resisted the urge to lean out and tell his driver to follow Miss Smith. It was none of his concern where she went. Likely, it was her monthly day off. The poor woman could do what she wanted with her precious day free from responsibility.
Free from the inappropriate advances of her lusty employer.
But not unwanted advances. And that was the problem. Miss Smith wanted him as much as he wanted her. Even in the brief encounters they’d had since the fateful meeting in his library, attraction crackled between them as unpredictable and dangerous as a lightning storm. But he had neither time nor reason to follow her. Even if every fibre of his being screamed he do just that.
Instead, he leaned against the padded cushions and tried to replace his lust with the satisfaction of completing the initial part of his four-step plan. With any luck, the second step of securing an invitation into the Devil’s Sons would be accomplished by the time he finished his first mug of coffee. Convincing Charles to agree to the third step, ensuring his leader’s attendance at Liam’s masque ball and getting the man to speak with him, might be more challenging, but Liam was certain he could achieve his goal. Leaving only the fourth and most important step. Destroying the Devil’s Sons. That should be the one thing claiming his attention. Not the substandard quality of his maid’s coat and the subsequent risk she faced of catching a chill.
The brougham bumped over rough cobblestones and rutted roads as they left Belgrave Square heading east past St James’ Park. His driver manoeuvred through narrow streets blocked by large carts full of barrels carrying anything from ale to wheat to fish. Omnibuses drawn by six horses and hauling as many as fifteen or twenty middle-class men – crammed together on wooden benches – to their jobs as clerks and bookkeepers trundled by, uncaring of who they displaced on the road as they rushed to keep on schedule. The street vendors were setting up stalls, calling out greetings, yelling at urchin children willing to risk a boxed ear for a stolen apple or wedge of cheese. London in all its glory was waking up and readying itself for another busy day.
The brougham pulled in next to a sagging building on the corner of St James’ Walk and Aylesbury Street. The soot-stained bricks were chipped in places, but the sign displayingThe King’s Cupin bold, black script was freshly painted. Large windows looked onto the street and showed tables inside the establishment, crowded together and already full of men enjoying a cup of coffee and spirited conversation before they went to work.
Liam entered and immediately found Charles at a corner table. The man’s head was in his hands and, by the state of his clothes, Liam would guess he hadn’t yet returned home from his revelries the night before. His jacket was wrinkled, his shirt stained, and a woman’s rouge was smudged on Charles’ neck.
‘Good lord. You look like shit.’ No point in false manners when they had dark business to discuss. Liam scraped back a chair and sat down. Flagging one of the serving boys, he ordered two cups of coffee.
Charles’ bloodshot eyes blinked in quick succession as he lifted his head and glared at Liam. ‘Your brother always said what a cruel bastard you could be. He was right.’ Scruff coveredthe man’s chin, the same shade of dirty dishwater brown as his thinning hair. It almost hid Charles’ weak jawline and an open sore on his mouth. The man should be more worried about his addictions than the letters in Liam’s pocket. Charles was not healthy. It was highly likely his lifestyle would kill him before his father could send him away.
Liam had no room for mercy in his heart. Not when dealing with someone willing to profit on the lives of innocent girls. Charles deserved whatever horrific end the fates decreed. ‘He was right. I am cruel. And I won’t hesitate to destroy you if I don’t get what I want.’
A young lad in breeches too short and a shirt too big paused by their table, distributing two mugs of steaming black liquid before rushing off to take another order.
Charles straightened. His hand shook as he gripped the mug. He sipped, no doubt burning his already wounded lip on the hot coffee. ‘Bugger!’
‘I have the letters you wrote to my brother.’ Liam pulled the package out, making sure to keep it from Charles’ grasp. The seal was clear as grey morning light filtered through the window. ‘If these found their way to your father…’ Liam shook his head and tsked, the threat clear.
‘What do you want? Obviously not money as you are flush, and I’ve seen better days. Something your brother knew all too well himself.’
‘I’m not here to discuss Reynard.’ The rush of rage surprised Liam. He was used to anger, but not when it originated from the memory of his brother. Still, something about this pompous wreck of an arse speaking so intimately about his brother highlighted how little Liam really knew Reynard. ‘Keep his name from your lips if you wish to leave this table with your nose unbroken.’
Penny’s words from a week ago echoed through his mind. Was he mourning the loss of who his brother could have been? The comradery they could have shared?
Would Reynard’s life have been different if I’d tried harder? Took more of an interest? Forced him to step away from his addictions?
But Liam knew it was a fool’s quest. Reynard was as stubborn and determined as Liam himself. He could no more force the man to follow his commands than he could change the tides or pull the sun from the sky.
Charles’ brown eyes widened. ‘Jesus, Renquist. I didn’t think you’d care. You two were never exactly close.’
‘Thinking isn’t a strength of yours, Charles. And I grow weary of this exchange. I want membership to the Devil’s Sons. And I want a meeting with the leader. In return, I will destroy these letters.’
Charles leaned back in his chair. His bleary eyes flicked from the packet of letters to Liam’s hard expression. ‘I can put forward your request for membership. But as to meeting with one of the leaders, that is beyond my scope.’ Charles took another sip of coffee, being careful to blow on the surface first. He winced as the liquid hit his lips, his tongue darting out to test the sore.
One of the leaders. There is more than one leader?
He couldn’t very well ask Charles who the leaders were and admit his ignorance. He needed the idiot to believe Liam already knew this information. In his experience, silence could be as sharp and skilled as a dagger at carving out answers. He tapped the packet of letters rhythmically on the table and waited.
A few tense seconds later, Charles exhaled, his chest deflating like a wine bladder. ‘Look, I don’t even know who the Crow is.’
You don’t know who the Crow is… but you know who the other leaders are, don’t you?
‘How can you possibly convince me to destroy these letters when you have nothing to bargain with, Charles?’ Liam lifted a brow and shook his head. He had no intention of destroying the letters. But false hope was a powerful thing, especially when one crushed it.
Charles ran a shaky hand through his oily hair. ‘I have no connection with the Wolf. But the Snake might agree to a meeting. Not in public and not unless he thinks you’re worth the risk, but maybe I can convince him. If you give me a reason why the meeting would benefit the Devil’s Sons.’
Fuck. Of course. The head of a crow, the body of a wolf, the tail of a snake. Three leaders.
