Page 24 of The Lyon Returns
His brow’s arched.
“I hadn’t thought of that ’til now,” she admitted, and stood, one hand gripping the wine stem, the other fisting on her hip. “If you are in some sort of tangle with the law which our supposed marriage nullifies, I really must insist you share the information with me.”
Before her eyes, his nostrils flared and his cheeks developed a slightly ruddy cast. His gaze drifted over her in a blatant, yet leisurely, study that sent her pulse racing in an erratic manner.
Or maybe it was the wine. She inspected the ruby liquid. Perhapsthe Madeira was not agreeing with her tonight.
“I will tell you,” he said, voice clipped, “ifyou Sit. Down.” He glared at her.
Well.She started to tell him he had no cause to behave in such a boorish manner, when the truth dawned. “I think I know what’s bothering you, sir.” She made her way back to her armchair.
“Do you?” he gritted out.
“Yes.” She resumed her perch. “You, like me, do not enjoy being loomed over. I apologize.”
He gave an audible sigh, briefly dropping his head in one hand. “Thank you,” he said. He rose, stalked to his wardrobe, and flung open the door. Crouching, he unearthed a blanket then returned to his armchair, dropped into it, and tossed the spread over his lap.
“I can stoke the flames if you’ve caught a chill, sir,” she offered and half rose.
“No,” he said, sounding very sure.
“Very well.” She gave silent thanks. Any warmer and the chamber would be stifling.
“Two years ago, I founded a consortium,” he began. “I took on only four investors. My brother, my first captain, Dirk Kennedy, Mr. Brice Tyrell—a friend of mine and Ashwood’s from the schoolroom—and Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”
“An investment consortium? Investment in what, pray tell?”
“Baker rifles. A lot of them. Thanks to Tyrell’s connections, we obtained permission from the Home Office to sell the arms to Britain’s allies fighting on the Spanish front.”
“What exactly are Mr. Tyrell’s connections?”
His broad mouth kicked up at one corner. “You are very clever, are you not?”
She shrugged. “No more than the next person.”
He gave an indeterminate grunt, then went on. “Tyrell is an MP.”
“A member of parliament?” she clarified.
“Yes. He’s risen in the ranks in a relatively short span of time and serves on many committees, including the Committee on National Security Measures.”
“Well connected indeed,” she said.
“The consortium made two small shipments, testing out our convoy’s safety, which consisted of one cargo ship, and two privateer vessels. All went well. We doubled our load on the final shipment.”
“I take it, this time, all did not go well.”
“Correct.”
“What happened?”
His free hand fisted against his thigh, his grip so tightly his knuckles turned white. “Instead of sailing to Spain, the convoy turned into French waters. Evidently, a deal had been struck to sell the rifles to Napoleon instead.”
“Oh. I’m so sorry.”
He slanted her a look. “Sorry, you say. What if I arranged the subterfuge, to pocket all the proceeds myself?”
She waved that off. “Please, sir, do not waste my time with inane gibberish. I wish to hear how any of this pertains to our marriage.”
