Nicolas smiled but made no reply. Yet he perceived the threat in her probe. Bloody hell. Who else was actively wondering how important Lady Maryann was to him?
He walked past Salome, and he could feel her stare boring into his back. Perhaps she worked with Farringdon, the very duke Nicolas was knocking down a peg tonight.
It would explain her sudden interest, and there had been a rumor some months ago that they were lovers. Perhaps her task had been to seduce Nicolas and ferret out the truth. Or a weakness he was sure to have. Either way, he would not allow her to distract him from his purpose, but he would keep discreet tabs on her.
And most importantly, he would hire two of O’Malley’s men who were former runners to discreetly watch over Lady Maryann and protect her, should the need arise. It was better to be safe than regretful. And the idea of anything happening to her was…truly unthinkable.
Nicolas stopped at the railing on the upper bowers, peering into the crowd of dancers as they twirled to the waltz. The ballroom was as elegant as those found in the best town houses in London, possibly even grander. All the women on the floor wore decadent masks to hide their identity from scandal, and in the arms of the men they twirled with, they were far bolder and more scandalous than ladies of the demimonde.
Nicolas spied Farringdon sitting at a table in a corner, conversing with the owner of Asylum, Riordan O’Malley. The duke appeared agitated, and he glanced over his shoulders several times, rubbing the back of his neck, and other times tugging at his cravat.
“He is getting desperate,” David said, coming to stand beside Nicolas. “Someone has gone around and bought up all his debts and vowels. It is delightfully diabolical of you to have the bankers and merchants call them in at the same time. He is certainly feeling the pressure. And then—”
“I do not need a blow by blow for what I have done.” Nicolas had methodically planned and executed it all. Though he quickly relayed the placket of information he had left for Viscount Humber.
David sent him a look of black admiration. “What did you trade to get the information from the broker that the duke likes to play with his own sex?”
Nicolas had obtained that with careful patience and by following the duke for months. But he did not reveal his hand to David, despite the man being his longest friend. Nicolas ignored him.
“By word, man, are you really not going to say?” David asked crossly.
“Ah, the show is about to start,” Nicolas murmured.
Viscount Humber strode into the bowel of the den, his lips curved in disdain as he glanced around the decadent halls of the gambling club. When he spied the duke, he narrowed his eyes and marched over to him. The duke glanced up, jumped to his feet, and met the man in the middle of the floor. The viscount gestured furiously, and whatever he said had the duke paling.
The viscount turned around and walked away stiffly. Farringdon stood there, his hands clenched at his sides, his expression one of unchecked rage.
“I believe the alliance between the families has been dealt a blow,” David said, gripping the railing. “Are you satisfied?”
“Not even close,” Nicolas murmured.
With each of Arianna’s violators he brought down, there was never a feeling of satisfaction. In truth, the hollowness in his gut seemed to expand, wanting to fill every crevice of his soul. The hatred did not ease, and the guilt did not, either.
She was dead…and even when they paid, she would still be so.
He watched as the duke swept his hand and sent the glasses and the decanter of whiskey on the closest table shattering to the ground, then he collected his coat and hat and strode from the club.
“I hear that Viscount Weychell is already squirming on the hook,” David said, inhaling deeply.
Viscount Weychell—the one Arianna had called Scarred Lips. Nicolas made no reply but gripped the railing until his fingers ached.
David sighed. “They have paid dearly; it feels almost frightening to know the end is near. There will be a day soon when every man who took part in her demise feels only regret and shame.”
Silence fell between them.
“Do you remember the way she used to laugh?” David asked softly. “Her entire face would light up, and her mouth would be wide open.”
No. The memory of her features had long faded and so had the sound of her voice. It was the conversations Nicolas recalled—those endless talks of dreams, hopes, and the future. “You normally teased her that she would catch flies with her laugh,” he said gruffly, an ache rising in his throat.
David chuckled. “I’ve missed her every day for the last ten years, our little faerie dove.”
The name they had given her when she had only been a girl of eight and they silly lads of ten years.
The eagle soars indifferently while the wolf betrays the dove…
“Did you know what would happen to her?” Nicolas asked softly.
David stumbled away from him, something wild and raw appearing in his dark gray eyes. “What did you just say to me?”
“You heard me.”
David scrubbed a hand over his face. “I will forget that you asked me that before I plant a facer on you. I loved…I loved her and wanted her for myself. You know this…you know how much I loved Arianna.”
The older they had become, the more her gentle attentions shifted to Nicolas, even though they had both pursued her. It was one of the reasons he had turned to David when he started his pathway in seeking retribution for the awful wrongs done against a girl they had both loved. But Nicolas could never forget her joy in the games they played as children by the lake and in the glen—she was the faerie, other times the dove, he was the eagle…and David the wolf.
The eagle soars indifferently while the wolf betrays the dove…
“I am heading home,” Nicolas said with a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. Unexpectedly, he felt weary. As if he would sleep for a full day and hoped nothing haunted him.
“Have you ever given thoughts to what you will do when this is all over?” David asked. “I am thinking to make myself available on the marriage mart.”
Nicolas dropped his hand and faced his friend. “You, marry?”
“I know, I can hardly believe it myself,” David said dryly, his gaze watchful upon Nicolas. “I am twenty-eight. I’ve tupped enough. Time to give the old ball and chain a go.”
Nicolas had lived so long in the pain and anguish of loss and guilt, in the need for vengeance, that he had not given a thought to the future. Not even when his mother had urged him to find a lady of quality and settle down had he been diverted from his purpose.
The dowager marchioness was aghast at his reputation, and at least every three months, sent him a letter beseeching him to mend his wild, wicked ways by selecting a fine girl of quality to marry.