Page 11 of An Extraordinary Lord
“I’ve told you. I want nothing to do with Scepter.”
“Me either. But it doesn’t seem we have much of a choice. I want to stop them from hurting any more innocent people, and you don’t want to return to Newgate.”
Her eyes narrowed. Why would he care about Scepter? “Are you with the Home Office, too?”
He chuckled. “Only one of us here is mad enough for that.” He paused as if to gauge her reaction. “I’m a barrister.”
She nearly laughed. He expected her to believe that? “Since when do the Inns of Court provide instruction in swordplay?”
“You’d be surprised at what you can hide beneath those robes and wigs.” Another pause, this one with grim undertones, and he admitted, “I learned to fight in the army. With the Coldstream Guards.”
“His Majesty’s army doesn’t teach its soldiers to fight like that.”
“No, but some of the best fighters in the world are among its ranks.”
“Who have nothing better to do than teach barristers how to fencea passata sotto?”
“Lots of time on your hands in the army, you know.” A quiet distance invaded his voice. “Mostly long stretches of unbearable boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror. Learning to fight fills the downtime.” He tossed the conversation back at her. “Where did you learn to fight?”
“With His Majesty’s army,” she flippantly replied. Sometimes nothing hid the truth better than the truth. “Lots of time on my hands. Boredom. Sheer terror.” She shrugged, and the shackles on her wrists clinked softly. “You know.”
His sensuous lips curled into a tight smile. But she knew he didn’t find her at all amusing.
Yet that smile twisted through her, right down to her toes.
He was certainly attractive, all right. It would be a damn shame if something happened to ruin that handsome face of his, so she screwed a hard look of warning on him. “Do you really know what you’re getting into with Scepter?”
His smile faded. “Yes.” He pushed himself off the chair and crossed to a side table along the wall where a dozen bottles of various golden liquors waited on a silver tray. “Scepter first came after my friends about six months ago.” He paused to correct himself. “No, it was two years before that, right when their organization began.” With a grim expression, he selected one of the crystal decanters, removed the glass stopper, and turned over one of the half-dozen waiting tumblers. “That was when they’d killed General Marcus Braddock’s sister because she’d learned Scepter was using prostitutes to extort money and favors from powerful men who they then used to increase their operations. Then six months ago, they came after the woman who became the general’s wife.”
A cold tingle crawled up her back like a spider along her spine. “A personal grudge against the general, then. One that’s not worth you riding into the fray and losing your life over.”
He smiled grimly at the glass. “Not just the general’s family, but my best friend Pearce and his wife as well. Scepter blackmailed her brother into making government appointments that put their men into positions within the government.”
“Criminals in the government’s employ,” she mocked. “I’m aghast.”
His mouth tightened at that. “Not to work for the government.” He looked up to meet her gaze as he splashed the caramel-colored liquor into the glass. “To start a revolution.”
She couldn’t possibly have heard… “Revolution?” A nervous laugh of disbelief fell from her lips. “You’re bamming me.”
“I wish I were.” He replaced the stopper. “That’s why Clayton’s involved. The Home Office takes threats of sedition very seriously these days.” Carrying the glass with him, he returned to her and once more straddled the chair backward. “Unlike the French, English aristocracy doesn’t fancy being separated from their heads.”
“No,” she muttered, trying to absorb all that he was telling her, “I suppose not.”
“So yes, I know all about Scepter and what they’re capable of doing,” he finished. “And no, I won’t turn my back on my friends or my country.”
He was either the bravest man she’d met in a very long time or an absolute fool. Right then, she wouldn’t have placed a bet on which.
“Clayton wants Scepter at the gallows,” he continued, “I want the riots stopped, and you want a pardon. The Home Office, the criminal courts, and the thieves—the perfect unholy trinity, don’t you think?”
He held the glass out to her.
In reply, she held up her shackled wrists.
With one hand, he unscrewed the metal cuffs that bound her wrists. They loosened enough that she could slip her hands free and let them drop to the floor with a muted clatter on the rug.
She accepted the drink and took a slow swallow, aware of his stormy blue eyes on her throat as it undulated gently. “Thank you.”
“Something told me you’d prefer brandy to tea.”
