Page 63 of An Extraordinary Lord

With a hard push, he released the blade and stepped back, leaving Merritt to catch the sword as it fell.

“You’re not only placing our mission against Scepter in jeopardy,” Marcus warned, “but your own life as well. So put the past behind you and move on before it destroys you and all you care about.”

“Iammoving on,” Merritt shot back, the anger inside him flaring once more. This time at himself. “For God’s sake! What do you think I’m doing with the riots?”

“Trying to save Joanna,” Pearce answered quietly.

His words pierced Merritt’s chest as easily as a saber. For a moment, he could do nothing more than remember to breathe.

“And you’ll never be able to.” Pearce pushed himself away from the wall and came slowly toward him. “No matter how many riots you stop, how many rioters you arrest and put behind bars, how many innocents you save—she’s gone, and you can never bring her back. You’re not grieving anymore, but you haven’t yet let go of her either. You haven’t let yourself move on, and you’ll never be happy until you do.”

And how the hell do I do that?Merritt’s anger at himself turned into fury at how helpless he felt, how out of control in his own skin. He knew why guilt and anguish ate at his gut every waking moment, why it gave no quarter against the nightmares that plagued him.

Except when he was with Veronica.

When he was with her, he didn’t think about Joanna or the man who killed her. He didn’t remember the guilt that had rained down upon her parents when he’d told them she was dead or his grief at the future that had been stolen from him. What he felt was…alive. For the first time in five years.

Damn the world that it was Veronica! A woman who lived among the worst of London’s underworld and represented everything he’d sworn to fight against. A woman who was the complete opposite of Joanna, in every way.

And damn himself that he couldn’t stop wanting her. And not just in his bed but also in his life.

“You’re no good to anyone like this,” Marcus repeated quietly. “Come to terms with it, Merritt. And quickly. Before other people are hurt—including you.”

That was the problem. Because no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t find a way to end it.

As Marcus turned away to leave the training room, the outer doors of the Armory screeched their familiar grating of metal upon metal. Clayton Elliott strode inside.

“You’ll never guess what I learned tonight,” he announced as he crossed the octagonal room to the side table that held the Armory’s collection of liquor. “I just returned from the Horse Guards. Thought maybe Nate Reed or one of the other men might have information—”

He sensed the thick tension pulsing between the three men and stopped. His hand froze in midreach for a bottle of whiskey.

Clayton quirked a brow. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Not at all.” Marcus joined him at the side table to pour himself his own glass and nodded toward the ruined sword in Merritt’s hand. “Merritt was in the process of destroying the training dummies.”

“I see,” Clayton muttered as Merritt laid the sword aside on a chair, then began to roll down his sleeves to cover the bruises on his forearms that he’d given himself tonight. But wisely, Clayton knew not to question further. “It’s good you’re all in fighting condition, then.” He finished pouring his drink and took a healthy swallow before explaining, “I found out some interesting information about General Liggett.”

Merritt ignored the troubled looks Marcus and Pearce sent him. “What’s that?”

“Liggett volunteered to put down the riots.”

“That’s not surprising.” Marcus frowned. “He’s ambitious.”

“But he’s not a fortune teller,” Clayton corrected. “His letter to Whitehall offering his regiment’s services to deal with the mob arrived the morning after the first riot.”

Pearce amended with a shrug, “He’sveryambitious.”

“And over a hundred miles away in Lincolnshire when he sent the letter.” Clayton lingered at the side table to top off his glass. “The Royal Mail’s good, but not good enough to stop time.”

A cold chill raced through Merritt. He murmured, “He knew about the riots before they happened.”

“Because he’s been in communication with the men behind them,” Marcus added.

“Through Malmesbury’s mistress?” Shaking his head, Merritt tugged at his waistcoat and sleeves to bring them back into place. “I have no idea how she’s involved, but it’s not because of Malmesbury. The man’s incapable of staging riots from his country seat in Yorkshire, nor would he care unless the mob somehow improved pheasant hunting. So what connection does the mistress have to Liggett?”

“I think we should pay her a call and find out,” Clayton decided. “First thing in the morning.”

Pulling in a fortifying breath, Merritt slid his gaze around the circle at the men he considered to be his brothers, these men whom he trusted with his life. They needed his help and wanted to help him in turn. For that, he would always appreciate them.