Page 14 of The Earl and the Reluctant Lady
Chapter Four
Fletcher had barely stepped away from her before saying something idiotic and foolish, like begging her to run away with him. Before he pulled her into the shadows and ravished her the way they both knew she wanted him to do. The way he’d always longed to do.
Fletcher recognized the telltale signs of her desire for him—the flush that had colored her throat and cheeks and the way her pupils had nearly swallowed her lovely irises—Agnes wanted him as much as he wanted her. Which meant he needed to get the hell out of here, at least until he cooled himself down.
He made his way to one of the downstairs parlors where he knew he’d find other men—mostly husbands hiding from their wives—drinking and smoking. He said nothing as he entered the room, merely making his way to the sideboard and pouring himself two fingers of brandy. He downed it in one swallow, then poured himself another.
There was something between him and Agnes, or there could be. He’d spent the last three years denying this fact, doing his damnedest to pretend he didn’t want her, because the simple truth that he couldn’t have her was too hard to swallow.
Fletcher knew her brother wholeheartedly disapproved. Christopher hated him and would kill him if he put a finger on Agnes. Hell, the man would kill him if he knew about the mostly chaste kiss they’d shared the night they met.
He’d say he could work around Chris as Fletcher didn’t exactly require the man’s approval to court his sister. Except for the fact that Chris was still in charge of doling out assignments in the Seven. If Fletcher ever wanted to do anything save the menial assignments and the occasional seduction for intel, he needed to get on Chris’s good side, which felt rather impossible since the man seemed to set him up for failure.
Fletcher knew Agnes required courtship and a proper marriage, though she claimed she wanted neither. If he believed himself a better man, he might try to convince her otherwise, but he knew without a doubt that he’d be a wretched husband. None of the men in his family had ever been good mates. His grandfather was a mean bastard whose vitriol had sent Fletcher’s grandmother to an early grave. Then there was his father who had buried Fletcher’s mother after they’d lost her and the baby girl she’d been carrying.
His father had tried again with other women, having one short-lived affair after another. The women always left, angry and broken. Fletcher refused to do that to Agnes. She deserved so much more than him.
Maybe there had been a time when they could have made a go of it, but he’d been a coward and hadn’t fought for her. He felt almost certain that he would have been able to convince her then that marriage was worth the risk. He missed his chance. Back when they’d first met and he’d recognized she was different, something inside of her had called to something inside of him. He’d been a fool.
Instead, he’d attempted to forget her and what they could have been by plowing his way through the widows of London. He’d perfected his lovemaking skills, but still his bed was empty at night. He’d never actually slept with a woman before, only brought her pleasure and then they’d part ways.
He made his way back to the ballroom, feeling slightly more in control of his faculties.
Damned if her confrontation hadn’t surprised the hell out of him. She was wrong about him leaving a string of broken hearts, though. Those women he’d bedded knew nothing of him, of the man. They didn’t love him. They’d only wanted the pleasure he could bring them. In the end, the only heart he’d ever broken was his own.
He glanced back at the ballroom and caught sight of Agnes. He’d been telling her the truth. Once he caught sight of her, it was hard for him to look anywhere else.
At the moment, she danced in the arms of the Viscount Glenbrook. He was a decent fellow, but he certainly didn’t deserve Agnes. She smiled up at her dance partner’s face and something he said made her laugh. Fletcher forced himself to look away.
…
The following afternoon Agnes sat in her favorite chair in the library, sketching a design for a new fan. There was a scratch at the door, then a footman entered with a tray.
“A post for you, Miss Watkins,” he said.
She set her work aside, then reached for the envelope. The letter was clearly addressed to her, but there were no distinguishing marks as to who it was from. The blue wax seal featured some scroll work, but the letter X sat prominently in the center. Agnes’s heart pounded.
She slipped her letter opener beneath the seal and popped it open, then unfolded the note within.
Dear Agnes:
You are in far more danger than you could possibly realize. You think you are doing good with your reckless behavior and work for the Ladies of Virtue. They claim to have trained you to protect yourselves, but all it will do is lead you into danger. Instead all you do is patch up a hemorrhaging wound with a napkin and in the process ruin lives. You have trusted all the wrong people and it will end in disaster. Know that I’m watching. Someone is always watching.
Most Sincerely,
Lady X
She read over the letter again and then set it down on the occasional table. Lady X was the same woman who had been the anonymous source behind the newspaper article on the Ladies of Virtue. The mysterious woman obviously had some sort of vendetta against their group and had every intention of destroying them. And a personal letter from her meant that the woman not only knew about the inner workings of their group, but she also knew at least some of the members.
This needed to be brought to Lady Somersby’s attention immediately. Agnes stepped into the corridor and asked their butler to ready a rig for her, then she raced up the stairs to gather her cloak. She paused, then without another thought, she set her foot up on the edge of her bed and strapped on the garter she’d made that allowed for a dagger to be sheathed against her thigh. At this point, she couldn’t be too careful.
Several hours later she stood in the sparkling candlelit ballroom with her closest friends. She’d fully intended to tell them about the letter from Lady X as she’d done to Lady Somersby. But upon hearing about the letter, Lady Somersby had instructed her to keep it between them for the time being. Agnes hated not being forthcoming with her friends, but she understood their leader’s concerns.
So it was that she found herself standing at the refreshment table at the Anderson ball with Harriet, Justine, and Matilda, keeping a secret from them. It was on her tongue to ask the latter two about which men they’d selected for their seven deadly sins assignment, but a group of other women appeared at the table behind them. Their conversation caught her attention.
“Lord Wakefield,” one of the women nearly moaned his name.
“Yes, that is him,” another woman said.
