The Viscount. Lyn Stone

of the incident. “The vicar interrupted my afternoon on the green and commandeered my phaeton to rush you to Dr. Ephriam. You had fallen from a tree and broken your arm. The bone was…never mind.” Again, he peered down at her scar. “A poor job he made of the repair. Did it heal without incident?”

      Lily jerked her arm away and tugged down the fabric to hide the scar. “So you believe me now?”

      He gently smoothed her sleeve with his palm and nodded, his lips pressed together as if pained at having sought proof of her identity. “Yes. I believe you are who you claim to be.”

      “Then will you help me? My son could be in danger. If you would but furnish me a mount to ride home, I would be most grateful.”

      “In danger? Why?”

      She rolled her eyes, exasperated. “Because my child is the only thing standing between Jonathan’s brother and the title, of course.”

      “The boy is now at Sylvana Hall?”

      Lily pressed her fingers to her lips for a moment before answering. “In the care of his nurse…I hope.” She fought tears and managed to keep them from falling. God above, how frightened she was for Beau.

      Again, Duquesne raised his hand, this time giving her shoulder a bracing squeeze of reassurance. “I’ll make arrangements immediately. Have a spot of that brandy while you wait.”

      “I’ll come with you,” she declared.

      Duquesne shook his head and offered her a smile. “Please, trust me… I’m sorry, but I cannot recall your name.”

      For a long moment she studied his eyes. They were clear, a clear, gentle gray now, their expression beseeching and somewhat regretful. She also noted a lack of deceit. “I am Lillian,” she replied.

      His smile widened, perfectly open and guileless, the smile of a friend happily reunited with a friend. “Lily, of course. Your father called you Lily.”

      And just like that, he was gone. Out the door with all speed, bound for she knew not where. Perhaps to summon the Watch or to send word to Clive to come here and collect her. But Lily thought not.

      That was not quite true. She knew not. Duquesne would have said outright that that was what he intended if he’d meant to turn her over. Somehow, Lily felt she could afford to put her life in his hands. How strange for her to trust on such short acquaintance when she had been betrayed the way she had.

      But Lily saw something in Duquesne that touched her. He was so alone and yet not bitter about it. There was also a wariness about him with regard to her, and she realized it was due to instant attraction. Though she knew she was not a great beauty, Lily was no fool.

      He attracted her, too, in a very physical way. Allowed to progress, Lily knew that would seriously complicate matters. She would never trade her body for a man’s assistance.

      Or would she? No, that sort of dishonorable arrangement would never do.

      But she had no money left after hiring the hack to get here, and there did not appear to be any coin here in this poor place to steal. Walking to Sylvana Hall would take entirely too long to be of any use. Besides, that was precisely what Clive would expect her to do and he would surely catch her along the way.

      Her best chance now lay with Duquesne’s providing her means to arrive home quickly before Brinks awoke, raised a cry and notified Clive that she was missing.

      Lily spent some time deciding what she might do once she arrived at the Hall, how she would spirit Beau away from there to safety and where they might go. But where could they go? Sylvana Hall was their home. She had responsibilities there that she had no intention of turning over to Clive. Unless she could prove what she thought he had done, he would remain a threat. What she and Beau needed was a permanent guard. Then an outrageous plan occurred to her.

      A headache formed directly between her eyes, a me-grim she could not afford at present considering all she had to accomplish before morning.

      She took up the half-empty bottle of brandy from the desk and looked for a glass. Finding none, she upended the bottle to her lips and allowed herself two sips for courage.

      That was how he found her when he returned.

      Guy stifled a laugh at the picture she presented, one hand propped rakishly on the edge of his desk, her hips cocked to one side and her head leaning back to drink his liquor.

      The light caught on the ragged wisps of her red-gold curls, furnishing a halo effect. Gilding Lily, the rowdy angel, he thought with an inner smile.

      He felt damned glad she was not what he had first thought her to be, some charlatan’s whore sent round to ply a scam or worse. Or perhaps a spy. He was ever alert for those since he did a bit of work now and again for the war department and had accrued a few enemies due to that. Fortunately, with peace breaking out, those chores were mostly behind him now and—profits aside—he was relieved.

      Lily’s story seemed too bizarre for a fiction. While Guy did not know Clive Bradshaw personally, he knew there were men who would do damn near anything to acquire a title and whatever went with it. She was right to worry about the boy. And, judging by what she had suffered at Bradshaw’s hands, she should be more worried than she was about herself. Damned if he didn’t admire her spirit.

      She lowered the bottle to the desk with a solid thunk and faced him as directly as a man might have done. “Is my mount ready?”

      Guy crossed to the desk, reached around her to snag the bottle and took a healthy swig himself. He offered it to her again and watched her shake her head impatiently.

      He set the decanter aside for the moment. “I’ve sent for someone reliable, a man I trust with my life. When he arrives, I shall have him go and fetch your son and his nurse. Safer if you wait here.”

      The blue eyes went wide. “I cannot stay here!”

      “Better than in the madhouse,” he quipped, looking around him, “though not by much, I’m afraid.”

      She began to pace, rubbing her arms with her palms in a gesture that betrayed more consternation than he had seen yet from her. “Mrs. Prine will likely die of apoplexy if a perfect stranger demands they leave the Hall and go with him to London. And besides, she doesn’t ride,” Lily said, flinging the words over her shoulder as she paused at the window.

      “By hook, crook or pony cart, she’ll arrive with her charge no later than midafternoon, I promise. And you need not worry for their safety.”

      Her hands flared helplessly. “I cannot simply sit and wait!”

      “Of course not. You must go upstairs and have a good sleep. Your son will be shocked enough at your appearance. If you look done-in, as well, he’ll be frightened out of his wits.”

      She scoffed. “You don’t know my Beau!”

      Guy smiled. “Has your grit, does he? How old is the scamp?”

      He proffered the bottle again and she took it, downed a delicate sip and handed it back, resuming her pacing as she did so.

      “He turned seven last month.”

      “Ah, well, I wager he’ll relish the adventure.”

      She collapsed into the chair and buried her face in her hands. Guy watched her sob twice, then go still. She sniffed heavily once and brushed the tears from her face with a determined swipe of both palms. “Botheration!” Then she shrugged and looked up at him. “Forgive me. I know how men despise tears.”

      “Don’t be an idiot,” he said gently, raking the disheveled curls off her brow with his finger.

      “I would like to avoid being treated as one,” she quipped with a self-conscious laugh and another sniff.

      Indeed. “Why don’t you begin from the beginning and tell me again how it happened in detail? No matter how insignificant you think something might be, include it. I might be able