It's In His Kiss

Chapter 21

One half hour later.

“We’re not going to find them.”

Hyacinth had her hands planted on her hips as she surveyed the baroness’s bedchamber. They had spent fifteen minutes getting to Clair House, five sneaking in through the faulty window and creeping up to the bedchamber, and the last ten searching every last nook and corner.

The jewels were nowhere.

It was not like Hyacinth to admit defeat. In fact, it was so wholly out of character that the words, “We’re not going to find them,” had come out sounding more surprised than anything else.

It hadn’t occurred to her that they might not find the jewels. She’d imagined the scene a hundred times in her head, she’d plotted and planned, she’d thought the entire scheme to death, and not once had she ever pictured herself coming up empty-handed.

She felt as if she’d slammed into a brick wall.

Maybe she had been foolishly optimistic. Maybe she had just been blind. But this time, she’d been wrong.

“Do you give up?” Gareth asked, looking up at her. He was crouching next to the bed, feeling for panels in the wall behind the headboard. And he sounded…not pleased, exactly, but rather somewhat done, if that made any sense.

He’d known that they weren’t going to find anything. Or if he hadn’t known it, he had been almost sure of it. And he’d come tonight mostly just to humor her. Hyacinth decided she loved him all the more for that.

But now, his expression, his aspect, everything in his voice seemed to say one thing-We tried, we lost, can we please just move on?

There was no satisfied smirk, no “I told you so,” just a flat, matter-of-fact stare, with perhaps the barest hint of disappointment, as if a tiny corner of him had been hoping to be proven wrong.

“Hyacinth?” Gareth said, when she didn’t reply.

“I…Well…” She didn’t know what to say.

“We haven’t much time,” he cut in, his face taking on a steely expression. Clearly, her time for reflection was over. He rose to his feet, brushing his hands against each other to rid them of dust. The baroness’s bedchamber had been shut off, and it didn’t appear to be on a regular cleaning schedule. “Tonight is the baron’s monthly meeting with his hound-breeding club.”

“Hound-breeding?” Hyacinth echoed. “In London?”

“They meet on the last Tuesday of the month without fail,” Gareth explained. “They have been doing it for years. To keep abreast of pertinent knowledge while they’re in London.”

“Does pertinent knowledge change very often?” Hyacinth asked. It was just the sort of random tidbit of information that always interested her.

“I have no idea,” Gareth replied briskly. “It’s probably just an excuse to get together and drink. The meetings always end at eleven, and then they spend about two hours in social discourse. Which means the baron will be home”-he pulled out his pocket watch and swore under his breath-“now.”

Hyacinth nodded glumly. “I give up,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve ever uttered those words while not under duress, but I give up.”

Gareth chucked her softly under her chin. “It’s not the end of the world, Hy. And just think, you may resume your mission once the baron finally kicks off, and I inherit the house. Which,” he added thoughtfully, “I actually have some right to.” He shook his head. “Imagine that.”

“Do you think Isabella meant for anyone to find them?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Gareth replied. “One would think that if she had, she might have chosen a more accessible language for her final hint than Slovene.”

“We should go,” Hyacinth said, sighing. “I need to return home in any case. If I’m to pester my mother for a change in the wedding date, I want to do it now, while she’s sleepy and easy to sway.”

Gareth looked at her over his shoulder as he placed his hand on the doorknob. “You are diabolical.”

“You didn’t believe it before?”

He smiled, then gave her a nod when it was safe to creep out into the hall. Together they moved down the stairs to the drawing room with the faulty window. Swiftly and silently, they slipped outside and hopped down to the alley below.

Gareth walked in front, stopping at the alley’s end and stretching one arm behind him to keep Hyacinth at a distance while he peered out onto Dover Street.

“Let’s go,” he whispered, jerking his head toward the street. They had come over in a hansom cab-Gareth’s apartments were not quite close enough to walk-and they’d left it waiting two intersections away. It wasn’t really necessary to ride back to Hyacinth’s house, which was just on the other side of Mayfair, but Gareth had decided that as long as they had the cab, they might as well make use of it. There was a good spot where they could be let out, right around the corner from Number Five, that was set back in shadows and with very few windows looking out upon it.

“This way,” Gareth said, taking Hyacinth’s hand and tugging her along. “Come on, we can-”

He stopped, stumbled. Hyacinth had halted in her tracks.

“What is it?” he hissed, turning to look at her.

But she wasn’t looking at him. Instead, her eyes were focused on something-someone-to the right.

The baron.

Gareth froze. Lord St. Clair-his father, his uncle, whatever he should call him-was standing at the top of the steps leading to Clair House. His key was in his hand, and he had obviously spotted them just as he was about to enter the building.

“This is interesting,” the baron said. His eyes glittered.

Gareth felt his chest puff out, some sort of instinctive show of bravado as he pushed Hyacinth partly behind him. “Sir,” he said. It was all he’d ever called the man, and some habits were hard to break.

“Imagine my curiosity,” the baron murmured. “This is the second time I have run across you here in the middle of the night.”

Gareth said nothing.

“And now”-Lord St. Clair motioned to Hyacinth-“you have brought your lovely betrothed with you. Un-orthodox, I must say. Does her family know she is running about after midnight?”

“What do you want?” Gareth asked in a hard voice.

But the baron only chuckled. “I believe the more pertinent question is what do you want? Unless you intend to attempt to convince me that you are just here for the fresh night air.”

Gareth stared at him, looking for signs of resemblance. They were all there-the nose, the eyes, the way they held their shoulders. It was why Gareth had never, until that fateful day in the baron’s office, thought he might be a bastard. He’d been so baffled as a child; his father had treated him with such contempt. Once he’d grown old enough to understand a bit of what went on between men and women, he had wondered about it-his mother’s infidelity would seem a likely explanation for his father’s behavior toward him.

But he’d dismissed the notion every time. There was that damned St. Clair nose, right in the middle of his face. And then the baron had looked him in the eye and said that he was not his, that he couldn’t be, that the nose was mere coincidence.

Gareth had believed him. The baron was many things, but he was not stupid, and he certainly knew how to count to nine.

Neither of them had dreamed that the nose might be something more than coincidence, that Gareth might be a St. Clair, after all.

He tried to remember-had the baron loved his brother? Had Richard and Edward St. Clair been close? Gareth couldn’t recall them in each other’s company, but then again, he’d been banished to the nursery most of the time, anyway.

“Well?” the baron demanded. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

And there it was, on the tip of his tongue. Gareth looked him in the eye-the man who had, for so many years, been the ruling force in his life-and he almost said-Nothing at all, Uncle Richard.

It would have been the best kind of direct hit, a complete surprise, designed to stagger and strike.

It would have been worth it just for the shock on the baron’s face.

It would have been perfect.

Except that Gareth didn’t want to do it. He didn’t need to.

And that took his breath away.

Before, he would have tried to guess how his father might feel. Would he be relieved to know that the barony would go to a true St. Clair, or would he instead be enraged, devastated by the knowledge that he had been cuckolded by his own brother?

Before, Gareth would have weighed his options, balanced them, then gone with his instincts and tried to deliver the most crushing blow.

But now…

He didn’t care.

He would never love the man. Hell, he would never even like him. But for the first time in his life, he was reaching a point where it just didn’t matter.

And he was stunned by how good that felt.

He took Hyacinth’s hand, interlocked their fingers. “We’re just out for a stroll,” he said smoothly. It was a patently ridiculous statement, but Gareth delivered it with his usual savoir-faire, in the same tone that he always used with the baron. “Come along, Miss Bridgerton,” he added, turning his body to lead her down the street.

But Hyacinth didn’t move. Gareth turned to look at her, and she seemed frozen into place. She looked at him with questioning eyes, and he knew she couldn’t believe that he’d held silent.

Gareth looked at her, then he looked at Lord St. Clair, and then he looked within himself. And he realized that while his never-ending war with the baron might not matter, the truth did. Not because it had the power to wound, just because it was the truth, and it had to be told.

It was the secret that had defined both of their lives for so long. And it was time that they were both set free.

“I have to tell you something,” Gareth said, looking the baron in the eye. It wasn’t easy, being this direct. He had no experience speaking to this man without malice. He felt strange, stripped bare.

Lord St. Clair said nothing, but his expression changed slightly, became more watchful.

“I am in possession of Grandmother St. Clair’s diary,” Gareth said. At the baron’s startled expression, he added, “Caroline found it among George’s effects with a note instructing her to give it to me.”

“He did not know that you are not her grandson,” the baron said sharply.

Gareth opened his mouth to retort, “But I was,” but he managed to bite off the comment. He would do this right. He had to do this right. Hyacinth was at his side, and suddenly his angry ways seemed callow, immature. He didn’t want her to see him like that. He didn’t want to be like that.

“Miss Bridgerton has some knowledge of Italian,” Gareth continued, keeping his voice even. “She has assisted me in its translation.”

The baron looked at Hyacinth, his piercing eyes studying her for a moment before turning back to Gareth.

“Isabella knew who my father was,” Gareth said softly. “It was Uncle Edward.”

The baron said nothing, not a word. Except for the slight parting of his lips, he was so still that Gareth wondered if he was even breathing.

Had he known? Had he suspected?

As Gareth and Hyacinth stood in silence, the baron turned and looked down the street, his eyes settling on some far-off point. When he turned back, he was as white as a sheet.

He cleared his throat and nodded. Just once, as an acknowledgment. “You should marry that girl,” he said, motioning with his head toward Hyacinth. “The Lord knows you’re going to need her dowry.”

And then he walked up the rest of the steps, let himself into his home, and shut the door.

“That’s all?” Hyacinth said, after a moment of just standing there with her mouth agape. “That’s all he’s going to say?”

Gareth felt himself begin to shake. It was laughter, he realized, almost as an aside. He was laughing.

“He can’t do that,” Hyacinth protested, her eyes flashing with indignation. “You just revealed the biggest secret of both of your lives, and all he does is-are you laughing?”

Gareth shook his head, even though it was clear that he was.

“What’s so funny?” Hyacinth asked suspiciously.

And her expression was so…her. It made him laugh even harder.

“What’s so funny?” she asked again, except this time she looked as if she might smile, too. “Gareth,” she persisted, tugging on his sleeve. “Tell me.”

He shrugged helplessly. “I’m happy,” he said, and he realized it was true. He’d enjoyed himself in his life, and he’d certainly had many happy moments, but it had been so long since he’d felt this-happiness, complete and whole. He’d almost forgotten the sensation.

She placed her hand abruptly on his brow. “Are you feverish?” she muttered.

“I’m fine.” He pulled her into his arms. “I’m better than fine.”

“Gareth!” she gasped, ducking away as he swooped down for a kiss. “Are you mad? We’re in the middle of Dover Street, and it’s-”

He cut her off with a kiss.

“It’s the middle of the night,” she spluttered.

He grinned devilishly. “But I’m going to marry you next week, remember?”

“Yes, but-”

“Speaking of which,” he murmured.

Hyacinth’s mouth fell open as he dropped down to one knee. “What are you doing?” she squeaked, frantically looking this way and that. Lord St. Clair was surely peeking out at them, and heaven only knew who else was, too. “Someone will see,” she whispered.

He seemed unconcerned. “People will say we’re in love.”

“I-” Good heavens, but how did a woman argue against that?

“Hyacinth Bridgerton,” he said, taking her hand in his, “will you marry me?”

She blinked in confusion. “I already said I would.”

“Yes, but as you said, I did not ask you for the right reasons. They were mostly the right reasons, but not all.”

“I-I-” She was stumbling on the words, choking on the emotion.

He was staring up at her, his eyes glowing clear and blue in the dim light of the streetlamps. “I am asking you to marry me because I love you,” he said, “because I cannot imagine living my life without you. I want to see your face in the morning, and then at night, and a hundred times in between. I want to grow old with you, I want to laugh with you, and I want to sigh to my friends about how managing you are, all the while secretly knowing I am the luckiest man in town.”

“What?” she demanded.

He shrugged. “A man’s got to keep up appearances. I’ll be universally detested if everyone realizes how perfect you are.”

“Oh.” Again, how could a woman argue with that?

And then his eyes grew serious. “I want you to be my family. I want you to be my wife.”

She stared down at him. He was gazing at her with such obvious love and devotion, she hardly knew what to do. It seemed to surround her, embrace her, and she knew that this was poetry, this was music.

This was love.

He smiled up at her, and all she could do was smile back, dimly aware that her cheeks were growing wet.

“Hyacinth,” he said. “Hyacinth.”

And she nodded. Or at least she thought she did.

He squeezed her hands as he rose to his feet. “I never thought I’d have to say this to you, of all people, but for God’s sake, say something, woman!”

“Yes,” she said. And she threw herself into his arms. “Yes!”