Simpson winced. “If I might be candid, my lord?”
“Please.”
“The estate is crumbling. His lordship’s health has been declining, so he has not seen to things as he ought. And so…” He sighed. “There are no funds to pay such new servants.”
That made sense. If the heir was a disaster, too often, the father was as well. “You leave that to me.” He wasn’t exactly flush with money, but for his sister’s welfare, he would find a way to pay for her protection. He only hoped it was enough. “Pray inform my sister and Miss Gohar that I had an appointment and will return in two hours.”
“Of course, my lord.” Then he handed Elliott his hat and bowed deeply before holding open the front door.
Elliott wasted no time in turning the horses’ heads to the Lyon’s Den. He hadn’t seen his quarry except as a glimpse of someone slinking into the shadows last night, but it had been enough. He arrived at the Den during the midafternoon heat, which was more damp than hot. He pushed his way inside and searched until he found Titan plucking a guitar in a dark basement bedroom. His face was tight, and his scarred hand moved with difficulty across the strings. Odd that it was the man’s ears that gave him away. His hair was shorn close, and there was a unique fold of ear that betrayed his identity.
“Luke, what the hell are you doing?” he said by way of greeting. “Your entire family thinks you’re dead.”
The desultory plucking at the instrument stopped. When the man spoke, his words were barely intelligible thanks to a thick accent of no particular origin. “You must be mistaken, milord. I ain’t—”
“Stop it,” Elliott ordered as he stepped inside the dank room and shut the door. “You are Luke, future Earl of Wolvesmead. Your brother and I enjoyed an entire summer crawling around your dilapidated castle with you.” It had been perhaps the best months of his childhood. “Your mother spends hours on her knees every day, praying for your safe return. Does she know you’re alive? Does anyone?”
Luke’s eyes narrowed, but that was the only reaction. He remained as he was, shrouded in shadow with his maimed hand resting lightly on the guitar. “I don’t know what ye mean—”
Elliott blew out a breath. “I’m not here to banter lies with you, Luke. I need your help. Diana is in trouble. You remember her, yes? She’s of an age with you.”
Luke’s head lifted the rest of the way until his haunted eyes looked out from a gaunt face. “I remember her. Married Dunnamore.”
At least he wasn’t denying his identity anymore. “Her stepson Geoffrey is threatening her. I need a man in her house to protect her until I can think of a better solution. I’ve enough to pay you—if you want it—and another footman besides.”
Luke’s mouth twisted down. “I know the blighter. He’s got a crew of fellows who act like a gang of bloody thieves.”
“If they would stop at thievery, I would be less afraid.”
Luke grimaced. “You can’t count on that.”
“I know. Which is why I need you to stop playing wolf pack here and—”
“Play wolf pack there?”
They were referring to what the widow Dove-Lyons called her bouncers. She’d named them her Wolf Pack with Titan (Luke) as their leader. Elliott couldn’t think of a better group to look after his sister. “Do you have trustworthy men who could use the extra blunt?”
“They’re all good men,” Luke snapped.
Of course, they were. Luke wouldn’t tolerate anything less. “Then you’ll help me?”
The man took a while to answer. He stared into the shadows for a moment, and his entire body stilled until he became one with the darkness. But in the end, Luke dipped his chin in agreement. “I will help on one condition.”
“Anything.”
“You won’t tell anyone who I am.”
Which name was forbidden? Titan (his Lyon’s Den name), Lord Lucifer (his boyhood nickname), or Luke (his real name)? It didn’t matter. Elliott would not be party to deceiving a man’s family. “Your brother is my friend. Your whole family is in hell wondering if you’re—”
“They think I’m dead. They’ve accepted it.”
“But you’re not!” Elliott took a step forward. “And your mother definitely hasn’t—”
“Believe me, she has. Or if she hasn’t, she’s praying that I stay away.”
“That isn’t true.” But then Elliott remembered his summer at Wolvesmead Castle. Luke’s mother had never been a warm woman. She had a critical eye, a sharp tongue, and an unrelenting anger toward her eldest son. Elliott never asked the reason for it, but he couldn’t deny it. “Think of your brother, then, and your father.”
Luke’s head dropped, and he began picking at the guitar again. “Find someone else,” he said over the plunking notes.
Elliott stood there a while, too aware that he had no other options. He still tried to find a different way. He pulled up an old stool and squatted down on it as he tried every manipulative technique he knew. He employed reason, wielded guilt, even took a stab at patriotism. None of it worked. In the end, he gave in to Luke’s demands. Diana was worth the sacrifice, though he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was betraying one of his oldest friends in order to save his sister.
“Very well,” he conceded. “How quickly can you start?”
“Immediately,” Luke said as he set aside the guitar. “But you can’t have them call me Titan. You can’t mix your sister with the Lyon’s Den.”
An excellent point.
Luke grabbed his hat. “Call me, Mr. Lucifer.”
Elliott snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. Mr. Dunderhead would be more fitting.”
Luke grabbed a pair of knives and slipped them into unseen pockets. “You never understood the intimidation of a good nickname.”
Very true. Names meant nothing to him, and a nickname was less substantial than smoke. Still, he trusted Luke to know his business, and if that meant calling him Mr. Lucifer, then he would oblige. Besides, Elliott was anxious to get back to Amber and didn’t want to waste the time to argue. “Take whatever alias you like so long as you’re there tonight to protect Diana.”
“From Geoffrey? My pleasure,” Luke said. Then he smiled in a way that seemed truly satanic. “I shall keep her as safe as a vestal virgin.”
Elliott opened the bedroom door with a snort. “You’re mixing mythologies, you know. Greek, Christian—”
“Vestal virgins are Roman.”
“Fine. Roman and Christian.”
Luke adjusted his clothing, his body limber despite his ruined hand. “We can make plans as we take your chariot to Diana’s temple.”
“Good God, when did you become so fanciful?”
“I gave up reality when forty-eight thousand men died at Waterloo.”
Elliott winced. “I thought the number was twenty-three thousand.”
“Is it any less horrendous because the other twenty-five thousand were French?”
No, it wasn’t. Every man had a mother, and every death marked a loss. In the end, Elliott had nothing to say but, “I’m sorry.” He had not fought in the battle. He had not seen the blood, smelled the gore, or heard the screams. He was not haunted as Luke so obviously was. But he could still grieve the destruction even as he lay the blame fully upon the Corsican emperor. “Thank God it’s over.”