The Devil in Her Bed (Devil You Know #3) - Kerrigan Byrne Page 0,84
he’d gained and lost a father before he even knew about it.
For a man who’d survived such a litany of such tragedies alone … she couldn’t imagine what that had meant to him. Of course he would need to sort it all out in his thoughts and his heart. It was a lot to contend with. “It’s … complicated,” she finished lamely.
Serana made an affirmative grunt, giving the scarf a final yank to secure it.
Francesca looked at her reflection. She might have been a maharaja with such a fine turban, save for the fact that she was neither male, a king, nor Indian.
“He’ll be there when I need him,” Francesca assured, wishing she felt as confident as she sounded.
Serana slid her a sideways look. “I do not think the gods would ever have allowed your father to adopt him,” she declared. “He never was meant to be your brother, but your fate.”
Francesca opened her mouth to ask her to clarify when a metallic jangle pealed from her bedroom. Holding up a finger to signal that this conversation was not over, she went to the receiver box of her telephone and lifted the earpiece.
“Lady Francesca?” Even through the tinny wires, Lord Ramsay’s brogue was unmistakable.
“This is.”
“I am calling on behalf of my wife to give ye a firm talking-to,” he said without a trace of firmness.
“Stern!” She heard Cecelia call from somewhere in his vicinity. “I said stern, not firm.”
His breath was a long-suffering gush against the mouthpiece, and it carried his regret over the miles between them.
“Ye lied,” he accused in a matter-of-fact tone.
“You’ll have to be specific,” Francesca remonstrated, trying to cull the strange compelling urge she had to yell her words into the receiver. Not because she was irritated, but because they really did have to travel a great distance, and she wondered if they needed an extra push.
“The Kenway ritual,” he clarified. “It isna at the estate tonight, as ye informed us.”
Drat. She’d been caught. “Oh?” she feigned innocence. “Have they moved it? I haven’t received the invitation for it as of yet. I think it will come later and we’ll have to leave immediately.”
“That surprises me, because everyone else has one, including yer lover.”
Francesca clutched the phone with hands gone suddenly cold and clammy. “What?” She didn’t fight the yelling now. “How do you know?”
“That he has an invitation? Or that he’s yer lover?”
Francesca took the earpiece from her ear and made a nasty face at it. “Both,” she gritted out. “Either.”
“I cautioned him against having you two watched!” Cecelia called from the ether. “But he’s quite like you, Frank. Stubborn. His agents saw Chandler go into your house last night … and not come out.”
Francesca could just see the couple glaring at each other.
“I’ve had everyone watched,” Ramsay admitted with no trace of shame. “Kenway, his household, people I recognized leaving the council soiree last night, names I’ve gleaned from the council members ye’d already given over to us. They are all being followed. And ye’ll thank me for my stubbornness when ye hear what I have to say.”
Ramsay took a fortifying breath, and because he was so much like her in nature, Francesca found a place to sit down. If this was unpleasant for the Scot to impart, she wasn’t going to like to hear it.
“I did some digging on Chandler Alquist, Lady Francesca,” he started reluctantly. “He’s not just a spy, he’s a ghost. There are no records of him existing anywhere except for when he gained employ. He’s assigned to the most dangerous of cases, suicide missions and the like, and has been after the Crimson Council for some time. He’s done … terrible things, Francesca. Things that would make even a man such as I hesitate.”
Francesca let out a deep breath, clutching at the window seat beneath her. “I know,” she murmured. “He’s told me as much. And isn’t it said that one doesn’t send a saint to capture a sinner?” She patently refused to believe that he was anything but a good man. “Chandler acknowledges that he’s a monster, but he’s shown me someone different, Ramsay. He is an agent of justice, and sometimes justice is brutal.”
“I doona ken if you understand what I’m saying to ye,” Ramsay interjected carefully. “Chandler isn’t a monster. He’s the man they send to kill the monster. He’s death’s own emissary from the Crown, and if he’s on a job then people end up in the ground.”