The Wolf’s Pursuit (London Fairy Tales #3)(25)
Author: Rachel Van Dyken

"Rawlings, do take a seat. You look positively ill."

The man with dark features, named Rawlings, sat on the chair but looked like he was ready to either murder someone or strangle himself, his hands were wrung so tightly.

"This…" Montmouth pointed to Rawlings, who was now staring at the floor as if it were to come alive at any moment. Was he foxed? "This is Lord Rawlings. His wife at this very instant has kicked him from his home so she may bring his heir into the world without him pacing the floorboards, most likely ruining the new floors in the process."

That explained his ill look.

For whatever reason, Hunter took pity. "I’m sure she will do nicely."

Rawlings’ head snapped up.

Instant recognition flashed across his features.

Truly, Hunter should have looked away or at least said something, but all he could do was sputter. "Phillip!"

"Hunter!"

"What?" Montmouth’s reaction was filled with more dread then excitement.

Hunter jumped to his feet and pumped Phillip’s hand with glee. "I haven’t seen you since France!"

"Yes, about that…" Phillip turned slightly red and glanced back at Montmouth before scratching his head and shifting his feet. "Not many know the sordid details."

"It was you!" Montmouth nearly shouted.

"Shh!" both men said in unison, all three of them now taking their seats and huddling together.

Monmouth looked between the two of them and finally addressed Phillip. "He was the one that bet you to swim naked in France?"

"Nothing but rumors." Hunter tried to defend him but failed miserably.

Rawlings shook his head, shoulders finally relaxing. He leaned back and laughed. "In his defense, the man was drunk when he bet me."

"And in his defense…" Hunter joined with them in laughter. "He was drunker, and if I remember correctly, gaining a little too much attention from a certain courtesan who would have robbed him blind if given the opportunity."

"And there’s also that." Rawlings laughed. "It is good to see you, Hunter. Or shall I address you as Haverstone? It’s odd, really, I hadn’t ever thought about your title before."

"Yes, well, I didn’t even know you had inherited until now, so you are forgiven."

Montmouth was glancing between the two as if he had just created some grievous sin. His face had turned pale. "How do you two know one another?"

"He’s a spy," Phillip blurted and then quickly looked to Hunter. Who nodded his head in amusement.

"Pardon?" Montmouth hooted with laughter. His head fell back against the chair as he wiped tears from his eyes.

Hunter fought the urge to shout his own name aloud in order to gain attention, for he truly was that famous. How had Montmouth not heard of him? Or at least put two and two together?

"Glad I amuse you," Hunter said dryly, for once not putting his foolish smile or rakish lazy mask in place.

Montmouth looked at him, really looked at him. Hunter waited and tilted his head.

"I don’t understand."

It was time for Phillip to laugh. "Surely you jest! You truly did not know that you’ve been waltzing around with the Wolf?"

"Wolf?" Montmouth said, then his eyes widened. "The Wolf?"

"The one and only." Hunter saluted.

Montmouth looked between the two of them. "But he’s an idiot." This directed at Phillip.

"He’s brilliant." Phillip defended his old friend and rose to his feet. "This truly has been a pleasure. I hadn’t thought to see you again. By the by, thank you for keeping me out of trouble in France."

"Not a problem." And Hunter meant it.

"Do call upon us soon." Phillip smiled and pumped his hand. "Wish me luck. I’m off to meet my son or daughter."

"Son," Hunter said without realizing he had spoken. Both men looked at him. "A man like you deserves a son."

Phillip nodded and walked off.

"Explain yourself," Montmouth growled before Hunter could even find his seat again.

"No."

"No?"

"Are you deaf?"

"Are you stupid?" Montmouth fired back.

"Clearly not. But I take it you are."

"I’m ignoring that slight to my intelligence, but only because I’m interested in what you’re doing back in London and living with Dominique and Isabelle."

Hunter opened his mouth to speak but Montmouth interrupted him. "And dancing with Gwen. Oh, please tell me you haven’t made advances toward her. A spy? I’m to protect them. I’m to—"

"Stop." Hunter groaned, suddenly feeling a headache coming on. "I don’t have time to speak of it. Just know I would do nothing to harm your sisters, any of them."

"Fine," Montmouth bit out. "Be sure that you don’t."

Hunter placed his glass on the table and shrugged. "Not to worry. I’m retired. I have only the purest intentions."

"Says the wolf to the sheep."

"Only the stupid ones."

Montmouth cursed. "Promise to leave the innocent ones alone? Pick off the weak, the feeble-minded, the ones who have it coming, but leave Gwen alone."

Hunter knew he couldn’t promise anything of the sort, so he nodded his head and looked away. "On that note." Hunter rose. "It’s been a trying day."

Montmouth nodded to Hunter as he left.

Trying day indeed. He did not even feel himself fall asleep that night as he lay in bed at Dominique’s house, but he did remember the woman he saw before he closed his eyes. A lady in red.

Chapter Thirteen

Wolf—

I know you may find this hard to bite, but considering you’re a wolf, I’ll just encourage you to act on instinct. I can very well take care of myself. And if you need proof, by all means examine your nose in the mirror. If the purple and yellow stains across your features aren’t enough evidence to my case, then allow me to once again show you how worthy of an opponent I truly am.

—Red

"Your eyes are like flowers."

Gwen blinked rapidly; perhaps she could cause herself to faint if she did so?

"Your hair like spun…" Oh, this should be good. The man coughed. "Spun wool."

Gwen smiled. "Like a sheep?"

"A black sheep," he confirmed. Baah. The man turned red.

She could only refer to him as man because he had been the fifteenth man to come calling and by then she had come up with nicknames for every male present. She’d quit listening to their names after the third caller. This one she called man, because truly there was nothing identifying about him. He was average height, average weight, and most likely average intelligence, at least so she’d thought.