The Dangerous Lord Read Online Free

to go.” Then he flashed the newspaperman a smile. “Pilkington will be relieved that I caught up to you.”
    Winston regarded him curiously. “Who the devil are you?”
    â€œI’m the new man Pilkington hired this morning.” Actually, Pilkington was still interviewing the applicants he’d advertised for, but Winston couldn’t know that. “He needs you at Haymarket. Told me to come here and redirect you. He said since I’m new, I could handle the Lord X article.” When Winston looked suspicious, he added, “There’s a riot going on, and he wants you over there right away.”
    â€œA riot?” The sudden light in the man’s gimlet eyes told Ian he’d judged his subject correctly. Winston was virtually licking his lips over the prospect of seeing violence in the streets. “I see. Well…” After a cursory assessment of Ian, he was apparently satisfied by the cheap wool greatcoat and beaver hat Ian had donned to make himself look less like a viscount and more like a workingman. “All right then. Just knock at the door and tell them who you are.”
    As Mr. Winston jumped in the hack and ordered the driver on, Ian smiled to himself. Three days of bribing clerks and following Mr. Winston around had finally paid off, thanks to techniques Ian had honed during the war. He didn’t need Lord X’s real name now. He’d located the man’s house, and that was enough.
    Carefully navigating the town house’s icy steps, he noted the door’s Gothic design and unusual griffin knocker. The knocker looked familiar. Where had he seen one like it? When the answer didn’t immediately come to mind, he filed the information away for future consideration. Then he examined the town house façade through the steadily falling snow. The house was a superior example of the Gothic style, with pointed windows and excellent tracery work. A gentleman’s house—but he’d expected that.
    Lord X’s poison pen was definitely aristocratic. Ian had studied the man’s columns thoroughly, and though he still considered them gossip, he now understood why duchesses held back dinner to read them, and why every chambermaidand footman in London spent their hard-earned pence to buy The Evening Gazette . And why Pilkington protected his major resource so assiduously.
    Lord X was any publisher’s dream—sharp and witty, with an engaging style and an uncanny ability to discover the most hidden secrets. He provided both praise and censure in an entertaining manner. Like one of Ian’s masters at Eton, who’d eschewed the usual canings for the subtleties of sarcasm, Lord X criticized with finesse. His subjects were principally those members of society exemplifying its worst traits—haughty disregard for the needs or feelings of others, misplaced arrogance, and love of licentious living.
    No doubt that was why Ian had appeared in the column. Given the many misdeeds attributed to the Viscount St. Clair, Lord X probably considered him the son of the very devil. Ian shrugged. That might be half-true, but true or no, Lord X needed to learn more discretion in his choice of subject. And Ian intended to teach him that particular lesson.
    A sharp rap with the iron knocker brought an instant response, although the snowy-haired woman who answered the door seemed perplexed by the sight of him. “Yes, sir? May I help you?”
    He doffed his hat, sending snow flying off the brim. “I’m Mr. Lennard from the Gazette .” Might as well use his real surname—Lord X probably knew him only by his title. “I’m here to pick up the article.”
    The woman wiped her damp and reddened hands on her skirts, then stood aside. “Do come in.” As he entered, she added cheerily, “I’m Mrs. Box, the housekeeper. Where’s Mr. Winston today?”
    â€œHe was called elsewhere. I’m taking his