by Lisa Kleypas
“But what will become of the runners?” Nick asked, thinking of his comrades…Sayer, Flagstad, Gee, Ruthven…talented men who had served the public with courage and dedication, all for a mere pittance.
“I imagine one or two will join the New Police, where they are much needed. Others will turn to other professions entirely. I may open a private investigative office and employ two or three for a while.” Morgan shrugged. Having made a relative fortune in his years at Bow Street, he had no need to work, other than at his own whim.
“My God, I left to attend to one private case, and I’ve come back to find the entire damned public office falling apart!”
The magistrate laughed softly. “Go home to your wife, Sydney. Start making plans. Your life is changing, no matter how you try to prevent it.”
“I will not be Lord Sydney,” Nick growled.
The green eyes gleamed with friendly irreverence. “There are worse fates, my lord. A title, land, a wife…if you can’t make something of that, there is indeed no hope for you.”
Chapter Ten
“Something in pale yellow, I think,” Sophia said decisively, sitting in the midst of so many fabrics that it appeared as if a rainbow had exploded in the room.
“Yellow,” Lottie repeated, chewing the side of her lower lip. “I don’t think that would flatter my complexion.”
As this was at least the tenth suggestion that Lottie had rejected, Sophia sighed and shook her head with a smile. She had commandeered the back room in her dressmaker’s shop at Oxford Street specifically for the purpose of ordering a trousseau for Lottie.
“I am sorry,” Lottie said sincerely. “I don’t mean to be difficult. Clearly I have little experience with this sort of thing.” She had never been allowed to choose the styles or colors of her gowns. According to Lord Radnor’s dictates, she had always worn chaste designs in dark colors. Unfortunately it was now difficult to envision herself in rich blue, or yellow, or, heaven help her, pink. And the idea of exposing most of her upper chest in public was so discomfiting that she had cringed at the daring pattern-book illustrations that Sophia had showed her.
Nick’s older sister, to her credit, was remarkably patient. She focused on Lottie with a steady blue gaze and a persuasive smile that bore an uncommon resemblance to her brother’s.
“Lottie, dear, you are not being difficult in the least, but—”
“Fibber,” Lottie responded immediately, and they both laughed.
“All right,” Sophia said with a grin, “you are being confoundedly difficult, although I am certain that it is unintentional. Therefore I am going to make two requests of you. First, please bear in mind that this is not a life-or-death matter. Choosing a gown is not so very difficult, especially when one is being advised by an astute and very fashionable friend—which would be me.”
Lottie smiled. “And the second request?”
“The second is…please trust me.” As Sophia held her gaze, it was clear that the magnetism of the Sydney family was not limited to the males. She radiated a mixture of warmth and self-confidence that was impossible to resist. “I will not let you look frowzy or vulgar,” she promised. “I have excellent taste, and I have been out in London society for some time, whereas you have been…”
“Buried in Hampshire?” Lottie supplied helpfully.
“Yes, quite. And if you insist on dressing in drab styles that are appropriate for a woman twice your age, you will feel out-of-place among your own crowd. Moreover, it would undoubtedly reflect badly on my brother, as the gossips will whisper that he must be stingy with you, if you go about so plainly garbed—”
“No,” Lottie said automatically. “That would be unfair to him, as he has given me leave to buy anything I wish.”
“Then let me choose some things for you,” Sophia coaxed.
Lottie nodded, reflecting that she was probably far too guarded. She would have to learn how to rely on other people. “I’m in your hands,” she said resignedly. “I’ll wear whatever you suggest.”
Sophia fairly wriggled in satisfaction. “Excellent!” She hefted a pattern book to her lap and began to insert slips of paper between the pages she particularly liked. The light played over her dark golden hair, bringing out shades of wheat and honey in the shining filaments. She was an uncommonly pretty woman, her delicate, decisive features a feminine echo of Nick’s strong face. Every now and then she paused to give Lottie an assessing gaze, followed either by a nod or a quick shake of her head.
Lottie sat placidly and drank some tea that the dressmaker’s assistant had brought. It was raining heavily outside and the afternoon was gray and cool, but the room was cozy and peaceful. Intricate feminine things were draped or heaped everywhere…spills of lace, lengths of silk and velvet ribbon, cunning artificial flowers, their petals adorned with crystal beads to simulate dewdrops.
Occasionally the dressmaker appeared, conferred with Sophia and made notes, then tactfully disappeared. Some clients, Sophia had told Lottie, required the dressmaker to attend them every minute. Others were far more decided in their preferences and liked to make decisions without interference.
Lost in a peaceful reverie, Lottie almost started when Sophia spoke. “You cannot imagine how thrilled I was when Nick wrote that he was taking a bride.” Sophia held two fabrics together and examined them critically, turning them to see how the light affected the weave. “Tell me, what was it about my brother that first attracted you?”
“He is a fine-looking man,” Lottie said cautiously. “I could not help but notice his eyes, and dark hair, and…he was also very charming, and…” She paused, her mind returning to those still, sun-warmed moments by the kissing gate near the forest…how world-weary he had looked, how much in need of comfort. “Desolate,” she said, almost under her breath. “I wondered how such an extraordinary man could be the loneliest person I had ever met.”
“Oh, Lottie,” Sophia said softly. “I wonder why you could see that in him, when everyone else considers him to be invulnerable.” Leaning forward, she held a length of pale amber silk beneath Lottie’s chin, testing it against her complexion, then lowered it. “For most of his life, Nick has had to fight for survival. He was so young when our parents died…and he became so rebellious afterward…” She gave a quick little shake of her head, as if to elude a sudden swarm of painful memories. “And then he ran off to London, and I heard nothing of him, until one day I learned that he had been convicted of some petty crime and sentenced to a prison hulk. A few months after that, I was told that he had died of disease aboard ship. I grieved for years.”
“Why did he not come to you? He could have at least sent a letter of some kind, to spare you such unnecessary distress.”
“I believe that he was too ashamed, after what had happened to him. He tried to forget that John, Lord Sydney, had ever existed. It was easier to close everything away and create a new life for himself as Nick Gentry.”
“After what had happened?” Lottie asked, perplexed. “Are you referring to his imprisonment?”
Sophia’s dark blue eyes searched hers. Seeming to realize that Lottie had not been told about something significant, she turned secretive. “Yes, his imprisonment,” she said vaguely, and Lottie knew that Sophia was protecting her brother in some mysterious way.
“How did you learn that he was still alive?”
“I came to London,” Sophia replied, “to take revenge on the magistrate who had sentenced him to the prison hulk. I blamed him for my brother’s death. But to my dismay, I soon found myself falling in love with him.”
“Sir Ross?” Lottie stared at her in amazement. “No wonder Nick dis—” Realizing what she had been about to say, she stopped abruptly.
“Dislikes him so?” Sophia finished for her with a rueful smile. “Yes, the two of them have no fondness for each other. However, that has not prevented my husband from doing everything he can to help Nick. You see, even after Nick joined the runners, he was…quite reckless.”
�
�Yes,” Lottie acknowledged cautiously, “he has quite a vigorous constitution.”
Sophia smiled without humor. “I’m afraid it was more than that, my dear. For three years Nick has taken insane chances, not seeming to care if he lives or dies.”
“But why?”
“Certain events in Nick’s past have made him rather embittered and detached. My husband and Sir Grant have both endeavored to help him change for the better. I haven’t always agreed with their methods. I can assure you, Sir Ross and I have engaged in some spirited debates on the matter. However, as time has passed, it seems that my brother has improved in many ways. And Lottie, I am very much encouraged by the fact that he has married you.” She took Lottie’s hand and squeezed it warmly.
“Sophia…” Lottie averted her gaze as she spoke reluctantly. “I do not think the marriage could truly be characterized as a love match.”
“No,” the other woman agreed softly. “I am afraid that the experience of loving and being loved is quite foreign to Nick. It will no doubt take some time for him to recognize the feeling for what it is.”
Lottie was certain that Sophia meant to be reassuring. However, the idea of Nick Gentry falling in love with her was not only improbable but alarming as well. He would never let his guard down to that extent, never allow someone such power over him, and if he did, he might very well become as obsessive and domineering as Lord Radnor. She did not want anyone to love her. Although it was clear that some people found great joy in love, such as Sophia and Sir Ross, Lottie could not help but regard it as a trap. The arrangement that she and Nick had devised was much safer.
Nick found himself strangely adrift after he left the public office. It had begun to rain, and the burgeoning clouds promised a heavier deluge yet to come. Hatless, striding along the slick pavement, he felt the cold, fat splashes of water sinking through his hair and pelting the broadcloth weave of his coat. He should seek shelter somewhere…The Brown Bear, a tavern located across from Bow Street No. 3…or perhaps Tom’s coffeehouse, where the runners’ preferred physician, Dr. Linley, was wont to appear. Or his own home…but he shied from that thought instantly.
The rain fell harder, in cold, soaking sheets that drove street sellers and pedestrians to huddle beneath shop awnings. Scrawny boys darted into the street to fetch cabs for gentlemen who had been caught unawares by the rain. Umbrellas snapped open, their frames strained by strong gusts of wind, while the sky was partitioned by jagged shafts of lightning. The air lost its characteristic stable-yard odor and took on the freshness of spring rain. Brown currents ran through the drains, washing them clear of the foul matter that the night-soil men had failed to remove during evening rounds.
Nick walked without direction, while the rain slid down his face and dripped from his chin. Usually in his off-time he went somewhere with Sayer or Ruthven to exchange stories over ale and beefsteaks, or they would attend a prizefight or a bawdy comedy at Drury Lane. Sometimes they would patrol the streets in a small pack, leisurely inspecting the thoroughfares and alleys for any sign of disruption.
Thinking of the other runners, Nick knew that soon he would lose their companionship. It was folly to hope otherwise. He could not move in their world any longer—Sir Ross had made that impossible. But why? Why couldn’t the interfering bastard have left well enough alone? Nick’s mind chased in circles, failing to apprehend the answer. Perhaps it had something to do with Sir Ross’s unfailing pursuit of rightness, of order. Nick had been born a viscount and therefore must be restored to his position, no matter how unsuited he was for it.
Nick considered what he knew of the peerage, of their habits and rituals, the countless rules of conduct, the inescapable removal of landed aristocrats from the reality of common life. He tried to imagine spending the majority of his time lounging in parlors and drawing rooms, or rustling his freshly ironed newspaper at the club. Making speeches at the Lords to demonstrate one’s social conscience. Attending soirees, and prattling about art and literature, and exchanging gossip about other silk-stockinged gentlemen.
A sense of panic filled him. He hadn’t felt this trapped, this overwhelmed, since he had been lowered into the dark, stinking hold of the prison hulk and chained alongside the most degraded beings imaginable. Except that then he had known that freedom lay just outside the hulls of the anchored ship. And now there was no place to escape.
Like an animal in a cage, his mind cast about in angry sweeps, hunting for some kind of refuge.
“Gentry!” The friendly exclamation interrupted his thoughts.
Eddie Sayer approached Nick with his customary hail-fellow-well-met grin. Big, dashing, and congenial in nature, Sayer was liked by all the runners, and he was the one that Nick most trusted in a tight situation. “You’re finally back,” Sayer exclaimed, exchanging a hearty handshake. His brown eyes twinkled beneath the brim of his dripping hat. “I see you’ve just come from the public office. No doubt Sir Grant’s given you a devil of an assignment to make up for your long absence.”
Nick found that his usual arsenal of ready quips was depleted. He shook his head, finding it difficult to explain how his life had turned upside down within the space of a week. “No assignment,” he said hoarsely. “I’ve been dismissed.”
“What?” Sayer stared at him blankly. “You mean for good? You’re the best man Morgan’s got. Why the hell would he do that?”
“Because I’m going to be a viscount.”
Suddenly Sayer’s puzzlement disappeared, and he laughed. “And I’m going to be the duke of Devonshire.”
Nick did not crack a smile, only stared at Sayer with a grim resignation that caused the other man’s amusement to fade slightly.
“Gentry,” Sayer asked, “isn’t it a bit early for you to be this fox-faced?”
“I haven’t been drinking.”
Ignoring the statement, Sayer gestured to Tom’s coffeehouse. “Come, we’ll try to sober you with some coffee. Perhaps Linley is there—he can help figure out what has made you so addlepated.”
After numerous cups of coffee that had been liberally sweetened with lumps of brown sugar, Nick felt like a pocket watch that had been wound too tightly. He found little comfort in the company of Sayer and Linley, who clearly did not know what to make of his implausible claim. They pressed him for details that he was unable to give, as he could not bring himself to discuss a past that he had spent a decade and a half trying to forget. Finally he left them at the coffeehouse and walked back out into the rain. Bitterly he thought that the only period of his life in which he had been able to make decisions for himself had been his years as a crime lord. It would be damned easy to overlook the violent squalor of those years and think only of the savage enjoyment he’d taken in outwitting Sir Ross Cannon at every turn. Had someone told him back then that he would someday be working for Bow Street, and married, and compelled to take up the cursed family title…holy hell. He would have taken any and all measures to avoid such a fate.
But he could not think of what he could have done differently. The bargain with Sir Ross had been unavoidable. And from the moment he had seen Lottie standing on that wall on the river-bluff in Hampshire, he had wanted her. He knew also that he would never stop wanting her, and he should probably abandon all attempts to puzzle out why. Sometimes there were no reasons—a thing was just so.
Thinking of his wife’s sweetly erotic scent and her eloquent brown eyes, he suddenly found himself before a jeweler’s shop. The place was devoid of customers, save one who was preparing to dash out into the downpour beneath the questionable cover of a battered umbrella.
Nick went inside just as the other man plunged out. Pushing the dripping hair out of his eyes, he glanced around the shop, noting the felt-covered tables and the door that led to the safe room in back.
“Sir?” A jeweler approached him, his neck hung with a large magnifying loupe. He gave Nick a glance of pleasant inquiry. “May I assist you?”
“I want a sapphire,” Nick told him. “For a l
ady’s ring.”
The man smiled. “You have done well to come here, then, as I have recently imported a magnificent selection of Ceylon sapphires. Is there a particular weight you have in mind?”
“At least five carats, without flaws. Something larger, if you have it.”
The jeweler’s eyes gleamed with patent eagerness. “A fortunate lady, to receive such a generous gift.”
“It’s for a viscount’s wife,” Nick said sardonically, unfastening his rain-soaked coat.
It was afternoon by the time Nick returned to Betterton Street. Dismounting at the entrance of his house, he gave the reins to the footman, who had dashed out into the storm with an umbrella.
Refusing the umbrella, which would do him little good at this point, Nick sloshed up the front steps. Mrs. Trench closed the door against the bluster of the storm, her eyes widening at the sight of him. Then Lottie appeared, neat and dry in her dark gray gown, her hair silvery in the lamplight.
“Good Lord, you’re half-drowned,” Lottie exclaimed, hurrying forward. She enlisted a maid to help tug the sodden coat from his shoulders and bid him remove his muddy boots right there in the hall. Nick barely heard what she said to the servants, all his awareness focused on Lottie’s small form as he followed her upstairs.
“You must be cold,” she said in concern, glancing over her shoulder. “I’ll start the shower-bath to warm you, and then you can sit before the fire. I was out earlier with your sister—she came to call, and we went to Oxford Street and spent a delightful morning at the dressmaker’s. I vow, you will regret giving me carte blanche with your credit, as I allowed Sophia to persuade me into ordering a shocking number of gowns. A few were positively scandalous—I fear I shall never have the courage to wear them outside the house. And then we made an excursion to the bookshop, and it was there that I truly lost my head. No doubt I’ve made paupers of us now…”
An extensive description of her various purchases ensued, while she nudged him into the changing-room and bid him to remove his wet clothes. Nick moved with unusual care, his intense awareness of her making him almost clumsy. Lottie ascribed his slowness to a chill taken from outside, saying something about the health risks of walking about in a storm, and that he must drink a cup of tea with brandy after the shower-bath. He was not cold at all. He was burning inside, remembering details from the night before…her breasts, her open thighs, the places where silken smoothness flowed into light, intimate curls.
