by Lisa Kleypas
However, he could not seem to stop it from happening.
Faced with this inevitability, Nick had no choice but to give in to it. And day after day, he let it drift farther inside him—this precarious, giddy warmth that he could only identify as happiness. He was no longer bedeviled and driven, no longer hungry for things he couldn’t have. For the first time in his life, he was at peace. Even his nightmares seemed to have retreated. He slept more deeply than he ever had in his life, and if his dreams began to trouble him, he awakened to find Lottie’s small body snuggled against his, her silken hair trailing over his arm. He had never been this idle…lazing in bed, making love to his wife, taking long rides or walks with her, even going on a damned picnic and enjoying himself despite the feeling that he should be in London with Morgan and the runners, doing something useful.
It began to bother him, though…the old familiar urge to prowl the rookeries, the addictive excitement of pursuit and capture. He did not know how to be a viscount, and he felt vaguely out of place here, at his own childhood home. No magical change had occurred with the arrival of the writ of summons. Blue blood or no, he was a product of the streets.
“I’ve been thinking about what you need,” Lottie told him one morning as they strode away from the house along a paved rose walk that overlooked a long, formal pool adorned with water lilies. Beyond the pool, a broad curving lawn led to a chain of artificial lakes bordered by a forest of cedar and elm. Nick had taken her on a shortcut he had used often as a boy, circumventing the lawn by jumping over a short stone wall and heading straight into the forest.
Smiling at Lottie’s statement, Nick lifted his arms to help her descend from the wall. Although she could easily have jumped by herself, she accepted his help, resting her hands on his shoulders as he took hold of her waist.
“What is it that I need?” he asked, letting her slide down his front until her feet touched the ground.
“A cause.”
“A what?”
“Something worthwhile for you to pursue. Something not related to estate management.”
Nick let his gaze wander blatantly over Lottie’s small, trim form, clad in a peach-colored walking-dress trimmed with chocolate brown. “I already have that,” he said and settled his mouth over hers. He felt her smile before she accommodated the warm pressure of his mouth, opening for the gentle exploration of his tongue.
“I mean something that would keep you busy in your spare time,” she said breathlessly when he ended the kiss.
He slid his hand along the side of her uncorseted waist. “So do I.”
Lottie pulled away from him with a laugh, her flat ankle boots tromping on the carpet of leaves as she strode into the forest. Thin shafts of sunlight filtered through the ancient canopy of foliage-laden branches overhead, catching the pale gleam of her pinned-up hair and making it flash like silver. “Sir Ross has his interest in judicial reform,” she pointed out, “as well as his concerns for the rights of women and children. If you were to take up some pursuit that would benefit the public in some manner, you could put your seat in the Lords to some good use—”
“Wait,” he said warily, following her through the maze of trees. “If you’re going to start comparing me to my saintly brother-in-law—”
“I merely used him as an example, not as a basis for comparison.” Stopping beside a huge elm, she ran her hand along the deep furrows of mottled gray bark. “The point is, you have spent the past few years of your life serving the public and helping people, and for you to stop so suddenly—”
“I haven’t been helping people,” Nick interrupted, affronted. “I’ve been rubbing elbows with felons and whores, and chasing fugitives from Tyburn to East Wapping.”
Lottie gave him a wry stare, her dark brown eyes filled with an inexplicable tenderness. “And in doing so, you’ve made London safer, and brought justice to those who deserved it. For heaven’s sake, why are you offended at the implication that you may have actually done something good now and then?”
“I don’t want to be portrayed as something I’m not,” Nick said curtly.
“I see you exactly for what you are,” she informed him, “and I would be the last to call you a saint.”
“Good.”
“On the other hand…your work as a runner did serve to benefit other people, whether you choose to admit it or not. Therefore, you will now need to find some meaningful activity to occupy your time.” Casually Lottie walked on, stepping over a fallen branch.
“You want me to turn into a reformist?” he asked in disgust, following her.
Deliberately ignoring his sudden bad humor, Lottie continued through the trees until the forest opened to reveal a small, glittering lake. “There must be some issue that concerns you. Something you want to fight for. What about improving the horrid condition of the Thames…. or the workhouses in which the elderly, children, and the insane are all mixed together with no one to tend them…”
“Next you’ll want me to make speeches in Parliament and give charity balls.” He scowled at the thought.
Lottie continued listing problems that needed to be addressed. “Insufficient public education, the cruelty of blood sports, the plight of orphans, or discharged prisoners—”
“You’ve made your point,” Nick interrupted, coming to stand beside her.
“What about prison reform? There’s a subject that you can address with some conviction.”
Nick froze, unable to believe that Lottie had dared to say it to him. He kept that part of his past closed in some distant part of his mind. For her to mention it in such a relaxed manner was like an attack. A betrayal. But as he stared into her upturned face and struggled to reply, he saw the absolute gentleness in her expression. Be comfortable with me, the soft light in her eyes entreated. Let me share some of your burden.
He tore his gaze away, the flare of defensive rage melting into alarm. Holy hell, he wanted to believe in her. To give her the last part of his soul that the world had not yet stained and shredded and ruined. But how could he let himself be that vulnerable?
“I’ll think about it,” he heard himself say raspily.
Lottie smiled, reaching out to stroke his chest. “I’m afraid that if you don’t apply yourself to a worthy cause, you’ll go mad from inactivity. You’re not a man to spend all of your time pursuing idle amusements. And now that you are no longer working at Bow Street…” She paused, seeming troubled by something she saw in his eyes. “You miss it, don’t you?”
“No,” he said lightly.
“The truth,” she insisted with a frown.
Catching her hand in his, Nick drew her along the path beside the lake.
“I do miss it,” he admitted. “I’ve been a thief-taker for too long. I like the challenge of it. I like the feeling of outwitting those bastards on the streets. I know how they think. Each time I hunt down an escaped murderer, or some filthy rapist, and throw him into the Bow Street strongroom, it gives me a satisfaction like nothing else. I…” He paused, searching for the right words. “I’ve won the game.”
“Game?” Lottie repeated carefully. “Is that how you think of it?”
“All the runners do. You have to, if you’re going to outfox your opponent. You need to stay detached, otherwise you’ll get distracted.”
“It must have been quite difficult at times, to maintain your detachment.”
“Never,” he assured her. “It’s always been easy for me to shut away my feelings.”
“I see.”
But while Lottie seemed to understand what he was telling her, there was a barely perceptible edge of skepticism in her tone. As if she doubted that he still had the ability to remain completely emotionless. Troubled and annoyed, Nick fell silent as they continued around the lake. And he told himself that he could hardly wait to leave the idyllic scenery of Worcestershire and return to London.
Chapter Fourteen
“You’re going to Bow Street today, aren’t you?” Lottie asked, cradling
a cup of tea in her hands as she watched Nick devour a large plate of eggs, fruit, and currant bread.
Nick glanced at her with a deliberately bland smile. “Why do you ask?” Since they had returned from Worcestershire three days earlier, he had met with bankers, hired an estate agent, visited his tailor, and spent an afternoon at Tom’s coffeehouse with friends. For all Lottie knew, today would proceed in much the same manner—but somehow her intuition had led her to suspect otherwise.
“Because you have a certain look in your eyes whenever you go to meet Sir Grant or anyone else at Bow Street.”
Nick could not help grinning at his wife’s suspicious expression. She had the instincts and the tenacity of a rat terrier—and he considered that a compliment, though she would probably not. “As it happens, I’m not going to Bow Street,” he said mildly. It was the truth, although only in the most technical sense. “I’m just going to visit a friend. Eddie Sayer. I’ve told you about him before, remember?”
“Yes, he’s one of the runners.” Lottie’s eyes narrowed above the delicate edge of her teacup. “What are the two of you planning? You’re not going to do something dangerous, are you?”
Her voice contained an edge of apprehension, and her gaze swept over him with a possessive concern that made his heart knock hard in his chest. Nick struggled to understand what those signs meant. It almost seemed as if she was worried for him, that his safety mattered to her. She had never looked at him that way before, and he was not certain how to react.
Carefully he reached out and pulled her from the chair, settling her on his lap. “Nothing dangerous at all,” he said against the softness of her cheek. Intoxicated by the taste of her skin, he worked his way to her ear and touched the delicate lobe with the tip of his tongue. “I would hardly risk coming home to you in less than full working order.”
Lottie squirmed in his lap, and the movement drew a surge of heat to his loins. “Where are you and Mr. Sayer going to meet?” she persisted.
Ignoring the question, Nick ran his hand over the bodice of her morning dress, made of a soft white fabric printed with tiny flowers and leaves. The scooped neckline revealed the tender line of her throat, presenting a temptation too potent to resist. Lowering his mouth to her neck, he kissed her sweet, downy skin, while his hand stole beneath the rustling layers of her skirts.
“You’re not going to distract me that way,” Lottie told him, but he heard the hitch of her breath when he found the smooth reach of her thigh. He made a discovery that sent a wash of sexual interest through his body, his cock rising vigorously against the shape of her bottom.
“You’re not wearing drawers,” he murmured, his hand wandering avidly over her bare limbs.
“It’s too hot today,” she said breathlessly, wiggling to evade him, pushing ineffectually at the mound of his hand beneath her dress. “I most certainly did not discard them for your benefit, and…Nick, stop that. The maid is going to come in at any moment.”
“Then I’ll have to be fast.”
“You’re never fast. Nick…oh…”
Her body curled against his as he reached the patch of hair between her thighs, the sweet cleft already rich with moisture as her well-tutored body responded to his touch. “I’m going to do this to you next week at the Markenfields’ ball,” he said softly, running his thumb along the humid seam of her sex. “I’m going to take you to some private corner…and pull up the front of your dress, and stroke and tease you until you come.”
“No,” she protested faintly, her eyes closing as she felt his long middle finger slide inside her.
“Oh, yes.” Nick withdrew his wet finger and ruthlessly tickled the softly straining crest until he felt her body tensing rhythmically in his lap. “I’ll keep you quiet with my mouth,” he whispered. “And I’ll be kissing you when you climax with my fingers inside you…like this…” He thrust his two middle fingers inside the warm, pulsing channel and covered her lips with his as she moaned and shuddered violently.
When he had siphoned the last few shivers of pleasure from her body, Nick lifted his mouth and smiled smugly into her flushed face. “Was that fast enough for you?”
The brief interlude at the breakfast table left Nick’s senses pleasantly awakened and his mind filled with agreeable thoughts about what would happen when he returned home later in the day. In good spirits, he hired a hackney to convey him to his meeting place with Eddie Sayer. It would not have been wise to take a good horse or a private carriage to the Blood Bowl Tavern, a favorite criminal haunt, or “bastard sanctuary.”
Nick had long been familiar with the Blood Bowl, as it was part of the area around Fleet Ditch where he had once owned a flash house. Fleet Ditch, London’s main sewer, cut through a region of massive criminal activity. It was arguably the heart of the underworld, situated amidst four prisons including Newgate, the Fleet, and Bridewell.
For years Nick had known no other home. At the height of his career as a crime lord, Nick had rented an elegant office in town to meet with upper-class clients and bank representatives who were understandably reluctant to go to Fleet Ditch. However, he had spent the majority of his time in a flash house not far from the ditch, gradually becoming inured to the perpetual stink. There he had schemed, set traps, and skillfully amassed a network of smugglers and informants. He had always expected to die rich and young, having agreed with the words of a criminal he had once seen hanged at Tyburn: “A life has been well-spent if it be short but merry.”
But just before Nick had been about to receive his well-deserved comeuppance, Sir Ross Cannon had stepped in with his infamous deal. Much as Nick hated to admit it, the years he had spent as a runner had been the best of his life. Although he had always resented Sir Ross’s manipulations, there was no denying that his brother-in-law had changed his life for the better.
Nick glanced curiously at the dark, crowded streets, where swarms of people moved in and out of ramshackle buildings that were seemingly piled one atop the other. Coming here after having just left his clean, pretty wife in the serene little house on Betterton Street was jarring. And strangely, the anticipation of going on the hunt was not half as strong as it used to be. Nick had expected to feel the savage thrill of prowling through the most dangerous area in London, and instead…
He was damned if he wasn’t half sorry that he had agreed to come help Sayer today.
But why? He was no coward, no pampered aristocrat. It was just…he had the perplexing feeling that he did not belong here anymore. He had something to lose, and he did not want to risk it.
Shaking his head in confusion, Nick entered the Blood Bowl and found Sayer waiting at a table in a dark corner. The tavern was as rank and filthy and crowded as ever, smelling like refuse, gin, and bodily odors.
Sayer greeted him with a friendly grin. Young, dashing, and large-framed, Sayer was undoubtedly the best runner that Sir Grant had now that Nick had left the force. Although Nick was glad to see his friend, he had an odd sinking feeling as he saw the gleam of reckless excitement in Sayer’s eyes and realized that he did not share it. Nick did not doubt that his abilities and instincts were still there, but he no longer possessed the hunger to hunt. He wanted to be at home with his wife.
Damn, he thought in rising agitation.
“Morgan will gut me like a cod if he finds out that I asked you to do this,” Sayer said ruefully.
“He won’t find out.” Nick joined him at the table, shaking his head in refusal as a barmaid approached them with a jug of ale. The coarse-faced girl pretended to pout, then winked as she sidled away.
“I could do it myself, I think,” Sayer said softly, heedful of the possibility of being overheard. “But I don’t know all the ins and outs of Fleet Ditch as well as you do. No one does. And you’re the only one who could easily identify the fellow I want to catch, as you’ve had prior experience with him.”
“Who is it?” Nick set his forearms on the table and removed them promptly as he felt his sleeves sticking to the wooden su
rface.
“Dick Follard.”
The name took Nick by surprise. Unlike the average criminal in London, most of whom were opportunists, Follard was of that category considered to be the criminal elite, both skillful and soulless. Nick had arrested Follard two years ago, after the bastard had robbed the house of a prosperous attorney and killed the man and raped his wife when they’d offered resistance. However, Follard had been spared the gallows and been transported instead, in return for offering evidence against his accomplices.
“Follard was sent to Australia,” Nick said.
“He’s come back,” Sayer replied with a grim smile. “Like a dog to its vomit.”
“How do you know that?”
“I can’t prove it, unfortunately. But there have been rumors of sightings lately, not to mention a string of violent robberies that look exactly like Follard’s work. Yesterday I questioned a poor woman who was raped by a thief who had broken into her home and killed her husband. Same method of breaking in, same knife-work on the body, and the woman’s description of her attacker matched Follard’s—right down to the scar on the right side of the neck.”
“Jesus.” Frowning, Nick pinched the bridge of his nose as he pondered the information. “I can’t believe that Morgan would send you to catch Follard alone.”
“He didn’t,” Sayer said cheerfully. “He wants me to question some of Follard’s old cohorts and give him a report. I’d rather just bring Follard in directly.”
Nick couldn’t help grinning at that, knowing exactly what Morgan’s reaction to that would be. “If you succeed, Morgan will flay the hide off you for such damned stupid showmanship.”
