Rage. Pure rage surged through him.
“Let her go!” he growled, grabbing the thin man about his grimy neck.
“What the—” the man choked.
Patrick smashed his fist into his face and threw him against the side of a neighboring booth. He spared himself a glance of the man’s retreating back before turning to face the fat man.
The man sneered. “This ain’t none of your business.”
Patrick began to lunge but a flash of silver stilled him, confirming his earlier suspicions. The man held a knife, poised near Victoria’s face.
“Careful, Mr. La—” Victoria began.
“Shut up!” her captor shouted, giving her a rough shake that caused her head to knock against the wooden wall.
Patrick saw a red haze as his fury erupted.
He grabbed the man’s stout wrist and deftly twisted it until he dropped the weapon.
“What’s going on here?” a cultured voice called out from the darkness. “You bloody fool! What have you done?”
Patrick fought to hold on to the fat man but he wriggled free, fear stamped on his round face.
“Sorry, boss,” the man grumbled, hurrying in the direction of that smooth voice.
Patrick stared into the thick darkness, unable to see who the third man was. He heard their retreating footsteps and knew he wouldn’t chase after them. His primary concern was Victoria and any curiosity he’d had about the cultured stranger fled when Victoria’s arms wrapped tightly around his neck.
“Oh, Mr. Latham,” she sobbed against his chest. “I was so frightened.”
Patrick held her close as she trembled in his arms, smoothing his hands over her hair as he sought to calm her.
“Shh,” he soothed. “You’re all right now, Tory.”
Victoria sniffled and lifted her head to stare up at him. “Tory?” she whispered. “That’s what you called me before.”
Patrick smiled at her as he brushed a tangled lock of hair out of her eyes. He gently wiped away her tears with his thumb.
“Do you dislike the name?” he asked softly.
She managed a smile and shook her head. “I like it very much.”
He gazed into her eyes, his breath coming fast. “Tory,” he murmured. “Thank God you’re all right.” Unable to stop himself, he pressed his mouth gently to her lips, amazed by the pleasure he felt as her lips clung sweetly to his. When he lifted his head he found the glimmer of her silver eyes utterly entrancing. She gave a delicate shiver and his gaze dropped to the front of her ruined dress. Ignoring the enticing expanse of flesh exposed to his eyes, he leaned her away from him and located her cloak where the scoundrels had discarded it.
“Are you truly all right, Tory?” he asked, wrapping the cloak about her.
Victoria gave him a quick nod as she straightened her shoulders. He dropped another kiss on her lips and led her toward her uncle’s booth. When they arrived, J. B. Elliot was standing there wringing his hands. Those hands soon clenched into fists.
“Victoria!” His dark eyes blazed with anger as he regarded her state of dishevelment. “What the devil did you do to my niece, Latham?”
Patrick set aside the anger he felt at the man’s insinuations. “I did nothing to her, Mr. Elliot,” he said curtly. “It seems two men took advantage of the fact that she wasn’t chaperoned in a deserted area of the fairgrounds.”
Elliot blinked and grasped Victoria’s shoulders. “What happened, my dear? Are you all right?”
Victoria blew out a breath and nodded. “Yes, Uncle,” she said. “Upon my return from the stages, I-I lost my way,” she said with a shake of her head as though regretting her folly. “I found myself in a darkened alley where I overheard two men arguing and th-they attacked me,” she said, trembling.
Patrick had the sudden urge to wrap his arms around her and never let her go.
“But it was the strangest thing Uncle,” she went on. “They mentioned your name.”
Elliot’s eyes widened before he shuttered his expression.
Patrick watched Elliot closely, wondering at the older man’s reaction . . . He’d looked alarmed and guilty.
“Did they do this to you?” Elliot said, lightly touching her bruised cheek.
She nodded again. “Mr. Latham thrashed them and sent them from me,” she said, turning her gaze to Patrick.
He was filled with an odd feeling as those eyes met his. He’d never seen such a look in a woman’s eyes before.
Adoration.
It made him feel strong, like he could take on the world.
Worthy.
Elliot grasped Patrick’s hand and gave it a vigorous shake, drawing his attention from the incredible light burning in those beautiful silver eyes.
“How can I ever thank you, Latham?” Elliot said, his voice thick. “You must come to dine with us in town one evening soon. That would at least begin to repay you for the heroic deed you performed this night.”
Patrick accepted the offer with a nod. “I feel very fortunate I was able to come to Victoria’s aid. I trust you’ll contact the constable?”
“Yes, yes.” Elliot nodded and looked about the darkened row of booths. Patrick followed his gaze. What was he looking for?
Elliot directed them into the private chamber at the back of the booth. Patrick led a still shaking Victoria to a small, upholstered bench and urged her to sit. Uncertain of his actions, he glanced at her uncle. The man was staring at Victoria’s bruised face, with what looked like regret. Did his conscience plague him because he’d been conducting his business dealings and had left Victoria alone? Or was there something more to it?
“I’ll leave you and Victoria alone for a moment,” he told Patrick.
Patrick watched the man go into the front of the shop, reading the remorse in his hunched shoulders and lowered head.
“Oh, Mr. Latham,” Victoria sighed. “I can’t thank you enough.”
Patrick smiled as he joined her, welcoming their physical closeness on the cozy bench.
“Please call me ‘Patrick.’” He took her hand in his. “After this night, surely we have reached that level of intimacy.”
She blushed prettily and nodded. “Patrick,” she said, gazing at him through her lashes.
He studied her for a moment, the reality of the horrid situation he’d interrupted suddenly striking him full force.
“My God, Tory,” he said, gently grasping her chin. “When I saw that it was you being held by those scoundrels . . .” He shook his head, unable to finish the thought aloud.
Victoria brushed a lock of hair away from his eyes. The tender gesture startled him.
“Pray, do not dwell upon it,” she said with an earnest look. “I am just so thankful that you were able to come to my rescue.” She lightly touched his cheek. “Thank you . . . Patrick.”
One simple touch and three simple words and he was lost.
He was seized with an incredible desire to hold her close, to kiss her again as he had before. Instead, he gave her a swift nod and came to his feet. Was that disappointment in her eyes?
“I trust you’ll stay put?” he teased, seeking to lighten the atmosphere. “No more exploring on your own, now.”
* * *
A smile curved Victoria’s lips. “You have my word.”
He kissed her and she couldn’t help but wish for more.
“I bid you good night, then,” he said.
“Good night, Patrick.”
She watched as that intriguing golden light began to dance in his eyes again. He nodded and took his leave.
She pulled closed the curtain that her uncle had arranged to afford her more privacy in the little chamber and readied for bed. The hand mirror she withdrew from her satchel showed her a bedraggled woman.
Oh, what an ordeal. Next time, don’t be such a silly goose and venture out on your own.
She sighed, suddenly exhausted, and stretched out on the little bed set to one side of the back chamber. Her mind swirled with all tha
t had happened that night.
Despite the terrible attack on her person, she had a most wonderful memory to soothe her rattled nerves. Nay, more than soothe—savor was a better word for it.
Patrick, she thought with a sleepy smile.
He’d rescued her from those despicable villains and kept her safe. He’d kissed her and made her feel as if she was the most precious person in the world to him . . .
“Victoria?” her uncle’s voice came from the other side of the curtain.
“Yes, Uncle?” she yawned.
Silence held the back room for a long moment.
“Good night, my dear,” J. B. said, his voice holding a strange note.
She was far too tired to ponder its meaning and easily dismissed it from her clouded mind.
“Good night,” she returned, cuddling under the fluffy blankets.
Sleep found her, her dreams full of Patrick and his noble actions of that night.
* * *
Victoria sat in the library of J. B.’s townhouse the next afternoon, restlessly tapping her toes. The book on Greek myths she’d chosen from her uncle’s extensive library, lay in her lap, open but forgotten.
Her uncle wasn’t in residence, and after his odd behavior of late she was quite perplexed.
She wondered at J. B.’s peculiar manner early that morning when he’d bluntly informed her that she would return directly to London and would not go to the shop.
Victoria had protested but her uncle had stilled her with a sharp movement of his head, his dark eyes unreadable. J. B. had seemed appeased by her eventual agreement, although he hadn’t met her gaze even then.
Perhaps he felt guilty for inadvertently causing the misfortune that had befallen her last evening. He’d certainly seemed so last night. Had she truly heard those horrid men speak her uncle’s name? The Elliot to whom they referred might have been that unknown man’s first name, after all. A shiver ran through her as she recalled the feel of their grimy hands on her flesh, pulling and tearing at her dress.
In sharp contrast, the memory of Patrick’s magical touch elicited a shiver of a different kind. She curved her lips into a smile, the action causing a bit of discomfort to her bruised cheek.
She stood and crossed to the mantle, assessing her reflection in the gilded mirror set into the wall above. When the skinny brute had struck her he’d caused more damage to her face than just the bruise on her cheek, she saw with a grimace. Her lip had been cut at the corner and the skin beneath her right eye was darkened. She was relieved to see that she’d lost the haggard look she’d possessed last night. And her hair was certainly not the tangled mess that had greeted her eyes then. But the bruises to her face stood out in bold contrast to her fair skin. Perhaps keeping herself from the shop wasn’t such a terrible notion. Elliot’s very cultured patrons would be utterly aghast were she to wait on them in her present condition. The image of Lady Bowler’s eyes round with shock and dismay floated through her mind, causing a flood of giggles to escape her.
“Miss?” the maid, Posy, asked hesitantly from the door of the parlor.
Victoria turned, her hand held before her lips as she tried to rein in her own silliness.
“Yes, what is it Posy?” she asked.
“Tea, Miss,” the maid said with a curtsy.
Victoria smiled and nodded her thanks to the young maid, who hurried out of the room, no doubt bound for the kitchens. Her uncle’s house was very fine, although much smaller in size than the townhomes of the ton. J. B. was, after all, a member of the burgeoning middle class, and while quite successful, he possessed a small staff of servants to see to household needs. Just Posy, who saw to Victoria’s clothes as well as the cleaning of the house, the stern butler, Baxter, and the cook, Mrs. Wigham.
Victoria sighed as she stepped into the formal parlor set at the back of the house. The plate of biscuits sitting invitingly beside the teapot, filled her mind with that afternoon spent with Patrick at the tearoom on Bond Street.
Before he’d made that teasing comment about a lover in Cornwall, she’d been thoroughly enjoying herself. They had conversed easily, and his manner had been both respectful and genial. And his touch. She eyed the fluffy cookies on the silver tray. Perhaps she should ring for some honey, she thought as giggles once more assailed her.
Oh my, I must be going daft.
She reasoned that she might be experiencing the residual effects of her harrowing evening. But it did feel wonderful to laugh, even if it was only to herself. Her childhood had been filled with laughter—and so many happy moments—shared with her father and their beloved housekeeper, Mrs. Davies. How she missed those simpler times.
Dear Mrs. Davies. Since leaving St. Ives, she’d made certain to send a note to Victoria nearly every week. The missives were light and as refreshing as the tea she now sipped. Gossip from the village, goings on in the vicarage. Mrs. Davies had stayed on as housekeeper there, and apparently the new vicar’s young boys were up to good-natured mischief. Victoria’s own childhood, spent running along the shore or tossing stones into the water, surely hadn’t caused the good woman as much hair-pulling. Or as much delight, which was evident to Victoria from what she’d read between the lines.
“I should write Mrs. Davies,” she decided, setting aside her empty teacup. Returning to the library, she withdrew a sheet of foolscap and a pen. She wouldn’t mention what had happened at the fair, however. Never would she want to worry the woman. She would mention Patrick’s gallant rescue. Mrs. Davies always loved a good story, especially when the hero was a handsome man. What had she said of Paul, though? Handsome is as handsome does. Oh, how she wished she’d heeded the housekeeper’s words before giving her heart to that fickle fool.
Sending Paul from her mind was an easy task as she began the letter to Mrs. Davies.
* * *
Patrick sat in the dining room of the King’s Inn at Sturbridge, ignoring the tea steaming in the cup in front of him. He was surrounded by a unique mix of people, much like the crowds populating the fairgrounds.
The fair held no interest for him now. He’d kept himself from the festivities this day through sheer willpower, afraid of the feelings Victoria had aroused so easily in him last night. He’d felt a strong desire for her since meeting her weeks earlier, recognizing that passion wasn’t far beneath her gentle bearing. But the possessiveness that had plagued him had been unwelcome, bringing with it the recollections of the betrayal he’d felt at Susan’s swift and easy dismissal of him five years earlier.
Setting aside his teacup, he signaled for a server and ordered a tankard of ale. When she returned with the ale, he nodded his thanks and drank deeply. For the first time in five years, he didn’t push away the memory of his ill-fated love.
He’d loved Lady Susan Dell since he was a boy, entranced by her beauty, her golden blonde hair, and her vivacious spirit. She was the daughter of a neighboring viscount, and Patrick had spent as much time on their estate as he had on his own father’s. They’d shared tutors and dance lessons and, on one incredible afternoon during his sixteenth summer, they had shared an awakening of passion. He’d pledged his heart to her on that sunny day, managing somehow to stop himself before making her fully his. He’d been euphoric as he’d left for school two days later, certain that when he returned he would have her in body and in soul.
His mother passed away while he was away at school, and save for a brief visit home to offer comfort to his father, he hadn’t returned again until he’d completed his studies. He and his father didn’t share the closeness Patrick had shared with his mother. It seemed that with her gone, she’d carried away the warmth she’d brought to their home.
The announcement of his father’s swift remarriage came as a surprise, but that wasn’t as shocking as the identity of the much younger woman he’d married. Susan.
She’d settled quite nicely into the role of an earl’s wife, her pale blue eyes full of happiness and nary a touch of regret when he’d found her comfortably ensconced
in the grand parlor at Stafford Hall upon his return.
After a violent argument with his father, an increasingly distant man who had offered his only son no words of excuse or explanation, Patrick had stormed out of the hall. He hadn’t spoken with either his father or his stepmother since.
Since that day, he began to use the middle name his mother had given him. It fit well with the new life he subsequently created for himself in London. Of his title, he didn’t avail himself. He had no use for traveling in the social circles that would encompass his father and the man’s bride.
Patrick finished his ale and set his tankard on the table. He wouldn’t think about their betrayal. He wouldn’t waste another thought on a woman so calculating she’d taken his heart and left him with nothing.
He came to his feet, paid for his meal and left. He needed to see Tory, and he could well imagine the reason behind that compulsion. She was good and sweet and the memory of holding her safe in his arms last night filled him with hope. Something he hadn’t felt in a very long time. And the recollection of her sweet, soft lips pressed to his . . .
He forced himself to take easy strides toward Garlickrow, tamping down his impatience. He arrived at J. B. Elliot’s booth and inclined his head.
“Good morning, Mr. Elliot,” Patrick said. “Is Victoria about?”
Elliot’s gaze shifted away. “I sent her back to London, Latham. She’ll be safer there.”
Patrick eyed the man closely, spying the same look of guilt he’d glimpsed the night before. He didn’t argue with the man’s statement however, for despite the disappointment he felt at Tory’s absence he was relieved that she was far from the scoundrels who hurt her.
“I’ll see you in town, then,” Patrick said, turning to go.
“Latham, wait!”
Patrick arched a brow. Elliot’s face was lined with fatigue and worry, which Patrick hadn’t noticed earlier. Victoria’s uncle looked about nervously and then came to stand close to Patrick.
“Do come and see us in town, Latham,” he said. “I’m certain Victoria would like it very much. I would much appreciate it, as well.”
That Determined Mister Latham Page 7
