“Oh, Patrick,” she sobbed. “What will you think to find me in such a place?”
Her sobs faded into hiccups as she fell into a fitful sleep.
* * *
Patrick awoke with a start to find his sitting room still and silent. A quick glance out the window showed him that dawn had long since arrived. He glanced at the clock on his mantle. It was past six o’clock in the morning. Where the devil was Tory? He ran his hands over his face in an attempt to banish the befuddlement with which he’d awoken. He came to his feet and crossed to the washstand in his dressing room. A splash of the tepid water from the basin helped to set his mind to rights. He glanced into the small mirror mounted atop and gave little care to the troubled face staring back at him, his mind focused solely on Tory.
Something must have gone terribly wrong. She would never stay away from him deliberately. The tenderness in her eyes as he left her yesterday was all he needed to recall her love and loyalty. Something must have transpired to keep her at her uncle’s. And he’d be damned if he permitted anything, or anyone, to keep her from him.
He crossed to his as yet unpacked satchel and withdrew the wedding license so recently signed. He unfolded it with reverence and traced his fingers over his wife’s delicately-penned signature. The sight of his own signature—the title and surname of which she’d never heard—caused him a twinge of guilt. Perhaps he’d been wrong to keep such information from her. But the dispute that had led to the denial of his title and position was between himself and his father. Willing his mind to focus on the most pressing matter, he refolded the document and placed it in his jacket, in a pocket close to his heart. He would go to her uncle’s and bring her home. He didn’t care what excuses Elliot had in store for him to keep her there. She was his wife.
A half-hour later Patrick rapped sharply on the door of the townhouse and waited with growing impatience. At long last the door was pulled open.
“Yes?” the butler asked, his voice weary.
Patrick pulled back at the man’s haggard appearance. His eyes were watery, his uniform rumpled. His gray hair stood on end about his head.
“Where is my wife . . . er Miss Elliot?” Patrick began. He checked himself and thought to use a different tact. “Is Mr. Elliot within?”
The butler’s tired eyes widened in surprise. “Neither my master nor his niece is at home, Mr. Latham,” he said. “Mr. Elliot has been gone for days now.”
Patrick fought the confusion attempting to swamp him.
“Where is Miss Elliot?” Patrick demanded.
The butler’s gaze skittered away from his and it was obvious to Patrick that the man had information he was unwilling to impart.
“Listen,” Patrick growled, grabbing the servant’s jacket. “You will tell me or—”
“She came last evenin’,” a maid said, drawing Patrick’s attention.
He turned his head to find a girl standing in the entry to the library, equal in appearance of fatigue and dishevelment to the old butler. She held a cleaning cloth in her hand and carried several books in her arms. Patrick released the butler and stepped toward the maid. He was stunned at the sight that greeted his eyes as he glanced beyond her. Books and papers littered the carpeted floor of the library. A small writing desk was overturned, its contents spilling out of its drawers.
“What happened here last evening?” he asked the girl.
She shrugged her shoulders and looked away, but not before Patrick glimpsed the apprehension in her eyes. He struggled to tamp down his irritation and fixed an indulgent smile on his face.
“Now, miss,” he began in a placating tone of voice, “I have to know what happened here last evening.”
The girl quickly glanced at the frowning butler. When she looked back at Patrick, here eyes were huge in her face.
“What’s your name?” Patrick asked her.
“Posy,” the maid answered.
“Posy, if you know what happened to Miss Elliot you must tell me.”
“I don’t know where she is,” she said as she backed away from Patrick.
Patrick cursed loud and long. The girl shrank against the doorway, trembling.
“I’m sorry,” he recovered. “Pray, tell me, miss. Where is your mistress?”
She bit her lip, shaking her head vigorously. “I don’t know where he took her,” she sobbed, turning and running down the hall.
“What?!” he shouted after her. “Who? Who took Miss Elliot?”
Patrick stood there, clenching his fists. He turned on the butler, pinning him with his gaze.
“Who took her?” he ground out.
The man simply shook his head, his narrowed shoulders rigid.
“It’s not my place to discuss the dealings of my master,” he said firmly.
“Miss Elliot is ‘miss’ no longer,” Patrick said through clenched teeth. “She is my wife,” he was shouting now. “And in fact a baroness!”
The butler gasped and the little maid suddenly reappeared in the doorway.
“You married her!” Posy said. “Oh, then we must tell him, Baxter. Surely.”
The butler, Baxter, hung his head. “Yes, yes, of course.”
“Where is my wife?” Patrick asked one more time.
“Bow Street, I wager,” Baxter said. “That’s where the men come from.”
Patrick gaped at them in shock. “When?”
“Yesterday afternoon, my lord,” Posy said.
A coldness gripped his heart. He looked around the place. “Did the runners make this mess?”
She gave a quick shake of her head. “No, my lord. That was the other man.”
“The other man . . . ?” Patrick cursed. Miller! Of course. That bastard Miller was behind this. No doubt because his designs on Tory had been thwarted. He had to get to Tory. He would find out what Miller had done to have Tory arrested and he would strangle him with his bare hands.
CHAPTER 18
Tory slowly came awake. Her neck was sore, her back, stiff. She groaned softly and buried her face in the cot. A stale odor assailed her nostrils and she quickly drew back, her eyes snapping open. She glanced at the small window set high in the wall and saw, by the brightening square, that morning had at last arrived. She had spent the entire night in a jail cell on Bow Street.
Her stomach growled loudly then, the sound as pitiful as the emptiness that accompanied it. She’d missed dinner last evening and she had little hope of being served an appealing meal with which to break her fast here. She sat up at the sound of a sharp knock on the narrow door.
“Victoria Elliot,” a voice shouted from the other side.
“Victoria Latham,” she corrected with a sigh of exasperation. “Yes?” she answered.
A key rattled in the lock and the door opened. The thin constable stood there, a gleam in his eyes.
“The magistrate has heard your case.”
She stared at him dumbly for a long moment. “My case?” she repeated. “How can that be?”
The man shrugged his narrow shoulders and stepped into the tiny room. “Information was laid against you before him by a concerned citizen. Court won’t be held until the Michaelmas term, and he has ordered that you remain in custody until that time.”
“But I can’t stay here!” she protested. How would she possibly manage to survive in this dank little room until October? “Please, believe me. I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m innocent.” Why would no one believe her? “I need to get a message to my husband. I’m certain that he—”
“You’re not married,” he cut in. “There’s no record of any marriage.”
“We were married in Gretna Green!” she shouted in return.
A smirk settled on the constable’s narrow features. “We have investigated your so-called ‘wedding,’” he informed her. “Whatever you did in Scotland, Miss Elliot,” he sneered, “you didn’t marry any Mr. Latham.”
Tory could only gape at the man as her entire world began to crumble around her.
* * *
Patrick needed help, damn it. And fast. He went in search of someone he hoped could aid his cause. He arrived at an elegant establishment not far from Mayfair. Tony Waring’s rooms were within, and he was fairly certain his friend was cunning enough to aid him.
Ignoring a maid’s offer to bring a message to Waring, Patrick leapt up the stairs two at a time. Rapping sharply on the door, he soon heard grumbling from within, followed by a feminine giggle. Patrick impatiently tapped his booted foot as a long minute passed. He raised his fist and rapped more forcefully.
“Ah, bloody hell,” Tony’s voice rasped from the other side of the door. “All right. All right!”
The door opened a crack, affording Patrick a view of one half of Tony’s bedraggled face. One red-rimmed eye peered at him at first and then widened in surprise.
“Latham?” Tony marveled aloud.
Patrick pushed open the door, walking past his friend, into the handsome brown and gold sitting room. Tony stood there, blinking rapidly as he drew his dressing gown tighter around his lean frame.
“I need your help, Waring,” Patrick said in a rush. “You have to help me save my wife.”
“Your wife?” Tony said, running his fingers through his tousled hair. “What the devil are you saying?”
The feminine giggle came again, drawing Patrick’s attention to the bedroom visible through an archway. A curvy blonde stepped into the sitting room, disheveled brassy curls framing a familiar pretty face.
“Hello, Latham,” she grinned. Emmy held a sheet of Tony’s fine bedding to her ample bosom.
Tony had brought Emmy to his rooms? Patrick recovered himself and nodded to the opera girl. He turned back to Tony to find the man wearing a sheepish look on his face. Patrick shook his head and focused on pressing matters. “You must help me, Tony,” he said again.
Tony’s blue eyes widened in awareness. “You married Miss Elliot?”
Patrick nodded and began to pace about the room.
“We went to Gretna Green,” he told Tony. “We had only just returned to town last evening when . . . Ah, I don’t even know what happened, and now she’s been arrested!”
Tony placed his hand on Patrick’s shoulder, stilling him. “Start at the beginning,” he said, his voice firm.
Patrick took a deep breath and sat in a leather, upholstered chair. He raked his fingers through his hair and let out a string of curses. “Do forgive me, Emmy,” he glanced at the young woman who was picking up her discarded petticoats from the floor.
“You don’t have to school your words with me, Latham,” she said. “You and I have shared more than one or two spirited, um, exchanges in the past.”
Patrick snorted at her understatement. He watched as Emmy crossed to Tony standing in the middle of the sitting room and gave him a brief kiss. The tenderness evident in his friend’s gaze surprised him. His surprise increased when he saw that it was mirrored in Emmy’s.
She smiled in Patrick’s direction and then disappeared into Tony’s dressing room. Once the pretty little package closed the door behind her, Tony turned his attention to Patrick. Patrick arched a brow in question.
“I’ve decided to put Emmy under my protection, Latham,” Tony admitted, his cheeks reddening slightly. He straightened and gave Patrick a firm nod. “She performs only for me now.”
Patrick shrugged his shoulders and motioned for Tony to join him before the hearth. The romantic entanglement between his former paramour and his friend bore no significance in light of his current dilemma.
“Victoria was taken from her uncle’s home yesterday. You should have seen the place. It was torn to ribbons.”
“By the runners?”
Patrick shook his head. “No. Miller paid a visit sometime after.”
Tony raked his long fingers through his hair once more, giving a shake of his head. “Once more you have lost me, I’m afraid,” he said. “Pray, what does Miller have to do with Victoria?”
Anger coursed through Patrick anew as he gave thought to all of Miller’s machinations.
“He approached her uncle with an offer to keep her,” Patrick spat.
“And you had other notions, I presume?” Tony smiled wryly. “I’ll admit your Victoria is not a woman to be kept, Latham. If I doubted your word on that subject before, spending time in her company at the Sturbridge Fair dispelled any misgivings in that direction.”
Patrick nodded with satisfaction. “I don’t know the particulars of Elliot’s dealings with Miller. There has to be some sort of connection, however, and my poor Tory has been caught in the middle of this mess.”
Tony scratched his chin, driving Patrick nearly mad with impatience.
“What of her uncle?” he asked. “Surely, the man could clear up any confusion.”
“He’s nowhere to be found, I fear,” Patrick bit out.
“Have you visited Elliot’s shop?”
Patrick blinked in surprise. “No,” he replied. “What a bloody fool I am!”
He bounded out of the chair, only to be waylaid again by Tony’s hand. “Allow me to dress and I’ll join you,” he told Patrick. “I’m sure that together we can get to the bottom of this.”
Tony rapped softly on the dressing room door and bade a tender farewell to Emmy while Patrick paced about the sitting room once more. When at last they arrived at the shop on Bond Street, Patrick could only stare at the darkened windows in disbelief.
“It’s closed,” he marveled aloud. “Why the devil is the shop closed?”
Tony shrugged in answer. “Damned if I know,” he offered. “Perhaps Elliot . . .”
“Well, well,” a cultured voice drawled from a few yards down the street. “Come to do a bit of shopping, Latham? I’m afraid that this particular shop won’t suit your needs today.”
Patrick whirled toward the voice, his blood pounding as he spied Miller smiling smugly in his direction. He made his way toward Patrick and Tony, weaving through the other people strolling along the thoroughfare.
“Miller,” Patrick growled. “What is your involvement with Victoria?”
Miller pulled back, his hand on his chest. His expression spoke of surprise and concern, neither of which Patrick believed was sincere.
“I have nothing to do with the girl,” he said. “However, I’m afraid that circumstances conspired to put her in harm’s way.”
Patrick felt that cold fear once more. “What are you saying?” he said, his hands clenching and unclenching to keep from wrapping around Miller’s neck. “Why was my wife arrested?”
Miller’s eyes grew round and Patrick felt a glimmer of satisfaction at the first evidence of a genuine emotion.
“Your wife?” Miller repeated, aghast. “You married the little tease?”
Patrick nearly lost the tenuous hold on his control before Tony placed a restraining hand on his arm.
“I would school my words if I were you, Miller,” Tony put in. “Latham is a man devoted to his wife.”
Miller laughed then, an ugly sound. “He won’t be once he learns of her deceptions.”
Patrick’s stomach clenched at the man’s intimation. Was Tory involved with another? With Miller? Or that dandy, Paul? Of course not! He shook himself of that idiotic notion. She’d had no lovers before him. Remembering the tenderness in her eyes the last time he saw her, he knew without a doubt she that she loved him and only him. “You’ll state your meaning, Miller,” he said deliberately.
Patrick stood stock still as Miller nodded to a passing gentleman, apparently waiting until the stranger was out of earshot. He saw that Miller’s face had lost its humor as the man faced him once more.
“Your little wife is involved in an ugly business, Latham,” Miller snapped. “She and her uncle have been dealing in stolen goods obtained through . . . less than honest means.”
“You’re lying,” Patrick stated. He motioned to Tony. “This fool knows nothing. I’ll find Victoria and—”
“You’ll find her behind bars,” Miller drawle
d. “Precisely where the little thief belongs.”
Patrick let his anger loose and smashed his fist into the obnoxious man’s face, knocking him to the ground. Several gasps of surprise met his ears and he turned his head to find two ladies staring at him, their cool patrician features frozen in shock. He looked again at Miller. The man rubbed his jaw and glared up at Patrick.
“Not quite the behavior I would expect from a Peer of the Realm,” Miller said through clenched teeth.
How had the bastard learned of his title? He could feel the marriage license burning him through his jacket pocket in response to Miller’s words, his title written if not spoken. He hauled the man to his feet, scarcely aware of the gathering crowd.
“What did you say?” he ground out, his face close to Miller’s.
To his surprise Miller smiled, wincing at the motion. Patrick felt a jolt of satisfaction.
“You don’t deem it necessary to share your title, do you Latham?” he challenged. “You prefer to travel in less savory circles?”
“My position is no concern of yours.”
“You’re a liar, Latham,” Miller spat. “And your wife is no better!”
Patrick pulled back his fist, only to be waylaid by Tony once more.
“This bastard is sorely in need of a lesson, Tony,” Patrick growled.
“Not here,” Tony returned calmly.
Patrick saw the crowd of people clearly then, the curious stares and excited murmurs spreading among them. He dropped his fist to his side.
“Where did they take her?” He already knew the runners had arrested her, but he wanted to see what Miller would say.
“Try your luck at Bow Street, Latham.” Miller made a show of straightening his jacket and shrugged. “The workings of the runners don’t concern me.”
That Determined Mister Latham Page 18
