Patrick sent him from the room, but not before asking him to send a maid with more liquor.
He settled into the chair before the meager fire burning in the fireplace and closed his aching eyes, letting his head fall back against the chair. His stomach rumbled softly and he mentally calculated the hours that had passed since he’d last eaten. Perhaps the ham at breakfast, he mused. No, he quickly amended. Ham was the meal he’d consumed last evening. Did he break his fast today? He couldn’t remember taking his nooning meal . . . And what was the time? He rubbed his temples. What did that matter?
A knock at his door didn’t rouse him from his seat.
“Come in,” he called, his eyes still closed.
The door opened with a soft creak and closed with a click. The rattling of dishes and utensils drew his attention, along with the enticing aroma of roasted lamb. He slowly opened his eyes to find a dark-haired maid bearing a tray of food and the longed-for bottle of brandy. The girl was young, and he vaguely remembered her as the one assigned to keep his rooms supplied with clean linens and such. He watched idly as she walked toward him, a wide smile on her round face.
“Thought you could use a meal, my lord,” she said to him.
Patrick cocked a brow at the girl’s words. “What did you call me?” he asked, lifting his head from the back of the chair.
The girl laughed huskily and crossed the room, her hips swaying in an exaggerated manner. She set the tray on a table and turned to face him, one hand on her hip.
“Surely you ain’t denyin’ it,” she countered. “I thought all along you was better than you put on.”
Patrick sat forward in the chair, rubbing his hands over his face. “Please leave the brandy and go.”
The girl shook her head. “You need more than liquor, my lord,” she said. “A hot meal would do you good.”
Patrick eyed the tray of food, the action causing his stomach to rumble again. The maid giggled in response. He nodded in her direction.
“Thank you,” he told her. “I believe I’ll eat something. You may go.”
To his surprise, the girl shook her head again and came to stand before him. She placed one hand on each of his thighs and leaned toward him, her ample bosom nearly spilling out of her dress.
“I can see to your other needs, my lord,” she whispered. “If you allow me, I can . . .”
“No,” Patrick said sharply.
She stood back up, her eyes widened at his tone.
“Leave me,” he said more gently.
The girl approached him, with a coy smile. “I seen all them pretty clothes you have here,” she said inclining her head to the piled boxes of Victoria’s things. “I just supposed that your mistress left you and you were needin’ a new arrangement.”
Patrick shook his head. “Thank you, ” he said firmly. “But I have no need for an arrangement.”
She looked both dejected and insulted.
He sighed, and getting up he crossed over to his jacket once more. Withdrawing a few more coins from one of the pockets, he turned to face her. “For your trouble,” he said, handing it to her.
She pocketed the money and her smile made a reappearance. “I thank you, my lord,” she said with a curtsy, and made her exit.
He retrieved the tray of food the girl had brought and settled back into his chair. He quickly dispatched the lamb and vegetables, letting out a satisfied belch. Rising from the chair, he crossed to where he’d seen Tory’s new clothing delivered upon their return from Gretna Green.
Set atop the many boxes was the satchel she’d hurriedly packed on that long ago night of his proposal. Her delicate underthings filled the bag. His fingers brushed over the cool linen petticoats and chemises, finding at last the gossamer nightgown he’d chosen for her in Bradford. He pulled out the gown, the fabric whispering as it fairly floated out of the satchel.
“Tory.” He squeezed his eyes shut. He brushed the fabric over his lips, recalling Tory’s warm flesh barely concealed within its filmy folds. Spitting out a curse, he stuffed the gown back into the bag.
His hand came into contact with something small and hard and flat wrapped in a length of silk. Curious, he plucked the object from the bag. He unwrapped it and held it aloft. The brooch! He closed his fist around the piece. His memory flew back to that night she’d come to him in these rooms, her fiery temper making her more seductive than he could have imagined. He reverently placed the brooch back in the satchel, nestled once more in its cocoon of silk.
Returning to the table, he picked up the bottle of brandy, and poured himself another glass. Gulping it down, he hoped it would dull the pain that was now his constant companion.
* * *
Tory took tired steps toward her cell, yawning behind one chapped hand. Another day of back-breaking work in the laundry left her longing for even the small bit of comfort to be found on her tiny cot. Her arms ached from lifting the heavy wet linens. Her hands stung from the harsh soap they used in the laundry.
Patrick hadn’t come since his first and only visit, but apparently his money hadn’t yet been depleted. Was it his guilt that prompted him to pay the guard? She continued in the “luxury” of having clean water at her disposal, along with adequate meals. She ate little of them, though. Her stomach had been queasy, a condition she attributed to her fatigue and the lack of sufficient sleep.
Night after night the burly jailer paid his visits to Daisy, the sounds of her anguish and his grunts turning Tory’s stomach as she huddled on her cot. Each morning Daisy seemed tired but none the worse for wear. Tory snorted her disgust. She’d learned quickly that in prison, rape was something you had to get used to, if you didn’t have a protector. Tory vowed to see a way to get Daisy free, once her own troubles were over.
She washed in the clean water at the washstand, idly wondering at the necessity. Didn’t she spend her days up to her elbows in soap and hot water? She sat on her cot and slowly pulled the brush through her hair. The rhythmic motion soothed her, and for a few precious moments she could pretend she was far away . . .
“Your dinner, my lady,” a gruff voice said, breaking through her blessed reverie.
She looked up to find the jailer sneering at her and arched her brow in what she hoped was a show of brave disdain. He let himself into the cell and dropped her tray beside her on the cot.
“Another fancy man be payin’ you a visit,” the jailer grumbled, taking himself from the cell and locking it soundly.
Despite her hurt and anger with Patrick, she couldn’t keep her heart from filling with hope that he’d come back to see her. She adjusted her dress and sat up straighter on the cot as she heard footsteps approaching . . . When she saw him, her mouth fell open.
CHAPTER 22
“Paul?” she asked, coming to her feet. “What are you doing here?”
Paul glanced at the wide retreating back of the jailer and smiled shakily at Tory.
“I couldn’t stay away,” he admitted with a shrug.
Tory stared at him in confusion as she stepped closer to the bars. “But how did you know I was here?”
Paul leaned toward her. “A Mr. Miller advised me of your whereabouts.”
Tory narrowed her eyes at this revelation. “You shouldn’t have come here, Paul.”
Paul smiled, that same predatory gesture his face had worn in her uncle’s shop. Her pulse raced in alarm as he leaned closer.
“I paid a visit to your uncle’s shop, only to find the establishment closed. Mr. Miller was on the street there, and I admitted to him that I had come to see you,” Paul explained. “He told me of your circumstances; that’s true,” he continued softly. “But he also told me how utterly simple it would be to free you of both your confinement and your charges.”
“What are you saying?” she asked. “Mr. Miller is not . . .” She thought for a moment. Of course! It had to have been him. That rotten bastard. “Miller was the one who gave the information against me to the constable, isn’t he?”
P
aul waved his hand dismissively. “I have no doubt that your uncle was trafficking in stolen goods, Victoria,” he said. “But there’s no evidence linking you to the crimes. The person who gave the information could easily retract his statement.”
Tory paced about in her cell, her mind spinning. Mr. Miller had given information against her? And he could easily have such information negated?
“But why, then, does he leave me here?” she wondered aloud.
“He was quite angry with you,” Paul said. “You ran off with that baron.”
She stopped and turned to him. “I was married, Paul,” she said. “At least, I thought I was married.”
“I don’t care about your situation, Victoria,” he said, his eyes intense. “I’m married myself. I only wish to free you. To keep you safe.”
Tory felt anger surge through her and welcomed it. “You wish to keep me safe? For yourself, you mean!” She narrowed her eyes on him. “I won’t be treated that way, Paul. I refused your disgusting offer months ago, and another from your new friend, Mr. Miller. What do you believe has changed to make me accept now?”
Paul raised his brows and glanced about the cell. Tory followed his gaze, seeing the stark surroundings and meager comforts.
“Many things have changed, my love,” he smirked. “I have plenty of money now, for one thing. My wife has no notion of our finances and no control over them.”
Tory shook her head. “The workings of your marriage don’t concern me.”
“But they should,” he said. “For a payment, Mr. Miller would see that certain information is negated. You would be out of here and free to come to me.”
“Never. I won’t be a pawn or a plaything for men to do with what they will.”
Paul’s expression suddenly changed, a look of sincerity came upon his boyishly handsome features. “But I love you, Victoria.”
She shivered in revulsion. “You don’t love me, Paul,” she said. “You don’t even know the meaning of love.”
Rage mottled his fine features. “Do you love that liar you married?” he snarled. “Where did that meaningful love get you but locked away in a jail cell?”
“You have no right to speak to me of my husband. And no right over me!” she cried, trying to keep her voice from trembling.
“You’ll come to me,” Paul said, back to his boyish grin. He glanced about the cell once more. “Once you can no longer stomach being here, you’ll come to me.”
He turned and walked down the corridor, Tory watching his every step. “I’ll never come to you!” she shouted after him.
Paul waved his arm without looking back at her. Laughter drew her attention then, low and deep. She whirled to find the jailer standing there, his fat face twisted into a smirk.
“I wouldn’t be so quick to send that fancy man away,” he chortled. “Your funds be dwindlin’, girl. And I ain’t seen your baron payin’ a visit of late.”
Tory didn’t miss the man’s meaning. How long before the money Patrick had left for her would run out? How long before she was faced with the repercussions? She would rather die than submit to him.
As if he sensed her thoughts, the jailer laughed again.
“You be a pretty piece, my lady,” he sneered. “Ain’t never had a woman of quality beneath me.”
Tory shook her head at him, her mouth agape. Nausea gripped her. She spun on her heel and emptied the meager contents of her stomach into the chamber pot.
Muttering in disgust, he left her.
She lay down on her cot and wept.
* * *
Light seared Patrick’s eyes as he was abruptly torn from his dream. He flinched and mumbled several colorful curses, burrowing deeper into his soft chair as he sought to return to his slumber. . . He was back at that quaint little inn, lying in bed with Tory, her soft, round buttocks cuddling his erection, his arms wrapped around her, his hands wandering down to her . . . A small hand grasped his shoulder and gave him a very hard shake.
“Whoreson,” he muttered.
“Latham!” a feminine voice called close to his ear. “Latham, get up!”
He grunted and cracked open one eye, wincing at the bright light flooding his sitting room from between the open draperies.
“Bloody hell.”
“Never mind that, you need to get up,” the voice said again.
He looked toward the sound, slowly taking in the blond curls and curvaceous figure of the vision before him.
“Emmy?” he rasped. “Is that you?”
The vision spat out a curse and he knew that it was indeed the opera girl.
“Yes, it’s me,” Emmy returned. “He’s awake at last, Tony!”
Patrick felt a sharp pain cut through his head at the sound of her raised voice. Where was her melodious tone? When had she turned into this harridan, shouting so early in the morning?
He stretched, groaning at the discomfort the action caused him. He rubbed his burning eyes and looked around his room once again. His gaze settled on Emmy, absently noting her tasteful dress and jaunty hat.
“What are you doing here, Emmy?” he asked.
She placed her hands on her hips and glared at him. “Tony and I have been worried about you, Latham,” she said. “It’s high time you pulled yourself out of this.”
His aching head could make no more sense of her words than it could of her change in dress. “Pull myself out of what?”
“Latham, old boy!” Tony chirped. “At last you’re among the living.”
Patrick glared at his friend, as finely dressed as Emmy, and sat up straighter in his chair.
“Why are you here, Tony?” he grumbled. “No one invited you.”
Tony smiled brightly, too brightly in Patrick’s opinion, and said nothing. Emmy grabbed Patrick’s arm and gave it a tug. He marveled at her strength as he was urged to his feet.
“All right, all right,” he muttered, shrugging off her hold. “I’m up!”
Emmy gave him a nod and placed her hands on his back. “Go see to yourself, Latham.” She turned him toward his dressing room. “You smell rank.”
Patrick looked down at his soiled and rumpled clothing and took a sniff. He wrinkled his nose. “You’re right.”
He stumbled toward his dressing room and saw to his morning duties. Several splashes of water served to regain his senses, and with them the pounding on his head. He peered at the face in the mirror atop the washstand, amazed at the image staring back. He was in desperate need of a shave, he mused as he ran his hand over several days’ growth of beard. His eyes were red, no surprise to him as they felt like they were on fire. He picked up a cake of soap and after a rudimentary washing, he shrugged into a clean shirt and left his dressing room.
A loud commotion reached him from the sitting room, in the form of feminine voices raised in anger. Intrigued, he stepped out of his bedroom and came to a halt.
While Tony tried unsuccessfully to hide his grin, Emmy stood toe-to-toe with the little dark-haired maid.
“Mr. Latham don’t need your attentions, you silly girl,” Emmy said to the maid.
The maid clicked her tongue at Emmy. “I bring him his brandy, miss,” the girl countered, juggling a tray holding the bottle along with a dish of food. “Have every day now.”
“And he don’t need your brandy,” Emmy added with a nod.
The girl scowled and stepped around Emmy. She dropped the tray onto the little table with a clatter and turned to face Emmy again, her hands on her hips.
“What of his other needs?” she countered boldly.
Bloody hell, Patrick thought with exasperation. He cleared his throat and stepped into the sitting room.
The maid turned toward him. Her mouth snapped shut and her round face reddened. “My lord, I—”
“That’s enough,” he told her.
The maid turned and scurried out of the room, not even taking the time to shut the door. Patrick let out a sigh and rubbed his hands over his face. Emmy crossed her arms in front of her ampl
e chest, one fair brow arched.
“Did you do something foolish, Latham?” she asked.
“What?” he asked. Then her meaning struck him. Amazing, he thought darkly, considering the number of “foolish” things he’d done with her. “No, no,” he said at last. “I didn’t dally with the girl.”
“That’s fortunate,” Tony put in, laughter in his voice. “Managed to confine yourself to only one vice, eh Latham?”
Emmy swatted Tony on the arm, letting out a small giggle. “Never mind that, Tony.”
Patrick looked from one to the other, befuddled. He shrugged and walked over to the table. He ignored the plate of eggs and ham and sweet rolls and lifted the unopened brandy bottle.
“Why are you two here?” he asked, reaching for a glass.
Emmy moved with amazing speed and snatched the bottle from his hand. “You don’t need any more of this,” she said firmly as she handed the bottle to Tony.
Patrick took in a breath, irritation growing into anger. “Now see here—”
“Easy, Latham,” Tony put in soothingly. “Emmy only has your best interests at heart.”
Emmy handed him a sweet roll. “Eat it or I’ll force it down your throat!”
Patrick’s eyes widened and he took a bite. Suddenly ravenous, he continued eating. “Why are you here?” he asked them again as he dug into the eggs with gusto.
Tony and Emmy shared a knowing glance, immediately putting Patrick on his guard. He set his fork back on the table and swallowed, awaiting an answer.
“We’re here to save you from yourself,” Tony replied.
Patrick could only stare at the two of them, speechless.
* * *
Tory tossed and turned on her little cot, her stomach both queasy and conversely, growling with hunger. Her meal this evening had been a bit less than palatable, nearly as tasteless as the first meal she’d taken in the cell. She began to suspect that Patrick’s money was coming to an end. Although she hated being dependent upon that gentleman—she could no longer think of Patrick as her husband—she wasn’t so foolish as to wish her care to end as well. With her stomach rebelling at odd times, she knew there would be little incentive to eat the cold, stale food that had been the staple upon her arrival at Millbank.
That Determined Mister Latham Page 22
