Susan suddenly giggled, drawing the attention of both gentlemen. Patrick arched a brow at her, unwittingly mirroring his father’s gesture.
“But he did marry a thief, Stafford,” she said with a grin. “Dear Victoria has stolen his heart.”
* * *
After discussing the earl’s course of action Patrick left his father’s home and traveled the short distance to the pub on Bond Street. It was a place he believed Miller frequented, though he didn’t see any sign of him yet. He’d told his father that he wanted to keep an eye on the bastard. Any man who would give false testimony against an innocent woman would no doubt be up to more trouble.
He located a table set in the corner. He knew he had to wait for his father’s efforts behind the scenes, but summoning any patience while Tory sat behind bars was nearly impossible. This, at least, made him feel as though he was doing something. He signaled a server for a tankard of ale and sat himself down in a creaking wooden chair.
His father and Susan had seemed earnest in their outrage over Tory’s ill-treatment, and Patrick didn’t doubt that when she was freed at long last she would be warmly welcomed into his family.
Lord, how he needed her. He wanted to go to her, to let her know that he was working on freeing her. He couldn’t bear to see the hurt and anger on her face, though. He was afraid to visit her in Millbank, certain that she wouldn’t want him there, not after his apparent desertion.
When she was free he would remind her of the incredible love they shared. When he could hold her close to him she would finally accept that he’d never stopped loving her. His baroness would accept him and the position he at last embraced.
The earl had assured Patrick that, although the practice of taking information from citizens was highly encouraged, it was on the magistrate to find evidence that would prove such information. The fact that any trial wouldn’t take place until Michaelmas gave the magistrate little time to ferret out such evidence. The holiday fell at the end of the month.
If Patrick could discover any concrete evidence against Miller, his father and barrister could present it to the magistrate to counter anything Miller might say in court.
A serving girl brought him his ale and a plate of beef stew. Patrick nodded his thanks and lifted his fork. He took a few bites of the plain but hearty meal and pondered his next step. It killed him to cool his heels, but he’d have to be patient while his father called on his cronies.
He pushed aside his empty bowl and waved to the server. Another tankard of ale wouldn’t be unwelcome. He drank deeply of the ale she soon brought him, rubbing his hands over his face as he worked his mind around the puzzle of Miller and his false information.
Raucous laughter reached him, drawing his attention to another corner of the dimly-lit pub. A fat man filled a chair beside the small table, his face vaguely familiar to Patrick. The guffaw of laughter came again, from the man’s skinny companion. Patrick narrowed his eyes on the man’s grimy face, a memory niggling at the back of his mind. The fair! These were the men who’d attacked his Tory. He began to rise from his chair just as another gentleman joined the unlikely pair in the corner. Recognition rooted Patrick to the spot. Miller? My God! It was Miller’s cultured voice he’d heard on that long ago night at the Sturbridge Fair. He steepled his fingers and held them close to his face, resting his elbows on the table as he watched Miller and the two louts.
“How goes it, Boss?” the fat man asked. “The little bird still sitting in her cage?”
Miller laughed slyly. “She is, she is.” He nodded. “But not for much longer, I wager.”
“Ya’ ain’t collected no fines, have ya’?” the skinny man squawked. “We need to get our share!”
“Easy now,” Miller soothed. “Elliot will stand trial, rest assured. His fines will be far larger than the trollop’s would have been.”
Patrick took a sharp breath to calm his anger, intent on gaining all the information possible before spoiling Miller’s exquisitely-tied cravat and wringing his miserable neck. He folded his hands, gripping his fingers tightly in an attempt to stay calm.
“And we won’t be brought into the mess?” the fat man worried aloud. “Ya’ promised us that any proof against us be destroyed, Boss.”
Miller waved his hand. “And so it shall be. I have no desire for certain business dealings of my own to come to light. I’ve an inkling, however, that the girl’s troubles will soon cease to be of concern.”
The other two men stared at Miller dumbly for a long moment, finally nudging each other with their elbows as they laughed again. Patrick puzzled over Miller’s words. Did he have more to fear now over Tory’s safety?
“Miller!” he called, coming to his feet.
Miller turned and Patrick found satisfaction at the shock on the man’s face. Miller’s eyes shifted nervously at his two companions and stepped to one side in an obvious attempt to block them from Patrick’s view. Patrick spat out a harsh laugh.
“Did you think I wouldn’t recognize your illustrious colleagues, Miller?” he asked with a raised brow. “I nearly squeezed the life out of that gentleman’s skinny neck.”
“I haven’t the slightest inkling to what you are referring, Latham,” the man sniffed. “And I would appreciate it if you took your insinuations with you when you quit this establishment.”
“They attacked my wife, Miller,” Patrick growled. He stepped closer to their table, his gaze skewering the two louts. “And if you think that I would ever forgive such a deed, you’re sorely mistaken.”
Patrick pinned Miller with his gaze once more. To his astonishment the man shrugged dismissively.
“These men are not my agents,” he said.
“H-hey, Boss!” the fat man protested.
“You ain’t givin’ us to him?” the skinny man asked in a squeak.
“Shut your mouths!” Miller spat at the two of them. He turned to Patrick. “There’s no proof that I had any knowledge of these gentlemen’s activities that night,” he said smoothly. “Besides, you have more to worry about than these two.”
Fear struck Patrick then, cold and deep.
“What are you saying, Miller?” he asked in a low voice.
Miller shrugged his shoulders once more. “Your, um . . . wife’s present well-being should be utmost in your mind, Latham,” he said. “For, despite its many reforms of late, the penitentiary is not a place I would want a woman of mine to reside.”
The hold Patrick had on his rage finally slipped. “She’s there because of you, you bloody bastard!” he shouted, grabbing Miller about the throat. “You and your lies have placed her in jeopardy.”
Miller struggled beneath Patrick’s grasp. The other two men began pummeling Patrick with their fists, causing him to release his hold on Miller’s neck. He turned to take on the largest of the two, earning himself a few solid punches to his middle before the fat man ran from the pub. He doubled over in sharp pain and fell to the floor. He took great gulps of air as he clutched at his belly. His fingers encountered a warm stickiness, which he soon saw was blood.
“Bastard,” he rasped, pressing his hand against the oozing wound in his right side.
He looked up and found Miller and his cohorts gone. The serving girl was soon at his side. She pressed a cloth into his hand, but one look at its less-than-pristine condition caused him to give a quick shake of his head. He pulled at his cravat—one he vaguely recognized as having been chosen by Tory—and held it tightly against the wound. He struggled to his feet. His head swam and the stew threatened to make a resurgence. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
“I’ll help you to your carriage sir,” the girl offered.
He opened his eyes and shook his head at her.
“No,” he said softly. “That won’t be . . . ah!”
Each step caused a twinge of pain in his side. He let her assist him to his carriage and gave her his thanks.
“Mr. Latham!” his driver exclaimed.
“I’m all right,�
�� Patrick responded with a wave of his free hand. “Take me to my father’s.”
Falling against the cushioned seat, he closed his eyes. The door clicked shut, no doubt at the hands of the considerate girl. The ride back to his father’s townhouse seemed very long. Cursing Miller with every breath, he managed to keep from fainting.
“Patrick!” Susan’s voice broke through to him and he opened his eyes to see her worried face. “What happened?”
“Son,” his father said, grabbing one arm as Patrick’s driver took the other. “Who did this?”
Patrick let them lead him into the house, and then all but fell on a bench in the foyer. “One of Miller’s men.” He carefully removed the cravat from the wound in his side.
Susan gasped and his father cursed. “It’s still bleeding.”
“I just . . . need . . . to rest,” Patrick slurred, feeling as though he were looking through a fog.
“Let’s get you upstairs,” Susan said.
He nodded. At least he thought he nodded. From far away, he heard his father instruct the servants to ready a room and fetch a doctor. His father and the butler helped him upstairs. He could see Susan moving ahead of them.
“Bloody bastard,” he muttered as they helped get him into bed.
“We need to clean the wound,” he heard Susan say.
“Juss-a-scratch . . .” Strange, but he couldn’t seem to keep his eyes open. “Tory . . . don’t leave me.” He clutched at her hand.
“Shh, rest now.”
“Yes. I’ll rest. Then I’ll find us a house Tory, I pro-promise . . .” He wouldn’t let her down. His rooms were no place for his precious bride. He would just rest and then he would see to it that she had the most beautiful home he could find . . . Tory deserved a beautiful home . . . Soon Tory . . . Soon.
Then everything went black.
CHAPTER 24
The sound of jangling keys once more cut through the quiet of the night and Tory covered her ears. She hated that sound. It had haunted her since the day she’d arrived, almost three weeks ago. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the jailer to pass her cell as he had on every night since her incarceration began.
“My lady,” he jeered softly, causing Tory’s flesh to crawl. “Awaken.”
She stiffened, praying the man wouldn’t let himself into her cell. The sickening laughter that reached her quickly deprived her of that hope.
“Your garnish is gone, my lady,” he rasped. “It’s been me who’s been seein’ to your care for days. It’s me you be owing your thanks to now.”
“No,” Tory prayed aloud. “That can’t be true.”
“Oh, but it is true, my lady.” He chortled again. “I won’t take you tonight. I have the little one.”
Tory choked on a sob. “Thank God.” Her heart broke for Daisy, but God help her, she was relieved it wouldn’t be her tonight.
“Don’t be so quick with your prayers,” he said with a grunt. “Maybe I’ll have you tomorrow. Or the next night.” He leered, his eyes roaming over her like he could see her naked flesh beneath the sack dress she wore. “I like the anticipation of making you wait.”
He turned and went to the chamber across the corridor. Tory trembled in her cot. What would stop the jailer from attempting a rape tomorrow?
Patrick had finally grown tired of financing her safety. Her heart tumbled down to her stomach. She was well and truly alone now.
She hugged herself tighter and prayed for freedom, caring not from which direction it came.
* * *
A knock roused Patrick from a fevered sleep. He tried to get up, but he couldn’t seem to make his legs or arms move.
“Easy, son.” His father’s voice sounded like it came from the other end of a dark tunnel.
“What’s going on?” His voice sounded scratchy to his ears. Little wonder that, since his throat was sore and dry as dust. Patrick finally pried his eyes open as memories struck him. “Tory!”
“It’s all right,” his father said.
“I have to get to Tory,” he murmured, trying to make his legs move.
The wound in his side pulled painfully and he hissed. “Christ.”
“It seems you’re coming back to us at last.” There was a touch of humor in his father’s deep voice. He helped Patrick slowly come to a sitting position, moving pillows behind him.
“You took care of me,” Patrick said. “I came here, and you and Susan took care of me.”
“We did.”
“I have to get to Tory,” Patrick said again.
“Patrick, you’re not completely healed,” the earl said. “You had a fever.”
That explained the weakness he felt through his entire body. He focused on his father’s face now. “A fever. How long have I been here?”
The earl’s lips thinned. “A week.”
Alarm trilled through him. “But my wife—”
“Easy, son,” the earl said, patting Patrick’s shoulder. “We’ll soon see your Victoria free.”
“How?”
His father gave him a smile, settling back in the chair beside the bed.
“Well, while you’ve been reclining here at your leisure, I’ve been working very hard you see.”
“What did you do?” Patrick asked.
“Spoke to the magistrate.”
Patrick blinked. “You did that?”
The man gave a short nod. “For my son, I’d do just about anything.”
Patrick was supremely grateful for that. He guessed they were now well on their way to erasing the animosity that had impeded their relationship for five long years. He wouldn’t ask for an explanation for the earl’s marriage to Susan. The reason was clear to him at last. She hadn’t thrown him over for his father’s money. Seeing them together, and thinking about little Emily, told him they had a love match.
He realized he’d never loved Susan, not in the way a man should love a woman. What he’d felt was boyhood infatuation, not the kind of love to build a marriage with. The kind of love he had for Tory—would always have for Tory.
Perhaps Susan had realized the truth years ago.
“What did the man say?”
“All charges against your wife have been set aside. The magistrate has grown quite tired of placing people behind bars based on information given by a person who may have quite a lot to gain by such incarceration.”
Hope bloomed in Patrick’s chest. “Truly?”
“I’m simply waiting for the man’s letter to that effect. Should arrive by tomorrow, I wager.”
Patrick placed his hand on his father’s knee. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
His father’s eyes glimmered and he blinked. “No need to thank me. We’ll see her free and you can be as happy as . . .”
“You can say it, Father. As happy as you and Susan.”
Though he tried to hide a smile, Patrick saw it nonetheless. “Yes.”
“Can you have a servant call round for my friend Tony Waring? I’d like him to go to my rooms and bring me some clothes and things.”
“Of course.” He came to his feet. “Now rest. I’ll have some food sent up and by the time your friend comes with your clothes you’ll feel more the thing.”
“Thank you, Father. For everything.”
Another nod and the man left Patrick to his thoughts. No mention had been made of Tory’s uncle, and Patrick couldn’t care less. The man must have had some sort of illegal business to draw the attentions of Miller. Let him rot there behind bars. Because of Elliot and his nefarious dealings, Tory was behind bars.
Feeling as weak as if Bradley had pummeled him for three solid hours, he managed to get up and take care of a few essentials. By the time he settled back into the bed, he was ready for the broth and bread a servant had delivered while he’d been indisposed behind the screen.
After he finished eating he felt more like a man and less like a puling infant. His door opened and he expected to see Tony but a little blonde head peeped in.
“
Are you awake yet?” Emily asked.
He nodded. “Yes, sister.”
She beamed a smile at him. “Mama said you’ve been asleep all this time.”
“I suppose I was.”
She withdrew a hand from behind her back, presenting him with a lemon biscuit. It had a small bite taken out of it.
“I brought you a sweet.”
He looked pointedly at the biscuit and back up at her. “Had a taste of it, did you?”
She shrugged. “I had to make sure it was good enough for you.”
Patrick laughed for what felt like the first time in weeks as he took the proffered cookie from her. “Thank you.”
“Emily, are you in here?” Susan opened the door, placing her hands on her hips. “Child, don’t bother Patrick. He needs his rest.”
The little girl rolled her eyes. “Mama, he’s been resting for so long already.”
“She’s correct,” Patrick added.
Susan gave him a tentative smile. “Your friends are belowstairs, Patrick. May I send them up?”
“Please.”
Tony and Emmy were soon in his guest room, Tony carrying a packet of what must be his clothes and Emmy wearing a fierce expression.
“Are you truly all right?” Tony asked, setting the packet on a chair near the fireplace. “Your father, of all people, sent me instructions to bring your clothes, but I’m afraid we found more at your rooms than these.”
“What?”
“That silly maid, Latham,” Emmy began. “The one you nearly dallied with?”
Patrick stifled a groan. “I didn’t “nearly” dally with her.”
“She told us that the servant you gave money to has been flashing it around and playing the card tables.”
An ice-cold dread settled in his gut. “That was for Victoria,” he said in alarm. “To keep her safe. Damn it, that was over a week ago!”
“Are you saying she’s in danger?” Tony asked.
Patrick nodded. “What must she think? God, she must think I’ve abandoned her.” He came to his feet, ignoring the fact that he only wore breeches. “I’ve got to get her out of there. Now.”
That Determined Mister Latham Page 24
