Changing the Earl's Mind (The Lords of Whitehall Book 3)

by Kristen McLean

  He set his hat on the seat beside him with a knit brow. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Why did you not kindly decline their assistance and put an end to their suggestions? You are a man. You have that power.”

  “Am I to understand you do not want a small wedding with only one hundred or so guests, and a brand new and quite expensive trousseau?”

  Sarah silently glared daggers at him. He knew bloody well she didn’t want any of those things.

  “Do you not want to travel the world fashionably clad in the finest of gowns?”

  Sarah’s scowl deepened.

  He leaned back into the seat. “I suppose you prefer a private affair with naught but the clergy and two witnesses,” he said. “And you would say your vows wrapped head to toe in a black mourning dress.”

  “You would be wearing black, too, wouldn’t you?”

  “Most probably. I wear black often.”

  “It’s intimidating.”

  He smiled. “That is the intention.” He watched her for a moment. “Our engagement will be in the papers in the morning, the banns will be read every week for three weeks, and we shall marry in front of scores of people we do not know, you in frilly carmine, and I in the darkest blue Lady Ainsley will allow… Unless, of course, we don’t.”

  “What do you mean we don’t?”

  “Oh, we would still marry, Mrs. Tindall, but on our own terms,” he clarified. “Perhaps we could thwart everyone and elope to Gretna Green to marry by blacksmith.” She gasped, and he smiled faintly. “But I think it more likely we shall marry in the Barrington Park chapel by special license with only the vicar, his wife, and a servant as witness.”

  Hope began to rise in her chest, but she beat it down. “Will that not cause more scandal?”

  “On the contrary,” he said confidently. “Everyone will think the gesture ridiculously romantic. Besides, no one expects me to host afternoon tea, much less a wedding reception.”

  “Is that what you are planning?” she asked, the wary sprig of hope growing. “A quiet ceremony in the country?”

  “It is best that way. With the help of London society and the scandal sheets, and the fact our two villains were at Ainsley’s this evening, we can now be certain we have our murderers’ attention. We must quickly steer them away from London. If we keep them here too long, they may start another fire. A fire like that in London could kill hundreds. We simply cannot risk it.”

  “Were they not apprehended tonight?”

  “No, but I am having them followed day and night.”

  “If they are being followed, why worry about them?”

  He breathed in deeply and shook his head. “Things do not always go to plan. One of them might slip away. One of my men might fall asleep and wake up to find them gone. We must lure them to Barrington Park before that can happen.”

  “Why not arrest them?”

  “We need them free and unaware of being followed, and just as unaware they are being led.”

  “Surely they would not strike in London. There are too many people wandering about who could see them, identify them.”

  “London isn’t as safe as you might think. They will have plenty of opportunities to strike without the inconvenience of witnesses. It takes but a moment to start a flame, and in seconds, the entire building is up in smoke. Perhaps the entire street.”

  “Someone would do that?” she asked, shocked by such senseless violence. “Killing countless innocent people. Children, even.”

  One side of his mouth curled grimly. “Welcome to London, Mrs. Tindall. The instant we can be sure we have the attention of the villain responsible for the two who were here tonight, we shall wed. I don’t expect that to be long. I imagine he will be anxious enough to get you out of the way personally, exposing himself in the process.”

  Realization dawned, and with it, a sense of excitement. “You are using me as bait.”

  “The method is tried and true. You ought not to take it personally,” he drawled, shifting into a more comfortable position. “Gad, these society functions are exhausting. I hope you do not mind if I rest a bit.”

  “Of course.” She nodded, biting her lip. “What makes you think there is another villain orchestrating it all?”

  “There is always another villain, Mrs. Tindall,” he said wearily. He closed his eyes with his hands laced over his waist and his legs stretched out before him. “Always.”

  “There’s always a hiccup,” Sam muttered derisively into his tankard of ale. “Always.”

  Sam was already en route to London when he received the newspaper clipping from George, announcing Mrs. Tindall’s engagement to the Home Secretary, Lord Saint Brides. Now he sat in a dilapidated inn, at least fifty miles south of Manchester, blind with rage.

  He held the curst paper in his hands, crumpled it up, smoothed it out, and crumpled it up again.

  It was irrelevant. He was getting the money out of the old woman and leaving England for good. No one would find him. No one would know where to look, or for whom. The world would be opened up to him with five thousand pounds jingling in his pockets.

  But damn it all, he hated leaving loose ends! He wanted no reason for anyone to go looking for Frank’s murderer. He wanted the supposed murderer to be hanged at dawn.

  He threw the waded paper into the fireplace of his meager room, where it blackened and shriveled until it was naught but ash, just as Frank was… just as his bothersome little wife would be.

  A grim smile pulled at his unshaven face, and he fisted his hands in his lap. That was exactly right. The American thorn in his arse would burn, even if he had to beat her senseless and light the fire with his own two hands.

  Chapter 13

  Francine paced back and forth for over an hour, wearing a trail into the decade old rug in the front parlor. In a normal home, a rug this old would look threadbare and tattered, but Drake’s absence was evident. Though the furnishings hadn’t been updated since he had purchased the townhouse a decade ago, nothing looked used in the slightest.

  Good God, where the devil did that boy live? Obviously not in his home, as a normal human being would. He ought to be devoting his time to Sarah, planning their new life together, securing her place in society. He was so distracted by murderers that he got the poor girl mired in scandal. As though she lacked for scandal. Heavens above.

  Though she would be terribly ungrateful if she did not admit scandal had been a wonderfully effective way of getting the two engaged, she thought her and Elisabeth might be toiling until the very end of their days getting those two together otherwise. Still, appeasing the ton on this matter did take a great deal of her energy.

  She certainly did not need two blackguards demanding five thousand pounds for a ring that had cost less than fifty, but she must get back her ring. She wanted desperately for Sarah to have it. Margaret might be forever lost to her, but Sarah was still alive and young, and marrying her dearest friend’s only living son. It was so obviously meant to be.

  Something must be done!

  She fell back onto the settee, her feet and legs sore and shaking, and her mind filled with a flurry of thoughts. She would have to deal with this mess, but she was far too old to be sleuthing on her own. She would have to apply to Whitehall for assistance, and she would have to do it without Drake knowing. The poor boy would end up working himself into an early grave.

  The soft pad of footfalls sounded in the hall before Elisabeth’s maid stepped into the room with a tray of tea and cakes.

  “My dear, you never fail to show the second you are needed,” Francine said warmly. “It is no wonder Elisabeth keeps you so close.”

  Mary smiled and bobbed a curtsy, setting the tray on the low table in front of Francine. “Will there be anything else, my lady?”

  “No, child. That’s quite…” Francine stopped herself short, a thought budding in her brain. “In fact, yes, there is. I need to go out, and I want you to accompany me.”

  “Out, my lady?”
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  “Yes, and it must be kept between us. I want no one knowing a thing about it,” she said as she poured herself a cup of tea. She added a splash of cream and a lump of sugar before savoring a sip.

  Mary frowned warily. “To buy a wedding gift, perhaps?”

  “Yes, that is what we shall tell them.” Francine smiled. “Clever girl, you are.”

  Mary’s frown deepened. “But, my lady—”

  “Elisabeth is napping, is she not?” she asked, taking a small bit of cake from the tray.

  Mary nodded. “Yes, my lady.”

  “And she still does not wake until an hour before dinner?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Good. That gives us a full two hours,” she said firmly. “If we can return before she wakes, no one will know we went out at all.”

  Mary’s shoulders sank a fraction. “Must it be secretive? I cannot lie to Lady Saint Brides if she asks where we went.”

  “Then we must hurry to be back before she wakes, and she won’t have reason to ask you anything.”

  Three days after the announcement of their upcoming nuptials, Saint Brides suggested a respite from wedding preparations with a turn through Hyde Park, which was met with a hearty yes, please!

  Now she closed her eyes and soaked up the sun, basking in the freedom of open air.

  “You are unusually quiet this morning,” Saint Brides observed as they made the first turn into Hyde Park.

  She took a deep breath, one of several, before answering. “I am simply enjoying the fresh air.” She took another deep breath. “I feel as though I’ve been staring at fabrics and fashion plates for ages.”

  “Take heart,” he said, smiling. “It will be over soon.”

  Sarah turned to him abruptly. “Do you mean our third villain has appeared?”

  He sent her an amused side-glance. “Calm down, Mrs. Tindall. You will scare the horses.”

  “Tell me,” she demanded. “Put me out of my misery, I beg you.”

  “No, he has not appeared,” he answered, leading the horses around a tight turn. “But he will… soon.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He won’t have a choice.”

  Sarah frowned. “Your propensity for cryptic answers is not your most endearing trait.”

  “I have an endearing trait?”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “No, forget I said anything.”

  He smiled and opened his mouth to speak, but before any words were formed, the smile fell and his usual stern frown was firmly in place. It wasn’t until then she realized he had not frowned once since he had come for her that morning.

  “Lord Atley,” Saint Brides said as he pulled the horses to a stop. “Lady Atley.”

  The carriage beside them had already stopped, and Lady Atley and her daughter were regarding Sarah coolly.

  Lord Atley touched his hat in greeting. “Saint Brides. Lovely day to be out, is it not?”

  “It is.”

  “Lord Saint Brides, what a chance seeing you here,” Lady Atley said with a disingenuous smile. “In public once again. I wonder what could be prompting such a change in behavior.”

  His brow lifted. “Must there be a reason, Lady Atley?”

  “Oh, yes, and I think it is obvious what that reason is,” she scoffed with a disdainful glance at Sarah. “It has been all over the scandal sheets.”

  Lord Atley shifted in his seat, but said nothing.

  “Has it, indeed?” Saint Brides returned. “I would not know as I do not keep up with the drivel the gossip mongers print.”

  “Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary in this case, my lord,” she said with unmistakable triumph. “It will keep up with you, and then it will run you to ground.”

  “Mary,” Lord Atley said sharply under his breath.

  Saint Brides’ scowl hardened. “What on earth do you mean, Lady Atley?”

  “I mean, when the Home Secretary takes to a foreign murderess, one begins to question his judgment.” Lady Atley idly rearranged the heavy blanket on her lap. “How can a man such as that be trusted to deliver justice?”

  “The charge is patently ridiculous,” he said with an edge to his voice.

  “That is not what this handbill says,” she cooed, holding up the paper with Sarah’s likeness sketched on it.

  “That was the mistake of an overzealous provincial magistrate,” Saint Brides said. “No more.”

  “Precisely,” Lord Atley said, nodding his agreement.

  “We shall see.” She smiled, oozing contempt. “It isn’t too late, you know. If you play your cards right, you may get a second chance with my Georgiana.” She leaned over to pat the hand of the smiling blonde beauty at her side. “She’s such a forgiving child.”

  “It is widely known I am terribly at cards.” Saint Brides touched the brim of his hat. “Good afternoon, Lady Atley, Lord Atley.”

  “Saint Brides,” Lord Atley said while Lady Atley bristled. Then he urged his horses into motion.

  Sarah did not look back to see them exit the park. She did not look anywhere or at anyone. She saw nothing but the handbill.

  “This is impossible.”

  Up until today, she had always felt there was a way out, somewhere to run. But now… if she ran, Saint Brides would lose his career. If she stayed, he would still lose his career. There was no way out for him.

  Saint Brides lifted his brows, almost completely recovered. “I find very few things are impossible.”

  She shook her head. “We agreed to wed in order to save your career.”

  “And your life,” he pointed out.

  “Yes, but it looks as though you will still lose your career.” A shiver of ice ran down her spine. “And I may still lose my life.”

  “I shall not allow anyone to hurt you.”

  She sighed, terribly weary. “I am not worth all of this trouble and sacrifice.”

  “You are worth everything, Mrs. Tindall,” he said, the sincerity in his gaze reaching inside of her and touching her soul.

  One slashing brow rose. “Or shall I call you Sarah?” He shook his head, as if shaking off the thought. “This is very good news. Aside from the handbill, of course. That is a nuisance, but not entirely unexpected.” He flicked the reins, and the carriage rocked into motion.

  “Good news?” she echoed disbelievingly. “You realize you may lose your position?”

  “My reputation is not in nearly as much peril as Lady Atley would have us believe. Otherwise, she would never have offered me her daughter’s hand.”

  He had her there, she supposed. It would be strange for any woman to flaunt a man’s destruction in his face, then marry her daughter to him. As nasty as Lady Atley was, Sarah had no reason to believe she would do such a terrible thing to her own daughter.

  “Tell me,” she said, relaxing back into the squabs. “What is the good news?”

  “Since your reputation is already in tatters, my men have been working to make sure word of you is being circulated, and it seems they have been successful. That means our nefarious friend will have no issue finding you.”

  Those icy claws on her back were becoming far too familiar. “Yes, what great news,” she muttered.

  “I meant it when I said I shall not allow anyone to hurt you.” He sent her a sideways glance as they turned the carriage toward Upper Grosvenor Street.

  She believed he meant it. For some insane reason, she did. She did not, however, think he could do much about it if some murderous villain crept into her bedroom at night and slit her throat.

  “Lady Umberton was at Whitehall.”

  Freddie stood as rigid as a steel pole as Drake sifted through the correspondence. At this snippet of information, Drake paused. He set the bundle down to direct his attention at Freddie.

  “Was she asking for me?”

  “No, my lord. She saw one of your agents,” Freddie answered.

  “When was this?”

  “That was five days ago, my lord.”


  He let out a breath of frustration. “Of course it was. I take it no one has reported anything concerning Lady Umberton’s request?”

  “Nothing. Everyone assumes you already know. I wouldn’t have learned of it had I not been gathering the monthly accounting of our agents’ whereabouts for your records. It seems he and another of his men have not been seen since the meeting with Lady Umberton. No one seems to know what she requested of him, nor what he is doing about it.”

  “On the contrary, Freddie.” Drake pulled out a fresh sheet of stationery and dipped his pen in ink before scratching a few words on the paper. “I know precisely why she went to him. I’m even more certain of what he plans to do about it. Unfortunately, it’s too late to stop them. They have no doubt been noticed by now.” He handed Freddie the note now sealed in an envelope. “Give this to the men I had following our murderers. Now that they are freed up, I have a new task for them.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Chapter 14

  James Gordon eyed the giant structure in front of him. A behemoth of a house in Mayfair, owned by none other than the Home Secretary himself. He would much rather be in the other, seedier part of town, sniffing out Sam Winters, the murderous sod. Unfortunately, he had lost the cur, and it was likely he might not find him in time. If that was the case, the Home Secretary ought to be made aware his fiancée was next on Sam’s list.

  Gad, what a shock that had been. James was not accustomed to reading gossip columns. In fact, had a couple gentlemen not been walking behind him down a busy London street, talking far too loudly about the affair, he would have never known.

  He frowned. Their clothes, the way they had walked, the way they had worded things—it all screamed Bow Street Runner. Men of the law should have more of a care, speaking in that way. Why, they practically shouted the address for the Home Secretary’s London residence. Had James not been otherwise preoccupied, he would have had a thorough talking to with those gents.

  But he had been preoccupied. He had to make things right. He had tried to keep Mrs. Tindall safe, and he had failed at that, just as he had failed at finding Frank’s killer.