by Cheryl Holt
“A likely story.”
“Lady Felicia was responsible—at Gaylord Farrow’s urging.”
“It doesn’t surprise me that Lady Felicia was involved. But Gaylord?”
“Yes.”
“Why would he have harmed me in such an evil fashion?”
Michael shrugged. “Why does Farrow do anything? He’s a menace, and he won’t ever hurt you again either. I’ll see to it.”
“You’ll see to it. What do you mean?”
“He’s done inflicting himself on you and your sisters.”
She scrutinized him, trying to decipher what he was actually confiding, but he’d never confess his plan for Farrow. He knew women. If he revealed Farrow’s approaching fate, she’d tell her sister, and Michael was determined that Pamela Farrow never learn what had occurred.
The carriage halted again, this time outside her mission. She glanced out and scowled. “I have a new door. What happened to the old one?”
“I kicked it in.”
“Why?”
“Because you’d disappeared, and I was terrified. I went in to be sure you weren’t dead on the floor.”
“Aren’t you special?” she sarcastically seethed.
“I repeat, a bit of gratitude would be nice.”
She scoffed. “Who repaired it?”
“I did. The back door too, with sturdier wood and better locks.”
“You have the new key?”
“Yes.”
“Give it to me.”
She held out her hand, and though he had the blasted key in his pocket, he couldn’t bear to relinquish it. It represented his connection to her, his being in charge of her so he could watch over her properly.
“Please don’t stay here,” he said. “I’ll be so worried about you.”
“Why would you worry? I’m none of your concern, Mr. Scott. You really needn’t trouble yourself. Now give me the accursed key.”
He sighed and pulled it out. She snatched it away, and as she reached for the carriage door, he suffered an instant of panic. Would he ever see her again? What if he didn’t? What if this was the very last time?
She was so angry, and he hadn’t uttered a single comment that hadn’t sounded idiotic, and she’d misconstrued every remark.
He had to hope that—eventually—she’d forgive him, that she’d remember she’d loved him once. That sort of potent emotion couldn’t just evaporate.
“I’ve cried off from my betrothal,” he said.
“Bully for you.”
“I couldn’t keep on with Felicia, not after I discovered what she did to you.”
She snorted with disgust. “She had to have me kidnapped, arrested, and incarcerated before you decided she wasn’t right for you? You’re mad, Mr. Scott. You are absolutely stark raving mad.”
“Maggie…I…”
For a minute she hovered, her body tilted toward him as she awaited his next words.
“What?” she demanded when he couldn’t spit it out.
“I…love you.”
It was the first and only time he’d ever spoken the phrase aloud, so it was a significant occasion in his life. He didn’t know what reply he’d expected in return, but it wasn’t the one he received.
“You do not love me. You don’t love anyone. You practically bragged about it.”
“I do love you!”
“You’re being ridiculous, and I need a bath.”
The footman took that moment to open the door. He hadn’t yet lowered the step, but she jumped out anyway.
“Maggie!”
“What!” She was growing ever more exasperated.
“Will you marry me?”
She gasped as if he’d hurled an epithet. “Marry you?”
“Yes. Will you?”
“I’d rather be boiled in hot oil.”
She stomped over to her new door, rammed the key in the lock, and found that it worked perfectly. In a thrice, she vanished as if she’d never been there at all.
* * * *
“You own this place? Truly?”
Ramsey grinned at his wife and said, “Yes, Mrs. Scott. I own it.”
He emphasized missus, liking the way it sounded.
Rebecca cocked an elegant brow. “So…when you kept boasting about how rich you are, you weren’t lying.”
“No, I wasn’t lying. I’m so bloody rich, you couldn’t beggar me if you tried for a hundred years.”
She grinned too. “I’m delighted to hear it. For a while there, you had me worried.”
“I realize that you were.”
She breathed a sigh of relief. “After living with Gaylord, I can’t imagine how refreshing it will feel to have a bit of stability floating around.”
Ramsey puffed himself up. “I rescued your shapely ass, and don’t you forget it.”
“It’s not as if you’ll let me. It’s all you talk about.”
“Well, you have a short attention span.”
They were back in London and standing in front of the house he’d bought her. Initially he’d planned to bring her to it as his mistress. That had been their agreement, but thanks to Michael insisting on a wedding, Ramsey had ended up with much more than he’d ever expected to have.
Over the past decade he could have married any number of girls, but they’d all been raised in his same sort of rough and tumble existence, and he hadn’t been interested in any of the lowborn females.
He couldn’t have explained why though. Michael was the one who had some blue blood running in his veins, but maybe Ramsey had a few drops too. He’d always wanted to latch on to a real lady and now he had. Fate had dumped her in his lap.
In the beginning she’d been reluctant and hadn’t figured he’d be much of a husband. She still didn’t, but he’d show her. With how flighty she was, she needed a strong man at her side, one who could protect her, who would keep her out of trouble—because she was the type who’d land herself in plenty of it.
He’d always lived with Michael, and for many years had stayed in a room over the gambling club. As a bachelor it had suited his purposes, but he was thirty or thereabouts—he’d never been certain of his age—so it was time he carried on like a normal person.
A wife. A house. Furniture. Servants. If he wasn’t careful, he’d wind up being halfway respectable. Perish the thought!
“Shall we go in?” he asked.
“Yes, we should.”
Suddenly he suffered the worst wave of anxiety. What if she didn’t like it?
It wasn’t Cliffside by any means, but it was a fine residence all the same. Constructed of red brick, with black shudders and white trim, it was three stories high with a stable for a carriage and a garden in the back.
The area was quiet and safe, and the neighbors went to their jobs in the day in crisp gray suits such as lawyers and businessmen might wear. Ramsey didn’t belong in such a tepid, cultured group, and he was richer than all of them put together, but he liked the idea of pretending he fit in.
Rebecca would, but Ramsey? Never. If folks got too annoying, they’d just move. He’d find another quiet street, in another safe neighborhood, and try to make Rebecca happy.
From here on out, that would be his goal: to keep Rebecca happy. Well, other than working for Michael and keeping him happy. Rebecca would come directly after Michael, but considering all the ways Michael had constantly helped Ramsey, it wasn’t such a bad spot for Rebecca to occupy.
Everything they had, everything they would accumulate in the future, would be because of Michael, because of his wits, cunning, and generosity.
“The furniture came with it,” he said, “but if you don’t like it, we can toss it out and buy new.”
“All new?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sure what’s already here will be fine.”
“I hired two footmen and two maids to start out. You can use them or not. It’s up to you.”
“I’m sure they’ll be fine too.”
“I didn’t
hire a cook yet. I thought you’d know more about what kind of person you’d like.”
“Could we hire someone French?”
“Absolutely. And if you think you need a dozen more servants, bring them in. The more the merrier.”
“You’re being awfully accommodating.”
“I want you to like it, but if you don’t we’ll sell it and purchase something else.”
He was babbling like an idiot, but couldn’t shut up. He was so nervous! He’d convinced himself he didn’t care if she liked what he’d selected, but he’d been lying. He was desperate for her to like it.
He walked her over to the door. The servants were expecting them, and a footman snapped it open and greeted them at just the right moment. Ramsey eased her over the threshold, but she peeked up at him from under those long dark lashes that drove him wild.
“You’re supposed to carry me inside,” she said.
“Am I?”
“It’s good luck.”
“Then by all means, let me carry you.”
She was light as a feather, and he scooped her off her feet and marched into the foyer, pleased as punch with her and what he’d wrangled for himself.
He put her down and introduced the servants, then he stepped back and shyly watched—when had he gotten shy?—as she studied her surroundings.
She pushed by him and went into the parlor, and she strolled about, touching things, sniffing things, peering in drawers, and tugging on drapes to check the view out the windows.
He couldn’t stand it and asked, “What do you think, Mrs. Scott?”
“I think…” She looked sly, crafty, and so darn beautiful.
Her lengthy pause terrified him. “Just say it!”
“It’s perfect.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, Ramsey, I’m very, very sure. Stop worrying so much.”
“I can’t help it.”
“I’m so relieved to be here with you.”
“But if you don’t feel it’s grand enough or wish I’d—”
“Ramsey?” She stamped her foot, cutting him off. “It’s one-hundred percent perfect, and I can’t believe I managed to snag you for my own.”
She skipped over and flung herself into his arms. He picked her up and twirled her around, kissing her and kissing her until he was too dizzy to continue.
“I guess you’re staying,” he said as he drew away.
“I guess I am.”
“With me, it’s forever.”
“It better be.”
He took her hand and headed for the stairs.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“We should try out our bed to see if the mattress is comfortable.”
They were hurrying by the servants, and he didn’t notice any of them reacting to his lewd suggestion—servants weren’t supposed to react—but she must have.
She grinned at them and said, “We’re newlyweds. It’s allowed.”
He swooped her up again and rushed up the stairs.
* * * *
“Sorry, Mr. Farrow, but I can’t permit it.”
“Please?”
Gaylord smiled his most charming smile, but the servant guarding the door was unmoved.
They were at the entrance to a gambling club he’d joined a few weeks earlier. He’d owed a membership fee, and with his excellent verbal skill he’d persuaded the owner that he had money coming and would pay once it arrived.
Of course he had no money coming, and when the owner found out, his membership had been promptly cancelled. There was no greater shame a gentleman could suffer than to be told he was too poor to socialize with his friends. It was the ultimate humiliation.
If only he were an aristocrat! Those accursed men were blessed with a title, so no one ever insisted they cough up funds when they fell a little behind.
“Your privileges have been revoked,” the servant informed him.
As if he didn’t know! “I don’t need to gamble. Just let me sneak out the back.”
“I can’t. The boss would have my head.”
If Gaylord had had two pennies to rub together he’d have bribed the fellow, but his financial situation had worsened considerably.
Though he couldn’t fathom why, creditors were suddenly following him around the city, his lines of credit having collapsed like a house of cards. Every trivial idiot who’d ever loaned Gaylord a farthing was demanding immediate imbursement.
He’d been accosted on the street by process servers who had warrants for his arrest. They claimed he’d been adjudged a delinquent debtor and was to be incarcerated.
As they’d reached for him he’d raced away, and the crowd of passersby had ensured they couldn’t catch him. They were close on his heels though.
“Look, mate.” He gazed soulfully.
“I’m not your mate, Mr. Farrow.”
“There are some cretins chasing me.” Gaylord chuckled as if it was of no consequence. “They say I owe them money.”
“Do you?” the servant had the audacity to inquire.
Oh, how the mighty had fallen!
“It’s all a minor misunderstanding,” Gaylord scoffed.
“I’ll just bet it is.”
“You wouldn’t be so heartless as to let them find me, would you?”
The man studied Gaylord, and Gaylord had to admit he was a pathetic sight. Typically he was dapper and well-groomed, but wagering, drinking, and lack of sleep had left him in less than pristine condition.
He smelled.
A flurry of activity erupted on the sidewalk, and the servant peered outside. Gaylord peered out too. The process servers were there, asking if anyone had seen him!
Gaylord blanched with alarm.
“Please!” he wheezed.
“Go ahead”—the servant tossed a thumb toward the gaming room—“but you march straight to the back door. You don’t linger.”
If the man said anything else, Gaylord didn’t hear it. He dashed through the club, ignoring the intoxicating clink of the dice, the strong odor of alcohol that invited him to sit down and imbibe.
Men glanced at him as he ran by, but fortunately no one hailed him. He kept on and staggered into the dark alley.
It was very quiet, though it stank of garbage, and rats skittered away. He tarried for a few minutes, calming his breathing and figuring out which direction was best for an escape. Finally he tiptoed over and peeked out to the street.
Hoping he appeared more composed than he felt, he riffled his fingers in his hair and tugged on his vest. He intended to slip out and walk away unobserved, but before he could a male behind him said, “Hello, Farrow.”
He yelped with fright and spun around to find Michael Scott had crept up on him. The large, violent fiend, Ramsey Scott, was with him.
“Michael Scott!” He forced a smile. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“Yes, fancy that.”
“You scared the life out of me.”
Michael Scott assessed Gaylord’s rumpled suit, his disheveled state, and he smirked. “You look as if you’re having a spot of trouble.”
“No, no, I’m fine. If you’ll excuse me?”
He turned to go, but Ramsey Scott blocked Gaylord’s way.
“You seem to be in a hurry, Mr. Farrow.” Ramsey Scott, brute that he was, wouldn’t budge.
“Yes, I’m in a hurry.”
“Why is that?” Michael Scott inquired.
“I’m a busy man,” Gaylord claimed.
“So I hear,” Michael Scott amiably agreed. “Do you know what else I hear?”
“No, what?”
“Someone has been all over town buying up your markers.”
“A vicious rumor,” Gaylord blithely said.
“Is it?”
“Why would anyone buy my debt? My fiscal situation is very sound.”
Both Scotts chuckled, and Michael Scott said, “I should probably be clearer. I have purchased your debt.”
Gaylord’s mind raced as he tried
to make sense of Scott’s announcement. The bloody oaf already owned Cliffside. How much more did the greedy bastard need?
Gaylord scowled. “Why would you bother with my paltry obligations?”
“Oh, they’re not paltry,” Michael Scott insisted. “In fact, they’re sufficient to get you jailed for penury—and for a very long time too.”
“What are you saying?” Gaylord asked.
“You shouldn’t have hurt Maggie.”
“Maggie!” Gaylord huffed. “I haven’t seen her in weeks. How could I have hurt her?”
Michael Scott grabbed Gaylord by his shirt, lifting him until his toes brushed the ground. The seams in Gaylord’s coat started to pop and tear.
“You have the gall to pretend you didn’t hurt her?” Mr. Scott asked.
“I haven’t done anything lately.”
At Gaylord’s retort, Mr. Scott was so irate that Gaylord lurched away but simply bumped into Ramsey Scott. He was trapped between the two men.
Michael Scott lifted Gaylord again. “Have you—by any chance—talked to Lady Felicia recently?”
“Why would I have spoken to Lady Felicia? She and I hardly run in the same circles.”
“It doesn’t matter if you lie or not,” Mr. Scott replied. “I know the truth.”
“As I’ve never met your fiancée, I can’t imagine what truth you assume you know.”
“Shut up, Farrow.” Ramsey Scott loomed over Gaylord’s shoulder and peered at his friend. “This prick is too stupid to live. Let me kill him.”
“What!” Gaylord shrieked.
“Let me put the Wells sisters out of their misery,” Ramsey Scott begged.
“Help!” Gaylord called.
The street was swarming with people. Surely someone would stop to assist, or would at least get a good look at Michael and Ramsey Scott so the two brigands could be identified when Gaylord’s body washed up on the shores of the Thames.
But before Gaylord could generate enough of a ruckus to be noticed, Ramsey Scott whisked him farther into the alley. Michael Scott stepped in again.
“I don’t want him dead,” Mr. Scott told Ramsey Scott.
Gaylord gulped. “What do you want?”
“I want you to pay me the money you owe me. Immediately. Can you?”
“Of course not.”
