What a Lady Requires

by Ashlyn Macnamara

  He exchanged a glance with Sanford. “Shall we get this over with?”

  Best to, really. He’d get to the bottom of this whole situation, and then he’d arrange his future, a potential failure once more, but one with enough blunt to get by. He’d sell that damnable townhouse and send Emma to oversee the Sparkmore holdings in Bedfordshire. She’d be happy with an estate to run, and he could go back to his brother’s London lodgings and pretend none of this had ever happened.

  He would return to his usual haunts, and…What? Haunt them? Yes, and with such an existence he’d be hardly better than a ghost, wouldn’t he? Right. No sense in dwelling.

  He leapt from the carriage, only to come face-to-face with a rag-wrapped palm. The beggar had clearly reckoned on them as easy prey. “Spare a coin for a poor man?”

  His hand halfway to his purse, Rowan paused. Something about that voice. “Damn it, Dysart.”

  Dysart grinned. “Almost had ye, didn’t I?”

  “You’ll get your pay,” Rowan grated.

  “Aye, and soon.” He glanced past Rowan’s shoulder. “Ye brought company.”

  “My friends,” Rowan confirmed. The truth was far too complicated to explain now, so he settled on a little embroidery for simplicity’s sake.

  Dysart eyed Lind, who had just scrambled out of the carriage. “I hope ye weren’t expecting a fight. He won’t do ye much good.”

  “Where’s Crawley?”

  “He went round back. Been in there a while. I haven’t seen him come out.”

  “Bold as that, then, and with her father home?”

  “Old man’s gone out.” Dysart produced an unlit cheroot from some unseen pocket and chewed on the end. “Left with a pair of ladies, he did.”

  “Uriana and Aunt Augusta,” Rowan muttered. “How did you know where to find Crawley?”

  “Tailed him here. He waited on his chance and took it when the others left.”

  “Did…Do you think she summoned him?”

  “Never saw no messenger if she did.”

  That statement sparked a wild hope in Rowan, but just as quickly another feeling snuffed that small flame. A chill, colder than today’s wind under lowering skies. To what purpose did Crawley pursue Emma if not the obvious? For he’d been buzzing about, persistent and annoying as a wasp.

  But here at her father’s shop? How had Crawley known to seek Emma in Cheapside rather than Mayfair? It was almost as if he’d been watching, waiting for a chance; but a chance at what? Nothing good. An unexplained sense of urgency overwhelmed Rowan, and he strode for the shop.

  “Not so fast.” Dysart grabbed him by the back of his coat. “What if you don’t like what ye see?”

  “I already know I’m not going to like what I see. Crawley will just have to deal with the consequences.” He knew that much for a certainty now. Whatever was going on in there, it was none of Emma’s doing.

  He shook Dysart off and, the others following, hurried into the alley between Jennings’s shop and the next, back to the mews, where another carriage awaited.

  Not too late, not too late.

  But then the back door crashed open and that all-too-brief wave of relief ebbed. Emma emerged first, white-faced, a heavy arm clamping her waist. Crawley hauled her a few steps and froze.

  “Let her go.” Lord only knew how Rowan managed an authoritative calm with his heart blocking his throat. “We have you outnumbered.”

  Crawley brought up a pistol and rammed the muzzle into Emma’s jaw. Her yelp slammed Rowan straight in the gut. He narrowed his eyes and growled.

  Crawley cast a dismissive glance at their group. “There may be more of you, but I won’t hesitate to use this. Or maybe you don’t want her back.”

  Emma’s whimper tore at Rowan’s gut with merciless claws. No, he must maintain focus. “What do you need her for?”

  “She owes me.”

  What the deuce? “Explain how one of the wealthier heiresses of the past few Seasons owes anybody.”

  “I took her advice and lost a fortune.”

  Advice, yes. Suddenly Dysart’s confusion as to the identity of Emma’s correspondent made sense. “You’re Hendricks.”

  “So I am. What of it?” Crawley pressed the pistol farther into Emma’s jaw. “She needs to make up for her bad advice and earn my money back. Her papa will be happy to pay me off.”

  Rowan fixed a hard glare on Crawley, fighting the haze of red that threatened to descend. With Emma at gunpoint, the last thing he needed was to lose control. “This wouldn’t happen to be the same fortune you collected from me and a great many other investors in society, would it?”

  Crawley shrugged, the bastard. Rowan clenched his fists. If he didn’t know better he’d suspect his former friend was attempting to provoke him, but he wouldn’t take the bait, as he couldn’t afford to place Emma in any greater danger.

  “I suppose a more pointed question would be to ask if you were planning on paying back your investors once you’d recouped your losses.”

  Another shrug. “My reply hardly matters now since the money is gone.”

  Rowan’s body strained toward Crawley, his fingers itching to squeeze the man’s neck and choke the life out of him. “Was Higgins in on it with you from the beginning or is he just an unfortunate casualty of your scheme?”

  “Unfortunate casualty, what an apt description.”

  “I’d say it is,” Dysart muttered from somewhere behind Rowan. “Hardly matters what Higgins was in on, when his body turned up in the Thames this morning.”

  “Yes, well, it’s been an interesting afternoon,” Crawley said as blithely as if he were taking his leave after a social call, “but I’m afraid I must be off. If you’ll kindly step aside.”

  “I’m not going anywhere without my wife.”

  “How unfortunate. And the longer it takes, the more my finger is positively itching to pull this trigger.”

  “You won’t shoot her. Not if you want a ransom.”

  “How do ye know the magistrate isn’t on his way at this very moment?” Dysart interceded.

  “A bluff. I’ve played far too many hands of cards not to recognize as much.” But the hand holding the pistol belied that statement. It twitched alarmingly.

  “I’d be willing to forgive the debt,” Rowan said quickly, “in exchange for my wife. I give you my word as a gentleman. Release her, and I’ll let you go free.”

  “Your word?” Crawley jerked his chin in the direction of Sanford and Lind. “What’s to stop them from coming after me?”

  “They’ll give their word, too. Won’t you?” He couldn’t afford to take his eyes off his adversary to ascertain their agreement. He could only hope and trust.

  “You’ve my word,” Sanford added. Lind merely grunted his assent.

  Rowan extended a hand. “Emma?”

  Crawley loosened his grip imperceptibly, but it was enough. Emma shoved away from him and ran into Rowan’s embrace. With a shout, Dysart lowered his head and charged Crawley, bull-like, barreling into the other man.

  Crack!

  The pistol discharged and the report echoed off the close walls of the alleyway. Emma buried her head against Rowan’s shoulder, and he pulled her tighter to him. Shaking, damn it, as badly as she had in the wine cellar. He should get her away from here, but he needed to see this through first.

  Dysart and Crawley circled each other, fists raised. In one deft movement, Dysart ducked a flying fist and landed a few punches of his own. Displaying an agility at odds with his injuries, Lind waded in, his walking stick raised. He waited for his moment before bringing the staff down on Crawley’s head. Crawley crumpled to the cobblestones.

  In a trice, Dysart unwound the rags from his hands and secured Crawley. Trussed up like a Christmas present, indeed. All that was missing was the bow. “Believe I’ll have me a ride in this nob’s carriage, and drop him off at the magistrate’s while I’m at it. I’ll send ye my bill.”

  Rowan nodded, but barely attended him. Inste
ad he stared at Lind. “What—How? Or did you think to place me in your debt once again?”

  “I meant nothing of the kind,” Lind barked. “I did it for your wife. She’s quite admirably clever. You definitely don’t deserve her.”

  Rowan pressed his lips to the top of her head. Any moment now, she might come to her senses and push him away. “I know.”

  —

  Emma couldn’t stop shaking, not even tucked against Battencliffe’s solid presence. Beyond the lingering sensation of cruel metal pressed into her jaw, nothing felt real. She rubbed her hands together, but the effort did nothing to warm them.

  Through a haze, she was vaguely aware of Mr. Sanford taking his leave. Viscount Lindenhurst stood glaring at Battencliffe for an interminable length of time before gripping his hand. One brief moment, and the gesture passed, and then Lindenhurst also disappeared.

  Battencliffe bent to her. “Let’s get you back inside.”

  She wanted to protest, but she couldn’t quite recall why. Something about Papa and her aunt returning. Or perhaps they had. She hardly knew anymore. Numbly, she allowed her husband to conduct her into the dusty storeroom at the back of the shop.

  “Is there a place we might talk alone?” he asked.

  Not the office. Not after Crawley had tracked her down there and nearly killed her. Whatever ransom he thought Papa might offer him, he would have pulled the trigger. She’d felt the tension in his arm as it held her fast. The twitch of his hand had reverberated through her.

  “Thank you,” she said thickly. “You came to my rescue.”

  “Least I could do. It’s part of my duty as a husband.” A depth of seriousness she’d never before heard from Battencliffe underscored his usual jovial tones. For once, he wasn’t about to attempt to make light, and she caught herself longing for one of his awful puns.

  Perhaps laughter would cut through this fog. Something had to.

  He eyed her closely in the dim light. “Are you all right?”

  “Of course.” As soon as the reply popped out, she wished she could take it back. She didn’t feel right at all, and if she was completely honest, she wanted him to hold her until she came back to herself.

  “No, you’re not.” Thank goodness for that perception. “Let’s get you a drink. Not tea. Thankfully your father imports the good stuff.”

  In spite of everything, she let him propel her toward the office, where he spotted Papa’s wines readily enough. “Some of that should do.”

  She collapsed into the chair. “It’s his private stock.”

  “Too bad. He’ll just have to eat the cost.” Any last hint of lightness had left his voice. Good heavens, he sounded just as grim as he had the other night when he confessed his liaison with Lady Lindenhurst.

  “They key is in his desk drawer,” she muttered.

  In no time, he produced an open bottle. “My apologies. There don’t seem to be any glasses.”

  For that matter, such a strong vintage as Papa preferred required decanting to develop its flavor properly, but Battencliffe’s current mood would certainly not stand for such ceremony. She raised the bottle to her lips and let the wine coat them.

  “None of that,” he admonished. “Take a proper swallow. This isn’t about detecting the undertones of horse manure or what have you.”

  That comment did as much to calm her inner turmoil as the taste of fine Hermitage. She obeyed his command and let the strong drink burn through to her stomach.

  Battencliffe held out his hand. “If you don’t mind. After spending part of the past hour wondering if I was about to watch some bastard blow your head off, I need this.”

  She shuddered.

  “Your pardon,” he added after taking a swig. He extended two fingers and traced the contour of her cheek. “He did not…He did not touch you in any other way?”

  “No.”

  “He can thank God for that or I’d have to go after him here and now.” Good Lord, just when she thought he couldn’t sound any more forceful. The intensity behind that statement cleared the last cobwebs from her mind.

  “All he wanted was my business acumen. Such as it is, at least in his case.” She reached for the bottle and swallowed another mouthful. “I’m so sorry. He was Hendricks, and I didn’t know. You were right about not continuing that correspondence.”

  “No, I wasn’t entirely right. I forbade it for the wrong reasons. I thought something else was going on, and it wasn’t.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “It seems I’ve been wrong about a good many things, lately. With you, most especially. It may be a poor excuse, but I allowed my experience with Lydia to color my views, and it turns out, there again, I was wrong.”

  She straightened in her seat. “In what way were you in error?”

  “In the most fundamental way possible.” He set the wine bottle aside and placed his hands on her shoulders, his gaze intense and imploring. “What I believed happened that night did not, in fact, happen.”

  Her mind began to spin with the possibilities. “How…What?”

  He nodded. “I read Lydia’s journal. All the way through. And was that not your purpose in sending me to your desk to look at Hendricks’s letters? You had to have known what I’d find.”

  “In all truth, I wasn’t thinking about that journal when I told you to look for the letters. I did find it, and I read part of it but couldn’t bring myself to finish the entire thing. Then you confessed, and I didn’t need to.” She allowed her voice to soften on that final statement. In confessing, he’d made himself vulnerable to her. He deserved credit for that.

  “You would have learned the truth far sooner.” His hands tightened on her shoulders. “She absolved me of everything. What’s more, she absolved herself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I was too besotted with drink to retain a clear memory, but what I do recall was Lydia’s attempts to lure me into her bed. Successfully, or so I thought. It turns out I was also too besotted to complete the deed. Thank God.” His lips stretched into a grimace. “I will admit that this does not reflect well on me in the least, but given what I perceived of Lydia’s actions and what I witnessed among the rest of society, I drew an erroneous conclusion that in matters of the heart, women were untrustworthy.”

  “And you extended that to me.” That observation hurt when it shouldn’t. Not after she’d resolved not to place herself in a position where he could cause her any more pain.

  “I did, but I know better now.” She could almost hear the plea behind his words—understand, I beg you. Oh, how she wanted to. “Lind was perfectly correct when he said I do not deserve you. In fact, I married a woman who is far better than me in every way possible.”

  That statement caused a burst of warmth inside her, something like when he kissed her and desire took over, but it was seated higher in her chest.

  “I know it for the truth, and I accept it.” He rubbed his hands up and down her arms in a slow caress. “I turn that over to you along with my beating heart to do with what you will.”

  She gasped. Good heavens, he was in complete earnest. Up to this point, her personal idea of marriage, knowing her husband was likely to wed her for her fortune, had never included such blatant sentiment. And she’d never been certain what to do with sentiment. She needed time to consider, and that called for a diversion. “Where is it now?”

  “What? My heart? In your hands.”

  “No, the journal. Where is it?”

  His expression shuttered, and he shook his head. Clearly he’d expected her to melt at his near-declaration—and she might be thawing, just a touch, but she wasn’t ready to reveal that yet. “I gave it to Lind. He’s the one who really needs to read it if we’ve any chance at repairing the past.”

  Another burst of warmth, of a different nature this time. “I am proud of you. Whatever other mistakes you’ve made, you’ve done right in this.” Blast it, he was melting her, and at an alarming rate. Before long, her emotions would demand free rein. “I am r
eady to negotiate now.”

  He shook his head and muttered something under his breath she didn’t catch, then said, “Negotiate what?”

  “The terms of our marriage.” She folded her hands in her lap to dissuade them from touching him. “You lay out your expectations, I lay out mine, and we see if we can come to an acceptable compromise for both parties. What is it you want out of this marriage?”

  “What do you want?”

  “Right now, I need you to answer honestly and not tell me what you think I want to hear.” Such as preposterous poetic lines about her holding his heart in her hands. That was all that had been—him telling her what she wanted to hear, even if she had enjoyed it.

  “I told you the other night.” His voice lowered and he raised his hand to cup her jaw. “I want society to believe we’re a love match.”

  “I do not give a fig for society. What do you want?”

  “Hear me out.” He ran the pad of his thumb just beneath her lower lip. “For them to believe it, we have to believe it.” He leaned in and pressed his lips to hers. “We have to live it.”

  She resisted the urge to flow into a puddle at his feet. As it was, she barely had voice to reply to him. “Do you believe it?”

  “Yes.”

  “You…You’re serious.”

  “I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life.” He slipped his palms down her arms and took both her hands in his. “The last thing I would ever have expected was for my brother to choose such an ideal wife for me, but he did.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Making you a proper declaration. As long as you insist on discussing our marriage in the most unsentimental manner possible, I will thwart your efforts until you agree my way is better.” He winked, dash it. “It’s certainly more fun. To that end…”

  He raised her hands to his lips and kissed each of her knuckles. “You asked me what I want from our marriage. I want it to work. I don’t want us to be at each other’s throats every time at every turn. Unless it’s like this.”