A Dangerous Pursuit (Regency Spies & Secrets Book 1)

by Laura Beers

“Life is fragile, and people can die within a blink of an eye.”

  Boldly, she asked, “How is it that you are so acquainted with death?”

  Lord Hawthorne looked off into the distance. “I have done some terrible things in my life, things that I don’t dare to ever admit out loud,” he admitted.

  “Surely they can’t be that bad.”

  Bringing his gaze back to meet hers, Lord Hawthorne spoke firmly. “I assure you that they are. Frankly, you should fear me.”

  “Do you want me to fear you?” she asked, cocking her head.

  Lord Hawthorne stared at her for a moment. “No, I find that I don’t want you to.”

  “That is good, because I don’t.”

  “That is because you are foolish and naïve.”

  Madalene sighed dramatically. “We are back to name calling, I see,” she teased. “I thought we had grown past that.”

  Lord Hawthorne’s lips twitched as he extended the muff pistol towards her. “I have taken the liberty of loading the pistol, so I urge you to use caution when handling it.”

  Accepting the gun, Madalene ran her hand over the metal frame as she adjusted to the weight in her hand. “It is heavier than I imagined.”

  “You will soon become accustomed to its weight,” Lord Hawthorne said. “Furthermore, the recoil is minimal.”

  Madalene held the pistol down at her side. “When do you plan to abduct me?”

  “Would tomorrow be acceptable?”

  “I suppose I could move some things around,” she joked.

  Lord Hawthorne chuckled. “I will call on you tomorrow under the ruse of taking you on a carriage ride through Hyde Park.”

  “I must admit that being abducted sounds much more appealing than a carriage ride.”

  “I find that your responses intrigue me,” Lord Hawthorne said as he stepped back. “I never seem to know what you will say next.”

  Unsure of how to reply to his remark, Madalene remained quiet.

  Lord Hawthorne broke the silence, gesturing towards the gun in her hand. “Allow me to show you how to use the pistol now.”

  “Thank you,” she said, gladly accepting the turn of the conversation.

  Baldwin sat in the coach as it traveled on the busy streets to the House of Lords. He had just left Miss Dowding’s townhouse, and he found that he had lingered for far too long with her. There was just something about her that gave him pause.

  She had a vulnerable quality about her that seemed to mask a strength even she didn’t know existed. He had no doubt that she was clever, but she always said the most outlandish things. Furthermore, she believed in hope, which was ridiculous. Hope isn’t a tangible thing, he thought. Miss Dowding couldn’t possibly understand the torment that he endured every single day. No. No one could. He was battling his demons on his own, and he was failing. Miserably.

  The coach came to a stop on the street, and Baldwin glanced out the window. Street urchins were running through the traffic, without any heed to the dangers surrounding them.

  Unexpectedly, the door to the coach opened and Corbyn stepped in. “Good,” he said as he came to sit across from him. “I see that you are alone.”

  “Did you need a ride?”

  Corbyn shook his head. “I was meeting with my informant and saw your coach passing by. I thought it was a good time to speak to you about your plan with Miss Dowding.”

  “I spoke with Miss Dowding today.”

  “And she is still allowing you to abduct her?”

  Baldwin nodded. “Yes,” he replied. “As a precaution, I gave her a muff pistol to carry on her person.”

  “Oh, good,” Corbyn remarked dryly. “Another woman is walking around the streets of London with a muff pistol.”

  Ignoring his friend’s snide comment, Baldwin continued. “Have you spoken to the Bow Street magistrate?”

  “I have.”

  “And?”

  “I informed him of the location of the missing girls, and the Runners intend to raid the Flailing Duck tomorrow at two.”

  “That should give us enough time.”

  “I hope so, because I don’t want to have to bail you out of prison.”

  Baldwin huffed. “Why do you assume I will get caught?”

  “Call it a hunch,” Corbyn joked.

  “If I can hide in plain sight under the French’s noses, I can escape from a pub,” Baldwin asserted.

  “We shall see,” Corbyn replied. “The magistrate also assured me that the girls’ names will not be in the paper. They will just announce that the missing girls have been found and freed.”

  “Excellent.”

  “I just hope you know what you are doing. I don’t like involving innocent civilians in covert operations.”

  The coach lurched forward as Baldwin said, “I just need to convince Morton that I didn’t tip off the Runners.”

  “Have you figured out a way to accomplish that feat?”

  “No, but it will come to me.”

  Corbyn stared at him. “Sometimes your arrogance astounds me.”

  “Thank you.”

  “This plan of yours better work,” Corbyn warned. “If not, I will have no choice but to personally round up all these rebels and put them in jail.”

  “If my plan doesn’t work, then I will help you round up the rebels myself.”

  Corbyn placed his hand on the door handle. “I shall hold you to that,” he said as the coach began to slow down. “This is where I shall leave you.” He opened the door, stepped down and closed it behind him.

  Baldwin sat back in his seat and enjoyed the rest of the trip to the House of Lords in silence. The coach came to a stop, and he waited for the footman to put the step down and open the door. As he stepped down, he heard Lord Desmond calling to him from across the yard.

  “Lord Hawthorne, a word.”

  Baldwin turned towards Lord Desmond and watched him cross the busy yard. “What is it that you wish to discuss, Lord Desmond?”

  Lord Desmond stopped in front of him and smiled. “I need your support on my bill,” he said plainly. “With your support, I believe we could turn the tides on it.”

  Baldwin chuckled. “I’m afraid that won’t happen.”

  “Why not?”

  Growing serious, Baldwin said, “I am not opposed to building workhouses, but I don’t believe the Home Office should oversee them.”

  “Ah, yes,” Lord Desmond mocked. “And how exactly do you propose we finance them?”

  “I am not sure, but the Home Office has other responsibilities and obligations.”

  “The parishes cannot handle the influx of the poor,” Lord Desmond argued. “We need to change the Poor Laws.”

  “That may be the case, but I can’t in good conscience have you cut funding to agencies within the Home Office.”

  “Have you at least read my bill?”

  “I attempted to, but it is much too long and convoluted for me to wade through.”

  Lord Desmond looked displeased by his admission. “We are in a position to make real changes here, Hawthorne. If we place the workhouses around the rookeries then we can save hundreds, if not thousands, of people’s lives.”

  “I can respect that, but you need to find another way to fund it.”

  “There is no other way. Currently, the parishes support the workhouses, but many can’t afford the cost of one. We need to oversee the poor and not just leave it to the parishes anymore.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t support your bill.”

  “I don’t have the faintest idea why,” Lord Desmond said, “but the Tory party is looking to you while deciding how they intend to vote on this bill.”

  “You flatter me, but I daresay that is not true,” Baldwin dismissed the argument, brushing past him.

  Lord Desmond’s voice came from behind him. “When will you stand for something that is greater than yourself, Hawthorne?”

  Baldwin slowly turned around. “How dare you presume to know what I stand for?”

>   Lord Desmond took a step closer to him, his voice accusing. “You cry off your responsibilities for three years, and then you stand here and deny poor men and women an opportunity to survive.”

  “I am doing no such thing,” Baldwin argued.

  “I have been contracted to run many of these workhouses in London, and I have seen them change lives for the better,” Lord Desmond contended.

  “I don’t dispute what you are saying is true.”

  “But you won’t help me.”

  “Not at the expense of the Home Office.”

  Lord Desmond shook his head. “Why are you so protective of the Home Office?”

  “Why aren’t you?” Baldwin asked. “They are warding off potential threats.”

  “The people are rioting because they don’t have enough to eat. If we give them hope, then the people will disperse.”

  “You can’t possibly be as naïve as that!” Baldwin declared.

  Lord Desmond tugged down on the lapels of his jacket. “I thought if I appealed to your common decency that you would come around, but I see that I was wrong.”

  “Withdraw your bill. If you can find another way to finance the workhouses, I will support it,” Baldwin said firmly.

  “I will not.”

  “Then I look forward to having your bill defeated.”

  Lord Desmond narrowed his eyes. “You have just made a dangerous enemy in me, Hawthorne,” he warned.

  “I assure you that I won’t lose any sleep over it,” Baldwin smirked in reply.

  “You are just as much of a blackguard as your father was,” Lord Desmond growled as he brushed past him.

  Baldwin turned to watch the man’s retreating figure. He didn’t understand why Desmond was attempting to push his bill through the House of Lords at such a quick pace. It was fundamentally flawed.

  Lord Brinton came to stand next to him. “That was rather painful to watch,” he said.

  “Percy,” Baldwin greeted. “You saw that?”

  “I did,” Percy admitted. “It wasn’t as if you two were keeping your voices down.”

  Baldwin turned to face Percy. “Why is Desmond so determined to have the Home Office oversee the workhouses?”

  “I suppose it is the quickest way to get funding,” Percy suggested.

  “It is a foolhardy thing to do.”

  Percy nodded. “Desmond is hoping to have us overlook that by tugging at our heartstrings.”

  “I heard that Lord Liverpool is against the bill, as well,” Baldwin said.

  “That doesn’t surprise me in the least,” Percy acknowledged. “I am sure the cabinet members are complaining to the Prime Minister about this bill at great length.”

  Baldwin reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and pulled out his pocket watch. “It is almost time for the session to begin.”

  “Shall we?” Percy asked, gesturing towards the building.

  Chapter Eleven

  “I must admit that I am rather nervous about being abducted,” Madalene shared as she rode in an open carriage with Lord Hawthorne.

  “It is technically not an abduction, since you are going along willingly,” he pointed out.

  Madalene smiled playfully. “I know, but it sounds much more exciting to call it that.”

  Lord Hawthorne looked at her with mild amusement. “Regardless, you need not fear for your safety.”

  “What if something terrible goes wrong?”

  “It won’t.”

  “How can you be so sure?” she asked, hands clasped in her lap.

  “Because I have planned for any situation,” he explained. “There are times when I have to go into a situation unprepared, but that is not the case here.”

  “What kind of situations?”

  Lord Hawthorne arched an eyebrow. “Are you always this much of a busybody?”

  “I am,” she replied, unabashed.

  “It is not very becoming.”

  “I just can’t help but notice you are shrouded in a cloud of secrecy,” she said with a half-shrug, “and I find it fascinating.”

  “My life is rather dull.”

  “It doesn’t appear that way to me.”

  “You would be wrong, then,” he remarked dismissively. “Do you have the muff pistol on your person?”

  She nodded. “I do.”

  “Good.”

  Lord Hawthorne turned the carriage down a road that she was unfamiliar with. “Where are we going?”

  “We need to get rid of the open carriage and travel the rest of the way in a closed carriage,” he explained.

  “But I can’t ride in a closed carriage with you,” she declared, her voice taking on a hint of unease. “What if someone saw us? I would be ruined.”

  “That is why the closed carriage is parked under a bridge. No one will see us get in, I’m sure of it.”

  “And if you are wrong?”

  Lord Hawthorne met her gaze, his eyes growing intense. “Then I will have no choice but to marry you.”

  Her brow shot up. “You cannot be in earnest!”

  “I wouldn’t let your reputation suffer on my behalf,” he stated. “I refuse to have that on my conscience.”

  “You would willingly enter into a marriage of convenience with a woman that you hardly know?”

  Adjusting the reins in his hand, he commented, “There are worse things.”

  “Such as?”

  “Death,” he replied curtly.

  Madalene shifted on the bench as she turned to face him. “That is a wonderful endorsement of matrimony.”

  “I only speak the truth.”

  “Do you not intend to marry for love?”

  Lord Hawthorne kept his gaze straight ahead. “Frankly, I do not intend to marry,” he replied.

  “But don’t you require an heir?”

  “My brother is my heir.”

  Madalene found herself smiling at his admission. “I can only imagine the matchmaking mothers and their attempts to ensnare you into matrimony. I wonder what their reaction to seeing you now would be, dressed in your pauper’s clothes.”

  “I can avoid them easily,” he said, ignoring the comment about his appearance.

  “They can be quite crafty,” she warned.

  Lord Hawthorne spared her a glance. “And do you wish to marry for love?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Like you, I wish to avoid the marital noose.”

  “But you are a woman.”

  A disbelieving puff of air left her lips. “Thank you for noticing, my lord.”

  “I did not mean to insult you, but I thought all women wished to be wed.”

  “Not I,” she admitted. “I have my own sizeable fortune, and I do not wish to be tied down to any man.”

  “What if you fell in love?”

  She considered his words carefully before responding. “I would have to fall indisputably in love with him, much like my father and mother were.”

  “Were they a love match?”

  “They were, and after my father passed away, my mother couldn’t bring herself to ever marry again.”

  “I find that admirable.”

  With a curious glance at him, Madalene asked, “Were your parents a love match?”

  Lord Hawthorne nodded. “It started off as an arranged marriage, but my parents grew to love each other deeply,” he shared as he pulled back on the reins, bringing the carriage to a stop. “We will just need to walk a short distance to the bridge.”

  After Lord Hawthorne set the brake, he came around and assisted her off the carriage. The bridge was ahead of them, a closed carriage parked under it. A driver and a footman were standing guard as they approached.

  The footman opened the door and assisted Madalene as she stepped inside. Lord Hawthorne ducked inside the coach and sat across from her.

  They didn’t speak until the coach started rolling down the street. “That was the easy part. Now comes the hard part,” Lord Hawthorne said, breaking the silence.

  “Which is?
” Madalene asked nervously.

  Reaching under the bench, he pulled out a large sack. “You will need to get inside the gunnysack, and I am going to tie the top with rope.”

  “You want me to get inside that?” she repeated in disbelief.

  “Yes, but not right now.”

  “And you are just going to throw me over your shoulder?”

  He looked at her blankly. “Will that be an issue?”

  “I suppose not.”

  Lord Hawthorne held up the gunnysack and placed a finger inside one of the many holes. “I took the liberty of cutting small holes into the material so you can breathe.”

  “How thoughtful of you,” she muttered. “How long am I required to be in there?”

  “At least until we arrive at the pub.”

  Madalene nibbled her lower lip, wondering why she had agreed to this madness in the first place. “What happens after we arrive at the pub?”

  “Most likely, I will take you to where the other missing girls are being held; hopefully that includes Miss Hardy.”

  “I hope so,” she murmured.

  Lord Hawthorne moved the drape that covered the window and glanced out. “I have no doubt that my brother is trailing us at this moment.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because I know my brother,” he replied, bringing his gaze to meet hers.

  “It must be nice to have a brother that you can rely on.”

  “It is.”

  Madalene grew silent as her eyes strayed to the sack. She had no doubt that traveling in that gunnysack was going to be deucedly uncomfortable.

  Lord Hawthorne’s voice broke her out of her musings. “You need to do something with your hair.”

  “Pardon?” Her hand flew up to touch her neatly coiffed hair. What’s wrong with my hair, she wondered.

  He leaned forward in his seat. “May I?” he asked.

  She nodded, unsure of his intent.

  His hand reached out and started removing strands of her hair from the chignon in a haphazard fashion. “Much better,” he declared, his eyes sparking with approval. “Now your gown needs some work.”

  She swatted away his hand as he reached for the sleeve of her blue cotton gown. “I think not,” she proclaimed haughtily.

  “You need to appear as if you fought while being abducted,” he pointed out.