"I tried, Marianne! I told him I didn't care about his past, I tried to be a loving wife, I even tried to ..." Unable to disclose Nicholas' humiliating rejection of her person, even to her best friend, Helena clamped her lips. "I did everything in my power to seduce him, and it all came to naught."
"Did you tell him about that night at the Nunnery?"
Helena huffed out a breath. "I couldn't. He more or less implied that he had no interest in ... a passionate marriage. He—he said a man doesn't want a strumpet for a wife, so I was not about to humiliate myself further by confessing what I had done."
"Horse feathers." Marianne snorted. "There must be something else Harteford is not telling you."
"Well, I cannot read his mind, can I?" Helena said acidly. "And frankly I'm tired of trying. Sick and tired, as point of fact."
"'Tis understandable, of course."
"I don't know what he wants—I don't think he knows what he wants."
"An unfortunate male characteristic," Marianne agreed.
"Furthermore," Helena fumed, her hands fisting upon the stone balustrade, "even if I wished to speak to him again—which I empathically do not—it would be easier to get an audience with Prinny than with my dashed husband. Do you know I have not seen him once since he ordered me out of his life?"
"I wonder what he is up to," Marianne mused.
For some reason, that comment fed Helena's ire further. "Well, it's none of my business, is it? If he wants to get shot in St. Giles, that is up to him. If he wants to work himself to an early grave at that blasted warehouse of his, it has nothing to do with me. He thinks to rid himself of me like a ... an old shoe—"
"There must be a reason, dear—"
"To hell with his reasons!" Helena burst out. "Nicholas is like everyone in my life. Mama, Papa ... no matter what I do, how hard I try, I cannot please them. I thought it would be different with Nicholas, but I was just a fool, wasn't I? Deceiving myself, thinking I could win his affection. And this is how he responds—by slapping an annulment in my face." Anger bubbled over, scalding her insides. "If I was a man, I'd call him out!"
A measured silence. Marianne raised one delicate blonde eyebrow. "Would you?"
Helena felt the weight of her ear-bobs as she nodded vehemently. "Pistols at dawn."
"How I adore that passionate streak in you! Even as a girl, you were always a hoyden beneath those starchy pinafores your mama made you wear." When Helena grimaced, Marianne gave a throaty chuckle. "You do realize, don't you, dear, that battles need not be waged with pesky things like pistols? There are ways far cleverer—and neater—to exact revenge."
"What do you mean?"
Emerald eyes narrowed in a considering manner. "Tell me, do you wish to teach your lord a lesson? Have him admit he was wrong about not wanting you?"
The notion definitely had its appeal. Her head tilting, Helena said doubtfully, "In what manner could I do so? There's no talking to the man: he's as stubborn as a mule and as like as one to apologize. Besides, he won't even see me—"
"Oh, I wouldn't worry too much about those details. All I need to know is this: are you prepared to show Harteford the error of his ways? Make him regret the abysmal fashion in which he has treated you?"
An image of Nicholas materialized before Helena's eyes. Her lord, upon bended knee. Begging her forgiveness, pleading with her to take him back. She'd send him packing ... wouldn't she?
She gulped. "Yes."
"Then, my dearest, leave the rest to me."
SEVENTEEN
Nicholas eyed Kent, wondering how much he could hide from the other man. Across the desk, Kent sat with his shoulders in a habitual hunch as he relayed the progress on the warehouse looting and attempted murder. The police man's eyes stood out in his gaunt face; like twin lamps, those eyes seemed capable of piercing into the darkest recesses of human nature. Nicholas felt a cold stirring at his nape. He would not like to be a criminal skewered on the opposite end of that gaze. As it was, he felt uneasy, wondering at the details Kent might be picking up on.
For one, Nicholas knew he must look rumpled. He had slept in the office for an entire week now, and his appearance showed the effects. His hair had grown shaggy and his eyes shadowed from the sleepless nights upon the couch. Wrinkled and mismatched, his clothes obviously lacked the caring touch of a valet. And he had cut himself shaving twice this week, so there were nicks on his jaw to complement the healing red scar upon his temple.
All in all, he was certain he looked as he felt: weary, frustrated, hunted.
During the days, the constant hub-bub of the warehouse provided a temporary distraction. He had been almost thankful for the skirmish with the excise officers over duties for the imported rum and the usual wrangling with merchants over their insolvent accounts. Still, his temper had become downright nasty this week. The porters took one look at his scowling demeanor and scurried out of his path. Yesterday, he had nearly bit Jibotts' head off for interrupting him at his desk. He supposed he owed the steward a raise for putting up with his fiendish moods.
Worst of all were the nights. Alone on the knobby couch, he relived the scene in the drawing room, the moment of delirious joy when he'd almost let himself seduce his wife. The feel of her, soft and yielding beneath him, her luscious lips parted beneath his, her breathy pleas—and his cock burgeoned with helpless yearning. His entire being craved to surge into her, to take her so deeply he'd shoot himself inside her womb. In the loneliest hours of twilight, he was tortured with images of little girls with hair of burnished oak and a dark-haired boy or two with their mother's hazel eyes and hopefully her temperament as well. A house full of rollicking children. A real home.
Aye, there was a dream. Only it was destined to remain just that: a dream, not reality, because at this moment a team of well-paid barristers was strategizing on how to secure him an annulment. And because, as of now, Helena hated him. He had made certain of that.
Bloody hell, how has it come to this?
His eyes closed briefly.
"Is the wound still bothering you, my lord?"
From across the desk, Kent scrutinized him.
Nicholas forced himself to focus. "It is nothing. So, from what I gather thus far, the bottom line is that you believe Bragg responsible for the shooting. Your man Caster scared him off before he could finish the deed, and now Bragg is in hiding, likely somewhere in St. Giles."
Kent nodded. "We are closing in on his trail. Yesterday, one of my men discovered his sleeping place in the bowels of a flash-house. We have reason to believe that he will return this evening. When he does, we will have him."
"I commend you on your persistence," Nicholas said, "but there is one problem."
"A problem?"
Exhaling, Nicholas hoped the gamble he was about to take was worth the risk. "After I was shot, I heard a voice. I am not certain it was Bragg's."
"You heard a voice that night? Why did you not mention this earlier?" Kent frowned.
"Er, the wound must have addled my memory until now." He had omitted any mention of the blackmailer's threats because he did not want Kent nosing around his past. Yet he could not allow Kent to follow a false trail, not when the true villain might pounce at any moment. It was a tricky business to alert the investigator to the possibility of another shooter, whilst at the same time keeping secrets hidden. He felt like one of the acrobatic acts at Vauxhall, balancing three tea cups on his nose whilst juggling apples and riding on horseback simultaneously.
"Can you be certain that the voice you heard was not Bragg's, my lord?" Skepticism lined Kent's brow. "After all, you had been injured, and there was loss of blood. And a man can disguise his voice, if he chooses it."
"Why would Bragg alter his voice? If anything, the man is a braggart and would happily announce to me and all the world of his victory."
"What were the exact words you heard, my lord?" Kent had taken out a small notebook and had a quill poised above.
"Er, I cannot recall precisely," Ni
cholas hedged, "just that the voice was higher, thinner than Bragg's."
Kent snapped the notebook shut. "So allow me to repeat what you have just said. You had forgotten that you heard a voice until just now. But now that you recall it, you do not remember what it was saying. Just that it sounded different from Isaac Bragg's."
Put that way, it sounded quite idiotic. Nicholas nodded curtly.
"If not Bragg, then who?" Kent's clear gold eyes bored into his. "My lord, you will forgive my impertinence, but I must ask: do you have any enemies? Anyone who might wish to do you harm?"
"No." Nicholas willed his voice to remain steady and calm. "That is, yes, I am sure I have enemies as any man of trade does—disgruntled workers, angry clients, and the like. But no, there is no man I specifically know of who would wish me dead."
"Hmm."
Nicholas did not like the other man's speculative tone.
"And you are absolutely certain there is nothing else that you have neglected to tell me?" Kent asked. "Nothing that might have, ahem, slipped your mind due to blood loss?"
Nicholas gave him a withering stare worthy of any marquess. "Of course not. But my gut tells me there is more involved in this than petty theft."
"What do you mean?"
"At a meeting with the West India merchants this week, I mentioned that prior to the warehouse being ransacked, my steward had reported small amounts of goods being stolen. Paltry stuff. A few crates of tobacco, several barrels of rum, that sort of thing."
"Yes?"
"That triggered other merchants to review their ledgers with a fine tooth comb. As it turns out, similar amounts of goods have gone missing from their warehouses as well."
"Interesting," Kent said, "but hardly surprising. The building of the walled docks has helped, but not stymied completely the acts of theft. I doubt stealing can ever be fully suppressed."
"I agree, but it is the timing of it all that concerns me," Nicholas said. "Jibotts reports that goods began to go missing in noticeable quantities only in the past four months. The other merchants are now reporting losses during the same time period."
"An intriguing coincidence," Kent admitted. His expression sharpened like a hawk's. "A new criminal mastermind, then, at work on the docks."
"He is no ordinary criminal," Nicholas agreed, "for he eschews instant gratification for slow and subtle skimming. It would take patience, control, and considerable skill to organize such an endeavor. Furthermore, how is he smuggling the goods past the guards at the dock gates?"
"Who would be capable of such a deed?" Kent mused.
There was a knock, and Jibotts poked his head in. "Mr. Fines is here to see you, sir. I told him you were in a meeting."
"Send him up," Nicholas said.
"As I was saying, I can imagine only a select few with skills of this caliber." The police man's eyes were narrowed, and his fingers drummed rhythmically against the arm of the chair. "Hodgkins? No, he was recaptured after his last escape from Newgate. Richardson, perhaps, or Gerrins, though last I heard the latter had been shipped to the Australian colonies."
"I find it difficult picturing Bragg among the list of possible suspects," Nicholas said.
"He has more brawn than brains," Kent said grudgingly, "and I checked with Bow Street. The magistrate's records showed petty crimes. Nothing more organized than the drunken looting of a pub in which he made off with a barrel of ale and a serving wench."
"Exactly." Nicholas raised a brow. "You see why I suspect someone else was the shooter?"
"It could still be Bragg doing the shooting, but someone else behind these robberies. It could be the two are not at all connected." At the thump of approaching footsteps, Kent got to his feet. "I will investigate further. In the meantime, my lord, if I may be so bold as to offer a few words of advice?"
Nicholas gave a curt nod.
"Trust no one, not your enemies, nor your closest friends. And I would urge you once again to consider traveling under protection. My men are fully trained and equipped to—"
He would have Kent's men tagging his heels when hell froze over. While he might risk his own safety, however, he'd not compromise Helena's. At the very moment, the pair of Runners he'd hired was shadowing her every movement. "I've attended to the matter already, thank you."
"As you wish."
With a bow, the investigator headed to the door. It opened before he could reach for the knob.
"Well, hello there," Paul Fines said. "I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"
"Not at all. Mr. Kent was just leaving," Nicholas said.
Paul shook the police man's hand. "I do admire you fellows over at the Thames River Police."
"Have we met before?" Kent inquired, his eyes sharp.
"Wouldn't think so." Paul tossed his hat between his hands. "Any leads on the nefarious persons responsible for looting the warehouse and putting a dent in Morgan's hard skull?"
"This gentleman, so obviously concerned about my welfare, is Mr. Paul Fines," Nicholas inserted dryly. "He is the son of the company's founder and my partner in the business."
"We are working on a list of suspects, Mr. Fines," Kent said. His gaze roved over Paul's ensemble of impeccable beige superfine. "I was just cautioning his lordship to watch his back in the meantime."
"How exciting," Paul said. "But don't worry about Morgan here. He can take care of himself. As a matter of fact, I am here to help him practice. Ready for a few rounds in the ring, old boy?"
Kent took his leave, and Nicholas unlocked the door to the sparring room. Without another word, he and Paul Fines readied themselves for a bout, removing their jackets and donning scarred leather gloves. He felt charged with restlessness, like a stallion before the storm. He had spent the week physically cooped up in his office, but more so there was the sense of pent-up emotion. Avoiding Helena—not just her presence, but his thoughts and relentless desire for her—required more energy than he had imagined possible.
It was a relief to focus on his opponent as he circled, arms held in defensive position. It felt good to shake the stinging sweat from his eyes. He barely dodged a right hook, his feet slipping on the mats as he sought to regain his balance. Swearing, he steadied himself against the ropes and felt the burn of air in his lungs. There was no time to rest, however, as Paul swooped in. He threw a left jab at the other man's midriff and felt the frustrating sensation of his glove contacting empty air.
"Is that the best you've got, my lord?" Bouncing lightly back and forth on his feet, Paul looked as fresh as a damned spring daisy. "All that time with the nobs has made you soft. Or perhaps the shot to the noggin has brought you down a notch."
Nicholas' eyes narrowed. "Even if I were half the man I was, I could still pummel you."
Paul laughed, low and taunting. With his glove, he beckoned Nicholas toward him. "Let's see what you've got then."
The match continued with an exchange of punches and parries that elevated Nicholas' heart beat and his mood. Having sparred regularly with Paul in the past, Nicholas knew better than to allow this particular opponent to take control of the match. Though Paul was shorter than he and possessed a slimmer physique, Nicholas knew from past experience the bruising power of the younger man's blows. The trick with Paul was not to be distracted by his cheerfully disparaging comments and to focus instead on his one weakness: a tendency to favor his right side.
For the next three rounds, they remained evenly matched, trading blow for blow. In the fifth round, Nicholas advanced, keeping watch on Paul's footwork. A side to side movement usually preceded a lunge forward, and sure enough Nicholas found himself parrying a swift series of jabs to his upper body. He feigned left, and when Paul responded with a right-sided uppercut, Nicholas swayed to the right and answered with a cross-cut. Adrenaline surged when his glove connected resoundingly with flesh and bone.
Paul stumbled back a few steps, steadying himself against the rough hemp ropes. He shook his head as if to clear it.
"Haven't lost your touch
then, eh?" Stripping off his gloves, Paul lowered himself to the ground. He rubbed a manicured hand tentatively against his jaw. "I do believe that is going to leave a mark."
Nicholas shot him an unrepentant grin. "Care to go a few more rounds?"
"Thank you, no," Paul said, scowling. "I will be in the suds with my valet as it is. Trust you to land a facer when a jab to the stomach would have sufficed. And, might I add, the latter would have been a great deal more civilized."
"Civility is not my strong point." Picking up a towel, Nicholas mopped it over his face and chest. His muscles vibrated pleasantly from the exercise, and he felt more limber and relaxed than he had in days. "Join me for a drink?"
Eyes brightening, Paul got to his feet. "Mayhap your finest whiskey will ease the pain. I have a few minutes to spare before my next appointment."
Nicholas led the way back into his office. He poured two glasses of whiskey before joining Paul in the chairs by the fire. Drink in hand, he sank against the cushions.
"You were sparring like the devil himself was after you." Paul swallowed the amber beverage and smacked his lips in pleasure. "Bashing out the demons, eh?"
Nicholas slanted a look beneath his lashes. "In a manner of speaking."
"So, still no leads on the theft or the man who shot at you?"
"Kent is pursuing the matter. He believes the main suspect to be Isaac Bragg."
"The rather hostile fellow, red face, currants for eyes?"
Nicholas smiled dryly at the description. "That's the man. I have my own doubts, of course. Why would Bragg want to see me killed?"
Slouched comfortably in the chair, Paul imbibed his whiskey in contemplative sips. "Why would anyone want to see you dead? Have you any enemies, Morgan, who might wish you harm?"
Nicholas stared into the fire and said nothing.
"It has crossed my mind," Paul said with uncharacteristic hesitation, "that the shooting took place in St. Giles. You were living there before you came to work for Father, were you not? Could there possibly be a connection?"
Her Husband's Harlot Page 17
