Marry the Man Today

by Linda Needham

  Caro was that kind of a woman. The sort that a man would give his life for.

  And the entirety of his heart.

  If he ever found the proper time.

  Or the proper woman.

  “Gad, Drew!” Ross said, purposely scattering the images with a clap of his hand against his friend’s shoulder. “For an ex-princess, your wife is still in tremendous demand by the crowned heads of Europe.”

  “Like bees to honey.” Drew shook his head and hoisted his satchel over his shoulder. “Bees to honey. Shall we say breakfast in the morning at the Huntsman?”

  “Thanks,” Ross said, leading them out of the courtyard of the Admiralty, beneath an arch in the white arcade. “With any luck, I’ll have something positive to report from my dinner tonight.”

  Or just another useless tidbit about the growing Crimean conflict to add to the files in the Factory.

  Jared and Drew climbed into the cab that the footman had been holding for them, and the vehicle sped north on Whitehall, away from the backed-up traffic that was moving slowly in the other direction.

  Ross had stabled his horse at the Admiralty livery and had just turned to head in that direction when he noticed the traffic breaking up and Scotland Yard’s three paddy wagons emerging from the jumble.

  Curiosity kept him watching from the curb, as the wagons, followed by the swarm of policemen, made a flourishing right turn into the alleyway across the street.

  He might have turned away from the fracas but for a face peering out of a small, barred window in the rear of the last enclosed wagon.

  Damnation! It was her.

  His rebel.

  And though he could feel the winds of change rise up and surge against him, deeply aware of the shift in the turning of the earth, he tossed aside his good sense and strode across the street toward an unknown fate.

  He had regretted few decisions in his life.

  Crossing Whitehall might just turn out to be one of them.

  Chapter 2

  O! when she’s angry she is keen and shrewd.

  She was a vixen when she went to school:

  And though she be but little, she is fierce:

  William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream

  “Hey! That’s my new hat, you brute!”

  ” Oh, blast it all, I’ve broken a fingernail!”

  “Votes for women! Women’s rights!”

  Though the sounds of battle weren’t quite as brutal as he was used to, Ross was sure he’d been thrust into the middle of a full-fledged war. The courtyard at Scotland Yard was utter chaos, swarming with two dozen finely dressed women squealing at the top of their voices, ignoring the flustered policemen who were trying to calm them.

  “Ouch, lady! That’s my flesh you’re pinchin’!”

  “Now, madam, if you’ll just tell me your name, Mrs. .. . yeoull!”

  “You need to sit quietly, my lady.”

  “Not if you’re going to speak rudely to me, young man!”

  Whack!

  Ross winced for the poor officer as the woman’s huge reticule came down with full force on the man’s head, already bared of its protective hat.

  Ross reached out to catch the next blow, but the older woman turned a large smile on him.

  “Why, if it isn’t the Earl of Blakestone. When did you get back into town, dear?”

  Discovered! Ross flinched at Lady Archer’s words. He’d been spotted. And now every woman in the compound was looking hungrily at him, as though they were at a ball and he was the only male who’d had the courage to attend.

  “Ross, my dear,” the very matronly Lady Charlotte said with a straightening tug at his lapels, “you really do need to insist to these policemen that they not be quite so rough with our gowns.”

  “Excuse me, Lady Charlotte, but what are you doing here?” Ross asked instead, pleased that the chaos had diminished enough for him to be heard over the noise,

  “Votes for women, Blakestone!” another woman said as she stabbed her fist into the air.

  “We’re protesting.”

  “Miss Elizabeth said we’ve done extremely well today.”

  Miss Elizabeth? Was that her name? And why was his heart suddenly slamming around in his chest?

  “Who is Miss Elizabeth?” he asked evenly, looking over the top of their heads for that dazzling red hair.

  “She’s our leader. They took her inside. She was hoping they would lock her up in a cell.”

  “I hope they lock me up in a cell too!” a starry-eyed young woman said, beaming a smile at him.

  Lady Maxton slanted Ross a sly glance from beneath the brim of her hat. “I hope they tie my hands firmly behind my back!”

  Wouldn’t old Tosser be shocked if he knew!

  “See where one of those brutal policemen trampled the hem of my skirt! It’s absolutely torn!”

  “I scuffed my new satin shoes!”

  They were lunatics. The lot of them.

  And their unrepentant leader had been taken inside the Scotland Yard police station, doubtless eager to do battle with every man she encountered along the way.

  For some reason that he didn’t wish to examine at the moment, Ross felt sorely compelled to inquire after the woman’s fate before straightening out the scandal brewing in the courtyard.

  After all, what harm could a little inquiry do?

  “Excuse me, ladies,” he said, tipping his hat to the chattering crowd gathered around him. “I think I’ll just go speak with the captain about a few things.”

  Ross quickly escaped up the stairs into the coolness of the lobby. A bit less chaotic than outside, but still more frenetic than he’d ever seen the usually stoic Metropolitan Police station.

  “Great heavens, Lord Blakestone! What the devil has brought you here?” Captain Robins grinned broadly, dodging around the busy counter to meet Ross with a sturdy handshake in the middle of the room. “Come to beg a little assistance from your favorite old seadog?”

  “You know you’re always at the top of my list, Captain. Actually, I was across the street at the Admiralty and saw the commotion. Thought I’d come investigate for myself.”

  “Damn fool women ought to know better than provoke the police in the middle of the afternoon.” Robins twitched his thick gray moustache from side to side and shot an arch-browed glare toward the courtyard. “But they’ll be laughing out the other side of their pretty faces when they all find themselves behind bars like the other one.”

  No doubt he was referring to the inimitable Miss Elizabeth.

  “Ah, then, you’ve decided to let the ladies win the battle, have you, Robins?”

  “What do you mean win, my lord?” Robins snorted. “A few days in jail ought to frighten them out of their high-handed ways and keep them off my streets for good. How’s that letting them win?”

  “That’s just what they want you to do, Robins: cause a scandal of gargantuan proportion that scuttles the reputation of the Metropolitan Police.”

  “Our reputation? What about theirs?”

  “I can see the headlines in every newspaper now, Captain.” Ross gave it all the melodrama he could muster. ” ‘Ladies of the Ton Manhandled by Brutal Members of the Metropolitan Police in Arrest Raid.’”

  “Manhandled?” The captain blew out a burst of indignation, reeling out the ends of his moustache. “We did nothing of the sort. Hells bells, they near jumped into the wagons by themselves the moment my officers opened the doors. Eager as a bunch of silly schoolgirls, with all their giggling and jouncing for a seat.”

  “That’s not what they told me out there. Scuffed shoes and ruffled feathers, bonnets askew. They want your blood, Captain.”

  “They’re not going to get it! My men never touched a one of those women.”

  “I’m sure your men are as innocent as babes in the woods, Robins. But just who is the press going to believe when the story comes pouring out? You, or the wives and mothers and sisters of two dozen of the most powerful men in London?�
�

  “By God, the press will believe me!” Robins’s brows drew together in a sudden, sharp wing, his eyes flaring wide. “Won’t they?”

  Ross shook his head, slowly, meaningfully. “Everyone knows that a good scandal sells far more newspapers than the unremarkable arrest of a few rebellious women holding a parade down Whitehall. The reporters will tear you to shreds. And then come the gossip sheets.”

  “Bloody hell!” Robins swabbed his fingers over his gray hair. “So what do you suppose I should do instead?”

  “Let them go,” Ross whispered.

  Robins recoiled in horror. “I can’t do that.”

  “You can and you must release them all, Robins. Immediately. No questions asked, and with your deepest apologies. For the good of the Metropolitan Police. For London at large. As well as for the sake of your own job.”

  The captain’s eyes flitted back and forth around the room. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You make an excellent point there, my lord. Wouldn’t want to sully the good name of the police department merely because a few harebrained women got out of hand.”

  Harebrained. “Exactly.”

  “Besides, it’s their first offense. No real harm done. And they are, after all, merely … women.”

  That was where the poor captain was going to find himself wrong-headed in the long run. If only from a pragmatic standpoint. There was nothing mere about the situation he had on his hands, least of all about the women.

  One woman in particular.

  But anything to settle the matter with as little fuss as possible. Because he felt oddly intimate with the whole affair. Responsible somehow because he had watched from above like a secret arbiter.

  “And just to be certain that all goes well, Robins, may I suggest that your men escort each of the women safely home, right to their own front doors.”

  Robins chewed on the end of his moustache for a moment then nodded slowly. “I see what you mean. Keep the affair as quiet as possible. Good, good.”

  “Including their leader.” Ross tried to sound detached. “Did she give her name?”

  A sudden fear flashed across Robins’s face, then fell to aggravation. “Hasn’t said a word on her own behalf. Though she did demand a reporter.”

  Not her solicitor.

  Not her mother.

  Or a husband.

  Only a reporter.

  Ross nearly laughed at the baldness of the woman’s designs. “There’s your proof, Robins. This whole bloody incident was a stunt concocted strictly to publicize their bootless cause for women’s rights.”

  “Women’s rights, my arse. I’ll show them what’s what!” Robins snorted and turned back to the large ledger lying open on the desk. He dipped the quill and then scratched through a line of words. “I think I’ll leave the ringleader to stew for an hour or two. Get herself a real taste of prison life.”

  Ross had the distinct feeling that it would take more than an hour or two of prison air to affect the indomitable Miss Elizabeth. “Would you mind if I visited the prisoner for a moment? Perhaps I can reason with her.”

  “Reason with her?” Robins gave a laugh. He grabbed a ring of keys from behind the desk then started toward the corridor of jail cells. “Be my guest. Though I doubt it’ll do you a lick of good.”

  He wasn’t looking for good.

  Or satisfaction.

  He was looking to assuage this bothersome feeling that now grew in his gut with every step nearer the enigmatic woman’s cell.

  A sizzling feeling that filled up his chest with the tendriling scent of sandalwood and jasmine, and, yes, by God, cinnabar. Exotic and telling.

  Fueled by a crystal clear memory of gilded auburn hair spilling over prideful shoulders.

  And the certainty that her gaze would be as unflinching as her convictions.

  “Take care with your hide, my lord,” Robins whispered as he shoved the key into the lock. Blocking the doorway with his shoulder, as though the woman might just leap out of the cell and brave a mad escape.

  “I’ll be fine, Captain. Thank you.” Though with the man filling up the corridor in front of the cell door, Ross had yet to set eyes on his target.

  “You’ve a visitor, Miss Whatever Your Name May Be,” Robins growled at the woman through the open cell door. When there was no reply, he turned and gave Ross a quick nod before striding off with a muttered, “She’s all yours now, my lord.”

  All mine.

  At least for the moment.

  There was no sound at all from the cell, no pacing, or shouting, or shoe rattling against the bars.

  Feeling suddenly, unreasonably, as though he was about to face down a tigress unarmed, Ross cleared his throat, squared his shoulders, and stepped in front of the cell door.

  Bloody hell, he was done for.

  The profound memories of her ostentatious pride had sent him trailing after her from the Admiralty, across Whitehall, and into Scotland Yard. Her haunting scent had drawn him along the corridor, tugging at his core.

  But he hadn’t expected that the sight of her, standing in the center of the cell, the late afternoon sunlight from the window behind her setting little fires against the bright cloud of her hair, could so completely take his breath away.

  And her amazing eyes. Sea green and lushly fringed, challenging him to believe in her.

  Turning up at the corners with the hint of a smile that seemed to be trying to take purchase on the rosy fullness of her lips.

  “How excellent, sir.” Her sultry voice lifted across to him like a butterfly, perched itself in the center of his chest. Wings beating a velvety rhythm, brilliant with all the colors of the rainbow. “I see you wasted no time.”

  Wasted no time? His sodden mind stumbled around the blocky words, wondering what they meant.

  Had she been expecting him? How? More’s the point, why would she be expecting him?

  Damnation, had she actually seen him hanging out the window of the Admiralty? Nearly drooling after her like a besotted chump?

  “Shall I go first then, sir?”

  “First?” Ross swallowed his confusion and took a long breath to clear out the cobwebs.

  She crossed her arms beneath her breasts and tipped her chin at him. “I’m ready to tell you most of my secrets. You can ask me anything you like.”

  “Anything I.. . ?” Well, now that was an invitation he’d not expected from the woman. The possibilities left him stammering like an idiot.

  And yet something was niggling at him. Something the captain had said.

  That she was their ringleader.

  And unreasonable.

  Bloody hell, that she’d sent for a reporter!

  “Are you from the Times, sir?”

  “Am I… well—” Hell and damnation! The truth was balanced there on the tip of his tongue, digging in, prompting him to speak it aloud. “That is to say, madam … I’ve—”

  Been to the Times.

  Subscribe to the Times.

  Read the Times every morning, like clockwork, with my eggs and toast.

  But, no … I. ..

  “Because, sir, I was hoping that the Times reporter would be the first on the scene.”

  “Oh? Why is that?”

  “Circulation, of course.” Her fawn-colored brows dipped above her small nose. “I’m sure you know that the Times has the largest circulation of any newspaper in London. In the entire kingdom. Fifty thousand copies a day. Imagine that. More than all the other papers combined.”

  “Indeed.”

  “And, although every newspaper has its obvious biases”—she reached into the pocketbook hanging from her waist and pulled out a folded sheet of paper—“I have a great deal of respect for the integrity of your editor, Mr. Delane.”

  “I’ll have to tell him so.” Bloody hell, the woman couldn’t be as naive as that; editors were biased toward the power of the pound.

  “Which is why I’m certain that you’ll treat me with equal respect, Mister. …”
She flashed him a disarming smile. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

  “It’s Carrington. Ross Carrington.”

  “Very nice to meet you, Mr. Carrington.” She put out her hand to him, as bare and shapely as a swan. “My name is Elizabeth Dunaway.”

  Given his unreasonable interest in the woman, Ross could only hope that her hand wasn’t as silky soft as it looked. He held his breath as he reached for it, and was nearly knocked backward by the bolt of desire that zinged up his arm and into his chest.

  He heard himself babble out a guttural, “Howdy-adoMissElizabethDunaway,” but resisted the seething urge to pull her into his arms and dance his mouth across those lush lips.

  Instead, he dropped her hand like a hot stone. He fumbled for the notepad in his jacket pocket and poised the short pencil against the page, ready to write and write, convincing himself that he was only doing what any spy would do in the same situation.

  Take advantage.

  Complete advantage.

  “Tell me everything, Miss Dunaway. Your public eagerly awaits.”

  Chapter 3

  A woman’s preaching is like a dog’s walking on his hinder legs. It is not done well; but you are surprised to find it done at all.

  Samuel Johnson, 1709-1784

  Tell him everything? Elizabeth wasn’t sure she wanted to tell this particular man anything at all. Let alone everything that was important to her.

  She certainly couldn’t tell him the way he made her feel as he filled the doorway of the cell with his broad shoulders, or the delicious way he smelled of bay and lemon and the afternoon sun.

  Or the way he was looking at her just now, with his dark, smoke-shadowed eyes. Staring at her, really, charting her. As though he was planning a libertine route that would take him nibbling along her collarbone, tasting her from nape to toe.

  And back again.

  As though he would kiss her right here and now.

  Or carry her off to some starry-edged kingdom where he would endlessly pamper and caress her, and lavish her with feathers and chocolate and—

  Oh, great heavens above! What an utterly ridiculous daydream to be conjuring! Right here in the middle of her protest.