by Tanya Wilde
“You lied to us, Miss Northrup.” The steady voice of Mr. Piers punched a hole through her fog-filled brain.
Devil take it.
She turned to face the runner. “I may have omitted some details.”
“So you still deny your relationship with Ashford, then?”
She considered Mr. Piers, turning his words over in her mind. After Roland’s spectacular display of kissing, no one would believe they weren’t lovers.
“You are friends, Mr. Piers. Surely you agree that his presence in my life has no relevance to the investigation.”
His brow jutted upward. “You may believe that, Miss Northrup, but it might be the very cause of it. If this person had, for example, admired you in secret, he would feel threatened by Ashford’s presence and act out.”
Claire had not considered that.
“Then it could be anyone.”
Mr. Piers nodded. “We can find him, but will require your assistance to do so.”
“How can I help?” There didn’t appear much she could do.
“Stay here tonight. We will keep hidden, and once the intruder reveals himself, we’ll apprehend him.”
It sounded straightforward enough. Frankly, Claire was in need of the distraction, given Roland and the proposal that was potentially not retracted. “What if he does not come?”
“Then we continue to do so until he does.”
“I do not see Roland agreeing to this,” Claire murmured, angling her gaze to the side, disliking her instinct to consider him, to include him in her own decisions. But she sensed he would do everything in his power to prevent Mr. Piers’s plan.
“Allow me to take care of Ashford, Miss Northrup.”
Claire arched a brow. “As long as you do not expect me to lie.”
Mr. Piers nodded. “Fair enough.”
Claire cast him a sidelong glance before motioning to her store. “It seems like such a long time ago I lived an uncomplicated life.”
“I’ve always believed an undemanding lifestyle to be a tedious one.”
“Yes, well, tedious sounds enjoyable right about now.”
“About Ashford . . .” Mr. Piers started as her back stiffened. “He’s quite taken with you. I’ve never seen him so enthralled over a woman before.”
Trying her best to appear nonchalant, she lifted her shoulders in a careless shrug. “There is no attachment between us.”
At her denial, his eyes flashed with incredulity.
“Beyond this event,” Claire amended, not sure why she felt the need to say anything at all.
“Tell me, Miss Northrup, does Ashford strike you as a man that walks away from something he’s claimed?”
“He has not claimed me,” Claire snapped. “And if gossip is to be believed, he does not claim any woman, being a rake and all.”
“True, but after his rather public display of enthusiasm, you cannot doubt his intentions.”
Claire sighed. This was rather all too much for her. “We shall see.”
The infuriating man only inclined his head. A placating gesture, if there ever was one.
Whether he believed her was neither here nor there. Roland had not renewed last night’s sentiment—at least, not directly. And God forbid she tried to understand the working of that particular man’s mind.
Claire was done dwelling over the subject.
The rest of the day passed in a haze of activity, customers of all ilk browsing for fashionable items. When at last she assisted the final customer, Claire glanced around the shop, noting that the Bow Street Runners had stepped out onto the sidewalk and were in conversation with Mrs. Jeeves.
She sauntered over to the smelling salts, where one had carelessly dropped to the ground. Absently, Claire wondered what they had in mind to lure this man out and whether she possessed the strength to follow through with whatever plan they presented.
Reaching down to retrieve the fallen article, Claire straightened to find a large, hulking shadow looming over her. Before she could cry out for help, a hand clamped over her mouth, and a strong substance overwhelmed her nostrils.
Mr. Piers!
Mr. Hunt!
Roland!
Those were her last thoughts before oblivion claimed her.
Chapter 19
Whenever something grand happened in Roland’s life, he usually marked the event by celebrating with a buxom widow and a bottle of the best champagne he could find. And in the past, nothing had been wrong with that. Except, today, when Roland was filled with grand feelings and grand revelations, his usual trick wouldn’t do. So, there was only one option left, really, and that was to find new ways to celebrate and he thought he’d start by informing his friend of at least one grand thing.
“I asked Claire to marry me.”
Blackcress’s gaze whipped to his in astonishment, and Roland did not even try to suppress his grin. He expected nothing less than Blackcress’s utter shock, seeing as the man knew him better than anyone.
“Miss Northrup?”
Roland gave him a droll stare. “Have I been spending time with another chit?”
“No . . . I had hoped, I’ll say. But Miss Northrup seems so . . . beyond your charms.”
Roland opened his mouth to refute the claim, but paused. Claire was fierce and willful, not at all charmed or fooled by his antics. There was an essence to her, pure and uncorrupted, that called to him. With her hard-to-win smiles and equally stubborn flashes of determination in her eyes, she had achieved the impossible: she had gotten into his heart.
Blackcress whistled. “I never thought I’d see the day Roland Black fell in love.”
Roland cast a scowl his way. “I am not in love.”
“Then why the hell do you have that mooning expression plastered all over your face? And why the devil did you ask the chit to marry you?”
“Perhaps I’m plagued by lust.”
“Then go slate it.”
Roland shook his head. “I’ve tried. It refuses to go away.”
“So try with someone else.”
The thought caused a shudder of distaste. Still, he cast an accusatory glance at the general area of his dick. “It won’t work with anyone else.”
Blackcress choked on a laugh. “Bloody hell, you’re all tupped out.”
“Not for Claire,” Roland snapped.
“Ah well, that explains why you are marrying her, then.” Blackcress murmured.
“It seems the best solution for my problem.”
Blackcress laughed loudly. “Yes, I’m certain it is.”
“I have fallen in lust, Blackcress. It’s the biggest problem of the century! I hardly recognize myself.”
“You are an idiot.”
“That has become apparent.”
“I take it Miss Northrup accepted your offer?”
“No.”
“She declined?” Blackcress said, incredulous.
“She told me to ask her again in the morning,” Roland admitted, then added moodily, “As if I’d changed my mind in the course of the evening.”
Blackcress chuckled. “That woman has more sense than I gave her credit for. In any event, I doubt ‘Marry me, I’m in lust with you’ would inspire any woman to jump at a proposal.”
“That is not how I phrased it.”
“And yet somehow that must have been how you presented the proposal. Why else would she not accept?”
“Hell if I know,” Roland muttered, recalling how he had blurted the words out just after lovemaking. Dammit. Maybe he had presented it as lust-driven and not sincerity-driven.
“So what did she say when you asked in the morning?”
Roland frowned. “I didn’t. She was sleeping when I left to get a change of clothes and search for a jeweler. When I returned, she was already back at her shop with Dalziel and Hunt.”
“Never took you for an idiot, Ashford.”
Roland nearly growled at him. But the man had a point. “You think she believes I’m insincere?”
“Can’t say. But I can say that if she does, that’s the reason she turned you down.”
“Why?”
“Because if it’s only lust, you’ll never remain faithful to her.”
The very idea of another woman was appalling to Roland in that moment, but he still didn’t quite understand why that alone would be a reason for rejection.
“But she’d still be my wife. A Duchess. She’d have all the advantages and wealth of the life of a lady. What of that?”
“Worldly possessions don’t fill the hole of a philandering husband, I suppose.”
“And you know something about that?”
His friend shrugged. “I know Anastacia would whip out a carving knife if I ever strayed and if she took a lover . . .” Blackcress shivered. “It’s not a thought I entertain. As such, if you do ever stray, make damn certain you don’t mind if your wife does the same.”
Instant protest welled up in Roland at the image. His breathing became labored, and his fists clenched tightly. The same feeling of helpless rage over Marcus Hunt churned in his belly. No, Claire intimate with another man was not an image he ever wanted in his mind. His fury at the prospect was swift and seething.
“There you have it,” Blackcress drawled, his sharp eyes not missing Roland’s reaction. “You aren’t in lust. Lust doesn’t trigger that reaction.”
He pinned his friend with a glower. Damn the man. He possessed the uncanny ability to pull the truth right out of his gut. Was this love, then?
Hell if he knew.
He did know, however, that he and Claire needed to talk.
Roland wasn’t daft. If he gave her the slightest opportunity, she would vanish from his life. He also suspected she had planned to end their affair that morning, but his proposal had derailed that. Yet, he suspected that she still planned to end his existence in her life altogether when the miscreant who was harassing her was caught.
Her grievances lay with their different stations, but Roland didn’t give a rat’s ass about that. No woman, titled or otherwise, was as true or good or strong or determined as Claire. He, scandal that he was, could marry whomever he pleased and society would deal with it. He dared them to find a better woman for him. There wasn’t one.
She also knew him to be a libertine, though, which could be cause for some of her reluctance, as well—especially if she thought of his proposal in the way that Blackcress had suggested. If she wanted him to propose again to ascertain his intentions were sincere, he would do so. And she’d promise her fidelity, too.
But what if she didn’t accept him even then?
Roland did not like the thought of her leaving him.
“Why aren’t you with her now, groveling?” Blackcress asked.
“She sent me away.”
“Christ, I like her more with each passing moment.”
Roland snorted. This was why he had always avoided deeper entanglements. This constant uncertainty about her feelings. The persistent woolgathering about the state of her day. The eternal fear that he may lose her—to another man, to her business, to bloody rejection. And then there was the current villain tormenting her and the unshakable desire to protect. At least Dalziel provided a brief comfort on that front.
But the rest?
It was a lot of bloody work.
“How the hell do you do it?” Roland muttered, glancing at Blackcress.
A grin crossed his friend’s lips. “One day at a time.”
One day at a time.
Roland could manage that.
Blackcress appeared happy enough, content even. Roland cared for Claire, and he wanted her in a way that eclipsed everything else in his life. He’d manage it then, one day at a time.
And speaking of that, at that very moment, she was being guarded by Marcus Hunt and Dalziel Piers.
That just wouldn’t do.
Why should Hunt and Piers play the hero when it was his angel in danger? Because they were professionals? By Jove, why had he agreed to step back in the first place? So that Hunt could swoop in and save the day?
So Roland was bloody jealous, but she was his. His to protect and his to rescue. As a matter of fact, she could shoot him all the disapproving glares she wished, he did not trust the motives of any man who entered her shop. Indeed, every man was suspect. Claire was beautiful and she lavished her customers, even the men, with kindness and soft, utterly bewitching smiles. It had taken lesser actions than a pretty twinkle for love to bloom in its infancy.
Unacceptable.
Until Roland could convince her to become his wife, wholly and irrevocably, he would not leave her side again—even if she sent him away.
“Dare I ask?” Blackcress murmured when Roland shot up from his seat.
“It’s never stopped you before,” Roland muttered.
He heard Blackcress’s laugh long after he’d left his company.
Chapter 20
Claire stared around the room with mounting boredom. She had been captive for all of four hours, and already she could tell she would, in all likelihood, die of tedium. Escaping, however, proved impossible. Her hands were fastened together too securely, as were her feet. She was sat up against the wall, tied to the wooden post of a canopy bed.
Of course, she ought to be afraid but hadn’t Mr. Piers and Mr. Hunt wanted this? They’d have noticed her missing within moments of her disappearance. It was only a matter of time before they burst through the door waving their pistols. However, they ought to have done so sooner and spared her this bout of tediousness. Lucky for them, Claire had loads to reflect upon, such as Roland and his proposal. Good Christ, she hadn’t even known him that long. Was it possible to love someone in such a short amount of time? It appeared, however, nothing puts one’s life into perspective like the chance of losing it. And Claire did not want to lose her life. Or Roland.
At least the time had put that in perspective for her. Her notion that she was going to walk away or push him out of her life was now laughable when faced with the real possibility that she might never see him again if the Bow Street Runners failed in rescuing her from her kidnapper.
And speak of the devil.
Her kidnapper shifted, drawing her attention to him as he took a swig of ale. In all of Claire’s life, she had never been as shocked as she was the moment she opened her eyes and came face to face with Nathan Piddington.
He sat at the small table in the room looking like a lost puppy, as he had for hours. It was clear to Claire that he had not the slightest clue what to do with her. Had he not thought past the point of the actual abduction? He hadn’t said one word to her since she’d regained consciousness. And while Claire was all for waiting for her rescuers, she would rather do so with less dreariness.
“Nathan, why are you doing this?” she finally asked. The man had scared her to death on more than one occasion now, between coming into her home at night, leaving the dead pheasant on her bed, and then kidnapping her, so the least he could do was entertain her curiosity.
Sunken eyes turned to glare at her. “You chose to whore for a posh lord instead of wedding me.”
“You never asked me to wed you!” Claire protested.
“Of course not. You already decided years ago that you held no affection for me. I had hoped that in time . . . but then he came into your life,” he spat out.
Dear Lord! Had he been holding a candle for her for years? Claire thought of all the times she’d purchased sweets at his shop. He had always been kind, but never once had he indicated that he possessed any affection for her. He’d certainly never portrayed enough interest to marry her.
“So you decided to kidnap me?”
“We only wished to save you from ruining your life over that man. He would never take you for a wife; he’d use you and toss you aside for a real lady. That’s how they operate. We’re saving you.”
We?
Well, Roland was certainly not the man this ‘we’ thought him to be. He’d already asked her to marry him, for Christ’s sake! Besi
des, she’d seen nothing but fire, adventure, and kindness in him. Of course, he could, at times, be a cretin and dim-witted with his words, but this? What they were suggesting? Never.
But ‘we’?
“And what’s next on this diabolical plan of yours, Nathan? Are you going to force me to marry you?”
“Of course not!” he denied in protest. “Once you see the error of your ways, you will readily agree.”
“And how do you plan to convince me?”
The door opened at the same time as Nathan’s mouth, and a slight figure slipped into the room.
“Mrs. Jeeves?” Claire exclaimed in astonishment. The old lady was part of this “we”? “You’re helping this clodpole in his fiendish little endeavor?”
Mrs. Jeeves’s eyes found hers. “Of course not, my dear. It was my plan.”
Had the entire neighborhood lost their minds?
“I don’t understand. What have I ever done to deserve such treatment?”
“It’s not what you’ve done, dear,” Mrs. Jeeves murmured, sauntering over to Claire. “But you must understand, we cannot take the chance of your shop falling into another’s hands. In the unlikelihood that you married this gentleman, or not, we need your space. And now, we will have it.”
Claire’s jaw dropped. Was this madness all for her shop?
A pox on them both!
She shot Nathan a narrow-eyed glare. “You judge me when you have nefarious motives of your own?”
“Oh, don’t be so hard on the boy. He does love you, which was why it was so easy to persuade him to join my cause. Once you are married, he will sign over the deed to me.”
Claire sputtered in outrage at the unexpected turn of events. All this time, Mrs. Jeeves had plotted to steal her shop, right from under Claire’s nose!
“I will never marry him!” she exclaimed. Her gaze swung to him. “How could you do this, Nathan? You said you wouldn’t force me.”
He took another swallow of his ale, glancing away from her.
“He won’t force you,” Mrs. Jeeves said. “But the same cannot be said about me.”
Claire hated the small grey haired woman right then. She wanted to yank her neatly pinned bun right from her head. And Nathan? Well, she’d like nothing more than to push him into the Thames for being such a grand coward.
