Along Came a Rogue

by Anna Harrington

  Although if the damned stubborn woman had agreed to marry him by now, she wouldn’t be alone.

  “I’ll make certain Yardley’s with her,” Thomas assured him.

  Yardley, when it should have been him. The sting of fresh rejection coursed through him. “I’m going to check in with Hedley, do some more investigating,” he informed Thomas as he moved toward the door. “Tell her I stopped by and that I’ll be back.” He shot Thomas a determined look. “And this time, she won’t be able to avoid me.”

  “You know, a lesser man would have given up by now.”

  “Emily doesn’t deserve a lesser man.” Grey turned on his heel and stalked out the door.

  * * *

  “In my opinion,” Dr. Brandon told Emily as he patted her hand, “you have some nasty bruises along your backside, my dear, but nothing more.”

  Emily gave a relieved sigh. She’d been terrified for her baby when she regained consciousness in the carriage as Kate rushed her back to Chatham House, the accident now little more than a blurry memory. And a throbbing bruise on her bottom.

  Beside her on the bed, Kate Westover squeezed her arm reassuringly around Emily’s shoulders. “No other injuries?”

  “None that I see.” Bushy gray brows lifted at Emily. “I think your backside took the brunt of the fall.”

  She grimaced painfully and rubbed at her hip. “I know so.”

  “And the baby?” a deep voice interjected from across the room.

  Emily looked up at Thomas. He leaned back against the wall beside the open door, arms folded across his chest, his head lowered. Despite the lingering pain in his side, he’d carried her up the stairs from the carriage and gently laid her on the bed, leaving only when Kate shooed him out so that Dr. Brandon could examine her. And now he’d returned to his post, as immovable as a mountain.

  Emily’s throat tightened at the expression etched onto his face—one of worry and fear. His eyes fixed on the doctor. “Was the baby injured?”

  “Not at all that I can assess,” Dr. Brandon assured them as he closed his bag and lifted it from the bed. “But you should watch her closely for a few days.”

  “Yes, thank you, Dr. Brandon.” Kate slid from the bed with a grateful smile and placed her hand on the physician’s arm. “I’ll walk you down.”

  Thomas nodded to the doctor as Kate escorted him from the room and closed the door behind them, keeping his gaze focused unmoving on his sister as she lay propped up against the pillows on the bed. “Are you truly all right, Emily?”

  Where there should have been warmth inside her at his concern, there was only unease. The little hairs on her arms stood on end, and she could feel a tension spring up between them as thick as water. Something had changed during the few minutes he’d been gone.

  “Yes.” She forced a nod.

  He paused for a moment before informing her solemnly, “Grey stopped by.”

  “Oh?” She bit her lip in trepidation. “What did he want?”

  “To see you, of course.”

  Her heart slammed hard against her ribs. Seeing him today had shocked her more than the accident. “Is he still here?”

  “No.” Thomas pushed himself away from the door and came slowly toward her. “He’s gone to track down the driver of the phaeton.”

  Her breath choked as her nervousness turned to fear. “It wasn’t an accident, was it?”

  “No,” he answered quietly.

  Oh God, it was happening again! As she pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead, she felt the familiar fear stir inside her chest, the same fear Grey had once chased away by holding her in his arms. “Whoever killed Andrew and set the house on fire…He thinks—he thinks they’re coming after me here?”

  “We don’t know that for certain,” he tried to reassure her, but the grim expression darkening his face told her otherwise. “We’ll know more soon. No need to worry.”

  No need to worry? She swallowed back a laugh at that. Oh, there was so much to worry about! But she put on a brave face for her brother, the same one he was showing for her, and nodded.

  He sat down beside her on the bed, just as he did when they were little, and his eyes filled with emotion. “But Grey also told me what happened with your marriage.”

  Quick anger flashed through her. “He had no right to tell you—”

  “Brat,” he whispered pleadingly, unable to find his voice beneath the betrayal and hurt revealed on his face.

  Cut by the pain she saw in him for both himself and her, tears of regret swelled up in her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Thomas,” she choked out, barely above a whisper as the emotions overtook her. “Please…please forgive me.”

  With a sob, she fell into his arms and clung to him as she cried, and all the pain, guilt, and regret she’d been carrying inside her finally released. She’d dreaded this moment for so long, so afraid of what he would think of her when she finally told him the truth, how ashamed she would be to admit that she’d been so wrong about Andrew…but there was no recrimination in him, no blame. Only forgiveness.

  He held her tightly, rocking her in his arms until her sobs died away into soft sniffs. When she finally stopped crying, he pulled back from her and looked down into her face.

  “I love you, Emily.” He cupped her face between his hands. “I’d do anything to help you, you know that.”

  She nodded, unable to speak through the emotions swirling within her.

  “You can always count on me for help, brat, no matter what happens.” Frowning down at her, he brushed away the last of her tears with his thumbs. “Don’t ever hide from me again. I couldn’t bear to lose you twice.” He forced a crooked grin as he looked down at her big belly. “Or to be kept away from the bulge.”

  She smiled at him, all her doubts fleeing. Thomas was a wonderful brother, and he was going to be a terrific uncle. “Want to feel the baby?”

  Sudden panic flashed through his eyes. “I—I don’t—I mean—really?”

  She laughed. Her heroic brother who had fought his way across the Peninsula was squeamish about this! She took his hand and laid it over her belly. “Can you feel him?” She smiled lovingly at him. “He’s moving.”

  With his breath held, he gently pressed his palm against her. She stared up at him expectantly, waiting for him to feel…

  There!—a movement inside her, a flutter beneath their hands. He gasped, his wide eyes flying up to hers.

  The sensation came again, and he laughed with wonder. “Amazing,” he murmured, his eyes shining.

  “Isn’t it, though?” she whispered, smiling down at her belly.

  Finally, her dreams were coming true. She was going to be a mother and have the family she’d always wanted. She’d mended her rift with both Thomas and her parents now, making peace with her past and coming to understand them better than she ever had in her life. She’d even begun to draw and paint again, during the past few weeks creating some of the best pieces she’d ever made.

  The only thing missing was Grey.

  Her chest ached. Dear God, how much she missed him! She thought she’d be able to move on and mend her heart, but she hadn’t realized until she saw him again today how much she still longed for him. And he hadn’t given up, even after three months of her rejections. Perhaps—just perhaps—might he truly love her? Or if not love, then at least care for her enough not to regret marrying her if she accepted his proposal after all?

  “Thomas?” she asked quietly, doubt niggling at her. If Grey could persist in his pursuit this long, in the face of consistent refusal…had she misread what truly mattered to him?

  “Hmm?” Her brother’s attention was still captivated by the baby’s movements.

  She lowered her voice. “What would you do if you had to give up your work with the War Office? If you couldn’t be a spy anymore?”

  He laughed as the baby kicked again. “My life would end.”

  * * *

  Reynard Crenshaw strolled into the sitting room of his modest
Holborn residence and greeted the unexpected visitor. “Major Grey, a pleasure to meet you.”

  “And you.” Grey shook his hand, immediately struck by how affable he was. And nothing at all as he’d expect from a man willing to commit murder.

  “I am rather surprised, however.” A perplexed expression furrowed his brows as he gestured toward the chairs in front of the fireplace. “To what do I owe your visit this afternoon?”

  Grey waved off his offer to sit. He didn’t plan on staying long, nor did he have the patience to engage in pleasantries. Not when he was still too agitated over Emily, still too worried about her and damnably frustrated not to have been able to see her. “There was an accident today involving Lady Emily.”

  “An accident?” Crenshaw repeated, his bushy eyebrows shooting upward. “Was she injured?”

  “She’s unharmed.” Grey’s eyes narrowed as he watched the man’s reaction closely, noting that he seemed truly surprised to hear the news and genuinely concerned about Emily. Not a trace of guilt showed on his face.

  “And the baby?” he asked quickly.

  “Also unharmed.” Again, no guilty expression on the man’s face, no nervous flicker of his eyes or tic of his facial muscles.

  “Please.” Crenshaw motioned again toward a chair and then took his own seat, looking aggrieved. “What happened?”

  Reluctantly, Grey obliged and sat down, his forearms resting on his knees as he leaned forward, much too on edge to relax. “Someone tried to run her down on Bond Street. She stepped aside at the last moment but was knocked to the ground. Nothing more than bruises, thank God.” Yet his heart pounded with fear and worry for her even now. Just as he was certain it always would. Grey leveled his gaze hard on Crenshaw. “But she could have been murdered.”

  “Murdered?” he echoed incredulously.

  “As was her husband.”

  Crenshaw’s face blanched, his lips falling open in stunned surprise. “Andrew? You—you think he was murdered?” When Grey nodded curtly, Crenshaw’s mouth snapped shut. But the anger Grey expected didn’t darken the man’s face. Instead, he gazed at Grey with solemn indignation. “And that is why you are here, is it not? You believe I am responsible.”

  Grey accused, “You had motive. With Andrew Crenshaw dead, you were next in line to inherit Dunwich.”

  “Of which I was unaware until a full month after Andrew died,” he informed him, bewildered annoyance lacing his voice. He shook his head. “I am a banker, Major, not a fortune teller. Neither am I a murderer. I did not want that young man dead.”

  “Someone did,” Grey muttered. He clenched his hands to prevent them from shaking as he added, “And now they want Lady Emily dead.”

  Crenshaw paled further and leaned back in his chair, overwhelmed by all that Grey had just told him.

  Judging from his guileless reaction and the genuine horror in his eyes that someone wanted to hurt Emily, Grey knew this man wasn’t Andrew Crenshaw’s murderer, nor was he capable of striking down a pregnant woman. The tension in his chest eased, but not the frustration.

  Which meant he’d come to another dead end. Damnation.

  Crenshaw shook his head, stunned. “Who would do such a horrible thing?”

  “I don’t know.” But when he found the bastard, he’d make him pay for every harm he’d committed against Emily, every trace of fear he’d put into her sapphire eyes. Grey laced his fingers together and leaned forward. “I’d hoped that you might be able to tell me.”

  Crenshaw shook his head, bewildered.

  “Did Andrew Crenshaw or your family have any enemies?” Grey pressed, unable to keep down his mounting frustration. “Anyone who would want to see him and his child dead from personal vengeance?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” he answered earnestly, running a trembling hand through his graying hair. “I had not seen Andrew in years, not since he was at school in Winchester, then briefly and only once. I’ve always known about the other cousins in the family, those connected to the marquessate, but my father was a different line. We were”—he shrugged—“inconsequential to the title. I cannot imagine why anyone connected to our family would want to hurt either Andrew or Lady Emily.”

  His gut tightened. Without Crenshaw to provide any insight, he had no more leads to follow. But he’d be damned if all he did was sit back and wait for another attempt on Emily’s life.

  Grey rose to his feet and extended his hand. “Thank you for your time. If you think of anything—anything at all that might reveal more information—you can send for me at Chatham House. Chesney knows how to reach me.”

  “Of course, Major.” He walked Grey to the front foyer, which was barely big enough for both men and the butler, who arrived with Grey’s coat and hat. “Please give Lady Emily my regards.”

  “Certainly.” Grey paused, hesitant to insult Crenshaw by bringing up the inheritance, yet Emily was certain it was the motive for her husband’s murder and the attempts on her life. “She’s convinced she’s carrying a son.”

  Crenshaw’s eyes softened knowingly. “I only hope that her baby is born healthy, Major.”

  So do I…If anything happened to the baby, Emily would never survive it. He trembled at the thought of how much love she carried for her child, even though it had yet to be born. And he would do everything in his power to make certain that baby arrived into her arms unharmed. “Chesney told me that you don’t plan to contest the inheritance.”

  He confirmed that with a nod and a faint smile. “I was never meant to be the heir and certainly would not be now if not for a few cruel twists of fate. If she has a son, then so be it.”

  Grateful for the man’s magnanimity, knowing it would make the coming months much easier for Emily, Grey shrugged into his coat. “Lady Emily is remaining at home now until her confinement. I’m certain she’d welcome visits from you.” He paused, adding around the knot in his throat, “Family means everything to her.”

  “Of course. I would be honored to call on her.” Crenshaw paused, his face saddening. “It pains me to think she might be in danger. How could anyone want to harm that sweet young woman?”

  Pulling on his leather gloves, Grey answered with a voice so full of raw determination that it was little more than a low growl, “I intend to make certain no one has that opportunity again.”

  * * *

  On the other side of the door connecting the sitting room to the dining room, Harold Crenshaw placed his ear near the crack and listened to the conversation between his father and the man who brought the woman back from Yorkshire. His hands clenched into tight fists at his sides.

  So, the little bitch was convinced she was going to have a boy, was she? A little bastard to pop between his father and the title, to steal away his own future fortune.

  He should have dealt with her in Yorkshire, just as he’d removed that peacock of a husband of hers. Killing him had been so easy, hardly any effort at all. All he’d had to do was approach Crenshaw while he was riding along a stretch of empty field, charm the man down from his horse by pretending his own horse had thrown a shoe—the same shoe he had ripped off himself only minutes before—and then, while Crenshaw was bent over and examining the horse’s hoof, pick up a rock and bash in his head. He left him where he fell.

  It wasn’t until two months later that he found out she’d been bred, like some kennel bitch in heat. But he’d let himself be convinced that she’d disappear to Glasgow once her stomach grew grotesque with her spawn, that she was too frightened not to flee for her life.

  And she should have been frightened. Very frightened.

  Her husband was dead, but news of the baby had never been sent back to London. No one knew. All he had to do was wait for the old marquess to die and his father to inherit, and the frightened little bunny with her unborn litter would have hopped away to Scotland, to disappear without a peep. He’d only have to arrange for an accident or two every few months to keep her frightened enough to remain in hiding, and in a few years, even if she squ
eezed out a boy, no one would have believed the child to be her husband’s if she tried to petition for the title. She’d have been labeled a whore, gotten with a bastard by rutting with some other man while her husband lived apart from her in York.

  His father would have become a marquess, and when he died, the fortune and title would have all been his.

  He’d planned it all so carefully. Everything had gone smoothly…until that damned footpad shot Chesney, and the major was sent to bring that woman back to London.

  His plans were unraveling quickly now, with no time to lose. The bitch was due to whelp soon. A girl child would be completely forgotten, although he was furious at his father for pledging an allowance and dowry from money that should have been all his. But a son would ruin everything.

  It was one thing to murder the baby while still in its womb; it would be far too suspicious to kill it after it was born, after having also murdered the father.

  No—he had to make certain the baby was never born, and the only way to ensure that was to kill the mother. The driver he’d paid to run her down this afternoon ruined his last opportunity for a believable accident. Now he’d have to take matters into his own hands.

  It was time to put an end to her once and for all.

  Chapter Fourteen

  That night, unable to sleep, Emily sat in the chair in her room and stared into the fireplace at the dying fire and layer of coals that gave off little light and even less warmth. Around her, the house was dark and quiet, with her parents sleeping in their separate suites in the other wing and Thomas in his on the far end of the hall. Outside the house, the city was just as quiet, just as dark and still.

  Her troubled thoughts returned to Grey. He was out there somewhere amid the shadowed streets and gaslights. Was he awake as well, too troubled to surrender to sleep? Or was he relieved now that Thomas would take over protecting her and he no longer had to be bothered with her, sleeping deeply without a thought of her? Or, heaven help her, was he even now lying in the arms of another woman? One who made no claims to him, who would never impinge upon his freedom or his future—