by Merry Farmer
“Why?” Bart snorted. “What good would breaking things off with me do you?”
“I…I have a man here who wants to marry me,” she admitted, though she wasn’t about to let on that it was Phin and not Freddy.
Bart narrowed his eyes even more. “You think I’m going to let some lily-livered, limp-wristed limey snatch your dowry out of my hands?”
Lenore’s heart sank. Bart wasn’t going to give up easily. She’d been fooling herself by entertaining the idea he would.
He stalked closer to her. “I want what’s mine.”
“I am not yours.” Lenore stepped away again, fighting to put space between them, even though everything felt as though it were slipping out of her grasp.
“You will be,” Bart growled. “And then we’ll send a little telegram over to your daddy and get him to wire the money that goes along with you to my account.”
Lenore frowned in confusion. “Why didn’t you accost my father for the money as soon as he returned from England last year? Why come all the way to London to bother me instead of going straight to him?”
Bart laughed slowly, but Lenore was certain she saw a shift in his confidence. Something didn’t add up. “You think it’s all about the money, sweetheart? Well, it ain’t.” He prowled closer to her. His words felt like a lie.
Lenore was caught between wanting to stand her ground and get to the bottom of things and wanting to run across the hall to throw herself into Freddy’ and Reese’s protective arms. The latter would have cost her every bit of self-worth she had, though, so she squared her shoulders and glared at Bart. “An annulment, Bart. I won’t settle for anything less.”
“And I want what I’ve wanted all along, pumpkin.” He came to a stop in front of her, raising a hand to stroke her cheek.
Lenore flinched and stumbled back. As she did, Freddy and Reese burst across the hall and into the room, taking up defensive positions by Lenore’s sides.
“How dare you touch her?” Freddy growled.
“Leave my house this instant,” Reese demanded.
“I’ll leave if my wife comes with me,” Bart said.
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” Lenore bit back. “And I’m not your wife, not really.”
“Yes, you are,” Bart insisted, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “And believe you me, if you don’t come around to that opinion soon, there will be consequences.”
“As there will be consequences for you if you do not leave my house this instant,” Reese said. “Tilney!”
Not only did Mr. Tilney step into the doorway almost immediately after Reese’s call, two of Reese’s footmen appeared with him. Whether Bart liked it or not, he was one man against five, and Reese’s footmen were built like athletes.
Lenore could have wept with relief when she saw the flicker of uncertainty in Bart’s eyes turn into the realization that, for the moment, he was outnumbered. “I’ll go,” he said. “I’m gonna give you until tomorrow to see things my way. When I come back, you’d better be ready to do your duty as my wife.”
He strode past Lenore. She took a step back, and both Freddy and Reese reached out to rest a protective arm around her back, which resulted in a confusion of limbs and intentions. As comical as the moment was, Lenore couldn’t feel even a tiny spark of humor. She held her breath as she watched Bart leave, only letting it out when Mr. Tilney and the footmen departed with Bart to show him out.
Then she collapsed with a useless sob. Freddy and Reese worked together to relocate her to the sofa, sitting on either side of her.
“That man is dangerous,” Freddy growled, rubbing a hand over Lenore’s back.
“You have no idea,” Lenore breathed, shaking her head.
“I think it’s about time you told us the entire story of how you ended up here,” Reese said, ever the leader and protector.
Lenore glanced up at him, racked with guilt, then looked to Freddy. “You’re right. It’s time I come clean. But you’re not going to like what I have to say.”
Chapter 15
Phin spent no more than half an hour at home, handing off his suitcase to Dora to unpack and take whatever needed washing to the laundry, changing into a fresh suit, and allowing Mrs. Wallace to feed him something—he was hard-pressed to remember what he’d eaten within minutes of swallowing it—before dashing out of the house again and through the city to the cramped flat where Lionel lived.
He half expected Lionel to be entertaining someone or another, so he knocked politely on his brother’s door instead of pounding, like he was want to. He was surprised when Lionel opened the door only a few seconds later, dressed in perfectly-pressed trousers, a shirt that had to be silk, and a waistcoat of some sort of fine, blue brocade.
“I thought you might drop by this evening,” Lionel said, as though Phin rushed through the dark of night to visit his brother all the time. Lionel stepped back and made a sweeping, overly-formal gesture for him to enter.
“How did you even know I was back in London?” Phin asked, striding into the flat and removing his hat and coat. As Lionel shut and locked the door, Phin answered his own question with, “Hazel telegraphed you, didn’t she?”
“She did.” Lionel nodded. “And reading between her decidedly cryptic lines and the gossip that has been flying through London like The Great Fire, I’m assuming this has to do with your friend, Mrs. Swan.”
Phin clenched his jaw and turned to face Lionel. The frustration that he’d worked to keep in check for a full twenty-four hours now exploded from him like cannon-fire. “How could she lie to me this way?” he demanded, shoving a hand through his hair so fast that it knocked his glasses askew. He didn’t even bother to straighten them fully before rushing on to, “She gave every indication of deepest friendship with me and more. Hell, we fucked like happy heathens on more than one occasion, and still she withheld the truth from me.”
Though, if he were honest with himself, she might have tried to say something before that second time, at the end of their picnic. It was little consolation, though.
Lionel’s only reaction was to raise one eyebrow and walk toward the small stove in the corner of his flat’s main room. “Tea?” he asked, going ahead and pouring a cup before Phin could reply.
“You and Hazel,” Phin huffed, smoothing his hair and straightening his glasses. “It’s always tea with the two of you.”
“It was how Mama calmed Father down when he was in one of his tempers,” Lionel said over his shoulder as he added cream and sugar to the cup, then walked it over to Phin. “It always worked. Tea is a universal balm to the soul and the oil that loosens up even the most reticent jaw. It makes people talk. It also causes them to let their guard down by allowing for a polite interruption to their train of thought.”
Phin sent his brother a sardonic look before sipping his tea. His brow lifted slightly as he did. Lionel had an uncanny knack for making the perfect cup of tea. He took another long sip, then lowered the cup and said, “She could have told me.”
“And why would she do that?” Lionel asked, moving to perch on the arm of the faded sofa in the center of his main room. Without anyone but the two of them to witness or comment, he shifted into an almost feminine posture of listening. In fact, he bore a distinct resemblance to Hazel and her look of soft compassion when she listened to someone’s problems. Hazel and Lionel could have been twins, if not for the fire.
Phin took another sip of tea, sighed, and moved to flop onto the sofa, careful not to spill the contents of his cup. “She is terrified of Swan, for one,” he said, attempting to honestly answer Lionel’s question. For Lenore’s sake as much as his own. Love didn’t simply evaporate because anger swooped in to dance with it.
“Swan is a terrifying man,” Lionel agreed, shifting to face Phin and crossing his legs. “I sought him out after you left, followed him around town for a bit. He has all the grace and mannerliness of a rabid stoat.”
Phin huffed a laugh in spite of himself and finished his tea.
/> “He also happens to be as suspicious as the devil,” Lionel went on, raising one eyebrow in such a way that it transformed his porcelain-pale face from fey to deadly. “I have woefully few contacts in America, but I do know some people. You would spit that tea out if you knew how costly it is to send a trans-Atlantic telegraph, but fortunately for you and Miss Garrett, I have friends in high places.”
“Yes,” Phin said with a wry twist of his mouth. “I’m certain you’re on exceedingly friendly terms with the telegraph boys.”
Lionel met his jab with a coy grin. “Moving along,” he said, standing and pacing in front of Phin. “My friends in New York knew enough about conflicts in Wyoming to corroborate Miss Garrett’s story.”
“Lenore had newspaper clippings with her in Yorkshire that confirm her story as well,” Phin mumbled contemplating asking for another cup of tea. He knew with increasing certainty that he was in the wrong, but pride was hard to let go of.
“There you have it,” Lionel went on. “My American contacts said they’d investigate further, but even with the modern marvel of trans-Atlantic telegraph cables, the best I was able to discover was what we more or less already know. I have a wealth of uneasy feelings about Mr. Bartholomew Swan, though. He strikes me as—”
Lionel’s speech was interrupted by a sharp knock on the door.
“Were you expecting company?” Phin asked with a teasing arch of one eyebrow.
“You know full well I’ve embarked on a vow of celibacy,” Lionel answered, heading for the door with an intrigued and hopeful look all the same.
A second knock came just as Lionel opened it to reveal Det. Gleason. Phin’s heart dropped like a rock into his gut, and he stood. In his worry and hurt over Lenore, he’d forgotten about Lady Hamilton and her quest for vengeance yet again. But that didn’t explain why her bulldog was standing in Lionel’s doorway, eyeing him and Lionel with slightly narrowed eyes.
“Mr. Mercer,” Det. Gleason said, though it wasn’t clear which Mr. Mercer he was addressing. “If you don’t mind, I have some questions for you.” As soon as he stepped into the flat, his sharp gaze fixed on Phin, proving Phin was the one he’d come to see.
“How quaint,” Lionel said, shutting the door behind Det. Gleason and raking the rather short man with a grin. “I do love a man who is direct and to the point.”
Det. Gleason glanced over his shoulder at Lionel, assessing him the same way Lionel was scrutinizing him. Phin swallowed, fighting the wariness that slithered down his back. If Gleason wasn’t intimidated by Lionel’s flirtation, chances were he wouldn’t be easy to dismiss and get rid of.
“Good evening, sir,” Phin greeted him, doing his best to look as innocent as possible. “Would you care to explain why you are calling on me at my brother’s flat instead of my home?”
“You’ve been out of town, in Yorkshire, these past few days,” Gleason explained with a banal smile. “You only just returned home this evening. The train from York arrived at seven-fifteen. You dropped Miss Garrett off at the home of Lord Howsden, returned to your own home, spent thirty-seven minutes there, then proceeded directly to your brother’s flat.”
They were fucked. Completely and utterly.
All the same, Phin put on a congenial smile. “What questions can I answer for you, Det. Gleason?”
“Could I get you a cup of tea?” Lionel asked at the same time.
Gleason turned to stare at Lionel as if considering it, as if considering him. “No, thank you. I’m only here to ask a few questions. It won’t take long.” He turned back to Phin. “Mr. Mercer, forgive the bluntness of the question, but from where do you receive your income?”
Cold prickles raced down Phin’s back. Gleason already knew the truth.
“My family has an estate in Yorkshire,” he said, knowing that answer wouldn’t satisfy the man.
Lionel walked slowly around Gleason, watching him as he moved, until he came to stand on the other side of the sofa, behind Phin. Phin assumed it was so that Lionel could study the man as he went about his interrogation.
“It is my understanding,” Gleason went on, stroking the day’s worth of stubble on his chin, “that your family’s circumstances were reduced.”
“They are,” Phin admitted in a dark voice, offended that anyone would disparage his family, or even come close to disparaging them. “But we get by.”
“With additional income from the two of you, I would assume,” Gleason said, meeting Phin’s eyes, then nodding past him to Lionel.
Phin pivoted slightly to include Lionel in the conversation, even though he hung back, judging Gleason as though he were a scientific specimen. “We both contribute to the family’s income in our own ways,” Phin said, as vaguely as possible.
He should have known Gleason would go on to ask, “And how do you contribute, sir?”
Phin took a breath and clasped his hands behind his back, scrambling for an answer that would be plausible. “I have investments,” he said. It was the best answer he could come up with and one that was common to most members of the gentry and aristocracy.
Gleason nodded, continuing to stroke his chin. His gaze traveled past Phin to Lionel for a moment before he went on. “Do you know a man by the name of Chester Jameson?”
Phin fought to look innocent. He shrugged and shook his head, all while his stomach roiled. This was exactly what Jameson had feared, what Phin had feared himself. If Jameson was implicated in whatever libel suit Lady Hamilton seemed intent to bring on the publisher of Nocturne, he and his family would suffer far more than Phin would.
“I don’t believe I know anyone by that name,” he answered, praying Gleason believed him.
It was clear that he didn’t. “Not even a passing acquaintance?” Gleason asked.
“No.” Phin shrugged again as sweat poured down his back. At the rate his face was heating, his glasses would fog up in no time.
“I was under the impression that—”
“Det. Gleason, are you certain you wouldn’t care for a bit of refreshment?” Lionel interrupted.
Phin frowned at his brother, but that expression melted away into curiosity. Lionel smiled fetchingly at Gleason, looking far too soft for his own good. As he did, he brushed his fingertips over the back of his hand in a particular way that Phin knew to be a signal amongst a certain sort of men. So help him, if Lionel was attempting to divert Gleason’s investigative instincts and get himself caught and brought to justice as an invert in order to save Phin, Phin would murder him the same way Swan had threatened to murder Lenore and the ranchers.
He was in no way prepared to have Gleason answer the signal with a corresponding one, touching his fingertips to the back of his hand, before clearing his throat and saying, “I think I have what I came here for.” He squared his shoulders and nodded to Phin. “Good evening, Mr. Mercer.”
Phin’s brow shot all the way up to his hairline as Gleason turned to go.
“One moment.” Lionel jumped out from behind the sofa, dashed to fetch something from a table at the end of the sofa, then met Gleason at the door. “I am employed by the Law Offices of Dandie & Wirth,” he said, presenting Gleason with what must have been a business card. “If we find that we might require the services of a detective, could we call on you?”
“Certainly,” Gleason said, his expression betraying nothing. Phin would have thought the man would at least wink or rake Lionel with a look, now that the two had, apparently, identified themselves to the other. If was decidedly odd that Lionel would give the man his card then ask if he could call on him.
“Perfect.” Lionel was the one to wink as he opened the door to show Gleason out. “I’m so pleased we met this evening.”
All Gleason did in return was touch the brim of his hat before stepping out into the hall.
Lionel shut the door behind him with a satisfied smile. “You don’t have to worry about him anymore.”
“You are unbelievable.” Phin shook his head, too stunned by the turn of event
s to chuckle. “I cannot believe you’re going to sleep with him to get me off the hook where Lady Hamilton is concerned.”
“Him?” Lionel shot an incredulous look to Phin, glanced to the door Gleason had disappeared through, then back to Phin with a dismissive laugh. “Aside from my vow of celibacy, which I take seriously, by the way, I would never lower my standards to what amounts to prostitution for the sake of my brother.”
That was enough to have Phin chuckling in spite of his misgivings. “You only prostitute yourself for your own sake.”
“It’s not prostitution between friends,” Lionel said with a cocky tilt of his head, glancing down his nose at Phin.
Phin shook his head, slapping Lionel’s arm as he returned to the sofa and sat heavily. “I doubt Gleason will give up his fight on Lady Hamilton’s behalf,” he said, rubbing his eyes under his glasses, then adjusting them back into place. “Harridans like Lady Hamilton don’t give up that easily.”
“No, they don’t,” Lionel agreed, moving to sit on the sofa by Phin’s side. His brow furrowed into the thoughtful look he wore whenever he was hatching some new plot. He leaned against the back of the sofa, crossed both his arms and his legs, and rubbed his chin, not unlike the way Gleason had. “I think I have an idea that might solve that particular problem, though,” he said at length.
“Thank God someone has an idea that could solve some of my problems,” Phin said, dripping with dry humor. “Now, if only I could figure out a way to resolve the fact that I’m not certain whether I want to strangle Lenore or marry her and keep her in bed for weeks on end.”
“Knowing you, it’s the latter,” Lionel said with a teasing grin. “The only difference between me and you, dear brother, is that I was lavished with gifts for my proclivities. You gave it away for free.”
