An Extraordinary Lord

by Anna Harrington

  Yet that smile twisted through her, right down to her toes.

  He was certainly attractive, all right. It would be a damn shame if something happened to ruin that handsome face of his, so she screwed a hard look of warning on him. “Do you really know what you’re getting into with Scepter?”

  His smile faded. “Yes.” He pushed himself off the chair and crossed to a side table along the wall where a dozen bottles of various golden liquors waited on a silver tray. “Scepter first came after my friends about six months ago.” He paused to correct himself. “No, it was two years before that, right when their organization began.” With a grim expression, he selected one of the crystal decanters, removed the glass stopper, and turned over one of the half-dozen waiting tumblers. “That was when they’d killed General Marcus Braddock’s sister because she’d learned Scepter was using prostitutes to extort money and favors from powerful men who they then used to increase their operations. Then six months ago, they came after the woman who became the general’s wife.”

  A cold tingle crawled up her back like a spider along her spine. “A personal grudge against the general, then. One that’s not worth you riding into the fray and losing your life over.”

  He smiled grimly at the glass. “Not just the general’s family, but my best friend Pearce and his wife as well. Scepter blackmailed her brother into making government appointments that put their men into positions within the government.”

  “Criminals in the government’s employ,” she mocked. “I’m aghast.”

  His mouth tightened at that. “Not to work for the government.” He looked up to meet her gaze as he splashed the caramel-colored liquor into the glass. “To start a revolution.”

  She couldn’t possibly have heard… “Revolution?” A nervous laugh of disbelief fell from her lips. “You’re bamming me.”

  “I wish I were.” He replaced the stopper. “That’s why Clayton’s involved. The Home Office takes threats of sedition very seriously these days.” Carrying the glass with him, he returned to her and once more straddled the chair backward. “Unlike the French, English aristocracy doesn’t fancy being separated from their heads.”

  “No,” she muttered, trying to absorb all that he was telling her, “I suppose not.”

  “So yes, I know all about Scepter and what they’re capable of doing,” he finished. “And no, I won’t turn my back on my friends or my country.”

  He was either the bravest man she’d met in a very long time or an absolute fool. Right then, she wouldn’t have placed a bet on which.

  “Clayton wants Scepter at the gallows,” he continued, “I want the riots stopped, and you want a pardon. The Home Office, the criminal courts, and the thieves—the perfect unholy trinity, don’t you think?”

  He held the glass out to her.

  In reply, she held up her shackled wrists.

  With one hand, he unscrewed the metal cuffs that bound her wrists. They loosened enough that she could slip her hands free and let them drop to the floor with a muted clatter on the rug.

  She accepted the drink and took a slow swallow, aware of his stormy blue eyes on her throat as it undulated gently. “Thank you.”

  “Something told me you’d prefer brandy to tea.”

  A slow smile unfolded at her lips. “Ah, Mrs. Fitzherbert, how well you know me.”

  “I’d like to know you better.”

  Her heart skipped, followed by an immediate stab of self-recrimination. How pathetic she was! He certainly didn’t mean his words as a flirtation. Yet a foolish part of her wished they were.

  She rose to her feet and turned away before he could see the flush he put into her cheeks. Good God, a blush! She felt like an idiot, being well beyond girlish coquetry. In every way.

  But then, he was a most unusual man.

  Taking another sip to cover any emotions straying across her face, she slowly circled the large room. Stretching her legs felt good after sitting for so long. So did the brandy. And very fine brandy at that. As the warm liquid moved smoothly down her throat, she craned her neck to look up into the darkness of the tall tower, the large gas chandelier overhead unlit. Then she trailed her fingertips along the stone mantel of the massive fireplace as she slowly passed it. The turn about the room was simply a delay tactic to give her time to settle her whirling mind. But with the way he sent little thrills crackling inside her as his eyes followed her, she doubted there were enough hours in the night to put her at ease in his presence.

  She stopped to contemplate the shield above the mantel. A matching one with the same Latin inscription decorated the outer entrance. “Ubi malum timet calcare?”

  “Where evil fears to tread,” he translated, not moving from the chair except to swing around on it to watch her. He was still studying her every move, the same way a fighter observed an opponent. “It’s our motto.”

  “Of course,” she murmured dryly. “In Latin. About evil.” Then, more loudly, her bewildered mind unable to take it all in, “What is this place?”

  “This is the Armory.” He cast a glance around the room as if attempting to see it through her eyes. “Think of it as a gentlemen’s club of sorts for former soldiers returned from the wars.”

  The light from the gas sconces fell into the adjoining room just far enough to reveal walls decorated with all manner of weaponry. “And the claymores?”

  “A gentlemen’s club with its own weapons cache,” he amended wryly.

  “I see.” Actually, not at all. But she’d never admit that.

  Leaning back in the chair, he kicked out his long legs and crossed them at the ankles. The perfect posture of a gentleman at ease. But she knew he’d pounce in a second if she dared to sprint toward the door.

  “The building was originally an old armory established by Charles II in the mid-seventeenth century,” he explained.

  “And what is it now?”

  “A sanctuary.”

  When she faced him at that puzzling comment, his gaze drifted up to the shield.

  “Marcus Braddock, former general and now Duke of Hampton, originally purchased it to use as a warehouse,” he continued. “But he decided to renovate it instead.”

  “With walnut paneling, imported rugs, and a supply of expensive liquor inside ten-foot-thick stone walls?”

  “Twenty, actually.”

  Her lips parted, stunned.

  “Home sweet armory,” he said drolly. “The general knew it would serve a better purpose as a place where his former subordinates could come to get away from their new lives back in England.”

  “Is that why you come here, Merritt?” she asked, thinking of the people she lived with in the Court of Miracles and how most of them would do anything to be able to escape that existence. “To get away from your life?”

  He paused as if considering an answer. Then he blatantly dodged, “The general’s planning on hiring a butler and housekeeper for the place.”

  “Ah. Roughing it, then, are you?”

  An amused smile played at his lips. “There’s a kitchen in the basement. Shame to let it go to waste. Might as well put it to use in roasting pheasant dinners.” He shrugged. “And the general thinks having someone here watching over us will keep us from running over the settees during fencing matches. He’s tired of finding boot prints on the leather.”

  “Will it?”

  “Unlikely.”

  Hiding her amusement, she gestured toward the adjoining room. “Nice weaponry.”

  “Thank you.”

  He said that just arrogantly enough that she couldn’t help muttering, “I’ve always said you can tell a lot about a man from the size of his sword.”

  “And a woman by hers.”

  She slid him a knowing glance, just in time to catch the gleam in his eyes.

  “Where did you learn to fight?” he persisted. “The truth thi
s time.”

  Well, he certainly wasn’t going to get that. “Lots of places, all kinds of instructors…” She finished circling the room and stopped directly in front of him. So close that she could tap his boot with only a small kick of her foot. “Is that why you’re offering me a pardon if I help you—because I’m a good fighter?”

  “Partially.” Then he admitted, “Clayton thinks you might be innocent.”

  A jolt of electricity snapped through her. The two men couldn’t possibly know the truth about her past. No one did, except for Fernsby and Filipe. “And you don’t?”

  “Not at all.”

  Her belly tightened, all its tiny muscles ensnarling themselves into a pulsating knot. What this man thought of her shouldn’t matter at all. Yet strangely, his answer cut.

  Not breaking eye contact with her, he pushed himself to his feet and came to his full height in front of her. And what a height indeed. Surely six feet tall and well over a head above hers, with a lithe and lean body of all muscle and hardness. His dark-brown hair fell carelessly over his forehead as if he couldn’t be bothered to trim or brush it. A faint growth of beard darkened his face, except for his bright blue eyes that reminded her of the sky after a summer storm. He was a fighter; every inch of him confirmed it.

  But he was also sharp. Quick. Dangerous.

  He took the brandy from her hand, lifted it to his mouth, and finished off the glass with a single swallow.

  “This is the offer,” he told her bluntly. “I’ll provide whatever resources and guidance you might need, and you’ll do the actual groundwork by finding out who’s responsible for the riots.”

  “Reconnaissance, you mean.” Acid rose on her tongue. She’d had more than enough of doing that for Allied soldiers on the Peninsula during the wars. She’d sworn to herself she’d never do it again.

  “Call it whatever you want. If you agree, you’ll work to give me the names of the mobs’ leaders, and I’ll secure you a pardon.”

  “And if I don’t agree?”

  “Then I take you back to Newgate right now.”

  She would never go back to that hell. This devil knew it, too, based on the knowing gleam of his eyes as he waited for her answer. He’d backed her into a corner, damn him.

  But she wouldn’t be his pawn.

  “You’ll do what I say, every step of the way, understand?” She moved closer and had to tilt back her head to glare up at him, but she wouldn’t be cowed. “It’s my world you’re attempting to infiltrate. I know how it works, what the boundaries are, how to maneuver inside it. If anyone there discovers who you are, you’re dead. They’ll slit you open from throat to bollocks.”

  She’d meant to jab a finger into his chest to emphasize her point. But the hard muscle rippled against her fingertip, and beneath that, she felt the steady and strong beat of his heart. The strength of him momentarily took her breath away.

  “I won’t risk my life to protect yours.” Damn her voice for emerging as a throaty purr rather than an icy warning!

  “Trust me.” Amusement danced across his face. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

  “Trust you?” she echoed. A barrister? Never. “That’s the first thing that has to go. There is no trust in my world. The sooner you learn that, the better off you’ll be.”

  He dropped his gaze to her hand, still at his chest. “So we’re agreed, then?”

  She yanked her hand away as if she’d touched a hot stove. “Yes.” She moved back, desperately needing air and space. “We’ll start tonight.”

  “Good.”

  “But I’m going to need a coat.” She waved a hand at her fighting clothes to indicate that they needed to be hidden. “Because first, I’m taking you shopping for better clothes.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest…to keep her from touching him again? “What’s wrong with my clothes?”

  “Nothing, if you’re trying to resemble a priest.” She cast a dubious eye over him, taking in the solid black that allowed him to fade into the night but wouldn’t do at all for where she planned on taking him. “Believe me when I tell you that the men I’m going to introduce you to would as likely shoot you dead for being a priest as a barrister.”

  “Well then,” he drawled. “Let’s definitely find new clothes.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll make you blend in.” She patted his shoulder as she walked past him toward the door and flashed the taunting smile of a crocodile. Right before it snapped its jaws on its prey. “Trust me.”

  Four

  Merritt glanced up at the derelict warehouse in Saffron Hill that Veronica had brought him to. Three stories tall, the brick and stone building had been exposed to the soot of London coal fires for so long that its façade was dulled beneath a layer of permanent gray. It sat back from the street just far enough to reveal the old loading ramps where wagons had once waited to move goods, its wide loading bay doors now chained and padlocked. Tall, mostly broken windows fronted the building, and splintered boards that had been nailed to the main door to bar unwanted trespassers had been pried off and tossed aside.

  “Where the hell have you brought me?” he muttered and readjusted on his shoulder the sacks of apples, oranges, and root vegetables she’d made him purchase at the market.

  “Exactly.” Veronica started forward into the building. She unbuttoned the greatcoat he’d given her to wear, letting it fall open now that there was no reason to hide her clothes. “Hell.”

  With a grimace, he followed after her through the doors and into another world.

  Inside, the warehouse had been scrubbed clean and whitewashed. The sunlight that slanted down from the brief parting of clouds and through the rows of windows brightly lit the place. The open floors that had once been used as storage space for barrels and crates had been broken up into room-like spaces by sheets of old sailcloth hanging from ropes strung between the building’s giant supporting posts. A breeze blew through the missing window glass, and the sheets billowed into motion like a marching army of white ghosts. A strong gust blew the sailcloth up far enough to reveal pallet beds laid out upon the old plank floor, pairs of shoes and boots…a doll.

  He caught up with her and stopped her with a touch to her elbow from behind. “People live here?”

  “I live here.” She didn’t attempt to hide her indignation at his thoughtless question.

  Damnation. He’d assumed she was bringing him to nothing more than a warehouse for stolen goods or a storefront for thieves and criminals. He hadn’t expected this.

  His chest clenched at this glimpse of life in a rookery, and one of the worst in London, too. He’d often prowled its streets during his nighttime patrols, knew the struggles of the people who had no place else to call home. Yet seeing it in broad daylight and being forced to acknowledge the children and elderly who lived here was a completely different experience.

  Once more, frustration ate at him that he couldn’t do more to help. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Yes, you did.” She shot him a reproachful glance, then slumped her shoulders as she acquiesced. “But you’re not wrong. I wouldn’t wish this existence on my worst enemy.”

  She turned away from him then and walked on, and wordlessly, he followed her deeper into the warehouse.

  “We call this place the Court of Miracles, after the slum in Paris,” she told him as she stopped and reached to take the sacks he carried. She set them on the floor at their feet. “There, the name came from all the beggars who would pretend to use braces and crutches to make people feel sorry enough for them to give them money when they begged. When they returned home at the end of the day, they’d put down their crutches and walk.” She drawled mockingly as she opened the burlap sacks, “Miraculously healed.”

  “Why do you use the same name here, then?” He hadn’t seen evidence of that kind of begging ruse being perpetrated here. “What miracles does
this place claim?”

  She answered quietly, not looking at him, “The simple miracle that any of us have found our way to the safety of this place.”

  She cupped her hand to her mouth and sent up a call.

  People emerged from behind the sailcloth walls around them; others hurried down the wide steps from the floors above. Old men, women of all ages, children…all of them in dirty clothing that was haphazardly mended, some in stocking feet, some truly missing arms and legs. The children, especially, crowded around Veronica, with the smallest urged on by the elderly. She reached into the sack of oranges, and beaming a smile, she handed them out to the children one at a time as each came forward and mumbled their thanks.

  She gestured for one of the old men to hand out the apples for her. Then she called one of the women to her and gave her the sack of root vegetables. “Dorothy, make a big pot of stew out of these for dinner for the Court.” She slipped the woman a sovereign coin and lowered her voice, but Merritt overheard. “Take this to the market and buy as much meat and bread as you can to add to the stew, all right?”

  With her eyes glistening with gratitude, the woman nodded and carried away the sack toward what Merritt assumed was the building’s makeshift kitchen somewhere at the back of the lot.

  He stared at Veronica as she continued to hand out the fruit, struck by her sympathy and kindness. It wasn’t only a pretense for him either, as none of the people seemed surprised by the act, which meant she distributed food like this regularly.

  Grudgingly, he was beginning to think perhaps Clayton might be right about her. Not about her innocence—he’d yet to see anything that contradicted what he knew about that—but about her good character. He knew a lot of good people who had been forced into breaking the law. Perhaps she was one.

  Yet he was still a long way from trusting her.

  A boy who couldn’t have been more than three or four was urged forward by his mother. “Go on,” the woman ordered. “Go thank Miss Roni.”

  His round face turned red as he shyly mumbled, “Thank you, Miss, for the new coat.”