Rescued By A Wicked Baron (Steamy Historical Regency)

by Scarlett Osborne

Had he?

  She whittled away impatient hours by scrawling in the notebook Lord Ramshay had given her.

  Her diarizing had morphed from pointless observations about the weather to an outpouring of feelings. There had been so many conflicting emotions charging about inside her these past few weeks that scrawling them all down helped to make sense of them.

  She wrote of Edmund and Aunt Cornelia questioning her innocence and their subsequent, shamefaced apologies. She wrote of the visit with Robert and the guilt she had wrestled with a result. And then there were pages filled with her emerging feelings for Lord Ramshay. There were pages devoted to these sensations that came over her when she thought of him; the shortness of breath and the ache of her breasts and the clenching of her inner thighs. That strange, intoxicating pleasure that had gripped her when she’d felt his lips against her own.

  Lord Ramshay had been right. Diarizing did help her feel better. She would thank him again for the notebook when he at last made an appearance.

  Finally, her impatience got the better of her. She strode out to the garden where Edmund was drinking tea on the terrace.

  “Lord Ramshay,” she said. “Have you seen him of late?” She tried to sound off-hand but could feel color rising in her cheeks. “I’ve not seen him since we—”, she caught herself quickly. “since he visited to give me his notebook.”

  Had Edmund been ranting in Lord Ramshay’s ear again?

  If he is the one keeping him away, I’ll never forgive him.

  “I’ve seen him,” said Edmund. “In the boxing ring.”

  Catherine couldn’t hold back a giggle. “Is that what happened to your eye?” The top of Edmund’s cheek was blue and yellow with a fading bruise. Catherine had so far had the good grace not to mention it. But the thought of Lord Ramshay delivering such a blow was too good to let slide.

  Edmund made a noise in his throat. “I’d forgotten about his talent in the ring.”

  Catherine eyed him. “Did you tell him not to call on me again?”

  “No,” said Edmund. “Quite the opposite. He assured me his feelings for you were genuine. I told him you seemed much improved since his visit.”

  Catherine felt a fluttering inside her. “You did?”

  “Yes. I’m surprised he’s not called on you yet. I thought he’d be at our door the moment I gave him my blessing.”

  Her thoughts began to race.

  Had her impulsive, unladylike kiss turned him away? Surely not. He cared for her, after all. Besides, his boxing match with Edmund had taken place after their visit to Newgate.

  What could be keeping him from calling on me?

  Edmund chuckled, setting his tea cup back on its saucer. “The poor man’s probably lost his nerve,” he told Catherine.

  “Lost his nerve?”

  He raked a hand through his blonde hair, careful to avoid brushing the swelling beneath his eye with his forearm. “Yes, well he’s been pining after you for so long. Perhaps now I’ve given him my blessing it’s all become too much for him.” He gave another snort of laughter.

  Catherine managed a crooked smile. Was that truly the case? How could calling on her be such a terrifying prospect? She was hardly a princess. After the past few days, she could barely even be considered a lady…

  “The Viscount of Eastbury’s ball,” she said casually. “Will you and your friends be attending?”

  “Of course.” Edmund gave her a knowing smile. “Mother will be so pleased to hear you’ve changed your mind.”

  Chapter 18

  “Oh I’m just so glad you’ve decided to accept the Viscount’s invitation, Catherine.” Aunt Cornelia stood behind Catherine at the dressmakers, hovering around her niece like a bee to a flower. “And this color…oh, it’s simply divine.”

  Catherine glanced at herself in the mirror. The moment she had admitted she had changed her mind about the Viscount’s ball, Aunt Cornelia had whisked her off to the dressmaker’s to be draped in swathe after swathe of colored silk.

  “Oh, we’ll have you the most perfect dress made, Catherine,” she had said, a vise-like grip around the top her niece’s arm, as though she was afraid Catherine might try and bolt like a frightened horse. “No one will be able to take their eyes off you.”

  Indeed. She was quite sure the moment she walked into the ball, no one would be able to take their eyes off her, regardless of what she was wearing. Robert Barnet’s sister daring to show her face in public was bound to cause a stir. Catherine was quite sure she could dress like a queen and it wouldn’t stop a single word of the gossip that would ensue.

  There would be gossip and whispers, but there would also be Lord Ramshay. And so Catherine had let herself be dragged along by the whirlwind that was Aunt Cornelia. And now, here she stood in a peach-colored gown with tiny beads at the neckline and a ribbon at her waist. The dressmaker moved along by her feet, pinning the hem carefully.

  Catherine swallowed heavily. Standing here with the silky folds of the gown spilling around her made the ball seem far more real. And there was a part of her that couldn’t help but fear she was making an enormous mistake.

  Attending the ball would open her up to ridicule and scorn. And no doubt there would be people in attendance who still believed her guilty of being her brother’s accomplice.

  She tried to push the thoughts aside. Let the ton say what they would. Gossip, she reminded herself, lost its power the moment you ceased to care about it.

  Catherine brought a hand to the pale skin on her collarbone. It had been a long time since she had seen herself in a ballgown. She had to admit, the dress was beautiful. Aunt Cornelia had chosen well.

  Catherine wanted Lord Ramshay to see her dressed like this. Wanted him to see the white skin at the tops of her shoulders. Wanted him to see that faint hint of cleavage beneath the delicately-beaded neckline.

  When she saw him at the ball in two night’s time, she would ask him what had kept him from calling on her. He had been so open and up front with her about his father’s debts, she felt certain he would give her an honest answer.

  Was Edmund right? Was it just nerves keeping Lord Ramshay from her door?

  Whatever it was, she would find out. And then they would replicate their dance at the Christmas ball three years ago.

  Perhaps we might replicate our kiss at the King’s Wardrobe.

  She let herself imagine the feel of his lips against hers; firm yet soft, achingly warm. What would it feel like to have those lips touch her in other places, she wondered? She dragged a finger along her collarbone, letting herself imagine it was his. The thought made her mouth dry and her skin hot. In the mirror, she could see the flames that had arisen in her cheeks.

  She tried to will them away. She stared at the floor, terrified of catching her aunt’s eye. It felt as though Aunt Cornelia could read every one of her deliciously sinful thoughts.

  “There.” The dressmaker climbed to her feet and stepped back to admire her work. “What do you think, Miss?”

  “It’s perfect,” Aunt Cornelia gushed, before Catherine could speak. “Just perfect.” She beamed at the dressmaker.

  Catherine felt a swell of affection for her aunt. She knew she had lost a daughter in the cradle. It seemed a part of her had spent her entire life longing to dress someone for a ball.

  “Thank you,” Catherine told the dressmaker. “It is a perfect fit.” She turned to her aunt. “What about my hair, Aunt?” she said, not wanting the smile to disappear from Cornelia’s face. “What do you think I ought to wear in it?”

  In an excited frenzy, Aunt Cornelia flapped her way to a shelf of pearled and feathered combs.

  Catherine looked back at her reflection and drew in her breath.

  I’m doing this. I’m actually doing this.

  It was far too late to turn back now.

  Chapter 19

  On the morning of the Viscount of Eastbury’s ball, Patrick found himself entering Newgate prison again.

  What in hell is my life com
ing to?

  He had wanted to stay away from this place. His life was complicated enough without Harry Penwith in it, he had told himself. But he needed to understand. Needed to know who was engineering these threats. Needed to know why.

  Though the evidence was pointing toward someone in his household being involved, Patrick did not want to believe it. He knew his staff well—at least, he had assumed he did—and found it difficult to believe any of them could have been responsible for the threats being made toward him. Believing a convict like Harry Penwith was involved was somehow easier to stomach.

  It had been three years since the man in black had first appeared. Three years since Patrick’s name and face—and address—had become known to these miserable underworld creatures. Why were these threats beginning now?

  Penwith gave Patrick a leering smile as he entered the recreation room. “You’re beginning to become a fixture in this place, My Lord.”

  Patrick slammed the crumpled letter onto the table. “Did you write this?”

  Penwith scanned over the page, his lips curled into a smile. “No,” he said. “But I’d like to shake hands with the man who did.”

  Patrick felt the back of his neck prickle. He clenched his teeth, forcing himself to keep calm. “Why should I believe you?”

  Penwith shrugged. “If it were me, why would I hide it?”

  “Because if you were found to have been harassing a man on the outside, you might find yourself walking to the gallows.”

  Penwith gave a snort of laugh. “I doubt it. You ain’t that important.”

  “Listen to me,” Patrick hissed. “I had nothing to do with you ending up in this place. When are you going to understand that?”

  Penwith snorted. “It ain’t that I don’t understand you, My Lord. I just don’t believe you.”

  Patrick clenched his teeth. He ought to have known this visit would be as fruitless as the last.

  “The church ruins in St. Giles,” he said. “That’s damn close to those gambling houses in Seven Dials you and my father used to frequent. And I’m supposed to believe you had nothing to do with this?”

  Penwith shrugged and leaned back in his chair. He scratched his dirty grey beard. “Believe what you like.”

  Patrick snatched the letter off the table and shoved it back into his pocket.

  “Either way,” Penwith said, “looks like you’ll be making a visit to St. Giles yourself. Doesn’t look like you got a whole lot of choice in the matter.”

  * * *

  Patrick returned to the townhouse and found himself pacing back and forth across his study. He hated that Penwith was right. How could he risk not going through with these demands? How could he put another’s life in danger? If Penwith truly wasn’t involved, it made the likelihood of the culprit being a member of his staff even greater. And that would make harming a member of the household an even easier thing to accomplish.

  A hundred pounds.

  He shoved the money into a coin pouch and yanked the top closed tightly.

  On his way back from Newgate he had all but emptied his bank account. His gambling father had ensured there was little left in there to begin with.

  What a sorry state of affairs, he thought. He would be forced to live as a pauper until the next rents arrived. He would barely be able to make payment on his staff’s wages.

  Would barely make payment for the man in black.

  For a fleeting moment, he imagined running. Taking that hundred pounds and disappearing out of the city. Find some country village in which to build a new life, away from the shadows his father had left behind.

  The thought was a vaguely attractive one, if it weren’t for the fact that he would lose everything. The townhouse, the lands, his title.

  And, most painfully, he would lose any chance at a life with Catherine Barnet.

  If I haven’t lost it already.

  Edmund had finally given them his blessing. And Catherine’s kiss at the King’s Wardrobe had filled Patrick with hope that his feelings for her might be reciprocated. She had been kind and understanding when he had told her about his father’s gambling debts. He had felt as though they were truly beginning to make a connection. But how could he take this further when there were dangerous men appearing at his house with alarming regularity?

  How could he ever take a wife when the perpetrator might well be living under his roof?

  Patrick cursed aloud.

  No, he would not be scared from his home, his life. And he would not let these men take away his chance at happiness with the woman he loved.

  Tonight, he would meet them, pay them so he might keep his household safe. But he would question them. Pry. And he would make his own threats. Show these men a glimpse of the pistol in his pocket and let them know he was not a man they could walk all over.

  He had let himself be pushed around for far too long.

  Tonight, he ought to be attending the Viscount of Eastbury’s ball. But who would notice if he weren’t to show himself? Besides, what point was there in attending a ball anyway? His heart lay firmly with one young lady, and he knew she was not ready to begin making public appearances again.

  And so when night fell, he bundled himself into a simple black greatcoat and scarf. No one in St. Giles could know he was a nobleman. He would keep his head down and do his best to blend into the shadows.

  Patrick shoved the money deep into his coat pocket. Then he took his father’s pistol from the top drawer of the desk. Slipped in a ball and powder, then slid it into his other pocket.

  He made his way downstairs, trying his best not to let his edginess show on his face. With each person he passed, suspicion shot through him.

  There was Sarah polishing the mirror in the hallway.

  Surely she cannot be involved. Can she?

  Mrs. Morgan in the smoking room, dusting the shelves.

  How he hated this paranoia.

  Groves opened the door for him. “You’re not going to the ball tonight, My Lord?”

  Patrick shook his head stiffly. “No. I’ve had a change of plans.”

  “I see. Do you need a cab, sir?”

  “No, Groves,” he said brusquely. “I can make my own way.”

  Patrick walked with his head down and his hands dug into his bulging pockets. It was not a long walk from Belgravia to St Giles but he knew it would take him from one of the wealthiest parts of the city to one of the poorest. The coaches would be replaced by beggars huddled on street corners. Ladies in silk would become women of the night. And the townhouses would give way to crumbling tenements and the illegal gambling dens frequented by the men his father had known.

  Was the man in black an acquaintance of George Thorne? Certainly, Thorne seemed to have had no trouble finding the Ramshay townhouse. He had known of his father’s gambling debts. But there were many people he could have elicited such information from.

  Weren’t there?

  Just how many people knew of the former Lord Ramshay’s indiscretions? He had died before he had been involved in any criminal investigation. Patrick had done his best to keep the information to himself. Had told only his closest friends.

  Handing over a hundred pounds to these men would make for a difficult month financially, but it would not see him ruined.

  But then what? Was Patrick being naïve to hope they might bend to his threats? Disappear back into the cracks they had crawled out from once that money was in their hands?

  He had no choice but to pray it would be so.

  Chapter 20

  Night had fallen emphatically by the time Patrick reached Seven Dials. Though less than two miles from his townhouse, he had never set foot in the place before. He knew of it only through the drunken tales of strangers in taverns and the sordid stories that had emerged after his father’s death.

  Nonetheless, the moment he turned the corner into the wheel of converging streets, he knew he had arrived. Taverns stood on every corner, leading to shadowy courtyards and unlit alleys. Drunke
n laughter and cursing hung in the air, along with the stench of liquor and smoke.

  Patrick tightened one hand around the pouch of money in his pocket, the other even tighter around the pistol. He knew beyond the wheel of Seven Dials lay the dark warren of the St. Giles rookery and the ruined church outside of which George Thorne would be waiting.

  Patrick elbowed his way through the mass of hot bodies, shoulders bumping his and red-lipped women sashaying across his path. He passed ale houses, brothels and candlelit apothecaries. Unmarked doors he guessed housed the gambling dens.