by Lisa Kleypas
The part of Lottie’s mind that protested such a circumstance grappled with the rest of her brain, which pointed out that she was exhausted, and at this point it hardly mattered what liberties she allowed him. However, she stubbornly tugged free of him and pushed away from the inviting warmth of his body. He released her easily, his eyes a dark glitter in the shadows.
“I’m not your enemy, Lottie.”
“Are you my friend?” she parried. “You haven’t behaved like one so far.”
“I haven’t forced you to do anything you didn’t want to do.”
“If you hadn’t found me, I would still be residing happily at Stony Cross Park—”
“You weren’t happy there. I’ll wager you haven’t been happy a day in your life since you met Lord Radnor.”
Oh, how she longed to contradict him! But it was pointless to lie, when the truth was obvious.
“You’ll find life a hell of a lot more enjoyable as my wife,” Gentry continued. “You won’t be anyone’s servant. You can do as you please, within reasonable limits. And you won’t have to fear Lord Radnor any longer.”
“All for the price of sleeping with you,” she muttered.
He smiled, all velvety arrogance as he replied. “You may come to enjoy that part of it most of all.”
Chapter Six
When Lottie emerged from her slumber, daylight was leaking through the gaps in the window curtains. Bleary-eyed, disheveled, she glanced at her husband-to-be, whose clothes were rumpled but who was remarkably alert.
“I don’t require much sleep,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. Reaching for her hand, he deposited her hairpins in her palm. Her fingers curled around the bits of wire, which had retained the heat of his skin. Mechanically she proceeded to braid and coil her hair with an efficiency born of long-standing habit.
Drawing aside the curtain, Gentry glanced at the swarming city outside the carriage window. A stray shaft of sunlight caught his eyes, turning them to a shade of blue that seemed almost unnatural. Even sitting in an enclosed carriage, Lottie could sense his familiarity with the city, the fearlessness that made no corner or rookery too dangerous for him to venture into.
No aristocrat she had ever encountered—and there had always been plenty of them at Stony Cross Park—had ever possessed such a street-seasoned look, the hardened demeanor that suggested he would be willing to do anything, no matter how abhorrent, to accomplish his goals. Well-bred men were able to draw the line at certain matters…they had principles and standards…things that Gentry had so far not displayed.
If he was indeed a peer, Lottie thought it was wise of him to reject his heritage and “let Sydney rest in peace,” as he had put it. She was certain that had he chosen otherwise, he would have found it difficult, even impossible, to make a place for himself in London’s rarefied upper crust.
“Lord Westcliff told me that you were the head of a corporation of thieves,” she commented. “He also said that you—”
“I regret to say that I wasn’t nearly as powerful a figure as everyone makes me out to be,” Gentry interrupted. “The stories are exaggerated more each time they’re told. A few chapbook writers have done their best to make me as menacing as Attila the Hun. Not that I’m claiming innocence, of course. I ran a hell of a good smuggling operation. And although I admit my methods were questionable, I was a better thief-taker than any of Cannon’s runners.”
“I don’t understand how you could direct thieves and smugglers and be a thief-taker at the same time.”
“I planted spies and informers all over London, and beyond. I had evidence on everyone from Gin Alley to Dead Man’s Lane. Whenever someone got in the way of what I wanted, I turned him in and collected the bounty. As a runner, I find the business of thief-taking a bit more difficult, as the chief magistrate insists that I do things his way. But I’m still the best man he’s got.”
“And not shy about saying so,” Lottie said dryly.
“I’m not one for false modesty. And it happens to be the truth.”
“I don’t doubt it. You managed to find me when Lord Radnor’s men failed after two years of trying.”
He surveyed her with unnerving intensity. “The more I learned about you, the more curious I became. I wanted to see what kind of girl had the courage to create a new life for herself, with no help from anyone.”
“Courage,” she repeated dubiously. “Strange, that you should call it that, when I’ve always considered it cowardice.”
He was about to reply when the carriage made a sharp turn and traveled along a well-paved street. It was sided by a landscaped green with trees and garden walks. Tidy three-story homes of mellow brick lined the secluded lane, which featured a surprisingly pastoral atmosphere in the midst of the bustling city. “Betterton,” Gentry said, identifying the street. “The Bow Street office is located to our south, and Covent Garden just beyond that.”
“Is the market within walking distance?” Lottie asked, anticipating the prospect of exploring her new surroundings. Although Maidstone’s was established in west London, the students had never been allowed to go anywhere.
“Yes, but you won’t be walking anywhere without me.”
“I am in the habit of going out every morning,” she said, wondering if that small but necessary pleasure was going to be withheld from her.
“I’ll walk with you, then. Or a footman will accompany you. But I won’t have my wife wandering outside unprotected.”
My wife. The casual phrase seemed to knock the breath from Lottie’s lungs. Suddenly the idea of marrying him…accepting his authority, submitting to his wishes…seemed entirely real, whereas it had only been an abstract notion before. It seemed that Gentry had surprised himself as well, for he clamped his mouth shut and stared out the window with a frown. Lottie wondered if the prospect of marriage had also just become real to him…or, God help her, if he was having second thoughts.
The carriage stopped before a house designed in the symmetrical early Georgian style, with white Doric columns and folding glazed doors that opened to a domed entrance hall. The small but elegant residence went so far beyond Lottie’s expectations that she stared at it in wordless amazement.
Exiting the carriage first, Gentry helped her descend, while a footman hastened up the front steps to alert the servants to the master’s arrival.
Grimacing at her cramped leg muscles, Lottie relied on the support of Gentry’s arm as they approached the door. A middle-aged housekeeper greeted them. She was a plump woman with warm eyes and smooth silver hair.
“Mrs. Trench,” Gentry said with sudden mischief dancing in his eyes, “as you can see, I’ve brought a guest with me. Her name is Miss Howard. I will counsel you to treat her well, as she has just convinced me to marry her.”
Catching the implication that she was the one who had pressed for marriage, Lottie gave him a speaking glance, and he grinned.
Mrs. Trench could not hide her astonishment. Clearly it was difficult to twist one’s brain around the concept of a man like Nick Gentry getting married. “Yes, sir.” She curtsied to Lottie. “Welcome, Miss Howard. Congratulations, and much joy to you.”
“Thank you,” Lottie returned with a smile, then looked cautiously at Gentry. No mention had been made of how he expected them to behave in front of the servants. For heaven’s sake, she hadn’t even known that he had servants. She supposed that the household would know quite soon that theirs was a marriage of convenience, so there was little sense in pretending any kind of affection for him.
“Have a room readied, and tell the cook to prepare something for Miss Howard,” he said to Mrs. Trench.
“Will you require a plate as well, sir?”
Gentry shook his head. “I intend to leave soon, to make some arrangements.”
“Yes, sir.” The housekeeper hurried to follow his wishes.
Glancing down at Lottie, Gentry tucked a loose tendril of hair behind her ear. “I will be gone for only a short time. You’re safe here,
and the servants will do exactly as you tell them.”
Did he think she might be distressed by his absence? Surprised by his concern, Lottie nodded. “Of course.”
“Tell Mrs. Trench to show you the house in my absence.” He hesitated briefly. “Naturally I will have no objection if you wish to change anything that is not to your liking.”
“I’m certain that I shall find it acceptable.” Their surroundings were tasteful and elegant—the entranceway, with its marble floor patterned in geometric designs, the little staircase hall beyond, and a set of paneled mahogany doors opening to reveal a low-ceilinged drawing room. The walls were tinted a pale shade of green and hung with a few simple groupings of paintings, while the furniture had clearly been chosen for ease and comfort in lieu of formality. It was a handsome, elegant house, far superior to the one she had grown up in. “Who decorated the house? Not you, surely.”
He smiled at that. “My sister Sophia. I told her it wasn’t necessary, but she seemed to be of the opinion that my judgment is lacking in such matters.”
“Didn’t it cause gossip, for her to visit your home?”
“She always brought Sir Ross with her.” The twist of his mouth conveyed how little he had enjoyed those visits. “The two of them also undertook to choose a household staff for me, as they weren’t especially fond of my hirelings from the flash house. They particularly didn’t like Blueskin or Wapping Bess.”
“Wapping? What does that mean?”
He looked both amused and perturbed by her ignorance of the word. “It means swiving. Frigging.” At her continuing puzzlement, he shook his head ruefully. “Having sexual relations.”
Her confusion rapidly transformed into disapproval. “What in heaven’s name would you have employed her for in this house? No, don’t tell me, I’m sure I should be sorry to know.” She frowned at his amusement. “How many servants do you have?”
“Eight, including Mrs. Trench.”
“You led me to believe that you were a man of limited means.”
“I am, compared to Lord Westcliff. But I can keep you in a comfortable style.”
“Do the other runners live in this manner?”
That made him laugh. “Some do. In addition to the assignments from Bow Street, most of us take private commissions. It would be impossible to live exclusively on the salary the government allots.”
“Commissions such as the one from Lord Radnor?” The thought of him made Lottie’s stomach twist with anxiety. Now that she was in London, easily within Radnor’s reach, she felt like a rabbit that had been flushed from its burrow. “Has he already paid you for finding me? What will you do with the money?”
“I’ll return it to him.”
“What about my family?” she whispered apologetically. “Might something be done for them? Lord Radnor will withdraw his patronage…”
Gentry nodded. “I had already considered that. Of course I will take care of them.”
Lottie hardly dared to believe her ears. It was asking a great deal of any man to support his wife’s entire family, and yet Gentry seemed to accept the burden without apparent resentment. “Thank you,” she said, nearly breathless with sudden relief. “That is kind of you.”
“I can be very kind,” he replied softly, “given the right incentive.”
Lottie stood still as he fingered her earlobe and stroked the hollow just behind it. A rush of heat spread over her face…such a small, almost innocuous caress, and yet he had found a place so susceptible that she gasped at the brush of his fingertip. He bent his head to kiss her, but she turned her face away. He could have anything he wanted of her, except that. To her, a kiss held a meaning beyond the physical, and she did not want to give that part of herself to him.
His lips touched her cheek instead, and she felt the warm curve of his smile. Once again, he showed an uncanny ability to read her thoughts. “What can I do to earn a kiss from you?”
“Nothing.”
His mouth slid lightly over the edge of her cheekbone. “We’ll see about that.”
To most people, the dingy, well-worn Bow Street public office, smelling of sweat, brass polish, and charge-books, was not an inviting place. But during the past three years, Nick had become so familiar with every inch of the office that it felt like home. An outside visitor would be hard-pressed to believe that the small, unassuming buildings—Bow Street Nos. 3 and 4—were the center of criminal investigation in England. Here was where Sir Grant Morgan held court and directed the force of eight runners under his command.
Wearing a relaxed smile, Nick returned the greetings of clerks and constables as he made his way through No. 3 Bow Street. It had not taken long for the force at Bow Street to appreciate his finer points, most particularly his willingness to go to the rookeries and flash houses that no one else dared to venture into. He didn’t mind taking the most dangerous assignments, as he had no family of his own to consider, and he wasn’t particular in any case. In fact, through some quirk of his character that even Nick didn’t understand, he required a frequent amount of risk, as if danger were an addictive drug that he had no hope of renouncing. The past two months of tame investigative work had filled him with a raw energy that he could barely contain.
Reaching Morgan’s office, Nick looked askance at the main court clerk, Vickery, who gave him an encouraging nod. “Sir Grant has not yet gone to morning sessions, Mr. Gentry. I am certain that he will wish to see you.”
Nick knocked on the door and heard Morgan’s rumbling voice. “Come in.”
As massive as the battered mahogany desk was, it appeared like a piece of children’s furniture compared to the size of the man who sat behind it. Sir Grant Morgan was a spectacularly large man, at least five inches taller than Nick’s own height of six feet. Although Morgan was fast approaching the age of forty, no hint of silver had yet appeared in his short black hair, and his distinctive vitality had not faded since the days that he himself had served as a Bow Street runner. As well as having been the most accomplished runner of his day, Morgan was easily the most popular, as he had once been the subject of a string of best-selling ha’penny novels. Before Morgan, the government and the public had regarded the entire Bow Street force with the innate British suspicion toward any form of organized law enforcement.
Nick had been relieved by Sir Ross’s decision to appoint Morgan as his successor. An intelligent and self-educated man, Morgan had worked his way through the ranks, beginning in the foot patrol and working his way to the exalted position of chief magistrate. Nick respected that. He also liked Morgan’s characteristic blunt honesty and the fact that he seldom bothered with splitting ethical hairs when a job needed to be done.
Morgan guided the runners with an iron hand, and they respected him for his toughness. His only apparent vulnerability was his wife, a small but lovely woman whose mere presence could make her husband start purring like a cat. One could always tell when Lady Morgan had visited the offices at Bow Street, leaving a bewitching trace of perfume in the air and a happily bemused expression on her husband’s face. Nick was amused by Sir Grant’s obvious weakness where his wife was concerned, and he was determined to avoid such a trap. No female was ever going to lead him around by the nose. Let Morgan and Sir Ross make fools of themselves over their wives—he was much smarter than they.
“Welcome back,” the magistrate said, leaning back in his chair to regard him with sharp green eyes. “Have a seat. I assume your return means that you have concluded your business with Lord Radnor?”
Nick took the chair across the desk. “Yes. I found Miss Howard in Hampshire, working as a lady’s companion to the dowager countess of Westcliff.”
“I am acquainted with Lord Westcliff,” Morgan remarked. “A man of honor and good sense—and perhaps the only peer in England who doesn’t equate modernity with coarseness.”
For Morgan, the comments were akin to wildly effusive praise. Nick made a noncommittal grunt, having little desire to discuss the many virtues of Westcliff
. “After tomorrow, I will be ready for new assignments,” he said. “I just have one last matter to clear away.”
Although Nick had expected that Morgan would be pleased by the information—after all, he had been absent for two months—the magistrate received his words in a surprisingly distant manner. “I’ll see if I can find something for you to do. In the meantime—”
“What?” Nick stared at him with open suspicion. The magistrate had never displayed such diffidence before. There was always something to be done…unless the entire London underworld had elected to go on leave at the same time Nick had.
Looking as though he wanted to discuss some volatile matter but had not been given permission to do so, Morgan frowned. “You need to visit Sir Ross,” he said abruptly. “There is something that he wants to communicate with you.”
Nick didn’t like the sound of that at all. His suspicious gaze met with Morgan’s. “What the hell does he want?” As one of the few people who knew about Nick’s secret past, Morgan was well aware of the agreement Nick had made three years earlier and the difficulties between him and his esteemed brother-in-law.
“You’ll have to learn that from Sir Ross,” Morgan replied. “And until you do, you will receive no assignments from me.”
“What have I done now?” Nick asked, suspecting that some kind of punishment was being inflicted on him. Swiftly he mulled over his actions of the past few months. There had been the usual minor infractions, but nothing out of the ordinary. He found it infuriating that Sir Ross, despite his so-called retirement, still had the ability to manipulate him. And Morgan, damn his eyes, would never go against Sir Ross’s wishes.
Amusement flickered in Morgan’s eyes. “To my knowledge, you’ve done nothing wrong, Gentry. I suspect that Sir Ross wishes to discuss your actions at the Barthas house fire.”
Nick scowled. Two months earlier, just before taking the commission from Lord Radnor, he had received an on-duty summons to run to the fashionable quarter near Covent Garden. A fire had started in a private house belonging to Nathaniel Barthas, a rich wine merchant. Being the first constable to arrive on the scene, Nick had been informed by onlookers that no one in the family had been seen to exit the burning building.