Three days had passed since Paul’s visit. She recalled his smug belief that she would turn to him.
When Hell freezes over.
Hadn’t he admitted that he married his wife for her money, that he wished to use that money to keep Tory for his own pleasures?
What a foolish girl I was to believe myself in love with him.
And what did Mr. Miller have to gain from all of this? She knew he was a business associate of her uncle’s. Perhaps he was the one with the dirty hands, the one dealing with stolen goods.
No word had come for her from her uncle, and she had no notion of his location or well-being. No one would give her any information, although she hadn’t given J. B. much thought since her detainment had begun. Although her uncle had taken her in after her father died, he’d lied to her, broken the law, and offered her up to the likes of Mr. Miller. Every time she thought about it, her blood boiled. Aside from her dear father, every man she’d ever encountered had lied, cheated, stolen, or wanted her as a mistress.
She rolled onto her back to stare at the low ceiling. Fatigue and illness ruling her, she puzzled over Patrick’s continued avoidance of her. He’d truly appeared as a stranger as he’d stood before her almost two weeks ago. His fine clothes had dressed his figure handsomely. He’d professed to still love her, though she had little faith in his words. He’d paid her garnish to the jailer, yet he hadn’t come to the penitentiary to see to her welfare. If he did love her, wouldn’t he wish to assure himself of her well-being?
“I don’t need him,” she grumbled aloud.
Her eyes filled with tears as if of their own volition. What was wrong with her? Anger filled her one moment, followed swiftly by anguish so deep she was nearly swamped with it.
“Oh, Patrick,” she sobbed, giving in at last to a cleansing cry. “Where are you?”
“Asking for your fancy man?” the jailer rasped at her.
Tory gasped and turned toward the bars, trying in vain to see the big man more clearly. How could the man moved so quietly? She wiped the tears from her face and turned toward the wall. Laughter, sickening and low, came from the man’s direction.
“You won’t be keepin’ yourself from me for long, my lady,” he told her, jangling the metal keys menacingly.
Tory stiffened at the sound, a rush of fear coursing down her spine. The jailer laughed again and turned away to let himself into the cell across from hers. Oh, poor Daisy. She sobbed silently in the dark, wondering if she cried for the girl or for herself.
* * *
Patrick checked his reflection in the mirror above the washstand, satisfied that he at least appeared like the gentleman he was. His two very unlikely guardian angels had at long last left his rooms, but not before gaining his assurances that he wouldn’t succumb to the lure of either the brandy bottle or the comely maid.
By the time he’d finished the pot of strong dark tea for which Emmy had rung, his head had ceased all but the slightest pounding. Wolfing down every bit of his breakfast did much to restore him as well.
He straightened his cravat and buttoned his waistcoat. To his amazement, Tony had informed him that nearly two weeks had passed since Tory had been taken to Millbank. After he’d engaged the barrister and supplied him with as much information as possible to prove Tory’s innocence, he’d been told to wait. Wait. Frustrated beyond measure, he’d gotten drunk and stayed that way for the rest of the week.
Guilt and shame ate at him. At the time lost wallowing in a drunken stupor of self-pity while Tory suffered in solitude.
Enough was enough.
He would find a way to see the false charges against his wife dismissed straight away. He would bring her home and he would win back her heart.
He heard a hesitant knock on his door and opened it to find the little maid standing there, contrition in her demeanor. No doubt her ears still rung from Emmy’s admonitions.
“I just come for the tray, my lord,” she said, her head bowed.
As he watched the girl cross the sitting room, his gaze settled on the many boxes still set in one corner of the space. He went to the satchel and withdrew Tory’s beloved gray brooch. He crossed to the sideboard and set in one of the drawers.
“Miss?” he called to the maid.
She turned to him, still wearing that worried expression. “Yes, my lord?”
“Do see to my wife’s belongings,” he told her with a nod. “She’ll soon be joining me and I want to have her dresses pressed and waiting for her.”
The girl dropped a curtsy, all deference now, and bobbed her head.
Patrick donned his jacket and left his rooms, bound and determined to glean as much information about the case against Tory and her uncle. Entering the office on Bow Street, he walked straight up to front desk.
The man seated behind the desk greeted him with a mild look of interest.
“I need some information,” Patrick began without preamble. “And this time, I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”
The man nodded and opened his mouth to speak, then stopped himself and stared beyond Patrick’s shoulder.
Patrick turned to find the constable standing directly behind him. The scarlet-coated gentleman didn’t seem pleased to see him again, his dark eyes narrowed on Patrick’s face.
“Latham, isn’t it?” the thin man asked coolly. “I take it you have come about the case against your wife.”
“I’ll know who gave the information against her, Constable,” Patrick said firmly. “On both her and her uncle.”
The man’s lip curled slightly. “I can’t divulge that to you.”
Patrick held his exasperation in check and tried a different approach. “The person who gave the information will ultimately share in any fines collected, is that not true?”
The constable shrugged and ran his long fingers absently over his red sleeve. “That’s not unusual.”
“But this person has much to gain if my wife remains behind bars, is that not also true?”
The man nodded. “Any fines meted out to the accused wouldn’t be paid until after the trial.”
Patrick’s mind worked for several moments. The constable cleared his throat, drawing his attention again.
“And that won’t be until the Michaelmas term, isn’t that correct?” Patrick asked.
The man nodded once more, and Patrick continued. “What should happen if this witness fails to present any such information at that time?”
The constable’s brows drew together. “Don’t think to impede a case in the Court of Exchequer.”
Patrick forced a smile on his face, bright and false but no less placating to the official. “I would never think to do so.” He bowed to the man. “Good day, Constable. Our conversation has been most enlightening.”
He left the office before the man could utter a reply. His next stop would be White’s. If Tory’s case was to be heard in the Court of Exchequer, then perhaps he would be afforded a bit more flexibility. The court was presided over by barons serving as judges. Surely he would be able to locate a few of those titled gentlemen to hear his version of events. He would make it known that Miller had laid out information against Tory out of vindictiveness and not a sense of justice.
Aside from the information he’d gleaned from the constable, his further investigations were less successful. Upon his arrival at White’s, he couldn’t find one peer willing to discuss the workings of the courts with him. He was unable to gain admission to the most exclusive clubs in Mayfair, due to the fact that both his name and his face were completely unknown to those privileged gentlemen who possessed membership.
For the first time in the past five years, he regretted not taking his title seriously. He’d spent all that time trying to forget his past and deny who he was. Living life as a carefree bachelor. He snorted in disgust at himself. And now it had come back to haunt him and hurt the person he loved most in the world. Had he accepted his social standing, he would have been more than welcomed by the pompous gentleme
n who had the power to help him.
And this time, he had no one to blame but himself.
Like being struck by a flash of reckoning, he suddenly realized he had but one choice open to him now . . . His last hope to secure Tory’s release.
CHAPTER 23
Patrick stood before the impressive townhouse, shifting from foot to foot. The house hadn’t lost its austere appearance in the years since he last crossed its threshold. The gray stone building seemed unchanged, and its many windows stared down at him accusingly.
He remembered another visit many years ago. On a break from Oxford, he’d stopped at the house to call upon his parents. His mother had asked him to pass the evening with them, a simple enough request which he declined. The lure of the city’s amusements held far more appeal to the young whelp that he was. For a fleeting moment, her beloved face had shown her disappointment but then she smiled brightly, gave him a kiss on the cheek, and told him to be careful. Oh, what he wouldn’t give now to hold her close, to assure her that he’d enjoy nothing more than passing a quiet evening in her company.
He had one need burning in his chest: to see his wife freed. Without a doubt, the prospect of her freedom rested solely upon his father’s influence. Praying that his father wouldn’t turn him away, he raised the large brass door knocker and let it fall. The door was swiftly opened by a liveried servant, one whose face was vaguely familiar to Patrick. The man’s eyes grew round with surprise as his mouth worked. Patrick thought to spare the butler from any more discomfort.
“I must speak to Lord Stafford,” he stated at last, his voice steadier than he’d feared.
The butler stared for another moment, finally nodding vigorously. He stepped back to allow Patrick entry and closed the door. “Yes, my lord,” he said to Patrick. “Please wait here a moment.”
Patrick removed his hat, twisting it in his hands, and after a moment realized the irony of the situation. He was literally standing in his father’s foyer, hat in hand. “Fitting,” he muttered. Bloody hat. Once this ordeal was over, he would never wear one again.
He turned toward the sound of footsteps hurrying toward him. It was the butler, but he wasn’t alone.
“Patrick, it’s you!” Susan exclaimed, arriving on the heels of the butler.
Patrick saw uncertainty in her blue eyes. She was dressed prettily in a day dress of rose, her blonde hair upswept in a graceful style. Fine jewels, small but expensive, dressed her ears and neck. She looked every inch the countess, and he realized that for the first time he saw her as his father’s wife and not that long-ago girl from his youth. A little, angel-haired girl held onto her hand. She looked to be about four years old.
“Hello, Susan,” he said, his eyes straying to the child again. “I’d hoped that I could speak to you and . . . the earl.”
He looked at Susan again and saw that her mouth was an O of surprise. She looked quickly at the butler, who nodded once more.
“Stafford is in the library, Latham,” she said with a sigh. “I’ll take you to him.” She crouched down to the child, who continued to stare at Patrick. “Dearest, why don’t you let Maggie take you to the kitchen to see if Cook has those lemon biscuits ready?” She signaled to a young maid who was standing close by.
The little girl’s eyes widened, an expression of delight on her piquant face. Patrick’s heart twisted. This was his little sister. She was so sweet looking.
“Is Cook still making those lemon treats?” Patrick asked her. “I remember gobbling those up when I was a boy.”
Susan straightened, her hand still holding tight to her daughter’s. “Latham, this is Emily. Emily, this is—” She was obviously at a loss there.
“I’m Patrick, Emily. I’m your brother.”
Susan gasped but the child grinned.
“No! You’re too big to be my brother,” she giggled.
Patrick shrugged. “Ah, but I am,” he said with a grin. The child’s laughter was so infectious, he couldn’t help but smile.
Susan watched wide-eyed as he crouched down on the floor, eye-level with the little girl. “I hope you enjoy your treat, Emily. Save some for me, though . . . I’ll be back very soon to have tea with you.”
The little girl giggled again. “Tea? With my brother?”
Patrick grinned and touched the tip of Emily’s nose. Susan gave him a warm yet wary look, then turned to kiss her daughter and allowed the maid to lead her away. The butler took Patrick’s hat and he followed Susan.
She came to a stop at the entry of the library, glancing at Patrick out of the corner of her eye.
“Why are you here, Latham?” she asked softly, wringing her hands. “I won’t have you upsetting your father.”
Patrick didn’t doubt her concern.
“I’m here to throw myself on his mercy,” he replied.
Her brow furrowed, she threw open the double doors and led him into the library.
“Darling,” she began, her voice shaking slightly. “Do look who has come to pay a visit.”
Patrick’s nerves stretched taut as he looked at the older man seated in a large upholstered leather chair with a book in his hands. Meditations, by the ancient Roman philosopher and emperor Marcus Aurelius. Patrick swallowed around a lump in his throat, remembering how much his father enjoyed the writings of the Romans and Greeks.
The Earl of Stafford met Patrick’s gaze with his own direct one, the man’s hazel eyes intent under arched brows. “My God,” the earl marveled aloud. “Is it truly you?”
A wave of guilt washed over Patrick as his father’s eyes grew teary. All those wasted years . . . As he watched, his father gained control over his emotions and gave him a firm nod.
“Hello, sir,” Patrick said, his voice thick.
His father stared at him for a long moment. He unfolded his large frame and took a few strides to stand before Patrick. The earl held his hand out toward him and Patrick clasped it.
Patrick withdrew his hand and cleared his throat again. “I need your help, sir.”
Susan and the earl exchanged matching looks of puzzlement.
Patrick took a deep breath. “My wife’s in trouble, sir,” he said. “I fear you’re the only one who can help her now.”
The earl blinked in obvious confusion.
“Your wife?” Susan asked. “Whom did you . . . Oh! That lovely girl from Elliot’s?”
Patrick should have been surprised at her words. But if Tory could guess that Susan was the woman he’d once thought he loved, surely that woman would be able to guess where his feelings were genuinely engaged. He gave her a quick nod, at which she clasped her hands together and smiled brightly.
“What’s this?” the earl questioned her. He turned back to Patrick. “Who’s this girl?”
“Oh, husband,” Susan gushed. “She’s the niece of the proprietor, and awfully sweet.”
“Yes, but she’s in Millbank, and I must get her released,” Patrick said.
“The prison? No!” Susan exclaimed.
“Millbank?” the earl asked in shock. “Why is she in such a place?”
Patrick raked his fingers through his hair and let out a loud sigh. He began to pace about the library.
“Some bastard—excuse me, Susan,” he said glancing at her then turning back to his father. “Someone gave information against her and her uncle, sir. I’ve tried everything I can think of to free her. She’s an innocent victim because of one man’s desire for revenge.”
Lord Stafford stepped closer and placed his hand on his son’s shoulder.
“Worry no longer,” he told Patrick. “We’ll find a way to free your wife, son.”
For the first time in weeks, hope filled Patrick’s breast. He swallowed against the lump in his throat. “Thank you,” he said in a low voice. “Thank you . . . Father.”
His father’s eyes glimmered with unshed tears. Susan hastily rang for a maid who soon brought a large pot of tea and a tray of Cook’s famous lemon cookies. Patrick reached for one of the pastri
es and popped it into his mouth.
“Mmm,” he murmured. “I’d forgotten how gifted your cook is, Father. I’m glad Emily left a few for us,” he said with a smile.
“You saw the child?” the earl asked.
“Yes. She’s beautiful and very sweet.” He saw that Susan stood off to the side, uncertainty on her face. “It’s all right, Susan,” he said, meaning more than he could say. “All of it.” Patrick felt the past animosity leave him for good.
She gave a small nod and smiled, wiping a tear from her eye.
“Dearest, come join us,” the Earl said in a tender tone to his wife. She sat beside him on the settee and he took her hand in his, then turned to his son. “Now, tell me all about the case against your wife.”
Patrick gave the man what information he had, which seemed scant even to him. He voiced his suspicions that Miller was behind everything as an act of vindictive revenge.
“He wanted to keep Victoria, Father,” Patrick told him, shaking his head. “When Tory and I returned from Gretna Green, she went to her uncle’s house and the constable arrested her right there.”
“You married in Gretna Green?” Susan smiled. “How utterly romantic, Latham.”
Patrick smiled, scratching the back of his neck. This new, friendly rapport with his father and Susan, although welcome, felt a little strange.
The earl finished his tea and set his cup on the table. Patrick awaited the man’s words, knowing full well that only his assistance could save Tory now. Amazing, but he didn’t begrudge his father that power.
“I’ll speak to the magistrate and to anyone else involved,” Patrick’s father said with a nod. “I’ll tell them of Victoria’s innocence.”
Patrick felt that cautious hope once more. “Then you believe me?”
The earl smiled, an expression that Patrick hadn’t seen since long before his mother’s illness. The expression was genuine and full of affection.
“I have no doubt of it,” he stated. “No son of mine would marry a thief.”
That Determined Mister Latham Page 23