by Elisa Braden
Bloody hell. This explained at least half of his bizarre exchanges with Matilda Bentley over the past month. “Nevertheless, we are to wed shortly. The reason for my visit is—”
“Damn me, what a disappointment, Conrad. Now I’m forced to reconsider that arrogant milksop, Standish.”
“Standish?” Robert stiffened, his stomach going cold. “You shouldn’t, sir.”
“He’s shown interest, and she tolerates his company. He’ll inherit a baronetcy—”
“He does not treat women well.”
Bentley’s chin went up. Shrewd eyes assessed Robert. “How do you know this?”
The things Atherbourne had told him burned his throat. Accusing a man—even Standish—of such depravity without proof would garner only charges of slander. Still, he could not in good conscience let Bentley consider matching Matilda with a villain. “If you regard me as a gentleman of good judgment, I must beg your trust in this matter,” Robert said carefully. “Reject Standish’s suit. You’ll have no regrets, I promise.”
Bentley laced his fingers across his belly. “Matilda will enjoy another season, I suppose.” His gaze sharpened upon Robert. “He was not who I wanted for her, in any case.”
Robert inclined his head, accepting the compliment.
“Now, then. If you did not intend to negotiate a marriage to my daughter, what did prompt your visit?”
“A recent death, sir.”
“Oh?”
“A publisher, name of Green. He was killed in his office several nights ago.”
Bentley’s expression shuttered. He strummed his fingers upon his belly.
“Green’s list of enemies is long,” Robert continued. “It includes an acquaintance of mine. Lord Atherbourne.” Yesterday, after leaving Lady Wallingham’s house, Robert had realized he’d need a story to tell Bentley that kept Annabelle safely out of the picture. He also needed Bentley to believe they were on the same side. “Green viciously maligned Atherbourne and, more importantly, Atherbourne’s new wife. His lordship is keen to know who might have attacked Green, as he has no wish to be accused of the deed, himself.”
“Hmm. And what makes you think I can help?”
Robert leaned forward and held Bentley’s gaze with bold directness. “Many good men have been harmed by that blackguard’s pen. Whoever put an end to him has done us all a service.”
Bentley frowned. “He targeted you, too?”
It was the first sign of an opening. Treading cautiously, Robert nodded. Not entirely a lie. By hurting Annabelle, Green might as well have targeted Robert.
“Bastard,” Bentley spat, shoving to his feet so fast the chair rocked on its legs. “That piece of filth was a liar and a thief.” He stomped to the sideboard and refilled his glass with a generous portion of brandy. After several swallows, Bentley continued ranting. “He stole my good name. Did likewise to Atherbourne. Others. I’d planned to sue. Would have won, too. Bastard.” He drained his glass then refilled it again. Then, pointing at Robert, he nodded. “You understand, don’t you? Aye. You do. I can see it. I always knew you were a good sort, Conrad. Good man.”
Bloody hell, he needed details, and all Bentley gave were generalities. But he had to remain careful, keep the older man talking without compromising his own position. “I do,” he confirmed. “I do understand. Did you speak to him? Green.”
Bentley threw back another swallow and nodded. “Several times. I threatened suit. He laughed. Said his backers wouldn’t care; they’d start a new publication under a new name. He’d done it before, he said. Bastard.”
“A man like that is fortunate to have lasted as long as he did,” Robert prompted.
“Right you are. Right you are.” Bentley finished what had to be his third or fourth brandy then slammed the glass down on the sideboard. “Never meant to kill him, though.”
Tightness coiled in Robert’s chest. With great effort, he remained still. “How did it happen?”
“Bastard pushed too far. I only went there that night to give him one last chance. Print a retraction. Tell the bloody truth.” Bentley shook his head. “He wouldn’t. All but spat in my face. So I …” He paled. Wiped his mouth then his graying hair. “I struck him. He fell to the ground. I thought he was unhurt. He even shouted at me as I was leaving. But he must have cracked his head on the floor or something. Next day, I read that he’d … he’d been found dead.”
Trying to recall Green’s injuries, Robert frowned. “Where did you strike him?”
Bentley pointed to his own cheek. “Here, I think. In any case, reports suggest his head was injured. Must have been from the fall.”
It was possible, Robert supposed. Still, a head wound as severe as Green’s would have rendered the man instantly unconscious. Shouting would have been out of the question. Perhaps the wound had not been as severe as he remembered. Or perhaps Bentley’s recollection was confused. The only alternative was that two men independently attacked the publisher the same night—extremely unlikely.
“Sounds accidental to me,” Robert commented. “Did he reveal anything about his backers—or perhaps those who worked for him?”
“You mean Aimes.” The shrewdness was back. “Don’t bother with that line of inquiry, Conrad. Green was Aimes, near as I can determine. And good riddance.”
Slowly, relief unraveled the knot in his chest. Annabelle was safe. That was all that mattered.
“Do you intend to report this to Bow Street?” Bentley asked.
Robert examined the older man, whose color had returned, though he steadied himself against the sideboard. “No. You might wish to speak to them, however. A runner named Drayton works for the Duke of Blackmore. He should prove sympathetic. I’d wager he’ll conclude the matter should be regarded as an accident for legal purposes.”
Bentley stared at him for a long moment then lowered his head. “Good man, Conrad,” he murmured. “Good man.”
A short while later, Robert donned his hat while glancing up and down the length of Brook Street. One of Bentley’s servants had been tasked with retrieving Dewdrop, which invariably took longer than it should. For once, Robert was in no hurry.
Annabelle was safe. Green was dead, and his attacker had been discovered. Edward Yarrow Aimes was no more. And soon, Robert would make Annabelle his wife.
He blinked up at a tiny sliver of blue amongst shifting clouds. Perhaps, after battling everything that stood in their way, he and his Bumblebee were about to triumph at long last. Perhaps it was time to hope.
Faintly, he heard the lazy clop-clop-clop of Dewdrop emerging through the gate from Bentley’s mews. The groom looked apologetic. “Begging your pardon for the delay, Mr. Conrad.”
Robert felt himself smiling. Fancy that. He was smiling. “No need. Dewdrop prefers a steady pace over a swift one.”
He closed half the distance to where the groom held his mount before he heard the clamor behind him. A loud pop. A man shouting a curse. Horses screamed. Wheels ground against cobbles in a rolling drum.
Without thinking, Robert spun on his bad leg. Fierce agony gripped his muscles.
“Whoa, boy. Whoa!” It was the groom, now behind him.
But Robert only saw the coach. It raced toward him. Twenty feet. Fifteen. The driver looked panicked, teeth gritted and reins gripped. Ten feet. Five.
Five thousand pounds of uncontrolled horseflesh. Another two thousand of muscular black coach. They were going to hit him. Now.
Planting his feet and using his cane, Robert tried to stagger out of their path, but his leg was weak. Useless. A heartbeat before the collision, everything disappeared—sound, memory, the street and the strip of blue sky—everything except the one thing he could not bear to leave.
Annabelle. His heart. God, how he loved her.
The strike lifted him into the air. Deflated his lungs. Sent him plowing into the black iron bars of the mews gate. He hit the ground with unforgiving force.
Couldn’t breat
he. For a moment, then another, he couldn’t bloody breathe.
Christ, he remembered this feeling. Closed his eyes and forced himself to relax. He’d done this before. Slow. Easy. There. His first breath wheezed. The bruising pain in his back and shoulder and hip were likewise familiar. He’d fallen farther and suffered worse.
Something warm, moist, and sizable swiped from his chin to his forehead. The swipe repeated. Then came a snuffle. A nudge.
He opened his eyes to a giant nostril surrounded by white. A wide, pink tongue licked his forehead. His hand came up to rub Dewdrop’s nose.
“… terribly sorry, sir. He just … bolted! Knocked you out of the path right as you were about to be flattened. Never saw the like.”
“It’s all right,” Robert managed, patting the horse’s cheek. “You did well, Dewdrop. Well, indeed.”
“The coach appeared frightfully sudden, sir. And at such speed!”
Robert raised a brow at the young groom, who stood with his hands on his knees. “Did you see where it went?”
“Toward the park, I reckon.”
Robert looked for his cane and found it several yards away. “Fetch that for me, won’t you?” He gripped the gate’s iron bars and used his left leg to lever himself to his feet.
“Here you are, sir. Your hat, too.”
“My thanks.” Robert donned his hat and tucked his cane into its loop on Dewdrop’s saddle. After checking to ensure the horse wasn’t injured, he stroked his neck in one final gesture of gratitude and mounted up.
“Sir, should I … that is, it did appear the coach was aimed at—”
Robert glared at the boy calmly. “Nonsense. An accident, that’s all. No harm done.”
But minutes later, as he made a second pass along Park Lane, scouring the area and finding no sign of a runaway travel coach, he had to concede what was becoming increasingly apparent.
That sliver of blue sky had been a taunt.
There were no accidents. Only threats hanging heavy and dark along the edges. Waiting for him to make a mistake.
No, someone wanted him to let the matter of Green’s murder die, and they were willing to kill again to ensure he complied. It wasn’t Bentley.
So, who?
Once again, he felt the battle slipping away from him. He had one last maneuver. A retreat, some might say. But it would safeguard the one thing that mattered. Yes, his mission was clear: Claim his woman. His heart. His wife. And protect her from whatever came next.
*~*~*
“You’ve a visitor waiting in the drawing room, my lady,” said Estelle as soon as Annabelle and Jane arrived at Berne House. The lady’s maid took their bonnets and gloves, along with their flowers, and nodded toward the stairs. “Lady Berne ordered tea.”
“Who is it?” Annabelle asked.
Before Estelle could answer, Genie flew from the corridor toward the front entrance. Her arms wheeled as her feet slid. “It’s not yours, Kate! He never said it was yours!”
“Where is it, Genie?” Kate yelled, charging after her sister with red-faced rage. “Where did you hide it?”
Genie skidded around Annabelle and ducked behind her back.
“Eugenia, I make a dreadful disguise,” Annabelle pointed out. “Apart from which, Kate has already seen you. Now, what have you done?”
“Only what’s right.” A slim arm shot out to point toward the heaving ball of fury that was once their youngest sister. “It doesn’t belong to her, and she needs to learn—”
“Give it back!” Kate screamed.
“Girls! That is quite enough!” Mama’s warning tone brought everything to a halt. She took the last few stairs and bustled into the entrance hall. “What have I told you about such carrying on? You know your father prefers a peaceful, quiet house.”
Annabelle quirked a smile at Jane and murmured, “How would he know? He’s never had one.”
Jane snorted. “A man must have aspirations, I suppose.”
Mama gathered her two youngest viragos and explained why she must now cancel the Bond Street excursion she had planned for them, because “I cannot possibly take two such ill-tempered, ill-behaved young ladies into respectable shops, can I?” Then, having chastened them both, Mama sent them to their bedchambers.
She sighed before turning to Annabelle and Jane. “Perhaps I should hire a governess.”
Annabelle frowned. “You swore you’d never hire another after the last one … well, you know.”
“Yes.” Mama looked weary, her smile strained. “But John is rarely home these days.”
Their last governess had been young, pretty, and wildly ambitious. She’d worked for the family only a year before she’d crawled naked into John’s bed and attempted to elevate her rank by way of begetting a child.
John had always been a deep sleeper, near impossible to awaken without a great deal of shouting or jostling or both. After being alerted to the governess’s scheme by Estelle, Papa had entered John’s chamber to warn him. Annabelle had later—years later, following a campaign of wheedling and bribery—persuaded Estelle to reveal what they’d found. Reportedly, John had still been asleep, and the governess had attempted to mount him in the way one sat astride a saddle.
Annabelle had tried to puzzle out the mechanics of it, but she always grew a bit nauseated—he was her brother, after all—so she’d never quite made it past the naked, scheming governess part before her skin started crawling.
Thereafter, Mama had determined governesses were unnecessary, as she and Papa could educate their daughters themselves. Still, managing five girls with willful, independent spirits must be trying.
Annabelle looked at her mother now, shoulders curled forward, lines beside her mouth deeper than usual. And a strange thought occurred to her—this might be Annabelle’s future.
She’d agreed to marry Robert.
Which meant she would be a wife.
And, should they be blessed with children, a mother.
Why reality should take this long to sink in, she did not know. She’d thought he’d come to his senses, she supposed. But he hadn’t. And now, all she could think about was babies and orange blossoms.
Well, kissing, too. Kissing Robert was sublime.
Yet, being a wife and mother also meant managing things—keeping a proper household, planning meals for hard-to-please visitors like Lady Wallingham, deciding whether to hire a governess for your termagant daughters, and weighing your love of cats against your husband’s sneezing.
Or dismissing an upstart, scheming harlot who’d tried to trap your son.
Annabelle thought about what that must have been like. She imagined her own son. Robert’s son. With Robert’s eyes and his rare smile. If anyone tried to harm her son, she’d not have the restraint Mama and Papa had shown. Dismissal would be the least of the schemer’s worries.
Behind them, Estelle asked, “Begging your pardon, my lady, but should I send Ned to the drawing room with fresh tea and biscuits?”
Mama’s eyes went round. “Dear me, I nearly forgot. Annabelle, you should go up at once. He is most exercised. Well, so far as one can tell from the glower.”
“Robert?” The word sounded hoarse. She cleared her throat. “Robert is here?”
“He was adamant about waiting. It has been hours, dearest.”
She swallowed her apprehension, ran her hands over her skirts and hair, then started up the stairs. The moment she entered the drawing room, she simply stopped and let her earlier realization take root.
This man—the one standing at the window with the broad, broad shoulders and solid bearing—would be her husband. The thought made her head swim.
Would they be happy? Could they be? Once, she would have shouted yes in a resounding drumbeat to match her foolish heart. Now, she wondered whether happiness was even possible. The very best of marriages suffered ravages from time to time. Wives lost their tempers; husbands lost their patience; mothers were forced to watch
their children fall ill; fathers were forced to carry their daughters after they’d broken a toe.
Without the kind of love that bound Mama and Papa together, how much battering could a marriage take before it broke apart?
She did not know.
How much worse might matters be if a husband wanted his wife but would suffer a daily reminder of how she’d harmed him?
She did not know.
How fragile might their family be if she loved her husband but had little hope he would ever feel the same?
She did not know.
She’d promised to marry him because she loved him madly. Possessively. Hopelessly. Her reasons were selfish but understandable. His reasons, by contrast, were incomprehensible. Did he want her? Or was she a habit he’d fallen into? How long before resentments made their union unbearable?
Perhaps this had been a mistake.
A cold flush soaked into her skin.
Dear God. What if this marriage was the biggest mistake either of them ever made?
Long minutes passed before she could breathe properly. She eyed his shoulders and the way he grasped his cane. His fingers gripped it over and over when he was agitated. Her foolish heart squeezed and ached.
“Robert,” she called softly.
He turned. Oh, heavens. Exercised was not the word she would have chosen. Explosive, perhaps. Enraged, certainly. Blue eyes blazed fire beneath heavy brows.
“Where the devil have you been?” he barked. Rather than waiting for an answer, he charged toward her like a storm.
Her heart kicked in her chest. Her belly swooped and clenched. “R-Robert.” As he came for her, she automatically stepped backward, raising a hand only to have it meet his chest.
Everything happened at once. He grasped her nape. Used his cane to shove the door closed. Backed her into it. Then brought her mouth to his with passionate purpose.
Her moan hummed against his lips. Her tongue tingled as it met his, sleek and sliding.
Her hands grasped. Clutched.
Her hips yearned. Thrust.
Heat detonated as he cupped her jaw and went deeper.