An Unwilling Conquest

by Stephanie Laurens

  Lucinda stared at him in disbelief.

  Harry smiled. “I know how much you’re looking forward to getting back to town—and waltzing in gentlemen’s arms.”

  Frustration filled Lucinda, so intense it made her giddy. When Harry merely raised his brows, all mild and innocent, she narrowed her eyes and glared.

  Harry’s lips twitched; he gestured to the door.

  Lucinda drew in a deep, steadying breath. If she wasn’t a lady…

  Setting her teeth against the urge to grind them, she slid her hand into the crook of his arm. Lips set in a thoroughly disapproving, not to say disgruntled line, she allowed him to lead her downstairs.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “So—do you have it clear?” Seated behind the desk in his library, Harry drew an unnibbed pen back and forth between his fingers, his gaze, very green, trained on the individual in the chair before him.

  Plain brown eyes regarded him from an unremarkable countenance; the man’s attire proclaimed him not of the ton but his occupation could not be discerned from the drab garments. Phineas Salter could have been anything—almost anyone—which was precisely what made him so successful at his trade.

  The ex-Bow Street Runner nodded. “Aye, sir. I’m to check up on the gentlemen—Mr Earle Joliffe and Mr Mortimer Babbacombe—with a view to uncovering any reason they might have to wish a Mrs Lucinda Babbacombe—the said Mortimer’s aunt-by-marriage—ill.”

  “And you’re to do it without raising a dust.” Harry’s gaze became acute.

  Salter inclined his head. “Naturally, sir. If the gentlemen are up to anything, we wouldn’t want to tip them the wink. Not before we’re ready.”

  Harry grimaced. “Quite. But I should also stress that we do not wish, at any time, for Mrs Babbacombe herself to become aware of our suspicions. Or, indeed, that there might be any reason for investigation at all.”

  Salter frowned. “Without disrespect, sir, do you think that’s wise? From what you’ve told me, these villains aren’t above drastic action. Wouldn’t it be better if the lady’s forewarned?”

  “If it were any other lady, one who would be predictably shocked and content thereafter to leave the matter in our hands, I’d unhesitatingly agree. However, Mrs Babbacombe is not one such.” Harry studied his newest employee; when he spoke his tone was instructive. “I’d be willing to wager that, if she were to learn of Babbacombe’s apparent involvement with her recent adventures, Mrs Babbacombe would order her carriage around and have herself driven to his lodgings, intent on demanding an explanation. Alone.”

  Salter’s expression blanked. “Ah.” He blinked. “A bit naïve, is she?”

  “No.” Harry’s tone hardened. “Not particularly. She’s merely incapable of recognising her own vulnerability but, conversely, has infinite confidence in her ability to prevail.” The planes of his face shifted, his expression now mirroring his tone. “In this case, I would rather not have her put it to the test.”

  “No, indeed.” Salter nodded. “From what little I’ve heard tell, this Joliffe’s not the sort for a lady to tangle with.”

  “Precisely.” Harry rose; Salter rose, too. The ex-Runner was a stocky man, broad and heavy. Harry nodded. “Report back to me as soon as you have any word.”

  “I will that, sir. You may depend on me.”

  Harry shook Salter’s hand. Dawlish, who, at Harry’s intimation, had silently witnessed the interview, straightened from his position by the door and showed Salter out. Turning to the windows, Harry stood idly flicking the pen between his fingers, gazing unseeing at the courtyard beyond.

  Salter was well-known to the intimates of Jackson’s saloon and Cribb’s parlour. A boxer of some skill, he was one of the few not of the ton with a ready entrée to those tonnish precincts. But it was his other skills that had led Harry to call him in. Salter’s fame as a Runner had been considerable but clouded; the magistrates had not approved of his habit of, quite literally, using thieves to catch thieves. His successes had not ameliorated their disapproval and he had parted company from the London constabulary by mutual accord. Since then, however, he had established a reputation among certain of the ton’s gentlemen as a reliable man whenever matters of questionable, possibly illegal, behaviour needed to be investigated with absolute discretion.

  Such a matter, in Harry’s opinion, was Mortimer Babbacombe’s apparent interest in Lucinda’s well-being.

  He would have handled the matter himself but was at a loss to understand Mortimer’s motives. He could hardly let the matter rest and, given his conviction that it was linked with the incident on the Newmarket road, he had opted for caution, to whit, the discretion and skill for which Salter was renown.

  “Well, then!” Dawlish returned and shut the door. “A fine broiling, altogether.” He slanted a glance at Harry. “You want me to keep an eye on her?”

  Slowly, Harry raised his brows. “It’s an idea.” He paused, then asked, “How do you think her coachman—Joshua, isn’t it?—would take the news?”

  “Right concerned, he’d be.”

  Harry’s eyes narrowed. “And her maid, the redoubtable Agatha?”

  “Even more so, unless I miss my guess. Right protective, she is—after you took them away from Asterley and organised to cover the lady’s tracks, she’s revised her opinion of you.”

  Harry’s lips twitched. “Good. Then recruit her as well. I have a feeling we should keep as many eyes on Mrs Babbacombe as possible—just in case.”

  “Aye—no sense in taking any risks.” Dawlish headed for the door. “Not after all your hard work.”

  Harry’s brows flew up. He turned—but Dawlish had escaped.

  Hard work? Harry’s lips firmed into a line. His expression resigned, he turned back to the greenery outside. The truly hard part was yet to come but he had charted his course and was determined to stick to it.

  When next he proposed to his siren, he wanted no arguments about love.

  “Oh!” Dawlish’s head popped back around the door. “Just remembered—it’s Lady Mickleham’s tonight. Want me to organise the carriages and all when I see Joshua?”

  Harry nodded. The skies outside were a beautiful blue. “Before you go, have the greys put to.”

  “You going for a drive?”

  “Yes.” Harry’s expression turned grim. “In the Park.”

  Fergus opened his aunt’s door to him fifteen minutes later. Harry handed him his gloves and shrugged off his greatcoat. “I assume my aunt is resting?”

  “Indeed, sir. She’s been laid down this hour and past.”

  “I won’t disturb her—it’s Mrs Babbacombe I wish to see.”

  “Ah.” Fergus blinked, his expression blanking. “I fear Mrs Babbacombe is engaged, sir.”

  Harry slowly turned his head until his gaze rested on Fergus’s impassive countenance. “Indeed?”

  He waited; Fergus, to his relief, deigned to answer his unvoiced question without insisting on an embarrassing prompt.

  “She’s in the back parlour—her office—with a Mr Mabberly. A well-spoken young gentleman—he’s her agent, I understand.”

  “I see.” Harry hesitated, then, quite sure Fergus understood only too well, dismissed him with a nod. “No need to announce me.” With that, he mounted the stairs, reining in his impatience enough to make the ascent at least appear idle. But when he gained the upper corridor, his strides lengthened. He paused with his hand on the parlour doorknob; he could hear muted voices within.

  His expression distinctly hard, he opened the door.

  Lucinda was seated on the chaise, an open ledger on her lap. She looked up—and broke off in mid-sentence to stare at him.

  A youngish gentleman, precise and soberly dressed, was hovering by her shoulder, leaning over to look at the figures to which she was pointing.

  “I wasn’t expecting you,” Lucinda said, shaking her wits into order.

  “Good afternoon,” Harry replied.

  “Indeed.” Lucinda’s glance held a
definite warning. “I believe I’ve mentioned Mr Mabberly to you—he’s my agent. He assists me with the inns. Mr Mabberly—Mr Lester.”

  Mr Mabberly somewhat hesitantly put out his hand. Harry regarded it for an instant, then shook it briefly. And immediately turned to Lucinda. “Will you be long?”

  Lucinda looked him in the eye. “At least another half-hour.”

  Mr Mabberly shifted, casting a nervous glance from Lucinda to Harry and back again. “Er…perhaps—”

  “We have yet to do the Edinburgh accounts,” Lucinda declared, shutting the heavy ledger and lifting it from her lap. Mr Mabberly hastened to relieve her of it. “It’s that book there—the third one.” As Mr Mabberly hurried across the room to retrieve the required tome, Lucinda raised limpid eyes to Harry’s face. “Perhaps, Mr Lester—”

  “I’ll wait.” Harry turned, walked two paces to the nearest chair, and sat down.

  Lucinda watched him impassively—she didn’t dare smile. Then Anthony Mabberly was back and she turned her attention to her three Edinburgh inns.

  As Lucinda checked figures and tallies and rates, comparing the present quarter with the last and that of the year before, Harry studied Mr Mabberly. Within five minutes, he had seen enough to reassure him; Mr Mabberly might regard his employer as something of a goddess, but Harry was left with the distinct impression that his admiration was occasioned more by her business acumen than by her person. Indeed, inside of ten minutes, he was ready to swear that Mr Mabberly’s regard was entirely intellectual.

  Relaxing, Harry stretched out his legs—and allowed his gaze to settle on his principal concern.

  Lucinda sensed the easing of his tension—not a difficult feat as it had reached her in waves—with a measure of relief. If he refused to accept she would need to deal with such as Anthony Mabberly, that regardless of all else she had a business to run, then they would face serious hurdles all too soon. But all appeared serene. While waiting for Mr Mabberly to fetch the last ledger, she glanced at Harry to find him regarding her with nothing more unnerving than very definite boredom in his eyes.

  He lifted a brow at her but offered no word.

  Lucinda turned back to her work—and quickly completed it.

  Mr Mabberly did not dally but neither did he run. He very correctly took his leave of Lucinda, then bowed punctiliously to Harry before departing, promising to carry out Lucinda’s commissions and report as usual the next week.

  “Humph!” Harry remained standing, watching the door close behind Mabberly.

  After one glance at his face, Lucinda remarked, “I do hope you’re not about to tell me there is any impropriety in my seeing my agent alone?”

  Harry bit his tongue; he swung to face her, his gaze distinctly cool. As he watched Lucinda’s gaze shifted, going past him.

  “After all,” she continued, “he could hardly be considered a danger.”

  Harry followed her gaze to the daybed before the windows. He looked back at her, and surprised an expression of uncertainty, mixed with a readily identifiable longing. They were, once again, very much alone; his inclinations, he knew, matched hers. Harry cleared his throat. “I came to persuade you to a drive in the Park.”

  “The Park?” Surprised, Lucinda looked up at him. Em had told her Harry rarely drove in the Park during the hours of the fashionable promenades. “Why?”

  “Why?” Harry looked down at her, his expression momentarily blank. Then he frowned. “What sort of a ridiculous question is that?” When Lucinda’s gaze turned suspicious, he waved a languid hand. “I merely thought you might be bored and could do with the fresh air. Lady Mickleham’s balls are notoriously crowded.”

  “Oh.” Lucinda slowly rose, her eyes searching his face but with no success. “Perhaps a drive would be a good idea.”

  “Indubitably.” Harry waved her to the door. “I’ll wait downstairs while you get your coat and bonnet.”

  Ten minutes later, Lucinda allowed him to lift her into his curricle, still not at all sure she understood. But he was here—she could see no reason to deny herself his company. Reflecting that after yesterday, when he had driven her all the way from Lester Hall to Audley Street in his curricle, she should have had a surfeit of his dry comments, she blithely settled her skirts and looked forward to a few more.

  He didn’t disappoint her.

  As they passed through the heavy wrought-iron gates and on into the Park, bowling along the shaded drive, Harry slanted her a glance. “I regret, my dear, that as my horses are very fresh, we won’t be stopping to chat—you’ll have to make do with waves and smiling glances.”

  Engaged in looking about her, Lucinda raised her brows. “Indeed? But if we aren’t to chat, why are we here?”

  “To see and be seen, of course.” Again Harry diverted his attention from his leader, who was indeed very skittish, to glance her way. “That, I have always understood, is the purpose of the fashionable promenades.”

  “Ah.” Lucinda smiled sunnily back at him, not the least perturbed. She was quite content to sit beside him in the sun and watch him tool about the gravel drives, long fingers managing the reins.

  He met her gaze, then looked back at his horses. Still smiling, Lucinda looked ahead to where the drive was lined by the barouches and landaus of the matrons of the ton. The afternoon was well advanced; there were many who had reached the Park before them. Harry was forced to rein in his horses as the traffic increased, curricles and phaetons of all descriptions wending their way between the carriages drawn up by the verge. Lady Sefton, holding court in her barouche, waved and nodded; Lucinda noticed that she appeared somewhat startled.

  Lady Somercote and Mrs Wyncham likewise greeted her, then Countess Lieven favoured them with a long, dark-eyed stare before inclining her head graciously.

  Harry humphed. “She’s so stiff-necked I keep waiting to hear the crack.”

  Lucinda smothered a giggle as, rounding the next curve, they came upon Princess Esterhazy. The Princess’s large eyes opened wide, then she beamed and nodded delightedly.

  Lucinda smiled back; inwardly, she frowned. After a moment, she asked, “Do you frequently drive ladies in the Park?”

  Harry clicked his reins; the curricle shot through a gap between a swan-necked phaeton and another curricle, leaving both the other owners gasping. “Not recently.”

  Lucinda narrowed her eyes. “How recently?”

  Harry merely shrugged, his gaze fixed on his horses’ ears.

  Lucinda regarded him closely. When he offered not a word, she ventured, “Not since Lady Coleby?”

  He looked at her then, his green glance filled with dire warning, his lips a severe line. Then he looked back at his horses. After a moment, he said, his tone exceedingly grudging, “She was Millicent Pane then.”

  Harry’s memory flitted back through the years; “Millicent Lester” was what he’d been thinking then. His lips twisted wrily; he should have noticed that didn’t sound right. He glanced down at the woman beside him, in blue, as usual, her dark hair framing her pale face in soft curls, the whole enchanting picture framed by the rim of her modish bonnet. “Lucinda Lester” had a certain balance, a certain ring.

  His lips curved but, her gaze abstracted, she didn’t see. She was, he noted, looking decidedly pensive.

  The drive ahead cleared as they left the area favoured by the ton. Harry reined in and joined the line of carriages waiting to turn back. “Once more through the gauntlet, then I’ll take you home.”

  Lucinda shot him a puzzled glance but said nothing, straightening and summoning a smile as they headed back into the fray.

  This time, heading in the opposite direction, they saw different faces—many, Lucinda noted, looked surprised. But they were constantly moving; she got no chance to analyse the reactions the sight of them seemed to be provoking. Lady Jersey’s reaction, however, needed no analysis.

  Her ladyship was in her barouche, languidly draped over the cushions, when her gimlet gaze fell on Harry’s curricle, a
pproaching at a sedate walk. She promptly sat bolt upright.

  “Merciful heavens!” she declared, her strident tones dramatic. “I never thought to see the day!”

  Harry shot her a malevolent glance but deigned to incline his head. “I believe you are acquainted with Mrs Babbacombe?”

  “Indeed!” Lady Jersey waved a hand at Lucinda. “I’ll catch up with you next Wednesday, my dear.”

  Her ladyship’s glance promised she would. Lucinda kept her smile gracious but was relieved when they passed on.

  She slanted a glance at Harry to discover his face set in uncompromising lines. As soon as the traffic thinned, he clicked the reins.

  “That was a very short drive,” Lucinda murmured as the gates of the Park hove in sight.

  “Short, perhaps, but quite long enough for our purposes.”

  The words were clipped, his accents unencouraging. Lucinda’s inner frown deepened. “Our purposes.” What, precisely, were they?

  SHE WAS STILL WONDERING when, gowned in hyacinth-blue watered silk, she descended the stairs that evening, ready for Lady Mickleham’s ball. Being in constant expectation of an offer was slowly sapping her patience; there was no doubt in her mind that Harry intended making her another, but the when and the why of his reticence were matters that increasingly worried her. She descended most of the stairs in an abstracted daze, glancing up only as she neared their foot. To have her gaze lock with one of clear green.

  Eyes widening, Lucinda blinked. “What are you doing here?”

  Her astonished gaze took in his severely, almost austerely cut evening clothes, black and stark white as always. The gold acorn pin in his cravat winked wickedly.

  She watched his lips twist in a wry grimace.

  “I’m here,” Harry informed her, his accents severely restrained, “to escort you—and Em and Heather—to Lady Mickleham’s ball.” He strolled to the end of the stairs and held out a commanding hand.