by Sharon Page
He would find out exactly what Sally knew.
* * * * * * * * *
Chapter Three
After his interview with Cavell, he needed to clear the foul stench of greed and arrogance from his senses. Lyan went home. Walking up the steps to his house normally cheered him. It pleased him to be able to provide a home like this for Laura. She had spent twelve years in the slums, but those memories were fading. He wanted to keep it that way. She deserved to think of this as her world.
He gazed up at the elegant façade with its rows of mullioned windows glinting in the sun, the neat blue door, the freshly painted wrought iron fencing, the promise of security and position. He’d rented the house with the rewards he’d earned as a Runner. Once he became the Earl of Delamore, he would give it up and take Laura to the earl’s London house, an enormous mansion on Park Lane. Laura was seventeen. Now that he’d been confirmed as the long-lost heir to the Delamore title, he could give her the come-out she deserved.
Lyan paused with his hands on the smooth, painted railings that framed the steps. Earl of Delamore. He’d never believed his mother’s tale—that she’d been wed at sixteen to an earl’s younger son, abandoned by him, and finally widowed when the young man had died of consumption. Lyan had known nothing but guilt when the solicitor found him and told him her story had been the truth.
His mother had married again when he was nine, to a Whitechapel butcher. When that man died three years later, they were all out on the street again, but this time his mother also had Laura, a fragile little child of two.
Lyan jogged up the steps, opened his glossy blue door, and stepped into his spacious, marble-tiled foyer. He handed his greatcoat and gloves to a footman, and he shook his head at the vagaries of fate.
Even at twelve, when they had been tossed out of their meager home, he had vowed he would keep Laura safe, no matter what. It was a man’s duty to take care of the women who relied upon him. He’d always sworn he would never leave a wife the way his father had deserted his mother. Ironically, he had been the one abandoned.
“Lyan!”
Laura leapt to the bottom of the stairs, sailing down a half-flight, her muslin skirts flying up. He fought to look disapproving of her boisterous behavior, but it didn’t work. She gazed at his raised brow and giggled. Thieves might quake in fear when he confronted them, but his sister just laughed.
“It was all the talk at Gunter’s today,” she cried, “that you were investigating at Madame Desjardins’ dress shop. Heavens, what were you looking for there?” Her dark green eyes were alight with humor and she flashed a coy smile. “Some of the ladies are speculating you were hunting for a potential bride—by going where you could view the debutantes in their underclothes.”
He groaned, then embraced Laura and planted a kiss on the top of her midnight-black curls. “You know I wasn’t doing that.”
He had a bride. He had made a vow to Sally Thomas. It still stood, in his mind, legal or not. Whether either of them wanted it or not.
“Good.” Laura nodded. She was no longer frail and sickly, but healthy and strong. That was why he couldn’t bring himself to seriously chastise her when she didn’t behave exactly like a proper young lady. Even though Mrs. Fennings had insisted that Laura must quell her natural high spirits.
Mrs. Fennings, widow of an earl’s brother and a haughty martinet, had been employed to oversee his sister’s come-out. The woman could bring a man to his knees with her glare. Lyan had often wondered about trying to convince her to partner with him in the pursuit of criminals.
Laura laid her hand on his arm, her eyes dancing. “I have an appointment there tomorrow for a ball gown. I should hate to think the door was barred to me because my brother was trying to see ladies in their corsets.”
He felt his brow arch higher, but the irony of it struck him. In the course of his work, he often questioned madams and prostitutes. He’d seen more ladies in corsets—and out of them—than he could count. Not one of them had ever haunted him like Sally. “You are going to Madame Desjardins’ shop?”
“Mrs. Fennings says I must, now that you are to be an earl. But I hate all the dull fittings. I’d much rather stay at home and read a book.” She assessed him quizzically. “Has Madame Desjardins committed some kind of crime?”
Did breaking his heart a long time ago count as a crime? He sighed. “I don’t yet know.” Laura knew a little about Lady Maryanne’s disappearance. Since she was a similar age to the missing girl, he’d wanted to know Laura’s thoughts, hoping they would give him insight into Lady Maryanne. “It is the last place Lady Maryanne is thought to have gone.”
“But she wasn’t in Gretna Green?”
“No. You sound surprised.”
“It’s just—”
He put her arm around her. “Tell me, Laura.” He didn’t need to say more. She understood his fears for Lady Maryanne’s safety.
“I heard that Madame Desjardins helps girls who want to elope.”
“Helps them? How, Laura?”
Her eyes were wide. Even through the hardship of poverty, even though he dealt with the criminal world, he had fought to keep Laura innocent.
“I don’t know, Lyan. These are just rumors I’ve heard from other girls. I think she lends them money. Most have no access to their own money, of course. I also heard that she investigates the gentlemen these ladies want to marry, to ensure they are not just fortune hunters, gamesters, or rakes. She stopped one young woman from marrying a man who was pretending to be a Scottish earl’s son. He was actually a draper’s lad.”
Interesting that Sally helped girls who planned to run away with a man, when she had run away from one. He gave his sister a hug. “Thank you, angel.” Then the instincts that had saved his life countless times went on alert. How did Laura know so much about this? “You aren’t planning to use any services of Madame Desjardins beyond her dressmaking skills, are you?”
“Do you mean—do I want to elope?” Her laugh was silvery and sweet. “Of course not. I simply want a dress. Anyway, no man would ever dare run away with the sister of the famously ruthless Mr. Foxton.”
Lyan scratched his jaw. He was afraid her answer had come too quickly and with too much light-hearted laughter. “Laura—”
“Mrs. Fennings is going to introduce me to other earls. I have no intention of running off with anyone.”
Her answer was natural, guileless. But the gentle ease with which she gave it only made him worry more. Laura had bluestocking tendencies, along with pronounced opinions, and she liked to debate with him. For her to reassure him…it made him nervous. He searched her large green eyes. “My dear, it doesn’t matter if you have the intention—I will ensure you never have the chance.”
Laura stuck out her tongue at him. “Lyan, you are being ridiculous. Where would I have ever met an inappropriate man?”
He wanted to believe that was true. Tonight, he had two reasons to visit Madame Desjardins. He would question her again about Lady Maryanne. And he would warn her what would happen if she tried to put foolish ideas about elopements into his sister’s head.
There was no way in Hades he would let Sally Thomas betray him twice.
* * *
“Are you certain this is what you wish to do? You do realize how much you will give up by marrying this man against your brother’s wishes?” In a soft voice, to the young woman who sat opposite her, Estelle listed what those risks could be. Estrangement from family. Loss of any hope of a dowry or marriage settlement. The discovery that love was not enough to conquer everything, after all. “There is nothing like poverty to sour a marriage. It may turn your charming suitor into a bitter, brutal husband.”
Estelle watched the girl nod solemnly.
Her visitor had a hood pulled down to cover her dark curls and shroud her face. She had insisted all candles be extinguished. It was nighttime. Only the light from the coals in the grate illuminated her. “I know. I’ve thought of those things. But my—my brother has received new
s he will inherit a title. I know he thinks he wants the best for me, but I don’t want to make my choice from amongst viscounts and earls. I know which man I want to marry. But my beloved is a Bow Street Runner and I know the match will be refused.”
“Give me his name. Before I can help, I have to ensure he is not a rogue, criminal, or rake.”
The girl shook her head. “It’s not necessary. I know everything about him. He’s worked with my brother for years. He’s a hero! He has rescued kidnapped children and stopped criminal gangs.”
“His name?”
“I can’t. You could go to my brother.”
“My dear, I would never betray you. But if you wish for my help, you must tell me.”
But the young woman swept to her feet. “No. I will do this alone, then.” She spun on her heel and ran for the door of the shop, shoving the stool she had been sitting on across the path between the worktables. Estelle jumped up. Her scissors fell from her lap to clatter on the floor. Her patterns were whirling in the air, blown off the tables as the girl had raced by. She clambered over the stool and rushed after the girl, but as she reached the front of the salon, the door snapped shut in her face and the bell tinkled madly. She snatched open the door and ran out into the street.
The girl had disappeared.
On a sigh, Estelle went back into her shop, back to the workroom. Moonlight slanted in through the narrow windows. Her dress patterns lay all over the floor, battered and bent. She’d torn one as she’d run over it. If she did not finish them, she would not have the St. Ives gown completed. Or the two dresses required by the twins of the Earl of Roydon for their come-out ball.
To disappoint clients was to embrace the end of her business. It would mean her fall back into poverty again, and this time she would drag her daughter down with her.
She couldn’t.
But there could be only one young lady in England whose brother had just learned he was heir to a peer, and who might know enough about Bow Street Runners to fall in love with one.
Lyan had had a sister. Her name had been Laura.
Estelle had never once betrayed the confidence of any girl who had come to her seeking help for her elopement. And the young ladies, to her surprise, had kept her secret. Her role in their marriages was shared by word of mouth, and just to those girls in the same predicament.
She had helped girls who had a real reason to flee—girls for whom a marriage that would ostracize them from their families was a lesser evil than staying at home.
Did Laura have reason to flee her brother? Why did she believe her brother would never let her marry for love? Was it because he knew what it was like to be betrayed?
Estelle paced in her workroom. Was it just because Lyan wanted his sister to move up in the world that he would refuse the match? Some Bow Street Runners were known to be motivated more by rewards than by justice, and some were considered to be as unsavory as the men they hunted. That was the very reason Lyan had fascinated all of London. He might have a rakish reputation, but he had always been moral and just.
It would break his heart if Laura ran away into a terrible marriage.
Could she betray him again, break his heart again, by keeping Laura’s secret?
* * *
Two hours later she was still at work, when a soft creak sounded overhead, directly above the back of the workroom. Estelle froze for an instant, her fingers crumpling the paper pattern she was pinning. She cocked her head to listen, though it was almost impossible to hear over her pounding heart. It might be nothing—just Rose out of bed or her exhausted mind playing tricks—but she couldn’t be sure.
She put down the piece of fragile paper, picked up her scissors, and crept upstairs. The door to Rose’s room was ajar, just as she had left it. It wasn’t her daughter—
A hand clamped over her mouth and dragged her into another room—her bedroom. Her shoulders were held back against something unmovable.
Estelle knew what it had to be. A male chest. Panic rose like a wave and she struggled against the arm that was clamped around her torso like an iron bracket.
“Easy, my dear. I won’t hurt you.”
I won’t hurt you. He’d said those words. Lord Cavell. When he’d tried to assault her here, in her own bedroom, while Rose slept innocently in the next room. He’d held a blade to her throat to make her stop fighting and had warned her not to make a sound. In a sneering, evil voice, he’d warned her she would not want to wake her daughter. He’d promised he would not hurt her, or Rose, if she behaved—which meant if she did every foul thing he wanted her to do.
All those years she’d spent in the stews had not been for nothing. She’d known he didn’t intend to leave witnesses afterward, whether she obeyed him or not. So she had fought for her life. Rose had come in, only eight years of age, and had slammed a frying pan over his head.
Now Estelle kicked and struggled just as furiously. She had her scissors in her hand—
A strong hand pulled them out of her grip. “I wouldn’t like those stabbed into my privates, thank you.”
Lyan. He turned her to face him. “You wretch!” she spat. “You terrified me. You could have woken up Rose. She went through this before and it almost frightened her to death. I—”
“What do you mean, she went through this before?” His voice was like ice, his eyes glittering as hard as emeralds.
When she didn’t answer, he kissed her. Just like that. His mouth devoured hers. All her fear and rage tumbled around inside her but, even as furious as she was with him, she grew hot. Scorching hot. So much so, she feared her simple work dress would melt to her skin.
“Tell me, or I won’t stop there.” Then he grimaced at his words, and he brushed his hand over her cheek. “No, no threats. Threatening you with kisses won’t work any more, will it? Because you’ve known worse. Tell me what happened, Sal. I’ll kill anyone who hurt you or your daughter.”
Through the heat rising inside her, a heat that fogged her mind like steam upon glass, she remembered the painful truth. She had abandoned him in a panic ten years before. Earlier, she’d discovered he hadn’t forgotten, and he certainly hadn’t forgiven. Why should he care about her now? She had put her security above all else, and the simple fact he still gave a damn made her throat constrict. “Well, then,” she managed to say, “that is exactly the reason I can’t tell you.”
His hands traced the simple neckline of her dress. Her breasts seemed to swell and tingle under her shift as his fingertips skimmed over them. Her nipples hardened as though begging for his caress. Then, shock of all shocks, he cupped her bosom with both hands.
“I want all your secrets, Sally. Every last one.” He breathed the words against her ear. The fire he’d ignited inside her consumed another piece of the wall around her soul. Just this, his hands on her breasts, his mouth nuzzling her neck, could leave her utterly defenseless.
No. She would be like her mother, then. Vulnerable. What was a woman in the throes of passion but a woman waiting to be destroyed?
She couldn’t surrender anything to Lyan, not one little piece of her—and definitely not her heart—when she knew she could never hope to claim his love in return.
“You know who Lady Maryanne ran away with,” he murmured, his breath sinfully hot against her ear. Just the brush of it along her earlobe made her quiver.
She had been unwilling to use these weapons against him. Apparently, he had no such scruples. And, try as she might, she couldn’t will the ice back into her body.
“This afternoon, I interviewed families of young ladies who have been your customers,” he continued, in his rich, deep, sensual voice. “Four of them ran away to Gretna Green with men.”
“Those marriages are all successes,” she said tartly. She tried to pull away but he held her too tightly.
His tongue ran up and down her throat. Her mind was becoming as mushy as porridge. “S—stop.”
“I will if you give me a name. A man’s name.” His grip changed and he
stopped kissing her. He faced her, his eyes bright and hard with determination. “I fear Cavell arranged for Maryanne to disappear. He found out about her plans to elope, and he had her killed so he would not lose control of her money. By the will, he gets it all if she dies without a husband or children.”
Estelle gulped. “Oh yes, he could do that, Lyan. He is more than capable. He is a fiend.” She knew she had to give him the name, for Maryanne’s safety. “Her beloved was the owner of a small bookshop in Charing Cross Road. Mr. Samuel Peabody.”
His dark brow shot up. “He sounds like a little, fat, middle-aged merchant. Why would you help the girl elope with a man like that?”
“I did not help her. She simply gave me a name. As for the others—”
“You’re lying, angel. I could prove you helped her, if I found the hackney driver who came to the rear of your shop and who saw you escort a young woman who matched Lady Maryanne’s description into the cab. A man who saw the young lady clasp your hands before she left and thank you for everything you had done.”
Her heart sank.
“You helped her run off with some scoundrel,” he ground out. “Some man who might have killed—”
“No! I promised to help her. That meant ensuring she was marrying the right man.” There, she had admitted her guilt. She knew why she’d done so. Deep down, she still trusted Lyan. She would always believe in the goodness of this man’s heart. Carving her way into respectability and security, she had encountered some of the “gentlemen” of the ton. The ones who pressed their attentions on any women they believed beneath them. Who were willing to rape because they believed themselves to be untouchable. She had soon learned that birth meant nothing. Lyan Foxton had grown up in the stews, but she knew how special, noble, and wonderful he was.
Yet there were also good gentlemen. Peabody was one of them. “He is the third son of the Viscount Yarborough, and he has a love of books. He is tall, thin, but very handsome. And I realized, when I went to his shop and spoke with him, that he truly loved Lady Maryanne.”