Drake shook his head. “Of course you would know about that. Tell me, how did you figure it out?”
Pembridge shrugged. “Aside from the fact a wedding would put her on display, making her ripe for assassination? That gives our villain three whole weeks to pick her off. It’s better to force his hand with an elopement. And considering the last assassination included a fire, it’s best to get them out of the city as soon as possible. Not to mention, with your mother, Lady Umberton, and Kathryn planning the affair, it was obvious you weren’t going to stand by and idly allow them carte blanche. God knows they would leave you bankrupt if they had half the chance. You are far too practical for that.”
Drake grunted. “Let us hope our villain does not see our motives as clearly as you do.”
“I highly doubt it. I have a rare mind.”
Drake lifted a brow. “I cannot disagree.”
Pembridge chuckled and bowed over Sarah’s hand. “Until we meet again, Sarah.” With a crooked smile, he turned and headed toward the hall.
Drake stood awkwardly as he watched the earl disappear. He was meant to follow, but he knew he owed Sarah an apology. Only, now didn’t seem an appropriate time, nor would it ever, he supposed.
And he wasn’t sorry. He ought to be horrified by that admission.
He brought her hand to his mouth, placing a brief kiss on her knuckles, willing himself not to think of how the skin on her wrist would taste were he to turn over her hand. Or how her arm would taste. Or her neck…
Gad, these thoughts… He didn’t know who he was anymore!
“Next we meet, we shall be on our way to Yorkshire to wed,” he said, forcing himself to let go of her.
Her eyes widened, as he knew they would as soon as the words tripped over his tongue. He had expected them to come out more reassuring than they had. Instead, they sounded rather ominous. Perhaps it was because he had growled them at her.
He had never before struggled so desperately with words. True, he did not speak often. He said what he must only when necessary, and those utterings were always precisely what he meant. He did not use flowery language to soften anything. Nor did he ever regret anything he had said. Until now. Though, what it was he had said that he regretted, he wasn’t quite sure. All he knew was that he put that trepidatious look on her face, and he regretted it. Therefore, he ought to apologize.
He cleared his throat, but instead of attempting the apology she deserved, he bowed and stalked out of the room.
It was rude of him, but perhaps the least ungentlemanly thing he had done since their first meeting. Before then, he had been the perfect gentleman, always. Although, at the moment, he couldn’t remember a blessed moment of any of it.
He had the disconcerting notion he would never remember it again, nor would he return to it.
Chapter 16
Drake sat glancing over the final letters to be sent out before he left London. It was almost time to act out their plan, which must be executed perfectly. They would quietly abscond to Yorkshire, with only the smallest breath of rumor, just enough to bait Winters. There, Drake would set the trap.
He would wed Sarah before the villain arrived, if all went to plan. Even Winters would be wise enough to see Sarah was completely safe from prosecution at that point. He would then have to fall back to plan B, which Drake hoped was flee, rather than kill everyone, and then flee.
When all was said and done, the only lasting effect would be the fact Sarah was his wife in the eyes of the law, and God, and everyone. Only, she would not be his wife in any true sense. Not in the way that mattered.
Not in the way he wanted, his traitorous mind whispered.
But that wasn’t true. He didn’t want a wife. He didn’t want someone he could love in body and mind. Someone with whom he could spend his days lost in conversation, and his nights in a tangle of limbs. Someone to grow old with. A companion and a lover until death.
Someone to care for, someone to lose.
“A Mr. Shaw to see you, my lord,” Harding said from the open study door.
Drake swallowed hard, pushing away the disturbing thoughts. “Has he stated his business, Harding?” he muttered, forcing himself to keep his mind in the present rather than pointlessly imagining a reality where his marriage might be genuine, and his wife might be awaiting him on their wedding night, clad in sheer silk and lace, his eyes feasting on her voluptuous figure before he took her into his arms and—
“He said only that he was an officer inquiring after a certain international incident. He did not specify what that was, exactly, but he sounded decidedly American, my lord.”
Damn. While he appreciated assistance, any help at this point would be more of a hindrance. Too many chefs in the kitchen spoil the soup, and all that. Even so, the man must be dealt with.
“Very well. Send him in, please, Harding.﷽﷽﷽﷽﷽﷽﷽﷽ the unassuming butler. rtain international incident.”
Harding bowed, and when Shaw entered the study a moment later, Drake was ready for him.
He was a middle-aged man of average height and build, and his clothes, though well worn, were clean and fitted to his form.
“Mr. Shaw,” Drake greeted as he stood and gestured to one of the chairs opposite the desk. “Do have a seat.”
“Thank you, sir… Er, my lord,” he corrected with a grimace. He sat himself stiffly in the chair, his lips pressed into a thin line under an over-full mustache. “I expect you know why I am here.”
“As a matter of fact—”
“Forgive me, but I must insist you speak with me and be completely honest,” Shaw interrupted. “I’m determined to see this case through, though I shall admit upfront that I have already spoken to your superior and had some opposition.”
Drake’s brows lifted in surprise. “Did you, indeed?”
Shaw nodded. “I had scarcely mentioned my intention to speak with you as I was disembarking, and before I even had the chance to leave port, I was greeted by the man, himself.”
“The man,” Drake repeated, utterly bewildered. “Lord Liverpool, do you mean? The Prime Minister?”
Shaw frowned. “No, a man even more powerful, I understand. A Mr. Pritchard.”
“Pritch—Pritchard?” Drake stuttered dumbly.
“The very man.”
“My superior, he called himself?” Drake’s voice rose an octave in a mixture of shock and unprecedented fury. He was going to kill him. He would throw that dandified, overstuffed pigeon into the depths of the very ocean he made his living on.
Shaw nodded. “Now, I am sure how we do things in America might seem mighty strange to a fellow here in England, but at least we don’t speak rudely to the officers of the law, especially those visiting from another country for criminal investigation.”
“Mr. Pritchard was rude to you?” He had barely finished before he realized the absurdity of the question. Of course Pritchard was rude, the idiot. The walking, squawking birdbrain.
“Practically threatened to ship me right back, then and there, if I didn’t promise to leave you be.” He let out an indignant puff of air. “I have been treated poorly before, Lord Saint Brides, but I have never in my life been treated so by a fellow lawman.”
“Yes, well…” Drake cleared his throat. “Mr. Pritchard isn’t a lawman, exactly. He is a merchant who evidently fancies himself… otherwise.”
“A merchant?” The American’s eyes narrowed. “You mean, he is not your superior?”
“He is a superior businessman,” Drake allowed. “His baffling success in that regard is impossible to ignore, as is the man himself, unfortunately.”
“By God, a merchant had me nearly quaking in my boots.” Shaw’s brows knit and a barely discernable smile stretched under his full mustache. “This is outrageous, Saint Brides.”
“You have no idea,” Drake muttered. “One day, his ailing uncle, the Earl of Banham, will leave the coxcomb a title and a seat in Parliament. The fact such a catastrophe is even possible is an outrage.�
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“I must demand some sort of retribution. It is against the law to impersonate an officer where I’m from.”
“As it is here. I assure you, I shall handle Mr. Pritchard.”
Shaw silently regarded Saint Brides for a moment before nodding his acquiescence. “Then we must get down to the reason I am here. Is there anything to the charges against Mrs. Sarah Tindall?”
“No, there is not.”
Shaw grunted. “Good. In that case, I insist she leave with me. I sail for home in two days. After spending the last several months in France, I am reluctant to delay my return any longer.”
Drake raised a brow. “Even if Mrs. Tindall wished to return to America, she is not yet free to do so. The investigation is still ongoing.”
“The investigation is your problem,” Shaw returned. “The woman’s husband has been murdered, and the real murderer is still at large, which means she might well be his next target. She will be safer in the States, and she ought to be free to return to her family for comfort.”
“I dare anyone to try and comfort Mrs. Tindall,” Drake muttered.
“What’s that, my lord?”
“Until the investigation is closed, I’m afraid I cannot allow her to leave the country. It is protocol.”
Shaw let out a loud breath through his nose. “I understand, but I still think the girl should have some family around her.”
“Of course.” It was a reasonable request. Besides, if something were to happen to her, her parents should hear of it in person, and from the man responsible for using their daughter as bait. “If I give you the funds you need to arrange their travel, would you ask her parents to come here?”
Shaw blinked, then nodded. “I’m certain of it. Thank you for that, Saint Brides. And thank you for speaking with me. If you can afford it, I shall have them on the fastest ship.”
“I can afford it, Mr. Shaw.”
“Very good!” Shaw grinned and rose from his seat to shake hands.
Once he had taken his leave, Drake could only spare fifteen minutes to fantasizing the many ways he would handle Pritchard, mostly because it was a useless endeavor. Having the man drawn and quartered, though exceedingly tempting, was out of the question. Drake did not have many friends—or any, really—and Pritchard happened to be one of the few men at all close to being so-called.
While Drake was not sure precisely what having friends might entail, he knew having them drawn and quartered was simply not done. Nor was having them hanged, keelhauled, or locked away in the Tower of London for all eternity. This narrowed his options greatly.
As he shrugged into his coat, settled his hat on his head, grabbed his cane, and strolled out the door, however, he was still trying to figure out a way to justify strapping bricks to Pritchard’s ankles and pushing the idiot overboard somewhere in the Indian Ocean… amidst a cyclone, preferably.
Sarah smoothed her skirts as she descended the stairs. It was a lovely gown of lavender muslin with an overlay of gray lace and black stitching along the sleeves and hem. It was of impeccable quality, and far too expensive, though the dowagers didn’t so much as blink at the price when the modiste dared utter the absurd number.
She should feel confident in it, but as she neared the parlor, her confidence deteriorated to a façade of false bravado.
The masculine rumbles from behind the thick mahogany door were enough to quicken her pulse and give her pause before entering.
She knew it was time. Saint Brides had sent her a letter that morning, outlining the basics. They were to leave London tonight, and wed the following evening. She was luring a homicidal lunatic to Yorkshire in hopes to wed, once more, without love before getting herself murdered. How on earth had she gotten herself into this mess?
The door opened before she had a chance to grasp the lever, which she was not intending to do until after she had gathered her courage.
Nick greeted her with a warm grin. “By gad! Just the lady we came to see. Isn’t that so, Steel Breeches?”
Behind him, Drake stood by the fireplace, his elbow resting on the mantle as he stared into the flames. He looked so sober, so intense standing there. It suited him.
A smile suited him better.
At Nick’s words, he turned, locking his emerald gaze on her, and a whole host of butterflies were suddenly let loose in her stomach.
“Indeed.” He moved toward her, lithe as a cat, his confidence evident in every step. He took her hand, bringing it to his mouth, the warmth of it seeping through her glove. “You look lovely, my dear,” he murmured, and she knew he meant it. He meant everything he said.
“If you will excuse me,” Nick said before he stepped out into the hall. “I shall ensure the carriage is being readied properly.”
“Thank you, Pembridge. We shall not be long behind you,” Drake said, then turned back to her. He seemed so close. Much closer than a moment ago. The room seemed much warmer, too. “Are you prepared to leave?”
She nodded. “All my things are packed. I believe a footman is loading them onto the carriage as we speak.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “I meant you. Are you ready?”
“As ready as I shall ever be.”
“Good.” He held out his arm for her, and she took it.
Moments later, they were all three rumbling toward Yorkshire, Nick lounging sleepily beside Drake, Drake attempting to squish himself into the side of the carriage to avoid Nick, and Sarah staring out the window, watching London disappear behind them.
He should have sat next to Sarah.
Drake shoved Pembridge’s knee away from his leg for the fifth time in four hours. Pembridge easily took up three-fourths of the seat. Meanwhile, she barely took up a third of hers. But if he had sat next to Sarah, he would be tormented the entire journey with the scent of her. Having her so near, yet unable to touch her would be even worse. No, the worst bit would be that he would lose control and touch her. Brush his leg against hers, or allow their shoulders to touch when the coach turned.
Drake’s agony might even have risen to such a level that he succumbed, turned toward her, lifted her chin with the barest touch of his finger, and kissed her. Then he might have allowed his hands to trail over her soft neck, her shoulders, the gentle swell of her breasts. His mouth might have followed his hands…
The coachman called out for the horses to slow, and he bit his cheek, forcing back the thoughts, forcing back the desire.
Drake swatted Pembridge’s shoulder, possibly with more force than was strictly required. Pembridge only grunted, so he allowed himself to take his frustration out on the dandy and swatted him again. Harder.
“Not quite so hard, my darling,” he mumbled groggily.
“Call me that one more time, and I shall give you a black eye.”
Pembridge grunted, twisting his mouth into a crooked frown. “I rather hoped it was the lady who was assaulting me. Much more pleasant a thought than you, Sober Sides.”
Sarah’s eyes widened before she broke into a smile, chuckling.
“Call my fiancée that one more time, and I shall do much worse than give you a black eye,” he returned, noting with confused satisfaction that Sarah chuckled harder. She must not believe he meant what he said, but he was glad. Her laugh was heavenly. “Now wake up. We are here.”
One very blue eye pried open to glance out the window. “Yorkshire already?”
“No, you imbecile, the inn.”
Pembridge rubbed his jaw as he straightened, somehow still just as neatly put together as when he had first ascended the vehicle.
The coach stopped, and Drake hopped down, turning to offer his hand to Sarah and then leading her into the bustling inn.
The light touch of her hand on his arm was warm, electrifying. Were she to come up from behind him and place just one finger on his back, he would know her. His very soul recognized her energy the moment she entered a room. Hers was the energy of a fearless, practical woman who could light up the world with a single
smile. A woman he would never dare mistake for a damsel in distress, for fear for his own safety should she overhear such an ill-advised statement.
The more he came to realize how much he admired her, the more it rankled. He knew he would miss her when she left. Terribly. And missing someone was part of the pain of loss he was so determined to avoid.
He pushed the thought aside ruthlessly as they made their way to where Pembridge was already speaking with the innkeeper.
He couldn’t possibly miss her to the point of pain. He had only met her less than three weeks ago, and she had been a prodigious pain in the arse at least fifteen percent of that time.
Wait a minute… Only fifteen percent?
“Here you are.” Pembridge turned from the innkeeper and handed Drake two keys. “You go on up and inspect the accommodations.” He smiled. “I’m not especially sleepy after that nap, and I caught sight of a game of cards as I walked in.”
Drake led Sarah upstairs to her room in silence, afraid that, if he spoke, he might bark at her, and she did not deserve such terse treatment. It wasn’t her fault he was so obviously going mad. He had no idea whose fault it was. His, most probably.
The words she had said to him only a few days earlier wouldn’t give him peace. She would rather give her heart and have it utterly destroyed than keep her heart to herself, safe and untouched. Did that mean she was still looking for love? Would she have paramours on her travels?
Why should she not? She was a lovely woman, brave to a fault, and passionate. She deserved to be loved. He could not be that for her, but another man might.
If he ever met that other man, she would very quickly see how easily a life could be snuffed out from this earth. He would see to it with his bare hands.
Gad, but this was getting ridiculous. She might be his fiancée, soon-to-be his wife, but she was not his to claim in truth. She was free to make her own choices, and it was none of his business. And that was how he wanted it.
Or so he had thought.
Things were getting too complicated. He needed to get away from her. Too long sitting near her in a carriage had muddled his brain.
Changing the Earl's Mind (The Lords of Whitehall Book 3) Page 21