“As is more than half of society,” Elizabeth pointed out. “I fail to see what connection this has with Isaac's disappearance.”
“That's because you won't let me finish!” exclaimed Catherine with a shake of her head. “I was about to tell you that, in the past, Lord Morrow has resorted to blackmail in order to refill his coffers.”
Elizabeth was stunned. “Are you positive about this?”
“Absolutely. Mr. Lewis uncovered this information and, as you know, the reputation of the Bow Street Runners is unsurpassed.”
“And if Lord Morrow will sink low enough to commit one criminal act, it isn't hard to imagine him shifting from blackmail into kidnapping,” Elizabeth said slowly.
“That is precisely what John and I thought as well, so Mr. Lewis is going to look into the very strong possibility of Lord Morrow being the one behind the kidnapping.”
“That makes sense,” Elizabeth agreed. “Richard knows him.”
“Mr. Lewis?”
Smiling over Catherine's response, Elizabeth shook her head. “No, Lord Morrow. In fact, Richard is the one who introduced us.”
Catherine sat down opposite Elizabeth. “I wonder if he has any information he can give us about Lord Morrow.”
“I don't know,” Elizabeth replied. “I do know that Richard dislikes Lord Morrow now, but I believe they spent time together in the past.”
Excitement sparkled in Catherine's eyes as she leaned forward. “Really? I wonder what happened to make Richard dislike Lord Morrow.”
“I suppose I could ask him,” Elizabeth offered, trying to hide the flare of eagerness she felt at the mere thought of seeing Richard again.
“Splendid!” exclaimed Catherine. “When will you see him again?”
“I'm not certain,” she replied honestly. “However, I could send him a note, asking him to call.”
Tapping her fingers against the arm of her chair, Catherine considered the suggestion. “I think that might be best. After all, time is of the essence.”
“Very true,” Elizabeth agreed, trying to hide the surge of excitement she felt at the prospect of seeing Richard. “If you'll excuse me, I shall go write my note now.”
Catherine waved vaguely. “You go do that and I'll go to Lady Allton's salon. Perhaps I will be able to discover what the matrons think of Lord Morrow.”
“I think that is a sound idea, Cat. After all, if anyone is bound to know the sordid tales about a person, it is one of the old biddies who attend Lady Allton's salon.”
“Those old biddies are the premier matrons of our society.”
Elizabeth tilted her head to the side. “Do you suppose that's why I dislike attending social affairs so much?”
Catherine laughed as she rose to her feet. “You are utterly incorrigible, Elizabeth.”
“And without even trying,” she retorted with a grin.
After Catherine left, Elizabeth sat down to write a note to Richard. With her quill in hand, she paused to consider the best way to start her letter. A large drop of ink spilled onto her paper as she held her hand poised to write. Mumbling under her breath, she set down the quill, tossed out the paper, and tried to begin again. Lord, it would be far easier to just speak to Richard in person.
That's it! If she simply called upon Richard, it would be far quicker, eliminating the need to write the note, then have it sent around, await a reply, and wait until Richard arrived. And Catherine had said that time was against them. Still, if she took a few moments to freshen up, it wouldn't make any difference.
Of course, she was not going to see him simply because she enjoyed spending time with him. Oh, no. Most definitely not. She had a reason, an important reason, to visit him.
Ignoring the taunting laughter she heard in her own head, Elizabeth rushed off to prepare for her visit with Richard.
16
Inside the hackney, Elizabeth pulled her shawl around her shoulders. Self-consciously, she tugged at her low-cut bodice as she realized it was scandalously early in the day to be displaying this amount of cleavage. What on earth had possessed her to change into one of the gowns Catherine had purchased for her? Elizabeth shook her head, then stopped abruptly as she felt the elaborately pinned curls bob precariously.
Dear Heavens, what had come over her? Here she sat in a hired carriage, wearing an evening gown, with her hair swept upward into a fashionable style and her body perfumed and powdered . . . while heading to a gentleman's house uninvited. A nervous laugh escaped Elizabeth. Even she knew enough to realize that if anyone discovered this little adventure, her reputation would be destroyed.
While Elizabeth cared not one whit about ruining her reputation, she did care that her actions might reflect poorly upon her sister and hurt her father. Still, she'd arranged for the hackney rather than take her family's carriage, in an attempt to keep her visit to Richard a private matter.
As the carriage rocked to a stop, Elizabeth glanced out the window, looking up at the stately home before her. The hackney bounced on its springs as the driver alighted from his seat to open the door for her. Elizabeth was just about to step from the carriage when she heard the clatter of wheels against the cobblestones coming from the rear of Richard's home.
She watched as Richard, driving a smart phaeton pulled by a set of well-matched grays, headed left onto the lane. “Blast,” she muttered under her breath. If only she hadn't taken the time to make herself fashionable, she wouldn't have missed him. Now she could either wait for him to return home or she could go back to her house.
Or you could follow him, a little voice said inside her head.
Stunned at the outrageous thought, Elizabeth slumped back against the seat. Follow him, indeed, she scoffed to herself. To where? Richard was undoubtedly headed to one of his clubs. Still, by the time he made arrangements for his phaeton, she might be able to hail him, invite him into her carriage, and ask him a few questions about Lord Morrow.
Having taken time to talk herself into the plan, Elizabeth leaned out to see where Richard's carriage had gone. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw it not fifty feet away. Pointing to the cream-colored phaeton, Elizabeth said to her driver, “Do you see that phaeton there?”
“Yes, my lady,” the man answered politely.
“I'd like you to follow it.”
Apparently the carriage driver had heard many unusual, scandalous things, for he didn't even blink. He simply nodded and shut the door. An instant later, they began to move forward. Well, thank heaven, she thought as she leaned back against the cushions, still feeling overly bold for chasing after Richard.
What she was doing was insane, utterly mad . . . but at least she wouldn't have gone to all this trouble to look glamorous for nothing.
The lanes to the dock were overrun with carriages and people, making it slow going for Richard, but he didn't mind. It gave him more of a chance to replay in his head the conversation with Elizabeth.
She'd looked so bloody beautiful, standing there telling him why she didn't wish to be attracted to him. Her words had sliced through him, creating cuts that even her healing praise couldn't close. He'd longed to shout at her that the man she feared was not the man he was today. He wanted to tell her of his new purpose in life, of his pride in his business, but he'd held his tongue. Yes, he'd remained silent for one simple reason.
Fear.
Richard's teeth clenched at the acknowledgement. Though he hated to admit he was afraid, he couldn't deny the emotion. Yes, fear of her complete rejection had led him to refrain from telling her his secrets. While Elizabeth didn't want to court him, she still wanted to be his friend. And oddly enough, he'd come to enjoy her company as well. He loved the way she would get that fire in her eyes and snap out a dry retort almost as much as he loved how she laughed so brilliantly when he told a joke . . . or how she enjoyed machines and odd gadgets.
Indeed, he enjoyed so many things about her. She wasn't like any other woman of his acquaintance and, even if he knew her for a hundred year
s, he was quite certain she would continue to surprise him. But would the underlying desire he felt for her remain over time, like a banked fire; would it eventually die out; or would it one day burst from its containment, burning both of them with passionate intensity?
Richard gripped the reins as he struggled to make sense of his feelings for Elizabeth. But that was the problem, he realized suddenly, his fingers slackening upon the leather.
He couldn't make sense of his feelings toward her. He'd never be able to make sense of them . . . because he was wildly, madly, insanely, deliriously in love with Elizabeth.
His heart pounded in his chest as he struggled to breathe. Dear God! Was love supposed to be this . . . this . . .
Richard began to laugh when he realized that he was so crazed for the girl that she'd even stolen his ability to think! He felt the curious stares of passersby as he sat in his phaeton, laughing aloud, but he couldn't contain this maelstrom of happiness, wariness, and sheer panic rolling around inside of him. When had it happened? When had he fallen in love with her?
Perhaps it had begun the very moment that she'd gazed at him with those cool blue eyes of hers, demanding he stop eavesdropping, unwittingly challenging him to break through her wariness. And break through he had. But he'd been so busy trying to overcome her shyness that he hadn't even realized she'd been weaving her way into his heart, thoroughly entangling him, until now he was in complete knots over her.
And she thought him a rake, a wastrel, an utter drain upon society.
That thought sobered him quickly enough. So, what am I going to do about it? he wondered as he guided his carriage into the alleyway beside his factory. Pulling back on the reins, Richard brought his phaeton to a halt and sat for a moment, staring at the brick wall in front of him.
“Absolutely nothing,” he muttered to himself, knowing that it was the truth. He would bury his love for Elizabeth, hiding it from her in order to protect their friendship. While he might be consumed with love for her, he would never risk telling her, never risk losing her altogether.
To bloody Hell and back. Why did his life always have to be so damned complicated? Just when he'd thought himself back on track, just when he'd pulled himself together and gained a true sense of self worth, he had to go and ruin everything by falling in love with a lady who thought him the despicable man he used to be.
Would you rather she know that you're a pretzel maker instead? a voice inside of him sneered. It was bad enough that he was in trade, but making a fortune with something as ridiculous as pretzels? Lord, anyone would look down their noses at that!
Richard leapt down from his phaeton and tossed his reins to the lad he'd hired to water and care for his horses while he was working. Annoyed with himself, he slammed open the door . . . and stopped just inside the threshold. To his right, a man mixed a huge vat of dough until it formed a large, sticky ball. Then he passed the dough on to the group of men on his right, who would cut off small chunks, roll it out, twist it, and drop it into the pots of boiling water and baking soda. After a minute or so, another group of men, standing directly behind the dough rollers, would scoop the pretzels out of the water, drain them off, and place them onto trays covered in coarse chunks of salt.
At the rear of the building stood a huge coal oven with twelve narrow holes, the perfect size for one of the trays. The pretzels would bake until they were a golden-brown, before being pulled out and set onto cooling racks. The cooling racks would then be carried to the floors above and stacked, giving the pretzels their drying time. In a few days, he would have another shipment of crunchy pretzels ready for packaging and shipping.
This was his world now; a successful world he'd created from another man's ruins. This buzz of activity, the hum of contented workers, the satisfaction of achievement was something he had built . . . and in the process, had turned himself from a dissolute spendthrift into a prosperous businessman.
He'd be damned before he'd allow himself to feel another ounce of shame.
Richard smiled to himself at his newfound resolve. Hell, he was tired of hiding who he'd become like it was a dark, dirty secret that would embarrass him and his family. To hell with it.
He would tell Elizabeth of his business, and if she chose not to continue their friendship . . . well, then she wasn't the woman he thought her to be. Richard vowed he would indeed tell her, regardless of the consequences. Then, he would announce it to the world.
He would, of course, be ostracized by the ton, but what did he care? They thought him a despot now, but not beyond the pale, so they could speak to him and invite him to their events. How ironic that he'd finally made something of himself, finally found his purpose in life, and it would be the very thing that would make people look down at him and gasp in horror.
Richard actually grinned at that thought. He'd been fodder for gossips for as long as he could remember. Well, with this last announcement, he would be spoken about in hushed whispers for years.
A skirmish outside the door broke through Richard's thoughts. “You can't go in there, miss!”
Recognizing the voice of the lad who cared for his horses, Richard turned around and opened the door. “Is there a problem . . .” He forgot what he'd been about to say when he saw Elizabeth standing in front of him.
Only it wasn't an Elizabeth he'd seen before.
Gone was the high-necked stained gowns or the fichu to protect her modesty. Instead, she wore a low-cut dress, showing miles and miles of creamy, smooth flesh that made his fingers itch to touch it. Her hair had been pulled up and piled into an artful arrangement of curls and ribbons, leaving a few tendrils dipping down to play with the skin at her shoulders.
She was a goddess. She was perfection. She was . . . at his factory.
Richard's resolve to end the deception wavered at the realization that he would soon lose all hope of touching this vision. The warmth in her blue eyes would drain, leaving her gaze cool and flat. She would change from this smiling, enticing woman into a disdaining lady, offering him nothing but her scorn.
Though that thought made him want to rush her away from his factory before she discovered the truth, Richard forced himself to stand firm. He would do anything for Elizabeth . . . anything except be someone he was not.
“Elizabeth,” he said finally. “I would say that it is a surprise to see you here, but I fear you would find that pedestrian phrase far too obvious.”
Blushing prettily, Elizabeth smiled in relief. “I would welcome it, Richard, for I thought perhaps I might anger you with my presence.” She glanced at the lad listening in upon their conversation. “I followed you,” she admitted.
“I gathered as much,” he said, hoping his voice didn't sound as hollow as he felt. “After all, this isn't exactly Bond Street.”
“No, it's not.” Curiosity brightened her eyes as she looked around at the tall brick and wooden building. “What is this place?”
The question he'd been dreading. “It's my factory.”
“Your factory?” exclaimed Elizabeth, shaking her head. “I don't understand.”
Bracing himself, he stepped aside and bade her to enter. As he'd done mere moments before, Elizabeth stopped just inside the threshold and stared at the bustling activity. He watched her back, waiting for it to stiffen as she realized he was in trade, but all he saw was her head turning this way and that as she peered into every corner of the large, open room.
Finally, he couldn't stand it any longer. “This is my business,” he stated firmly, just in case she hadn't understood that part. “These men work for me.”
“What are they doing?”
The lack of censure in her question stunned him. Unable to resist, he spun her around to face him so he could look into her eyes. But all he read in the blue depths was an overwhelming sense of curiosity and even a spark of . . . was that excitement? Richard shook his head, finding it hard to believe what his own eyes were telling him. “They're making pretzels,” he rasped, his voice sounding raw. God, just say
ing it sounded like a jest.
Elizabeth's expression shifted into one of pure excitement. “You're a pretzel maker? I've heard of pretzels, but never had the opportunity to taste one. Are they good?” Glancing over her shoulder, she gestured toward her right. “And what are those men putting that dough into? Oh, and those machines over there, what do they do? Oh, yes, and how many . . .”
He kissed her.
He couldn't help himself.
Love for her, for his unique, one-of-a-kind Elizabeth overwhelmed him, and he had to express it in the only way he knew how. Wrapping an arm around her neck and one around her waist, he bent her over, staking his claim to the sweetness of her soft mouth in front of all and sundry. The whistles and cheers of encouragement simply added to his thundering sense of victory. He'd braved rejection, faced his greatest fear, and had finally won the prize.
Powerless against the surge of love, Richard poured himself into their kiss, reveling in the way her fingers clutched at his shoulders and how her lips eagerly parted to accept his possession. Feeling his control slipping, he slowly eased out of the kiss, pausing to nibble at her lips, nip at her chin, before he straightened and released her.
Gazing at her, Richard could read every nuance of her expression as she went from pure desire, to embarrassment at the cheers and well-wishes from his workers, and finally to bemusement before she looked back at him with a smile.
“Oh, my,” she murmured, pressing the tips of her fingers to her lips.
Richard figured his grin looked perfectly ludicrous, but he didn't give a fig. “Oh, my, indeed.”
Turning on her heel, she faced his workers, who began to clap and shout out congratulations. Uncertain of Elizabeth's reaction, Richard stepped to her side and had started to raise his hands to silence his men when the sound of Elizabeth's laughter reached his ears. Astonished, he looked at her, then goggled as she dipped into a curtsey.
Wedding of the Year Page 19