Love With the Perfect Scoundrel

by Sophia Nash

  “Thank you, Sally.”

  The maid began hesitantly, “My lady, will you be receiving today, as usual? It’s Thursday.”

  Ata inserted herself, “Absolutely not.”

  “No, Ata,” Grace contradicted, cool reason now restored. “Of course I will be receiving at the usual hour, Sally.”

  The maid nodded and retreated from the room.

  “Are you out of your mind, Grace?” Rosamunde asked. “I should warn you that Luc and Quinn are riding hell for leather to the foundling home this very moment. Mr. Brown at least saw fit to wake me before he went after them himself.”

  “We must pray that Quinn will restrain my grandson,” Ata said.

  Georgiana was pacing, her limp obvious. “While I would like to spare you this, I do believe it will be Quinn who will need to be brought to heel. I’ve never seen him in such a state. He left without a word, ignored my every protest to wait for me. I…I…” She covered her face and burst into tears. “I think he’s going to challenge him to a duel.”

  Grace, with great tranquility, attended to the tea tray, pouring, straining, and preparing each of the cups precisely as her friends liked their tea. She then poured her own and took a small, delicate plate. Placing three pieces of toast on it, she carefully slathered jam on each one before taking a large bite of the first. Grace looked up from her task to see all of her friends staring at her. “What?”

  Elizabeth giggled. “Well, I rather think we all expected that at the very least, your appetite would be off.”

  “She’s in shock, I tell you.” Ata harrumphed.

  “No, I’m not. I’m not worried about Luc or Quinn finding Michael for I’m certain he’s long gone.” She took another leisurely bite and a sip of tea. “And I’m going away to join him, so none of this matters. I wasn’t going to tell you before I left, but I don’t want any of you to worry.”

  “Oh God, she’s running away again,” Ata moaned.

  “I’m not. I’m going away. There’s a difference.”

  “Yes, rather like the difference between ham and bacon, don’t you think?” Rosamunde followed with a moan very much like Ata’s. “Oh, Grace, you can’t go away. Please. If only for all of us. We can withstand this again if we face them together—but we have to do it straight from the start. You can’t leave again.”

  “Rosamunde, my dearest friend, I hadn’t thought I’d quite used up all of my pity chits yet.”

  “But this is such nonsense,” Georgiana continued. “If your Mr. Ranier really and truly is the lost Earl of Wallace, you can be married and within the week everything will be forgotten.”

  “It’s true, Grace,” Sarah said, coming forward. “And we will put it about how romantic your courtship was.”

  Grace looked at her friend with doubt. “Look, it’s far too complicated to explain it all right now, but suffice it to say that we need a bit of time and privacy to sort out a few, um, problems of a delicate nature.”

  “Time and privacy?” Ata huffed. “I rather think you’ve had a bit too much of both with that man, and I don’t care what modern thoughts have gotten into your head, missy. You cannot continue down this wicked path, no matter how tall he is or how seductive his eyes are.”

  Rosamunde bit her lower lip to keep from laughing. “She’s right, Grace. None of us recognizes you any more. Not that I don’t like this new version of you quite a bit.”

  Ata rolled her eyes. “Do not think you can just go away again without telling us precisely what level of madness you are considering, Grace.”

  She glanced at the concerned expressions from her dearest friends in the world and finally consented, pouring out a small portion of Michael’s past, and her future. She had promised not to reveal the name of the influential man who had leveled the murder charges and she did not mention the name given to Michael at the foundling home.

  “But surely there is some sort of terrible mistake,” Rosamunde said, crumpling in a heap at Grace’s feet. “Surely Luc and Quinn, and also Lord Palmer will band together. Under their combined influence, and others, Lord Wallace will be fully restored with time, and then this man’s accusations will be discredited and dismissed.”

  “I don’t know, Rosamunde. That is what should happen, but would you want to expose the man you cherish”—she choked a bit on the word and Sarah and Elizabeth rushed toward her—“no, wait, I’m perfectly fine. He and I both agree that we must disappear for a short while, so we can consider the best course of action. And no, I won’t say where we are going, but I will write to you.”

  “But Quinn may be able to—” Georgiana was interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the hallway.

  A quick rap and Sally entered and bobbed a curtsy. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but a Miss Givan is most insistent and—”

  “Please show her in.” Grace crossed the room to greet the exuberant beauty. Her hair and gown in disarray, Victoria Givan rushed forward.

  “Oh, Lady Sheffield, I’m sorry to intrude, I’m sorry to—”

  “What is it, Victoria?”

  She finally took notice of the other ladies in the chamber and stood silently clutching her hands. Grace led her to a settee and they both sat.

  “It’s Michael,” she whispered. “He’s…oh, he’s been taken to Newgate.” The woman burst into tears. “Gordon Lefroy, a former foundling who is still employed by Mr. Manning, came to warn us this morning.”

  Grace felt the room spin on its axis until the gnarled hand of Ata grounded her. “Good God, this involves Rowland Manning? He’s so terribly powerful. Shall I fetch salts?”

  “No, no,” Grace whispered brokenly.

  Rosamunde and Georgiana were conferring, but Grace could make little sense of their hurried words. God, she had to go to him. Straightaway.

  “Grace?” Rosamunde broke through her tangled skein of thoughts. “Georgiana and I will find Luc and Quinn. They will sort through this, I promise you.”

  A course of action now forming in her mind, Grace moved methodically to the door. “I know. Victoria, thank you for coming to me. I fear I must look like a wretch. May I beg you to excuse me while I finish my toilette?”

  Ata nodded. “Very good idea, my dear. So rational you are. We should all take a lesson from you.”

  The ladies rose en masse and thinned into a two-by-two queue out her door, Sally leading the chattering group toward the salon below.

  Grace gathered her reticule, her cloak, and gloves as she counted to twenty. And then with spurious vigor born of ungodly fear, she rushed from the room, down the spiral servants’ stair, and into the teeth of the winter morning. She dashed inelegantly from Portman Square and hailed a hack for the first time in her life. Scuttling inside, she directed the hansom cab to the infamous prison.

  She could barely breathe as horrid visions tumbled in her mind—of Michael straining against heavy manacles, being dragged in chains to the deepest dungeons of hell right in the heart of London. She gulped and dragged air into her tight lungs, fighting back the paralyzing effect of powerlessness.

  Nearly flinging the fare at the stunned driver, Grace flew from the confines of the hackney and stumbled in her haste to reach the grim and imposing stone entrance to Newgate.

  The terrible stench of unwashed and untended humanity assaulted her senses once inside. Gaol keepers, turnkeys, and men who brought others to justice milled in a confusing mass. An elderly woman carrying a child pleaded with a jailer to see her son, while a manacled criminal attempted to pick another’s pocket. At long last, Grace worked her way past a group of leering and overly bold characters to face a man with a dirty wig seated at a long, rough-hewn desk with many ledgers.

  “Aye?” the man said without glancing at her.

  “I understand a gentleman was brought here today, and I wish to see him.”

  At her cultured voice, the man looked up, his eyes nearly black but displaying a sign of intelligence. “Yer ladyship?”

  “I demand to see a gentleman who was brought here t
his morning,” she repeated more forcefully.

  Perplexed lines appeared on his forehead. “Gen’l’men are not brought ’ere, yer ladyship.”

  “I realize that, but he is being wrongly held. He is, indeed, a gentleman.”

  A few cackles of laughter floated in the air and the man before her scratched his head, leaving his wig slightly askew.

  “And ye be?”

  “The Countess of Sheffield,” she said with no small amount of irritation.

  He skimmed the page in front of him. “Yer ladyship, only one man was taken within this morning. A large bloke. Saw ’im meself, I did. Now what would a charming lady such as yerself want to be doing with the loikes of that murdering smithy?” The man’s jowls trembled as his cockney accent threatened to overtake his words. “’e’s too dangerous by half, that one. Took down four men within these walls, ’e did. I’m under strict orders from the magistrate not to allow anyone closer ’an fifty feet from ’is cell.”

  “Then I want to see him fifty feet from his cell,” she said, the tension crumbling her fortitude more than a little. “Oh please, sir, tell me how he fares. Tell me what I must do to see him. Is it money you want?” She thrust out her reticule and the man began to mop his florid face.

  “Well, fer the moment, ’e be in the hold, as we’re a bit overcocked. The next session at Old Bailey starts a fortnight after the New Year, yer ladyship. If you’ll pardon me for sayin’, ma’am, you’re far too foine a lady to be crawling about ’ere, but I’ll tell ye something.” He motioned her closer with his fat fingers.

  She leaned in despite his fetid breath. “Yes?”

  “If you’re determined, you’d be better served going to the man who paid the runners to find ’im. Rowland Manning be ’is name—of Manning’s Livery—yer ladyship. Oh, and ma’am?” His voice was barely audible.

  “Yes?”

  “You’d best be advised to bring that with you.” He pushed away her reticule and winked. “Sometimes blokes who bring charges can be persuaded to see reason—although Mr. Manning promises to be a tough ’un.”

  Grace nodded once. “Sir, I thank you. And I shall mention to the magistrate how very kind and organized you are here, Mr….?”

  “Fawkes,” the man said with a rickety picket-fence smile.

  “Mr. Fawkes. But I should also warn you that if my acquaintance is harmed in any way during his stay here, I will personally come to condemn you and anyone else who has a hand in it.” She drew herself up as tall as she could. “Do I make myself perfectly clear, Mr. Fawkes?”

  “Perfectlee, ma’am.” The man’s smile grew as Grace expertly transferred a hidden sum to his hand.

  Lord, she was taking to the life of bribery with sinful ease. Would wagering and thievery be far behind? She prayed to God she would have the nerve to see this through.

  Not two hundred yards beyond several reinforced locked doors and fifty feet below street level, Michael prayed to God just the opposite.

  Chapter 18

  The sound of water dripping on stone just inches from where Michael’s head lay was driving him mad, but not nearly as mad as his worry for Grace.

  God, she was too innocent of the ways of man. He greatly feared she would go to Rowland. His hands half clenched at the thought. But there was no fight left in him. A gang of gaol keepers had seen to that with extraordinarily effective methods. Experimentally, Michael tried to ease open his mouth and pain ricocheted in his head. At least his jaw still worked and he could see. But then again the jailers had probably left him his sight so he could see the dank reality of the here and now. That, or he was too bloody tall for them to reach his eyes. His knees and torso were another matter altogether.

  All around, the sounds and stench of imprisonment radiated. He guessed more than fifty men were squashed into the holding cell.

  All at once, a small face hovered above his.

  “Don’t bother. They took it all,” Michael growled through clenched teeth.

  “You’re him—the nob,” a boy’s voice said, with obvious anger.

  “You can see well enough to know I’m no bloody nob.”

  “Nay. You be the nob what had the runners waiting for me at the foundling ’ome.”

  Michael closed his eyes against the pain in his skull. “James?” he whispered.

  “I should kick you.”

  “Go right ahead, lad. Just do it on the top of my head will you?”

  “You’re bloomin’ daft, sir.”

  “Know it,” he returned, conserving his words. “James?”

  “Yes?”

  Michael noticed the boy sounded exhausted. “I’m sorry I asked you to risk meeting me. You’d probably be far away from here if you’d not listened to me.”

  Silence reigned for a while before James replied sagely, “It was only a matter of time ’afore they’d ’a got me. At least you’re here now an’ maybe we can trade turns at watchin’ an’ sleepin’.”

  Michael forced himself into a seated position, ignoring the never-ending points of blinding pain that radiated from his frame. “Lay your head here, James. I swear I won’t let you down this time.”

  The second hackney cab was far harder for Grace to find. She walked six blocks from Newgate in the miserable sleet, her cloak and gloves barely able to keep out the wet cold. She arrived in front of the offices of the venerable solicitors who had guarded, tended, and grown the vast Sheffield fortune for generations.

  “Mr. Williamson.” Grace nodded as she was ushered before a tall, thin gentleman of nearly white hair, who bowed deeply.

  “What a lovely surprise, Lady Sheffield. I am honored you thought to condescend to visit our offices, but you know I am always available to come to you, madam.”

  “Thank you, sir. But, this is a matter of grave urgency and I was hoping, well…” It all sounded so awful, so lurid, she couldn’t force it past her lips.

  Robert Williamson cleared his throat and indicated a chair across from his massive desk. “Lady Sheffield? Please permit me to offer whatever sort of confidence you might desire, ma’am, such as I did with Lord Sheffield. What is it? Perhaps a gaming debt or an unpleasant business transaction of some sort? I am at your disposal…with discretion.” The concern reflected in the gentleman’s gray eyes nearly cracked Grace’s tightly held emotions.

  “I would ask you to come with me straightaway. I have business which cannot be delayed. I will need to have a contract drawn up if all goes well. And yes,” she said, training her gaze on a point beyond his thin shoulders, “I will need it done with the utmost discretion.”

  Mr. Williamson nodded, and when learning she had not brought her carriage or her maid, sent her a brooding look but, gratefully, said not a word. The elderly man, whom Grace received for quarterly meetings at Sheffield House, arranged for his carriage, gathered his affairs and accompanied her to the Warwick Lane entrance.

  Grace leaned back against the plain but gleaming black squabs of the solicitor’s carriage after murmuring their direction. She silently wondered how she would convince Mr. Manning to release Michael.

  “Mr. Williamson?”

  He immediately leaned forward. “Yes, Lady Sheffield?”

  She licked her lips. “May we review my fortune at present?”

  “Your annual interest or your entire fortune? Including an estimate of the unentailed Sheffield House?”

  “Yes. I mean absolutely everything. Has there been any significant change since last we met, sir?”

  He blanched and then chose his words with care. “No, madam. We applaud your conservative nature, and that of the late Lord Sheffield, and well, there is relatively little change. Your fortune, together with Sheffield House, which might be valued roughly at twenty thousand, unless you consider the paintings, the furnishings—” He stopped. “Pardon me, Lady Sheffield, but may I offer my—”

  “No,” she said politely, “thank you, sir.” She said not another word as they turned a corner to drive the last few blocks toward Manning�
�s Livery. Mr. Robert Williamson was about to be rudely awakened by her new incautious ways. The solicitor’s team slowed to a walk.

  Grace’s heart plummeted as she studied the vast, sprawling enterprise, far grander than she had envisioned. Three immense stone structures of elegant, classical lines fronted a series of other buildings—stables and enclosures—teeming with horses. Why, this was many times the size of the famed Tattersall’s at Hyde Park Corner, although this address was not nearly so fine.

  “Oh, I had no idea,” she murmured to herself.

  “Magnificent, isn’t it? Manning hired John Nash, himself, to design it. Of course, it’s not quite finished yet, but when it’s complete it will rival the grandest liveries and riding schools in all the world,” Mr. Williamson informed. “May I ask if madam is considering purchasing a new team? May I offer to negotiate for you, since, as you must be aware, ladies are not generally admitted to, uh, places such as—”

  “Mr. Williamson, thank you, but I would ask you to request a private audience for me with Mr. Manning. You may tell him it is extremely urgent and it concerns Mr. Michael Ranier. I shall wait inside your carriage, sir.”

  He looked at her steadily before tipping his hat, and making his way toward the open enclosure with many columns along the three sides. A marble fountain in the center stood empty and silent in the cold winter afternoon, long shadows dragging on the corners of the imposing structures before her. Grace felt faint and she realized that amid the turmoil of the day, she had had naught but two bites of toast that morning.

  Oh God, this place was not at all what she had expected. She had thought Manning’s Livery would be sprawling, yes, but rickety and unkempt. Slovenly, even. This boded far, far worse.

  Mr. Williamson braved the gusting cold walk back to the carriage. “Take my arm, Lady Sheffield. Mr. Manning said he would be honored to see you. Today’s auction and primary business of the day has concluded, ma’am.” Grace nodded and accepted Mr. Williamson’s support.

  Two men dressed in dark blue and gold livery flanked the inside entrance as a third walked forward and indicated that Mr. Manning awaited her in the next chamber. When Mr. Williamson would enter with her, Grace halted.