“Well, you are a poet, ain’t ya? In me ’umble experience, birds want their fellows to write their own bit of verse, not poach some other bloke’s.”
The scarlet flush that came over Minerva’s cheeks said that Jem knew significantly more about women than he knew about knot tying.
“You’re upset I didn’t write my own poem?” Marlowe hoarsed out, gobsmacked.
Her flush deepened, and she bit at her bottom lip as if trying to hold herself back. Finally she seemed to break, exhaling and flashing stormy eyes at him. “Well, you are bloody Christopher Essex. You can write an ode to my hip, but not one decent love poem?”
“Told you, mate,” Jem said smugly.
Marlowe shook his head in disbelief at Minerva’s . . . ridiculousness. What should he have expected, though, from a woman who was just as obsessed with Essex as his sister had been before the incest had gotten in the way?
But then again, she did have a point. He should have used his own words. It was yet another way he had failed in not only giving Minerva what she deserved but also conquering his own poetic demons. He hadn’t known it was possible to feel any worse than he had in the days following Minerva’s decampment, but in that moment, with a probable concussion, a gun to his head, and yet another reminder of his complete failure as a man and a poet, he found that it was indeed very possible.
“I tried,” he said quietly. “I was going to write the greatest love poem in the history of humankind, but I couldn’t. I haven’t been able to write anything other than that damnable ode in months, Minerva.” Years, really. “And besides, I was in a bit of a rush this morning, and the words . . . there are no words, Minerva, that could ever possibly come close to expressing how much I love and adore you. But I shall try, for the rest of my life, to find them.”
Minerva’s expression crumbled, and her eyes welled with tears. He straightened in his chair in alarm at her reaction. He must have said the wrong thing yet again, or, God forbid, not enough.
“Those. Those are the words. The perfect words,” she said as the tears fell down her face.
Oh, thank bloody hell.
His cheeks may or may not have also felt suspiciously damp at the moment, but he felt entirely justified in indulging himself. Minerva had not made things easy for him, and he had a feeling he’d merely won the battle and not the war.
“So does that mean you forgive me?” Let it not be said he wasn’t willing to capitalize on the moment.
She smiled at him tremulously, but before she could give him a proper answer, the deafening report of a pistol echoed through the room and his aching head.
He shifted his attention back to Lightfoot—he’d nearly forgotten the little rat was still there at all—and found the man glaring at him with a smoking gun in his meaty hand.
“Enough!” Lightfoot growled. “I don’t know who you think you are . . .”
“Oh, I think that has been well established by now, don’t you?” he drawled, flexing his fingers at his back.
“But this . . . ridiculous pantomime has gone on long enough! If you have nothing useful to tell me about the duke, then I have no further need of you. Jem, shoot them and dump them in the river.”
“Wot?” Jem cried, alarmed. “I weren’t paid to do no murderin’.”
“You’ll do as I say if you want to see a single pound.”
Jem snorted. “Doan fink I will, mate. Now I’ll be havin’ the rest of me money, and be on me way.”
Lightfoot rounded on Jem and shoved the gun in the man’s face. Jem’s eyes popped wide in surprise, as if he’d not expected this particular turn of events, and he raised his hands in surrender.
“You won’t be having the rest of anything unless you do as I say. Now shoot them before I shoot you!” Lightfoot snarled.
“Why doan you just shoot ’em yerself and leave me out of it?” Jem cried.
Lightfoot paused and looked worryingly thoughtful, as if such a novel idea had never occurred to him.
Marlowe cursed Jem silently. Just when he’d begun to like the lad.
He supposed it was time to make his move, since it looked as if Lightfoot was inclined to take Jem’s advice. But before he could rise out of his seat, Lightfoot stumbled on Minerva’s outstretched leg as he stalked toward Marlowe.
The villain floundered in the air, arms windmilling, then fell in an awkward sprawl on top of Minerva, knocking her chair backward. She let out a pained cry as her bound hands were pinned beneath the combined weight of her body and Lightfoot’s.
Indignant, Marlowe sprang to his feet and jerked Lightfoot from Minerva, knocking the pistol out of the man’s paw at the same time. He nearly recoiled at the sewer stench that clung to Lightfoot’s person—the man must have bathed in the shallows to smell so rotten. He swung Lightfoot around by the collar and punched him in the jaw, breathing through his mouth the whole time.
Lightfoot’s eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he collapsed to the floor in a dead faint. Marlowe quickly took up his discarded rope and bound the man’s arms behind his back, this time with some proper knots, before he let himself relax. All in all, it was a bit of an anticlimax.
Minerva cried out in alarm, and when he glanced up, he discovered Jem had retrieved the pistol. The man aimed the gun in his direction, his arms trembling so badly Marlowe was afraid he’d press the trigger by accident.
“’E didn’t say nofink about no murder!” Jem cried.
Marlowe raised his hands and stepped away from Lightfoot. “I believe you, Jem.”
“’E wanted the Duke of Montford brought ’ere is all I knows. And I only done it for the blunt. Our Jenny needs a proper doctor, and I figured one duke done it to her, another duke can pay. You nobs are all the same to me. But I ain’t no murderer.”
This was beginning to sound horribly familiar.
“You wouldn’t be talking about Jenny Turner of the White House off Soho Square?”
Jem blanched. “Wot! How’d you know?”
“I believe we have a mutual friend. Mr. Soames.”
Jem’s expression darkened. “How do you know my cousin?”
“Never mind that. But I thought Soames had collected quite enough funds for Jenny’s injuries.”
Jem snorted. “’E did, but then ’e said we could double it at the races.”
Oh, good Lord. “That didn’t go to plan, then?”
Jem shook his head.
“And you went along with it?”
Jem nodded, his face flaming.
Good God, the imbeciles. Though Sebastian had warned him.
“Did Soames put you up to this?” he demanded. He’d kill the runner if he were involved in this madness.
Jem shook his head. “’E weren’t interested. Claims ’e’s a legitimate businessman these days.”
That was painting it a bit brown, but he had to commend Soames for drawing the line at abduction-for-hire. It certainly hadn’t done him any favors before. “I hate to use Soames as a paragon for anything, but perhaps you might try to emulate your cousin.”
“Emu-wot?”
Marlowe sighed. “I’ll get Jenny the finest doctor in the city,” he said grudgingly, for it was the least he could do for the poor girl. She obviously had no one sensible around her to care for her properly, judging by Soames’s and Jem’s recklessness.
Jem’s expression brightened.
“But you have to stop pointing the gun at me first.”
Jem startled as if he’d just remembered what he was holding in his hands. The gun wavered even more in Jem’s grip, but for some reason the man seemed reluctant to comply.
Marlowe sighed. “You’re no murderer, I can see that, Jem. But if you pull that trigger, you better be sure you kill me, because if you don’t . . . well . . .” Marlowe gave Jem the same grin he’d given the French soldiers he’d met—and killed—on the battlefield. Jem paled. “You’d better run.”
Jem swallowed nervously.
“Far, far away,” he continued.
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Jem dropped the gun and ran toward the door. It was the first intelligent thing he’d done all day.
He didn’t get far, however, for at that exact moment, the door crashed inward, and Soames himself barreled straight into his cousin. They fell to the floor in a tangled, cursing heap. The boards creaked alarmingly under their weight, and Marlowe braced himself just in case the whole room collapsed.
Montford and Sebastian hurtled through the door next, with the duchess hot on their heels. Her expression was suspiciously bright as she took in the scene. She was no doubt relishing every minute of this misadventure, though when she caught sight of Lightfoot, her good humor faded into disgust. “Oh, not him again!” she cried.
Marlowe should have been more surprised to see them, but his head hurt too much to question their appearance.
“We heard a shot. Is anyone injured?” Sebastian asked.
Marlowe glanced at the unconscious Lightfoot and toed him a bit with his boot. “No.”
“Speak for yourself,” Minerva grouched. “My hands feel as if two people fell on them . . . Oh, wait! Two people did fall on them. And if someone doesn’t untie me this instant, there will be consequences.”
Oh, good Lord—Minerva. And she was using her governess voice. That did not bode well. In his defense, he’d not forgotten Minerva in the fracas so much as concentrated on disarming the enemy before further injury could befall her, but he doubted she would see it that way. She’d been left bound to an upended chair for much too long.
He righted Minerva’s chair and grinned down at her, hoping to divert her wrath at the very least. “Is that a promise?”
She blushed and glared at him in wordless eloquence, and his heart felt light with happiness at the sight of her, whole and hopping mad. He decided to seize the moment before she had full use of her extremities—just in case she’d decided to take a swing at his eye—and pecked her on the lips. It lasted a fraction of a second, but it still sent a deliciously electric thrill down his spine.
It was enough to still her protests. She gaped at him in stunned silence as he reached around and undid her knots. When he was through, he pulled her to her feet and examined her hands. The skin around her wrists seemed a little abraded—for which Jem would pay in some creative way—but he could see no cuts or bruises.
Someone cleared a throat, and he turned his head to find Montford and Sebastian holding up a slumped Lightfoot between them, the duchess beaming in their direction. He realized he must have been examining Minerva’s hands for longer than he’d thought.
She did have lovely hands, though, so he thought himself quite justified.
“It seems you didn’t need our help after all,” Montford rumbled, looking slightly put upon. “Though why Lightfoot would kidnap you in the first place . . .”
Marlowe scowled at his friend and jerked out of the blasted silver jacket. He balled it up and threw it at the duke. “I told you I looked ridiculous in it. I looked like you!”
Montford fumbled to catch the jacket, releasing his hold on Lightfoot and startling Sebastian so badly that the marquess’s grip faltered and the villain crashed face-first to the floor once more. They all stared down at the fallen man in consternation for a moment but decided to let him lie.
“Ridiculous?” Montford blustered. “I am ridiculous? Why, I . . .”
Astrid patted her husband’s arm consolingly. “I think it’s a splendid jacket. A bit more . . . reflective a fabric choice than your usual, though.”
Montford turned his scowl on to Sebastian. “I am never inviting you along to my tailor’s again.”
Sebastian just shrugged and propped his foot on Lightfoot’s backside. “You are letting a man who wears scarlet banyans and Jerusalem sandals shame your wardrobe, Monty.”
“I am allowed to wear banyans and sandals. I am an eccentric poet,” Marlowe proclaimed.
Sebastian’s brow rose, and his mouth twitched. “Oh? Is that the reason? I thought it was from being punched in the brainbox one too many times during the war.”
Before he could formulate a suitably cutting retort, there was a commotion in the hallway, featuring a high-pitched voice that was far too familiar. He groaned inwardly and braced himself. Seconds later, Betsy flew into the room with a russet-colored dog barking hysterically at her bootheels. A harassed-looking Dr. Lucas stumbled in behind her, with Astrid’s dotty Aunt Anabel hanging off his arm, looking bound for the Bourbon court.
Betsy threw herself into Marlowe’s arms with a cry of relief. He hugged his sister close and glowered at the doctor over her shoulder. Lucas, the only halfway sensible one of the lot, should have known better than to allow Betsy to accompany them to a rookery. The doctor just shrugged helplessly. “I tried to stop her.”
“But I was having none of it,” Betsy said crisply, pulling away from Marlowe and grinning broadly. “I wanted to make sure you were all right with my own eyes. Since I was the one who figured out you were abducted in the first place.” She glared at Montford and Sebastian as if daring them to contradict her claim.
Both men wisely held their tongues.
Betsy broke away from him and threw herself at Minerva next, lifting the smaller woman off her feet and spinning her around. It was exactly what Marlowe had wished to do, but he was afraid if he tried to spin anyone around at this point, he was liable to faint. He supposed their reconciliation would have to wait for another day. But there would be a reconciliation now, of that he had no doubt.
Minerva looked up, met his eyes, and gave him a small smile, and his heart swelled with hope. It would have to be enough for now.
“As much fun as it’s been, I suggest we depart the premises posthaste, before our carriages are stolen,” the duke said, reluctantly hauling Lightfoot back to his feet with Sebastian’s help and dragging him toward the door.
“Hold on,” Sebastian said, abruptly dropping Lightfoot’s legs. They thudded against the floorboards, and Lightfoot groaned in pain. (Everyone ignored him.) “What’s happened to Soames and his cousin?”
Marlowe froze and glanced around the room, but no trace of the two ruffians remained. Damn. They’d doubtless skulked their way back across the river by now.
Well, it seemed the pair of them would live to bedevil London for another day, for Marlowe was much too tired—and concussed—to give a damn about chasing them down.
“And what in God’s name is that smell?” Sebastian continued, wrinkling his nose as he glared down at Lightfoot’s fragrant boots.
CHAPTER THIRTY
IN WHICH MISS JONES MAKES A GRAND GESTURE
FOLLOWING THE DUCHESS of Montford’s advice on any occasion was probably a terrible idea. When that advice included the midnight hour, a bit of light housebreaking, an ancient ladder, and a two-story climb, it was definitely a terrible idea. Horrible, even. Especially when one of the rungs of said ladder broke beneath Minerva’s foot halfway up and she nearly plummeted to her doom.
She clung to the sides and glowered down into the midnight gloom, where the moonlight glinted off the duchess’s red hair—the duchess, who was wearing trousers.
“I am going to die!” she hissed. “I told you this ladder looked rotten.”
Astrid made some wild gesture with her hands that looked vaguely encouraging, though she had to abandon her steadying grip on the ladder to do so. Minerva clung even more desperately as the ladder wobbled. This was Poseidon all over again.
“You’re almost there!” the duchess stage-whispered. “Don’t turn coward now, Minerva Jones. You wanted a Grand Gesture; this is a Grand Gesture!”
“This is a terrible gesture,” she muttered to herself, but continued to climb.
At the present moment, in the middle of the night, in the middle of the air, Minerva wasn’t sure how she had been so convinced of this plan’s cleverness not six hours earlier. She blamed the duchess entirely.
After the debacle in the rookery with that horrid bedlamite, Mr. Lightfoot, the viscount had been suspiciously absen
t from her life. As if, after his public declaration and subsequent marriage proposal (while tied to a chair—and heavily concussed), he’d given up on her. She didn’t think that was true, precisely, but the fight had definitely gone out of him. Which just wouldn’t do.
He’d backed off, the idiot, just as she’d asked him to. It was, frankly, the last thing she’d expected him to do, and deep down the last thing she’d wanted. For now that the first blush of anger was behind her, she was clearheaded enough to realize that she’d forgiven him for his deception long ago. She’d only held on to her anger out of sheer stubbornness.
For a man who’d spent a decade keeping his avocation as a poet a secret—longer than that, even, with a father like the earl, who’d probably tried to beat the poetry out of him as a boy—announcing he was Christopher Essex to a largely hostile audience had to have been excruciating for him.
He’d always used words as a shield to hide behind, whether through the eloquence of Christopher Essex or the teasing, ironic cant favored by the viscount. He’d laid his soul bare as Essex, but his anonymity had made such truth telling easy. To do the same without hiding behind the public mask he’d so carefully cultivated as the feckless viscount couldn’t have been easy for him to do.
Yet he’d done so, for her. In her utter mortification at the bonfire, it had been difficult to appreciate this, and she’d ended up scolding him for not only his public declaration but also for reciting Byron to her.
Well, she was still rather cross about that, but she understood now why he’d done so. Even after all that had transpired, she’d not truly connected the mercurial viscount she’d come to know with the poet who must have spent the last few years struggling for words—a poet who had just recently published a poem that was in large part a lamentation on his inability to write . . . in between all the bits about her dewy hips, of course.
Not until he’d explained to her that there were no words, that there never could be any words adequate to express his love for her, had she finally put all of the pieces of the puzzle together:
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