“Margaret!” she hissed, her eyes wide and terrified. “Let’s go for help!”
Margaret tugged her arm free. “Help is in the study, and I am going after him.” She dashed down the carpeted hall and pushed open the slightly ajar door.
Chest heaving, Rafe stood over a fallen body, the identity of which was hidden by her father’s massive mahogany desk. He turned at the creak of the door and his eyes met hers, a fire in them.
“You’re safe,” he said simply.
“Yes,” Margaret managed, heart pounding and fingers tingling.
He exhaled a shaking breath. “I went to your room first, the moment I could figure out how to get there. The door was locked from the outside, no protection in sight, and you were gone. Do you have any idea what I…?” He shuddered slightly and shook his head, striding around the desk. “Dammit, Margaret…”
Rafe came to her, his hands sliding into her damp tresses and pulling her towards him, his lips crashing down on hers. She wrapped her arms around him tightly, pressing herself as close as she could, arching up onto her tiptoes and returning his breathless kiss with all of the frantic passion and need coursing through her. He tilted her head for a deeper, more intimate kiss, and her knees shook with the intensity. He held her tightly, almost painfully so, but she thrilled with the pressure, the pleasure, the relief…
He broke off, kissing her cheeks, her nose, her brow. “I can’t bear it, pet. I can’t…”
“H-how did you hear me?” she asked, lowering herself down to the ground, her fingers gripping his damp shirt.
He grinned swiftly and kissed her nose again. “Providence. Fate. And the fact that I’ve been walking nearby every night since you sent me away, hoping for just a glimpse of you.”
Margaret reared back as far as she could while he still held her face in his hands. “You were?”
He nodded, his eyes never leaving hers. “I told you I don’t want to spend another day not seeing you. And I had to make sure you were safe. I had to protect you, even if you didn’t want me anymore.” He cupped her cheeks and stroked them softly. “I meant what I said. I love you.”
All of the breath vanished from Margaret’s lungs and she stared at Rafe in wonder. She pulled on his shirt and drew his mouth to hers, melting against him. His arms moved and encircled her, pulling her close, and she thought, very faintly, that she could die quite happily thusly. After he’d kissed her senseless, of course.
“Lord, Margaret…”
Margaret broke from Rafe’s lips with a gasp and whirled, Rafe’s arms still around her, and they pulled her against his body protectively.
Helen stood in the door with a raised brow and a curious half smile. “Help is in the study, you said. Clever girl.”
Rafe chuckled and stepped away from Margaret, but only just. He bowed perfectly. “Miss Dalton, I presume.”
“And you would be the man who sent me that rather cryptic note this week.” She gave him a coy hint of a curtsey. “Much obliged.” She glanced down the hall, and her playfulness faded. “Ritson is coming, and she is in a frenzy.” Helen folded her arms and moved around the desk to look at the fallen man, wrinkling her nose up. “Oh, lord, it’s a Rom. I thought they hated city life.”
“They do,” Rafe and Margaret said together.
Helen leaned down, then looked at Rafe in shock. “He is out cold.”
“He ought to be,” Rafe muttered darkly. “He had a good thrashing coming, and I was only too delighted to comply.”
“Lord, Margaret,” Helen murmured, smiling a little. “Find one for me, will you?”
Ignoring her, Rafe pulled Margaret to the side of the room. He glanced out of the door, then took her hands and squeezed tightly. “Margaret, listen to me,” he said earnestly. “There is something I need to tell you.”
Margaret opened her mouth to reply, but then a horrible screeching sound rent the air, and Miss Ritson, in all her terrifying fury, appeared in the doorway. “Thieves! Ruffians! They are after the master’s fortune!”
“What?” Margaret cried, trying to stand between Rafe and her chaperone. “No!”
“Help!” Miss Ritson called, trying to sound concerned while she appeared irate. “Help! Seize him! Protect our sweet lambs!”
Horace and Martin entered, looking large and menacing, and they took Rafe easily, as he did not resist.
“No!” Margaret screamed, tugging at Martin’s arms. “No, it wasn’t him!”
“Miss Ritson.” Helen tried to interject, her voice calmer.
“Miss Dalton, I don’t know how I will face your parents after this horrible incident,” Miss Ritson overrode, dripping an apology in every word. She turned to Margaret and moved to embrace her, which sent Margaret careening back into the bookshelf with a painful lurch. “My dear Margaret, you are safe!”
The footmen hauled Rafe out of the room, but he dragged his feet, keeping his eyes on her.
“You can’t take him!” Margaret cried, trying to move past her.
Miss Ritson shook her head, her expression furious. “I’ve already sent for the magistrate, and he will be here shortly to take them both away.”
“You knew he was coming!” Margaret accused, pointing at the fallen Rom. “You called the magistrate for him before he could do anything!”
“Such lies and falsehoods!” Miss Ritson scolded. “You poor, poor dear. The thief has been apprehended, and his accomplice there must have had a stroke of conscience that irritated him.” She leaned closer and gripped Margaret’s arm. “Did he take you from your room?”
“No,” Margaret snapped, trying to wrench away.
The grip tightened. “Say that he did. Or would you like your parents to know that you aided in an attempted robbery?”
Margaret glowered. “I did no such…”
“What is all this?”
Margaret gasped as her father’s voice met her ears and Miss Ritson’s eyes widened. Margaret dashed around her and flung herself into her father’s open arms, heedless of the damp greatcoat. Her mother tittered about Margaret’s nightgown, and Miss Ritson started in on the story of the break in and the dangers they had been in, as the footmen returned for the unconscious Rom. Margaret recognized him at once as the one she had seen with Sir Vincent, and she shivered at the memory.
Her father patted her softly, then turned to listen to Miss Ritson’s story, with Helen standing in the background, looking rather amused by the new tale.
Margaret took the opportunity to run to the front door and wrench it open, just in time to see Rafe being loaded into the magistrate’s carriage, still not fighting anyone off. She shook her head and started to run out into the storm, but his eyes met hers, and he shook his head slowly.
She stopped on the stair and bit her lip, longing for one more touch of his lips, one more brush of his fingers, one more… something.
Rafe smiled a little as shackles were clamped around his hands. “It’s all right,” he mouthed.
It wouldn’t be all right. He’d saved her, and now he was being blamed for the crime he had prevented. They would be separated, and that was most certainly not all right.
“I love you,” she replied in kind, covering her heart with one hand, curling it tightly against her skin. The silent words spread between them, and she felt herself soaring with them, despite the agony that was pulsing through her with every beat of her heart.
His smile grew into a wild grin and he winked.
Then he was fully loaded into the carriage, and the footmen brushed passed her with the Rom, who was also loaded in, and then the carriage rolled away just as a sob escaped Margaret’s throat.
“Margaret, what happened here?” her mother’s voice chirped from inside the house.
Margaret shook her head, closed her eyes on tears, and ran back into the house, up the stairs, and into her room, flinging herself onto the bed and sobbing loudly into the pile of bedcovers. The sound was smothered, but it echoed within her, and she wished, just once, to feel nothing.<
br />
It was several minutes later when her father knocked on her door, saying her name softly.
Not used to anyone asking for permission to enter, Margaret turned and stared at the door curiously. “Come in?”
He entered the room and looked much more himself, without greatcoat or coat, cravat limp, and his greying hair rumpled. He smiled fondly, his round face transforming. “Margaret, love, I’ve been speaking with your cousin, and she has told me a very interesting tale. Have you been locked in your room all this week and beyond?”
The strain of the last few weeks finally settled upon her and she felt unbearably weary. “Yes.”
His brows lowered and he came over to the bed. “Because you ran away.”
She nodded repeatedly. “Yes.”
“Because Miss Ritson wanted you to marry this Sir Vincent person.”
Margaret’s eyes filled with tears. She wouldn’t have to marry Sir Vincent anymore. She wouldn’t be forced to do anything anymore. “Yes,” she said again, her tears finding their way into the tiny word.
Her father sighed and took her hand. “I think you had better tell me why.”
She did so, slowly and carefully, reliving the last few weeks for his benefit. She left out everything romantic about Rafe, everything that she would never want to tell her father, but all of the pertinent details remained. Her father remained very calm through the telling, only the growing furrows in his brow indicating his displeasure.
When she was done, he shook his head slowly. “And the man they took away just now. Your cousin said he saved you.”
Margaret straightened, nodding. “Yes, he did. You’ve seen him, Father, he is often down by the grocers and is always so polite and considerate to Mama and me. He heard me calling for help and came to my rescue.”
“Yes, I thought so,” her father replied with a nod, his mouth curving in satisfaction. “We must repay him for his kindness. Do you know his name?”
She hesitated, wondering what she could say, how the magistrate would know him. “I believe he is called the Gent, Father.”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “How very apt a name. I shall call on the magistrate at once and have him released and rewarded. And you need not worry, my dear. You don’t have to marry Sir Vincent. Your mother and I shall find a proper European for you. We have a number in mind already, it was a most productive trip.”
Margaret sighed heavily, discouragement and relief filling her. “And Miss Ritson?”
Her father snorted. “She will be dismissed, of course. We never would have hired her if we had known she would behave so cruelly.”
He rose from the bed, and stroked Margaret’s cheek as he had when she was a little girl. “Don’t worry, duckie. I will take care of everything.”
Margaret managed a smile for him, then tilted her head. “I did not expect you back. What happened?”
“Oh, we had word from Helen several days ago,” he told her with a wave of his hand. “She said things were not at all well and we would do best by returning to you. I’ve always found Helen a touch dramatic, so we did not hasten back. I am sorry for it now, but you seem well enough.”
He kissed her cheek and tapped her chin, then left the room.
One of the maids came up to help Margaret reset her room and change into fresh nightclothes, and then Margaret sat before her window, staring out into the night, the storm now passed.
She would have to find Rafe after he was released. She had to tell him that she would be leaving after all, forced to marry a foreigner. But at least he would be free. If she had to do it so he could be free, she would.
It might break her heart, but for him, she could do so.
It was her turn to save him now.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Margaret raced down to breakfast almost the moment she awoke, seeing that it was far later than she normally slept, and knowing her father was a very early riser. He would have been about his business first thing, and she had to know what had happened.
She had to know Rafe was safe and well and whole and…
She passed the study with a shiver, but was gratified that her usual footmen had been returned to their posts, and they seemed pleased by it as well.
“Margaret,” Helen called from the morning room, sitting on a sofa and embroidering with her mother.
“Not now!” she called, foregoing politeness.
She pushed into the library, knowing that was where her father would be, now that he was returned from his travels.
He sat by the fire, despite the warmth of the day, and his spectacles were perched on his long nose. He looked over them at her as she entered the room. “Good morning, my dear. Or is it afternoon yet?”
She smiled tightly. “Not yet, Father.”
He grunted and went back to his book.
Margaret frowned, then cleared her throat softly. “Father, I wondered… Have you been to see the magistrate this morning?”
“Hmm?” he asked, looking up distractedly.
“The magistrate,” she repeated firmly, losing her innocent daughter tone.
Her father missed the change. “Ah, yes, yes, of course.” He pulled off his spectacles and tapped his mouth with them. “I went to see Lord Cartwright this morning, yes. I explained the situation and asked if the Gent could be released, as he had done us quite a service, and Lord Cartwright agreed that the circumstances were extenuating, and he thought there should be some leniency.”
Margaret’s heart swelled and she forced herself to calm, clasping her fingers in front of her. “That is wonderful,” she managed to say without inflection.
“Unfortunately, his lordship had already been asked to turn the Gent over to the Home Office, for some reason.” He shook his head as if the notion bewildered him. “He had no information on what had proceeded from that point on. It seemed that there was quite an interest in him, so I can only presume that he was not always such a gentleman, as it were.”
Margaret clamped down on her lips hard, letting her eyes flutter shut. “I see.”
“So I felt my only recourse was to venture down to the Home Office myself.”
Her eyes sprang open and she gaped. “You did?”
He nodded, his eyes twinkling a little. “I know Sir Robert Peel a little from our younger years, so I thought I might be able to persuade him. But he was not in, and the whole venture proved fruitless.”
Margaret’s heart sank and she leaned against the chair nearest her. “Was it?”
“They flatly refused to help me,” he grumbled, shaking his head. “Would not even confirm that they had him, or that the Gent even existed.” He exhaled irritably. “I shall be writing to Sir Robert to express my disappointment, and I shall use some very strong words.”
Margaret was fairly certain she was going to be using some very strong words momentarily. “So… that is it?” she asked faintly.
Her father’s soft eyes met hers. “I am so sorry, duckie, I tried. I cannot do anything else.”
Her throat worked on a swallow and a sob. “But he could die!” she managed to force out. “They wouldn’t care about him, he’s nothing and no one, he could die and no one would be the wiser!”
“He could,” her father replied with a sad nod. “And that would be a tragedy. He deserves so much more. But my dear…” He gestured for her to come closer, and took her hand when she did so, kissing it fondly. “All will be sorted out in the end. One way or another. You are safe, and I thank him for it. Now that is that, and we must put it behind us.”
Margaret resisted the urge to yank her hand away from her father’s, and let it fall to her side limply. “Yes, Father.”
She turned to leave the room, wondering where her heart had gone, and why it hurt to place one step in front of the other.
It was over. She would never see him again, and if Rafe’s past was half as colorful as she thought it was, he would be dealt with quickly and without any fuss. As he had no standing, no family, and no one of consequence
to care, they could avoid any of the entanglements of law.
She would move to Europe for her foreign husband, and he would be dead.
There was nothing else to do.
“Margaret?” her father called. “Don’t forget, we are promised to Lord and Lady Smithfield’s tomorrow. Wear something fetching, the ambassador from Austria is to attend, and I know his uncle.”
She closed her eyes on tears, forcing herself to swallow. “Y-yes, Papa.”
She winced as the childish name escaped her lips. She had not called him that since she was very little, and if he was listening at all, he would know she was distressed.
“Thank you, duckie. You are such a gentle love.”
Margaret rolled her eyes and gave up the pretense of calm, as her father was not listening and thought she was eight years old as it was. She left the library and moved towards the back of the house, intending to go out into the gardens and walk in the morning sunshine.
“Margaret…”
Helen’s soft voice stopped her, and Margaret half turned, her hands forming fists at her side. “I am going to cry, Helen,” she said through gritted teeth. “If you cannot…”
She heard Helen hiccup and looked up in surprise.
Her cousin had tears streaming down her cheeks, staring at Margaret sadly.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, her curiosity outweighing her pain for the moment.
Helen shook her head. “You!” She sniffled and came to Margaret, throwing her arms around her. “I was eavesdropping, of course, and I heard everything. Oh, Margaret…”
Margaret tensed for a moment, resisting the onslaught of emotion, and then released it in one loud, gasping sob, burying her face into her cousin’s shoulder, and crying with her.
“He’s a ruddy hero,” Helen told her stubbornly, her words wavering. “He’s a masterpiece of a man, and he… He…”
“He loved me,” Margaret whimpered, shuddering with more tears.
Helen wailed more loudly. “He’s not dead yet!” she protested, trying to slap Margaret’s hand, but not managing.
The Lady and the Gent (London League, Book 1) Page 27