The Scoundrel Takes a Bride: A Regency Rogues Novel

by Stefanie Sloane

  Maggie had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. The Bishop controlled his own actions. He could not control those of others—at least not without force.

  And that afternoon, when the orderly had sent word that she had received visitors, he knew action was required. And he would be the one to take it.

  “I suppose not, though we were friends once, very long ago,” the Bishop answered honestly. After all, they had been fellow actors together, until that nasty piece of work Smeade had proved his ineptitude by approaching him in broad daylight, with no cover between them and the entire house party but an implausible excuse concerning his lines.

  The stables had been their only option. And the Bishop had wanted to kill Smeade, not Maggie, when she’d come forward. Bedlam seemed a kinder choice for the woman.

  At least, at the time it had appeared that way. The Bishop looked into the empty, dark eyes of Maggie Pemble and reluctantly realized he hadn’t done right by her.

  He was about to fix things, once and for all.

  “Tell me, Maggie, did you have visitors today?”

  She made to sit up, excitement flashing across her face. “Oh yes, indeed I did. My niece from Hertfordshire and her husband … And a doctor of some sort, though he was very quiet and altogether boring.”

  The Bishop moved his hand to Maggie’s shoulder and gently pushed her back down until her head once again lay on the pillow. “And what did you talk about?”

  “Oddly enough, they seemed surprised that I was still performing,” she answered, her brows furrowing from the very idea. “And they wondered if I remembered anything of a certain play—a rather obscure one.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  Maggie played with the end of her long white braid. “Everything. It’s quite an interesting story, after all—murder, intrigue, and a narrow escape.”

  “Whose narrow escape?” he asked, confused.

  Maggie captured him with a look of abject disbelief. “Why, mine, of course. He wanted to put me away in Bedlam. And all because I knew the truth. There was nothing wrong with my mind; the authorities could see that and let me go. Of course I had to watch out for him, which is why I am here. My servants keep me safe.”

  The Bishop nodded as if she spoke the absolute truth. “This man who tried to send you away. Do you know his name?”

  “My niece asked me the very same question,” Maggie answered, squinting until her eyes nearly shut. “I’d seen him in the papers; he’s no longer an actor, I can tell you that much. No, no, now he’s a man of importance.”

  The Bishop had heard enough. “You are a smart one, Maggie. Always were. I’m afraid you made a mistake this time around, though. And it’s time to pay.”

  He didn’t need to see her while she died. Killing was a necessary but gruesome business that he took no pleasure in. And so he reached for her neck with both hands and squeezed, closing his eyes until she stilled.

  “Rest now, Maggie.”

  25

  June 15

  BOW STREET OFFICES

  “It cannot be true.”

  Sophia stared at Mr. Bean, waiting for him to tell her she’d misunderstood him and that Maggie Pemble had not been murdered in her bed.

  “I’m afraid it is, my lady. An orderly found her this morning at …” He paused, taking up the report. “… half past eight. She’d been strangled, from the looks of it.”

  “The question is, by whom?” Sophia asked, mentally reviewing the layout of the hospital. “It is impossible for just anyone to get in or out of the facility.”

  Mr. Bean read farther down the page. “A Mr. Quilby. Fellow incurable patient. He was sentenced to life in the hospital for killing his entire family.”

  “And how long has Mr. Quilby been a patient at Bedlam?” Sophia pressed.

  “Thirty years.”

  A hard knock sounded at the door.

  “I sent word to Mr. Bourne as well,” Mr. Bean explained. “Come in.”

  The door opened and Nicholas and Mouse stepped inside.

  “Mr. Bean, though I’ve sent my associate Mr. Singh to Bedlam in order to verify your news,” Nicholas said, abruptly gesturing for Mouse to take the seat next to Sophia, “I would very much like to hear it directly from you.”

  Mr. Bean returned the report to the desk and folded his beefy hands atop it, eyeing Mouse hesitantly. “Unfortunately, your friend will return from Bedlam with the information necessary to confirm my story is true.”

  “It is true.” Sophia looked at Nicholas, carefully choosing her words in deference to Mouse’s presence. “Miss Pemble will no longer be able to assist us with the matter. There is nothing that can be done about that now, though. So instead I suggest we investigate other options.”

  Nicholas raked both hands through his hair. “But that’s just it; there are no other options. Tell me, Mr. Bean, have the orderlies been questioned? Did anyone see anything?”

  “Of course my men spoke with those on duty. No one had a clue as to how Mr. Quilby was able to leave his room—never mind how the man gained entry into Miss Pemble’s.”

  Nicholas turned to the window and braced his fists against the sill. “Of course no one knows. Because it did not happen,” he said savagely over his shoulder.

  “I understand your frustration—”

  “Do not attempt to placate me, Mr. Bean,” Nicholas ground out, turning back toward the group. “You will not like the results.”

  Mouse looked at Sophia, his eyes wide with concern. “Is there anything I can do, Miss Spoon?”

  “No, Mouse,” Sophia replied to the sweet boy’s offer. “But thank you for asking.” She smiled down at him and ruffled his soft, light locks with affection.

  “All right,” the boy replied, her lighthearted approach having put his mind at ease.

  Nicholas stalked to the door and gestured for Mouse to join him. “I will return once Mr. Singh is back from Bedlam. I would ask that no decisions be made in my absence.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” Mr. Bean said under his breath, picking up the report once more.

  Mouse was halfway over the threshold when he suddenly threw himself backward, rolled until he was clear of the doorway, and slammed into Nicholas, effectively forcing the door shut.

  “What in God’s name has gotten into you?” Nicholas demanded, fingering a spot on his forehead where he’d connected with the wood.

  Mouse scrambled on all fours and took shelter beneath Mr. Bean’s desk. “It’s him. It’s the Bishop.” His voice shook with fear.

  Sophia ran for the door. “Get out of my way.” She shoved Nicholas when he failed to move.

  He responded by wrapping his arm around her waist to restrain her.

  “He cannot do so,” Mr. Bean said. “If it is indeed the Bishop, it’s absolutely necessary for you to maintain complete anonymity.”

  Sophia was frantic. The seconds on the mantel clock ticked by with deafening sound. “We are wasting time. He could have gone by now.”

  “I will see who this man is. And then we will decide upon a course of action.” Mr. Bean gestured Sophia away from the door. “Mr. Bourne, if you please.”

  Nicholas opened the oak door, careful to hide both Sophia and himself behind its varnished bulk.

  Mr. Bean stepped over the threshold, pulling the door closed behind him.

  “How could you let him keep me in the dark?” Sophia asked Nicholas, wringing her hands.

  Nicholas’s gaze met hers, his expression grim. “Because he was right. And you know it; otherwise, nothing would have kept you from clawing your way out that door.”

  Sophia was unable to deny it.

  “Now, I suggest we keep ourselves occupied while we wait for Mr. Bean,” Nicholas added, turning Sophia about.

  She spied Mouse under the desk, his bird-thin legs tucked up against his chest in his attempt to disappear.

  Sophia gasped, ashamed that she’d forgotten about him. “Mouse, my dear sweet boy. Everything is goin
g to be all right. You must believe me.”

  Mouse shook his head at her words. “You don’t know him, miss. If you did, you’d not make such claims.”

  Billingsgate Wharf

  SOUTHEAST LONDON

  It had taken Mr. Bean nearly five minutes of uninterrupted thought as he sat behind his desk before he told them the identity of the Bishop. He’d wanted to be careful, which was completely understandable when one was preparing to accuse a magistrate of crimes against the crown.

  The very crown that said magistrate was employed to uphold and protect.

  Mouse had agreed to come out from under the desk once Mr. Bean had assured him that the Bishop was gone.

  “Is he the reason you were running when I found you?” Nicholas had asked the boy, who’d taken shelter on Sophia’s lap and did not look as though he planned on leaving her anytime soon—if ever.

  What had followed was the sad tale of one Mouse McGibbons. And a sadder story Nicholas had not heard in quite some time.

  From the day he’d been able to walk and talk, Mouse had been in service to the Bishop. In a drunken stupor, his mother had sold him to the organization, and there was no going back once such a deal had been struck. Mouse had seen her off and on, and clearly continued to love her despite all of her failings. The tavern owner—the same man Nicholas and Singh had met in the rookery—was more of a parent to Mouse than his own mother, and after she disappeared for good, he’d done his best to look out for the boy.

  But Mouse had a gift for thievery. He was smart and quick, small and slim, making it easy for him to sneak about, fit into tight spaces, and lift anything he wanted from unsuspecting individuals. The Bishop appreciated a talented employee, and Mouse was one of his best.

  There’d been talk amongst the gang that the Bishop was taking more than his fair share of the profits. Mouse wasn’t even sure that he cared about such things, a dry bed and food in his stomach were all that mattered to him. Besides, the Bishop had shown him a kindness or two, telling Mouse more than once that he hoped to groom the boy for a more important role one day.

  He’d not intended to follow the Bishop’s men that night, Mouse had told Nicholas, Sophia, and Mr. Bean. Then the other lads he was with called him a coward. And he couldn’t put up with such an insult. So they’d trailed along through the rookeries, past London Bridge and beyond to Thames Street, until coming to the wharf.

  Mouse had known they should turn back when he caught sight of the ships in the harbor. He’d never been able to look at one of the hulking carriers without feeling as if someone had walked across his grave. He had kept his thoughts to himself, afraid the other boys would only tease him further.

  “Here we are, sir,” Mouse announced now, slowing to a brisk walk as he intruded upon Nicholas’s thoughts. “I’ve no idea when the Bishop’s men come and go, so we best keep to the alley.”

  Mouse picked up speed and trotted down St. Mary Hill, turning right into the alley that ran along the west side of the building. “Here,” he whispered, motioning to Nicholas. They halted in front of a wall with a large window in it, some distance from the ground.

  “How do you propose we access the window?” Nicholas asked, staring up at the dirty glass.

  Mouse lifted his foot and gestured for Nicholas to give him a leg up. “The same way we did that night, only we weren’t planning on breaking into the warehouse. Just wanted to see what was inside.”

  Nicholas boosted the boy onto his back. Mouse scrabbled up to sit on his shoulders, and then slowly stood. “The door is just a touch down the alley. Give me five minutes and I’ll have it open.”

  Mouse pulled a rag from his pocket and covered his fist with it, testing the panes here and there before picking a thin spot and bashing his fist through. His arm disappeared inside the jagged hole for a moment, then he pushed the hinged panel open. “I’ll see you in a jig.”

  The boy’s negligible weight eased from Nicholas’s shoulders. He looked up in time to see Mouse’s fingers gripping the sill before they disappeared, too. A muffled thump sounded as he landed on the floor inside the warehouse.

  Nicholas went down the alley and located the door just beyond a timbered loading dock. The building at his back blocked most of the moon’s light—both a blessing and a curse. If the Bishop’s men were anywhere within the warehouse, it would presumably be more difficult for the henchmen to locate Nicholas and Mouse. Of course, it also meant it would be slower going for the two once they were both inside. Their single lamp was little match for the large building.

  The door abruptly popped open and Mouse’s small frame appeared in the opening. “Come in, quick.”

  Nicholas shooed the boy back inside and followed, reaching behind to quietly push the door closed. “Any sign of company?” he asked in a low tone.

  “Not that I can see, but it’s a big building. Best to keep on our guard,” Mouse replied in a whisper, gesturing for the lamp. “Here, I’ll lead the way.”

  Nicholas handed the light over. “Now will you tell me why we’re here?”

  Mouse nodded. “Remember I told ya some of the boys thought the Bishop was up to something?” He walked quickly down a large aisle that ran down the middle of the room.

  “Hardly surprising for someone like the Bishop,” Nicholas commented, looking at the shelves on each side of him. They reached nearly to the ceiling of the warehouse and were filled with boxes and wrapped packages of all shapes and sizes.

  Mouse continued on down the aisle. “True enough. Stealing is the man’s business—only we didn’t know he was taking the same thing twice.”

  They reached the end of the aisle, coming to a bank of high windows that mirrored those on the opposite end.

  “What do you mean?” Nicholas asked.

  Mouse turned around and held the lamp up. “Do you see all of this?”

  Nicholas looked back and scanned what he could see of the shelves. The items near the front were not boxed, that much he could decipher, but little else.

  “Give me the lamp,” Nicholas said. He walked toward the shelving on the right side of the room, peering at the items that sat waist-high. There was a set of diamond and emerald jewelry. A Fabergé egg. Several antique snuffboxes inlaid with ivory. He angled the lamplight so it illuminated more of the shelving, too many similar items to count glittering in the dim glow.

  “So this is where the stolen goods are kept until the Bishop arranges for them to be resold?” he asked, running his fingers across the diamond and emerald necklace.

  Mouse suddenly appeared at his side, proving he deserved his nickname. “That’s just it. This ain’t the place where we deliver the goods. We’re told where to go, sometimes what to take, then we steal the valuables and return to the warehouse in Marylebone. This warehouse doesn’t figure in what we do. Not at all.”

  “So the Bishop keeps the most expensive items for himself?” Nicholas pondered aloud, shining the lamp on the emerald necklace. “Why wouldn’t he sell them and keep the money?”

  Mouse reached out and touched the beautiful necklace, pulling his hand back quickly as if he’d been burned. “It didn’t make any sense to me, either. But now that I know he’s a magistrate, it does.”

  “What difference does that make?” Nicholas asked, turning toward the aisle and walking back the way they’d come.

  “People we rob pay good money to the magistrates to track down their belongings. More than you’d get reselling,” Mouse replied, hurrying to keep pace. “Much more.”

  The two reached the end of the aisle and moved quietly toward the door. “So your boys were right. The Bishop is up to something. Keeping back the choicest pieces for the reward money—”

  “And maybe even for himself,” Mouse interrupted, looking back at what amounted to thousands of pounds in items. “There’s too much here. He’d be far behind in returning things, and that’s not like the Bishop. My guess is he fancies some of these bits and bobs and plans on keeping them for his own.”

 
; Nicholas opened the door and stepped out into the cool night air. “Lock up behind me, then come out through the window. I’ll be waiting to catch you.”

  Mouse quickly closed the door and threw the lock, the sound of his small feet running to the window all that Nicholas could hear.

  They had the Bishop’s name, his hidden warehouse, and the boy who could destroy everything the bastard had worked so hard to attain.

  It was only a matter of time.

  26

  June 17

  THE FARNSWORTH RESIDENCE

  MAYFAIR

  Sophia looked out at the crowd gathered for the Bow Street benefit, a mixture of impatience, frustration, and sheer nerves washing over her. She should have been pleased with the turnout. Many of the ton’s most prestigious families were in attendance, the Farnsworths’ ballroom comfortably full. She forced herself to take another sip of lemonade, letting the cool, tangy drink slide down her throat.

  “Impressive attendance.”

  Sophia jumped at the sound of Mr. Bean’s voice.

  “I apologize, Lady Sophia,” he added, looking slightly chagrined. “I did not mean to frighten you.”

  “Please, there is no need to apologize, Mr. Bean,” Sophia answered. “My mind was elsewhere.”

  He clasped his hands behind his back, a thoughtful look on his face. “Ah, am I to understand that you have not had the opportunity to speak with Mr. Bourne yet?”

  “You are,” Sophia confirmed, frowning at the mere mention of his name. “I received a letter this morning informing me that both he and Mouse were perfectly safe and that he would see me at this evening’s benefit.”

  Mr. Bean nodded his head in understanding. “I too received a letter, containing the address of the warehouse they visited,” he paused as Lord Winthrop said hello to Sophia. “And the property is registered in the magistrate’s name.”

  “Then you will arrest him this evening,” Sophia quickly replied, turning to look at the man. “You’ve proof to tie him to the Kingsmen’s thievery. And I will have a confession from him, I promise you. Give me an hour in the Bow Street office with the Bishop and he will admit to my mother’s killing.”