Aidan pressed his free hand to his chest. “You do me wrong, boy.”
“I meant it as a compliment. Tell me, can you be bought?”
Aidan’s eyebrows went up, but his grip on the gun didn’t loosen. “Depends. How much are we talking about?”
“A great deal.”
“Then yes . . . I suppose I can.”
Above Laurel’s shoulder, the two men locked gazes. Aidan’s turned steely, determined. His wrist came up a fraction of an inch and his finger twitched on the trigger. Beneath her chin, the stiletto nudged, shifted, prodded. Warm blood drizzled down her neck to pool in the hollow of her collarbone. The tension in the room arced, as taut and sharp as the blade.
A knock on the door drew a gasp from Laurel. Julian flinched, turning toward the sound. The door burst open and Lord Munster strode across the threshold.
“I know you t-told me to wait. . . .” His eyes popping wide, he stopped short just inside the doorway. “What the b-blazes?”
Aidan’s gun exploded with a deafening blast.
Chapter 27
Powder burns singed Aidan’s fingers. The gun’s report stung like a thousand wasps against his eardrums. Through the acrid smoke clouding the hall, he stumbled, the harrowing sound of Laurel’s scream dredging up his most primal need to assure himself of her safety.
As he reached her, that same instinct had him assessing the scene even as his hands closed around her shoulders and he drew her to his chest. Stoddard lay on his side on the floor, the shoulder of his coat already soaked with the blood leaking from the gunshot wound. His face gone pasty white, he panted for breath and stared unblinkingly at Aidan’s shoe.
With a kick, Aidan dislodged the stiletto still clutched in the young man’s hand. Stoddard let out a shout of pain. The weapon skidded across the floor and came to rest in the dining hall.
“Oh, thank God.” Beatrice’s shaking voice echoed down the hallway. “Is everyone quite all right?”
“Yes, Lady Devonlea,” Laurel replied, her voice muffled by Aidan’s shirtfront. “Except perhaps for Lord Julian, but I expect he shall live.”
Beatrice drew the maid away from the wall. “I’m sorry I slapped you, Rose. I feared your cries would unnerve Lord Julian, and he would do something rash.”
“Fitz,” Aidan said, “see to your sister. And to Devonlea. He’s in the parlor.”
Then he buried his face in Laurel’s hair and hugged her tight. “I’m sorry,” he repeated more than once in a shredded whisper. “I didn’t wish to do that, didn’t want to take the shot, but I feared that if I didn’t . . . Christ.”
“I trusted you.” Her voice came an octave higher than normal. Her trembling traveled inside him. “I held as still as I could so I wouldn’t be in your way.”
“Good God, I’m proud of you. So proud.” Reaching into his coat pocket, he withdrew his handkerchief and pressed it to the nick in her flesh left by Stoddard’s blade. “You could not have been braver.”
Her light laughter wrapped itself around his heart and squeezed. “I was terrified. But I knew you wouldn’t let him hurt me. I never doubted.”
He had doubted. From one second to the next, he hadn’t known whether Stoddard would take the lethal swipe and end Laurel’s life.
If she had died, would he have turned his own pistol on himself? There had been a moment, as the blood had trickled down her throat, when he hadn’t been sure. When he had been seized by the same immeasurable desperation that had sent his father over the edge of despair. In that moment, he had understood and even forgiven his father for what he had done.
But he hadn’t known what he would do. He still didn’t, and his soul trembled at the notion that he could love her that much.
“I s-say, old boy,” Fitz called from the parlor, “poor Dev’s awake and d-demanding to see you.”
Unwilling to let Laurel out of his arms, much less out of his sight, he asked Rose to keep an eye on Stoddard and let out a yell should the youth move more than an inch in any direction. In the parlor, they found Devonlea unbound and sitting up in a chair. He held one of Rose’s poultices to the side of his head. For once, his impeccable appearance had suffered from ill-treatment. His slicked-back hair fell in disheveled shanks over his brow and his clothing hung in rumpled folds.
“Sorry, Dev. But surely you understand how it looked.” Aidan offered the man his hand, and after a slight hesitation, Devonlea shook it.
“Munster tells me the entire Summit Pavilion was a hoax.” The viscount groaned and shifted the poultice. “I knew the elixir was a fake but-”
“It’s more than a fake,” Aidan interrupted. “It’s laced with absinthe.”
“It’s t-true, Dev,” Fitz concurred.
Devonlea’s surprise was palpable, in Aidan’s estimate too much so to be feigned. “I swear I didn’t know that, either. I’ve never been inside Rousseau’s laboratory. I’d believed that, with a little help from his miracle cure, the pavilion would make us all richer than our wildest dreams.”
“Are you certain about that, Dev? You threatened your wife’s life should she expose you,” Aidan reminded him. “That sounds like the actions of a desperate man, one with a great deal at stake.”
“I was furious with her. I’d discovered her affair with Stoddard.” He flicked a glance at Beatrice. Beneath the viscount’s simmering anger, Aidan thought he detected a plea for reconciliation. “I thought, how dare she accuse me when she is guilty of her own offenses?”
“You might have considered putting me first for a change,” Beatrice retorted. “Before cards and investments and whatever else you do for entertainment. Can you truly blame me for finding companionship in another man’s arms?”
“Then you had no notion of what Stoddard had done?” A hint of accusation accompanied Laurel’s question.
“Good heavens, no.” Beatrice appeared genuinely shaken by the very suggestion. “Like everyone else, I took him for a handsome, charming, but quite harmless boy.”
“He had us all fooled,” Aidan agreed. “But you will all have some explaining to do once the authorities arrive. I’ll do what I can to help you.”
“Think they’ll t-toss us all in M-Marshalsea?” The query came from Fitz. Poor, hapless, gullible Fitz.
Aidan clapped his shoulder. “I don’t think so, my friend, as long as you cooperate and pay back any money you might have made in the scheme.” He shot a pointed glance at Devonlea. “And I do mean all the money, not to mention whatever fines the court levies against you. Of course, Rousseau is another story. Deliberately drugging people is a serious offense, and I don’t doubt that he’ll soon be all too familiar with the inside of a prison cell. Stoddard, however, may end up swinging, son of a marquess or no.”
Laurel reached out and grazed Fitz’s coat sleeve with her fingertips. “You helped save my life, Lord Munster.”
His eyebrows surged upward in astonishment. “D-did I?”
“You surely did. I shudder to think what might have happened if not for your timely arrival.” She stepped up to him and kissed his cheek. “I’ll always be grateful, sir.”
Fitz blushed several shades of crimson.
Aidan retrieved the drapery cords that had held Devonlea’s wrists and ankles. “I can think of a good use for these.” With Laurel’s hand firm in his own, he went back out to the hall. “Rose,” he said, “let us summon those constables now, shall we?”
Two mornings later, Laurel stood in the drawing room at Fenwick House and gazed out over the rain-slick city of Bath, its spires poking through the clouds that drifted low over the valley.
Following Julian Stoddard’s arrest, she had left her Abbey Green lodging house and moved in here. Melinda had insisted and Aidan had concurred. In fact, he had balked at the idea of her staying alone, as if he dared not trust that the danger for her had passed.
When the local authorities had arrived at Lady Devonlea’s home, she and Aidan had assumed the roles of outraged bystanders who had, through no fault of
their own, become victims of Julian Stoddard’s ill intentions. Phineas Micklebee had turned up with another man whom Laurel assumed to be with the Home Office as well, but as they conferred with the Bath officials, neither agent had given any indication that they knew Aidan Phillips other than by reputation. Although once, when no one had been looking, Mr. Micklebee had flashed Laurel a conspiratorial wink.
Everyone in the Queen Square town house had had to give an extensive account of all they had seen and heard that morning, including a very distraught Rose. With an admirable show of kindness, Lady Devonlea had stayed at the maid’s side throughout, patting her shoulder and coaxing the poor woman through her testimony.
Julian Stoddard was taken first to Dr. Bailey’s surgery to have his shoulder wound tended. Later that day he was incarcerated in the local jail to await his arraignment. Likewise, Claude Rousseau was taken into custody on multiple charges of fraud and reckless endangerment.
Regrettably, without Julian’s cooperation it would take weeks and perhaps months to wade through the maze of financial transactions, recover the funds that had not been squandered, and reimburse the many investors of the Summit Pavilion. The Bath Corporation was assisting in that endeavor.
Outside, a carriage pulled away from the house and proceeded down the muddy drive. A footman and the housekeeper’s assistant were on their way to town to make the weekly purchases and to post a letter for Laurel. In it she had set Victoria’s fears of treason to rest, assuring her that her cousin had never intended to betray her. However misguided, George Fitzclarence had sought to establish a legacy for himself in place of the royal birthright that had been denied him.
Laurel wondered where Aidan had gone that morning, for he, too, had taken up temporary residence at Fenwick House. Melinda was dying. They all knew it now and acknowledged it openly, Aidan with a look of hardened pain in his eyes, Laurel with an intolerable pinching in her throat, and Melinda with a stoic smile and a dismissive wave of her hand.
“I’ve led a good life, better than most, and I’ve precious few regrets,” she had said.
Her daughters had been sent for. Until they arrived, Laurel and Aidan were helping her make her final plans. At night, when Melinda lay sleeping, Laurel and Aidan found solace in each other’s arms.
Unease fluttered in Laurel’s stomach. Aidan had been up and out so early today, and he hadn’t left a note. . . .
A sound in the doorway sent her spinning about, and her heart thrilled at the sight of him. He must have ridden up the drive and entered the house while she had been in Melinda’s bedchamber. His hair still bore a gleam of moisture from the rain. He had removed his coat and as he entered the room, his fingers worked to undo the knot of his neckcloth.
Tugging the length of linen free and tossing it over the back of a nearby chair, he strode across the room, took Laurel in his arms, and kissed her soundly, possessively. The rainy chill clung to his skin, yet she melted against him, yielding herself entirely to the pleasure of his embrace, his strength, and however many moments like this were left to them.
They had not spoken of the future. Melinda’s needs took precedence over their own, of course, and Laurel had been content simply to be near him, to offer what comfort she could, and to share in the grief of losing a dear friend, as least as far as she was able.
His sorrow, she now understood, was a thing of unfathomable depth and breadth within him, a twisted skein of past and present, of perceived failings and self-punishment and hoped-for redemption. Last night, after making love, he had confided in her about his parents. In the dark, her arms around him, she had listened and cried silently and loved him more than she had ever believed possible.
And yet now, as though nothing were wrong, he smiled wolfishly, tipped her backward in his arms, and pressed his lips to her neck. “You’re so warm. Ah, you feel wonderful.”
“Where did you go this morning?”
A casual enough query, but she inwardly berated herself for asking . . . for questioning him at all. As if she had a right to know his business, or to demand more than he was willing to give.
“You don’t have to answer that,” she said.
He caught her chin and raised it until she met his gaze. “I had business in town. Business that concerns us both. But first I stopped at my town house and found this.”
He fished into his trouser pocket. Raising her hand, he placed a small object in her palm. Her stomach flip-flopped at the sight of the gold and onyx signet ring that had slipped off the hand of her attacker that night at the Circus. The piece so repulsed her, she all but tossed it into the hearth.
He held up a second item. The button she had saved from her old life caught the light from outside as it swung back and forth on its gold chain. “You left this on my nightstand.”
“Why have you brought me these?” She frowned down at the signet ring. “They only remind me of danger and lies and everything I have lost. They taunt me with all I will never know.”
“That may have been so, but I swear to you, no more.” Scooping her into his arms, he brought her to the settee beside the hearth and settled her snugly in his lap. Gently he stroked her hair and cheeks as though she were still the frightened little girl of her past. “This button, this ring, they are my pledge to you, Laurel. Together we will discover their origin and what they mean to you and your sisters.”
At his vow, her heart constricted. “You would make that promise to me?”
“That and many, many more, my Laurel.” He shifted as he slipped a hand inside his waistcoat, this time extracting a velvet pouch. “This is what sent me to town today.” He tugged open the drawstring and upended the pouch to reveal a second ring, a delicate gold band set with a teardrop ruby surrounded by tiny diamonds.
Laurel gasped as he eased out from under her and knelt on the floor at her feet.
“Well?” was all he said, but the hope brimming in his expression squeezed tears from her eyes.
She reached out, touched his dear face, and leaned closer to him. “Are you certain?” she whispered. She had no wish to ensnare him when he was vulnerable; would not allow him to make promises now that he might regret later. “All you said about not being able to offer me a future together because of your work—”
“Lies, every bit of it.” He brought her hand to his lips, kissed it, and held it there. Then he said, “After my father’s suicide, the Home Office became my shield, protecting me from ever feeling what my father felt for my mother. If I could never be close to anyone, then I could never know the despair of such a loss. But do you know what I’ve discovered?”
Not trusting her voice, she shook her head.
“A man can’t protect himself from love. He can only feel it and trust it and draw courage from it, and stride daringly into the future—with you, Laurel, if you’ll have me. If you’ll take those strides with me. Will you marry me, my dearest love?”
She attempted to say she would, but her sobs reduced the words to a garbled, stammered utterance. She supposed he judged her answer by the joy on her face, for he grinned widely, kissed her heartily, and slipped the ring smoothly home.
Epilogue
A lone in the Knightsbridge Readers’ Emporium, Ivy Sutherland tucked a recalcitrant strand of mahogany hair behind her ear and closed the ledger book she had been poring over these past many minutes. Tonight had been quiet, generating only a smattering of business, a rather unusual circumstance nowadays.
Hopping down from her stool behind the counter, she placed the CLOSED sign in the window, pulled the shade, and locked the door. She had manned the shop by herself tonight, since Holly, her twin, and Willow, the youngest, had donned their best new frocks and attended a play debuting in Covent Garden.
Ivy had gladly remained at home, for in her opinion plays were a great lot of stuff and nonsense. She had happily seen her sisters off, immeasurably relieved that their finances now stretched comfortably beyond the bare essentials.
Several factors had contributed t
o that happy circumstance. First, ever since sending Laurel on her fact-finding mission to Bath, Queen Victoria had seen to it that the Sutherlands had everything they needed, including weekly deliveries of the finest food to fill their cupboards. The queen had also let slip to several key individuals word of a charming little bookshop she’d once visited in Knightsbridge. Ever since, the bell above the door had tinkled nonstop, until Ivy had grown so weary of the sound she had finally torn the bell from the ceiling.
Then there was the most fortuitous change of all: Laurel’s recent marriage to the dashing and quite wealthy Earl of Barensforth. Despite rumors to the contrary, Ivy’s new brother-in-law had proved to be a kindhearted gentleman who insisted that his wife’s sisters no longer needed to earn their own living; indeed, they were welcome to take up residence in any of his lavish homes.
But the Sutherland sisters had spent their lives tucked away on a country estate, and they had no intention of relinquishing their newfound independence now. They had developed a true fondness for their Readers’ Emporium and took pride in its success. Even Laurel still enjoyed spending occasional afternoons sorting through books and helping customers with their selections. Her new society friends thought it eccentric, but rather charming.
At present, however, she and Aidan were away in France. Talk about Laurel hadn’t stopped at her penchant for shopkeeping. Her ambiguous family background and supposed widowhood had fueled a wealth of speculation when she and Aidan married, and they had decided that taking an extended trip abroad would be just the thing to stifle the gossip.
“Will there be anything else tonight, miss?”
Mrs. Eddelson, the Sutherlands’ new housekeeper, waddled downstairs from the living quarters above, puffs of exertion escaping her lips with each thump of her wide feet on the steps. As part of the compromise that allowed the girls to remain in their London home, Aidan had hired Mrs. Eddelson to look after them. The woman lived in the tiny rooms on the third floor of the house with Mr. Eddelson, who served as their driver and man-of-all-work, but who looked to Ivy like the sort of man who should be guarding the door of a gambling hell.
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