Dangerous Lords Boxed Set

by Andersen, Maggi

  Strathairn stared at him. “There were no others there?”

  “He was alone. The shots came from that rifle.”

  Strathairn read the concern in Irvine’s eyes as they silently came to the same conclusion. It was a new style of gun not yet seen in England. “How did you manage to get away?”

  “He came after me. While he was reloading, I managed to reach the carriage. Several shots struck the carriage as we took off, but they missed me and the jarvie who cursed me in fearsome fashion. Couldn’t blame him. Good fellow, didn’t desert me when most would have. Knew of this doctor and brought me here.”

  “Well done, Irvine.” Strathairn nodded. “Do you wish me to inform your father?”

  Irvine’s mouth tightened. “We don’t speak.”

  Irvine’s father disagreed with his choice of occupation. Most fathers who cared at all did, including Strathairn’s own. “Is there anything I can do for you? Anything you need?”

  “No, I’m cozy here, thank you, milord. The doc says I can stay for a while.”

  “Get some rest. I’ll return this afternoon to see how you fare.”

  Irvine coughed and closed his eyes. “Thank you, milord.”

  The door opened, and a young woman brought in a tray with a steaming bowl, spoon, and a plate of fragrant bread.

  “This is my daughter, Miss Gresham, my lord,” the surgeon said. “She is nursing Irvine.”

  The pretty freckle-faced brunette curtsied.

  Strathairn smiled. “You have my utmost thanks, Miss Gresham. A pretty nurse is exactly what Irvine needs.”

  He left the house feeling a little more confident about Irvine. Was the countess here in England to take up her dead husband’s cause? An act of revenge? But the man with the gun made him suspect there was a good deal more to it. This time she would not be so gently handled. She would expect Irvine to have been dealt with, and might have considered it safe to return to Richmond.

  When someone banged on the door, Strathairn was catching up on his sleep in the library. He had visited Irvine again last night and found him a little better. Then he’d returned to wait for news from Bow Street.

  It was too early for the butler and most of the servants to be at their stations. He opened the door and cool, lilac-gray dawn light filtered into the hallway. He recognized Clancy, a Bow Street runner he’d had dealings with in the past. “A note for you, my lord.” Exhausted, the man drooped against the doorjamb.

  Strathairn took the missive and nodded his thanks. “Do you require an answer?”

  “No, milord.”

  “Care to come in? You look as if you could do with a drink.”

  Clancy’s brows shot up. “Kind of you, milord, but I’d rather get home to m’ bed.”

  Strathairn returned to the library fire where he scanned the missive from Parnham. Countess Forney had been arrested during the night in Richmond as she packed her things. She and Crutchet were taken to Bow Street for questioning. They would appear before the magistrate at two o’clock.

  He rubbed his tight scalp. Were they finally coming to grips with the situation? He went upstairs to bathe and change. His valet had laid out his clothes for the day and the hip-bath stood by the fire in readiness. Hobson had been his batman during the war and almost knew what Strathairn needed before he did himself. Strathairn lay back in the bath and wondered what the day would bring as Hobson poured more warm water over him.

  “You look tense, my lord,” Hobson observed. “A massage will set you to rights.”

  “No time, Hobson.” He stood, shedding water over the sides of the bath onto the floor, and stepped into the waiting towel. “After breakfast I must go out.”

  An hour later, he was on the road in heavy traffic. An hour after that, he pulled his phaeton up outside the surgeon’s house. He alighted and threw the reins to his tiger, Jem.

  Miss Gresham opened the door. She curtsied, a flush on her cheeks. “Good morning, my lord.”

  “How’s the patient?”

  “He is eating his breakfast.”

  Strathairn swallowed the gasp of relief, seeing Irvine propped up by several pillows. The bed linen, although heavily mended, was spotlessly clean. Morning sun flooded through the window onto the embroidered coverlet. The aroma of hot food filled the air.

  “Good morning, Irvine.” Strathairn drew up a chair beside the bed.

  “Lord Strathairn.” Irvine struggled to remove the tray from his lap, attempting to sit straighter.

  “Eat your tasty breakfast while it’s hot,” Strathairn said. The pinched look around Irvine’s mouth had gone, and while he still looked drawn, some healthy color had returned to his face.

  “Take more than that to stop me.” Irvine tucked into sausage and eggs with good appetite. “I’ll be back at work in no time.”

  “Forget it.” Strathairn shook his head. “Not until you’re fully recovered. Is there someone who can care for you at home?”

  Irvine winked at the young woman who brought in two cups of coffee. “I’ve been invited to stay until I’m back on my feet. Very generous of them it is, too.”

  “Indeed, it is.” Strathairn nodded and took the cup and saucer from the young woman. She flushed an even rosier pink and tugged the edge of her apron. “Thank you for the coffee, Miss Gresham.”

  “You’re welcome, my lord.” She hurried from the room.

  Once the door had closed, Strathairn leaned back in the chair and crossed his legs. “I’m sure you are eager to learn of the latest development.”

  Irvine paused, fork in the air, his eyes wide. “You’ve got one of ’em, my lord?”

  “We’ve arrested Countess Forney. I’m on my way to Bow Street.”

  “She’d better talk.”

  “The constables will make certain she does.”

  “It looks like her husband is dead, doesn’t it, my lord?”

  Strathairn shrugged. “We seem to have a new enemy on our hands. And not one to take lightly.”

  “We must locate the rogue before he strikes. Do you have any idea what he and the countess planned?”

  “No, but the time is ripe for sabotage. Your description of this man is circulating London and the environs. Spies are on the lookout for him. We’ve had a few false alarms, but so far, nothing.”

  As he left the surgeon’s house, he suffered a frisson of foreboding. So much was at stake. Stories of unrest in the north filled The Times. It was the opinion of many that any activists who spoke out of turn and egged the people to riot should be hanged. Meanwhile, angry industrial workers in the midlands threatened to riot. The atmosphere was combustible. It would take little to stir up open rebellion, which could tip over into civil war.

  *

  In Lord and Lady Fenwick’s drawing room, Lord Coombe solicitously arranged the shawl around Sibella’s shoulders as they listened to Ode to A Nightingale, the latest poem read by the slight pale consumptive poet, John Keats. The beautiful ode pulled at the heartstrings, but Sibella had trouble concentrating due to Lord Coombe’s ominous presence beside her. If he suffered regret for the way he had acted at their betrothal ball, he was not prepared to share it with her. Nothing more on the matter had been said, his manner coolly solicitous in the carriage.

  He made her want to scream at him like a fishwife. His outrageous accusation warranted an apology or at least more discussion to clear the air. Worse, he made her feel guilt-ridden, although there was nothing she could do about her emotional state. She wasn’t even sure what sparked such a heated reaction. Jealousy, a human failing, she might have understood, but she doubted that was it. She’d seen vehemence in his eyes not passion. Not given to hysterics, she did not trust him.

  Maria hurried up as soon as Lord Coombe left. “I’ve spoken to Harry. We are to visit the abbey when his parents arrive home.”

  Sibella kissed Maria’s cheek, aware how much her sister hated the idea. “Thank you, dear one.” She couldn’t wait. Nor could she consider the possibility of failure.


  Chapter Seventeen

  A noisy, motley crowd packed the Bow Street magistrate’s court. Prostitutes drunk on gin set up a din while thieves flinched nervously, their fox eyes darting about. Lady Forney stood in rumpled clothes before the magistrate, her gaze roaming around the room, as if surprised to find herself in such insalubrious company. Her shoulders sagged as her confidence vanished along with her well-groomed appearance.

  Beside her, Crutchet looked a hundred if a day. He kept protesting in a high-toned wailing voice that he hadn’t known the countess was involved in such extraordinary dealings. He jerked at the sharp rebuke and the deep scowl the countess gave him. Strathairn was inclined to believe him. Crutchet would never be a reliable member of a conspiracy. His mind wandered on occasion. His red-rimmed eyes blinked shortsightedly; the questioning, which had continued throughout the night, had reduced him to a befuddled and quavering state.

  “What purpose took you to Seven Dials, countess?” the magistrate asked. “Mr. Irvine was shot when he followed you there.”

  Apparently, made of sterner stuff than Crutchet, she straightened, widening her eyes. “I know nothing of a Mr. Irvine, sir. He followed me? Whatever for? If he was shot, it was not by me.”

  “Why did you come to England?”

  “How many times must I explain? While in Paris, I received a note from a man who said he had news of my husband, Count Forney. I hoped he might tell me the count was alive somewhere and unable to contact me, although in my heart I knew he was dead. When he wrote to me again in London, I went to meet him. It proved to be a ruse to persuade me to back him in some scheme. I refused and left.”

  “What scheme? What was the man’s name?”

  “He said his name was Smith.” She faltered as chuckles and titters rose from the crowded court, then straightened her shoulders. Strathairn admired how quickly she recovered. “I didn’t stay long enough to learn of his plan. I’m sure your Mr. Irvine, whoever he is, will confirm that I wasn’t there above a few minutes.”

  “What had this Mr. Smith to say about the rifle he showed you?”

  She shrugged. “I took little notice. I know nothing of guns, sir. I was disappointed and planned to return to France. I was packing when you brought me here.”

  She stood her ground under a barrage of questions.

  It was time to test her further. Strathairn nodded to the prosecutor.

  Mr. Eacock, the man employed to watch Guy’s house and guard his child, took the stand.

  “Is the woman you saw outside Lord Fortescue’s house on more than one occasion here in the court?” the magistrate asked him.

  “She is, sir.” Mr. Eacock pointed at the countess. “Over there.”

  “It is noted,” the magistrate said, “That the witness identifies Countess Forney.”

  “I hoped to speak to the baron. I thought he might know where Forney was,” Countess Forney cried. She lowered her head and fell silent.

  The magistrate banged his gavel and ordered the pair of them to Newgate to await trial at the Old Bailey. The countess crumpled like a marionette with its strings cut. She turned wild-eyed to point at Strathairn. “I will talk. But only to him.”

  The countess was brought to a room where Strathairn waited. She sat on the wooden chair and swept her untidy damp hair from her face. “I’m going to hang, aren’t I?”

  “Confess all and avert a serious crime, and it might go better for you.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “And spend the rest of my life behind bars? A short life, too, for I’ll not survive long in that place.”

  “Where did the gun come from? What is Smith’s real name? Where is he now?”

  “I know nothing of the gun. Smith is a Frenchman. I never learned his real name. He kept his direction from me.” She raised her eyebrows. “He would hardly take the chance that you’d torture me into revealing his whereabouts.”

  “Torture is an option, certainly.” Strathairn dragged a chair up with his foot. He sat down, his knee almost touching hers. “Why don’t you tell the truth?” he said. “It’s your only chance.”

  Disturbed by his gentle tone and his proximity, her fingers worked at her hair again, busily tidying away the stray strands sticking to her damp forehead. “What will you do for me?”

  “All that I can.”

  She snapped her fingers. “Poof. Nothing, in other words.”

  “You have little choice, for if you don’t…” He let the words hang in the air.

  “I don’t know what else I can tell you!”

  “I don’t believe you, Lady Forney.”

  “Blood doesn’t come from a stone.”

  Strathairn stood, hiding his anger and frustration. “Then we’ll see how you feel after a few nights in Newgate Prison.”

  As the days passed, it became clear that the mysterious Frenchman, Smith, had gone into hiding. He’d failed to return to the house in Seven Dials. Inquiries as to the owner of the house had turned up a deceased estate. With no one to claim it, it fell into ruin.

  Conscious of the urgency of the situation, Strathairn visited Newgate for another attempt at making the countess talk. Her wild gaze flew to meet his when he entered the crowded, putrid cell where inmates spent the daylight hours. Her gown was soiled, and her chin wobbled, but she stubbornly clamped her lips refusing to answer his questions. He reminded her of the inevitability of her fate and left, discouraged. He’d begun to doubt she’d crack. Was her determination to see this through to its dastardly end stronger than her need to survive? Or did she act to protect her husband? Could Forney be behind this?

  While at Bow Street, Strathairn employed a runner to inquire into Lord Coombe’s activities. Once home, he penned a letter to Governor Montserrat in Antigua and another to the authorities in Bristol. Coombe’s sly threat worried him more than if the man had taken a swing at him or slapped his face with his glove. The man proved a disturbing mystery. No one of Strathairn’s acquaintance knew him, so he sought out Edward who had introduced him to the family.

  They met on horseback in the park that afternoon.

  Edward, who worked as a solicitor rode into view on a roan. “I haven’t long, Strathairn,” he said. “I need to get back to see a client. Your note said you wished to discuss Coombe.”

  “Do you have any concerns about him?”

  “Can’t accuse him of being a charmer,” Edward said. “And the poor chap hasn’t a chance with you around.”

  Strathairn glowered at him as they trotted the horses down the Row. “You introduced him to Sibella. Did you or Chaloner feel the need to check the man out?”

  “He was in the same year up at Oxford. Seemed a fairly conservative fellow. Not a close friend of mine, however.”

  “No, can’t see you taking up with a conservative in those days,” Strathairn said.

  Edward grinned. “Touché. According to Chaloner, he’s suitable husband material for Sib. Young widower, good breeding, plump in the pocket. Neat estate in Chiddingston. Sibella would be Maria’s neighbor when her husband became duke. That should count for something.”

  “Would it? But what is your opinion of the man?”

  “Honestly? Haven’t warmed to him particularly on closer acquaintance. But I told Sibella not to take him until she was quite sure. No one has pushed her into this, Stathairn.”

  “Not forcibly perhaps.”

  “My advice is to let it go, Strathairn. Sib can’t be happy while you’re aways watching over her.”

  Strathairn raised his eyebrows. “I’m seen to watch over her?” Perhaps Coombe had a point.

  “Your friends are aware how much you care for her, and if you don’t, you’re fooling yourself.” Edward gave a half-hearted shrug. “I’d like to see you both happy even if it’s not together. Dinner at White’s Saturday evening?” He touched his hat and road away before Strathairn could reply.

  Despite Edward’s warning, Strathairn became more determined. He’d know this man inside out before he and Sibella tied the knot. If he pr
oved to be all that he presented to the world, even if Strathairn didn’t care for him personally, well he’d have to live with it. Meanwhile, he had a dangerous mission to get his teeth into.

  With a hoy, Lord Montsimon rode up to him. Strathairn turned to greet him, relieved to have some cheerful company.

  *

  Sibella eyed the thin-winged swallow gliding on the air above the trees. The soft mat of autumn leaves covered the ground and muffled the horses’ hooves as they cantered along Rotten Row, steam from their nostrils rising in the cold air. She blinked as an icy breeze rushed across her cheeks and laughed at a witty observation Althea Brookwood had made, while riding beside her. Light of heart, Sibella was almost like her old self as Coombe had returned to his country manor to attend to business matters. She hated riding with him, disliking the way he handled his horse. He whipped the animal at the slightest provocation, which made the animal even more intractable.

  Althea turned in the saddle. “Montsimon and Strathairn ride behind us.”

  Sibella resisted the urge to look over her shoulder as her heart began its cursed drumming. She gripped the reins tightly. Would she never be immune to Strathairn? Giving in to the impulse, she turned her head. Both handsome men looked very much at home on horseback as they approached. Enough to turn any lady’s head. She cast a sidelong glance at Althea, but she had lowered her gaze.

  “A chilly day, ladies.” Strathairn reined in beside her. His gaze met hers with an odd intensity, making her start. As if he read her thoughts and discovered her plan. Even though he had no idea what she was about to do, he still unnerved her. She hated keeping secrets from him. Dishonesty didn’t sit well with her. She had sworn Maria to secrecy, and thankfully, their paths would not cross until after she’d been to Arrowtree Park.

  Montsimon’s wavy dark-brown hair sprang back from a widow’s peak when he pulled off his hat. Appreciation warmed his thickly lashed gray eyes. She guessed many women would find him attractive, doubly so, because he was fond of women and seemed relaxed in their company.