The Scoundrel Takes a Bride

by Stefanie Sloane

  “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.”

  Mr. Bean released a heavy sigh. “I would like nothing else, my lady. But for reasons I am not at liberty to disclose, we must wait.”

  “Wait?” Sophia asked, sure she’d misheard the man, then realized how loud she’d spoken. Lowering her voice to nearly a hiss, she said, “You have enough proof to arrest him. There is no reason to delay.”

  Mr. Bean scowled. “Have a little faith in the Runners, won’t you, my lady?”

  “I do have faith in you, Mr. Bean—otherwise I never would have come to you for help,” Sophia countered angrily, forcing herself to take small sips of cooling lemonade. “I believe it is time to refill my glass.”

  “Let me, my lady.”

  “No, thank you,” she replied. “Mrs. Kirk has been too long in returning from the retiring room. She was not feeling well earlier today and I should check to see if it is necessary for her to return home.”

  Mr. Bean bowed before Sophia and waited until she’d curtsied to reply, “Very well. Do let me know when Mr. Bourne arrives, won’t you?”

  “I will,” she answered, then strode toward the refreshments. A few ladies of her acquaintance attempted to ensnare Sophia in conversation, but she simply smiled politely and continued to walk, needing distance between herself and Mr. Bean.

  She reached the lemonade table manned by a liveried footman and waited while he refilled her cup. The orchestra began to play “The Sussex Waltz” by Mozart, Sophia’s favorite.

  She turned to watch the musicians and discovered Nicholas standing near the entrance. He was speaking with a man Sophia did not recognize.

  She abandoned her cup and hastened toward the two men, stopping next to Nicholas.

  “Mr. Bourne, there you are,” she said, hopeful that her cheery tone hid her frayed nerves.

  Nicholas wasn’t happy to see her, that much was clear. He gritted his teeth, the muscles in his jaw taut beneath his tanned skin. “Lady Afton, I did not know that you were looking for me. Is there something you require?”

  Of course he knew she’d been waiting for him. He himself had stated in his early morning letter that he would see her at the benefit ball. Why was he playing such games?

  Sophia looked at the man to whom Nicholas had been speaking and smiled politely. He was attempting to look as if he was not listening to their conversation, turning his gaze to the merry gathering of elderly ladies two groups over from theirs. She discreetly examined his profile, his nose capturing her attention.

  “Why, yes, I do require something—an introduction.”

  Nicholas grinned at her, but his eyes had gone black. “Of course. Where are my manners? Lady Sophia Afton, may I introduce to you Mr. Philip Ambrose.”

  The nose—his nose. She recognized it from her sketch. His hair had thinned and his jowls had grown more pronounced, but there he was, come to life.

  Sophia was standing before the Bishop.

  Her mouth went dry and she felt her knees begin to buckle as the man bowed before her. Nicholas caught her hand in his.

  “A pleasure, Lady Sophia.”

  She curtsied, demurely lowering her lashes so that she might collect herself. “Thank you, Mr. Ambrose. And what brings you here this evening?”

  Sophia concentrated on breathing in and out, the man before her seemingly stealing each intake of air from her very lungs.

  “As I was telling Mr. Bourne, I am a magistrate—St. Giles district,” he replied, his voice surprisingly soft. “The Bow Street Runners are very important to the work that I do, so I wanted to show my support for the men. And you, Lady Sophia? What is your connection to the Runners?”

  “No connection, really,” she blurted out, willing her heartbeat to slow.

  Do not fumble in front of this man, Sophia. Do not give anything away.

  She began again. “That is, I support a number of charities and worthwhile endeavors. The Runners are amongst those.”

  “I must say, myself and my fellow magistrates are thankful for your generous nature. The rewards offered by the members of the ton allow us to provide support to a larger area of London,” the Bishop replied appreciatively, though not overly so. “And as you must be aware, the city is in desperate need of such services.”

  Was he toying with her? Sophia’s head began to spin. If she’d been prepared to meet the man face-to-face, then perhaps she could have managed to converse with some semblance of intelligence, allowing her to observe his behavior.

  She forced a polite smile in response to the man’s false flattery. “You are too kind, Mr. Ambrose, which makes what I must do even more inexcusable. Mr. Bourne, I’m afraid Mrs. Kirk is not feeling well. Might you help me arrange for our carriage to be brought around?”

  “Of course, Lady Sophia,” Nicholas answered, concern clouding his face. “Let us be off, then. I do not like the idea of Mrs. Kirk being kept from her bed because of me.”

  “Mr. Ambrose,” Sophia said, curtsying again.

  “A brief but particular pleasure, my lady,” he replied, bowing politely. “And you as well, Mr. Bourne.”

  The Bishop held his hand out to Nicholas.

  Sophia noticed Nicholas hesitate for a split second before he briefly shook the man’s hand.

  “Lady Sophia,” Nicholas murmured, steering Sophia by the elbow. “Do not say anything until we have reached the next room.”

  Sophia did not bother to argue with him. All she wanted right then was the comfort that his nearness afforded.

  “Where the bloody hell is an empty room?” Nicholas growled in a low tone as they left the ballroom and moved down the hall.

  Sophia tripped on her hem and stumbled, a quiet cry of anguish escaping her lips.

  “I have you,” Nicholas reassured her, his arm an iron bar of support at her waist. “Here, Lady Farnsworth’s drawing room.”

  They crossed the threshold and he shoved the door closed. “Lie down. You’ve had a shock.”

  “I don’t want—” Sophia objected as Nicholas gently placed her on a sofa. Bracing her hands against the cushions, she struggled to sit up. “I don’t want to lie down,” she protested, falling back as her hands slipped on the cool, smooth silk.

  Nicholas knelt down next to her and enclosed her cold fingers in the reassuring warmth of his. “Only moments ago you spoke to the man who decided when and where your mother would die. Be patient with yourself.”

  “How can I be patient, Nicholas?” Sophia asked angrily, rolling toward him until her cheek rested on his forearm. “And why were you talking to him?”

  “We arrived here at precisely the same time. Lord Farnsworth thought it clever to introduce the lowly magistrate to a peer,” Nicholas explained. “I had no choice. Either I talked to the bastard or abandoned him for no good reason whatsoever—which seemed a rather risky proposition. We do not want to make him suspicious.”

  Sophia moved back so she could look into his eyes. “Precisely. Still, I’ve mucked it up, haven’t I? Apparently I can keep my wits about me only when dealing with killers who have attacked other people’s families.”

  “Nothing was amiss,” Nicholas assured her. “You were polite and charming, if a bit rushed. He knows nothing more than that you are a lady with a sickly companion. And that is all he ever will know.”

  Sophia wanted to believe him. She needed to believe him, or she might never convince herself to get up from the sofa. And she would not give the Bishop such power over her. “You must speak with Mr. Bean,” she urged. “He is waiting for you.”

  “Not until you and Mrs. Kirk are safely home. Then I will return and speak with the Runner.” He placed a soft kiss on her lips. “We are so close, Sophia. Do not lose hope.”

  “I could never give up ho
pe,” she murmured, more cavalierly than she felt. “It is all I have ever had.”

  27

  The Albany

  Mouse waited in the small gazebo, precisely where the note he’d received earlier had told him to be.

  A small greenbelt ran behind the Albany building and provided a buffer from the noise of Piccadilly Street. The manicured garden with its flower beds, trees, and walkways was also well suited for concealment. The Bishop’s men had slipped into their assigned hiding places the moment he’d sent young Daniel into Mr. Bourne’s apartment with a note telling Mouse his mother would meet him in the garden.

  The boy’s whereabouts had been an educated guess on his part. The Bishop took one last inhale of his cigar before dropping it to the ground and flattening it with his foot. Mr. Bourne, on his own, had set off no alarm bells in the Bishop’s mind. Bourne had been distant, hesitant to continue their conversation, and mildly distracted. But that was all perfectly normal. The titled liked to believe that their hearts were full of acceptance, when in reality they wanted nothing more than to wash their hands of the lower classes and be done with them.

  The Bishop stared at the back of Mouse from his vantage point behind the gazebo. The boy glanced furtively about. Still, he didn’t leave the steps.

  The Bishop smiled and decided to draw out the tension a bit longer.

  No, he thought in retrospect, Mr. Bourne had not made the Bishop wonder. But Lady Sophia had. She’d done an admirable job hiding her surprise, but she’d clearly not expected to meet him. It must have been quite a shock for her. And he felt sorry for the woman, as strange as that seemed.

  He felt sorry for himself as well. He’d been an actor and playwright before the Kingsmen—and a damn happy one at that. But one debt he could not afford to repay had led him down a path from which there was no return.

  The Bishop raised his hand and donned his hat, adjusting it at a slightly tipped angle as was his custom. There was no point in torturing the boy further—at least, not yet. He stepped out from behind the gazebo and quietly walked toward him, the soft grass masking each footfall.

  “I’m sorry to say I’m not your mother, Mouse,” he called out, watching as the boy whirled to face him. “But I am sort of a father to you. And that’s something, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Mouse scanned the park, looking ready to run.

  “Don’t bother trying to hightail it out of here, Mouse,” the Bishop told him matter-of-factly. “I’ve men in every nook and cranny, so you won’t get far.”

  He stopped in front of the boy and sized him up. “You’ve grown, Mouse. Might be time to give you a new name.”

  “Daniel said my mother had come back,” the boy spat out, a tremor in his voice. “I was to meet her here, in the park. What have you done with her?”

  The Bishop closed his hand over the boy’s shoulder. “Don’t be angry with Daniel. He broke into Mr. Bourne’s apartments and told you of your mother’s return because I insisted that he do so. And you know how persuasive I can be.”

  Mouse ducked away from under his hand and put more space between them. “How did you know ’bout Mr. Bourne?”

  “Mouse,” the Bishop chided, “you had to know that it was only a matter of time until I found you. You are far too important to me, to the organization, to allow you to leave.”

  “So now you’re gonna kill me? Is that it?” the boy asked, crossing his skinny arms across his small chest in an attempted show of strength.

  The Bishop looked at Mouse, mindful of all the boy’s promise and intelligence. And remorseful that he’d more than likely never see any of it come to fruition. “Not just now, no, Mouse.”

  Mouse’s eyes grew round with fear but he did not attempt to run. “I see.”

  “First we will have a conversation about what you’ve told Mr. Bourne,” the Bishop explained. “It is very important that I understand exactly what he knows and what he doesn’t.”

  “A conversation?” Mouse asked irreverently, indicating he’d come to terms with his fate. “Is that what you call it when Topper tortures someone until they tell him what he wants?”

  The Bishop smiled. “There’s my Mouse. Now come along before you catch your death from the cold.”

  “You’re to leave Mr. Bourne out of this,” the boy demanded as if he had any power to bargain. “I’ll come along and tell you what you want, but in return I want your word that Mr. Bourne and Miss Spoon will be safe.”

  God, the boy was admirable. Such pluck for one as young as he was. “I feel it is important for you to know that he was interested in you beyond kindness. Your loyalty should be decided based on all of the facts.”

  “You won’t turn me against Mr. Bourne. He’s been good to me, too,” Mouse answered, unfolding his arms and planting his hands on his hips.

  The Bishop chuckled at the boy’s bravado. “I promise you, Mouse, I’ve no desire to turn you against anyone. In my own way, I respect you. Therefore you must know the truth of the matter; Mr. Bourne has reason to want me captured. That is why Mr. Bourne was in the rookery when he found you. He was looking for me—not that his decision to rescue you should be in any way diminished by this knowledge, but the entire time you’ve lived under Mr. Bourne’s roof, he has been furiously working to apprehend me. Or perhaps even kill me.”

  “Did you steal from him?” Mouse asked, his brow furrowing as he took in the unexpected information.

  The Bishop contemplated the boy’s words. “In a manner of speaking, yes, I did. And something much more important than jewels or art, something I should most likely pay for with my life. And while I am a fair man, if it is to come down to my life or his, make no mistake, Mouse, I will always choose mine.”

  If he’d had the time, the Bishop would have allowed the boy to remain in the park to puzzle out just what he thought and felt about Mr. Bourne now that he knew the truth.

  But he could not wait any longer. “We must go, Mouse.”

  “You’ll leave him alone, then, if he stays far away?” the boy demanded.

  “That all depends on how he chooses to respond to your absence. And that even I cannot predict.”

  Nicholas wanted a drink.

  He stared out the window of the hired hackney and counted townhomes in an effort to ignore the incessant need. It ebbed when he was with Sophia, as if she made him stronger, even better.

  “As if?” he asked himself out loud, losing track of how many homes he’d counted and beginning again.

  Ignoring his need for a drink when he was alone, his mind and body idle, had always been more difficult. Now thinking about life after the Bishop’s capture, when Sophia would be his forever, made it easier to deny the urge.

  A conversation he’d had with Carrington began to replay in his mind:

  “I’ve broken nearly every law within the Corinthian code—and a few outside of it as well. Carmichael could not overlook such things. But I’ve come to terms with the possible consequences.”

  “And those are?” Nicholas had pressed as a fine misting of rain began to fall.

  “My expulsion from the Corinthians,” Dash had answered simply. “Still, we’ll have captured Smeade. And that’s what matters.”

  The bay’s hooves had slipped on the wet street, but he’d recovered and held his stride. Nicholas had called reassuringly to the horse and kept his hands firmly on the reins. “Are you sure?”

  “What on earth do you mean?” Carrington had countered.

  It had sounded to Nicholas as though his friend genuinely wondered at the question, though he’d found such a thing hard to believe. “Your whole life has been dedicated to the Young Corinthians. How could you surrender it so easily?”

  Carrington considered the question while he’d swiped at the rain gathering on his greatcoat. “Elena.”

  “Come, now. Everything for a woman?” Nicholas had pressed, unconvinced.

  “Yes, Bourne. We’re capturing Lady Afton’s killer not only for justice, but a second chance at life. El
ena is my second chance.”

  It had been inconceivable to Nicholas that any man would think it a sound idea to put his entire future in the hands of a woman.

  “I see,” Nicholas had replied dryly, then slowed the bay with a tug on the reins. “Well, as for me, I’m looking forward to a second, third, and perhaps even fourth chance at life with Lady Whitcomb. Widows are rather generous, I find.”

  Carrington had arched an eyebrow sardonically. “You’ll never change, will you, Bourne?”

  Nicholas had by then brought his horse to a stop and jumped down. “Did you honestly think I would?”

  The memory faded now as Nicholas considered Dash’s words in a different light—one that involved Sophia.

  “Goddammit all to hell,” he muttered with vague disbelief. Dash had been right—about everything.

  Somehow Sophia had expanded his horizons beyond drink and eventual death. She’d given him a future, just as Elena had for Dash.

  Nicholas lost track of the number of townhomes yet again, but this time around he did not mind so much. It felt good to admit he’d been wrong. Not that he had any plans to inform Dash. Still, the revelation was satisfying all the same—unexpected, slightly intimidating, and more than he had ever allowed himself to believe could be true.

  The hackney rolled to a stop in front of the Albany. Nicholas opened the door and stepped out, paying the driver his wage and a tip. Just as he turned toward the steps, Singh burst through the building’s front door.

  “Sahib, you must come at once,” Singh cried out, clearly very upset. “It is young Mouse. We cannot find him.”

  Nicholas took the stairs two at a time and met Singh at the door. “What do you mean?”

  “Just that, sahib. I went to check on him at midnight as I normally do and he was not in his room.”

  “He has a tendency to hole up in the most unusual spots,” Nicholas answered, stalking down the hall toward his apartment. “Did you look in my dressing room? He often sleeps on the servant’s cot there.”

  Singh trotted beside him. “Yes, sahib, I looked in all of the usual places that young Mouse prefers.”