A Gift for Fiona (The Love Letters Series Book 2)

by Rogers, Suzanne G.

  She wandered into the music room and sat on the piano bench a moment, remembering how enthralling Rory’s playing had been the previous evening. Although Rory wasn’t quite as skilled a pianist as Angelica, she’d loved his interpretations all the same. After running her fingers lightly over the ivory keys, she lowered the fall and turned away. It was time to focus on a future that didn’t include him. Certainly, she had much to look forward to, including travel and children, and it would be a relief to put the messy business of courtship behind her forevermore.

  When Sir Harry finally came to call that afternoon, she didn’t shrink from giving him the answer he wanted to hear. She couldn’t feign giddy pleasure at their official engagement, but he didn’t seem to mind. Her parents greeted the news with reluctant acceptance, but Sir Harry didn’t seem to mind their lack of enthusiasm either. In fact, he didn’t act surprised in the least.

  “Now that that’s settled, we should set a date.” He practically bristled with energy. “While I was in London, I took the liberty of applying for a special license so we can marry as soon as possible. How about next Wednesday morning?”

  Mr. and Mrs. Robinson exchanged a bewildered glance, and Fiona snapped out of her lethargy. “What?”

  “I see no reason to wait.”

  Fiona looked to see if he was joking, but he seemed perfectly serious. “Sir Harry, we can’t get married that soon. My sister won’t be home until the end of the Season!”

  “I think you may call me Harry now that we’re affianced.” He shrugged. “We can wed in London, if you prefer. That way, your extended family may attend the wedding without any trouble at all.”

  “But your mother is chairing the Harvest Festival. How can she take time away from her duties to travel to London?”

  “All the more reason to have the wedding quickly so Mother can get back to her duties. Our honeymoon tour will most assuredly be concluded by Michaelmas, so we might even be able to attend the festival, if you desire.”

  Mrs. Robinson finally found her tongue. “Sir Harry, a proper trousseau can’t be assembled in a week’s time.”

  “Fiona may buy whatever she likes in Paris. I’m prepared to be very generous.”

  “You’re generosity itself, I’m sure, Harry.” The familiar moniker felt awkward on Fiona’s lips. “But you must consider how strange it will seem for us to marry in such a hurried manner. Such haste is usually considered unseemly.”

  “Nonsense. Licentiousness would never be attributed to a man my age.”

  Mr. Robinson coughed. “I wouldn’t say never.”

  “I share my daughter’s concerns.” A rosy flush stained Mrs. Robinson’s face. “Society may think a hasty marriage is somehow necessary, if you catch my meaning.”

  Sir Harry smiled. “Such speculation will last only for a few months. Even the least clever people can count to nine, Mrs. Robinson.”

  Fiona realized to delay the inevitable was probably pointless. “You’re very persuasive, Harry, and I can understand why you’ve been so successful in business. Let’s set the date two weeks from Wednesday at the earliest. That should give Papa enough time to put the announcement in the paper and for us to send out handwritten invitations.”

  “Excellent.”

  “But I want Mr. Hamish to marry us at St. James, where I was baptized. If Lara and the Greystokes cannot attend, I’m sure they’ll send their best wishes.”

  Even though Fiona knew she was doing the proper thing, she felt as if a dark cloud had filled the room and was pressing down on her. Sir Harry exchanged a few more pleasantries with her parents, and she allowed him to kiss her cheek before he left the house. As soon as the door closed, however, the tears began to fall. Mr. Robinson hastened to enfold her in his arms.

  “What’s wrong, Fiona?”

  “Nothing, Papa. I’m just…happy.”

  Rory and Miles entered the private train compartment and heaved their bags onto the overhead luggage rack. After they settled themselves into their seats, they exchanged a weary glance.

  “Last leg to Liverpool. We’ll arrive just before dark.” Rory shook his head. “I’ve traveled to the city once before, but I’d forgotten what a long journey it is from London.”

  “I’m actually quite glad we’re traveling without valets or heavy trunks. It’s made the transfers a little easier.” Miles laughed. “I must say, my family was shocked to see me at breakfast this morning. They’d all gone to bed when I arrived home last night.”

  “I daresay they hadn’t expected you for another week at least.”

  “Yes, and I’m not sure they believed my explanation. Lara was particularly unhappy I was leaving again so soon, but I told her I was accompanying you on a matter of business that couldn’t be delayed. Fortunately, she didn’t press for more details.”

  “I’m sorry to take you away from Miss Lara, and I wish you could have told her the truth. If this situation with Iris can be sorted out, I hope you can eventually tell your entire family what has transpired. I shouldn’t like to be responsible for driving a wedge between you and them.”

  “I have every confidence we’ll find your sister and that everything will turn out well.”

  “I hope you’re right, but I can’t help but think there’s more to this story than we know. I mean to press Moordale for answers when we’re face to face.”

  “I quite agree. I’ve tried to take Moordale’s measure, but there are so many contradictions as to make it impossible. Considering his financial woes, I find it curious he never pressed Lady Quarterbury for money, especially since he possessed the key to her downfall with his father’s letter. That speaks well to his character.”

  “It is curious, but he’s still a villain in my view. Whatever his problems, he’d no business leading Iris astray the way he has.”

  “When we recover her, perhaps she’ll have seen the error of her ways.”

  “If not, she’ll have plenty of time to think it over while during her voyage to America.”

  The female jailer’s firm push sent Iris stumbling into the cellar holding cell, and the clang of the closing iron lock echoed in her ears. As her eyes strained to adjust to the dim lighting, a strident, coarse female voice made her jump.

  “Welcome to paradise, dearie!”

  A chorus of cackles rang out from the depths of the large dungeon-like room, but Iris made no reply. She found a seat on the bench closest to the door and pressed her back into the bricks as if she could somehow dissolve into the mortar. The horrible place made her skin crawl, and it was too dark to make out the horrors lurking in the corners. For all she knew, rats were eyeing her ankles even now. Perhaps spiders dangled overhead, destined to entangle themselves in her hair. More than likely, her human companions posed bigger dangers. She’d been thrown in with depraved criminals of the worst sort, who certainly despised her kind. Would they strip her of her finery and laugh at her nakedness?

  In short order, the stench of stale drink, mold, and the contents of a ripe chamber pot reached her nostrils. Not even pressing a perfumed handkerchief underneath her nose could blunt the smell.

  “Eh, look, it’s the Queen of Sheba. She’s too good for the likes of us.”

  More cackles.

  “Oh, leave off. Can’t ye see she’s scared?” A heavily painted older woman approached and sat down nearby. “Hello, dearie. Never mind this lot. They just like to hear themselves talk. I haven’t seen ye in here before.”

  “No.”

  “My name’s Lizzie.

  “Iris.”

  “That’s a pretty name. Have ye got a bully yet, Iris?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “A man who procures for ye.”

  “No. I-I’m not a prostitute, or any sort of criminal at all. I’m in here by mistake.”

  General laughter followed her remark, followed by exclamations of “Me, too!” and “That’s what they all say!” Lizzie shushed them as best she could, and turned her attention back to Iris.

  “O
f course yer not a common prostitute.” She looked Iris up and down. “I can see yer more of a high-class girl, ain’t ye? Well, when ye get out of here, come see old Lizzie at the Foggy Notion Tavern, dockside. I’ll introduce ye to Mrs. Pompadore, the madam of the Liverpool Venus Club. She only takes the freshest high-society girls, and ye can earn a smart living under her wing.”

  Horrified, Iris could only squeak out her whispered thanks before lapsing into silence. Although she’d lived a sheltered existence, she knew what a madam was and what Lizzie meant. Merciful heavens, what if Moordale died before he could clear her name? Even if she convinced the police of her innocence in the robbery, they’d never believe she hadn’t stolen the property in her carpetbag. If she asked them to contact her father, would he help her out of this predicament? If not, she’d be convicted of theft and go to jail for a long time. Truth be told, she really was a thief and deserved to be locked away, didn’t she? After her incarceration, what could she possibly do but seek employment as a working girl or a maid…even though she’d had no experience with either profession. Iris glanced around, wondering how many of the women in the miserable cell had been forced into unsavory occupations by bad luck or dire circumstances. She prayed she wouldn’t be one of them.

  Bags in hand, Rory and Miles approached the front desk of the Adelphi Hotel, where the clerk gave them a bright smile. “Do you gentlemen have reservations?”

  Rory shook his head. “No, we need two rooms, but we’re also looking for someone. Is Lord Moordale staying with you?”

  The man’s eyes widened. “Er…might you be friends of his?”

  “Not exactly, but we must speak with him. Could you tell us what room he’s in?”

  “Let me get the manager, Mr. Pruning.”

  As the clerk disappeared into an inner office, Miles caught Rory’s eye. “He knows something about Moordale. That’s a positive sign.”

  Rory was dubious. “Did you see the man’s expression? It’s what he knows that worries me.”

  Moments later, they were ushered into Mr. Pruning’s office, where Rory introduced himself and Miles to the manager.

  “Our business is with Lord Moordale. Could you take us to him?”

  Mr. Pruning shook his head. “I’m afraid the poor fellow has been taken to the Liverpool Royal Infirmary in dire condition with a gunshot wound.”

  Miles gasped. “What?”

  A shock went through Rory, but he forced himself to remain calm. “He was traveling with a woman. Is she safe?”

  “Miss Montague, as she called herself, has been taken to the Hotham Street Bridewell as an accessory to the robbery.”

  Rory was stunned. “That’s completely absurd!”

  Mr. Pruning shrugged. “If you know the woman, perhaps you can vouch for her. The police believe her to be in possession of stolen property.”

  Inwardly, Rory groaned. How had Iris gotten herself into such a horrible mess?

  “Mr. Pruning, can you tell us everything you know about the robbery?”

  “I really don’t know very much. Last night, Lord Moordale spent several hours in our salon, playing cards. The night clerk saw him leave the hotel with another gentleman around three o’clock. Thereafter, that same clerk found His Lordship in the alley, beaten and shot. Unfortunately for Miss Montague, she happened to have a pistol in her possession.”

  Rory shook his head. “Sheer coincidence. There’s been a dreadful misunderstanding.”

  “Mr. Braithwaite and I will need rooms for the night while we sort this all out,” Miles said.

  The manager nodded. “Certainly. Forgive me for asking, but if you’re friends with Lord Moordale, perhaps you could settle his bill and take it up with him later?” He slid an invoice across the desk.

  “Of course.” Rory glanced at the bill and reached for his wallet. “Just one thing, Mr. Pruning. I’m certain you would never want the security of the hotel brought into question?”

  The man stiffened. “Why, no! We pride ourselves on protecting the safety of our guests!”

  Rory laid cash on the manager’s desk. “I don’t want to see anything about these events in the paper or the subject of casual gossip by the staff. Otherwise, I might find it necessary to bring up to the press the lapse of security that led to Lord Moordale’s robbery. Do we understand each other?”

  A tight smile lifted the corners of Mr. Pruning’s lips as he collected the cash. “Perfectly.”

  “Good. Please have our luggage put in our rooms.” Rory and Miles stood. “We’ll need a cab to take us to the bridewell.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Loose Ends

  FREEING IRIS FROM THE LOCK-UP HOUSE was taking a Herculean effort due to Sergeant O’Hara’s uncompromising attitude. Even as Rory laid out the facts, the policeman’s expression remained obdurate. Only Miles’s level-headed presence prevented him from exploding in frustration and making everything worse.

  “Everything in Miss Montague’s bag has either my initials or my family crest on it, as evidenced by my ring.” Rory removed the signet ring from his finger and placed it on the sergeant’s desk. “The Boutet pistol case is engraved with my full name, which appears on my calling card as well as my initiation card from White’s of London.”

  Rory produced both cards and placed them on the sergeant’s desk next to the ring.

  “I can swear to you that Miss Montague had all those items with my permission, and if you’ve examined the pistol, you already know it hasn’t been fired. You simply don’t have any reason to hold her any longer.”

  O’Hara still seemed unconvinced. “Maybe she isn’t a thief exactly, but there’s still the matter of her involvement in the robbery itself.”

  Even Miles was losing patience. “Come now, Sergeant. Miss Montague had no motive whatsoever to cause Moordale any harm. In fact, she was under his protection.”

  “You’d do better to search for the man who was in Moordale’s company when he left the Adelphi Hotel early this morning,” Rory said. “You must have a description of him from the night clerk.”

  “Hmm.” O’Hara’s eyes narrowed. “You’re hiding something about the girl. If her name’s Miss Montague, I’m Sir Robert Peel.”

  Rory gritted his teeth. “Surely you can’t fault us for shielding a lady’s reputation?”

  “Sergeant, have you managed to speak to Moordale about what happened?” Miles asked. “He could clear things up immediately.”

  “He hasn’t regained consciousness, as far as I know. The surgeon said the bullet didn’t hit any vital organs, but Lord Moordale was beaten badly and might not ever wake up.”

  Despite Rory’s distaste for the viscount, he winced. Whatever Moordale’s motive in running off with Iris, he’d never wanted him beaten to death.

  O’Hara studied him a moment. “All right, I’ll release the girl into your custody. I must say, Mr. Braithwaite, you’re a good brother. If my sister had run off with His Lordship, I’d be tempted to let her spend the night in jail.”

  Rory was startled. “How did you know?”

  “I’m a detective, Mr. Braithwaite. Besides which, you and your sister look like two peas in a pod. Sorry for putting you through your paces, but I had to be sure.”

  When the cell door opened and her name was called, Iris’s blood ran cold. Was she about to learn Moordale had died of his injuries and she was to be charged with his murder?

  Lizzie gave her a nod. “Good luck, dearie. Just remember to come see old Lizzie at the Foggy Notion Tavern. I’ll get you set up with the right people.”

  “Thank you. You’ve been very kind.”

  Her gratitude was sincere. Lizzie had kept the other women at bay and had been an ally of sorts. Although the air in the corridor was only slightly fresher than that of the cell, Iris took a deep breath when she emerged. However grim her stay had been, Iris knew the neighborhood lockup was probably luxurious when compared to a real prison. As she waited for the female attendant to lock the door behind her, she knew she�
��d do almost anything to avoid being put back behind bars.

  “Come on, lass.” The woman motioned for Iris to follow her down the hall and up the stairs to the street level.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Upstairs. Sergeant O’Hara says you’re to be released.”

  Relief made her head swim. Moordale must have cleared her name!

  “Lord Moordale has vouched for me then?”

  “No. A couple of gents have come to collect you.”

  Her pace slowed. None of her acquaintances knew where she was, so Iris was mystified. Could the gentlemen possibly be procurers—bullies, Lizzie had called them—looking to take her on? If so, she would refuse to leave the bridewell! At the top of the stairs, she caught sight of Rory and Miles, and she’d never seen anything more beautiful. She threw her arms around her brother and clutched him tight.

  “Thank you.” Her face was pressed into his coat lapels so her voice was muffled. “Thank you.”

  After she finished hugging him, she embraced and thanked a startled Miles, too. Finally she stepped back and managed a wobbly, tearful smile.

  “I don’t understand how you came to be here, but I’m terribly grateful.”

  Sergeant O’Hara tipped his hat. “Stay out of trouble, Miss Montague…or perhaps I should call you Miss Braithwaite?”

  “Er…yes, sir. Is there any word about Lord Moordale?”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  “We’re going to the hospital to visit him right now.” Rory pressed her reticule into her hands and picked up her carpetbag.

  “I’ll hail a cab.” Miles strode toward the exit.

  Iris turned to the sergeant. “There was a woman I met in the lock-up named Lizzie. She works at the Foggy Notion Tavern. Why is she in custody?”