Bodice Ripper (Historical Romantic Suspense) (Victorian & Regency Romance Book 1)

by Amy Faye

  "Where?"

  "What on earth does that mean, where? In my room, with my things!"

  "Show it to me," Oliver answered. His voice was cool, and as he said it, Mary knew that they wouldn't find it. James must have known it, too.

  "You—you took it?" He sounded less certain than he had a moment. Cracks began to show in the armor of defiance he'd put up.

  "Now, Mr. Poole, I'm not an unreasonable man. You've worked for, what, a week? That's a pound right there, no doubt about it. And of course, you seemed to believe you had work here. I'm sure that you turned down work to do your job, whether it was real or imagined."

  "That's not the point," James answered. Mary pressed herself against the wall; they were right through the doorway beside her, and all she had to do was step through. Then they'd all know she was there.

  "Of course. So I'm prepared to offer you a severance, in spite of the fact that you don't contest that you have no contract. I think you'll find fifty pounds, plus the one that you've incurred in wage, to be more than fair. Don't you think?"

  Mary's eyes fluttered shut. He had the money, she knew. He'd borrowed that much and more from her father.

  Some part of her had been willing to accept that everything had been a big misunderstanding. That Oliver had made some bad gambling debts and that they'd needed to be paid off. The rest of it could all have been a series of coincidences.

  But a fifty pound severance to a steward that had been working for a week? That was as much an admission of guilt as she would ever receive from him.

  For a long time, as Mary held her breath, nobody spoke. Then she heard Oliver again.

  "Davis? Richard? Remove this man from my family's estate. He's deranged, and possibly dangerous. Take care with him. He's a large fellow, and he served in His Majesty's armed services, so he'll be capable enough."

  Mary chanced a peek out through the door. Four or five large men stood with their backs to her. James was facing toward her, and as soon as she moved her head out she knew that he saw her. He didn't betray it in his face, but something in the hardness of his expression changed. He clenched his jaw and waited for them to come and take him.

  Two men stepped forward. A third stepped up to join them, and Mary ducked her head back behind the wall before one of them saw her watching.

  She could hear James struggling against them, but it was a losing fight. He was strong, she knew, and without a doubt he was capable enough in a fight, but three largish men had him whipped without a fight. Everyone knew it.

  The last thing she heard before the door closed behind him was James shouting, either to her or to Oliver or to both:

  "This isn't over! I'll find proof, and then I'll be back!"

  20

  James

  Mary would understand why he'd had to leave without saying goodbye. When it came to distractions, angry conversations were the best, and he'd stirred up a hornet's nest. She had to understand, if she'd heard the conversation—and he knew that she had. That didn't make James feel any better about it.

  He let out a long breath and watched the world whip by as he took the train to Canterbury. He'd thought it might be smart for him to take Mary's transcribed copy of the address where they could find this "Pearl" person.

  In the end, he'd been right. He hadn't gotten another chance at it. Lucky for him that he hadn't needed a second shot at it. Mark one for preparedness.

  He'd been away from her barely a few hours, and he missed her already. It tore at his gut, but he couldn't do anything but keep the promise he'd made her as he left. He'd get his proof, even if it killed him.

  He surprised himself when he tried to think of her as someone else's wife, and couldn't. She was his, whether he deserved her or not. Before, he'd thought it was a purely sexual attraction, and he'd regretted every minute they'd spent together the past two nights.

  But now, he was beginning to wonder if there weren't something more to it. He felt something deep inside him stirring, and he pushed it away. There would be a time when he would be able to take a look at his feelings and figure out what he had on his hands.

  Until then, he needed to be focused on the task at hand. Distractions were dangerous, for himself and for Mary.

  The sun was already dipping on the horizon, when the train pulled into the station. It wouldn't be the least bit polite to call, unannounced, so late in the evening. The trip would need to take another night, though the thought of putting off seeing Mary again burned in his chest.

  He set his bag down on the bed and sat back. He was tired, run ragged, exhausted, even. He'd had some of the most exciting nights of his life, the past couple of days. But the constant excitement and anxiety had been taking its toll, the same way it had in Belgium.

  For a months, he'd just gotten used to not sleeping, and occasionally closing his eyes for a moment and opening them to find that he'd lost an hour. It had almost seemed normal, after a while.

  He'd gotten shot in his leg, and when they offered him an honorable discharge he'd taken it in a heartbeat. He had promised himself that he was done with that part of his life. He went to uni, he'd healed up nicely, and now he almost felt as if he fit in.

  It seemed as if the minute he'd been ready to move on with his life, to put that part of his past behind him, the war had come back to get him. He sat back against the headboard of the bed, sized for two, and set his eyes in the darkness. Then he was back in the trenches and getting ready for the trouble that the morning would bring.

  When he opened his eyes again, he couldn't remember what time he'd fallen asleep. He couldn't tell what time it was, either, except that the sun had risen and was being inadequately blocked by a thin curtain.

  He pushed himself off the bed and straightened his clothes. The mirror showed that he looked shabby, but it wasn't as if he had another set of clothes with him. It had all been left in the Geis house.

  Perhaps it could serve as his excuse for returning when he'd talked to Pearl. Then the trap would spring, and he'd finally be able to sleep again.

  There was a man behind the counter of the hotel he'd picked, in a uniform and a plastered-on, unconvincing smile.

  "I need help finding an address, could you give me directions?"

  For a moment, the man didn't register what he was saying, and James almost repeated himself before realization dawned.

  "Ah, yes, sir, of course."

  James showed him the address, and he gave directions. They were simple, but James had him write them down anyways.

  The weather was cool and damp, and with his jacket on it was just right for a walk. He didn't have time to enjoy it, though. He needed to get back to what was important, before she got hurt.

  The directions were good. It was a scant thirty minutes' walk, and the place was just where he'd said. Good lad.

  When he arrived, James saw that it wasn't actually a single building at all, but rather a line of buildings, all in a row, and over one of the doors was written "Law Office." James's heart stopped when he looked at the door beneath.

  Someone had kicked it in, hadn't even bothered to hide it. The frame was utterly destroyed. That the police hadn't arrived yet meant that either it was very recent, or that the police were very slow.

  He stood outside the door and called in. He didn't receive an answer. Calling out again, he stepped inside. The front room was a wreck. Papers all across the floor, a table flipped. There was a hole in the wall that was sized for a large man's shoulder.

  James frowned. This was all wrong. Pearl had been a secret. Nobody knew except him and Mary. Neither of them would have given it away, and even if they had, James wondered, who could have gotten here before him?

  He took a deep breath and looked around the room. Two doors, plus the one he'd taken in. He tried the first and found it locked. The second was a water closet.

  There was an office on the end of the row of buildings, and James went inside. A woman was there, reading a magazine, and she didn't look up when he came
in.

  "Excuse me, is this the landlord's office, for this row of offices?"

  She hummed in agreement that it was.

  "May I speak to him?"

  She set her magazine down unhappily and knocked on the door.

  "Yeah?" A voice boomed from behind the door.

  "Someone to see you, sir," the woman croaked out with a voice like a toad's.

  A moment later, a portly red-faced man opened the door.

  "I think there's been a robbery."

  "What?" The man said it as if he needed James to repeat it, but he turned and grabbed a ring of keys from the wall and motioned for James to lead the way.

  He stepped in cautiously, calling out for a third time, and for a third time there was no answer. The landlord, who James had learned was called Marley, had little patience for these sorts of antics.

  "I'm worried there might have been some sort of struggle, the room's in a terrible state. There's a locked room in the back, and I thought perhaps someone might be hurt in there."

  Marley gave him a sideways look. A look that asked how he knew this or why he cared. Then he shrugged and unlocked the door. The knob turned, but the door was stuck, as if something were propping it shut. James had to put his shoulder into it before it would move.

  There had been something propped against the door. A man in his middle ages, who the landlord identified to police as Pearl Langdon, a lawyer of no particular renown. He'd been shot twice in the chest, and had apparently locked himself into the room.

  James had been brought in. They'd thought his story seemed awfully strange, at first. He had to admit that it sounded odd to him, as well. The fact that he had to adjust the truth to keep Mary's name out of it made the story stranger.

  In the end, though, he'd had no gun, and the body was still warm when they'd found it. It seemed he'd been shot some time that morning. When James offered that he had been speaking to a concierge forty minutes before he'd spoken to the landlord, and they went to the hotel to confirm, they let him go without much fuss.

  James was glad they'd done it that way, because he had a train to catch back to Dover. He didn't know what Oliver Geis was involved in, and he didn't know how he'd found Pearl Langdon.

  What James did know, and what sent a chill racing down his spine, was that he wasn't just throwing money or threats around any more. A forty three year old bachelor was lying on a slab somewhere in a morgue in Canterbury.

  He was dead because he'd known a Baron named Thomas Geis, and it was possible that Lord Geis had told him some dangerous information.

  And to James, the most important thing in the world was the safety of the baron's daughter.

  21

  Mary

  The door closed behind James. He sounded angry, but to her extreme relief another moment later the doors opened, and back in walked her uncle's goons. She said a silent prayer, and started slowly toward her own bedroom. When she got there without anyone seeing her, she said another.

  Mary tried to sleep, and when someone knocked on her door and called in with Davis's voice, she wished that she had managed it. Perhaps she'd have been able to pretend that she wasn't here, or that she in her dreams she'd invented the danger she was in.

  But that comfort wasn't going to be granted to her, and thinking about it would only hurt in the long run. She'd only known him a few long days, but Mary found it hard not to trust James. He would fix things for her, or he'd die trying.

  What made her more nervous, though, was that she was quickly getting the impression that the same could be said for her uncle.

  James was larger. He clearly had spent more than his share of time in the gymnasium, and if it came down to a fist fight, she thought that James would win. His looks, of course, were another victory for him.

  But that was where it ended. Besides that, her uncle was better-funded, better-experienced, and better-armed. James looked like he could take any one of the men that Oliver had brought with him, but not two. Oliver had four that she'd seen, though she hadn't looked to see whether or not they stayed.

  So, she reminded herself as she pretended to take the time to get dressed, it was absolutely imperative that she let things go by. If she let anyone think that she was onto them, then there wouldn't be any stopping them.

  These weren't the type of people to spare her because she was family, and they weren't the type to spare her because she was a woman. If she threatened them, then she'd be dealt with. James could have taken any one of them, but Mary could not.

  She went straight to the library without taking breakfast, and immediately opened another book. She tried to read; the best lie is a true one. But she quickly realized that wasn't going to work, so she settled for moving her eyes over the page.

  She needed a way to tell her uncle that she wasn't a threat, that she wasn't involved. She'd been pretending not to be involved before, and it felt as if the easiest way to go back to it was to use the same lie she'd used before.

  The clock chimed and she nearly jumped out of her seat. She looked up, and realized that it had been nearly two hours that she'd sat there in her reverie. Davis was standing just inside the door.

  There had been a time, only a few days ago, when she might have been comforted to see him there. He had reminded her of her father. Now it seemed as if he was a constant reminder that her uncle couldn't be defied, that he was always watching.

  She opened her mouth to ask for something to eat, but the words never came. She croaked and stared, open-mouthed. Then she gave up and looked back at her book.

  Davis cleared his throat, and then she realized that he hadn't been standing there for long.

  "Yes?" She looked up again, and the word came out automatically.

  She didn't sound afraid or panicked, she hoped. It could have passed for distracted, if she hadn't known better. She had to hope that Davis wouldn't know better, though she knew it was an unlikely hope at best.

  "Your Uncle will see you now," he said. She was almost surprised at how disinterested he sounded, as if everything was going according to some strange, twisted plan.

  She set her book aside and rose to follow him. She followed a few steps behind as they wound through the halls, until they came to the study. For a moment, a dozen images flashed through Mary's mind, different encounters from the past week.

  It made her miss James, though they'd only been apart a few hours. When Davis opened the door and pushed it open for her, she nearly gasped.

  It almost seemed like a completely different room. The furniture was the same, but where there had been messes and scores of papers pressed into haphazard stacks, there were now bare shelves. The only books in the room were well-used war manuals with names that Mary didn't recognize on them.

  "Ah, Mary. The last time I saw you, you were this high!"

  He put his hand a little higher than his knee to show her. It was true, and she realized now why she'd always been a little afraid of him from her childhood memories. He seemed as uncomfortable in the room as she'd seen anyone anywhere.

  If James had seemed like he would be suited to soldiering, he had at least seemed like someone who could fit in other places as well. Oliver had none of that.

  He looked like he could only be comfortable chasing the next far-off battlefield. He was approaching sixty, she could see, but his body was big and brawny. He carried himself with a straight back, but his eyes were searching constantly. Cataloging everything he saw, as if at any moment something might dart out of the shadows.

  "Uncle," she said cautiously.

  "Listen, I've just finished going through Mr. Poole's reports. Capable man, that boy, I must say I was surprised."

  She wasn't sure what he meant by it, whether he was referring to the work he'd done, or the work that the burglar had fabricated to cover for the missing slips. She wasn't going to ask him to find out.

  "If you say so, sir."

  He watched her eyes and pursed his lips. For a moment, he almost looked sad, as if he re
gretted something. Then the look was gone.

  "It seems as if your father had some financial troubles. I trust he didn't tell you anything about any of that, though, did he?"

  "No, sir."

  "Well, there are going to need to be some changes around here, looking at these papers. I only have another couple of days' shore leave. I came to pay my respects—to your father, you see. In the absence of a will, all of this belongs to me."

  She wondered at that comment, the way he sounded so sure that there was no will, but she didn't question it.

  "I think I understand."

  "Good girl!"

  He was watching her, she saw. Not just once or twice, not after key comments. Everything she did was being carefully scrutinized. Everything in the room, everyone in the hall behind them—that had been his choice. She was the only variable left for him to worry about.

  If this was a test, then she wasn't sure if she was passing it, or even what was being tested.

  "Now," he said, his voice softening, "I don't mean to be rude, of course, but about the matter of your eligibility."

  She didn't want to talk about it, least of all with her uncle. Less still with the man that she was certain had killed her father.

  "Sir?"

  "Well—I apologize for my frankness, but I've been a soldier for near forty years now, and I don't know another way—you've been staying alone in a house with a young man, nearly seven days now. That's not going to look good to most people of your stature, you know."

  Mary didn't answer. She tried to keep her face neutral, but as he continued she realized that it was getting harder and harder. She blanched as he continued, and hoped that she appeared mortified by the entire subject, rather than afraid.

  "Well, I've got some good news in that regard. I happen to know a young Earl, Earl Scarborough, a few years older than yourself, who just put in a transfer request. Now, normally I'd refuse, of course. Too much complexity to deal with some landed boy's problems."