But there were no shouts of alarm. No sounds of the wooden watch rattles the Runners and the Watch used clacking in the night.
Mallory pulled away from his reassuring warmth. “So, you’re…” She searched for a word, the right word. “Ruined.”
“Apparently.” John moved out of the shadows. His teeth flashed white in a sudden dare devil grin. “But not until they catch us.”
Us?
Not if she could help it.
She confronted him head on. “I think now I could build a strong case for divorce.”
A cloud that had covered the moon passed. Silver illumination highlighted the planes of his face, giving him an almost mythical beauty. “No.” His eyes glittered in the darkness. “I said no divorce.”
“You can’t stop me—”
“I can and I will.” He reached her in two long strides, his broad-shouldered form blocking out the light. “Mallory, I am fighting for my life right now. I don’t believe it’s a coincidence that tonight of all nights my fortune came toppling down around me. Someone is paying Bow Street to send out the Runners and paying them enough that they are being damned tenacious about it, too. Furthermore, whether you like it or not, as my wife, you’re in this as deeply as I am. Now is not the time to discuss divorce.” He made the last word sound like the foulest epithet.
But Mallory was no longer paying attention. She’d been struck by a new, more urgent thought. “Mother.”
“What?”
“My mother will be sick with worry when she hears all of this.” Mallory raised a hand to her forehead. “Now we’ll never recover the castle. It’s lost to us for good.” Hot tears threatened. “How could you have involved yourself with moneylenders?”
“Mallory—”
“Ninety-eight thousand pounds!”
“I didn’t—”
“But your man of business did. Your uncle, Louis Barron! I can’t tell you how many times over the past years I came close to throttling him myself! The man is worthless. I’d write him letters requesting he pay attention to improvements needed for Craige Castle or outstanding debts that begged to be paid, and he would respond with empty promises!”
“Mallory, he never told me you had written—”
“You should have known about his involvement with moneylenders. Didn’t you ever check on him, John, or question his activities? A debt so large doesn’t accumulate overnight. It was irresponsible of you to give him such license!”
Anger flared in his eyes, hard and bright. “No, I didn’t question him. I trusted him. He’s my uncle—”
“Never trust anyone with your money,” she said briskly.
“You sound just like a bloody wife.”
If he’d meant to hurt her, he could have chosen no better insult. Everyone in the shire surrounding Craige Castle agreed that Mallory had a bright mind, a keen wit, and a too-sharp tongue. They were among the many reasons used to explain her husband’s absence. Other, far less kind reasons were bandied about as well to justify why he had abandoned her after their wedding night…
Mallory refused to let the old hurt touch her.
She faced her husband. “I am no longer a ‘little girl,’ John. I am a woman, a woman deeply in debt, so pray indulge me a moment and answer my questions.”
Silence stretched between them, during which the loudest sound seemed to be the pounding of her own heart. “No,” he finally said. “I didn’t question Louis’s activities. Nor did I even think to.”
“And you never instructed him to deal with money lenders?”
“Why would I borrow money when my coffers were filled to overflowing?”
“Why would you let him have full discretionary power over your money?” To Mallory, who handled every penny that passed through Craige Castle, the idea didn’t make sense.
John’s boots crunched on the stones and dirt in the alley as he stepped back into the shadows.
“When I purchased my commission in the army, I had no choice but to hire an agent, a man of business. I’d purchased my colors with part of the estate my mother left me, but there was a sizable income coming in…and I had to take care of you.”
“John, why didn’t you take care of your money yourself?”
“I was fighting the French, Mallory—not making a Grand Tour. Napoleon didn’t give us time to sit around some coffeehouse reading the financial papers.” He ran an exasperated hand through his hair before he continued. “Louis seemed the logical choice. He was my father’s brother, and he and I got along quite well. After all, I couldn’t very well have asked my father to do it, not after I’d run out on all his well-laid schemes for my future. Furthermore, Father left England shortly after the wedding for his governorship in India.”
“But what about six months ago, John, after you inherited and returned from the war? Didn’t you ask your uncle for an accounting then?”
“When Wellington ordered me home to see to my responsibilities as Viscount Craige, I was so angry I didn’t care about the money, the properties, or any of it. I was content to let Louis manage it all. You may not believe this, Mallory, but I was happy with my life in the military. I don’t fit in here.” He encompassed the whole of London with a sweep of his arm. “I don’t belong.”
Mallory listened to not only his words, but also to the way he said them. She doubted he’d ever explained himself to anyone.
Of course, she understood the wish to keep some details private. No, my husband isn’t home. He’s with Wellington. Yes, he fought at Oporto. Albuera. Salamanca. No, I have no idea when he’ll return. Perhaps when the fighting is finished in Spain…until one day he’d returned and everyone in England had known it—except Mallory.
He turned on her, his eyes silver bright. “You could have said something. All these years I never received a word from you, not even a complaint, and say what you will against me, I did write. Granted, I’m not a poet, but at least you got a letter from time to time, which is more than I ever received from you. That is, until tonight, when you walked into my life and demanded a divorce.”
A sudden rush of guilt burned her cheeks. She still had his letters, a short stack of curt notes he’d sent over the years. She kept them in a drawer of her wardrobe, tied with ribbon and a sprig of lavender.
But she hadn’t written back. She couldn’t. The hurt ran too deep. Her pride would never let him know how deep.
Another reason to keep as far away from John Barron as possible.
John made a short, angry sound. He took her arm, his grip firm, and started walking. “Come, I’m going to resolve this right now, tonight, so that you and your mother can return to the country and your precious castle.” Bitter resentment colored his words.
In the face of his sudden anger, Mallory wondered if she would be better off staying in the alley. “Where are we going?”
“To pay a call on my uncle, Louis Barron.”
John guided them to a better section of London without incident and hailed a hack, cool as you please. It seemed so simple that for a moment she could almost believe the earlier events had been a bad dream—until she found herself standing on the front step of Louis Barron’s modest house in the wee hours of the night with a man she knew only as a bankrupt and wayward husband.
John knocked on the paneled door. The sound echoed.
There was no answer.
Mallory whispered, “Perhaps he is not at home.”
“Perhaps,” John agreed, his voice pensive. “Uncle Louis has his nights out.”
“Where does he go?”
John shrugged. “His club, usually. He enjoys cards. But he’s a bachelor. He could be anywhere.” He knocked again.
“If he’s not there, why are you knocking?”
Her husband shot her a frown. “Louis lives on the first floor. His landlady lives in an upstairs apartment. She’s a bit loose in the noggin, but I’m sure she’s there and will let us in. That is, unless you wish to stand out on the street all night.”
Mallory i
gnored his sarcasm by giving him her back. He knocked again, more forcibly.
Still no answer.
Finally, John stepped down from the stoop and peered through the windows.
“Do you see anything?” Mallory asked.
“No. The draperies are closed.”
Mallory knocked, while John began removing his jacket.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I’m going to break in.” He handed the jacket to her.
“You can’t possibly do that! It’s against the law.”
“Watch me.” To her horror, he disappeared down a very narrow alleyway between the houses. A split second later, she heard the sound of breaking glass.
Mallory moved to the corner of the stoop, feeling very vulnerable and exposed. She brushed a hand over the weave of his jacket. She was mad to be here, in league with John Barron. She thought of Hal waiting patiently in East Anglia for her return. He’d always considered her the soul of practicality and good sense, and now here she was, housebreaking.
Something crashed, and then a loud male grunt came from inside the house. Mallory placed her ear to the door. “John? Are you all right?”
No answer.
Seconds ticked by like hours. Then she heard the sound of a bolt slide from its setting and the front door opened. John held the door ajar and she gratefully slipped inside.
“It’s damned dark in here,” he whispered, closing the door behind her. “But I think it looks deserted.”
Mallory’s eyes slowly adjusted to the lack of light. They were standing in a short, narrow hall with a staircase. John led her into a side room and opened the front window drapes. Moonlight illuminated the shapes of tables, chairs, and a desk. The room smelled of stale tobacco smoke and furniture wax. “He worked out of this room,” John explained.
“What makes you think no one is here?”
“Because the window I came through is in his bedroom. There’s no clothing in the wardrobe. Furthermore, Louis is a bit of a pack rat. His desk has always been covered with papers and books. It’s completely bare now.”
Mallory turned toward the desk. The smooth, clear surface reflected moonlight. “Then what—”
A woman’s shaky voice interrupted them. “Hello? Is someone here?”
Quickly, John closed the draperies and pulled Mallory down with him to hide between two chairs. Mallory heard footsteps. They moved slowly, hesitantly, one step at a time down the staircase.
“It’s the landlady,” John said in her ear. The reflection of a candle warned of the woman’s approach.
John pulled Mallory closer as an older woman wearing her dressing gown, an Indian shawl of dark blue worsted, and a muslin nightcap came into view at the bottom of the stairs. Cautiously the woman moved to the doorway of the office.
Mallory sank deeper into the shadows next to John. “What do we do?” she whispered.
In answer, John did what she least expected. He stood up.
“Good evening to you, Mrs. Daniels,” he said pleasantly.
The old woman practically dropped the candle in her shock, and John hurried to her side to steady her. She looked up at him with wide, rheumy eyes. “Lord Craige?” she asked, with doubtful recognition. She blinked as if she quite expected him to disappear.
“Yes, it is, Mrs. Daniels. I’m sorry. Did I give you a terrible fright?” John acted as if it were completely natural for him to be marauding about her house in the middle of the night.
“Well, it’s just that I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”
Mallory felt stupid crouching on the floor and also rose to her feet. Mrs. Daniels turned in surprise. “Who are you?”
“She’s my wife, Lady Craige,” John said casually. “Mallory, dear, this is Mrs. Daniels.” He took his jacket from her and shrugged it on.
Conscious of her windblown hair hanging below her shoulders, Mallory widened her eyes when Mrs. Daniels curtseyed. But then the woman started to lose her balance.
John caught her. He took the candle holder from her and set it on a table. “Here, I can see we’ve given you quite a start. Please, rest here a moment.” He helped her to a chair.
Still confused, Mrs. Daniels muttered, “Isn’t it rather late for a call, my lord?”
John raised his eyebrows in consideration, then gave her a rakish smile. The landlady blushed and Mallory noted that even an aged woman like Mrs. Daniels wasn’t immune to his charm. He sat on a footstool next to her. “Yes, well, actually, my wife and I had a question for Uncle Louis that couldn’t wait until morning and we hoped he’d have a moment to spare tonight.”
“Oh, that’s impossible,” Mrs. Daniels confirmed with a shake of her head. “He isn’t here. He’s left London.”
“When did he leave?” John asked with mild surprise. “And did he tell you where he went?
Mrs. Daniels shook her head. “He left this morning. Packed all his worldly goods, just like that. I told him I thought this was very sudden and that he should give me proper notice. He said it was doctor’s orders. Said the air here in London was bad for him—” Her voice broke off as she turned to John. “But you know, my lord, I think he was toying with me.”
“And why is that?” John asked.
“Because he appeared in robust health and was smoking one of those foul cigars he always has in his mouth. I asked him if he was going to take the furniture, but he told me to keep it. Said he wouldn’t need it.” She looked around the room. “Furniture is expensive. Why would a man give up so much because of his health? Won’t he need something to sit on, wherever he is?”
John didn’t answer her. Instead, he lifted his gaze to meet Mallory’s. She drew in a deep breath. She knew what he was thinking—his uncle had stolen his fortune.
He turned back to the landlady. “Are you certain, Mrs. Daniels, that my Uncle Louis didn’t say where he was going? It’s imperative that I talk to him. Family business, you know.”
Mrs. Daniels pursed her lips before saying tightly, “He didn’t want to tell me a thing. He wanted to walk out my front door after twenty years of living under my roof without so much as a fare-thee-well.” She folded her hands in her lap. “But I’m not a stupid woman, my lord. He may think he can fool me, but I can ferret out what I want to know.”
“And did you happen to ferret out where Louis went?” John asked, a gold guinea appearing in his hand from his pocket as if by magic.
Mrs. Daniels smiled and took the coin. “I overheard him talking to the driver of the coach he’d hired. He ordered him to take the Post Road north.”
“North?” Mallory said. She’d assumed Louis would head for the coast with the money.
“Aye,” Mrs. Daniels said. “North.”
Mallory and John exchanged a look and she knew he was thinking what she was: three-quarters of England was north of London.
Someone pounded on the front door. Mallory jumped, startled by the sound, and took a step closer to John as a deep male voice shouted, “Open this door, in the name of the Magistrate of Bow Street!”
“Heavens!” Mrs. Daniels whispered, her eyes as round as saucers. “What could that be about?”
“I’m certain I don’t know,” John answered, his voice mild, his expression as innocent as an altar boy’s. “Mallory, my dear, why don’t you answer the door and find out? And please advise them to keep their voices low. They’ll wake Mrs. Daniels’s neighbors.”
Chapter 5
I heard a maid in Bedlam
so sweetly she did sing,
Her chains she rattled in her hands,
and always so sang she.
I love my love because I know
he first loved me.
“Bedlam”
Mallory stared at John, certain he’d gone completely mad. She couldn’t possibly answer the door and talk to the Runners; he knew that. Nor could she voice her doubts in front of the landlady. He seemed to know that, too.
John returned her stare with a calm, determined one of his ow
n.
And then a form of silent communication flowed between them—and Mallory understood as clearly as if he’d said the words out loud. The Runners had no idea who Mallory was. She’d been in the coach during the earlier confrontation at John’s house, and of course, few people even knew he was married. She could answer the door without the Runners being the wiser and send them on their way.
“Mallory?” he prompted, a hint of challenge in his voice.
Did he think she lacked the courage?
Well, she didn’t. She’d run Craige Castle and made her own decisions. She’d faced fear, and even though her heart was in her throat now, she’d face the Runners. Leaving the candle for Mrs. Daniels and John, Mallory walked out into the small, dark entrance hallway.
She turned the door handle and cracked open the door. Three Bow Street Runners stood on the small front step, moonlight shining off the hard leather of their polished black hats. In the night shadows, they seemed larger than life.
“Yes?” she asked.
The lead Runner doffed his hat. “Bow Street, ma’am. We’re sorry to disturb you at this hour, but we must see Mr. Barron. Please tell him Bertie Goodman is here and it is most urgent.”
“Mr. Barron isn’t here,” Mallory said.
“He isn’t?” Bertie scratched his head. He looked to his comrades for advice while placing his hat back on. They shrugged their shoulders. Bertie turned back to her. “Tell Mr. Barron that Lord Craige got away from us. He might even come here. He was an angry one tonight when we went to arrest him, and if Mr. Barron is wise, he’ll take precautions. Are you here by yourself, ma’am?”
From the darkness behind her, she heard a muffled sound and realized Mrs. Daniels had heard the Runner’s warning and was frightened. Mallory refused to consider what John was doing to keep the woman quiet. “No, I’m not alone,” she assured the Runner, thankful it was the truth, since she wasn’t a very good liar.
“Good,” Bertie said. “Lord Craige has led us a merry chase, that he has. But you have no fear. We’ll capture him. We three,” he nodded at his companions, “are going to stand watch in this area. I’ll be in the shadows, over yonder.” He pointed to a street corner. “If you need me, you have only to shout.”
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