“That isn’t the point. Even if you ask nothing, I feel the debt, and it rankles.”
“What if …” He fumbled in the pocket of his waistcoat. Thank God. He still had Leach’s marker—a long shot, but better than nothing. “What if we can work out where Jack is and you won’t have to pay any ransom?”
Her eyes went round. “How are you going to manage that,” she said faintly, “when there’s been no sign?”
“On the off chance …” He unfolded the scrap of paper. “Leach gave me this the other day, and since he’s gone …”
George lined up the messages and compared the handwriting. Both contained the word thousand, and the particular flourish on the upstroke of the D, the sweeping curlicue on the cross of the T, the enlarged loop on the H … Leach had definitely sent the notes, but he couldn’t have been the man who accosted Isabelle in the road. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
Isabelle craned her neck. “What is it?”
“The writing’s the same, and yet.” He caught her gaze. “You told me you didn’t know Leach.”
“I don’t. Do you think I’d forget a name like that?”
No, of course she wouldn’t. No one would. “But none of this makes any sense. Why would Leach make off with a random boy from the village? Why would he think such a child might be good to net him a thousand pounds? He’d have to know who you are. It’s almost as if he’s the boy’s father.”
Isabelle stiffened. “Jack’s father disappeared from society about the same time I did.”
“So you’re saying the man’s name cannot be Reginald Leach.”
“Not unless he invented a new one.” She looked away. “Jack’s father went by the name of Roger Padgett.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
PADGETT. GODDAMN him. The man was ever damned to shadow George, it seemed. But who was the real Padgett? George tried to imagine the ape who had beaten him as a seducer of young girls and couldn’t quite manage the feat. The flashy dresser he’d met at Revelstoke’s party, the one who’d charmed Henrietta, stood a far greater chance.
Devil take him, he better not have touched Henny.
“Judging by your expression, you know the man.” Isabelle’s cheeks had gone pink, and she didn’t quite meet his gaze. Yes, she ought to be ashamed. She could have done so much better. “But I don’t understand how.”
Not that he could tell her. He’s my mistress’s brother—or so George surmised from the name. Yes, that would go over well. No. God, no.
A sudden chill turned his hands clammy, and another piece of the puzzle clicked into place. No wonder they’d never found Jack in the village. Padgett and his sister wouldn’t keep him there, not when they could take him back to London to that overpriced townhouse in Bedford Street that Lucy had insisted he rent.
“Are you feeling all right? You’ve gone pale.”
“I’m fine.” He shook his head to clear the haze of his whirling thoughts. He could fix this. He could restore Isabelle’s son to her—as long as he kept her from accompanying him. But how to leave her here alone with no inkling of what he was about? Damnation, what a mess.
“I want to know how you came to be acquainted with Padgett. He can’t run in the same circles you do.”
“When you knew him, did he have a penchant for gambling?” When he wasn’t ruining innocent girls, that was.
“He played cards, same as any gentleman.”
“Yes, well, he might make a living at it now. He’s managed to accumulate a few of my vowels.” Vowels, yes, such as Barnaby Hoskins’s marker. And if Leach were actually Padgett, the bastard was right there when George received the message. He’d probably gloated to himself at the same time he was charming Henrietta.
George ran a hand through his hair. Hang it all, he was going to have to admit his suspicions as to Jack’s whereabouts. As long as he was careful, though, he might still save the situation. He’d have to be damned careful. He was about to make her very angry.
“Given this development”—he measured his words slowly, the better to put off the ultimate admission—“I think I can arrange for Jack’s return without paying the ransom.”
She stiffened, visibly, like a small tremor racking her body. Slowly, she released her grip on herself, and her arms drifted downward. “You know where Jack is.”
He cleared his throat. If only he could draw the moment out forever. If only he could turn back time and hold her once more. For as soon as he responded, she would turn her considerable determination on him. She might well never forgive him.
It was no use. The longer he delayed, the worse her reaction. He nodded. “I have a good idea, yes.”
* * *
IN his exuberance, Jack had once run headlong into her belly. The force of his head colliding with her gut had forced all the air from her lungs. That burning gasp for air was nothing to how she felt now. She struggled to draw one painful breath.
“What? How?” She was incapable of anything more coherent, despite the jumble of questions that filled her throat.
“Because I know who Roger Padgett is,” he said slowly, as if reluctant to make such an admission.
“So you’ve just said. Something about gambling debts.”
“No, I know more than that. I’ve met the man.”
“When? When would you have met him?”
A dull flush reddened his cheeks. “Yes, well, that’s actually a good question.”
And what on earth was that supposed to mean? She crossed her arms. “Is he one of your cronies?”
But then, that couldn’t be right. Surely she might have crossed paths with George in another life.
“Not a crony, no.” He looked away and raked a hand through his hair, causing it to stand in sandy spikes. “I’d rather not distress you by mentioning the association, but Padgett’s sister is my former mistress.”
At the word, a shiver brought goose bumps to her arms. “I see.”
She shouldn’t care. She most certainly shouldn’t feel anything akin to jealousy. His skill in the bedroom, his clear relish for the female body, hadn’t sprung from nowhere.
Still, having his past lovers flung in her face cut surprisingly deep, and the cut was not a clean one. Like a dull knife, it tore into her chest, through flesh and bone and muscle to leave a ragged scar, alongside the scar Padgett had left.
She shouldn’t let it affect her, shouldn’t let it show. Beyond his vow to bring Jack home, George had made her no promises. He hadn’t attempted to win her affections through false declarations. Good Lord, he had asked her to become his mistress not even a week ago. True, he’d also asked her to marry him, but that was only because he’d forgotten himself. He’d dissembled nothing.
Her own mind had betrayed her once again. It had allowed itself to construct yet another fantasy, one that permitted her to justify giving herself to another man.
No more.
She was going to get her son back, and from then on, she was through with men using her for their pleasure. But you also took pleasure. More than pleasure, it was paradise.
She cast the thought aside, thrust it from her mind the way God had cast Adam and Eve from Eden. She deserved it no more than they.
“I see,” she repeated, firming her voice along with her chin. She could do this. She could hold herself apart. Eventually, the feelings he stirred in her heart would fade. Eventually, she’d forget she nearly let herself fall in love. “I do not care about your former mistresses or even your current one.”
“There is no current one.” His gaze bored into her.
Heat rushed up the back of her neck. “I want my son back,” she said, ignoring the prickle of embarrassment. “If you know how to find him, I’d appreciate you telling me.”
There. That sounded sufficiently cold. If nothing else, her family had taught her how to retreat behind a façade of manners.
“I suspect we’ll find Jack in London,” he replied stiffly. “I can take our family’s carriage and have him back to you by tomorrow.�
�
“You’ll take the carriage? Oh, no. You’re bringing me with you.”
He didn’t reply straightaway. Instead, he opened his mouth a few times, as if he’d decided on the proper response, only to close his lips just as quickly.
She glared at him. “You cannot expect me to remain here alone like some simpering milksop.”
His shoulders lifted as he pulled in a long breath. “No, I suppose not. But I must warn you. I’m taking you to my former mistress’s house.”
Dear Lord, could it get any worse? If he still had his mistress’s direction, not much time could have passed since he’d ended the liaison. In fact, she still must be inhabiting the quarters he’d provided for her. She’d still be occupying the bed where he’d visited her.
Isabelle closed her eyes against a vision of some voluptuous beauty writhing beneath his expert touch. Her stomach plummeted to somewhere in the vicinity of her feet. Did this former mistress know George referred to her as such or did the woman anticipate his return to Town?
And now such a woman had Jack.
Trust me. Yes, George had begged for her trust until she’d given in. She’d trusted Padgett as well, only to watch him abandon her the moment she’d given him what he wanted. Well, George had secured her surrender, along with her trust.
Her heart lurched in her chest, on the verge of shattering into a thousand shards. No. No, no, and no. She would get her son back, she would retain her heart, and she would move on from this episode.
Alone.
BY late afternoon, the carriage clattered through the streets of Mayfair. The rumble of the wheels echoed in George’s ears, the noise unnaturally loud as if it were trying to compensate for the stony silence in the cab. If Isabelle was angry with him now, how much colder would her fury become once she confronted the reality of Lucy?
Above all, he’d wanted to avoid introducing the two, but he couldn’t in good conscience keep Isabelle from her boy.
Damn scruples, always getting him into difficulties. Why couldn’t he lay aside the inconvenient things and do as he pleased? Why must he involve himself?
Across from him, Isabelle stared out the window at the parade of fashionable dwellings. With every passing jostle of the carriage, with every start and stop as they penetrated the heart of what had once been her world, she erected another layer of chill about herself. A pearl constructed of ice, perhaps, but ice made a brittle buffer. One solid blow would shatter the shield.
At last they shuddered to a halt at Lucy’s Bedford Street townhouse, an address outside Mayfair proper, but close enough for the other residents to be wealthy tradesmen. Walls of pale sandstone fronted the street from behind wrought-iron grillwork. It looked respectable if not completely fashionable. A prosperous merchant might choose such a dwelling. The rent on the place was certainly dear enough to line the landlord’s pockets thickly.
Isabelle peered at the wrought-iron fencing that separated the building from the pavement. The house was a great deal larger, more comfortable and more richly decorated than her house in the village. Christ, what thoughts might be running through her head?
She deserved far better than even this. She certainly grew up with better, and yet she endured worse without complaint.
The carriage rocked as the coachman leapt from the box to let the steps down. George alit first and offered his hand. She pressed her lips into a line and barely touched him as she stepped onto the pavement.
“Six years since I’ve been to Town,” she murmured. “Six years, and when I come back, it’s to pay a call on a courtesan.” She shook out her faded gray skirts. “And I’m dressed no better than a servant.”
She might have made such a comment sound rancorous. Lord only knew Lucy would have in Isabelle’s place. But Isabelle sounded merely embarrassed and a touch sad. A wash of pink colored her cheeks.
“Would you rather wait in the carriage?” George ventured. God, let her say yes. Lucy would take one look at Isabelle and leap straight for the jugular.
“If I meant to wait, I’d have stayed behind in Kent.” Her reply was cold, yes, but she’d once again retreated behind her shield of ice. Let her remain there for now. She was going to need all the protection she could get.
He mounted the stairs and let the knocker fall once, firmly. Presently, the door creaked open.
“Miss Padgett ain’t receiving callers, unless—” Lucy’s maid broke off midsentence, and her eyes went round. “Oh, dear.”
George arched a brow in a practiced affectation of boredom. “Indeed.”
“She told me ye wouldn’t be back, sir. Called ye all manner of names, she did.”
“I imagine she did.” He inspected his nails. “However—”
“Does this mean ye’ve changed yer mind?” Impertinent as her mistress, this one. Small wonder she couldn’t find a more respectable employer.
“I mean to call on Miss Padgett, and before you claim she’s not at home, shall I remind you who hired you for this position?” Not only hired her, but overlooked a suspect character reference.
“That ye did, sir.” Any other maid would have smiled and blushed. Bessie looked him straight in the eye, her cheeks retaining their habitual sallow tinge.
“Glad you remembered.” He made to step past her.
“Ye can’t go in there, sir,” Bessie said in a rush.
“Why?” He drummed his fingers against a marble statue of a cherub just beyond the threshold. The devil? When had Lucy acquired this monstrosity? More importantly, who had received the bill? “Is she entertaining another gentleman?”
Lucy finding another protector would be an absolute godsend. Only how long would she keep him once her belly started growing round?
“Ye might say that, sir, yes.”
He might say that? “Yes, well, I suppose I’m a gentleman only in a manner of speaking. Now let me pass.”
“Mr. Upperton.” Damn it, Isabelle sounded as outraged as any number of society’s sticklers who might have caught their only daughter alone with a notorious rake. Or him, for that matter, although he made a point of avoiding fresh-faced chits. “If my son has been exposed to … to improper carryings on, I shall never—” She broke off and looked away.
No doubt she’d been about to say she’d never forgive him, only she’d remembered Jack’s disappearance was not George’s fault. No matter, she had plenty of other reasons not to forgive him.
He turned to her. “I’m sure Jack’s safe and sound.”
Lucy possessed a catty streak, but surely she wouldn’t harm an innocent, if rambunctious, boy.
“I shall see that for myself.” Isabelle pushed past him, past a shocked Bessie, and on into the foyer.
“What is the meaning—” Damn. All the commotion must have drawn Lucy from wherever she’d been hiding. “Who are you, and what do you mean, simply walking in off the street?” Lucy’s voice dripped with hauteur.
George stepped into the foyer to find the two women sizing each other up.
Lucy’s upper lip curled as she eyed Isabelle’s garments. “The servants’ entrance is below, but you may as well move on. I’m not looking for staff at present.”
Isabelle peered down her nose at the other woman. “Where have you hidden my son?”
If the two were in competition for disdain, George wouldn’t be sure where to place his wager.
“What makes you think I want anything to do with a common brat?”
“That’s enough, Lucy.” George advanced across the parquet.
“You.” Lucy went white beneath the generous layer of rouge on her cheeks. “My goodness, haven’t you come down in the world.”
He ignored the gibe. “We know you’ve got Jack. Your brother signed the ransom note.” A lie, but what did that matter when one dealt with kidnappers and charlatans? “We’ve simply decided to change the conditions of the exchange.” Thump, thump, thump. His boots struck the floor in an even rhythm, and with every thud, Lucy’s complexion resembled chalk a bit more. “D
o you know what they do with kidnappers? I wonder what a year or two in Newgate would do for your looks.”
“This was not my scheme,” Lucy protested. “It was all Roger’s.”
“Then you know where the boy is.”
Instead of replying, Lucy touched the back of her hand to her forehead, heaved a great sigh and crumpled to the floor, as smoothly as any Covent Garden actress.
Isabelle looked pointedly from the silk-swathed heap on the floor to George. “How convenient.”
“She always did have an impeccable sense of timing.” He tried to smile but feared he’d managed no better than a grimace.
Bessie tiptoed to her mistress, as if afraid of waking her. “P’rhaps the herb woman knows what to do.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” George said. “She’s feigning. A good slap—”
“Herb woman?” Isabelle sounded impossibly hopeful. What were the chances?
Bessie nodded. “Ma’am heard about her in the village and had her brought in. Funny name. Not Bingham or Bingley or anything ye’d expect.”
“Biggles?”
“Yes, that’s it.”
Isabelle stretched out a trembling hand. “And Jack’s here? Where? I beg you, take me to him.”
Bessie caught her lower lip between her teeth. “I’m afraid he’s a bit poorly.”
Just as Lucy had done earlier, Isabelle went white, only the effect was entirely different. That expression of terror set George’s heart pounding. It ignited an urge in him to go to her, take her in his arms and protect her from all the world’s ills. If only she’d allow the gesture.
“What’s the matter with him?” Her voice shook along with her limbs. “He’s never ill. Oh, take me to him.”
“He’s above stairs.” Bessie pointed with her chin. “He’ll be fine in a day or two. Ma’am thought to keep him quiet with sweets. He’s just had a few too many.”
Isabelle strode toward the staircase. “Thank heavens she thought to search out Biggles then.”
Bessie followed in her wake. “Oh, ma’am didn’t bring in Biggles for your boy. She wanted someone knowledgeable about …” The maid cast a quick glance at George and whispered something in Isabelle’s ear. He caught something about restoring female regularity. “Wanted to make sure she didn’t drop a brat.”
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