Never Say Never to an Earl (Heart of Enquiry Book 5)

by Grace Callaway

  Maisie’s chin dipped. “’E said since the old Prince o’ the Larks cocked up ’is toes, the gang’s been all mingle-mangled. Different coves ’ave tried to take charge, but Tim says all o’ ’em are driven by greed and care only for themselves.” Pride crept into the girl’s voice. “My brother says ’e ’as to stay on and keep an eye on the l’il ones—’e won’t leave ’em high and dry.”

  Even as Polly admired Tim’s noble instinct, she felt a sense of foreboding. The life of a mudlark was tumultuous enough without adding a struggle for power to the mix. She prayed Tim would not be endangered by his desire to do the right thing. She didn’t want to worry Maisie further, however.

  “Then you must take him at his word rather than casting about for other reasons,” she said.

  “You’re right.” Relief flared around the girl. “I believe Tim. He wouldn’t leave me.”

  “I’m very glad you told me about this. You can talk to me about anything. You know that, don’t you?”

  The girl nodded.

  “Good.” Inspiration struck. “Now I have a favor to ask.”

  Curiosity formed a halo around Maisie. “You do?”

  “I’m in need of a head flower girl for the wedding. My nieces will be happy to toss petals—seeing as they love to toss just about anything—but they’ll need someone to keep them in order. Someone older and more responsible. I know it is a lot to ask, but what do you say, Maisie? Will you do it?”

  “Me?” Maisie’s brown eyes were huge in her small face. “You mean it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Yes!” The girl shrieked. “Wait until I tell the other girls!”

  Chuckling, Polly held out her hand. “Excellent. Then let’s find Madame Rousseau, shall we? We’ll need her to measure you for a dress for the occasion.”

  Maisie’s hand shot out, her fingers gripping Polly’s very tightly.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Sinjin inspected his image in the chevalier glass. His shave was precise, the dark waves of his hair gleaming, his attire the epitome of Corinthian perfection. Strickley, his valet, was a genius with the restrained style; he’d wager even Brummell couldn’t find a single fault.

  Seeing the valet’s habitually impassive expression, however, Sinjin couldn’t resist trying to get a rise out of the other. It was an old game between them, one he never tired of.

  “I was thinking of adding a few accessories, Strickley,” he said innocently. “A pair of gold fobs, perhaps. What do you think?”

  “Might as well carry coals to Newcastle,” came the valet’s succinct reply.

  Sinjin turned this way and that, pretending to study the folds of his neck cloth. “But the cravat—don’t you think it needs a pin of some sort?”

  “Like one needs a blow to the head.”

  “Maybe jeweled cufflinks?”

  “When pigs fly,” Strickley returned calmly. “Is there anything else, my lord?”

  Sinjin couldn’t hide his grin. “You win, my good fellow. That’ll be all.”

  After the valet departed, Sinjin went to look out the window. Carriages passed on the street below, parasols and fashionable hats in abundance upon the paved walk. The day was bright and filled with promise. He’d awoken this morning feeling refreshed, brimming with good cheer. He was certain it was because of Polly—because she now wore his ring on her finger.

  In eight weeks—what seemed an interminable amount of time—she was officially going to be his. Personally, he would have happy with a trip to Gretna, but of course he wanted Polly to have the wedding of her dreams. She’d make a beautiful bride… his bride.

  The thought filled him with elation. He’d be meeting her at some charity ball this evening, the first time they would be out together in Society as an engaged couple. He didn’t give a farthing what the tossers of the ton thought, but her family would be there, and he wanted to make a good impression on his in-laws to be. To reassure them that their trust in him was not unwarranted: he would be a good husband to Polly. The best. No less than she deserved.

  By God, it had been a long time since he’d had something to look forward to in his future. He descended the stairs two at a time. Finding that he wasn’t hungry, he eschewed breakfast for a pot of tea in his study. He idly sorted through the mounting pile of calling cards on his desk, noting the names of his former companions without enthusiasm.

  The last month had changed him. The near-disastrous affair with Nicoletta was a sign of just how contemptible his existence had become. He’d been made a target, a pigeon, because his behavior had been reckless and out of control, even by his own standards. He had invited disaster into his life.

  Well, no longer. He was no longer going to be that aimless fellow. He wanted nothing more to do with his previous existence and the debauchery that had never brought him any true satisfaction. Although he didn’t know yet what to do with his life, he did know that he wanted to live better... to accomplish something. To be a man deserving of a woman like Polly.

  Thinking of her, he looked around his study: like the rest of the house, it was a decidedly masculine space designed to suit a bachelor’s lifestyle. After he and Polly were married, they would find a new place to live, he decided. He’d let her choose whatever she wanted because the Countess of Revelstoke would have only the very best. Besides, they would need more space as a couple—and a family, if it came to that. The notion of Polly growing ripe with his child stirred a hot, primal satisfaction. At the same time, uncertainty niggled at him.

  What kind of a father would he make? What kind of husband?

  With his spirits so buoyant today, however, he was able to cast those doubts aside. He and Polly had agreed upon their terms of privacy. As long as he kept to his plan of retreating to an apartment when the devils took over—of never letting her see him in a sorry state—he would be fine.

  Filled with restless energy, he was about to call for his carriage and start hunting for an apartment when the doorbell rang. Harvey, his butler, brought in the visitor’s card, and Sinjin’s eyebrows snapped together.

  What the devil does Andrew Corbett want?

  Sinjin hadn’t seen the proprietor since that fateful night in the other’s club. Kent had informed Corbett about Nicoletta’s death, handling matters on Sinjin’s behalf. Per the investigator, Corbett had appeared genuinely stunned when shown the blackmail note written in Nicoletta’s hand. Apparently, he’d had no idea that he’d been used as a dupe, that Nicoletta had played on his sympathies in order to extort Sinjin.

  Sinjin rose as Corbett entered the study. Strangely, it was almost like looking into a mirror. The other man shared his height and build, and they might have shared a tailor as well given their similar taste in fashion. The main difference between them was coloring. Corbett’s hair was a lighter shade mixed with bronze, and he had a swarthier complexion. The fine lines on his countenance suggested that he had a few years on Sinjin.

  It was rumored that the man had once been a stud for hire for the ladies—not only that, but he’d made a bloody fortune at it. Yet nothing about Corbett betrayed his past as a prostitute or, indeed, his present as a procurer. His accent and manner were polished. From the precise cut of his tobacco brown coat down to his polished Hessians, he appeared, outwardly at least, every inch the gentleman.

  “Thank you for seeing me, my lord,” Corbett said.

  Finding it difficult to ignore that this man had believed him a brute, Sinjin said coolly, “This is an unexpected visit.”

  “And an unwelcome one, too, I expect. But I won’t take up too much of your time.” The club owner gestured to the chair opposite Sinjin’s. “May I?”

  He shrugged. “Be my guest.”

  Once they were both seated, Corbett met his gaze directly. “I’ll cut to the chase. Since Kent informed me of the truth, I’ve struggled with the knowledge that I played a role, albeit inadvertent, in the plot against you. I felt compelled to come today to offer my sincere apologies.”

  �
��A conscience, have you?” Sinjin drawled. “Isn’t that a hazard in your line of work?”

  Color appeared on Corbett’s slashing cheekbones, but his tone remained politely neutral.

  “Any man of success has standards. It is my mission to ensure a first-rate experience for everyone involved in my business, from the customer to the whore to the footmen serving the champagne. My patrons won’t be happy if my employees aren’t: that is my philosophy. Thus, I am concerned about everyone and everything that happens in my club. Call it a conscience, if it suits you. I call it good business sense.”

  “I really hope that is not your version of an apology.”

  “No, it is simply an explanation for why I took Nicoletta at her word. She is—was,” he corrected, “one of my employees, and the wenches are the most vulnerable to uncouth clientele. I do not tolerate mistreatment of those who work for me—”

  “Only those who patronize your business,” Sinjin said acerbically.

  “Point taken.” With a nod, Corbett acknowledged his blame. “It was my fault for not investigating the matter more thoroughly. There’s no excuse for it, but when I saw the state that she was in, the way she was weeping…”—something dark and dangerous flashed in Corbett’s gaze—“I believed her lies. My error led me to treat you inhospitably.”

  “You wanted to have me hauled off by the magistrates. If that is your version of inhospitable, I wonder what your behavior is like when you’re actually being rude.”

  “As I have said in various ways, I am sorry for my mistake. I hope you will accept my apology.”

  Sinjin brooded over his options. He could tell the other to go to hell—which would be satisfying but childish. The man had made an honest mistake; hell, for a brief while, Sinjin had doubted his own innocence. It would be churlish to refuse an apology so freely and sincerely given.

  “I suppose I can’t blame you for being duped by the same villainess who duped me,” he muttered.

  “Quite generous of you, my lord. Thank you.” The lines around the other man’s mouth eased. He leaned slightly forward. “And now for the second reason for my visit: I would like to offer you something for the trouble I’ve caused.”

  “That is unnecessary. I’m done with your establishment,” Sinjin stated.

  To his surprise, Corbett gave a light laugh. “And for more than one reason, I understand.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “May I congratulate you on your engagement to Miss Kent?”

  News travelled quickly. Then again, Corbett was a legendary fount of information. Given that his club was as prime a hub of gossip as White’s or Boodle’s, it wasn’t surprising that the man knew of Sinjin’s engagement. Well, in this instance, Sinjin had naught to hide. He wanted to shout it from the rooftops that Polly belonged to him.

  “Thank you,” he said with pride.

  Corbett nodded. “Now what I want to offer you is information. Kent left me a sketch and description of Nicoletta’s accomplice, and I’ve interviewed every one of my staff personally, from my most popular wench down to the boot-blacking boy. And I have some news that might interest you.”

  Sinjin sat up in his chair. “I’m listening.”

  “One of my girls, Angelina, recalled seeing that man in the club the night you were poisoned. I don’t know how he slipped in—the guards at the door didn’t see him—but Nicoletta could have let him in through one of the back entrances. At any rate, Angelina passed him on the stairs, and it stayed with her because he looked familiar to her. She used to work near the West India Docks and thinks she might have seen him in one of the area’s taverns. It was his voice that she remembered most clearly: ‘deep as a foghorn,’ she said.”

  The hair prickled on Sinjin’s neck at the spot-on description.

  “Unfortunately, she couldn’t recall which tavern she saw him in,” Corbett said, “and I reckon there are at least two dozen or more by the docks, but I hope this will provide a useful lead in your search for the true culprit.”

  “I’m certain it will,” Sinjin said with anticipation. “Thank you.”

  “It was the least that I could do, my lord.” The other man stood and bowed, and Sinjin returned the courtesy. “May I offer my felicitations again? I understand Miss Kent is a fine young lady, the apple not falling far from the tree. I have great respect for her family.”

  “You have a personal acquaintance with the Kents?” Somehow, Sinjin had difficulty imagining Ambrose Kent being chummy with a cock-bawd—or allowing one near his kin.

  “I cannot claim that, no. A man like me would hardly belong in their circle.” The other’s mouth had a self-deprecating curve. “But from what I’ve heard, the family is a good one and devoted to one another. A true rarity.”

  Corbett departed, leaving Sinjin to muse at the fleeting and strangely wistful look he’d glimpsed on the pimp’s face.

  ~~~

  “Are you certain you don’t want to go to the Hunts’ ball tonight?” Marianne said from their bed. “You needn’t stay with me, darling; I feel perfectly fine.”

  Ambrose finished tying his dressing gown and strode over to the canopied tester. “Let me see: spend the night shoulder-to-shoulder with a bunch of noisy strangers or in bed with the most beautiful woman in all of London. Yes, a difficult choice.”

  His wife smiled. “They’re not all strangers. Since the Hunts are hosting the event, the Hartefords and Fineses are certain to be there as well.”

  “Much as I like our friends,” Ambrose said, settling onto the mattress and gathering her into his arms, “there’s nothing I like better than being alone with you.” He looked into her emerald eyes, brushed a moonlight-colored curl off her cheek. “You’re certain that you’re feeling better?”

  “I haven’t had a spell since the last one, and that was merely due to fatigue.” She kissed his jaw. “Don’t worry so, darling.”

  “I can’t help it. You’re doing all the work,”—he splayed a hand over the small, satin-covered bump of her belly—“whilst I stand by twiddling my thumbs.”

  “You’ve hardly been idle. Any new developments on Revelstoke’s case?”

  He hesitated. Typically, he shared most everything with his wife—not only because he trusted her, but because beneath her dazzling beauty lay one of the cleverest minds he’d ever encountered. But the news that he’d received from Revelstoke earlier today would disturb her peace.

  When he hesitated, she said, “Whatever it is, you can tell me, you know. I may be enceinte, but I’m not made of glass.”

  Clever, like he said.

  “Revelstoke sent me a note.” He paused. “He had an unexpected call today from Andrew Corbett.”

  She stiffened against him. “What did Corbett want?”

  Ambrose wasn’t surprised at her response. Corbett was part of a past she wanted forgotten—for their daughter’s sake. Rosie had been taken from Marianne as an infant, and fourteen years ago, Corbett had provided critical information that had eventually led to the girl’s recovery.

  The journey to find Rosie had been dark, the villain who’d taken her a twisted, evil man. Not a moment passed without Ambrose feeling grateful that the bastard hadn’t had a chance to put his degenerate scheme into action—hadn’t harmed Rosie, beyond spoiling her and catering to her every whim—before they’d defeated him. To protect Rosie from further trauma, Marianne had insisted that the girl be shielded from the villain’s real and despicable motives.

  Thus, Rosie had been told that the scoundrel had taken her because he’d wanted a daughter. At the tender age of eight, she’d accepted this explanation without question—or looking back. She’d joyfully moved onto her new life with Marianne and him and the rest of the clan.

  But Ambrose had not missed the recent changes in his daughter, and although he was not a superstitious man, he could not deny that the reappearance of Corbett seemed portentous. An omen of troubles ahead. Even so, he didn’t want to cause his beloved unnecessary worry.

  “Corbe
tt brought some useful information regarding Miss French’s accomplice,” he said. “Apparently, the man frequented taverns near the West India Docks, so starting tomorrow we’ll focus our search there.”

  “And that is all Corbett wanted?” Marianne pressed.

  “I believe so.”

  “He didn’t ask… about Rosie?”

  At her whispered words, Ambrose tipped her chin up. Looking into her fear-darkened gaze, he said firmly, “Not a word. I thought he might when I went to inform him about Miss French’s death, but our business was professionally conducted; he made no mention of you or Rosie.” He paused before adding, “I must say, for a man in his line of work, Corbett carries himself like a gentleman.”

  “I suspect that he is,” Marianne said somberly, “at least that is all he has ever been in my presence. But he is one of the few people who knows the truth of Rosie’s past: that she’d been sold to that blackguard for… a reprehensible purpose.” Her voice quivered. “Our daughter must be protected from that horror. For that reason alone, I don’t want Corbett anywhere near her.”

  Ambrose’s hand moved in soothing circles over his wife’s back. “We’ll keep her safe, my love. You have my word.”

  “I trust you, Ambrose, but I’m worried about her. Since her disappointments this Season, her behavior has become increasingly… desperate. It’s not helping her quest to find a suitable husband.” Marianne bit her lip. “And her behavior toward Polly—frankly, I expected better of her and told her so, which is why she is now giving me the cold shoulder as well.”

  “I’ll speak with her,” Ambrose said, frowning. “That is no way to treat her own mama.”

  “I can handle Rosie. After all, who do you think she gets her willfulness from? But poor Polly.” Marianne sighed. “She’s had a hard time of it, and I cannot believe Rosie would begrudge her the chance at happiness with Revelstoke. Especially when you and I both know that Rosie’s heart was never engaged with the earl. She merely wanted him for his title.”