One Wicked Night (28 page)

After ensuring that an armed man was stationed at every door of his home, Lucien climbed in his coach, giving his driver his destination.

He leaned back in the seat and considered his conversation with Serena earlier. Her understanding of Chelsea’s death lightened his mood. Certainly, she had surprised him. He hoped they weren’t destined to quarrel for the rest of their days. Perhaps, in time, they could come to some mutually agreeable marital arrangement. If not happy, at least civil. Anything had to be better than the last few days.

Yet one thought haunted him: Why did she insist on keeping the details of her first marriage such a secret? He couldn’t fathom why it had never been consummated. Had the duke preferred men? No. Though he hardly listened to the
ton’s
wagging tongues, Lucien knew he would have heard if Warrington’s tastes had leaned that way. And if such had been the case, the man would not have been such a respected member of the Lords. Besides, after a little digging, Lucien had learned that the man had sired three daughters.

Lucien considered the puzzle from another angle. Perhaps Warrington had been impotent. But no, Warrington had illegitimate children, the youngest still very much in the schoolroom. So what had their problem been? The mystery behind Serena’s first marriage confounded Lucien.

Should he simply let her keep her secret? Perhaps the nature of Serena’s relationship with Warrington was none of his affair. But something in him felt driven to dissect it and understand why Serena had sought a lover.

He could not allow it to happen again.

Upon arriving at the Beggars Club, Lucien seated himself at a table and watched the goings-on around him. The crowd assembled tonight was a motley one, including all walks of life from sailors to smithies with one goal in common: to sink well into their cups.

Across the room, the same dark-haired barmaid who had served him before swiveled her hips, her skirts swishing about trim calves, to dodge the groping hand of a customer. She made her way to his table, then asked, “Hello, guv. What can I get fer ye?”

He smiled ruefully. “Another word with the earl. I believe he’s expecting me.”

With a nod, the girl threaded her way to the far side of the room and disappeared into Cripplegate’s sitting room. A moment later, she returned. “Aye, he’s waitin’ fer ye. Go on in.”

Lucien slipped a crown into her palm, then crossed the dirty, crowded floor to the privacy of Cripplegate’s domain.

After Lucien closed the door behind him, the Earl of Barrymore bade him to sit. Not a moment passed before the hunch-backed man asked, “Did you bring the four hundred pounds Marsden owes me?”

Lucien fished in his waistcoat pocket and produced a roll of bills. Silently, he tossed it across the massive desk separating him from Cripplegate.

The older man’s smile was feral as he pocketed the money. “Splendid.”

“Now,” Lucien paused, leaning forward expectantly, “what do you know?”

The earl laughed. “You’ll like this. Marsden hired two dirty culls named Jim Rollins and Dicky McCoy. For enough money, they’ll do anything. Perhaps if you paid them handsomely, they would be willing to testify about Warrington’s death.”

Lucien could not hold back his smile of victory. He had the greedy bastard cornered. Once he talked to Rollins and McCoy, he’d likely have real proof of Alastair’s guilt that could end the cur’s threats on Serena’s life. “Do you know where I can find them?”

Cripplegate took a swill of brandy from a half-full glass on the corner of his desk. Lucien waited impatiently for the old man to swallow and speak, and he was sure the earl knew it.

Settling himself against the seat, Lucien contemplated his impending victory. If he could threaten—or bribe—Rollins and McCoy into telling all they knew about Warrington’s murder, combined with the word of the late duke’s coachman, it might be enough to send Alastair to Newgate.

Closing his eyes, Lucien wished more than anything for a speedy end to this mess. If not for Alastair, Serena would be safe. And he could be at home with her, proving to her that she belonged in his bed and his life.

Through the coach’s window, Lucien watched the East End streets in passing. The surrounding buildings were small and worn. Through the night fog, their dark facades hovered on the edge of the narrow streets, as if waiting to spring forward and capture unsuspecting travelers in their crime-ridden clutches. Evidence of poverty and vice lay all around him, from the children selling flowers, candles, and evening newspapers, to the prostitutes, both young and old, hawking their bodies on nearly every corner.

As they rounded a bend, Lucien saw the outline of an inert body, a man, just off the road. He frowned, wondering if the chap was merely drunk or dead.

A moment later, the coach stopped. The driver dismounted and opened the door. “Begging your pardon, my lord, but are you sure this is where you want to be?”

Lucien looked out the window again. One hut across the street exploded with activity. Young boys carried bottles to and fro, while a graying man sat atop the stairs watching everyone with shrewd little eyes. A thoroughly dissolute woman clung to his shoulders. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“A body is likely to get killed here, my lord. Are you sure you want to get out? Mayhap I can fetch something for you?”

Lucien shoved the carriage door open a little wider. “Thank you, but no. I can handle myself.”

Lucien alighted onto the filthy street, trying to ignore the odor of raw sewage. Other than the noises across the way, the air around him was quiet . . . still. The eerie sound of his own boot heels crunching into the dirt below rang in his ears.

Withdrawing a pistol he had tucked into his greatcoat, Lucien approached the shanty cautiously. The bottle-carrying boys carting gin, no doubt, took little notice of him. The greasy-haired man and his woman atop the stairs, however, eyed him with interest.

Clutching the gun in his palm, Lucien made him way toward the ragtag pair.

The unshaven man peered curiously at Lucien. “Be ye wantin’ to buy a bottle, rent a room or a boy fer the night?”

Lucien smothered an oath of distaste and stepped away from the smell of the man’s unwashed body. “No. I’m looking for a pair of fellows said to spend time here, Rollins and McCoy.”

He eyed Lucien shrewdly. “What’s it worth to ye?”

With impatience and disgust, Lucien tossed a couple of crowns in the man’s direction.

The haggard blonde at his side lunged toward the shining silver coins. The man slapped her away. “Get lost, ye bleedin’ whore. Go inside.”

The old man shrugged. “Somethin’ about the murder of a duke. And he’s been askin’ a lot of blokes round here questions about a titled gent named Marsden.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The grandfather clock struck two in the morning as Lucien entered the town house. Wordlessly, he removed his greatcoat and gloves, then thrust them at the porter. He glanced up the darkened stairs before mounting them two at a time, ignoring the twinge in his knee.

Striding between the pair of guards outside Serena’s bedroom, he opened the door, then eased it closed, the soft click of the latch barely audible.

Her chamber was almost dark, the curtains drawn against all but the thinnest stream of moonlight. Immediately, he saw she had replaced Ravenna’s brothel red bed with a mahogany half-tester. Gone was his ex-wife’s portrait. In its stead hung a placid landscape in pastels. The red curtains and accessories had been removed in favor of innocent white and lace.

Innocent? A questionable prospect, just as questionable as the possibility the Bow Street Runner was mere coincidence.

Lucien tread across the room and watched his wife sleep, her honey features illuminated by the moon’s glow, her golden plait resting against the curve of her white-gowned back. He perched on the edge of her bed, fighting down his rising lust, and gently shook her shoulder.

He groaned. “I thought you would do me the courtesy of telling me you had hired a man. I’ve journeyed to the East End several times, trying to put Marsden in Newgate to protect you. Why didn’t you see fit to tell me about Vickery?”

“I . . . I,” she stammered, seeming to search for the right words. Shaking her head, she finally answered, “In all truth, it slipped my mind. I hired the man the day after Cyrus was murdered. We wed so quickly after his death. And with Alastair’s evil deeds, it never occurred to me.”

He raked a hand through his hair. “I’ve been to the slums, talking with dangerous cutthroats and criminals, digging for something that will prove Marsden’s guilt. Yet it never occurred to you to tell me you had someone else doing that very thing?”

She grimaced. “I did not imagine you would want to know. Besides, I had no clue you were searching for evidence. It’s not as if you told me anything, either.”

His fingers curled around her upper arms, bringing her closer. He realized she had a point even as the warmth of her soft flesh burned him through her nightrail. Damn it, he shouldn’t notice her as a woman. Not now.

“A Bow Street Runner is nothing to take lightly,” he pointed out. “We could have been working together. Perhaps we could have succeeded as a team by now.” He paused, then gave a voice to the anxious demon within. “Is there other information you want to share? Anything else you’re hiding?”

“I’ve hidden nothing,” she insisted. “I did not intentionally deceive you. I never have.”

“Oh?” Lucien questioned, brow arched. “No woman ever sets out to deliberately deceive a man, does she? Every woman I know leads me to believe she’s experienced and allows me to bed her, when in fact, she’s a married virgin.”

Serena struggled in his grasp. “I apologize if you inferred I had been with a man before, and as I said once, I did not realize my marital status was of such interest to you.”

“Why the hell would you think I would want the responsibility of deflowering another man’s wife?”

He shook her, bringing her face within inches of his. She exhaled fast and shallow. Her breath fell sweet and enticing on his face. The scent of gardenias teased his nose. Feeling an unwanted rise of desire, he swore. “You hardly followed me into this house that night for a friendly spot of tea. You knew what was going to happen between us.”

“Perhaps, but—”

“And your protests seemed very token.” Memory flashed him a vision of her in his carriage, head thrown back and gasping, while his fingers worked inside her. “You were not wearing your wedding ring.”

Her eyes flared wide in defense. “That thief had just stolen it!”

Lucien tilted his head, staring at her through the chill of his eyes. “Fine, but can you explain the rest? Why you failed to mention your innocence, why you sneaked off like a coward before first light? In my mind, it all shouts deception.”

He paused, allowing the thick silence to intimidate her. She was nervous; he felt it, smelled it, as a new rush of memories assaulted him. “I asked you at Rundall and Bridge if you had considered the possibility of pregnancy before you came to my bed, to which you replied you had considered everything. I told you I would have left you untouched if you had simply informed me you were an innocent. You said, ‘Exactly.’” He frowned. “You came that night looking for a lover, didn’t you?”

She hesitated, licking dry lips with her pink tongue. In fascination, he watched, feeling a stirring of arousal he didn’t want to feel.

The charged pause hummed on, stretching taut. Myriad expressions crossed her face.