What a Lady Requires (21 page)

“After you goaded her into it.” To hell with Lind and his thick skull. To hell with Sanford, who even now was placing a steadying hand on Rowan’s shoulder, the pressure a warning. “Do not try to tell me you don’t know how to push those about you to their limits. I know that from personal experience. To her regret, she admitted a falsehood.”

Nothing I can say now will undo those words.

“I don’t want to hear it!” Lind roared.

“You don’t have to hear it from me. Read your wife’s words.”

“The devil take them,” Lind said through clenched teeth.

Sanford held out his hand. “If you don’t wish to read them, I will. If you don’t trust Battencliffe, will you at least trust me to vouch for what lies between those pages?”

Lind shot his gaze from Sanford to Rowan and back. His lips turned white. “If that book belongs to anyone, it belongs to me. You’ve no claim on it.”

“I’ll hand it over as long as you swear you won’t destroy it,” Rowan said.

Lind looked away. “I won’t destroy it. For one thing, Cecelia would never forgive me. I can’t promise you I’ll read it, though. Not until I’m ready.”

…I have given birth to a son, Lindenhurst’s heir, but my joy at finally becoming a mother has been tainted by my husband’s continued coldness and disbelief. To make matters worse, the boy is small. The midwife says he was born too early. I pray he lives, but I will ever regret my rash words in a fit of temper, for they destroyed a friendship, as well as my marriage…

“Thank you,” Rowan murmured. At least that much was repaired. As for the rest, it was too late.

“Sir?” Grundy appeared behind Lind’s left shoulder.

“What is it?” God, Rowan wanted nothing more than to climb into bed with a bottle. Only not wine or brandy. Either of those drinks held too much meaning for him to face at the moment. Gin, on the other hand…Wasn’t that what the masses turned to for utter oblivion?

“A message, sir. The boy who brought it says it’s from someone named Dysart.”

Thank God. The Bow Street Runner must have found Crawley. At least Rowan would have the pleasure of taking the bastard apart piece by piece—not that any of it would restore his lost money. Not that it would restore Emma to him.

“Let’s have it, then. My other guests were just leaving.”

Sanford eyed Rowan. “Are you certain? If you require assistance with anything, I’d be happy to oblige for old time’s sake.”

Rowan turned away. “Stay if you must, then. I don’t care, either way.”

He took the message from Grundy and unfolded the scrap of paper. Like a piece of lead, his heart dropped to his stomach as he deciphered the terse scrawl.

Found Crawley. He’s with your wife.

He nearly crushed the note in his fist. Only, Sanford stopped him with a firm hand on his shoulder. “What’s happened? You’ve gone all white.”

Rowan handed him the note.

“Who’s this Crawley fellow?”

Rowan focused on the note in Sanford’s grip. He could not look at Lind. Not now. “Crawley’s a man who fleeced me. And now he’s after my wife.”

Rowan’s carriage clattered to a halt in front of Jennings’s darkened shop. A wintry wind swept along the empty street—or rather, it would be empty but for a man dressed in rags leaning against the building opposite. Jaw working, as though he was muttering under his breath, he held out a hand to no one in particular.

There but for the grace of God go I.

Rowan would be damned if he could figure out how the man subsisted. At least not today and not in Cheapside.

From his seat, Sanford nodded at the scene. “He’d stand a better chance in front of St. George’s.”

Lind merely grunted.

Part of Rowan still couldn’t believe Lind had accompanied them, but perhaps the man hoped to see Rowan humiliated. The possibility for such an occurrence was distinct. But for that small fact, Rowan might almost believe the three were off on an adventure, much like in their younger days.

He exchanged a glance with Sanford. “Shall we get this over with?”

Best to, really. He’d get to the bottom of this whole situation, and then he’d arrange his future, a potential failure once more, but one with enough blunt to get by. He’d sell that damnable townhouse and send Emma to oversee the Sparkmore holdings in Bedfordshire. She’d be happy with an estate to run, and he could go back to his brother’s London lodgings and pretend none of this had ever happened.

He would return to his usual haunts, and…What? Haunt them? Yes, and with such an existence he’d be hardly better than a ghost, wouldn’t he? Right. No sense in dwelling.

He leapt from the carriage, only to come face-to-face with a rag-wrapped palm. The beggar had clearly reckoned on them as easy prey. “Spare a coin for a poor man?”

His hand halfway to his purse, Rowan paused. Something about that voice. “Damn it, Dysart.”

Dysart grinned. “Almost had ye, didn’t I?”

“You’ll get your pay,” Rowan grated.

“Aye, and soon.” He glanced past Rowan’s shoulder. “Ye brought company.”

“My friends,” Rowan confirmed. The truth was far too complicated to explain now, so he settled on a little embroidery for simplicity’s sake.

Dysart eyed Lind, who had just scrambled out of the carriage. “I hope ye weren’t expecting a fight. He won’t do ye much good.”

“Where’s Crawley?”

“He went round back. Been in there a while. I haven’t seen him come out.”

“Bold as that, then, and with her father home?”

“Old man’s gone out.” Dysart produced an unlit cheroot from some unseen pocket and chewed on the end. “Left with a pair of ladies, he did.”

“Uriana and Aunt Augusta,” Rowan muttered. “How did you know where to find Crawley?”

“Tailed him here. He waited on his chance and took it when the others left.”

“Did…Do you think she summoned him?”

“Never saw no messenger if she did.”

That statement sparked a wild hope in Rowan, but just as quickly another feeling snuffed that small flame. A chill, colder than today’s wind under lowering skies. To what purpose did Crawley pursue Emma if not the obvious? For he’d been buzzing about, persistent and annoying as a wasp.

But here at her father’s shop? How had Crawley known to seek Emma in Cheapside rather than Mayfair? It was almost as if he’d been watching, waiting for a chance; but a chance at what? Nothing good. An unexplained sense of urgency overwhelmed Rowan, and he strode for the shop.

“Not so fast.” Dysart grabbed him by the back of his coat. “What if you don’t like what ye see?”

“I already know I’m not going to like what I see. Crawley will just have to deal with the consequences.” He knew that much for a certainty now. Whatever was going on in there, it was none of Emma’s doing.

He shook Dysart off and, the others following, hurried into the alley between Jennings’s shop and the next, back to the mews, where another carriage awaited.

Not too late, not too late.

But then the back door crashed open and that all-too-brief wave of relief ebbed. Emma emerged first, white-faced, a heavy arm clamping her waist. Crawley hauled her a few steps and froze.

“Let her go.” Lord only knew how Rowan managed an authoritative calm with his heart blocking his throat. “We have you outnumbered.”

Crawley brought up a pistol and rammed the muzzle into Emma’s jaw. Her yelp slammed Rowan straight in the gut. He narrowed his eyes and growled.

Crawley cast a dismissive glance at their group. “There may be more of you, but I won’t hesitate to use this. Or maybe you don’t want her back.”

Emma’s whimper tore at Rowan’s gut with merciless claws. No, he must maintain focus. “What do you need her for?”

“She owes me.”

What the deuce? “Explain how one of the wealthier heiresses of the past few Seasons owes anybody.”

“I took her advice and lost a fortune.”

Advice, yes. Suddenly Dysart’s confusion as to the identity of Emma’s correspondent made sense. “You’re Hendricks.”

“So I am. What of it?” Crawley pressed the pistol farther into Emma’s jaw. “She needs to make up for her bad advice and earn my money back. Her papa will be happy to pay me off.”

Rowan fixed a hard glare on Crawley, fighting the haze of red that threatened to descend. With Emma at gunpoint, the last thing he needed was to lose control. “This wouldn’t happen to be the same fortune you collected from me and a great many other investors in society, would it?”

Crawley shrugged, the bastard. Rowan clenched his fists. If he didn’t know better he’d suspect his former friend was attempting to provoke him, but he wouldn’t take the bait, as he couldn’t afford to place Emma in any greater danger.

“I suppose a more pointed question would be to ask if you were planning on paying back your investors once you’d recouped your losses.”

Another shrug. “My reply hardly matters now since the money is gone.”

Rowan’s body strained toward Crawley, his fingers itching to squeeze the man’s neck and choke the life out of him. “Was Higgins in on it with you from the beginning or is he just an unfortunate casualty of your scheme?”

“Unfortunate casualty, what an apt description.”

“I’d say it is,” Dysart muttered from somewhere behind Rowan. “Hardly matters what Higgins was in on, when his body turned up in the Thames this morning.”

“Yes, well, it’s been an interesting afternoon,” Crawley said as blithely as if he were taking his leave after a social call, “but I’m afraid I must be off. If you’ll kindly step aside.”

“I’m not going anywhere without my wife.”

“How unfortunate. And the longer it takes, the more my finger is positively itching to pull this trigger.”

“You won’t shoot her. Not if you want a ransom.”

“How do ye know the magistrate isn’t on his way at this very moment?” Dysart interceded.

“A bluff. I’ve played far too many hands of cards not to recognize as much.” But the hand holding the pistol belied that statement. It twitched alarmingly.

“I’d be willing to forgive the debt,” Rowan said quickly, “in exchange for my wife. I give you my word as a gentleman. Release her, and I’ll let you go free.”

“Your word?” Crawley jerked his chin in the direction of Sanford and Lind. “What’s to stop them from coming after me?”

“They’ll give their word, too. Won’t you?” He couldn’t afford to take his eyes off his adversary to ascertain their agreement. He could only hope and trust.

“You’ve my word,” Sanford added. Lind merely grunted his assent.

Rowan extended a hand. “Emma?”

Crawley loosened his grip imperceptibly, but it was enough. Emma shoved away from him and ran into Rowan’s embrace. With a shout, Dysart lowered his head and charged Crawley, bull-like, barreling into the other man.

Crack!

The pistol discharged and the report echoed off the close walls of the alleyway. Emma buried her head against Rowan’s shoulder, and he pulled her tighter to him. Shaking, damn it, as badly as she had in the wine cellar. He should get her away from here, but he needed to see this through first.

Dysart and Crawley circled each other, fists raised. In one deft movement, Dysart ducked a flying fist and landed a few punches of his own. Displaying an agility at odds with his injuries, Lind waded in, his walking stick raised. He waited for his moment before bringing the staff down on Crawley’s head. Crawley crumpled to the cobblestones.

In a trice, Dysart unwound the rags from his hands and secured Crawley. Trussed up like a Christmas present, indeed. All that was missing was the bow. “Believe I’ll have me a ride in this nob’s carriage, and drop him off at the magistrate’s while I’m at it. I’ll send ye my bill.”

Rowan nodded, but barely attended him. Instead he stared at Lind. “What—How? Or did you think to place me in your debt once again?”

“I meant nothing of the kind,” Lind barked. “I did it for your wife. She’s quite admirably clever. You definitely don’t deserve her.”

Rowan pressed his lips to the top of her head. Any moment now, she might come to her senses and push him away. “I know.”

Emma couldn’t stop shaking, not even tucked against Battencliffe’s solid presence. Beyond the lingering sensation of cruel metal pressed into her jaw, nothing felt real. She rubbed her hands together, but the effort did nothing to warm them.

Through a haze, she was vaguely aware of Mr. Sanford taking his leave. Viscount Lindenhurst stood glaring at Battencliffe for an interminable length of time before gripping his hand. One brief moment, and the gesture passed, and then Lindenhurst also disappeared.

Battencliffe bent to her. “Let’s get you back inside.”

She wanted to protest, but she couldn’t quite recall why. Something about Papa and her aunt returning. Or perhaps they had. She hardly knew anymore. Numbly, she allowed her husband to conduct her into the dusty storeroom at the back of the shop.

“Is there a place we might talk alone?” he asked.

Not the office. Not after Crawley had tracked her down there and nearly killed her. Whatever ransom he thought Papa might offer him, he would have pulled the trigger. She’d felt the tension in his arm as it held her fast. The twitch of his hand had reverberated through her.

“Thank you,” she said thickly. “You came to my rescue.”

“Least I could do. It’s part of my duty as a husband.” A depth of seriousness she’d never before heard from Battencliffe underscored his usual jovial tones. For once, he wasn’t about to attempt to make light, and she caught herself longing for one of his awful puns.

Perhaps laughter would cut through this fog. Something had to.

He eyed her closely in the dim light. “Are you all right?”

“Of course.” As soon as the reply popped out, she wished she could take it back. She didn’t feel right at all, and if she was completely honest, she wanted him to hold her until she came back to herself.

“No, you’re not.” Thank goodness for that perception. “Let’s get you a drink. Not tea. Thankfully your father imports the good stuff.”

In spite of everything, she let him propel her toward the office, where he spotted Papa’s wines readily enough. “Some of that should do.”

She collapsed into the chair. “It’s his private stock.”

“Too bad. He’ll just have to eat the cost.” Any last hint of lightness had left his voice. Good heavens, he sounded just as grim as he had the other night when he confessed his liaison with Lady Lindenhurst.

“They key is in his desk drawer,” she muttered.

In no time, he produced an open bottle. “My apologies. There don’t seem to be any glasses.”

For that matter, such a strong vintage as Papa preferred required decanting to develop its flavor properly, but Battencliffe’s current mood would certainly not stand for such ceremony. She raised the bottle to her lips and let the wine coat them.

“None of that,” he admonished. “Take a proper swallow. This isn’t about detecting the undertones of horse manure or what have you.”

That comment did as much to calm her inner turmoil as the taste of fine Hermitage. She obeyed his command and let the strong drink burn through to her stomach.

Battencliffe held out his hand. “If you don’t mind. After spending part of the past hour wondering if I was about to watch some bastard blow your head off, I need this.”

She shuddered.

“Your pardon,” he added after taking a swig. He extended two fingers and traced the contour of her cheek. “He did not…He did not touch you in any other way?”

“No.”

“He can thank God for that or I’d have to go after him here and now.” Good Lord, just when she thought he couldn’t sound any more forceful. The intensity behind that statement cleared the last cobwebs from her mind.

“All he wanted was my business acumen. Such as it is, at least in his case.” She reached for the bottle and swallowed another mouthful. “I’m so sorry. He
was
Hendricks, and I didn’t know. You were right about not continuing that correspondence.”

“No, I wasn’t entirely right. I forbade it for the wrong reasons. I thought something else was going on, and it wasn’t.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “It seems I’ve been wrong about a good many things, lately. With you, most especially. It may be a poor excuse, but I allowed my experience with Lydia to color my views, and it turns out, there again, I was wrong.”

She straightened in her seat. “In what way were you in error?”

“In the most fundamental way possible.” He set the wine bottle aside and placed his hands on her shoulders, his gaze intense and imploring. “What I believed happened that night did not, in fact, happen.”

Her mind began to spin with the possibilities. “How…What?”

He nodded. “I read Lydia’s journal. All the way through. And was that not your purpose in sending me to your desk to look at Hendricks’s letters? You had to have known what I’d find.”

“In all truth, I wasn’t thinking about that journal when I told you to look for the letters. I did find it, and I read part of it but couldn’t bring myself to finish the entire thing. Then you confessed, and I didn’t need to.” She allowed her voice to soften on that final statement. In confessing, he’d made himself vulnerable to her. He deserved credit for that.

“You would have learned the truth far sooner.” His hands tightened on her shoulders. “She absolved me of everything. What’s more, she absolved herself.”