Worth Any Price (16 page)

He grinned at her obvious eagerness. His thumb brushed over the fine points of her knuckles. “What kind of stone would you like?”

“A sapphire?” she suggested hopefully.

“A sapphire it is.” He kept her hand as they talked, absently toying with the tips of her fingers and the close-trimmed crescents of her nails. “I suspect you’ll want to see your family soon.”

Lottie’s attention was immediately diverted from the subject of the ring. “Yes, please. I fear that Lord Radnor may have already told my parents about what I’ve done. And I don’t want them to worry that they’ll be left destitute now that I have married someone else.”

“There is no need to look so guilty,” Nick said, tracing the thin veins inside of her wrist. “You had no part in making the bargain—it wasn’t your fault that you didn’t wish to uphold it.”

“But I benefitted from it,” Lottie pointed out reluctantly. “All those years at Maidstone’s…my education cost a great deal. And now Lord Radnor has nothing in return.”

He arched a dark brow. “If your point is that Radnor has been ill used—”

“No, it’s not that, precisely. It’s just…well, I didn’t do the honorable thing.”

“Yes, no doubt you should have fallen on the sword for the rest of the family,” he said sardonically. “But your parents will be just as well served this way. I couldn’t possibly be a worse son-in-law than Radnor.”

“You are certainly preferable as a husband,” she said.

He smiled at that, lifting her fingers to his mouth. “You would prefer
anyone
to Radnor as a husband—you’ve made that quite clear.”

Lottie smiled, thinking privately that in marrying Nick, she had ended up with a far different husband than she had expected. “What will you do tomorrow?” she asked, remembering their earlier confrontation with Sir Ross. She was certain that Nick would not relinquish his position at Bow Street without objection.

Releasing her hand, Nick frowned. “I’m going to visit Morgan.”

“Do you think that he will take your side against Sir Ross’s?”

“Not a chance in hell. But I’ll at least have the satisfaction of telling Morgan what a damned rotten traitor he is.”

Lottie leaned forward to touch the lapel of his robe. “Have you considered the possibility that they both are doing what they think is best for you? That it might be in your own interests to reclaim the title?”

“How could it be? My God, I’ll be living in a gilded cage.”

“I’ll be there with you.”

He stared at her, seemingly arrested by the words. He looked at her so intensely, for so long, that Lottie was finally moved to ask, “What? What are you thinking?”

Nick smiled without humor. “I was just reflecting on how much better prepared you are for my life than I am.”

Although Lottie had tentatively invited him to stay the night with her, Nick left after supper, retreating to the guest room a few doors away.

I’ll be there with you.
Her words had affected Nick curiously, just as her casual remarks at the wishing well had. She possessed a terrible knack of unraveling him with a simple phrase…words so commonplace, and yet invested with significance.

He didn’t know what to make of Lottie. Despite the way he had deceived her initially, she seemed fully prepared to act as his partner. She responded to him with passion and generosity, and in her arms he had been able to forget the secrets that had haunted him for fourteen years. He craved more of that sweet oblivion. The past few hours had been extraordinarily different from what he had experienced with Gemma. When he made love to Lottie, his lust was enmeshed with a deep tenderness that made his physical responses unbearably acute.

She kept reaching through his defenses without even seeming to know what she was doing, and he could not allow anyone that kind of intimacy. At this
rate, it was only a matter of time before Lottie discovered the demons that lurked inside him. And if that happened, she would withdraw from him in horror. He had to keep a certain distance between them, otherwise she would eventually come to regard him with disgust. Or pity. The thought made his skin crawl.

He had to maintain his detachment, while even now he longed to go back to her. In all his twenty-eight years, he had never felt this painful need for someone. Just to be in the same room with her.

My God,
he thought with dull horror, going to the window and staring blindly into the night.
What is happening to me?

Sir Grant Morgan looked up from his desk as Nick burst into his office before morning sessions. There was no trace of apology in his hard green eyes. “I see you’ve spoken to Sir Ross,” he said.

Nick proceeded to give vent to his outrage in the coarsest words ever conceived in the history of the English language, leveling accusations that would have caused any other man either to cower in terror or to reach for the nearest pistol. Morgan, however, listened as calmly as if Nick were offering a description of the weather.

After an extensive rant speculating on the likelihood that Morgan was nothing but a puppet while Sir Ross pulled the strings, the chief magistrate sighed and interrupted.

“Enough,” he said shortly. “You’re beginning to
repeat yourself. Unless you have anything new to add, you may as well spare yourself the breath. As to your last charge—that this situation is all of Sir Ross’s making—I can assure you that the decision to remove you from the force was fully as much mine as his.”

Until that moment, Nick had never realized that Morgan’s opinion was so important to him. But he experienced a genuine stab of pain, a killing sense of betrayal and failure. “Why?” he heard himself ask hoarsely. “Was my performance so unsatisfactory? What more could I have done? I solved every case and caught almost every man you sent me after—and I did it by the rules, the way you wanted. I did everything you asked. More, even.”

“There has never been a problem with your performance,” Morgan said quietly. “You’ve discharged your duties as ably as anyone could have. I’ve never seen any man match you for bravery or wits.”

“Then back me against Sir Ross,” Nick said roughly. “Tell him to shove that writ of summons up his arse—that you need me at Bow Street.”

Their gazes clashed and held, and then something in Morgan’s face changed. Damned if he didn’t look almost fatherly, Nick thought with sullen fury, despite the fact that Morgan was only about ten years older than he.

“Have a seat,” Morgan said.

“No, I don’t—”

“Please.” The invitation was uttered with steely politeness.

Please?
Nick occupied the nearest chair, practically reeling in shock. Morgan had never used that word before—Nick wouldn’t have thought it was part of his vocabulary. Gripping the arms of the scarred leather chair, Nick gazed at him warily.

The magistrate began to speak. In their three-year acquaintance, Morgan had never talked to him like this, with a friendly, rather paternal, concern. “I don’t want you at Bow Street any longer, Gentry. God knows it has nothing to do with your effectiveness. You’re the best runner I’ve ever seen. Since you came here, I’ve tried to offer what modicum of guidance I thought you’d accept, and I’ve watched you change from a self-serving bastard into a man I consider to be both dependable and responsible. But there is one thing that I regret to say has not altered. From the beginning, you’ve taken suicidal risks in the course of your work because you don’t give a damn about yourself or anyone else. And in my opinion, you’ll continue to do so if you remain here—at the cost of your own life.”

“Why do you give a damn?”

“I was a runner for ten years, and I’ve seen many men die in the course of their duties. I myself came close to it more than once. There comes a time when a man has tweaked the devil’s nose once too often, and if he’s too stubborn or slow-witted to realize it, he’ll pay with his own blood. I knew when to stop. And so must you.”

“Because of your famous instincts?” Nick mocked angrily. “Damn it, Morgan, you stayed a runner until
you were thirty-five! By that count, I still have seven years to go.”

“You’ve tempted fate many more times in the last three years than I did in ten,” the magistrate countered. “And unlike you, I didn’t use the job as a means to exorcize demons.”

Nick remained expressionless, while the frantic question
What does he know?
buzzed and stung in his head. Sophia was the only one who knew about the full ugliness of his past. She had probably told Cannon, who in turn might have said something to Morgan—

“No, I don’t know what those demons are,” Morgan said softly, his eyes warming with a flicker of either pity or kindness. “Although I can make a competent guess. Unfortunately I have no advice to offer about how to reconcile yourself with the past. All I know is that this way hasn’t worked, and I’ll be damned if I let you kill yourself on my watch.”

“I don’t know what the bloody hell you’re talking about.”

Morgan continued as if he hadn’t heard him. “I’m rather inclined to agree with Sir Ross’s opinion that you’ll never find peace until you stop living behind the shield of an assumed name. As difficult as it may be to face the world as Lord Sydney, I think it for the best—”

“What am I supposed to do as a viscount?” Nick asked with an ugly laugh. “Collect snuffboxes and neckties? Read papers at the club? Advise the tenants?
Christ, I know as much about farming as you do!”

“There are thousands of ways a man can be of use to the world,” Morgan said flatly. “Believe me, no one expects or desires for you to lead an indolent life.” He paused and took an ink blotter in his huge hand, regarding it thoughtfully. “The runners will be disbanded soon, in any event. You would eventually have had to find something else to do. I’m merely precipitating the matter by a few months.”

Nick felt the color drain from his face. “What?”

Morgan grinned suddenly at his expression. “Come, that should be no surprise to you, even in light of your disinterest in politics. When Cannon left the magistracy, it was only a matter of time until the runners were dismissed. He was the heart and spirit of this place—he devoted every waking moment to it for years, until…” He paused tactfully, leaving Nick to fill the silence.

“Until he met my sister,” Nick said sourly. “And married her.”

“Yes.” Morgan did not seem at all regretful about Cannon’s departure from
the public office. In fact, his blade-hard features softened, and his smile lingered as he continued. “The best thing that ever happened to him. However, it was hardly a boon for Bow Street. Now that Cannon has retired, there is a movement in Parliament to strengthen the Metropolitan Police Act. And many politicians believe that the New Police would become more popular with the public if the runners weren’t here to compete with them.”

“They intend to leave all of London to that bunch of half-wits?” Nick asked incredulously. “Good God—half of the New Police have no experience to speak of, and the other half are black sheep or idiots—”

“Be that as it may, the public will never fully support the New Police while the runners remain. The old instruments cannot be installed in the new machine.”

Stunned by the finality in the chief magistrate’s voice, Nick fixed him with an accusing stare. “You’re not going to fight for this place? You have an obligation—”

“No,” the chief magistrate said simply. “My only obligation is to my wife. She and my children are more important to me than anything else. I made it clear to Cannon that I would never surrender my soul to Bow Street the way he did for so long. And he understood that.”

“But what will become of the runners?” Nick asked, thinking of his comrades…Sayer, Flagstad, Gee, Ruthven…talented men who had served the public with courage and dedication, all for a mere pittance.

“I imagine one or two will join the New Police, where they are much needed. Others will turn to other professions entirely. I may open a private investigative office and employ two or three for a while.” Morgan shrugged. Having made a relative
fortune in his years at Bow Street, he had no need to work, other than at his own whim.

“My God, I left to attend to
one
private case, and I’ve come back to find the entire damned public office falling apart!”

The magistrate laughed softly. “Go home to your wife, Sydney. Start making plans. Your life is changing, no matter how you try to prevent it.”

“I will not be Lord Sydney,” Nick growled.

The green eyes gleamed with friendly irreverence. “There are worse fates, my lord. A title, land, a wife…if you can’t make something of that, there is indeed no hope for you.”

“Something in pale yellow, I think,” Sophia said decisively, sitting in the midst of so many fabrics that it appeared as if a rainbow had exploded in the room.

“Yellow,” Lottie repeated, chewing the side of her lower lip. “I don’t think that would flatter my complexion.”

As this was at least the tenth suggestion that Lottie had rejected, Sophia sighed and shook her head with a smile. She had commandeered the back room in her dressmaker’s shop at Oxford Street specifically for the purpose of ordering a trousseau for Lottie.

“I am sorry,” Lottie said sincerely. “I don’t mean to be difficult. Clearly I have little experience with this sort of thing.” She had never been allowed to choose
the styles or colors of her gowns. According to Lord Radnor’s dictates, she had always worn chaste designs in dark colors. Unfortunately it was now difficult to envision herself in rich blue, or yellow, or, heaven help her, pink. And the idea of exposing most of her upper chest in public was so discomfiting that she had cringed at the daring pattern-book illustrations that Sophia had showed her.

Nick’s older sister, to her credit, was remarkably patient. She focused on Lottie with a steady blue gaze and a persuasive smile that bore an uncommon resemblance to her brother’s.

“Lottie, dear, you are not being difficult in the least, but—”

“Fibber,” Lottie responded immediately, and they both laughed.

“All right,” Sophia said with a grin, “you are being confoundedly difficult, although I am certain that it is unintentional. Therefore I am going to make two requests of you. First, please bear in mind that this is not a life-or-death matter. Choosing a gown is not so very difficult, especially when one is being advised by an astute and very fashionable friend—which would be me.”

Lottie smiled. “And the second request?”

“The second is…please trust me.” As Sophia held her gaze, it was clear that the magnetism of the Sydney family was not limited to the males. She radiated a mixture of warmth and self-confidence that was impossible to resist. “I will not let you look
frowzy or vulgar,” she promised. “I have excellent taste, and I have been out in London society for some time, whereas you have been…”

“Buried in Hampshire?” Lottie supplied helpfully.

“Yes, quite. And if you insist on dressing in drab styles that are appropriate for a woman twice your age, you will feel out-of-place among your own crowd. Moreover, it would undoubtedly reflect badly on my brother, as the gossips will whisper that he must be stingy with you, if you go about so plainly garbed—”

“No,” Lottie said automatically. “That would be unfair to him, as he has given me leave to buy anything I wish.”

“Then let me choose some things for you,” Sophia coaxed.

Lottie nodded, reflecting that she was probably far too guarded. She would have to learn how to rely on other people. “I’m in your hands,” she said resignedly. “I’ll wear whatever you suggest.”

Sophia fairly wriggled in satisfaction. “Excellent!” She hefted a pattern book to her lap and began to insert slips of paper between the pages she particularly liked. The light played over her dark golden hair, bringing out shades of wheat and honey in the shining filaments. She was an uncommonly pretty woman, her delicate, decisive features a feminine echo of Nick’s strong face. Every now and then she paused to give Lottie an assessing gaze, followed either by a nod or a quick shake of her head.

Lottie sat placidly and drank some tea that the dressmaker’s assistant had brought. It was raining heavily outside and the afternoon was gray and cool, but the room was cozy and peaceful. Intricate feminine things were draped or heaped everywhere…spills of lace, lengths of silk and velvet ribbon, cunning artificial flowers, their petals adorned with crystal beads to simulate dewdrops.

Occasionally the dressmaker appeared, conferred with Sophia and made notes, then tactfully disappeared. Some clients, Sophia had told Lottie, required the dressmaker to attend them every minute. Others were far more decided in their preferences and liked to make decisions without interference.

Lost in a peaceful reverie, Lottie almost started when Sophia spoke. “You cannot imagine how thrilled I was when Nick wrote that he was taking a bride.” Sophia held two fabrics together and examined them critically, turning them to see how the light affected the weave. “Tell me, what was it about my brother that first attracted you?”

“He is a fine-looking man,” Lottie said cautiously. “I could not help but notice his eyes, and dark hair, and…he was also very charming, and…” She paused, her mind returning to those still, sun-warmed moments by the kissing gate near the forest…how world-weary he had looked, how much in need of comfort. “Desolate,” she said, almost under her breath. “I wondered how such an extraordinary man could be the loneliest person I had ever met.”

“Oh, Lottie,” Sophia said softly. “I wonder why you could see that in him, when everyone else considers him to be invulnerable.” Leaning forward, she held a length of pale amber silk beneath Lottie’s chin, testing it against her complexion, then lowered it. “For most of his life, Nick has had to fight for survival. He was so young when our parents died…and he became so rebellious afterward…” She gave a quick little shake of her head, as if to elude a sudden swarm of painful memories. “And then he ran off to London, and I heard nothing of him, until one day I learned that he had been convicted of some petty crime and sentenced to a prison hulk. A few months after that, I was told that he had died of disease aboard ship. I grieved for years.”

“Why did he not come to you? He could have at least sent a letter of some kind, to spare you such unnecessary distress.”

“I believe that he was too ashamed, after what had happened to him. He tried to forget that John, Lord Sydney, had ever existed. It was easier to close everything away and create a new life for himself as Nick Gentry.”

“After
what
had happened?” Lottie asked, perplexed. “Are you referring to his imprisonment?”

Sophia’s dark blue eyes searched hers. Seeming to realize that Lottie had not been told about something significant, she turned secretive. “Yes, his imprisonment,” she said vaguely, and Lottie knew that Sophia was protecting her brother in some mysterious way.

“How did you learn that he was still alive?”

“I came to London,” Sophia replied, “to take revenge on the magistrate who had sentenced him to the prison hulk. I blamed him for my brother’s death. But to my dismay, I soon found myself falling in love with him.”

“Sir Ross?” Lottie stared at her in amazement. “No wonder Nick dis—” Realizing what she had been about to say, she stopped abruptly.

“Dislikes him so?” Sophia finished for her with a rueful smile. “Yes, the two of them have no fondness for each other. However, that has not prevented my husband from doing everything he can to help Nick. You see, even after Nick joined the runners, he was…quite reckless.”

“Yes,” Lottie acknowledged cautiously, “he has quite a vigorous constitution.”

Sophia smiled without humor. “I’m afraid it was more than that, my dear. For three years Nick has taken insane chances, not seeming to care if he lives or dies.”

“But why?”

“Certain events in Nick’s past have made him rather embittered and detached. My husband and Sir Grant have both endeavored to help him change for the better. I haven’t always agreed with their methods. I can assure you, Sir Ross and I have engaged in some spirited debates on the matter. However, as time has passed, it seems that my brother has improved in many ways. And Lottie, I am very much encouraged by the fact that he has married
you.” She took Lottie’s hand and squeezed it warmly.

“Sophia…” Lottie averted her gaze as she spoke reluctantly. “I do not think the marriage could truly be characterized as a love match.”

“No,” the other woman agreed softly. “I am afraid that the experience of loving and being loved is quite foreign to Nick. It will no doubt take some time for him to recognize the feeling for what it is.”

Lottie was certain that Sophia meant to be reassuring. However, the idea of Nick Gentry falling in love with her was not only improbable but alarming as well. He would never let his guard down to that extent, never allow someone such power over him, and if he did, he might very well become as obsessive and domineering as Lord Radnor. She did not want anyone to love her. Although it was clear that some people found great joy in love, such as Sophia and Sir Ross, Lottie could not help but regard it as a trap. The arrangement that she and Nick had devised was much safer.

Nick found himself strangely adrift after he left the public office. It had begun to rain, and the burgeoning clouds promised a heavier deluge yet to come. Hatless, striding along the slick pavement, he felt the cold, fat splashes of water sinking through his hair and pelting the broadcloth weave of his coat. He should seek shelter somewhere…The Brown Bear, a tavern located across from Bow Street No. 3…or perhaps Tom’s coffeehouse, where the runners’
preferred physician, Dr. Linley, was wont to appear. Or his own home…but he shied from that thought instantly.

The rain fell harder, in cold, soaking sheets that drove street sellers and pedestrians to huddle beneath shop awnings. Scrawny boys darted into the street to fetch cabs for gentlemen who had been caught unawares by the rain. Umbrellas snapped open, their frames strained by strong gusts of wind, while the sky was partitioned by jagged shafts of lightning. The air lost its characteristic stable-yard odor and took on the freshness of spring rain. Brown currents ran through the drains, washing them clear of the foul matter that the night-soil men had failed to remove during evening rounds.

Nick walked without direction, while the rain slid down his face and dripped from his chin. Usually in his off-time he went somewhere with Sayer or Ruthven to exchange stories over ale and beefsteaks, or they would attend a prizefight or a bawdy comedy at Drury Lane. Sometimes they would patrol the streets in a small pack, leisurely inspecting the thoroughfares and alleys for any sign of disruption.

Thinking of the other runners, Nick knew that soon he would lose their companionship. It was folly to hope otherwise. He could not move in their world any longer—Sir Ross had made that impossible. But why? Why couldn’t the interfering bastard have left well enough alone? Nick’s mind chased in circles, failing to apprehend the answer. Perhaps it had something to do with Sir Ross’s unfailing pursuit
of rightness, of order. Nick had been born a viscount and therefore must be restored to his position, no matter how unsuited he was for it.

Nick considered what he knew of the peerage, of their habits and rituals, the countless rules of conduct, the inescapable removal of landed aristocrats from the reality of common life. He tried to imagine spending the majority of his time lounging in parlors and drawing rooms, or rustling his freshly ironed newspaper at the club. Making speeches at the Lords to demonstrate one’s social conscience. Attending soirees, and prattling about art and literature, and exchanging gossip about other silk-stockinged gentlemen.

A sense of panic filled him. He hadn’t felt this trapped, this overwhelmed, since he had been lowered into the dark, stinking hold of the prison hulk and chained alongside the most degraded beings imaginable. Except that then he had known that freedom lay just outside the hulls of the anchored ship. And now there was no place to escape.

Like an animal in a cage, his mind cast about in angry sweeps, hunting for some kind of refuge.

“Gentry!” The friendly exclamation interrupted his thoughts.

Eddie Sayer approached Nick with his customary hail-fellow-well-met grin. Big, dashing, and congenial in nature, Sayer was liked by all the runners, and he was the one that Nick most trusted in a tight situation. “You’re finally back,” Sayer exclaimed, exchanging
a hearty handshake. His brown eyes twinkled beneath the brim of his dripping hat. “I see you’ve just come from the public office. No doubt Sir Grant’s given you a devil of an assignment to make up for your long absence.”

Nick found that his usual arsenal of ready quips was depleted. He shook his head, finding it difficult to explain how his life had turned upside down within the space of a week. “No assignment,” he said hoarsely. “I’ve been dismissed.”

“What?” Sayer stared at him blankly. “You mean for good? You’re the best man Morgan’s got. Why the hell would he do that?”

“Because I’m going to be a viscount.”

Suddenly Sayer’s puzzlement disappeared, and he laughed. “And I’m going to be the duke of Devonshire.”

Nick did not crack a smile, only stared at Sayer with a grim resignation that caused the other man’s amusement to fade slightly.

“Gentry,” Sayer asked, “isn’t it a bit early for you to be this fox-faced?”

“I haven’t been drinking.”

Ignoring the statement, Sayer gestured to Tom’s coffeehouse. “Come, we’ll try to sober you with some coffee. Perhaps Linley is there—he can help figure out what has made you so addlepated.”

After numerous cups of coffee that had been liberally sweetened with lumps of brown sugar, Nick felt
like a pocket watch that had been wound too tightly. He found little comfort in the company of Sayer and Linley, who clearly did not know what to make of his implausible claim. They pressed him for details that he was unable to give, as he could not bring himself to discuss a past that he had spent a decade and a half trying to forget. Finally he left them at the coffeehouse and walked back out into the rain. Bitterly he thought that the only period of his life in which he had been able to make decisions for himself had been his years as a crime lord. It would be damned easy to overlook the violent squalor of those years and think only of the savage enjoyment he’d taken in outwitting Sir Ross Cannon at every turn. Had someone told him back then that he would someday be working for Bow Street, and
married
, and compelled to take up the cursed family title…holy hell. He would have taken any and all measures to avoid such a fate.

But he could not think of what he could have done differently. The bargain with Sir Ross had been unavoidable. And from the moment he had seen Lottie standing on that wall on the river-bluff in Hampshire, he had wanted her. He knew also that he would never stop wanting her, and he should probably abandon all attempts to puzzle out why. Sometimes there were no reasons—a thing was just so.