Authors: Debra Mullins
What would Edwina think?
His grip tightened around the ribbon, knuckles showing white. His gentle Edwina would hate what he was doing. If she knew the lengths he went to so as to protect their future, she would scold him from here to London, and he would deserve every harsh word.
He was a traitor, albeit a reluctant one.
The door to the tavern swung open to admit several people. A quick glance had Gregson sitting up straight and taking a hasty gulp of his ale. He shoved Edwina’s ribbon into his pocket.
He was here.
“Well, young Gregson.” Randall Althorpe sat down at Gregson’s table, his charming smile at odds with the cold gleam in his eyes. “May I join you?”
Unable to speak, Gregson took another drink of ale.
Althorpe signaled to the barmaid and requested an ale of his own, then looked back at Gregson with an expectant smile.
Gregson wrapped his hands around his tankard,
wishing he were anywhere but here. He could barely look at the duke’s heir, so repulsed was he by the man.
“Tell me what brings you here, Gregson.” Althorpe nodded his thanks to the barmaid as she set a tankard of ale in front of him. “Have you something more to tell me?”
Gregson nodded.
“Excellent.” Randall sipped his ale, never taking his reptilian blue eyes from Gregson. “Tell me then.”
Gregson took another bracing swallow of ale. “Our bargain still stands, correct?”
“Of course it does.” Althorpe slid a glance around the room. Apparently satisfied they weren’t being overheard, he nonetheless lowered his voice. “Just as when you told me of the highwayman’s capture, in return for any information you can give me, I promise not to tell dear Uncle that you aren’t who you say you are.”
“I am Malcolm Gregson,” the assistant protested. Then he dropped his eyes to his half-empty tankard. “I just didn’t exactly tell the truth about my education and background.”
“And your dear Edwina would probably have been beyond your reach,” Althorpe sympathized.
Gregson felt his face heat as well as his temper. He controlled both. “Leave my betrothed out of this. Our bargain stands—I provide you with information on the duke’s household, and you don’t tell His Grace about me.”
“And when dear Uncle cocks up his toes, I shall write you a recommendation as the new Duke of Belvingham. Yes, yes, dear sir, that is our agreement. Now what have you heard?”
Gregson stared at Randall Althorpe for a long moment, his stomach clenching in knots. He hated betraying the duke, but what else could he do? He loved Edwina, intended to marry her. If her father discovered that Malcolm Gregson was not the educated man he claimed himself to be—if it came out that he was the son of a fishmonger and that he’d lied to secure a decent position—well then, he knew Edwina would be lost to him forever.
He couldn’t let that happen, even if it meant dealing with the devil.
As the minutes passed without Gregson saying anything, Althorpe’s expression darkened. “Don’t waste my time, Mr. Gregson,” he warned softly. “You do not want me as an enemy.”
Gregson swallowed hard, then admitted, “I lingered in the hallway and overheard some of the conversation between Mr. Hunt and His Grace. Mr. Hunt intends to question James Black again tomorrow.”
“Well, well.” Althorpe stroked his thumb along the handle of the tankard. “I shall have to see that does not happen.”
“How can you possibly do that?”
Althorpe glared. “I have many connections, Mr. Gregson, some of whom I dare say you would
prefer to know nothing about.” Gregson paled, and Althorpe raised a brow. “Have you anything else to tell me?”
“I also overheard Lady Caroline and her new husband in the garden.” Disgusted with himself, Gregson didn’t dare look at Althorpe. “They were discussing their marriage.”
Pursing his lips in interest, Randall sat back in his chair, tapping one finger on the table. “And how are the happy newlyweds?”
“Not so happy. They’ve already quarreled.”
Althorpe clicked his tongue in sympathy. “So soon?”
“They were discussing that, and something else.” Gregson hesitated, hating to divulge such intimate secrets. “They haven’t consummated the marriage.”
“Indeed?” Althorpe’s brows rose in speculation. “Why not?”
“I believe it has something to do with Lady Caroline.” Miserable, he drained the last of his ale.
“Fascinating.” His second ale arrived, and Althorpe immediately took a swallow. “So, Hunt hasn’t managed to get past those barriers of Caroline’s. That might prove useful. Good work, Gregson.”
Gregson shrugged off the compliment, lost in his misery.
“If you will excuse me, Gregson, I believe it’s best if we not be seen together for very long.”
“I have to leave anyway. The duke sent me on an errand at Cathington.”
“See that you do a good job there,” Althorpe said with a smirk. “That house will be mine shortly.” He picked up his tankard and walked away.
Gregson watched him vanish into the crowd, then took Edwina’s ribbon from his pocket and slid it through his fingers.
But he found no comfort there.
Rogan arrived home to find Peterson waiting. The irritating fellow paced impatiently outside the door to the stables. Upon seeing Rogan, he stormed straight over.
“A fine thing this is,” Peterson ranted as Rogan slid from atop Hephaestus. “Not only do you leave me cooling my heels, but your men will not allow me inside the stables to see to the care of my own mount!”
“She’s not yours anymore.” Rogan took a moment to check between his horse’s front legs to be certain he wasn’t overheated. Satisfied, he led the animal into the stables, Peterson trailing behind like an annoying sibling.
“On the contrary, Mr. Hunt, she is mine until funds have changed hands. An event,” he pointed out with supercilious sarcasm, “which has not yet occurred.”
The man’s tone grated. Rogan grabbed a brush and began to brush the grime from the stallion’s coat. “You’ll get your money.”
“So you say! I demand that you write the bank draft now, sir, or I shall take my horse and go.”
Rogan spared him a look of disgust. Every time he thought about what Peterson had done to that horse, he wanted to pummel the sneer right off his face. He flexed his fingers, imagining the crunch of bone beneath his fist.
But then he thought of Caroline and pushed the urge away.
“Hunt, did you hear me?”
Rogan didn’t even bother to look at him this time. “You’ll get your money as soon as I’ve finished getting Hephaestus settled.”
“Don’t you have grooms for that sort of thing?”
“I always take care of my own mounts. Watch carefully; you might learn something.”
Peterson puffed himself up in indignation. “Mr. Hunt—”
Rogan paused. Fingers clenched tightly around the brush handle, and he pointed the tool at the skinny gamester as if it were a rapier. “Peterson, you take your life in your hands by pushing me.”
“I only want what’s due me.” Peterson cast a disparaging look at the brush and then adjusted the fit of his coat. “It’s bad enough that you have caused me to ruin my boots walking across the countryside. Now you expect me to stand and wait in favor of an animal?”
Rogan finished brushing down his mount in silence and gave him a sip of water before he closed the stable door.
“Mr. Hunt, I am speaking to you.”
Rogan turned an intolerant glare on Peterson. “You’re making noise, but you haven’t said anything of interest yet.” Before the peacock could puff himself up again, Rogan led the way out of the stables. “Come along then, if you want your money.”
“Finally.” Peterson sauntered after him. “May I say, Mr. Hunt, that you have a most disagreeable disposition. I don’t know how you managed to win a lady as charming as your wife.”
“No, you may not say.” With a curl to his lip, Rogan led the distasteful wretch into the house to his study. “Have a seat, Peterson. This will only take a moment.”
“I should hope so after all the time I’ve wasted here.” Peterson dropped into a chair as Rogan moved behind his desk and pulled out a bank draft. He scribbled out the amount, blew on it to dry the ink, then held out the draft to Peterson, who snatched it eagerly and scanned it. His eyes widened in disbelief. “This is all? That gray is a valuable animal!” Peterson tossed the draft on the desk. “Offer more or I will take the horse and leave.”
Rogan flattened his hands on the desk and leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. Anger simmered fit to rend his veins. It was all he could do to not grab the pretentious jackanapes by his neck cloth and eject him from the house. “You will not take the horse, and you will not get another far
thing. You damaged that animal, which makes my offer more than generous.”
“That horse is poorly trained and needed discipline!”
“It’s you who needs discipline, Peterson. Now I suggest you take the money and leave before I give you a taste of what you did to that mare.”
Peterson looked as if he would protest more, but a look at Rogan’s stone-set face apparently convinced him otherwise. Snatching the bank draft from the desk, he tucked it away in his coat pocket. “I shall not say it was a pleasure doing business with you, Hunt.”
“And I shall not wish you to the devil,” Rogan shot back. “If you start walking now, you may yet reach Bartholomew’s tavern before dark. You can catch the mail coach to London there.”
Peterson sneered. “My gratitude knows no bounds.”
“My patience does. Good day, Peterson.”
The foppish gamester turned away without another word and stormed out of the house. Rogan sat down in his chair with a sigh. As much as he hated paying so generous a price, it had been well worth it to see the back of Peterson. The man was cruel and vicious, and to leave the gray in his care would mean condemning the animal to death.
He took comfort in the fact that Caroline would be pleased that the fellow had left under his own power and not limping and bloody. He hoped she appreciated his restraint, because it had been
damned hard to let Peterson walk away without making him pay. Who did the bastard think he was, beating an innocent creature—
His thoughts stumbled, halted, as his gaze fell on a piece of pottery tucked against the hearth.
It was wedged into a corner and easily overlooked by whomever had last cleaned the room, just a small shard of white clay that no one would have considered important. But he knew where it came from, how it came to be there. He remembered the incident last night when he’d brawled with his brother. They’d smashed several figurines and one vase as they attempted to beat each other senseless. The shard he looked at now was no doubt a piece of one of those damaged items.
Who had cleaned the room? Caroline? Tallow or Grafton?
He’d never thought about who cleaned up the messes before. Never even noticed the messes even if he’d been the one to make them. How many servants had picked up after him and his brother and father every time they’d fallen into a fistfight?
He rose from his chair, walked over, and bent down to ease the slice of pottery from where it was wedged. Then he stood, regarding it.
He’d spent the last half hour wishing Peterson to the devil for his abominable treatment of the gray mare.
But was he any better?
Caroline was ready for bed when the soft knock sounded at the connecting door. Gripping her wrapper closed, she called, “Come in.”
Rogan opened the door. He was wearing his dressing gown, and his expression struck her as oddly reticent as he hovered in the doorway. “May I come in?”
“I just said you may,” she said with a grin. But when he didn’t reply to her jest, her smile slowly slipped away. “Rogan, what’s the matter?”
He came over to her and took her hands, searching her face with an intensity that dissolved her levity. “I came for a good-night kiss,” he said finally.
Her lips parted in a soft “Oh.”
“I want you to know, too, that I will think about what you said today. I want this marriage to work, Caroline.”
“So do I,” she whispered.
“I want to be the kind of husband you deserve.”
Her heart melted. “Oh, Rogan.”
“Now kiss me good night, and let us both fall asleep with a sweet memory.”
“Yes.” She waited, but he didn’t take her into his arms. “I thought you wanted to kiss me good night.”
“No.” His lips quirked with humor. “I want
you
to kiss
me
.”
“Oh.” Startled, she dropped her gaze to his mouth. “All right.”
“Come closer, love. I promise not to move.”
She came toward him, longing for the taste of
him with a hunger that surprised her. He guided her hand as she stepped closer to him, placed it on his shoulder. She rested the other on his chest.
“Do you want to kiss me?” he asked softly.
“Yes,” she whispered, entranced by his curving lips.
“Go ahead. Kiss your husband good night, love.”
She needed no more encouragement, and she stretched up on her toes to press her mouth to his. The kiss was urgent yet sweet, their lips clinging as Caroline swayed on her toes.
They moved apart, and Rogan steadied her with a hand on her arm as she rocked back on her heels. When he slipped his hand around her waist to hold her fast in his embrace, her startled brown eyes met his.
“I don’t want you afraid of me, Caroline.”
“I’m not,” she replied, distracted by the moisture that clung to his lips.
“Good.” And with a little smile and a whispered “Good night,” he left the room.
T
he next day, Rogan left the magistrate’s office with a frown on his face.
James Black had been found dead in his prison cell that very morning.
Docket had no explanation for it. No one had come to visit the criminal, so finding him dead in his cell with his throat cut had shocked him.
And it bothered Rogan. Greatly.
He had no doubts at all that Althorpe had something to do with James Black’s death.
He was glad now that he had contacted Gabriel Archer. Known as the Avenging Angel, Archer had built his reputation by using his impeccable investigative skills to resolve certain difficulties for members of the nobility, or anyone else wealthy enough to afford him. Ever since he had
exposed a traitor to the Crown nine years before, he had been in constant demand for matters that required discretion and excellent performance.
Rogan had no doubt that if anyone could ferret out Althorpe’s secrets, it was Gabriel Archer.
He made a mental note to write to Archer and notify him of this latest development as he started for the livery, where he had stabled his horse while he was in the village. He slowed as a glimpse of a familiar carriage caught his eye. The equipage, surrounded by three outriders, stopped in front of the dressmaker’s, and his wife descended, her maid at her heels.
Dressed in a becoming yellow dress and a simple straw bonnet, Caroline looked like a ray of sunshine personified. A smile curved his lips as he treasured the opportunity to observe her when she didn’t know she was being watched. She looked so petite amid the much taller footmen and outriders. Even her maid topped her by an inch or two.
And when he held her, her head barely reached his chest.
For an instant he imagined enfolding her small frame in his arms, her delicate curves pressed against him. Concerns over Althorpe faded to the back of his mind as an unfamiliar warmth flooded him. He wanted to go to Caroline, to talk to her and watch her smile. Hear her laugh. Before he could move, she went into the dress shop, her maid right behind her.
An ache grew in his chest, and he idly rubbed
the place where his heart beat. Good Lord, he was besotted. When she came into his view, he could think of nothing but her. He could almost smell her perfume, though he stood on the other side of the street. He knew how her lips would curve as she smiled at him, how her soft arms would feel as they embraced him.
Bloody hell. He was
happy
.
Uncertain how he felt about the unfamiliar emotion, he made his way across the street.
“Good afternoon, Lady Caroline.” Mrs. Denworthy came forward to greet them with a smile on her face.
Caroline smiled back at the reed-thin woman. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Denworthy. I’ve come about a new riding habit.”
“Worn out another one have you?” the seamstress teased, her deep dimples creasing.
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” she replied good-naturedly.
“I have a lovely shade of blue that would look wonderful on you,” the dressmaker said. “Let me fetch it.”
As Mrs. Denworthy disappeared into the back room, Marie went over to look at the ribbons spilled across a table. Caroline meandered through the familiar shop, touching a muslin here and a radiant satin there. How she loved the different materials and colors! Had she gone on to have a Season in London, she had no doubt she
would have gone overboard and ordered a dress in every possible hue and fabric.
A whisper-thin silk in a soft shade of rosy peach caught her eye. She carefully rubbed her fingers across the fabric, captured by its beauty and femininity.
“That shade was meant for you,” Rogan said from behind her.
Startled, she whirled to face him and found him even closer than she expected. “Rogan, what are you doing here?”
“Looking for you.” Without a care for anyone who might be watching, he dropped a soft kiss on her lips.
“Rogan!” Heat washed through her cheeks, and she glanced around. No one was in the shop but the two of them and Marie, who pretended intense interest in a silver ribbon.
Rogan laughed. “Come now, love. Everyone knows we’re married.”
“Still, such things aren’t done.”
He leaned closer, then chuckled as she craned her head out of reach. “I do them. However, if you feel more comfortable pretending we don’t like to touch each other, I can play along.”
“Rogan, how can you voice such things?” Scandalized, yet excited despite her better judgment, she turned back to the pinky peach silk. “Do you like this color then?”
“As I said, it’s perfect for you.” He came up beside her and caressed the material mere inches
from where her own fingers did the same. “Perhaps a night rail?”
“Out of silk? No, this was meant for a grand evening dress, I’m sure. I’m perfectly content with my regular nightclothes.”
He brought his mouth close to her ear. “I’m not.”
Heat shot through her. Dear Lord, how could he say such things here? Now? Her pulse skittered madly as she considered what else her bold and passionate husband might do in full view of the public. “Behave,” she whispered as Mrs. Denworthy came back with the blue velvet for her habit.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Hunt,” the seamstress said. “Have you come to help your wife choose a new riding habit?”
“Yes,” Rogan said, approaching the modiste with that charming smile of his. “And a few other things as well.”
“Rogan, no,” Caroline hissed.
He merely sent her a look that told her he would do what he wanted, no matter what her protests.
“I am pleased to assist you in any way I can,” Mrs. Denworthy gushed.
“A ball gown,” Rogan said, then pointed to the rosy peach silk. “Made of that material and suitable for a bride.”
Mrs. Denworthy sent Caroline a look of feminine approval. “You have exquisite taste, sir.”
“There might be a few more dresses I will want made for my wife,” Rogan continued. “Perhaps you can show me something…?”
“Of course!” Had her arms not been full of material, Mrs. Denworthy would no doubt have clapped in glee. “Such a generous husband you are, Mr. Hunt.”
“Why, thank you.”
“We will need to measure, of course. Do let me fetch my assistant.” The dressmaker disappeared into the back room again.
“Rogan, what are you doing?” Caroline demanded in a low voice. “I simply came here for a new riding habit.”
“You’re a beautiful woman,” her dangerously handsome husband said, flashing her a charming grin. He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it. “You deserve beautiful things.”
“I must agree,” said a woman in a voice like aged paper. “I have never seen you looking so well, Caroline.”
“Lady Jayton.” Caroline gave a curtsy to the elderly marchioness, who had just entered the shop with six servants to tend to her needs.
Lady Jayton sent a shrewd glance at Rogan. “I expect you are the cause of the becoming blush on my goddaughter’s cheeks, young man.”
“I can only hope,” Rogan replied, bowing. “I have heard much of you, Lady Jayton.”
The marchioness gave a wave of her hand. “Piffle. Pay no mind to gossip, sir, and you will be
the better for it.” She raised her snowy white brows at Caroline. “And you, child. Have you no kiss for your godmother?”
Obediently Caroline came forward and brushed her lips against the old woman’s creased cheek.
“So,” Lady Jayton said, “you’ve married at last, my girl. I regret not being able to attend your wedding, but I have only just returned from the continent.” She cast a knowledgeable and appreciative glance over Rogan, taking in every detail from top to toes. “A fine specimen indeed, despite his pedigree.”
Rogan scowled but held his tongue.
“We are well suited,” Caroline replied demurely.
“And married some days ago. Hmph. That settles it then. A week from Thursday, don’t you think?”
“A week from Thursday?” Caroline asked as Mrs. Denworthy came back up front, her assistant trailing behind her.
“Thursday next. A dinner in your honor. Small party, no more than twenty, at Jayton Hall.”
“A dinner in our honor?” Panicked, Caroline glanced at Rogan.
He stepped forward. “We’re honored, Lady Jayton, but—”
“Excellent. It’s done then.” The marchioness raised her brows at the dressmaker. “Bring me a chair, Cecelia, and see to my goddaughter’s needs. I do believe she will require quite a bit
of fashionable new attire. An evening dress, for instance?”
“Quite right, Your Grace,” Rogan agreed, abruptly siding with the most powerful peeress in the parish.
“You’ll need something new for the dinner party,” Lady Jayton said when Caroline opened her mouth to protest yet again. “Humor an old woman, girl.”
“And your husband,” Rogan chimed in.
Caroline knew when she was defeated. Despite her misgivings about attending any kind of social event, she knew she could never refuse her godmother. No one swayed Lady Jayton once she had made up her mind.
At least it was only a small dinner party at Lady Jayton’s familiar estate.
She turned to the seamstress. “Mrs. Denworthy, it seems I require an evening dress.”
“A dinner party.” The duke frowned and reached for his ever-present glass of water.
“Papa, you must help me.” Caroline paced around the parlor. “I haven’t been out in society in years.”
“Hmm. Lady Jayton. No one refuses her invitations.”
“I know that!” Caroline plopped onto the settee and twisted her fingers together in her lap. “But you remember what happened at my come-out ball.”
“I do.” The duke sighed. “Do you want me to
talk to her? Perhaps if I explain to her that you do not go out in public—”
“We can’t do that.” Shaking her head, Caroline rose to pace the room again.
“Why the devil not? I daresay my consequence equals Jayton’s, as does my daughter’s.”
“But not Rogan’s.”
“Ah.” Her father regarded her with a knowing smile. “You don’t care what Lady Jayton thinks of you for refusing her invitation, but you don’t want your husband to suffer for it.”
“Lady Jayton holds a lot of influence in the area,” Caroline admitted. “Her cachet would assure that Rogan’s business would flourish.”
“True. And that’s one of the assets you bring to the marriage, Caroline. Your social standing.”
She sent him a bland look. “I thought it was a fortune. Or was that a horse?”
The duke cast a warning glance her way. “You both brought things of value to the marriage. Yes, you brought wealth and a horse and your pedigree. And Hunt brings strength with which to protect you when I am gone.”
“Oh, Papa.” She tried for a teasing smile, but her heart clenched as she looked at his tired, lined face. “I don’t need protection.”
“Yes, you do,” he asserted, his dark eyes fierce. “Hunt will see to it.”
Startled by his vehemence, she tried to laugh it off. “I suppose he will. The two of you are so alike.”
Her father gave a grunt of disbelief. “You said Lady Jayton’s dinner party was a small one.”
She nodded. “About twenty people.”
He gave a dismissive wave of his hand, but the gesture lacked his usual vitality. “You will attend, of course.”
She paced again, tangling her fingers together. “What if the same thing happens? What if I contract a fit of vapors and embarrass my husband?”
“You didn’t do that at your wedding,” he pointed out.
This brought her agitated pacing to a halt. “You’re right.”
“I deliberately kept the guest list small,” the duke said. “I suspect that part of what bothered you last time was the terrible crush of people. That won’t happen at a small dinner party.”
“Perhaps.” She bit her lower lip in concentration, then cast her father an amused glance. “If it comes to be too much, I can always plead the headache.”
He chuckled. “That’s my daughter.”
With a harsh wheeze, his laughter turned to coughing. His eyes widened, watered. His face reddened as he bent forward in his chair, still coughing.
“Papa!” She flew to his side, kneeling beside his chair. She laid a hand on his back as his body continued to wrack and shake. “Papa, what can I do?”
He waved a hand in the general direction of the
water glass. Caroline snatched it up and handed it to him. He nearly dropped it. She closed her fingers over his and guided the wavering glass to his mouth so he could take a sip, bracing one hand on his back.
He continued to cough, though with less intensity. She sat beside him, calmly guiding the water to his lips while inside her nerves vibrated with fear. Her father was dying, and there was nothing she could do about it.
Slowly the hacking receded, and he drew several shaky breaths. She offered him the glass again, but he shook his head and pushed it aside with a trembling hand. As she replaced it on the table, he fell back in his chair, closing his eyes as he struggled to take breath after breath.
“Papa, is there anything I can do?”
“Fetch Kerns,” he rasped, too spent to even open his eyes. “I need to rest.”
Knees weak with fear, Caroline scrambled to her feet and raced for the door, flinging it open and sending a nearby footman for the butler. Then she hurried back to her father.
He lay as she left him, his skin unnaturally pale, his lips dry. Fear gripped her by the throat as she tentatively touched her fingers to the side of his neck.
His pulse throbbed, weak but steady, beneath her touch.
She sighed with relief, so overcome she nearly burst into tears. His eyes slowly opened, and he managed a tiny smile.
“I’m not going…without a fight,” he whispered.
She took his hand in both of hers, unashamed of the tears that lingered, unshed, in her eyes just as Kerns hurried into the room.
“Lady Caroline, is he…?”
“He’s weak,” she said, gently placing her father’s hand on the armrest. “Please take him to his room.”
“Very good, Lady Caroline.” Kerns signaled, and two footman came forward to assist him with the duke.
Caroline stood back and watched the servants help her father to his feet. One shaking step at a time, he made his way toward the door. As he passed her, he sent her what he no doubt intended to be a reassuring look.