Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle (85 page)

When they weren't playing waltzes, the musicians had been instructed to entertain Em's guests with gentle airs and sonatas, all pleasing to the ear. As they wandered the crowds, engaging in the usual banter and occasional repartee, without question or, indeed, thought, remaining by each other's side, Harry realised that his siren was indeed calmer, more her usual self than she had been at Almack's the night before.

His relief was telling; he had, he realised, been harbouring a deep concern. Presumably, last night, it had merely been the unexpected gush of semi-congratulations that had shaken her; tonight, she seemed at ease, assured, typically confident.

If he could only discover the cause of the strange hint of sorrow that lay, deep but present, beneath her serene veneer—and eradicate it—he'd be happier than any man, he felt, had any right to be.

She was perfect, she was his—as he had always sensed she could be. All he wanted of life was here, with her, within his grasp; time was all that now stood in his path.

But tomorrow would come—it wasn't what he'd originally planned but he wasn't going to wait any longer. He had completed all the important acts—she would simply have to believe him.

The supper waltz came and went, as did supper itself, an array of delicacies Em's old cook had, Lucinda assured him, been up the past three nights producing. Filled with laughter and repartee, the hours fled past until, at the last, the musicians laid bow to string once more and the strains of the last waltz rose above the sea of glittering heads.

The third waltz.

Close by the edge of the floor, Harry and Ruthven were deep in discussions of a distinctly equine nature while beside them Mr Amberly and Lucinda pursued a shared interest in landscapes. As the music swelled, Harry turned to Lucinda—just as she turned to him. Their gazes locked; after a moment, Harry's lips twisted wryly.

His eyes on hers, he offered her, not his arm but his hand.

Lucinda glanced at it, then looked into his green eyes. Her heart accelerated, pulsing in her throat.

Harry's brows slowly rose. “Well, my dear?”

Her gaze steady on his, Lucinda drew in a breath. Her smile soft and oddly fragile, she placed her hand in his.

Harry's fingers closed tight over hers. He bowed elegantly; Lucinda's smile grew—she sank into a curtsy. Harry raised her, a light in his eyes she had not before seen. He drew her into his arms, then, with consummate skill, whirled them onto the floor.

Lucinda let herself flow with his stride. His strength surrounded her; he was protection and support, lover and master, helpmate and friend. She searched the hard planes of his face, chiselled, austere; with him, she could be what she wished—what she wanted to be. Her gaze softened, as did her lips. He noticed; his gaze fell to her lips, then rose again to capture hers, a subtle shift in the green raising a slow heat beneath her skin, a warmth that owed nothing to the crowds and everything to what lay between them.

With inherent grace, they swirled down the long room, seeing no one, aware of nothing beyond their shared existence, trapped by the waltz and the promise in each other's eyes.

Lord Ruthven and Mr Amberly looked on, smugly satisfied smiles on their faces.

“Well—I think we can congratulate ourselves, Amberly.” Lord Ruthven turned and held out his hand.

“Indeed.” Mr Amberly beamed and shook it. “A job well done!” His eyes lifted to the couple circling the floor. His smile grew broader. “No doubt about it.”

Lord Ruthven followed his gaze—and grinned. “Not a one.”

As she leaned back against Harry's arm and let the magic of the moment take her, Lucinda knew that was true. Even while a small part of her sorrowed, she felt elation sweep her. He would ask her very soon—and she knew how she would answer. She loved him too much to deny him again, even should he deny her. Deep inside, her conviction that he loved her had never waned—it never would, she was sure. She could draw on that for strength as she had hoped to draw on his acknowledgement of his love. If it was not to be, it wasn't; she was too prosaic a creature to rail against a much-desired fate.

With the last ringing chord of the waltz, the evening was declared over.

As family, Harry hung back, allowing the other guests to depart. Gerald finally headed downstairs, leaving Harry with Lucinda at their head. His hand found hers in the folds of her gown; twining his fingers through hers, he drew her to face him. Ignoring Em leaning against the balustrade on Lucinda's other side, Harry raised Lucinda's hand to brush a kiss across her knuckles, then shifting his hold, his gaze steady on hers, he tipped her fingers back to place a kiss on her inner wrist.

Lucinda, trapped in his gaze, suppressed a delicious shiver.

Harry smiled—and traced her cheek with one long finger. “We'll talk tomorrow.”

The words were soft, low—they went straight to Lucinda's heart. She smiled softly; Harry bowed, first to her, then to Em. Then, without a backward glance, he descended the stairs—to the very last, the very picture of the elegant rake.

Outside Hallows House, lurking in the shadows on the opposite side of the street, unremarkable amid the small gathering of urchins and inveterate watchers who congregated outside any ball or party, Scrugthorpe kept his eyes fixed on the lighted doorway and muttered beneath his breath.

“Just wait till I get my hands on you, bitch. Once I'm done with you, no high-stickler of a gentleman will want to sully himself with you. Damaged goods, you'll be—well and truly damaged.” He cackled softly, gleefully and rubbed his hands. In the shadows, his eyes gleamed.

A link-boy, waiting to pick up any likely trade, strolled past, casting Scrugthorpe an incurious glance. A few paces on, the boy passed a street-sweeper, leaning on his broom, his face obscured by an ancient floppy hat. The link-boy grinned at the sweeper, then ambled on to prop against a nearby lamppost.

Scrugthorpe missed the exchange, intent on the last stragglers emerging from Hallows House.

“You'll be mine very soon,” he leered. “Then I'll teach you not to give a man lip. Too hoity by half.” His grin turned feral. “I'll bring you back to earth right quick.”

A thin, tuneful whistle floated across Scrugthorpe's senses, distracting him from his plotting. The tune continued—a popular air; Scrugthorpe stiffened. Alert, he scanned the shadows for the whistler. His gaze settled on the link-boy. The tune continued; Scrugthrope knew it well, even down to the curious lilting catch the whistler put at the end of each verse.

Scrugthorpe cast a last glance at the empty doorway across the road, then, with every evidence of unconcern, headed off down the street.

The sweeper and link-boy watched him go. Then the link-boy nodded to the sweeper and slipped into the shadows in Scrugthorpe's wake.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
, Harry was flat on his stomach deep in dreams, his arms wrapped about his pillow, when a large hand descended on his bare shoulder.

His response was instantaneous—half-rising, eyes wide, muscles tensed, fists clenching.

“Now, now!” Dawlish had wisely backed out of reach. “I wish as you'd get out of that habit—there ain't no angry husbands 'round here.”

Eyes glittering, Harry hauled in a breath then expelled it irritably. Propping himself on one arm, he raked his hair out of his eyes. “What the devil's the time?”

“Nine,” Dawlish replied, already at the wardrobe. “But you've got visitors.”

“At
nine?
” Harry turned over and sat up.

“Salter—and he's brought that agent of the missus's—Mr Mabberly.”

Harry blinked. Draping his arms over his knees, he stared at Dawlish. “I haven't married the damned woman yet.”

“Just getting in some practice, like.” Dawlish turned from the robe with a grey coat over his arm. “This do?”

Ten minutes later, Harry descended the narrow staircase, wondering if Lucinda would prefer a grander place when they stayed in town. He hoped she wouldn't—he'd been renting these rooms for the past ten years; they felt comfortable, like a well-worn coat.

He opened the door to his study and beheld his visitors, Salter standing by the desk, Mabberly, looking thoroughly uncomfortable, perched on the chair before it.

At sight of him, Mabberly rose.

“Good morning, Mabberly.” Harry nodded and shut the door. “Salter.”

Salter returned his nod but refrained from comment, his lips compressed as if holding the words back.

Stiff as a poker, Mr Mabberly inclined his head fractionally. “Mr Lester. I hope you'll forgive this intrusion but this gentleman—” he glanced at Salter “—is most insistent that I provide answers to questions regarding Mrs Babbacombe's affairs that I can only describe as highly confidential.” Decidedly prim, Mr Mabberly brought his gaze back to Harry's face. “He tells me he's working for you.”

“Indeed.” Harry waved Mr Mabberly back to his chair and took his own behind the desk. “I'm afraid we are in pressing need of the information Mr Salter has requested of you, in a matter pertaining to Mrs Babbacombe's safety.” As Harry had expected, the mention of Lucinda's safety stopped Mr Mabberly in his tracks. “That is,” Harry smoothly continued, “assuming you do, in fact, know the answers?”

Mr Mabberly shifted, eyeing Harry somewhat warily. “As it happens, I do—it's necessary for one in my position, acting as the company's representative, to be absolutely certain just whose interests I'm representing.” He shot a glance at Salter, then brought his gaze back to Harry. “But you mentioned Mrs Babbacombe's safety. How can the information you requested be important?”

Succinctly, Harry told him, detailing no more than the bare bones of the presumptive plot; Mr Mabberly was businessman enough to readily follow their hypothesis. As the tale unfolded, his open features reflected shock, outrage—and, eventually, a dogged determination.

“The cads!” Slightly flushed, he glanced at Harry. “You say you intend taking out a warrant against them?”

Salter answered. “We've cause enough for a warrant
pro-
vided
we can find evidence on this guardianship business—without that, their motive's uncertain.”

“So.” Harry fixed Mr Mabberly with a flat green gaze. “The question is will you help us?”

“I'll do anything I can,” Mr Mabberly vowed, his voice ringing with fervour. Even he heard it. A trifle shocked, he hurried to excuse it. “Mrs Babbacombe's been very good to me, you understand—there aren't many who would appoint someone as relatively young as myself to such an important position.”

“Of course.” Harry smiled, endeavouring to make the gesture as unthreatening as he could at that hour of the morning. “And, as a loyal employee of Babbacombe and Company, you would naturally be anxious to assist in ensuring your principals' personal safety.”

“Indeed.” Obviously more comfortable, Mr Mabberly sat back. “Mrs Babbacombe is indeed Miss Babbacombe's sole legal guardian.” Again, a slight flush rose in his cheeks. “I'm perfectly sure because, when I first took up my position, I was uncertain as to the point—so I asked. Mrs Babbacombe's always a model of business etiquette—she insisted I see the guardianship deed.”

Salter straightened, his expression lightening. “So—not only do you
know
she's the sole guardian—you can swear to it?”

Mr Mabberly nodded, swivelling to look at Salter. “Certainly. I naturally felt obliged to read the document and verify the seal. It was unquestionably genuine.”

“Excellent!” Harry looked at Salter—the big man's face was alight, his frame suddenly thrumming with harnessed energy. “So we can get that warrant without further delay?”

“If Mr Mabberly here will come with me to the magistrate and swear to Mrs Babbacombe's status, I can't see anything that'll stop us. I've already got friends in the force standing by—they'll do the actual arrest but I, for one, definitely want to be there when they take Joliffe into custody.”

“I'm prepared to come with you immediately, sir.” Mr Mabberly stood. “From the sounds of it, the sooner this Joliffe person is a guest of His Majesty's government the better.”

“I couldn't agree more.” Harry stood and offered Mr Mabberly his hand. “And while you two are tying up Joliffe and his crew, I'll keep Mrs Babbacombe under my eye.”

“Aye—that'd be wise.” Salter shook hands with Harry and they all turned to the door. “Joliffe's got the makings of a fairly desperate character. It wouldn't hurt to keep the lady close—just until we've got him safely stowed. I'll send word the instant we've got the blackguards in custody, sir.”

“Send word to me at Hallows House,” Harry told him.

After seeing his guests to the hall, Harry returned to the study and quickly glanced through his letters. He looked up as Dawlish entered with a cup of coffee. “Here you are.” Dawlish set the cup down on the blotter. “So—what's the sum of it, then?”

Harry told him.

“Hmm—so that clerk fellow's not so useless after all?”

Harry took a sip of his coffee. “I never said he was useless. Gormless. And I'm willing to accept that I might have misjudged him.”

Dawlish nodded. “Good! Last day of this ramshackle business, then. Can't say I'm sad.”

Harry snorted. “Nor I.”

“I'll get breakfast on the table.” Dawlish glanced at the long-case clock in the corner. “We've still an hour to go before we're due at Hallows House.”

Harry set down his cup. “We'd best use the time to get all tidy here—I expect to leave for Lester Hall later this evening.”

Dawlish looked back from the door, brows flying. “Oh-ho! Finally going to take the plunge, are you? 'Bout time, if you ask me. Mind—wouldn't have thought you'd choose a family picnic to do it at—but it's your funeral.”

Harry lifted his head and glared but the door had already closed.

 

L
ATER THAT AFTERNOON
, Harry recalled Dawlish's observation with grim resignation. Not in his wildest dreams had he imagined playing the most important scene of his life on such a stage.

They were seated on colourful coach rugs on a long grassy slope leading down to the gently rippling River Lea. Some miles north of Islington, not far from Stamford Hill, the woods and meadows close by the river provided a pleasant spot for young families and those seeking a draught of country peace. Although some way down the low escarpment, their position afforded them an uninterrupted view over the river valley, meadows giving way to marshland, water glinting in the sun. Roads meandered through the marshes, leading to Walthamstow, just beyond the valley. Oaks and beeches at their backs shielded them from the sun; the haze of a glorious afternoon surrounded them. Bees buzzed, flitting from fieldflower to hedgerow bloom; doves cooed overhead.

Harry drew in a deep breath—and shot a considering glance at Lucinda, stretched out beside him. Beyond her reclined Em, her hat over her face. On a neighbouring rug sat Heather and Gerald, engrossed in animated discourse. Beyond them, at a suitable distance, perched on and about a collection of fallen logs, sat Agatha and Em's even more severe dresser, together with Em's coachman, Dawlish, Joshua, Sim and the little maid Amy. In their dark clothes, they looked like so many crows.

Harry grimaced and looked away. Fate had chosen a fine moment to turn fickle.

The instant he had realised that it was Heather's guardianship that was Joliffe and Mortimer Babbacombe's goal, he had determined to come between them and Lucinda with all possible speed. By marrying her, he would assume legal responsibility in all such matters—automatically, without question. It was the one, absolutely guaranteed way of protecting her, of shielding her from their machinations.

But her yesterday had been filled with preparations for the soirée; the household had been at sixes and sevens. He hadn't liked his prospects of finding a quiet moment, let alone a quiet corner to propose.

As for today, they had organised this outing a week ago as a quiet relaxation away from the
ton
after the excitement of the soirée. They had come in two carriages, Em's and Lucinda's, the menservants riding atop; Agatha and Amy had shared Lucinda's carriage with their mistress and himself. They had lunched surrounded by sunshine and peace. Now Em looked set for her postprandial nap; it would probably be at least an hour before hunger again prodded Heather and Gerald to a more general awareness.

So, since learning of her danger, this was his first chance to remove her from it. Hiding his determination behind an easy expression, Harry got to his feet. Lucinda looked up, putting up her hand to shield her eyes. Harry smiled reassuringly down at her before lifting his gaze to her drab watchdogs. With a slight movement of his head, he summoned Dawlish, then strolled back towards the trees. When he was out of earshot of his intended and his aunt, he stopped and waited for Dawlish to reach him.

“Something wrong?”

Harry smiled politely. “No. I just thought I'd let it be known that, when I take Mrs Babbacombe for a stroll in a few moments, we won't need an escort.” When Dawlish screwed up his eyes, as if considering arguing, Harry continued, his tone growing steely, “She'll be perfectly safe with me.”

Dawlish humphed. “Can't say as I blame you. Cramp anyone's style, it would, having to go down on your knees before an audience.”

Harry raised his eyes heavenwards in a mute gesture of appeal.

“I'll tell the others.”

Harry hurriedly lowered his gaze but Dawlish was already stomping back through the trees. Muttering a curse, Harry did the same, returning to the rugs on the grass.

“Come for a walk.”

Lucinda glanced up at the soft words—which cloaked what sounded like a command. Beside her, Em was gently snoring; Heather and Gerald were in a world of their own. She met Harry's eyes, very green; he raised a brow and held out his hand. Lucinda studied it for an instant, savouring the thrill of anticipation that shot through her, then, with studied calm, laid her fingers in his.

Harry drew her to her feet. Tucking her hand in his arm, he turned her towards the leafy woods.

The woods were not extensive, merely stands of trees separating fields and meadows. They strolled without words, leaving the others behind, until they came to a large field left fallow. The meadow grasses and flowers had taken over; the ground was carpeted in a shifting sea of small bright blooms.

Lucinda sighed. “How lovely.” She smiled up at Harry.

Engaged in scanning their surroundings, he glanced back at her in time to return her smile. The trees screened them from their companions and any others strolling the river banks; they were not isolated but as private as, in the circumstances, it was probably wise to be. He gestured ahead; by unvoiced agreement, they strolled to the centre of the field where a large rock, weathered to smoothness, created a natural seat.

With a swirl of her blue muslin skirts, Lucinda sat. Harry noticed that her gown matched the cornflowers scattered through the grass. She had worn a new bonnet but had let it fall to dangle by its ribbons on her back, leaving her face un-shadowed. She lifted her head and her gaze met his.

Stillness held them, then her delicate brows arched slightly, in query, in invitation.

Harry scanned her face, then drew in a deep breath.

“Ah-hem!”

They both turned to see Dawlish striding across the field. Harry bit back a curse. “What
now?
”

Dawlish cast him a sympathetic glance. “There's a messenger come—'bout that business this morning.”

Harry groaned. “Now?”

Dawlish met his eye. “Thought as how you might think it better to get that matter all tied and tight—before you get…distracted, like.”

Harry grimaced—Dawlish had a point.

“Set on seeing you specifically, this messenger—said as that was his orders.” Dawlish nodded back at the trees. “Said he'd wait by the stile yonder.”

Swallowing his irritation, Harry shot a considering glance at Lucinda; she met it with an affectionate smile. Spending five minutes to acknowledge the end of Joliffe's threat would leave him free to concentrate on her—wholly, fully, without reservation. Without further interruption. Harry looked at Dawlish. “Which stile?”

“It's along the fence a little way.”

“We didn't pass a fence.”

Dawlish frowned and surveyed the woods through which he'd come. “It's that way—and around to the left, I think.” He scratched his head. “Or is it the right?”

“Why don't you just show Mr Lester the way?”