“You don’t know how?”
“Oh, he died from a gunshot wound to the heart, all right. The coroner said so. But my parents and brother shipped me out of England before I could find out who actually fired the shot. His valet swears he knew nothing about it, and Bette thought I had been trying to kill the makebate. Now that Troy is here to corroborate my story, the magistrate says he will send a Runner to interview the current Lord Lynbrook, the one who had the most to gain by the baron’s demise. It had to be him or the surgeon, for once they were home, the household would have heard that second shot.”
“Then you never fired early, or tried to kill him?” She answered herself: “Of course not.”
Torrie’s confidence in Wynn removed the earlier hurt. He took her hand and kissed the fingertips. She
did
like him. That was enough. For now.
Torrie’s fingers tingled—right down to her toes. She wanted him to kiss her. That was never the problem. Every time she was near the man she could feel her body try to sway toward his. She wanted him, but she wanted him to be the right man, the one who would never betray her trust, who would never break her heart. She touched the jeweled key that lay there, over that fast-beating organ. She could love a rogue—she doubted her heart would listen to reason once it had chosen— but she could not marry one.
Torrie was desperately afraid it was Wynn or no one, but she needed time to tell. Therefore she made only token resistance when they reached her door and Wynn said, “I have to insist that you do not go out without proper safeguards.”
She raised her eyebrow in imitation of his own expression of superior inquiry. “ ‘Insist’?”
Wynn smiled and brushed his fingers lightly over her brow. “Request, then. I most humbly request that my lady not leave the house without adequate protection.”
“And what do you consider adequate protection, my lord watchdog?” she asked, smiling back.
“Why, me, of course. And Homer.”
* * * *
So in the following days, while the Runners searched for the Scarecrow, and Wynn and Barrogi searched for Boyce, the viscount, the earl’s daughter, and Homer were seen everywhere together. Dressed in the first stare, finally, Wynn walked with Torrie in the park, attended the opera with her, and drove at her side out to Richmond for a picnic, well chaperoned by her maid and his new valet, who instantly disappeared into the maze there, leaving only the dog as dogsberry.
They viewed museum exhibits, Mrs. Reese’s charity schools, and one of Wynn’s ships, when it docked in the harbor. They went to a musicale at Lady Lynbrook’s, and watched Major Campe turn Bette’s pages, missing more than half the sheets as he watched her face instead of her fingers.
They even ate dinner at Wynn’s sister-in-law’s house. His house.
Wynn was relieved to see that Marissa had sense enough not to seat her gentleman’s gentleman among the gentlefolk at her table. Marissa also had sense enough, once she noted how Wynn’s glance kept lingering on Lady Torrie, and how Torrie could not restrain the soft smile when he was near, to start looking for a house of her own. Wynn would pay for it, of course.
Pages of wagers in White’s betting book were conceded. The Keyes Diamond was as good as claimed. The new bets were on the dates of the nuptials and the birth of the first child. A few of the gamblers, watching how the couple kept brushing against each other, seemingly by accident, laid odds that the second event would not be the full nine months after the first.
The only question in everyone’s mind was, What was taking them so long to send in the official notice?
Torrie’s father was almost tearing his hair out, what he had left. He wanted to go home. He missed his wife. Letters from Yorkshire were not nearly good enough. Now that things were finally going so well with the youngsters, though, he did not want to precipitate another crisis by asking Wynn’s intentions. Oh, the lad was honorable enough, Duchamp had no doubt, and brave enough to take on a strong-willed woman, but was Torrie convinced of his worth? He wrote another letter to his wife, begging her assistance.
Wynn was waiting for Torrie to ask him. After all, he’d asked her the last time and had been firmly rebuffed. Besides, he was waiting for a response from the magistrate’s office, who was awaiting a report from the Runner who had gone to Lord Lynbrook’s country residence. Wynn wanted his name exonerated once and for all before he offered it to Torrie again.
And there was still the problem of Rosie. Not only was that dilemma not going away, but it was growing larger daily. Any husband who could be purchased for her was wrong by definition, and a chancy fate to inflict on Rosie and her infant. But Wynn could not get engaged, hold a marriage ceremony, and go off on a bride trip, leaving poor Rosie to fend for herself.
Torrie was waiting to hear about Rosie, too. The child could not be his, she knew, since he had not been anywhere near England at the right time, but if Wynn intended to take up with the woman again, once she gave birth ... Well, that did not bear thinking of, but Torrie could not help herself from doing just that.
Besides, they had both tacitly agreed to put off talk of the future until the kidnappers were found. What good was planning tomorrow while today was still so fraught with danger?
The Scarecrow was soon apprehended, but he would not reveal his employer’s identity. He was going to be transported anyway, so why should
he
cooperate? Then his bandaged hand began to fester, so he traded Boyce’s name for a surgeon’s visit. He still kept mum about Boyce’s new address, claiming he had no knowledge of it, or he would have gone there to collect his pay. Actually, the Scarecrow was hoping Boyce eventually got the witch who’d wielded the hairpin.
Barrogi was all for conducting an inquiry of his own, if they left him alone in a cell with the Scarecrow for a few minutes, but Wynn was not that desperate yet. The duns had moved into Boyce’s old location, and the mawworm had not been seen since the night of the masquerade, but he had to appear somewhere.
Meantime, Wynn was enjoying himself. Not only was he getting to spend time with Torrie but his meals were hot, his bathwater was always ready, and he could see his reflection in his black boots. He never had to worry about being dressed right, and he never had to tie another blasted cravat. What a relief.
Torrie was not quite as content. Her father was looking harried, and her aunt was impatient to return to her own circles. She knew her name was being bandied about more than ever in the scandal sheets: the Dilatory Diamond, they were calling her, Miss Off-Keye. They all—the gossips, her family, and even the household staff—considered her overnice in her requirements. Former friends were giving her nasty looks, as if to say that if Torrie did not want the best thing to swim into their orbit, she should throw him back into the pool. Wynn did not seem to mind, but Torrie was growing uncomfortable. Besides, she needed a new maid.
The first one the agency sent, Fairfax, talked too much.
Constance Dawe could not sew a straight seam.
Miss Lightman— Oh, botheration. Torrie hired Tina, from Madame Michaela’s.
The only other difficulty was the argument Torrie and Wynn had over where to hold the wedding breakfast. For Ruthie and Young Cyrus, of course. Torrie felt it should be at Duchamp House, at her father’s expense. Wynn wanted to host it in Kensington, where the couple would be living. They settled on the Cricket Inn at the outskirts of town.
Wagons brought servants from Duchamp House and Fraser’s place, and carriages brought the gentry: Torrie and her father, her aunt and Wynn. Fraser did not come, but Major Campe did, with Bette. Barrogi brought Rosie and Homer to give them both an outing, he said. Rosie and Bette wished each other well in passing. The menservants got up a game of cricket on the green, with Mallen and Old Cyrus arguing every call while the maids cheered them on. There was enough food and drink and private parlors and secluded walking paths to keep everyone in spirits for the joyful occasion.
When Lady Lynbrook and Major Campe, now on crutches, made their slow way down toward the duck pond, Lord Duchamp suggested that Wynn take Torrie down one of those tree-hung lanes, hoping that the newlyweds’ happiness was catching. If he thought banging their heads together would knock some sense into them, he’d do that instead, by George. He’d be an old man, a bald, old man, before these two nodcocks came to an understanding.
Embarrassed at her father’s obvious ploy, Torrie colored, but went off without the least hint of reluctance. If Papa knew that the bride was breeding, Torrie supposed, he’d be singing a different song, and keeping Torrie as far from Wynn, and temptation, as possible. Torrie had no intention of telling.
“Ruthie made a beautiful bride, don’t you think?” she asked when they were away from the others. She could not help wondering what it would be like to carry a babe, Wynn’s infant, inside her.
“They say all brides are beautiful on their wedding day.” Wynn could not help thinking how beautiful his Torrie would be.
And her father could not help cursing when his daughter arrived back at the inn with no hair ribbon, no glove, and no blasted engagement ring!
Lord Boyce was weighing his options. Even his scale was crooked.
He could not go home because the bailiffs were there. Everything of value had been sold off anyway.
He could not make another try for Lady Torrie because a small army surrounded her. She was too hard to handle anyway.
He could not be seen on the town because the Runners were there. Every heiress—lady or merchant’s daughter—was out of his reach now anyway.
How the mighty were fallen! What he did have was a beard and soiled clothing, thanks to losing his valet, so he was not quite so recognizable in the shadows of the low taverns he was forced to frequent. He had the horse and wagon the Scarecrow had stolen, so he had a means of transportation, and he had a roof over his head. The roof leaked, and mice and spiders lived in it, but it had to be better than Newgate’s. He also had enough blunt to see him to Scotland and his father’s old abandoned hunting box, where no magistrate would think to look for him. The box was more a shack; he could barely understand the country lumpkins nearby; and he had no monies to live on once he got there.
So it was starve in Scotland or languish in a London jail. Or make one last attempt at kidnapping.
The whole disaster was Lady Torrie’s fault. If she were not so beautiful, so rich, and so well-connected, he would never have settled on her in the first place. Why, he could have fallen in love with any other chit’s face and fortune if the Keyes woman had not smiled at him now and again. Dammit, if she had married him like a sensible female, he never would have considered a life of crime. He’d be dressed in elegance and seated in the lap of luxury, instead of sitting on the floor of an abandoned cottage in rags, trying to start a fire in the smoking hearth. Lady Victoria Keyes had caused the mess, so she should pay. That made perfect sense to Lord Boyce. Unfortunately, he could not think of a way to make the wench supply him with enough funds to establish a new life in the lavish style to which he deserved to be accustomed.
Then he heard about her and that encroaching Ingall. Even in the dives they were talking about the Diamond’s hero, and the Nabob’s Jewel. Hell, the man was barely a gentleman, he dressed like a barbarian, and he did not even need the Duchamp blunt! Life was so unfair Boyce almost cried, except that would dampen his tinder. But now he thought of a way to get his money and his revenge both.
The viscount had to be worth something to the Keyes woman. He had to be worth a lot more to that lucky soldier friend of his they were talking about, especially if all the papers were not signed yet handing over half the fool’s fortune. Then there was that starchy sister-in-law. She’d pay just to keep an abduction quiet. Hell, Boyce figured, he would not even have to send out ransom notes. Ingall could simply write a note to his own man of business to have the blunt delivered. Any fool who was dicked in the nob enough to give away half his brass deserved to be relieved of the rest, for his own protection. Yes. Boyce could capture Lady Torrie’s blasted champion.
There were three things wrong with Boyce’s plan: Ingall was bigger than he was, stronger than he was, and, Boyce feared, smarter than he was. Of all Boyce’s choices, suicide was his least favorite. He may have made a few minor miscalculations in the past, Boyce told himself, but he was neither stupid enough nor crazy enough to take on a real-life hero.
So he’d kidnap Ingall’s dog.
The viscount had to be the softest touch in all of London, Boyce decided, giving his blunt to charity, hiring all those filthy soldiers, taking in every stray off the streets, to say nothing of running into burning buildings to rescue perfect strangers. Surely he’d pay a king’s ransom for the return of his mongrel, for the flat was seldom seen without the fleabag. Boyce would not have spent a groat to ransom his own mother, but each to his own, and Ingall’s own into Boyce’s pockets.
Now, stealing a dog, especially a small dog, ought to have been a snap for an astute fellow like Boyce, Boyce thought. Why, it might not even be a crime. He could say the mongrel followed him home. A sausage, a sack, and a string—that was all he’d need, and he already had the sack and the rope they were going to use to tie up the heiress. The only thing missing was the damn dog. Ingall never let the cursed canine out alone. You’d think it was a blasted baby instead of a mere dog, the way Ingall toted the thing around with him. When the viscount did leave his lodgings without the creature, someone else was always in the place, a maid or the valet or that foreign fellow who picked his teeth with a stiletto. Boyce was not in a hurry to take up housebreaking, not there.
He added a golden boy to the ransom he was going to ask, for having to part with another precious coin just to find the address. What kind of Croesus lived in such an unfashionable part of town anyway? Boyce was more than convinced the viscount was attics to let when he saw the shabby residence.