Authors: Lisa Kleypas
“All right,” Gentry said impatiently. “Let’s get to the point, Cannon. I have no desire to spend my entire wedding day with you.”
That elicited a grin from the former magistrate. “Very well, I will try to be succinct. Ever since you joined the Bow Street force, Sir Grant has kept me informed of your accomplishments; the detective operations, the work with the foot patrols, the pursuits that you’ve undertaken at the hazard of your life. But it wasn’t until the Barthas house fire that I realized how much you have changed.”
“I haven’t changed,” Gentry said warily.
“You’ve learned to value others’ lives as much as your own,” Sir Ross continued. “You’ve met the challenge I presented to you three years ago, and you’ve contributed greatly to the public welfare. And now you’ve even taken a wife. Interestingly enough, she is the kind of young woman you might have married had circumstances not deprived you of your title and position so long ago.”
Gentry’s eyes narrowed. “I never gave a damn about the title. And God knows I have no use for it now.”
The older man toyed with his spoon, wearing an
expression befitting a chess player in the middle of a long game. “There is something you’ve never quite understood about your title. It’s yours, whether you want it or not. A title doesn’t disappear merely because one chooses to ignore it.”
“It does if one chooses to become someone else.”
“But you’re not someone else,” Sir Ross rejoined. “The real Nick Gentry died fourteen years ago. You are Lord Sydney.”
“No one knows that.”
“That,” Sir Ross said calmly, “is about to change.”
Gentry went very still as he absorbed the statement. “What the hell does that mean?”
“After a great deal of deliberation, I decided to begin the process of dignification on your behalf. Recently I explained the particulars of your situation to the offices of the Crown and the Lord Chancellor. Not only did I assure them that you are indeed the long-lost Lord Sydney, I also confirmed that you are financially equipped to manage the title. In approximately a fortnight, the Clerk of the Crown will issue a Writ of Summons, calling you to the House of Lords. At which time I will introduce you publicly as Lord Sydney, at a ball that will be given in your honor.”
Gentry shot up from the table, his chair falling back and clattering to the floor. “Go to hell, Cannon!”
Lottie started at the burst of hostility. Gentry reacted as if his very life were being threatened. However, the danger he faced was not the physical peril he was accustomed to…it was intangible, insidious…
the one prison he could not escape. Lottie sensed the thoughts that writhed behind his set expression, the way his clever mind analyzed the sudden predicament and considered various ways to evade it.
“I’ll deny everything,” Gentry said.
Sir Ross made a temple of his hands, regarding him steadily. “If you do, I will respond with depositions from myself, Sir Grant, your sister, and even your wife, testifying to the fact that you have privately confessed yourself to be Lord Sydney. Those, combined with circumstantial oddities such as missing burial records and inconsistent reports of your death, form what is known in English law as a
fecundatio ab extra
—a rare but not impossible occurrence.”
Gentry looked as if he wanted to murder the former Bow Street magistrate. “I’ll petition the House of Lords to be allowed to renounce the title. God knows they’ll be overjoyed to get rid of me.”
“Don’t be a fool. Do you really believe they would ever allow you to disclaim your title? To their minds, such a renunciation would challenge the very institution of the peerage. They would fear that the distinctions between the classes—no, the monarchy itself—would be threatened.”
“You don’t believe in privilege based on birth,” Gentry shot back. “Why force a damned title on me?
I don’t want it.
”
“This has nothing to do with my political beliefs. This is a matter of simple fact. You are Sydney, no matter what you call yourself. You are not going to
be able to overturn seven hundred years of hereditary principle, nor will you be able to avoid your obligations as Lord Sydney any longer.”
“Obligations to what?” Gentry sneered. “To an estate that has been held in abeyance for fourteen years?”
“You have a responsibility to the tenants who are trying to eke out a living on ramshackle government-managed lands. To the House of Lords, where your seat has gone vacant for two decades. To your sister, who is obligated to keep her relationship with her own brother a secret. To your wife, who will enjoy far more respect and social advantage as Lady Sydney than she ever would as Mrs. Gentry. To the memory of your parents. And to yourself. For half of your life you’ve been hiding behind a false name. It is time for you to acknowledge who you are.”
Gentry’s hands clenched. “That’s not for you to decide.”
“If I don’t force the issue, you’ll spend the rest of your life avoiding it.”
“That is my right!”
“Perhaps. But regardless, you will find it impossible to remain a runner. Sir Grant concurs with my opinion, and therefore he will no longer require your services at Bow Street.”
A wash of color spread over Gentry’s face. His throat worked violently as he realized that his days as a runner had just come to an end. “Then I’ll spend my time taking private commissions.”
“That would be a novelty, wouldn’t it?” Sir Ross asked sardonically. “The crime-solving viscount.”
“Nick,” Sophia broke in softly, “you know what Papa and Mama would have wanted.”
He appeared bitter and miserable, and above all, outraged. “I’ve been Nick Gentry too long to change.”
Sophia replied with great care, seeming to understand why he would consider it impossible. “It will be difficult. No one would deny that. But you have Lottie to assist you.”
Nick did not spare Lottie a glance but made a scornful sound.
“Lottie, dear,” Sophia said with a gentle inflexibility that betrayed the strong will beneath her delicate facade. “How many years did you attend Maidstone’s?”
“Six,” Lottie said, casting a wary glance at her husband’s hard profile.
“If Maidstone’s reputation holds true, those six years were filled with an education that included rigorous training in deportment, grace, the art of polite entertaining, the skills of household budgeting and management, the elements of style and good taste, the rituals of morning calls and after-dinner assemblies…the thousands of little points of etiquette that separate the first tier from the other layers of society. I suspect you could easily regulate a household of any size, no matter how large. No doubt you were also taught how to dance, ride, play a musical instrument, speak French and perhaps a smattering of German…am I mistaken?”
“You are correct,” Lottie said shortly, hating the sudden feeling that she was part of the trap that was closing around Gentry. He was being forced to become something he had no desire to be, and she understood his feelings all too well.
Nodding in satisfaction, Sophia turned to her glowering brother. “Lottie is a great asset to you. She will prove invaluable in helping you adjust to your new life—”
“I’m not going to adjust to a damned thing,” he growled and threw a commanding glance to Lottie. “Come, we’re leaving. Now.”
She rose automatically, and Sir Ross stood as well. Troubled, Lottie glanced at her brother-in-law. There was no glint of victory in his eyes. She did not believe that his motives had anything to do with vengeance or ill will. She was certain that Sir Ross—and Sophia—thought it quite necessary that Gentry reclaim his former identity. She longed to discuss the matter with them, but it was clear that Gentry was barely maintaining his self-control. Any other man would have been gratified to recover his title, his lands, and family possessions. However, it was obvious that to Gentry this was a nightmare.
Lottie held her silence during the carriage ride home. Her husband was utterly still, trying to contain his explosive outrage, and most likely struggling to comprehend the suddenness with which his life had changed. Not unlike her own mood upon leaving Stony Cross Park, she thought wryly.
The moment they arrived at the house on Betterton Street, Gentry practically leapt from the carriage, leaving Lottie to accept the footman’s help in descending from the vehicle. By the time she reached the front door, he was nowhere to be seen.
The housekeeper was in the entrance hall, her perplexed expression betraying that she had just seen Gentry storm inside the house.
“Mrs. Trench,” Lottie said calmly, “did you happen to see where Mr. Gentry went?”
“I believe he is in the library, miss. That is…Mrs. Gentry.”
Good Lord, how strange it was to be called that. And it was stranger still to contemplate the very strong possibility that before long she would be called Lady Sydney. Frowning, Lottie glanced from the staircase to the hall leading toward the library. Part of her wanted to retreat to the safety and seclusion of her room. However, the other part was irresistibly drawn to find Gentry.
After Mrs. Trench took her bonnet and gloves, Lottie found herself walking to the library. She knocked at the closed door before entering. The library was paneled in dark cherrywood, and fitted with carpets woven with gold medallions on a brown background. Multipaned windows stretched up to the top of the ceiling, which was at least eighteen feet high.
Gentry’s broad-shouldered form was at one of the windows, his back tensing visibly as he heard her
approach. A brandy snifter was clenched in his hand, the delicate bowl of the glass looking as if it might shatter in his long fingers.
Lottie hesitated beside one of the towering cherrywood bookshelves, noticing that the library was strangely bereft of volumes.
“Your library is nearly empty,” she commented.
Gentry stood at the window, his stare brooding and vacant. He tossed back the remainder of his brandy with a stiff-wristed motion. “Buy some books, then. Fill it from floor to ceiling if you like.”
“Thank you.” Encouraged by the fact that he had not yet told her to leave, Lottie ventured closer. “Mr Gentry…”
“Don’t call me that,” he said in a burst of irritation.
“I’m sorry. Nick.” She drew closer to him. “I wish to correct something that Sir Ross said—you have no responsibility to make me Lady Sydney. As I told you before, I do not care if you are a peer or a commoner.”
He was quiet for a long time, then he let out a tense sigh. Striding to the sideboard, he poured another brandy.
“Is there any way of stopping Sir Ross from carrying out his plans?” Lottie asked. “Perhaps we might seek some legal counsel—”
“It’s too late. I know Sir Ross—he has thought of every possible countermove. And his influence extends everywhere; the judiciary, law enforcement, Parliament, the Crown office…that writ of summons is going to arrive, no matter what the hell I do
to avoid it.” He uttered an unfamiliar word that sounded quite foul. “I’d like to break every bone in Cannon’s body, the insufferable ass.”
“What can I do?” she asked quietly.
“You heard my sister, didn’t you? You’re going to play lady of the manor and help me pretend to be a viscount.”
“You managed quite well at Stony Cross Park,” she pointed out. “You gave a convincing appearance of nobility.”
“That was only for a few days,” he said bitterly. “But now it appears I’ll have to play the role for the rest of my life.” He shook his head in furious disbelief. “God! I don’t want this. I’m going to kill someone before long.”
Lottie tilted her head as she regarded him speculatively. No doubt she should fear him when he was in this mood. He did indeed look as though he was ready to commit murder, his eyes gleaming with bloodlust. But curiously she was filled with sympathy, and even more than that, a sense of partnership. They were both floundering, both facing a life they had neither planned nor asked for.
“How did you feel at Stony Cross Park, when you introduced yourself as Lord Sydney?” she asked.
“At first I found it amusing. The irony of masquerading as myself. But after the first day, it became a weight on my shoulders. The mere mention of
the name annoys the hell out of me.”
Lottie wondered why he was so antagonized by the name he had been born with. There had to be some reason other than the ones he had given so far.
“Nick, what did Sir Ross mean when he said that you were financially equipped to manage the title?”
His mouth twisted. “He meant that I could afford the cost of maintaining a large estate and the kind of lifestyle required of a peer.”
“How could he know such a thing?”
“He doesn’t know for certain.”
“He is wrong, of course.”
“No,” Nick muttered, “he’s not wrong. Before I came to Bow Street, I made a few investments, and I have some holdings here and there. All in all, I have about two hundred put away.”
Silently Lottie reflected that two hundred pounds in savings was not bad, but it did not offer the kind of security one could have wished for. She only hoped that his investments would not depreciate in value. “Well, that seems quite satisfactory,” she said, not wishing to hurt his feelings. “I think we shall do fairly well if we economize. But I do not think the circumstances allow for a wedding trousseau. Not at this time. Perhaps in the future—”
“Lottie,” he interrupted, “we don’t need to economize.”
“Two hundred pounds is a fine sum, but it will be difficult to maintain a household with—”
“Lottie.” He glanced at her with an odd expression. “I was referring to thousands. Two hundred thousand pounds.”
“But…but…” Lottie was astonished. It was an immense sum, a fortune by anyone’s standards.
“And about five thousand a year from investments and private commissions,” he added, stunning her further. His face darkened. “Although it seems my days of private commissions are over.”
“Why, you must be as rich as Lord Radnor,” she said dazedly.
He made a choppy gesture with his hand, as if consideration of money was completely irrelevant, compared to his far greater problem. “Probably.”
“You could afford a dozen houses. You could have anything you—”