The Mammoth Book Of Regency Romance Part 54

When he looked at her, he felt . . . not anger, but sorrow and regret. When he'd walked through her feminine shop, he'd been stunned by one astonishing realization the tumultuous ending of their relationship had been for the best. Where would they have been if she hadn't taken half their money, run out on him and built up her business? Where would he have been if he hadn't gone after her, gotten himself stabbed by a footpad in his distraction, and discovered he had to get out of the stews before that world ate him alive?

The butler rapped upon a dark study door. "Mr Foxton has arrived to report, My Lord."

A raspy voice barked at him to enter, and Lyan found himself once again in the dark, cavelike study of Horace Beckworth, Lord Cavendish.

The Marquis tossed back a gla.s.s of brandy and stomped forwards. His jowls shook as he bellowed, "b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, Foxton, you haven't found her yet. I don't know what you hoped to accomplish by coming to see me without my ward, but if your goal was to infuriate me, you have succeeded. There are other Runners in London. And other, successful private investigators."

Lyan disliked Cavendish. "You are free to hire one of them, My Lord. But this case has become personally interesting to me. Whether I'm working for you or not, I will find out what happened to Lady Maryanne."

Cavendish grimaced. "Fine then. Have you learned anything?"

In curt tones, he gave Cavendish a report on what he'd learned at Gretna. "As yet, there is no evidence she has married," he concluded.

"So then it is possible her seducer never meant to marry her only ruin her!"

"That is a possibility. That's why I came to you tonight. To find out if there could be someone who would seek revenge on you through your ward."

"Revenge? For what?" The eyes narrowed in the fleshy face. "I will remind you I am a gentleman of honour. If I have made enemies, they would meet me over pistols. On that you are wasting your time."

Yes, he thought he was. There had been a fleeting look of guilt in Sal's shrewd blue eyes, along with a quiver of apprehension, which told him she knew who had accompanied Lady Maryanne on her escape.

"But you could find no sign of her in Scotland?" Cavendish barked.

"None," Lyan said, and he watched his client's face.

The Marquis fell back into his large, leather chair. "Do you think it is possible she never made it to Gretna Green because she is dead?"

"It is a possibility, yes," Lyan said. Not one he would have wanted to leap to, if the girl had been under his care. However, he had a young sister. It would be his worst nightmare to lose her. But there was something different in Cavendish's expression. Not horror, nor despair. It was a look Lyan knew from his days on the streets. Antic.i.p.ation.

Cavendish pulled out a linen handkerchief to mop his brow. "I have to know, Foxton," he croaked. "I have to know what has happened to her."

The back of Lyan's neck p.r.i.c.kled. Cavendish had been the best friend of Lady Maryanne's father and was the trustee of the girl's fortune. Her father had made millions in speculative ventures and had settled a large portion of his money that part of his estate not entailed on his daughter.

Lady Maryanne was a wealthy woman. Lyan had gone to Somerset House and reviewed the will left by Lady Maryanne's late father. If she died, Cavendish got the fortune. Of course, when she married Cavendish, he got control of her money. But if she married someone else, Cavendish lost his chance of any of it.

"Find her. Or find evidence that she is lost to me. I want it within the week or I'm done with you. And don't think I'll just fire you. I have no patience with men who fail me. I make them pay."

"I would advise you, Cavendish, not to threaten me," Lyan growled. But he thought of Lady Maryanne. She was a sweet, gentle young lady, very much like his younger sister Laura. She deserved a better life than being locked up in this mausoleum with an old roue who hungered for her money. And he prayed she was still alive.

After his interview with Cavendish, he needed to clear the foul stench of greed and arrogance from his senses. Lyan went home. Walking up the steps to his house normally gave him a feeling of pleasure. It pleased him to know this was where Laura would remember growing up. She had spent seven years in the slums, but those memories were fading. And he wanted to keep it that way. She deserved to think of this as her world.

He gazed up at the elegant Georgian facade with its rows of mullioned windows glinting in the sun, its neat blue door, the freshly painted wrought-iron fencing, and its promise of security and position. He'd acquired it with the rewards he'd earned as a Runner. Once he became the Earl of Doncaster, he would give up this house and take Laura to the earldom's London house, an enormous mansion on Park Lane. Laura was seventeen. Now that he'd been discovered as the long-lost heir to the Doncaster t.i.tle, he could give her the come-out she deserved.

Earl of Doncaster. He'd never believed his mother's tale that she'd been wed at sixteen to an earl's younger son, abandoned by him, and finally widowed when he'd died of consumption. Trevelyan had known nothing but guilt when the solicitor found him and told him her story had been the truth.

His mother had married again when he was nine. To a Whitechapel butcher. And when that man died three years later, they were all out on the street again, but this time his mother had Laura, a fragile little child of two.

Lyan jogged up the steps, opened his glossy blue door, and stepped into his s.p.a.cious, marble-tiled foyer. He handed off his greatcoat and gloves to a footman, and shook his head at the vagaries of fate.

Even then he had vowed he would keep Laura safe, no matter what. It was a man's duty to take care of the women who relied upon him. He'd always sworn he would never leave a wife, the way his father had deserted his mother. Ironically, he had been the one abandoned- "Lyan!"

He looked up as Laura leaped to the bottom of the stairs, sailing down a half-flight, her muslin skirts flying up. "It was all the talk at Gunter's today," she cried. "That you were investigating at Madame Desjardins' dress shop. Heavens, what were you looking for there?" She flashed a coy smile. "Some of the ladies are speculating you were hunting for a potential bride by going where you could view the debutantes in their underclothes."

He groaned, then embraced her and planted a kiss to the top of her midnight-black curls. "You know I wasn't doing that."

He had a bride. He had made a vow to Sally Thomas. It still stood, in his mind, legal or not. And whether either of them wanted it or not.

"Good." Laura nodded. She was no longer frail and sickly, but healthy and strong. "I have an appointment there tomorrow for a ball gown. I should hate to think the door was barred to me because my brother was trying to see ladies in their corsets."

In the course of his work he had often questioned madams and prost.i.tutes. He'd seen more ladies in corsets and out of them than he could count. But no woman had ever haunted him like Sal. "You are going to Madame Desjardins' shop?"

"Mrs Fennings says I must, now that you are to be an earl. But I hate all the dull fittings. I'd much rather stay at home and read a book."

Mrs Fennings, widow of an earl's brother and a haughty martinet, had been employed to oversee his sister's come-out. The woman could bring a man to his knees with her glare. He'd often wondered about trying to convince her to partner him in the pursuit of criminals.

Laura a.s.sessed him quizzically. "Has Madame Desjardins committed some kind of crime?"

Did breaking his heart a long time ago count as a crime? He sighed. "I don't yet know." Laura knew a little about Lady Maryanne's disappearance. Since she was a similar age to the missing girl, he'd wanted to know her thoughts, had hoped they would give him insight into Lady Maryanne. "It is the last place Lady Maryanne is thought to have gone."

"But she wasn't in Gretna Green?"

"No. And you sound surprised."

"It's just-"

He put her arm around her. "Tell me, Laura." He didn't need to say more. She understood his fears for Lady Maryanne's safety.

"I heard that Madame Desjardins helps young women who want to elope."

"Helps them?" He narrowed his eyes. "How?"

"I don't know. These are just rumours I've heard from other girls. I think she loans them money. Most have no access to their own money, of course. And I also heard that she investigates the gentleman these ladies want to marry. To ensure they are not just fortune-hunters, gamesters or rakes. She stopped one young woman from marrying a man who was just pretending to be a Scottish earl's son. He was actually a draper's lad."

"Thank you, angel." He gave his sister a hug. Then frowned. "You aren't planning to use any services of Madame Desjardins beyond her dressmaking skills, are you?"

"Do you mean do I want to elope?" Laura's laugh was silvery and sweet. "Of course not. I simply want a dress. Anyway, no man would ever dare run away with the sister of the famously ruthless Mr Foxton."

Lyan scratched his jaw. He was afraid her answer had come too quick and with too much light-hearted laughter. "Laura-"

"Mrs Fennings is going to introduce me to other earls, Lyan. I have no intention of running off with anyone."

Tonight he had two reasons to visit Madame Desjardins. He would question her again about Lady Maryanne. And warn her what would happen if she tried to help his sister do something foolish, like eloping.

There was no way in Hades he would let the woman betray him twice.

"Are you certain this is what you wish to do? You do realize how much you will give up by marrying this man against your brother's wishes?" In a soft voice, Estelle listed what those risks could be. Estrangement from family. Loss of any hope of a dowry or marriage settlement. The discovery that love was not enough to conquer everything, after all. "There is nothing like poverty to sour a marriage. It may turn your charming suitor into a bitter, brutal husband."

Estelle watched the young woman solemnly nod. The girl had a hood pulled down to cover her dark curls and shroud her face. She had insisted all candles be extinguished. Only the light from the coals in the grate illuminated her. "I know. I've thought of those things. But my . . . my brother has received news he will inherit a t.i.tle. I know he thinks he wants the best for me, but I don't want to make my choice amongst viscounts and earls. I know which man I want to marry. But my beloved is a Bow Street Runner and I know the match will be refused."

"Give me his name. Before I can help I have to ensure he is not a rogue, a criminal or a rake."

The girl shook her head. "It's not necessary. I know everything about him. He's worked with my brother for years. He's a hero! He has rescued kidnapped children and stopped criminal gangs."

"His name?"

"I can't. You could go to my brother."

"My dear, I would never betray you. But if you wish for my help, you must tell me."

But the young woman rose to her feet. "No. I will do this alone then." She spun on her heel and ran for the door of the shop, shoving a stool across the path between the worktables.

Estelle jumped up. Her scissors fell from her lap to clatter on the floor. Her patterns were whirling in the air, blown off the tables as the girl had raced by. She rushed after the girl, leaped over the stool, but as she reached the front of the salon, her door snapped shut and the bell tinkled madly. She s.n.a.t.c.hed open the door, ran out into the street.

The girl had disappeared.

On a sigh, Estelle went back into her shop, back to the workroom. Moonlight slanted in through the narrow windows. Her dress patterns lay all over the floor, battered and bent. She'd torn one, as she'd run over it. If she did not finish them, she would not have the St Ives' wedding gown completed. Or the two gowns required by the twins of the Earl of Roydon, who were going to have their come-out ball.

To disappoint clients was to embrace the end of her business. It would mean her fall back into poverty again, and this time she would drag her daughter down with her.

She couldn't.

But there could be only one young lady in England whose brother had just learned he was heir to a peer, and who herself might know enough about the Bow Street Runners to fall in love with one.

Lyan had a sister. Her name was Laura.

Estelle had never once betrayed the confidence of any girl who had come to her seeking help. And the young ladies, to her surprise, had kept her secret. Her role in their marriages was shared by word of mouth, and just to those girls in the same predicament.

She had helped girls who had a real reason to flee. Girls for whom a marriage that would ostracize them from their families was a lesser evil than staying at home.

Did Laura have reason to flee her brother? And why did she believe her brother would never let her marry for love? Or was he afraid Laura could be blinded by love and end up betrayed?

Estelle paced in her workroom. Was it just because Lyan wanted his sister to move up in the world that he would refuse the match? Some Bow Street Runners were known to be motivated more by rewards than justice, and some were considered to be as unsavoury as the men they hunted. That was the very reason Lyan had fascinated all of London. He had always appeared to be moral and just.

It would break his heart if Laura ran away into a terrible marriage.

Could she betray him again, break his heart again, by keeping Laura's secret?

A soft creak sounded overhead. Directly over the rear of the workroom, where Estelle was gathering up her patterns. She c.o.c.ked her head to listen. Was Rose out of bed? Had the slammed door awakened her?

She put down the stack of fragile paper, picked up her scissors, and crept upstairs. The door to Rose's room was ajar, just as she had left it- A hand clamped over her mouth and dragged her into her bedroom. Her shoulders were pulled back hard against something unmovable. Estelle knew what it had to be: a male chest. Panic rose like a wave and she struggled against the arm that clamped around her torso like an iron bracket.

"Easy, my love. I won't hurt you."

Those words. He'd said those. Cavendish. When he'd tried to a.s.sault her here, in her own bedroom, while Rose slept innocently in the next room. He'd held a blade to her throat to make her stop fighting and had warned her not to make a sound. In a sneering, evil voice, he'd warned her she would not want to wake her daughter . . .

All those years she'd spent in the stews had not been for nothing. She'd known he didn't intend to leave witnesses afterwards, whether she obeyed him or not. So she had fought for her life. Rose came to help, hit him over the head with a frying pan. At eight years of age, just like Estelle, Rose had seen what men could do.

And now she kicked and struggled just as furiously. She had her scissors in her hand- A strong hand pulled them out of her grip. "I wouldn't like those stabbed into my privates, thank you."

Lyan. He turned her to face him. "You wretch!" she spat. "You terrified me. You could have woken up Rose. She went through this before and it almost frightened her to death. I-"

"What do you mean, 'she went through this before'?"

When she didn't answer, he kissed her. Just like that. His mouth devoured hers. All her fear and rage tumbled around inside. But even as furious with him as she was, she became hot. Scorching hot. So much so, she feared her simple work dress would melt to her skin.

"Tell me, or I won't stop there." Then he grimaced at his words, and he brushed his hand over her cheek. "No, no threats. Threatening you with kisses won't work any more, will it? Because you've known worse. Tell me what happened, Sal. I'll kill anyone who hurt you or your daughter."

Through the heat rising inside her, a heat that fogged her mind like steam upon gla.s.s, she remembered the painful truth. She had abandoned him in a panic ten years before. Why should he care about her now? She had put her security above all else, and the simple fact he still gave a d.a.m.n made her throat constrict. "Well, then," she managed to say, "that is exactly the reason why I can't tell you."

His hands traced the simple neckline of her dress. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s leaped up, under her shift, as his fingertips skimmed over them. Then, shock of all shocks, he cupped them.

"I want all your secrets, Sally. Every last one." He breathed the words against her ear. The fire he'd ignited inside her consumed another piece of the wall around her soul. Just this, his hands on her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, his mouth nuzzling her neck, could leave her utterly defenceless.

No. She would be like her mother then. Vulnerable. What was a woman in the throes of pa.s.sion but a woman waiting to be destroyed?

"You know who Lady Maryanne ran away with. This afternoon, I interviewed families of young ladies who have been your customers. Four of them ran away to Gretna Green with men."

"And those marriages are all successes," she said tartly. She tried to pull away, but he held her too tight.

His tongue ran up and down her throat. Her mind was becoming as mushy as porridge. "S-stop," she whispered.

"I will if you give me a name. A man's name." His grip changed and he stopped kissing her. He faced her, his eyes glittering with determination. "I fear Cavendish arranged for Maryanne to disappear. He found out about her plans to elope, and he had her killed so he would not lose control of her money. By the will, he gets it all if she dies without a husband or children."

Estelle gulped. "Oh yes, he could do that, Lyan. He is more than capable. He is a fiend." She knew she had to give him the name. For Maryanne's safety. "Her beloved was the owner of a small bookshop on Charing Cross Road. Mr Samuel Peabody."

His dark brow shot up. "He sounds like a little, fat, middle-aged merchant. Why would you help the girl elope with a man like that?"

"I did not help her. She simply gave me a name. As for the others-"

"You're lying, angel. I could prove you helped her if I found the hackney driver who came to the rear of your shop and who saw you escort a young woman who matched Lady Maryanne's description into the cab. A man who saw the young lady clutch your hands before she left and thank you for everything you had done."

Her heart sank.

"You helped her run off with some scoundrel," he ground out. "Some man who might have killed-"

"No! I promised to help her. And that meant ensuring she was marrying the right man." There, she had admitted her guilt. And she knew why she'd done so. Deep down, she still trusted Lyan. She would always believe in the goodness of this man's heart. Carving her way into respectability and security, she had encountered some of the "gentlemen" of the ton. The ones who pressed their attentions on any women they believed beneath them. Who were willing to rape because they believed themselves to be untouchable. She had soon learned that birth meant nothing. Lyan Foxton had grown up in the stews, but she had learned how special, n.o.ble and wonderful he was.

Yet there were also good gentlemen. Peabody was one of them. "He is the third son of the Viscount Marlborough, and he has a love of books. He is tall, thin, but very handsome. And I realized, when I went to his shop and spoke with him, that he truly loved Maryanne."

He frowned. "How could you know that for certain?"

"I . . . A woman can tell." She did not want him to know how she knew. That she'd compared how Peabody looked when she spoke of Maryanne to the way Lyan used to look at her.

"Thank you," Lyan said. "I pray I'm not too late."

"What are you going to do?" She knew she had to be quiet, but her voice rose in fear. "I went out this afternoon. Peabody's shop is still closed up. And I spoke to his employee and his neighbours. He hasn't come back."

"I think if Cavendish arranged for his ward's death, it would be known by now that she was killed. He'd want it done fast. It would be easy enough to make it look like a highwayman attacked her on the way to Scotland. I think the fact that she hasn't turned up dead means she is still alive. I think he wants her back to marry her himself, which gives him both the lady and control of her fortune. h.e.l.l, I have to believe that."