Christian sighed and shook his head. ‘As much as I’d like to see the bastard pay, as yet, I have no proof. Unless someone admits to seeing him stick that knife in Barnet, it’s my word against his.’
‘Your word’ll carry a sight more weight than the owner of a bloody gambling den,’ growled Malcolm.
‘That as may be, but if I show my hand and fail to see him swing, I’ll spend the rest of my life watching my back…’ He paused before adding softly, ‘and those of my wife and child.’
‘Ye’ll be doing that anyway once he kens you’ve returned,’ argued the Scot.
The Earl nodded wearily, running his fingers through his hair in frustration.
‘What about Fletcher?’ the valet suggested. ‘Could he be persuaded te open his mouth?’
Reverend Shackleford shrugged. ‘I reckon it won’t be long before Lizzy’s husband’s pushing up daisies,’ he commented. ‘In truth, he looked to have one foot downstairs already.’
The three men were sitting in the Duke’s study along with the Reverend. After recounting everything that had happened since Jimmy and Lizzy Fletcher’s arrival the night before, Augustus Shackleford was, for the most part, content to sip his brandy and allow the younger men to decide what action to take. In truth, he was done to a cow’s thumb and not for the first time, longed for the rain and rolling hills of Devonshire. Though he would never admit it to anyone but Percy, the truth was he’d begun to feel his age. His mind might still be as sharp as a well-creased cravat, but it had to be said his body had seen better days. He finally understood how his old horse Lucifer must have felt before being put out to pasture.
‘As I see it, we have two options,’ Nicholas was saying, leaning back in his chair. ‘We either ignore Witherspoon and hope he stays holed up in his bloody sty... Or…’ He leant forward and steepled his fingers. ‘…we set a trap and watch the bastard fall into it.’
∞∞∞
Despite Chastity’s frustration the day before, her longing to see Lord Cottesmore again was so acute it was almost painful. She’d taken great pains with her toilette, finally wearing the iced blue dress that had been intended for the opera. Her hair was pinned high on her crown, only to fall in a cascade of ringlets over her left shoulder. As she eyed herself in the mirror, she had to concede that if Christian Stanhope did not find her even remotely ravishing this evening, then he never would. Smoothing her gloves over her elbows, she abruptly imagined the Earl’s long fingers sliding from her wrist to her upper arm. Unexpectedly, she felt a tingling in her breasts. Startled, she looked down.
Oh, she was well aware that gentlemen had a penchant for women’s bosoms. Too many bad poets waxed eloquently aboutthe pillows of Venusfor any woman to be completely oblivious. But she’d never before given them more than a cursory thought. Certainly not in connection with a man’s fingers–gentle or otherwise.
Unbidden, a sudden giggle arose as she thought back to the whispered conversations between her older sisters that she and Charity had eavesdropped on. She remembered them both being horrified at the time–but now, looking down at her sudden tingling bosoms, she thought perhaps the actions her sisters had described, bizarre as they’d sounded to a sixteen-year-old, most certainly bore further consideration.
Perhaps one didn’t need romance after all. She certainly hadn’t felt a desperate desire for Obadiah Simpson’s hands to be anywhere other than in his pockets.
Picking up her reticule, she took a deep breath and prepared for her first dinner with her betrothed.
∞∞∞
It was bitterly cold as Christian helped his daughter into the hackney carriage that would take them to Sinclair’s townhouse. He owned no coach of his own and currently could not spare the coin to buy one. However, the maid had provided Mercy with a hot brick wrapped in flannels to warm her feet on, and the little girl was wearing her warmest pelisse.
In actual fact, Mercy didn’t seem to feel the cold and spent the majority of the journey bouncing up and down in excitement or attempting to balance on the covered brick. Leaning back against his seat, Christian smiled at her antics and thought back to his own boyhood. It had been very different to hers. He’d been brought up in the country. Norfolk. His mother had died in the birthing of him, and his father had been the local blacksmith. They lived well enough, and Christian had spent most of his childhood sailing the Broads.
Though Mercy now led an indulged life, her existence up until the point she’d been left on his doorstep had been meagre indeed, from what he’d been able to pry from her.
In the beginning, he’d tried to find her mother, searching the poorhouses and hospitals of New York, but to no avail. He suspected she hadn’t wanted to be found, was perhaps dead even then. According to Mercy, she coughed all the time and her kerchiefs were bright red.
But, though they’d clearly been living hand to mouth, his daughter still had many stories to tell of laughter and fun. Though he was certain she missed her mother terribly, Mercy’s nature was not to brood, and gradually, over the months, she came out of her shell, changing his life completely. Looking back, Christian considered the man he’d been before Mercy’s unexpected arrival.
Arrogant, impulsive and driven. In truth, it was no wonder Witherspoon had been able to frame him for murder. He was ripe to be brought down. He would never have made a good naval captain.
In many ways, the brashness of the Americas had suited him, and when he arrived in Boston, Christian truly thought he’d put his past behind him. He looked through the carriage window at the twilight streets. This was the London of wealth and privilege. Underneath it all was a seething mass of poverty, dirt and death. Yes, New York and Boston both had the same squalid underbelly, but there was always the sense that a person could rise if he wished. The rules of class did not keep a man down in the dirt as they did here.
His musings came to an abrupt halt as they arrived at Grosvenor Square. ‘How do I look?’ he asked his daughter. She considered him seriously. ‘You look very handsome, Papa,’ she decided after a few seconds. ‘Please don’t embarrass me will you?’ Christian raised his eyebrows as he watched her alight the coach. Seriously, eight years old and she was asking him not toembarrassher?’ Mayhap times were changing. Sighing, he climbed down and paid the coach driver.
As the carriage moved off, they were left in sudden silence. The snow remained crunchy underfoot, and the air was still and freezing cold. Candles blazed through the windows of the house giving a warm, welcoming feel. All of a sudden, he felt nervous. The only thing he knew of his bride-to-be was her proficiency at climbing trees. Not an essential talent required in a young lady of breeding. But then, in truth, she wasn’t a lady, any more than his own daughter.
He felt Mercy’s small hand slip into his. ‘Don’t be scared, Papa,’ she whispered. ‘Miss Shackleford is a very nice lady, and I know she is going to be even better than your other friends.’ Christian grinned down at her ruefully. ‘Mayhap it would be a good idea not to mention my…err…friendsat the dinner table, sweet pea. The truth is, whatever the maid said, I’ve never really had any.’
‘Wasn’t Mama your special friend?’ Christian’s heart somersaulted. ‘Yes, darling, she was,’ he answered gruffly. ‘She was my onlyspecialfriend.’
‘Until now.’ Mercy smiled up at him, and together they climbed the stairs.
Chapter Seventeen
‘I know they said my name’s Prudence, but you can call me Pru.’
