“We’ve trouble.”
“Oh?”
Arty looked nervous. Arty rarely looked nervous. Milton was now nervous himself.
“I know whose suit she’s so eager t’ escape.”
Milton met his gaze. “Whose?”
“Ronny Finch.”
His gut wrenched before it began its familiar, curling squeeze. “Tell me you did not just utter that man’s name.”
“Jasp, I’ll not lie. We crossed paths this morn at ’er house, and th’ girl confirmed it. Finch is courtin’ her, ’tis why she’s so desperate.”
Milton’s heart began to pound in his ears. “And you were going to tell me thiswhen?”
“Today, guv, soon as I’d concluded business with yon lout y’ saw leave.”
It was taking everything in Milton’s willpower to keep from throwing a chair across the room. “Fuck,”he spat.
Arty met his gaze. “Complicates matters, don’t it?”
Milton would not crack.He could not.
“How much time do we have, Arty?”
“A bit, I think.”
“Be at the Denbigh ball. Until then, do whatever you must to protect her. As will I.”
That evening Milton readied himself for battle. He’d relegated all thought of Finch to the dark dungeon of his soul where he kept his horrors chained. He’d let the beast out tomorrow, but not today.
Today he’d eschewed dinner to prepare for the apology he must offer his wife. But not before he’d tipped off staff to Elizabeth’s birthday. If she was angry with him for spilling the news, he could always blame her sister. Besides, his cook baked delicious cakes. Lizzie could hardly be upset by that.
Already, sounds of merriment came from below stairs; he hoped they were fêting his wife well and good. He grabbed the gift he’d purchased and the other item he’d need, then headed to his bedchamber, to ready himself.
Because Li, blast her, had been right. He did not wish to spend his married life in misery. Détente must be reached—peaceful coexistence a requirement for the rearing of children at least.
Elizabeth needn’t grow to love or even like him, but he needed her respect. And she clearly needed to feel respected byhim in order for their marriage to work. That much he aimed to give her this night.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Annabelle waited until the house was quiet before she pulled the hidden bundle out from under her bed. She removed her night-rail to don the breeches and boots she’d procured, then bound her breasts as flat as possible and pulled on the bulky shirt and jacket, tying a cravat as neatly as she knew to tie Papa’s. She pinned her braids tight to her head, leaving side strands she’d trimmed to pull back into a short sort of tail, then donned a cap to hide the rest. In the mirror, she rubbed ash on her chin and upper lip, for just a shade of manliness.
She surveyed her appearance. Not quite apprentice and not quite titled young man, she looked somewhere in between. So long as she kept her head down, her speech to a minimum, and her gait a loose swagger, she’d pass.
And pass she did, for a mere two hours later, Annabelle could not believe her good fortune. Or rather, Bartholomew Brown’s fortune. Her alter ego was winning big atvingt-et-unjust like she’d known he would. Oh, she let him lose a few rounds to throw the other players off his scent, but Bart was a cool cucumber—even the ladies liked him. One in particular kept blowing kisses over his cards for luck.
Pride filled Annabelle’s chest. If this was how Papa had felt the times he’d won she understood what drove him back, because the rush was incredible. Intoxicating! And she, as dashing Bart Brown, was invincible.
“Ooh, Mr. Brown,” an admirer cooed at Annabelle’s ear. “Steady now, lad, you’ve got ’im by the bollocks, reel ’im in.” The lady’s tongue shockingly caressed Bart’s lobe.
Annabelle shivered; this was a bit much. It was also distracting her from counting. Moreover, the lady wore far too much perfume. Yet before she could politely ask the miss to step back, another voice hissed low in her other ear, sending a different shiver down her spine.
“Finish it,” Arthur Harris ordered. “And then you walk—no fuss, no scene.” His bruising grip on Annabelle’s arm left no room for disagreement.
“A lucky young man indeed this night,” he loudly announced above her head. “Though we’ve a matter t’ discuss in private, regarding accounts. If you’ll excuse us, gentlemen.”
