The Mammoth Book of Regency Romance

Gretna Green Sharon Page

He had caught gangs of murderers in the stews off Whitechapel High Street. Arrested opium dealers in seedy brothels near the Wapping docks. But in all the years he had worked for Bow Street as a Runner, Trevelyan Foxton had never been required to investigate in a more foreign and intimidating place.

He watched the shop from across the street, drawing smoke from his cheroot. Each time the door opened, the silver bell tinkled delicately, and he caught the faint scents of rose and lavender. Ladies flowed in and out continuously. Ladies of every age and every description — slender, giggling girls, with shining eyes, and their mamas, the formidable matrons of the ton. And from within, all he could hear was incessant feminine chatter.

Trevelyan glanced up at the name above the shop, proudly displayed on a large sign, painted in burgundy and ivory, glimmering with gilt.

No longer was she plain Sally Thomas. She was now Estelle Desjardins. He’d caught a glimpse of her when the door opened. She wore severe black and had pins stuck in her mouth. She had been pointing at a thin, sallow girl who looked miserable in an ivory dress. And, at the same time, she was lecturing the mother, a bosomy, grey-haired woman he recognized as the Duchess of St Ives.

Now that was the Sally he remembered.

She’d been the toughest, hardest and fiercest of their gang. All of the lads — the pickpockets, the mudlarks, the thieves — had been afraid of her. Except for him. He knew the one thing that frightened Sally. When he wanted her to shut her mouth, all he had to do was kiss her. Or show her he cared about her.

That had been a long time ago. Back in the days when he never would have dreamed he’d end up on the good side of the law as a Bow Street Runner. Back then he never would have pictured Sally in anything but a ragged dress, with her fists doubled and her point of a chin stuck out. Never would he have pictured her looking down her nose at grand ladies.

Trevelyan tossed away his cheroot and ground it into the cobblestones of the street.

Sally had done well for herself.

It was a shame he was going to have to destroy her.

Estelle froze. All thoughts of what exact shade of ivory the daughter of the Duke of St Ives should wear vanished from her head. It no longer mattered that the fashion was now for long sleeves. Or that it could be possible to make Lady Amelia’s bosom appear more ample, with strategic pleating and a lot of padding.

He stood in the doorway, the proverbial bull in the china shop. At once her lavender sachets were overwhelmed by the rich, refined, masculine scent of him, of smoke, shaving soap, and sandalwood. His straight shoulders filled the doorway from side to side. His gaze — sharp, intelligent — glinted with an amusement that made her quake, and fastened immediately on her.

She had wondered if he would ever come and find her. It would be so easy for Trevelyan to get his revenge, which he surely must want.

All he had to do was tell every lady in her shop exactly where she had come from and who she really was.

A pin jabbed into her tongue. Estelle spat them into her hand. The attention of every woman in her salon riveted on him. He had to duck for the doorway, and he took off his beaver hat to clear it, revealing his striking coal-black hair and the one streak of white that began at his temple and followed the sweep of his unfashionably long hair to his shoulder.

“Madame Desjardins,” he said, with a perfunctory bow. He straightened, then ensured he closed the door behind him, a sardonic smile on his mouth. “Is it intended to mean ‘Star of the Gardens’? I like that very much.”

Her stomach almost dropped away. What did he want? “May I help you, Mr Foxton?”

The buzz began at once.

“Goodness, Mr Foxton is a Bow Street Runner,” whispered Lady Amelia to her bosom-bow, Lady Caroline.

Lady Caroline put her gloved hand to her mouth and her eyes glittered with delight. “What is he doing here? Do you think there’s been a crime committed?”

“You mean other than these prices?” muttered Lady Caroline’s mother.

“Have you heard?” one young lady whispered. “It is said that Mr Foxton is the heir to the Earl of Doncaster.”

Estelle froze. She took care to know the gossip of the ton. How could she not have known this?

“That cannot be true. I heard that he grew up in the East End stews,” declared the voluptuous Countess of Bournemouth. “And that he has a very sordid past.” She said it breathily, as though “sordid” was a commendable thing.

“I think he is trying to look down Lady Armitage’s bodice!”

That would not surprise Estelle. Trevelyan had always been a rogue. And he appeared to enjoy making her clients shocked and uncomfortable. “Madame Desjardins,” he began, in a voice that had deepened and roughened and grown even more magnetic in ten years, “I hate to trouble you, but I would like a private word.”

The ladies gasped. For, of course, it meant he must walk through her shop, past the curtained rooms in which women stood in various states of undress. “Miss Sims,” she instructed her best seamstress, “advise the ladies to keep their curtains closed, if you please. Mr Foxton, you may come to my office. I assume a respectable representative of Bow Street will keep his eyes averted.”

Oh, she was not prepared to have him in her private office. At once he went to her desk and tried the drawers. “The key, please, Sal.”

That name. She had not heard it for ten years. It was not her name any more. “If you want my help, do not call me that, Lyan.” She carried her keys in a pocket sewn into her dress, skilfully designed so as not to ruin the line of the smooth-flowing skirt.

This was her sanctuary — this office, this shop. “Do you wish to see my book of accounts? You are free to review it, if you are interested in what a satin ball gown costs these days. If it’s the measurements of my clients that interest you, I will not help you there. That information rests only in my head.”

He pulled out her ledger, planted his trouser-clad derrière on the edge of her desk, and flipped open the book. “I am here about Lady Maryanne Bryght.”

A shudder of apprehension slid down her spine. “Lady Maryanne? I do believe she was a client of mine. But why—?”

Her book of accounts landed, closed, on her desk. His green eyes had narrowed, and he looked so expressionless, she shivered. The Lyan she remembered had never looked so cold.

“You’re lying to me, Sal. That’s why I never came to see you before. I knew all you’d give me was a pack of lies.”

“Perhaps you should question me first, before assuming that’s all I will do.” She tipped up her chin and spoke with the bravado she’d cultivated on the streets.

“At first, I suspected Lady Maryanne never came to see you. I assumed she used your appointment in order to leave the house so early in the morning. I believed she’d headed for Gretna Green instead.”

In the stews, she had stared down any number of men — from randy young toffs to vicious pimps looking to drag her into their seedy flash-houses. But she was quaking now. “Then you should be able to find her.”

“Angel, that appointment was five days ago. She should have returned a happily married woman by now. I followed her tracks along the Great North Road as far as the border, and then she disappears. No one in Gretna remembers her. If she was wed over the anvil, no one will admit to performing the ceremony. She’s vanished into thin air.”

Estelle swallowed hard. That made no sense. She had investigated Lady Maryanne’s handsome young scholar. That was what she did. She smoothed the course of true love for young ladies about to be forced into loveless marriages. She had made her choice years ago — security over love. But that did not mean she could bear to see innocent women made into prisoners in their marriages. This gave her the chance to see others have what she couldn’t.

Her investigation had revealed the gentleman Maryanne adored to be exactly what he claimed — a studious, respectable, noble young man, the youngest son of a now-impoverished viscount. “Do you know who she ran away with?” she asked, trying to look shocked.

This was a nightmare. There was no one in London — in all England — who knew her like Lyan did. If anyone could see through lies, it would be he.

“Yes. Don’t you?”

She imagined he hoped she would incriminate herself. But there was nothing more she could tell him. She had watched Lady Maryanne climb into a hackney, and had loaned the eighteen-year-old girl a purse filled with money to finance the journey (since, like most girls, Maryanne had no access to money on her own).

She had sent Maryanne on her escape to true love.

She had hoped Maryanne had crossed the border into Scotland, where a young couple needed no one’s consent but their own to marry. As soon as they had crossed the border, lovers could marry anywhere, but Gretna Green was close and, since the couple usually wanted to be joined in haste, that was where they would stop. Vows were spoken over the anvil at the blacksmiths’ shops, officiated by the blacksmith priests.

Maryanne must now be safely wed. And blurting out the truth of what she had done would not accomplish anything. It would not give Trevelyan any more information than he already had. It would destroy her. And she was not the only person she had to worry about.

“Lady Maryanne came here that morning. We had another fitting. Dresses for her wedding trousseau — for her upcoming nuptials with her guardian, Lord Cavendish.” She managed not to shudder at the name. “I do not know any more than that, Lyan.”

“You do, love. Everything about you screams to me that you’re keeping secrets. You always looked your most defiant when you were telling me a tale. Now, how about we strike up a bargain? You tell me everything, and I won’t go back out and have a nice chat about our childhood with the Duchess of St Ives.”

“Don’t. Don’t ruin me, Lyan. It may please you to see me lose everything, but I would not be the only one to suffer. You see, I have a daughter.”

She could not have stunned him more if she’d hit him with a plank. She could see that from the way all six feet of him lurched back on his heels. And she knew what he must think.

“No, she is not your child. But I will be damned if I will end up like my mother — poor and in some stinking, wretched flash-house. My daughter is almost nine years of age.” She lied there. It had been ten years since she had last seen Trevelyan. Since she had panicked and gathered up half the money she knew he hid in his grotty room, and run away with it. “You know what her life would be like if I have to go back there.” Her voice was shaking, no matter how much she tried to calm it.

“Who is her father, Sal?”

“That is none of your business.”

“As I remember, the last time I saw you, you had agreed to marry me. We had our little ceremony in that warehouse. And we consummated our marriage on the floor of it.”

She winced. He had lowered his voice, and his words were a smooth-as-honey murmur beside her ear. “I’d say that does make it my business.”

Then, before she could stop him, before she could react, he spun her around, put his hands on her upper arms, and slanted his mouth over hers.

At first she froze in shock. And horror.

She stayed as rigid as her metal mannequins — or she tried. He was so much bigger than she remembered.

Then the tension — the fear — began to evaporate. Something else pounded in its place. Desire. Hot, maddening, inconvenient, disastrous desire.

He tasted of smoke, of liquor and coffee, of heat and man and sin. Every decadent thing about men she could imagine was imprinted on her lips by Lyan’s mouth. He tipped her off her feet, so she had to wrap her arms around his broad back. She melted, like wax beneath a candle’s flame.

Oh. Oh. Ooooh. She’d kissed him before. Made love to him before, which had been the most dazzling, wet, hot, wonderful and heartbreaking night of her life. She should be impervious to his skill — much more skill than he had ten years ago. His lips teased hers. His mouth forced hers wide and she loved it. And she moaned, breathlessly, as his tongue slid in and played and reminded her of what she’d dreamed of him doing for so many years …

A whole decade. And the one kiss she’d had since then had been forced upon her. A harsh, vicious assault she’d escaped when her attacker had been struck with a frying pan. After that, she’d never wanted to be touched again. Until now …

She had to stop …

But to her shock, she couldn’t make herself pull away. Lyan broke the kiss, set her back on her feet and stared at her. With green eyes that gleamed as brilliant as lanterns.

“W-why did you do that?”

A sardonic grin twisted his handsome mouth. “I just wanted to see if it had been worth thinking about you for all these years.”

His very answer terrified her. There was no hatred in his voice. Only regret. “And was it?” she asked coolly.

“Let’s just say I can have my secrets too.” But his gaze ravaged her mouth. And her lips were still so sensitive, just the heat in his vivid emerald eyes made her tremble.

“I promise you, Sal,” he growled, “I will get to the truth. I will find out if you were involved with Lady Maryanne’s disappearance. And I’ll find out if you are keeping my daughter from me.”

Lyan followed the tall, icily correct butler down the gloomy halls of Cavendish House — he felt he was trailing a walking cadaver. As he neared his client’s study, he planned what he would say. What he would reveal.

He hadn’t expected Sally to give him any information. But he’d observed her shock when he’d said Maryanne was missing, and it had told him more than words. Sal had known he would question her about a marriage — she’d never anticipated a disappearance.

And he hadn’t anticipated kissing her. His mouth had been on hers before he’d realized what he was doing. Her kiss had burned a path through his hardened heart like a flame along a fuse. He couldn’t think of anything but getting her back into his arms, keeping her there for ever, kissing and kissing and kissing her, until she was panting and needy and begging him to make love to her.

Never, on a job, did he lose control. Never had he let his sexual desire take charge. He couldn’t afford to do it now.

Yet knowing that, he was still mentally undressing Sally as he sauntered down the corridor of the Marquis of Cavendish’s home. He could picture her slender body naked, completely bared to him, and draped sensuously across her desk. For his pleasure, he arranged her on her front — on her small round breasts and smooth tummy — with her naked rump saucily lifted to tempt him.

Hell.

Even with their past hanging between them, with her betrayal sitting in his gut like a knife blade, he had to admire her. He’d always known she was tough, but now he appreciated she was also intelligent and clever. A better life agreed with her. She had changed from a stick-thin seventeen-year-old with dirty hair to a tall, striking beauty. Her severe hairstyle had made him hunger to tear out her pins and watch the whisky-coloured mass fall down her back. He’d never guessed her hair was that rich amber hue. As for her dress, it was a plain sheath that clung to her slender figure. It’s simplicity made him speculate how she would look without it.

If he hadn’t known her from the past, he would have been enjoying himself. A canny, beautiful woman — she was the type of adversary who made his work interesting.

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 glass of brandy and stomped forwards. His jowls shook as he bellowed, “Bloody hell, 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. Anticipation.

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 prickled. 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 roué 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 façade 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 title, 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 spacious, 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 prostitutes. 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 assessed 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 title. 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 snatched 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 cocked 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 assault 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 glass, 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 damn 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 breasts 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 breasts, 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 passion 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, noble 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. Hell, I have to believe that.”

Stark pain showed on Lyan’s face. How harsh and sharply cut his features were, now that he’d matured from a youth to a man.

“Why would he hire you, if he was the one to arrange for her to disappear?” she asked.

“To make it look like he’s innocent. Or because she escaped his trap. He might genuinely have no idea where she is. I’m going to trace the route to Gretna again, now that I know who her suitor is. I hope they are hiding somewhere along the way and I can find them.”

“I would like to come with you.” She had to know Maryanne was safe. And she could help Lyan. For a start, she knew what Peabody looked like.

“On one condition,” he growled. “I want you to promise you won’t help my sister, Laura, if she asks you to help her elope.”

She swallowed hard. Nothing had escaped him in the past. That hadn’t changed. “Of course not. But why do you think she would run away rather than ask your permission?”

His brow rose sharply. “Because sometimes women do damned illogical things.”

“All right. I agree. But I have conditions for you.”

“Indeed?”

“No more kissing. No more touches. That’s behind us, Lyan. There can never be anything between us again.”

“Why did you do it, love? Why did you run out on me before I came back for you? I thought — apparently like a blind fool — that you intended to be my wife.”

Estelle jerked her gaze from the carriage window, where she had kept it fixed for several hours. Lyan sat across from her, and he had looked out the opposite window ever since they had entered the carriage together. Each time she’d stolen a surreptitious glance, she’d discovered he was not looking at her.

Which was for the best. To feel anything else, any sort of girlish pang, was a stupid and irresponsible thing. She had long stowed away the desires and foolish fantasies that always began with the words “what if”. From the moment she’d made her choice to run away, then discovered she was carrying Rose, Rose had been what she’d lived for.

Her future had been mapped out. Decided. It was not to be changed. But what she could do was help shape the futures of others.

She did owe him some sort of explanation, but although she’d had ten years to think about it, she had never come up with an account that satisfied her. “I did it so I could have what I have now.”

“What do you have now?” he asked, and she wondered if Lucifer sounded like this — like smooth-flowing brandy and chocolate when it bubbled in a cup — when he promised dreams in return for souls.

She cleared her throat. As though just a little more time would clear away the heat wrapping tentative fingers around her heart, the yearning blossoming between her thighs. “My business. Enough money upon which I can survive. My daughter. I suppose what I have is success and security.”

“But you have no husband. No one to protect you.”

“I protect myself.” She managed a smile. “You, of all people, must remember I am capable of that.”

“Aye,” he answered with a breathtaking grin of his own, one that carved dimples deep enough to make her knees quiver. “I still bear a few scars to prove it.”

She had forgotten what this was like. For ten years, she had worked every minute of the day. Her needle would flash through cloth late into the night, while she would be desperately blinking to keep her eyes open. Hour upon hour. Day upon day. She had carved out a formidable reputation amongst the ton for her gowns. But she had not had a friend. And from behind a mound of fabric and patterns, she had watched Rose grow into a beautiful, quickwitted girl.

“I’ve never forgotten our wedding night,” he said softly. “For ten years, I’ve considered myself married to you.”

That startled her. “But you have the reputation of a rake.”

He groaned. Though they’d lit lamps within the carriage, which made looking out the windows quite useless, shadows still lurked in the corners. He leaned back, letting the gloom hide his face. “There were times the need got a bit too much, I’ll admit that. But I never fell in love, Sally. Never once.”

“Oh heavens, Lyan. I wish you had.” For then she could have forgiven herself. “How much longer until we reach the border?”

“We’ll have to stop for the night. We’ll find an inn along the road, and leave in the morn, as early as possible.”

“An inn.” She took a deep breath. “Separate rooms, of course.”

“Of course? We made marriage vows. We had a wedding night.” He leaned forwards. The teasing note in his voice did not reach his eyes, which glittered in the lamplight like cold glass.

“Ten years ago,” she said. “And our vows were not spoken in a church or before a vicar.”

“The passing time makes no difference. And the intention of marriage vows, love, is for husband and wife to make a promise to each other. Does it matter if it is not in a house of God?”

Estelle trembled. He had always been able to do this to her. Bring out emotions — or desires — she did not want to face. “Legally it does. I am not your wife, Lyan. I will never be. I do not consider our marriage to be valid. I ran away from you. Isn’t that reason enough for you to think it invalid too? Don’t you want to admit our vows meant nothing? For that means you would be free.”

“Ah, Sal, but that’s the irony. I’ll never be free of you.”

The Rose and Crown was the third inn at which they’d stopped. It looked more prosperous than the other two, with many coaches rumbling in and out of the yard. Coachmen drank ale around the water troughs, singing to the tune of a jauntily played fiddle.

Estelle had been commanded to stay in the carriage. But she ignored Lyan, hopped down, and hurried inside after him. He was leaning on a counter, in deep discussion with the innkeeper, a thickset bald man with a large stomach and enormous arms.

Lyan turned at the sound of her footstep. “Ah, my wife.” He did the introductions. One key dangled from his hand.

“I said two rooms,” she muttered.

“And there is one available. You can sleep in the stable if you’d like, but I’d prefer a bed.” Then his voice dropped even lower. “They were here two days ago. Peabody and Lady Maryanne. She wore a heavy veil, but the man matched the description of her suitor. He took a room for them as husband and wife, and she was seen fiddling with a wedding ring.”

Estelle felt such relief; it was like taking a long breath of air after loosening a corset. It surged in so quickly it left her light-headed. She wanted to believe she had rescued Maryanne. She wanted to believe she had carved out another happy ending in a world sadly lacking in them. But relief, like a breath, ended. “They could have been posing as married but had not yet—”

“After heading to Gretna six days ago? I suspect they would have raced up there, stopping only when necessary. They could have reached it in two days. No, I think they were wed and were returning to London.”

“But why didn’t they get there?” Estelle whispered. Her body ached from the tension of sitting in a carriage and trying not to look at the man who had sat opposite.

“That’s the mystery,” he agreed. “But dinner first, and a night here. You look as though you are ready to fall to the floor. And you, my love, can have the bed.”

It was unsettling to have him lying on the floor. Rather like having a sleeping tiger in the bedroom. Moonlight slanted in through a space between the threadbare drapes. Estelle hadn’t slept. She lay on her back, staring up at the silvery light that flickered over the dark ceiling. She wore a thick, unflattering flannel nightgown, buttoned to her throat.

“You aren’t sleeping.”

Lyan’s matter-of-fact statement had her jerking up the worn sheets. He was on his knees beside her bed, elbows resting on her mattress. Watching her. He had stripped to his trousers. The last time she’d seen him, he had been a lad of seventeen. Strong and well built, but nothing like … like this.

“I’m intrigued,” he continued. “Why do you help young women run away? Is it because it worked so well for you?”

She flushed. “No. It’s because I want them to find the one thing I turned my back on. Love.”

In the stark bluish light, he looked haggard. Haunted. “Before I caught you in your house, I took a peek at your daughter.”

Indignant, she sat up, fisting her hands at her sides. “You had no right—”

“She was sleeping — didn’t see me. I know she’s mine, Sal. I wanted to see if you would finally tell me. But you won’t, will you? You’d have let me go to my death without knowing I have a child.” He shoved back his hair. It was loose and fell in coal-black waves around his shoulders. “Why, Sal?”

She hugged herself. This was a mistake. She should never have put herself in a position where she was alone with him. She’d believed she trusted him. But she’d never seen any man look as wounded, as tortured as Lyan did now.

“I … I have finally given her some happiness.”

“You don’t want her to blame you for the choices you made. When did you know you were pregnant? Before or after you ran away?”

“After,” she whispered.

“You could have found me. I would have married you then. If there had been the three of us, Sal, you wouldn’t have had to work your fingers to the bone as a seamstress. You would have known I would always be there for you.”

“I didn’t know that then,” she cried. “All I knew was what I’d seen of my mother and men. I vowed I would never be dependent on anyone.”

“You cost me ten years, Sal. Ten years I could have had with my child.”

“I suppose you hate me.” It was too late to run now. “What are you going to do to me, Lyan, after we find Lady Maryanne? Do you plan to hand me over to Cavendish? That would give you what you must want — revenge.”

He jerked back. Anger flared in his green eyes. “Jesus, Sally. I suspect Cavendish might have plotted to murder the girl.”

She was moving away from him, trying to scuttle across the bed. But he grasped her wrist and pulled her back with such force, she squeaked in pain, and fell across the mattress.

“I would never betray you. Understand that.” He cursed and let go of her. “And if Cavendish conspired to kill his ward, I intend to see him pay.”

“He is too powerful, Lyan.” Her bitterness rang out in the room. “Men like him are never punished. He’ll be free.” Icy panic rushed to her heart. “Did you tell him I helped Maryanne?”

“I didn’t. But he suspected you of helping her. He knew she had appointments with you.” His eyes narrowed. “Cavendish seems to think you would have helped Maryanne to spite him.”

Spite him. She would like to see him rot in Newgate for what he had done. For the way he had left Rose with fears and nightmares.

“What are you afraid of, Sal? Cavendish?”

Yes, she was terrified. But she couldn’t let him see it. That was how she had always survived. By never allowing anyone to see her fear.

“Maryanne is likely a married woman by now,” Lyan said. “She will have her fortune, and she can buy herself a lot of protection with money. How will you protect yourself, Sally?”

“I … I will do it somehow.” For Rose. She would protect Rose. In every way and at any cost. But she was afraid. Cavendish was capable of anything. And if she were to make a mistake, if he were to kill her, Rose would be vulnerable. And she had no doubt that Cavendish, the evil blackguard, would take delight in hurting Rose too.

“There is a solution, love. Marry me.” He smiled, and had never looked more devastating, more tempting. “Again. As your husband, I can keep you safe. Cavendish, for all his threats, his bluster and his arrogance, would never try to hurt you if he knew I’d rip him apart over it.”

“You are going to be an earl. You can’t rip men apart.”

He lifted his brow in a way that warned he could do anything. “Oh? You just told me peers are above the law.”

Her heart thudded in fear. “Not for killing other peers.” He couldn’t throw his life away over her. It was bad enough that he had waited for her. He couldn’t give her any more. She couldn’t live with that.

“It was Cavendish, wasn’t it?” Low and dangerous, his voice made her shiver. “He was the man who attacked you. Who made you afraid.” He had never spoken like this. Never so terrifyingly.

“Yes.” She had to give him the truth. And she feared he knew anyway — that she had shown something in her eyes. “But you cannot do anything rash. Or foolish.”

“I don’t do foolish things, love. I wouldn’t have survived so long if I did.”

“You just proved that isn’t true, Lyan.” She managed a wry smile. “You just asked me to marry you.”

“Not foolish, Sally. But I’d like to postpone the moment when you tell me ‘no’.” He rolled her on to her back, and crawled over her, his tawny gold body supported above hers on his powerful arms. Her breath caught. He grasped the neckline of her nightgown and pulled hard. Three buttons popped free and clattered to the floor. Her gown gaped to reveal her bosom.

Lyan captured her mouth, all the while stroking her breasts, making her feel like molten gold. She had once seen a jeweller turn the metal to liquid, had seen it splash, scalding hot, into a mould. That was how she wanted to feel — like something strong and solid which could turn to fluid with all this heat, which could be changed, reshaped, transformed into something new.

How could he kiss her like this when he knew she would turn him down?

“I … I want you,” she whispered. “But marriage … I can’t … I have to say—”

“Shh.”

He began to lift up her sensible flannel nightdress. She couldn’t stop him. She couldn’t walk away from him now. One night. She would allow herself that. One glorious night to remember for ever.

He bent to her nipples, teasing and suckling them. Giving her pleasure she hadn’t known for ten years. His hands slid down and he stroked her most private place.

Yes. Oh yes. But she didn’t dare say that word. That dangerous word.

Then Lyan slid inside her, burying his erection deep, and his mouth never stopped lusciously tormenting and pleasuring hers, not for a moment.

She kissed him as they moved together, frantic, wild, just like when they had been young, blessedly young, and in love. She had always wanted to believe it would be easier to face the world if they were together.

She licked his neck. Devoured his mouth. Nibbled his ear. Bit his shoulder. Because if she didn’t keep touching him and tasting him, she would start to think of what she’d lost. And she’d burst into tears that might never stop …

His lips pulled back, and she almost tumbled into the depths of his wild, hot green eyes. “Stop thinking, Sally. Just love me. For right now, this is love. Savour it.”

Then he covered her mouth with his as though afraid she might argue. But she couldn’t any more. And she came, she climaxed, she surrendered to a pleasure she couldn’t begin to control. She burst into a thousand shimmering pieces. She flowed like liquid gold. She soared.

And he cried out hoarsely in a climax. His shout of pleasure sent her heart spinning up to heaven.

As she fell back to earth, to their hot, disordered bed, Estelle was aware of Lyan’s arms around her. He had moved off her, but his embrace held her captive.

“I want to ensure,” he said sleepily, “you don’t run away again.”

You could marry him and make love with him and sleep like this every night. Rose could have the one thing you never had and never will have — a father.

Estelle sat up. Lyan was not doing a very good job as gaoler. His long, large body was still snuggled beside her. But his arm was slack with sleep and rested on her hip.

She needed to think. And needed air. The room smelled of sex and pleasure and was so hot it made her dizzy. As soundlessly as she could, Estelle put on her cloak. While Lyan breathed steadily, she slipped out of the room, then hurried down the stairs and ran outside to the yard.

She wasn’t going to run away. No, this time she had to refuse Lyan to his face. She felt as though she were a gown that was stitched up all wrong. All the pieces were where they should be, but she could never be right until she was taken apart and made up all over again. Yet she didn’t have the courage to pick her stitches away.

A carriage stood in the yard. There was a light within, illuminating a girl’s face.

It was the face of the young woman who had come to her last night. It was Lyan’s sister’s face. He’d told her the girl’s name. Laura. There was one reason for Laura Foxton to be in a carriage at a coaching inn on the road to Scotland.

The girl was alone in the carriage, and she drew back as Estelle wrenched open the door. “What are you doing? Eloping?”

“I—” Laura tipped up her chin. “Yes.”

“What of your brother? I’m sure it will break his heart if he finds out you’ve run away.”

The dark-haired girl glared mulishly. “I’ll go back and see him. I’m not running away for ever. You have no right to tell me what to do. Or tell me what my brother feels. He left me a note before he left last night. In it he told me who you are. The woman who broke his heart!”

Estelle fought the guilt she knew Laura had wanted to provoke. “Well, he doesn’t need another broken heart then, does he? He is here, in this inn. Why not tell him what you want? Why not marry with his blessing?”

“He won’t give me his blessing. I am in love. And I won’t turn back now.”

Estelle clasped the girl’s hand. “If you are happy, then I wish you a lifetime of happiness. Tell your brother, wait for his blessing before you marry. Understand that it is not too late to turn back. It never is.”

She left Laura then, hurrying back across the muddy yard. It was so easy to give advice she would never take. Lyan was offering her the chance to turn back. And she had said no.

Her heart grew heavier with each hurried step back to the bedroom. Lyan still slept. He lay on his stomach and the sheets had fallen down to expose his bare back. Estelle dropped her cloak and sat down beside him. Her nightdress was half open, slipping off her shoulders. What should she do — slip back into bed and betray him by letting Laura escape to Gretna? Or wake him up and betray a young girl who yearned to find love?

She touched his shoulder. Shook him gently.

Click.

Behind her, the door’s latch had opened and she spun around. Laura?

She expected to see the girl in the doorway, but instead she breathed in the choking scent of a smouldering cheroot. Her gaze locked on the dark eyes of a strange man.

But she had locked the door. After she’d come in, she’d locked the door by instinct.

The black-haired man winked at her. He wore a grey greatcoat and gleaming black boots, the cheroot was clamped in his teeth, and his large body filled the doorway. Blocking her escape. An amused smirk twisted his lips.

Then she saw it. The almost extinct firelight glimmered along the muzzle of a pistol held in his hand.

“Who are you?” she demanded, fighting to hide fear.

“I take it you are Mrs Desjardins,” the man said and his glittering eyes mocked her. “I see Lyan has been mixing business with pleasure. Well, I have some business to conclude myself. In the name of Lord Cavendish. Which means, unfortunately, I will have to get rid of you first.”

He swung up the pistol to point at her chest.

Estelle stared at the muzzle, frozen, her heart pounding in wild terror. She expected to hear the roar of the shot and be blown off her feet. Instead, she saw a look of pleasure leap to the man’s eyes. He was enjoying her torment.

She drew on all the bravado she’d clung to when she’d been growing up in the stews. “I will pay you more,” she said, confident and cool. “I will pay you far more to leave us alive.”

His finger paused on the trigger. “I doubt that. And I can’t leave Lyan alive — he’d hunt me to the ends of the earth. But you …” His gaze moved suggestively over her.

“I have a lot of money,” she purred. “I can give you ten thousand pounds.” She couldn’t. Couldn’t. But she prayed he would be intrigued enough to keep his attention on her, to give her more time—

And then Lyan launched off the edge of the bed. His body ploughed into the man, his hand slamming on to the pistol. The weapon exploded with smoke and a flash and the stench of burned powder.

For a frozen second, Estelle expected to see Lyon — or herself — collapse. Then she saw the feathers drifting in the air. The only victim of the shot was the bed.

The man swung the pistol up again, and smashed the muzzle into the side of Lyan’s head. Lyan recoiled and blood flowed down his face from a gash in his temple. Estelle’s heart gave a leap of terror. For her entire life, she had feared being under a man’s power. She’d feared being helpless.

Dear heaven, she was not going to let Lyan be killed.

She didn’t have scissors in her hand this time, but the fireplace poker was in reach. While the attacker had his attention fixed on Lyan, Estelle lunged forwards, wrapped her hands around the iron handle, and struck …!

“Blast!” The man jumped back, avoiding her blow. But it gave Lyan enough time to grab him, snapping back the wrist that held the gun. She heard a sickening crack, then the thud of the fallen pistol. The man’s wrist dangled limply for a second before Lyan threw him to the floor as though he weighed no more than the feather pillows.

He pressed his foot down across the blackguard’s throat.

He had come so close to losing her again, losing her for ever. And he’d known, as Nick Swan levelled the pistol at Estelle’s heart, he couldn’t live without her. He had barely survived for ten years without her, let alone a lifetime. If she died, he knew his heart would die, too.

Lyan increased the pressure of his foot on Nick’s neck. He knew full well he wouldn’t have the Judas beneath his boot if it weren’t for Sal … for Estelle. And, though her chest rose and fell with quick, deep breaths, she was already yanking a cord from the bed curtains to tie Nick’s hands. She definitely hadn’t left behind the woman she had once been. She was still a survivor. His heart was filled with admiration for her.

“Who is he?” she whispered.

“My former partner and Bow Street Runner, Nicholas Swan.” He rapped the butt of the pistol against Nick’s temple. “I take it Cavendish paid you to pursue me.”

Estelle took a sharp breath. She went as white as chalk. Swan emitted a grating chuckle of pure triumph. “He paid me well, but I had another reason to come here, Foxton — the lovely lass waiting in my carriage for my return. I’m sure she’s panting for me—”

“Laura,” Estelle broke in. She glared at Nick. “You are the man she believed was a hero?”

“What?” Lyan began to wonder if he’d been the one thrown to the floorboards. It appeared he’d missed a few things. “Would one of you tell me what is going on?”

“Your sister came to me last night,” Estelle admitted, “and told me she wished to elope — with a Bow Street Runner — because she believed you would refuse the match. I now see why.”

“And you didn’t tell me about this?” He felt a sharp pain through his chest, which just had to be the large crack slicing through his heart at that moment. “Didn’t you trust me to do what was best for Laura? This is why I didn’t want my sister anywhere near Nick Swan! He’s a corrupt blackguard.”

“And what are you going to do, Foxton?” Nick grunted from beneath his foot. “Have your sister destroyed by scandal? Let me go, and I’ll wed the chit and save her reputation.”

“Lyan! What in heaven’s name are you doing to Nick?”

Lyan stared into the shocked and horrified eyes of his sister standing in the doorway.

Estelle, bless her, drew Laura into the room. She told Laura everything — Lady Maryanne’s elopement, their suspicions about Cavendish, Nick’s attack. Estelle soothed his sister through each step of the story. At the very end she whispered, “And you must know which man you can trust — the one you should keep in your life. Your brother.”

Lyan dragged a bound Swan to his feet. “Was it also your job to go after Lady Maryanne Bryght?” Nick’s eyes shifted and his mouth hardened, revealing the truth. “Did you find her? Hurt her?”

At Nick’s silence, he gripped him by the throat. “Tell me where you found her. And what you did to her and Peabody, or I’ll kill you now. Give me the truth and things might go better for you.”

Nick gave a vicious laugh. “Good luck finding them. I caught them two days ago, but by then they were wed.”

“And Cavendish had sent you to kill them if they were,” Estelle accused.

Nick gave a sly grin. “He wanted the lovely and rich bride for himself. I was to get rid of the husband. But the little witch outfoxed me. I had cut up the gent and was ready to finish him when Lady Maryanne pulled a pistol on me. They managed to escape but I had to return to London because Laura was waiting to elope with me.” He smirked to Lyan. “Even if I failed Cavendish, I assumed you would pay a lot of money to get her back and make me go away. Enough for me to live comfortably in Italy.”

Laura turned a heart-wrenching shade of white.

“Where did you find them?” Lyan demanded, but Nick shook his head. Fortunately Lyan knew his former partner well. He was a coward at heart. It took another half-hour of threats — and a little pain — but Nick finally revealed the small village inn where he had discovered them.

The innkeeper had stormed upstairs at the sound of the shot, and now Estelle took charge, sending him to fetch the nearest magistrate. Lyan looked to her. “Once Nick’s taken away, I’ve got to see if I can find Lady Maryanne.”

She nodded. “I will take care of Laura.”

What a shame that, at the end of this, he thought ruefully, she wanted him to walk away from her for ever.

The magistrate and several muscular village men arrived to place Nick Swan under arrest. Swan had been shackled in irons and taken to gaol. Lyan, the other magistrate, and several of those men raced off to search for Lady Maryanne and Peabody, planning to start their hunt in the village where Swan had caught the pair. Estelle stayed with Laura, who sobbed and sobbed at her lost love.

But as dawn began to blush on the horizon, Laura wiped at her eyes. “You had tea brought in, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” Estelle poured the girl a cup. She suspected Laura was, at her core, as strong and noble as Lyan. As the girl sipped hot tea, Estelle stroked back her hair.

“I’m crying at my stupidity,” Laura said. “And at how close I came to losing my brother.” Wide green eyes gazed up. “You were correct. I see how important Lyan is to me. I don’t want to lose him, in any way. When I marry, I want it to bring happiness to our family. Not discord. And—” She ducked her head. “He was right.”

“Your brother is a very wise and wonderful man.”

The door burst open then and Lyan strode in. He grinned when he saw his sister drinking tea, still tear-stained, but also smiling. “My God, Estelle,” he murmured, “you are a shining star.”

Estelle grasped Laura’s cup. Her heart felt full to bursting as Laura flung herself into Lyan’s embrace. Over Laura’s disordered curls, Lyan gave her the good news.

“We found Lady Maryanne and Peabody quickly. They had taken refuge in a nearby barn. Peabody has lost a lot of blood, but the village doctor believes he will survive. They have many years of married life ahead of them.”

Estelle could have kissed him. But Laura deserved to have all her brother’s hugs. Then to her surprise, Laura looked up into Lyan’s face. “Are you going to marry Madame Desjardins? You could keep travelling to Gretna Green and marry her over the anvil. That’s the place where everything — all love — is possible, Lyan. You both deserve to be happy.”

Estelle caught her breath. What if Lyan thought she’d put Laura up to it?

But Lyan shook his head. “I have no intention of going to Gretna Green.”

A fortnight had passed, and Estelle had accepted the truth. Lyan believed she would not marry him again. He would not come to ask her one more time. Really, it was madness to even hope.

How many times would any man put up with being turned down?

At least Lady Maryanne — now Mrs Peabody — was free of Cavendish. He had been faced with ruin, for he’d needed Maryanne’s money for his gaming debts. His body had been found in the Thames. Whether he’d jumped or had fallen in drunk, no one knew.

The bell tinkled above her shop door. It was just closing time. She peered out from behind the workroom curtain to tell the customer to come back tomorrow.

Lyan stood in the doorway, just as he had done two weeks ago. But this time, his arms overflowed with an enormous bouquet of red roses. There were so many flowers that the red velvety blossoms almost hid his handsome face. “For Sally of the Gardens,” he said softly, setting the lovely bundle on one of the chairs.

“Lyan—” But her voice died as he dropped to one knee, and a shy smile touched his lips. He held up something sparkling. It caught the candlelight and flashed light around the room. “I didn’t want to whisk you away to Gretna Green, Sally. That’s the place for forbidden love. I wanted to marry you here, properly. If you wish, we can marry at St George’s as soon as I get a licence.” He raked back his dark hair. “I love you, Sally. I’ve loved you for my lifetime. When I realized I could have lost you in that inn … You have to say yes, Sally. Because I’m going to stay here, down on one knee until you do. And with me filling your doorway, no one can get into the shop.”

She almost laughed. The very first time he had asked her, ten years ago, she had said yes. She’d agreed then, because she had thought she could never love anyone more than she loved Lyan.

She had been wrong. She loved him even more now.

At her silence, his face dropped. “Angel, it can’t be ‘no’ again, can it?”

“There are more reasons why I can’t marry you than I can count. For one, you will soon become an earl. Earls do not marry simple seamstresses—”

“You are anything but a simple seamstress.”

“I am a shopkeeper, Lyan. Earls do not marry shopkeepers. Unless the earls are very, very poor and the shopkeepers are very rich.”

His lips twitched. “I was — am — a Bow Street Runner. My upbringing was no different than yours, and I have a profession, as you have.”

“I ran away the first time because I was afraid of being trapped.” There. She wanted to give him the truth. And if he still wanted her then … “When we were young and you asked me to marry you, I wanted you more than life itself — that was why I said yes. But then I became afraid. My mother had been treated so badly by men, I wasn’t sure—”

“You thought that I could hurt you.”

“I had no idea that men could be good and noble, Lyan. All I knew was my mother and the men in the stews. She had believed those men would be good to her, but she was so very wrong. I was afraid of losing control of my life. I thought what I wanted most was to be in charge of my own destiny. But when we were attacked in the inn, I realized that love and family are far more important than fighting to always be in control.”

She threw up her hands. “It doesn’t matter what I want. Society would never accept me as a countess. You wanted to clear Laura’s way to a better life, not throw more obstacles in her path. I would be an insurmountable obstacle.”

“Laura has found the man she wants to marry.”

“Goodness. Already? Who?”

“The young Viscount Norbury. Once she no longer had Swan in pursuit of her, blinding her to other men, she saw Norbury’s good qualities. But I told Laura she can’t encourage him until you complete an investigation of him, Sal.”

Her nervous laughter bubbled up.

He clasped her hand, and just the contact sent a sizzle to her toes. “I was afraid you wouldn’t want to marry me because I was a Bow Street Runner,” he said, his eyes serious. “The ton isn’t going to be eager to accept me as an earl. But if I’m going to face whispers and sneers, I need you at my side, Sally, to give me strength. I’ve always needed you at my side.”

She took a deep breath and tried to speak. But tears got in the way.

“I want a home with you, Sally. I want to have more children with you. Many brothers and sisters for Rose. But, more than anything, I want you, and that will never change. I don’t care what the ton says about us. If I have you, I can look any peer in the eye and tell him I’m the luckiest man in England. For I’d have the two most precious things in the world. Love. And you.”

Her tears broke free. They ran down her cheeks. Lyan looked nervous and got to his feet, jerking a linen handkerchief from his pocket.

She took it, and tried to wipe delicately. Then gave up and rubbed her cheeks. She couldn’t remember when she had last cried. But no longer did she have to hide what she felt, no longer did she have to bear everything alone. “Yes. Yes, I will marry you.”

He grinned. “No more secrecy, no more running. No more need for Gretna Green.” And he wrapped his arms around her like he would never let her go.