Falling in Love Again (7 page)

“Mallory—”

“Ninety-eight thousand pounds!”

“I didn't—”

“But your man of business did. Your uncle, Louis Barron! I can't tell you how many times over the past years I came close to throttling him myself! The man is worthless. I'd write him letters requesting he pay attention to improvements needed for Craige Castle or outstanding debts that begged to be paid, and he would respond with empty promises!”

“Mallory, he never told me you had written—”

“You should have known about his involvement with moneylenders. Didn't you ever check on him, John, or question his activities? A debt so large doesn't accumulate overnight. It was irresponsible of you to give him such license!”

Anger flared in his eyes, hard and bright. “No, I
didn't question him. I trusted him. He's my uncle—”

“Never trust anyone with your money,” she said briskly.

“You sound just like a bloody wife.”

If he'd meant to hurt her, he could have chosen no better insult. Everyone in the shire surrounding Craige Castle agreed that Mallory had a bright mind, a keen wit, and a too-sharp tongue. They were among the many reasons used to explain her husband's absence. Other, far less kind reasons were bandied about as well to justify why he had abandoned her after their wedding night…

Mallory refused to let the old hurt touch her.

She faced her husband. “I am no longer a ‘little girl,' John. I am a woman, a woman deeply in debt, so pray indulge me a moment and answer my questions.”

Silence stretched between them, during which the loudest sound seemed to be the pounding of her own heart. “No,” he finally said. “I didn't question Louis's activities. Nor did I even think to.”

“And you never instructed him to deal with money lenders?”

“Why would I borrow money when my coffers were filled to overflowing?”

“Why would you let him have full discretionary power over your money?” To Mallory, who handled every penny that passed through Craige Castle, the idea didn't make sense.

John's boots crunched on the stones and dirt in the alley as he stepped back into the shadows.

“When I purchased my commission in the army, I had no choice but to hire an agent, a man of business. I'd purchased my colors with part of the estate my mother left me, but there was a sizable income coming in…and I had to take care of you.”

“John, why didn't you take care of your money yourself?”

“I was fighting the French, Mallory—not making a Grand Tour. Napoleon didn't give us time to sit around some coffeehouse reading the financial papers.” He ran an exasperated hand through his hair before he continued. “Louis seemed the logical choice. He was my father's brother, and he and I got along quite well. After all, I couldn't very well have asked my father to do it, not after I'd run out on all his well-laid schemes for my future. Furthermore, Father left England shortly after the wedding for his governorship in India.”

“But what about six months ago, John, after you inherited and returned from the war? Didn't you ask your uncle for an accounting then?”

“When Wellington ordered me home to see to my responsibilities as Viscount Craige, I was so angry I didn't care about the money, the properties, or any of it. I was content to let Louis manage it all. You may not believe this, Mallory, but I was happy with my life in the military. I don't fit in here.” He encompassed the whole of London with a sweep of his arm. “I don't belong.”

Mallory listened to not only his words, but also to the way he said them. She doubted he'd ever explained himself to anyone.

Of course, she understood the wish to keep
some details private.
No, my husband isn't home. He's with Wellington. Yes, he fought at Oporto. Albuera. Salamanca. No, I have no idea when he'll return. Perhaps when the fighting is finished in Spain
…until one day he'd returned and everyone in England had known it—except Mallory.

He turned on her, his eyes silver bright. “You could have said something. All these years I never received a word from you, not even a complaint, and say what you will against me, I did write. Granted, I'm not a poet, but at least you got a letter from time to time, which is more than I ever received from you. That is, until tonight, when you walked into my life and demanded a divorce.”

A sudden rush of guilt burned her cheeks. She still had his letters, a short stack of curt notes he'd sent over the years. She kept them in a drawer of her wardrobe, tied with ribbon and a sprig of lavender.

But she hadn't written back. She couldn't. The hurt ran too deep. Her pride would never let him know how deep.

Another reason to keep as far away from John Barron as possible.

John made a short, angry sound. He took her arm, his grip firm, and started walking. “Come, I'm going to resolve this right now, tonight, so that you and your mother can return to the country and your precious castle.” Bitter resentment colored his words.

In the face of his sudden anger, Mallory won
dered if she would be better off staying in the alley. “Where are we going?”

“To pay a call on my uncle, Louis Barron.”

 

John guided them to a better section of London without incident and hailed a hack, cool as you please. It seemed so simple that for a moment she could almost believe the earlier events had been a bad dream—until she found herself standing on the front step of Louis Barron's modest house in the wee hours of the night with a man she knew only as a bankrupt and wayward husband.

John knocked on the paneled door. The sound echoed.

There was no answer.

Mallory whispered, “Perhaps he is not at home.”

“Perhaps,” John agreed, his voice pensive. “Uncle Louis has his nights out.”

“Where does he go?”

John shrugged. “His club, usually. He enjoys cards. But he's a bachelor. He could be anywhere.” He knocked again.

“If he's not there, why are you knocking?”

Her husband shot her a frown. “Louis lives on the first floor. His landlady lives in an upstairs apartment. She's a bit loose in the noggin, but I'm sure she's there and will let us in. That is, unless you wish to stand out on the street all night.”

Mallory ignored his sarcasm by giving him her back. He knocked again, more forcibly.

Still no answer.

Finally, John stepped down from the stoop and peered through the windows.

“Do you see anything?” Mallory asked.

“No. The draperies are closed.”

Mallory knocked, while John began removing his jacket.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I'm going to break in.” He handed the jacket to her.

“You can't possibly do that! It's against the law.”

“Watch me.” To her horror, he disappeared down a very narrow alleyway between the houses. A split second later, she heard the sound of breaking glass.

Mallory moved to the corner of the stoop, feeling very vulnerable and exposed. She brushed a hand over the weave of his jacket. She was mad to be here, in league with John Barron. She thought of Hal waiting patiently in East Anglia for her return. He'd always considered her the soul of practicality and good sense, and now here she was, housebreaking.

Something crashed, and then a loud male grunt came from inside the house. Mallory placed her ear to the door. “John? Are you all right?”

No answer.

Seconds ticked by like hours. Then she heard the sound of a bolt slide from its setting and the front door opened. John held the door ajar and she gratefully slipped inside.

“It's damned dark in here,” he whispered, closing the door behind her. “But I think it looks deserted.”

Mallory's eyes slowly adjusted to the lack of light. They were standing in a short, narrow hall
with a staircase. John led her into a side room and opened the front window drapes. Moonlight illuminated the shapes of tables, chairs, and a desk. The room smelled of stale tobacco smoke and furniture wax. “He worked out of this room,” John explained.

“What makes you think no one is here?”

“Because the window I came through is in his bedroom. There's no clothing in the wardrobe. Furthermore, Louis is a bit of a pack rat. His desk has always been covered with papers and books. It's completely bare now.”

Mallory turned toward the desk. The smooth, clear surface reflected moonlight. “Then what—”

A woman's shaky voice interrupted them. “Hello? Is someone here?”

Quickly, John closed the draperies and pulled Mallory down with him to hide between two chairs. Mallory heard footsteps. They moved slowly, hesitantly, one step at a time down the staircase.

“It's the landlady,” John said in her ear. The reflection of a candle warned of the woman's approach.

John pulled Mallory closer as an older woman wearing her dressing gown, an Indian shawl of dark blue worsted, and a muslin nightcap came into view at the bottom of the stairs. Cautiously the woman moved to the doorway of the office.

Mallory sank deeper into the shadows next to John. “What do we do?” she whispered.

In answer, John did what she least expected. He stood up.

“Good evening to you, Mrs. Daniels,” he said pleasantly.

The old woman practically dropped the candle in her shock, and John hurried to her side to steady her. She looked up at him with wide, rheumy eyes. “Lord Craige?” she asked, with doubtful recognition. She blinked as if she quite expected him to disappear.

“Yes, it is, Mrs. Daniels. I'm sorry. Did I give you a terrible fright?” John acted as if it were completely natural for him to be marauding about her house in the middle of the night.

“Well, it's just that I wasn't expecting to see you here.”

Mallory felt stupid crouching on the floor and also rose to her feet. Mrs. Daniels turned in surprise. “Who are you?”

“She's my wife, Lady Craige,” John said casually. “Mallory, dear, this is Mrs. Daniels.” He took his jacket from her and shrugged it on.

Conscious of her windblown hair hanging below her shoulders, Mallory widened her eyes when Mrs. Daniels curtseyed. But then the woman started to lose her balance.

John caught her. He took the candle holder from her and set it on a table. “Here, I can see we've given you quite a start. Please, rest here a moment.” He helped her to a chair.

Still confused, Mrs. Daniels muttered, “Isn't it rather late for a call, my lord?”

John raised his eyebrows in consideration, then gave her a rakish smile. The landlady blushed and Mallory noted that even an aged woman like Mrs.
Daniels wasn't immune to his charm. He sat on a footstool next to her. “Yes, well, actually, my wife and I had a question for Uncle Louis that couldn't wait until morning and we hoped he'd have a moment to spare tonight.”

“Oh, that's impossible,” Mrs. Daniels confirmed with a shake of her head. “He isn't here. He's left London.”

“When did he leave?” John asked with mild surprise. “And did he tell you where he went?

Mrs. Daniels shook her head. “He left this morning. Packed all his worldly goods, just like that. I told him I thought this was very sudden and that he should give me proper notice. He said it was doctor's orders. Said the air here in London was bad for him—” Her voice broke off as she turned to John. “But you know, my lord, I think he was toying with me.”

“And why is that?” John asked.

“Because he appeared in robust health and was smoking one of those foul cigars he always has in his mouth. I asked him if he was going to take the furniture, but he told me to keep it. Said he wouldn't need it.” She looked around the room. “Furniture is expensive. Why would a man give up so much because of his health? Won't he need something to sit on, wherever he is?”

John didn't answer her. Instead, he lifted his gaze to meet Mallory's. She drew in a deep breath. She knew what he was thinking—his uncle had stolen his fortune.

He turned back to the landlady. “Are you certain, Mrs. Daniels, that my Uncle Louis didn't
say where he was going? It's imperative that I talk to him. Family business, you know.”

Mrs. Daniels pursed her lips before saying tightly, “He didn't want to tell me a thing. He wanted to walk out my front door after twenty years of living under my roof without so much as a fare-thee-well.” She folded her hands in her lap. “But I'm not a stupid woman, my lord. He may think he can fool me, but I can ferret out what I want to know.”

“And did you happen to ferret out where Louis went?” John asked, a gold guinea appearing in his hand from his pocket as if by magic.

Mrs. Daniels smiled and took the coin. “I overheard him talking to the driver of the coach he'd hired. He ordered him to take the Post Road north.”

“North?” Mallory said. She'd assumed Louis would head for the coast with the money.

“Aye,” Mrs. Daniels said. “North.”

Mallory and John exchanged a look and she knew he was thinking what she was: three-quarters of England was north of London.

Someone pounded on the front door. Mallory jumped, startled by the sound, and took a step closer to John as a deep male voice shouted, “Open this door, in the name of the Magistrate of Bow Street!”

“Heavens!” Mrs. Daniels whispered, her eyes as round as saucers. “What could that be about?”

“I'm certain I don't know,” John answered, his voice mild, his expression as innocent as an altar boy's. “Mallory, my dear, why don't you answer
the door and find out? And please advise them to keep their voices low. They'll wake Mrs. Daniels's neighbors.”

M
allory stared at John, certain he'd gone completely mad. She couldn't possibly answer the door and talk to the Runners; he knew that. Nor could she voice her doubts in front of the landlady. He seemed to know that, too.

John returned her stare with a calm, determined one of his own.

And then a form of silent communication flowed between them—and Mallory understood as clearly as if he'd said the words out loud. The Runners had no idea who Mallory was. She'd been in the coach during the earlier confrontation at John's house, and of course, few people even
knew he was married. She could answer the door without the Runners being the wiser and send them on their way.

“Mallory?” he prompted, a hint of challenge in his voice.

Did he think she lacked the courage?

Well, she didn't. She'd run Craige Castle and made her own decisions. She'd faced fear, and even though her heart was in her throat now, she'd face the Runners. Leaving the candle for Mrs. Daniels and John, Mallory walked out into the small, dark entrance hallway.

She turned the door handle and cracked open the door. Three Bow Street Runners stood on the small front step, moonlight shining off the hard leather of their polished black hats. In the night shadows, they seemed larger than life.

“Yes?” she asked.

The lead Runner doffed his hat. “Bow Street, ma'am. We're sorry to disturb you at this hour, but we must see Mr. Barron. Please tell him Bertie Goodman is here and it is most urgent.”

“Mr. Barron isn't here,” Mallory said.

“He isn't?” Bertie scratched his head. He looked to his comrades for advice while placing his hat back on. They shrugged their shoulders. Bertie turned back to her. “Tell Mr. Barron that Lord Craige got away from us. He might even come here. He was an angry one tonight when we went to arrest him, and if Mr. Barron is wise, he'll take precautions. Are you here by yourself, ma'am?”

From the darkness behind her, she heard a
muffled sound and realized Mrs. Daniels had heard the Runner's warning and was frightened. Mallory refused to consider what John was doing to keep the woman quiet. “No, I'm not alone,” she assured the Runner, thankful it was the truth, since she wasn't a very good liar.

“Good,” Bertie said. “Lord Craige has led us a merry chase, that he has. But you have no fear. We'll capture him. We three,” he nodded at his companions, “are going to stand watch in this area. I'll be in the shadows, over yonder.” He pointed to a street corner. “If you need me, you have only to shout.”

“Yes, I will,” Mallory assured him. “Thank you.”

“Goodnight to you, ma'am.”

As Mallory shut the door, her knees almost buckled beneath her. She moved quickly into the parlor, then stopped at the candlelit scene in front of her.

John still knelt on the floor, his arm around Mrs. Daniels's shoulders, his other hand over her mouth. The lady's eyes were wide with fright and she leaned back in her chair, her arms stiff at her sides, as if she didn't want to get closer to John.

“Did she hear all of it?” Mallory asked, understanding now that her fate was completely tied to John's. The realization made her angry. “John, please, you are frightening her. Let her go.”

He didn't move, his expression serious. “If I release my hand, she'll scream.”

Mallory made an exasperated sound. “Well, you can't sit there all night with your hand over
her mouth.” She bent down to Mrs. Daniels's eye level. “I know you are upset about what you may have heard, but you must understand, Lord Craige and I have done nothing wrong. We mean you no harm. Now, please, promise not to scream, and Lord Craige will remove his hand. May I have your promise?”

Mrs. Daniels nodded her head.

Mallory looked at John. “Remove your hand.”

“Mallory—”

“Remove your hand. She's a frail, old woman who shouldn't be treated this way. Furthermore, she's given her word of honor.”

John started to disagree with her, but Mallory silenced him with a glare. She could be as stubborn as he.

For a second, they fought a silent war of wills, then, with a small sigh of resignation, he removed his hand from Mrs. Daniels's mouth.

The woman burst out screaming, demonstrating a very healthy set of lungs for her advanced years.

Shocked, Mallory was about to tell Mrs. Daniels she'd broken her promise, when John jumped up from the floor, grabbed Mallory's hand, and pulled her toward the door. Mrs. Daniels rose, too, still screaming.

Together, the three of them ran out into the hall. Mrs. Daniels ran for the front door; John charged down the narrow hallway toward the back quarters of the house, half-dragging Mallory with him. He led them into one room, then another, before finally reaching a door that opened onto a small porch.

Fresh night air signaled freedom as they burst out of the door, then ran down a set of wooden steps and into a small yard, enclosed on all sides by a six-foot wooden fence.

“Where's the gate?” John whispered in annoyance, just as the Runners' watch rattles started shaking. Apparently Mrs. Daniels had managed to capture Bertie's attention.

John didn't worry about a gate. Instead, his long arms reached for the top of the fence and he pulled himself up, the sleeves of his jacket ripping in the process. Seated precariously on the edge, he reached down for Mallory. “Grab hold and I'll pull you up.”

“No,” Mallory said. She couldn't climb a fence; she couldn't.

Then the back door slammed open and from the stoop, Bertie shouted, “Stop, in the name of the Magistrate of Bow Street!” and she did the impossible.

She reached for John's hand, and before she could draw a second breath, he pulled her up beside him. For one wild second, she felt as if she were sitting on top of the world, until he gathered her in his arms and jumped down to the hard dirt of the alleyway on the other side.

John grunted as he broke the force of her fall with his body. “Are you all right?” he said in her ear. He didn't wait for an answer but rolled easily to his feet, bringing her with him.

On the opposite side of the fence, Bertie was shouting at Mrs. Daniels to open the gate. But the landlady was so busy screaming, her voice loud enough to wake the dead, that she didn't hear
him. Her cries of, “The wicked Lord Craige has broken into my house!” set neighborhood dogs to barking.

A man's gruff voice yelled from a neighboring window, “Be quiet out there!” Several lights appeared in various windows as homeowners investigated.

“Come,” John commanded. He took Mallory's hand and started in one direction, just as Mallory pulled in the opposite one.

Their clasp broke. John stopped abruptly, his expression almost comical.

“This way,” she urged him. “Bertie posted a Runner in that direction.”

“And this is the closest way out of the alley,” he shot back. “The Runner has moved to the front of the house or else we would see him by now.” He caught her hand and through sheer masculine domination propelled them in the direction he wanted—only to stop abruptly when a man wearing a glossy, hard hat appeared in the alley entrance.

“Damn, you were right,” John said. They ran back the way Mallory had chosen.

Under her breath, Mallory mimicked his words, “I'm certain the Runner has moved to the front of the house.” For her impertinence, he squeezed her hand.

They ran with the Runner hard on their heels.
We aren't going to make it
, Mallory thought. Her feet barely seemed to touch the ground. Her heart pounded against her chest.

“Hard-headed lads, aren't they?” John asked,
and Mallory wondered how he could tease at such a moment.

Just as they left the alley and emerged onto the street, Mallory heard the distant clacking sounds of more watch rattles coming from another direction. More Runners!

“John,” Mallory called, trying to get his attention. He had to see that it was no use. They couldn't run all night. They must give themselves up.

She started to call again, to pull on his hand and force him to stop, when a team of horses pulling an enclosed wagon charged around a corner. The driver practically stood in his seat to pull the wild-eyed team to a halt.

“Craige!” the driver yelled. “Get in, man! Hurry!”

“It's Peterson!” John shouted, and pushed Mallory toward the wagon while he turned to confront the Runners.

Mallory ran to the back of the wagon. Her trembling fingers felt along the lacquered wood for the door handle. From the other side of the wagon, she heard the sound of a fist hitting flesh. Then another.

She threw open the door, but, suddenly uncertain, didn't move. What if John needed help? Holding the door open for protection, she peeked around the corner.

John swung one fist and knocked a Runner into the arms of his other three comrades. He ran to join her, skidding before she climbed inside.

Without ceremony, he gave her a boost up with
a hand to her rump, practically throwing her into the wagon. Peterson didn't wait for them to slam the door shut before he set the horses in motion with a crack of his whip. Mallory started to rise, lost her balance, and tumbled back against the side. Over her head in the dark were hooks with different tools hanging from them. A peculiar odor permeated the interior.

Peterson's driving was far worse than John's as they charged down empty streets. She and John were bounced every which way until Bertie's cries for them to halt and the watch rattles faded in the distance. Eventually, Peterson slowed the horses.

Mallory's heartbeat gradually returned to normal. She sat up from her place on the floor. Then John sat up, reached for her in the dark, pulled her to him, and gave her a big, smacking kiss right on the lips!

“You were wonderful!” he exclaimed.

Mallory blinked, dazed by his enthusiasm. Her lips tingled, warmth radiating throughout her body. She'd been kissed only three times before—twice by John on their wedding day; once by Hal, when she'd said she'd consider his marriage proposal as soon as she'd obtained a divorce.

But this one was different from all the others.

Before she could gather her addled wits, John dropped his hands and scrambled over her to pound his fist against the wall next to the driver's seat. “Peterson! Peterson, hold up.”

The wagon came to a complete halt. John made his way to the back of the wagon and opened the door.

The fresh air smelled wonderful. Mallory wondered again what the peculiar odor was. It smelled of chemicals, like the sort used in a druggist's shop.

John jumped to the ground. “Lord, Peterson, what a bruising ride.” He started to shut the doors—in Mallory's face! He'd forgotten her presence already!

“John,” she said with fierce control.

“Oh, Mallory, here, let me help you.” He held out his hand.

Mallory ignored it. How
dare
he give her a push on the rump, kiss her, and then forget her? She hopped down from the wagon on her own.

John frowned at the hand he still held out to her, his expression puzzled. “Have I done something wrong?”

“What would make you think that?” Mallory asked crisply. She straightened her skirts and used her fingers to try to restore some semblance of order to her hair. Even in the dark, she knew she looked a fright.

John shut the doors. The man he called Peterson had climbed down from the driver's seat and now rushed back to them. “Are you two all right?” The nervousness in his voice suggested he truly regretted driving like a lunatic.

“We're whole and in one piece, thanks to you,” John replied. “Oh, please meet my wife, Mallory, Lady Craige. Mallory, this is Major Victor Peterson, one of my most trusted friends.”

Major Peterson made a short, proper bow in Mallory's direction before saying, “Actually, John, I may be the
only
friend you have left. At
Lady Ramsgate's, someone ran in with the news that your house was surrounded by a battalion of Runners and bill collectors.”

“I imagine that cleared the party.”

“In an amazing fashion.”

“Even Applegate?”

“Applegate was with me when I rushed over to your home, but he turned tail when I decided you needed to be rescued. By the way, Hadley won't be happy with you. His coach flipped over and is smashed.”

“Are the horses all right?”

“Yes, they're fine, but Hadley will want your head on a platter.”

“He deserves it,” John agreed soberly. “By the way, Peterson, where did you get this wagon? It smells damned funny inside.”

“It was standing behind one of your neighbor's houses, John. It's an undertaker's rig. Guess one of the servants died. You know how it is, no one wants a dead body in the house. I'm just relieved the body hadn't already been loaded into it. Could have been a mess during the chase.”

Mallory looked in horror at the black lacquered wagon where she could now make out in the gloom gold letters on the side proclaiming “Frederick Breward, Undertaker.” She turned on Major Peterson. “You
stole
this wagon?”

“I didn't steal it, Lady Craige. I borrowed it,” he said politely.

He turned to John as if to continue the conversation, but Mallory was fed up to her eyeballs with their cavalier attitude. “You
stole
this wagon, and the horses, and you call that
borrowing
?”

Major Peterson's eyebrows rose in surprise. “It was an emergency, Lady Craige. I had to rescue you and your husband.”

“Rescue us for what?” Mallory demanded. “Our hanging?”

“Lady Craige—”

“Before, we were guilty only of being bankrupt,” Mallory said reasonably. “
Now
, we've moved on to crimes such as evading the law, breaking and entering, assaulting a Runner, and stealing horses!”