Meet the Earl at Midnight (Midnight Meetings) (2 page)

“Something funny, gel?” George snipped.

“Did I laugh? Sorry about that.” Lydia covered her mouth, not caring a whit. “I thought we were here to save Tristan, not have a midnight meeting with your employer. Not sure why I’m here.”

“Like I told you in the hack. Silence, gel—”

Lord Greenwich stopped their exchange. “Be nice, Montgomery, or you’ll find me less lenient. No more delays. She goes with me…as per the agreement.”

Lydia snapped to attention. All vestiges of her hazy drowse vanished.

“What did you say?” Her head tipped toward the earl.

Lightning flashed. Pulsing brightness danced behind the nobleman’s shrouded bulk.

“You heard me.”

“Yes, I heard you, but I thought we were here to save Tristan. What’s this about an agreement?”

His dark eyes narrowed on her. “You are here to save your stepbrother…in a manner of speaking.”

“Then where is he?”

“His whereabouts are not my concern.”

Now this was all very cryptic. Lydia planted a hand on her hip, and taking a deep breath, tried for clarity.

“But I thought he was in some kind of minor scrape.”

“There’s nothing
minor
about your family’s troubles.” The earl scoffed, and his cultured voice sharpened. “I wouldn’t call your stepbrother borrowing money from some unsavory types
minor
. He came begging for help not long after he started his apprenticeship. My man of business”—he gestured to the well-dressed man near the window—“obliged him with a loan. When Tristan couldn’t repay that debt, he stole from Sanford Shipping. Your stepfather made matters worse by trying to cover it up…from
me
.” His lordship’s tone lightened at this. “Even lifted some coin for himself. But we waste time. You know this already.”

Lydia digested the news: Tristan and George were thieves; the earl found humor in the fact that they tried to pull the wool over his eyes; and he assumed she was fully apprised. Worse yet, Lydia was somehow embroiled in this mess, a mess that looked to be more than a paltry few coins lifted from a till. She glared at her stepfather, who shrunk under her withering stare, and then she faced Lord Greenwich.

“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, my lord, and this sounds like a worse muddle than what’s typical. But I fail to see what this has to do with me.” Irritation building, she enunciated each word. “If you please, sir, the hour is late, and my skirt is soggy.”

She shouldn’t take a nursemaid’s scolding tone with nobility, but thunder cracked overhead, a reminder of the nasty storm, and her patience ran dry. She had things to do come daybreak. The hearth’s fire flickered orange light across his lordship’s exposed slice of humanity, and his dark-eyed scrutiny softened.

“I understand this is all very abrupt, Miss Montgomery. We need to begin with proper introductions. I am Lord Greenwich.” The earl gave a small bow and motioned to the bald man. “And this is Mr. Jonas Bacon, my man of business.”

Her gaze snapped to Mr. Bacon’s hulking form. He managed a thin veneer of respectability by the fine clothes he wore and the good grace of a noble’s company. Man of business? What kind of business was one question banging around her head among the others crowding for space, but good manners prevailed. Lydia curtsied greetings before taking a deep breath and trying anew with sleep-deprived tolerance.

“Yes, I know who you are. I’ve gathered that much. But what do you mean by this agreement?”

The earl’s dark eyes widened under his black brim. “Are you telling me you know nothing?”

Doubt threaded his words, but she wouldn’t let that bother her.

“I’m very much uninformed, sir. I knew my stepfather was in your employ as clerk, and recently Tristan, but this is the first I’ve heard of any thievery. Terrible news…but I’m at a loss as to how my presence makes a difference.”

That slash of topaz-dark eyes searched her face, and the fine hairs on her neck bristled again. Heavens, she had nothing to hide, unlike these men. His lordship exchanged a glance with his man of business. Five of Mr. Bacon’s fingertips braced a washstand in relaxed repose, yet his indifference belied a pair of alert, assessing eyes. The earl sighed behind the collar as he faced her.

“My apologies, Miss Montgomery, I was led to believe you were an informed party”—he cast a sharp-eyed look at George—“on
all
aspects of this predicament.”

George coughed, and his thin body hunched within his greatcoat.

“Allow me to explain,” the earl continued. “More than a fortnight past, I confronted your stepfather with evidence of the theft. Of course there’d be a trial…certain conviction due to overwhelming evidence…incarceration at Newgate…unfortunately for your mother, the Compter—”

“
The
Compter?
” she yelled. “Are you mad? My mother won’t go
there
…least of all for something George did.”

“—until the debts have been satisfied,” Lord Greenwich finished. “Of course, being past your majority, you are in no way under familial obligation.”

Her stomach lurched at his casual discussion of her mother in that ancient Cheapside prison. Damp, moldy bricks reeked of death and excrement, casting its horrid pall long before the edifice came to view. Debtors and their families toiled in darkness, slogging for years before gaining freedom; others wasted to nothing, forgotten by the outside world. Scrawny children, released in daylight, begged and scrambled for ha’pennies while standing in filthy gutters, all in the name of repaying family debts. And the horrors of a woman alone…she shuddered. Lydia was of an age and free; her mother, shackled to George, was stuck. Forever.

“There must be another way.” Her voice rose with each word. “How bad
is
this blasted debt?”

He raised a gloved hand to halt her onslaught of words.

“No hysterics, please—”

“You talk of sending my mother to the Compter, and you’re
bothered
by hysterics,” she bit each word at him and took a step closer.

His lordship’s eyes closed a moment, as if he dipped into a well of forbearance. “If you’ll remain calm, I’ll finish.”

Lydia scowled at George, who was too busy wiping perspiration from his forehead; she’d get no help from that quarter. She wouldn’t put it past him to implicate her mother in some way just to weasel his way out of any consequence.

“There is an amenable solution…a plan, if you will.”

“Yes, I’m most interested to hear what plan was concocted
without
my
knowledge
,” she said, glaring at the earl.

“Please understand, Miss Montgomery, I thought you were in full agreement to the solution your stepfather presented.” The cadence of his voice slowed. “Call it a creative remedy to satisfy an urgent requirement of mine.”

“I don’t care what you need. My mother will not go to that hellish place.”

“Careful, Miss Montgomery,” the earl cautioned. “You’re in no position to make such pronouncements…such is the way of things with theft and debt, an imperfect justice system to be sure.”

Lydia inhaled quickly, about to give his high and mightiness the sharp end of her tongue.

“Wait.” He raised a gloved hand. “I’m not without compassion. Understand, the power to resolve this matter rests in your hands.”

Lydia was sure she had the red-faced bearing of an angry fishwife. But he was nobility, and George and Tristan were clearly at fault.

“Go on, then.” Her arms clamped over her chest, bunching damp garments. “You said something about a plan.”

“Your stepfather overheard a conversation I had with my solicitor at Sanford Shipping. He knew of a particular and rather urgent need of mine. To get to the point—he offered you.”

“Offered me? You want to employ me to pay off this debt?” Lydia canted her head sideways. “That’s what this is about?”

Lord Greenwich had the nerve to be amused. At least she took the muffled sound behind the collar to be a laugh. Beside him, a heavy log rolled and split apart in the hearth. Firelight flared a bright dance of orange and yellow, exposing his splinter of skin.

“No, Miss Montgomery, I don’t want to
employ
you.” He paused, and topaz eyes scrutinized her. “I need you for a different purpose.”

Though bare of corset or stays, Lydia couldn’t shake the sensation of whalebone pinching her ribs. Breathing became difficult. Male stares bored into her, waiting. Her fingers dug at scratchy wool and muslin.

“Me? Why?”

His lordship sighed overlong and repeated in a monotone voice, “Because Tristan and your stepfather stole—”

“No,” she huffed. “I’m
not
a half-wit. I mean, why this odd trade? Makes no sense. If not to employ me and repay the debt, then what for?”

The earl’s shoulders squared. His dark-eyed look reached across the space and pinned her.

“More precisely, I need your body.”

Two

Even a fish could stay out of trouble if it learned to keep its mouth shut.

—Proverb

“You are mad as a March hare.” The rude words slipped off her tongue. “Why would you need my body?” Lydia’s leather shoes scraped uneven planks as she inched backward.

“I assure you, I’m quite sane.” The earl watched her, clear-eyed and focused. “I need an heir. I’ll expect you to provide one for me, and possibly a second in due time.”

He stated his requirements as if this were simply a matter of course. They could have been discussing a mundane transaction of flour or wool. The deafening rush in her ears competed with the steady drum in her chest, muddling her brain. As the midnight hour approached, her life opened an unwelcome door, and the cascade pouring down on her was not appealing by any stretch. She had plans of her own and was quite done with men.

“And if I refuse?” Lydia asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I will seek justice.”

Her mother’s gentle face clouded her mind, but under the folds of her cloak, Lydia’s hands covered her abdomen. Her womb was a negotiation piece. Babies…children were meant to be the fruit of something close to perfection between a man and a woman…something close to that perfect, dreamlike memory of her mother and long-dead father. Children deserved to grow into their own dreams and desires, not live as pawns or game pieces for the fulfillment of others.

The pressure, so much to absorb, caused a nagging throb. Lydia’s hand moved to her forehead. Her fingertips massaged her temple, wishing away George, Mr. Bacon, Lord Greenwich, this whole mess. She squeezed her eyes shut, only to picture her mother once again, and a different coldness that owed nothing to the weather crept over her. Lord Greenwich’s smooth, hypnotic voice broke the silence.

“Come. Step into the light.”

Lydia opened her eyes. Beside her, George licked his lips as his glittering, avaricious gaze bounced between her and Lord Greenwich. That calculating gleam of his…the irksome man saw an opening to bilk the situation.

George raised his index finger. “Perhaps, milord, we can renegotiate—”

She groaned.

“Jonas,” Lord Greenwich called behind him.

Mr. Bacon nodded his shiny pate and grasped the unspoken request. The velvet-clad brute moved off the wall with surprising grace for one his size. Then, some shuffling of feet, a firm redirection or two, and his lordship’s man of business gripped the back of George’s cloak with one hand, removing him, like a broom sweeping out refuse. The big man finished the job by shutting the slanted door neatly behind him.

“Perhaps I spoke to the wrong Montgomery.” The earl tipped his head in invitation. “Please. Come closer. This evening’s been an unexpected trial.”

No harm in that. The bewildering night might end well, if she could just have a sensible conversation with his lordship. After all, a peer of the realm ought not to marry a woman of little consequence, especially when one considered the dynasty in question. Matters could be negotiated, if only the earl would be reasonable.

But Lord Greenwich studied her with a different potency in his dark eyes. Lydia lowered her lashes, aware of how men’s minds worked. She needed to regroup and gather her wits, but the earl must have sensed her wariness, or so she guessed when he extended a gloved hand.

“Please. This need not be unpleasant.” His voice lulled her. “I promise I won’t bite.”

“Meaning sometimes you do,” she snipped.

A muffle of low, masculine laughter floated from his collar. “Only on a full moon.”

His quip surprised her much like a clue revealed. Still, this midnight meeting defied reason, best she use caution. When she didn’t move, his hand dropped to his side. His lordship’s presence grew bigger in the tiny room, though he stood a safe, respectable distance.

“Very well then. Why not take off your cloak?” he coaxed.

“How like a man,” she said, eyeing him from the safety of her hood. “Get a woman naked, first. Solve a problem, second.”

That earned her another low, masculine chuckle.

“Now, now,” he chided. “I’m
not
asking you to undress, only that you remove your cloak. As you informed all, you are wet and soggy.” Lord Greenwich motioned to the blazing hearth. “You could stand here and warm yourself…dry your damp skirts.”

How did he manage to be commanding and reasonable at the same time? With a sigh, she pushed back her faded red hood and stepped closer. The welcome fire warmed her ankles nicely.

“I am, if anything, ever accommodating,” she said, tart-tongued.

Her sharpness missed its mark. Instead, her target tipped his head with great interest, almost fascination, when her face came into view. Topaz-brown eyes inspected every exposed inch of her visage, searching her with blunt curiosity. A spark as hot and fast as flint striking stone shot through her. Flummoxed, Lydia squared her shoulders and tried for businesslike composure.

“I’m sure something can be done to rectify this debt.”

“Your cloak.”

“My cloak?” she repeated, running her palms over damp wool.

“Remove it.”

Something in his firm tone brooked no disagreement. Her leaden hands obeyed, loosening the frogs and loops under her chin with graceless plucking. Her well-worn red half cloak, a sign of her modest station, parted and swayed, all while his gaze roamed over her, head to hem, waiting. A stag, tense and alert, scenting a doe came to mind. This was one way a woman could find herself flat on her back, as well she knew from times past.