Worth Any Price (29 page)

Lottie pushed at his chest, making him loosen his grip on her. Red-faced and breathless, she saw that Sayer had developed a keenly absorbing interest in
the weather outside the window, while Daniel had excused himself to wait outside.

“I am sorry to interrupt your reunion with Lady Sydney, my lord,” Sir Grant said ruefully. “However, I must insist on hearing what has occurred with Radnor, and where he is at the moment, especially in light of the condition of Lady Sydney’s garments.”

Realizing that he was referring to the bloodstains on her dress, Lottie nodded. Nick continued to hold her while she explained. “Lord Radnor died by his own hand,” she told the magistrate. “He brought me to his home, and after we talked for a few minutes, he took his own life.”

“In what manner?” Sir Grant asked calmly.

“He used a pistol.” Lottie felt the tremor that went through Nick’s body at the words. “I am at a loss to explain his actions, except to say that he seemed altogether mad. I told his servants to leave his body exactly as it was and not to touch anything, as you might wish to send a runner to investigate the scene.”

“Well done, my lady,” Sir Grant said. “May I prevail on you to answer just a few more questions?”

“Tomorrow,” Nick said roughly. “She’s been through enough today. She needs to rest.”

“I would be more than happy to tell you every detail,” Lottie replied to Sir Grant, “if you will send for a doctor to attend to Lord Sydney’s hand, and also have a look at our footman.”

The magistrate’s green eyes crinkled charmingly at the corners. “We’ll send for Dr. Linley at once.”

“I’ll fetch him,” Sayer volunteered and left the office quickly.

“Excellent,” Morgan commented, his gaze returning to Nick. “And while we wait for Linley, my lord, perhaps you can explain to me how you came by your injuries—and why you look and smell like you’ve been tromping through Fleet Ditch.”

Much later, when they were at home in bed and had talked for what seemed to be hours, Nick told Lottie about the thoughts he’d had in the perilous moments when he’d thought he would fall to his death in the warehouse. As Lottie listened, she snuggled in the crook of his arm, gently circling her fingertips through the hair on his chest. His voice was deep and drowsy from the effects of the pain medication that Dr. Linley had insisted on giving him before setting and splinting his fingers. Nick had taken it only because the alternative was the undignified prospect of being held to the floor by Sayer and Morgan while the doctor poured the medicine down his throat.

“I never wanted to live so much as I did right then, hanging onto that rotting timber,” Nick said. “I couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing you again. All I want is time with you. To spend the rest of my life with you. I don’t care about anything else.”

Murmuring her love to him, Lottie kissed the hard silken skin of his shoulder.

“Remember when I told you once that I needed to be a runner?” he asked.

Lottie nodded. “You said that you were addicted to the challenge and the danger.”

“I’m not any longer,” he said vehemently.

“Thank God for that,” Lottie said with a smile, lifting herself up on one elbow. “Because I have become rather addicted to
you
.”

Nick traced the moonlit curve of her back with his fingers. “And I finally know what to wish for.”

Puzzled, she gazed down at him while the long locks of her hair trailed over his chest and shoulders. “What?”

“The wishing well,” he reminded her.

“Oh, yes…” Lottie lowered her face to his chest and nuzzled the soft fur, recalling that morning in the forest. “You wouldn’t make a wish.”

“Because I didn’t know what I wanted. And now I do.”

“What do you want?” she asked tenderly.

His hand slipped behind her head, pulling her mouth down to his. “To love you forever,” he whispered just before their lips met.

An hour after Master John Robert Cannon was born, Sir Ross carried his infant son to the parlor, where friends and family waited. A chorus of soft, delighted exclamations greeted the sight of the sleeping baby wrapped in a lace-trimmed blanket. Surrendering the bundle to his beaming mother, Catherine, Sir Ross made his way to a chair and lowered himself into it with a long sigh.

Studying his brother-in-law, Nick reflected that he had never seen him look so exhausted and unnerved. Sir Ross had defied convention by staying with his wife while she was in labor, as he was unable to wait outside while she was undergoing the trauma of delivery. With his black hair rumpled and his supreme self-assurance temporarily gone, Sir Ross appeared far younger than usual…an ordinary man who was badly in need of a drink.

Nick poured a brandy at the sideboard and brought it to him. “How is Sophia?” he asked.

“A damned sight better than I am,” Sir Ross admitted and received the snifter gratefully. “Thank you.” Closing his eyes, he took a deep swallow of the brandy, letting it soothe his overwrought nerves. “Good God, I don’t know how women do it,” he muttered.

Being completely unacquainted with the feminine realm of childbirth, Nick sat in a nearby chair and regarded him with a puzzled frown. “Did Sophia have a difficult time of it?”

“No. But even the easiest of childbirths seems a Herculean effort to me.” Seeming to relax slightly, Sir Ross drank more of the brandy. He surprised Nick with his unusual candor. “It makes a husband fearful of ever going back to his wife’s bed, knowing what it will all eventually lead to. While she was in labor, I could hardly believe that I was responsible for putting her through that.” He smiled wryly. “But then, of course, a man’s baser nature eventually wins out.”

Nick glanced at Lottie in sudden consternation. Like the other women, she was cooing over the baby, her face soft and radiant. One of her hands rested gently on the curve of her own stomach, where their child was growing. Sensing his stare, Lottie looked up with a smile and wrinkled her nose impishly.

“Damn,” Nick muttered, realizing that he was going to be in no better condition than Sir Ross, when his own child was born.

“You’ll survive,” Sir Ross assured him with a sudden
grin, reading his thoughts. “And I’ll be there to pour the brandy for you afterward.”

They exchanged a friendly stare, and Nick felt an unexpected flicker of liking for the man who had been his adversary for so many years. Shaking his head with a rueful smile, he extended his hand to Sir Ross. “Thank you.”

Sir Ross shook his hand in a brief, hard clasp, seeming to understand what Nick was thanking him for. “It was all worth it, then?” he asked quietly.

Settling back in his chair, Nick looked once more at his wife, loving her with an intensity that he never would have believed himself capable of. For the first time in his life he was at peace with himself and the world, no longer haunted by shades of the past. “Yes,” he said simply, his soul alight with gladness as Lottie looked back at him once more.

Dear Reader,

I hope you have enjoyed my novels featuring the famed Bow Street runners. They have been a great pleasure for me to write, and I was able to learn some very interesting facts during my research. The Bow Street runners were essentially a private police force, never officially authorized by Parliament. They were not bound by statutory or territorial restrictions—which meant they were virtually a law unto themselves. This dashing group of thief-takers was formed by Henry Fielding in 1753, and when he died one year later, his half brother John Fielding succeeded him as chief magistrate.

After the Bow Street runners faithfully served the public for decades, the first Metropolitan Police Act was passed in 1829, resulting in the creation of the New Police. The Bow Street office continued to operate
independently of the New Police for ten years, until the second Metropolitan Police Act expanded the New Police and finally eliminated the Bow Street runners. I humbly ask for your indulgence, as I have taken author’s license to extend the runners’ existence for another two years, in order to serve the needs of my plot.

I also want to address the fact that I’ve included a “shower scene” in a historical novel, which I know is unusual. As I researched nineteenth-century plumbing, I learned that the duke of Wellington installed several hundred feet of hot water piping in his home as early as 1833, and by the late 1830s, the duke of Buckingham had equipped his mansion with shower-baths, water closets, and bathrooms. Therefore, Nick Gentry’s shower-bath was entirely possible for a well-to-do London gentleman of his time.

Regarding the process of disclaiming one’s title…it was actually impossible for a peer to do so until the passage of the 1963 peerage act. Only about fifteen or so have actually disclaimed since then.

Wishing you happiness always,

Lisa