Worth Any Price

  “Would you like some more, Charlotte?” Sophia offered.

  “Oh, yes, please.”

  Before Sophia poured more of the magical liquid, however, a tall, black-haired man entered the room. He spoke in an extraordinary voice, deep and gently abraded, his accent exquisitely cultured. “Pardon me for taking so long to join you. It was necessary to conclude some business with my estate agent.”

  Somehow Lottie had expected that Sir Ross would be settled and solid and pompously middle-aged. He was, after all, in his early forties. However, Sir Ross appeared to be more fit and virile than most men half his age. He was handsome in an aloof way, his natural authority so potent a force that Lottie instinctively shrank backward into the cushions. He was tall and lean, possessing a combination of self-assurance and vitality that made callow youth seem entirely graceless. His innate elegance would have been apparent even if he had been dressed in rustic peasant garb. As it was, he was clad in a crisply tailored black coat and matching trousers, with a charcoal silk necktie knotted deftly around his collar. His gaze swept over the scene, touching briefly on Lottie, lingering a bit longer on Gentry, then settling on his wife. What strange eyes he had…a gray so piercing and brilliant that it made her think of lightning trapped in a bottle.

  Amazingly, Sophia spoke to the remarkable creature as if he were an ordinary man, her tone decidedly flirtatious. “Now that you’re here, I suppose we’ll have to discuss something dull, like politics or judicial reform.”

  Sir Ross laughed as he bent to kiss her cheek. It would have been an ordinary husbandly gesture except for the way he finished the kiss with a soft, nearly imperceptible nuzzle. Sophia’s eyes closed briefly, as if the feel of his mouth on her skin recalled tantalizing memories.

  “I’ll try to be entertaining,” he murmured with a caressing smile. As he straightened, the light played on the ebony blackness of his hair and picked out the silver streaks at his temples.

  Gentry was stone-faced as he stood to shake his brother-in-law’s hand. “Sir Grant told me that you wished to see me,” he said without preamble. “What are you planning, Cannon?”

  “We’ll discuss that later. First I wish to become acquainted with your intrepid young bride.”

  Lottie laughed at Sir Ross’s implication—that any woman would have to be intrepid, to marry such a notorious man as Nick Gentry. She curtsied as the former magistrate came around the table to her. Taking her hands in his large, warm ones, Sir Ross spoke with engaging gentleness. “Welcome to the family, Mrs. Gentry. Be assured that if you ever require assistance of any kind, you have only to ask. I am at your disposal.”

  As their gazes met, Lottie knew instinctively that he meant what he said. “Thank you, Sir Ross. I regret the necessity of keeping our kinship a secret, as I would be quite proud to claim you and Lady Cannon as relatives.”

  “Perhaps we can do something about that,” he replied enigmatically.

  Suddenly Lottie felt Gentry’s hands close around her waist, and he tugged her away from Sir Ross. “I doubt it,” Gentry said to his brother-in-law. “Since there is no way in hell that I would ever allow such information to be made public.”

  Sophia interceded quickly. “Since it is rather too late to have the traditional wedding breakfast, I propose that we enjoy a wedding luncheon. Cook is preparing lamb cutlets, early-season asparagus, and several varieties of salad. And pineapple cream for dessert.”

  “How wonderful,” Lottie said, joining her in the effort to keep the atmosphere tranquil. She sat once more on the couch and carefully arranged her skirts. “I’ve never had asparagus, and I’ve always wanted to try it.”

  “Never had asparagus?” Sophia asked in disbelief.

  As Lottie searched for a way to explain her unfamiliarity with such delicacies, Gentry sat beside her and took her hand again. “I’m afraid my wife was served a rather spartan diet at school,” he told his sister. “She attended Maidstone’s for several years.”

  Sir Ross occupied a chair beside Sophia’s and gazed at Lottie intently. “A well-known institution, with the reputation of turning out very accomplished young ladies.” His tone became gently encouraging. “Tell me, did you enjoy your years there, Mrs. Gentry?”

  “Please call me Lottie,” she invited with a shy smile. As she proceeded to describe her experiences at the school, Sir Ross listened attentively, although Lottie had no idea why the subject would be of such interest.

  Soon luncheon was served in the conservatory, at a table laden with glittering crystal and flowery china, while two footmen attended them. Lottie was delighted by the indoor trees and the lavish spills of delicate tea roses that scented the air. Even Gentry’s mood seemed to lighten in the convivial atmosphere. Relaxing back in his chair, he regaled them with stories about the Bow Street office, including an account of how the runners had been assigned to inspect the dirty undergarments and shirts of prisoners being held in the strong room. Apparently the prisoners often penciled secret messages in their clothes, which were then given to relatives, who brought new garments for them to wear when they saw the magistrate. The condition of the prisoners’ clothing was often so foul that the runners had resorted to drawing straws to decide who should be given the disgusting task. By the time Gentry had finished describing the fury of a particular runner who always seemed to draw the short straw, even Sir Ross was laughing richly.

  Eventually Sir Ross and Gentry launched into a conversation about the problems concerning the “New Police,” which had been created approximately ten years earlier. Since then, Bow Street had remained separate from the New Police, as Sir Grant’s force of constables and runners were far better trained and more effective than the “raw lobsters.”

  “Why are the New Police called raw lobsters?” Lottie could not resist asking.

  Sir Ross replied with a faint smile. “Because raw lobsters are blue—the color of the new uniforms—and lobsters also pinch.”

  The comment made Gentry laugh.

  As the police discussion continued, Sophia drew closer to Lottie. “Do you think that my brother will wish to continue at Bow Street, now that you’ve married?”

  “He gave me the impression that he has no choice,” Lottie replied carefully. “The bargain with Sir Ross…”

  “Yes, but that arrangement was never intended to last forever. And now that Nick has married, perhaps Sir Ross will release him from the agreement.”

  “Why would our marriage have any effect on Mr. Gentry’s position at Bow Street?”

  Sophia glanced cautiously at the men across the table. “The answer to that is too private—and complicated—to discuss now. May I call on you soon, Lottie? We could have a nice long chat—and perhaps we’ll go on a shopping excursion.”

  Lottie smiled. She had never expected that Gentry’s sister would turn out to be so personable. And it seemed that Sophia was quite willing to shed some light on Gentry’s mysterious past, which would help Lottie understand him much better. “Yes, I would like that very much.”

  “Lovely. I expect we shall have great fun.”

  Overhearing his sister’s last remark, Gentry arched a dark brow. “What are you arranging, Sophia?”

  “Oh, a simple stroll along Oxford Street,” she replied cheerfully.

  Gentry snorted. “There are at least a hundred and fifty shops on Oxford. I suspect you’ll do more than simply stroll.”

  Sophia laughed. “You must open accounts for Charlotte at the drapers, and Wedgwood, and naturally the jewelers, as well as the bookshop and—”

  “Oh, my lady…er, Sophia,” Lottie interrupted uncomfortably, wondering why she didn’t seem to realize that their finances were quite meager, compared to the Cannons’ affluence. “I’m certain it will not be necessary to open accounts on my behalf.”

  Gentry spoke to Sophia with a slight smile. “Lottie may have credit wherever she likes. But first take her to your dressmaker. To my knowledge, she has no wedding trousseau.”

  “I don’t need any n
ew gowns,” Lottie protested. “Perhaps one nice gown, but that is all.” The last thing she desired was for Gentry to spend a great deal on clothes for her. Her memories of her parents’ extravagant spending habits, and their resulting descent into poverty, were still very clear in her mind. She had an instinctive fear of spending large amounts of money, and she knew better than anyone how even a comfortable fortune could be squandered in a short time. “Please, I must insist that you don’t—”

  “It’s all right,” Gentry interrupted, touching her shoulder. His gaze conveyed the message that now was not the time to debate the issue.

  Flushing, Lottie fell silent. His hand lingered at her shoulder, then slid to her elbow, squeezing lightly.

  Thankfully, the silence at the table was relieved by the appearance of a footman, who cleared the dishes while another set out plates of dessert and tiny glasses of sweet wine. The dessert plates were arranged with delicate biscuits and pineapple cream served in cunning little glazed pots.

  Sir Ross introduced a new topic of conversation concerning some recently proposed amendments to the Poor Law, which both he and Gentry supported. Surprisingly, Sophia offered her own opinions on the subject, and the men listened attentively. Lottie tried to conceal her astonishment, for she had been taught for years that a proper woman should never express her opinions in mixed company. Certainly she should say nothing about politics, an inflammatory subject that only men were qualified to debate. And yet here was a man as distinguished as Sir Ross seeming to find nothing wrong in his wife’s speaking her mind. Nor did Gentry seem displeased by his sister’s outspokenness.

  Perhaps Gentry would allow her the same freedom. With that pleasant thought in her mind, Lottie consumed her pineapple cream, a rich, silky custard with a tangy flavor. Upon reaching the bottom of the pot, she thought longingly of how nice it would be to have another. However, good manners and the fear of appearing gluttonous made it unthinkable to request seconds.

  Noticing the wistful glance Lottie gave her empty dish, Gentry laughed softly and slid his own untouched dessert to her plate. “You have even more of a taste for sweets than little Amelia,” he murmured in her ear. His warm breath caused the hair on the back of her neck to rise.

  “We didn’t have desserts at school,” she said with a sheepish smile.

  He took his napkin and dabbed gently at the corner of her mouth. “I can see that I’ll have a devil of a time trying to compensate for all the things you were deprived of. I suppose you’ll want sweets with every meal now.”

  Pausing in the act of lifting her spoon, Lottie stared into the warm blue eyes so close to hers, and suddenly she felt wreathed in heat. Ridiculous, that all he had to do was speak with that caressing note in his voice, and she could be so thoroughly undone.

  Sir Ross studied the pair of them with an all-engulfing glance. “Gentry, there is a matter I would take up with you. Undoubtedly there are better ways to reveal my thoughts concerning your future, but I confess that I can’t think of them. Your circumstances are unusual.” He paused and smiled ruefully. “That is an understatement, of course. The twists and turns of your life have been nothing if not bizarre.”

  Gentry sat back with languid grace, appearing relaxed, but Lottie sensed the apprehension that coiled inside him. “I haven’t asked you to consider my future.”

  “I have, nonetheless. During the past three years that I have followed your career—”

  “Followed?” Gentry interrupted dryly. “More like manipulated, meddled, and interfered.”

  Inured to semantics after so many years on the bench, Sir Ross shrugged. “I’ve done as I thought best. Bear in mind that in my dealings with you, I’ve also had Sophia’s interests to consider. She is the only reason I kept you from the gallows. She believed there was potential for goodness in you. And though I didn’t see it back then, I am willing to admit now that she was right. You are not the complete villain I thought you to be.”

  Gentry smiled coolly, aware that he was being damned with faint praise. “In return, let me say that you are not completely the hypocritical cold fish I thought you to be.”

  “Nick,” Sophia scolded, and laid her slender hand over Sir Ross’s large one. “My husband has never had a hypocritical thought in his life. And as for his being a cold fish, I can assure you most definitely that he is not. Furthermore—”

  “Sophia,” Sir Ross interrupted softly, “you don’t have to defend me, my love.”

  “Well, you’re not,” she insisted.

  His hand turned palm up to grip hers, and for just a moment the pair stared at their interlaced fingers with a shared pleasure that seemed unspeakably intimate. Lottie felt a peculiar ache in her chest. What must it be like to love that way? The two of them seemed to take such enormous delight in each other.

  “All right,” Gentry said impatiently. “Let’s get to the point, Cannon. I have no desire to spend my entire wedding day with you.”

  That elicited a grin from the former magistrate. “Very well, I will try to be succinct. Ever since you joined the Bow Street force, Sir Grant has kept me informed of your accomplishments; the detective operations, the work with the foot patrols, the pursuits that you’ve undertaken at the hazard of your life. But it wasn’t until the Barthas house fire that I realized how much you have changed.”

  “I haven’t changed,” Gentry said warily.

  “You’ve learned to value others’ lives as much as your own,” Sir Ross continued. “You’ve met the challenge I presented to you three years ago, and you’ve contributed greatly to the public welfare. And now you’ve even taken a wife. Interestingly enough, she is the kind of young woman you might have married had circumstances not deprived you of your title and position so long ago.”

  Gentry’s eyes narrowed. “I never gave a damn about the title. And God knows I have no use for it now.”

  The older man toyed with his spoon, wearing an expression befitting a chess player in the middle of a long game. “There is something you’ve never quite understood about your title. It’s yours, whether you want it or not. A title doesn’t disappear merely because one chooses to ignore it.”

  “It does if one chooses to become someone else.”

  “But you’re not someone else,” Sir Ross rejoined. “The real Nick Gentry died fourteen years ago. You are Lord Sydney.”

  “No one knows that.”

  “That,” Sir Ross said calmly, “is about to change.”

  Gentry went very still as he absorbed the statement. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “After a great deal of deliberation, I decided to begin the process of dignification on your behalf. Recently I explained the particulars of your situation to the offices of the Crown and the Lord Chancellor. Not only did I assure them that you are indeed the long-lost Lord Sydney, I also confirmed that you are financially equipped to manage the title. In approximately a fortnight, the Clerk of the Crown will issue a Writ of Summons, calling you to the House of Lords. At which time I will introduce you publicly as Lord Sydney, at a ball that will be given in your honor.”

  Gentry shot up from the table, his chair falling back and clattering to the floor. “Go to hell, Cannon!”

  Lottie started at the burst of hostility. Gentry reacted as if his very life were being threatened. However, the danger he faced was not the physical peril he was accustomed to…it was intangible, insidious…the one prison he could not escape. Lottie sensed the thoughts that writhed behind his set expression, the way his clever mind analyzed the sudden predicament and considered various ways to evade it.

  “I’ll deny everything,” Gentry said.

  Sir Ross made a temple of his hands, regarding him steadily. “If you do, I will respond with depositions from myself, Sir Grant, your sister, and even your wife, testifying to the fact that you have privately confessed yourself to be Lord Sydney. Those, combined with circumstantial oddities such as missing burial records and inconsistent reports of your death, form what is known in English la
w as a fecundatio ab extra—a rare but not impossible occurrence.”

  Gentry looked as if he wanted to murder the former Bow Street magistrate. “I’ll petition the House of Lords to be allowed to renounce the title. God knows they’ll be overjoyed to get rid of me.”

  “Don’t be a fool. Do you really believe they would ever allow you to disclaim your title? To their minds, such a renunciation would challenge the very institution of the peerage. They would fear that the distinctions between the classes—no, the monarchy itself—would be threatened.”

  “You don’t believe in privilege based on birth,” Gentry shot back. “Why force a damned title on me? I don’t want it.”

  “This has nothing to do with my political beliefs. This is a matter of simple fact. You are Sydney, no matter what you call yourself. You are not going to be able to overturn seven hundred years of hereditary principle, nor will you be able to avoid your obligations as Lord Sydney any longer.”

  “Obligations to what?” Gentry sneered. “To an estate that has been held in abeyance for fourteen years?”

  “You have a responsibility to the tenants who are trying to eke out a living on ramshackle government-managed lands. To the House of Lords, where your seat has gone vacant for two decades. To your sister, who is obligated to keep her relationship with her own brother a secret. To your wife, who will enjoy far more respect and social advantage as Lady Sydney than she ever would as Mrs. Gentry. To the memory of your parents. And to yourself. For half of your life you’ve been hiding behind a false name. It is time for you to acknowledge who you are.”

  Gentry’s hands clenched. “That’s not for you to decide.”

  “If I don’t force the issue, you’ll spend the rest of your life avoiding it.”

  “That is my right!”

  “Perhaps. But regardless, you will find it impossible to remain a runner. Sir Grant concurs with my opinion, and therefore he will no longer require your services at Bow Street.”

  A wash of color spread over Gentry’s face. His throat worked violently as he realized that his days as a runner had just come to an end. “Then I’ll spend my time taking private commissions.”