Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle

  Salter answered. “We’ve cause enough for a warrant pro-vided we can find evidence on this guardianship business—without that, their motive’s uncertain.”

  “So.” Harry fixed Mr Mabberly with a flat green gaze. “The question is will you help us?”

  “I’ll do anything I can,” Mr Mabberly vowed, his voice ringing with fervour. Even he heard it. A trifle shocked, he hurried to excuse it. “Mrs Babbacombe’s been very good to me, you understand—there aren’t many who would appoint someone as relatively young as myself to such an important position.”

  “Of course.” Harry smiled, endeavouring to make the gesture as unthreatening as he could at that hour of the morning. “And, as a loyal employee of Babbacombe and Company, you would naturally be anxious to assist in ensuring your principals’ personal safety.”

  “Indeed.” Obviously more comfortable, Mr Mabberly sat back. “Mrs Babbacombe is indeed Miss Babbacombe’s sole legal guardian.” Again, a slight flush rose in his cheeks. “I’m perfectly sure because, when I first took up my position, I was uncertain as to the point—so I asked. Mrs Babbacombe’s always a model of business etiquette—she insisted I see the guardianship deed.”

  Salter straightened, his expression lightening. “So—not only do you know she’s the sole guardian—you can swear to it?”

  Mr Mabberly nodded, swivelling to look at Salter. “Certainly. I naturally felt obliged to read the document and verify the seal. It was unquestionably genuine.”

  “Excellent!” Harry looked at Salter—the big man’s face was alight, his frame suddenly thrumming with harnessed energy. “So we can get that warrant without further delay?”

  “If Mr Mabberly here will come with me to the magistrate and swear to Mrs Babbacombe’s status, I can’t see anything that’ll stop us. I’ve already got friends in the force standing by—they’ll do the actual arrest but I, for one, definitely want to be there when they take Joliffe into custody.”

  “I’m prepared to come with you immediately, sir.” Mr Mabberly stood. “From the sounds of it, the sooner this Joliffe person is a guest of His Majesty’s government the better.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.” Harry stood and offered Mr Mabberly his hand. “And while you two are tying up Joliffe and his crew, I’ll keep Mrs Babbacombe under my eye.”

  “Aye—that’d be wise.” Salter shook hands with Harry and they all turned to the door. “Joliffe’s got the makings of a fairly desperate character. It wouldn’t hurt to keep the lady close—just until we’ve got him safely stowed. I’ll send word the instant we’ve got the blackguards in custody, sir.”

  “Send word to me at Hallows House,” Harry told him.

  After seeing his guests to the hall, Harry returned to the study and quickly glanced through his letters. He looked up as Dawlish entered with a cup of coffee. “Here you are.” Dawlish set the cup down on the blotter. “So—what’s the sum of it, then?”

  Harry told him.

  “Hmm—so that clerk fellow’s not so useless after all?”

  Harry took a sip of his coffee. “I never said he was useless. Gormless. And I’m willing to accept that I might have misjudged him.”

  Dawlish nodded. “Good! Last day of this ramshackle business, then. Can’t say I’m sad.”

  Harry snorted. “Nor I.”

  “I’ll get breakfast on the table.” Dawlish glanced at the long-case clock in the corner. “We’ve still an hour to go before we’re due at Hallows House.”

  Harry set down his cup. “We’d best use the time to get all tidy here—I expect to leave for Lester Hall later this evening.”

  Dawlish looked back from the door, brows flying. “Oh-ho! Finally going to take the plunge, are you? ’Bout time, if you ask me. Mind—wouldn’t have thought you’d choose a family picnic to do it at—but it’s your funeral.”

  Harry lifted his head and glared but the door had already closed.

  LATER THAT AFTERNOON, Harry recalled Dawlish’s observation with grim resignation. Not in his wildest dreams had he imagined playing the most important scene of his life on such a stage.

  They were seated on colourful coach rugs on a long grassy slope leading down to the gently rippling River Lea. Some miles north of Islington, not far from Stamford Hill, the woods and meadows close by the river provided a pleasant spot for young families and those seeking a draught of country peace. Although some way down the low escarpment, their position afforded them an uninterrupted view over the river valley, meadows giving way to marshland, water glinting in the sun. Roads meandered through the marshes, leading to Walthamstow, just beyond the valley. Oaks and beeches at their backs shielded them from the sun; the haze of a glorious afternoon surrounded them. Bees buzzed, flitting from fieldflower to hedgerow bloom; doves cooed overhead.

  Harry drew in a deep breath—and shot a considering glance at Lucinda, stretched out beside him. Beyond her reclined Em, her hat over her face. On a neighbouring rug sat Heather and Gerald, engrossed in animated discourse. Beyond them, at a suitable distance, perched on and about a collection of fallen logs, sat Agatha and Em’s even more severe dresser, together with Em’s coachman, Dawlish, Joshua, Sim and the little maid Amy. In their dark clothes, they looked like so many crows.

  Harry grimaced and looked away. Fate had chosen a fine moment to turn fickle.

  The instant he had realised that it was Heather’s guardianship that was Joliffe and Mortimer Babbacombe’s goal, he had determined to come between them and Lucinda with all possible speed. By marrying her, he would assume legal responsibility in all such matters—automatically, without question. It was the one, absolutely guaranteed way of protecting her, of shielding her from their machinations.

  But her yesterday had been filled with preparations for the soirée; the household had been at sixes and sevens. He hadn’t liked his prospects of finding a quiet moment, let alone a quiet corner to propose.

  As for today, they had organised this outing a week ago as a quiet relaxation away from the ton after the excitement of the soirée. They had come in two carriages, Em’s and Lucinda’s, the menservants riding atop; Agatha and Amy had shared Lucinda’s carriage with their mistress and himself. They had lunched surrounded by sunshine and peace. Now Em looked set for her postprandial nap; it would probably be at least an hour before hunger again prodded Heather and Gerald to a more general awareness.

  So, since learning of her danger, this was his first chance to remove her from it. Hiding his determination behind an easy expression, Harry got to his feet. Lucinda looked up, putting up her hand to shield her eyes. Harry smiled reassuringly down at her before lifting his gaze to her drab watchdogs. With a slight movement of his head, he summoned Dawlish, then strolled back towards the trees. When he was out of earshot of his intended and his aunt, he stopped and waited for Dawlish to reach him.

  “Something wrong?”

  Harry smiled politely. “No. I just thought I’d let it be known that, when I take Mrs Babbacombe for a stroll in a few moments, we won’t need an escort.” When Dawlish screwed up his eyes, as if considering arguing, Harry continued, his tone growing steely, “She’ll be perfectly safe with me.”

  Dawlish humphed. “Can’t say as I blame you. Cramp anyone’s style, it would, having to go down on your knees before an audience.”

  Harry raised his eyes heavenwards in a mute gesture of appeal.

  “I’ll tell the others.”

  Harry hurriedly lowered his gaze but Dawlish was already stomping back through the trees. Muttering a curse, Harry did the same, returning to the rugs on the grass.

  “Come for a walk.”

  Lucinda glanced up at the soft words—which cloaked what sounded like a command. Beside her, Em was gently snoring; Heather and Gerald were in a world of their own. She met Harry’s eyes, very green; he raised a brow and held out his hand. Lucinda studied it for an instant, savouring the thrill of anticipation that shot through her, then, with studied calm, laid her fingers in his.

  Harry
drew her to her feet. Tucking her hand in his arm, he turned her towards the leafy woods.

  The woods were not extensive, merely stands of trees separating fields and meadows. They strolled without words, leaving the others behind, until they came to a large field left fallow. The meadow grasses and flowers had taken over; the ground was carpeted in a shifting sea of small bright blooms.

  Lucinda sighed. “How lovely.” She smiled up at Harry.

  Engaged in scanning their surroundings, he glanced back at her in time to return her smile. The trees screened them from their companions and any others strolling the river banks; they were not isolated but as private as, in the circumstances, it was probably wise to be. He gestured ahead; by unvoiced agreement, they strolled to the centre of the field where a large rock, weathered to smoothness, created a natural seat.

  With a swirl of her blue muslin skirts, Lucinda sat. Harry noticed that her gown matched the cornflowers scattered through the grass. She had worn a new bonnet but had let it fall to dangle by its ribbons on her back, leaving her face un-shadowed. She lifted her head and her gaze met his.

  Stillness held them, then her delicate brows arched slightly, in query, in invitation.

  Harry scanned her face, then drew in a deep breath.

  “Ah-hem!”

  They both turned to see Dawlish striding across the field. Harry bit back a curse. “What now?”

  Dawlish cast him a sympathetic glance. “There’s a messenger come—’bout that business this morning.”

  Harry groaned. “Now?”

  Dawlish met his eye. “Thought as how you might think it better to get that matter all tied and tight—before you get…distracted, like.”

  Harry grimaced—Dawlish had a point.

  “Set on seeing you specifically, this messenger—said as that was his orders.” Dawlish nodded back at the trees. “Said he’d wait by the stile yonder.”

  Swallowing his irritation, Harry shot a considering glance at Lucinda; she met it with an affectionate smile. Spending five minutes to acknowledge the end of Joliffe’s threat would leave him free to concentrate on her—wholly, fully, without reservation. Without further interruption. Harry looked at Dawlish. “Which stile?”

  “It’s along the fence a little way.”

  “We didn’t pass a fence.”

  Dawlish frowned and surveyed the woods through which he’d come. “It’s that way—and around to the left, I think.” He scratched his head. “Or is it the right?”

  “Why don’t you just show Mr Lester the way?”

  Harry turned at Lucinda’s words. She had plucked some blooms and started to plait them. He frowned. “I’ll find the stile. Dawlish will stay here with you.”

  Lucinda snorted. “Nonsense! You’ll take twice as long.” She picked a cornflower from her lap, then tilted her face to look up at him, one brow arching. “The sooner you get there, the sooner you’ll be back.”

  Harry hesitated, then shook his head. Joliffe might be behind bars but his protective instincts still ran strong. “No. I’ll—”

  “Don’t be absurd! I’m perfectly capable of sitting on a rock in the sunshine for a few minutes alone.” Lucinda lifted both arms to gesture about her. “What do you imagine could happen in such a sylvan setting?”

  Harry glared, briefly, aware she would very likely be perfectly safe. Hands on hips, he scanned the surrounding trees. There was open space all around her; no one could creep up and surprise her. She was a mature and sensible woman; she would scream if anything untoward occurred. And they were all close enough to hear.

  And the sooner he met with Salter’s messenger, the sooner he could concentrate on her, on them, on their future.

  “Very well.” His expression hard, he pointed a finger at her. “But stay there and don’t move!”

  Her answering smile was fondly condescending.

  Harry turned and strode quickly across the field; the damned woman’s confidence in herself was catching.

  Like many countrymen, Dawlish could retrace his steps to anywhere but could never describe the way. He took the lead; within a matter of minutes, they found the fence line. They followed it to a small clearing in which stood the stile—surrounded by a small army of people.

  Harry halted. “What the devil…?”

  Salter pushed through the crowd. Harry caught sight of Mabberley and three representatives of Bow Street among a motley crew of ostlers, grooms and stablelads, link-boys, jarveys, street urchins, sweepers—basically any likely looking scruffs to be found on the streets of London. Obviously Salter’s “people”.

  Then Salter stood before him, his face decidedly grim. “We got the warrant but when we went to serve it, Joliffe and his crew had done a bunk.”

  Harry stiffened. “I thought you were watching them?”

  “We were.” Salter’s expression grew bleaker. “But someone must have tripped up somewhere—we found our two watchers coshed over the head this morning—and no sign of our pigeons anywhere.”

  Harry’s mind raced; chill fingers clutched his gut. “Have they taken the coach?”

  “Yep,” came from one of the ostlers. “Seems like they left ’bout ten—just afore the captain here came with his bill.”

  Mr Mabberly stepped forward. “We thought we should warn you to keep an especially close eye on Mrs Babbacombe—until we can get this villain behind bars.”

  Harry barely heard him. His expression had blanked. “Oh, my God!”

  He whirled and raced back the way he’d come, Dawlish on his heels. The rest, galvanised by Harry’s fear, followed.

  Harry broke from the trees and scanned the field—then came to a skidding halt.

  Before him the meadow grasses swayed in the breeze. All was peaceful and serene, the field luxuriating in the heat. The sun beat down on the rock in its centre—now empty.

  Harry stared. Then he strode forward, his expression like flint. A short chain of blue cornflowers had been left on the rock—laid down gently, not flung or mauled.

  Breathing rapidly, Harry, hands on hips, lifted his head and looked about. “Lucinda?”

  His call faded into the trees—no one answered.

  Harry swore. “They’ve got her.” The words burned his throat.

  “They can’t have got far.” Salter gestured to his people. “It’s the lady we’re after—tallish, dark-haired—most of you’ve seen her. Name of Mrs Babbacombe.”

  Within seconds, they were quartering the area, quickly, efficiently, calling her name, threshing through undergrowth. Harry headed towards the river, Dawlish beside him. His throat was already hoarse. His imagination was a handicap—he could conjure visions far too well. He had to find her—he simply had to.

  LEFT IN THE PEACE of the meadow, Lucinda smiled to herself, then settled to convert the cornflowers growing in abundance around the base of the rock into a blue garland. Beneath her calm, she was impatient enough, yet quite confident Harry would shortly be back.

  Her smile deepened. She reached for a bright dandelion to lend contrast to her string.

  “Mrs Babbacombe! Er—Aunt Lucinda?”

  Blinking, Lucinda turned. She searched the shadows beneath the trees and saw a slight, shortish gentleman waving and beckoning.

  “Good lord! Whatever does he want?” Laying aside her garland, she crossed to the trees. “Mortimer?” She ducked under a branch and stepped into the cool shade. “What are you doing here?”

  “A-waiting for you, bitch,” came in a growling grating voice.

  Lucinda jumped; a huge paw wrapped about her arm. Her eyes widened in incredulous amazement as she took in its owner. “Scrugthorpe! What the devil do you think you’re doing?”

  “Grabbing you.” Scrugthorpe leered, then started to drag her deeper into the trees. “Come on—the carriage’s waiting.”

  “What carriage? Oh, for goodness’ sake!” Lucinda was about to struggle in earnest when Mortimer took her other elbow.

  “This is all most distressing—but if you
’ll only listen—it’s really nothing to do with you, you know—simply a matter of righting a wrong—fixing a slight—that sort of thing.” He wasn’t so much helping to drag her along as clinging to her arm; his eyes, a weak washy blue, implored her understanding.

  Lucinda frowned. “What on earth is all this about?”

  Mortimer told her—in disjointed phrases, bits and pieces, dribs and drabs. Totally engrossed in trying to follow his tale, Lucinda largely ignored Scrugthorpe and his dogged march forward, absent-mindedly letting him pull her along, shifting her attention only enough to lift her skirts over a log.

  “Damned hoity female!” Scrugthorpe kicked at her skirts. “When I get you alone, I’m going to—”

  “And then, you see, there was the money owed to Joliffe—must pay, y’know—play and pay—honour and all that—”

  “And after that, I’ll tie you up good—”

  “So it turned out to be rather a lot—not impossible but—had to find it, you see—thought I’d be right after Uncle Charles died—but then it wasn’t there—the money, I mean—but I’d already spent it—owed it—had to raise the wind somehow—”

  “Oh, I’ll make you pay for your sharp tongue, I will. After I’ve done, you’ll—”

  Lucinda shut her ears to Scrugthrope’s ravings and concentrated on Mortimer’s babblings. Her jaw dropped when he revealed their ultimate goal; their plan to reach it was even more astonishing. Mortimer finally concluded with, “So, you see—all simple enough. If you’ll just make the guardianship over to me, it’ll all be right and tight—you do see that, don’t you?”

  They had reached the edge of the river; a narrow footbridge lay ahead. Abruptly, Lucinda hauled back against Scrugthorpe’s tow and stood her ground. Her gaze, positively scathing, fixed on Mortimer.

  “You ass!” Her tone said it all. “Do you really believe that, just because you’re so weak and stupid as to get…?” Words momentarily failed her; she wrenched her elbow from Mortimer’s grasp and gestured wildly. “Gulled by a sharp.” Eyes flashing, she transfixed Mortimer; he stood rooted to the spot, his mouth silently opening and shutting, his expression that of a terrified rabbit facing the ultimate fury. “That I will meekly hand over to you my stepdaughter’s fortune so you can line the pockets of some cunning, immoral, inconsiderate, rapacious, fly-by-night excuse for a man?” Her voice had risen, gaining in commanding volume. “You’ve got rocks in your head, sir!”