Marry the Man Today (2 page)

"Though Nicholas is far from innocent in this." Drew leaned back against the windowsill. "He continues to believe that we agree with him, that the Ottoman Empire is doomed and ought to be partitioned off and gifted to each of the Great Powers. With Russia keeping the lion's share for herself and year-round access to a warm-
w
ater port."

Because the tsar had a long memory, of a casual discussion he'd had with Aberdeen himself on the subject. An unofficial, offhanded agreement that Ross had no intention of bringing up to the prime minister.

"Yes, wel
l
—" Aberdeen snorted and waved his hand at nothing. "Nicholas is in for a rude awakening. He's always taken Franz Josef's support as unshakable. But with the Russians now sitting on the Danube and hinting of trouble in the Balkans, the Austrians have every right to be suspicious."

"Gentlemen, according to what I saw of the Russian fleet and the French, and the mood on the streets of Constantinople, if nothing changes we are but months from a war that might well spread across the entire world."

Ross heard a noise across the street and lost his train of thought. He glanced out the window in time to see a detachment of Metropolitan Police streaming out of Scotland Yard. A dozen officers, followed by three paddy wagons.

And they were heading south on Whitehall.

Surely they weren't going to intercept the harmless parade of women and attempt to disperse them.

A sickly feeling knocked around in his gut, tumbling with the realization that their beautiful leader wasn't the type to disperse without a fight to the finish.

Not that it was any of his business what happened to the woman or her compatriots.

"Ross's recent charts of the various fleets show belligerent movements on the part of all parties, an increased concentration since only three months ago."

Ross reeled his thoughts back into the meeting. Aberdeen was bent over the maps that he had just yesterday brought from his most recent scouting mission into Europe. Six months of spying and diplomacy.

And not a whiff of peace to be found anywhere, certainly not here in London. Only trouble and more trouble. With the
Times
crying for war against Russia.

"So in the meantime," Clarendon said, with a stubborn cross of his arms against his chest, "England is forced to sit in place, with Russia perched on the Danube, threatening Austria, ready to overrun Turkey, and all of us waiting for Emperor Franz Josef to instruct his foreign minister to make the next move."

Ross prodded himself away from the window and moved back to the table.

"Count Buo
l
has been talking about bringing the parties together in Vienna to work out a truce."

"Another one?"

"I know it's a very long chance, Clarendon," Ross said, wondering how the devil he'd suddenly been dropped into the middle of a diplomatic mission, when his expertise lay firmly, and by his own design, in the military. Where he didn't have to look on the morass of politics up close. "But it's my assignment to see that the conference in Vienna happens, and that war is averted. At all costs."

Ross reached for the map in the center of the table, having to favor the familiar ache in his left shoulder. A painful encounter that reminded him daily of his near fatal miscalculation a year ago.

"Good, then you're off to St. Petersburg again, Blakestone?"

"God, I hope not, Aberdeen," Ross said, willing to do most anything to postpone another visit to that nest of insanity. "I'm going to start off with a dinner party tonight at the Austrian Embassy."

And hopefully empty his brain of the exotic, thoroughly rousing images of the rebellious woman in the street.

And a dangerous wave of unsuitable questions that he shouldn't be asking.

Completely nonsensical questions like: what does a woman of such obvious free will choose to wear under her sensible fashions?

Surely not whalebone and canvas to straighten her posture, but lace and fine linen, because she's proud enough for a half-dozen women.

And does she dash the sleekness of her nape with pale English rosewater?

Or would he find a tantalizing hint of cinnabar lingering there and across her shoulders, trailing downward, between her breasts?

Not that he planned to find out. He would be far too busy in the next few months trying to avert a war to chase after a stunning woman, no matter the beauty of the prize.

No matter the force of the temptation.

But the mere speculation had heated the room, steaming at his collar, deepening his breathing.

And making him thankful when the meeting finally ended and he could step out into the cooling evening air with his two compatriots.

"I don't know about Drew, Ross, but I doubt that I'll have time to see either of you at the Huntsman tonight. Kate and I leave early tomorrow morning for a week at Hawkesly Hall.
"

As always, Jared was tugging at the bit to return to his London town house and his equally impatient wife. Hardly the usual kind of husband who had been married four years and had a passel of children waiting for him in the west country.

"Caro and I are attending the theatre tonight with a pack of Swedish royalty." Drew rolled his eyes and shrugged fondly. "My favorite kind of outing, as you well know."

Ross couldn't help but chuckle at Drew's ironic situation. A man who had detested the aristocracy, willingly married himself into a royal pantomime.

Caro was that kind of a woman. The sort that a man would give his life for.

And the entirety of his heart.

If he ever found the proper time.

Or the proper woman.

"Gad, Drew!" Ross said, purposely scattering the images with a clap of his hand against his friend's shoulder. "For an ex-princess, your wife is still in tremendous demand by the crowned heads of Europe."

"Like bees to honey." Drew shook his head and hoisted his satchel over his shoulder. "Bees to honey. Shall we say breakfast in the morning at the Huntsman?"

"Thanks," Ross said, leading them out of the courtyard of the Admiralty, beneath an arch in the white arcade. "With any luck, I'll have something positive to report from my dinner tonight."

Or just another useless tidbit about the growing Crimean conflict to add to the files in the Factory.

Jared and Drew climbed into the cab that the footman had been holding for them, and the vehicle sped north on Whitehall, away from the backed-up traffic that was moving slowly in the other direction.

Ross had stabled his horse at the Admiralty livery and had just turned to head in that direction when he noticed the traffic breaking up and Scotland Yard's three paddy wagons emerging from the jumble.

Curiosity kept him watching from the curb
,
as the wagons, followed by the swarm of policemen, made a flourishing right turn into the alleyway across the street.

He might have turned away from the fracas but for a face peering out of a small, barred window in the rear of the last enclosed wagon.

Damnation! It was her.

His rebel.

And though he could feel the winds of change rise up and surge against him, deeply aware of the shift in the turning of the earth, he tossed aside his good sense and strode across the street toward an unknown fate.

He had regretted few decisions in his life.

Crossing Whitehall might just turn out to be one of them.

^{Chapter 2}

O! when she's angry she is keen and shrewd.

She was a vixen when she went to school:

And though she be but little, she is fierce:

William Shakespeare,
A Midsummer Night's Dream

“Hey!
That's my new hat, you brute!"

"
Oh, blast it all, I've broken a fingernai
l
!"

"Votes for women! Women's rights!"

Though the sounds of battle weren't quite as brutal as he was used to, Ross was sure he'd been thrust into the middle of a full-fledged war. The courtyard at Scotland Yard was utter chaos, swarming with two dozen finely dressed women squealing at the top of their voices, ignoring the flustered policemen who were trying to calm them.

"Ouch, lady! That's my flesh you're pinchin'!"

"Now, madam, if you'll just tell me your name, Mrs. .. .
yeoull!
"

"You need to sit quietly, my lady."

"Not if you're going to speak rudely to me, young man!"

Whack!

Ross winced for the poor officer as the woman's huge reticule came down with full force on the man's head, already bared of its protective hat.

Ross reached out to catch the next blow, but the older woman turned a large smile on him.

"Why, if it isn't the Earl of Blakestone. When did you get back into town, dear?"

Discovered! Ross flinched at Lady Archer's words. He'd been spotted. And now every woman in the compound was looking hungrily at him, as though they were at a ball and he was the only male who'd had the courage to attend.

"Ross, my dear," the very matronly Lady Charlotte said with a straightening tug at his lapels, "you really do need to insist to these policemen that they not be quite
so
rough with our gowns."

"Excuse me, Lady Charlotte, but what are you doing here?" Ross asked instead, pleased that the chaos had diminished enough for him to be heard over the noise,

"Votes for women, Blakestone!" another woman said as she stabbed her fist into the air.

"We're protesting."

"Miss Elizabeth said we've done extremely well today."

Miss Elizabeth
?
Was that her name? And why was his heart suddenly slamming around in his chest?

"Who is Miss Elizabeth?" he asked evenly, looking over the top of their heads for that dazzling red hair.

"She's our leader. They took her inside. She was hoping they would lock her up in a cell."

"I hope they lock
me
up in a cell too!" a starry-eyed young woman said, beaming a smile at him.

Lady Maxton slanted Ross a sly glance from beneath the brim of her hat. "I hope they tie my hands firmly behind my back!"

Wouldn't old Tosser be shocked if he knew!

"See where one of those brutal policemen trampled the hem of my skirt! It's absolutely torn!"

"I scuffed my new satin shoes!"

They were lunatics. The lot of them.

And their unrepentant leader had been taken inside the Scotland Yard police station, doubtless eager to do battle with every man she encountered along the way.

For some reason that he didn't wish to examine at the moment, Ross felt sorely compelled to inquire after the woman's fate before straightening out the scandal brewing in the courtyard
.

After all, what harm could a little inquiry do?

"Excuse me, ladies," he said, tipping his hat to the chattering crowd gathered around him. "I think I'll just go speak with the captain about a few things."

Ross quickly escaped up the stairs into the coolness of the lobby. A bit less chaotic than outside, but still more frenetic than he'd ever seen the usually stoic Metropolitan Police station.

"Great heavens, Lord Blakestone! What the devil has brought you here?" Captain Robins grinned broadly, dodging around the busy counter to meet Ross with a sturdy handshake in the middle of the room. "Come to beg a little assistance from your favorite old seadog?"

"You know you're always at the top of my list, Captain. Actually, I was across the street at the Admiralty and saw the commotion. Thought I'd come investigate for myself."

"Damn fool women ought to know better than provoke the police in the middle of the afternoon." Robins twitched his thick gray moustache from side to side and shot an arch-browed glare toward the courtyard. "But they'll be laughing out the other side of their pretty faces when they all find themselves behind bars like the other one."

No doubt he wa
s
referring to the inimitable Miss Elizabeth.

"Ah, then, you've decided to let the ladies win the battle, have you, Robins?"

"What do you mean win, my lord?" Robins snorted. "A few days in jail ought to frighten them out of their high-handed ways and keep them off my streets for good. How's that letting them win?"

"That's just what they want you to do, Robins: cause a scandal of gargantuan proportion that scuttles the reputation of the Metropolitan Police."

"Our
reputation? What about theirs?"

"I can see the headlines in every newspaper now, Captain." Ross gave it all the melodrama he could muster. " 'Ladies of the Ton Manhandled by Brutal Members of the Metropolitan Police in Arrest Raid.'"

"Manhandled?" The captain blew out a burst of indignation, reeling out the ends of his moustache. "We did nothing of the sort. Hells bells, they near jumped into the wagons by themselves the moment my officers opened the doors. Eager as a bunch of silly schoolgirls, with all their giggling and jouncing for a seat."