The Accidental Abduction (20 page)

“Oh, no,” he said, when he finally had to breathe again. “We can't. Not yet.”

“I know.” Despite this, she kept rubbing her lips lightly along his freshly shaved jaw, all the while pressing those luscious breasts against his chest. His groin tightened abruptly. “I do know.”

With an inward curse, Harry stepped backward. He took her face in both hands, and tipped her eyes up to his. “Tonight.” He said firmly. “We are agreed. We will meet back here at seven o'clock for supper. After which, I will spend the rest of the evening showing you exactly how much I have missed you.”

Leannah took a deep breath and nodded. “Yes. Of course. This is just the beginning.”

But there was a tremor beneath her words, and something too close to fear flickered behind her gold and emerald eyes. Harry kissed her once more.

“We will be back together soon,” he told her. “I promise you, Leannah.”

When they parted again, he saw her touch her brooch, and tug at her sleeve before she turned to pick up the reticule she'd laid on the table. A thought occurred to him.

“At the risk of turning this awkward . . .” he said as he reached into his coat.

“I think you mean more awkward.”

“I believe I do. But, I wanted to make sure you had some money.” He drew out his wallet, and his purse.

“Thank you.”

He laid a stack of notes and coins on the table. Leannah stared at them and swallowed. Her brow furrowed, turning her expression almost angry as she swept the money into her reticule and drew the string shut.

He wanted to ask her what was wrong and where that anger came from, but something in him held back. He told himself it was that they had no time. It was already late. He was going to have trouble making his self-imposed deadline of getting home to break the news before one o'clock when the accepted time for paying calls began. There would be time to ask what so upset her later. There would be all the time in the world.

After that, they were caught up in the bustle of getting ready to leave. Bonnet, coat, and gloves had to be fetched for Leannah; hat, overcoat, and stick for him. Marshall had to be dispatched to see that the carriage was got ready and brought round. Once they descended the front stairs, there was a further short delay while Leannah meticulously quizzed the groom about the health of her horses, and the bona fides of the driver the hotel supplied. Fortunately, the groom had recognized the high-strung nature of the team, and had assigned an older man with a knowing eye and crisp manner to take charge.

Harry kissed Leannah's hand at the foot of the steps, and helped her into the barouche.

As she settled into her place he could not help but notice the contrast between her genteelly worn dress and the extravagance of the well-sprung carriage with its shining leather seats and team of matched grays. There was a story here, and while he had no notion what it might be, it left him uneasy, especially when it combined with the angry look on her face as she accepted the money. Still, he tipped her a jaunty wave as the driver touched up the horses and set them walking up the street.

He didn't move for a moment, although he couldn't have said what he was waiting for. Then, he saw Leannah turn around, looking for him. She was too far away for him to see her expression, but he felt instinctively it was neither comfortable nor contented.

We will be back together soon. I promise you.
His own words echoed in his mind, but now they took on a different tone; one that was anxious and far too uncertain.

Harry uttered a soft oath and wrenched himself around. This was not to be permitted. Leannah would return here, to him, just as soon as she was able. He'd close them both into their room and make her understand in the most direct way possible that the life she'd known did not matter. She was his wife now, and he would make all things right for her.

For them both.

With this single thought held firmly in his mind, Harry strode away down the street.

A
nthony Dickenson was not an impulsive man. His life's course had been set from the time he was breeched, and he followed it unerringly. From the care of his nurse and his tutors, he had gone to boarding school and then to university. There, he did well enough at his studies, but that was secondary. His father had been quite clear. The primary purpose of school was to meet the men and families with whom he would be associated with for the rest of his life.

After university, Dickenson was installed in the office next to his father's at the firm on Cornhill Street, four doors down from the Royal Exchange. There, he learned to navigate the world of shares and stocks, and how to buy and sell whatever would yield the best profit. His father sponsored him to join the correct clubs. His university acquaintances gained him invitations to dine at the correct tables. His older brothers taught him how to listen in those clubs and at those tables. Under their influence, Dickenson learned how to consistently put two and two together and make four when it came to business. Other men might approach the markets as they did the gaming tables, but Dickensons never did. They only played when they knew they could win. If necessary, they took steps to make certain of their victory.

So it was an unutterable shock to Anthony when the beautiful girl brought to his attention at the Mallon's New Year's affair turned out to be the daughter of Octavian Morehouse. Old “Octopus” Morehouse was the most infamous gambling man ever to haunt the halls of the exchange. Anthony fully expected to forget Genevieve Morehouse as soon as he learned her name. Like his brothers, he was meant to marry to help raise the family's fortunes and position. Genevieve Morehouse could never be anything to him.

Except he couldn't forget her. He began to see her everywhere, and every time she appeared more lovely and desirable. He began to make excuses to speak with her. At first, when she returned her tart answers, he'd simply been appalled. This delicate creature who so attracted him could not possibly possess such an acid and impertinent tongue. It was not only unseemly, it went against the laws of nature. He, Anthony Dickenson, could never want such a creature, and yet he did want Genevieve Morehouse. She danced through his thoughts when he should have been concentrating on business. The vision of her smiled softly at him as he sat listening at the supper tables. His dreams at night quickly escalated from undignified to unendurable. He must have her.

However, Dickenson knew full well he could not claim her until he comprehended just how and why her character came to be so damaged. He could not make a wife of any girl who did not measure up to the Dickenson standards, however desirable she might be.

Fortunately, it didn't take him long to understand that the fault did not lie with Miss Morehouse's intrinsic nature. Rather, it originated with her sister.

Mrs. Wakefield was a cold, calculating woman. It did not take him much looking to see how she deliberately and maliciously poisoned Genevieve's mind and character in an attempt to make the lovely girl as unyielding, scheming, and proud as she was herself. Heaven only knew where that pride came from, considering the pathetic wreck she had for a father. But after a little conversation with those in the know, combined with a little impartial observation of the sort he applied to business matters, Anthony understood that Mrs. Wakefield was jealous of her unspoiled sister's youth and beauty. That jealousy led to the ongoing attempts to ruin her.

As soon as Anthony understood this, his course of action became clear. All he had to do was marry Genevieve Morehouse and get her away from her termagant of a sister. Once he had Genevieve all to himself, he could set about reshaping her character and behaviors. It would not be difficult. After all, he would only be guiding her back to what was right and natural. Within a matter of weeks, as long as three or four months, perhaps, Genevieve would be able to stand beside him as a proper wife.

When he'd heard that Terrance Valloy was planning on marrying Mrs. Wakefield, Anthony had felt quite fortunate. Valloy had a reputation as a sound businessman. He would not allow his wife to keep Genevieve unmarried simply as a sop to her own vanity, especially when there was an eminently eligible match on offer. All he had to do was wait.

And Anthony did wait. He waited for weeks. Those weeks stretched out into the months of an utterly interminable season. Still, he'd forced himself to be patient. The gossip he overheard indicated that Valloy had decided he'd given Mrs. Wakefield enough time to hide behind her mourning veil. Valloy told the men at his club it was time to close the affair. Anthony moved through his days confident that his period of suspense was nearly at an end.

Thus, it had come as a complete shock when Genevieve had written to tell him that her sister would in no way consent to the marriage. Worse, Genevieve told him Mrs. Wakefield declared she would not marry Mr. Valloy unless he agreed ahead of time not to sanction Miss Morehouse's marriage.

Disbelief had rooted him to the ground. Anger had nearly caused him to tear the letter in two before he'd finished reading it. Fortunately, his mind was too closely honed by business to permit him to discard any document before he'd thoroughly examined it. That was when he learned afresh that he had been right about his Genevieve. Her sister had not yet been able to eradicate her core of proper sense and feeling. She wrote that she wanted to marry him. She yearned to escape her sister's influence and put herself under the secure guidance that the right sort of husband could provide. Not that she'd put it that way, but he nonetheless knew it to be the truth. Had he not been so certain, he never would have agreed to the elopement.

Of course Mrs. Wakefield would attempt to interfere. He had attempted to plan for each contingency. He endorsed Miss Morehouse's notion of having her uncle (another member of the family who, despite all, maintained a sliver of good sense) meet them at the Three Swans. This not only made her attachment plain, but revealed a pleasing note of good sense. It also, not incidentally, saved him from having to manage an inconvenient, expensive, and tedious journey to Gretna. He did not like that she fabricated the tale of a bastard on the way. It did not suit his notion of his own character. However, if it overcame the old man's arguments, then it served its purpose and it was certainly no worse than any lie told upon the exchange in the name of business.

At first, everything had gone smoothly. Miss Morehouse had slipped away from her house and her escort. The old dame playing chaperone had assisted to the best of her strictly limited abilities. He would pension her off generously once the wedding was finalized. Then had come the weather and the delays on the road. Still, he'd thought nothing of it. All had seemed perfectly in hand.

Until they'd reached the inn and found that Mrs. Wakefield and her bullyboy had gotten there first.

Of course he'd retreated. He was a Dickenson. He could not stay and brawl in a public house, especially not with that unnatural bitch looking on and enjoying every minute of it. But his retreat was purely strategic. He'd circled back once daylight arrived. His idea had been to bribe one of the servants to get word to Genevieve of his presence. The idea of an unplanned flight to Gretna went against every fiber of his being, but if it got Miss Morehouse away from her sister, it would all be worth it.

That was how he had come to be in the yard and to hear the servants talking of the impromptu marriage taking place in the parlor. The application of a half-a-crown had secured the names of the couple. Mrs. Wakefield was not only favoring her bullyboy. She was marrying him.

This time Dickenson did retreat. He spent the entire cold, inconvenient drive back to town lost in thought, and by the time he arrived at his own door, he had his plan. It would be expensive. He would have to proceed with great care, but the knowledge that Mrs. Wakefield, now Mrs. Rayburn, still held lovely, innocent Genevieve drove him forward. She would not keep possession of his rightful bride, and she certainly would not be allowed to boast that she'd bested a Dickenson. He would destroy her for the very attempt. Fortunately, she herself provided all the means necessary for him to do just that. He did not even need to attack her directly.

What he did need to do was speak with Terrance Valloy.

Anthony arrived at the Exchange Club in Cornhill Street at lunchtime. A few inquiries had revealed that it was Valloy's regular habit to dine there in peace before returning to the riot of the Royal Exchange or Lloyd's trading rooms. A quiet word with one of the waiters allowed Dickenson to determine the man who sat alone at the table by the window, entirely concealed by his copy of the
Times
was the one he sought.

He made his way through the mostly empty room to the windows.

“Mr. Valloy? My name is Dickenson.”

Valloy turned one corner of the paper down. He was a formidable man with a lined face and dark hair liberally streaked with iron gray. There was a great deal of iron in his cold eyes as well. Those eyes raked across Anthony, assessing each detail of his appearance.

It was only when this process was complete that Valloy closed the paper. “Ah yes,” he said, gesturing for the waiter to bring another chair so Anthony could sit. “I've heard your name about the exchange.” Valloy gestured to the wine carafe and coffeepot. Anthony declined both and settled into the chair. “What can I do for you?” asked Valloy.

“I've no wish to waste your time,” said Anthony. “Therefore, I shall come straight to my point. You are, I believe, acquainted with the family of Octavian Morehouse?”

“What business might that be of yours?” Valloy spoke mildly. Clearly, he was not a man who shouted, or needed to.

“Forgive me. I would have hoped for a more proper way to broach such a private subject, but circumstances compel this direct approach.”

“I do not understand you, sir.” Again, the words were spoken with deceptive mildness. His black eyes though, were hard as flint.

“You intend, I believe, to marry Mrs. Wakefield.”

“Once more, I ask what business is this of yours?”

“I am sorry to inform you that you will shortly find she has formed a mésalliance.”

Valloy's hard eyes glittered. “You will explain yourself, Mr. Dickenson, or you will leave.”

In as clear a fashion as he could manage, Dickenson laid out the situation. It was difficult, because each word reminded him afresh of the humiliation he'd suffered at the hands of Mrs. Wakefield and the callow brute she'd taken up with. Now that he'd had time to reflect, he realized he should not have been so surprised at this Rayburn's presence. What sort of man would she attach to her but a malleable, brawling brute who could be induced to obey her orders without thought? Yes, she'd probably already given him all sorts of favors in exchange for his assistance in blocking her sister's path to a woman's normal life.

When Anthony finished, Valloy stood. He faced the window with his hands folded behind his back, and remained in that attitude for a slow count of twenty.

When Valloy faced Dickenson again, his countenance was flushed scarlet, but otherwise his coutenance was under complete control. He lowered himself back down into his seat, and leaned across the table.

“You, sir, are either a liar or a blackmailer and you will get out at once.”

Dickenson felt his own ears begin to burn, but he held his temper. “I regret that I am the bearer of such sordid news, but I am here in hopes of forming a partnership of mutual benefit.”

“Again, I say, if you intend extortion of any sort . . .”

“I do not want to become angry with you on so short an acquaintance, Valloy, but I will if that word is spoken again. I am a man of business, and I am here with a business proposal. Will you hear me out?”

Valloy made no direct answer. First, he glanced about the room, making sure no one was near enough to overhear their conversation. Then, he flicked one finger toward Dickenson, indicating he should continue.

“The fact that there was a marriage ceremony is of little significance. Despite recent changes to the law, the actual statutes regarding marriage remain quite lax,” said Dickenson. Like Valloy, he kept his words casual and calm. “A decent lawyer and a decent payment to the proper parties will be able to procure a quiet annulment. I can myself supply an affidavit certifying that the circumstances were extremely irregular.”

“Go on,” said Valloy.

Dickenson took his time. This next part must be handled delicately. Valloy was an intelligent man. It would not have escaped his notice what sort of connection he would be acquiring when he married Mrs. Wakefield. Still, if Dickenson descended into unnecessary vulgarity, it could damage his case.

“While Mrs. Wakefield is not in every way a conventional sort of woman, she does possess some very proper family feeling.”

Valloy's eyes flashed and Dickenson hurried on. “This may also be seen in her sister, Miss Morehouse. I know that Mrs. Wakefield does not wish to compound any lingering injuries that may have resulted from mistakes made by certain other members of the family. She especially does not want to be seen to jeopardize her sister's reputation. Mrs. Wakefield's marriage may be put down to an impulse of the moment, such as women are subject to. After all, Miss Morehouse had engaged in what might, under more usual circumstances, be considered an imprudent move.”