The Scoundrel Takes a Bride: A Regency Rogues Novel (34 page)

She’d had no idea of the powerful people backing him, of course. But he’d suspected
that even if she had, the fierce woman still would have attempted some scheme.

And he’d always admired her for it.

Maggie turned on her side toward him and slowly opened her eyes. “Is it morning?”
she asked, as if she were expecting him.

“No, Maggie. It’s the middle of the night. Don’t trouble yourself,” he replied, reaching
out and giving her arm a reassuring pat.

She smiled in thanks. “Good. I am yet in need of rest,” she said. Then a sudden smudge
of concern tarnished her soft, pale features. “Tell me, who are you? And why are you
here at such an hour?”

“You do not remember me?” the Bishop asked, surprised, and yet, not completely.

“Should I?” Maggie countered, squinting as she attempted to make out the features
of his face for any familiarity.

He’d done this to her. The Afton murder was early in his career and he had not known
the true nature of the men when he’d agreed to work for them. At least, not the full
extent of what they’d done and to whom. Even so, it had been his decision to take
up with the organization and it had made him a very rich man.

Maggie had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. The Bishop controlled
his own actions. He could not control those of others—at least not without force.

And that afternoon, when the orderly had sent word that she had received visitors,
he knew action was required. And he would be the one to take it.

“I suppose not, though we were friends once, very long ago,” the Bishop answered honestly.
After all, they
had been fellow actors together, until that nasty piece of work Smeade had proved
his ineptitude by approaching him in broad daylight, with no cover between them and
the entire house party but an implausible excuse concerning his lines.

The stables had been their only option. And the Bishop had wanted to kill Smeade,
not Maggie, when she’d come forward. Bedlam seemed a kinder choice for the woman.

At least, at the time it had appeared that way. The Bishop looked into the empty,
dark eyes of Maggie Pemble and reluctantly realized he hadn’t done right by her.

He was about to fix things, once and for all.

“Tell me, Maggie, did you have visitors today?”

She made to sit up, excitement flashing across her face. “Oh yes, indeed I did. My
niece from Hertfordshire and her husband … And a doctor of some sort, though he was
very quiet and altogether boring.”

The Bishop moved his hand to Maggie’s shoulder and gently pushed her back down until
her head once again lay on the pillow. “And what did you talk about?”

“Oddly enough, they seemed surprised that I was still performing,” she answered, her
brows furrowing from the very idea. “And they wondered if I remembered anything of
a certain play—a rather obscure one.”

“What did you tell them?”

Maggie played with the end of her long white braid. “Everything. It’s quite an interesting
story, after all—murder, intrigue, and a narrow escape.”

“Whose narrow escape?” he asked, confused.

Maggie captured him with a look of abject disbelief. “Why, mine, of course. He wanted
to put me away in Bedlam. And all because I knew the truth. There was nothing wrong
with my mind; the authorities could see that and let me go. Of course I had to watch
out for him, which is why I am here. My servants keep me safe.”

The Bishop nodded as if she spoke the absolute truth. “This man who tried to send
you away. Do you know his name?”

“My niece asked me the very same question,” Maggie answered, squinting until her eyes
nearly shut. “I’d seen him in the papers; he’s no longer an actor, I can tell you
that much. No, no, now he’s a man of importance.”

The Bishop had heard enough. “You are a smart one, Maggie. Always were. I’m afraid
you made a mistake this time around, though. And it’s time to pay.”

He didn’t need to see her while she died. Killing was a necessary but gruesome business
that he took no pleasure in. And so he reached for her neck with both hands and squeezed,
closing his eyes until she stilled.

“Rest now, Maggie.”

25

June 15
B
OW
S
TREET
O
FFICES

“It cannot be true.”

Sophia stared at Mr. Bean, waiting for him to tell her she’d misunderstood him and
that Maggie Pemble had not been murdered in her bed.

“I’m afraid it is, my lady. An orderly found her this morning at …” He paused, taking
up the report. “… half past eight. She’d been strangled, from the looks of it.”

“The question is, by whom?” Sophia asked, mentally reviewing the layout of the hospital.
“It is impossible for just anyone to get in or out of the facility.”

Mr. Bean read farther down the page. “A Mr. Quilby. Fellow incurable patient. He was
sentenced to life in the hospital for killing his entire family.”

“And how long has Mr. Quilby been a patient at Bedlam?” Sophia pressed.

“Thirty years.”

A hard knock sounded at the door.

“I sent word to Mr. Bourne as well,” Mr. Bean explained. “Come in.”

The door opened and Nicholas and Mouse stepped inside.

“Mr. Bean, though I’ve sent my associate Mr. Singh
to Bedlam in order to verify your news,” Nicholas said, abruptly gesturing for Mouse
to take the seat next to Sophia, “I would very much like to hear it directly from
you.”

Mr. Bean returned the report to the desk and folded his beefy hands atop it, eyeing
Mouse hesitantly. “Unfortunately, your friend will return from Bedlam with the information
necessary to confirm my story is true.”

“It is true.” Sophia looked at Nicholas, carefully choosing her words in deference
to Mouse’s presence. “Miss Pemble will no longer be able to assist us with the matter.
There is nothing that can be done about that now, though. So instead I suggest we
investigate other options.”

Nicholas raked both hands through his hair. “But that’s just it; there are no other
options. Tell me, Mr. Bean, have the orderlies been questioned? Did anyone see anything?”

“Of course my men spoke with those on duty. No one had a clue as to how Mr. Quilby
was able to leave his room—never mind how the man gained entry into Miss Pemble’s.”

Nicholas turned to the window and braced his fists against the sill. “Of course no
one knows. Because it did not happen,” he said savagely over his shoulder.

“I understand your frustration—”

“Do not attempt to placate me, Mr. Bean,” Nicholas ground out, turning back toward
the group. “You will not like the results.”

Mouse looked at Sophia, his eyes wide with concern. “Is there anything I can do, Miss
Spoon?”

“No, Mouse,” Sophia replied to the sweet boy’s offer. “But thank you for asking.”
She smiled down at him and ruffled his soft, light locks with affection.

“All right,” the boy replied, her lighthearted approach having put his mind at ease.

Nicholas stalked to the door and gestured for Mouse to join him. “I will return once
Mr. Singh is back from Bedlam. I would ask that no decisions be made in my absence.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Mr. Bean said under his breath, picking up the report once
more.

Mouse was halfway over the threshold when he suddenly threw himself backward, rolled
until he was clear of the doorway, and slammed into Nicholas, effectively forcing
the door shut.

“What in God’s name has gotten into you?” Nicholas demanded, fingering a spot on his
forehead where he’d connected with the wood.

Mouse scrambled on all fours and took shelter beneath Mr. Bean’s desk. “It’s him.
It’s the Bishop.” His voice shook with fear.

Sophia ran for the door. “Get out of my way.” She shoved Nicholas when he failed to
move.

He responded by wrapping his arm around her waist to restrain her.

“He cannot do so,” Mr. Bean said. “If it is indeed the Bishop, it’s absolutely necessary
for you to maintain complete anonymity.”

Sophia was frantic. The seconds on the mantel clock ticked by with deafening sound.
“We are wasting time. He could have gone by now.”

“I will see who this man is. And then we will decide upon a course of action.” Mr.
Bean gestured Sophia away from the door. “Mr. Bourne, if you please.”

Nicholas opened the oak door, careful to hide both Sophia and himself behind its varnished
bulk.

Mr. Bean stepped over the threshold, pulling the door closed behind him.

“How could you let him keep me in the dark?” Sophia asked Nicholas, wringing her hands.

Nicholas’s gaze met hers, his expression grim. “Because
he was right. And you know it; otherwise, nothing would have kept you from clawing
your way out that door.”

Sophia was unable to deny it.

“Now, I suggest we keep ourselves occupied while we wait for Mr. Bean,” Nicholas added,
turning Sophia about.

She spied Mouse under the desk, his bird-thin legs tucked up against his chest in
his attempt to disappear.

Sophia gasped, ashamed that she’d forgotten about him. “Mouse, my dear sweet boy.
Everything is going to be all right. You must believe me.”

Mouse shook his head at her words. “You don’t know him, miss. If you did, you’d not
make such claims.”

It had taken Mr. Bean nearly five minutes of uninterrupted thought as he sat behind
his desk before he told them the identity of the Bishop. He’d wanted to be careful,
which was completely understandable when one was preparing to accuse a magistrate
of crimes against the crown.

The very crown that said magistrate was employed to uphold and protect.

Mouse had agreed to come out from under the desk once Mr. Bean had assured him that
the Bishop was gone.

“Is he the reason you were running when I found you?” Nicholas had asked the boy,
who’d taken shelter on Sophia’s lap and did not look as though he planned on leaving
her anytime soon—if ever.

What had followed was the sad tale of one Mouse
McGibbons. And a sadder story Nicholas had not heard in quite some time.

From the day he’d been able to walk and talk, Mouse had been in service to the Bishop.
In a drunken stupor, his mother had sold him to the organization, and there was no
going back once such a deal had been struck. Mouse had seen her off and on, and clearly
continued to love her despite all of her failings. The tavern owner—the same man Nicholas
and Singh had met in the rookery—was more of a parent to Mouse than his own mother,
and after she disappeared for good, he’d done his best to look out for the boy.

But Mouse had a gift for thievery. He was smart and quick, small and slim, making
it easy for him to sneak about, fit into tight spaces, and lift anything he wanted
from unsuspecting individuals. The Bishop appreciated a talented employee, and Mouse
was one of his best.

There’d been talk amongst the gang that the Bishop was taking more than his fair share
of the profits. Mouse wasn’t even sure that he cared about such things, a dry bed
and food in his stomach were all that mattered to him. Besides, the Bishop had shown
him a kindness or two, telling Mouse more than once that he hoped to groom the boy
for a more important role one day.

He’d not intended to follow the Bishop’s men that night, Mouse had told Nicholas,
Sophia, and Mr. Bean. Then the other lads he was with called him a coward. And he
couldn’t put up with such an insult. So they’d trailed along through the rookeries,
past London Bridge and beyond to Thames Street, until coming to the wharf.

Mouse had known they should turn back when he caught sight of the ships in the harbor.
He’d never been able to look at one of the hulking carriers without feeling as if
someone had walked across his grave. He had kept his thoughts to himself, afraid the
other boys would only tease him further.

“Here we are, sir,” Mouse announced now, slowing to a brisk walk as he intruded upon
Nicholas’s thoughts. “I’ve no idea when the Bishop’s men come and go, so we best keep
to the alley.”