The Scoundrel Takes a Bride: A Regency Rogues Novel (36 page)

“Of course, Lady Sophia,” Nicholas answered, concern clouding his face. “Let us be
off, then. I do not like the idea of Mrs. Kirk being kept from her bed because of
me.”

“Mr. Ambrose,” Sophia said, curtsying again.

“A brief but particular pleasure, my lady,” he replied, bowing politely. “And you
as well, Mr. Bourne.”

The Bishop held his hand out to Nicholas.

Sophia noticed Nicholas hesitate for a split second before he briefly shook the man’s
hand.

“Lady Sophia,” Nicholas murmured, steering Sophia by the elbow. “Do not say anything
until we have reached the next room.”

Sophia did not bother to argue with him. All she wanted right then was the comfort
that his nearness afforded.

“Where the bloody hell is an empty room?” Nicholas growled in a low tone as they left
the ballroom and moved down the hall.

Sophia tripped on her hem and stumbled, a quiet cry of anguish escaping her lips.

“I have you,” Nicholas reassured her, his arm an iron bar of support at her waist.
“Here, Lady Farnsworth’s drawing room.”

They crossed the threshold and he shoved the door closed. “Lie down. You’ve had a
shock.”

“I don’t want—” Sophia objected as Nicholas gently placed her on a sofa. Bracing her
hands against the cushions, she struggled to sit up. “I don’t want to lie down,” she
protested, falling back as her hands slipped on the cool, smooth silk.

Nicholas knelt down next to her and enclosed her cold fingers in the reassuring warmth
of his. “Only moments ago you spoke to the man who decided when and where your mother
would die. Be patient with yourself.”

“How can I be patient, Nicholas?” Sophia asked angrily,
rolling toward him until her cheek rested on his forearm. “And why were you talking
to him?”

“We arrived here at precisely the same time. Lord Farnsworth thought it clever to
introduce the lowly magistrate to a peer,” Nicholas explained. “I had no choice. Either
I talked to the bastard or abandoned him for no good reason whatsoever—which seemed
a rather risky proposition. We do not want to make him suspicious.”

Sophia moved back so she could look into his eyes. “Precisely. Still, I’ve mucked
it up, haven’t I? Apparently I can keep my wits about me only when dealing with killers
who have attacked other people’s families.”

“Nothing was amiss,” Nicholas assured her. “You were polite and charming, if a bit
rushed. He knows nothing more than that you are a lady with a sickly companion. And
that is all he ever will know.”

Sophia wanted to believe him. She needed to believe him, or she might never convince
herself to get up from the sofa. And she would not give the Bishop such power over
her. “You must speak with Mr. Bean,” she urged. “He is waiting for you.”

“Not until you and Mrs. Kirk are safely home. Then I will return and speak with the
Runner.” He placed a soft kiss on her lips. “We are so close, Sophia. Do not lose
hope.”

“I could never give up hope,” she murmured, more cavalierly than she felt. “It is
all I have ever had.”

27

The Albany

Mouse waited in the small gazebo, precisely where the note he’d received earlier had
told him to be.

A small greenbelt ran behind the Albany building and provided a buffer from the noise
of Piccadilly Street. The manicured garden with its flower beds, trees, and walkways
was also well suited for concealment. The Bishop’s men had slipped into their assigned
hiding places the moment he’d sent young Daniel into Mr. Bourne’s apartment with a
note telling Mouse his mother would meet him in the garden.

The boy’s whereabouts had been an educated guess on his part. The Bishop took one
last inhale of his cigar before dropping it to the ground and flattening it with his
foot. Mr. Bourne, on his own, had set off no alarm bells in the Bishop’s mind. Bourne
had been distant, hesitant to continue their conversation, and mildly distracted.
But that was all perfectly normal. The titled liked to believe that their hearts were
full of acceptance, when in reality they wanted nothing more than to wash their hands
of the lower classes and be done with them.

The Bishop stared at the back of Mouse from his vantage point behind the gazebo. The
boy glanced furtively about. Still, he didn’t leave the steps.

The Bishop smiled and decided to draw out the tension a bit longer.

No, he thought in retrospect, Mr. Bourne had not made the Bishop wonder. But Lady
Sophia had. She’d done an admirable job hiding her surprise, but she’d clearly not
expected to meet him. It must have been quite a shock for her. And he felt sorry for
the woman, as strange as that seemed.

He felt sorry for himself as well. He’d been an actor and playwright before the Kingsmen—and
a damn happy one at that. But one debt he could not afford to repay had led him down
a path from which there was no return.

The Bishop raised his hand and donned his hat, adjusting it at a slightly tipped angle
as was his custom. There was no point in torturing the boy further—at least, not yet.
He stepped out from behind the gazebo and quietly walked toward him, the soft grass
masking each footfall.

“I’m sorry to say I’m not your mother, Mouse,” he called out, watching as the boy
whirled to face him. “But I am sort of a father to you. And that’s something, wouldn’t
you agree?”

Mouse scanned the park, looking ready to run.

“Don’t bother trying to hightail it out of here, Mouse,” the Bishop told him matter-of-factly.
“I’ve men in every nook and cranny, so you won’t get far.”

He stopped in front of the boy and sized him up. “You’ve grown, Mouse. Might be time
to give you a new name.”

“Daniel said my mother had come back,” the boy spat out, a tremor in his voice. “I
was to meet her here, in the park. What have you done with her?”

The Bishop closed his hand over the boy’s shoulder. “Don’t be angry with Daniel. He
broke into Mr. Bourne’s apartments and told you of your mother’s return
because I insisted that he do so. And you know how persuasive I can be.”

Mouse ducked away from under his hand and put more space between them. “How did you
know ’bout Mr. Bourne?”

“Mouse,” the Bishop chided, “you had to know that it was only a matter of time until
I found you. You are far too important to me, to the organization, to allow you to
leave.”

“So now you’re gonna kill me? Is that it?” the boy asked, crossing his skinny arms
across his small chest in an attempted show of strength.

The Bishop looked at Mouse, mindful of all the boy’s promise and intelligence. And
remorseful that he’d more than likely never see any of it come to fruition. “Not just
now, no, Mouse.”

Mouse’s eyes grew round with fear but he did not attempt to run. “I see.”

“First we will have a conversation about what you’ve told Mr. Bourne,” the Bishop
explained. “It is very important that I understand exactly what he knows and what
he doesn’t.”

“A conversation?” Mouse asked irreverently, indicating he’d come to terms with his
fate. “Is that what you call it when Topper tortures someone until they tell him what
he wants?”

The Bishop smiled. “There’s my Mouse. Now come along before you catch your death from
the cold.”

“You’re to leave Mr. Bourne out of this,” the boy demanded as if he had any power
to bargain. “I’ll come along and tell you what you want, but in return I want your
word that Mr. Bourne and Miss Spoon will be safe.”

God, the boy was admirable. Such pluck for one as young as he was. “I feel it is important
for you to know
that he was interested in you beyond kindness. Your loyalty should be decided based
on all of the facts.”

“You won’t turn me against Mr. Bourne. He’s been good to me, too,” Mouse answered,
unfolding his arms and planting his hands on his hips.

The Bishop chuckled at the boy’s bravado. “I promise you, Mouse, I’ve no desire to
turn you against anyone. In my own way, I respect you. Therefore you must know the
truth of the matter; Mr. Bourne has reason to want me captured. That is why Mr. Bourne
was in the rookery when he found you. He was looking for me—not that his decision
to rescue you should be in any way diminished by this knowledge, but the entire time
you’ve lived under Mr. Bourne’s roof, he has been furiously working to apprehend me.
Or perhaps even kill me.”

“Did you steal from him?” Mouse asked, his brow furrowing as he took in the unexpected
information.

The Bishop contemplated the boy’s words. “In a manner of speaking, yes, I did. And
something much more important than jewels or art, something I should most likely pay
for with my life. And while I am a fair man, if it is to come down to my life or his,
make no mistake, Mouse, I will always choose mine.”

If he’d had the time, the Bishop would have allowed the boy to remain in the park
to puzzle out just what he thought and felt about Mr. Bourne now that he knew the
truth.

But he could not wait any longer. “We must go, Mouse.”

“You’ll leave him alone, then, if he stays far away?” the boy demanded.

“That all depends on how he chooses to respond to your absence. And that even I cannot
predict.”

Nicholas wanted a drink.

He stared out the window of the hired hackney and counted townhomes in an effort to
ignore the incessant need. It ebbed when he was with Sophia, as if she made him stronger,
even better.

“As if?” he asked himself out loud, losing track of how many homes he’d counted and
beginning again.

Ignoring his need for a drink when he was alone, his mind and body idle, had always
been more difficult. Now thinking about life after the Bishop’s capture, when Sophia
would be his forever, made it easier to deny the urge.

A conversation he’d had with Carrington began to replay in his mind:

“I’ve broken nearly every law within the Corinthian code—and a few outside of it as
well. Carmichael could not overlook such things. But I’ve come to terms with the possible
consequences.”

“And those are?” Nicholas had pressed as a fine misting of rain began to fall.

“My expulsion from the Corinthians,” Dash had answered simply. “Still, we’ll have
captured Smeade. And that’s what matters.”

The bay’s hooves had slipped on the wet street, but he’d recovered and held his stride.
Nicholas had called reassuringly to the horse and kept his hands firmly on the reins.
“Are you sure?”

“What on earth do you mean?” Carrington had countered.

It had sounded to Nicholas as though his friend genuinely wondered at the question,
though he’d found such a thing hard to believe. “Your whole life has been dedicated
to the Young Corinthians. How could you surrender it so easily?”

Carrington considered the question while he’d swiped at the rain gathering on his
greatcoat. “Elena.”

“Come, now. Everything for a woman?” Nicholas had pressed, unconvinced.

“Yes, Bourne. We’re capturing Lady Afton’s killer not only for justice, but a second
chance at life. Elena is my second chance.”