7. The Ties that Bind

THE TIES THAT BIND

L eopold rose earlier than the roosters, and by the time Fitz walked their guest down the stairs to where the carriage was waiting, he was anxious to take to the road.

The lovely Lady Amelia had pitched quite the fit the night before. Leopold couldn't help but grin at the memory of the curses he'd overheard from the yard.

Rolling his shoulders, which were stiff from a mattress normally employed by stable boys, he mentally patted himself on the back. Normally he'd have slept upstairs, but because he wasn't the heartless bastard many believed him to be, he'd sacrificed his personal chamber so their guest could be comfortable.

Or prisoner, rather.

But as she came into focus, he frowned. What reasons did she have for looking so frail? Dark circles shadowed her lovely eyes, and she'd left her hair in the same coiffure from the day before—but with a few more straggling strands.

And her gown, which had been pretty before she'd rolled around in the mud, was in even worse shape than her hair.

Of course, she was still beautiful, but…

Any normal woman would have tidied up with a damp cloth and some lavender water he knew had been provided. If not her person, at least that horrific gown. But as she arrived to stand right before him, one sniff proved she hadn't bothered to do either.

Was this some sort of protest on her part? Or was she really so reliant upon servants that she was too lazy to tend to her own ablutions?

Keeping her head down, she silently walked past him and climbed into the coach unassisted.

But before moving to join her, Leopold circled his fist over his sternum. She'd slept in the finest room the inn had to offer and been served hot and savory meals. He had no reason to feel guilty today. If she'd lost some of her fight, in fact, Leopold might have less difficulty getting her to talk. The hints of information she'd revealed about her father and Crossings' business dealings had him believing she knew more than she was letting on. The sooner he uncovered that, the sooner he could get on with his regular business.

He was honest enough with himself to admit, however, to having been amused, watching such a proper lady fidget and bluster over the course of the drive.

And he wouldn't even pretend that he didn't appreciate her looks. Even in her present state, no one could deny she was a beauty.

With a glance in Fitz's direction, who appeared equally taken aback by Lady Amelia's appearance, Leopold shrugged, and with no words needed, alighted into the carriage before closing the door behind him.

He sat down beside her on the same bench, but she only pressed herself stiffly into the corner, her face drawn and pale.

Her decision to pout wasn't his problem. The Rotten Rakes had only asked that he keep her safe, not that he coddle the woman or provide all the special treatment she was accustomed to.

If he'd known she'd be so stubborn, he might as well have locked her in a stall overnight with bales of hay for a bed. He could have gotten a good night's sleep in his own damn chamber—one of his favorites along this route.

But although he'd essentially raised himself on the docks, he'd come a long way since then. He wasn't completely without manners.

"Morning." The greeting was coarse, but perhaps more than she deserved.

"Good morning." She didn't look at him, choosing instead to keep her eyes trained on the floor, but aside from that, her posture was rigidly perfect, with her back straight and her knees pressed together tightly.

It must be bloody exhausting to be a nob—more, perhaps, for ladies than gents.

He'd spent time with his fair share of women, none of them ladies, but he'd never felt particularly sorry for any of them until he met this one.

"It isn't the end of the world, you know," he said, trying to sound reassuring. "You didn't complain at the prospect of missing the Season, but did you change your mind? Is that what's bothering you?"

She shook her head, barely, her lips a little white.

"Are you ill?" he asked.

No answer this time, frustrating him further.

The coach was moving, however, and they had hours of travel ahead of them. She'd grow bored eventually. No need for him to coax conversation out of her like a blundering suitor.

Nonetheless…

"Did you sleep at all?" he asked.

Her smile was more of a wince. "A little," she said. "I think."

Had he gone too far yesterday? He'd wanted her fearful enough to cooperate, but not scared out of her wits.

"I've no intention of hurting you," he told her for what must surely be the fiftieth time.

Upon hearing these words, she finally turned her head and looked at him.

"That woman who came to my chamber, she referred to you as the king. Why would she do that?"

The moniker wasn't one he'd ever asked for, or even wanted. King of Bond Street, they called him, when he was nothing but a businessman—a bachelor.

"I own a lot," he admitted. When he'd brought in his first shipments and sold goods at prices people could afford, a few merchants had joked that he took better care of them than the king. As time went on, the ridiculous title had spread. "I take care of my own."

Staring back at her, he thought he saw something he'd not really seen before. But to imagine this woman could respect someone like him was more than a joke. It was delusional.

"She spoke highly of you…" Her voice was soft, almost a whisper. Leopold watched as she inhaled and exhaled a few shallow breaths.

The hairs on the back of his neck pricked up. Something wasn't right…

A debutante ploy? Something to draw a man's attention to her breasts.

But proper ladies wouldn't sink to such tactics, would they? And Lady Amelia was nothing if not a true, proper lady.

So what the devil was she up to?

Despite, out of necessity, having spent days at a time working with a baron, a few earls, and even a marquess, he'd never completely understood their ways.

Malum, who was a duke, didn't really count. As a man who'd shunned the ton , he lived by his own rules. With the others all married now, Leopold imagined he'd see less and less of them. They'd likely cut all ties once they pinned Crossings down.

His own kind might joke about him being "King," but Leopold was, and always would be, a commoner.

"You don't like it, do you?" she asked astutely. "Being called a king."

Leopold shook his head. "It's a jest."

She continued staring at him. "She sounded quite serious."

"Nothing more than a jest," he repeated. "Trust me." Leopold shifted, watching her without meeting her eyes, instead remembering how silky her hair had looked when he'd first noticed her at Winterhope's estate. She'd looked as pretty as a frosted cake, dressed in lace and pastels, carrying her parasol. He hadn't gotten close enough to know if she smelled like sugar or flowers, but she must have; all wellborn women did.

An icy cold snaked from his head to his toes. Disgust.

At himself . And he didn't like it.

Having spent less than twenty-four hours in his care, this Diamond of the Season looked almost common.

But no. She could be wearing naught but a potato sack and still stand out. She was different. She would always stand out, as they say, inherently genteel.

"Why would you work for Crossings if you own an inn?" She tilted her head, narrowing her eyes a little. "And that isn't all you own, is it? You can tell me what you do, you know. I'm no threat to you, or anyone, for that matter."

Just there, he saw it again—something other than fear in her eyes.

And those little breaths.

"Tell me about your father's business with Crossings." Leopold spoke with just enough authority that she would know he was serious. He wasn't one who enjoyed playing games. He locked his stare with hers, watching her contemplate his demand.

When she lifted her chin and turned her face to the window, he could have throttled her.

"Crossings spent a fortnight at your father's estate just after Christmas. But there were others. Who were they?"

She shook her head. "Just my family." Her loyalty would be commendable if she weren't protecting villains.

There must have been others. "Give me one name." For now. One name would provide a lead—a thread that might help them unravel Crossings' organization.

He watched her profile. Felt a twisting in his gut when she bit her lip.

Any other young lady, he suspected, would have broken. She was obviously unhappy, uncomfortable, and even frightened.

Hell, he'd broken men three times her size, men whose freedom, whose very lives were on the line.

Fucking hell, had he lost his touch? Perhaps another angle might prove more fruitful…

"Crossings is importing tea—tea which has been obtained illegally—in exchange for opium. Did you know that?"

His question had the desired effect, and she turned back to gawk at him with wide eyes. And then she was shaking her head.

"They're importing silks and lace." Finally, he was getting somewhere. "In exchange for wool, and some of the goods from my father's estate in Jamaica—and my brother manages that."

"Sugar and tobacco, then." The words put a sour taste in Leopold's mouth. Grown and harvested by slaves, the means of building wealth was just as abhorrent as the opium scheme.

He'd discussed it more than once with the Rakes, but that was an altogether different war to wage.

"Yes." Lady Amelia swallowed hard.

Leopold wanted names. "Who oversees the shipments?" That person might very well be involved with Crossings.

She closed her eyes, looking pained, but just when she went to speak, her head wavered. "I—" She looked like she might burst into tears.

"What?" Leopold prompted.

"I can't." She paused. "Breathe…"

Her lips were almost blue, and her face whiter than a sheet.

Was she ill? Had she eaten something bad? Did she have a health condition the Rakes hadn't bothered to tell him about?

"My…"

Leopold leaned closer to hear her words over the bumping of the carriage.

"What, Amelia? Tell me what's wrong!" He was about to pound on the ceiling demanding to stop when she answered, so soft he barely understood.

"Corset."

He couldn't have been more flummoxed if she'd transformed into a fairy right before his eyes.

Her corset?

Her bloody corset?

Images of tight laces came to mind, down her back, of course, with her locked in that chamber…

Those shallow little breaths.

Her chin dropped back but her posture remained as rigid as it had been when he'd first laid eyes on her. He needed to act fast.

All too aware, finally , that this woman could hardly breathe, Leopold grasped her shoulders, turned her around, and without ceremony ripped open the back of her gown. Sure enough… Good God . A knot, meant to keep the garment from coming undone on its own, was cinched tightly.

Why the devil hadn't she said something? Why the devil hadn't he considered this?

Lady Amelia had not only been locked in his chamber, but bound in the trappings of her own ridiculous fashion. Leopold whisked his knife out of his boot and, mindful of the motion of the carriage, braced himself as he sliced through the strings like butter.

With each cut, the gap widened, gradually revealing the white cotton chemise worn underneath. It was wrinkled, pressed against her skin so tightly one could imagine a hot iron had made the creases.

Her poor skin…

Lady Amelia drew in a labored breath, raspy, but deeper this time.

And that posture he'd attributed to her rigid upbringing slumped. She had both hands pressed against the walls of the carriage, her forehead resting on the window.

"I'm sorry," she rasped in a small voice.

What was she sorry for?

"Just breathe," he encouraged, his own heart racing. "In and out, Princess."

More air. Leopold lowered one of the windows, and then, reaching around her, lowered the other. Luck was on his side in that the road was damp from yesterday's rain, and a cool breeze, rather than dust, blew inside. If he stopped to open the door, the men traveling outside would see them. She was only half dressed, and he'd already caused this woman enough undue humiliation.

Leopold could curse the frivolity of the ton from now until sundown, but ultimately, it was he who was responsible for her well-being.

For her safety.

The Rakes had thought he was the right person to carry out what should have been an easy enough mission. It seemed their faith had been placed in the wrong man.

His confidence from earlier deflated. He was as disgusted with the revelation as he was by his own stupidity.

Because there she sat, limp as a rag, barely able to keep upright, her back facing him as she clutched her bodice to her chest.

"Let me…" he wrapped his arm around her, gathering her close, lending support so she could rest.

And to prove just how much damage Leopold had inflicted upon her, she relaxed against him with no resistance at all.