Chapter Thirty

J oss finished his bath. He shaved. He dressed in clean clothes that had materialized seemingly out of nowhere. But then, Stavers had always taken care of anything they might need, often without a word being said. When he was done, he headed back across the hall to Hettie's room. He knocked but did not wait to be asked inside. He was done with waiting altogether. Hettie was reclining on a chaise before the window, staring out at the weak sunlight which filtered in.

"I'll be applying for a common license. Sadly, I lack the status to procure a special license. It will be a few days before we can make our appointment with the vicar, but I will make you my wife. And any child we have will be mine. Both legally and by blood."

Her head swiveled slightly until she could look at him. Only silence filled the space between them. It might have been a moment or an eternity. It all felt the same to him just then. Finally, she answered. "So quickly? It will be a scandal."

He raised one eyebrow. "Worse than bearing a child to a man whose impotence wasn't nearly as well concealed as he thought? Any bawd that had attempted to get a rise out of him in years had failed. Impotent husband. Pregnant and possibly murderous widow? Hettie, scandal is something you'd better accustom yourself to."

Another moment of silent consideration, then she gave a slight nod, more to herself and whatever thoughts were racing through her mind than to him. Then she met his gaze once more, "You'll need a better suit of clothes. I'm not marrying you in something that is so ill-fitting."

"Is that your only requirement?" His attempt to sound casual was a terrible failure.

"Yes... but I will warn you now, if you ever go off on your own like that again and place yourself in harm's way, I will kill you myself."

"You sound as though you might actually care for my wellbeing!"

"I do. Much as it pains me to admit it and unwise as it is, I am unable to help myself in the matter," she confessed. "I suppose if nothing else, I can blame it on my present condition. I am given to understand it makes most women emotionally volatile and completely irrational."

"You'll never be those things," Joss observed. "You are too fond of order. And you dislike losing control of yourself because controlling your own actions and responses to what occurs around you has been the only form of control you have ever had in life. And I know that because I see the same thing in myself."

Hettie rose from the chaise and walked toward him. She stopped when they were toe to toe. "I don't want to talk about my past... or yours, for that matter. What I want, more than anything, is to focus on my future. The one we will build together. But for now, you have a license to obtain. And once it is in your possession, I'll be waiting for you here."

"Naked in your bed, I hope," he said.

"I would have suggested it myself if you had not," she answered with a smile.

"I'll hurry."

And then she laughed. "I know. You've been given proper incentive."

She was close enough that he could reach out and touch her. And that was a temptation he could not resist. Taking her hand, he pulled her closer still, close enough to wrap her fully in his arms. All else was forgotten. His aching head, the bumps and bruises, and even the numerous threats that hovered around them. Dipping his head, he pressed his lips to hers. It wasn't a kiss about hunger, about desire. But it was filled with something just as powerful. Promise.

*

Simon was in hiding, sleeping in a squalid room over a shop. It had taken the last bit of coin he had to persuade the shop owner to let him stay. Not that he could hide anywhere in all of London that Ardmore wouldn't find him. He just needed time. It was Henrietta or him. His life was on the line, after all. She was his only obstacle to claiming his uncle's estate. Eliminating her entirely would erase any questions about potential heirs. And the money would revert to his uncle's estate. Even if it did not, with possession of the estates he could get a mortgage that would at least keep him alive, keep Ardmore from fulfilling his threats. Now, it was all about opportunity—when and where he could actually get to her to see the deed done.

He'd thought Bates was the answer. His whispered allegations to the Runner had seemed to do the trick initially, but now Bates was asking questions about him. He was breathing down his neck, as was Mr. Ettinger, the Hound's lackey and, apparently, Henrietta's lover. How would he get to her? His mind circled back to the same conclusion he had reached earlier: her maid.

Henrietta had a very close relationship with the servant. It was not a surprise, as the girl had been her only ally in his uncle's house. Henrietta might be well guarded, but the maid would not be. She'd be out, running errands for her mistress, or enjoying her half day. There was no guarantee that Annie Foster would turn on her mistress, whatever threat he made. But Henrietta was loyal to a fault. She owed the maid her life, after all, and would likely do anything to keep the girl safe.

Yes. That was a better plan. The girl would be bait and nothing more. But with no money left, he'd have to do the dirty work himself. He didn't mind it. It was simply a complication he hadn't anticipated. Caution would be a requirement if he meant to keep himself hidden from Ardmore or the massive bruisers who worked for him.

Pacing the room, he kicked at a pile of clothes heaped on top of a trunk. Then inspiration struck. They were all—Ardmore, the Hound, and Ettinger—looking for a well-dressed gentleman. If he shed the trappings of his station and camouflaged himself as one of the teeming mass of impoverished wretches that roamed the rookeries and dens that surrounded the city of London, no one would recognize him. He could move freely without being detected at all.

Reaching up, he loosened the knot of his cravat and tugged it free, dropping the silk onto the dusty floor. Once he had divested himself of his perfectly tailored clothing, he donned the disgusting and dirty garments left behind by the room's last resident. Checking his reflection in the grimy glass of the window, he hardly recognized himself.

"Perfect," he murmured. Then he headed out, slipping down the stairs and out the back door of the shop into the narrow alley. He was a world away from Mayfair in status, but in distance it was only a mile. "I'll get her. One way or another. And I'll get that leech off my back."