Where the Viscount Met His Match, page 3
“I spoke with her, Lyra. It’s most certainly her.”
“Dear heavens,” she said.
Roarke allowed the initial shock to wear off. “Do you know of any possible reason that could have caused all this subterfuge?” He thought he caught a flash of…something in her eyes.
She lowered her hand. “I’m sorry, Roarke, but I have no idea.”
Leaning back, Roarke pinched the bridge of his nose. “What am I going to do?”
“Why should anything be done?”
Of all the things Lyra might have said, Roarke certainly wasn’t expecting that. “How can I possibly let something like this go?”
“It was years ago,” Lyra reasoned. “Why dredge up the past?”
“For some bloody answers!” Roarke gave a disbelieving bark of laughter that held no humor.
Running a hand through his hair, he stood and began to pace the room. “I loved her! I was going to marry her, for God’s sake!”
The sudden pain in Lyra’s eyes was acute. “I know you loved her, Roarke. And don’t think that I don’t care about Mara’s welfare, because I do. She was my dearest friend, servant or no, but she obviously had strong reasons for doing what she did.
We may not understand or ever know why she did it, but whatever it was, it was her choice. The past is over and done with. We can’t change it.”
Roarke stopped his pacing and put his hands on his hips. “I can’t just ignore it,” he admitted harshly. “That woman wasted seven years of my life.”
“Is that what you want from her?” Lyra gasped. “Retribution? Vengeance?”
He blew out a breath. “Honestly? I don’t know.” He shook his head and started walking to the door.
“Roarke, wait!” As Lyra rushed up to stop his retreat, she stepped on the hem of her dress, pulling the seam loose around her neckline.
“Did Weston do that?” Roarke asked darkly.
It took his sister a moment to figure out what had upset him, but when she looked down at the top of her gown where it was gaping open to reveal the top of her shoulder and the dark bruise there, she gasped and quickly tried to pull her clothes together to shield it from view. Roarke knew the earl was a libertine and a scoundrel, but he’d had no idea that he was abusive as well.
Lyra instantly lowered her head. “I fell down the stairs yesterday. I’m fine.”
“I ought to call out that son of a—”
“Roarke, don’t. Please.” She clutched his arm.
He wanted to ignore her and murder the putrid filth right then, but his sister’s entreaty was the only thing that gave him pause. But that didn’t stop him from pulling her to him for a brotherly embrace.
“Promise me that you’ll come to me if it…intensifies.”
He loathed the very thought, but as much as he hated it, she had taken the vows that bound her to the man and unfortunately, under English law, a husband had the right to do whatever he wanted to his wife, even if he felt it involved ill treatment.
“I swear.” She nodded against his chest.
Breaking away, Roarke looked into his sister’s watery eyes before he took his leave, finding much more to think about now than when he’d arrived.
Chapter Three
Mara had been on pins and needles since the day Roarke had popped out of the shadows like a thief in the night.
That was three days ago.
Since then, he had been suspiciously scarce, allowing her to come and go as she pleased, both to her haberdashery shop and all around London. But, she noticed, not without a silent escort. As he’d given his word of honor, Roarke made sure that, even though he might be out of sight, he was still keeping her close at hand. It irritated her that her every movement was reported back to him, but honestly, she shouldn’t have expected less. She had delivered the ultimate shock of his life, and until he felt he had it all figured out, this was to be her punishment.
As if her very existence wasn’t a prison in itself.
Shaking her head, Mara tried to focus on the field before her and the current match Big B was embroiled in. It wouldn’t do to lose her focus in case Bentley needed her assistance. Even though there were sawbones in abundance, most were concerned with their bets rather than actually helping a wounded man in need.
As usual, Big B was leading in the ring, although he was up against his toughest adversary to date, a Brazilian man nearly equal in size and power.
The crowd was abundant today, and the cheers were near deafening as the battle continued. Mara stood as close as she dared to Big B’s corner, biting her lower lip nervously as he suffered another wicked blow to the jaw. Sending up a silent prayer, she glanced at the opposing side of the ring and felt a sudden chill.
Pulling her cloak more securely around her shoulders, she narrowed her gaze as the lean, middle-aged gentleman inclined his head toward her. As genteel as before, there seemed to be a new sharpness to his gaze as he appraised her now, and she quickly averted her eyes.
She’d noticed the stranger before when he had brought his man forward and declared his intentions to fight Bentley as soon as the scheduled match had ended. While it was rather bold of him to do so, Mr. Mendoza wasn’t about to let such a golden opportunity pass him by, and even though Big B was his prized pugilist, he wasn’t above exploiting him if it meant more money—or more notoriety.
Mara couldn’t put her finger on it, but there was something about the newcomer that didn’t set well with her…
Once the match had concluded and Bentley was declared the winner, Mara walked off to the side to wait for him. A deep voice behind her caused her to spin around.
“Did you have a prosperous event?”
She’d been so involved in her own musings about the stranger that she hadn’t even noticed Roarke standing less than ten feet away. Leaning nonchalantly against a tree, he pushed off it as she came abreast of him.
“Since you were here to witness it with your own eyes, I think you can come to your own conclusions,” she returned, hating the way her pulse instantly sped up at the sight of him. In the late afternoon light, she could see the glimmer of a new beard on his chiseled jaw line, although his eyes shone with pure deviltry. It was moments like this when she could clearly recall the rogue she’d known in her youth—and why she’d given up everything for him.
“Indeed,” Roarke drawled. “And I’m a bit heftier in the purse because of it.”
Mara snorted at the jingle of coins he showcased before he tucked the small bag away in his coat pocket, even going so far as to give it a secure pat. She crossed her arms. “I’m so glad you were able to profit off of Bentley’s injuries.”
He lifted a lazy, sandy brow at her sarcastic tone. “You’re the only one who can benefit from Big B’s winnings, is that it?”
Mara’s eyes narrowed. “That money puts food on the table and pays our creditors.”
His hazel eyes glittered. “Ah, I see. So, to gain some extra blunt, I have to become a martyr, like you.”
Mara flinched unwittingly, for his words stung. It was obvious Roarke was baiting her, even now determined to paint her with a black brush. She clenched her fists. He had no idea what she’d had to go through—the hungry, cold nights, the horror of waking up in a workhouse, the constant concern for Lily’s well-being…
“I don’t have time for this.” Fuming, Mara turned on her heel, too angry to even remain and trade verbal barbs with him.
Roarke reached out and grasped her arm. Leaning down to speak in her ear, his voice was low and husky. “After all the hell you put me through, you will make time for me.”
Mara’s eyes blazed with all the frustration and anger born through the years. “How dare you patronize me? You have no idea the kind of life I’ve lived, and you have no claim on me, so in point of fact, I don’t have to do anything.”
Roarke’s jaw clenched. “May I remind you, you’re the one who lied. I’m only here to ensure you don’t disappear again until I get what I want.”
Mara narrowed her eyes. “Are you threatening me?”
He finally released her with a mocking tilt to his lips. “Not at all. I’m merely reminding you that until my curiosity is satisfied, I’m afraid you will have to contend with my presence.”
“Don’t you mean your revenge?” she spat.
He shrugged. “Call it what you will. The outcome will undoubtedly be the same.”
Mara wanted to throw back another haughty retort in light of his cool, blasé demeanor, but if she was perfectly honest with herself, she didn’t want to fight anymore. In fact, it tore her up inside when he looked at her with that derisive glare. At this point, there was still so much left unresolved that when it was all said and done, he likely wouldn’t look at her at all, contemptuously or otherwise.
Thankfully, she was saved from her own torturous misgivings by the arrival of Big B. Roarke turned his attention to the boxer and shook his hand, congratulating him on his victory. Bentley’s shoulders relaxed, and even though he was aware of the conflict between her and Roarke, the viscount was apparently working his charm to win the bigger man over, a rather difficult feat.
Abruptly, Mara spoke up. “As entertaining as this has been”—she studiously ignored the mocking brow that Roarke raised—“we should be going.” Turning to Bentley, she said, “I’ll be right back. I’m going to get us a hackney…”
“There’s no need for that. Allow me to offer the use of my carriage,” Roarke smoothly interjected with a challenging grin.
Mara frowned. “That won’t be necessary. I’m perfectly capable of hailing us a cab.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” He grinned, enjoying her discomfort entirely too much. “My landau is parked just there, and it’s both more comfortable and less expensive than one of those rickety contraptions that pass for hired vehicles. Besides, it’s not as if I plan on whisking you away to the wilds of the country, never to be seen again.”
Bentley gave her a considering look and shrugged.
Fuming, Mara realized there would be no help from that corner. In the end, she gritted her teeth. “Very well.”
Roarke offered her his arm, but when she pointedly refused the gesture, he chuckled and fell into step with Bentley, giving her no choice but to follow in their wake.
Once they were seated in the carriage, Roarke gave his driver Mara’s directions and, after a slight jerk, they were in motion.
Mara desperately tried to hold on to her irritation, but the moment she sat down, she couldn’t help but rub her hand over the red velvet cushions beneath her. Never before had she ridden in such a finely sprung and upholstered conveyance as this—and likely never would again. It made her think of what might have been had things turned out differently and she had married Roarke. As Lady Eversleigh, she could have enjoyed such refinements these past seven years, along with silks and satins aplenty. Instead of displaying them in her shop, she might have been able to purchase her own, along with anything else she wished. She would have a home to call her own, not just a cramped room in the city. Perhaps even children…
Mara jumped in surprise when she felt a gentle hand on her cheek. She hadn’t even realized she’d been crying until Roarke pulled his thumb away and she saw the moisture glistening on the pad of his finger.
Embarrassed, for it was the first show of kindness he’d shown her thus far, she quickly swiped at her face, shaking her head when he silently offered her the use of his handkerchief. Unfortunately, a small scrap of linen couldn’t erase the remnants of heartbreak and regret.
For either of them.
Chapter Four
London at dawn was just as smog-coated as it was in the evening, perhaps even more so due to the damp confines of the city and the chilly, rolling fog that the river Thames brought with it. However, on the rare occasions that it didn’t rain, Mara enjoyed seeing the sun peeking over the east horizon, its bright rays touching everything with a healthy dose of light.
Since it was Sunday, she didn’t have to open the shop today, but she had plenty of other things that needed to be done around the apartment before Roarke arrived. He’d made sure to mention that he’d be dropping by when he’d seen them home the day before and for some reason, knowing that he was going to show up made her more nervous than wondering if he might. In spite of this, she found herself taking a bit more time on her morning toilette, as well as donning her best day dress, a deep blue merino wool.
After tying on an apron, Mara set to work tidying up the kitchen and putting on a kettle for tea. Bentley usually slept later the morning after a fight, but he surprised her by waking up before she had breakfast ready and took a seat at the table.
“How are you this morning?” she asked, inspecting a couple of the dressings on his face that she had applied the prior evening. Thankfully, the homemade salve she normally used for cuts kept any injuries from bleeding. His left eye was still swollen, and he seemed to nurse his right side a bit where she’d bandaged his bruised ribs, but she didn’t think there were any broken bones. Granted, she’d never had any medical training, having only learned from personal experience, but either way, she’d trust her instincts before relying on any of the so-called physicians in the East End.
“The blood pudding and eggs should be ready in a few minutes, and I have bread in the oven—”
There was a knock at the door. Frowning, she glanced at the clock. Barely even half past seven, she thought it was a bit early for Roarke to be calling, but since they weren’t expecting anyone else, Bentley went to the door.
Almost without conscious thought, Mara patted her hair, pulled back into a simple bun.
Hearing footsteps behind her, she wiped her hands on her apron before she turned from the skillet. “Your audacity knows no bounds to be here so early—”
Instantly, she froze, for the man standing before her was not Viscount Eversleigh. To her shock, it was the stranger from the boxing match the day before. Mara didn’t know his name, but she would have recognized that malicious smirk anywhere, for it caused a shiver of horror to travel up her spine.
“It smells delicious,” he nearly purred.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
He merely shrugged. “Just doing a bit of investing is all.”
Mara didn’t have any time to question what he might have been talking about before two hulking men appeared and lunged at her. With no time to react, she got out only a partial cry before one of them threw a burlap sack over her head and lifted her off her feet. Kicking out blindly, a series of thuds and grunts met her ears before she was tossed to the ground.
“Leave her,” the stranger said. “We got what we came for.”
Momentarily stunned, Mara struggled to regain her breath, managing to tear the burlap off her long enough to glimpse Bentley. The same two men grabbed his unconscious form under his arms and began to drag him away.
“No!” The scream tore from her throat like an animalistic howl. She scrambled to her feet and flew at his captors. “Stop! Don’t hurt him! Let him go!”
Suddenly her arms were roughly pulled behind her. “Enough!”
After that the blow came, and her world went dark.
Roarke had been in the process of reading the Times and drinking coffee, preferring something stronger than tea in the mornings, when there came an insistent knock at the front door. With a frown, he laid his paper aside but instantly rose to his feet when Davis, the investigator he’d hired to trail Mara, came rushing into the dining room.
His butler trailed along behind and sputtered rather indignantly, “Sir! You must be announced!”
The viscount waved him off, the urgency in the investigator’s stance clearly indicating a more pressing matter. “I’ll take it from here, Winston.”
The servant gave a stiff bow and took his leave.
Roarke turned back to Davis with his sweat-covered brow and agitated manner. “What’s happened?”
The man’s breathing was still slightly labored. “Big B has been kidnapped.”
Roarke froze. “Are you certain?”
Davis gave a brisk nod. “Three men showed up not thirty minutes past and dragged him off. He appeared to be unconscious, for he wasn’t putting up a struggle. I was going to pursue them, but I thought you would want a report as soon as possible.”
“You did well,” Roarke concurred, and while he dreaded to ask the next question, he had to know. “What of the girl?”
“She was not with them.”
Which meant she was still in the apartment.
Roarke felt his shoulders relax slightly, until he realized that although Mara might not have been taken, danger could yet be lurking.
Striding out into the foyer, Roarke issued orders to a nearby footman. “Have my horse saddled immediately.”
It seemed as if an eternity had passed before he was finally tearing through the streets of London on Aristides, the investigator’s horse doing his best to match the swift pace.
An eerie, orange glow on the horizon caused Roarke to spur his horse even faster. Rounding a corner, his heart suddenly lodged in his throat as he saw the flames shooting out of the familiar, ramshackle apartment building. His veins turned to ice, for his worst imaginings were quickly turning into reality.
A fire crew had only just arrived, along with a gathering crowd, but Roarke was oblivious to it all.
He brought his mount to a skidding halt and leaped to the ground. Ignoring the shouts of protest around him, he was oblivious to the raging inferno, his focus on only one thing— Mara.
He covered his mouth with a handkerchief as he rushed into the building, for smoke was dense on the stairs. Finally making his way to the top, he slammed his shoulder into Mara’s front door, the wood instantly splintering apart. But the rolling, black cloud that rushed out at him made his eyes water and his lungs burn fiercely. “Mara!” His voice was little more than a croak as he called her name.
