Love's Price (Lord Trent Series) (33 page)

“Take it easy, Captain Harcourt,” Radley said. “I can see you’re in a state, and I wouldn’t want your trigger finger to get twitchy.”

As if by magic, a second gun appeared in Tristan’s other hand, so Tristan had a weapon pointed at both of them.

“What’s your opinion, Radley?” Tristan inquired. “Would you like to try and best me? Perhaps I should explain about my being a decorated marksman.”

In a gesture of surrender, Radley held up his palms. “No need to prove anything, Captain. I’m sure you’re a fine shot.”

Tristan jerked the pistol from under Bentley’s chin and shoved it between his legs, ramming it into his privates.

“Last chance, Bentley. Where is she?”

“How would I know?” Bentley whimpered, his voice an octave too high.

Tristan cold-cocked him, knocking him from his chair, and he tumbled onto the rug with a muted thud.

Before he landed, Tristan was across the floor, and he had Radley in a death grip, a gun pressed to his temple.

“Where is she?” Tristan hissed. “I’m only asking once. Were I you, I would consider my answer very carefully.”

“Newgate Prison,” Radley said. “Delivered her there myself.”

Tristan pushed him away and stomped over to where Bentley lay, moaning. Tristan grabbed him by his shirt and drew him close.

“If you’ve harmed so much as a hair on her head,” Tristan warned, “you’re a dead man.”

He hit Bentley in the face, hit him again and again, then threw him down and hurried out.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Helen stood in the drive outside Lord Trent’s mansion.

She didn’t know why she’d come to his house or what she was hoping to achieve. Once she’d left Westwood’s home, her feet had taken charge of her destination.

After Miranda’s revelation, Helen couldn’t get Trent out of her mind. Miss Peabody had initially raised the possibility of Trent being Helen’s father. Nigel had mentioned it too, and Miranda had simply confirmed what Helen had always denied but had secretly suspected to be true.

There was no reason for her family to have been so cruel unless her mother had incurred their wrath, so a terrible scandal—such as a liaison with Trent—seemed likely.

With Helen having been apprised that James Harcourt was seeking a card game with Lord Trent, she felt she should do something, but what?

Who was Trent? What sort of person was he? Had he run off with Westwood’s mother? And what about Helen’s mother? Had Trent loved her? Or had their relationship merely been a brief fling?

Though she shouldn’t have been concerned about either man, she was disturbed at the idea of Westwood talking about her to Trent. She didn’t want them discussing her. Nor did she want to be a pawn in any rivalry.

What would happen if she marched up and banged on Trent’s door? What would happen if she asked for him?

There was only one way to find out. She opened the gate and slipped through.

She didn’t have anywhere to go, and she’d spent the last of her money on the coach to town. She needed assistance, and she had to learn if Trent would provide it.

If she was rebuffed, she’d be no worse off than before. But what if she was allowed to see him? What if he aided her?

She knocked, then nearly bolted in panic as the butler answered. He looked curious and not at all surprised by her arrival.

“May I help you?”

“I realize it’s presumptuous of me, but I was wondering if I could speak with the Earl of Trent. I don’t have a card to present, but my name is Helen Stewart.”

“Has he been introduced to you? Is he aware of your existence?”

Helen frowned. “No.”

“So this is your first attempt at a meeting?”

“Well...yes.”

“Might I see your wrist?” As soon as he posed the question, he stopped and chuckled. “No, don’t bother. I don’t need to verify the mark. I can tell by your hair and eyes.”

“Tell what?”

“You know
what
or you wouldn’t be here.” He sighed. “I can’t let you in.”

“Oh...”

She hadn’t actually expected any other reply, but nonetheless, it was a devastating blow. While she hated to admit it, she’d been foolishly hoping to be welcomed inside. She’d been hoping Trent would advise her of what to do, where to live, how to support herself. She’d been hoping for rescue—again!

When would she accept that no male would ever save her? She had to save herself.

With any luck, Captain Harcourt would locate Harriet, so Helen and Harriet could be reunited. But Harriet’s return would bring more burdens for Helen, more responsibility to care for a sister who had a devil of a time caring for herself.

It all seemed too much. She was only twenty years old, yet she felt that the weight of the world was resting on her shoulders.

“I apologize for disturbing you,” she mumbled, “and I most humbly beg your pardon. I’ll just be going.”

She’d spun away as he reached out and laid a gentle hand on her arm. He sneaked out, quietly pulling the door closed, and he peeked around as if to be sure no one was watching.

“I didn’t mean that I couldn’t help you,” he said. “At the moment, I simply can’t invite you in. You see, Lady Trent—your father’s wife—
is
in residence, and she doesn’t take kindly to being visited by his...ah...”

“I hadn’t thought about her.” Helen was greatly embarrassed for the woman and what Helen’s presence indicated. “I’m sorry. I usually have better manners than I’ve displayed so far.”

“If the earl was here, matters would be different.”

“I understand.”

“Wait, though, for just a minute. Don’t leave.”

He slid into the foyer, and Helen loitered on the stoop, feeling like a beggar. What if someone saw her? What if Lady Trent came out? What if the butler never returned?

Her courage waned, and she’d decided to go, when he reappeared.

He offered her a few coins, as well as a folded piece of paper.

“What’s this?” she inquired.

“I’ve given you directions to the home of Mr. Phillip Sinclair. It’s a bit of a distance, so use the money to hire a hackney.”

“Who is Phillip Sinclair?”

“You don’t know?”

“No.”

He smiled. “He is the earl’s oldest child. He’s your half-brother.”

“My...brother?”

“I believe he’s been hunting for you.”

“He has?”

“Yes. For many months now. He and your half-sister, Fanny. They’ve been searching everywhere.”

“I have a sister named Fanny?”

“She’s Lady Henley.”

“But...but...”

He patted her shoulder. “Talk to Mr. Phillip. He’ll explain everything.”

As he stepped inside, he paused to whisper, “Godspeed.”

Then he vanished and, in a daze, she stumbled to the street and hailed a cab. She didn’t have to show him the directions the butler had provided. Nor would he take a fare.

Apparently, Phillip Sinclair was a prosperous and respected gentleman, and it was common knowledge around the city that anyone who delivered one of Trent’s children would be generously reimbursed.

Soon, she was standing in front of a very stylish, three-story brick house with big glass windows and black shutters. Smoke curled from the chimney. An elegant carriage was parked in the drive.

“This is the place,” her driver said. “Good luck to you, little lady.”

“What should I do?”

“Go over and knock. It’s as easy as pie.”

She couldn’t move, so he escorted her to the stoop.

“You’ll be fine,” he insisted. “Don’t worry.”

He banged the brass knocker, then shifted away and left her alone. Frantic questions whizzed in her mind: What if it was all a ruse? Or a cruel trick?

She was so anxious to be greeted cordially, to be invited in. Just once in her life, she wanted someone to be glad that she’d arrived.

The door swung open, and a maid stuck her head out.

“Yes?” she said.

“I called on the Earl of Trent, but his butler told me to come here instead and to request an audience with Mr. Sinclair.”

The maid studied Helen’s features, and she grinned.

“Well, I’ll be.” She gestured into the foyer. “Come in, come in. Mr. Sinclair will be delighted.”

“He will? Are you sure?”

“Trust me. He’ll be thrilled. I’m Peggy, by the way. If you need anything, let me know right away. Follow me, please.”

Peggy led her down the hall and into a warm, comfortable parlor. A man was sitting on a sofa by the fire. A woman stood next to him, her back to the door.

“Lady Henley,” Peggy said.

Lady Henley turned and smiled. “Yes? What is it, Peggy?”

“Look who’s here. She was sent over from your father’s house.”

Lady Henley had big green eyes and golden blond hair—just like Helen’s. She was Helen’s same height and age, and her appearance was so similar to Helen’s that she might have been another twin. Helen and Harriet might have had a triplet sibling without their being aware.

“As I live and breathe,” Lady Henley murmured, walking over and taking Helen’s hands in her own. She squeezed tight, as if she’d never let Helen go.

“What is your name?” Lady Henley inquired.

“Helen Stewart.”

“Helen! Where have you been? We’ve been searching forever.”

“I didn’t know that you were. I just found out.”

“I am Fanny Carrington Wainwright,” Lady Henley said, “and
I
am your sister.”

The man rose, and Helen saw that he was blond and green-eyed, like Helen and Harriet. Like Lady Henley.

He was tall and handsome, broad-shouldered and fit, and as he came toward her, he was smiling, too.

“I am Phillip Sinclair,” he said. “And
I
am your brother. Welcome home. We thought you’d never arrive.”

Harriet heard booted footsteps, but she didn’t glance up. She didn’t care who was approaching. She was huddled in a corner, cold and starving, the afternoon waning, the temperature plummeting. Her sole focus was on trying to keep warm, and she wasn’t concerned that any mischief might befall her.

Before Jo had departed, she’d whispered Harriet’s identity to several people, making her a celebrity in the dreary place. She’d been Captain Harcourt’s mistress! She was the mystery woman about whom the entire country had gossiped!

No one could figure out how she’d been brought so low. When she was such a popular heroine, how could Struthers have had her arrested? Why hadn’t Harcourt intervened?

They claimed Harcourt should have made their relationship official, should have set her up in a fancy apartment with a new wardrobe and a bevy of servants.

The other prisoners constantly asked: Was there no justice in the world?

Well, for Harriet at least, no, there wasn’t.

She shut her eyes and distracted herself by envisioning the pretty residence Harcourt might have purchased for her. It was a soothing reverie, and a smile lifted the corner of her mouth. She saw herself attired in a beautiful dress, going out for a stroll on Harcourt’s arm.

“It’s about bloody time you showed up,” a nearby prisoner muttered.

“Was you gonna leave her here forever?” another demanded.

“You scoundrel!” a third sneered. “What kind of man are you?”

“Not a very good one, I’m ashamed to say.”

A male had replied to them in a voice that was extremely familiar, and Harriet frowned as the crowd began to titter with excitement. As she peeked over to see what had caused the commotion, she blanched with shock.

Tristan seemed to be proceeding directly toward her. A group of men flanked him, and they appeared to be guards.

Harriet blinked and blinked, certain she was hallucinating. Had misery and poverty finally driven her insane?

He kept coming until he was right in front of her, and though she continued to blink, he was still there. She could smell the wool of his trousers, the starch in his shirt. He seemed very, very real.

“Harriet Stewart,” he said, “where the hell have you been?”

“Tristan?”

“Yes,
Tristan
. Do I look like a ghost?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact.”

“What happened to your face? Why is your eye black and blue?”

“Why do you think? Someone hit me.”

“Bentley Struthers?”

“How did you guess?”

He chuckled in a dangerous way. “Ooh...he is going to be so sorry.”

He reached out his hand, and he dangled it there, urging her to clasp hold, but she was too terrified. If she grabbed for him, but found he was an apparition, she was afraid her mind might snap.

“Why are you here?” she asked instead.

“I’ve come to take you home.”

“I don’t have a home.”

“You do now.”

Harriet studied him, and she shook her head with dismay. Did he suppose he could just pop in after so much time had passed, that he could speak a few chatty words and wipe the slate clean?

She had loved him. More than her life! Yet he’d blithely cast her aside. She couldn’t rely on him. What if she went with him, and he abandoned her again?

“Take my hand, Harriet,” he coaxed.

“No. Go away.”

“Take it.”

“No. You’re not real. You can’t be.”

She rested her chin on her chest, wanting him to be a ghost. It would be easier if he was.