Love's Price (Lord Trent Series) (7 page)

Bentley scowled. He could swear that Radley was laughing at his injuries, and he couldn’t quite figure out himself how he’d been bested by the vicious sprite.

One minute, he’d been swept away by passion, and the next, he’d been whacked unconscious and had awakened on the kitchen floor in a pool of blood. His head throbbed incessantly, and he felt as if he’d been trampled by a herd of wild horses.

“A large reward would be beneficial,” Radley said.

“See to it.”

“And I’ll have to have notices printed, and employees to place them around town. I’ll have to have people out on the street, following up on leads.”

“I don’t care who you hire. I don’t care what it costs. Just bring her to me. If you catch her by the end of the week, I’ll pay double your fee.”

Radley tipped his hat and started out. At the last second, he glanced back. “I’m curious.”

“About what?”

“Once we have her in custody, what will happen to her?”

“
I
have a personal score to settle—”

“You certainly do.”

“—and when I’m finished, I’ll turn her over to the authorities.” Bentley nodded to a table by the door. “Peek in that bag.”

Radley picked it up, opened it, and whistled softly. “That’s an expensive necklace.”

“Yes, it is. When you capture her, make sure you plant it on her. I’ll insist that she was stealing it on the night she attacked me.”

“She’ll be branded a felon.”

“Yes, she will.”

“She’ll be hanged.” Radley wrinkled his nose, his displeasure clear. “You’re a cold man, Mr. Struthers.”

“I’m not paying you to judge my character, Radley. Nor am I paying you to like me. I’m paying you to find her. Now get going.”

“Blast it all!” Harriet fumed.

She ripped the reward flyer from the lamppost, crumpled it into a ball, then ducked into a dark alley and ran.

Hiding for over a week, she’d avoided anyone who might recognize her while discreetly looking for Helen who was nowhere to be found.

The wanted posters were everywhere, the sketch of her likeness uncannily accurate. The money being offered was enormous, so once others realized who she was, they would be delighted to betray her, and she was confused about what to do.

At the moment, several ruffians were chasing her, and she stopped, hovering in the shadows, listening for footsteps. Hearing none, she cautiously sneaked out of the alley and began walking.

Suddenly, a man shouted, “There she is, Radley! I’ve got her!”

And the chase was on again.

Harriet knew how the rabbit felt when the hounds were after it. She took off, her speed hampered by her dress and shoes, but desperation kept her ahead of them.

She flitted one way, then another, winding through the coven of London’s meanest neighborhoods, until she had no idea where she was. She was in a frantic state: alone, frightened, bewildered, and lost.

Ultimately, she rounded a corner only to discover that she’d arrived at the docks. As far as the eye could see, there were ships lined up in both directions.

During the day, the area was very busy, but it was late and quiet. Down the wharf, the door to a pub opened, and a pair of drunken sailors exited, singing. They staggered off, and Harriet breathed a sigh of relief, but her reprieve was over quickly.

Behind her, the same man said, “Did you see which way she went?”

“No. How about you?”

“No, but she’s close. I can practically smell her.”

Their boots tramped toward her, and she panicked.

What to do?
she asked herself.
What to do?

In front of her, a sailing ship was moored, its masts reaching up to the starry sky. The gangplank was down and unguarded, and the vessel appeared unoccupied.

She glanced to the right, to the left, then she raced up the gangplank, not pausing to consider whether it was a good decision or not, whether she could land herself in even more trouble or not. She reacted on impulse. If it was a mistake, she’d worry about it in the morning.

The deck was deserted, and she searched for a spot to hide, but there didn’t seem to be any. The space was neatly tended, everything folded and stacked.

At the back, there was a longboat, a tarp draped over it, and she tiptoed to it and climbed in. To her surprise, it contained a blanket and other supplies, but it was too dark to see exactly what.

She snuggled down under the blanket, her cheek resting on her hands, and she lay still as a rock, calming her ragged nerves. She took stock: She was alive; she’d escaped from the brigands who were after her; she was warm and dry and concealed in a furtive location.

Right then, it was more than enough.

Her eyes drifted shut, and she slept.

CHAPTER FIVE

“A twenty-pound bet!” a man scoffed. “With those cards? Gad, are you insane?”

“It’s only money,” another responded, and a chorus of male laughter rang out.

Helen skidded to a halt, not sure she’d heard correctly.

She was near the rear parlor where, that first day, she’d come upon Westwood’s party, and it certainly sounded as if a game was in progress. But when he’d brought her home from Mrs. Ford’s, he’d promised there would be no more wagering in the house.

She tiptoed over to the door and peeked in.

There—bold as brass—was a group of men, seated around the same table, cards arrayed, coins stacked in neat piles. Westwood was in the thick of it, his coat off, his sleeves rolled back. There was a glass of liquor by his right hand, a cheroot smoldering in his left. He looked decadent and confident and thoroughly at ease.

It was two o’clock in the afternoon.

Helen stifled a gasp and lurched away, unseen.

She felt like a fool, attired in the green dress he’d been so anxious to have her accept as a gift, and she could swear her heart was breaking.

Why? Why would it be?

For goodness sake, he was her employer! In that capacity, he’d proved he could be a dictatorial lout, and with the scene she’d just witnessed, he’d exposed himself as an untrustworthy liar, too. She couldn’t rely on him. She couldn’t believe a word he said.

She raced to her bedchamber, and for many minutes, she paced, trying to decide what to do, when she already knew the answer.

Westwood was a bachelor and normally would have been entitled to live however he chose, but with Miranda and Helen in residence, he couldn’t behave so outrageously. No decent woman should have to tolerate the presence of gamblers.

Even Mrs. Ford would have to agree. If she didn’t, Helen would find work elsewhere. She’d apply to another placement service—where the owner had better sense and wasn’t in awe of the very handsome, very dynamic Lord Westwood.

The kiss he’d bestowed had altered their relationship. They were friends now, and something more, although there was no term to describe it precisely. Yet it was clear that he would never act any differently than he was at that very moment, and Helen refused to suffer the misery he’d inflict if she stayed on.

Her status as Miranda’s whipping girl was bad enough. If she had to spend every second bracing for Westwood’s next betrayal, she’d never survive. So she couldn’t remain.

In a temper, she yanked off the new clothes, petulantly tossing them in a pile on the floor. Then she walked to the wardrobe and retrieved her old, worn gray dress, and as she did, she paused to run her fingers over the other gowns that had been delivered.

They were tasteful and fashionable, and they fit her perfectly. The garments made her feel pretty, and she’d been lured into loving them, both because of their beauty, but also because of the identity of the giver.

Gazing at them, she felt as if she was Eve in the Garden, being tempted by what she should never have.

She grabbed her portmanteau from under the bed, and she stuffed it with her meager possessions, leaving all his gifts untouched. Then she drew a piece of stationary from the desk, and after a lengthy debate, she jotted,
You swore to me that there would be no gambling in the house. So I’ve left
.

It conveyed her every sentiment, yet it said nothing at all. She signed it with her initials,
H.S
., then, note in hand, she started down the stairs, hoping she’d locate a servant to give it to. If not, she’d set it on the table by the front door.

Unfortunately, as she entered the foyer, Miranda was coming down the hall. She studied Helen’s bag, and she frowned.

“Are you going somewhere, Miss Stewart?”

“Yes.” Helen declined to elaborate.

“May I take this to mean Lord Westwood has fired you? Or are you quitting without his consent?”

“You may take it to
mean
whatever you wish.”

Miranda pointed to Helen’s letter.

“What have you there?”

“It’s for his lordship.”

“How very thoughtful of you.” Miranda’s sarcasm was biting. “No doubt he’ll be humored by your paltry farewell.”

Helen ignored her and put the letter on the table as she’d planned, but Miranda snatched it up. Helen knew that Miranda would never show it to him, so he wouldn’t be aware that Helen had gone. The realization made her terribly sad, but she pushed away any doldrums.

She didn’t care if he received the note! She didn’t care if he learned of her departure!

Of course Miranda read what Helen had penned, and when she finished, she smirked.

“If James chooses to gamble, Miss Stewart,” she scolded, “it’s really none of your business.”

“You’re correct. It’s not.”

“But I find it completely typical of you to suppose that you’re welcome to comment on the subject.”

Helen shrugged, and Miranda watched her, evidently waiting for Helen to argue or explain. When she didn’t, Miranda seemed intent on quarreling, as if she couldn’t let Helen go without chastising her a final time.

“You don’t belong here,” Miranda declared.

“No, I don’t.”

“I told James over and over again to fire you.”

“You certainly did.”

“He agreed with my every complaint, and he recognized how unsuitable you were to be my companion. You may imagine that you’re leaving on your own, but he was just getting ready to terminate you. He swore to me that he would.”

Helen chuckled glumly. “Were I you, I wouldn’t put too much faith in his promises.”

Miranda gasped with indignation. “Are you disparaging Lord Westwood? In his own home? How dare you!”

“You’re right: It’s badly done of me.”

Helen moved toward the door, but Miranda leapt over and blocked her path.

“You think you’re so smart, but you’re a lowborn, low class servant.”

Miranda hurled the word
servant
as if it was an epithet, and Helen shook her head at the girl’s venom.

“Why have you been so hateful to me?” Helen asked. “What did I ever do to you?”

“Nothing. I just don’t like you.”

Helen knew she should keep her mouth shut, but she couldn’t resist a retort. “The feeling, Miss Wilson, is mutual.”

Miranda shrieked with offense, as Helen stepped around her and exited. Miranda huffed after her.

“You may not go until you have my permission!”

Helen scoffed. “It obviously hasn’t occurred to you, but I don’t work for Lord Westwood anymore, so I don’t have to do anything you say.” She kept walking.

“Miss Stewart!”

Helen glanced over her shoulder. “Does your fiancé know about that temper of yours?”

“You annoying shrew,” Miranda seethed. “I can guarantee that you’ll never be employed in this city again.”

“Idle threats, Miss Wilson.”

“I’ll speak to Mrs. Ford. I’ll call on her and tell her what you’re really like.”

“I’m sure she’ll be delighted to hear from you.”

Helen whipped away and continued on.

Miranda strolled inside, grinning. She flounced into the nearest parlor and reread Miss Stewart’s trivial message.

“Good riddance, you meddlesome witch,” she muttered.

With Miss Stewart having fled, she could finally get on with her scheme to ensnare James. She’d plotted so meticulously, but with Miss Stewart constantly in the way, Miranda hadn’t been able to implement the smallest detail.