The Rogue's Proposal (25 page)

Would he have nightmares tonight? She hated the thought of him waking from a nightmare
among strangers.

Baldwin came in to light lanterns and stoke the fire. He asked if she’d like dinner
brought up, and when she demurred, he said quietly, “I will bring you a light meal,
Mrs. Curtis. You will require nourishment.”

A little while later, he brought up a tray of food, along with a letter that had arrived
while Luke and Emma had been in Worcester.

“For you, ma’am,” he told her. “It arrived just this morning.”

“Thank you, Baldwin,” she murmured.

She opened the letter distractedly…God, she wanted nothing more than to run to Newgate
and demand they release Luke immediately. But that wouldn’t work. What would? What
could she do?

Start with this Lord Winchell…and the horse market in Newmarket. It was all she had,
for now. Tomorrow, she’d go there.

Emma stared at the letter, despair welling in her. She knew the man Jane referred
to—Mr. Childress. Using his silver tongue, Henry had convinced Childress and her father
to invest in a coal mine. Less than a month later, he had taken Childress’s money
along with Emma’s father’s. There had never been a coal mine.

It struck her that her father had been just as taken with Henry as she had. He’d
trusted
him. Even before their marriage, Henry had come to her father with schemes and investments,
and her father—in some ways as naïve as her, evidently—had given him whatever he’d
asked for.

But how to answer this letter? Emma wasn’t sure she could.

Dear Jane, Henry is alive! Imagine that! He counterfeited his own death and absconded
with our father’s fortune…

Or…

Dear Jane, Well, not only is Henry alive, but he’s also somehow managed to have the
Duke of Trent’s brother arrested for an act of thievery he no doubt committed himself.

The Duke of Trent. Surely he could help.

She closed her eyes.
No.
Luke didn’t like involving the duke in his affairs. But Luke had three other brothers
on the Hawkins side. There was Sam, the eldest—he had been in the army, and Luke had
told her he worked in some secretive business in service of the Crown. There were
the two younger brothers, Lord Theodore and Lord Markus. Luke hadn’t spoken much about
them, but she recalled that they both resided in Cambridge.

Sam would be the one to ask. If she could find him. She didn’t know much, beyond the
fact that he lived in London. Maybe Baldwin would know the location of his home.

She called for the manservant. Moments later, he entered the drawing room. “Yes, ma’am?”

She gazed at him for a long moment, then said softly, “I need help, Baldwin.”

He gave an impassive nod. “Of course. How may I assist you?”

“I must inform the Hawkins family as to what has happened,” she told him. “But your
master…Well, I hesitate to involve the duke. Do you know where Lord Lukas’s older
brother, Mr. Samson Hawkins, lives?”

“No, ma’am.”

She released a noise of frustration. “How can you not know?”

“I am acquainted with Mr. Hawkins, ma’am. He is a secretive, private man. I doubt
many know the location of his residence.”

“What about Lord Markus and Lord Theodore? Do you know where they reside?”

“Yes, ma’am. They are in Cambridge.”

“Do you know where?”

“I believe so. I’ve a general idea. But unlike Mr. Hawkins, the two young lords have
no reason to keep their location secret. They’d be easy to find.”

“But…Cambridge?” She rubbed her temples with her fingertips. “How long would it take
to travel there?”

“The better part of a day.”

The thought of Luke in prison for that long…it hurt her chest.

She knew where the duke lived. In St. James’s Square.
So close.

Luke had said he could take care of himself, and she didn’t doubt it. But the thought
of him being locked up for one minute longer, and all because she’d brought him into
Morton’s sights, broke her heart. His brother was a duke, an extremely powerful and
influential man. He would help Luke. She knew he would.

And yet…it infuriated Luke whenever Trent became involved in his affairs.

It would have to be Cambridge, then.

Of course, she didn’t have the money to hire a post chaise to take her there. She’d
have to take the mail coach, and she’d have to beg for the money from Baldwin for
that. At least the mail coach would transport her to Cambridge quickly.

And then the solution struck Emma like an anvil to the chest—Luke’s sister, Lady Esme!
She was in residence at the duke’s house in St. James’s Square. She would know where
Sam resided.

Finally, Emma had a palatable plan.

The following morning, after a night of tossing and turning and worrying about how
Luke was faring, Emma waited as long as she could tolerate. Still, it was only a little
past ten when she arrived on the Duke of Trent’s doorstep.

This could be a huge mistake, she admitted to herself as she raised her hand to knock.
Within moments, a man—presumably the butler—answered the door. He raised an impassive
brow at her. “Yes?”

“Good morning. I’m Mrs. Curtis, a…a…
friend
of Lord Lukas. I’m here to see Lady Esme.”

Oh, that had sounded quite bad. What would Lady Esme say to her brother’s mistress
coming calling so early in the morning?

“Please wait here. I will see if she is at home.”

Emma waited. And…waited. She paced across the landing, wringing her hands, knowing
that her patience had already frayed. Several minutes later, the butler opened the
door again.

“Lady Esme will see you. Please, follow me.”

Breathing a long sigh of relief, she followed him into a drawing room decorated in
shades of blue, with light blue wallpaper and royal blue furniture. “Please wait here,
ma’am. The lady will be in shortly.”

Another several minutes passed. Emma moved restlessly. She hovered over a rich wooden
card table containing a chessboard. It looked like the chess game had been half played—and
white was winning.

She had gone to the window and gazed out onto the bustling St. James’s Square when
the door opened behind her. She spun around as a young, dark-haired woman entered
the room, followed by Sarah, the duchess.

Emma forced herself to smile as Sarah made introductions.

“It is lovely to meet you, Lady Esme,” Emma said. She was rather surprised at the
lady’s appearance. Lady Esme’s coloring and features were quite different from both
the duke’s and Luke’s. Her skin was olive-toned, her eyes deep brown, and her hair
so dark as to be nearly black.

“Likewise,” said the lady, although judging by the befuddled expression on her face,
she’d no idea who Emma was.

Emma thought of Luke in a dank, disease-ridden cell. She thought of the violent men
undoubtedly surrounding him. She couldn’t wait. She’d half expected the duchess to
be here, and she’d thought of ways she could ask Esme to speak alone.

But Luke was in danger. Nothing else mattered but his safety.

She licked her lips and tried not to focus on the duchess. “Lady Esme, I am a friend
of your brother, Lord Lukas.”

Lady Esme’s eyes widened. She flicked a glance at Sarah, then back at Emma.

“Come, let us all be seated,” the duchess said with a sweep of her arm toward the
blue-upholstered chairs and sofa. “Would you care for any refreshment, Mrs. Curtis?”

“Thank you, no.” Emma strode to one of the armchairs and bent herself into it, although
her body protested. Her body wanted to be in action—running to wherever they were
keeping Luke and dragging him out of there.

“I’ve come to ask for your help, my lady, in an urgent matter regarding your brother.”

Again, Esme, who was seated on the sofa across from Emma, glanced at Sarah.

“The best person to help Lord Lukas would be the duke,” Sarah said.

Emma swallowed hard. With strength she didn’t know she possessed, she gazed evenly
at the duchess. “Forgive me, Sarah, but His Grace and Lord Lukas’s relationship is…strained.
I’m not sure he’d approve of me appealing to the duke in this matter.”

Emma knew she’d fall on her knees and beg the duke for his help, but only if it were
her last resort.

Sarah nodded and said quietly, “I have known Lord Lukas most of my life, Mrs. Curtis.
Believe me when I say I understand.”

Emma breathed a sigh of relief.

“But,” the duchess added, her gaze hardening, and for the first time, Emma saw a steely
will behind the duchess’s gentle demeanor, “if he is in any kind of danger, the duke
must know about it. Their dealings are not always on the best of terms, but my husband
cares deeply for his brother.”

Emma tried to smile. “I know he does. And his brother cares for him, too.”

The duchess quirked a brow, and Emma knew what she was thinking:
Well, he doesn’t show it very well, does he?

They gazed at each other in silence for a moment, both holding their ground. Lady
Esme looked back and forth between the two women, her own gaze serious.

Esme was the one to finally break the silence. “May I speak with her, Sarah?”

After an additional moment gazing at Emma, Sarah gave a curt nod. She excused herself
and left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

Emma released a long breath as she watched the duchess go, then she turned to Lady
Esme, who was gazing expectantly at her, her dark brows drawn closely together.

Emma had the feeling this young woman wasn’t one for politesse. And she was grateful
for it. She got straight to the point. “My lady, I fear Luke is in grave danger.”

Esme raised her brow at Emma’s familiar use of Luke’s name. But clearly, the duke
and duchess knew of her intimate relationship with Luke. If Esme didn’t know by now,
she would soon. In any case, Emma was beyond pretending.

She continued. “I must find your brother, Samson. I feel he might be the only one
who will be able to help.”

Now it was Esme’s turn to give her an assessing gaze. “Help with what?”

Emma clutched her hands together in her lap and said softly, “Getting Luke out of
prison.”

H
alf an hour later, Esme and Emma arrived at a small town house in a middle-class neighborhood.
They were showed in to Samson Hawkins’s office by a male servant. As they entered
the small, shabby space, Mr. Hawkins rose from behind a large, well-used desk.

He was dark, tall, and broad. Taller than both his brothers—who were tall themselves—by
a few inches. His skin was several shades darker than his brothers’, too, and his
eyes were a deep, rich brown—very similar to Esme’s.

He walked around the desk, focused on Esme. He gathered her hands in his own. He didn’t
waste time with formal greetings. “Esme, why are you here? What’s wrong?”

“Sam, this is Mrs. Curtis, a friend of Luke’s. Mrs. Curtis, this is Mr. Hawkins, my
brother.”

The brown gaze of Samson Hawkins settled on her, and Emma felt vulnerable and exposed.
It was clear this man wasn’t going to beat about the bush.

His voice was brusque. “Mrs. Curtis. How may I help you?”

She took a slow, steady breath, bracing herself limb by limb. “Thank you so much for
seeing me, Mr. Hawkins. I’ve come to beg for your help. You see, Luke has been arrested.”

Mr. Hawkins’s face showed no emotion. “On what charge?”

“The theft of six hundred pounds from Lord Winchell.”

“I see.”

“They took him away last night,” Emma continued. “I don’t know where he is, or what’s
going to happen, but we need to—”

“Did he do it?”

Her mouth dropped open in surprise. Then she snapped, “No! Of course not.”

“Are you sure?”

Anger boiled up within her faster than she could contain it. She had always strongly
believed that a family should support their own unconditionally and without reservation.
Luke was a self-confessed rogue and a scoundrel, but that didn’t exclude him from
this rule.

Did Luke’s own family not implicitly trust him? If that was the case, then it explained
so much. It was no wonder he had never truly healed.

She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at the big man. “I’m sure.”

His expression still didn’t change, but he lifted one brow slightly. “You’ll forgive
me, Mrs. Curtis, but as you probably know by now, my brother is prone to excesses
of drink and other debauched pursuits. A drunkard’s actions can be quite different
from his actions when he is sober.”

Tears choked her throat and stung her eyes, but she didn’t let them free. “Luke is
not a drunkard,” she bit out, her voice harsh with certainty. Luke did drink to escape
from the hard realities of his life, but he was no more a drunkard than she was.

That dark eyebrow crept higher on his forehead. “Is that so?” he asked dryly.

“It is.”

Mr. Hawkins stared at her for a long moment—the members of the Duke of Trent’s family
stared at her too much. All of them were evidently attempting to delve under her skin
in an effort to understand her motives. She didn’t like it, and Mr. Hawkins’s calm
perusal of her now did nothing to allay her anger. It remained, bubbling close to
the surface.

His gaze dropped to the fists clenched at her sides, then he gestured to a chair behind
the desk. “Please sit. You must tell me everything you know of what has transpired.”

Woodenly, she walked to the chair and lowered herself into it, aware only vaguely
of Mr. Hawkins going to the door and ordering someone to bring in another chair for
Esme.

She was so angry. She
hated
the fact that she’d had to defend Luke to his own brother. That one, small question—“Did
he do it?”—riled every possessive and protective instinct within her.

Nonetheless, one tiny remaining rational part of her told her that she was overreacting,
that she was already overwrought, and it had only taken Mr. Hawkins’s innocent question
to push her over the edge.

A servant placed a chair beside hers, and Esme lowered herself into it. Mr. Hawkins
strode around to the other side of the desk and sat in the seat across from them.

“Now,” he said, still wearing that unnerving, unreadable, flat expression on his face,
“tell me what happened.”

She told him about the Bow Street officers who’d been waiting at Luke’s house when
they’d arrived home from Bordesley Green, about the papers they’d found in Morton’s
office and how the officers had believed the bill of sale was sufficient evidence
to arrest Luke.

“Are you certain they were referring to the receipt you found in Morton’s belongings?”
Mr. Hawkins asked eventually.

“What other paper could they possibly be referring to?” she asked in exasperation.
“In any case, the papers were gone when I looked for them later. It was the obvious
conclusion.”

“Did the officers show you the evidence? Did you see it firsthand?”

“No, but—”

“They could have confiscated Morton’s papers as possible evidence, but the true evidence
could have come from anywhere,” Mr. Hawkins said.

“No,” Emma said mulishly. “You cannot believe that. There is no other true evidence.
The only other possible evidence would be the false word of my villainous husband.”

That infernal dark brow rose again. “Why do you believe that so strongly? You haven’t
known my brother long, Mrs. Curtis. What makes you so certain he is innocent?”

“He is a good man,” she ground out.

“Hmm. I suspect Luke himself would be the first to disagree with you on that count.”

Her chest was so tight with emotion it hurt. She felt slicing daggers shooting from
her eyes toward Samson Hawkins. “Because he has been told so many times that he isn’t
good that he has come to believe it,” she said coldly. “That lie was brutally beaten
into him as a child, and he still believes it.”

Esme made a small noise, but she ignored it, knowing full well that she had spoken
too plainly, but she was too angry, too scared for Luke, to censor her words. Her
voice was bitter with accusation as she continued. “He is trying, ever so hard, to
prove himself to his family as a man capable and dependable, but at every turn the
lot of you decide that he is unworthy. Every day he has come close to giving up altogether,
but the goodness of his nature doesn’t allow him to. And still you all make him believe
he has failed.”

“That’s not true!” Esme breathed.

Emma rose on shaking legs. “Perhaps I shouldn’t ask for your help at all. I was unaware
of the extent of your disloyalty to him.”

“Mrs. Curtis,” Mr. Hawkins snapped. “Sit down.”

Her hand curved around the back of the chair. The instinct to obey this man’s hard,
commanding words was strong, but she held her ground. “No. Either you promise to help
your brother in whatever way possible, or you let me go so I can help him on my own.
But I will not tolerate you questioning his innocence.”

She glared at him, noticing for the first time that he’d lost color and that his eyes
were wide with surprise rather than narrowed with anger as she’d expected.

She turned to Esme. The young woman was staring at her lap, blinking furiously as
if to hold back tears.

Feeling Emma’s gaze on her, she glanced up. “B-beaten?” she asked, and a tear slid
down her cheek.

Esme was much younger than Luke—she’d probably been an infant when the old duke had
died. Could she really not know, though?

Emma looked at Mr. Hawkins, who wasn’t looking at his sister at all. He was staring
at Emma, his brows flat, his expression stark and pale.

“You didn’t know?” she asked them.

Slowly, Mr. Hawkins shook his head. “No,” he said gruffly.

Her jaw dropped in amazement. Surely brothers knew such things about one another.

“Who…who did that to him?” Esme breathed.

He’d told no one. The knowledge that Luke had borne his abuse throughout his whole
life without anyone knowing slammed into Emma, leaving her breathless.

She closed her eyes, imagining him as a blond-haired, blue-eyed little boy, frightened
and alone, unable to go to anyone, his attempts to hide what his father was doing
to him only resulting in more scoldings from the people around him. Enduring a cycle
of pain and fear no child should ever have to endure.

Then she pictured him as she had all night and all morning, as a man alone in a cold,
dark cell in Newgate. At this moment, she wanted nothing more in the world than to
drag him out of that place and hold him in her arms.

And never let him go.

And then, of course, she remembered who her husband was. The man responsible for this
situation.

She opened her eyes and looked directly at Lady Esme. This was a young, sheltered
woman she was speaking to, but Emma didn’t intend to mince words. “It was the old
Duke of Trent—your father. Evidently, he made a ritual of punishing Luke. But it was
more than punishment—it was abuse. It was
torture
. Haven’t you seen his scars? His back is riddled with them.”

Esme’s gloved hand went to her mouth to stifle a gasp of horror. Mr. Hawkins’s dark
eyes narrowed. “Christ,” he spat out.

Emma continued. “The duke thought to beat the badness out of him. He convinced Luke
he was evil. Luke has believed this ever since and feels that his every action is
further proof of his evil. Horrible nightmares torment him. He suffers every day because
of what that man did to him when he was a child.” Emma turned to Mr. Hawkins. “You,
of all people, should know about this. The old duke evidently despised his ‘sons’
who weren’t his true progeny. Did he not deliver the same treatment to you?”

It was a ridiculously forward question. Impossibly forward—she had met this man minutes
ago. But Emma was beyond caring.

“No,” Mr. Hawkins pushed out. “He did not.”

So Luke truly had been the sole recipient of all the old duke’s cruelty and vengeance.
Emma’s lips tightened, and she turned to go.

“I can’t stay here,” she said. “I’m wasting time. I need to help him.”

“Wait, Mrs. Curtis,” Mr. Hawkins said, his voice raspy. “You need to know I’ll do
whatever I can to help my brother. Please stay.”

Emma glanced at Mr. Hawkins over her shoulder. He was standing, and true concern was
etched into the lines of his face. Esme had risen, too. She twisted her hands in front
of her and wore a pleading expression.

Forcing her feet to move, Emma returned to her chair.

“Come with me, yer lordship.”

Luke warily rose from his haunches from the stinking floor.

He’d pressed himself into the corner of the wall all night and for most of the day.
It was damned cold in this place, and for the few hours when the sun had provided
a little square of light through the tiny barred window, he’d moved under it, hoping
to absorb a little warmth.

He hated small, enclosed spaces. The duke had, more often than not, locked him in
a closet for several hours after a beating, not allowing Luke out until he was certain
Luke was recovered enough not to blurt out the truth. More than once, the governess
had punished him for “running off” without telling her. But her sharp raps on his
knuckles were nothing compared to the discipline his father had wielded.

Luke had dozed fitfully last night, waking from nightmare after nightmare, shaking,
sweating, even though the temperature in the cell had dropped to near freezing levels.

After one such dream, his heart had pounded so hard, he was certain it would kill
him. He’d felt the walls pressing in on him, squeezing the life out of him. He kept
telling himself that was impossible, that he wasn’t dying, but his body wouldn’t believe
him.

Finally the feeling had ebbed somewhat, and he’d drifted off into another fitful sleep,
only to be awakened an hour later in the throes of another nightmare.

It was now late afternoon. He’d been here, locked in this nine-by-six-foot cell, for
twenty-four hours. He couldn’t bear it much longer, that much was for certain. It
wouldn’t take this place very long at all to drive him to real madness.

But, really, it didn’t matter. If he was found innocent, he’d be set free. If he was
found guilty, he’d hang. Either way, he wouldn’t have to bear it for much longer.

The barred wooden door creaked as the guard opened it.

He looked into the man’s lined, unfriendly face. “Am I to be arraigned?” He’d been
looking forward to that moment all day, to informing the court of his innocence and
his intent to prove it.

“Nay,” the man mumbled. “You’re to be released.”

Luke narrowed his eyes in suspicion, but the man turned with a brusque, “Come,” and
began to lead him down a long corridor. He shuddered as they passed cell after depressing
cell, some with hands reaching through the bars that topped each door, others with
moans and cries emanating from behind the thick slabs of wood.

The man opened the door onto a cloud-dimmed day and gestured at Luke to exit through
it. “Good day, then, milord.”

Luke paused. So this was it? He was free? He quirked a brow. Since he’d entered this
place, the turnkeys had demanded money from him at every turn. He’d paid for a private
cell in the state area. He’d paid for water, a plate of food, release from the shackles
they’d placed on him when he’d first arrived, the soiled and torn sheets that he’d
failed to sleep on last night. And now this man was letting him go. Free and clear,
with no expectation of additional payment.

A sick feeling began to twist in Luke’s gut. This was too fast. Too easy. It reeked
of Trent’s involvement.

Grinding his teeth, Luke stepped out of Newgate Prison and into a brown dirt courtyard.
The thick wooden door closed with a hollow
thud
behind him.

His brother’s carriage stood ten yards away. He recognized the gold crest on its side.

Of course. He really wasn’t surprised. Still, his chest felt tight, the skin taut
over his body.

As he stepped forward, Trent alighted from the carriage.

Luke pushed forward, striding resolutely toward his brother. His heart felt like a
dead rock in his chest.