"Then back me against Sir Ross," Nick said roughly. "Tell him to shove that writ of summons up his arse-that you need me at Bow Street."
Their gazes clashed and held, and then something in Morgan's face changed. Damned if he didn't look almost fatherly, Nick thought with sullen fury, despite the fact that Morgan was only about ten years older than he.
"Have a seat," Morgan said.
"No, I don't-"
"Please." The invitation was uttered with steely politeness.
Please?Nick occupied the nearest chair, practically reeling in shock. Morgan had never used that word before-Nick wouldn't have thought it was part of his vocabulary. Gripping the arms of the scarred leather chair, Nick gazed at him warily.
The magistrate began to speak. In their three-year acquaintance, Morgan had never talked to him like this, with a friendly, rather paternal, concern. "I don't want you at Bow Street any longer, Gentry. God knows it has nothing to do with your effectiveness. You're the best runner I've ever seen. Since you came here, I've tried to offer what modicum of guidance I thought you'd accept, and I've watched you change from a self-serving bastard into a man I consider to be both dependable and responsible. But there is one thing that I regret to say has not altered. From the beginning, you've taken suicidal risks in the course of your work because you don't give a damn about yourself or anyone else. And in my opinion, you'll continue to do so if you remain here-at the cost of your own life."
"Why do you give a damn?"
"I was a runner for ten years, and I've seen many men die in the course of their duties. I myself came close to it more than once. There comes a time when a man has tweaked the devil's nose once too often, and if he's too stubborn or slow-witted to realize it, he'll pay with his own blood. I knew when to stop. And so must you."
"Because of your famous instincts?" Nick mocked angrily. "Damn it, Morgan, you stayed a runner until you were thirty-five! By that count, I still have seven years to go."
"You've tempted fate many more times in the last three years than I did in ten," the magistrate countered. "And unlike you, I didn't use the job as a means to exorcize demons."
Nick remained expressionless, while the frantic questionWhat does he know? buzzed and stung in his head. Sophia was the only one who knew about the full ugliness of his past. She had probably told Cannon, who in turn might have said something to Morgan- "No, I don't know what those demons are," Morgan said softly, his eyes warming with a flicker of either pity or kindness. "Although I can make a competent guess. Unfortunately I have no advice to offer about how to reconcile yourself with the past. All I know is that this way hasn't worked, and I'll be damned if I let you kill yourself on my watch."
"I don't know what the bloody hell you're talking about."
Morgan continued as if he hadn't heard him. "I'm rather inclined to agree with Sir Ross's opinion that you'll never find peace until you stop living behind the shield of an assumed name. As difficult as it may be to face the world as Lord Sydney, I think it for the best-"
"What am I supposed to do as a viscount?" Nick asked with an ugly laugh. "Collect snuffboxes and neckties? Read papers at the club? Advise the tenants? Christ, I know as much about farming as you do!"
"There are thousands of ways a man can be of use to the world," Morgan said flatly. "Believe me, no one expects or desires for you to lead an indolent life." He paused and took an ink blotter in his huge hand, regarding it thoughtfully. "The runners will be disbanded soon, in any event. You would eventually have had to find something else to do. I'm merely precipitating the matter by a few months."
Nick felt the color drain from his face. "What?"
Morgan grinned suddenly at his expression. "Come, that should be no surprise to you, even in light of your disinterest in politics. When Cannon left the magistracy, it was only a matter of time until the runners were dismissed. He was the heart and spirit of this place-he devoted every waking moment to it for years, until..." He paused tactfully, leaving Nick to fill the silence.
"Until he met my sister," Nick said sourly. "And married her."
"Yes." Morgan did not seem at all regretful about Cannon's departure from the public office. In fact, his blade-hard features softened, and his smile lingered as he continued. "The best thing that ever happened to him. However, it was hardly a boon for Bow Street. Now that Cannon has retired, there is a movement in Parliament to strengthen the Metropolitan Police Act. And many politicians believe that the New Police would become more popular with the public if the runners weren't here to compete with them."
"They intend to leave all of London to that bunch of half-wits?" Nick asked incredulously. "Good God-half of the New Police have no experience to speak of, and the other half are black sheep or idiots-"
"Be that as it may, the public will never fully support the New Police while the runners remain. The old instruments cannot be installed in the new machine."
Stunned by the finality in the chief magistrate's voice, Nick fixed him with an accusing stare. "You're not going to fight for this place? You have an obligation-"
"No," the chief magistrate said simply. "My only obligation is to my wife. She and my children are more important to me than anything else. I made it clear to Cannon that I would never surrender my soul to Bow Street the way he did for so long. And he understood that."
"But what will become of the runners?" Nick asked, thinking of his comrades...Sayer, Flagstad, Gee, Ruthven...talented men who had served the public with courage and dedication, all for a mere pittance.
"I imagine one or two will join the New Police, where they are much needed. Others will turn to other professions entirely. I may open a private investigative office and employ two or three for a while." Morgan shrugged. Having made a relative fortune in his years at Bow Street, he had no need to work, other than at his own whim.
"My God, I left to attend toone private case, and I've come back to find the entire damned public office falling apart!"
The magistrate laughed softly. "Go home to your wife, Sydney. Start making plans. Your life is changing, no matter how you try to prevent it."
"I will not be Lord Sydney," Nick growled.
The green eyes gleamed with friendly irreverence. "There are worse fates, my lord. A title, land, a wife...if you can't make something of that, there is indeed no hope for you."
CHAPTER 10
"Something in pale yellow, I think," Sophia said decisively, sitting in the midst of so many fabrics that it appeared as if a rainbow had exploded in the room.
"Yellow," Lottie repeated, chewing the side of her lower lip. "I don't think that would flatter my complexion."
As this was at least the tenth suggestion that Lottie had rejected, Sophia sighed and shook her head with a smile. She had commandeered the back room in her dressmaker's shop at Oxford Street specifically for the purpose of ordering a trousseau for Lottie.
"I am sorry," Lottie said sincerely. "I don't mean to be difficult. Clearly I have little experience with this sort of thing." She had never been allowed to choose the styles or colors of her gowns. According to Lord Radnor's dictates, she had always worn chaste designs in dark colors. Unfortunately it was now difficult to envision herself in rich blue, or yellow, or, heaven help her, pink. And the idea of exposing most of her upper chest in public was so discomfiting that she had cringed at the daring pattern-book illustrations that Sophia had showed her.
Nick's older sister, to her credit, was remarkably patient. She focused on Lottie with a steady blue gaze and a persuasive smile that bore an uncommon resemblance to her brother's.
"Lottie, dear, you are not being difficult in the least, but-"
"Fibber," Lottie responded immediately, and they both laughed.
"All right," Sophia said with a grin, "you are being confoundedly difficult, although I am certain that it is unintentional. Therefore I am going to make two requests of you. First, please bear in mind that this is not a life-or-death matter. Choosing a gown is not so very difficult, especially when one is being advised by an astute and very fashionable friend-which would be me."
Lottie smiled. "And the second request?"
"The second is...please trust me." As Sophia held her gaze, it was clear that the magnetism of the Sydney family was not limited to the males. She radiated a mixture of warmth and self-confidence that was impossible to resist. "I will not let you look frowzy or vulgar," she promised. "I have excellent taste, and I have been out in London society for some time, whereas you have been..."
"Buried in Hampshire?" Lottie supplied helpfully.
"Yes, quite. And if you insist on dressing in drab styles that are appropriate for a woman twice your age, you will feel out-of-place among your own crowd. Moreover, it would undoubtedly reflect badly on my brother, as the gossips will whisper that he must be stingy with you, if you go about so plainly garbed-"
"No," Lottie said automatically. "That would be unfair to him, as he has given me leave to buy anything I wish."
"Then let me choose some things for you," Sophia coaxed.
Lottie nodded, reflecting that she was probably far too guarded. She would have to learn how to rely on other people. "I'm in your hands," she said resignedly. "I'll wear whatever you suggest."
Sophia fairly wriggled in satisfaction. "Excellent!" She hefted a pattern book to her lap and began to insert slips of paper between the pages she particularly liked. The light played over her dark golden hair, bringing out shades of wheat and honey in the shining filaments. She was an uncommonly pretty woman, her delicate, decisive features a feminine echo of Nick's strong face. Every now and then she paused to give Lottie an assessing gaze, followed either by a nod or a quick shake of her head.
Lottie sat placidly and drank some tea that the dressmaker's assistant had brought. It was raining heavily outside and the afternoon was gray and cool, but the room was cozy and peaceful. Intricate feminine things were draped or heaped everywhere...spills of lace, lengths of silk and velvet ribbon, cunning artificial flowers, their petals adorned with crystal beads to simulate dewdrops.
Occasionally the dressmaker appeared, conferred with Sophia and made notes, then tactfully disappeared. Some clients, Sophia had told Lottie, required the dressmaker to attend them every minute. Others were far more decided in their preferences and liked to make decisions without interference.
Lost in a peaceful reverie, Lottie almost started when Sophia spoke. "You cannot imagine how thrilled I was when Nick wrote that he was taking a bride." Sophia held two fabrics together and examined them critically, turning them to see how the light affected the weave. "Tell me, what was it about my brother that first attracted you?"
"He is a fine-looking man," Lottie said cautiously. "I could not help but notice his eyes, and dark hair, and...he was also very charming, and..." She paused, her mind returning to those still, sun-warmed moments by the kissing gate near the forest...how world-weary he had looked, how much in need of comfort. "Desolate," she said, almost under her breath. "I wondered how such an extraordinary man could be the loneliest person I had ever met."
"Oh, Lottie," Sophia said softly. "I wonder why you could see that in him, when everyone else considers him to be invulnerable." Leaning forward, she held a length of pale amber silk beneath Lottie's chin, testing it against her complexion, then lowered it. "For most of his life, Nick has had to fight for survival. He was so young when our parents died...and he became so rebellious afterward..." She gave a quick little shake of her head, as if to elude a sudden swarm of painful memories. "And then he ran off to London, and I heard nothing of him, until one day I learned that he had been convicted of some petty crime and sentenced to a prison hulk. A few months after that, I was told that he had died of disease aboard ship. I grieved for years."
"Why did he not come to you? He could have at least sent a letter of some kind, to spare you such unnecessary distress."
"I believe that he was too ashamed, after what had happened to him. He tried to forget that John, Lord Sydney, had ever existed. It was easier to close everything away and create a new life for himself as Nick Gentry."
"Afterwhat had happened?" Lottie asked, perplexed. "Are you referring to his imprisonment?"
Sophia's dark blue eyes searched hers. Seeming to realize that Lottie had not been told about something significant, she turned secretive. "Yes, his imprisonment," she said vaguely, and Lottie knew that Sophia was protecting her brother in some mysterious way.
"How did you learn that he was still alive?"
"I came to London," Sophia replied, "to take revenge on the magistrate who had sentenced him to the prison hulk. I blamed him for my brother's death. But to my dismay, I soon found myself falling in love with him."
"Sir Ross?" Lottie stared at her in amazement. "No wonder Nick dis-" Realizing what she had been about to say, she stopped abruptly.
"Dislikes him so?" Sophia finished for her with a rueful smile. "Yes, the two of them have no fondness for each other. However, that has not prevented my husband from doing everything he can to help Nick. You see, even after Nick joined the runners, he was...quite reckless."
"Yes," Lottie acknowledged cautiously, "he has quite a vigorous constitution."
Sophia smiled without humor. "I'm afraid it was more than that, my dear. For three years Nick has taken insane chances, not seeming to care if he lives or dies."
"But why?"
"Certain events in Nick's past have made him rather embittered and detached. My husband and Sir Grant have both endeavored to help him change for the better. I haven't always agreed with their methods. I can assure you, Sir Ross and I have engaged in some spirited debates on the matter. However, as time has passed, it seems that my brother has improved in many ways. And Lottie, I am very much encouraged by the fact that he has married you." She took Lottie's hand and squeezed it warmly.
"Sophia..." Lottie averted her gaze as she spoke reluctantly. "I do not think the marriage could truly be characterized as a love match."
"No," the other woman agreed softly. "I am afraid that the experience of loving and being loved is quite foreign to Nick. It will no doubt take some time for him to recognize the feeling for what it is."