Page 24 of Worth Any Price
“You led me to believe that you were a man of limited means.”
“I am, compared to Lord Westcliff. But I can keep you in a comfortable style.”
“Do the other runners live in this manner?”
That made him laugh. “Some do. In addition to the assignments from Bow Street, most of us take private commissions. It would be impossible to live exclusively on the salary the government allots.”
“Commissions such as the one from Lord Radnor?” The thought of him made Lottie’sstomach twist with anxiety. Now that she was in London, easily within Radnor’s reach, she felt like a rabbit that had been flushed from its burrow. “Has he already paid you for finding me? What will you do with the money?”
“I’ll return it to him.”
“What about my family?” she whispered apologetically. “Might something be done for them? Lord Radnor will withdraw his patronage...”
Gentry nodded. “I had already considered that. Of course I will take care of them.”
Lottie hardly dared to believe her ears. It was asking a great deal of any man to support his wife’s entire family, and yet Gentry seemed to accept the burden without apparent resentment. “Thank you,” she said, nearly breathless with sudden relief. “That is kind of you.”
“I can be very kind,” he replied softly, “given the right incentive.”
Lottie stood still as he fingered her earlobe and stroked the hollow just behind it. A rush of heat spread over her face... such a small, almost innocuous caress, and yet he had found a place so susceptible that she gasped at the brush of his fingertip. He bent his head to kiss her, but she turned her face away. He could have anything he wanted of her, except that. To her, a kiss held a meaning beyond the physical, and she did not want to give that part of herself to him.
His lips touched her cheek instead, and she felt the warm curve of his smile. Once again, he showed an uncanny ability to read her thoughts. “What can I do to earn a kiss from you?”
“Nothing.”
His mouth slid lightly over the edge of her cheekbone. “We’ll see about that.”
To most people, the dingy, well-worn Bow Street public office, smelling of sweat, brass polish, and charge-books, was not an inviting place. But during the past three years, Nick had become so familiar with every inch of the office that it felt like home. An outside visitor would be hard-pressed to believe that the small, unassuming buildings—Bow Street Nos. 3 and 4—were the center of criminal investigation in England. Here was where Sir Grant Morgan held court and directed the force of eight runners under his command.
Wearing a relaxed smile, Nick returned the greetings of clerks and constables as he made his way through No. 3 Bow Street. It had not taken long for the force at Bow Street to appreciate his finer points, most particularly his willingness to go to the rookeries and flash houses that no one else dared to venture into. He didn’t mind taking the most dangerous assignments, as he had no family of his own to consider, and he wasn’t particular in any case. In fact, through some quirk of his character that even Nick didn’t understand, he required a frequent amount of risk, as if danger were an addictive drug that he had no hope of renouncing. The past two months of tame investigative work had filled him with a raw energy that he could barely contain.
Reaching Morgan’s office, Nick looked askance at the main court clerk, Vickery, who gave him an encouraging nod. “Sir Grant has not yet gone tomorning sessions, Mr. Gentry. I am certain that he will wish to see you.”
Nick knocked on the door and heard Morgan’s rumbling voice. “Come in.”
As massive as the battered mahogany desk was, it appeared like a piece of children’s furniture compared to the size of the man who sat behind it. Sir Grant Morgan was a spectacularly large man, at least five inches taller than Nick’s own height of six feet. Although Morgan was fast approaching the age of forty, no hint of silver had yet appeared in his short black hair, and his distinctive vitality had not faded since the days that he himself had served as a Bow Street runner. As well as having been the most accomplished runner of his day, Morgan was easily the most popular, as he had once been the subject of a string of best-selling ha’penny novels. Before Morgan, the government and the public had regarded the entire Bow Street force with the innate British suspicion toward any form of organized law enforcement.
Nick had been relieved by Sir Ross’s decision to appoint Morgan as his successor. An intelligent and self-educated man, Morgan had worked his way through the ranks, beginning in the foot patrol and working his way to the exalted position of chief magistrate. Nick respected that. He also liked Morgan’s characteristic blunt honesty and the fact that he seldom bothered with splitting ethical hairs when a job needed to be done.
Morgan guided the runners with an iron hand, and they respected him for his toughness. His only apparent vulnerability was his wife, asmall but lovely woman whose mere presence could make her husband start purring like a cat. One could always tell when Lady Morgan had visited the offices at Bow Street, leaving a bewitching trace of perfume in the air and a happily bemused expression on her husband’s face. Nick was amused by Sir Grant’s obvious weakness where his wife was concerned, and he was determined to avoid such a trap. No female was ever going to lead him around by the nose. Let Morgan and Sir Ross make fools of themselves over their wives—he was much smarter than they.
“Welcome back,” the magistrate said, leaning back in his chair to regard him with sharp green eyes. “Have a seat. I assume your return means that you have concluded your business with Lord Radnor?”
Nick took the chair across the desk. “Yes. I found Miss Howard in Hampshire, working as a lady’s companion to the dowager countess of Westcliff.”
“I am acquainted with Lord Westcliff,” Morgan remarked. “A man of honor and good sense—and perhaps the only peer in England who doesn’t equate modernity with coarseness.”
For Morgan, the comments were akin to wildly effusive praise. Nick made a noncommittal grunt, having little desire to discuss the many virtues of Westcliff. “After tomorrow, I will be ready for new assignments,” he said. “I just have one last matter to clear away.”
Although Nick had expected that Morgan would be pleased by the information—after all,he had been absent for two months—the magistrate received his words in a surprisingly distant manner. “I’ll see if I can find something for you to do. In the meantime—”
“What?” Nick stared at him with open suspicion. The magistrate had never displayed such diffidence before. There wasalwayssomething to be done... unless the entire London underworld had elected to go on leave at the same time Nick had.
Looking as though he wanted to discuss some volatile matter but had not been given permission to do so, Morgan frowned. “You need to visit Sir Ross,” he said abruptly. “There is something that he wants to communicate with you.”
Nick didn’t like the sound of that at all. His suspicious gaze met with Morgan’s. “What the hell does he want?” As one of the few people who knew about Nick’s secret past, Morgan was well aware of the agreement Nick had made three years earlier and the difficulties between him and his esteemed brother-in-law.
“You’ll have to learn that from Sir Ross,” Morgan replied. “And until you do, you will receive no assignments from me.”
