Page 46 of Worth Any Price
“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 tooneprivate 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 Ten
“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 neverbeen 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 outin 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.
