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
