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.'
Lottie was certain that Sophia meant to be reassuring. However, the idea of Nick Gentry falling in love with her was not only improbable but alarming as well. He would never let his guard down to that extent, never allow someone such power over him, and if he did, he might very well become as obsessive and domineering as Lord Radnor. She did not want anyone to love her. Although it was clear that some people found great joy in love, such as Sophia and Sir Ross, Lottie could not help but regard it as a trap. The arrangement that she and Nick had devised was much safer.
Nick found himself strangely adrift after he left the public office. It had begun to rain, and the burgeoning clouds promised a heavier deluge yet to come. Hatless, striding along the slick pavement, he felt the cold, fat splashes of water sinking through his hair and pelting the broadcloth weave of his coat. He should seek shelter somewhere...The Brown Bear, a tavern located across from Bow Street No. 3...or perhaps Tom's coffeehouse, where the runners' preferred physician, Dr. Linley, was wont to appear. Or his own home...but he shied from that thought instantly.
The rain fell harder, in cold, soaking sheets that drove street sellers and pedestrians to huddle beneath shop awnings. Scrawny boys darted into the street to fetch cabs for gentlemen who had been caught unawares by the rain. Umbrellas snapped open, their frames strained by strong gusts of wind, while the sky was partitioned by jagged shafts of lightning. The air lost its characteristic stable-yard odor and took on the freshness of spring rain. Brown currents ran through the drains, washing them clear of the foul matter that the night-soil men had failed to remove during evening rounds.
Nick walked without direction, while the rain slid down his face and dripped from his chin. Usually in his off- time he went somewhere with Sayer or Ruthven to exchange stories over ale and beefsteaks, or they would attend a prizefight or a bawdy comedy at Drury Lane. Sometimes they would patrol the streets in a small pack, leisurely inspecting the thoroughfares and alleys for any sign of disruption.
Thinking of the other runners, Nick knew that soon he would lose their companionship. It was folly to hope otherwise. He could not move in their world any longer-Sir Ross had made that impossible. But why? Why couldn't the interfering bastard have left well enough alone? Nick's mind chased in circles, failing to apprehend the answer. Perhaps it had something to do with Sir Ross's unfailing pursuit of rightness, of order. Nick had been born a viscount and therefore must be restored to his position, no matter how unsuited he was for it.
Nick considered what he knew of the peerage, of their habits and rituals, the countless rules of conduct, the inescapable removal of landed aristocrats from the reality of common life. He tried to imagine spending the majority of his time lounging in parlors and drawing rooms, or rustling his freshly ironed newspaper at the club. Making speeches at the Lords to demonstrate one's social conscience. Attending soirees, and prattling about art and literature, and exchanging gossip about other silk-stockinged gentlemen.
A sense of panic filled him. He hadn't felt this trapped, this overwhelmed, since he had been lowered into the dark, stinking hold of the prison hulk and chained alongside the most degraded beings imaginable. Except that then he had known that freedom lay just outside the hulls of the anchored ship. And now there was no place to escape.
Like an animal in a cage, his mind cast about in angry sweeps, hunting for some kind of refuge.
