Page 55 of To Tempt a Troubled Earl
“We should call for drinks,” Gartside declared, jubilantly ringing the bell. “The cellar’s finest claret. I have much to celebrate.”
“Why not,” agreed Lando, turning. “Do you care to join us, Mr Hamilton and Mr Angel, in a toast to our new business partner?”
A knock at the door heralded a wave of relief all around. A footman entered, bearing glasses and a silver decanter. Awkward small talk had filled the interim, mostly provided by Mr Hamilton, whose voice had an uncanny knack of grating on the stretched few nerves Kit had remaining. Lando, no doubt filled with a similar growing sense of unease as Kit, indulged his chatter, while Sir Richard stayed silent, his plain features set in a slight frown. Gartside, oblivious to the tension, helped himself to a very generous slug of claret and would have downed it in one if it wasn’t for a commotion at the door chopping short his celebration as suddenly as it had begun.
“What the dickens?” Gartside exclaimed.
A thick-set man, younger than Cobham but older than the rest, marched into the room.
A beleaguered footman dashed in after him. “Sir, you are not invited. Sir, I do insist you return to the…”
“I’m here on business,” snapped the intruder, holding up a hand. “Official magistrate business.”
The man removed his hat, revealing a pallid, fleshy face below a balding pate. A harsh face, one Kit had only glimpsed once, as he’d raced down an alley and vaulted a low wall. One he’d prayed to never see again.Magistratebusiness. Bow Street magistrate business. The floor beneath him suddenly dropped away.
“Yes, but I insist…” tried the troubled footman again but to no avail. This interloper didn’t care for the rules of White’s, he had no patience for fancy gentlemen andtonetiquette. Clark—for it was he—took up a position in the centre of the floor, brandishing his scroll of paper like a dagger.
“I’d say I’m sorry for the interruption, gents.” He smiled without mirth. “But then I’d be lying.”
Kit’s heart raced as Clark swept his keen gaze across his audience. It settled on him, of course, and the man sneered. “There you are, my friend.”
Once more, the footman tried to intervene, once more, he was brushed aside.
“Mr Christopher Angel, last known abode Sindell Street,London,” Clark began in a condescending nasal tone.“I’m arresting you for heinous wrongdoings against multiple honest gentlemen of the town. For false representation of yourself. For misleading others. For gross larceny amounting to more than one shilling against Sir Ambrose Gartside, amongst others. Crimes punishable by certain death.”
Outside the window, a carriage drew up. Maybe two from the loud clattering that reached into the room. Gentlemen arriving for an evening hand of cards perhaps. Maybe even some of Lando’s acquaintances, not that Lando would be of a mind to see them tonight. Kit didn’t want to look at his ashen lover, didn’t want to see the pain of failure written in his sculpted features. Didn’t want to read goodbye on his lips. He might cry if he did, and God knew a man like him should never show fear in front of a man like Clark.
“Let me see that,” ordered Lando, his chilly voice stretched taut.
Holding it at arm’s length, as though poisonous, he scanned Clark’s sheet of paper, an imperious scowl marring his fine features. He regarded Clark dismissively before turning to address his fellow noblemen.
“This arrest warrant is signed by a magistrate, giving this man, John Clark, the powers of a Bow Street runner. Everything seems to be correct. It would appear, gentleman, that we have a suspected criminal in our midst.”
With barely an icy glance at Kit, Lando examined Clark with open disdain. “Your interruption to our evening is most reprehensible, sir. Cuff him and be gone.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
AS CLARK PRODUCEDa set of cuffs from the depths of his coat, Lando looked away, shielding himself from his lover’s wounded gaze and horrified disbelief. A coward’s response, and he hated himself for it, hated himself for deceiving Kit so publicly, so humiliatingly. Sick to his stomach, every fibre of his being screamed at him to run to his mate. But he couldn’t; they’d come too far to ruin it now. Gartside’s disgrace was within their grasp. If Lando lost himself for only a second in the dark pools of those hurting hazel eyes, he feared he’d blurt the truth.
“I’ll be damned,” swore Tommy from his front row seat.
“What the devil?” Gartside blustered. “Who…what…”
“W-w-what is this n-nonsense? Rossingley?” For once, Sir Richard and Gartside were in accord, both speechless.
Only his lover’s voice failed to break the stunned silence. Framed against the late autumn sky, docile as a lamb, Kit held out his wrists. His penetrating gaze never wavered; Lando’s skin prickled with the heat of it. Sucking in a shaky breath, he steeled himself to play his part as well as Tommy was playing his. Kit, too, if only he knew it. With a thumping heart, Lando dragged his regard back to where Kit stood, as lifeless as a statue, and affected a mask of noble distaste.
“I am at a loss to explain,” he declared.
A metallic snap sliced through the air, signifying the cold, unyielding embrace of iron meeting flesh as the handcuffs snugly encircled Kit’s wrists. After a mechanical click, Clark pocketed the keys. The room seemed to hold its breath.
“Right,sir,” he pronounced, wrapping his meaty fist around Kit’s arm. “You’re coming with me. And don’t try any funny stuff unless you want me knuckles in yer face.”
Surprisingly, Sir Richard was the first to find his voice. “S-S-stop a moment.” He held up his hand. “Of S-S-Sindell Street? Here in L-London? I unders-s-stood Mr Angel to h-hail from M-M-Manchester.”
“On the corner of Canon Row and Sindell, to be precise, my lord,” confirmed Clark. “Though I don’t expect you ’ave much cause to travel that way. Big boarding house. Can’t miss it. Took me a while to track ’im there, mind.” He gave Kit’s arm an unnecessary tug, and Lando’s bile rose.
“S-s-so…” Sir Richard’s clever mind flew ahead of his mouth, his brow wrinkling in puzzlement. “So h-he’s n-not…”
