Page 92 of To Bed the Bride
Family is everything.
No, it wasn’t. She’d learned that one day when Deborah lost her temper.
“You owe me, Eleanor. I gave up my entire life in Edinburgh so you wouldn’t be disturbed. I had to move my family to Hearthmere because you were a spoiled little orphan. You have no idea of the sacrifices that William and I made for you. You couldn’t be bothered.”
“I was eleven years old, Deborah.”
“You were a tyrant, Eleanor. Someone who saw us as her servants. You were the Queen of Hearthmere and you spent more time thinking about those damnable horses than us.”
She stared at her aunt, stunned. She’d never once considered that Deborah, William, and her cousins had been unhappy at Hearthmere. She’d been so miserable in that first year after her father had died that she hadn’t seen anyone else’s discomfort. Yet she’d been a child, one who’d been grieving.
“You never said anything. Not one time.”
“And if I had? What would have been the result? Your solicitor would probably have sent us packing back to Edinburgh with no money at all.”
Her aunt suddenly smiled. “But you have the chance to make it up to us now, my dear girl. All you have to do is become a countess. Isn’t that the silliest thing? Anyone else would be leaping at the prospect. You’ll live in a beautiful home, you’ll be wealthy, you’ll be in a position to help your family. Don’t you want to do that?”
No, she didn’t want to do that and even less now after she’d been a prisoner in this room. She couldn’t help but wonder what excuse they’d given for her absence at all the social events she’d missed. Had they told everyone she was ill? Or had a family emergency necessitating a visit to Scotland?
She turned back to the window.Please, God, don’t let it have been a hallucination. Please let Logan have been here. Please let him have cared enough to find me.
With the hem of her nightgown she wiped the glass clean of her fingerprints.
If she ever escaped this room the first thing she would do was make sure that Logan knew what she felt. Loving him, being in love with him, had been the only thing that had kept her sane and hopeful.
All she had to do was keep herself strong until he returned. She didn’t know how he was going to rescue her, only that he was. All she had to do was last until it happened.
Please, God, give me the strength.
Logan gave his driver directions to a part of London that was a great deal more dangerous than this fashionable square.
As a member of Parliament he had occasion to meet a few less reputable members of society. He’d been involved in several charities, some of which were geared to giving criminals a second chance at an honest life. Some of the men so honored took advantage of their new opportunities. Some didn’t. A few straddled the line, appearing to be honest, hardworking individuals while keeping their less honorable talents honed should they be needed in the future.
One of those was a man by the name of Peter Cook, a cracksman who’d been recently released from jail. He’d been hired as a footman because of Logan’s recommendation and had been fired less than a month later. Unfortunately, Pete had been tempted by the silver and had stolen several pieces of flatware. It was only Logan’s intervention that had prevented him from going back to jail.
The man owed him.
Luckily, Pete was at home. His wife, a short, petite woman with bright blond hair and a surprisingly pleasant smile, ushered him into the small flat.
“I’ll just go and get him,” she said, her accent one of East London. “You have a sit. I’ll tell him you’re here.”
He didn’t sit, but stood in the middle of the room, surprised at the tidiness. They didn’t have many possessions, but what they did have was dusted and shined. The sofa sagged in the middle and the lone chair looked to have a busted spring or two. However, both pieces of furniture were obviously cared for, because the cushions had been brushed and plumped and there were lace doilies on the arms.
“I married above me,” Pete said from the doorway. “Molly keeps everything nice for us.”
Logan turned to face him.
Pete was a young man, probably twenty-two at the most. He was tall and lanky and always looked like he was wearing clothes two sizes too small for him. His wrists protruded from the yellow shirt he wore now. His gray trousers ended at his ankles. Even his face was bony, his high cheekbones leading to a sunken look and his chin knife-sharp.
“I can see that.”
“But you didn’t come to inspect my lodgings, did you?”
Logan shook his head. “No. I’m here to ask for your help.”
“Do you need a footman?”
“I should think you’ve given up that line of work, Pete.”
