Page 53 of Choosing Her Earl at Last
“Why do I feel as if we have gone from the cooking pot into the fire?” Colin said quietly as every eye in the room turned to stare at them.
“It would appear that we are about to either be thrown out of this fine establishment or be inducted into the mysteries of Mr. G’s criminal underground. It is unclear at this time which one,” Michael mused as men began to shift uneasily in their chairs.
Moments ticked by as if they were hours before the tavern keeper’s wife reappeared. “Follow me,” she commanded, and they arose to do as bidden.
The woman led them into a back hallway, which emptied out into what might have once been a storage room but was now used as the criminal offices of the elusive Mr. G.
As they entered the room, they saw a man of intense visage sitting behind a large mahogany wood desk of such quality that it would have been comfortable in any nobleman’s library. His eyes appraised Michael and Colin with cold calculation.
“Mr. G, I presume.” Michael returned the man’s look with equal intensity.
“The Earl of Ravenshollow, if I am not mistaken,” the man replied, standing and moving around to the front of his desk.
Michael felt a jolt of surprise ripple through his being, but he did not allow it to show in his expression.The men who followed us must have done their research.
“Mr. Barrington,” the man continued.
Colin was not as skilled at commanding his emotional expressions as Michael was, and genuine surprise spread across his face. “How…?”
A ghost of a smile fluttered across the other man’s lips. “I have my ways.”
Michael nodded. “Your reputation precedes you.”
“As does yours, Ravenshollow.” The man addressed Michael as a peer or as a superior, even. He had all of the hallmarks of a nobleman accustomed to finery and respect, but the hardened, biting edge of a true criminal.
“Then you know why I am here,” Michael replied, not mincing words.
“While I have no doubt that you would very much like your paintings back, you are more interested in the return of a certain Miss Rebecca Frampton,” Mr. G answered, a knowing gleam entering his eyes. “Am I wrong?”
“You are not,” Michael admitted. There was no reason to lie to the man who clearly knew everything already. “To that end … Do you know who took Rebecca Frampton and where she is being held?”
“I do.” Mr. G nodded, not bothering to hide his smugness.
Colin’s entire body spasmed in response, and Michael reached out to stop him from racing forward to take the man in hand. “Where is she?!” Colin shouted as Michael tightened his grip.
“I will tell you,” Mr. G agreed, amused by Colin’s emotional outburst. “But first, you will arrange a meeting for me.”
“A meeting with whom?” Michael asked as calmly as he could manage, in spite of his desire to smash the man’s face in until he told them where Rebecca was being hidden.
“Bring Lady Emmeline Livingston, nee Frampton, the Marchioness of Worthington, to me, and I will tell you where her sister is being held.”
Rage coursed through Michael’s entire being. “Over my dead body,” he ground out through clenched teeth before he could think better of it.
“That can be arranged,” Mr. G replied, his voice steely as it scraped across Michael’s nerves.
The men surrounding him, presumably his bodyguards, drew their weapons, glaring in challenge.
“Why do you wish to speak with the marchioness?” Colin asked, his muscles taught with barely constrained tension.
“She possesses something of great interest to me,” he admitted, shrugging as if it was none of their business. He behaved as if he had every authority to request what he was asking of them.
“What is this possession? Could we not simply bring you the item that you seek?” Colin offered.
“That is between the marchioness and I, not either of you,” Mr. G refused to answer. “My price is a conversation with the marchioness.”
Colin looked at Michael. “If it means saving Rebecca, you know that Emmeline would do anything,” he reminded him, for Michael’s ears only, “including speaking with a known criminal.”
“Absolutely not,” Michael shook his head firmly, his teeth grinding so hard that they felt as if they might break.
