27. Two Lords & an Admiral Come Calling
Two Lords & an Admiral Come Calling
Lord Edwin Creswell, a man not easily discouraged in matters of matrimony, prided himself on being able to take the measure of a drawing-room with unerring accuracy.
Yet as he sat across from Lady Marlstone and her goddaughter later that week, it occurred to him that Miss Harrington might prove a riddle not even he could solve.
As the hostess, Lady Marlstone did her part to maintain the conversation. Determined not to give Lord Creswell the least sign of encouragement, her goddaughter was a picture of perfect composure.
Her indifference, Creswell decided, must be feigned, since there was no one better suited to her hand than himself. It wanted only for her realizing this self-evident truth.
“Miss Harrington,” he ventured after a brief lull, “are you quite well?”
“Perfectly, sir. Do I appear otherwise?”
“On the contrary, my dear, lovely as always.” Striving to fix her attention, he inquired: “I trust you have heard of the deplorable matter involving Mr. Sinclair’s greyhound? With the dog being a favorite in this house, I was sure you would have natural sympathies for its mistreatment.”
A fleeting spark of interest betrayed her before she schooled her countenance.
Lady Marlstone cried, “Oh, dear heavens, poor unfortunate Periwinkle! It is horrifying what that little darling has endured! Shocking, I say! Positively shocking!”
Creswell was sure his next revelation could only build his esteem in their eyes.
With assumed humility, he confessed, “I have been engaged by the Sinclair brothers to see the offenders are prosecuted to the full extent of the law. The perpetrators have long plagued the London gaming scene. But this latest atrocity—holding Periwinkle hostage for ransom and maltreating him over the course of an afternoon and evening—has drawn the line. Their arrest this morning brings their influence to an end.”
For Lucinda’s purposes, this unforeseen development was decidedly inopportune.
“ You have taken on the case?” she asked surprised.
Creswell allowed himself a modest smile. “I have.”
“Are you a solicitor?” she inquired, with a bluntness bordering on incivility, suggesting she thought him something far less reputable.
Creswell schooled the offense that rose in him, smoothing his expression into one of patient correction. “A barrister, in fact, Miss Harrington.”
Lady Marlstone, ever ardent in the advancement of her cause, turned to Creswell with an expression of eager curiosity. “Do tell us what you make of it, my lord! How wicked are this brother and sister duo?”
Creswell’s eyes gleamed with the satisfaction of a man about to hold court.
“The facts, as they stand, are these: the Bittermanns abducted Periwinkle and demanded an exorbitant sum for his return. Though they only had him for a few hours, the poor creature suffered greatly. Cuts, abrasions, and signs of confinement speak volumes about their treatment.”
“Barbarous!” cried Lady Arabella, with a shudder.
“Quite so,” Creswell agreed, his tone carrying just the right touch of somberness. “And if such cases were given proper attention in the courts, it might deter others from similar acts of cruelty. Do you not agree, madam, that this trial could be used as a rallying cry for the rights of animals?”
Lady Arabella, always eager to further her cause, nodded vigorously. “Indeed, my lord! And I shall speak of it at the next Society meeting. Perhaps you would be willing to make a speech on the topic?”
Discomposed, Lucinda cast a distracted glance at the tea tray and rose, murmuring about a fresh cup. Creswell watched her retreat with a faint frown, while Lady Arabella filled the silence.
“Such little innocents, subjected to the most horrid indignities! Why, only last week,” cried Lady Arabella, clutching her ample bosom, “poor Mrs. Tinsley’s pug was nearly abducted by a chimney sweep!”
“Dreadful, madam. Dreadful,” murmured Creswell.
Griffiths materialized upon the threshold. “Lord Sinclair, ma’am.”
Lucinda, collecting her thoughts by the tea tray, stiffened.
Alex made his entrance with the air of a man bringing tidings of great import. His eyes lit upon Lucinda and, despite less agreeable company, his expression softened perceptibly.
“Aunt Arabella,” he said, offering the dowager a bow of affection, “you are looking well—resplendent, in fact. And Lord Creswell,” he added with a slight tightening of his tone, “what an unexpected…pleasure.”
Creswell, who had taken possession of the largest armchair as though it were his throne, did not rise but offered a genteel nod. “Sinclair. You’ve come, I presume, to add to the growing parade of people explaining things to your aunt that she already knows.”
“She has always been a woman of remarkable foresight,” Alex said agreeably. Without waiting for further exchange, he crossed the room to Lucinda, who was now resolutely committed to the teacups and managing not to look at him.
“Miss Harrington,” he greeted, inclining his head. “Might I be permitted to assist you?”
She did not look up. “I am quite capable of managing a teapot, my lord. The tea is steeped, would you like some?”
He accepted the cup she held out, his fingers brushing hers more deliberately than was strictly necessary. He reached for the teapot before she could. “Your capability has never been in doubt, Miss Harrington. Nevertheless, I should be desolate if I were thought entirely superfluous.”
Lucinda stifled a grin, watching him fill her teacup with care. “Far be it from me to deliver such a crushing verdict. Especially as you appear rather pleased with yourself, my lord.”
“Perhaps I am. I have news—news I thought you might like to hear first.”
“Oh?”
He leaned in just enough to make the words audible only to her. “The Bittermanns are under lock and key. Newgate to be precise.”
“Yes,” she sipped her tea, “Lord Creswell was just telling us.” She frowned.
His voice was quiet, meant for her alone. “If anything troubles you, Miss Harrington, you may confide in me.”
“Truly?”
“Yes, I have been wondering if you have recalled anything further about…that night.”
She took a slow sip, considering him over the rim of her cup. “No. At present, my greatest trouble is your choice of advocate.”
“Oh, yes,” sighed Alex, glancing briefly at the man in question, enduring his aunt’s monologue.
“I admit, it was not my preference either. But Mr. Wilberforce sang his praises so highly, and Creswell’s advocacy for animal rights, though insufferable, is unmatched.
We would have compromised the case to seek different representation.
Why does the decision disturb you, my dear? ”
Lucinda was not about to reveal her plans until after her father had been apprised, so she disseminated to Alex her general dislikes rather than those at present on her mind. “The way he looks so possessively at one, it’s very unpleasant.”
Alex suppressed a telltale quirk of the lips, glancing in the barrister’s direction. “Aunt Bella has him thoroughly captured.” He turned back to her, leaning closer. “I am the man looking at you at present.”
Her head came up sharply, and their eyes locked.
“Lucinda,” he said tenderly, “there is something I must—”
“Yes?” she whispered, heart racing.
He felt himself upon treacherous ground. “During our…escapade, we had occasion for a private conversation. One that I believe may be of some importance.”
Lucinda’s pulse quickened even more, wondering what private conversation could have occurred.
She could not recall one. She swallowed, suddenly uncertain.
“Some unpleasant memories have returned, my lord…but if you and I spoke about something that night, I—” She shrugged and shook her head, watching the hopeful look in his eyes fade.
“I’m sorry, my lamentable memory is only coming back to me in snatches.
Surely, if the matter was of great significance, you might refresh my memory? ”
Alex set his cup down on the tray and picked up the teapot. He met her gaze, his own heart hammering. Slowly, as if uncertain whether he ought, he reached out, his fingers grazing hers as he refilled her cup. “You told me…that is to say, we both—”
The drawing-room door opened at that precise moment, halting his words.
Lady Arabella turned with delighted surprise. “Sir John Harrington! Upon my word, what an unexpected pleasure!”
Alex pivoted as the aged naval officer entered like a man commanding from his quarterdeck. He halted only long enough to offer Lady Marlstone a courtly bow before his gaze landed on the object of his journey.
“Lulu, my girl!” he boomed, sweeping Lucinda into an embrace so hearty that it lifted her off her feet. With great affection, he was embraced and kissed on the cheek.
“I’m so glad you’ve come, Papa,” she whispered.
“Sinclair! I heard you were back. Still lurking behind doors, causing trouble, I see?”
Alex clasped the man’s outstretched hand. “Never intentionally, Admiral,” he replied, his tone cheerful.
The Admiral released him and turned his formidable attention upon Lady Marlstone, who was trying hard not to flinch at his loudness.
“Madam, I must beg your pardon for this abrupt incursion,” he declared, his voice more suited to hailing a deckhand in a storm than conversing in a drawing room. “But I find myself in need of your husband’s study—urgent business with my daughter.”
Lady Marlstone, whose curiosity was piqued beyond all bounds, smiled graciously. “Why, of course, Admiral! Though I do hope it is nothing distressing. Can I not persuade you to take a cup of tea before—”
“No tea, madam,” he interrupted briskly. “Tea is for peacetime.”
Lucinda, having quelled a giggle, dipped a curtsy to both lords. “This way, sir,” she murmured to her father, before leading him from the room.
Alex watched them go, the Admiral’s broad shoulders and Lucinda’s slender form disappearing into the corridor.
“A most intriguing development,” Lady Marlstone observed.
Alex did not answer at once. His gaze was still on the door, his thoughts fixed upon the face of the woman who had just left. That fleeting, indefinable expression—so vulnerable and fearful of the unknown that had passed between them. It lingered in his mind.
Earlier that same morning, at a house of less respectable character in St Martin’s Lane, a hammering of fists at the front door shattered the silence within the Sixes & Sevens club.
Lilith Bittermann, at that moment descending the stairs with a candle in hand, halted mid-step. Below her, Rudi stumbled from a doorway, rubbing at his eyes in a temper.
“By order of the magistrate!” came the call. The door burst open to reveal uniformed constables armed with a warrant and an unsympathetic glint in their eyes. “You are under arrest for fraud, extortion, and conspiracy to commit acts of violence.”
“This is absurd,” said Lilith coldly, her knuckles whitened, gripping the banister.
With a grunt, Rudi launched himself forward—only to find the watchmen clamping down on his arms, preventing any attack. A pair of burly constables wrenched his wrists behind his back, clamping iron manacles around them. His protests were lost in a torrent of Dutch oaths, his face livid with fury.
Lilith, in contrast, remained eerily composed. When the constables moved to seize her, she did not resist.
“Do stop thrashing, Rudi,” she hissed. “If one must go to prison, there is no need to behave like a dockyard brawler.”
But dignity deserted her. Marched from their property at dawn, out into the street past milkmaids and street urchins, the Bittermann siblings had their pride exchanged for handcuffs.
By the time they arrived at Newgate, the last traces of Lilith’s poise had cracked.
The clanging of iron gates, the damp stench of unwashed bodies, the jeers of inmates pressing against their bars—all combined into a cacophony of degradation.
Rudi, always the brute, attempted to shove his way past their captors but was rewarded with a sharp blow to the ribs from a truncheon.
He doubled over, wheezing, while Lilith merely set her jaw.