The Truth About Lord Stoneville (4 page)

He had her now, and clearly he knew it. If she hurt him, her life would be worth nothing among this crowd.

Trying not to let her fear show, she said, “Do you swear on your honor as a gentleman to let us go if we explain everything?” If he agreed to be reasonable, then perhaps he wasn’t a villain. Besides, he gave her little choice.

A faint smile quirked up his lips. “I swear it. On my honor as a gentleman.”

She glanced to Freddy, who looked as if he might faint. Then she met Lord Stoneville’s gaze. “Very well. We have an agreement.”

Chapter Three

“Excellent,” Oliver said, releasing a breath. Until that moment, he hadn’t been sure he would prevail. Any woman brave enough to thrust a blade at him was unpredictable at best, and dangerous at worst. “On the count of three, we both release the sword. All right?”

She nodded, her blue gaze dipping to where her hand gripped the hilt.

“One. Two. Three,” he counted.

The sword clattered to the floor.

Instantly, Porter and Tate seized the stripling she’d called Freddy. When the chap let out a cry, she whirled toward them in alarm. Oliver bent to retrieve the sword, then handed it off to Polly, the brothel owner, who carried it to safety.

“Bring him in here,” Oliver ordered, nodding toward the parlor as he caught hold of Miss Butterfield’s arm and urged her in that direction.

“You needn’t manhandle me,” she hissed, though she didn’t fight him.

“Trust me, Miss Butterfield, you’ll know when I’m manhandling you.” He stopped before a chair. “Sit,” he commanded, pushing her into it. “And try to restrain your urge to attack people for half a moment, will you?”

“I was not—”

“As for you,” he growled at her companion, “give me the satchel that caused all this furor.”

“Yes, sir . . . I mean, my lord.”

Oliver took the satchel from the young man, whose face was drained of all color. Clearly, he lacked his companion’s fierceness.

The satchel appeared ordinary—made of decent leather, with the usual brass fittings. Though it contained a number of banknotes, that didn’t necessarily mean the lad had been trying to steal it. Most thieves would have removed the money and left the satchel, if only to keep from alerting anyone.

“Where did you get this, Tate?” Oliver asked.

“At the pawnshop round the corner. I bought it months ago.”

When Miss Butterfield snorted, Oliver shot her a dark glance. “You claim that it belongs to your fiancé?”

“If you’ll check the lettering,” she said loftily, “I daresay you’ll find his initials, ‘NJH,’ stamped on one side, and the words ‘New Bedford Ships’ on the other. I had it specially made for him myself.”

“Did you now?” Though she was right about the lettering, it didn’t prove much. A couple of clever Newgate birds would have scouted the item before attempting to steal it. They would already know what was engraved on it.

Still, this pair didn’t seem like Newgate birds. They dressed too well for that, in what looked like deep mourning. New Bedford was in America, and they were definitely American, judging from their accents.

That might account for the chit’s boldness. He’d always heard that American women were saucy. But saucy was one thing; bold enough to brave a brothel and put a blade to a man’s throat was quite another. They might merely be a higher class of thief. If so, wearing black was a nice touch. Who would suspect a woman in mourning of anything criminal?

Especially one who was so very pretty. Tendrils of strawberry-blond hair framed her lovely face beneath her bonnet of raven silk and crepe. She had a pert nose, freckled cheeks, and a mouth made for seduction. He skimmed his gaze down her form with the expert eye of a man long used to undressing women. Beneath the heavy fabric of her redingote, she clearly had a body made for seduction, too, with lush hips and lusher breasts. Exactly his sort.

Hmmm . . .

Perhaps he could use this situation to his advantage. He’d had little luck this week in finding a whore acceptable enough to further his plan.

He turned to Porter and Tate. “Release the lad, and leave us.”

“Now see here, my lord, I don’t think—” Porter began.

“They’ll get their just deserts,” Oliver asserted. “You won’t have cause for complaint.”

“And what about my satchel?” Tate pressed.

“
Your
satchel!” Miss Butterfield shot to her feet. “How dare—”

“Sit down, Miss Butterfield,” Oliver ordered with a stern glance. “If I were you, I’d hold my tongue just now.”

She colored, but did as he commanded.

Oliver tossed the satchel to Tate. “Take it and go. I’ll let you know my decision about these two shortly.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the American woman bristle, but she remained silent until the two men had gone, closing the door behind them.

Then she exploded out of the chair to glare at him. “That satchel belongs to my fiancé, and you know it! Mr. Tate clearly stole—”

“I’ve been acquainted with Tate for years, madam. He has his faults, but he’s no thief. If he said he bought it at a pawnshop, odds are that he did.”

“You would take his word over the word of a lady?”

“A
lady.
Is that what you are?” He cast her a dismissive glance as he buttoned up his shirt. “You vault into a brothel with only this unlicked cub for a protector. You hold a sword to my throat and attempt to extract him from the place by force. And you expect me to accept your word about the situation simply because you’re female?” He gestured at the hapless Freddy, who stood frozen in terror. “You must think me as stupid as your ‘cousin’ there.”

She marched up to him, hands on her hips. “Stop sneering the word ‘cousin.’ Freddy is not some accomplice in crime.”

“Then why is
he
with you, instead of your supposed fiancé?”

“My fiancé is missing!” She took a steadying breath. “His name is Nathan Hyatt, and he’s my father’s business partner. We came to London to find him. Papa died after Nathan left, so he needs to return home and run New Bedford Ships. I wrote him several letters, but he hasn’t answered in months. I recognized his satchel when I saw your friend carrying it near where Nathan was last seen, and we followed him, hoping he might lead us to Nathan.”

“Ah.” He strolled to where his cravat lay draped over a chair, then knotted it about his neck. “And I’m supposed to believe this Banbury tale because . . .”

“Because it’s true! Ask the people at London Maritime! Nathan came here four months ago to negotiate with them for some ships, but they said that after negotiations fell through within a month, he left there and hasn’t been seen since. They assumed he’d gone back to America. And the owner of the boardinghouse where he’d been staying said much the same.”

She paced the room in clear agitation. “But there’s no record of him traveling on a company ship. Worse yet, the boardinghouse owner still has all my letters—unopened.”

Whirling around, she cast him a concerned glance. “Something dreadful has happened to him, and your friend likely knows it. Nathan would never pawn that satchel. I gave it to him for Christmas—he wouldn’t have parted with it!”

Her distress was quite convincing. He’d lived in or near London all his life and had seen sharpers and schemers by the score. They could never quite hide the hardness beneath the smooth surface of their roles. Whereas she . . .

His gaze took in her agitated breaths, her worried expression. She seemed an innocent in every sense of the word. One advantage to having a black heart was that he could spot an innocent from a hundred feet off.

She was probably telling the truth. Indeed, it would be pointless for her to lie, since he could always hold her here while he confirmed her story. But he didn’t intend to do that. Her tale of woe made her even more perfect for his plan.

Still, before he proposed his unorthodox arrangement, he should find out exactly what he might be getting into. “How old are you?”

She blinked. “I’m twenty-six. What has that got to do with anything?”

So, she was an innocent but not a child, thank God. Gran would be suspicious if he brought home some chit fresh from the schoolroom.

“And your father owns a ship company,” he said as he donned his waistcoat. A rich man had connections. That could be a problem.

“Owned. Yes.” She thrust out her chin. “His name is Adam Butterfield. Ask anyone in the shipping industry about him—they all knew him.”

“But do they know
you
is the question, my dear.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“So far you’ve given me no evidence that you’re his daughter.” He buttoned up his waistcoat. “Have you letters of introduction to smooth your way here?”

She thrust out her chin with a mutinous air. “I didn’t expect to need such a thing. I expected to find Nathan at London Maritime.”

“You can ask at the shipping office,” the stripling put in helpfully. “They’ll tell you what ship we came here on.”

“They’ll tell me what ship Miss Butterfield and Mister Frederick came on,” Oliver interjected as he slid into his coat. “But unless the captain introduced you to them as such, that isn’t much evidence.”

“You think we’re lying?” she said, outrage flaring in her face.

No, but he’d gain nothing by letting her realize it. “I’m merely pointing out that you’ve given me no reason to believe you. I imagine that America is little different from England in certain respects: ship company owners have a station to uphold. And since I assume that your father was wealthy—”

“Oh, yes,” Freddy put in. “Uncle Adam had pots and pots of money.”

“Yet his daughter could not send someone to find her fiancé, like any respectable female would do?”

“I was worried about him!” she cried. “And . . . well, right now Papa’s money is all tied up in the estate, which can’t be settled without Nathan.”

Ah. Better and better. “So you’re here virtually alone, with no money, despite your claim to have a rich father and a certain station in society.” He fished for more information. “You expect me to believe that the daughter of a wealthy ship company owner—who would be taught to keep quiet, do as she is told, and respect the proprieties—would go sailing across the ocean in search of her fiancé, looking for him in a brothel, attacking the first gentleman who dares to question—”

“Oh, for pity’s sake,” she snapped. “I told you why I did all that.”

“Besides,” her companion put in, “Uncle Adam isn’t . . .
wasn’t
like other rich gentlemen. He started out a soldier in the Marine Corps. He never put on airs. Always said he was born the poor bastard of a servant, and he’d die the rich bastard of a servant, and that was better than being a rich ass.”

She groaned. “Freddy, please, you’re not helping.”

“So you see, sir,” Freddy went on, to Oliver’s vast amusement, “Mop— Maria isn’t like other women. She’s like her father. She doesn’t listen to those who tell her to sit still and keep quiet. Never has.”

“I noticed,” Oliver said dryly. It was a point in her favor. “And what of her mother? Did she not teach your cousin to behave?”

“I’ll have you know, sir—” Miss Butterfield began.

“Oh, she died in childbirth,” young Freddy explained. “And anyway, she was only a shopkeeper’s daughter herself, like Ma, her sister. Uncle Adam took us in after Pa died, so Ma could raise Maria. That’s why I came here with her.” He puffed out his chest. “To protect her.”

“You’re doing a fine job, too,” Oliver said sarcastically.

“Leave him be,” Miss Butterfield said, her eyes alight. “Can’t you tell he wasn’t trying to steal anything? He went in for
me
, to check the satchel and see if it had the right lettering on it—that’s all.”

“And was caught running out of the place with it. That’s why those men out there want him hanged.”

“Then they’re fools. Anyone can tell that Freddy is no thief.”

“She’s right about that,” the dull-witted Freddy put in helpfully. “I’ve got two left feet—can’t go anywhere without running into something. That’s probably why they caught me.”

“Ah, but in cases like this, the fools generally prevail. Those fellows out there don’t care about the truth. They just want your cousin’s blood.”

Panic showed in her face. “You mustn’t let them have it!”

He stifled a smile. “I
could
put in a good word for him, soothe their tempers and get you two out of this with your necks attached. If . . .”

She instantly stiffened. “If what?”

“If you accept my proposition.”

A fetching blush spread over her pretty cheeks. “I shan’t give up my virtue, even to save my neck.”

“Did I say anything about giving up your virtue?”

She blinked. “Well . . . no. But given the kind of man you are—”

“And what kind is that?” This should be amusing.

“You know.” She tipped up her chin. “The kind who spends his time in brothels. I’ve heard all about you English lords and your debauchery.”

“I don’t want your virtue, my dear.” He flicked his glance down her delectable body and suppressed a sigh. “Not that I don’t find the idea tempting, but right now I have more urgent concerns.”

And no man of rank was fool enough to seduce a virgin—that was the surest way to end up leg-shackled to a schemer. Besides, he preferred experienced women. They knew how to pleasure a man without plaguing him about his feelings.

“This may surprise you,” he went on, “but I rarely have trouble finding women to join me willingly in bed. I’ve no need to force a pretty thief there.”