Worth Any Price

CHAPTER 14

"You're going to Bow Street today, aren't you?" Lottie asked, cradling a cup of tea in her hands as she watched Nick devour a large plate of eggs, fruit, and currant bread.

Nick glanced at her with a deliberately bland smile. "Why do you ask?" Since they had returned from Worcestershire three days earlier, he had met with bankers, hired an estate agent, visited his tailor, and spent an afternoon at Tom's coffeehouse with friends. For all Lottie knew, today would proceed in much the same manner-but somehow her intuition had led her to suspect otherwise.

"Because you have a certain look in your eyes whenever you go to meet Sir Grant or anyone else at Bow Street."

Nick could not help grinning at his wife's suspicious expression. She had the instincts and the tenacity of a rat terrier-and he considered that a compliment, though she would probably not. "As it happens, I'm not going to Bow Street," he said mildly. It was the truth, although only in the most technical sense. "I'm just going to visit a friend. Eddie Sayer. I've told you about him before, remember?"

"Yes, he's one of the runners." Lottie's eyes narrowed above the delicate edge of her teacup. "What are the two of you planning? You're not going to do something dangerous, are you?"

Her voice contained an edge of apprehension, and her gaze swept over him with a possessive concern that made his heart knock hard in his chest. Nick struggled to understand what those signs meant. It almost seemed as if she was worried for him, that his safety mattered to her. She had never looked at him that way before, and he was not certain how to react.

Carefully he reached out and pulled her from the chair, settling her on his lap. "Nothing dangerous at all," he said against the softness of her cheek. Intoxicated by the taste of her skin, he worked his way to her ear and touched the delicate lobe with the tip of his tongue. "I would hardly risk coming home to you in less than full working order."

Lottie squirmed in his lap, and the movement drew a surge of heat to his loins. "Where are you and Mr. Sayer going to meet?" she persisted.

Ignoring the question, Nick ran his hand over the bodice of her morning dress, made of a soft white fabric printed with tiny flowers and leaves. The scooped neckline revealed the tender line of her throat, presenting a temptation too potent to resist. Lowering his mouth to her neck, he kissed her sweet, downy skin, while his hand stole beneath the rustling layers of her skirts.

"You're not going to distract me that way," Lottie told him, but he heard the hitch of her breath when he found the smooth reach of her thigh. He made a discovery that sent a wash of sexual interest through his body, his cock rising vigorously against the shape of her bottom.

"You're not wearing drawers," he murmured, his hand wandering avidly over her bare limbs.

"It's too hot today," she said breathlessly, wiggling to evade him, pushing ineffectually at the mound of his hand beneath her dress. "I most certainly didnot discard them for your benefit, and...Nick, stop that. The maid is going to come in at any moment." "Then I'll have to be fast."

"You'renever fast. Nick...oh..."

Her body curled against his as he reached the patch of hair between her thighs, the sweet cleft already rich with moisture as her well-tutored body responded to his touch. "I'm going to do this to you next week at the Markenfields' ball," he said softly, running his thumb along the humid seam of her sex. "I'm going to take you to some private corner...and pull up the front of your dress, and stroke and tease you until you come."

"No," she protested faintly, her eyes closing as she felt his long middle finger slide inside her.

"Oh, yes." Nick withdrew his wet finger and ruthlessly tickled the softly straining crest until he felt her body tensing rhythmically in his lap. "I'll keep you quiet with my mouth," he whispered. "And I'll be kissing you when you climax with my fingers inside you...like this..." He thrust his two middle fingers inside the warm, pulsing channel and covered her lips with his as she moaned and shuddered violently.

When he had siphoned the last few shivers of pleasure from her body, Nick lifted his mouth and smiled smugly into her flushed face. "Was that fast enough for you?"

The brief interlude at the breakfast table left Nick's senses pleasantly awakened and his mind filled with agreeable thoughts about what would happen when he returned home later in the day. In good spirits, he hired a hackney to convey him to his meeting place with Eddie Sayer. It would not have been wise to take a good horse or a private carriage to the Blood Bowl Tavern, a favorite criminal haunt, or "bastard sanctuary."

Nick had long been familiar with the Blood Bowl, as it was part of the area around Fleet Ditch where he had once owned a flash house. Fleet Ditch, London's main sewer, cut through a region of massive criminal activity. It was arguably the heart of the underworld, situated amidst four prisons including Newgate, the Fleet, and Bridewell.

For years Nick had known no other home. At the height of his career as a crime lord, Nick had rented an elegant office in town to meet with upper-class clients and bank representatives who were understandably reluctant to go to Fleet Ditch. However, he had spent the majority of his time in a flash house not far from the ditch, gradually becoming inured to the perpetual stink. There he had schemed, set traps, and skillfully amassed a network of smugglers and informants. He had always expected to die rich and young, having agreed with the words of a criminal he had once seen hanged at Tyburn: "A life has been well-spent if it be short but merry."

But just before Nick had been about to receive his well-deserved comeuppance, Sir Ross Cannon had stepped in with his infamous deal. Much as Nick hated to admit it, the years he had spent as a runner had been the best of his life. Although he had always resented Sir Ross's manipulations, there was no denying that his brother-in-law had changed his life for the better.

Nick glanced curiously at the dark, crowded streets, where swarms of people moved in and out of ramshackle buildings that were seemingly piled one atop the other. Coming here after having just left his clean, pretty wife in the serene little house on Betterton Street was jarring. And strangely, the anticipation of going on the hunt was not half as strong as it used to be. Nick had expected to feel the savage thrill of prowling through the most dangerous area in London, and instead...

He was damned if he wasn't half sorry that he had agreed to come help Sayer today.

But why? He was no coward, no pampered aristocrat. It was just...he had the perplexing feeling that he did not belong here anymore. He had something to lose, and he did not want to risk it.

Shaking his head in confusion, Nick entered the Blood Bowl and found Sayer waiting at a table in a dark corner. The tavern was as rank and filthy and crowded as ever, smelling like refuse, gin, and bodily odors.

Sayer greeted him with a friendly grin. Young, dashing, and large-framed, Sayer was undoubtedly the best runner that Sir Grant had now that Nick had left the force. Although Nick was glad to see his friend, he had an odd sinking feeling as he saw the gleam of reckless excitement in Sayer's eyes and realized that he did not share it. Nick did not doubt that his abilities and instincts were still there, but he no longer possessed the hunger to hunt. He wanted to be at home with his wife.

Damn, he thought in rising agitation.

"Morgan will gut me like a cod if he finds out that I asked you to do this," Sayer said ruefully.

"He won't find out." Nick joined him at the table, shaking his head in refusal as a barmaid approached them with a jug of ale. The coarse-faced girl pretended to pout, then winked as she sidled away.

"I could do it myself, I think," Sayer said softly, heedful of the possibility of being overheard. "But I don't know all the ins and outs of Fleet Ditch as well as you do. No one does. And you're the only one who could easily identify the fellow I want to catch, as you've had prior experience with him."

"Who is it?" Nick set his forearms on the table and removed them promptly as he felt his sleeves sticking to the wooden surface.

"Dick Follard."

The name took Nick by surprise. Unlike the average criminal in London, most of whom were opportunists, Follard was of that category considered to be the criminal elite, both skillful and soulless. Nick had arrested Follard two years ago, after the bastard had robbed the house of a prosperous attorney and killed the man and raped his wife when they'd offered resistance. However, Follard had been spared the gallows and been transported instead, in return for offering evidence against his accomplices.

"Follard was sent to Australia," Nick said.

"He's come back," Sayer replied with a grim smile. "Like a dog to its vomit."

"How do you know that?"

"I can't prove it, unfortunately. But there have been rumors of sightings lately, not to mention a string of violent robberies that look exactly like Follard's work. Yesterday I questioned a poor woman who was raped by a thief who had broken into her home and killed her husband. Same method of breaking in, same knife-work on the body, and the woman's description of her attacker matched Follard's-right down to the scar on the right side of the neck."

"Jesus." Frowning, Nick pinched the bridge of his nose as he pondered the information. "I can't believe that Morgan would send you to catch Follard alone."

"He didn't," Sayer said cheerfully. "He wants me to question some of Follard's old cohorts and give him a report. I'd rather just bring Follard in directly."

Nick couldn't help grinning at that, knowing exactly what Morgan's reaction to that would be. "If you succeed, Morgan will flay the hide off you for such damned stupid showmanship."

"Yes...and then he'll kiss my bony arse for capturing a returned transportee. And I'll be on the front page of theTimes , with scores of women begging for my attention."

Nick's smile turned wry. "That's not as enjoyable as you might think," he informed his friend.

"No? Well, I'd like to try it, nevertheless." Sayer cocked his brow expectantly. "Are you game?"

Nick nodded with a sigh. "Where do you want to start looking?"

"Reports are that Follard has been seen in the slums between Hanging Ax Alley and Dead Man's Lane. It's like an anthill with all the holes in the walls, and tunnels between the cellars-"

"Yes, I know the place." Nick kept his face expressionless, although he was aware of cold distaste coiling in his belly. He had gone in those slums before, and even with his high tolerance for the horrors of the underworld, it was a nasty experience. The last time he had visited Hanging Ax Alley, he had seen a mother prostituting her child for gin, while beggars and whores crammed in the narrow lanes like sardines.

"We'll have to search quickly," Nick said. "Once they realize we're in the area, word will spread fast, and Follard will slip away before we ever clap eyes on him."

Sayer grinned with barely repressed enthusiasm. "Let's go, then. You lead the way."

They left the tavern and made their way through streets bisected with open gutters, the stench of dead animals and rotting garbage hanging thick in the air. The decaying buildings leaned against each other as if in exhaustion, groaning with every strong wind that blew against them. There were no signs to identify streets, nor were there numbers on houses or buildings. A stranger to the area could easily become lost and quickly find himself robbed, carved up and left for dead in some dark yard or alley. The poverty of the slum inhabitants was unimaginable, and their only escape was the temporary one to be found in a gin shop. In fact, there was a gin shop on nearly every street.

It bothered Nick to see the wretchedness of the people around him, the skeletal children, the degraded women and desperate men. The only healthy creatures to be found were the rats and mice that scuttled across the street. Until now, Nick had accepted all of this as an inevitable part of life. For the first time, he wondered what could be done for these people. Good God, they needed so much that it nearly overwhelmed him. He remembered what Lottie had said to him only a few days earlier..."There must be some issue that concerns you,"she had said."Something you want to fight for..." Now that he'd had time to consider it, he had to admit that she was right. As Lord Sydney, he could accomplish far more than he ever had as Nick Gentry.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, Nick glanced cautiously at Sayer, who was clearly thinking of nothing more than finding Dick Follard. Just as he should be. No distractions, Nick warned himself, even as another voice filtered through his mind.

"There comes a time when a man has tweaked the devil's nose once too often, "Morgan had told him." And if he's too stubborn or slow-witted to realize it, he'll pay with his own blood. I knew when to stop. And so must you..."

It was indeed time to stop, although Nick hadn't known it until this moment. After helping Sayer with this one task, Nick would finally let go of his identity as a runner and reinvent himself once more. This time as Lord Sydney...a man with a wife, a home, perhaps even children someday.

The idea of seeing Lottie pregnant with his child caused a sweet pang in his chest. Finally he was beginning to understand why Sir Ross had found it so easy to resign from the magistracy when he'd married, and why Morgan valued his family above all else.

"Gentry," Sayer muttered. "Gentry?"

Lost in his thoughts, Nick did not notice until Sayer spoke once more.

"Sydney!"

Nick gave him an inquiring glance. "Yes?"

Sayer was frowning. "Keep your wits about you. You seem a bit distracted."

"I'm fine," Nick said curtly, realizing that he had indeed been preoccupied. In this place, that could be a fatal mistake.

They ventured into the slum district, and Nick assessed the area with a critical glance, trying to remember what he knew of the warren of alleys, tunnels, and crossways between buildings. He passed a hand lightly over his chest, checking the reassuring weight of an iron-filled leather cudgel in his coat pocket.

"Let's start with the buildings on the north side of the street," Nick said. "We'll work our way to the corner."

Sayer nodded, his body tensing visibly as he prepared for action.

They searched the buildings methodically, pausing briefly to ask questions of those who seemed likely to know something. The rooms and burrows were badly lit, not to mention crowded and fetid. Nick and Sayer met with no resistance, although they were the focus of many suspicious and hostile stares.

In a workshop near the end of the street-ostensibly a buckle-maker's shop, but in reality a harbor for coiners and forgerers-Nick saw the betraying flicker in a scrawny old man's eyes when he heard the mention of Follard's name. While Sayer checked through the shop, Nick approached the man with an inquiring gaze.

"Do you know anything about Follard?" Nick asked gently, fingering the edge of his own left sleeve with his opposite hand, in a signal well-known to those in the London rookeries. The subtle gesture was a promise of payment for valid information.

The man's paper-thin lids lowered over his yellowed eyes as he considered the offer. "I might."

Nick crossed his palm with a few coins, and the old man's wrinkled fingers closed over the money. "Can you tell me where I may find him?"

"Ye might try the gin shop on Melancholy Lane."

Nodding in thanks, Nick glanced at Sayer and indicated with a swerve of his gaze that it was time to leave.

Once outside, they headed swiftly to Melancholy Lane, just two streets over from Hanging Ax Alley. As with most gin shops near Fleet Ditch, the place was heavily packed long before noon, with drunken patrons sitting on the ground in a stupor. After conferring briefly, Nick went to the entrance of the shop, while Sayer circled the dilapidated building to find the exit in back.

As soon as Nick entered the shop, a few ugly rumbles went through the crowd inside. It was an unfortunate fact that a runner's height and size made it nearly impossible for him to blend in with a crowd. It was even more unfortunate that Nick had made countless enemies in the underworld once he had given evidence against his criminal associates and went to serve at Bow Street. That hadn't exactly increased his popularity in Fleet Ditch. Ignoring the threatening murmurs, Nick glanced over the crowd with narrowed eyes.

Suddenly he saw the face he had been looking for. Through his travels from one continent to another, Dick Follard hadn't changed one whit, his ratlike face surmounted with the same shock of oily black hair, his sharp teeth giving his mouth a serrated appearance. Their gazes met in a moment of icy, electric challenge.

Follard was gone in an instant, slipping through the crowd with the ease of a rodent as he headed to the back of the shop. Nick shoved past the mass of bodies in his way, plowing through them with blind determination. By the time he reached the alley, Follard had disappeared into a complex network of fences, walls, and side streets. Sayer was nowhere to be seen.

"Sayer!" Nick shouted. "Where the hell are you?"

"Over here," came the runner's hoarse cry, and Nick spun around to see him climbing a six-foot-high fence in pursuit of Follard.

Following swiftly, Nick clambered over the fence, dropped to the ground, and ran full tilt down a dark alley shadowed by the overhanging eaves of the buildings on either side. The alley came to an abrupt end, and Nick skidded to a halt as he saw Sayer staring upward. Follard was scaling the deteriorated outside wall of an ancient three-story warehouse, resembling an insect as he sought fingerholds in the broken brick surface. After ascending two stories, he finally managed to reach a hole large enough for him to scuttle into. His bony frame disappeared inside the warehouse.

Sayer swore in disgust. "We've lost him," he said flatly. "There's no way in hell that I would try that."

Surveying the wall appraisingly, Nick approached it with a few running strides, launching himself upward. He took the same path Follard had, digging his hands and the toes of his boots into the crumbling holes in the wall, using them to gain purchase. Panting with effort, he climbed after the vanished fugitive.

"Goddamn, Gentry!" he heard Sayer exclaim approvingly. "I'll find some other way to get inside."

Nick continued to scale the wall until he crawled into the gaping second-story opening. Once inside, he went still and listened intently. He heard the sound of footfalls above. His gaze shot to a ladder that led to the top floor of the building, in place of a set of stairs that had crumbled long ago. Nick headed to it with rapid, stealthy strides. The ladder was comparatively new, indicating that the warehouse was being put to use despite its deterioration. Most likely the building served to store smuggled or stolen goods, as well as providing an excellent sanctuary for fugitives. No law enforcement officer with any wits would have dared set foot in the dilapidated place.

The ladder creaked from Nick's weight. Once he reached the third floor, he saw that the floor planks and rafters had mostly rotted away, leaving only a row of support timbers that resembled the ribs of a massive decaying skeleton. Although the edges of the space still bore some flimsy planks, the center of the floor was gone, as was that of the second story, leaving a potentially deadly thirty-foot drop straight through the middle of the building.

As soon as Dick Follard saw Nick, he turned and began to make his way across one of the support timbers. Immediately Nick realized his intentions. The building next door was so close that it would require a three-foot leap at most. All Follard had to do was launch himself from one of the gaping window-holes, and he could escape to the adjoining rooftop.

Gamely Nick followed him, steeling himself to ignore the yawning void beneath the timber. Placing his feet carefully, he pursued Follard's retreating form, gaining confidence as he passed the halfway-mark on the beam. However, just as he was about to reach the end, an ominous crack pierced the silence, and he felt the beam give way beneath him. His weight had been too much for the corroded wood.

With a curse, Nick launched himself toward the next timber, and somehow caught it on his descent. Blindly he clutched at the beam and wrapped his arms around it. A shower of broken timber and brittle planks fell with a thunderous sound, while a stinging rain of dust and powdered wood made Nick's eyes blur. Gasping, he fought to lift himself atop the timber, but a sudden numbing blow to his back nearly caused him to fall. Nick grunted in mingled surprise and pain, and looked into Follard's triumphant face above him.

An evil grin split the bastard's narrow face. "I'll send you to hell, Gentry," he said, venturing farther out onto the beam. He stomped on Nick's hand with his booted foot. The bones in Nick's fingers cracked, drawing a growl of agony from his throat.

Follard laughed in manic glee. "One," he cried. "Two." He stomped again, the crushing force of his foot causing a brilliant burst of pain to shoot up Nick's arm. Follard's boot lifted once more as he prepared for the coup de grace.

"Three," Nick gasped and grabbed at Follard's ankle, jerking him off-balance.

Letting out a shrill scream, Follard toppled from the beam, his body falling two stories to hit the bottom floor with fatal force.

Nick didn't dare look down. Desperately he focused his attention on pulling himself onto the beam. Unfortunately his strength had been depleted, and his left hand was crippled. Writhing like a worm on a hook, he arched helplessly over the fatal drop.

Incredulously, he realized that he was going to die.

The note trembled in Lottie's hand as she read it again.

Lottie, Please help me. Mama says that Lord Radnor is coming to take me away. I do not want to go anywhere with him, but she and Papa say I must. They have locked me in my room until he comes. I pray you will not let this happen, Lottie, as you are my only hope.

Your loving sister, Ellie A village boy had brought the tear-stained letter not long after Nick had left for the day. The boy claimed that Ellie had bid him to come to her bedroom window and given him the message. "She said if I brought it to ye, I'd get an 'alf crown," he said, shifting his weight uneasily, as if he suspected that the promise would not be honored.

Lottie had gratified the boy by giving him a half sovereign instead, and then sent him to the kitchen with Mrs. Trench for a hot meal. Pacing around the entrance hall, she gnawed frantically on her knuckle as she wondered what to do. She had no way of knowing when Nick would return home. But if she waited too long, Radnor might have already fetched Ellie.

The thought filled her with such distress that Lottie clenched her fists and uttered a cry of outrage. Her parents, allowing Radnor to come take poor innocent Ellie...as if she were an animal to be traded. "She's only sixteen," she said aloud, her face hot with the blood of anger. "How can they? How could they possibly live with themselves?"

And there had been no mention of marriage in the note, which could only lead Lottie to believe that her parents were virtually prostituting Ellie for their own benefit. The realization made her ill.

No, she could not wait for Nick. She would go and collect Ellie herself, before Radnor came. In fact, Lottie was furious with herself for not already having done so. But who could have predicted that Radnor would have wanted Ellie, or that her parents would have given her to him like this?

"Harriet," she called out sharply, striding to the nearest bellpull and tugging it frantically. "Harriet!"

The dark-haired maid appeared at once, having run so fast that her spectacles were a bit askew. "Milady?"

"Fetch my traveling coat and bonnet." Pausing, Lottie considered the footmen in Nick's employ, and decided that Daniel was the largest and most capable man to help her in his absence. "Tell Daniel that he is to accompany me on an errand. I want the carriage to be readied immediately."

"Yes, Lady Sydney!" Harriet rushed to obey, seeming infected by Lottie's urgency.

In less than a minute, Daniel appeared, his tall form clad in black livery. He was a good-natured, robust young man with dark brown hair and sherry-colored eyes. "My lady," he said, making an impeccable bow and waiting for her instructions.

Receiving her bonnet from Harriet, Lottie tied it deftly beneath her chin. "Daniel, we are going to my parents' home to fetch my younger sister. I have no doubt that my family will offer strong objections. There is even a possibility of a physical altercation...and while I don't want anyone to be hurt, we must bring my sister back here with us. I trust that I may depend on you?"

He understood what she was asking. "Naturally, my lady."

She smiled slightly, her face pale. "Thank you."

The carriage was prepared in record time, and Lottie clutched the balled-up note in her fist as the vehicle rolled swiftly away from Betterton Street. She tried to make herself think clearly, to understand what was happening.

What did Radnor want with her sister? In the years that Lottie had known him, he had barely seemed to notice Ellie's existence, except to make disparaging comments-that Ellie was plump, simpleminded, unrefined. Why choose her, of all women, to make his mistress? Perhaps because Radnor knew that it was the worst way to hurt Lottie. He knew that she could never be content in her marriage to Nick knowing that her happiness had been purchased at the price of her sister's.

Seething with fear and anger, Lottie twisted her hands in her skirts.

It took only a quarter-hour to reach her parents' home, but to Lottie the wait was unbearable. When they arrived at the street of Tudor houses and Lord Radnor's carriage was nowhere in sight, Lottie allowed herself to feel a glimmer of hope. Perhaps she was not too late.

The vehicle halted, and Daniel helped her down. His calm face helped to steady her frayed nerves as she stepped to the pavement and allowed him to accompany her to the house. The front yard was vacant, her brothers and sisters strangely absent.

At Lottie's nod, Daniel used his fist to knock firmly on the door, alerting the occupants of the house to their arrival. Soon the door was opened by a maid.

"Miss 'Oward," the maid said uneasily, her eyes wide in her freckled face.

"I am Lady Sydney now," Lottie replied and glanced at the footman. "You may wait out here, Daniel. I will call for you if your assistance is needed."

"Yes, milady."

Entering the house, Lottie saw her parents standing in the doorway of one of the receiving rooms...her mother, looking pinched and determined, her father hardly able to lift his gaze from the ground. The signs of their guilt fanned her outrage into quiet fury. "Where is Ellie?" she demanded without preamble.

Her mother stared at her without emotion. "That is not your concern, Charlotte. As I made clear during your last visit, you are not welcome here. You cut yourself off from the family with your selfish actions."

A bitter reply rose to Lottie's lips, but before she could utter a word, she heard a determined thumping sound from the back of the house. "Lottie!" came her sister's muffled voice. "Lottie, I'm here! Don't leave me!"

"I'm coming," Lottie called and shot her parents a disbelieving gaze. "Shame on you," she said softly, each word an indictment. "You planned to give her to Radnor, knowing that would ruin any chance for her to have a decent life. How can you live with yourselves?"

Ignoring her mother's vehement outcry, Lottie strode to Ellie's bedroom and turned the key that had been left in the lock.

Ellie burst from the room with a flurry of grateful sobs, throwing herself on Lottie. Her brown hair was matted and tangled. "I knew you'd help me," she gasped, blotting her wet cheeks on Lottie's shoulders. "I knew it. Lottie, take me away at once. He's coming. He'll be here any minute."

Hugging the sobbing girl, Lottie rubbed her back and murmured quietly. "I will always come when you need me, Ellie. Go collect your things, and I'll take you home with me."

The girl shook her head vehemently. "There's no time, we must gonow ."

"All right." Keeping her arm around Ellie, Lottie walked with her back to the front of the house. "You can tell me everything once we're on our way."

"Lottie," Ellie continued to sob, "it's been so dreadful, so very-"

The girl stopped with a half-scream as they neared the entrance and saw the thin, austere form of Arthur, Lord Radnor, standing with their parents. He must have arrived the moment after she had. Lottie showed no emotion, but her heart thundered in her chest as she stared into his calculating dark eyes. She tightened her arm around Ellie's shoulders and spoke with a coolness she was far from feeling.

"I won't let you have her, Lord Radnor."

"Sydney!" Nick heard Sayer's loud cry from somewhere below. "Don't let go!"

"Not...planning to," Nick muttered, even as his blood-soaked fingers slipped on the rotting timber.

There was a dull roar in his ears. His arms felt numb, and his body was racked with excruciating pain. Strangely, his thoughts became calm and clear as he realized that Sayer wasn't going to reach him in time.

He didn't want to die. It was ironic, that had he been in this situation a few months ago, he might not have cared.A life short but merry...that was all he had ever expected. He wouldn't have thought to ask for more.

But that was before he'd found Lottie. He wanted time with her. He wanted to hold her again. He wanted to tell her how much he loved her, when he had never thought to feel love for anyone. And he wanted to take care of her. To think that he would no longer be able to watch over her...that she would be unprotected, vulnerable...his fingers slipped a bit more, and he gasped. Shutting his eyes, he clung hard to the beam, knowing that every second he held on was another chance of seeing her again. Demons ripped at his side with white-hot saws, tearing flesh and muscle, making sweat pop out on his face and drip down his neck in salty rivulets.

Lottie, he thought in fear and agony. There was so much he finally understood, now that it was too late. The thought of her would be the last of his life, her name the final sound his lips would make.Lottie...

Suddenly there was a brutal squeezing pressure on his wrist, as if an iron clamp had fastened around it.

"I have you." Sayer's steady voice cut through the clamor of his thoughts. Sayer was on the beam with him, despite the warning groans of the decomposing timber. Nick wanted to tell him to leave him, that the structure wouldn't bear their combined weight, but he couldn't summon the breath. "You'll have to trust me, Sydney," Sayer continued. "Let go with your other hand, and I'll pull you up."

Nick's every instinct rebelled at the suggestion. To release his grip, and hang suspended, depending entirely on someone else's strength...

"No choice," Sayer said through clenched teeth. "Let go, damn it, and let me help you.Now ."

Nick made himself release his grip on the timber. He swung free for one terrifying moment. He felt Sayer's grip tighten to a crushing vise and a mighty tug upward as the runner hauled him just far enough to balance his weight on top of the crackling wood. "Move forward," Sayer muttered, retaining his hold on Nick's arm, and together they maneuvered away from the perilous fall. When they had both retreated from the beam and found the safety of some relatively sound planking, they collapsed side by side, gasping violently.

"Damn," Sayer rasped when he had sufficient breath to speak, "you're a heavy bastard, Sydney."

Disoriented, his body racked with pain, Nick tried to make himself comprehend that he was still alive. He drew his sleeve over his sweat-soaked brow and found that his arm was cramping and shaking, the abused muscles going berserk.

Sayer sat up and regarded him with clear anxiety. "It looks like you've strained some muscles. And your hand looks like it's been pushed through a sieve."

But he was alive. It was too miraculous to believe. Nick had gotten a reprieve he didn't deserve, and by all that was holy, he was going to take advantage of it. As he thought of Lottie, he was seized with dark longing.

"Sayer," he managed to say hoarsely, "I've just decided something."

"Oh?"

"From now on, you'll have to find your own fucking way around Fleet Ditch."

Sayer grinned suddenly, seeming to understand the reasons behind his vehemence. "I suppose you think you're too good for this place, now that you're a viscount. I knew it was just a matter of time before you started putting on airs."

Lord Radnor was clearly astonished to see Lottie at her family's home. His hard, black gaze moved from her face to Ellie's, comparing the two of them, cataloging the differences. When he looked back at Lottie, his face was taut with a mixture of hatred and longing.

"You have no right to interfere," he said.

"My sister is an innocent young girl who has done nothing to you," Lottie flared. "She doesn't deserve to suffer because of my actions. Leave her alone!"

"I've invested twelve years of my life in you," Radnor said between clenched teeth, taking a step forward. "And I will be repaid for those years one way or another."

Lottie glanced incredulously at her parents. "You can't truly mean to give her to him! How can you have slipped so far beyond decency? My husband said that he would take care of you and assume your debts-"

"Ellie will have a better life this way," her father mumbled. "Lord Radnor will provide well for her-"

"You don't mind the fact that he intends to make her his mistress?" Lottie glared at them all, while Ellie cowered behind her and sobbed against her back. "Well, I won't have it! I'm leaving now, and taking Ellie with me-and if anyone dares to lay a finger on us, he will answer to Lord Sydney."

The mention of Nick seemed to infuriate Lord Radnor. "How dare you? You have cheated, betrayed, and insulted me beyond all bearing, and now you mean to deprive me of the one recompense I ask for."

"You don't want Ellie," Lottie said, staring at him steadily. "You want to strike back at me. To punish me for marrying someone else."

"Yes," Radnor exploded fiercely, seeming to lose all self-control. "Yes, I want to punish you. I raised you up from the mud, and you have brought yourself low again. You have corrupted yourself, and in doing so, you have deprived me of the only thing I have ever desired." He came to her in a few aggressive strides. "Every night I lie abed imagining you with that swine," he shouted into her face. "How could you choose that loathsome animal over me? The filthiest, most debauched man on-"

Lottie drew back her hand and struck him hard, her palm smacking the side of his face with numbing force. "You aren't fit to speak his name!"

Their gazes locked, and Lottie saw the last remnants of sanity disappear from Radnor's eyes. He reached out for her, his hands closing around her like a hawk's talons, and he jerked her off her feet until she fell against him. Behind her, Ellie gave a fearful shriek.

Lottie's parents appeared too stunned to move as Lord Radnor dragged her from the house. Caught fast in his grip, Lottie stumbled and tripped down the front steps. Radnor shouted something to his footmen, while she fought and twisted in Radnor's arms, until he cuffed the side of her head, landing a painful blow on her ear. Lottie reared and shook her head to clear a shower of brilliant sparks. Her gaze found Daniel, who had been beset by Radnor's footmen. Despite Daniel's size, he was no match for two of them.

"My lady," Daniel cried, and reeled backward as a heavy fist smashed into his face.

Radnor sank his hand into Lottie's hair and tangled his fingers tightly in the pinned-up locks. Locking his other arm around her neck, he forced her to go with him to his carriage.

"See here, Radnor-" came her father's anxious voice. "We've said you can have Ellie. Release Lottie, and we'll-"

"Thisis what I want," Lord Radnor raged, dragging Lottie with his forearm clamped around her throat, making her choke and gag as she was deprived of air. "No more bargains. No substitutes. I will have Charlotte and be damned to all of you!"

Lottie clawed frantically at the crushing vise of his arm, her lungs feeling as if they would burst. She couldn't breathe...she needed air...black and red streaks blurred her vision, and she felt herself go limp in Radnor's punishing embrace.