He Said Yes Page 3

  She clutched her bruised wrist to her chest the moment it was freed then looked at the marquis. He gave her a quick, reassuring smile before moving toward the shop where he began to exchange words with Madame. Evelyn's heart was pounding so hard her chest hurt. Her eyes stung from crying. She closed them, too ashamed to look around and meet the gawking eyes of the people who were quickly forming an in­quisitive crowd around the shop. She'd never be allowed to work on Bond Street again, no matter the outcome of this vile misunderstanding. And it was a misunderstanding. She had admired Lady Monfrey's brooch, more for courtesy's sake than because the gaudy piece of jewelry appealed to her.

  Hoping against hope that the marquis might be able to find some solution, Evelyn kept her eyes on him instead of the jail wagon.

  "Would you care to explain this?" Marshall asked after telling Winnifred to stay inside.

  Madame La Roschelle waved a fan frantically in front of her face, appearing to need the air before she fainted dead away. "Lady Monfrey's brooch. She was wearing it when she came for her fitting. Upon returning home, her ladyship found it missing. She insists, or so the constable informs me, that Evelyn had been admiring it. So much so, that she's ac­cused her of stealing it."

  "Have you searched the shop?"

  "But, of course," Madame assured him. "Top to bottom. We found nothing. What will my customers think? I'll be ru­ined if word gets out that my help is unreliable."

  Marshall didn't pause to ask if Madame La Roschelle as­sumed the worst of Evelyn. It was easy to see that she was more concerned about her shop's fashionable reputation than a young woman's innocence or guilt. The street was full of shoppers, most of them staring curiously at the shop girl who was about to be carted off to jail. The marquis wasn't a stranger to the people who frequented the elite Bond Street, but he didn't see anyone he recognized.

  "Marshall," Winnie's voice came from inside. "I want to go home now, if you please."

  "A few moments longer," Marshall said, using a reassur­ing tone. "I want a word with the constable first."

  "Whatever for?" his sister insisted as she moved to stand behind Madame La Roschelle.

  "Common courtesy and compassion," Marshall replied. "You may wait in the carriage if it makes you feel more at ease. Please excuse us, Madame."

  The Frenchwoman stepped aside, upset by the possibility of losing both Lady Monfrey and Lady Winnifred as cus­tomers.

  Glancing over his shoulder to make sure the constable hadn't herded Evelyn inside the jail wagon behind his back, Marshall escorted his sister to their waiting carriage. He set­tled her inside, insisting that she keep the door closed and the curtains drawn. "I'll only be a moment," he told her. "Then right home, I promise."

  He marched back to where the constable was growing impatient and Evelyn was growing pale. She didn't say a word, just stared at him with dazed eyes that told him all he needed to know. She hadn't stolen anything. There was no guilt in her gaze, only the shocked horror of a young woman being accused of a crime she hadn't committed. Marshall sensed her fear and knew he was temporarily incapable of abolishing it. His rank offered some influence, but not enough to instantaneously overturn a magistrate's warrant.

  He stared into Evelyn's eyes for a long moment, willing her to see what he couldn't say out loud, that he would help her. Her hair was in disarray, making her look younger. Some­time during the last two hours she'd removed her apron, probably so the constable or Madame La Roschelle could search the pockets. Her black skirt was streaked with dirt as if she'd been crawling around on the floor, looking for the brooch, hoping to prove that the charge against her was in­valid.

  "Are you all right?" he asked taking a step toward her. It was a ridiculous question, but he needed to express his con­cern in some way

  "No," she whispered, her voice so faint he had to strain to hear it. "I. . . I'm innocent."

  "Trust me," he said keeping his back to the constable and his voice pitched low so only she could hear it. "Do as they ask until I can come to you."

  She blinked then stared at him unbelievingly.

  "I promise you that I will see the matter dealt with, but I can't do anything at this very moment. Do you understand? You will have to tolerate the next few hours the best you can." He hated having to say it. Damn the circumstances. If he didn't have Winnifred waiting in the carriage, he might be able to convince the constable to let him escort Evelyn to the detention house. "It won't be more than a few hours. Can you bear it that long?"

  Evelyn nodded, too numb to do anything else. All she could think about was being hauled away like some rogue animal.

  "What magistrate will hear her plea?" Marshall turned to question the constable.

  "Rivenhall. 'E sits his bench promptly every morning," the officer informed him. "As fair as any, I wager."

  The magistrate's fairness didn't reassure Marshall. Lord Monfrey was a powerful man. If his wife persisted in accus­ing Evelyn of theft, the nobleman could put that power to use, and Evelyn's fate would be sealed. He had to reach the magistrate first.

  "I 'ave to take her in, milord" the constable said. "Unless you can prove she didn't pilfer the brooch."

  Sadly, Marshall shook his head. The only thing he could prove was his growing concern about Evelyn's safety until he could find Rivenhall and convince the man to release her into his custody. He didn't stop to consider the consequences of what he was about to do; if money could free her, then he'd gladly grease the magistrate's palm with silver.

  He looked at the wagon. The wooden floor had been washed by dumping buckets of water onto if, but without the use of a scrub brash and broom, the washing had done noth­ing more than turn what had been dried sewage into a pasty mass of God knew what. The stench was unbearable. How could he ask any woman to willingly climb inside it?

  Damnation! How in the hell had the day turned into such a bloody mess?

  Helpless to do anything but watch as the constable reached for Evelyn, Marshall clenched his fists against the impulse to knock the man aside and swish her away to safety.

  She began to cry, dragging her feet and struggling to get away from the law officer, the foul-smelling wagon, and its obvious destination.

  It was too much for Marshall to take. He reached out, clasping his hand over the constable's upper arm. "I'll get her to go peacefully."

  Marshall reached inside his jacket. His back was to the crowd so only the constable and Evelyn could see what he was doing.

  The stout officer released his prisoner and reached for the money the finely dressed gent was offering him.

  "This is to make sure the lady is treated with courtesy and respect," Marshall said firmly. "Do I make myself clear?"

  "Aye, milord. She'll come to no harm during my watch."

  "She'll come to no harm at all," Marshall said with a threatening voice. "I am the Marquis of Waltham, and I assure you that I will see any recompense for Miss Dennsworth's suffering delivered directly upon your balding head. Now, where precisely are you taking her?"

  "Clerkenwell Close," the constable said keeping his voice low and respectful.

  Marshall knew where the prison was located. The condi­tions were appalling, the prisoners often kept in solitary con­finement for the pettiest of crimes. He swallowed the bile that rose in his throat at the thought of his sweet Evelyn being exposed to the hellish conditions for even a few short hours.

  When she had become his Evelyn, Marshall wasn't pre­cisely certain. What he was certain of was his resolve to see her cleared of the charge of theft and set free. He looked at her, his hands aching to comfort her, his body tight with anger that he could do nothing more than he'd already done.

  Her eyes had turned into blue pools, glistening with tears. Like most men, he found it hard to deal with womanly emo­tions, but this time he understood them all too well. She was afraid of the same thing he was, that once she entered the jail wagon, it would be years before she gained her freedom.

  "Evelyn."

  T
he sound of her name being spoken so tenderly by the marquis was Evelyn's undoing. Shivers of fear raked her body, making it tremble uncontrollably. She slumped, her legs unable to support her any longer. The maddening events of the last hour began to swirl around in her head as the shop windows fronting Bond Street blurred into a black haze.

  Marshall caught her around the waist before she fell to the street. She lay limp against his side. He loathed the thought of having to release her. The warm rush of her breath as he swept her into his arms steeled his resolve to see her placed under his custody as quickly as possible. He used the brief moment to study her features more closely. Her lashes were thick and dark, several shades darker than her hair. Her skin was clear and understandably pale, her breath­ing slow and easy now that her mind had blocked out the fear of the future. Her mouth was parted her lips a tempting shade of pink.

  He longed to kiss her, to taste but a sampling of her sweet mouth, but he didn't dare. People were watching, and he had no excuse for the chivalry he had already displayed. Society demanded he be a gentleman, but it was a rarity for a man of his rank to become entangled in a commoner's fate.

  "I'll take her," the constable said. "She'll be no trouble now."

  Hating it, but having no recourse, Marshall allowed the burly officer to take charge. He cringed with unexplainable guilt as the man carried Evelyn toward the wagon, then placed her inside on the grimy floor. The cage door closed with a menacing creak of rusty hinges.

  Adding to his guilt, Evelyn began to stir, her senses brought to life by the unbearable stench that surrounded her. She raised her head crying out as the constable turned the key in the lock. Climbing to her knees, she stared out from behind the bars, her blue eyes pleading with Marshall, with the world, to set her free.

  Unaware of his clenched fists, Marshall watched as the wagon rolled away from the curb. Never in his life had he felt so helpless. So angry. He was seething inside, an emo­tion he had to swallow hard to control as he turned and walked toward his waiting carriage.

  "Home, and be quick about it," Marshall told the driver. He no more than closed the door when the carriage lurched forward.

  "Are you all right?" his sister asked as he sat stiffly across from her.

  "I'm fine," he lied, unable to explain why a woman he had simply wanted to bed a few hours earlier had turned into someone much more important. "Do you think she stole the brooch?"

  "I have no way of knowing. Madame La Roschelle ar­gued with the constable in Miss Dennsworth's favor, but the man was insistent that he had no choice but to take her into custody."

  Blessedly they arrived at the town house without any de­lays. Marshall handed his sister down from the carriage, then instructed the driver to return to the carriage house but to keep the horses harnessed and ready. He walked into the foyer, handing off his hat to the butler. "Find Druggs," he in­structed the servant. "Immediately."

  Saying nothing more, Marshall entered his library and shut the door. After pouring himself a stiff drink, he tried to erase the image of Evelyn's fear-stricken face from his mem­ory. It was impossible. No matter how much two sisters and a grieving stepmother compli-cated his life, he couldn't turn his back on the young woman whom he had just promised to help. Nor, did he wish to. He was a man who kept his word but more than that, his decision to take Evelyn Dennsworth as his mistress had somehow entrusted her into his care.

  It didn't make any sense, but then, nothing about the situ­ation was sane or reasonable.

  The clock in the foyer chimed four in the afternoon as Marshall walked to his desk. He sat down and unlocked the drawer where he kept the household strongbox. Once he'd returned the key to his vest pocket, he lifted the lid and counted out enough money to bribe someone at the legal ministry if the information he needed wasn't readily sup­plied to the footman he meant to dispatch. He needed to find Rivenhall. There was no way in hell he was going to leave Evelyn in Clerkenwell overnight.

  He was lighting a cigar when Druggs knocked on the door.

  "Come in," Marshall called out.

  Druggs was an unimpressive man in his late forties with thinning hair, spectacles, and a keen mind. He had worked for Marshall's father, and the new marquis had found no rea­son to replace him.

  It took less than five minutes for Marshall to tell Druggs exactly what he needed done.

  "I'll make the necessary inquiries, my lord. Discreetly, of course."

  "Of course," Marshall echoed. "Just make them quickly. I want Miss Dennsworth freed as soon as possible."

  Druggs nodded then exited the library.

  Marshall stared at the cigar smoke swirling lazily toward the ceiling, a vaulted plasterwork affair with painted roundels. He looked toward the closed library doors, thankful they would keep his family at bay for a while. He was also thankful that Winnifred had accepted no invitation for the evening. That meant he had nothing ahead of him but several long, nerve-wrenching hours in which he could get drank or address the correspondence on his desk, which he'd pushed aside that morning.

  The first appealed to him far more than the last, but drinking himself into a stupor wasn't the answer to Evelyn's current state of affairs.

  Just what the answer was, Marshall couldn't be sure until he gathered a few facts. First, would Rivenhall welcome his petition to transfer Evelyn into his hands? If not, he'd open the strongbox again and buy her freedom, although he sus­pected it would cost him a hefty sum. Then there was the problem of what he'd do with her once he had her. He'd given Druggs the task of finding suitable lodgings, but the item had been the last of a long list. Could she return to her home after the fiasco this afternoon? He certainly couldn't bring her back to Mayfair with him. As much as he'd like nothing better than to keep her within sight, and within reach, the option wasn't open to him. His stepmother and sisters were in the house, and Winnifred had witnessed Evelyn's arrest.

  The questions piled up as Marshall sipped on his brandy.

  The biggest question was why in the world had he stepped onto such a risky limb for the mere pleasure of get­ting a woman into his bed?

  The answer was as simple as it was selfish.

  He'd come to Miss Dennsworth's aid because he wanted to bed her.

  It was a good two hours, and a second brandy later, be­fore Druggs knocked on the door of the library. Marshall all but pulled the man into the room, firing questions at him be­fore the secretary had time to wipe the rain from his specta­cles.

  "Did you find Rivenhall?"

  "Yes, milord. He's currently enjoying an evening ale at an establishment called the Strangled Goose, a tavern not far from Westminster Bridge. I addressed the gentleman, per­suading him to linger over his refreshment until you could engage him in conversation."

  "Well done," Marshall said reaching for his coat. "Tell Carlow to have the carriage brought round."

  Half an hour later, Marshall walked into the alehouse. The building was divided into two parts. The bar, where the less lofty of the city consumed beer and gin, and the parlor, reserved for the more prominent customers. Druggs had de­scribed the magistrate to Marshall, so he had no problem picking the man out of the crowd that was gathering now that the day's work had ended. Rivenhall was a thin man with an overabundance of wavy brown hair and ill-fitting clothes.

  "Rivenhall."

  "Lord Waltham," Rivenhall replied.

  "I assume my secretary told you the preliminaries," Marshall began. He waved off the potboy carrying a jug of warm beer in one hand and a pitcher of cheap gin in the other.

  "Enough to know what you're thinking to do," Rivenhall said before biting into the meat pie he'd ordered to go with his ale. He chewed then swallowed the greasy fare, washing it down with a generous swig of dark beer. "Tell me, milord what do you hope to gain by taking the lady under your wing, except the obvious, of course?"

  Marshall didn't deny his intentions, nor did he defend them. "Why did you issue the warrant without an investiga­tion? You could end up eating crow wit
h your ale if the brooch turns up in Lady Monfrey's laundry."

  "Lord Monfrey penned the request himself, asking that a constable be dispatched forthwith." Rivenhall shrugged his thin shoulders. "The lady's husband is well known to the legal ministry. What else could I do?"

  Marshall didn't comment. The evening was upon them and with it the possibility of a long and dangerous night for Evelyn.

  "I understand your eldest son has an inspiration to read the law," Marshall remarked. "Would a contribution to his education persuade you to consider my petition?"

  "Ahhh, that it might. The Inner Temple has its price," Riven­hall said not at all embarrassed by the transaction. "I suppose you'll be wantin' Miss Dennsworth out of Clerkenwell this evening."

  "Within the hour," Marshall said impatiently. "Shall we go?"

  The magistrate hesitated a moment before speaking. "You will guarantee the lady's presence when the time comes, of course. She'll be required to stand. Can't brush something like this under the rug, not with Lord Monfrey being who he is."

  "Miss Dennsworth will stand," Marshall said, then added, "with council."

  Both men knew it was unlikely that Evelyn's case would come before the bench anytime in the immediate future. Most people charged with theft could expect to spend six months in prison before being called in front of a magistrate. Marshall hoped the time would be to Evelyn's advantage once he had her released. If Lady Monfrey had misplaced the brooch, then the possibility of it being found was in their favor. If it was truly lost or stolen, then the time could be put to good use in the preparation of a defense.

  "Very well, milord" Rivenhall relented with a deep sigh.

  The police magistrate looked none too happy about hav­ing to leave his meat pie and ale, but he stood nevertheless, waiting for the marquis to place the necessary coins on the stained table to pay for the meal. Once that had been done, the two men, one tall and impressively dressed the other thin as a lamppost, exited the tavern.