He Said Yes Page 4

  Nothing more was said until the driver halted the carriage in front of the Clerkenwell Detention House. The sky had turned dark with rain and the late hour. It was approaching eight o'clock. Marshall followed the magistrate inside. He was shown into a small anteroom and told to wait.

  Pacing the square room, Marshall inhaled a deep breath of relief and almost gagged on the stench that came with it. He stopped pacing and stared out the barred window in­stead. Beyond the small front courtyard the quiet lamplit street glowed with rain. His breath formed faint wisps of vapor in the cold evening air.

  Reviewing his thoughts, Marshall felt more than a pro­found sympathy for Evelyn Dennsworth, not only because she'd been hastily accused of a crime, but because she ap­peared to be alone in the world. She had no relatives in the city, no one upon whom she could call for aid or so she had told the bailiff who had checked her into Clerkenwell. Who had in turn passed the information along to Druggs when he'd told him where the police magistrate could be found.

  But she had him now.

  Marshall had no idea how he was going to persuade Evelyn into his arms. He certainly didn't want her surrender­ing to him out of gratitude, although he knew most men would use the circumstances to bring about just that thing. Regardless of his motive, his pride wouldn't let him take ad­vantage of the situation. When the time came, and he in­tended to make sure it did Evelyn would come to him of her own free will.

  Three

  Evelyn tried to view her surroundings with cold detach­ment, as if she were looking at a stranger locked inside a damp stone cage no bigger than a pantry. Beneath her soiled clothing, her skin was cold from the clammy sweat of fear that had her chilled to the bone. She was tired and hungry, but she refused to sit down on the lice-infested straw mat­tress. Refusing to panic, she paced back and forth, hoping against hope that the marquis hadn't lied to her, that he would find some way to free her before she lost the strength to fight the unbelievable events that had her behind bars.

  In her mind, Evelyn knew if she surrendered to the fear, it would defeat her.

  The last few hours had been terrifying, the day the most dreadful of her life. When the constable had arrived at the dress shop with the warrant, she'd stared speechlessly at him, unable to believe that anyone could accuse her of theft without the slightest shred of evidence. She'd stood numbly by while he'd searched the shop with Madame La Roschelle's help. Willingly handing over her apron, she'd again watched as he'd dumped its contents onto one of the tables and sorted through the pins and chalk. Nothing had been found of course. She wasn't a thief, nor had she coveted Lady Monfrey's brooch.

  Evelyn had suffered having Lady Winnifred Bedford watching the entire time, feeling a private shame because she was the sister of the marquis. Knowing his sister would surely tell Lord Waltham the sordid details of the afternoon, Evelyn had borne the humiliation in resigned silence until the constable had informed her that she was under arrest.

  Evelyn clamped her eyes shut at the memory of the terri­ble ride through the streets, caged for all to see as the wagon rolled awkwardly through the city. The afternoon sun had been warm on her face, but her heart had felt lifeless. The only thing that had kept her from losing her sanity altogether was the marquis. He had paid the constable to see that she wasn't mistreated and he'd promised her that he would come to her aid.

  Dear God, make it soon, Evelyn prayed. The walls seemed to be pressing in on her, suffocating the hope from her heart. The marquis's face was a memory. The prison was reality. Cold and threatening and fearful.

  The scraping sound of a metal key being turned in a rusty lock startled Evelyn out of her self-pity. She turned toward the door, not knowing what to expect.

  "Yer'll be steppin' out, miss," the guard said.

  Evelyn froze in place. What did the man want with her? His gaze was as cold as the night air coming through the barred window.

  "Yer've a visitor," he clarified impatiently.

  A visitor! Her heart began to pound. It had to be the mar­quis. No one else would bother coming to see her, not even Madame La Roschelle. Whatever the future held Evelyn knew she'd find no sympathy among the few people she knew in the city.

  Evelyn walked out of the cell and into the dim corridor of the jail. Heavy doors, like the one on her own cell, lined the cold hallway. They were all closed and locked, their occu­pants unable to see anything but their own misery.

  "This way," the guard said, closing the door but not lock­ing it this time.

  Evelyn followed him, her legs so weak she all but stag­gered down the hall. She could hear muffled voices, men talking and laughing crudely, but she saw no one until they reached the room where the constable had transferred her into the prison's custody. She stepped inside to find a reed-thin man dressed in coarse brown wool. He looked at her for a long moment before introducing himself as Henry Rivenhall, the police magistrate.

  "Am I to be offered an opportunity to defend myself?" she asked shakily.

  "In due time, Miss Dennsworth," he replied dryly. "Until then, I've been persuaded to give you over to Lord Waltham. He'll be seeing to your comforts, until you're called to stand before the bench."

  "I'm not sure I understand" Evelyn said her mind racing right along with her heart.

  The magistrate gave her a strange smile, then shook his head. "Lord Waltham will be responsible for you until such time as you're summoned to answer the charges against you," the magistrate told her. His gaze became more pointed as he continued. "If you try to run away, his lordship will be held accountable. He's a powerful man. And a generous one to be taking on the burden of seeing to your welfare. I'd be appreciative if I were you."

  There was an insinuation in his words that Evelyn heard but was too stunned to decipher at the moment. The marquis had kept his promise. He'd come for her.

  "The guard will take you to Lord Waltham," Rivenhall in­formed her.

  She turned to find another guard standing in the doorway. His deep-set eyes evaluated her as if she'd just been put on the auction block. The gaze made her feel dirty, but Evelyn refused to lower her head and leave the room as though she were ashamed.

  "This way," the guard said.

  Evelyn followed him, acutely aware that she was walking toward freedom. There were no cells in this section of the prison, although she could make out several offices, closed for the night, and what appeared to be an infirmary. The door was ajar, and she could see several people lying on narrow cots. Their gaunt bodies were draped in thin wool blankets that desperately needed washing. One poor man was shiver­ing so violently she could see the cot moving as the chilis raked his body.

  Suddenly the guard stopped and turned around to face her. "In there," he said, nodding in the direction of yet an­other closed door.

  Her hand was shaking so badly, Evelyn could barely turn the doorknob. When she finally managed to open it, she stepped into another cold, bare room. But this time she found a friendly face. The marquis was standing in front of the window. The moment his dark eyes settled on her, Evelyn felt the heat of his gaze. Such an intangible thing, yet it warmed her both inside and out.

  "Miss Dennsworth," he said, moving away from the drafty window and toward her.

  Her face and hands were streaked with dirt, her eyes glis­tening with unshed tears, but still she stood as regally as a queen, her shoulders straight, her body as gracefully propor­tioned as Marshall had remembered it. He wanted to scoop her into his arms and carry her away to safety, to tell her that she had no more fears, but he didn't. She was teetering on the brink of exhaustion. He needed to get her somewhere clean and warm as quickly as possible.

  "My lord," she managed knowing that if she dipped into a curtsey, she'd fall flat on her face. Her body couldn't fight the shock any longer. She felt herself beginning to tremble. "Thank you."

  The words were whispered but Marshall heard them and smiled. The brief expression was quickly replaced with one of concern. "You're shivering," he said. "Come, let's
be rid of this place. I have a carriage waiting."

  Evelyn tried to speak, to thank him more eloquently, but she ended up biting her lower lip to lessen its trembling. There was so much she wanted to say, but nervous fatigue convinced her to accept his generosity for the moment. There would be time to thank him later.

  The night was chilly, but it was a clean chill, one brought on by a brisk wind instead of fear and uncertainty. The rain had stopped the sky pitch black, the moon covered by clouds that promised more wet weather. The milky haze of the street-lamps outlined the carriage waiting just beyond the iron gates. Another guard this one almost as thin as the magistrate, stuck a large key into the last of the locks and passed them through.

  "Hurry, inside with you," Marshall said motioning for his driver to stay atop the carriage as he opened the door and ushered Evelyn inside.

  Once she was seated he lifted the lid of a small compart­ment and pulled out a lap robe. He draped it over her shoul­ders, being careful not to touch her any more than necessary. Although the desire he had felt the first time he'd looked at her was still burning brightly, it was overshadowed by a deeper concern for her physical well-being. "Try to rest," he encouraged her before closing the door.

  "Where to, milord?" his driver asked as the marquis took a step back from the carriage.

  Marshall racked his brain for a moment, then remember­ing a lodging house in Southwark that had once been a ren­dezvous for a more youthful liaison, he gave the driver the address. The inn was on the south side of the city. It was clean and well managed, and the owner was a discreet woman in her fifties. Marshall corrected himself as he opened the carriage door and climbed inside. The proprietor, a widow by the name of Reardon, would be closer to sixty now, if she was still alive. He hadn't frequented the lodgings for many years. Regardless, the time it would take to reach the establishment would offer him the opportunity to sort things out.

  The moment Marshall was seated the carriage began to move. The streetlamp offered just enough light to see the ap­prehension on Evelyn's face. Once he closed the door, they were separated by darkness and a silence that lingered for several minutes as the carriage rattled over the cobblestone streets on its way across the Thames.

  There was a flask of brandy in the compartment where the lap robe had been stored and for a moment Marshall considered offering Evelyn a drink. He decided against it after realizing that she probably hadn't eaten for hours. Whiskey on an empty stomach was the last thing she needed. He wished he could say the same thing for himself. At the moment, a stout drink would be just the thing. There was no reason for him to be nervous, yet he was. His insides were trembling almost as badly as Evelyn's shoulders before he'd draped the blanket around her.

  "Where are you taking me?" she asked as the carriage weaved through the evening traffic of hansom cabs and pri­vate carriages, carrying people to the theater or one of the private parties that filled the London schedule this time of year.

  "Is there someplace you can go?" he countered ready to give the driver new directions if she preferred to return to her own home.

  Evelyn shook her head then realized he might not be able to see the movement. The curtains were drawn over the win­dows, and it was very dark inside the carriage. Dark but peaceful. "No. At least, I don't think so. My wages include a room above Madame's shop. I. . . I'm not sure she would want me to return."

  "Just as well," he replied. "I would think Bond Street would be the last place you'd want to be tonight."

  Silence reigned for another few minutes. Evelyn was feeling somewhat warmer now. The lap robe was of heavy wool, and it smelled clean, not like the rag that had been tossed over the straw mattress in the cell. Thinking about the detention house sent another chill through her, and she drew the corners of the small blanket close. "Then, where?" she asked afraid to think of more than this night. Tomorrow would be soon enough to confront the uncertainty of her fu­ture.

  "An inn," the marquis told her. "A comfortable place where you can have a good meal and rest for a while." "I. . . I can't. . . I mean—"

  "Don't worry," Marshall said realizing she was about to mention the cost of a night's shelter and a meal. "I want you to forget what happened today. Wipe it from your mind. You'll not be returning to Clerkenwell, or any place like it."

  Hearing the surety in his voice, the confidence that al­lowed him to decree the future, brought tears to her eyes. They spilled down her face. She cried silently for a moment, then smiled hoping he could see the small amount of grati­tude she was able express. Although she was feeling much warmer, her wits were still numb.

  Marshall didn't see Evelyn smile, but he could feel her presence. The hem of her skirt brushed against his trouser leg as the carriage swung around the corner and approached Blackfrair's Bridge. He reached for the cloth grip to steady himself as the carriage moved on at a brisk pace. The cur­tains swayed letting in the light from the triple-globed lamp­posts at the end of the bridge. He saw the tears streaming down her face and grasped the cloth handle more fiercely.

  The urge to pull her into his arms was so strong he silently cursed the fact that they still had several miles to travel be­fore he could offer her more than a woolen blanket.

  "I understand you have no family in the city," Marshall said. "Where are you from?"

  "Sussex," she told him.

  When she offered no other information, Marshall re­lented to the unpleasantness of the situation and allowed her to ride in silence. There would be time to talk later. The worst was over. She was in his custody, and he'd see that she never regretted it.

  Evelyn could feel his gaze in the darkness. He was sitting opposite her, assessing her, probably mentally weighing the dreadful mess she'd gotten herself into because she had en­deavored to be polite to a customer.

  "Why?" Evelyn asked before she could think better of it.

  "We will talk after you've rested." A carriage in the mid­dle of a busy London street wasn't the place to discuss his plans. Nor was this the best of times. He wanted Evelyn re­laxed and comfortable before he approached her on a more intimate level. As things stood now, he'd be lucky to get her inside the inn before she collapsed.

  Evelyn gave in to the exhaustion and leaned back against the seat, letting the swaying rhythm of the carriage lull her into a dreamy state where her thoughts strayed to the man sitting across from her. The marquis was exactly what a well-bred gentleman should be. Educated wealthy, influen­tial, dressed by the best tailors on Savile Row, and well aware that no one would expect him to be doing what he was doing.

  Being in the dark with him, with nothing more than a sliver of light creeping into the carriage whenever they passed a lamppost, seemed strangely intimate. The carriage smelled of old leather and expensive cologne, of cigar smoke and wool dampened by the recent rain. Evelyn hoped the scent of the prison wasn't clinging to her clothes in the same way. Her skirt was smeared with whatever had been caked on the wagon bed. The blouse she'd ironed with crisp perfection that very morning was soiled and unsalvageable. Fortunately, the only thing she could smell about her own person was the blanket now draped snugly around her shoul­ders. It wasn't an unpleasant odor, so she relaxed.

  Fog curled around the carriage wheels when it finally came to a stop. Marshall pulled back the curtain and looked outside. The inn was just as he'd remembered it, a large stone and shingled structure with a soot-blackened chimney. Smoke curled lazily upward its misty grayness blending into the night. "Stay here until I've arranged for a room," he said.

  Evelyn nodded as the carriage swayed under the driver's shifting weight. An instant later the door was opened and the marquis stepped down.

  Marshall smiled as he opened the front door of the inn. Nothing had changed. The front room was large and com­fortable, a fire blazing on the hearth, the aroma of baked bread and warm beer thick in the air. The floor was streaked with mud from the patrons who had come inside to get away from the weather, but the rest was as clean as any traveling lodge
he'd ever seen and cleaner than most. A gangly young lad who had outgrown his jacket was wiping down the empty tables while two locals, sitting near the fire, relaxed with an evening ale. A woman whom he recognized as the Widow Reardon came through the baize door that led to the kitchen.

  "What can I do fer your lordship?" she asked.

  Marshall wasn't sure if the widow remembered him or the number of times he'd rented a room from her in his randy youth, but he suspected she did. There was a gleam of recog­nition in her eyes, though she said nothing to acknowledge him directly.

  "I would like accommodations," he told her. "For two, perhaps three days."

  "I 'ave a nice set of rooms upstairs, milord."

  She quoted him a price that included meals, then asked if he'd be needing anything from the kitchen at this late hour.

  "Yes. Something nourishing, but not too heavy," he told her. "And water for a hot bath."

  "Aye, milord I 'ave me boy set the water to boilin'."

  "Very good" Marshall said adding a fresh pot of tea to his list of immediate needs.

  He returned to the carriage for Evelyn. One look at her told him all he needed to know about her current condition. Instead of handing her down from the carriage, he reached inside and scooped her into his arms.

  Evelyn gasped with surprise at finding herself being car­ried like a child. "I can walk," she insisted.

  "Nonsense," Marshall said as he strode toward the inn. Since he'd been aching to touch her for the last hour, he was more than content to have her cradled against his chest. Halfway between the carriage and the inn, she relented with a soft sigh and rested her head in the curve of his shoulder.

  "Is the lady feelin' poorly?" the widow asked when Marshall entered the inn with Evelyn in his arms.

  "Just tired." He headed for the staircase. "Which door?" he asked over his shoulder.

  "The last one on yer right, milord. I'll be up with tea as soon as the kettle's hot."

  Evelyn kept her eyes closed as the marquis marched up the stairs. She really should protest, but it felt so good so ut­terly wonderful, to have his strength supporting her. The clink of his boot heels on the wooden floor matched her heartbeat as he strode down the corridor, not stopping until he reached the appropriate door. Then, with only the slight­est shifting of her weight in his arms, he reached out, opened the door, and stepped inside.