Lady Sophia's Lover (Bow Street Runners #2)(67)

The ferocious glitter remained in his eyes. “You were born a lady, Sophia. No one has the right to treat you like a servant.”

A weary, rueful smile pulled at her lips. “Yes, I was born a lady… and you were born to be a gentleman. But no one would mistake us for members of first society now, would they?” When he refused to respond to the comment, she continued. “I have heard terrible things about you. Or rather, about Nick Gentry.”

“Call me Nick,” he said flatly. “John Sydney no longer exists. I remember very little of my life before I was sent to the prison hulk. I don’t want to remember.” A cold grin flashed across his face. “I’m not guilty of half the things I’m accused of. But I encourage the rumors, and I never deny even the worst of them. It suits me to have an evil reputation. I want people to regard me with fear and respect. Good for business.”

“Are you saying that you haven’t stolen from people, and framed and betrayed and blackmailed—”

Gentry interrupted her with a sound that expressed pure annoyance. “I’m not a saint.”

Despite Sophia’s distress, she almost wanted to laugh at the understatement.

His eyes narrowed. “I only take advantage of people who are so dull-witted that they deserve to be badly used. Besides, I never get credit for the good I’ve done.”

“Such as?”

“I’m a damned good thief-taker. My men and I have captured almost twice as many criminals as Sir Ross and his runners.”

“People say that you sometimes manufacture evidence. That you use evil methods to force confessions that may not be true.”

“I do what needs to be done,” he said flatly. “And if the criminals I arrest are not guilty of one particular crime, they are usually guilty of at least a dozen others.”

“But why don’t you—”

“Enough,” he said shortly, standing and striding back to the sideboard. “I don’t want to talk about my work.”

Sophia watched as he poured another brandy and drank it in a few careless gulps. She could hardly believe that this truculent stranger was her brother. “Nick,” she said, testing his name on her tongue. “Why did you give me those presents? It nearly drove me mad, wondering who had sent them. And I was terrified that Sir Ross would think I was carrying on with a secret lover.”

“Sorry,” he muttered, flashing her a contrite smile. “I wanted to be a—a benefactor. To give you the things you deserve. I never meant for us to meet. But the need to see you became so strong that I couldn’t bear it any longer.”

“And that is why you approached me at Silverhill Park?”

He gave her the smile of a naughty schoolboy. “I liked the idea of doing it under Cannon’s nose. And I knew I could slip in and out of a large crowd without being caught. The masquerade made it almost too easy.”

“Was that necklace stolen?”

“Of course not,” he said indignantly. “I bought it for you.”

“But what am I to do with such a necklace? I could never wear it!”

“You will wear it,” he said. “I have a fortune, Sophia. I’m going to buy you a house somewhere… France or Italy… where you can live like a lady. I’ll give you an account so that you’ll never have to worry about money again.”

Her mouth hung open as she stared at him. “John… Nick … I don’t want to live abroad! Everything that holds value for me is here.”

“Oh?” His voice became dangerously soft. “What would keep you here?”

Chapter 14

The roar of angry demonstrators penetrated the walls of the Red Lion tavern on Threadneedle. A crowd huddled inside, necks craning for the best view of the table where Ross sat with the tailors’ and employers’ representatives. During the first hour of negotiations for imposing new wage structures, Ross had listened to grievances from both sides. As tempers were running high, Ross deduced that the debates would last through the afternoon and well into the night. Thinking momentarily of Sophia and how much he wanted to go home to her, he fought to suppress his impatience.A buxom waitress who had soaked herself in cologne water to mask other, far more pungent scents sidled up to Ross with the jug of coffee he had requested.“‘Ere you are, Sir Ross,” she purred, deliberately brushing one massive breast against his shoulder as she leaned over him. “Whot else for yer appetite, sir? Some Welsh rabbit or apple puffs?” She put her broad face next to his and said meaningfully, “Ye can ’ave anyfing ye wants, Sir Ross.”

Accustomed as he had become to such invitations during the past few years, Ross gave her a polite but cool smile. “You’re very kind, but no.”

She made a little face, pouting in disappointment. “Later, mayhap.” As she walked away, her h*ps swung like a pendulum.

One of the tailors’ representatives, a fellow named Brewer, regarded him with a sly smile. “I see what you’re about, Sir Ross. Pretend you don’t want a woman, and she’ll work all the harder to attract you, eh? You’re a canny one… I’ll wager you understand them quite well.”

Ross grinned suddenly. “There are two things a man should never do, Brewer—keep a woman waiting, and claim to understand her.”

As the tailor chuckled, Ross’s attention was caught by the sight of a huge figure entering the tavern. It was Sir Grant Morgan, his dark head rising far above the crowd’s, his keen gaze scanning the room. Finding Ross, he pushed his way unceremoniously through the gathering. People hastened to move aside, having no desire to be trampled by the grim-faced giant.