Worth Any Price (Bow Street Runners #3)(18)

Lottie felt herself turn white. The entire surface of her body seemed to prickle and burn, as if she had fallen into a frozen pond. She found it difficult to speak or move as a paralyzing suspicion crept over her.

The earl dropped his cigar to the terrace and crushed it with his foot. A touch of uncharacteristic impatience edged his tone. "Miss Miller, will you be so kind as to join us? It seems that we have a small mystery to solve."

Nodding in a puppetlike fashion, Lottie followed the earl into the house, while her instincts screamed for her to flee. She had little choice but to play the scene out, however. Forcing herself to behave calmly, she went with the two men to the private study, its rosewood paneling glowing ruddily in the lamplight. The room was hard and uncompromising, with minimal upholstery and sharp angles, and no ornamentation save for a pristine row of stained glass windows.

As Lord Westcliff closed the door, Lottie took care to keep as great a distance between herself and Sydney as possible. A sense of foreboding nearly made her ill. She could not bring herself to look directly at Lord Sydney, but she was intensely aware of him.

Lord Westcliff spoke. "Will you have a seat, Miss Miller?"

Lottie shook her head dumbly, afraid that if she moved at all, she might collapse.

"Very well." The earl's attention moved to Lord Sydney. "Let us begin with the information I received today. Immediately upon your arrival at Stony Cross Park, I undertook to make certain inquiries about you. I suspected that you were not being entirely truthful in some regard, although I could not quite put my finger on what it was."

Lord Sydney appeared relaxed but watchful, his blue eyes hard as he returned the earl's stare. "And the results of your inquiries, my lord?"

"There is no Viscount Sydney," Westcliff said bluntly, ignoring Lottie's gasp as he continued. "The family line ended approximately twenty years ago, when the real Lord Sydney diedsine prole mascula superstite -without surviving male children to establish a legitimate claim to the title. Which begs the question...who the hell are you? And what is your purpose here?"

"I'm Nick Gentry."

Although Lottie had never heard the name, Lord Westcliff seemed to recognize it. "I see," he said softly. "That explains Sir Ross's involvement. You're about some business for Bow Street, then."

Lottie gasped in astonishment as she realized that the stranger was a Bow Street runner. She had heard of the small, elite force of officers who did everything from solving murder cases to serving as bodyguards for royalty. They were known for their ruthless efficiency and courage, and had even achieved a celebrated status in higher social circles. No wonder this man had seemed so different from the other guests here."I hunt," he had told her, conveniently omitting the fact that his prey was the two-legged variety.

"Not always," Gentry said in response to Westcliff's question. "Sometimes I accept private commissions." His gaze moved to Lottie's tense face. "Two months ago I was hired by Lord Radnor to find his runaway fiancee, Charlotte Howard, who has been missing for two years."

Lottie was utterly still, while cruel pain burst inside her chest and leaked all through her. Her mouth shook with violent denial, but no words would come out. Instead she heard a high-pitched, incoherent cry, only later realizing it had been her own. She was not aware of moving, but suddenly she was across the room, clawing at Gentry's dark face, while rage and terror swooped around her like attacking buzzards.

A savage curse rang in her ears, and her wrists were snatched in crushing vises, but she did not, could not, stop struggling. Sweat and tears poured down her face, and she breathed in sobbing screams, fighting for her life, for the freedom that was being ripped away from her. Somewhere in her mind she knew that she was acting like a madwoman, that this would do her no good, but she could not seem to stop herself.

"Stop it, Lottie," Gentry snarled, giving her a hard shake. "Calm yourself...for God's sake-"

"I won't go back!" she shrieked, panting furiously. "I'll kill you first, oh God, I hate you,hate you -"

"Lottie." The cold voice of sanity cut neatly through her writhing torment. It was Lord Westcliff's voice. One of his powerful arms slid around her from behind, and he hauled her away from Gentry. She reared back against him like a terrified animal. "That's enough," Westcliff said against her ear, his arm tightening into a steely band. "He won't take you, Lottie. I swear it. You know that I always keep my word. Now take a deep breath. Another."

Somehow the earl's stern, quiet voice reached her as nothing else could have, and she found herself obeying. He guided her to a chair and forced her to sit. Lowering to his haunches, he pinned her with a steady, black gaze. "Stay still. And keep breathing."

Lottie nodded jerkily, her face still streaming. "Don't let him come near me," she whispered.

Standing, Westcliff shot the Bow Street runner a glance of obsidian ice. "Keep your distance, Gentry. I don't give a damn about who has paid you to do what. You're on my estate, and you'll do nothing without my consent."

"You have no legal claim on her," Gentry said softly. "You can't keep her here."

Westcliff responded with an arrogant snort. Going to the sideboard, he poured a small quantity of amber liquid into a glass. Bringing the liquor to Lottie, he forced her trembling fingers around the vessel. "Drink this," he said curtly.