Worth Any Price (Bow Street Runners #3)(44)

"What can I do?" she asked quietly.

"You heard my sister, didn't you? You're going to play lady of the manor and help me pretend to be a viscount."

"You managed quite well at Stony Cross Park," she pointed out. "You gave a convincing appearance of nobility."

"That was only for a few days," he said bitterly. "But now it appears I'll have to play the role for the rest of my life." He shook his head in furious disbelief. "God! I don't want this. I'm going to kill someone before long."

Lottie tilted her head as she regarded him speculatively. No doubt she should fear him when he was in this mood. He did indeed look as though he was ready to commit murder, his eyes gleaming with bloodlust. But curiously she was filled with sympathy, and even more than that, a sense of partnership. They were both floundering, both facing a life they had neither planned nor asked for.

"How did you feel at Stony Cross Park, when you introduced yourself as Lord Sydney?" she asked.

"At first I found it amusing. The irony of masquerading as myself. But after the first day, it became a weight on my shoulders. The mere mention of the name annoys the hell out of me."

Lottie wondered why he was so antagonized by the name he had been born with. There had to be some reason other than the ones he had given so far.

"Nick, what did Sir Ross mean when he said that you were financially equipped to manage the title?"

His mouth twisted. "He meant that I could afford the cost of maintaining a large estate and the kind of lifestyle required of a peer."

"How could he know such a thing?"

"He doesn't know for certain."

"He is wrong, of course."

"No," Nick muttered, "he's not wrong. Before I came to Bow Street, I made a few investments, and I have some holdings here and there. All in all, I have about two hundred put away."

Silently Lottie reflected that two hundred pounds in savings was not bad, but it did not offer the kind of security one could have wished for. She only hoped that his investments would not depreciate in value. "Well, that seems quite satisfactory," she said, not wishing to hurt his feelings. "I think we shall do fairly well if we economize. But I do not think the circumstances allow for a wedding trousseau. Not at this time. Perhaps in the future-"

"Lottie," he interrupted, "we don't need to economize."

"Two hundred pounds is a fine sum, but it will be difficult to maintain a household with-"

"Lottie." He glanced at her with an odd expression. "I was referring to thousands. Two hundred thousand pounds."

"But...but..." Lottie was astonished. It was an immense sum, a fortune by anyone's standards.

"And about five thousand a year from investments and private commissions," he added, stunning her further. His face darkened. "Although it seems my days of private commissions are over."

"Why, you must be as rich as Lord Radnor," she said dazedly.

He made a choppy gesture with his hand, as if consideration of money was completely irrelevant, compared to his far greater problem. "Probably."

"You could afford a dozen houses. You could have anything you-"

"I don't need a dozen houses. I can only sleep under one roof at a time. I can only eat three meals a day. And I don't give a damn about impressing anyone."

Lottie was surprised by the realization that he was not motivated to acquire wealth. His fortune had come as a consequence of his need to outwit everyone from the underworld to Bow Street. And now that the profession of law enforcement had been taken from him, he would be in urgent need of something to do. He was a tremendously active man, not at all suited for the cultivated indolence of aristocratic life. How in heaven's name was he going to adjust to living as a peer?

His thoughts must have mirrored hers, for he gave a groan of hopeless anger and raked his hand roughly through his hair. A stray lock fell on his forehead, and Lottie was startled by her sudden urge to play with the thick chocolate-colored strands, smooth them back, slide her fingers into the warm silk.

"Lottie," he said gruffly, "I'm going out for a while. I probably won't be back until morning. You have a reprieve for tonight."

"What are you going to do?"

"I don't know yet." He stepped back from her with a restlessness that contained an edge of panic, as if a heavy net had dropped over him.

Lottie knew that she should not care if he went out and drank, or struck up a fight with someone, or did any of the numerous foolish things that men in search of amusement did. She should not want to soothe his barely contained fury. But she did.

Without allowing herself time to consider her actions, Lottie approached him, touching the fine broadcloth of his coat with her palm. Her hand smoothed over the fabric and eased inside. His waistcoat was the same inky black as his coat, but the material was silkier, slipping a little over the hard delineation of his chest muscles. She thought of how hot his skin must be, to impart such warmth to the thick garment.

Nick was suddenly motionless, his breath changing to a slower, deeper rhythm. Lottie did not look at his face but concentrated instead on the knot of his gray necktie as her fingers explored the snowy, fragrant folds of his shirt.

"I don't want a reprieve," she said eventually and tugged at the knot until it slid loose.