Worth Any Price (Bow Street Runners #3)(75)

"I was under the impression that Sir Ross was not a great supporter of hereditary principle," Lottie whispered to Nick.

He smiled grimly. "My brother-in-law can be quite a showman when he wishes. And he knows that reminding them of their strict adherence to tradition will help them to swallow the idea of accepting me as a peer."

Sir Ross went on to describe an unnamed gentleman who had been deprived for far too long of a title that was rightfully his. A man who was in the direct line of descent of a distinguished family, and who in the past few years had devoted himself entirely to public service.

"Therefore," Sir Ross concluded, "I am grateful for the rare privilege of announcing Lord Sydney's long overdue reclamation of his title, and the seat in the Lords that accompanies it. And I have every expectation that he will continue to serve the country and queen in the role that is his by birth." Raising a glass in the air, he said, "Let us toast Mr. Nick Gentry-the man who shall be known to us from now on as John, Viscount Sydney."

A ripple of amazement went through the crowd. Although most of them had already known what Sir Ross would announce, it was startling to hear the words spoken aloud.

"To Lord Sydney," came hundreds of obedient echoes, followed by as many cheers.

"And to Lady Sydney," Sir Ross prompted, drawing another enthusiastic response to which Lottie curtsied in gracious recognition.

Rising, Lottie touched Nick's arm. "Perhaps you should offer a toast to Sir Ross," she suggested.

He gave her a speaking glance but complied, lifting his glass toward his brother-in-law. "To Sir Ross," he said in a resonant voice, "without whose efforts I would not be here tonight."

The crowd responded with a round of hurrahs, while Sir Ross grinned suddenly, aware that Nick's carefully worded toast did not include the barest hint of gratitude.

Toasts to the queen, the country, and the peerage itself ensued, and then the orchestra filled the room with buoyant melody. Sir Ross came to claim Lottie for a waltz, while Nick went to dance with Sophia, who wore an irrepressible smile as she sailed into his arms.

Beholding the pair, one so fair, one so dark, and yet both so similar in their striking attractiveness, Lottie smiled. She turned to Sir Ross and carefully rested her sore hand on his shoulder as they began to waltz. As might have been expected, he was an excellent dancer, self-assured and easy to follow.

Feeling a mixture of liking and gratitude, Lottie studied his severely handsome face. "You've done this to save him, haven't you?" she asked.

"I don't know that it will," Sir Ross said quietly.

The words sent a fearful pang through her. Did he mean that he still believed Nick was in some kind of peril? But Nick was no longer a Bow Street runner-he had been removed from the hazards that his profession had entailed. He was safe now...unless Sir Ross was implying that the greatest danger to Nick came from somewhere inside himself.

In the days following the public revelation of Nick's identity, the house on Betterton was under siege from callers. Mrs. Trench spoke to everyone from Nick's old underworld cohorts to representatives of the queen. Cards and invitations were brought to the front door until the silver tray on the entrance hall table was laden with a mountain of paper. Periodicals dubbed him "the reluctant viscount," recounting his heroism as a former Bow Street runner. As reporters followed the lead that Sir Ross had established, Nick was generally depicted as a selfless champion of the public who would have modestly preferred to serve his common man rather than accept his long-dormant title. To Lottie's amusement, Nick was outraged by his new public image, for no one seemed to regard him as dangerous any longer. Strangers approached him eagerly, no longer intimidated by his air of subtle menace. For a man who was so intensely private, it was nearly intolerable.

"Before long, their interest in you will fade," Lottie said in consolation after Nick had to push through an admiring throng to reach his own front door.

Harried and scowling, Nick shed his coat and flopped onto the parlor settee, his long legs spread carelessly. "It won't be soon enough." He glared at the ceiling. "This place is too damned accessible. We need a house with a private drive and a tall fence."

"We have received more than a few invitations to visit friends in the country." Lottie came beside him and sank to the carpeted floor, the skirts of her printed muslin skirts billowing around her. Their faces were nearly level as Nick reclined on the arm of the low-backed settee. "Even one from Westcliff, asking if we would stay a fortnight or so at Stony Cross Park."

Nick's face darkened. "No doubt the earl wants to assure himself that you're not being maltreated by your husband from hell."

Lottie couldn't help laughing. "You must admit that you were not at your most charming then."

Nick caught at her fingers as she reached over to loosen his necktie. "I wanted you too badly to bother with charm." The pad of his thumb stroked over the smooth tips of her fingernails.

"You implied that I was interchangeable with any other woman," she chided.

"In the past I learned that the best way to get something I wanted was to pretend that I didn't want it."

Lottie shook her head, perplexed. "That makes no sense at all."

Smiling, Nick released her hand and toyed with the lace edge of her scooped neckline. "It worked," he pointed out.