The Problem with Seduction - By Emma Locke Page 0,104
and he opened the door then jumped down without waiting for the driver’s assistance. He lifted a hand to help her to the street, then gave the order for the driver to wait.
She went ahead of him and entered her townhouse. It was dark and quiet. A light flickered to life down the long hallway and she called out to her man, “Rand, it’s me. Please, don’t let me keep you from your bed.”
Rand entered the foyer anyway. “I’ve been concerned. Where’s Master Oliver?” He shined his candle around, barely glancing at Lord Bartholomew. When he realized Oliver wasn’t with them and—belatedly, Elizabeth realized—neither was Mrs. Dalton, he turned his attention to the intruder. “Is he causing you problems?” he asked, without the deference due a lord, or her visitor.
She was too tired to concern herself with his overstepping. “Lord Bartholomew is Lord Constantine’s brother. We’ll just be a moment in the study. Please, return to bed. I’ll be sure to turn the lock on the way out.”
Rand clearly didn’t approve of her explanation. But he handed her the candle and backed away. “I can find my way in the dark,” he said, but when she turned back to Lord Bartholomew, she felt Rand lurking in the hallway. It was a small comfort.
She led Lord Bartholomew to her study and fished a key from the pocket in her skirt. One hundred guineas barely dented her ready cash. But when she handed over the stack of notes, she inferred by the tic pulsing at his jaw that Lord Bartholomew felt every one of those bills as a slap in his face.
She didn’t press him to say anything. She didn’t need his thanks, at any rate. It was her fault Con needed to post bailment.
She showed Lord Bartholomew to the door, remembering again that Mrs. Dalton was stranded at Lord Constantine’s. Blast. The poor woman must be upset as well, especially to have been forgotten. Remorse piled onto her already-burdened shoulders. There was nothing as defeating as losing a child out of one’s very grip.
Her apology would have to wait until the morning. But before she dragged herself up the stair to her room, she returned to her study to verify she’d relocked her drawer. By the time she reached it she could barely lift her feet. She sagged into her chair, folding her arms on her desk and burying her face against them. The smell of wood and ink and paper comforted her.
She’d done this to him. It was a truth she’d never, ever let herself forget.
Con raised his head at the solid click of the turnkey unlocking the door. He shared a cell with twelve other men, some gentlemen like himself, plus a few commoners who could afford to pay garnish. Most didn’t bother to stir from their listlessness, even at this interruption. The Sessions were just weeks away—lucky him—and the gaol was crowded. Rancid. The other prisoners had laid out their pallets for the night, but not him. He didn’t want to think about sleeping in this place. The smooth granite walls offered no purchase. The close quarters allowed no privacy. High iron spikes lined every walk and exercise yard, intended to frighten the interred with the promise of gloom, death and suffering.
“You,” the turnkey said, pointing at Con with a crooked finger that had likely been broken once or thrice, “there’s a lawyer to see you.”
Con scrambled to his feet as best he could with his legs shackled by irons. Unlike the regular cells that lacked even a stick of furniture, this apartment set aside for the respectable class had a few chairs and stools scattered through it. Not enough for twelve men, however. Or even five.
He followed the turnkey through corridor after bleak corridor. His irons clanked against the cold stone. Each archway seemed narrower than the last. The gates between corridors had to be unlocked and relocked, one at a time, so that Con was never allowed to forget he was a prisoner.
Not that he could.
After passing through three more dungeon-like passages, they turned into a small receiving room. Bart stood, stoic and pensive, by a cold fireplace. His drawn, dark brows twitched with relief just a fraction before they dipped again. Con could have hugged him.
No, he needed to hug him. He was terrified of what was happening. He waited until the turnkey stepped outside. Then he crossed the room, clanking irons dragging behind him, and clasped his brother in a crushing embrace.