A Rogue No More - Lana Williams Page 0,81
other.”
“From what little I know the Company’s power might very well exceed England’s.”
Thornton frowned as he glanced about as if to make certain no one heard his remark. “Many in the Company would prefer that and have made it their goal.”
Thomas eased closer, trusting his instincts to press harder. “I can’t help but be concerned about Sir Alexander’s insistence on buying Sir Reginald’s business. His tactics of convincing him to sell seem less than honorable.”
After a long moment of silence, Thornton slowly nodded. “I confess that I feel the same. Sir Reginald isn’t being treated fairly. The two have some past that connects them, but I have difficulty believing Gold did all that Sir Alexander claims. But Sir Alexander won’t hear anything that contradicts his belief.” He glanced at Thomas. “Perhaps if Gold would speak with him to explain his view of those events, it might ease the tension.”
“Unfortunately, I don’t believe that’s possible. Sir Reginald’s health isn’t what it used to be.” Thomas feared he overstepped his bounds by saying that much. But surely the man’s absence from Society had been noticed by now.
“I see. That’s disappointing.”
“Thornton, I have to think we might want the same thing—to bring Sir Alexander to his senses. If that’s not possible, he’ll have to be stopped.” Thomas hesitated, wondering how much Thornton knew. “He’s going too far. Innocent people are being hurt on his orders.” He caught Thornton’s gaze. “They’re being murdered.”
The tightness around the man’s mouth suggested he either knew or suspected as much.
“Remaining silent makes us as guilty as he is.” Thomas watched the lord closely. “Help me stop him.”
Thornton shook his head. “That’s not possible. Do not ask it of me.” The tremble of fear in his voice was unmistakable.
“Then give me the information so I can do something. Where can I find him that I could speak with him?” Thomas wanted to grasp the lord by his lapels and shake him until he told him something—anything—that would help. He held onto his patience a moment longer, hoping he’d concede.
“He’ll be at Madame Gaston’s tomorrow evening. At midnight.”
Madame Gaston’s was a popular gaming hell just off St. James on King’s Street and frequented by many of the ton. Thomas had been there several times but preferred hells where the play was less expensive. Those who played at Madame Gaston’s were often willing to risk a fortune on the roll of a dice or the turn of a card.
Thomas liked to gamble but not at the risk of keeping a roof over his head and food on the table. He preferred places where more modest wagers were welcome.
“Vingt-et-un is his preferred game,” Thornton offered. “Though he’s been known to play hazard as well.”
Thomas preferred cards over dice and games that required skill rather than luck. But confronting him at such a place might be his best chance to find a way to coerce Sir Alexander to quit his plans to acquire Sir Reginald’s shipping business.
He could almost hear the echoes of his father’s laughter as he pondered how he could manage to accomplish such a feat. Then again, the earl wasn’t his true sire, so his opinion about Thomas didn’t really matter.
The realization lifted a weight from his shoulders and made him even more determined. He was his own man, not one defined by his father’s or anyone else’s expectations. He wanted to be the kind of man that Annabelle deserved and was worthy of her respect and admiration. Worthy of her love.
The time for action had come. To hell with staying silent.
~*~
Annabelle sighed as she stared at the blank sheet before her. It reminded her of her thoughts—a vast emptiness. The lack of ideas was disconcerting, something she’d never experienced. Half the day was gone and she had...nothing. No notes, no pages, no scenes, no words. Emotional distress of any kind made it difficult to write, but this felt so much worse.
Wasn’t this exactly what she’d feared? That she’d lose the gift of writing if she became involved with someone who didn’t support her ambition? Writing mysteries despite being married to a man who would rather she wrote poetry or memoirs would be incredibly difficult. She had the impression he hadn’t argued with his brothers on her behalf. To her, that meant he didn’t believe in her.
Surely her upset was only temporary. Yet she worried it was more. When might the words return? She already missed having her mind flooded with ideas and inspiration for the next story. Normally she