Marry the Man Today Page 3

  She couldn’t tell a reporter from the Times anything like that!

  After all, she was the owner of the Abigail Adams and had a reputation to uphold!

  Gathering up her scattered senses, Elizabeth threw back her shoulders, struck a firm pose, then directed a scathing glare toward the man who seemed to overwhelm the cell by just being there.

  “If you want to know everything about me for your story, Mr. Carrington, then I suggest you begin by understanding that everything I say, everything I do, is in the cause of equal rights for women.”

  He took a long step toward her, cocked his dark head as though trying to study her from a different angle. “Go on, Miss Dunaway. I’m listening.”

  “Yes, well…” She had expected the man to sneer at her, or snigger. At least to start scribbling down her words on his ruffled notepad. Instead he was still staring at her. Into her.

  She blinked away from him for a moment, but the stone floor wasn’t nearly as compelling as the sun-bronzed, rough-planed face of this eccentric reporter from the Times.

  “As you know, sir,” she said against the pressing thickness of his silence, her fingers fiddling with the treatise she had been prepared to hand out to members of the press at just the right moment, “today’s peaceful protest was intended to illuminate the plight of the female citizens of Britain. As I have shown here in my essay.”

  She thrust the noisy piece of paper toward him, feeling more clumsy than usual. He had the good grace to glance down at her words. “Interesting, madam.”

  “Yes, well, sir, we were merely walking down the center of Whitehall, carrying signs and banners, when we were rudely interrupted by the Metropolitan Police.”

  “And you were also shouting ‘Votes for women,’ weren’t you?” The man leaned back against the bars, arching a brow at her, a smile caught in the corner of his mouth.

  “Indeed, we were.”

  “And liberty, equality, sorority.”

  “Were you there, Mr. Carrington? Did see our parade?” Not that it made a whit of difference. Except that it meant he’d been witness to her march, her private passions, her shouted protests . .. and well, there was nothing she could do about it now. It just suddenly seemed too intimate an idea for such a small room and with so little space between them.

  But he had narrowed his eyes. “The captain reported your activities when I arrived.”

  “Ah! And was he outraged?” Better outrage than the jeers and laughter she’d heard from the street as the police loaded them into the wagons.

  “I wouldn’t call Captain Robins outraged, Miss Dunaway, but he was completely scandalized.”

  Good. Excellent, in fact! Elizabeth hid her smile inside her chest, where the man couldn’t see how very pleased she was that she had scandalized the captain.

  “Now, I can’t help that, can I, Mr. Carrington? Depriving women of the same legal rights that a man has is scandalous. Refusing us an education is scandalous. So is robbing us of all property rights the moment we are married.” She reined in the usual bellow of her hustings voice. “But forbidding us the vote is the most scandalous of all.”

  “I see.” The man still hadn’t taken down a single note in his notebook.

  In fact, he looked thoroughly amused by her speech. He’d moved completely into the room and was leaning against the wall of bars, the heel of his highly polished boot propped against the bench. The rich linen of his suiting still crisp with expensive creases. The finely crested gold buttons matching at his waistcoat and jacket and cuffs.

  His deep chestnut hair trimmed just so. His square jaw barbered by a professional.

  A man whose hobby must be either chasing the news or tormenting women in jail cells, because the smug Mr. Carrington was just too well dressed to be a penny-poor newsman.

  “I don’t think you see at all, Mr. Carrington. Though I shouldn’t really expect you to. Few men do.”

  “What about your husband? Does he … see what you want him to see?”

  “I am unmarried, sir, and have vowed to remain so for the rest of my life.”

  “Ah, you’re a nun, then, Miss Dunaway. Hoping to proselytize to the male masses in Westminster to give women the vote?” He cocked that cocky eyebrow again, surely thinking himself a London wit. “I didn’t know the Church went in for that kind of thing.”

  “I’m not a nun, Mr. Carrington, I’m a pragmatist. And you’re not a reporter, are you?”

  “No, I’m not,” he said without a moment’s hesitation. The answer to a question she should have asked the moment she saw him in the doorway looking so .. . feral.

  “Then who are you, sir?” She could feel the telltale spots of crimson blooming high on her cheeks, a sure symptom of her smoldering outrage. And not of the trembling embarrassment that the arrogant man would surely surmise.

  He straightened and became taller. “I’m Ross Carrington, the Earl of Blakestone.”

  Blakestone. The name sounded familiar, tinted by exotic images of danger and rife with legends.

  “If that’s so, your lordship, why did you pretend that you were from the Times?”

  The lout had the decency to catch his smile behind his teeth before he said, “Curiosity.”

  “Curiosity? About what? Do you loiter around Scotland Yard just for amusement?”

  “Not usually. Then again, Scotland Yard usually isn’t brimming over with rebellious women.”

  “So I’m a curiosity? Like one of the elephants at the London zoo. Or a zebra.”

  The lout gave a broad, encompassing laugh that echoed against the brick walls and slipped easily between her ribs. “Not like them at all, madam. I merely wanted to see what all the commotion was about.”

  “Commotion! How dare you! I’ll have you know we’re not just a commotion! We’re a movement which is growing every day.”

  “That’s just what I’m afraid of.” The man’s jaw squared suddenly, his amusement gone as he strode toward the door, then turned and reached out for her. “Now come on out of here, please. You’re going home.”

  “I’m what?” Elizabeth glanced down at his huge, open palm and felt her knees loosen at the implication. “What do you mean, going home? I’m not ready to go! I’m waiting here for the press to interview me. The real press!”

  “Consider your protest finished, Miss Dunaway. For your own good.” He beckoned to her with a lift of his powerful arm, as though he believed she would just walk forward and place herself under his, doubtless considerable, protection. “You’ve made your statement. Now, you and your friends are going to be taken safely home, where I hope to God you’ll stay until this mess blows over.”

  “Blows over?” She’d never in her life been so angry, so ready to haul off and slap someone. Her heart was thumping with such force, she was certain the man could hear it from the doorway. “Haven’t you heard a thing I’ve said, Blakestone? This so-called mess will blow over only after you find me facedown in the Thames.”

  Her anger only seemed to add to his calm. “An event that I would dearly regret, Miss Dunaway, but you’re not staying here in this cell another moment. Your compatriots have been sprung and taken discreetly back to the bosom of their families. And you’re going too.”

  “I don’t have a bosom.” That didn’t sound right, but it threw the man momentarily off balance. She stalked forward, slowly moving him back out of the cell. “I mean, sir, that I don’t have a family. No one is waiting for me at home. So no one will worry if I spend a night behind bars. Or a week. And when someone from the fourth estate finally takes notice of me and the cause of women’s rights, I want to be here to tell my story.”

  With that, Elizabeth took hold of the barred door, pulled it toward her, and slammed it shut between them.

  He stood blinking at her for a moment, studying her as she gripped the cool metal bars, planning something that she wasn’t going to like.

  “So, Miss Dunaway, you’re willing to spend a long, cold night in jail, battling the rats for your thre
adbare blanket, existing on moldy bread and stale water, all for the sake of making a political statement.”

  “Absolutely.” Though she would rather do without the rats. “I have no choice. Because self-serving men like you won’t allow me to take my rightful place in Parliament where I could express my opinion and be grateful for the privilege.”

  He was silent again, a flame-blue light flickering deeply in his gaze. A light that settled softly on her lashes, then glided across her cheeks.

  Such a palpably compelling sensation that she hadn’t noticed until seconds too late that the blackguard had slipped off his silken stock and wrapped it around one of her wrists.

  “Sorry, my dear, but for better or for worse, that’s the way of the world.” In a single motion he yanked the door open, caught up her other wrist, bound it to the first and then began tugging her down the corridor.

  “No! Let me go! Youuu! You’re not a policeman!”

  “Sorry for the inconvenience, madam.”

  “I don’t want to leave!” Elizabeth planted her heels against the floor to stop him, but he pulled her gently along beside him anyway, her wrists still wrapped within his stock, his broad palm, his hot fingers, spread low across her waist. “The press are coming! You have no right to remove me from my cell, you lout!”

  Ross smiled to himself as he wrangled the young woman along the corridor of barred doors, wondering if Captain Robins would appreciate the trouble he was going through just to protect him and the Metropolitan Police from Miss Dunaway’s wrath. She would surely have browbeaten Robins until he’d have been forced to allow her to stay the night.

  Now that would be a headline London wouldn’t soon forget: Beautiful Suffragette Tortured by Scotland Yard.

  At least that’s the way the story would read if the beautiful lunatic suffragette were allowed to entertain the press in her jail cell.

  They reached the lobby with enough racket that Captain Robins had already popped out of his office.

  “Ah, there you are, Blakestone!” A smile suddenly lifted the officer’s long face, a look of pure relief, as Ross approached him with the nimble Miss Dunaway tucked against his side. “I see you’ve got your hands full.”

  “I demand to be put back into my cell, Captain!” The woman stopped struggling and thrust her chin toward Robins, which gave Ross the chance to wrap his free arm around her fully and pull her perfectly rounded backside against his thigh. “Make this lout let go of me!”

  “And what about your other guests, Captain?” Ross nodded toward the courtyard, pleased to see it empty of the sea of women. “How are they faring?”

  “Safely on their way home, my lord, just as you suggested.”

  “As you suggested?” Miss Dunaway whipped her head around and glared up at Ross, her fine, full lips in a furious pout, a fire blazing deeply in her eyes. “Just who are you, Blakestone, that you can throw your weight around Scotland Yard!”

  Ross did his best to glare back into all that indignation, but he found Miss Dunaway deliciously beguiling.

  Every part of her. Including that lovely, ripe hip she was mindlessly grinding into his groin as she frowned up at him in her anger, innocently arousing in him a fever she ought to leave be.

  Because he was in no position to be dallying with a woman just now. Though, bloody hell, he’d always been drawn toward the Miss Dunaways of the world. Toward this one especially. Her rare, soaring spirt. Her self-possession.

  And those deeply glittering eyes that would tempt him to explore.

  Dragging in a huge breath to cool his brain, Ross wrenched his illicit thoughts from his prisoner and directed his attention toward Captain Robins. “Now, if you have a paddy wagon and a driver available . .. ?”

  “Ah, Blakestone! I thought I heard your voice!” The Lord Mayor of London strode out of the captain’s office, his deputy on his heels. “Good to see you, man. I was planning to pay you a visit this evening.”

  “That still may be best, Lord Mayor,” Ross said with a nod, having no hand free to shake the man’s hand. “As you see, I’m all tied up at the moment.”

  “Captain, I asked you to call the press,” Miss Dunaway said, turning her glare on the startled Robins and stomping her foot. “Or did you expect me to fall for his lordship’s little deception.”

  “His … I’m sorry, what?” Robins crumpled his wiry brow as he cleared his throat. “Actually, miss, I’ve been a bit busy with … you know.”

  “No, I don’t know, Captain Robins. You arrested me for disturbing the queen’s peace, and all I want in return is to tell my side of the story. In print.”

  “Yes, well, I—”

  “Blakestone, if I might have a word with you. Just for a moment.” Lord Mayor Callis had come to Ross’s side, casting a wary glance at his prisoner.

  “Go ahead.” Ross shifted Miss Dunaway slightly to . the side.

  “I suppose, I…” Callis hemmed a bit, tugged at his ear as he studied Miss Dunaway. “Yes, well, ahem … another one has … gone missing.”

  “Either you unhand me, Blakestone,” Miss Dunaway said with a hiss and a wriggle, “or I’m going to have Captain Robins arrest you right here and now.”

  Ross did his best to ignore her, only held on more tightly, wondering what the devil the Lord Mayor was whispering about. “Another what, Callis? I’ve been out of the country for the last six months.”

  “Another woman.” Callis frowned more deeply and whispered even louder, “Lady Wallace went missing this morning.”

  “Lady Wallace? Missing from where?” Though he still didn’t understand what the man was talking about.

  But Miss Dunaway obviously did. She’d gone completely still in his arms, her shoulders drooping precipitously against him. Her pale green eyes wide and worried when she glanced up at him.

  “The lady simply disappeared from Regent Street, Blakestone. In broad daylight. That’s why I came here to Scotland Yard. I mean to keep it completely quiet for the time being. I had just broken the news to the captain here.”

  “And I was just about to ask the Lord Mayor why he wanted me to keep the matter quiet,” Robins said. “After all, if the woman is missing, shouldn’t as many people know about it as possible?”

  “As Lord Mayor, I don’t want to panic the population. After all, this is the third woman in four months to turn up missing. And we haven’t been able to stop a single one.”

  “A shame, isn’t it?” came the unexpected whisper of sympathy from Miss Dunaway.

  But Ross hadn’t heard a thing about any of it. “I’m sorry, Callis, I’m completely clueless. I’ve been on the continent. You’ll have to fill me in.”

  “Briefly then, all of the victims have been ladies. Every one of them. From wealthy families. Aristocratic titles. Three identical crimes.”

  “Identical?”

  “Down to the time of day.”

  “And the motives for these abductions?” Ross asked, surprised that his prisoner had relaxed so completely.

  “Hard to say, my lord.” Callis shook his head. “Very few clues left at the scene; though, as I said, each piece of evidence has been identical to the one before. Nothing to alert the passersby that anything is amiss.”

  “And then what happens? A demand for money?”

  “Nothing, my lord. No ransom note. Nor any contact with the family at all afterward.”

  “No bodies, neither,” Robins added, in a whisper meant to exclude Miss Dunaway, though she was listening intently, “we can thank the good Lord.”

  Three women vanished completely? Three identically orchestrated crimes?

  And not a single body?

  “Interesting, Lord Mayor.” Ross eased his hold on Miss Dunaway’s shoulder, trusting that she wouldn’t turn and bolt back to her cell. “But how can I help you? I’ve been away, as I told you.”

  Callis glanced down again at the becalmed woman. “If I could send over what we’ve got so far on the Wallace case. It’s not much—”

  �
��I’ll be at a dinner tonight until well after midnight, but, sure. Have your officer leave it at the club with Pembridge. I’ll take it from there.”

  “Excellent, my lord. Thank you.” Callis breathed a huge sigh. “Three women in four months! Bloody hell, it’s a crime wave! And it’s liable to set the whole city into a fright, right in the middle of the social season, if we don’t solve the crimes and put a stop to the criminal.”

  “The press won’t get wind of this from Scotland Yard,” the captain said, “I can promise you that.”

  “And you, Miss Dunaway?” Ross bent down to the sobered young woman, freeing her hands of his stock, but holding fast to her wrists and peering into her eyes. “Not a word from you either.”

  “I promise, Blakestone,” she said, her gaze glittering brightly with something he couldn’t read. “Cross my heart. Not a single word, to anyone. May I go home now?”

  Home? Now that was a sudden change of direction.

  “I thought you didn’t have a home.” A bosom, she had said. But the woman definitely had a bosom. Shapely and soft-edged, he’d noticed that in particular. “Or have you tired of prison life, madam?”

  She shrugged and nodded slightly. “Just putting everything into perspective, sir. Hearing about those poor women. Makes one think, doesn’t it?”

  “Indeed.”

  “A paddy wagon, Miss Dunaway?” the captain said, eyeing the woman, his hands on his hips, his earlier hesitance having vanished. “Or can I trust you in a hack?”

  “Thank you, I’ll walk, Captain. I promise to go straight to my—”

  “No. I’ll see you home, Miss Dunaway.” Ross heard the words escaping his mouth before he could pull them back. Before he had noticed his heart slamming around inside his chest.

  Before he realized that he just needed to know where she called home. Because he couldn’t quite let go of all that fiery courage. Not yet.

  She lifted her eyes to his, searching his face, obviously assessing his motives. “If you promise not to bind my hands and drag me to my door.”

  Ross glanced at Callis and Robins, who were watching the exchange as though expecting a bout of fisticuffs to break out between them.