An Unwilling Conquest. Stephanie Laurens

Anthony Mabberly is all of twenty-three. He’s an excellent man with the accounts and is scrupulously honest and fair—a far cry from Scrugthorpe.”

      “Ah, yes. The undesirable Scrugthorpe.” Harry cast her a quick glance. “Why was he so undesirable?”

      “Fraud. He was appointed by my husband just before his death—on one of his bad days, I’m afraid. After Charles’s death, I by chance learned that the books as they were being presented to me did not reflect the actual figures generated by the inns.”

      “What happened to Scrugthorpe?”

      “I dismissed him, of course.”

      Harry noted the righteous satisfaction that underlaid her tone. Clearly, Lucinda Babbacombe had not approved of Mr Scrugthorpe. “So until recently the agent took responsibility for negotiating with your tenants?”

      Lucinda lifted a haughty brow. “Until I reorganised the company’s procedures. Mr Mabberly would not know where to start with such as Blount—he’s of a somewhat timid disposition. And I consider it appropriate that both Heather and myself are familiar with the inns that form our legacy.”

      “Laudable though such sentiments might be, Mrs Babbacombe, I do hope—” Harry broke off as she stopped and looked consideringly across the street. “What is it?”

      “Hmm?” Absent-mindedly, Lucinda glanced up. “Oh—I was just wondering if there was time left to do the Barbican Arms today.” She glanced back at the busy inn across the street. “But it looks rather crowded. Perhaps tomorrow morning would be better?”

      Harry stared at her, an unwelcome suspicion slowly crystallising in his brain. “Very much better,” he averred. “But tell me, Mrs Babbacombe—how many inns do you and your stepdaughter own?”

      She looked up at him, an unlikely innocence in her powder-blue eyes. “Fifty-four,” she replied. Then added, as if in afterthought, “Up and down the country.”

      Harry closed his eyes and struggled to suppress a groan. Then, without another word, with no more than a single speaking glance, he escorted her into the yard of the Barbican Arms and, with heartfelt relief, handed her up to Em’s gig and watched her drive away.

      “So she’s staying in Newmarket?”

      Mr Earle Joliffe drew a riding crop back and forth through his fingers. A thickset man of undistinguished mien, he sat back in his chair, his pale gaze, as pale as his pasty complexion, fixed on the young roughneck he’d sent into town to track their quarry down.

      “As to that, I ain’t sure.” The youngster took a swig from his tankard.

      They were in a rundown cottage three miles from Newmarket, the best they’d been able to rent at short notice. Four men sat about the deal table—Joliffe, the youngster whose name was Brawn and two others—Mortimer Babbacombe and Ernest Scrugthorpe. The latter was a hulking man, rough despite the severe clothes of a clerk; he sat silently glowering into his beer. Mortimer Babbacombe, a slight figure in the attire of a would-be dandy, shifted restlessly; he clearly wished himself elsewhere.

      “She got into a gig and drove out eastwards. I couldn’t follow.”

      Scrugthorpe grunted. “See? Told you she’d go to the Green Goose. Couldn’t keep away, meddling witch.”

      He spat contemptuously on the floor; the action made Mortimer even more uncomfortable.

      “Ye-es, well.” Joliffe transferred his gaze to Scrugthorpe. “Might I remind you that she should, by now, have been in our hands? That but for your lack of foresight, she would be?”

      Scrugthorpe scowled. “How was I to know it were a race-week? And that gentlemen would be using that road? Everything went perfect, elsewise.”

      Joliffe sighed and raised his eyes heavenwards. Amateurs—they were all the same. How had he, who had spent his life thus far successfully extracting a living from the rich, descended to the company of such? Lowering his gaze, his glance fell on Mortimer Babbacombe. Joliffe’s lips curled in a contemptuous sneer.

      “Ought to mention,” Brawn put in, surfacing from his tankard. “She was walking the street with a swell today—right chummy—looked like the same swell as wot rescued them.”

      Joliffe’s eyes narrowed and he sat forward. “Describe this swell.”

      “Fair hair—like gold. Tall, looked like he’d strip to advantage. One of them bloods with a fancy cape.” Brawn grimaced. “They all look the same to me.”

      Not so to Joliffe. “This blood—was he staying at the Barbican Arms?”

      “Seemed so—the ostlers and all seemed to know him.”

      “Harry Lester.” Joliffe tapped a pensive nail on the table. “I wonder…”

      “Wonder what?” Mortimer looked at his erstwhile friend and most urgent creditor, his expression that of a man well out of his depth. “Would this man Lester help us?”

      Joliffe snorted. “Only to the hangman’s noose. But his peculiar talents bear consideration.” Leaning forward, Joliffe placed both elbows on the table. “It occurs to me, my dear Mortimer, that we may be involving ourselves unnecessarily here.” Joliffe smiled, an empty gesture that made Mortimer shrink. “I’m sure you’d be most agreeable to any way of achieving our aim without direct involvement.”

      Mortimer swallowed. “But how can Lester help us—if he won’t?”

      “Oh—I didn’t say he won’t—just that we needn’t ask him. He’ll help us entirely for the fun of it. Harry Lester, dear Mortimer, is the rake supreme—a practitioner extraordinaire in the gentle art of seduction. If, as seems possible, he’s got your uncle’s widow in his sights, then I wouldn’t like to bet on her chances.” Joliffe’s smile grew. “And, of course, once she’s demonstrably no longer a virtuous widow, then you’ll have all the reason you need to legally challenge her guardianship of your cousin.” Joliffe’s gaze grew intent. “And once your pretty cousin’s legacy’s in your hands, you’ll be in a position to pay me, won’t you, Mortimer?”

      Mortimer Babbacombe swallowed—and forced himself to nod.

      “So what do we do now?” Scrugthorpe drained his tankard.

      Joliffe considered, then pronounced, “We sit tight and watch. If we get a chance to lay hands on the lady, we will—just like we planned.”

      “Aye—far as I’m concerned, that’s how we should do it—no sense in leaving anything to chance.”

      Joliffe’s lip curled. “Your animosity is showing, Scrugthorpe. Please remember that our primary aim here is to discredit Mrs Babbacombe—not satisfy your lust for revenge.”

      Scrugthorpe snorted.

      “As I was saying,” Joliffe went on. “We watch and wait. If Harry Lester succeeds—he’ll have done our work for us. If not, we’ll continue to pursue the lady—and Scrugthorpe here will have his chance.”

      At that, Scrugthorpe smiled. Lecherously.

      Chapter Four

      When Lucinda drove into the yard of the Barbican Arms the next morning, Harry was waiting, shoulders against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, his boot against the wall for balance. He had plenty of time to admire the artless picture of mature womanhood seated beside Grimms in his aunt’s gig. Elegantly gowned in a cornflower blue carriage dress, her dark hair restrained in a severe chignon thus revealing the delicate bones of her face, Lucinda Babbacombe predictably turned the heads of those still dawdling in the yard. Thankfully, the thoroughbred races were to commence that morning; most of Harry’s contemporaries were already at the track.

      Grimms brought Em’s gig to a neat halt in the centre of the yard. With an inward snort, Harry pushed away from the wall.

      Lucinda watched