Steven let go of Rose and swung back to Albert. Albert, eyes widening, tried to evade him, but Steven caught him by the collar, ignoring Rose’s cry.
Slam! Albert’s face went once more into the table. “She deserves a commendation for not killing you,” Steven said, each word tight. “Don’t speak to her again except through her solicitor. His card.” Steven withdrew a card Collins had given him and slapped it on the table in front of Albert’s head. “Good day to you, sir.”
He gave Albert another shake before he released the man’s collar and left him. Rose was staring, wide-eyed, but Steven turned her away and steered her out of the room.
***
“It’s pretty,” Sinclair McBride, Steven’s brother, said later that evening. “What is it?”
Steven had placed the cabinet in the middle of the parlor of his suite at the Langham. Rain fell outside, droplets lingering on Sinclair’s short hair, which was the same shade of blond as Steven’s.
Albert had in the end not stopped John and two other footmen from lugging the cabinet down the stairs and loading it into the waiting cart. The cabinet had filled the small dogcart, leaving no room for Steven and Rose.
Steven had then bade John to fetch the coachman from his tea and have him hitch up Albert’s carriage to take him and Rose to the train. Though worried about Albert’s reaction, John and the coachman seemed happy to do anything for Rose. Likewise, Miles, the town coachman, had been willing to collect Steven, Rose, and the cabinet from the station in London. Rose had won them over.
Not much wonder. One smile from her red lips, one twinkle of her eyes, and men fell over themselves to do her bidding. Journalists with too much time on their hands had assumed she’d used that natural charm to make men do her favors, including in her bed.
Rose was in her bed right now—alone—napping after their trip. She’d told Steven upon their arrival that, thinking it over, she was resigned to selling the cabinet.
She’d looked sad, but resolved, and Steven had sent for his brother to talk to him about the matter. Sinclair had arrived through the now-falling rain, to study the cabinet in curiosity.
“It’s a collection cabinet,” Steven said in answer to Sinclair’s question. “By George Bullock, circa 1815. I’m trying to find out what it’s worth.”
Sinclair pinned his younger brother with a hard stare. That stare, along with Sinclair’s ability to obtain any verdict he wanted in court, had earned him the moniker of the Scots Machine. His colleagues called him that—the unlucky villains in the dock had named him Basher McBride.
The Scots Machine now assessed Steven. “I’m a barrister, not an antiques dealer. Why did you send for me?”
Steven shrugged. “I thought maybe you’d know someone who could sell it for Rose. Someone who can be discreet.”
“I know many people who can be discreet, but they’re not all on the side of angels.”
Steven joined Sinclair in frowning contemplation of the cabinet. “I hoped it contained some sort of clue or message for Rose, or had been crammed full of gold coins for her. I’ve looked at it every which way, but . . . nothing.”
“I met the Duke of Southdown once—the former one,” Sinclair said. “Maybe he simply knew the cabinet would fetch a good price, and give his widow a bit of cash. He died, suddenly, didn’t he? He didn’t know he would go so quickly. How would he have had time to prepare for her?”
“Well, he didn’t do bloody enough while he was alive, that’s certain. Collins is browbeating the duke’s solicitors—Rose will have to put her faith in that.” Steven let out his breath. “She doesn’t want to let the cabinet go, but she might have no choice. Her pig of a stepson wants to see her destitute.”
“So you said. He’s trying to prove her a bigamist, is he?”
“He won’t,” Steven said in a hard voice. “She isn’t.”
His brother’s stare became sharper, but finally Sinclair gave him a nod. “If it goes to court, I’ll advocate for her—I agree with you about her innocence. I warn you, though, juries of middle-aged, middle-class, holier-than-thou men don’t like pretty women who marry older men. They know they’d succumb to that temptation too readily themselves, and so they blame the temptress.”
Steven balled one hand. His headache was coming back. “Thank you for the optimism.”
“This is what happens. Be prepared for it.” Sinclair relaxed his stance. “I’ll help as much as I can. I’ll ram her innocence down the jury’s throats.” He studied the cabinet again. “It’s an interesting piece. Ask one of the Mackenzie brothers or their wives. They’ll either buy it to lose in those huge houses of theirs or know someone interested.”
“Yes.” Steven had thought of the Mackenzies, especially Eleanor, wife of Hart Mackenzie, who was Duke of Kilmorgan. Eleanor knew everyone in London and everyone in Scotland, plus she had connections via her husband to people throughout the Empire who might like a nice cabinet for displaying their medals.
But he’d hesitated. Rose had asked him, sorrow in her voice, to please help her find a buyer, then had retired to her room. Steven hadn’t wanted her to wake to find he’d already sold the bloody thing and had it carted away while she’d slept.
Steven had sent for his brother not only for his opinion, but to help keep himself from picturing Rose, stripped down to her smalls, snuggling in her cozy bed. A single wall stood between her and Steven, a piece of wood, brick, and plaster keeping him from watching her sleep, drinking in the beauty of her.