Page 43 of An Extraordinary Lord

“Then we’d better hurry. The Home Office has soldiers waiting at the ready to put down the riots by force if they continue.”

Dread filled his chest. “Under whose command?”

“Major-General Horatio Liggett.”

“Liggett?” Surprised, he kicked his feet to the floor and sat up at the ludicrousness of that. “You’re certain?”

Clayton finished off the last of the port in his glass. “Heard it this morning from the Home Secretary himself.”

Of all the men Merritt would have picked to put in charge of the militia, it wouldn’t have been Liggett.

Like a good portion of the officers in His Majesty’s army, Liggett had earned his rank by purchase, not merit. Liggett’s command with the Scots Guards had been mostly unimpressive, neither disastrous nor triumphant and, in the end, making little difference to the outcome of the wars. A general of middling competency at best, he’d been promoted far beyond his skills because he was the son of a duke. A man without a bone of true leadership or military ability anywhere in his body.

“Nothing’s wrong with him as a general,” Clayton commented with that uncanny ability he had to read Merritt’s mind.

“Nothing’s right with him either,” Merritt countered in a low mutter. “And an odd choice to bring in to put down a riot.”

“A good choice actually.” Clayton frowned. “What other general do you know who would eagerly fire on his fellow Englishmen?”

True. Liggett wouldn’t hesitate to shoot down his former brothers-in-arms.

“And they didn’t bring him in,” Clayton added. “Liggett approached Whitehall to offer his services, and the War Department agreed to temporarily reassign his regiment.”

“To put down civil unrest?” Merritt was dumbstruck. The Scots Guards instead of the militia? That was like hitching a Derby thoroughbred to a plow to turn a field—a complete waste of skill. And dangerous. Because the Scots Guards were some of the best fighters the British army had ever produced. If those men were turned loose on a crowd… “God help the rioters.”

“We won’t have to worry then about figuring out who’s behind the riots then because all our leads will be dead.”

Merritt glanced out the window at the sunny day. Unless more rain came, he feared there would be another mob tonight. If so, soldiers would be sent into the streets, the riots would be put down by force, and any chance he had of finding a connection to Scepter would vanish with the dawn.

So would any chance Veronica had of earning her pardon.

He frowned into his glass. “What do you truly think of Miss Chase?”

“That she’s hiding the truth about why she was arrested and that she has better connections to London’s underworld than most Home Office agents.”

“No, I mean—” He grudgingly clarified, “What do you think of her…as a woman?”

“I don’t.”

Merritt glanced up in surprise. “When have you ever not noticed an attractive woman?”

“When she’s wielding a sword,” Clayton shot back. “A man tends to live longer that way. She’s not the sort for me.” He gestured at Merritt with his glass before setting it aside. “You, however, might have met your match.”

He blew out a dark laugh. “I don’t think so.”

Clayton sent him a look of disbelief, as if Merritt had sprouted a second head but hadn’t noticed, then slipped off the desk and stood. “It’s back to Whitehall for me, and off to the ball with you, Cinderella.” He gestured at the mannequin as he crossed to the door. “At least you’ve already got the gown.”

“Very funny,” Merritt muttered.

Clayton paused to glance back. Admiration for his friend shone on his face.

“Congratulations, Merritt,” he said sincerely, his voice full of warmth. “You finally have the future you’ve always wanted.”

As he stepped out the door, Merritt’s gaze wandered back to Joanna’s painting. He tossed back the rest of the port in his glass, leaned his head back against the chair, and squeezed shut his eyes.

No, I don’t.

Twelve