Page 52 of The Marquess of Secrets

Damn that bitch.

Yelling for help—to whom exactly? The doctor? Just how many men were involved with Lydia?

Bad enough to find a marquess on that list. The Marquess of Tennington met with the ex-copper with the cane. Why? John decided to start surveillance on the Tennington's townhouse.

But today was the first time he was free to do so because of his recent shifts at the hospital. When Lydia had stepped out of the front entrance and into a carriage, he couldn’t believe his eyes.

John had flagged a cab, and the driver nearly refused to take him as a customer due to his tattered clothing disguise, but once John had thrust a handful of shillings at him, the driver followed the carriage to the East End to the underground shelter.

Was she Tennington’s mistress? Fury tore through him at the thought of his Lydia pleasuring some pampered peer. He furtively glanced about the street and, spotting a cab, waved it down.

“Head to the West End, then back here,” he commanded the driver.

“That’s a fair piece; I’ll need half the fair.”

John thrust a pound note in the man’s gloved hand. “Drive where I say to drive.”

“Yes, sir.”

John settled inside and slammed the door. Once the coach lurched forward, he scanned the street, looking for anyone suspicious. Taking this sightseeing route would give him time to work out a plan and see if he was being followed.

Damn his pride, he shouldn’t have revealed himself to Lydia, but he couldn’t help it.

In hindsight, he also shouldn’t have told Lydia of his plans to rob the hospital pharmacy.

It was not as if he were addicted to the stuff. He went days without touching opium, especially when he worked several shifts in a row. But John did enjoy wallowing in his vices on his days off. Foolishly, he believed Lydia felt the same as him. Until the night of their terrible row.

The stubborn woman had defied him on many fronts. First by running off without a word, then moments ago in the underground soup kitchen when he commanded her to stay quiet.

How dare she question his authority? His ownership of her?

Yes, he occasionally sought out Fannie Slickson for a quick tumble, and he was temporarily staying with her until he could make other arrangements, but she meant nothing to him. Less than nothing.

But Lydia.

John rested his head against the seat cushion. Memories of their erotic adventures flooded his mind. She’d been game for anything. Maybe she had to be coaxed to try the morphine-cocaine mixture—or forced.

What did it matter? Lydia was his to do as he pleased.

Though, John reflected, he shouldn’t have hit her that night of the row or forced the needle into her arm against her wishes. He overplayed his hand, perhaps. But he had to make her aware of his authority. It was not to be questioned or denied. The only way to make her understand was to show his domination over her.

Regardless, she would be in his possession once again, if he had to follow her to the ends of the earth. No man would touch her or he would suffer the consequences.

A marquess? Heir to a duke?

John would be playing with fire. Especially with a detective agency involved.

To hell with it. He would burn it all down.

As long as after all turned to ash—Lydia was his.

Chapter 15

Harrison reached the tunnel to find Lydia standing near a pile of clothes. She turned to face him, holding a fake beard.

“Huntsford shed his disguise as he ran,” she whispered miserably, “I couldn’t catch him.”

Sprinting to the entrance, Harrison moved aside the loose boards and stepped onto the sidewalk. He was immediately swallowed up by a crowd of laborers.