Page 69 of How Not to Marry a Duke

Warwick eyed him. “You were attacked?”

“No and yes.”

“Which was it, man?”

Jacobson glanced around as if to see who was near, then lowered his voice. “I was attacked, but not in the street. I needed money to continue working on my innovation of the miner’s headlamp. I’m close…so close to a workable prototype.”

“What did you do?” Warwick had an idea what the man’s answer would be.

“I went to someone I’d heard about, a moneylender.”

“You should have come to me first.”

“I wish I had, but it’s too late.”

“Go on,” Warwick urged.

“I didn’t go to the lender on Bond Street, the one the fancy lords use when they’ve heavily gambled. That moneylender wouldn’t take a risk on a simple inventor without much success. I heard of another.” Jacobson scrubbed a hand down his face, then flinched as he remembered the black eye. “A lender who is unscrupulous and charges high interest. But I was so sure about the success of my miner’s lamp that I was willing to take the risk and took the loan. But it didn’t work as I’d hoped.” He sagged in his chair. “When I couldn’t pay the interest, there was no sense reasoning with Mr. Slade, and he sent a burly man to collect. A man who used his fists and—”

Warwick’s gut twisted, and he shot Jacobson a penetrating look. “Good God, man! What did you say?”

“When I couldn’t make the exorbitant payment, he beat—”

“No. The name of the lender. What is it?” It took all his effort not to reach across the table and shake the answer out of him.

Jacobson’s eyes widened. “Mr. Slade. Stan Slade.”

Warwick’s throat tightened, and panic snaked in his chest. Edwin had mentioned Slade’s name when Warwick had first overheard him arguing with Adeline in the country. Edwin was more than eager to trade Adeline in exchange for release of his debt to the moneylender.

No wonder Edwin was desperate. Slade was a dangerous man; one the new Earl of Foster didn’t wish to cross.

The bastard is in over his head.

Warwick should have known. Bartering Adeline’s hand in marriage to Slade was stooping low, even for Edwin.

Warwick’s fingers fisted on the table. Their kiss had left him hard and wanting, desperate to claim her. It had taken all his will to pull away. An image of Adeline absorbed in the anatomist’s presentation sprang to his mind. Upswept raven hair had revealed her swanlike neck. Her lovely blue eyes had sparkled. Like him, she thrived from knowledge, and Warwick found her bewitching. Despite his resolve to not touch her, he’d wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss her right then and there for his scientific peers to see. To stake his claim.

Over his dead body. His heart thumped like a battering ram. He’d be damned if Adeline was sacrificed to an unscrupulous man like Slade. When he’d first struck a bargain with Adeline, he’d thought only of himself—to remain a bachelor for one more Season. But sitting across from Jacobson, observing the black eye and broken arm, the man’s injuries were alarming and infuriating.

The stakes had risen, and the simple had become more complex.

He needed to persuade everyone of their fake courtship, for certain—and to protect Adeline, no matter the cost.

…

After a quick breakfast of toast, jam, and poached eggs, Adeline sent Warwick a note explaining she would be busy for the day. A hired hack dropped Adeline and Hasmik off at Threadneedle Street. From there, it was a short walk to a smaller part of the city where her mother’s people and Londoners of Mediterranean and Middle Eastern descent worked and resided.

Adeline’s pulse thrummed with excitement. It had been too long since she’d visited. This area of the city was a hubbub of activity. Merchants in outdoor stalls sold foreign items—goods that had recently been shipped into the port, such as rare carpets, vases and pottery, artwork and jewelry. Customers bartered with merchants using their hands to articulate as well as a blend of different languages—Arabic, Turkish, Armenian, and Greek. She sidestepped a man who unrolled a carpet, a magnificent handwoven piece with colorful peacocks, green vines, and lush flowers. A husband and wife immediately began bargaining with the merchant. Others sold spices like cumin, anise seed, and za’atar, a Middle Eastern mixture consisting of thyme and sesame seeds.

Adeline had a fondness for za’atar mixed with olive oil and she purchased the spice along with freshly baked pita bread and a small flask of olive oil from one of the merchants. Hasmik haggled with another for sumac, turmeric, and tahini. Adeline was not a cook, but Hasmik was talented in the kitchen and would use the tahini, a sesame seed paste, to make hummus and other savory dishes.

With their packages wrapped and under their arms, they made their way to a small house close to the end of the street. The door swung open and two young women, twins, smiled in unison. Both had long, dark hair and wore simple dresses with embroidered aprons. One was plump, the other slim.

“Look who’s here!” the heavy-set twin cried out.

“Hello, Araz and Isa,” Adeline greeted the sisters.

The slender twin grasped Adeline’s arm and pulled her inside. “You are both here just in time. Armen and his friends arrived earlier.”