Page 26 of An Extraordinary Lord

“We’re not lazy. We want to earn our way. But where areourfeasts,ourgood pay for an honest day’s work? Where is a good day’s work to be had at all for hard-working men and women like us, and with His Majesty’s former soldiers bearing the brunt of the stick? Those good men fought for England and St George. They deserve better!”

A patriotic roar went up, followed by the stomping of feet and the pounding of tankards on the tabletops.

Merritt frowned.

The rabble-rouser noticed and jabbed a gnarled finger at him. “You, sir—you have a problem with giving thanks to those men who risked their lives for English freedom?”

“Is that what we risked them for?” Merritt drawled. “And here I thought it was because we enlisted, being paid for our service and knowing full well what we were getting ourselves into.”

The man’s face turned red. “Freedom isn’t free, my friend.”

“Actually, it is. That’s what the word means.”

The speaker gaped at Merritt, not knowing how to reply. Clearly, he’d never been challenged like this before. Veronica would have enjoyed the spectacle if she didn’t find herself fearing for Merritt’s safety in a room filled with very large, very patriotic, and very drunk men.

“True soldiers who’ve been in the heat of battle don’t give a damn about all that stuff and nonsense you’re spewing,” Merritt continued. “When cannon fire was booming like thunder and balls were whizzing past my head at Toulouse, I didn’t stop to think about how much freedom costs—or any of that other meaningless fribble that people love to spout off as truisms, as if saying that nonsense makes you more patriotic than everyone else. Nor did I give a damn what parties Prinny was throwing or what mistress he was tupping when I was fighting hand-to-hand at Waterloo, up to my ankles in blood and bodies.”

The tavern crowd quieted, duly chastised. Their snickers and jeers died away into uncomfortable silence.

Merritt’s eyes gleamed in a piercing mix of fire and ice. “I risked my life so Englishmen could continue to have the right to a parliament, to have an honest trial by jury, to have their property and liberties protected.” He smiled then, an expression so intense that Veronica felt the power of it slither down her spine even as she sat half a tavern away. “I fought so men like you can stand in public and openly criticize the crown without fear of being hanged for it, as long as you don’t stray into sedition.” His smile turned impossibly icier. “And you wouldneverdo anything seditious, would you, Mister…?”

The man’s jaw worked as he checked his anger. “Smathers.”

Roni’s heart stuttered.It was him.

“And no,” Smathers spat out, “I would never do anything seditious.”

“Glad to hear it. Because you should be damned grateful that freedomisfree.” Merritt signaled to the stunned bar wench to bring him another tankard of ale. “Because you and the rest of this country couldneverrepay the debt that soldiers and sailors are owed for giving you the right to stand there and make an arse of yourself by ranting about not enjoying the same pheasant dinners and satin sheets as a prince.”

The tavern fell completely silent at that. Every person who had cheered Smathers on now sat staring into their drinks, ashamed at their behavior yet still simmering with resentment at the monarchy.

“Of course,” Merritt added as he tossed a coin to the barmaid, tipping generously for the watery ale, “the Duke of York and his mistress can both rot on London Bridge as far as I’m concerned.”

Everyone in the place guffawed and called out in agreement at that. Except for Smathers, who glared murderously.

But the man took a deep breath to shove down his anger and raised his tankard back into the air. A forced smile gripped his face.

“Who’s with me, then?” he called out, falling back on script and ignoring the exchange with Merritt. “Who wants to discuss with me what can be done to make England a better country?”

Sothatwas how he recruited the rioters…agitate the room over Prinny, remind the men that they were overworked and underpaid, and then pull them aside to pay them to riot. All according to plan.

Except for tonight. Thanks to Merritt, jeers and laughs answered Smathers now. A few hands waved dismissingly as the crowd turned their backs to him and continued their conversations and flirtations that he’d interrupted.

Smathers’s face flushed scarlet. He kicked back his chair, which fell to the floor with a crash, slammed down his tankard, and stomped from the tavern. Hisses and laughter rose in his wake.

Veronica left on his heels, following out the door and into the rainy night. She half jogged after him as he hurried down the street and away from the tavern, then turned into the first intersecting street.

She halted on the rain-drenched cobblestones and watched as Smathers climbed into a waiting carriage. Not just any carriage either. Highly glossed ebony paint, uniformed coachman and two tigers, a fine matching team of black horses…an aristocrat’s gold crest decorating the black panel. What the devil was a man like Smathers doing stepping into a carriage like that?

As she started forward, her hand snaked up her sleeve for her knife—

Strong arms grabbed her around the waist and swung her off the ground in a circle, pulling her away from the street and into the dark shadows lining the storefronts. She made a desperate grab for her knife, only to have her hand knocked away.

With a cry of angry frustration, she stomped her foot down hard and caught the man in the right instep. A curse tore from him, but he didn’t let go. He pushed her into the recessed doorway of the dark shop and grabbed her by both wrists. Before she could see his face in the shadows or fight back, his powerful body shoved forward into hers. He pressed her flat against the door so she couldn’t punch with her fists. He pinned her arms above her head and her hips immobile beneath his.

“Stop struggling, damn it!”

Merritt.Of course.Which only made her struggle harder. She yanked her arms to free herself, but he refused to loosen his grip.