The Bewildered Bride, page 17
Then he looked to Ruth. “Christopher is safe. I have him.”
He stood up straight and helped the soaked Mrs. Bexeley out of the pond.
The boy put his wet arms about Wycliff’s neck.
Mrs. Bexeley picked up her screaming baby. “I took my eyes off him for a minute.”
“Boys know how to get into trouble.” He came over and poked his wet finger at the little one. “Watch this one, too. Boys know how to scare their mothers. Christopher, let’s take you to yours.”
Wycliff looked up and started running again. Ruth was on the path to the pond but in the same spot he’d sped past her.
He put his arm about her waist. His arms were wet. He’d made her beautiful gown wet. But like a sailor paralyzed by the aftermath of a battle, she needed to move. She needed to awaken from this fog. “Your son is well, Ruth. Christopher, tell your mother you are sorry.”
“I wanted the frog, Mama. I jumped. He jumped.”
Tears streamed down her face.
Get her below, pull her to the hull, the entry of the Croomes’ house. “Come on, Christopher. Let’s get your mother back to the house.”
He towed Ruth all the way until they stood in the hall.
“I knew you’d get to him.” Her voice was muffled against his lapel. “I knew you would.”
He drew her closer and put the lad into his mother’s arms.
She sank to the floor, holding on to Chris like he’d slip away.
This moment felt private, with Ruth repeating her words of gratitude.
Could he belong to it? He truly wanted to. He had to.
Kneeling, he put his arms about them both. When he looked into the boy’s brown eyes and swooped his hand through Christopher’s fine, wet hair, he was grateful, too.
“Ruth, you need to get him out of these damp clothes. He can’t get the sniffles again.”
He lifted her to her feet and led them to the stairwell to the upper levels. “Take care of your mother, Christopher.”
He watched them go up the stairs before he headed to the door.
“Thank you for saving my son.”
Her voice was loud, bouncing off the chandelier and the neat plastered wall.
He swallowed hard, forced his throat to work. “Adam’s son. You two are my family, Mrs. Wilky.”
Tugging at his collar, he hoped she didn’t see his scars. “I need to get out of these wet clothes. I’ll visit with your father tomorrow, if he’s available.”
“Lord Wycliff, please come tomorrow. We could have tea. I’d like to have tea with you.”
With a hand to his collar to keep it from falling, he nodded. “I’ll be here.”
Ruth smiled then took her son up the stairs.
Wycliff knew battle shock. He also trusted his gut. Ruth was still suffering from their brutal attack, but did she have another villain?
Found in a brothel.
He picked up his hat and cape and stepped out of the entry. She’d said her father had retrieved her from a brothel. Could that be her aversion to a passionate marriage?
He grew sick to his stomach.
No wonder she hated Adam. Ruth had been left unprotected. Had she been forced to work at a brothel? Lawden must find out what had happened to her. Some of the bawdy houses he’d been searching for his sister, they needed to be questioned about Ruth.
His heart thundered.
Anger overtook him.
Some bawds treated their women as slaves. Could that have happened to Ruth? Is that why she didn’t know if Christopher was his?
Did he care for Ruth enough to agree to a platonic marriage?
This all had to be a test.
Tomorrow, he’d clear up everything. There was no way he could have a platonic marriage with a woman he desperately loved.
Chapter Seventeen
The Patriarch Needs a Word
I sat in front of my mirror, balancing my spectacles by pushing them up and down my nose, as I tried to get the focus right.
Wycliff was coming for tea. I had an urge to take a little more care.
Ester popped inside, whipping through the door I’d purposely left open. “Here, use these pearl pins. They will make your curls so pretty.”
“Thank you but no, Ester.”
I grabbed my brush but saw my sister’s reflection in the mirrored glass.
Why did she frown? Why were her lips trembling?
“Out with it, Ester.”
“I didn’t mean for Christopher to be in trouble. I didn’t look…for just a moment. He could’ve been hurt.”
I turned and grabbed my sister and pulled her into a hug. “Chris is fine. He’s fine. I’m his mother, and I couldn’t even get to him. If not for Lord Wycliff… Let’s not talk of this anymore.”
My sister wiped at her eyes. “He did us a great service. I’m indebted to him for saving my nephew. I know this is wrong to say, but I still don’t trust him, Ruth. He’s hiding something.”
Everyone has secrets.
I did. I’d hinted at being found at a brothel, and the man hadn’t even blinked. Too smooth. Or because of his nosiness did he already know?
“Ruth, Bex thinks he’s involved with unrest at the docks. The Wilkinson family is deep into shipping. There are strikes and strange occurrences. People have died.”
“One man. A mulatto man is responsible? Ester, do be serious.”
Pacing, Ester crossed her arms about her sand-colored shawl. She was a desert priestess and oracle of bad news. “How do I help you see what I see?”
“Sight puns are beneath you. Maybe you can try something from your favorite Shakespeare.”
Tugging at an errant lock, I pinned it high on my head. I took one of the daisies that had bloomed from Wycliff’s bouquet and slid it right into my braid before forming my chignon. “I do trust him. And I owe him my son’s life. That has to mean something. Why should I question his business dealings? Maybe he is as good as Papa at keeping family safe from his dealings.”
“That could be, but Papa’s been at this a long time. This Lord Wycliff has come from nowhere. Bex can find nothing on him other than his father retired to the country four years ago.”
I put down my brush, then swung my legs and turned on the stool. The hem of my mulberry gown flapped as I faced Ester. “You had your husband look into him?”
Cornered, my sister folded her arms. “Yes. I had him look into the barrister, too. You remember Mr. Marks, the man with whom you’ve been exchanging letters.”
“Perhaps he’s forgotten.” I picked up the parchment wrapped with a scarlet ribbon. “Another regret. He’ll not be able to take me on a drive this week. Next week, he will.”
“He is very busy. He saved a widow from being convicted of coining. That could be a capital offense, forging false coins.”
I pushed at my brow and remembered how differently my sister and I thought. “I respect the work Mr. Marks does, but he has forgotten this widow, the one here on Fournier Street. What would be my Christopher’s fate if Lord Wycliff hadn’t been here?”
“What are you saying?”
“I don’t think Mr. Marks is for me. I chose him from the men responding to my newspaper advertisement for his respectability, but I need to think about Christopher. He’s an active boy. He needs a father who is around. He’s lived long enough without one.”
“You need to be loved, Ruth, and cherished and safe. Maybe none of these men are it.”
“If Lord Wycliff was Lady Hartwell’s or Mrs. Fitzwilliam-Cecil’s choice would you be saying this? Or is it because you still think my judgement is not sound? You don’t trust that I might know my own mind.”
“It’s not the same. My friends—”
“Yes, your friends. Women who you respect.”
“Their husbands are all safe. And Bex and I. I almost let him go because of the danger he faces as he fights for good. Our uncle, Papa’s brother was killed. Remember how his bloodied coat was laid in front of Papa’s warehouse?”
“I remember. I found the jacket. I had come from a walk and found it on the steps.”
“I forgot that.”
“And I witnessed my husband die a brutal death. I saw it. I bear the scars of the attack. Don’t you think I know danger?”
“I fret too much.” Ester’s lips went to my crown and she put a big sloppy kiss along my scar. “I want you to be happy, Ruth, but I won’t be silent.”
“You never are, Ester.”
“Papa could hire another servant to keep watch on Chris. Then you can refuse Marks and Wycliff.”
“I still want my own. I want my slippers untouched. My own knitting parlor.”
“It’s Mr. Whip-thingy. He wants you, and you’ve always liked danger. I remember you sneaking out to the docks.”
Yes, I used to be much braver. Somehow, I felt like that girl again, with Wycliff. “The whip is a sjambok. If you hadn’t gone with me to Blaren House, you wouldn’t know about it at all.”
“But he still wants you. It doesn’t seem decent, and if you get carried away, he’ll leave you a fallen woman. Then a respectable man like Mr. Marks won’t come near you.”
I raised my head, anger blooming and filling my empty chest. “You don’t think I am smart enough to avoid a compromise? You think I don’t know how to handle Wycliff?”
“Honestly, no. If one part of your story is true, then the rest is true. I know why you chose Mr. Marks. He is the safer, passionless choice. Wycliff is fire. I don’t want you to be burned.”
What if I want to be burned a little? What if I, the dormant tigress, want to be a little singed? Maybe Wycliff could take away all the horrible memories and I could lie in his arms unafraid. Maybe he could make me forget the bad. He reminded me so much of Adam, the good parts— kissed soft like him, so attentive like him. But the man had to be smarter to keep me and Chris safe.
Was I folding Wycliff into Adam or Adam into Wycliff?
That was wrong, yet I couldn’t help it. I wanted the best of both of them.
Ester held on to me. “Ruth, do take care.”
“I need more time to sort things through. And I want the baron to be a part of Chris’s life. Chris is a Wilkinson. He should never lose that connection.”
“Ruth, I’m saying what’s on my mind, like we used to do. I have to look out for you.”
She started taking down one of my braids. “I will make this even. And don’t worry. Papa and Bex are talking to Wycliff as soon as he arrives. They’ll figure out his game. We’re not letting anyone take advantage of you.”
I closed my eyes so Ester couldn’t see the fear those words wrought: Papa and Bex talking to Wycliff.
This couldn’t be good.
Wycliff had better not be dishonest. The ramifications would hurt not only me but my beautiful son. The tigress in me would come out and rid my life of anything that could hurt my Chris.
…
Wycliff sat in his carriage outside of Nineteen Fournier.
He didn’t know what to say. His throat felt so dry, almost stripped of words. “Lawden, are you sure?”
His man, his trusted advocate, nodded his head. “Yes, my lord. I’m sorry.”
Folding the flexible end of his sjambok betwixt his fingers, Wycliff cleared his throat. “She was one of Madame Talease’s girls.”
It made sense. The madam who specialized in exotics, as they called Blackamoor and mulatto women, would have had his Ruth. He’d checked with Talease to see if Cicely had been intercepted but had never received word.
“We’ve been checking for my sister at the bawdy houses in town. I should’ve been asking more questions. I made a joke about Ruth and her sister being Talease’s bed wenches. How awful I am.”
He punched at the low tufted ceiling, a jet-colored silk roof that matched the onyx seating. This was a crisp, orderly place for the madness in his head.
No one could begrudge Ruth for doing what she had to survive, work for Madame Talease. Living, eating, a roof over one’s head was everything. Talease didn’t force her girls. She was known for that.
“My lord, you need to get in there.”
“In a moment. You rarely shock me, Lawden.”
This bit of news explained Ruth’s alleged frigid nature, her aversion to a full marriage. Talease’s girls were highly sought after, well cared for, often kept as courtesans for rich men.
“My lord, your toy for the child.” Lawden handed him the frog puppet.
Christopher. The sweet boy.
Wycliff shook the toy and watched its limbs move. “Nice.”
He’d thought he’d be able to look at the boy and know his flesh and blood. With Ruth as one of Talease’s girls, he’d never know.
He wiped at his face and started out of the carriage.
“Wait, my lord.”
Wycliff turned back.
Lawden again handed him the toy. “Your cousin Nicholas Wilkinson has been to Blaren House twice today. He knows you made a deal with the Captain. He’s talking about old times and friendships, my lord.”
“I can’t think of him or any Wilkinson now.” He passed the toy back. “Tomorrow, with this gift. Tonight, it will look too calculated.”
“Maybe it is time for you to wrap up this intricate courtship. Get the girl and go on a long wedding trip. The things you set in motion will follow through even without you being in London.”
“I won’t run. That gives Uncle Soulden and Johnson a chance to strike. I ran before. Not again. My enemies stole the life and care Ruth should have had. Not again.”
Lawden adjusted Wycliff’s collar. “Good, my lord. Then go in and win the woman and the boy.”
His man made it sound so simple. Perhaps it was.
“Thank you, my friend.”
Wycliff exited the carriage and pounded up the steps.
As he entered, a young woman came toward Clancy, cradling her pregnant middle.
“Mrs. Johnson, I’ll see about your carriage.” The butler stepped out the door.
She stared in Wycliff’s direction.
“Do I know you, ma’am?”
“No, but I’ve heard of you, Lord Wycliff. I’m Mrs. Loftus Johnson. My husband is in shipping.”
Mr. Croome’s business dealings were as tangled as Wycliff’s. He was a perfect match to this family. He nodded and moved toward the stairs. Family of enemies were off-limits. They weren’t responsible for their husband’s dealings.
“You know the name, Lord Wycliff. He’s in a bit of bad straights.”
Of course, he knew the name. Loftus Johnson’s wealth came from his dealings with Uncle Soulden. The men were thieves. They were tightly knit. They were dirty. Because of Wycliff’s plans, they were both facing debtors’ prison.
“I’m sorry you are distressed, ma’am.”
She played with a shiny black tendril curling about her milky face. “He’s mighty desperate. I don’t know what he’ll do. What if I knew where a ledger was? Would that buy help?”
Wycliff had copied two of Uncle’s ledgers. One he’d hidden in his father’s study, the other in Ruth’s trunk. This second book had more of the men’s dirty dealings and the false entries that had placed blame on Wycliff’s father.
But dead men served no prison time. Wycliff didn’t need the second copy for his plans to succeed.
“What are you asking, Mrs. Johnson?”
“I know Ruth from a long time ago. I have the book now.”
His gut was a dangerous thing—so was a woman bent on proving something. Lawden’s earlier information on Croome’s business associates should prove handy.
“I congratulate you. You were one of Madame Talease’s girls? Old Milly, done come up.”
Her cheery face froze.
She must not be used to people identifying her from her former life at the brothel. Ruth’s trunk must have ended up at Madame Talease’s. Miss Milly must have stolen it from her at the bawdy house.
The attractive woman blinked her luminous blue eyes a dozen times before any words came to her lips. “I have. I’d appreciate it if you keep that to yourself.”
“I hear discretion is the better part of valor.”
“Yes.” She moved back toward the exit.
Clancy returned. “Our fellow, Jonesy, he brought a carriage around.”
“Thank you.” Mrs. Johnson pulled on her chestnut coat and fled.
Chuckling to himself, Wycliff pulled out his pocket watch. It was late. Christopher was probably in bed. He’d like to check in on the little fellow.
“Might I see you for a moment?”
A deep baritone voice caught Wycliff’s attention. He turned and saw a very big man, an easy six-four and two hundred pounds, coming toward him. The patriarch of the Croomes, Josiah Croome.
The man wore a slate-colored jacket against his deeply-bronzed skin.
“Now, Lord Wycliff.”
“Mr. Croome, I presume? Yes, we were to meet yesterday, but for the frog incident.”
“Thank you for that. I hear you had some quick thinking. Right, Bexeley?”
A younger fellow stood beside Ruth’s father. He was tall, athletic, and as pale as Wycliff, paler.
“This must be the legislator, Mr. Bexeley, the husband to Mrs. Wilky’s sister.”
Bexeley’s deep-blue eyes slid away, but his confident smile remained. “Let’s go to Mr. Croome’s study. It will be an easy chat.”
He wasn’t concerned about the politician, they were about the same height, but Wycliff was more muscled. Working the depths of the frigate had given him the ability to hold his own, added power to delivering his blows.
The older man, though crippled in his leg and using a cane, probably threw a vicious punch.
What a time to be without his sjambok. Wycliff put his hands behind his back. “After you, gentlemen.”
They led him down the hall to the room opposite the parlor, the book-lined study where he’d found Ruth during the garden party.
