The Arrangement

“Don’t be silly, Pip. You’re hurt, and I need to see where, so I can help you.”

“Bad! You can’t see that part.” She’d better not see that part, he thought, or she’d get the shock of her life. Those gentle hands touching his waist, her firm little shoulders beneath his arm on the way upstairs, had wreaked havoc on the lower part of his anatomy, in spite of the headache and pain in his side. He felt fit to burst.

The sight of his erection would definitely get her out of here, but he wasn’t at all sure he wanted her to go just yet. The longer she stayed, the more he pretended with her, the worse it would be if she found him out. He knew that.

He also knew that some part of him—the Pip part, maybe—needed her softness. Acting the village idiot was a small price to pay for something he’d always craved and rarely found. Sex was easy enough to get, if he wanted it. Sometimes he had even run from it, when the supply exceeded his demand. But real caring was scarce as summer snow.

Surely he could risk acting the part she’d presented him with for a little while. Just long enough to grab a bit of solace. Comfort was all he would take from her, he decided firmly, no matter how she fired his loins. He could be noble if he tried, even if he hadn’t been trained to it.

“Will you tell me where it hurts you, Pip? Just point to the places, and Kathryn will make them better.”

Oh God, I wish! he thought, and rolled his eyes. “Here,” he said, pointing to his temple and his mouth. There was nothing to be done for the ribs, and he doubted very much she’d be willing to ease the other, lower part that was aching like the devil.

“Are ye up there?” a too-familiar voice called up the stairs. The voice of doom, Jon thought with a clenching in his gut. Grandy would show up now, of all times. He could never find the blasted woman when he needed her. Now she’d ruin everything.

“In here,” Kathryn sang out. “Hurry, Pip’s been injured.”

A thud of heavy footsteps promised the death knell of his hopes. He watched with a fatalistic languor as Grandy’s pudding face peeped around the doorframe. “What is it, lad? Who’s this woman wi’ ye?”

Good, she hadn’t called him by name yet. Jon thought he might as well go for broke. He stretched out his arms and groaned, “Grandy, Grandy, I fell down!”

“And dropped yer pie all over th’ floor, too, ye clumsy oaf. I near slid down in it. Ye know I canna see worth beans.”

Kathryn’s mouth dropped as she rounded on Grandy, shoulders squared in a militant manner. “Now you see here...”

Jon grasped her elbow and gave it several yanks. “The ladies! I want my ladies!” There, that distracted her. And it wasn’t a bad idea to have them up here where they’d be safe.

“Ladies?” Kathryn asked, thoroughly confused, as he had known she would be. Jon widened his eyes, trying his best to look innocent, as he met Grandy’s curious gaze.

“He’s meanin’ th’ fiddle and ‘is other dulcies,” Grandy said to Kathryn. Then her pudgy finger pointed at him. “Ye’ll have to go find ’em yerself, rascal. God only kens where ye left ‘em layin’ this time.”

He gave Kathryn a piteous look and whispered, “Please.”

She patted his hand tenderly and squeezed it. “Of course. I’ll go find them for you. Lie back and rest now.”

“Don’t fall down,” he added as she started for the door.

As soon as he heard the stairs creaking, he beckoned Grandy closer. “She doesn’t know I’m Jon, and you’d better not muck me up here, old woman. Do you understand?”

Grandy snorted. “I ain’t helpin’ ye trick no gel into yer bed, Jonny.”

She had not been a decent nursemaid when she really was one, and he certainly didn’t need her services. He held on to her faded sleeve. “That’s not it, Grandy, I promise. Now listen to me carefully. Bunrich has bought up Maman’s markers, and if I don’t come up to scratch in a week or so, I’m cooked. This Wainwright woman writes for the newspaper, and if she learns Jonathan Chadwick is up to his ears in gambling debts, it will be all over London with her next column. There won’t be any more concerts, for the nobs or anybody else. No patrons for the opera, either. Neither of us will eat, do you understand? If I can turn her up sweet on Pip, she won’t go after Jon.”

“What’s all th’ Pip business, then?” she asked, rubbing her bulbous nose with a callused forefinger.

“I told her that’s my name. Can’t you imagine what a joke all of London would make of it should she describe Chadwick looking like an overgrown pig boy? She thinks I’m Jon’s dim-witted brother, and she feels sorry for me. As long as she believes I’m Pip, she won’t write anything bad about me—us. Just bring the meals and see you don’t give me away, or I’ll have your hide. And then you’ll starve!”

“Don’t ye threaten me, ye wee turd. I’ll pin yer ears back to yer head wi’ roofin’ nails!” She gave his hair a tug for emphasis.

“All right, please, then. C’mon, Grandy, help me out here.”

“What about this Bunrich? He th’ one what kicked ye around today?” Grandy asked, poking roughly at his head.

Jon winced as he endured her prodding. “Uh-huh. I’ll have to worry about him after I get her out of here. Shhh, now, she’s coming. Mind your mouth.”

Kathryn sailed into the room, her arms full of his musical instruments. “Here are your ladies, Pip!” Carefully she laid each one on the bed beside him. “Now lie back like a good boy and let Kathryn see to your hurts. Mrs. Grandy, would you heat some water and bring it up? Also, he’ll need a towel and some soap, if you have it....”

“Humph, no chance o’ that. Canna see t’ take th’ stairs totin’ nothing. He’ll live.”

Jon watched Grandy shuffle out of the room with her usual rolling gracelessness. “Bye, Gran,” he said, as lovingly as if he were her very favorite grandchild. He ought, by rights, to go trip her on the top step, the fractious old wart.

At least she wouldn’t give him away. Grandy’s instinct for survival surpassed even his own. And, deep down in that mass she called a body, Jon suspected she had a heart.

“She’s a mean old woman!” Kathryn said, brushing his hair back out of his eyes. “You rest a bit and I’ll go get something to wash you up.”

“Kathryn?” Jon said, grabbing her hand in both of his. Her tender smile nearly stopped his heart. He had to close his eyes against it so that he could think of something to say.

When he opened them, they felt unfocused, rolled around like marbles in a bowl. Maybe he did have a concussion after all. It wouldn’t do to have her here after he gave in to sleep. He had to get rid of her now. Discounting the secrets she might unearth by snooping around the house, there was always a chance Bunrich would begin to suspect the trick Jon had planned. He might come back and finish what he had started.

“Go get Jon,” he said. “Please?” He knew that was the only way he would get her out of the house.

“Where is he?” she whispered, leaning over him to examine the lump on his head more closely. Her soft palm slid down to the uninjured portion of his face and rested lightly against his left cheek.

Jon breathed in her scent, hoping to hold it until he could fall asleep and dream.

“Town,” he answered. His need for sleep battled with his reluctance to make her leave. “Go to town.”

“Will you be all right until he gets here?”

“Um-hmm. So tired,” he mumbled, and turned away from her.

Ten minutes later, Jon relaxed for the first time since entering her room at the inn that morning. The sound of her carriage wheels crunching down the driveway provided much-needed relief. And a surprising sadness.

Why did he yearn so for her to stay, when he knew it was impossible? The woman could wreck his life, for pity’s sake. He ran a tentative finger over the swelling at his temple. That fall on his head must have left a severe dent in his brain. It had definitely mangled the section dedicated to self-preservation. Too bad it hadn’t numbed the region that ruled his nether parts.

He wanted her. Craved her. Not like the tasting of a sweet roll or a snifter of fine brandy. More like drawing his next breath. Damn.

But would he be satisfied by a mere tossing-up of her skirts, if and when she ever allowed it? He let his fingers drift down the side of his face, where she had last touched him.

Probably not.

Chapter Four

Kathryn set aside her lap desk, glanced out the window of her second-story room and wondered again how poor Pip was getting on today. She didn’t think he had been seriously injured, but Chadwick surely would want to know about it.

She had left word with the landlady at Jonathan’s rooms the moment she arrived in town the day before. Since mid morning she had searched for him. She’d sent Thom to the servants’ entrances of the gentlemen’s clubs with questions, and contacted everyone Chadwick had performed for in the past few weeks. By midafternoon, Kathryn had decided to give it up and come back to Uncle Rupert’s. Either no one had seen Jon or they were helping him avoid her.

Perhaps she should have mentioned the reason she wanted to find him in the inquiries she made. Even then, everyone would probably believe she was only after a story for the paper. Her “secret” occupation was hardly a true secret.

Working did nothing to alleviate her worries. The article on Chadwick was a futile effort, anyway. All the way back to London yesterday, she had thought of little else. Aside from his obnoxious public arrogance, she had found nothing derogatory to write about. Of course, she could expose his secret about using Pip’s music. That, coupled with his nose-thumbing superiority, would have everyone believing him as reprehensible as she had at first. Such a story would set London on its collective ear. But it would destroy Jonathan, and probably Pip, as well.

She laid the pen aside and crumpled the paper in her fist.

Where the devil had Jon gotten to, anyway? She had turned the city upside down, and he was nowhere to be found. As far as she could discern, he wasn’t performing anywhere in town tonight. Kathryn thought again of poor Pip, wounded and waiting in that sorry excuse for a home, with no one but that crotchety old crone to look after him. She had half a mind to go back there tonight and make certain he didn’t go hungry. If there was no word from Jonathan Chadwick, she’d go first thing in the morning, she promised herself.

Right now, she had problems enough of her own to face. Uncle Rupert would fly into a rage when she told him she had decided not to make Chadwick her subject for the week.

If only she could beg off doing the column for two months, she wouldn’t have to write anything about anyone. She would be twenty-five and financially independent. Well, just how independent remained to be seen. But however much she received from her inheritance must suffice. Maybe she should be grateful to Uncle Rupert, but living under his thumb was becoming increasingly intolerable. There were times when she thought him a bit unbalanced, especially when he nagged her so about the articles. Chadwick did not seem to warrant ruining, as the others had.

In the beginning, she had reveled in the chance to knock some entertainer off his golden perch. If only she hadn’t done the exposé on Thackery Osgood six months ago, she wouldn’t be in this mess. The wretch had ruined three young singers fresh off the farm. Three in a row! Those poor girls hadn’t had a clue what the lecherous old sot was up to when he offered them parts in his musicale. Promises of fame and riches had turned to shame and degradation within days of their respective arrivals. Luckily—or maybe not so luckily, given her present predicament—Kathryn had virtually stumbled on one of the unfortunates, a vicar’s daughter, trying to throw herself into the Thames. Osgood’s admirers had nearly lynched him from the theater marquee after Kathryn’s column revealing what he had done appeared. She couldn’t regret having a hand in that. Hanging was too good for the bastard.

Then there had been Theodosia Lark. Lark, indeed! Sang more like a goose with a bad throat, Kathryn thought. The woman had abandoned her own children, infant twins, on the steps of a local orphanage just so that she could resume her career unencumbered. Lark’s return to the stage had lasted only until the next edition of About Town. The pathos Kathryn injected into the piece about the babies had inspired their subsequent adoption by a wealthy merchant’s family. Now the singing doxy had neither career nor motherhood to worry about. Public outrage had forced her retirement.

Other scandals had followed, dutifully penned by her alter ego, K. M. Wainwright. Kathryn knew that targeting entertainers had everything to do with her own mother’s profession. Maria Soliana’s operatic career flourished even today, but Italy’s darling had better not dare a return to London. Father had never quite recovered from his wife’s abandonment. Kathryn had adjusted to being motherless, but it had left her bitter. How could any mother put her career before her own child? No, Kathryn didn’t regret dashing Theodosia Lark’s career. Not for a moment.

Kathryn knew there were good and talented people in the business, but most of them were self-centered and uncaring. What began as a small crusade against the worst evils of the stage had simply gotten out of hand. She thought perhaps she had run out of truly ignominious individuals. Uncle Rupert would have to find himself another writer with a grudge. Hers had spent itself, at least for the present.

He could threaten all he liked, but Kathryn didn’t really believe her own uncle would set her out on the street without a farthing. And if he still intended to thrust her into a marriage with that pompous Randall Nelson, he could jolly well think again.

With her shoulders squared and her mouth firmly set, Kathryn went down the stairs to confront him with her resignation.

When she stopped on the first floor landing to brush out the wrinkles in her skirt and bolster her flagging courage, Randall’s voice drifted up from the open door of Uncle Rupert’s study. His words were indistinct, but his tone sounded angry. The fact that he was here wasn’t out of the ordinary. He owned a part interest in the paper and he and Uncle Rupert had been friends for years, despite the difference in their ages. This was no ordinary conversation between chums, however. Kathryn had been a reporter just long enough to heed her instincts. Quietly she descended just far enough downstairs to overhear without being seen.

“You ought to keep a tighter rein on her, Rupert,” Randall said. “I don’t like the idea of her haring off about town unescorted. Her reputation’s already in shreds since you let it be known she’s the one doing those columns in the paper.”

Rupert laughed; it was a nasty sound. “Hey, you can’t blame me for taking full advantage of her talents, now can you? She’s good at what she does—subscriptions have doubled! And you won’t mind all that talk when you get your hands on her inheritance, will you? Not every day a man comes into a fortune like that Eighty thousand pounds can sugarcoat the foulest little pill, can’t it?”

“Eighty thousand? But that’s only half! You said a sixty-forty split in my favor, Rupert.”

Kathryn grasped the stair rail. Her knees wobbled so violently she thought she would collapse right there, in a heap. One hundred and sixty thousand pounds! Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined her father had accrued so much in his lifetime! Ten or fifteen thousand at most, she had figured. She was a bloody heiress! She could live forever on that amount Like a queen! Drawing in a shaky breath, she made herself listen further.

“What if she refuses? We only have two months left to convince her, and so far she hasn’t given me a speck of encouragement,” Randall complained. “She won’t marry me.”

“Don’t you worry about it, my boy. A little laudanum in her wine will do the trick. I’ve got the parson in my pocket already. Old Tim Notchworthy’s not above a hefty bribe. We’ll have this marriage sewn up right and tight in a few days. All we need do is keep her groggy afterwards. Ain’t that unusual for women these days to fall slave to the opiates.”

Kathryn heard the clink of glasses. Good God, they planned to drug her, concoct a sham of a marriage and take over her inheritance? Her own uncle, for heaven’s sake!

Outrage overcame her shock, but, fortunately, not her prudence. Confronting them with their heinous knavery could be dangerous. With a quick shake of fury, she crept back upstairs to her room and stuffed a few clothes in a small carpetbag. Obviously, Uncle Rupert hadn’t heard her come home this evening. If she hurried, she could be away again before he knew she had ever returned. But where could she go that he or Randall wouldn’t find her and drag her back to complete their plans?

She had no close friends living near London, and no funds with which to travel far. Tearing open her reticule, Kathryn counted her money. The pittance Uncle gave her for fripperies wouldn’t hire fare to the next county. Taking Thomas and the carriage back out would draw attention. She would have to ride. With an angry sigh, she tore off her day dress and donned her sturdy blue riding habit.

With all the stealth of a practiced thief, Kathryn stole down the servants’ stairs and made a dash for the stables. Thomas was nowhere about, thank God. Not that he’d ever tell, but Uncle might dismiss him if he thought they had conspired in her getaway. Her stout little mare whinnied a greeting.

“You’re about to become a racehorse, Mabel,” Kathryn said as she struggled with the sidesaddle. “And God help me, you’d better go the distance!”

A plan began to gel as she threaded Mabel through the back streets at a steady clip. She would call in a favor, or resort to blackmail, if necessary, but Jonathan Chadwick was going to be her savior, one way or another. He was the only one she knew with a great place to hide. If no one had discovered Pip in all this time, no one would be able to find her, either.

Jon exited the lane onto the main road, carefully keeping Imp to a walk. Wouldn’t do to arrive at the Turkingtons’ affair covered with road dust and sweat. As it was, he would probably smell of horse, but there was no help for it. He hadn’t been able to scratch up enough to hire the coach this time. Perhaps his smell would keep the female leeches at a distance. He resisted the urge to wipe his forehead. Already the powder was beading up there and threatening to run down his face in rivulets.

A rider approached and stiffened in the saddle as he watched. The woman sped to a canter, and he recognized her, even at a distance. Kathryn Wainwright.

“Chadwick?” she called, reining to a halt several lengths away. “Thank God it’s you. I need your help!”

He dismounted and strode over to assist her down. She pushed herself away from him and brushed tousled blond ringlets out of her eyes with the back of her hand. He wondered if she knew how fetching she looked in her disarray.

“If it isn’t Miss Wainwright! To what do I owe the pleasure?” Jon inclined his head in a mocking bow.

She drew in an unsteady breath and looked at her feet. Even in the fading light of sundown, he noticed the fierce blush on her cheeks. “I really need your help.”

“So you’ve said. My wish is your command, of course, but I’m in rather a hurry. An engagement, you see.” He took her hand and felt it trembling. “Come now, speak up. I haven’t got all night.”

Her hand turned palm up to grasp his in a death grip. “Let me hide in your house, sir! Please!” She rushed on before he could think what to say. “If you will, I won’t write a word about you. Ever. My oath on it. Just let me stay for two months. I can look after Pip for you, cook, clean, whatever. Please say I may!” Her other hand joined the first and worked frantically over the stretch of his ostrich-skin gloves. “I will pay you, too. Soon I’ll have lots of money and I’ll pay you well.”

Jon looked down into the wide, teary eyes. They darkened to near black. Deep, rich chocolate. Her brow furrowed and her lips trembled as she waited for his response.

While nothing in the world would have pleased him more than holing up in his house with this spicy little morsel, Jon knew he couldn’t allow himself that. How could he explain Pip’s absence? Even if he could concoct an explanation, Grandy wouldn’t keep her mouth shut. She’d give away the whole ruse, and Kathryn would have the story of his life. So would all of London. “That’s not such a good idea, Miss Wainwright.”

Her face crumpled. Two giant tears trickled down her cheeks and dripped off her chin before she got herself in hand. He led her over to a large boulder just off the road and settled himself beside her. “Now then, why don’t you tell me what’s prompted this unseemly suggestion of yours?”

Kathryn cleared her throat. She drew her hands away from his and smoothed them over her corseted waist. “My uncle plans to marry me off to his wretch of a partner. They want my inheritance, and I don’t mean to let them have it.”

“Inheritance?” Jon hoped his greed didn’t show. Not greed, he reminded himself. It was need that prompted his interest. Need, and his healthy sense of self-preservation. “They cannot make you wed if you refuse to.”

“Yes! Yes, they can! I overhead them planning to drug me and bribe some minister to perform the deed. Oh, please, Mr. Chadwick, you have to help me!” Her breath shuddered out, and he feared she was about to begin weeping in earnest.

“Your own uncle is party to this scheme? It must take a frightful amount of money to inspire that sort of thing,” Jon said, probing none too tactfully.

She didn’t seem to notice his lack of subtlety. “One hundred sixty thousand pounds!”

Jon’s mouth dropped open. “Good Lord! I’ll marry you myself!”

Her wits seemed linked to her anger. At least they both returned to her at the same time. “Ha! What makes you think I’d let you get your long-fingered paws on my money, when I just ran away to prevent such a thing?” She stood up and paced furiously back and forth in front of him, twisting her fingers and shaking her head.

He hadn’t really believed she would entertain his half-baked proposal, but perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to push a little further when the time was right. For now, he would be the helpful friend. “Well, then, it seems to me you should simply take your fortune and make yourself scarce,” he suggested amiably.

“No, I can’t do that,” she declared. “Father left it in trust to me, and I can’t touch it until I’m twenty-five. He didn’t trust me to manage it until I’d passed my youth. Not even then, if you want the truth. He thought I needed a husband, of course.”

Jon smiled. He wanted to jump up and down. “Then take a husband you can manage, sweetheart. I promise I’ll be the soul of cooperation. You call the tune, and I’ll play it. What say?”

She stopped pacing abruptly and faced him. A light came on in her eyes, turning them almost amber. An unsteady little laugh escaped, and she clapped her hands. “Genius! I knew you were a genius, Jon Chadwick!”

“So you’re proposing to me now? I accept!” He laughed, too, amazed at how easily he had solved both their problems.

“Dream away, Chadwick,” she said smoothly, and raised that square little chin of hers. “You’re going to arrange a marriage for me, all right, but not with yourself. I’m going to marry Pip.”

His speechlessness lasted for five whole seconds. “Over my dead body!”

“What’s your objection?” she asked. “I could look after him for you while you’re away performing. It wouldn’t be a marriage in the real sense, of course. I understand that he has a child’s mind.” Her face grew earnest. “I do feel affection for him, Jon. He would never want for anything, I promise. You must know I’d never take advantage of his...” She faltered and dropped her head.

“His idiocy?” Jon finished, with a dark look. He felt a sharp pang of guilt for what he was about to do, but he had learned long ago to grab an advantage wherever and whenever it presented itself. This one had virtually fallen into his lap and screamed, Take me!