Saying I Do To The Scoundrel

‘You’ll have to manage.’

‘I can cut back on my own costs.’ His eyes had an exaggerated mournfulness. ‘But the poor lightskirts will have hungry children.’

She reached to snatch the purse from his hands, but he moved the leather pouch aside quickly. She lowered her hand.

‘I will contact you soon to give you an exact date and make sure you’ve purchased the supplies.’ She said each word carefully. ‘Please be home in the mornings as it is the only time I can easily move from my house without any suspicion.’

‘You don’t ask much.’ He spoke so quietly he almost mouthed the words to himself.

‘I will need to be housed somewhere as I await the ransom.’ She looked around and shook her head at the same time. ‘You’ll need to find other quarters and you must always act as a gentleman in my presence.’

He raised his brows and gave one long blink at her.

‘I will expect you to be thinking of how best to collect the funds, although I see no great difficulty.’ She looked at him, checking to see if he would disagree. ‘You’ll need to suggest a place not easily ambushed. I’m thinking you could watch my stepfather after he receives the ransom request and relieve him of the purse as soon as he has it and before he expects contact.’ She squared her shoulders. ‘Be prepared to repeat your plans to me when I return as I want to make sure we both are in complete understanding.’

‘Perhaps you should write this down for me.’ He raised his chin, his eyes bland.

‘Perhaps you should pay attention.’

She barely took a breath before she continued. ‘By Sunday, I will bring—’ she dropped her eyes ‘—a few personal items I will be needing and that will not be missed and I will expect them to be stored—safely—’ she glared at him ‘—in your residence until I am kidnapped and the ransom is procured and I can leave. Of course, you will need to spirit me away once we have our funds.’

Then she looked at him. She smiled and her lips parted, and she could already feel the success of her plan. She would not let him ruin it.

‘If you should even think of double crossing...’ She indicated the door with a nod. ‘The woman outside will turn you in to the magistrate.’

‘Are you sure the men in your life would not assist you to leave?’

She clasped her gloved hands in front of her and spoke, stepping back. ‘Thank you for your time and I will send someone around with a parcel of soap as a memento of our conversation.’

He picked up the bottle and blew across the opening to make the low, whistling sound.

Miss Wilder captured his attention again as she brushed at her sleeve without thinking, and spoke. ‘Sir, I hope after we complete our business you use the money to find an honest endeavour.’

With those words, she rose as if leaving her subjects. He didn’t even stand as a courtesy.

The door closed softly when she left. Brandt walked to the door, took the key from the wall and locked the latch. That would teach him to come home with enough drink in him to splash up to his ears.

He refused to get bathing water, or his razor.

He settled back in his chair and put his elbow on the table, and made a fist but extended two fingers and put his forehead against them.

Miss Wilder solicited him for a crime, the likes of which he had never even contemplated before, and then chided him to find honest work.

And she made him feel something—something different than a peaceful drunkenness or the black crevasse of desolation. He preferred their companionship.

He took another swallow. Then, he pressed back, again raising the front legs of his chair off the floor, trying to recapture a moment of sitting unconcerned and relaxed. But the image of the woman standing at the door, condemnation in her eyes, would not go away. Anger rolled throughout his body and he could almost hear emotion rumbling in his ears.

He moved, letting the front legs of his chair jar the floor, and stood. Grabbing his hat from the peg, he pulled it on so it covered much of his head. ‘Not as much sense as a tavern wench,’ he muttered, not knowing if he talked of himself or her. He clutched his frock coat and slipped it over his bare arms. He unlocked the door and buttoned the coat as he hurried, hoping he could still catch sight of the bonnet. He wanted to know where she lived.

He wouldn’t let Miss Wilder fashion a noose for him. He’d at least select his own rope for the hangman.

Chapter Four

As soon as Katherine turned the corner and knew she was away from the windows of his home, she grabbed the arm of the older woman and pulled her to a stop. She gulped in breaths of air, concentrating on the movement of her lungs. ‘You must steady me as my knees are trembling.’

Mrs Caudle put a hand on Katherine’s arm, and squeezed. ‘All of you is trembling.’

Katherine closed her eyes, straightened her back and then looked into Mrs Caudle’s face. ‘I will not let Augustine destroy me. I will use him to grow stronger and then I’ll use that strength against him.’

‘You are as wilful as he is.’

Katherine shrugged away the talk of her stubbornness and they crossed the street, moving towards the cared-for shops.

The older woman kicked at a dried pod of horse dung. ‘You’ve got to move from your stepfather soon or Fillmore will have you in his grasp.’

A carriage rumbled past, drowning the words.

‘I know,’ Katherine spoke. ‘And he is determined that Gussie be sent to a madhouse. As soon as I get the ransom, the very next time he tells you to take her away, do so. I will have a house for the three of us.’

She shook her head. ‘Gussie’s his own blood and he wants her put away.’

‘He thinks she’s damaged because she doesn’t speak and hides from him,’ Mrs Caudle said. ‘But since she first toddled about, he would throw something at her or shout when she got in his way. She’s much better when he’s away, and he refuses to let her leave the house. I don’t know if it’s because he’s afraid someone will see her and think his blood tainted.’

‘Or because he thinks I will run away with her.’ Katherine nodded, stepping faster to hurry them past the windows. ‘We must separate her from Augustine. Otherwise, he’ll likely put her in St. Mary’s and she’ll be locked away.’

‘The sooner she gets away, the better,’ the governess said. ‘Another footman left the house this week because Augustine threw a dish at him.

‘If that wastrel doesn’t do this...’ Katherine tugged at her bonnet ties ‘... I will handle the kidnapping on my own. I just need someone who looks like a rogue and he does. I’ll prop him up if I have to. Augustine has to believe it is true.’

Katherine pushed back a strand of hair which had escaped from her bonnet. She slowed and tried to catch her reflection in the windows as she walked. She wanted no hint showing of where she’d been.

The old woman laughed. ‘You have to admit he doesn’t wish to kidnap anyone. That speaks highly of him.’

‘Yes, but we...’ She groaned, increased her speed, and put a hand to her hip. ‘I will just have to do it myself. I can, I’m sure.’

‘You need ransom money and a place to hide. And Fillmore has to believe it. The only way your stepfather will pay anything to have you returned is if his nephew says he must.’

‘We have to have someone Augustine doesn’t know,’ Katherine agreed, searching for a hackney. ‘That scruff of a man can do it.’

‘I wouldn’t call him a scruff. If you’re going down an ill-got path, he’d be the place to begin.’

‘I don’t want to go down any paths. I want to hide. Peacefully. In the country. With you and Gussie.’

A donkey and cart awaited them, a young man with obsidian hair holding the reins of the donkey.

Few people were on the street and she didn’t want any of Augustine’s friends happening upon her. She’d known better than to request the carriage. Augustine would have needed it for some reason or other. Or worse, he might have insisted he would go along. When they were trapped in a carriage, he complained or chastised with every turn of the wheels.

‘Child. The lad will kidnap you,’ the old woman insisted, helping Katherine into the cart. ‘He’s got the sight of you and he won’t be able to walk away. Remember, when you find yourself alone with him—don’t breathe the same air as he does. Men put off an elixir or something. I’ve thought on it for years and can’t get it figured for sure. I think it’s the way they breathe and it blinds us. Blinds us. Pulls our senses right out of our body. Makes us forget about all else, but having our way with them.’ She shook her head. ‘You don’t need to be wasting your virtue.’ She raised her voice. ‘And do not breathe in when he’s close enough to sniff.’

The old woman jumped into the cart with the same spry step as the youth and called to the donkey to move.

She mopped her brow with a handkerchief she pulled from her pocket. ‘Lad’s rather sturdier looking than I expected.’ She mumbled something else, turning her head sideways so Katherine couldn’t hear her over the hooves.

Katherine thought back to the man. ‘I’d like to see him cleaned up a bit.’

‘Ho. Ho. Take my word for it. This one would clean up sparkly as a new guinea. You’d best be hoping he don’t clean up none around you, child.’ She nudged Katherine’s foot with her booted one. ‘I’ve not seen many like him in my life. You be keeping your toes on your hem when he’s about or your skirt might be flying over your head on its own.’

Katherine raised her chin. ‘I’m not a jade.’

‘Don’t matter. He’s full of elixir. I could tell that the moment I laid eyes on him.’

* * *

The house welcomed Katherine, but only from the outside. At the front, filigree bowers for ivy stood almost six feet tall on either side of the door. When her father lived, servants kept the ivy trimmed enough so that visitors could see the metal underneath. But now no one could read the inset of her mother and father’s initials in the filigree.

Katherine hurried into the house through the servants’ entrance, avoiding the butler, Weddle. He reported Katherine’s every move to her stepfather.

Her stepfather must believe the kidnapping.

Witnesses. They would need good witnesses.

Katherine thought of sending a discreet note to The Times so an engraver could be present. She would simply curl up her toes and swoon to have the kidnapping on the front of The Times.

Her dagger’s blade barely stretched longer than her hand, and she wondered if she should take it with her. The knife rested against the base of her bed’s headboard so a maid wouldn’t see it—although she doubted any would care. Her thoughts caught on Brandt’s face. She should have told him not to get near a razor or soap for the next few days. Surely he’d not decide to clean up for the occasion—but one never could be certain what a foxed man would decide if left on his own.

Katherine certainly hoped to savour her adventure. She would be kidnapped in front of Almack’s. This was a waltz no one would ever forget. She would scream or screech or whatever was needed to call attention to the deed. Then, she would be overcome with the terror of the moment.

‘Where have you been?’ The words pounded at her the moment she left the stairs.

Her stepfather glared as if he knew she plotted against him.

The old man had seemed pleasant enough when he’d courted her mother. He hadn’t changed the day after, or the week after, but within a year, she knew the man who she’d first met was a sham.

‘We were shopping for the ribbons I mentioned last night,’ Katherine answered. ‘I do want to look presentable.’ She tilted her head down, but kept her eyes on him. She didn’t want him suspecting anything but obedience. ‘I’m to have a suitor tonight.’

‘You’d best give him the right answer when he asks you the question.’ Her stepfather’s brows creased. ‘Fillmore’s a good lad and I don’t want him disappointed. You can’t do any better than him for a husband anyway.’

‘He does have an adequate nose.’ She moved on to the stairs to go past her stepfather. He reached out his hand, gripping her arm.

She couldn’t move.

‘You’d best not be criticising your future husband.’ Her stepfather’s gaze pierced her. ‘I only tell you this for your own good. He will not take it well to have a disobedient wife.’

His fingers pressed harder into her skin.

‘I understand,’ she said, head down.

He flung her arm aside.

* * *

That evening, she mostly kept her eyes on her food as Fillmore stared across the table at her.

Fillmore’s fork stopped midway to his mouth, then he plopped his food between his lips, gulped and spoke. ‘I’m pleased to be able to sit and gaze at you.’ She could swear his nose hairs quivered with anticipation of their union.

Then he reached up and scratched his head. He was always scratching his head and sometimes other places. She shut her eyes and put a hand over her stomach, telling herself to be calm.

Fillmore clinked his fork against his plate. The noise captured Katherine’s attention and she realised the clatter had been on purpose so she would look his way.

‘Thank you.’ She spoke quietly, unable to look at his glistening eyes.

Her stepfather stood, a servant sliding his chair back. ‘I think I’ll retire early.’ Augustine waggled a finger at Fillmore. ‘Why don’t you two spend some time in the library after the meal? I’m sure you have much to talk about.’

Augustine turned his eyes to her, threat in his face, and walked by without speaking, leaving the scent of a trunk full of mouse nests in his wake.

She sat proud, kept her face serene, as her mother had taught her. Her mother had been her closest friend. Katherine still ached when she walked by the bare room where her mother had rested while she was sick.

Fillmore smiled across at Katherine, a pink flush on his cheeks and a brief lift of his eyebrows. She glanced away. He moved, standing beside her. A footman pulled out her chair so she could rise and Fillmore offered his arm. She took it and forced a pleasant look on her face as they walked to the study. Her jaw began to ache.

‘You’re looking extraordinarily beautiful today, Sweeting.’ Fillmore pushed the door closed behind them.

‘Thank you,’ she answered, ignoring the whiff of medicinal which lingered in the room.

Fillmore led her to the sofa and she saw his tongue slide across his upper lip.

She extricated her arm and moved to a high-backed chair near the wall, unable to keep herself from putting as much distance as possible between them.

‘Would you sit by me?’ he asked, moving to the sofa and patting the blue velvet, then running his fingers along the fabric in a way to make her want to cast up her accounts.

‘This chair eases my back.’

He laughed. ‘Time enough for that later, I suppose.’ His eyes ran down her body. ‘I would not want your back hurting.’

She averted her eyes from him. His grey waistcoat strained its buttons so much she didn’t see how he could be comfortable and again he wore breeches which revealed more than anyone ever wanted to know.

He stood and closed the distance between them. She looked up at him, feeling an unease. He took her hand in his, the skin of his touch soft, but the bones beneath pinching her hand close. She tried not to think of his ragged fingernails which he loved to savour between meals.

‘I’ve wanted to ask you to become my wife for a long time, but now I can wait no longer.’ He spoke each word with precision. ‘You should be married and it is time for me to begin a family. I will be thirty-five on the fifteenth of next month and the banns will be read Sunday.’

She fought past the dryness in her mouth. ‘Waiting a bit longer might be best.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ He held firm, squeezing her hand. ‘You have everything I need in a wife.’

‘What would that be?’ she asked, truly wondering if he could think of anything to say.

‘You’re lovely,’ he spoke. ‘Every night would be a pleasure.’

His words surrounded her like smoke from a clogged chimney.

‘Every night?’ she asked. She had only thought how repugnant it would be to have him touch her once. To think of him touching her each night was beyond imaginable.

He could not be her husband.

‘Certainly,’ he said the word in such a way she could see the lust pooling in his eyes and his lips glistened with it. ‘I’ve wanted you since you were younger, but I have had other interests. Before you get too old, I want children. And a duke’s granddaugher will do.’

When she opened her mouth to tell him no, his eyes shone as if he anticipated exactly what she wanted to say and could hardly wait for the refusal—not because he would be crushed, but because he could crush her.

‘Thank you very much. I’ll consider your proposal.’ She couldn’t refuse. He had to have a reason to push his uncle to pay the ransom.

But when she looked at Fillmore’s eyes, and saw past them into the darkness beyond, if she had had any doubts about throwing her lot in with the brandy-fogged, unshaven, sadly clothed—but surprisingly well-formed—man, Fillmore’s stare cured her reticence.

Fillmore had standing in society—his mother had married some cousin to Wellington and his uncle was married to a distant relation to the King, but she wouldn’t have cared if he wore the crown himself.

Brandt, who travelled the ill-got path and covered himself in rags, had more appeal than Fillmore.

Fillmore called her attention back to him. He turned her palm up and rubbed her hand, holding so firm she couldn’t pull away, while he caressed the softest part of her palm.

His eyes met hers. ‘Our wedding night will be something you never, ever forget.’ His other hand now held her wrist and she couldn’t pull away. He bent as if to kiss her hand and his tongue snaked out, and she saw the pinkish thing unroll and slide across her palm. A trail of moisture stayed behind.

She turned her face away from him, trying to conquer the bile in her throat, and control her churning stomach.

She pushed her eyes back to him and kept her expression calm. If the filthy drunken kidnapper doesn’t kidnap me, she thought, I’ll put a dress on him and he can marry Fillmore in my stead.

‘I must think about this.’ She stood, putting some distance between them. ‘I really must.’

She grabbed a lamp and scurried away before he could fully grasp that she was escaping, and she rushed into the small room where Gussie slept.

* * *

Gussie lay asleep on the bed, the puffed sleeves of her gown visible in the candlelight and her cloth doll lying in the floor beside her.

‘Sleep well, Gussie,’ Katherine whispered, picking the doll from the floor and putting it at the foot of the bed.

Katherine held out the lamp, watching Gussie. She didn’t know what it was about the sleeping child that made her so angelic. The chubby cheeks? Innocence in her face? No one with a soul could ever want to hurt a child like Gussie. She could not go to the asylum. The poor child had trouble just being in a room with Augustine.

Gussie rarely spoke more than a word or two, but Katherine knew her sister could think.

Gussie had replaced the purgative in the medicine bottle with water. And she had to have pulled a chair around to reach it. The clear liquid had alerted them when they’d poured some in the glass for her. A remedy the physician had sworn would help her speak, but Gussie hadn’t liked it.

And she didn’t like wearing shoes, either, and her half-boots had disappeared and had yet to be found.

But it didn’t matter what went on in Gussie’s thoughts. She couldn’t be in a place without her governess or Katherine to watch over her.

Katherine had to get funds. Not only for herself, but for her sister’s sake. She needed to be able to give Gussie a safe haven and she would find them a home hidden so far away they could never be found.

Chapter Five

Brandt walked to the Hare’s Breath, stepping under the placard with the painted rabbit puffing into the wind. Some men avoided the tavern, he supposed, because it was almost as particular as Almack’s. The patronesses were a grizzled sort at the establishment, but you knew by the lift of an eyebrow, the foot easing out to trip you, or the ale being accidentally drizzled down your back if you’d lost your voucher. And if you didn’t heed the gentle warnings, you’d lose teeth, or part of an ear, or maybe even the ability to straighten your fingers.

He never thought he’d feel welcome in a place which smelled like dirty feet and bad tobacco, but he did.

A moth flew in front of his face and he swatted it away, then moved to get a mug from the tavern owner, Mashburn. Mashburn never stopped the conversation he had with the gamblers while he got Brandt’s drink. Then the owner walked around the table and each man flicked his wrist, tucking the faces of the cards against the table. When the proprietor reached his brother’s chair, he leaned forward, squinting. He then reached over his brother’s back and tapped two cards. ‘Best hand you’ve ever had,’ the tavern owner murmured.

The men laughed, each knowing that his words were a game of their own.

One swallow and something tickled Brandt’s lip. He reached up and brushed at it, then looked at his fingers. A hair. Short. Straight. Probably from the dog lying in the corner. He dropped the hair to the floor. The creature could get it on the way out if he wished it back.

He took one more swallow of the ale, but then put it aside. The place was packed for such a night. Four men played cards. The usual group. Another table held the solicitor who received free ale because the tavern owner loved to hear the stories he told when he couldn’t remember to keep his silence and a skinny lad sat beside him who was a cousin to a cousin of someone somewhere and now he stopped at the tavern most nights, trying to grow into his trousers.

The moth—or perhaps it was some kind of beetle—returned. He swatted again.

He wished he could swat away the memories of Miss Wilder, with her overgrown bonnet and the smudges under her eyes. He’d followed her to a house that reminded him of the last true home he’d lived in. She’d walked right up to the front door and then she’d paused, and the older woman had spoken and they’d moved inside.

Her face looked pleasant enough, he supposed, but it was hard to see for the bonnet. He’d thought she was trying to disguise herself in case someone she knew was on the street, but now he wondered if she was trying to hide her womanliness.

Her skin glowed with sweetness. He wanted to run his hand the length of her body, reclined beside him. The thought lodged in his mind and he tried to drink it away. But there wasn’t enough drink in the tavern.

The skinny lad was speaking too loudly. Brandt gave the boy the one-sided glare that was to tell him to watch his words. The boy ignored it.

‘He’s tied to his mother’s bonnet strings,’ the skinny lad made a jest of the solicitor. Everyone laughed, but the solicitor. Solicitors didn’t find much amusing.

The solicitor swung a fist and Brandt jumped into the fray to separate them.

The insulted man’s gold-tipped cane flew towards Brandt’s jaw and the man with the jest ran for the door.

The solicitor swung his cane again and Brandt caught it, twisting it and slinging the man on to a gaming table. The table broke and cards flew. Men jumped from the table and when they stood, all had fists. Brandt stepped back, dropping the cane.

The tavern owner and his brother tossed the solicitor out the door and Brandt grabbed the gold-tipped cane and stepped outside.

He held out the cane to the owner. The man took the cane and he couldn’t speak plain for the liquid in him. Brandt asked the man if he remembered where he lived. It took him a while to understand, but he helped him find his way back to his mother’s house. Brandt didn’t know why he’d done the kindness, but the man thanked him. Thumped him on the back and told him he was a good friend. Brandt told the man if he saw him at the tavern again, he’d buy the fellow enough ale so neither could walk.