скачать книгу бесплатно
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 (#u55217e6c-c35f-540e-9d60-aac153df2186)
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.
The man laughed, offering his services if Brandt ever needed a solicitor. Brandt didn’t like the sound of that, but he gave the man a jostle to show he accepted the friendship and they parted at the man’s door, but not before Brandt asked the man if he might have some old clothing for sale.
The solicitor had charged twice their worth and reminded Brandt again that he’d be available should Brandt need more assistance.
Brandt didn’t want to go back to his room. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep, so he walked in the cool air, ignoring the scent of coal fires.
He also ignored the scent of the perfumery shop as he walked by it, but then he stopped, turned back and walked inside, the bundle of worn clothing under his arm.
The shop-owner heard the door, raised his head and peered at Brandt, then he recognised him.
‘Gardenia,’ Brandt said and he stared at the man. The shop owner didn’t speak. The older man took two steps to the left and pulled a scent bottle from a case and set it on the counter top.
Brandt walked to the man, took a coin out of his pocket, picked up the bottle and placed the coin in the exact same spot.
Brandt turned, put the bottle in his waistcoat pocket and left.
He stepped outside and for a second his feet refused movement. But he took a breath and strode towards his room.
Then, he stopped again. He couldn’t wait any longer. He reached into the pocket, pulled out his purchase, wrestled the clothing under his arm so that he could remove the bottle stopper and took in a savouring breath. Mary’s scent.
He wondered what Mary would have advised about the big-bonneted woman. He’d never seen eyes widen so when she first saw him.
He wagered she’d not get that picture from her mind easily. Not from the look on her face. His lips turned up. He didn’t think he’d ever shocked a woman so. Well, she shouldn’t have opened his door. Not before the sun set anyway.
That was his life now. Nights of drinking. Days of sleeping.
He felt the familiar ache. Felt the anger, the sorrow and the unfairness. Putting the stopper back in the bottle was easier than putting it on memories.
He didn’t like the early hours, but couldn’t pace the streets at night. Even in the morning, the fog could make his footsteps haphazard.
He’d walked the streets so many mornings until he could collapse into sleep that it had become a routine. Many of the merchants watched for him now, particularly when they needed help lifting something. At first they’d offered to pay him, and occasionally he took payment in goods, and he’d pass them along to someone at the tavern. But everyone knew not to talk with him much.
When the day began to warm and his feet hurt, he turned to his lodgings and let himself inside.
Brandt looked at the wall. He realised he didn’t know what day it was and he was not even sure of the month. He had lived like this for—how long exactly he didn’t know, but years. He had felt no life in him for such a long time.
And now some haughty high-born near-spinster wanted him to kidnap her from her father so she could take money from the man.
He didn’t know why he thought about her. She had a ridiculous criminal mind. Indelicate snorts. An uppity little nose. Layers of skirts which fluffed when she walked. Garments not weighted down with street crust. Probably smelled of sunshine from drying in the breeze.
He needed not to think about a spoiled heiress headfirst on her way to ruin.
And if he didn’t help her, she would gather speed on her downhill roll. Another man hired to kidnap her might not respect her upbringing.
