Unclaimed

by Courtney Milan

  “He was very formal, you see. Very proper. He…he never knew quite what to do with us. I don’t believe he’d expected to have beautiful daughters. My mother is pretty. But…the three of us, we were something else. We turned heads, and it confounded him.” She shook her head in wry bemusement. “I was a confounding child, even before I ruined myself.”

  “Was he angry, when it happened?”

  “Angry? No. He was very frightened. He was not wealthy. A poor vicar with three beautiful daughters must be very careful. Gossip will magnify the slightest mistake. If my reputation had the tiniest blemish, it would have reflected on my sisters and damaged their prospects. Perhaps it might have ruined them altogether.”

  “Was there a great deal of gossip?”

  “No.” She shook her head. Her hair covered his hands momentarily, before she flicked it away again. “Just sympathy.”

  His eyebrows flickered downward in confusion.

  “Nobody ever found out. My father threw me out of the house. Then he put it about that I had become ill, that I went to stay with relatives in Bath for my health. After a month, they told everyone I had died.”

  His breath sucked in. “Oh, Jessica.”

  He’d thought the other night that he was rich because he had his brothers. He felt it doubly now. He set his hands on the curve of her shoulders.

  “Don’t. Don’t feel sorry for me. It doesn’t sting any longer.”

  He didn’t believe that, not one bit.

  “And he was right,” Jessica said. “He was right when he told me I should not take risks with my reputation. He was right when he told me I should not go driving with an older man. And he was right to throw me out of the house and disown me entirely. I was born Jessica Carlisle. Since then, I’ve called myself Jessica Farleigh. I relinquished all rights to my family name when I lost my family.”

  The silence ate into him, caustic as acid.

  “Your father. The man who first ruined you.” He tallied marks on her shoulder as he spoke. “And when you finally told me, I walked away from you. Jessica, has anyone ever stood by you?”

  “My sisters.” A tiny whisper. “Charlotte and Ellen.” Jessica smiled. “We used to talk. If they’d been asked, I don’t want to think what they would have sacrificed for me—but I know they would—” She cut the sentence short. “Maybe it does still hurt a little.”

  She drew in careful breaths, as if measuring them precisely would stave off tears.

  “I send my father letters,” she continued. “So they’ll know I’m alive and well. But I’ve not heard one word from my family in seven years. Every year, I check the church records, just so I know where they are.”

  Seven years. Mark tried to imagine what that would feel like, tried to envision himself cut off from his brothers for even so many weeks. He couldn’t comprehend it. Even when he and Smite had spent those months on the streets of Bristol, his brother had protected him. He couldn’t imagine a world in which his siblings didn’t exist. He had never been alone.

  “Oh, Jessica.”

  She smacked him on the shoulder—not hard, but enough to get his attention. “Look at me, Mark. Look at me, and stop feeling sorry for me. I’m not fourteen any longer. I lived. I survived. I did what had to be done. And it could have been worse.”

  “How?”

  “He might not have taken me to London,” Jessica said simply. “And I might have ended up in the hands of a procuress, or in a brothel. I…I may have been fourteen when I left home, but I met Amalie the first week I arrived. She had had the same protector for five years. She taught me how to get by. How to avoid the worst mistakes. Don’t you feel sorry for me, Mark. I survived.”

  “Stop simply surviving. Marry me. Forget all of that—”

  She leaned back into him. Her fingers found his lips, cutting off his words. “Don’t. Don’t. The most important thing that Amalie taught me is when it was safe to stay, and when you have to walk away.”

  “You’re going to walk away from me?” Mark felt something dangerous building in his chest. “Not a chance.”

  “No. You don’t know the worst of it.” Her voice was small. “There is something else. Something you don’t know.”

  “Something worse than being cast out at fourteen?”

  She didn’t answer right away. He reached out to her and pulled her to him. He could feel the subtle tremble of her hands. But she didn’t push him away. And when he held her, stroked her hair, she leaned against him. That was an illusion, though; he could feel her tension.

  “It happened when I discovered I was pregnant.”

  He started in surprise, and she stopped speaking. Her breath grew shorter. His had, too.

  “I had taken precautions, of course, but no precaution is ever entirely effective. By the time I realized what was happening and told my…protector, I was months along.”

  Mark’s throat closed, swallowing all the words he could imagine. He breathed, forcing them out anyway. “Did he cast you off?”

  “No.” Jessica swallowed the lump in her throat. “He was actually quite kind. Or so I thought. He told me he would take care of the matter, that I should have nothing to worry about. I thought—I thought he meant…”

  She didn’t say anything for a while. She had, perhaps, thought he meant to care for her. To keep her, in a more permanent capacity—to make some provision for her.

  “The next time he saw me, he offered me a cup of a special blend of tea. He told me it had been mixed particularly for him, and he wanted me to try some. It was supposed to be a flavored tea, he said. An experiment, released only to a few.”

  He couldn’t speak at all, could only hold her.

  “It wasn’t just tea leaves in there. It was pennyroyal and lady’s lace and I don’t know what else from the apothecary, all brewed to bitterness, and then mixed with milk and sweetened. I didn’t know what was in the pot. He said he liked it. And so I drank it all. Just to be polite. You always have to be polite.”

  Mark’s mind had descended into utterly horrified confusion.

  “I didn’t know,” she said again. And this time, he could hear the edge of tears in her voice. “I didn’t know what he’d mixed in.”

  “What—what had he—” But he already knew.

  “The mix promoted female bleeding,” she said. “When taken in sufficient quantities…”

  He could feel the wet of her tears against his shoulder. In fact, he could feel his own eyes prickle. His hands stung. He held her as tightly as he could, not daring to let her go.

  “He told me later that he didn’t know how strong a dose I’d need. To be certain, he tripled the apothecary’s suggestion. That evening, I began to bleed, and it didn’t stop. It just came and came. I nearly died. And when the physician arrived and examined me, and was made to understand precisely how I’d been dosed…” She trailed off. “The physician…he’s one that a great many courtesans have used. He’s not the sort to make cruel remarks, or make us feel uncomfortable.”

  He stroked her forehead, the side of her face, not sure what else to say.

  “It was so idiotic of me.” Her voice caught. “When I discovered I was pregnant, I was scared. I was worried. I didn’t know what to do. But there was also part of me that was secretly pleased because I wasn’t going to be alone any longer.”

  He didn’t know what to say to this.

  “He took that from me. Without asking. He made me weak and powerless—made me into so much nothing, that I could not even decide my own future.” She was shaking now, her hands trembling in his. “Every time I think of it, I remember that. I survived everything else. But that…that nearly killed me.”

  “Jessica. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry. You did survive, and thank God for that.”

  “I knew I had to get out. Had to stop being a courtesan. That’s why I had to seduce you—I needed the money so I wouldn’t have to go back. I couldn’t go back. Not to that.”

 
“Hush,” he said. “Don’t worry about that now. I understand.”

  “There’s more. The physician told me there was a good chance I’m barren because of that. You want a family. I’m not sure I can give you one.”

  Mark thought of a dark alley and a deserted street, many years ago. “If it comes down to it, there are children enough in need of parents. As for family…I have a family. I want to share mine with you.”

  “But what would happen to them if you wed me?” Her fingers bit into his arms. “The man…the man who did this to me was George Weston.”

  Of all the surprises Mark could have had at the moment, this was the least welcome. His mind washed blank. “George Weston,” he repeated. “George Weston. George Weston?”

  “If we were to marry, I could not avoid him. He’s a part of your social set.” Her hands clenched into his arm. “He hates you—he’d tell everyone who I was. You can claim that I’m your equal in sin all you like, but you know society will not agree.”

  “Hang society,” Mark said thickly. “I don’t care.”

  “But I do. If I were in society, I couldn’t escape him. I couldn’t escape myself. And most of all, Mark…I can’t bear to remember.”

  Alongside his horror, another emotion was growing. It was white-hot in its fury. It would consume him, if he let it. It was offensive that Weston had ever offered a reward for Mark’s seduction. But it was downright repulsive what he’d done to Jessica. He remembered Jessica flinching when he’d reached for her. Weston had committed an assault without fists, as determined an act of violence as rape. He had nearly killed her.

  “To hell with Weston,” Mark heard himself say fiercely. “To hell with all of that. We’ll figure it out.”

  “There isn’t any we.”

  Maybe there hadn’t been, for her. But this wasn’t the time to dispute what she’d said with words. No; he had better arguments. Now was the time for him to hold her, to whisper soft reassurance in her ear. Now was the time to nuzzle her neck and tell her that everything would be all right.

  “I will not leave you. Not for my reputation, not for my wealth, not for my hope of heaven. We’ll work it out in the morning. I refuse to give you up just because one man happens to be an unmitigated ass.”

  “And if I ask you to leave?”

  His lip curled. He shook his head. “Bollocks on that,” he said.

  And then, despite everything she’d said, despite everything she’d told him, he felt her smile against his shoulder.

  Balance. Calm. That’s what he gave her now, what she needed from him. But deep inside himself, something dangerous whispered.

  Calm now; retribution tomorrow.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  TOMORROW CAME ALL too swiftly, and with it, Mark’s plan for revenge. It didn’t take long to find his quarry. Weston was too much of a creature of habit to escape.

  The sun was high overhead, and Weston was scurrying across the lawn of Hyde Park when Mark found him. Ironic, that he was headed to meet with men whom he hoped would put him forward for the position on the Commission on the Poor Laws. The upcoming vacancy had been announced today; the nomination to fill it would soon be made.

  “Weston,” Mark called across the expanse of the park.

  Weston paused and turned, a puzzled expression on his face. That expression faded to annoyance as he found Mark striding toward him. His jaw stiffened; the corners of his mouth ticked down.

  “Sir Mark.” He made the words sound like an insult.

  After Mark had listened to Jessica’s tale last night, anything out of Weston’s mouth would have seemed an insult. Mark walked forward. “I heard you had some interest in the Commission.”

  Weston scowled and folded his arms. Around them, people were promenading. Mark knew his appearance would draw attention. He’d hoped for it, in fact. He felt almost calm, floating in a sea of inaction.

  That was going to change.

  “And what does it matter to you?” Weston growled.

  Mark smiled. “I’m going to make sure you don’t get it,” he said.

  “You sanctimonious prig. I should like to see you stop me.”

  “Pardon me.” Mark needed to stay calm. “You don’t think there will be any…any interest in the fact that you hired a woman to seduce me? Now, that would be an amusing addition to the serial that concluded in the papers a few days ago. I wonder what that should do to your reputation?”

  “I—” Weston looked about and lowered his voice. “You can’t prove that.” He swallowed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he added, belatedly.

  “Oh, I could prove it,” Mark said. But he wouldn’t. He wasn’t about to thrust Jessica into the center of attention over this. The last thing she needed was to be permanently linked with this man in the public’s eye.

  “How much power do you think you’d have,” Mark said, “if people knew the true you? A man so cowardly he resorts to hiring women to do his dirty business, and so untrustworthy he cheats them in the end.”

  Weston took a step forward, his fists balling. “I am not a coward. You don’t want to start a fight with me, Sir Mark. I warn you.”

  “No.” Mark smiled placidly. He didn’t want to start the fight. “I’d imagine you’re afraid. It’s not so easy to be powerful, when you have to face down someone your own size.” His calm was a scant layer of civility over an anger that had taken control of his entire being. He could almost see the moment when Weston’s temper snapped, could see his hand curl into a fist, draw back from him. Every thing seemed to happen so slowly. Mark could have moved, could have stepped out of the way of the punch that Weston threw, so languidly did it seem to drift toward him.

  But if he had dodged, all of Hyde Park would not have seen Weston hit him unprovoked. Mark barely felt it land, in the haze of his fury. His head snapped back; the force of the blow knocked him to the ground. He saw the limbs of a tree wave overhead, green leaves obscuring blue sky. All around him, gasps rose, and people turned, rushing over to them.

  Mark jumped lightly to his feet.

  “I box regularly,” Weston said, raising his fists. “I shoot, too. There’s more where that came from. I told you not to start a fight with me.”

  “I don’t box at all.” Mark stood in stillness, a calm contrast to Weston’s bouncing on his toes. “I wasn’t going to start a fight with you. But I was rather hoping I could finish one.”

  Mark had never seen the need for boxing—especially not with the newly adopted rules that brought civility to the fighting. But then, he’d lived on the Bristol streets as a child. He’d learned to fight in a harsher environment than the London Prize Ring.

  And so when Weston threw a second punch, Mark swiveled to the side. He caught the man’s fist in his hand as it passed, jerked Weston to the side and let the man’s own momentum send him crashing to the ground.

  Weston gasped like a fish as the wind was knocked out of him. Mark set one hand idly against the trunk of the tree and waited.

  “You tripped me,” Weston said in confusion. “But don’t think you can beat me for sheer power.”

  Mark didn’t have to wait long for Weston to stand. The puzzled ridge of his eyebrows faded to anger as Mark smiled at him. With an outraged cry, he ran forward once more. Mark had no intention of grappling with the man. He sidestepped again and grabbed his arm. Weston did have sheer power. He was fast, and his arms were locked in position with all his strength. So when Mark swung him in a circle, he had no way to stop before he crashed into the tree behind them. He hit it face-first, barely able to raise his hands to protect his nose.

  Shouts rose up behind them.

  Mark wasn’t even breathing hard.

  Weston turned, unsteady on his feet. He lifted one hand to his mouth and spat out a tooth. For a second, he simply stared at it in disbelief. Then he raised his head.

  “You goddamned dirty bastard,” he breathed, starting forward once more. He was mo
re wary this time, keeping his distance. Still, the next time he darted forward, Mark stepped behind him and slammed his elbow against the back of the man’s neck. As Weston fell, Mark caught his arm and yanked at an awkward angle. He could almost feel the pop as the man’s shoulder jerked out of its socket.

  To his credit, Weston didn’t scream, even though his face scrunched up. “Pax,” he whispered. “Pax. Truly. I had no idea.” He backed away, leaning against the tree.

  Mark strode forward.

  “Truly, Sir Mark.” Weston spoke so quietly, Mark could barely hear him. “I give up. I surrender.”

  Mark could dimly recall the last time he’d lost his temper this badly. At the time, he’d been at Eton and surrounded by bullies. He’d beaten the lot of them, and when they’d begged for mercy, he’d still not stopped. For years, he’d felt guilty every time he thought of his actions. He’d feared his anger, his passion, as proof that he, too, could fall prey to his mother’s excesses.