Unclaimed

by Courtney Milan

  Jessica gathered her arms around herself, her heart filling with emotion. A sister. She’d never thought she’d have another, besides Amalie.

  “You cannot want Mark to permanently ally himself with someone of my reputation.”

  “No,” the duchess said easily. “I can’t. But you have to understand who Mark is in this family. He taught me how to defend myself against a man. He’s…he’s just a good person. His brothers would do anything for him. And that means—until the moment you hurt him—we will do anything for you.”

  It had been so long since anyone had done anything for her.

  “That’s what families do, after all,” the duchess was saying.

  For the first time, Jessica began to believe. Maybe she could win out. Maybe she could marry Mark, could leave behind the nightmare of the past. Hope…for such a fragile, futile thing, it was incredibly robust.

  “I…” Jessica trailed off and glanced to her side. “Do you think I might have that cup of tea, after all?”

  “But of course,” the duchess said. “We’ve your entire wedding trousseau to plan. It’s thirsty work.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  MARK LEFT J ESSICA with Margaret. She looked at him in faint entreaty when he disappeared, but there was one last duty he needed to see to. He had a responsibility that he’d put off for far too long, and it was recalled to him with every blue-cockaded hat he saw on the street. He’d been avoiding the thought of the MCB and his supporters, but Shepton Mallet had shown him the error in that.

  At this point, with Weston discredited, he was as good as on the Commission, however painful the thought was. And if he was to take on that charge, he couldn’t sidestep this responsibility, either.

  Which is how he found himself in Daniels, a club for young gentlemen. The organization was so exclusive that no sign indicated its provenance on the door. Any man who didn’t know where he was wasn’t fit for membership.

  Mark was not a member, but still he walked in. The footman who stood in the entry was wearing a blue armband. His eyes widened when he saw Mark. He didn’t glance at the membership list, didn’t come forward bearing obsequious regrets. When Mark told him what he wanted, he nodded gravely.

  He took Mark’s hat and cloak and handed them off to another fellow; through the door in the cloakroom, Mark caught a glimpse of hats festooned in blue cockades. Truly, he was entering the den of the lion.

  In the club itself, young men were gathered around tables, talking quietly. Fully half of them sported the MCB’s blue armbands. There were no wagers here, no raucous laughter, as in some of the less sober establishments. Daniels, after all, was considered a proving ground for the future leaders of the country—men who were expected to take seats in Parliament one day, or inherit dukedoms.

  The footman escorted Mark to a small back room, where a man sat alone. Mark had heard the fellow’s name often enough, but this was the first time he’d seen him in person. The other man was almost Mark’s age, he supposed. Strange that their paths had never crossed at Eton or Oxford. Mark wondered where he’d gone instead. How odd.

  Jedidiah Pruwett had close-cropped dark hair and a scarce inch of sparse beard. His eyes were obscured by spectacles. The only color of his dark, sober attire was the blue of his armband—and that was starched and unwrinkled. He didn’t look up as Mark slipped silently through the doorway, so engrossed was he in his reading.

  Mark pulled up a chair and sat. Pruwett was reading the Bible; as he read, he fingered the frame of his glasses. He seemed utterly oblivious to Mark.

  Mark waited. Pruwett turned a page, glanced up—and dropped his book on the table, overturning a glass of some clear liquid.

  “Sir!” Pruwett shot to his feet, nearly knocking over his chair as he did so. He made an attempt to both reach for his chair and grab his book before the water soaked it through. Instead, he managed to trip over his trousers and land on the floor.

  Mark picked up the Bible, stood and offered his hand to the man. Pruwett let out a sigh and took it.

  “How embarrassing,” he said, as Mark hauled him to his feet. “I’d never wanted to meet you like this, sir. I promise—I’m usually a good bit more agile. It was just, just the surprise of seeing you.” Pruwett hadn’t let go of Mark’s hand. Instead, he pumped it up and down. “You must know what an inspiration you have been to me. You have meant the world to me. Truly, before I read your book I was…” The man colored faintly. “I was lost. I started the MCB to help others find the way, as you have helped me.”

  Mark took his hand away and felt an awkward twinge. “Well. Thank you.”

  Pruwett rummaged in his pockets for a handkerchief and threw it over the spill. “Is there any other way I can be of service to you?”

  Mark had come here to ask the man to be of…well, of less service. But Pruwett was studiously avoiding his gaze. He stood and walked to the door, signaling for a servant. Silence stretched while a footman mopped up the mess.

  “Are you thinking of taking a more active role in the MCB?” Pruwett asked. He bit his lip. “We should love to have you.”

  He didn’t look as if he would love to have Mark. He looked nervous.

  “I have a great respect for you,” Pruwett added, and at least that seemed sincere.

  “I’m flattered. I never expected anyone to take my work to heart, let alone a cadre of thousands of men. I’m grateful—and this is rather awkward—but the MCB is not precisely my sort of organization.”

  Pruwett seemed to relax at that. “Well, I’m delighted that this is just a social call, then. I’ll promise not to overset any more liquids, if you’ll stay and have a drink with me.”

  Mark sighed. “No. This is rather difficult to say. I know you mean well. But when I said the MCB is not my sort of organization, I meant…I dislike what you have done.”

  The color ran from Pruwett’s face. Mark felt as if he were kicking a puppy, but there was no easy way to deliver the news that he carried.

  “The teachings of the MCB imply that women are the enemy, that men must avoid them. That sort of attitude gives rise to the precise stigma that all good men should avoid.”

  “With all due respect, sir, that’s not the intent. It’s about developing a sense of camaraderie, about finding things to bind good men together.”

  “Yes, but you do it by resorting to blatant insult and exclusion.” Mark frowned. “I don’t understand why you can’t just…just remain chaste without a club.”

  “There must be something for men to do together. Elsewise, it’s back to the brothels in groups for fun.”

  “And it’s fun to tell everyone else how many days it has been since you’ve been unchaste?” Mark shook his head.

  “Not fun—necessary to establish appropriate standards of accountability.” Pruwett adjusted his spectacles. “Without that, we’d have nothing but hypocrisy. The meetings, the hand signals—they’re all necessary, sir, to bring men together, to make them want to choose chastity over…over ruination.”

  “Huh,” Mark said. There was something distractingly odd about the man’s eyes.

  “Look around you.” Pruwett was warming to his subject matter. “All these men here—they have something to do. But think of the third sons, boys who are given too much money and too much license. They’re wasted, utterly, given no calling, no place in life. They drift aimlessly. They’ll never sit in Parliament, never serve on a committee. They’ve nothing to show for themselves but their family name and a few idle pleasures. I wanted to give those men something to do.” He swallowed. “I wanted to give myself something to do.”

  “Are you saying you started the MCB because you were bored?”

  Pruwett’s eye’s widened behind his spectacles. And, with that, Mark realized precisely what had bothered him about the man’s eyes. Usually, glasses made a man’s eyes look owlish, distorted by the magnification. But Pruwett’s eyes were exactly the normal size.

  Mark reached
out and plucked the man’s spectacles from his face, lifted the lens to his eyes.

  “Sir…”

  “These are plain glass.” Mark looked over at Pruwett. Without his spectacles, his nose looked larger. Mark imagined him without that beard… “Davies?” Mark asked in disbelief. “Peter Davies?”

  Pruwett—or was it Davies?—crumpled into his chair, as if all the starch had deserted him. Mark had known the man at Oxford. Davies had been a…well, he’d been something of a rake. He’d poked fun at Mark often enough.

  “Is this some kind of an elaborate jest?” Mark asked.

  Pruwett-Davies reached out and snatched his spectacles back. He fitted them on his nose primly. “Jest?” He sounded affronted. “I’ve spent the last year of my life building the MCB from the ground up, without any help from you, I might add.”

  “I know what you were like.”

  “I know what I was like, too.” He hid his face in his hands. “I’ll thank you not to remind me. I was an irresponsible ass.” He let out a great sigh, and his shoulders slumped.

  Mark felt a short-lived twinge of sympathy.

  “I meant it,” Pruwett-Davies mumbled into his hands. “When I said you saved me. I’ll admit that I bought your book because I intended to laugh at it. But after the first chapter, I wasn’t laughing. You made me feel so ashamed—so ashamed to call myself a man, when I was basically worthless. I had nothing to do but spend my allowance. For months after I read it, I tried to devote myself to good works, just as you suggested. But nobody who did good wanted anything to do with me. It turns out I had made too many jokes.” Pruwett uncovered his face and straightened his shoulders. “So I took my mother’s maiden name and combined it with a Christian name from the Bible. I put a notice in the paper, too—the new name is legal, not merely a ruse. Peter Davies had nothing to do but to make a mockery of his life. But Jedidiah Pruwett—now he had a purpose. You gave me that purpose, but I’m not going to let you take it away. If this is a joke, I won’t be the butt of it.”

  “I don’t want to make you one,” Mark responded. “But I don’t wish you to take out your…your excess zeal on anyone else.”

  Pruwett readjusted his glasses carefully. “Perhaps the MCB has become too…too excessive. But what else am I to do with my time?”

  Mark sat and laid a hand on the man’s shoulder. He’d not wanted to find himself in sympathy with the man. The MCB had made Mark’s life miserable. Peter Davies had been an annoyance. Yet he could not help but feel pity for the fellow.

  “You know,” Mark said, “you did some very good work. How many members does the MCB have?”

  “Several thousand.”

  “And you…you wrote the bylaws, and arranged the meetings. You handled the details of printing the cards and the pamphlets, and arranging for all the different organizations. That’s quite a bit of responsibility.”

  Pruwett nodded, hardly mollified. “I also organized the small group sessions, the entire system of reporting, really. Those help keep a man on track. I’d like to think that I’ve made a difference. I only wanted to have a chance, sir, and since nobody was giving me one, I had to make my own.”

  Mark cocked his head and looked at the man, as an idea—a glorious idea, a wicked idea—insinuated itself into his head.

  “Pruwett,” Mark said, “do you have a particular passion for chastity, or do you just want to spend your time doing something good?”

  “I—sir—that is…” Pruwett put his hands in his lap. “Sir, I tried to get involved with something else. Anything else. Truly, I did. But nobody had any need of me.”

  Mark smiled wolfishly. “Oh, Mr. Pruwett,” he said. “Believe you me—I have need of you. England has need of you. There is someone I should very much like you to meet, and he has a calling for you.”

  BY THE TIME Jessica had gone back to her flat for the evening, Margaret had assured her that they’d announce the betrothal and perform the wedding ceremony in the next few days. Her head was spinning.

  She’d never imagined that there could be so many good people in the world. She’d never believed they might be willing to help her. Even fate, cruel as it was, could not possibly take all of this bounty from her. She sat in her chair and let herself believe in not just warmth, but kindness, happiness…love.

  A knock sounded at the door.

  She ran to it eagerly. But when she opened it, it was not Mark come to see her that evening. It was Nigel Parret. Her first thought was that he’d come to congratulate her—and, of course, to inveigle an invitation to her wedding, so he could beat out his competitors. But no—even though every paper, Parret’s included, had discussed the special license Mark had obtained, her name had not yet been announced. And all similarly happy thoughts vanished as soon as she set eyes on his grim expression.

  He handed her a letter. “This came to me. The writer thought that, as I’d published your story, I would know your direction.”

  The envelope had been opened. She glanced at him suspiciously, and he shrugged. “Can you blame me?” he asked.

  Her name was scrawled on the front. No, not her name—Jess Farleigh.

  That name seemed like a dark, cold shadow. She scanned the text.

  Jess—

  No doubt you’re feeling quite proud of yourself right now. You defrauded me. If that license he obtained means what I think it means, you still managed to seduce Turner. You seem to think you can marry him and simply take your place in society at his side.

  But I know who you are and what you’ve done. If you marry Sir Mark, I’ll make both your lives a misery. I hear the Duchess of Parford is increasing, too. I wonder how she’ll like you when she realizes her child will be shunned for your sake?

  You’re never going to marry him. But if you’ll denounce him—if you’ll write an account saying that he accosted me in the park because he was fighting over a whore—I’ll at least agree not to prosecute you for fraudulently taking my money. I’ll meet you tomorrow morning at five sharp in Harford Square. Bring Sir Mark’s ring. I’ll need it.

  By the time Jessica reached the end of the first page, her hands were trembling. By the time she finished the letter, she was plunged into cold again.

  “It’s rough,” Parret was saying. “But—at least I won’t be the one printing the story. You can trust in that.”

  “That’s kind of you.” Her words emerged as a dull whisper.

  “Humph.” Parret shifted uneasily. “The duke would likely sue me for defamation of character. There’s no profit in that.”

  Jessica smiled wanly. “You do a lovely imitation of a greedy man, Parret. But could you…could you please leave me?”

  He set one hand briefly on her shoulder, in scant comfort. And then he left.

  The door shut behind him, and Jessica collapsed against it.

  Nothing had changed; she’d only been reminded how little had altered.

  There was something about surviving. She felt a constant fear, a pressing worry. Her muscles never truly relaxed. Her belly always felt a little sour. These things had been her stalwart companions for seven years.

  She had hoped—just today, she had led herself to believe—that she’d left all that behind. But no. She could still taste fear.

  Mark was good, better than anything she’d imagined. So good that he scared her. How could she have forgotten? Good never lasted in her life. Instead, she brought its opposite with her. He wasn’t going to save her; she was going to destroy him.

  By the time Mark came to her door, she had worked herself into a near panic. She would have fled, if only she knew how to flee her own desires.

  He smiled, and she felt warmth. He took her hands, and she felt safe. And it was all an illusion—an illusion that she’d allowed herself to believe, because she was so desperate for comfort from any quarter.

  He smiled at her. “I have good news,” he said cheerily. “I’ve found a new Commissioner of the Poor Laws. Neither Weston
nor I are suitable for the position. But it turns out, there is a fellow who has a passion for good works and a good amount of administrative experience. He even has some measure of popularity. I needed only to broach the idea and perform the introduction. After we marry in three days, I’ll have no reason whatsoever to stay in London.”

  “Marry,” she said wildly. “Three days?”

  “How many times must I say it? There’s no need to worry. Nobody is going to hurt you.”

  No. She was going to hurt him. She was going to hurt his family. She was going to be the wedge that Weston used to break apart their lovely little group.