by Stacy Reid
A brow arched and he perused the piece of paper, slanting it towards the beam of the lamp. “It seems that I prey on the weak and those addicted to gambling to ruin their souls. It also seems that I ruin good men and women for my own evil gain.” He slanted her a probing glance. “And do you really believe this?”
“That you lead good men and women astray?” She only had to think about her sister and arrive at the truth. “Yes, I do, and without any conscience.”
“And do you not believe some vice to be tolerable and needed by men and women of society?” the dark angel asked, a crooked yet so attractive smile slanting his lips, “as a sort of release from the tedium of life?”
Marianne’s heart jerked, and she felt mortified for having even noticed his handsomeness. She cast a quick glance at her father, who was too busy handing out his pamphlets and warning away a potential customer of the wickedness to be found in those gambling walls and why they should stay away.
“No…any sort of indulgence would only lead to further decay,” she said stiffly.
“I provide employment to young ladies whose only other alternative would be to walk the streets of London. Surely there is honor in that?”
Oh, why did she feel as if he mocked her?
“I am certain you could offer more honorable work!”
“My business is not in the red-light district,” he refuted smoothly. “There you will find numerous whorehouses and more profligate gambling dens…should you not take your righteous protests there instead?”
A flush went through her body, and his eyes sharpened. Suddenly Marianne felt like a field mouse under the piercing stare of a hunting hawk. Interest lit in his eyes, his expression shifted ever so slightly, and she felt as if the devil had come knocking at her door.
“Ah…a true innocent, and how prettily you blush,” he drawled with wicked provocation.
Before she could blink, he had taken hold of her and tugged her into a dark pocket of shadows, where the light from the gas lamp did not reach them at all. Even the fog seemed to be directed by his will, as it curled around them, shrouding them more into dark obscurity.
He lifted one hand and lightly cupped her cheek. Shock scattered her thoughts, and her hands flew up in automatic defense to rest on a solid wall of warmth and vitality. A tremor ran through her at the feel of his thumb so close to her lips. “Si…Sir!”
“It has been a long time since I’ve had the urge to kiss a woman,” he murmured darkly.
Her heart jerked, but she stood still, trying to understand the weakness assailing her. “I’ll scream,” she murmured huskily. “And my father has a pistol.”
“Concerned about me?”
“No.”
That crooked smile appeared again. “I wouldn’t have pounced; I was about to ask permission to kiss you.”
She sucked in a sharp breath. As if she would allow her first kiss to be with such a wicked rogue. “Denied.”
He lowered his arm. “Pity. It would have been delightful.”
“For you, perhaps! Men like you only use and discard.”
His head canted left. “Men like me?”
“Rakes and seducers of innocents, who take what they want without any thoughts or consequences for the ladies they leave behind!”
“I would have only left you after I’ve wrung every scream, and moan of pleasure from your lips, and release from your body. You would be satisfied, I promise.”
Marianne’s hand flew as if it had a life of its own to slap his cheek, but he caught her hand in a gentle clasp. The wretched man pressed a kiss to her gloved knuckles, and she felt the heat of his lips through the material.
“There are only wolves in these parts of town, you should stay away, my lady.”
Then he stepped back, whirled around, and made his way back inside his club.
“Marianne?” her Papa shouted, spinning around.
One step forward and she left the pocket of darkness. Relief lit in his eyes when he saw her. “Our work here is done. I promised your mother we would come home for the weekend, and we must keep that promise.”
She nodded, relief worming through her. “Yes, Papa.” And they made their way down the darkened streets. As her father hailed a hackney, Marianne couldn’t help glancing behind her once more.
Chapter 2
Wiltshire,
Three weeks later…
Miss Lucy Ashbrook’s child was on the way.
A tight tension had gripped the occupants of the charming five-bedroom cottage, situated in the heart of Biddleton as they awaited the birth. There was no jubilant expectation, only a feeling of severe anxiety and fear. Mamma had often remarked that her husband’s staunch sense of moral propriety was fashioned from their queen. He was so very proper, their father, and how it had shamed him that Lucy had fallen with a child out of wedlock. Since Mama had made the discovery of Lucy’s swollen belly, Papa had not been able to bring himself to speak with her. And Lucy cried almost daily, begging for his forgiveness only to be met with a countenance of harsh rigidness. Lucy, at nineteen and the third eldest daughter, might have been honorably married if not for her waywardness and the vile actions of her dishonorable seducer.
Lucy’s screams tore through the chilly night air, piercing, and pain-filled. For the third time in the last hour, the youngest Ashbrook sister, Sarah, promised she would never follow the path of shame and disgrace her sister had followed.
“I’ll be a good girl, Mama,” she said while sending fretful glances upstairs where Lucy labored to bring her bastard child into the world with only their mother and servants attending her.
A few minutes passed, and then another scream from Lucy echoed through the cottage, followed by a thin wail.
“The baby is here!” Sarah cried, gripping the edges of her skirts, and taking the stairs two steps at a time.
Over an hour had passed since the baby’s arrival, and Marianne had stayed in the parlor, knitting a blanket which she had been working on for the last few days. Mrs. Evans who served as their housekeeper and cook bustled in with a tray with tea and cakes and lowered it on the walnut table.
“Thank you, Mrs. Evans,” Marianne murmured, lowering her knitting needles.
“Lucy will be quite all right, Miss Marianne,” she said with a kind smile.
Marianne nodded, poured a cup of tea from the round china pot, and took a sip. Warmth flooded her body, and some of the tension which had invaded her limbs eased. Setting the cup on the table, she stood, walked over to the window and parted the curtains which had seen better days, a lump forming in her throat. Papa paced around the small garden he tended with such diligent care, a harsh frown splitting his brow. He had been outside for a few hours, ever since Lucy had gone into labor.
Out of his six daughters, one had already wretchedly fallen, and the people in their small village of Biddleton held their collective breath for the other Ashbrook girls to follow suit. Marianne thought it ridiculous for the reasons they had been labeled as ‘fallen’ to her mind could be called misadventures and be forgiven quite easily. But it seemed there was an even stricter code of conduct for the vicar of the parish’s daughters.
As it stood, no-one outside of the family and their three servants were aware of Lucy’s enceinte state. Mrs. Evans, Beatrice—the scullery maid—and Agatha the maid who attended her mother and the older girls had all been sworn to secrecy by their father. If the people of Biddleton should discover Lucy’s situation, Papa might perhaps lose the faith and confidence of his parishioners, and even Countess Huntley who had allowed him the living might be displeased enough to remove herself as Papa’s benefactress. He could not afford to lose his living in Biddleton.
Still, Marianne could not bear to support her father’s plan of sending Lucy’s child to an orphanage. Footsteps clambered down the stairs, and Mama entered the parlor with her girls behind her. She smiled, and there was joy in that smile, even if she appeared tired. Mamma tucked a wisp of raven black hair behind her ears.
“It is a girl,” she said softly, her brown eyes dark with worry. “A most beautiful…perfect child. Oh, Marianne…” she closed her eyes briefly, seemingly struggling to contain her emotions.
“Another girl?” she asked with a smile, lacing her fingers tightly together lest they trembled.
As Mama told the story with each of her pregnancies, their father had prayed for a son, and each time he had been blessed with another daughter. He’d often told them the good Lord must have known what he was doing to gift him with such wonderful girls.
A lump formed in Marianne’s throat, and her mother pressed a hand over her lips, her eyes were red from fighting back the tears.
“Agatha has helped me bathe Lucy, and she is resting.”
“Should we tell Papa?” Ruth asked, looking at the worn carpet instead of her family.
Marianne looked through the windows of their small cottage at her father, pacing in the garden once more. He lifted his face to the sky for several moments, and then his shoulders relaxed. She tightened her fingers on the curtains until they ached. That meant he had reached a decision. He walked with purpose toward the front door, and when she heard it slam, she released the curtain and turned to greet his arrival into their small but very tidy parlor.
Their father entered, a still very handsome man of only eight and forty, with only a dash of gray in his hair. His face was unwrinkled over time, and he boasted a lean and fit body from his long walks which he took daily. He had also been active in helping a few farmers and miners with whatever they were struggling to repair, whenever they needed the assistance. Her father was a good man, and it pained Marianne to see him struggle with Lucy’s fall of grace.
Their mother released Sarah and clasped her hands before her. “Have you decided, Husband?”
He glanced at his girls present—Marianne, Sarah, Ruth, and Maggie—and nodded once.
“I’ve asked God about it and gave my worries to Him. We will take the child to one of the orphanages in Bethnal Green and never speak of this again.”
Her mother paled but did not refute his edict. Ruth started to cry silently, and she gripped Sarah’s and Maggie’s hands.
Marianne stepped forward. “Papa! This baby will be your grandchild...and my niece! How could you bear the idea of sending her away to an orphanage to live an indifferent life that might be filled with pain and hardship?”
“Marianne,” he began wearily. “This is the best decision for the family—”
“You mean the best decision for you!”
“For the family!” he roared, his eyes darkening with ire. “Do you know the hardship you girls would face if it became known your sister had acted the whore and has given birth to a bastard?”
She flinched and stumbled back. “Lucy is not a wh…whore, Papa,” Marianne choked out. “She made a foolish, foolish mistake. Please, if—”
“No,” he said in that voice that allowed no room for other possibilities. “No-one in Biddleton knows of our shame, and we will keep it that way, or we will lose our reputations and possibly my livelihood. All respectable paths would be closed to this family because of your wretched sister. If we keep that child, we risk greater ruin and disgrace!”
Their mother stood and smoothed nonexistent wrinkles from her gown. Her eyes glowed with pain and tired acceptance. To Marianne’s mind, her mother, who even at three and forty was a great beauty with no gray hair or wrinkles, appeared to have aged. Mamma swallowed and lifted her chin. “I’ll go up and speak to Lucy and—”
“May I do it, Mama?” Marianne asked, wiping at the tears trailing down her cheeks.
Her mother knew of the guilt Marianne carried with her each day. She was the eldest sister at three and twenty, and she had failed her sister. Lucy had been in London to experience its beauty at the invitation of their aunt. Marianne had known there was someone Lucy fancied being in love with, and that he was ‘wealthy and dashing and terribly handsome.’
She had seen the path to ruin and had warned her sister most severely, but Marianne hadn’t informed her mother and father of her misgivings so that their father could demand Lucy’s return from London. Instead, Marianne had trusted that Lucy would have listened… rather, she had returned home six months’ ago with a babe in her belly and no word on whom had gotten her into this mess and abandoned her.
“Yes,” her Mama said with a soft smile of approval.
She faced her father. “May I inform her of your decision tomorrow, Papa?”
“No.”
“Papa! Lucy will not sleep if—”
“We’ve had no rest in this house since we learned of her deceit and wanton heart! She will know of the heartache her family has endured,” he snapped, before storming from the small parlor to his study.
Marianne could not bear looking at her sisters and mother, so she whirled about and went up the stairs to Lucy’s room. Marianne entered without knocking, not wanting to disturb her niece if she slept. A fire burned in the grate, and a tired Lucy lay upon her side, peering at a swaddled pink bundle resting next to her, an expression of awe and profound love on her face.
Lucy glanced up when she entered. “Oh, Marianne,” she whispered with a tremulous smile. “She is so very beautiful. I would like to call her Elizabeth—Lizzie seems more appropriate until she is of age.”
Marianne sat on the edge of the bed. “Lizzie, it is a beautiful name.”
Lucy pressed a finger to the baby’s forehead.
“I still cannot believe she is real,” she said, her voice thick with emotions. “and so beautiful and perfect…”
Marianne hadn’t the heart to refute her claims of perfection when all she saw was a pink bundle with wrinkled skin. It felt cruel to inform Lucy now of their father’s decision, but he would climb those steps and do it himself and in a far crueler manner. The very idea was unbearable.
“What happened, Lucy?” she questioned softly. “How…who is the father? I have asked you several times since you’ve returned home, and you have remained tightlipped. That has to stop now.”
Lucy did not meet her eyes, but a flush ran from her face down to her neckline. “That is not important now. All that matters to me is Lizzie and protecting her. As soon as I am strong enough, I shall find respectable employment. I heard that Squire Dawson is seeking a governess for his girls. He had always been kind to our family. I am certain he will consider my application.”
Marianne’s heart broke into dozens of pieces. “Papa…Papa said she cannot stay, Lucy. He will not pretend that you were married…and your husband died on the trip home.”
Her sister’s gaze collided with hers, and horror filled Lucy’s eyes. She struggled to sit up fully, and Marianne rushed to help prop the pillows behind her.
“Please, Marianne,” she cried, “what did Papa say?”
As succinctly as possible, she informed her sister of their father’s decision. Lucy paled, her throat worked, and then a raw, ugly sob burst from her before she contained it. “An orphanage?” she whispered weakly. “And we might never know her?”
“Yes.”
They stared at each other, the pain of that decision heavy in the room. Lucy closed her eyes, torment etched on her face. “I am so foolish, he promised…he promised me we would marry, and our family would be well.”
She reached out and clasped one of her sister’s hands between hers. “Who, Lucy? If you were to name him, Papa could go to him, and there might be a different outcome.”
Her sister swiped at the tears coursing down her face. “He told me he loved me,” she cried piteously.
Lucy’s pain pierced somewhere deep inside Marianne, filling her with anger. “Who is he!”
Her lips flattened in a stubborn line. “He’ll not marry me, and Papa does not have the connections to force his hand.”
“Yes, Lucy, but there might be a chance he’ll take his child, and she might be saved from the cruelty of an orphanage.”
Lucy froze, hope filling her expression. “I�
�do you think so?”
“If there is such a chance, we must take it. Will you…will you please tell me who this man is?”
“Only if you promise me to take Lizzie to him yourself, along with a let…letter from me.”
“Oh, Lucy,” Marianne said, releasing her hand. “It would be Papa who would go, and he would not take any letter to this man who has ruined you so shamelessly.”
“You know Papa would do something foolish like attempting to challenge him to a duel, which is highly illegal, and Papa would be in trouble. This man is wealthy and powerful, if he wishes it, he could ruin Papa in one crushing blow. Please, Marianne, you must go.”
Unease flared through Marianne. “How powerful?”
Lucy looked away briefly. “He is a lord.”
“A lord!”
She looked embarrassed and confused and regretful. “Yes.”
A hollow sensation invaded her midsection. “Oh Lucy, and you believed such a man would marry you? Lords marry young ladies with dowries, unsullied reputation, and connections,” she said, staring at her foolish sister. “How could you have fallen for the words of a seasoned rake!”
Lucy dropped her head against the pillow and stared at the ceiling. “Oh Marianne, I have been asking myself that very same thing since I discovered my situation. He was so very amiable and good-natured, and so handsome and charming. He paid me such attention, but now that I look back at it, there was no public or open courting. Everything had a secretive air about it. Yet I believed him then when he promised how much he loved me and wanted to be with me always.”
A dark feeling swelled through her. That wretched liar! She wished she could take Papa’s pistol, find him and place a bullet in his wicked heart. How she wished she could defend Lucy’s honor. “You are equally to blame for this situation,” Marianne said. Lucy had been well aware of the impropriety of her conduct, having been carefully instructed in the rules governing the social conduct of young ladies by their mother and governess.
