The Bewildered Bride (Advertisements for Love)

by Vanessa Riley

  Maybe the baron’s testimony would be a good substitute for the complete registry.

  No, I’d still be called a liar or a stupid woman.

  I needed both halves of the registry.

  Wycliff was the key to getting Adam’s. I would be nice to him.

  I’d convince him of the urgency of locating it. Thursday couldn’t come fast enough.

  Chapter Eleven

  His Morning Blues

  Wycliff wasn’t a morning person.

  Noises coming from downstairs forced one eye open and then the other.

  God bless Lawden. Wycliff had left him orders to start the repairs on Blaren House.

  That doggone-diligent man must’ve started.

  Putting his hands to his face, he tried to block the sunlight sneaking into his bedchamber from curtains that had been parted an inch. Lawden.

  Might as well get up, even if it was to close the curtains.

  Lazy bones, as Ruth would say, but it should be Wycliff’s reward for doing good. He’d freed a girl from a bawd last night.

  It wasn’t Cicely, but another young woman in a bad situation. Maybe his sister was indeed off with her friends, still upset that their father had kept silent about Wycliff’s impressment into the Navy. He’d been serving a life sentence on the HMS Liverpool. Was thinking him dead better than the remote chance of her brother being freed?

  Wycliff rubbed his burning eyes. Would that sliver of hope have meant something to Ruth or added to her misery?

  Well, a sovereign had bought the fair-skinned prostitute’s freedom, and four guineas had given her money to start over. One less exotic fantasy removed from the reach of peers.

  The money didn’t matter. Wycliff was glad to use his money and all the funds he’d drained from his uncle’s accounts. The fool had never changed any of his banking or finance mechanisms. Soulden had been a brilliant, evil genius, creating dummy accounts in Wycliff’s father’s name. Yet, the duplicity had made it easy for Wycliff to move the money on the old baron’s behalf.

  Father had been a spy for the Crown during the war with America. Trying to recruit free blacks to side against the rebellion, he’d met and married Wycliff’s mother. Working with his father to drain Uncle’s fraudulent accounts had given the old spy one last mission. It had been a good two months they’d spent together before he died.

  The noises coming from downstairs sounded strange. Now Wycliff had to get up.

  He dropped one leg then the other over the side of the once-majestic bed. The solid walnut frame had been painted a ghastly red.

  This would all have to be changed. This house needed to be set in a wash basin and scrubbed clean of Soulden’s and his cousin Nicholas’s awful taste.

  Wycliff stretched. Yawns poured out of his weary soul.

  Was that a curse coming from downstairs?

  Now he hurriedly pulled on breeches, his boots, and a robe, a fine burgundy brocade cloth with gray piping—a final present from his father, welcoming him back to England, making him feel human again.

  He picked up his sjambok, tucked it behind his back, then trotted to the massive curved stairs that ended in the center of the wide hall.

  His cousin Nicholas Wilkinson and Captain Steward, one of the ship captains who worked for Uncle Soulden, stood in the midst of the marble tiles and piles of Blaren House’s gaudy furniture ready to be sold. Lawden waved them toward the door.

  His man didn’t realize Wycliff had expected them today, just not this early.

  “Gentlemen.” His voice sounded hoarse and raw. He hated that, almost as much as the putrid yellow paint on the walls and the broken pieces of chair rail moldings of the abused house.

  “Adam!” Nicholas waved at him. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Nickie, you’ve tracked mud into my Blaren House.”

  “Adam, we must have a word with you alone.”

  “I’m not in the mood. Come back in a month.”

  Nickie tapped his dirty boot on the floor. More muck came off. “I won’t be in business next month.”

  Good. Wycliff folded his arms, trying to look as if he wanted to consider the request. “At such an hour, gentlemen? This had better be good. I was quite busy.”

  Nicholas laughed. “Yes, I heard. Madame Talease has the best girls.”

  Good. The horrid bed wench comment had worked. “What do you want?”

  His cousin stuck out his hand, and Wycliff left it to hang in the air.

  Older than Wycliff by three or four years, his cousin looked mostly the same. Same height, same beady, light-blue eyes, same bulbous mole above his lip. New—a swirl of gray strands in his blond hair and a gut not in want of a meal. Living off stolen money must taste sweet.

  Situation assessment time. “Lawden, once we are done here, make sure we have a good breakfast this morning. Something with fresh cream.”

  “Adam, we are not here for breakfast.”

  “But I am. It’s the only reason to leave bed. Isn’t that right, Lawden?”

  “Yes, my lord. No oranges, my lord. Will that be a problem?”

  That was code for the men had come alone.

  “No. Not at all, Lawden. But what of bread? I want bread.” This chatter asked if he was armed.

  “Only the best bread for you, my lord.”

  Good. Lawden was armed. The fellow’s short blunderbuss was loaded and ready, hidden in his coat.

  “Beef steaks, my lord?”

  Great. This meant beef steaks for breakfast. The delicious cuts of meat made every meal delicious. Wycliff hadn’t gotten enough of them since being back to London.

  “Adam,” his cousin said. “I do hate interrupting you, but this is important.”

  “Well, you never cared if I ate before. Why start now, Nickie? What is it you want?”

  Nicholas spun his hat, gripping it tightly with fingers that reddened more and more with each rotation. “For days, we’ve been trying to see you at your father’s cottage. You disappeared until you secured a writ of eviction.”

  “My whereabouts are my own. If Blaren House becoming a gaming hell is an example of your stewardship, I dare not seek your advice.”

  “That was my income. I needed it to break free of my father. You know how I hate what he does.”

  “No, I don’t. You know Uncle Soulden is horrible, a cheat, a liar, a murderer, but you stay. How many deaths is enough to be your own man?”

  The captain nudged Nicholas in the back. “Get to asking him about the money, Wilkinson.”

  “Yes, right. Adam. Sorry again for the loss of your father.”

  “I am sure you grieved mightily. Call me Wycliff, Nickie. Respect my title. Captain, let me spare you the family banter. No money. Now both of you—out to the streets. It’s breakfast time.”

  The polite smirk drained from his cousin’s face, like corn dripping from a large hole in a sack. “Wycliff…we must seek a truce.”

  His cousin’s hesitation in using the name Wycliff was amusing. Was it a dagger to the heart to say it, a title Nicholas had thought he’d inherit?

  The man edged closer, within slugging range. “I’ll call you anything you want, if you restore our credit. Seems our coffers have come up empty, and none of the bankers will lend any money. I need to get the captain paid so his ship can be underway.

  Captain Steward grunted yes, but his gaze held steady in Wycliff’s direction.

  It was the confused look some gave him when his hair wasn’t meticulously combed so the kinked curls looked straight. Did he need to parse out what he was—negro, white, or other?

  The captain should just settle that Wycliff held the power. In the end, that’s what mattered.

  He eased his grip on his sjambok. “The answer is no. All my funds are for Blaren House. It is in need of so many repairs and better art, but that ‘stolen bride’ sculpture is growing on me.”

  “I need money for the pay,” the captain said. “The Wilkinsons are bankrupt, a hair away from debtors’ prison. They
’ve left me in bad straits.”

  Dark hair, muscular build, the captain, from all accounts, was an honest man. His flaw, as Lawden had discovered, was excessive drink. Given enough brewed porter, he’d tell you all the secrets he knew. The captain knew a great deal, all the inner workings and business connections of the shippers to the East Indies and the Caribbean.

  “You understand what a crew deserves, how they deserve their wages,” Wilkinson said. “You served in the Navy.”

  The gall.

  The unmitigated gall to make what was done to him sound noble. Wycliff clicked his tongue. “Wilkinson, Steward, you’ll have to find another source to fund your businesses. Maybe you should sell something. Nickie, your son, he’s four or five? That’s not old enough to be impressed in the Navy. Pity, you miss out on gaining a few bits.”

  Now Nicholas’s pale face was a mix of red and aubergine purple, like a bruised eggplant. Such was the way with very light skin. Wycliff’s face could go very pink when warmed with raw rage.

  “You know about my son?”

  “I hear he’s a fine lad. His mother is your longtime mistress, a very handsome woman. A delightful actress and expensive, too. Miss Smith wears some of my mother’s jewelry. Do you and Mrs. Wilkinson get a chance to see the lady’s performances or are they private, just for you?”

  Nickie started sputtering.

  Wycliff chuckled. “I suppose that type of family reunion would be odd. Worse than this one.”

  “How do you know this? You’ve only been back two months.”

  “Cousin, I’ve learned never to waste an evening or good gossip.”

  Nicholas grimaced, making the lumpy mole near his lip seem larger, like it would burst.

  “Ad…Wycliff, I know you and my father have had differences…but this is me. Your cousin, your friend. Remember, I saved your life.”

  “You didn’t. You didn’t stop the press gang from selling me to the Navy. What was it you said? Same as dying or worse, serving each day knowing it was a life sentence. I suppose you could have told them to kill me instead. But I had frightened the men enough to forgo that. I could’ve been freed.”

  “It wasn’t like that. And I couldn’t go against my father.”

  “I remember Uncle and his friends being at the attack that killed my companion, but not at the docks. He left that for you.”

  His cousin didn’t blink at anything except the phrase companion. Wycliff would have to look into that…later. “Golden boy. Go get new credit, sell things—possessions, not people. Just making that clear.”

  “Lord Wycliff,” the captain said. “You’re getting us wrong. You can’t just leave us high and dry.”

  “Ad—cousin. This will ruin me. Help your family.”

  “Did you help my father whilst I was away? Your father helped all his fortune disappear. Uncle Soulden let the creditors have at him, and he had to sell much to keep out of debtors’ prison.”

  Wycliff tapped his nose, the one Soulden had broken in that brutal attack on him and Ruth.

  “Very odd for my father to be in that position. He wasn’t poor. Makes one wonder who embezzled all his funds?”

  “You know…that is terrible. My father should’ve helped, but you know how they warred. I wonder how you have money. Did you get part of a bounty?”

  “Yes, you could say that. With the HMS Liverpool retired, everyone is enjoying freedom. Go tell Uncle to enjoy his freedom while he can. He’ll get nothing from me.”

  Lawden moved toward the door and opened it wide. He even made hand motions, waving them to leave.

  Nicholas started to go, but the sweating captain caught his arm.

  “Just wait. My lord, is there any way to persuade you. Higher terms? I don’t want to end up like Nacknel. I won’t be stoned by my men.”

  “Stoned?” Wycliff forced his rough voice to sound surprised. “I heard Nacknel was beaten to death for his gambling. Shame that happened to Uncle Soulden’s dearest friend.”

  His cousin’s face turned redder and redder. That mole was destined to explode like gun powder.

  Nicholas stepped closer. “Are you behind the rumors, Adam? How did his men know he was out of money?”

  From his cousin’s shifting stance, Wycliff knew the man was about to attack.

  Wycliff wiggled his fingers, readying to wield his sjambok. “Were the rumors about Nacknel not being able to pay true? Sad.”

  Rubbing his chin, Nicholas looked at the captain then back toward Wycliff. “Everything could be made right if you restored our credit. The bankers say you have plenty of money. A good word from you to back the financing would do it.”

  “No, Nickie, my darling Nickie. No.”

  “Cousin. Nacknel was savagely beaten. All our shipping captains face the same fate.”

  “I remember savage. Nacknel was responsible for my voice.” Wycliff pulled at the collar of his nightshirt and exposed the scars, the gnarled skin scabbed over the lacerations from his near lynching. “You think Nacknel’s suffering was enough?”

  The captain stepped back. His eyes glazed. Perhaps he now understood how bad the blood was between the camps.

  Wycliff closed the distance. “Steward, tell all the captains of the shipping lanes to never gamble on payroll. Men protecting their families can be very dangerous. Men with reasons for revenge are deadly.”

  Eyes darting, as if he could measure the nets closing in upon him, Nicholas shook his fists. “Somehow, you’re responsible for this. You were almost a vicar. How could you be so cruel?”

  “Even vicars have to overturn tables every now and then. But me responsible? Hmmm. I don’t think so. But I may have mentioned the rumor to someone. Can’t remember who.”

  Whack. Nicholas punched him, his knuckles connecting to the bone under Wycliff’s eye.

  When he advanced again, Wycliff tripped him and dumped him onto the marble.

  Then he drove his knee deep into the man’s chest and lodged his sjambok against the fool’s windpipe, crushing and choking.

  Lawden blocked the captain from intervening.

  “I think this is a fair fight, Nickie. The two of us, not a crowd of hired men. What do you say, Cousin? Can’t speak?”

  “Get…off.” Nicholas kept struggling, swinging his arms.

  “You want mercy, Nickie? You want me to think you’re my friend? You laughed pretty well knowing I’d have a slow death as a barnacle on a frigate.”

  “I could’ve let them just kill you.”

  “They were too scared of God’s wrath and the fear of killing a peer, from all the scriptures of judgement I coughed out. That’s why Nacknel did what he did to my throat. To stop me from telling the truth.”

  Flailing, Nicholas tried to punch at Wycliff, but no one could stop a man who had every right to kill his enemy. Nonetheless, Wycliff promised his father to never use his hands to kill. This show of strength was to prove a point.

  Nicholas dropped his palms to the tiles then went still. “Can’t…breathe.”

  “I gave you one hit. Did you feel powerful doing it yourself? I should let you die now for striking a peer.”

  Nicholas’s motions—the wild swinging of his arms—stopped when Wycliff stiffened his sjambok.

  When he felt the fool might pass out, he relented and stood. “Captain, take him out of here.”

  Gasping, Nicholas wobbled to his feet, wrenching at his neck, rubbing at the marks, ones that would go away. “I couldn’t go against my father. Maybe you and I can make a deal. Maybe you and I can partner.”

  “My blessed mother, she was a poet, you know. Her words stay with me. A son can slay, a fool can die, a stupid man, not am I. Thieves have no partners, Nickie, just dupes they’ve yet to injure.”

  Pawing at his neck, Nicholas undid his cravat. “Maybe there’s something we can give you.”

  Wycliff’s thoughts tossed between Cicely and Ruth, but he kept his face blank. “There’s nothing you have except Uncle meeting Nacknel’s fate. No extension of
credit from any bank until all your debts are paid.”

  “We’ll be ruined. I’ll be ruined.”

  “Send your father to jail. Have him rot for his debts. He needs to wake up every day with no hope. That’s what you did to me. That was the pain you gave to my father.” Wycliff cracked his sjambok. It made a thunderous echo in the bare hall. “Be gone.”

  “The money he and Johnson took—it’s gone. There’s nothing to return.”

  The captain dragged his cousin toward the door. “Let’s go. Your father will find a way. He always does.”

  The fearful look on Nicholas’s face, with that mole bulging, foretold that he didn’t think Uncle Soulden could get out of the trap that had been sprung. Or that Soulden’s way out would be bloody.

  “Wycliff, I know of something you want.”

  Twiddling his fingers, Wycliff waited. “Make it good. I love a good rumor.”

  “I don’t know if it’s true—”

  “Nickie, don’t waste my time. You have nothing. I don’t follow fools’ leads. Use this opportunity to be your own man. Start over. Conduct your business ethically. You’ll sleep better. You’ll be an example for that son you keep in the shadows.”

  “You said you could reason with him.” The captain slugged Nicholas’s shoulder. “I’ll not be beaten out on the docks, like Nacknel. You’re on your own, Wilkinson.”

  His cousin chased after the captain but stopped at the entry. “Don’t touch my son. He’s a good boy. He needs to grow up and be better than us.”

  True.

  Wycliff would never hurt an innocent person, especially a child, but he needed his cousin to think him dangerous and a match to their cruelty. “Then don’t force my hand, Nickie. Send Uncle my greetings. Shut the door on him, Lawden.”

  Wycliff waited for the door to be barred then started toward his study. He touched his stinging face, right under the eye socket. “Well, that’s a new way to start the day, Lawden, dispensing enemies.”

  “It’s dispatching enemies, my lord. You’ve won. Wilkinson seems a broken man.”

  “Dispensing as in advice, Lawden. A wounded dog still has teeth.”

  “Did your mother really make that poem?”

  “No. But it sounded bold, didn’t it? She was a much better poet, but she did warn about dogs and teeth.” Wycliff slipped his sjambok through his palm. It wasn’t done striking out. He could feel it.