A Marriage of Equals

by Elizabeth Rolls

  * * *

  Psyché woke in a rush at the soft tapping. Beside her Kit didn’t stir. In the dim light from the parlour fire she could see the tall shadow in the doorway.

  A soft mrowp heralded the weighty arrival of Fiddle on her legs.

  ‘Will?’

  ‘Yes.’ Very soft. ‘I need to speak with you.’

  ‘A moment. Could you stir up the fire? No other light.’

  ‘Of course.’

  He moved away, and Psyché shook Kit’s shoulder. ‘Something’s happened.’

  * * *

  She frowned over Will’s story.

  ‘You’re sure they picked the lock?’

  He nodded. ‘I heard it click.’

  ‘And relocked it when they found the door bolted.’ She thought about that.

  ‘Wouldn’t they have realised the back door was likely to be secured with more than a lock?’ Kit asked.

  Psyché nodded. ‘It’s possible they’ve been in the shop and seen the bolts and bar for the front, but—’

  ‘They have.’ Will scowled. ‘How the hell did I miss that? One of them said there was likely another bar.’

  That flash of irritation touched her. ‘Don’t blame yourself. Most men would have ignored a growling cat and gone back to sleep. We’d be none the wiser.’

  ‘We’re not much the wiser anyway,’ he muttered.

  She had to smile. ‘Oh, yes, we are. We know it’s unlikely to be Runners. So that tells us that in addition to them, Carshalton is using his own men.’

  ‘And that he suspects I’m here,’ Kit said quietly. ‘I should—’

  ‘No.’ Psyché gripped her hand. ‘Kit, you are not going to leave.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Kit—you can’t just leave.’ Fear for the girl flooded her. ‘He’d be on you in an instant!’

  ‘Kit.’ Will’s voice was steady, calming. ‘We’ll think of something. Trust us.’

  Trust us. Us.

  Kit managed a faint smile. ‘We haven’t got very long.’

  ‘No.’ Psyché looked at Will. ‘There’s something else. If I go out through the back, supposedly leaving the place empty, and they try that door again...’

  Understanding flashed in his eyes. ‘If they find the door still bolted, they’ll know beyond all doubt that there is someone inside.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Psyché gritted her teeth. ‘Fortunately you didn’t give away that they’d been overheard, so they don’t know we’re on the alert. But still...’

  Kit bit her lip. ‘If they came back—’

  ‘It would take a battering ram,’ Psyché assured her. ‘Which would alert us and give us time to hide you again. It would also wake up the neighbours who would definitely take exception.’

  Will cleared his throat. ‘There’s something else that would do it.’

  The very quietness of his voice told Psyché she wasn’t going to like it. ‘What?’

  ‘A fire right up against the door.’

  Her stomach clutched. ‘The whole row of buildings would catch. We’d have to—’

  ‘Escape through the front, right into their hands,’ Will finished for her, his face grim.

  * * *

  Psyché let Will out the front door with dawn brightening the east. The morning was clear and cold, sharp and crisp. Despite being Sunday, people were already hurrying by. Usually she would have gone out on such a glorious day. Swung a warm cloak about her shoulders and gone for a long walk. Sundays, with the shop closed, were almost the only chance she had to get out and enjoy a walk along the river. But now, knowing that someone had picked the lock on her back door, she was trapped.

  ‘Be careful, Will,’ she said softly.

  He shook his head. ‘That’s my line. I’m not hiding a missing heiress. I’ll be back tonight.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said, I’ll be back tonight,’ he repeated, as though she had merely misheard him. ‘That way we’ll have some warning should our enterprising friends return.’

  ‘You don’t think I’m capable—’

  ‘Of sitting guard on the back door all night?’ he suggested.

  That was exactly what she’d intended.

  ‘The problem with that is that you’re planning on a full day’s work tomorrow as well,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Whereas I can take a nap during the day. Besides which no one will think I’m warming the back door. They’ll assume I’m warming your bed, which might make them think twice about burning you out anyway.’

  There was absolutely nothing to be gained from arguing against logic of that calibre.

  She changed the subject. ‘And how do you propose to spend your day?’

  ‘Checking Huntercombe’s property ledger to see if there’s somewhere better to hide Kit.’ He removed his hat, bent and kissed her gently on the lips. ‘Because I want to,’ he murmured, lingering.

  She kissed him back. Because, God help her, she wanted to do a very great deal more.

  * * *

  Except for the beat of his mare’s hooves, Mayfair lay quiet as Will trotted along Grosvenor Street. Not only was it far too early for the Quality to be abroad, very few of them were even in town at this season. Circe’s breath as well as his own smoked in the morning chill as he entered Grosvenor Square.

  He took the mare around to the stables and entered the house through the back. And walked straight into the housekeeper, Mrs Bentham.

  Will swallowed, aware of the appearance he presented. He’d washed, yes. But he was wearing yesterday’s clothes and the entire staff would be fully aware that he had not come home the previous night. And he’d had to run straight into the very proper Mrs Bentham, who, judging by her expression, had arrived at her own conclusions.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Will. Coffee, sir?’

  He’d had coffee with Psyché and Kit, but given he’d spent the latter part of the night on guard rather than asleep—‘A very large pot of coffee, please,’ he said. Otherwise he was going to nod off over the ledgers.

  * * *

  Three hours and two pots of coffee later, he rose from his desk in the library and stretched. So far he’d found nothing that could serve as even the most temporary refuge. Huntercombe’s properties were all fully tenanted and there wasn’t even a convenient brothel listed among them. Not that he had expected there to be, but it would have been helpful. He rolled his shoulders and walked to the window to stare out. Surely, out of all those properties, there must be somewhere to hide one slip of a girl. A walk around the Square might clear his head. Then he’d go through them again.

  * * *

  Will let himself into the central garden which was surrounded by the dwellings of the seriously wealthy and powerful. At least he had the place to himself. He doubted any of those wealthy families were actually in residence. They would still be in the country...except there, to prove the exception, on the opposite side of the Square to Moresby House, was an elegant sporting curricle with a pair of very familiar bays harnessed to it.

  His jaw dropped as he recognised the man stepping down, strolling around to pat his horses and walking up the front steps of Cambourne House, accompanied by a gangly teenage boy. James, Earl of Cambourne, a close and trusted, albeit much younger, friend of Huntercombe, and his young brother-in-law, Philip Fitzjames.

  He was debating the wisdom of charging straight across against at least giving Cambourne time to get inside, when Philip—more usually known as Fitch—spotted him and waved.

  The boy gave his brother-in-law’s arm a sharp tug and pointed.

  The Earl stared, as well he might. But he raised a hand in friendly greeting and strolled back down the steps with Fitch, crossing the street to the iron railings.

  ‘Good morning, Barclay. Surprising to see you in town at this season. Hunt with you?’

  Will hesitated. This was a
risk. And not his risk strictly speaking. He should probably discuss this with Psyché and Kit first. Hell, with Selbourne. Most men would look askance on hiding a girl from her father. Only...his gaze fell on Fitch—the Countess’s adopted brother...perhaps not this man. As Huntercombe’s secretary, he knew a little about the circumstances under which Cambourne had met his Countess, and the part Huntercombe had played in their courtship. Quite apart from the fact that Huntercombe trusted this man unreservedly, Cambourne was possibly the only person in London who could not only help, but would understand the need.

  He took a deep breath. ‘I need your help, my lord.’

  Cambourne raised his brows. ‘You’d better come in and tell me.’

  * * *

  Cambourne had dismissed his brother-in-law, but as Will finished his tale, and explained what he was asking the Earl to do, he said slowly, ‘I think, with your permission, we’ll have Fitch back in.’

  Will sat back. He liked Fitch. The boy was refreshingly outspoken and highly intelligent. But...

  ‘Fitch? Why, my lord?’

  Cambourne smiled. ‘Barclay, how long have you worked for Hunt?’

  How that was relevant he couldn’t imagine. ‘About seven years, my lord.’

  ‘So we’ve known each other that long. And we’re about the same age,’ said the Earl. ‘Do you think you could call me Cambourne and be done with it?’

  ‘I could do that, if you like.’

  ‘Good,’ Cambourne said with feeling. ‘Because when a man engages me to compound a felony I do like to feel that we’re upon terms of friendship.’

  Will smiled, but felt obliged to say, ‘You understand that I am not acting on Huntercombe’s instructions, don’t you, Cambourne?’

  ‘You made that abundantly clear,’ the Earl said calmly. ‘However, it’s also clear that if Hunt were in London he’d be in this right up to his neck.’ He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. ‘Hiding Miss Carshalton is the least of our concerns. From what you tell me, getting her out of that coffee house will be the tricky part. Which is where my brother-in-law comes in. How much did Hunt tell you about Lady Cambourne?’

  Will considered that. ‘Directly? Very little. Naturally I heard a certain amount of gossip.’ Gossip over the Earl of Cambourne’s startling marriage to a girl whose family had scarcely acknowledged her and whose father was—according to the gossip—a Captain Sharp had rocked society. Huntercombe had called privately on Cambourne one evening and returned hours later, dishevelled and stinking of opium and a particularly cheap scent. He’d said very little about the evening beyond he’d helped the Earl out of a nasty scrape. Since Cambourne’s betrothal had been announced almost immediately and Huntercombe had gone to some lengths to throw his support behind the scandalous bride, Will had put two and two together and kept his mouth shut.

  ‘You’ve never asked him about that business, have you?’ Cambourne reached out and tugged on the bell pull.

  ‘Certainly not,’ Will said stiffly. ‘If his lordship—’ He caught Cambourne’s amused glance. ‘Very well, Huntercombe, then! Had he wished me to know anything about it he would have told me!’

  Cambourne smiled. ‘He thinks you a prince among secretaries, you know.’

  Will was aware that his ears had turned pink as Cambourne continued. ‘Anyway, that’s beside the point. Part of the point is that Fitch grew up on the streets. He helped keep Lucy safe and I think he’ll be able to help us.’

  Will nodded. ‘I was aware of his background.’ He’d tutored Fitch in mathematics for a while as a favour to Huntercombe. While imparting the mysteries of Euclid, he’d also done his best to mould the boy’s speech without sounding like his own Great-Aunt Maria. Fitch never bothered to hide his origins, but he was like a sponge, soaking up knowledge and a new way of speaking with ease.

  Cambourne grinned. ‘I thought you would be. The rest of the point is that apart from Hunt’s opinion, I know I can trust your judgement and discretion from my own observation. I am also very slightly acquainted with Miss Winthrop-Abeni.’ He grimaced. ‘And somewhat better acquainted, to my sorrow, with Lucius Winthrop. Of the two, I prefer the lady. Which isn’t saying much because Winthrop is a wart on the arse end of a toad and that’s insulting warts, toads and possibly arses. And as for Carshalton—there is no creature or blemish on the face of the earth that deserves comparison to him.’ He shot Will a keen glance. ‘I am fully aware of his involvement in the attempts on Harry Lacy’s life last year. Can’t say I liked him before, but that rather put the topper on it.’

  The door opened to admit a footman. ‘Yes, my lord?’

  ‘Ah. David.’ He glanced at Will. ‘Your permission? And, yes, I may lack Hunt’s omniscience, but I know exactly what you are thinking about secrets.’

  That a secret shared between more than two is no longer secret...

  However, as Cambourne had put it, he’d asked the man to compound a felony.

  ‘If you are going to trust my judgement, Cambourne, I’d best return the compliment.’

  Cambourne turned back to the footman. ‘Send Master Fitch in, if you please. And coffee. Milk and cake as well.’

  The footman didn’t precisely grin, but his mouth twitched. ‘Master Fitch is already partaking of milk and biscuits in the kitchen, my lord.’

  Cambourne snorted. ‘Of course he is. I can only hope he’s left enough biscuits for us.’

  Chapter Nine

  Psyché spent the day dusting, catching up on her accounts—and incidentally teaching Kit how to read the accounts—and checking stock. Kit, with all the ground-floor windows shuttered, came downstairs to help with the stock check.

  ‘You don’t have to help, you know.’ Psyché pushed a stray curl out of her eyes as she scribbled a note for herself.

  Kit scowled. ‘It’s the least I can do to make up for being such a nuisance. I’m sorry.’

  Psyché looked up. ‘Stop right there. You do not apologise for being in trouble.’

  ‘I am trouble for you.’ Kit started to put back the coffee cups she’d been counting. ‘You’re breaking the law for me. If they find me here—’

  ‘Just as bad for Ignatius,’ Psyché said lightly.

  ‘It’s not.’ Kit had a mulish look Psyché was coming to know. She was keeping a strict accounting of every penny spent on her, vowing to pay it back. ‘It would be much worse for you. Ignatius has powerful friends in high places and he’s not—’ She broke off.

  ‘Black?’ Psyché smiled across at the girl she had taken in out of pity and come to like very much.

  ‘Yes. I... I don’t mean to be offensive, but—’

  ‘Why should I be offended?’

  Kit bit her lip. ‘That cloak I was wearing when I arrived.’

  Psyché blinked. ‘It’s white. What of it? Handy in the snow. Very few would have seen you that night.’

  ‘It probably cost a fortune,’ Kit continued stacking cups. ‘I wouldn’t know how much, but you know what paid for it. What my father’s ships carry.’

  Ah. Psyché nodded. ‘Yes. I know.’ She didn’t have to make the girl spell it out.

  Kit swallowed. ‘He’s a slave trader. When I lived with Ignatius and Aunt Agatha I read the pamphlets Mr Wilberforce left in the shop and...and it was vile.’

  Psyché nodded. Mr Wilberforce came into her shop occasionally, too, and left pamphlets about the horror of the slave trade.

  Kit went on. ‘After Agatha died, my—Carshalton decided I had to live with him again and I said something about the Middle Passage. He said it was all lies and exaggeration by do-gooders, but I...didn’t believe him.’ She dragged in a breath. ‘I argued and he hit me. Told me if I knew what was good for me I’d shut my mouth and leave business to him and make sure I got a husband who could get brats on me because that was all I was good for.’ She faced Psyché squarely. ‘So I shut up because I wa
s a coward.’

  ‘You shut up because you were afraid,’ said Psyché. She kept her voice calm, but her stomach churned at the flash of memory. Of being afraid so that it became a constant, something that was with you always, gnawing away inside your belly. And the knowledge that to other human souls you were a nothing, a commodity to be used and discarded.

  ‘That’s what I—’

  ‘No.’ Psyché reached out, laid a hand on Kit’s and found it trembling. Somehow that eased the grip of her own memories. ‘You said you were a coward. Being afraid does not mean you’re a coward. It means you used your brains. You waited. You waited until you could make your actions and words count.’ She squeezed the pale hand. ‘In fact, you lulled him. He thought he’d broken you, didn’t he?’

  Kit nodded. ‘Because he had.’

  ‘No.’ Psyché shook her head. ‘If he’d broken you, you wouldn’t be here. You’d be married to Lucius.’

  Kit looked unconvinced. ‘The thing is,’ she went on, ‘I’ve put you in danger. Carshalton will be howling for someone’s blood over this. He’s not stupid. He’ll know Ignatius is protected. He may go after you if he ever realises you helped me. And because...because you’re Black and he can’t touch Ignatius, he’ll be even angrier. You won’t be safe.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ She patted Kit’s hand, rose and went back to the window. ‘I have friends, too. Such as Lord Huntercombe and my Uncle Theo, of course.’

  ‘It still would have been safer for you if you’d refused to take me in. Why did you when my—Carshalton is a—’

  ‘A complete brute who arranged the rape of his own daughter?’

  For a moment, as Kit’s mouth trembled, she wondered if she had spelt it out too brutally.

  But Kit’s mouth firmed and her chin lifted. ‘I suppose that’s my answer.’

  ‘It is.’ She wouldn’t give a dog to Lucius, let alone a woman. Perhaps memory was more important than she was willing to acknowledge—memory and a soupçon of revenge to flavour it—but it was not only that. It was the knowledge that Kit’s father had considered her as little more than a brood mare.