Fair Cyprians of London Boxset

by Beverley Oakley

  He felt her tears raining down upon his chest, and tenderly brushed her wet cheek with his fingertip. “My dearest Faith. Because of you, I feel more alive in this moment than I ever have. I owe you everything!” He kissed her again. And then, because he was afraid of her wilfulness, he cupped her face as he angled himself over her, and said softly, “Your place is by my side. While you are here, I will do all in my power to protect you. I would give my life to see you safe, Faith. You need to know that.”

  * * *

  And Faith was very much afraid that this would be the cost Lord Harkom would extract.

  She also knew the time would come, sooner rather than later, when her nemesis would recover sufficiently to make his overtures.

  When she was sure Crispin was sleeping, Faith quietly climbed out of their shared bunk and slipped out of the room.

  Breathing in the fresh air on deck, she spied land and her heart sank. On board the ship, they had the protection of the crew who, although they’d offered little in the way of overt assistance, nevertheless refused to lock them up.

  And, with Lord Harkom so indisposed, Lady Vernon had not enforced Faith’s prisoner status. But soon matters would come to a head.

  She tapped softly on the door. “Lord Harkom, it’s me, Faith. I’m alone, and I want to speak to you.” The sound of footsteps made her cringe, and hurriedly she added, “I have a crew member with me so don’t try to take advantage. I just need to speak to you.” She glanced over her shoulder at the Frenchman who showed no understanding, but who stood implacably nearby, as she’d requested.

  “I’ll go with you willingly if you’ll release Crispin,” she said, leaping back with a squeal when he flung open the door.

  He looked ill and haggard, his appearance not improved by the ironic curl of his lip. “Do you think that’ll please me, Faith?” He laughed. “To have you submit to me, meek as a little lamb.” This time he threw back his head and indulged in his mirth even more. “Why, what did Madame Chambon teach you? Certainly not how to tread carefully with men of my proclivities which, I daresay, is all to the good. Now, where’s your Mr Westaway? I was feeling mightily indisposed a few minutes ago and certain I’d not have the strength to crawl from my bed, but your delightful little proposition has fired me up.”

  Faith darted back at his approach, but he gripped her shoulder to stop her fleeing and barked out the order, in French, to the seaman behind her, to fetch Mr Westaway.

  “I’m already here,” Crispin announced, arriving behind Faith and attempting to pull her to his side.

  “The little wench has offered herself to me, Westaway, so hands off, thank you.” Harkom waved a pistol in his face.

  Tendrils of dismay curled around Faith’s inards to see the expression on Crispin’s face, and to realise how badly she’d compromised both their safety.

  “Yes, she came here, of her own volition, and offered herself to me if I’d allow you to return home safely. Isn’t that sweet? Especially considering the way you treated her all those months ago. Now—” With a jerk of his wrist, Faith found herself in the circle of Harkom’s arm, before he’d pinned her by her neck, his other hand holding the revolver.

  “How easy to claim self-defence for your death, Westaway,” he snarled. “But that would be letting you off too easily. No, you can come in and watch your beloved debase herself at my command. And you will die, knowing that her fate is to do the same for the pleasure of the various Far Eastern nabobs who are willing to pay a high price for an English princess with the treasured golden hair and white skin.”

  Unable to move, Faith shuddered as he caressed her cheeks, sliding his hand the length of her neck to skim her décolletage.

  “Stop!” Crispin lunged forward but was halted by a sharp crack as Harkom fired in the air.

  “Yes, loaded, in case you thought otherwise. Now, would you kindly step inside, Miss Montague. I’ve been waiting for this a long time now.”

  Faith screamed and gripped the lintel as Lord Harkom proceeded to pull her inside, slamming the door in Crispin’s face.

  “You can listen to her wail and beg, Westaway!” he shouted. “Unfortunately, I can’t do what I have to do and keep my pistol trained on you.”

  Raising his leg high, Crispin kicked at the door, but it held fast. He could hear Faith’s whimpers within and the sound of Harkom’s harsh laughter, before the thud of a body landing on the ground.

  Again, he tried to kick in the door, but it was solid, and locked.

  “Faith! Are you all right! Harkom! For God’s sake! You don’t need to do this to have your revenge on me. You can shoot me now if it’ll please you! Let her go!”

  Another muffled cry from Faith was too much. With a howl of rage, Crispin hurled himself against the door, but still it would not yield.

  “You might have more luck if you had a key, Mr Westaway.”

  Crispin turned at Lady Vernon’s silken tones. She looked like a crow of ill portent as she hovered at the end of the corridor, her back to the light so Crispin could see only her illuminated form. And then he heard the clink of keys, and saw she held up the keyring upon which a dozen keys dangled.

  “No! Don’t, please don’t!” Faith’s cry from indoors was tortuous, but Lady Vernon seemed unaffected.

  “Don’t try to take it from me or I’ll cast it overboard,” she warned as he began to stride towards her. “I’ll give it to you on one condition.” The sea was only a few feet from her. She could throw it over her shoulder with ease, and he would never have it.

  “What is your condition?” There wasn’t much time, but if he could save Faith from Harkom’s final assault he’d agree to anything.

  “I fear we’re being followed.” With a jerk of her thumb she indicated a schooner much closer than Crispin would have believed. There was no time to investigate further, but it seemed to be heading straight for them. “If we are apprehended, you’d better swear on your life that you’ll say Harkom took me captive, as Faith’s chaperone. Do that, and not only will you have the key, you’ll have my testimony as to what he’s been doing. Otherwise,” she shrugged, “I can’t see there will be any case for Harkom to answer. Not to mention there’s the matter with the letter from your fond, cash-strapped mother. Your real mother, that is.”

  “Give me the key and you have my word.”

  And then it was in his hand, and Crispin was striding back down the corridor, inserting the rusty key, and thrusting open the doorway upon a scene of vile degradation.

  * * *

  Faith knew there was no point in struggling, and yet she could not do otherwise. To submit without a fight went against any grain of survival instinct she had, while the hope she could cause Harkom damage made the penalty she’d pay worth it.

  “You are more a fighter than I gave you credit for, Faith. I’m sorry I didn’t try harder to break you in,” he panted as he caged her body with his.

  “I’ll die fighting, Lord Harkom,” she vowed, jerking her head upwards to try and bite his ear.

  He slapped her then, and she yelped with the pain, her world hazing into red and black for a moment before her consciousness became refocused on what he was doing with his other hand.

  She tried to wriggle free for it was now beneath her skirts, while his other was busy unbuttoning himself. She felt like a moth in the maw of a giant, deadly spider, and her efforts were futile.

  Crispin was just on the other side of the door, but it was solid, and he was as helpless as she. If she could only lie still. Stop herself from reacting and it might be better for all of them. Harkom might lose the ability, even, if he were confronted by meek passivity.

  It would certainly be better for Crispin who’d be tormented by what he was helpless to remedy.

  “You’ll die, any way I take you. You’ll die in a Turkish harem far away from here, unmourned by any, Faith, for you gave up your right to respect a long time ago.”

  “And you did not, Lord Harkom?”

  “Ah Faith, but you are
a fine sparring partner. Why did I not make you my mistress when I could have set you up so nicely after Westaway forsook you?”

  “I never forsook her!”

  Suddenly, the door was open and Crispin’s tall, straight form was silhouetted in the doorway for a split second before he hurled himself onto Lord Harkom.

  It was enough to knock him off her and, taking advantage of her reprieve, Faith rolled out from beneath him, finding sanctuary half under the bed.

  Crispin’s eyes were trained on Lord Harkom, while Lord Harkom’s pistol was trained on Crispin.

  “You’d die for her?” spat Harkom. ”Gutter scum? You’re more of a fool than I thought. A pretty face that will corrode soon enough, and then what will it all have been for? Well, it doesn’t matter, does it, for you’ll be dead!”

  And then there was another commotion, outside, followed by the sound of splitting wood before the boat was jolted as if it had been sideswiped by a much larger vessel.

  Faith screamed as Harkom’s weapon discharged.

  Chapter 33

  Faith screamed and threw herself upon Crispin’s body, just as the boat was boarded and newcomers had spilled into the room.

  More evil was about to render her more helpless.

  If Crispin were dead, she wanted to die too. What was left for her if she was dragged home and forced to fend for herself, yet again? Her only refuge was Madame Chambon’s, and who knew how involved she was in the evil trade plied by Lady Vernon and Lord Harkom.

  So, she simply buried her face in Crispin’s neck, sobbing as she felt his weakened hand upon the back of her head; sobbing even more when she heard his whispered, “I’ll make sure you’re looked after, Faith.”

  How could he look after her? The bullet wound to his chest had caused a spreading stain that she’d tried to staunch with her skirts, but still the blood oozed. He’d die from loss of blood before he died from anything else, and Faith would be watching, unable to do anything.

  Her mind was so focused on Crispin’s needs, she gave no thought to Lord Harkom until she heard a masculine voice she could not place—although she was sure she’d heard it before—bark out a directive to someone else, and then the pounding of feet before a groan of pain.

  “Harkom! That’s enough!”

  Turning her face only so she could observe what was happening out of the corner of her eye, she saw a stocky young man bending by the prone figure of Lord Harkom, who gave a yell of pain as he was rolled over and his arms were tied behind his back.

  “Christ, I’m not going anywhere! Can’t you see I’ve taken a bullet?”

  And indeed, a spreading pool of blood near his shoulder bore testimony to the claim.

  But he was not mortally wounded as Crispin was. If Faith wasn’t focused so wholly on protecting Crispin from evil, she’d have hurled herself on her violator and clawed his eyes out.

  “Faith? Faith, are you all right?”

  With an effort, she turned her head, blinking dazedly to find herself staring right into Lord Delmore’s eyes.

  “Crispin’s been shot,” she wept, the tears starting to flow. “Lord Harkom shot him.” With the emotion unleashed, she found she could not stop, and as Lord Delmore put his arms about her to draw her to her feet, she still could not stop. “He’s dying,” she whimpered as she pressed her face against Lord Delmore’s chest.

  “We’re going to do everything we can to help him; make sure that doesn’t happen,” soothed Lord Delmore standing above them. A light salt-tinged breeze ruffled his overcoat. He smiled encouragingly before gently pushing her away in order to kneel beside Crispin.

  “I’ve seen men worse than that come off the battlefield, and live. Come with me, Faith. The boat’s waiting.” He beckoned to someone just out of sight and, shocked, Faith locked eyes with the last person she expected to see on a boat so far from home.

  But as she allowed herself to be led by the woman she blamed for causing her downfall, she realised too that Miss Eaves must have acted swiftly and boldly to have effected the rescue that had just taken place.

  Miss Eaves sent her a level look as an array of emotions flitted across her face. “I had access to a much faster vessel than the one Lord Harkom enlisted to take you away,” she said as she helped Faith across the deck and to the railing, where a sleek schooner was moored beside the leaky tub they inhabited.

  “It’s my father’s. He’s sailing around the world and happened to have come into port just two days ago, so was available to take us on this little jaunt when I woke him last night having enlisted Lord Delmore’s help.” Her smile broadened as she released her grip on Faith’s arm so that Faith could take the hand offered by a waiting crewman who stood on the rocking deck of the Clever Amy. “Yes, I do want to make it as a newspaper reporter and a woman on my own terms, but it does help to have well-placed connections; I admit it.”

  “Your father?” Faith gaped as she took in Miss Eaves’s words before a strident American voice made her turn, and she was confronted by a tall blonde man built like a wrestler wearing a crisp, cream suit. He was shouting orders to the crew to bring the wounded and bound Lord Harkom down the ladder, but at the same time there was an air of life about him that suggested he was enjoying himself enormously.

  “Miss Montague?” Coming out of a barked command to one of his crewmen, he offered Faith a deep bow. “I’m Ellison Eaves; pleased to meet you. My daughter didn’t do you justice when she described you, my dear girl. What an ordeal you’ve been through! Amy gave me the barest of details so you’ll have to fill me in on the return journey. I look forward to it, though I promise you, it’ll take half the time that old leaky sieve took to get you this far.”

  Faith was saved having to answer by the arrival of the captain of their vessel with whom Mr Eaves dealt very cordially, before Amy’s father pulled out a fist full of notes, which he proffered to the captain with the instruction that if he were called upon to supply further details, he’d be sure to remember who the real villain of the piece was, indicating pointedly the form of Lord Harkom who was being carried, groaning, along the gangplank.

  Faith stood forlornly at the railing, as she watched Crispin being carried with a great deal more tenderness than his lordship, out of the cabin and across the deck. Gripping his hand as he passed, she was relieved to feel the gentle pressure in return, and she released it to follow the group into one of the commodious cabins where, to her surprise, Miss Eaves appeared, saying, “Stay here with him, if you like. We’re about to set course for England, so make your appearance in the dining room whenever you’re ready. There’ll be a good dinner laid on, and I’m sure you could do with a fortifying brandy.” She ran the back of her hand across her forehead. “I certainly could after the events of tonight, though I’ll have to keep a clear head in order to write my story.” Then, to Faith’s surprise, she took her hand and shook it energetically. “I can’t thank you enough, Miss Montague, for providing me with the copy I need to keep my name front and centre. This time, though, I hope I can go some way towards making up for the last article.”

  Faith clenched her jaw. “I really don’t care what you print, Miss Eaves. All I care about is Crispin.” Despite starting so strong, her voice dissolved as she added, “I don’t think I could bear to lose him a second time.”

  “Nor will you!” came Ellis Eaves’s robust tones as he appeared behind his daughter like a well-dressed hulking giant. “Can’t you tell the difference between a mortal wound to the heart and when a feller’s only been winged? Sure, there’s lots of blood to make the women squeal and despair, but it’s hardly mortal. Lord Harkom, though. Well, it’s touch and go with him, I’d say.”

  “And Lady Vernon?” Faith swung around and searched for her amongst those milling about the deck of both boats. She’d not seen her since glimpsing her through the doorway after Crispin had hurtled in and torn her from Harkom’s suffocating onslaught.

  “Lady who? Lady Vernon? Ah yes, I remember the name, but can’t say I’ve
seen other ladies about the place other than you and Amy.”

  Chapter 34

  “A deep breath for courage…all right, Faith?” In the corridor outside his father’s study, Crispin took Faith’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Remember, nothing he says can make a jot of difference to the fact that you and I are going to be married.”

  He’d thought he’d suffer nerves in the lead-up to this historic confrontation, but for the first time, he felt a lightness of being he’d never experienced before.

  And when his father issued the command to enter in his usual stentorian tones, he did not quake or wish himself a hundred miles away. Instead, he sauntered in and said, “Father, I want you to meet my future wife, Miss Faith Montague. We’re getting married at St Margaret’s on Saturday next and hope you’ll do us the honour of attending with your blessing.”

  “Miss Montague…” Lord Maxwell drew out the pause. “I’m pleased to meet you.” He rose from his chair at his desk and indicated the cluster of seats by the fireplace. “You seem to enjoy the bright lights though I can see they might seek you out.”

  Crispin was surprised to see the flare of admiration in his father’s eye.

  “You and your compatriots made quite a sensation in bringing to justice one of London’s most surprising villains. Yes, involved in a grubby scheme we shall not mention for delicacy’s sake.”

  “Faith’s actions were heroic.”

  “I heard yours were too, Crispin. But I wonder…” He came out from behind his desk, and although he smiled at Faith, the furrow between his eyes didn’t augur well. “Have you truly considered the ramifications of this hasty marriage? Marrying between the stations, no matter how distinguished the behaviour of each party, is bound to lead to unhappiness.”

  “So you truly believe one’s status should be shackled by one’s origins? One’s birth?” Crispin watched his father carefully as he went on, “Lord Harkom received a letter from…let us say that she was not a lady but a woman who purported to be my real mother. Outrageous, of course! Unless you believe it invites investigation rather than condemnation?”