Sattler, Veronica

by The Bargain

  The boy's eyes met those of his grandfather with a look of understanding that went far beyond his years. Whether he did indeed at that moment comprehend the entirety of what was in store for him, he would many times ponder it in the years to come. But what he did understand was that this gruff, severe old man had always loved him—deeply and without reserve.

  Brett reached deep within himself for the strength he knew he would need and resolved to put grief aside. His beloved yet weak father was gone; weeping would not bring him back. The mother he had yearned for was equally lost and apparently not worth seeking out, for he would no longer dare to question his grandfather's words about her; to do so would risk losing him as well—the last person on earth who truly cared about him.

  And so, with a resolute forward thrust of his chin and a shake of his chestnut curls, he answered the duke. "Yes, Grandfather... I understand, and I accept."

  CHAPTER ONE

  London, April 26, 1814

  Wiping the perspiration from her brow with her forearm, Ashleigh Sinclair bent again to her task. Sweeping out the cinders from the hearth in the drawing room was one of her earliest chores—one that had to be done at dawn, even before she'd be allowed to have breakfast; Madame detested the lingering scent of a dead fire, one that could soon permeate the room in this kind of damp weather. But the task always made her feel so dirty! Straightening for a moment over her char broom, Ashleigh moved her slim, delicate hand unthinkingly to the small of her back before she whisked it away at the last moment, thankful she'd remembered in time to avoid soiling her plain gray servant's dress, patched though it was. Then, heaving a brief sigh, she reached for the dustpan and prepared to scoop the last of the cinders and ashes into the dustbin at her feet.

  Suddenly she heard a shuffling sound out in the hallway and whirled around to see what it might be. She knew it was rare to encounter any of Madame's girls about at this hour, but the nastiest among them, Monica, occasionally prowled about in the early morning, usually in search of a powder for one of her fearsome headaches, especially if she'd been drinking too much wine with one of her "gentlemen" the night before.

  But then the appearance of a great shaggy head in the doorway prompted Ashleigh's sigh of relief as she recognized Finn, "the huge wolf dog of Ireland," as Megan termed him, and whom Ashleigh loved perhaps better than any creature on earth.

  "Finn! What are you doing out here?" she gently chided as the great beast made his way toward her with a glad wagging of his long, slightly curved tail. "Don't you know they'll have both our hides if they catch you?"

  But as Ashleigh spoke to the dog, her deep sapphire-blue eyes shone with delight, giving the lie to her scolding, and she accepted a loving lick of the dog's tongue on her cheek. Dropping her broom on the hearth, she encircled the big beast's neck with a pair of slender arms and gave him a fond hug. The embrace required little bending on her part, owing not only to Finn's majestic size but to Ashleigh's own diminutive stature. She was nearly nineteen years of age and had long ago given up hope of adding any height to her present five feet and almost two inches.

  Now, as she fondly scratched the shaggy gray head of the dog she had rescued from the cruelties of a gang of street toughs almost a year ago, Ashleigh smiled as she considered how Finn had grown since that rainy night. Her thoughts flew back to the scene she'd encountered in the alleyway behind Madame's town house, where she'd surreptitiously set out a pan of milk for some of the stray, starveling neighborhood cats.

  A series of half-muffled guffaws and then a burst of malicious laughter had drawn her attention to the far end of the alley where she spotted four shabbily clothed youths bent over a dark form on the ground, busily attending to it in some manner. As it had been dark in the alley, with only the dim light of some upper windows from an adjacent building affording any visibility, she had cautiously stepped closer to try to see what was afoot. She hadn't liked the nasty sound of that laughter!

  Then she had spied a fifth youth, as ill-kempt and ragged as the rest, endeavoring to loop a length of rope over the support for a rainspout several feet above his head. She had just seen him accomplish this end when her eyes had caught sight of a similar rope hanging from the side of the opposite building that abutted the alleyway. And, there, dangling from the end of it, its poor neck broken, hung one of the stray cats she'd intended the pan of milk for!

  Fighting the raw bile that rose in her throat at the ghastly sight, Ashleigh had forced herself to take a few more tentative steps forward when she heard the boy with the rope snigger and say to the others, "Truss 'im up neatly, blokes. 'E'll swing a might better'n 'at scruffy cat!" It was then that she had seen what the dark form lying on the ground was. As the four accomplices stepped away from it, apparently satisfied they'd accomplished their task, she had made out the shape of a bony, wet and miserably bedraggled pup, its feet and muzzle securely bound with additional pieces of rope. It lay in a puddle of water at their feet, abject in its misery, helplessly writhing against its bonds. Then, as she'd heard a pathetic, muffled whimper from its throat, Ashleigh had known what she must do.

  Throwing caution to the wind, she reached into the deep pocket of her serving apron where she'd stashed the kitchen knife she'd been using prior to escaping to the alleyway with her gift of milk. Thrusting it out before her as a weapon, just as Megan had taught her, she advanced upon the young hangmen with a dangerous gleam in her blue eyes. "The first one to lay a hand on that pup is dead!" she'd heard herself say. Five pairs of surprised eyes had suddenly focused on her as she advanced in their direction with all the fury of an avenging angel.

  Spying the glint of metal in her hand and the professional manner in which she wielded the knife, slowly arcing it before her in a no-nonsense fashion, three of the youths had begun to back away from the object of their cruelty, but a fourth had apparently decided to stand his ground, while the one with the rope gave her a menacing sneer. "Blimey, an' wot 'ave we 'ere? It's a meddlin' kitchen wench fancies 'erself a reg'lar member o' the King's Guard, she does!" Suddenly he'd reached forward and given a shove to the shoulder of the youth who remained near the pup, a mean-faced beggar of about twelve or thirteen, with dirty red hair. "Take care of 'er, Jake!"

  A sinister smile had crossed the redhead's face, and he'd taken a bold stride in Ashleigh's direction. Assessing the situation in a split second, Ashleigh had become aware of several things at once. The three who seemed to be less bold, had retreated to a spot a good dozen feet from the others and had seemed content to wait to see what might happen; the one with the rope had bent over the dog and begun fashioning a noose about its neck; and the one named Jake was advancing toward her with a confident swagger. Remembering Megan's admonitions to try to remain on the offensive, even in self-defense, and realizing she had not a moment to waste, Ashleigh had concentrated on the plight of the poor animal lying in the puddle nearby, using the image as a rallying point to summon all her fury and its attendant courage. Suddenly she'd felt an enormous surge of strength flow through her slender form, and with it, the conviction that she was invincible. With a feline snarl, she'd lunged at the redhead, her knife a blur of movement in the shadows. The small weapon made contact with the youth's hand, which had been extended, apparently with the intent of disarming her, and Ashleigh had seen a look of surprise cross his features before he'd snatched his bleeding appendage toward his chest and given forth with a howl of pain.

  But Ashleigh hadn't stopped at that. Capitalizing on her advantage, she'd wielded her blade a second time, bringing it perilously close to Jake's face. It was enough for the boy; pivoting on his heel, he had stumbled and then begun to run toward the cronies who had backed away, muttering a series of choice expletives as he ran.

  Then Ashleigh had whirled to face the youth with the rope. Seeing he still held onto the noose, which was now around the unfortunate dog's neck, she had lunged forward with the idea of severing the rope before it could do its dirty work. But the young tough, believing she meant to slice t
he hands that held it, had dropped the rope instantly, a disbelieving look on his face. "Bloody 'ell!" he'd exclaimed as he'd felt the blade stirring the air when it passed close to his hand. Then, leaping away from both dog and furious female with a fearful look, he'd turned toward his fellows and bolted, shouting, "Run for it, blokes! She's a bloodthirsty bitch, she is, an' balmy as Bedlam, too!"

  But his comrades were already out of sight by then, and in seconds, Ashleigh had seen the last of him as well. She saw to the poor creature on the ground, untying its bonds, running her fingers carefully over its emaciated frame to ascertain whether it had suffered further harm and, finding none, gently scooped it up into her arms, all the while crooning to the pup in soothing tones to assure it of her kind intentions.

  Later, when she'd carried him inside to be warmed and fed by the fire, Dorcas, the cook, had admonished her, saying, "Ye foolish gel, did ye not consider yer own welfare? An injured 'r frightened beast could've turned on ye out o' sheer terror o' bein' hurt further. 'Tis a wonder the poor thing did ye no harm!"

  But Ashleigh had merely smiled, remembering Finn's intelligent, soulful eyes on her as she'd released his bonds and carried him inside, wrapped in her apron. If gratitude and instantaneous love had a name, it would be Finn, from the moment his eyes had met hers out there in that alley.

  Now, as all these things ran through her head, she gazed lovingly at her canine friend while giving the shaggy head a few strokes. The dog hardly resembled the starved and frightened pup she'd rescued last spring. Well fed from all the scraps that found their way through Dorcas's kitchen, and tall—over thirty inches at the shoulder—he had a clean, healthy coat and an air of robust power about him, always carrying himself like some proud king of Ireland. In fact, Megan had suggested she name him Cormac, after a particular favorite of hers from history, an Irish king from the fourth century, but when Megan had told Ashleigh some of the tales of early Celtic literature in which Cormac figured, it was always the parts about Cormac's legendary master of hounds, Finn, that had captured her imagination.

  Suddenly a noise at the doorway drew Ashleigh's attention back to the present. She looked up to see Monica standing there in her night rail, an angry, accusing expression on her face. At the same moment she felt the hackles rise on Finn's coat, a low, warning growl rumbling from his throat.

  "So, you've brought that disgusting creature into the house again!" Monica hissed. "You wretched, ungrateful child! How dare you disobey Madame's orders!"

  Ashleigh straightened, clutching her fingers about Finn's collar as she watched the tall blonde approach. "I—I didn't disobey, Monica," she attempted. "Finn just followed—"

  "Shut up, you little beggar!" the blond woman snapped. Then, as if the sound of her own voice were too much to bear, she stopped and brought both hands to her temples. "Oh, now look what you've gone and done! Oh, my head!"

  Seizing her opportunity, Ashleigh released her hold on Finn's collar and silently signaled him back to the kitchen. The dog looked for a split second as if he were about to resist, but then quickly obeyed his mistress, albeit not without a low, parting growl for Monica's benefit.

  "Now, Monica," said Ashleigh quickly, "why don't you let me fetch you something for that headache? Dorcas was just telling me she received a packet of some new type of powder that works wonders in no time at all—got it from that seaman friend of hers when he came calling last week." She reached out and placed a comforting hand on Monica's arm, steering her out of the chamber.

  "Hmm, yes, that does sound promising," said the tall woman, much soothed by the prospect of being rid of the hammering in her head. "Perhaps I shall try—"

  Just then, Monica chanced to look down at Ashleigh as they walked toward the door, and she suddenly spied the sooty imprint of the younger woman's hand on the snowy white cambric sleeve of her best night rail. "Oh! Look what you've done to my new— Oh, you clumsy bitch!" And with an angry shriek, she raised her arm and struck Ashleigh smartly across the face.

  Ashleigh reeled from the unexpected blow, although later she was to tell herself that she had been careless not to anticipate something of the sort from the blonde. Monica's behavior, especially when she had one of her headaches, was at best unpredictable, but beyond this, Madame's most popular whore, queen bee of the fashionable stable on St. James's, had always been less than kindly toward Ashleigh. Recently, she had been positively hostile, although Ashleigh was at a loss to figure out why. Even now, as she felt the sting of tears assault her eyes and bit her lip to keep from crying, she asked herself what she had ever done to earn the beautiful courtesan's enmity. What she could not know was that, like all persons who measure their entire personal worth by their looks, Monica felt deeply threatened by those around her who might provide competition in that arena, and she regarded Ashleigh as just such a threat.

  It hadn't mattered that, at the time they'd met, some three-and-a-half years ago, Ashleigh had been a stick-thin, underdeveloped fifteen-year-old kitchen menial who worked solely below stairs to earn her keep. Even then, the fragile, almost ethereal beauty of the youngster's heart-shaped face had been apparent. With its perfect, exquisitely proportioned features, porcelain-smooth creamy complexion (the tiny mole high on her right cheek in no way marring it), and a pair of huge sapphire-blue eyes, clear and wide set, framed by the thickest of long, silky jet lashes that matched a natural abundance of shiny black hair, it was a face that caused anyone to look twice, and then again, in total wonder at its perfection.

  And now, with the advent of womanhood providing a softly curving, blossoming body, evident even beneath the dowdy servant's clothes the girl wore, she was becoming a more formidable threat every day in the blond woman's eyes. Moreover, Madame had not allowed these changes in Ashleigh's appearance to escape her watchful eye. Monica had overheard her commenting on the girl's growing potential to Drake, her sometime butler, sometime procurer, just the other day. And it did not signify that Dorcas, when she had been informed by Drake of Madame's interest, had hotly defended her young charge's right to remain an innocent and angrily sent the man from her kitchen with a fiercely wielded rolling pin. Monica knew Madame well; when she set her sights on the acquisition of something that would increase her profits, nothing could stand in her way. It was only a matter of time, she knew, before Ashleigh Sinclair would find herself working above stairs at the brothel—on her back!

  Ashleigh entered the kitchen a couple of steps ahead of Monica. She was grateful to find no sign of Finn there, and seeing Dorcas busily involved with extracting something from the bake oven that was built into the side of the huge cooking hearth, she assumed the cook had sent him outside. Grateful that the old woman's face was averted, Ashleigh did her best to arrange a bland expression on her features, for it would not do to let Dorcas know she was upset over Monica's treatment of her. Dorcas, old dear that she was, would once again storm upstairs to Madame's chambers and complain in outraged fashion over the incident (as only Dorcas might—Madame's almost obsessive desire for well-prepared food and her inordinate pride in the skills of her cook of some twenty years made her forgive Dorcas anything, so long as it did not interfere with the delights that consistently graced Madame's table). But Ashleigh knew that once Dorcas had spoken to Madame, and Madame had reprimanded Monica (though never in words harsh enough to satisfy Dorcas), Monica would then proceed to do everything in her power to make life miserable for Ashleigh in the ensuing days and weeks. Like the time she'd "accidentally" bumped into Ashleigh on the stairs, sending her and the full chamber pot she was carrying careening backward in an unbelievable melange of filth and confusion—not to mention a wrenched ankle that had Ashleigh hobbling about for weeks afterward. Or the time she'd forced Ashleigh to come upstairs to her chamber and help her out of her gown while Monica's "gentleman" of the evening stood by and watched.... No, it would not help matters at all to let Dorcas know anything of what had transpired a few moments ago.

  "I believe we put the new powder over here, Moni
ca," Ashleigh said as she walked toward a narrow, step-back cupboard displaying a number of various-sized apothecary jars.

  "Ashleigh, lass, I've been wonderin' where ye've been!" exclaimed the cook as she turned around with a pan of steaming muffins in her hand. "The great beastie wanted out, so I—Oh, hello, Monica." Dorcas's usually cheery voice had suddenly lost some of its exuberance. "Tis a mite early t'be seein' ye about. Another headache, I suppose," added Dorcas, a sly look on her normally open, cherubic features.

  But then the stout little cook drew herself up short, and a glowering scowl darkened her face as her eyes fell on the bright-red imprint of a hand on Ashleigh's left cheek. Her sharp blue eyes darted quickly over to Monica and then back to Ashleigh, and the scowl deepened. Setting the muffin pan down on a nearby worktable with a sharp thunk, Dorcas set both hands on her ample hips, narrowed her eyes and spoke menacingly to the tall blonde. "So... ye've been after the wee one again!"

  Monica's first reaction to the restrained fury in the old woman's voice was surprise. "How did—"

  "Are ye stupid as well as vicious?" questioned the cook between clenched jaws. "'Tis there upon the child's cheek—the mark o' yer cruel hand fer all the world t'see!" Dorcas stepped toward Ashleigh and put a comforting arm about the young woman's shoulders. "There, there, now, lass. Ye'll be all right now, with Dorcas t' take care o' things. Just come over here t' the table and have a breakfast muffin and a cup o' tea whilst I fix a poultice fer that poor, wee face," she said soothingly.

  Ashleigh was torn between allowing herself to be comforted and staving off any forthcoming abuse from Monica, who was standing near the cupboard glaring at her with ill-concealed hatred. "It—it's all right, Dorcas, really, it is. I—I merely slipped near the hearth and—my head struck the side of the mantel. Clumsy of me, I'll admit, but no real harm done. Monica here was just coming by and was about to help me fetch a headache powder. I'm afraid my head does ache a bit from—from the fall, you know."