Marry in Secret

by Anne Gracie

  His words and the bitterness with which he spoke them hit an unexpected chord in Thomas. Doing what I’d been trained for from birth.

  “I asked my father once for leave to go and travel—to see something of the world—and you know what he said? He laughed, and told me the day I walked off the estate was the day I left it forever, that I’d have to find work for myself. He told me he wouldn’t give me a reference. Or a penny extra. Or take me back. That if I ever left, I’d be on my own—forever.”

  And he was Ambrose’s father. Thomas was shocked. He’d never much thought about the relationship between Uncle Walter and his illegitimate son. He’d always treated Thomas with careless kindness—of course he’d favored Gerald in all things, but that was natural because Gerald was the heir. But Thomas had assumed Uncle Walter had treated Ambrose much the same as he’d treated Thomas. Apparently not.

  “All those letters you used to send from strange and exciting foreign places. I’d never even been to London until last month.”

  “Last month?” Thomas narrowed his eyes.

  Ambrose sighed. “Yes, I fired that shot at you in the park. I’m sorry. Hitting Rose was an accident. It frightened me.”

  It frightened him? The sympathetic feelings Ambrose’s explanations had aroused in him drained away.

  “I suppose it was you who sent us poisoned marzipan.”

  “Yes, though I gather it didn’t work.” He sounded irritated, rather than regretful.

  “It worked all right,” Thomas said grimly, remembering the sight of young Peter sprawled on the cobblestones in his own vomit. “It almost killed a young worker in our house.” And it could so easily have been him or Rose.

  “But you didn’t eat any!” It sounded like an accusation.

  “No, I don’t like marzipan.”

  “You used to love it. I remember you scoffing it down as a boy.” He sounded aggrieved.

  Thomas’s voice was hard. “You’re missing the point, Ambrose. What if my wife had eaten it?”

  “Oh, I would have been very sorry about that,” Ambrose assured him. “She’s a lovely girl, Rose. No, no, it was you I intended it for.”

  Thomas stared at him incredulously. Did the man not care that he’d endangered others? Apparently not. “But why try to kill me in the first place? I never did you any harm in my life.”

  “Thomas, don’t you understand? It wasn’t about you, it was about me—it’s always been about me.”

  He gestured with the pistol. “I was the eldest son, and I got nothing. Nothing. The old man forced my mother—did you know that? Forced. It wasn’t her choice to have a babe out of wedlock—she was a decent girl, a virgin before your uncle had his way with her—but she had to live with the shame of it every day of her life.

  “And was he ashamed of what he’d done? Not a bit—he thought himself a devil of a fine fellow, siring two strong sons six months apart. And oh, didn’t he pride himself on his generosity in taking me in, his base-born brat, and raising me to be useful in the service of the family? Yes, useful. I did everything. And my reward? Oh, I got a house to live in, and was fed and clothed and shod—but none of it was mine. Payment?” He snorted. “I was paid a pittance, because what did I need money for? Everything I needed was provided—as long as I stayed in my place, doing my job, like a good little well-trained bastard.”

  His story struck a chord deep in Thomas. He’d known some parts of it as a child, and had accepted it then with a child’s understanding. Now, as an adult, a man who’d suffered his own injustices, he gained a new perspective on Ambrose’s situation. Some of his anger began to drain away.

  “I had no idea . . .”

  Ambrose’s voice was bitter. “No, once you grew up, you never thought of me as a man, did you, with my own dreams and desires. I was just a boy you used to know, your uncle’s steward. And then Cornelius’s. And then I was yours—handed down like a piece of property.”

  Thomas swallowed. It was true. A thought occurred to him. “Did you kill my uncle? And Gerald?”

  “No, Gerald really did die of cholera in Italy. And the earl broke his neck of his own accord—though admittedly he’d been drinking and was more reckless than usual. It was losing Gerald, and then you, that finally got to him. He kept saying, over and over, that he’d lost everyone, his whole family. As if I weren’t standing right there in front of him, his own flesh and blood.”

  He considered that for a moment, his pistol drooping, forgotten. “If I’d known back then that you were still alive, none of this would have happened. You were always more reasonable—you would have listened, I’m sure. But when Cornelius inherited I realized I would be trapped forever. You know, I asked him to increase my pay and he refused.”

  “Cornelius is a fool.”

  “Yes, he is a fool and lazy with it, and that’s when I realized that he was never going to check the books, never going to take an active part in managing the estate.”

  “And so you started helping yourself.”

  “Yes, at first it was just helping myself to your allowance—I never stopped it. Cornelius didn’t know about it. It was so easy.”

  “You forged my signature.”

  Ambrose shrugged. “You know I was always good at drawing—better than Gerald if you want to know the truth. And I had some of your old letters and a couple of old documents. It was easy to copy your signature.”

  “You wrote those letters refusing my ransom, too.”

  Ambrose nodded. “That was easy. The earl often got me to sign unimportant documents on his behalf. And I had some of Gerald’s old letters—not that anyone on the Barbary Coast would know whether a signature was genuine or not. But by then I had the house seal. For some reason foreigners set great store in an impressive seal.”

  He seemed quite proud of his cleverness, Thomas thought savagely. Had he forgotten who he was talking to? What he was boasting about? The “cleverness” by which he’d sentenced Thomas to a life of slavery.

  Thomas’s fists knotted. He shoved them into his pockets. Much as he itched to thrash the smugness off his cousin’s face, this was not the time to lose his temper.

  “When I realized what a lazy sod Cornelius was, I came up with my plan—to amass enough money to enable me to buy land and make a start elsewhere. And by the time that letter arrived, saying you were alive and demanding ransom, I was too deep in to stop. I’d had a taste of freedom, and started to amass enough money to start a new life.”

  Ambrose must have seen something in his expression. “I’m sorry, Thomas, but I was up to my neck in embezzlement by then, and I knew if I brought you home, you’d discover it pretty quickly. As I expect you did earlier today, if you looked at the books. I wasn’t happy about leaving you there, I assure you.” He shrugged. “But it was you or me.”

  Thomas gritted his teeth. “So you left me to be a slave in a foreign country for the rest of my life.”

  Ambrose gestured indifferently. “I never really thought about it. I wasn’t thinking about you, I was thinking about me. If you came back I’d be ruined.”

  His lack of concern for what he’d done, the ease with which he’d sacrificed his cousin, his boyhood companion, stunned Thomas. Had he ever really known this man?

  “I might have understood, might have given you a decent portion.”

  “I wasn’t prepared to risk it. Now I suppose you’re going to fight me, have me hauled off to prison, or transported. Well, I warn you, I won’t go easy.” He lifted the pistol and trained it on Thomas.

  There was a long silence, broken only by the distant sounds of men shouting and talking as they loaded cargo.

  It would not end like this, Thomas decided. He’d lost all desire to kill Ambrose, but he wasn’t going to forgive him either. And he wasn’t going to let him get away with his ill-gotten gains, for whom so many innocent people had suffered.

 
He eyed Ambrose and his gleaming pistol. When had Ambrose ever stood up for himself except in some sneaky, backhanded manner?

  Thomas began to walk toward him.

  Ambrose backed away, his pistol wavering. “No closer, or I’ll shoot. I will, Thomas. I will!”

  “No, you won’t.” Thomas kept walking. “You’re not going to shoot me, Ambrose, not face-to-face and in cold blood. That’s not the way you operate. And we might be relatively unobserved at the moment, but the instant that gun goes off this place will be swarming with people. You know you’d never get away with it. You’d hang for certain then.”

  In three swift steps he reached Ambrose, grabbed the pistol, wrenched it from his grip and tossed it into the sea with a splash.

  “Don’t hurt me,” Ambrose whimpered, and cringed away from him.

  Thomas’s mouth twisted in disgust. “I’m not going to fight you, Ambrose. Don’t get me wrong, I’d like to strangle you, and if you’d managed to hurt Rose, I would kill you now. But she’s unhurt, and I’m free, and so, against my better judgment, I’m going to let you go.”

  Ambrose frowned and glanced around uneasily. “What’s the catch?”

  “No catch. I owe you‚ the family owes you an apology at least for the way you—and your mother—were treated.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I can’t speak for what happened before you were born, but I did think of you as a brother—or at least a cousin, growing up. You never gave my situation in Mogador a thought, but I realize now that I never gave your situation much consideration either. You should have been asked what you wanted to do. You should have been given choices, as Gerald and I were. You should have been given a handsome wage for all the work you’ve done on behalf of the estate. And because you were my uncle’s son.”

  Ambrose narrowed his eyes. “You do understand that I’ve embezzled a substantial amount.”

  Thomas shrugged. “I don’t know the precise amount, but the estate can bear it.”

  “I tried to kill you.”

  “You didn’t succeed. But you almost killed my wife, and that I won’t forgive. So get on that ship, do what you will, live the life you’ve always dreamed of living, but don’t ever come back. If you do, I’ll have you charged with attempted murder.”

  “You won’t make it stick. There’s no evidence it was me.” He was right, but his certainty was infuriating.

  “Then I’ll kill you myself. I warn you now, I’m this close to killing you anyway for what you’ve put me and my wife through.” He held up his thumb and finger.

  Thomas still itched to give Ambrose the hiding of his life, to beat him to a pulp, but he knew once he started he might not be able to stop. And killing Ambrose wouldn’t change the past, wouldn’t take away the suffering he’d caused.

  But killing him would most definitely ruin Thomas’s future. He wasn’t about to lose everything he’d gained in the last few months for the sake of some petty revenge.

  Besides, he’d learned something tonight. They said to understand was to forgive. Thomas wasn’t ready to forgive, not by a long shot, but . . .

  “You’re letting me leave? I don’t believe it.” Ambrose stepped back, scanning the surroundings suspiciously, as if expecting the shadows to disgorge a dozen armed men.

  Thomas said, “You think I don’t understand what you’ve just told me, about being trained from birth to be useful to the family? About being prevented from living the life you chose? About having no choice? I do. I understand it more than you can imagine. Now don’t test my patience any longer. Leave this country and never come back. If you do, there will be a warrant waiting for you.”

  Ambrose hesitated and glanced down at the small trunk at Thomas’s feet. “I’ll just take my trunk, then.”

  Thomas bent and picked it up. “No, that stays here.” The weight of it confirmed his suspicion that it contained the ill-gotten gains, the money that Ambrose had tried to kill him for, and had almost killed Rose and a young boy for. He would let Ambrose escape with his life, but he was damned if he’d let him take the money as well.

  Ambrose hesitated, as if considering whether to fight Thomas for it.

  Thomas hefted the trunk onto one shoulder. “You exchanged my life for this money,” he told his cousin. “Now I give you yours.” He turned his back on his cousin and walked away.

  Something moved in the shadows. Thomas tensed.

  * * *

  * * *

  Rose stepped into the light. “You’re letting him go? Just like that?”

  Thomas blinked in surprise. “Rose? How did you get here?” He glanced around as if in search of an answer.

  “I drove,” she said impatiently. “Don’t change the subject, Thomas. You’re letting Ambrose go, after all he’s done?” She’d overheard the last part of the conversation between Thomas and his cousin and was hopping mad. After all Ambrose had done—he’d tried to kill Thomas three times! And that after sentencing him to a lifetime as a slave! She wanted him punished, boiled in oil, strung from the rooftops. At the very least beaten to a pulp.

  But she understood perfectly well why Thomas wouldn’t do it. She knew all about his fight with Cal and how it had ended. Ned had told Lily, who’d told Rose. Still, he could have him arrested.

  “Why did you come after me?”

  “I thought you were going to kill him. Which I would have understood perfectly—except that then we’d have to flee the country.” She shook her head. “Don’t look so surprised, my love—I couldn’t let you hang for murder. But I don’t understand, Thomas, why are you letting Ambrose go? He ought to rot in prison at the very least.”

  There was a short silence. “It’s complicated,” he said at last.

  “It’s not complicated to me.”

  He shook his head. “Let it go, Rose. I have my reasons.”

  As far as Rose was concerned, it was a wholly inadequate answer. She gazed up at him. His face was in partial shadow, dimly illuminated by distant lanterns farther along the wharf, but there was a world of pain in his eyes. The knowledge that the last person in his family left alive, the one person he’d always trusted and loved, had plotted and schemed so cold-bloodedly against him—for money!

  A lump formed in her throat. Oh, Thomas. So much suffering caused by that evil little worm, and Thomas was prepared to forgive him.

  I warn you now, I’m this close to killing you anyway for what you’ve put me and my wife through.

  She understood why he hadn’t killed Ambrose, and was grateful for it. But to let him walk away, untouched? Impoverished but unharmed, in what was almost forgiveness?

  Because that was Thomas, her noble, wonderful Thomas. She ached for all the pain he’d suffered and taken inside himself. She loved him and trusted him, and if he’d decided to let Ambrose go, she would respect his decision.

  But Rose was not nearly so noble. Nor so forgiving.

  Ambrose still stood at the edge of the wharf, watching them. He was going to get on a ship and sail away. “I’ll just have a quick word with him,” she said, and before Thomas knew what she was about, she ran up to Ambrose. “Cousin Ambrose, I understand you’re leaving the country? So suddenly?”

  His mouth gaped open in surprise. He darted a suspicious look behind her, but Rose hurried on in case Thomas was behind her and would try to stop her. “I just wanted to bid you good-bye, and give you a little something to remember me by.” And with that she smacked him as hard as she could across the face. She followed it with a good hard kick to his shins. How providential that she’d worn her sturdiest boots.

  He hopped around, swearing. “What the devil—?” Rose smacked him again. Harder. And then kicked the leg he was hopping on.

  “Good-bye and good riddance,” she said, and shoved him as hard as she could off the edge of the wharf. There was a loud yell and a large splash.


  Rose turned and found Thomas behind her. “Your cousin fell in the water,” she said innocently.

  “So I see.”

  They peered over the edge of the wharf. In the dark they couldn’t see much but they heard a lot of swearing and splashing.

  “Can he swim?” Rose asked.

  “Unfortunately, yes—we all learned together as boys. But that water is really filthy. It contains all the effluent of the port and surrounds.”

  “Oh, so he’ll be filthy, too? What a shame. He’s quite the dandy, your cousin Ambrose.” She looked at the portmanteau still standing on the wharf. “I suppose he’ll need his other clothes then.” And she tossed it in after Ambrose. It must have hit him, because as well as a splash she heard a yowl of pain or outrage, Rose wasn’t sure which. Nor did she care. She turned away from the water and linked her arm with Thomas’s. “Now, shall we go home?”

  “So, you’d flee the country with me, would you?” he asked as they walked back. He sounded surprised. “If I’d killed him, I mean?”

  “Of course I would, Thomas. How could you think otherwise?”

  After a moment he said, “But you’d miss your family, terribly.”

  “I know. I would hate not seeing them.” She hugged his arm tightly. “But you’re my family too, Thomas. My husband, who I love very much. And whither thou goest . . . Always.”

  They walked on in silence. A small part of Rose ached, because again he hadn’t said it. She shouldn’t need him to speak the words, she told herself. Actions spoke louder than words, and his actions ought to be enough for her.

  They were enough for her. Thomas was protective, supportive, and affectionate. And he made love to her like a dream. He was a wonderful husband. It was foolish to cry for the moon as well.

  They reached the place where they’d left the horses and found Thomas’s urchin horse-guardian arguing fiercely with Kirk, the Ashendon groom.

  “This big Scotch bugger was tryin’ to pinch your horses,” the boy said as soon as Thomas got near enough. “But I stopped him.”