Jack stared at his feet, mumbling. "Didn't really mean . . . said sorry . . . won't happen 'gain."
"You're damned straight it won't happen again." Meg stepped back so that he could see Saity straight on. "Now, I want you to apologize to this girl."
Suddenly the laughter died down. The fiddle music ceased in mid bow-string. Everyone was staring at Meg, listening.
"I want you to apologize," she went on, "and then I want to see compensation!"
"I already done said—"
"I want you to say you're sorry in front of everyone," Meg raged. "And I want you to say you'll never do it again."
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Jack," one of the men hollered from near the window. "Hittin' a nice girl like Saity."
"Yea," called another and then another in agreement.
"What kinda man thinks he's got to hit his whore?" cried one of the women.
"No man at all," answered another.
Jack stared uneasily at the crowd that was suddenly turning hostile against him. Then he looked at Meg, then his gaze wandered to Saity.
"I'm waiting." Meg tapped her bare foot, her arms crossed over her chest.
Jack ground the ball of his foot on the floor, crushing a bit of bread crust. "I . . . I'm sorry, Saity, girl. I . . . I didn't mean to whack ye."
"Tell her you won't ever hit her again." Meg prodded him with a finger. "And mean it."
Tears were coming to the man's eyes now. He brushed them away. "I . . . I won't never do it again. I swear I won't. I was just mad at my wife . . ."
Saity lowered the wash rag, giving Jack a shy smile. "It's all right, Jack. Yer one of my best customers. But I don't want to be gettin' hurt every time you come around. It just ain't right you or any man hittin' a woman, and I ain't gonna stand for it anymore."
Meg looked back at Jack. "Excellent. You've both had your say, now empty your change purse."
He staggered a little. "What?"
"I said, empty your blessed change purse. Your pocket, wherever you keep your damned money!"
He blinked slowly. "You want my coin?"
"I don't want it. I want you to give it to Saity. Compensation."
"Comp—"
"Compensation," Meg repeated. "For your ill behavior." She tapped the rickety wooden table impatiently with her knuckles. "Now cough it up before I really lose my temper."
Jack stared at Meg, and for a moment she feared he wouldn't give up his coin. She had no idea what she would do then. It had been her anger that had gotten her this far. She had nothing to threaten the man with, except perhaps Kincaid's wrath.
But after a strained moment, Jack backed down and reached into his breeches to pull out a ragged leather purse. Slowly he opened the drawstring and turned the pouch upsidedown. Dirty coins clinked onto the table.
"Now give it to her," Meg instructed.
Jack only hesitated a second before he scooped the coins up one by one and made his peace offering to Saity.
For a long moment the public room of Mother Godwin's Home for Girls was quiet. Then, from the rear of the room came a clap. Then another. At first it was one loud, steady beat, but then others began to join, and before Meg knew what was happening, the entire room of whores and men were clapping in approval.
Meg wasn't certain why they were clapping, but fearing it was because of what she'd done, she started a hasty retreat across the congested floor. It wasn't until she reached the crimson curtains at the stairs that she spotted Kincaid.
He was clapping. Even when the others died down, he was still clapping . . . for her. Then she realized it was he who had started the clapping to begin with, which meant he'd seen what she did.
Flustered, she parted the red curtains and headed up the staircase.
"Meg!" Kincaid called after her. "Wait up, sweetheart."
She stopped on the staircase and waited, but she didn't turn to look at him. He had told her to stay in their chamber. Would he be angry that she'd ventured out? Would they have to come to words over the matter?
"That was a hell of a brave thing you did down there," he said before he reached her.
"You're not mad I left the room without you?"
"I'd rather you stayed where I think you'll be safe, but I'm not your turnkey, Meg. I don't want to keep you here by force."
"I just couldn't let it go. I tried to talk to Mother Godwin, but she wouldn't do anything." She rested her hand on the stairrail. "A man has no right to beat a woman. Not even a whore deserves to be beaten."
Catching up to her, he rested his hand on her shoulder, staring at her, demanding she look back. "You're right, Meg. No man should hit a woman, nor a child, nor an old man."
They exchanged a look that made Meg's throat constrict. Suddenly this wasn't about Saity. It was about Meg and Kincaid and how she felt about him.
How had this happened? How had she fallen so madly in love with this great brute of a man?
She linked her arm through his and they started up the staircase, just as a man and wife would start up the stairs to their own bed in their own home. "How was your evening? Profitable, I hope."
"Profitable. But I missed you."
"Then you should take me along—for good luck. Monti says I was born under a lucky star."
"Actually, I was thinking . . . I was thinking maybe it was time you went out with me." He watched her for her reaction.
Meg broke into a smile. She had felt so cooped up these last few days. From her window she watched the dirty, bustling streets of London and she wanted desperately to be a part of it, a part of the world she'd been sheltered from all these years. "Could I?" She tugged on his arm. "Could I go out with you? I wouldn't be any trouble. I swear I wouldn't, Kincaid."
"Oh, I wager you'll be a handful of trouble." He kissed the top of her head. "But I think I'll take you just the same."
At the top of the stairs Meg halted and threw her arms around his neck, jumping up to kiss him. "Oh, I can't wait. Where shall we go? What shall we see? Am I to be the gambler's lady?"
He lifted a dark eyebrow, ushering her down the hallway to their bedchamber. "We shall see about that." He opened their door. "But I brought something home for you tonight. Something you'll need if you're to venture out with me."
Meg ducked under Kincaid's arm and raced for the bed where she spotted a brightly wrapped package. With the excitement of a child on Christmas Eve, she ripped open the colored paper. Inside was a handsome green wool cloak and a matching green vizard. With a cry of delight, she swung the cloak over her shoulders to cover her nightclothes. Then she picked up the vizard, which served as a mask to shield a lady's identity, and lifted it to her face to hold it with its button between her teeth.
Kincaid slid the bolt on the door and came to take her hand, spinning her around him. "You're a beauty, my mysterious Meg. And this only adds to the mystery."
Then he pulled her hard against him and Meg dropped the mask. The cloak fell from her shoulders halfway to the bed. And when she dropped onto the feather tester with his weight upon her, all she could do was laugh.
"I love you, Meg," he whispered, lowering his head over hers.
Meg stared up into his dark eyes, threading her fingers through his magical hair. "And I you," she dared softly. "God above, save me from my sin, I love you, too."
Eleven
The Earl of Rutledge stood in the shadow of a headless Venetian statue, watching the crowd of ladies and gentlemen who gathered at the Mummford House next to the old Mulberry Gardens to the west of the palace. The cause for celebration was the Earl of Mummford's fiftieth birthday. The invitation had come only the day before, which meant Percival was a last-minute guest, but he'd accepted just the same.
In a week's time his name would appear on everyone at Court's guest list, from the lowliest country earl's to the Duke of Buckingham's. No one would dare slight him. He would be invited because they feared him, not because they actually wanted him to attend their suppers and parties. Percival would
like to have been invited just once because he was wanted. But since he and his hideous face were not desired, he would bully his way into their homes and drink their French wine, eat their stuffed partridge, and win their coin at the gaming tables.
The earl sipped champagne from his fluted glass, his gaze moving from one clump of gallants and their ladies to the next. He had forgotten how much he detested these affairs, perhaps because he had always been an outsider, even when he was on the inside.
The house was overrun with earls and dukes and knights, countesses, duchesses, and ladies. A thousand candles burned, illuminating the dance floor, the rooms of gambling tables, the lavish trays of food and drink. It was a most exquisite party, so exquisite that Rutledge considered throwing one himself just so that he could outdo Mummford.
Percival had taken care in dressing this evening, knowing the king would most likely make an appearance in the earl's honor. It was always a good idea to look prosperous to one's liege, especially if one was interested in procuring a portion of the royal coffers for one's latest business venture.
Rutledge had had a new periwig made for himself, blond, with thick sausage curls. His suit consisted of black velvet breeches, a gold brocade coat, and a long green satin vest that flashed when he walked. On his hip, he wore a plain gilded sword that had been in the Rutledge family for half a millennium.
A servant in black livery walked by and Rutledge gave him his empty glass and took a full one. As he lifted the crystal rim to his lips, he noticed a young woman staring at him from behind the folds of her painted fan. She stood perhaps twenty feet from him, with several young coxcombs. The host, the Earl of Mummford, a great fart of a man with hanging jowls, held her on his arm.
The earl was well used to stares. Everywhere he went in London—the Royal Theater, local ordinaries, the India House—people stared, but most had the good manners to turn away when they were caught looking. This little strumpet was different. She stared openly, flirting with her eyes. He wondered if she might be his lordship's daughter, as the earl had not seen the lady at Court. That or the earl's new mistress.
The earl smiled at her, feeling a stirring in his loins. She was a pretty piece with sleek, black hair and a petite frame. Not beautiful like his Margaret with her long limbs and heart-shaped face, but quite pretty. Quite perfect.
Rutledge nodded his head in acknowledgment, setting the young woman's fan to fluttering. As was proper, she lowered her lashes, but still she watched him from the corner of her slanted eyes as she pretended to listen to the air the earl exhaled.
Rutledge finished his champagne, and leaving the glass at the foot of the statue, he walked directly across the room to where the dark-haired beauty stood.
"Pardon the intrusion," the earl stated, laying on all the charm he knew he was capable of demonstrating. "But I must thank you, Lord Mummford, for the invitation tonight. A happy birthday to you." Rutledge bowed deeply, keeping one eye on the engaging piece of fluff.
The earl nodded, his jowls vibrating as he spoke. "Rutledge. Good to see you." He bowed, the cartilage of his knees popping as he attempted to bend at the waist.
The young men in the circle scattered, tripping over themselves, mumbling awkward farewells as they made a hasty retreat. Most young Court fops didn't have the stomach to speak with Percival.
Mummford shooed away the dandies with a brush of his hand. "Allow me to introduce you to my daughter, the Honorable Mary Mummford."
"Your servant, madame." Again Rutledge bowed, showing an excellent leg.
"Your servant, my lord." She fluttered her fan, as she dipped a curtsy, allowing him a peek at her rice-powdered cheeks and the moleskin patch at the corner of her pink lips. Her eyes were blue, as clear as the blue water of a spring pond.
The earl was instantly infatuated. He could barely take his eyes off her.
"And how do you find London, Rutledge, after your time in the country?"
Rutledge smiled his lopsided smile, dabbing his mouth with a lace handkerchief so that there was no spittle on his chin. "Quite out of control actually. Women strutting upon the stage. Ladies and gentlemen of the Court who make no attempt at fidelity. The state of the royal coffers in ruin."
The earl laughed, making a snorting sound. "I firmly agree." He raised his beefy shoulders in childlike excitement. "Stimulating, isn't it?"
Stimulating, is this daughter of yours, Percival thought. Just then the musicians struck up another lively tune.
The earl made a graceful gesture. "Would you mind, sir, if I were to dance this corranto with your daughter?"
The rotund man glanced at the child of his loins.
Mary Mummford fluttered her fan and for the first time Percival realized it was painted with pink nudes. So she was in London seeking a husband . . .
"Father?"
"Go. Go, daughter. But don't allow his lordship to monopolize your evening. Remember, you promised Acres's and Hanzel's sons dances, as well."
Mary dipped a curtsy to her father and then allowed Percival to lead her away by her gloved fingertips.
They joined other guests on the dance floor for the tune. They barely touched as they danced, often changing partners, but Percival couldn't keep his eyes off the young woman. She smelled heavenly of violet water and each time she passed him, he caught a whiff of the scent. Each time they stood face to face as dance partners, Mary looked directly into his face, almost as if she didn't see his deformity.
By the time the corranto ended, Percival had fallen in love.
"Would you care for a drink?" Percival asked, not wanting the young woman to slip away from him. For the first time he realized just how lonely he was with Philip and Margaret gone.
Mary smiled, fluttering her fan, her pert bosom heaving. "A drink would be excellent, your lordship. I fear I'm so overly warm, I'm near to fainting."
"Let me take you outside, then, where you can catch your breath." Percival took another glass of champagne from a servant and smoothly ushered her across the floor toward the balcony.
Out on the balcony, he led her to the far corner, away from the few others scattered there.
"Are you chilled?" Percival asked. "I can find a wrap for you."
"God's bowels, no." She laughed, taking the glass from his hand. Her voice was like a crystalline bell.
Heavens, how old could this girl be? Percival conjectured. Seventeen? God help him, his taste was running close to Higgins's!
A man who was rarely unsettled, Percival searched his head for something to say that would interest the child. He didn't want to let her get away. He didn't want to turn her over to the fop, Acres, her father had spoken of. "A fine party, your father puts on," he stumbled.
Mary leaned over the rail of the balcony to look down into the winter garden. Below water ran from a fountain. "Father?" She laughed her bell-laughter. "That lazy turd can kiss my lily-white ass." She laughed again.
Percival blinked. Surely such a young woman of innocent appearance could not be so vulgar. "You . . . you don't care for your father, Lady Mary?"
She turned to face Percival, leaning against the rail, lifting her foot beneath her gown to steady herself in a most unladylike pose. "That pimple-pocked hypocrite? He kept me locked up in the country for years and now suddenly he's parading me before the Court like a Fleet Street whore, looking for the highest bidder." She drained her glass and tossed it over her head.
Percival heard the glass shatter on the rocky pool below. Surely the young Mary didn't realize the cost of such a glass. He immediately despised her lack of respect for her father and her father's property. But her lovely face, even drawn down in a frown, was irresistible. "Your father has brought you to Court to find a husband?"
She held out her hand, swinging her fan on her wrist. "He has. My mother passed years ago attempting to give birth to another Mummford brat. I was under the tutelage of my aunt until last year when a fishbone lodged in her throat and she expired at the dining table."
"I'm sorry
for your loss."
She looked at him, her clear blue eyes illuminated by the rushlights on the ground below. "Don't be. She was a corpulent, prune-faced prig. I hated her."
A smile played on the healthy side of Percival's mouth.
She smiled back. "I amuse you, my lord?"
"You certainly have strong opinions."
"And why shouldn't I? I know what I like and what I don't." She reached out and brushed her hand down the center of his chest, over the green silk vest. "And I like you."
Percival held his breath, hoping she wouldn't take her hand away too quickly. Of course her gesture had been entirely indecorous. The earl could call him to the dueling field for dallying with his daughter thusly. But Percival couldn't help himself. He covered her hand with his. It was tiny, smooth, and cool. "And why do you like me, Mary?"
"Because, Percival, when you see someone you are attracted to, you go after her. The minute you saw me, you marched right across the room, up to my father practically demanding an introduction." She fluttered her dark lashes drolly. "Half the dandy fops in London are still trying to get up the nerve to ask to be introduced to me."
"And you don't find my . . . deformity repulsive?"
She looked at his face, studying the hole in his lip carefully. Percival held his breath until she spoke again.
"It's certainly ugly, but not repulsive," she finally said, and Percival was able to exhale. "I once had a kitten with five legs. I kept him under my bed and charged the cottars children a price to see him."
Percival was taken aback at her comparison of him to a freak cat. The girl was ill-mannered, discourteous to her elders, and most likely a slut. But still he was fascinated with her, perhaps only because she would look him in the face.
"I highly doubt your father would allow me to call upon you," Percival offered boldly. "I'm much too old to be a suitable escort."
The Highwayman and The Lady (Hidden Identity) Page 12
