Regency Romp 03 - The Alabaster Hip

by Maggie Fenton

  Laura’s face contorted with a mixture of guilt and defiance when she saw him standing in the doorway. Something of his grief must have shown in his expression, however, for the defiance in her gaze quickly dropped away, replaced immediately by tears.

  He stumbled like a drunkard to the divan and swept her up in his arms. For the first time in days—months, really—Laura clung to him without reservation.

  “You frightened me to death,” he murmured into her hair, inhaling the soft lilac scent of her. “I thought something had happened to you.”

  “I’m sorry, Papa,” she said, sobbing into his cravat. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

  He realized for the first time that his cheeks and throat were wet, his eyes clouded over with tears. He must have been crying for some time without even knowing it. “Of course I’m crying,” he said, rocking her back and forth. “I love you so much, and I couldn’t find you anywhere.”

  “But I was just here with Miss Jones.”

  “I see that now,” he whispered, and he smiled at Minerva in silent gratitude, though he could manage no more for his governess at the moment. She seemed to realize this, for she just nodded at him in solemn concern and didn’t even try to speak.

  He held Laura while she cried—while both of them cried, to be honest—and he wasn’t certain how much time had passed when he finally came back to the world. At some point, Minerva and the others left the room and closed the door behind them to give them their privacy, for which he was grateful. He couldn’t stomach any other company, not while he had so much to mend with Laura.

  He waited a few more minutes until Laura’s sobbing breaths had evened out, her small body finally relaxing against his own, before he began what he was sure was going to be a painful conversation.

  “Why did you run away, Laura?”

  “I told you, I wanted to see Miss Jones,” she insisted muzzily. He couldn’t really blame her, since he wanted to do much the same thing nearly every hour of every day, but he knew that Laura’s behavior was about much more than the loss of her governess.

  “There were other ways of going about that, darling,” he said gently. “The streets are dangerous. You could have been trampled by a carriage or lost your way.” Or much, much worse, he thought to himself grimly.

  She made a noncommittal noise to this and shifted in his arms.

  “I know you’ve been angry with me, Laura, and angrier still since Miss Jones left. I’m sorry.”

  “I wasn’t angry with you,” she said in a very small voice.

  “My wardrobe would disagree,” he said wryly. “And it is understandable if you were . . .”

  “But I wasn’t,” she insisted, looking up at him through tear-swollen eyes. “I was just . . . frightened. I hate it when people leave. I hate it most of all when you leave. And then you almost died. We were sent away, and we didn’t even know if you were alive or dead. I still feel scared all the time; I just can’t help myself. What if you die? What if you leave us again or send us away? I don’t think I could bear it.”

  His heart felt bruised in his chest as he realized how little these past few halcyon weeks had gone toward healing the careless wounds he’d inflicted upon his daughters.

  Marlowe had always wanted to give to the twins what he had never had. A happy childhood, and a father who loved them unconditionally. Of course, the latter was true, would always be true. Yet it seemed his sins of the past nine years had at last caught up with him.

  Had he made his children happy? He’d thought he had, or at least he’d tried his best at the time. The best clothes, the best toys, the best nursemaids and governesses—though none of those had ever stayed for long. Yet how often had he left them—for months on end sometimes—gallivanting across the countryside with Sebastian or locked away brooding over a verse or just simply in his cups . . . always in his cups?

  At the nadir of Marlowe’s black mood, even the thought of his beloved daughters had not been enough to sober him up, and the only kindness he’d been able to grant them was his absence. He could not have borne for them to see him brought so low, even though he knew they hated it when he was away. No amount of fatherly embraces or fancy gifts had ever been able to bring the twins out of their sulks after one of his long absences. Only time had softened their hearts.

  The ghosts would always be there: his father’s abuse and contempt; the horrors he’d faced in the war (the senselessness of it all underneath the thin veneer of patriotic duty); and a homecoming to a wife he’d loved all his life but barely knew, a wife who’d betrayed him in the most brutal way possible—she’d broken his heart as surely as the war had broken his spirit.

  But he didn’t feel so broken anymore, not even after Minerva’s defection, and that was something. It had taken his protracted illness and nearly losing his daughters to his father’s maneuverings to snap him out of his self-destruction, and he hoped it wasn’t too late.

  He’d failed his daughters spectacularly, but he didn’t plan on failing them any longer. He’d damaged one of the few things in the world that he gave a damn about anymore: his daughters’ trust in him. The wound could be repaired, perhaps, but the scar would always remain. He’d never wanted that sort of pain for his daughters.

  “Never,” he said fiercely, “I’ll never send you away. And I won’t leave you like I did in the past. When I did that, Laura, when I went away, it was because . . . well, because I was very sad, and I didn’t want you or Bea to see me like that. But I see now that I shouldn’t have done that.”

  Laura’s brow creased thoughtfully, considering his explanation. “Why were you sad? Was it about our mother?”

  Marlowe’s eyes leaked a little more, and his heart suffered a pang. His daughters were too clever for their own good. Or maybe just clever enough. “Yes,” he said honestly. “And other things. But I’m through with all that. You’re right. I almost died last winter, and I’ll never forgive myself for scaring you like that, or letting you be taken from me.”

  She looked a bit mollified. “It was horrible, Papa.”

  “I know. And I promise I’ll never be so foolish again.” He paused and decided on total honesty. Laura deserved nothing less. “But sometimes people do get sick or hurt, and sometimes people die. I can’t promise you that this will never happen.”

  “I know that, Papa,” she said impatiently. “I’m just afraid that now Miss Jones is gone, you’ll be sad and go out and get yourself hurt again.”

  “I won’t, darling. I might be sad she’s gone—of course I’m sad—but I won’t hurt myself. Please don’t be afraid anymore.”

  She nodded and tightened her arms around his neck, sniffling into his shoulder. “I believe you.”

  He sighed with relief.

  “But I suppose I am a bit cross at you about Miss Jones,” she finally said with a bit of her old hauteur.

  “I thought you might be,” he said dryly. “I’m rather cross at myself. And so is Miss Jones.”

  “So what are we going to do about it?”

  He wished he had a bloody clue about that. But one thing he now knew for sure was that his brooding had to end . . . and that he wasn’t going to give up on his governess without a fight.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  IN WHICH BATHING IN THE THAMES ENJOYS A SURGE IN POPULARITY IN EARLY 1820S LONDON

  THE PROPRIETORS AND patrons of the Royal Waterloo Bath, one of the more unique attractions upon the Thames (aside from the bobbing rubbish, mudlarks, and sewage), swore by the manifold health benefits of the river water that flowed through its pioneering pump rooms. For just two guineas for the entire Season, one could soak up these dubious benefits in a private chamber aboard the ship—if one were male, of course, and possessed of such liquid funds.

  One of those privileged few who could have afforded the exorbitant seasonal fee of the Royal Waterloo, had he been so inclined, was the Viscount Marlowe. But he’d determined when the pleasure barge had first opened that he’d set neither big nor little
toe on board. He knew exactly where the dustman dumped the contents of his household privies, after all, and had no desire to bathe in the same place.

  His opinion on the matter, which he was shocked to learn was among the minority (for even the fastidious Montford had a membership), seemed to be validated after his involuntary swim near the London docks and subsequent illness. No one would ever be able to convince him that ingesting buckets of the brackish waters hadn’t had a deleterious effect on his constitution. And it was probably not a coincidence that the Royal Waterloo Bath tended to stay upstream from the more insalubrious shores of southeast London, where raw sewage was one of the least offensive effluvia seasoning the river.

  This tale, however, has nothing whatsoever to do with the Royal Waterloo Bath—at the present moment settled into its moorings on the Waterloo Bridge after a day’s brisk trade—and very little to do with the docks, the site of the viscount’s own personal waterloo months earlier.

  But this tale has everything to do with the lone figure, swathed in shadows and the occasional, ominous flash of lightning, struggling to cross the mildly toxic waters of said docks in a leaky dinghy. His destination: the rotting cesspool that was Jacob’s Island, in the crotch of Bermondsey, on the other side of the river. It was a particularly foul place at the best of times, but when the river was at low ebb, as it was at present, the tidal ditches that marked its eastern boundaries overflowed with the best the Thames had to offer: carcasses—mostly animal, occasionally human—excrement, and the stinking red dye of the nearby tanneries.

  Even the most avid of bathers probably would have avoided those particular waters. But it was doubtful that anyone with the luxury to even consider a leisurely soak would have set foot in the Jacob’s Island rookery. Its old, rotted accommodations tended to attract the more criminally minded class, or those who were simply too poor to hope for better than a home that stank of death, violence, and pickling animal hides.

  The occupant of the dinghy, who belonged to the former class of prospective inhabitants, was taking advantage of the foul weather to sneak onto Albion’s shores once more after an involuntary absence. The rookery was hardly this villain’s first choice of bolt-hole, but when one relocated to a place like Jacob’s Island, one tended to have no other options.

  What was left of his fortune had been spent in actually getting himself back to London, and so affording a hot meal, much less reclaiming his former London residence—or at the very least a proper Bond Street Hotel—was simply not in the cards. Not yet, anyway, though he had plans to regain what he’d lost.

  Oh yes, he’d reclaim his fortune, and in the meantime he’d exact his revenge on the man who had destroyed his life. He’d waited a long time to see to it that the pompous bastard suffered, and now that he was finally in London, nothing was going to stop him. Not the grueling journey back, spent like an animal in a smuggler’s hold. Not the endless bribes and threats he’d had to issue, or the men he’d disposed of along the way. Not that damned storm on the Channel that had nearly capsized his ship. And certainly not a leaky dinghy already half-sunk beneath him.

  When he had restored his fortune, he was going to find the bloody little mudlark who’d sold him this leaking death trap and string him up by his testicles. The whelp couldn’t have been more than ten, and by the look of him too hungry to be much of a challenge.

  Oh, he’d find him and make him sing. A dirty, fatherless thing like that wouldn’t be missed.

  But even this particular villain couldn’t blame the easterly pull of the ebbing tide, or the resistance one naturally encountered when paddling upstream, on the enterprising young boat seller. Those things he blamed on a higher power who, apparently, was in league with his nemesis to make his life a misery. The universe was out to get him, but he’d be damned if he’d let it defeat him now.

  Lightning flashed in the sky, illuminating an old dock just a few lengths ahead, swaying in the tide upon waterlogged stilts like a drunkard trying to remain upright. The villain aimed his craft in its direction, but a few strokes later, the dinghy gave a final gurgle as its bow sank below the water, leaving him floating in the fragrant shallows with two useless oars and a sodden bag of belongings.

  “God d—”

  The heavens chose at that moment to roll with a deafening cannon blast of thunder, drowning out the villain’s final word just in time. Perhaps he should have taken such a portentous coincidence as proof that a higher power did indeed dislike him very much, especially when he cursed in such an ungodly manner.

  But he didn’t.

  He cast aside his oars, heaved his earthly possessions on one shoulder, and began to tread water in the direction of the vaguely piscine, vaguely gangrenous smell of the rookery.

  His first contact with the slimy bottom of the shallows was heralded by another flash of lightning, illuminating once more the dilapidated dock and rotting ditches lining the edge of the river. Thunder began to roll seconds later as he trudged through the mire, his mood growing even darker than it had been during his long journey in the smuggler’s hold.

  It had seemed like an eternity since he’d last stepped foot on English soil, an eternity since he’d smelled the . . . well, not so fresh air wafting off the Thames. He’d have to find himself a new pair of boots, since he doubted the stink would ever come out of the old pair after such a dunking.

  But just that thought was enough to reignite his anger, for he hadn’t the blunt to buy new boots, did he? He barely had the blunt to fund his plans for revenge against that man. That odious, self-righteous prig who’d ruined him and driven him from his own home.

  It had taken some time, but he would see to it that the man paid for daring to cross him. For taking away all that was his.

  And all over a woman.

  A woman that was rightfully his, at that. After he’d seen to his revenge, he’d make sure she never escaped his clutches again. It was the least he deserved for the trouble she’d caused him, after all. Even God was certain to agree with his claim.

  God did not, in fact, agree, and our villain might have picked up on this from the rolling thunder and crack of lightning directly over his head. But he was too distracted to notice such ominous portents, as a sudden surge in the knee-deep shallows knocked him off his feet. He stumbled forward, tripped over something much too gelatinous to be a rock, and fell facedown and nose deep in the muddy embankment.

  He cursed the heavens once more—again, something he might not have done had he known they were cursing him right back—and scraped the foul-smelling muck from his face.

  Oh, how that smug fool would pay!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  IN WHICH MISS JONES TAKES TEA WITH THE DUCHESS

  EVEN AFTER THE disruptions caused by various Leightons over the past few days, the Duchess of Montford had miraculously demanded no explanations of Minerva, allowing her to settle in to her new life—such as it was, with both Miss Honeywells currently in Rylestone Green with their other sister. But Minerva knew that the duchess’s rabid curiosity could only be contained for so long.

  She suspected that her stay of execution was finally over when she received a summons to tea the day after Laura had found her way across Mayfair. She entered the main drawing room to find Lady Manwaring sitting with the duchess and sighed inwardly. The wives of Marlowe’s two best friends would definitely want an accounting, and while she knew they deserved one, she was not looking forward to it, especially after yesterday.

  Seeing how distraught Laura had been—how distraught the viscount was over his daughter’s pain—she regretted leaving so hastily. She’d not even bothered to say goodbye to the twins, and it was obvious they were suffering for it. She’d not realized how attached they had become to her.

  Or how attached she’d become. She missed them dreadfully.

  Worse still, she missed the viscount. And she had no idea what she was going to do about it.

  “Ah, Miss Jones!” the duchess said, brightening when she spotted Mine
rva. “I have invited the Marchioness of Manwaring to join us.”

  Minerva could see why the Marquess of Manwaring had nearly called out his best friend over the marchioness. She was even more beautiful than Minerva remembered her being at that long-ago ball, with her moonbeam hair and bright green eyes. There was a softening around the edges that Minerva suspected had something to do with a happy domestic life.

  Which didn’t make Minerva jealous whatsoever. Yet if ever she wanted to know what a woman in love with her husband looked like, she didn’t need to go any farther than the duchess’s drawing room.

  And she did not need such a reminder, thank you very much, especially since she doubted she’d ever get to enjoy the same.

  The marchioness inclined her head in greeting. “You were Lady Blundersmith’s companion, weren’t you?”

  “I was,” she said, surprised she’d been recognized yet again.

  “How horrid for you,” the marchioness said with a bit of a smirk.

  Minerva choked on her tea. “Don’t I know it,” she finally managed.

  The marchioness’s smile widened, and she turned to the duchess. “I like her.”

  “Miss Jones is also particular friends with Dr. Lucas,” the duchess said, sending Minerva a sly look.

  The marchioness smiled agreeably. “Dr. Lucas is one of my favorite people. How do you know him?”

  “I was to marry his brother, but Arthur died in the war.”

  Lady Manwaring’s expression fell. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. I think he’s mentioned his brother once or twice.”

  “Speaking of marriage, we should really find poor Dr. Lucas a wife,” the duchess said as she handed Minerva her tea. “And one who is not in love with one of my husband’s best friends.”

  Well, the duchess had certainly cut to the chase. Minerva nearly dropped the contents of her cup into her skirts. She could feel the damning heat rise immediately in her cheeks and her heart begin to race with agitation.