The bump of a wave finally broke them apart. “Sorry, I . . . I seem to be sinking into depravity,” he said in a ragged whisper. “Stolen gingerbread, stolen kisses.”
“Oh, it is I who owe you an apology. I fear that I’m a bad influence on you,” replied Sophie. “Not that I’m at all sorry for it,” she added softly.
“Neither am I.” He brushed an errant curl from her cheek. “But I mean to be a gentleman from now on—no matter how hard.”
“I shall see that you won’t suffer any consequences because of this,” she said after a long moment. “I can sneak away before we reach—”
He pressed a finger to her lips. “Don’t worry, I shall come up with a good story.” A wink. “I’ve discovered that I am very good at talking my way out of trouble.”
Laughing, she leaned back and gazed up at the heavens, where a bright twinkle was still visible against the fading night. “Oh, look. That reminds me of the tales about the Christmas star, the one that led the Three Wise Men to Bethlehem bearing gifts.” She brushed a caress to the wrapped Bible, which was safely nestled beneath the slatted seat. “Perhaps it’s come to be our own special guiding light to London.”
“I can’t claim to be Wise,” quipped Bentley. “And while I’m bearing some useful tidings for the government, it is I who has received the greatest gift of all—your friendship.” He crooked a smile. “For I do hope that we are friends.”
Friends.
Sophie snuggled up against his warmth, feeling their closeness make her heart sing with joy.
“ ’Tis truly the season to give thanks,” she murmured. “You have given me far more than you have received. Patience, kindness, counsel, and guidance on how to navigate the foreign waters of Society, with all its unfamiliar shoals. Because of you I can see a new horizon, with hint of new dawn lightening the darkness.”
Bentley smiled. “And I, in turn, thank you for challenging me explore new waters. Your bold courage and sense of adventure have reminded me that life is far more fun when there is a spark of unexpected excitement to it—not to speak of a frisson of danger.”
She watched a hint of sunlight sparkle over a calm blue sea. “Don’t worry. From here on in, it will be smooth sailing.”
His brows rose a notch.
“Well,” she amended. “There may be a few waves and whitecaps. But storms can be exhilarating.”
“Very exhilarating,” he drawled. “And somehow, together we seem to manage quite well in coming through them unscathed.”
The curl of his mouth set her insides to turning topsy-turvy. “I-I hope that when we drop anchor in the Thames, our journey will not be over.”
Bentley looked up at the twinkling morning star before answering. “My dear Sophie, I hope that our journey is just beginning.”
THE MISTLETOE BRIDE
Anne Gracie
Chapter 1
HighTowers House, Scotland, 1814
“What you need is a dying woman.”
Ronan McAllister stopped in midpace and swung around. “What?”
Adams, his lawyer, shrugged. “If you don’t want to stay married, it’s your best option.”
Ronan frowned. “It’s a bit . . . cold-blooded, don’t you think? To marry a dying woman for the sake of an inheritance.”
The elderly lawyer spread his hands in a philosophical gesture. “You said you didn’t want to get married again.”
“I don’t. Still . . .” Ronan shook his head. “To be taking advantage of someone’s tragedy . . .”
“Not necessarily. It might make things easier for her.”
Ronan paused. “How so?”
“Dying women often fret about the people they leave behind; how they will live, the costs of the funeral and such things.” Adams adjusted his pince-nez. “A payment in exchange for marriage could ease the way for such a woman to die in peace.”
Ronan resumed his pacing. He didn’t like it. It went against the grain to use someone’s death for his own gain. But . . . there was sense in what Adams had said.
He didn’t want to marry again, didn’t want to be saddled with a wife. He’d done that. The most miserable five years of his life.
A fee could ease the way for a dying woman.
Damn Great-Aunt Agatha and her fortune. And her blasted conditions. The cheek of a maiden aunt requiring him to marry again before his thirtieth birthday. She’d never bothered to marry. She’d lived a life of blissful freedom, doing what she wanted, going where she chose, living life as the whim took her.
If he didn’t need the money so badly . . . He gazed out the window. His work on the estate had only just begun. Over the last twenty years the tenants and estate workers had suffered from his father’s spendthrift ways, and Ronan had sworn to put things right. But for that he needed Great-Aunt Agatha’s money, and the old witch had known it.
“How would it work?”
“My nephew lives in London,” Adams said. “He would find a suitable woman of respectable birth, dying, but not of anything contagious. We’d have her condition certified by a doctor, of course. We wouldn’t want any . . . errors.” He gave a thin smile.
Ronan didn’t smile back. The whole thing was repugnant. But he’d do it. He had no choice. Since he’d inherited the estate, he’d worked every hour God sent, bringing it slowly back to productivity after years of neglect. Great-Aunt Agatha’s fortune would make all the difference in the world.
Adams continued. “She will have to travel here, of course, since your great-aunt’s will specified an Englishwoman and marriage in the chapel on the estate, so we’d send her a ticket on the mail coach—”
“Hire her a post chaise, dammit—she’s sick.”
The lawyer raised his brows at this extravagance, but made a note. “Very well. As soon as we have a name, I shall procure a special license, and when she arrives the minister will perform a ceremony. After that it is a matter of . . . um . . . consummation and—”
“Consummation?”
Adams failed to meet Ronan’s gaze. “It is a legal requirement.”
There was a short silence. Ronan clenched his fists. He should have strangled Great-Aunt Agatha while she was alive.
The lawyer went on, “It has occurred to me that if the woman were a widow . . . and you simply shared a bed . . . nobody would be able to prove otherwise.” He steepled his thin, white fingers and waited. Eventually he said, “All I need is your approval and I’ll go ahead and make all the arrangements.”
Ronan didn’t approve of any part of the scheme, but he gave a curt nod. “Do it.”
Traveling by stagecoach was even worse than the voyage home, Marguerite Blackett-Smith decided. She was just as sick from the constant swaying, lurching and jolting, but at least on the ship she hadn’t been in constant danger of being squashed.
She discreetly shoved the large sleeping farmer beside her into a more or less vertical position. How he could sleep through it all was beyond her, but sleep he did, listing dangerously to one side—her side—smelling of stale sweat and onions.
She shoved him back up again.
Three days the journey had taken so far, and they were only halfway to their destination. Six days from London to Edinburgh, the coach company promised. Marguerite’s destination lay just before Edinburgh.
Her destination. Her final destination. A twenty-five-year-old spinster with no money, no looks and no prospects ought to be grateful that any relative was prepared to take her in, Cousin Ida—who wasn’t—had told her. Even if it was Uncle Alexander.
Uncle Alexander had sent Marguerite a ticket on the stage. Marguerite would repay his generosity by working for him, he informed her.
Her future was depressingly clear. There would be no chance of marriage now, no chance of a home of her own, or children.
Still, poor Mrs. Smith opposite looked even worse than Marguerite felt. She sat wedged into a corner, her face drawn, her skin so sallow it looked quite yellow. Her eyes were deep-set and exhausted and ringed wit
h papery, bruised-looking skin.
As the only two women in the coach, they’d naturally been drawn together, keeping each other company during coach stops. They’d exchanged smiles at first, then a few comments on the journey and the bane of travel-sickness, for Marguerite noticed the other woman ate nothing during meal stops as well.
This morning, Marguerite had confided she was going to Scotland to live with an elderly uncle, and to Marguerite’s surprise Peggy Smith had replied that she was going to Scotland to be married. She didn’t look much like a bride, but then nobody looked their best traveling.
“Meal stop!” the coachman yelled. The other passengers eagerly descended into the yard at the inn, but Mrs. Smith did not move. Marguerite shook her arm. The woman’s eyelashes fluttered and she moaned and tried to sit up, then fell back with a sigh.
“This lady’s ill,” Marguerite called to the coachman. “I think it’s lack of food. She’s hardly eaten in three days.”
He came over and peered doubtfully in, then called to a couple of ostlers to carry the lady inside. “I don’t like her color,” he told Marguerite, “but no doubt a nice hot cup of tea and sommat to eat will revive her.”
They carried her inside, placed her on a settle in the otherwise deserted coffee room and left her for Marguerite to care for. Marguerite ordered hot sweet tea and some dry toast—anything richer would be disastrous on a delicate stomach. She bathed Mrs. Smith’s face and hands with vinegar, and by the time the tea and toast arrived she looked a little stronger.
With a shudder, she waved away the toast, but drank the tea slowly with her eyes still closed. When she’d finished she glanced warily around the room, then, seeing it was empty, placed a thin hand over Marguerite’s. “Can I trust you?”
“Yes, of course,” Marguerite responded without thinking.
“God, but I hope I can. There’s nobody else . . .” Mrs. Smith closed her eyes again, as if gathering energy, and Marguerite wondered what on earth she wanted her to do. She already regretted her rash promise. She knew nothing about this woman.
Mrs. Smith reached into the inside pocket of her coat and drew out a folded card. She passed it to Marguerite. “My daughters.”
Marguerite opened the card. Inside there was a pencil drawing of two little girls, the older, about five, a plain little creature with an endearingly earnest expression. The younger was still almost a baby, with a head of pale curls and a dreamy expression.
“Oh, how sweet they look—” Marguerite began.
“I’m dying,” Mrs. Smith said in a hoarse voice.
Marguerite gave her a shocked look. “Oh, no, I’m sure . . . Once you’ve had a rest and something to eat—”
“No. It’s my liver.... Jaundice. Doctor said . . . maybe a couple of months. I thought . . . enough time . . . but . . .” She sank back, exhausted.
Marguerite patted the woman’s hand, knowing it was a feeble response, but what else could she do?
“Please . . . my daughters . . . my little girls. Will you take care of them?”
“Me? But surely your betrothed—”
“No. I’ve never met the man. All arranged though a lawyer in London.” Peggy Smith’s eyes were dull as she added, “He’s paying me five hundred pounds to marry him. And then I can leave.”
Marguerite wasn’t sure she’d heard the woman aright. It sounded so bizarre. “I don’t understand.”
“He doesn’t want a wife.” Peggy Smith’s voice was just a thread of sound. “Just a marriage certificate.” She shook her head wearily. “Don’t know why. Don’t care. The money’s all I care about. Cared about. Too late now.” She broke off, coughing.
Marguerite poured the last of the tea into a cup and held it to Mrs. Smith’s mouth. She swallowed a few mouthfuls, then pushed it away.
“My girls . . . he doesn’t know about them.... Not interested in children. Just . . . marriage certificate.” She fixed a desperate gaze on Marguerite. “The girls and I have no family. My little Jane is five and Amy nearly three.... I left them with a neighbor . . . gave her enough money for six weeks . . . but after that . . .” She shook her head. “She can’t keep them. Doesn’t want them.... If I don’t return, she’ll put them on the parish.”
Her face crumpled. “I don’t want them in the poor house, not my sweet babies. They’ll die there.” She clutched Marguerite’s hand, rocking in distress. “Please, miss. They’re good girls.”
“I’m sure they are, but what could I do? I have no money and I’m wholly dependent on the charity of my uncle.” Thin and grudging charity at that. You will make yourself useful in exchange for bed and board. In other words, an unpaid servant.
Peggy Smith fumbled for the pocket of her skirt and drew out a cloth bag. “He sent me money to hire a post chaise and for meals along the way. I couldn’t bring myself to waste so much money when I could travel on the stage so much cheaper. Take it. It’s all I have in the world. Otherwise they”—she jerked her head to indicate the other people in the inn—“will steal it. There’s a hundred pounds in there. Use it for my daughters. To keep them out of the workhouse.”
“But—”
She gripped Marguerite’s hand again. “Please. There’s nobody else I can ask. No one in the world.”
Marguerite bit her lip. She wanted to help, she really did, but she didn’t see how she could. A hundred pounds was a substantial sum, but it would soon disappear with two little girls to feed and clothe and house. Not to mention herself.
It was madness to agree. She’d end up in the workhouse herself.
“Please, Marguerite.” The desperation in the other woman’s face was unbearable to watch.
Marguerite’s gaze dropped to the portrait of the two little girls. Poor little mites, with no one to care for them or love them. How could she, who had nobody and nothing herself, refuse? She squeezed Peggy Smith’s thin hand. “I promise I’ll do whatever I can.”
“Bless you, my dear.” Peggy Smith sat back with a smile and closed her eyes, then jerked forward in a paroxysm of coughing that racked her thin frame.
“Water?”
Still coughing, Peggy nodded, and Marguerite went running to fetch a cup of water. She returned with it in a scant few minutes and stood stock-still, staring at Peggy Smith. She was slumped over, her hand resting on the folded card. A small stub of pencil rolled from between her nerveless fingers.
Marguerite picked up the card. On the back, Peggy had scrawled, I, Peggy Smith, give my darling girls Jane and Amy to the care of Margaret Blacket-Smith. She’d signed her name below it.
Marguerite tucked the document and Peggy Smith’s precious cloth bag into her coat pocket.
The coachman poked his head in at the door. “Coach leaving now, miss. Your friend need a hand?”
Marguerite turned to the coachman and tried to swallow the lump in her throat. “I’m afraid she’s dead.”
Chapter 2
Marguerite perched on the window seat inside the taproom of the Wench and Haggis Inn and peered out anxiously into the darkening sky. She’d been waiting for hours. Granted, the stagecoach had been delayed, not least by the death of one of its passengers, but still, Uncle Alexander had said Marguerite would be met at the inn.
Poor Peggy Smith. It had felt so wrong to leave her behind, her body not yet cold, but what could she do? The landlord of the inn and the coach driver had argued vehemently over Peggy’s body, each claiming the other was responsible for dealing with the matter. The coach driver had settled it by collecting his remaining passengers and driving away.
Cold seeped in through the window. Marguerite shifted on the hard window seat and drew her coat more tightly around her. Who would bury Peggy? No doubt she’d be given a pauper’s grave. Marguerite hoped it would not be unmarked; Peggy’s name, at least, was known, even if there was no one to pay for a headstone.
Marguerite knew Peggy would rather her money was spent on her children than on her burial. She’d told nobody about the oilcloth bag Peggy had give
n her. She hadn’t even examined it herself yet. She’d wait until she was alone and could inspect the contents in private.
“Can I fetch you anything, miss?” a tavern wench asked. “The stew’s good tonight.”
“Thank you, but I’m not hungry.” Marguerite’s stomach rumbled in contradiction. The aromas coming from the kitchen were rich and enticing, but she had no money to pay for a meal or even a cup of tea.
Only desperation would allow her to break into Peggy Smith’s fund, and she was not desperate yet. Only hungry.
Where was Uncle Alexander? His letter was very specific. She was to alight from the coach at the village of Bedloe and wait outside the Wench and Haggis Inn. She was not to go inside the inn; it was not a fit place for a respectable woman. Someone would come to collect her directly.
But it was too cold to wait outside. She’d tried for a while, but the bitter wind had sliced through her thin coat, and when tiny flakes of snow began to swirl down, she’d retreated into the inn. She’d half expected to be rudely accosted, but apart from a few curious glances, the only person who’d approached her was the tavern wench.
Marguerite was dozing when the rumble of wheels on the cobblestones jerked her awake. An elderly-looking traveling chaise pulled up and the driver climbed down.
“Stage been through, has it?” she heard him ask an ostler. “Did a woman get off?”
At last! Marguerite grabbed her carpet bag and hurried outside. “Are you looking for me?”
The driver squinted at her. “The woman the master sent for? From London?”
“Yes, I’m Marguerite Blackett-Smith. And that’s my trunk.”
The man shrugged, opened the door for her and went to fetch her trunk.
The carriage was old and slightly shabby but it was clean and warm inside. As Marguerite seated herself, she stubbed her toe on a large oblong metal object on the floor of the carriage. She bent to examine it and discovered it was warm. A foot-warmer! And a soft woolen rug lay folded beside her on the seat. How very thoughtful. And luxurious.
Mischief and Mistletoe Page 26
