The Unexpected Wife

by Caroline Warfield

  “They think we are ugly,” she whispered over his left shoulder. She astounded him with her unexpected—and highly useful—command of Cantonese. Opportunities provided by Temperance Knighton’s students and talent inherited from her mother, a noted linguist, no doubt.

  A group of well-dressed women followed by a rather large bodyguard crossed their path. Their tiny stature, bent posture, mincing steps, and swaying gait all gave him confidence in Zambak’s disguise. Chinese despised Western women for their height, big feet, and what they considered mannish mannerisms. From them, at least, she hid her gender well.

  Turning down a particularly seedy alley toward the third establishment on his list, Charles found a Westerner leaning against the wall. Dressed like a warehouseman and dead sober, he assumed the man to be the agent of one of the smuggling operations.

  “Lookin’ for some ‘un?” the man demanded.

  English then. Or a Scot, if I’m hearing right.

  “Exploring opportunity,” Charles answered.

  “This un’s Jarratt & Martinson business. Look elsewhere. There’s plenty o’ Chinee to be had.”

  Jarratt. Wouldn’t Thorn most likely gravitate to that company’s clientele? Judging from agitation behind him, he suspected Zambak had the same thought. He needed to act before she exploded.

  They brushed past the guard. Charles expected opposition, but the man pulled away at the last moment. In the smoky darkness, the stink of unwashed bodies mixed with the odor of narcotic assailed his nose. Zambak huddled against him, in no hurry to move away.

  A Chinese gentleman in blue silk made a deep bow. “Welcome, Sirs. You wish try our product?” His eyes darted between Charles and Zambak plastered to his side. “Finest in Whampao,” he said. “Best Indian.” The heavily accented English was clear enough. They had come to the right place.

  “We’re looking for a friend,” he said.

  The man looked confused, and Charles wasn’t sure whether it was an act or not. Zambak moved a step away but held on to his upper arm with one hand. Their eyes began to adjust to the gloom.

  “Friend,” Charles repeated. Zambak translated the word absently, her eyes scanning the room.

  “Many friends here,” the man said gesturing widely. Couches and berths lined the area he could see, filled with recumbent figures. Some dressed in Chinese clothing; some in Western. Some sucked on pipes; others held pipes in slack hands and lay back with vacant eyes.

  “Charles—there!” Zambak darted away, forcing him to follow her at a run.

  John Thornton Hayden lay on his back on a filthy coverlet and stared back at them with unfocused eyes. His brow furrowed as if he tried to pull up a memory, while his sister caressed his cheek.

  “Thorn, what have you done to yourself,” Zambak crooned.

  “Zamb? How did you get to Canton—no, Whampao. Forgot.” He began to giggle.

  “You are coming with us,” Charles told him, slipping an arm under bony shoulders. The boy’s wasted body made no resistance.

  “Charles? They have dukes in Whampao? Jarratt will be surprised.” He laughed again but allowed them to pull him to a seated position and then to his feet. He swayed a bit, but they steadied him between them. He pulled one arm away and reached back to pick up his still-burning opium pipe. He tucked it in a torn coat pocket. “Paid for it,” he mumbled.

  The proprietor danced around them, protesting and urging them to “Stay. Enjoy much happy . . .”

  They reached the door—Thorn’s right arm over Charles’s shoulders, and Zambak with an arm around his waist—where Charles paused. He took a furtive glance outside and, seeing no one, led them out.

  “I say!” Thorn blinked at the sunlight, painful to his enlarged pupils.

  “Close your eyes, and we’ll lead you,” Charles told him.

  “Better to stay,” Thorn objected and dragged his feet, slowing their progress.

  They made it to the first turn before Jarratt’s guard appeared in front of them and two more bullyboys came out from dark corners behind them. “Mr. Jarratt don’t like folk interfering in his trade,” said the guard who had obviously gone for reinforcements.

  Clarity and calm took over, casting two things in sharp resolution: the men would not hurt the young marquess as he was one of Jarratt’s assets. And he had led Zambak into danger. Blood red rage took over.

  He shoved Thorn into the man in front and spun to confront the men behind only to see Zambak land a neatly directed kick in the privates of one of them, sending him reeling to the ground, where she kicked him again for good measure. The second attacker turned on her with a roar, a lethal-looking weapon in hand. The knife in Charles’s sleeve stopped him in his tracks. The thug bent at the waist, dropped to his knees, and crumpled over top of his fellow, pinning him to the ground.

  Charles pushed Zambak behind him and turned to face the first man, but Thorn leaned on wobbly knees into the man’s shoulder. The attacker held him with one arm and pointed a gun at Charles and Zambak with the other. The brute appeared indecisive, and Thorn’s hand on his cheek didn’t help him any.

  “You can take me back to Ping’s. I’m comfortable there,” the boy mumbled.

  “We have no quarrel with Mr. Jarratt’s business,” Charles put in, preventing Zambak from pushing forward with his free hand. “We merely want to visit with the marquess. Old friends.”

  The guard looked down at Thorn. “You know these men, m’lord?”

  Thorn peered over with unfocused eyes. “Charles, did father send you? Not my friend then. Father’s.”

  The guard appeared to come to a decision. “I’ll have the knife,” he said. “We’ll see what Mr. Jarratt has to say.”

  Chapter 19

  With the threat of William Jarratt in front of her, Zambak was sorely tempted to run. Whampao’s dozens of closes, alleys, dark alcoves, and hidden lanes offered no end of hiding places and opportunities to escape. At least they would if Charles hadn’t clamped his fist onto her wrist and allowed the ugly bruiser with a gun to push them forward.

  Escape would still be more tempting if said bruiser didn’t have a beefy arm around her brother, half dragging him along. Desire to stay as close as possible to Thorn warred with her urge to avoid Jarratt at almost any cost—especially while dressed in trousers. Almost. Their guard and the Chinese around them saw her as she intended, as the duke’s servant. She wouldn’t fool their master.

  “Jarratt will recognize me,” she hissed at Charles who greeted that obvious observation with a disgusted snort.

  He gripped her hand more tightly. “We have to brazen this out.”

  With Thorn’s complaints increasing, the guard led them to one of the open-fronted warehouses along the docks where casks of opium overshadowed bags of rice in the lower floor, and offices lay above. Pushing through the jumble, he ordered them into an empty room.

  Charles planted both feet and stood arms akimbo. “We demand to see your superior. Tell him the Duke of Murnane demands it.” The brute shoved him backward, hefted Thorn over one shoulder, and shut the door. Zambak heard the lock tumble and collapsed onto a wooden bench, the only furnishing in the room. “How will we get to him now?” she wondered out loud.

  “Retrieving your worthless brother is the least of our problems,” Charles said over his shoulder while he rattled the wooden grill covering the only window, and ran fingers along the frame. “It will take a miracle for me to get you back to Elliots’ with your reputation intact.”

  “Do you think I care about that? Let the gossips talk?” she shouted back. “Maybe my parents will give up attempting to marry me off.”

  Charles ran his hand along the wall, circling from one end and the other, scanning for weaknesses. “So you plan to explain to Jarratt what you’re doing in Whampao, and the devil take the consequences?”

&
nbsp; “Jarratt? No, I—” The trembling that shook her body overtook her voice. Charles loomed in front of her before she saw him approach, dropping to his knees and taking her hands.

  “It’s Jarratt that worries you, isn’t it? What happened, Zambak?”

  She moved her head from side to side with deliberate slowness. I will not talk about Jarratt with Charles, I can’t. She refused to face him. “Only the most ancient of threats,” she mumbled. His hands squeezed hers until they hurt. She hastened to add, “He didn’t touch me or threaten, not really. He just— He has Thorn and he implied—” She shuddered to silence. She couldn’t say it.

  He gave up after a wait and heaved a bitter sigh. “Listen to me. There is no way out of here. Use that magnificent mind of yours. Can you explain why Lady Zambak Hayden wanders the back streets of Whampao dressed as a man?”

  To fetch my brother, of course. Jarratt will know that. He’ll remind me of his vile “offer” in front of Charles. “No,” she mumbled.

  “Then we carry on with the charade. You are my valet, Horace Jones. I came here determined to check on Thorn, and I can now see him for the hopeless mess he is. You say as little as possible. Whatever he thinks he knows, we’ll make certain he doubts his eyes.” He pulled her to her feet and wiped the smudge on her face with his sleeve.

  “Do I have to be Horace?” she asked, using all her strength to respond to his determination with humor.

  He put one knuckle under her chin and tipped her head up. “That’s my girl. Shall we settle on James?” She let his confident smile sink deep into her chest. Their eyes held, and her breath sped up, but the door opened before she could consider why.

  Jarratt rushed in with a great show of concern. As always, he approached with flawless grooming, expensive tailoring, and perfect fashion—much too perfect, the result of acquired deliberation and not instinctive good taste. He bowed to the duke with the same calculation.

  “Your Grace! We meet again. My profound apologies. Whampao is not, I fear, safe for unsuspecting Westerners.”

  “So Elliot led me to believe. One wishes to experience places for oneself, you know. I have explored many foreign ports in my travels. I had hoped, of course, to check in on the Marquess of Glenaire again. He seemed much more interested in my company today than the last time we spoke.”

  Charles can adopt a haughty posture in the blink of an eye, and drop it just as quickly. Zambak hung back behind him, praying to avoid notice.

  Charles continued on attack. “In any case, I worried about the Chinese. I didn’t expect to be attacked by Englishmen. Am I to understand the ruffians are—or perhaps were—your employees?”

  English? Jarratt? Judging from the sour pursing of lips, he doesn’t like being called one. Scottish to the bone.

  Jarratt’s faux-humble expression and folded hands fooled no one. “The man mistook you for a rival. The trade, here, I fear, can be rather ruthless. A gentleman like yourself wouldn’t sully his hands in it.”

  His geniality wears thin. Zambak wondered how long it would be before the mask slipped entirely.

  Charles made a show of preening as if he couldn’t decide whether Jarratt had complimented his gentlemanly instincts or his sense of adventure. “Apology accepted. Now if I may see the young man, he and I will be on our way.”

  The guard stood behind Jarratt, blocking the doorway to the little room. His master’s smile showed firmly clenched teeth. “Ah yes. My man told me you removed one of my associates from an establishment under my protection,” he said, “He was unaware of your connection. I can only apologize for the misunderstanding. As I told the lady in Macao, the young man has chosen to remain under contract to me and, regretfully, will stay here.”

  “You allow your associates to fraternize with the Chinese?” Charles demanded.

  “We find the relaxed atmosphere of Whampao to be more conducive to business than the artificial enclaves of Canton. If some of my associates indulge a bit . . .” He shrugged broadly. “What can one do? The boy has shown a particular interest in—”

  “The young marquess smoked opium. In filth and degradation. I know this family. They will not be happy.” Charles packed the words with aristocratic superiority, confident in its power to demand obedience.

  Jarratt’s head shot up. His eyes flicked between the duke and Zambak. When he glanced back momentarily, she could not mistake the spark of recognition. Her stomach tightened, but she kept herself still with great effort. The trader twisted his head to the side and upward as if considering something.

  “The family’s power does not hold sway in Canton and Macao. Marquess he may be, but he sought employment with me. He appears to know his own mind.” Jarratt looked directly at Zambak and went on, “As I told his sister when she came to visit me.”

  A stiffening of Charles’s back told her the sally hit home, but to his credit, neither his posture nor his voice betrayed any concern. “Yes, the sister. Hoydenish creature. Sudbury wisely referred her to the protection of the Superintendent of Trade and the refining influence of his good wife.”

  Zambak bit the inside of her cheek to remain quiet when Jarratt sneered. “She might dare anything. Even the streets of Macao are not safe, even for a duke’s . . .” He gestured toward Zambak. “Servant is it?”

  “My valet knows how to handle himself,” Charles said smoothly. “As one of your men discovered. Elliot will, of course, want the young marquess cared for, and my valet will be at his service.”

  If that move stymied Jarratt, it didn’t last long. “Elliot also prefers to avoid scandal. Macao can be particularly vicious.” Julia! The thought hung in the air between them.

  “My dear Mr. Jarratt, I’m well experienced in dampening gossip,” Charles drawled. “Bring the boy, and I’ll be on my way.”

  Jarratt glared at Zambak. Charles took a step in front of her. “The superintendent will be happy to learn of your cooperation,” he said.

  “The superintendent is an old woman,” Jarratt muttered. Zambak had seen a similar expression on her father’s face when he planned six moves out in chess. Charles, she remembered, could outrun most men at chess, even her father on occasion. She hoped he had a plan, because her ideas had led them into a dead end, and her confidence that they could get her brother out of Whampao had eroded completely.

  ~ ~ ~

  Charles raised Elliot’s name to force Jarratt to release them. The smuggler anticipated the weakness in that move and countered with a smirk. “Do you sail with your, ah, valet on Elliot’s ships? One understands some parts of the navy look the other way from irregular relations, but Elliot is an intolerant sod, isn’t he?”

  Charles would bet his boots that Jarratt recognized Zambak. He expects his hints at sodomy will force me to admit to her disguise. He’ll expose her to Elliot and all of Macao if I do. If I don’t—

  Jarratt jumped into the silence when Charles hesitated. The sly grin widened, “What does the fair Julia think of your ‘valet’? She struck me as a tolerant woman, given how freely she shares her favors. That must make life simpler for you.”

  Charles swallowed familiar anger; he’d heard worse about his wife, but never from a snake as vile as Jarratt. He put the problem of Julia aside for another time.

  “Are you considering passage with Oliver? He’s not bloody likely to look the other way.” Jarratt went on, eyes glittering.

  Caught between the need to protect Zambak and fear she would balk if he failed to obtain Thorn’s release, Charles changed tack. She wouldn’t hold her peace about their main objective much longer. “I’m certain Daniel Oliver will welcome us. My valet will help me with the marquess. He’ll need care when we see him to Macao.” An unconscious chaperone would be better than none.

  “Did I not make myself clear? I have a contract. The boy might buy his way out of it I suppose.” The shrewd
eyes sharpened. “Perhaps you could ask him in the morning if he is sober.” He brightened, pretending to a sudden idea. “That might just do the trick. May I offer you and your servant my hospitality for the night?” He drawled the word servant.

  Charles had been backed into a corner. When they were shown to a single room with one comfortable bed, the trap snapped shut, making Jarratt’s intentions clear. The worm would not harm Zambak, at least not physically. Any designs he may have on her person had their roots in desire for power, not lust. He would not waste his opportunity on something as short-lived as rape. He means to ruin her and Thorn as well and use it as leverage over their father for political influence in London. I have to get them out of here.

  “How will we get to Thorn?” Zambak asked.

  “It would be a damned sight easier if I didn’t have to deal with you, my lady,” he said, holding his temper by a thread.

  “I’m sorry, Charles. I’ve botched this,” she murmured. “I should never have involved you.” The fingers of her left hand rubbed together vigorously.

  “You should have stayed put and left it to me,” he retorted, somewhat mollified. “Your disguise complicates everything. I won’t abandon him, Zambak—not entirely.” He ran his hand through his hair, untangling thick knots with his fingers.