Give Me Thine Heart: A Novella

by Andrea Boeshaar

  “Well, I cannot disagree with you.” As the carriage passed a well-lit row of establishments, Moira glimpsed the smile on Mr. White’s face. “You, Miss Kingsley, are quick-witted and intelligent. You will go far.”

  “Thank you.” A blush set fire to her cheeks.

  “So now I shall begin your official training.” Mr. White leaned forward. “As a spy.”

  Moira’s lips ached to smile with the pleasure threatening to burst from inside of her, but she controlled her emotion. Being a spy, after all, was serious business.

  They rolled on in silence for quite some time. All was dark outside the carriage window; the only light emanated from the carriage’s two outer lamps, which threw long eerie shadows at them. The air turned heavy, filled with the fresh, salty scent of the sea. It evoked a myriad of memories, but Moira forced them into the smallest corner of her mind. Were they about to board a ship bound for the American colonies?

  Despite all the questions swirling in her brain, Moira said not a word. And she wouldn’t cave to her growing sense of trepidation. However, she sensed that Mr. White wouldn’t toss her into the sea as he threatened, and she would be free from marrying a man whose very presence made her skin crawl. The outcome was well worth the risk.

  A short while later, the coach jerked to a halt.

  “Wait here.” Mr. White opened the carriage door and disappeared into the night.

  Moira fought to control her excitement. She tried to recall all she’d heard about the New World and the colonists. Many were still dedicated to the Crown. She’d have to take special care to avoid them, lest they turn her over to Uncle Tyrus again.

  The carriage door opened suddenly, giving Moira a start. Mr. White leaned inside and offered his hand. She placed her gloved fingers in his palm and climbed from the carriage.

  “Miss Kingsley, allow me to present Mr. John Huff.”

  She regarded the slim man and replied with a small but polite curtsy.

  “He’s a trustworthy dockhand who will see to it that your valise finds its way aboard the Seahawk.”

  “I thank you, sir.”

  He gave a snort and eyed Mr. White. “You’re sure ’bout this, Sam?”

  An impatient-sounding sigh parted Mr. White’s lips. “Quite sure. Now do the job I paid you to do.”

  “Aye.” The barrel-chested Mr. Huff grumbled but did Mr. White’s bidding.

  Mr. White tossed a couple of coins to the carriage driver, who then slapped the reins and the vehicle pulled away.

  “Now, Miss Kingsley, your first official lesson is about to begin, so pay attention.”

  “I shall hang on to your every word.”

  He offered his arm and Moira slipped her hand around his elbow, allowing him to guide her into an establishment called The Hungry Bear. One step inside and a glimpse of the surroundings told Moira that Papa would disapprove of the place. Beneath a smoky haze, women with ratted hair and immodest dresses milled about. Men bellied up to the bar and drank from large glasses of ale or rum. The latter’s pungent order mingled with the smell of baked biscuits and hung heavily in the air. Mr. White removed his hat and led her to a table. He politely held out a banged-up wooden chair.

  Moira sat, noting that, besides the working women, she was the only female in the place. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if Mr. White intended to leave her there, but she remembered he’d said only minutes ago that her valise would be loaded onto a ship.

  One of the serving wenches sashayed to the table and rubbed Mr. White’s shoulders before leaning against him seductively. “What’s your pleasure tonight, mister?”

  He untangled her arms and moved her away. “Two plates of the house special. One glass of elderberry wine for the lady, and I’ll have a cup of ale.”

  The working woman noticed Moira, seemingly for the first time. Moira took no offense. She was accustomed to surprised reactions. Papa used to joke that Moira was an invisible fairy that only special people of God could see.

  No doubt she’d make a perfect spy.

  The serving wench sauntered off, presumably to fetch their supper.

  Mr. White leaned forward. “Have you taken note of the women in this place?”

  “Of course.” Moira jerked her chin at such an insult. “I have two eyes.”

  “Don’t judge them too harshly. Life is difficult for women without means to live. Many of these soiled doves are mothers during the day and harlots at night while their children sleep, unaware of their mothers’ professions.”

  “I do not judge them or anyone else. That is the Almighty’s job, not mine.”

  “And how much money do you have, Miss Kingsley? How do you plan to pay for your passage and even your supper tonight?”

  “I have plenty of money.” Did she? “It’s not on my person, but…”

  “But what?” Mr. White sat back and folded his arms.

  “My father left me an inheritance.”

  “And where is it?”

  “I assume it’s in the bank.”

  “Hmm…” Frown lines creased Mr. White’s forehead. “That does pose a problem, doesn’t it?”

  Moira shifted, feeling uncomfortable now. She’d never had to consider her finances before. “Yes, I suppose it does.”

  The serving wench carried a large tray to their table and deposited two plates of food and the drinks in front of them. The smell rising from what appeared to be beef stew was not at all unpleasant and Moira’s stomach rumbled, reminding her she’d had very little to eat today.

  Mr. White caught the woman’s wrist as she turned to go. “Tell us your name that we may leave a word of recommendation for you with your employer.”

  Her smile looked rather mechanical. “Dolly is m’name, sir.”

  “And, Dolly, do tell how you came to be working here?”

  She yanked her hand free. “None of yer business how and why. Do you think I’d be here if I had a choice?”

  Mr. White gave a careless shrug and Dolly scurried away.

  His gaze slid to Moira and she realized she’d learned her first lesson. She had no money to pay for her escape aboard the Seahawk, no coin to cover her meal. In short, she was in no better situation than Dolly.

  “I find myself in quite the conundrum, Mr. White.”

  “I’m glad you realize it.”

  Moira arched a brow. “But you have known it all along, haven’t you?”

  He nodded and lifted his fork. “We best eat whilst the food is hot.”

  Moira closed her eyes and murmured a quick prayer of thanks and then ate the surprisingly tasty stew atop a biscuit. After devouring half her portion, she couldn’t eat another bite.

  Mr. White waved Dolly over.

  “Now what?” she said, her hands on her broad hips.

  “Do you know a man…the Baron Kingsley?”

  Dolly snickered. “Of course. All us girls know him.”

  Moira’s face suddenly felt like she’d been in the sun too long. Surely the woman wasn’t referring to Uncle Tyrus. He was a pillar of righteousness.

  Wasn’t he?

  “The baron graces us with his presence at least once a week.”

  Moira’s heart skipped. Surely not!

  “Isn’t it true that Baron Kingsley had come down in the world until his niece came to live with him?”

  “’Tis true, all right. He owed everyone money. But the hearsay is his niece brought with her an inheritance in the nick of time.” Dolly tossed her head and the straw-like mass on top of it barely moved. “And the baron is doin’ his best to spend it, that he is. Why, he’s been right generous to me.”

  Moira’s mouth fell open. How dare this woman spout such lies! She glanced at Mr. White, whose darkened gaze warned her to keep quiet.

  “And what of this prince of a fellow…a Major Nettles? I met him this evening. He’s to marry the wealthy niece.”

  “Prince, indeed!” Dolly snickered. “I’ve got a six-inch scar on me breast that says he ain’t no prince.” She gl
anced Moira’s way. “He likes to swordplay, you see, and he got a bit too…playful. I thought he’d cut me in two.”

  “The knave!” Moira had no problem believing Dolly’s story. “What a horrid, evil man.”

  “Pity the niece.” The serving wench shamelessly pulled down her already low-set neckline. “Look what he done to me. Just look!”

  “I see.” Moira swallowed hard, her gaze fixed on the fat pink scar running downward on the harlot’s well-rounded, pale flesh.

  “Imagine what the man will do to a wife? She’ll be his property, to do with as he wishes.”

  “Yes, I can imagine.” She sank back in her chair, praying her escape plans would somehow come to fruition.

  But that raised the issue of money again.

  Mr. White pressed a coin into Dolly’s waiting palm. “Thank you for your time.”

  She inspected the coin. “Anytime.” She adjusted her bodice and sent Mr. White a seductive look. To his credit, Mr. White didn’t return the gesture.

  Moira lowered her gaze and studied the scarred tabletop.

  “So what have you to say of all this, Miss Kingsley?”

  Moira brought her gaze to his. “I have learned that I’m penniless as we speak, while my uncle is scandalously spending my inheritance.” She bit down hard, trying to contain her anger. Be angry and sin not as God’s Word said. But Papa would be outraged if he knew what Uncle Tyrus did with the money he’d set aside for her.

  She reclaimed her emotions. “I’m also certain now that my suspicions of Major Nettles are no longer suspicions, and I wish for escape more than ever.” She tipped her head. “But how?”

  Mr. White drained his mug. “Never fear, Miss Kingsley. We only have one visit to make tonight and all will be well.” He leaned toward her and rewarded her with a charming smile. “I have thought of everything.”

  Chapter Four

  “How much farther?”

  “Almost there, Miss Kingsley.”

  The second hired coach of the evening bumped along macadamized roads as they reached the city of London and now rode through the streets. Then quite suddenly, the driver pulled his team to a halt. Mr. White climbed out of the carriage and assisted Miss Kingsley’s descent before handing the driver a coin. “Wait here. We shan’t be too long.”

  The driver tugged on his low-slung cap.

  Sam offered his arm and Miss Kingsley took it.

  “Of all the nerve! Spending my inheritance on loose living. My uncle should be ashamed!”

  “I should say so.” She was angry. Good. A smirk tugged at the corners of his lips and he gave in to it.

  Miss Kingsley fairly stomped her way up the walkway of her uncle’s banker’s home. Sam had it on good report that the man, Mr. George Golsby, kept an enormous amount of coin in his home office’s vault, should Baron Kingsley or other clients get themselves into trouble after hours or should one of those aristocrats be forced to pay off an unfortunate who would not be a welcomed sight in the local branch of the Bank of England. Though Miss Kingsley was hardly an unfortunate, she couldn’t exactly march into the bank and demand her funds.

  But she could pay Mr. Golsby a surprise visit this evening and catch him off guard.

  They reached the front entrance, marked by a red door. Sam unbuttoned his tailcoat, making sure his pistol was secure and at a moment’s reach.

  Miss Kingsley noticed the weapon. “You don’t really plan to shoot him, do you?”

  “I don’t plan to, no.” Sam gave the brass doorknocker a few good raps. He inhaled deeply. This had to go well.

  Miss Kingsley lifted her chin and pushed back her slender shoulders.

  A middle-aged maid answered the door.

  “We’re here to see Mr. Golsby, please,” Sam said. “It’s important.”

  “At this hour?” The maid brought her chin back so quickly it threatened the mobcap topping her head of brown curls. “The Golsbys are readying themselves for dinner.”

  “It won’t take long. Tell him that Baron Kingsley’s niece is here to see him.”

  The woman slammed the door in their faces.

  Sam hurled a glance upward.

  “How dare she shut us out like stray cats that mewed on the threshold!” Miss Kingsley gave a toss of her head. “Why, had she any manners, she’d have invited us into the parlor.”

  “I agree. No manners at all.” Sam hoped to fuel her righteous indignation.

  Minutes later, the door reopened and the maid, looking somewhat shamefaced, beckoned them inside.

  Mr. Golsby met them in the long, narrow foyer. “Well, well, to what do I owe this surprise?” He looked from Sam to Miss Kingsley.

  “I’m here to collect my inheritance, if you please.”

  Sam coughed. That’s not the way he meant this conversation to begin. “What she means is…”

  “Allow me.” She took a step toward Mr. Golsby. “I’m Baron Kingsley’s niece, Miss Moira Kingsley. My father was a missionary in Uganda. I’m sure you heard that he and my mother were killed in a fiery uprising, brought on by a rival tribe.”

  “A tragedy to be sure.” Impatience hung on the man’s every syllable. “But what has that to do with your inheritance or me?” He tipped his head. “And aren’t you supposed to be at your engagement party? My family and I would have come, but my wife’s parents are visiting from France.”

  “Then we’d best get this matter over with.” Miss Kingsley stepped nearer to Golsby, her willowy frame nearly towering over him. “My father did not intend for my uncle to squander that money on imbibing and womanizing—and at The Hungry Bear, no less!”

  Golsby sputtered.

  Sam folded his arms. So far so good.

  “I have evidence of this habit, sir, and if you refuse to give me my inheritance, I shall go to the newspaper.”

  Newspaper? Sam lifted his chin, thought it over, and let the threat dangle.

  “Now, see here, Miss Kingsley!” Golsby’s face turned crimson by degrees beneath the ensconced lighting. “This is my home, and—”

  “I shall leave it at once and never return if you’ll kindly give me my inheritance—or what’s left of it.”

  “Where is your uncle? He is your guardian—and Major Nettles is your intended.”

  “Not anymore. My father would have never allowed me to marry such a man. One who cuts up women with the tip of his sword.”

  “Where did you hear such an outlandish tale?”

  “’Tis no tale, sir, but a fact. I saw the scar with my own eyes.”

  Miss Kingsley’s shoulders rose as she sucked in a deep breath. Sam thought she meant to shout and he moved to take her elbow. Losing her patience would accomplish nothing.

  “Give me my inheritance or I shall go to the newspaper this very night!” She whispered the words but in such a way as to raise even Sam’s hackles.

  He almost pitied Golsby.

  “And I shall name names,” she added.

  “George?” Another feminine voice floated up from behind Golsby. “George, what’s this about?” A woman in a pearl silk gown appeared.

  “Nothing, my dear. Go on back to the parlor. I shall join you shortly.”

  “Would our guests like to stay for dinner?” The woman’s gaze fastened on Sam in a way that said she wouldn’t mind some flirtation.

  Sam looked away and pretended to study the nearby framed oil on canvas while keeping aware of Golsby’s movement. He sensed the man might produce a pistol at any moment. After all, the contentious subject would impact him financially.

  Golsby introduced his wife.

  “I’m Baron Kingsley’s niece, ma’am, and this is my…my husband, Samuel Wainwright.”

  What? Sam hid his shock by bowing politely.

  “How is he your husband?” Golsby boomed. “You’re betrothed to Major Nettles!”

  Miss Kingsley clutched Sam’s arm. “Well, you see, no one ever asked me about the engagement to Major Nettles. If they had, I would have confessed to my clandestine co
urtship with Samuel here.” She batted her eyes at him and Sam battled the urge to grin.

  All the while the Golsbys stared at Miss Kingsley as if she’d spoken a foreign language.

  “We were married recently, you see”—her voice sounded smooth and sweet, like honey—“and we planned to confess the truth to everyone at the party tonight, but then I found out what Uncle Tyrus has been doing with my inheritance. Gaming and whoring!” The edge returned to her tone.

  Mrs. Golsby gasped and clutched her throat.

  “What’s more, I seem to recall my father stating that I would gain access to my funds once I married or turned twenty-one. As you’re aware, I’m only eighteen. However, I am married.”

  Ahh…

  Sam understood the reason for her fib at once and decided to play along. He put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close to him. “Be calm, my darling. If Mr. Golsby refuses to cooperate, we can always take the matter to the courts—after we go to the newspaper tonight.”

  Miss Kingsley stared up at him with a sudden vulnerability shining in her eyes. It felt quite natural to place a kiss on her forehead.

  “Go to the newspaper?” Mrs. Golsby shrieked. “What would you say to them?”

  “I would say…” Her gray eyes turned stone-like before she gazed at the Golsbys. “Baron Tyrus Kingsley is a fraud. He is not an upstanding man. Nor is Major Nettles, who scarred a servicing wench with some sort of illicit swordplay. Baron Kingsley is not wealthy either, but has been scandalously spending his deceased missionary brother’s funds, which were donated by God-fearing people who intended for the money to further God’s kingdom.” She took a breath. “That’s what I’d say. For starters. Then I’d name the people involved with such spending. I would say—”

  “My darling, I think the Golsbys understand your intentions.” Enough chitchat. They had a ship to board. Sam pointed a stare at Mr. Golsby. “And now my wife will collect her inheritance—or what’s left of it.”

  Golsby said nothing, but pulled a ring of keys on a chain from his tailcoat’s front pocket. He headed down the adjoining hall.

  “Wait here,” Sam whispered to his wife-in-lie. Then he followed Golsby to be sure his beloved got every coin she owned.