The Viscount's Bawdy Bargain

by Connie Lane

  “More help than you imagine.” Warming to the idea, Nick went on. “When I came upon him, Culpepper was preaching to a sizable crowd and what’s more to the point, he had his entire family with him. He introduced them one by one. A whole flock of Culpeppers, large and small.”

  “That leaves out Mrs. Culpepper!” Hexam observed with a laugh.

  “It does, indeed,” Nick agreed. “Though now that you mention it, I did not see a Mrs. Culpepper. Nonetheless, it does not leave out the reverend’s daughter.”

  He had the interest of the Dashers now, even Latimer, and Nick knew it. They gathered around him, eager to hear more.

  “From what I could tell, the daughter is the oldest of the lot,” he explained, casting his mind back to the afternoon. “Her name is Wilhelmina, if memory serves me right, and she stood behind her father like one of those gargoyles you might see atop a church. Stone-faced and as somber as hell. Stiff as a poker and as righteous-looking as any three country curates. She was dressed as if for a funeral. All black and dreary. Sleeves down to here.” Nick indicated the middle of his hand. “Neckline up to here.” He tapped one finger against a neckcloth he could have sworn had not hung so loose earlier in the evening.

  “It was gloomy, you remember, but even if the sun had been shining like a sovereign, she would have looked like a thundercloud.” Recalling the young lady’s expression, Nick shivered.

  “She was a pretty enough bit of baggage,” he admitted, realizing for the first time that he’d thought as much the moment he saw her. “Ginger-haired, if the bit of a curl that escaped from her plain-as-ashes poke bonnet meant anything. Gray-eyed. All the right curves in all the right places, it seems, though it took some imagination to picture them beneath the shapeless mantle she wore.” He quirked his eyebrows, confessing with a look that just as they all would have done when confronted with a woman of even limited appeal, he had done his level best to picture what might lie beneath the yards of black cloth.

  “But curves or no curves, eyes like starlight or not, she was a perfect Devil’s daughter, I can tell you that much. Icy as the Thames two winters past. Unbending as the stoutest willow. Surely there isn’t a man who could get within ten feet of her and live to tell the story.” Nick thumped his fist against the table. “I’m certain of it! If ever there was a virgin in all of London, it is Wilhelmina Culpepper!”

  The Dashers cheered and might have gone on saluting Nick’s brilliance had not Monteford waved his hands, calling for silence.

  “That’s all well and good,” the newest of the Dashers proclaimed. “But I don’t see how it helps us.”

  The others were obviously not so lackwitted. Already, they were heading for the door. As was his habit, Newbury appeared as if by magic and started handing around gloves and capes and tall top hats. Hexam stowed the appropriate supplies, one bottle of claret in each of his pockets. Palliston tucked in reinforcements.

  “Monteford, Monteford, Monteford.” Sympathetic both to the man’s naïveté and the fact that he was so new to the Dashers as to be oblivious to the lengths they would go to top the Blades in any and all mischief, Nick clapped him on the shoulder and wound one arm through his, hauling him toward the door.

  “The answer is simple,” Nick told him. “We will go around to this church of the Reverend Culpepper’s and collect the pious miss. We’ll bring her back here and when they arrive, we will present her to the Blades. After which we will collect the one thousand pounds.”

  “But…but…” Monteford spluttered. “But if she is anything like you say she is, I cannot believe she would participate. What if she doesn’t want to come with us?”

  Naïveté was too kind a word.

  Nick threw back his head and laughed, grabbing for a wine bottle on his way out the door.

  “Of course she won’t want to come with us,” he said matter-of-factly. “And that leaves us only one choice, doesn’t it? We will simply have to abduct her!”

  2

  Wilhelmina Culpepper did not much enjoy the choir of the Church of Divine and Imperishable Justice.

  Ebenezer Miller, who served the congregation as choirmaster, pounded the keys of the hand-pumped organ until they screamed for mercy. He had a voice that was every bit as mellifluous as his musical touch was deft, and as if that wasn’t bad enough, he had persuaded his tone-deaf wife to join him in his musical quest for redemption.

  Try as she might to find it in her heart to be thankful for the Millers’ talents as well as their enthusiasm, Wilhelmina had to admit that their combined voices did little to enhance the overall effect produced by the other members of the choir: faithful, devoted, inharmonious all.

  Officially, of course, it was Ebenezer Miller who chose the hymns, Ebenezer Miller who inspired the choir to practice long hours in the unlikely hopes of reaching heavenly perfection.

  But it was Hannibal Culpepper who was the true driving force behind the music. They all knew that. Hannibal Culpepper was the driving force behind everything that had to do with the Church of Divine and Imperishable Justice, from how many lamps were lit within its walls to which prayers were recited and how loudly they must be said.

  The thought made Wilhelmina uncomfortable. Raising her eyes from her hymnal, she dared a glance at her father.

  Eyes closed with zealous concentration, high forehead beaded with sweat, the Reverend Culpepper sang the words of the old familiar hymn with far more gusto than Wilhelmina supposed even its composer had ever intended. His bass voice boomed through the barren and cheerless church, emphasizing those words he wanted his congregation to remember: the verse that sang of the perils of eternal damnation, the line that spoke of fire and sword, the tuneful chorus that reminded the reasonably well-fed, well-scrubbed tradesman-class folk huddled there against the spring chill that it was their responsibility—nay, their divinely ordained duty—to convert the heathen throngs.

  Heathen throngs were another thing Wilhelmina did not want to think about. If she dared, her mind would start racing and she knew exactly where it would lead: to the fate that awaited her the next morning. Even listening to the singing was far more agreeable than thinking about the journey to India and what would happen once they got there and her father put into motion the plans he had for her future.

  The thought was too painful and eager to be rid of it, Wilhelmina brushed aside her black mantle so that she might check the small round watch attached with a golden pin to the bosom of her black dress.

  It was nearly nine o’clock.

  She didn’t have much time.

  Once the hymn was finished and her father started preaching, she knew he would not be finished for at least another hour.

  And in another hour, Madame Brenard would be here and gone. It was now or never.

  Steeling her resolve and holding her breath, Wilhelmina slipped out of the pew. Her youngest brother, Isaac, looked up from his hymnal with a question in his eyes, and she signaled him for silence, one finger to her lips. When she pulled open the door, it creaked dreadfully and Wilhelmina cringed.

  Fortunately, at that moment Mr. Miller raised his voice to an impossibly high pitch over an even more impossibly long note. Reverend Culpepper heard neither creak nor groan but remained as engrossed as ever in his devotion.

  The strident sounds of salvation still ringing in her ears, Wilhelmina stepped out into the street.

  It was chilly for a spring evening, and she clutched her mantle closer around herself. In the meager light that spilled from the open doorway of a house across the street, she made her way toward the deep shadows that shrouded the back of the church. She was almost there when she heard the sounds of footsteps behind her.

  It was too soon for Madame Brenard.

  Tipping her head, Wilhelmina listened carefully and when she heard no other sounds, she scolded herself for her childish fears. Pulling back her shoulders and raising her head, she continued on her way.

  She might have made it if someone hadn’t clutched her by the arm.


  Wilhelmina’s heart leaped into her throat. She spun around. “Madame Brenard!” The name whooshed out of Wilhelmina along with every last vestige of anxiety. “You startled me!”

  “Sorry, chère amie.” Coloring from her massive and recklessly exposed bosom to the roots of hair the color of which God had never intended on mortal woman, Madame Brenard dropped her hand from Wilhelmina’s sleeve.

  Madame was an immense woman with beefy hands and a face that, no matter how much paint she daubed on it, always looked far too florid. In spite of her enormous size, she had the smallest feet Wilhelmina had ever seen. She stepped from foot to foot on the tips of her red satin slippers, struggling to keep them out of the puddles left by a fleeting afternoon rain. The effect was not unlike that of a sailing ship listing in stormy seas.

  “I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Madame said. “I only thought I might get ’ere a bit early-like so you wouldn’t ’ave to be gone too long from the service.” She poked her chin in the direction of the church and even in the dim light, Wilhelmina could not help but notice the look that crossed her face, as if she’d just bitten into a lemon.

  “’E’s going on right well this evenin’, ain’t ’e? Like a regular Hapostle.” She clicked her tongue and tossed her head. “’E’d ’ave apoplexy right enough if ’e knew you was out ’ere with the likes of me.”

  Wilhelmina knew Madame Brenard was absolutely right, and regardless of the fact that she also knew it was as sinful as it was uncharitable, she could not control the anger that rose inside her at the realization. In spite of her name (which she claimed was legitimate) and the French accent she sometimes affected (to add a certain Continental ambience to the house of comfort she ran over near the river), Madame Brenard was as English as the sky above and as generous and warmhearted a woman as any Wilhelmina had ever known. The fact that her father chose to ignore the woman’s kindly nature and focus instead on her dubious profession had always been something of a sore spot with Wilhelmina.

  “Papa means well.” She was not so much a perfect block to believe it, but Wilhelmina said the words nevertheless, both to cheer Madame and to appease her own conscience. “He is simply more interested in—”

  “More interested in savin’ them what don’t need it than in ’elping them what do.” Madame shook her head in disgust. “What ’e needs is more of your kind of charity and less of ’is own high and mighty—”

  “Pay it no mind.” Wilhelmina cut Madame off before she could get any further. It was one thing to think such thoughts herself about her father. It was another to allow someone else to give them voice. Especially when they both knew Madame’s assessment of the Reverend Mister Culpepper’s character was true.

  Reaching behind a rain barrel that was tucked up against the back wall of the church, Wilhelmina retrieved a bulky bundle. “Here.” She handed the parcel to Madame. “Here are the clothes I promised you for your girls. They are not all the crack, I’m afraid, but they are warm and serviceable and with your skills as a seamstress—”

  “Don’t you think another thing of it.” Madame accepted the bundle and tucked it up under her arm. “Haut ton or not, the girls, they’ll be grateful for whatever you’ve collected. You can be sure of that. We’ve got some new young things just in from the country. All of them orphans. They ’aven’t a decent stitch among them.”

  Wilhelmina did not need to tell Madame that she understood and that she sympathized. There might be nothing Wilhelmina could say to help, but she tried to do as much as she was able.

  “There you go.” Madame darted a glance toward the church, as the last strains of the hymn lumbered into the night air. “You’d best get yourself back inside. Before ’e finds you’re gone.” She didn’t move an inch but looked at the ground and if the light had been better, Wilhelmina would have sworn Madame’s eyes were misty. She hugged the bundle of clothing to her bosom.

  “We’ll miss you, lamb,” Madame said. “It’s a crying shame ’e ’as you goin’ off to India with ’im in the mornin’. And sadder still that ’e insists you marry once you get there.”

  “I’ll be fine.” Wilhelmina spoke the words she’d been practicing ever since her father announced that he had arranged a suitable marriage for her with the suitable, like-minded and perfectly odious Reverend Childress Smithe.

  Odd, her speech had sounded convincing when she said it to herself in front of her mirror. Now, it sounded as hollow as the feeling that gnawed at her insides.

  “India is quite beautiful,” she said, steering the conversation away from the topic she knew she could not broach without losing all that was left of her self-possession. “You know we spent a number of years there when I was a girl and even though it is where my mother died, I do have good memories. Brilliant blue skies. Generous people. A culture I find fascinating.”

  “Even though ’e thinks it ain’t fit for you to be fascinated.”

  Wilhelmina managed a bittersweet smile. “The journey is long and it will give me a chance to practice my sketching and catch up on my reading and—”

  “And when you get there?”

  Madame’s question hung in the air, as real and as chilling as the wisps of fog that floated by.

  Wilhelmina braced herself. “Reverend Smithe will be following us out when he is done with the business he is undertaking now in Glasgow. He should arrive a month or so after we are settled and then…” She swallowed down her disgust. “Papa says it is the perfect match.”

  “And what do you say?” The question burst out of Madame along with an exasperated “Harrumph!” She shifted the bundle of clothing up under her left arm. “A girl like you shouldn’t be condemned to life with a man as ’ard as that. And don’t you go sayin’ it ain’t true. I seen ’im, you remember. When ’e visited ’ere last month to toady up to your father and check you out as if you were a ’orse to be ’aggled over at the Weydon Fair. I seen that Reverend Smithe and I’ll tell you somethin’, my girl, ’e’s a stub-faced, self-righteous son of a sow who will get ’is children on you, work you near to death, bore you until you’re want-witted and in the process, miss nary an occasion to offer you the Turkish treatment and remind you that you are a cabbage head and not nearly as saved for all eternity as ’is damned, bloody self is.”

  “I know all that.” The words stopped against the knot wedged in Wilhelmina’s throat. “But as Papa likes to remind me, I am twenty-eight and not getting any younger. Perhaps if I had some means of my own…”

  There was nothing more she could say.

  In spite of the fact that she knew it would embarrass her quite as effectively as it would put an end to their disagreement, she gave Madame a peck on the cheek. “I hope to return someday and when I do, I promise I will see you again.”

  “But I—”

  “Take care of yourself.” Wilhelmina shooed Madame toward the street. “Make sure you keep up with your rent. You know Mr. Murtaugh promises to send you packing into the street if you do not!”

  She heard Madame sniff. The subject of her landlord was one sure to make Madame indignant. With any luck at all, it would help to take Madame’s thoughts off Wilhelmina’s troubles and put them squarely on her own. “I’d like to see the bastard try,” Madame grumbled.

  Wilhelmina watched Madame disappear into the foggy night. “I’ll miss you, too,” she whispered, and she turned to head to the church door.

  She never got there.

  Before she could move another step, someone grabbed her around the waist. Before she could make a sound, a hand—a man’s hand—clamped over her mouth.

  Reason fled and instinct took over. Wilhelmina struggled with all her might. Writhing and kicking, she ground her heel into the top of her attacker’s foot.

  To her wonder, when the man spoke, she heard an edge of laughter in his voice. “You were wrong about this one, Somerton.” The man grunted from the strain of holding on to Wilhelmina. “She’s a lively little fish and no mistake!”

  Summoning all of
her strength, Wilhelmina twisted in such a way that she was able to sink her teeth into the man’s pudgy hand.

  “Damn!” The man loosened his hold and Wilhelmina slipped from his grasp. She whirled around, ready to dart into the street, and ran smack into something that felt like a brick wall.

  The something in question was the person of the fellow called Somerton, and he quickly fitted his hands around her waist.

  Trapped, Wilhelmina looked up into a face that was as handsome as any she’d ever seen: lips that were neither too thin or too fleshy, a chin that looked to be chipped from stone. Peeking out from a tall top hat was hair that might have been honey-colored in the light of day but now, looked more the color of old brass, rich and warm and touched with gold.

  He may have had the face of an angel, but he had the eyes of the devil himself.

  They were blue. As cold as ice. As hot as sin.

  At the same moment the realization caused a flutter of awareness to streak through her, Wilhelmina realized his mistake. She breathed a sigh of relief at the same time she tamped her wild imaginings firmly into place. “Surely, sir, you have confused me with someone else. Some other type of woman. It’s Covent Garden you want if it’s a canary bird you’re looking for.”

  Somerton’s face crinkled into a smile. “And if it’s not?”

  “If it’s not—”

  Wilhelmina frowned. If it was not a woman of easy virtue he was looking for, then what?

  Never one to settle for less than the whole accounting, she raised her chin and pinned Somerton with a look. “Explain yourself, sir. Now! You simply cannot think to accost a woman and—”

  “But I can!” Somerton tightened his grip. He was a tall man, and larger by far than Wilhelmina. The night was chilly. His body was warm. “I can accost her, I can even waylay her. If she is pretty enough, I might even try to steal a kiss.” His mouth was as dangerously close to Wilhelmina as she was to giving in to the temptation that shimmered around him like the heat from a candle flame. He leaned nearer and quite suddenly, she was all too aware of another, less-polite-to-mention portion of his anatomy as well. One an unmarried lady such as herself might not have known about at all if she did not have brothers and a friend like Madame who had always been generous enough to share her vast knowledge.