The front door flew open and slammed against the wall. Enzo startled. The senior guard barged into the small antechamber where Enzo was made to sit at a small table all day to receive visitors. A blast of cold air swept in with Monsieur Gilson, but the inconsiderate ass didn’t close the door behind him. Rainwater dripped from his coat and onto the floor.
He glared at the letter in Enzo’s hand. “What the hell do you have? Is that another letter for Fletcher?”
Enzo perked up at the reminder. “Yes, his betrothed is returning to England and—”
“Do I look like I care? Get rid of it.”
As Gilson clomped across the antechamber, leaving puddles of water on the floor, Enzo scurried after him.
“But sir, Mr. Fletcher’s betrothed has the means to pay his fine now. Can’t I allow him to have this one?”
“Does our commander have the money in his hand?”
“No, not yet, but Lady Adele will be here soon with what is owed.”
Gilson cursed him for being an idiot and kept walking.
Enzo deflated with a giant exhale and gave up the crusade. Lara would be disappointed in him, but she didn’t realize how tyrannical Gilson could be. If Enzo insisted, the senior guard would make him walk the outside perimeter of the prison all day in the rain. Instead, he was stuck at his table as usual.
With a sigh, Enzo tucked the letter into his jacket pocket and trudged for the door to close it. He supposed he should toss the letter on the grate in case Gilson decided to search him at the end of the day. The brute took pleasure in robbing others of happiness—and rumors had it, the prisoner’s valuables, although no one with any sense would accuse him of stealing.
Enzo grabbed the edge of the door, noting the handle appeared loose after its collision with the stone wall. One day Gilson was going to break the door and probably cast the blame onto Enzo. He really despised his job.
No sooner did the door latch than it flew open again. Enzo caught it before it hit the wall and glowered at the newcomer. It was a tall man, broad of shoulders, yet lean.
“Are you planning to move out of my bloody way?” he asked with an air of superiority Enzo had come to expect from an Englishman.
“By all means, Sir Almighty.” Enzo sneered. “We wouldn’t want you to catch a chill, what with you being a delicate pansy and all.” He stepped aside and offered a mocking bow.
The man held his head high as he crossed the threshold, leaving another trail of water on the floor for Enzo to clean.
“The name is Sampson Fletcher, and I’ve come for my son.”
Enzo’s irritation evaporated. The prison commander had urged Marcus Fletcher to write to his sire months ago about his incarceration and fine—the poor man’s apartments had been robbed of anything of value, so he couldn’t secure his own release. Enzo had given up hope that Marcus’s father would ever respond, but here he was.
“Yes, please”—Enzo closed the door—“come in.”
Sampson Fletcher aimed a sardonic look in his direction. “I am in. Go retrieve my son.”
“You must speak with the commander first, sir. Monsieur Jaubert is firm about the rules.”
“The bastard is holding my son for ransom. I do not care about his rules.”
Enzo vacillated between dashing off to follow the man’s orders and setting him straight. He decided it was best to warn Mr. Fletcher’s father against upsetting the commander.
“Sir, I have been a guard at La Force for three years, and I can assure you it has never worked to any man’s advantage to go against Monsieur Jaubert. If you refuse to follow his rules, you are likely to have your own cell before the hour is out.”
Crimson splotches appeared on the Englishman’s face, and Enzo feared he would be called to action if the man lost his temper.
“Very well,” Sampson Fletcher said through clenched teeth. “But no one is receiving as much as a halfpenny until I’ve spoken with my son.”
The tension in Enzo’s shoulders eased. “Very good, sir. If you will follow me, please.”
He showed the gentleman to the parlor where Monsieur Jaubert met with the prison’s wealthier guests. The commander believed speaking with ladies and gentlemen in a more familiar setting bred cooperation. Before Enzo left to inform the commander of the man’s arrival, he had a thought. He pulled Lady Adele’s letter from his jacket and held it out to the man. “This came for your son today.”
Sampson Fletcher looked down his nose at him. “Why is it unsealed? Did you read it?”
Enzo grunted. He didn’t care for this arrogant man or his judgments one bit. “La Grande Force Prison will read any prisoners’ correspondence it wishes. Give this to your son and keep your mouth closed about it.”
“Toss it in the rubbish,” Sampson said.
Enzo cursed him under his breath.
“On your feet, mongrel.”
Marcus gritted his teeth at the sound of the senior guard’s nasal voice outside his cell door.
Gilson rapped the cane he always carried against the iron bars. “Now, you son of a whore.”
Marcus slowly closed the book he had been reading and held his tongue. He recognized Gilson’s tactic for what it was. The senior guard took pleasure in goading the inmates to anger so he could justify soundly thrashing them. Marcus had been spared Gilson’s brutality thus far since Monsieur Jaubert believed he was more valuable with all his bones intact, but Gilson found other ways to make Marcus’s stay unpleasant for the pettiest of reasons.
The first five weeks of his incarceration were spent with no mattress in his cell for daring to speak without permission. When he had complained about the lousy fare, Gilson’s men had served him nothing for days on end except old bread hard enough to chip one’s teeth. Once, the guard had thrown a bucket of frigid water on him for sleeping past dawn, and later that week, taken his boots for waking too early and pacing his cell.
If Marcus withstood the harassments with stoicism, Gilson eventually lost interest. The blackguard never grew tired of taunting him about Adele, however. Marcus had foolishly revealed he was expecting her visit his first night, and she had never come. Gilson had been toying with him ever since.
“No word from Lady Adele again today, Fletcher? Perhaps she has taken a new lover.”
Marcus remained silent as the lock clanked and the cell door screeched on rusty hinges. Reminders of Adele’s betrayal reopened old wounds, but he refused to show his tormentor how he still bled.
Gilson sighed when he failed to rile Marcus. “Monsieur Jaubert wants to see you. Be quick about it.”
The prison commander hadn’t summoned him in several weeks. Perhaps the man had finally realized Marcus’s sire didn’t care if he rotted in prison forever. Even if he did, Sampson Fletcher probably didn’t have two pound notes in his purse, much less a hefty ransom at his disposal. He was a gambler and a spendthrift, and he had been long before he had fathered Marcus.
“Arms out,” Gilson barked as he took a set of shackles from the hook outside the cell.
Marcus held his arms out in front of him, fuming as the guard locked the iron bands around his wrists and grabbed a second set for his ankles. “Jaubert will order you to remove them—he always does—so why do you bother?”
Gilson knelt at his feet to tether his legs together. Once the lock clicked, the guard looked up with a sneer. “Because it bothers you.”
The guard stood and yanked him toward Jaubert’s quarters. Marcus shuffled along the stone corridor behind him. Gilson took him to a different room this time. In the past, Jaubert had summoned him to the parlor to discuss Marcus’s financial worth and various means for making restitution for his crime. This room was small like a cell, and the only furniture in the space was a trestle table and two chairs. It was also empty.
Monsieur Jaubert entered the room and glowered at the guard. “Remove his shackles.”
Marcus didn’t have a chance to gloat before he heard a familiar voice from the corridor. “Let’s not be hast
y.” Sampson Fletcher filled the doorway, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “I have not yet decided if I want him released.”
The commander’s mouth puckered, and he snapped at Gilson to remove the irons. Once Marcus was free of the shackles, Jaubert ordered Sampson and Marcus to take a seat.
“You have ten minutes,” Jaubert said, glaring at Marcus’s sire. “Do not cause me to regret allowing you this privilege.”
The door closed, and Marcus and Sampson were left alone.
“It appears there is no time for pleasantries.” Sampson reached into his jacket to remove a folded sheet of paper from a pocket. He dropped it on the table and pushed it toward Marcus. “For you.”
Marcus held his gaze as he unfolded the sheet, attempting to discern what his sire wanted. As he scanned the document, he furrowed his brow. “You want my permission to plunder the estate?”
“Plunder is a harsh word, my boy. The agreement does not include land.”
“You want to sell our family heirlooms. Does your conscience allow you to sleep? You will drain the coffers and burden your heirs with your personal debts.”
Marcus’s grandfather had foreseen his own son would become a spendthrift, and he had tried to protect the estate for future generations by holding the family lands and valuables in a trust for the heirs. Every item of worth—the land, paintings, jewels, silver, tapestries—belonged equally to Marcus and his sire. Someday the heirlooms would be shared between Marcus and his son, and so on as long as there was an heir to inherit.
Sampson sniffed. “It is only a few paintings. I have no heirs beyond you, and look at the mess you are in now. Given your recklessness, I would not be surprised in the least if the family bloodline died with you.”
Marcus did not believe his sire was so cruel as to wish for his demise, but Sampson’s aims would be easier to achieve if he were the only living heir. “I have a duty—”
“Consent to the resettlement agreement,” Sampson said through gritted teeth, “and I will pay the bloody ransom.”
“My freedom in exchange for allowing you to steal my inheritance.” Marcus grunted with disgust. “Who is the extortionist now?”
Sampson’s cheeks puffed out; his face turned scarlet. He looked like a child on the verge of a tantrum. “Do you think I enjoy coercing you?”
“I believe you find some pleasure in it, yes.”
“It is better than begging from you,” his sire said.
“Begging would be a wasted effort, so it is good you preserved your pride.” Marcus placed the paper on the table and smoothed his hands over it to flatten it. Sampson might have won the battle, but Marcus was far from surrendering the war.
“I grant my permission.”
The blackguard smiled. “Very good. I will have Monsieur Jaubert retrieve a quill and ink. I imagine you are eager to begin the journey home.”
Marcus was apathetic about returning to England now that he would be arriving alone. It seemed like a lifetime ago when he and Adele had talked of setting up house and starting a family. Briefly, he considered staying in Paris long enough to confront her and formally break their betrothal but discarded the idea post haste. He would rather cut out his heart than beg her to love him in return, and he feared he might be foolish enough to beg if he saw her again. His weakness disgusted him.
Five
Five months later, London
* * *
“Harry, do you have the newssheet?” Adele glided into the drawing room where her brother preferred to take refreshment before departing for the House of Lords. “It isn’t on the—”
She stopped mid-stride. The sight of her stepmother taking refreshment in the chair next to Harry soured her disposition. Millicent swiveled on the cushion to aim a too-bright-to-be-sincere smile in her direction.
“How lovely to see you, Adele.”
Millicent’s Skye terrier was tucked against her side as usual. The silky grey hair on top of the dog’s head was tied up in a pink bow to match Millicent’s ensemble—a frivolous gown with ruffles, lace, and enough satin ribbon to truss up a sow.
“Good afternoon,” Adele said with as much politeness as she could muster for the woman. Adele’s two half-brothers stood in deference to her and smiled warmly.
Millicent clucked her tongue as she fed half a sandwich to her rotund pet. “Boys, where are your manners? Greet your sister.”
At the ages of nineteen and seventeen, Jefferson and Leo were hardly boys. Neither did they require prompting to behave as gentlemen. They were perfectly amiable young men, and the only two reasons Adele didn’t turn on her heel and bolt from the room.
She greeted Jefferson first with kisses to his cheeks before subjecting her youngest brother to the same treatment.
“You don’t bite, do you?” she teased Leo as she joined him on the sofa.
“Only on Tuesdays.”
She laughed and patted his knee. “I should know by now I cannot match wits with you. You are much too clever.”
Leo blushed but appeared pleased by the compliment.
Although Millicent and her sons were staying with relatives in Town, she often brought Jefferson and Leo around. It was a sad state of affairs that Adele and Harry were only now becoming acquainted with their brothers. She was certain Millicent was using the young men to win favor with Harry now that he was the seventh Duke of Corbyn, although her motives were unclear.
Perhaps their father’s widow hoped to re-establish herself as lady of the house since Harry was a bachelor, but Harry and Adele had an agreement. She would fulfill the role until her brother selected a wife—or until Marcus, who was back in London, decided to forgive her. If he ever did. After several months without any overture from him, her hope was dwindling.
Upon their arrival to England, Adele and Harry had stayed in London while their father’s solicitor executed his will. Remaining in Town had been the logical choice since they had intended to return to Paris and pay Marcus’s fine post haste. Prior to Harry receiving his inheritance, however, Marcus had returned on his own.
She and Harry had learned of his homecoming when her brother crossed paths with Marcus at the club. Harsh words were exchanged, and Harry’s recounting of the meeting had them almost coming to blows. Adele hadn’t expected a reunion between her brother and Marcus to go well, but naively, she had believed her betrothed would be eager to see her.
Following Marcus’s argument with her brother, Adele had risked her reputation and called at his bachelor quarters only to discover he had retired to the country without a word. Only slightly disheartened, she had written to his mother inviting Marcus and his family to be their houseguests at the family seat in Sussex. Harry had been prepared to grovel at her urging, and she had hoped for peace between her brother and her betrothed, so everyone could look toward the future.
Mrs. Fletcher’s regrets had shaken her confidence that everything could be set to rights, but she couldn’t give up her hope for a reconciliation with her betrothed. Life without him had been unbearable these long months. Unfortunately, he didn’t seem to share her distress, as evidenced by his various escapades recorded in the gossip pages.
She spotted the newssheet lying on the side table next to Harry. It was very tempting to offer an excuse and disappear above stairs with it, but she couldn’t bring herself to be rude to her half-siblings—or leave Harry to manage their stepmother alone.
Leo caught the direction of her gaze. “Ah, there is the Morning Times.” He retrieved it from the table and plopped back down beside her. “What are we interested in today?”
As he snapped open the paper, Jefferson left his seat to sit at Adele’s other side. “I saw an interesting tidbit about a play earlier,” the older brother said. “The author declared the fighting onstage to be the most realistic he has ever seen. Look on page four.”
Adele tried to scan for Marcus’s name when Leo flipped through the gossip pages to reach the article about the play, but he was too quick. It was just as well. If she r
ead about another lovers’ quarrel with an actress at a restaurant or saw mention of him calling on a debutant, she might be unable to maintain her dignity.
“Here it is,” Leo said then proceeded to read the review aloud. “This sounds entertaining. Perhaps we should plan a night at the theatre.”
Adele shrugged one shoulder. Lately, she preferred quiet evenings at home. She was not in the market for a husband, and she knew very few people at the assemblies. The play’s cast was listed at the end of the article. Adele perked up when she saw a familiar name.
“I know him.” She tapped her finger to the paper. “Harry, Lars and Tilde have joined a playhouse in Marylebone.”
“Imagine that.” Harry exhibited less enthusiasm than she would have expected. Her brother and Lars had become rather chummy while Harry painted scenery for the playhouse in Brussels. “Perhaps we should do as Leo suggests and attend their play,” he said.
“I would not have the opportunity to speak freely with them after a performance. It would be better to visit when there are no crowds. Could you leave me at the theatre on your way to the Lords? A hackney coach could carry me home.”
“Perhaps another day?” Harry begged off. “I have half a mind to return to bed.”
Adele bit her bottom lip, noting the strained lines bracketing his mouth and his hand resting on his stomach. “Have the pains returned?”
Harry hadn’t been himself since he had eaten bad fish at the club earlier in the week. “It is only a twinge,” he said.
“It has been four days. The time has come to summon a doctor.”
“I need rest. Nothing more.” His jawline firmed. “I will be fine.”
Her brother was stubborn about such matters and would have to be on his deathbed to allow the doctor to call. She suspected he was worried about discovering he had contracted a serious illness, and he believed it was best to remain ignorant.
“You poor dear.” Millicent stood, leaving her dog to warm her chair, and bent over Harry to place her hand on his forehead. “Have you been feeling poorly this entire time?”
A Lady to Remember Page 4
