The Major's Wife (The Officer's Bride)

by Merline Lovelace

  “I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw her, Charles. There she was, as bold as brass, climbing out of a hackney coach. A hackney coach!”

  The fact that Marianne had chosen to hire a vehicle rather than take one of the Trent town carriages seemed to offend Beatrix almost as much as her sister-in-law’s destination.

  “She wasn’t even wearing a veil,” the widow fumed. “She climbed out, crossed the cobbles, and knocked on St. Just’s door without so much as a peacock feather to hide her face.”

  “Perhaps she feels there’s no need to hide her face,” Charles said coolly.

  “When she calls at a bachelor’s lodgings? Come, come, my dear brother! You must know what a scandal it would cause if word of such doings got about.”

  “Then you shall have to see it doesn’t get about.”

  At the unmistakable warning, his sister’s already high color deepened. “You may snap my head off if you wish to, Charles, but the fact remains that I saw your wife pass through Edmond St. Just’s door more than an hour ago and she has not yet returned home. I knew there was more to their association than these scruffy orphans they rescue from the streets!”

  “Bea…”

  “Just what do you intend to do about the matter?”

  “I intend to take off my uniform, get out of these boots, and enjoy a comfortable supper,” he replied with a look that warned his sister she was treading a fine line. “You’re welcome to join me…if you can refrain from casting what we both know is only a friendship in a light that isn’t worthy of either you or my wife.”

  “Well!”

  With a huff, she declined his invitation.

  Despite his dismissal of his sister’s suspicions, Charles found himself watching the clock with increasing impatience as the evening wore on. The drizzle outside turned to a dark, pelting rain. Inside, the cheerful little fire in the library did nothing to lighten the major’s mood.

  Hellfire and damnation! Had he frightened Marianne with his talk of wanting her in his bed? Or worse, driven her in desperation right to the arms of that young twig, St. Just? Was she so determined to end their marriage that she’d sacrifice her honor, her reputation?

  No! Whatever else his wife might do, she wouldn’t dishonor her vows. Charles knew her well enough now to believe that with a deep, unshakable confidence.

  So why the devil hadn’t the confounded woman returned home? What were she and St. Just up to?

  The answer arrived just after ten o’clock, delivered by a rain-drenched, snuggle-toothed individual of indeterminate age and gin-laden breath. When he rattled the knocker on the front door of the town house, the footman refused him entry. The ruffian’s repeated pounding and vociferous protestations brought Dunston hurrying to the scene.

  After a heated exchange, during which the individual identified himself as Cecil Bloodworth and reiterated his demands to see Major Trent, the butler delivered a crumpled note to the library. His face was folded into lines of grim disapproval when he returned to escort Bloodworth upstairs.

  Charles stood ramrod straight beside his desk. The greasy, hand-scribbled note lay on the blotter. “Where is my wife?”

  The man’s avid glance roamed the rich tapestries, the leather-bound volumes, the crystal decanters shimmering in the firelight. “Aren’t you going to offer a bloke a nip o’coffin varnish to warm his innards afore getting’ down to business?”

  “Where is my wife?”

  “At what, er, you might call a gentlemen’s club in the Rookery.”

  The mere mention of the district bounded by Bainbridge, George, and High Streets made the major’s blood run cold. The triangular area was honey-combed with garbage-strewn courts and blind alleys, inhabited by the poorest of the poor and the degenerates who preyed on them. With only one way in or out, the Rookery was a retreat for thieves and criminals in hiding from the police. It was also a favorite haunt of men seeking the perverse and often dangerous thrills found within its reeking confines.

  Even before Charles had left for the Crimea the newspapers had been trumpeting the need to erase this blight on London’s good name. That Marianne was now being held in a brothel located on one of those dark, teeming streets started a cold sweat at the base of the major’s spine.

  “Walked right in, she did,” Bloodworth related, shaking his head in mingled disgust and disbelief. “Her and this young idiot with her. Comin’ to rescue one o’ the girls from the clutches of evil, if you kin believe it.”

  Charles could.

  “We hustled her into a private room. Her and the gentleman what come with her.”

  “How much?”

  With another regretful glance at the crystal decanters, Bloodworth commenced serious negotiations. “Two hundred pounds.”

  “Fifty.”

  “Fifty!”

  “Twenty-five when you escort me to this club, another twenty-five when we return safely.”

  “You don’t think much of yer wife!”

  “On the contrary. It’s you I don’t think much of.”

  Thoroughly disgruntled, Bloodworth caught the bills Charles tossed his way. “Yer wife would fetch more ‘n this in just one night on her back at the club,” he muttered, wetting a filthy thumb to count the banknotes. “A prime little piece like that would… Awwwk!”

  With a strangled screech, he dropped the money and grabbed frantically at the hands wrapped around his throat.

  “Let’s be clear on one thing." With a flex of his biceps, Charles lifted the man right off his feet. “If my wife has suffered any harm…any harm, you understand…you won’t live to see sunrise.”

  Chapter Five

  Flashed all their sabres bare,

  Flashed as they turned in air,

  Sab’ring the gunners there,

  Charging an army, while

  All the world wondered…

  Charge of the Light Brigade

  “Major!”

  With a clatter of boots on the polished wood of the hall, Henry dashed from the kitchen regions to intercept Charles on his way out the door.

  “I needs to talk to you.”

  “Not now, Henry.”

  “But…” The boy skidded to a halt, his eyes rounding when he spotted the individual at the major’s side. “Wot you doin’ in the ‘ere, Bloodworth?”

  “Do you know this man?” Charles asked sharply.

  “’A course. He’s the bloke what sold me ‘n Annie to yer missus." Aggrieved, Henry glowered at the gap-toothed ruffian. “Fetched a good sum, too, ‘e did, and didn’t even slip me so much as a tuppence on the deal!”

  A sudden look of enlightenment crossed the boy’s face.

  “You gots ‘er!” he exclaimed, his fists bunching. “You gots Annie, don’t you? Now you’re tryin’ to sell ‘er back to the missus.”

  Charles shot him a hard glance. “Annie’s missing?”

  “That’s wot I come to tell you. Cook says she was a snifflin’ over being scolded for liftin’ another watch. Took ‘er doll and the straw bonnet the missus bought ‘er and slipped out the garden gate this afternoon, she did.”

  Two pairs of accusing eyes swung to Bloodworth. He spread his palms wide.

  “Is it my fault the girl ran away? Or that your lady is so anxious to buy her back?”

  Cursing, Charles hustled his visitor to the door. Henry scrambled after them.

  “Stay here,” the major ordered.

  “You can’t trust this one to get you in and out of the Rookery!” the boy protested. “He’d sell his own mother for a nip of gin. I knows the place like the back of me ‘and. I’ll get you where you needs to go.”

  Charles hesitated for less than a heartbeat. As he’d learned only too well in the Crimea, charging headlong at the enemy without proper reconnaissance or reinforcements was as dangerous as it was stupid. He’d tucked a pistol into the waistband of his trousers before leaving the library and ordered Dragoon Sergeant O’Donnelly and an armed footman to augment the driver of the carriage he’d
had brought around. Still, Henry’s knowledge of the enemy’s terrain might provide an added advantage.

  With a nod to the boy, Charles stepped out into the dark, foggy night. Pools of light from the gas lamps glowed blurry and dim. Rain drizzled through a thick, enshrouding fog. Grimly, he gave the driver and his small troop a few terse instructions, then climbed into the carriage.

  The distance from the affluent West End to the Rookery might be measured in a few miles. But to those who inhabited its rabbit-like warrens, the teeming district was another world entirely. And to the woman who paced the narrow, stuffy upstairs bedroom of a house located on a street with no apparent name, that world was strange and rather sinister.

  The tang of spilled gin and a sickly sweet odor Marianne suspected was opium rose from the faded carpet. Shutters nailed tight over the windows trapped the odors inside. Frayed tapestries decorated the walls. An odd-shaped mirror reflected the light from a tarnished, if once elegant, chandelier.

  Strange thumps and an occasional shrill of high-pitched laughter came through the papered walls. What sounded very much like the bleat of a sheep produced a long series of giggles, followed by a muffled groan. Frowning, Marianne cast a glance at the child on the bed. Annie slept the sleep of the innocent with her thumb tucked firmly in her mouth.

  Across the room, Edmond St. Just sat dejectedly in the only chair. A bloodstained strip of linen torn from Marianne’s petticoat was wrapped around his head. His spectacles rode at a drunken angle on his nose. One lens was cracked and webbed as though spun by a spider. Fingering the lump under his bandage, he heaved a morose sigh.

  “I shouldn’t have allowed you to come with me.”

  “Really, Edmond, you must stop berating yourself. You didn’t ‘allow’ me to accompany you. The decision was mine.”

  “Your husband won’t see it that way. Not only did I lead you into this…” He threw a look of loathing around the garish room. “…this den of iniquity, I let that villain downstairs get the jump on me.”

  Marianne suspected that the fact the young scholar had dropped like a stone after being hit from behind bothered him more than anything else.

  “Well,” she declared bracingly, “Annie is safe and that’s all that matters.”

  “If you think any of us are safe, you don’t know all that goes on in places like this.”

  “And you do?”

  “No, of course not,” he replied, coloring, “but I’ve heard rumors.”

  “So have I, and I prefer not to dwell on…”

  She broke off, her brows lifting as another long baaa came through the walls. “Whatever is that farm animal doing in an upstairs bedroom?”

  The red in Edmond’s cheeks turned to brick. He was still fumbling for an answer a deep voice sounded just outside the door.

  “Which room, damn you?”

  With a glad cry, Marianne rushed across the room. “Charles! We’re in here.”

  “Open the door,” the major commanded to whoever accompanied him.

  A silence ensued, followed by a startled oath. “I’ve lost the key!”

  “No tricks, Bloodworth. You’ll open this door within the next five seconds or I’ll use you as a battering ram and knock it down.”

  “’E’s stalling,” a youthful voice pronounced in disgust. “’E just wants more money. Give ‘im five in the chops, Major, and ‘e’ll find the key right enough.”

  “I don’t have it, I tell you! It was right here in my pocket and now it’s gone.”

  With a disgusted command to step aside, the major shouted a similar warning through the stout panel. “Stand clear, Marianne.”

  Hastily, she scrambled back. A moment later, something slammed against the heavy panel. There was a second thud, and a third. The wood around the lock splintered, then the door flew open and crashed against the wall. The noise startled another bleat from the unseen sheep and woke Annie. Blinking, the girl scrambled upright on the bed just as Charles charged in.

  Marianne flung herself at her husband’s chest. “You can’t imagine how happy I am to see you!”

  “Yes,” he replied grimly, “I can.”

  Grasping her arms, he held her away from him. She’d never seen him look so angry…or so dangerous.

  “Whatever possessed you to venture into the Rookery?” he demanded furiously. “I credited you with more sense.”

  “I told her she shouldn’t come with me,” Edmond put in, holding a hand to his brow.

  Stung by this attack from both her friend and her rescuer, Marianne pushed out of his hold…or tried to. Charles kept a firm grip on her upper arm as he advanced into the room. Henry followed on his heels, as did the villainous Bloodworth. The bandy-legged dragoon sergeant who served as the major’s batman hovered in the doorway, his pistol cocked.

  Henry looked about with unabashed interest. “’Cor, I never been upstairs in this place. I ‘eard about these rooms, though. They sets ‘em up special for the toffs what like whips and peep ‘oles and a bit o’ the…”

  “Enough!”

  The curt command silenced the boy. It didn’t, however, silence Annie. Sliding her thumb out of her mouth, she regarded the major solemnly.

  “You bwroke the door.”

  “It was locked,” he explained, his tone softening somewhat, “and I didn’t have the key.”

  The sudden guilty look that crossed the girl’s face had Henry slapping his knee in delight. “Annie, you little bugger! You nipped the key from ole Turd-face ‘ere, didn’t you?”

  With another guilty glance in Marianne’s direction, the golden-haired nymph nodded. Slowly, she reached into the pocket of her pinafore and produced a length of rusted iron.

  “I don’t believe it!” Marianne exclaimed. “Here we’ve sat here and stewed for hours, and all the time you had the key in your pocket?”

  “I didn’t want anyone to come in and hurt you,” she explained with a heart-breaking wisdom that went well beyond her years.

  Utterly, completely humbled that the child she’d rushed to rescue had in turn tried to protect her, Marianne felt tears sting her eyes. She swept Annie into her arms and buried her face in her golden curls.

  “Oh, my darling girl.”

  A hopeful note crept into the child’s voice. “You’re not going to scold me for nipping the key?”

  “No, Annie, I’ll never scold you again.”

  While the two females sniffled, Charles cast a critical look over St. Just. “Can you walk unaided?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right, then. Annie, hold tight to Lady Trent’s hand. Marianne, stay behind St. Just. Henry and Sergeant O’Donnelly will bring up the rear." Pulling an evil-looking pistol from the waistband of his trousers, Charles gestured to Bloodworth. “You, I want you in front.”

  With a firm grasp on Annie’s small hand, Marianne walked down the dimly lighted hall. A stocky footman stood guard at the top of the stairs, holding off the crowd of scantily clothed women and rough looking men gathered at the bottom. She picked out the big, loutish brute who’d bludgeoned Edmond instantly. He stood half a head taller than the others.

  “Watch that one,” Henry warned the major. “’E’s the one what snatches the little girls like Annie from their prams and brings ‘em to Bloodworth to sell. Meaner ‘n any mule in the regimental stables, Nicklesby is.”

  Evidently Charles had taken his own measure of the man. The unmistakable snick of pistol being cocked raised the hairs on the back of Marianne’s neck. Women shrieked and fled the scene. The men, including the brutish Nicklesby, melted into the shadows.

  Step by step, the small cavalcade descended the stairs. Another dozen steps brought them to the front door. The sight of a carriage waiting in the eerie, swirling fog flooded Marianne with relief.

  Relief turned to dismay, however, when her husband handed her inside the carriage and lifted Annie into her arms before turning to head back toward the house.

  “Charles! Where are you going?”

 
“I have some business to finish with our friend inside. St. Just, if I’m not out in ten minutes, you will see that Lady Trent gets home safely.”

  “The hell I will,” Edmond retorted. “I’ve a bit of business to finish, too.”

  With a terse order to Sergeant O’Donnelly to stand guard, the major strode back through the door. Edmond followed, as did the incorrigible Henry, who ignored all instructions to get in the carriage at once. Bloodworth must have sense what was about to happen. Prudently, he remained outside.

  They found Nicklesby in a rank, odorous back room, berating the rouged hag who’d allowed the major entry the first time. His big fist smashed into the woman’s face at the same instant Charles kicked open the door.

  Startled, he released his grip on her soiled dress and let her fall to the floor. Sobbing and spurting bright red blood from her nose, she scuttled away.

  “Ferget something?” Nicklesby sneered, unfazed by the pistol in the major’s hand.

  “As a matter of fact,” Charles returned coolly, “I remembered something.”

  “And what be that, toff?”

  “I don’t like big men who steal little girls from their prams.”

  The words fell into a sudden, deadly silence. Nicklesby’s eyes narrowed to black slits.

  “You talk big with a pistol in yer hand.”

  “I talk the same without a pistol in my hand.”

  Thrusting the weapon at St. Just, Charles advanced on the hulking rogue. He’d taken only a step before Nicklesby whipped an arm behind his back.

  “Watch ‘im, Major! ‘E totes a pig-sticker!”

  Charles didn’t need Henry’s warning to feint to one side as a long, wicked blade sliced through the cloth of his coat.

  Nicklesby lunged in the direction of the feint. His momentum carried him right by the major, who calmly stepped back a pace, allowed him to stagger past, then rammed his bent elbow down on the back of the bull-like neck.

  Bone cracked. A surprised grunt split the malodorous air. Nicklesby dropped like a stone.