Paying the Virgin's Price

by Christine Merrill

  At last, Nate mastered his own anger again and broke the silence. 'Why are you here, Stephen?'

  'To remind you of the past.'

  He let out a bitter laugh. 'Remind me?' He spread his arms wide. 'Look at my surroundings, old friend, as I do whenever I feel a need to remember. Are they not low enough? Was I born to this? The title is gone, the house, the lands. My family scattered to the four winds. At least you found a people again. Do you know how long it has been since I have seen my own mother? My sisters? Do you know what it is like to stand helpless as your father hangs?'

  'No better than to have him murdered, I suppose. And to know that somewhere, the murderer's line continues.'

  Nate laughed. 'After all this time, is that the problem? I am as good as dead, I assure you. I have nothing left, and yet you would take more.'

  Stephen snorted. 'You have money.'

  'And a nice house,' Nate added. 'Two houses, actually. And horses and carriages. Possessions enough for any man. I gained it all at the cost of my honour. We are not gaming at Boodle's, as our fathers did, Stephen. Because we are not welcome amongst gentlemen. A Gypsy bastard and a murderer's son. Society wants none of us. We are in the gutter, where we belong.'

  His opponent tensed at the word--bastard-- but it was no less than the truth.

  'I am sorry that I am not suffering enough to satisfy you. If you wish, we can go out in the alley, and I will let you remedy the fact. If you mean to frighten me into losing with this?' He looked down at the rope at his feet, and kicked it until it lay in front of his former friend. 'I have the real rope that did the job. My family bought it to keep it out of the hands of the ghouls gathered round the gallows. There is nothing left for you to do that will frighten me. Since irony is not likely to prove fatal, I suggest that you cease playing games. We are no longer children. If you truly want me dead? Then be man enough to shoot me.'

  For a moment, he thought that the taunting had finally hit home. For Stephano the Gypsy nodded and smiled, as though there were nothing he would like better than to kill Nate and put an end to the meeting. But then, he said, 'I am afraid it is not that easy, Nathan Wardale.'

  Nate cringed for a moment, and felt the old fear that someone might hear the name, and know him for the child of a murdering traitor. He might be cast out as unworthy, even from the Fourth Circle. And then where would he go? He recovered his poise and demanded, 'What is it to be, then?'

  'That is not for me to decide. I am but an avatar in this. I bring you the rope. And now, fate will decide the method of your punishment.'

  'My punishment?' Nate almost laughed. 'For what? When the murder happened, I was ten years old. Hardly a criminal mastermind, I assure you.'

  'You are the son of the murderer.'

  'Then your coming here serves no purpose, Stephen. My word is no good for anything but wagering. But if it were, I would swear to you on it that my family is not to blame for what happened.'

  'Your father...'

  'Was hung for something he did not do. He swore on the stand that Kit Hebden was dying when he found him. He did not strike the blow that killed him. He said the same to me, my mother and my sisters. By the end, there was no reason for him to lie to us. It would have gained him nothing, nor given us any comfort. He was sentenced to die, and we were quite beyond comforting.'

  For a moment, he thought he saw a flicker of emotion on the other man's face that might indicate understanding, belief or some scrap of mercy. And then it was gone. 'If it is true that you are blameless, then circumstances will prove that fact soon enough. And I will break the curse and set you free.'

  He laughed. 'It is a bit late to talk of freedom, Stephen. I have wealth, but no one to share it with. I have no friends. No one trusts me. No decent woman would want me. In the course of gaming, I have ruined many and caused men to do unspeakable things, convinced that one more hand will be all it takes to break me.

  'And now, you will set me free? Can you wipe out the memory of the things I have done? Will you go to the House of Lords and insist that they clear my family's name? Can you get me my title? And my father, as well? Can you raise the dead, Gypsy? For I would like to see you try.'

  Stephano the Gypsy spat upon the floor, and passed his hand before him as though warding off the suggestion. 'Your father was a murderer who deserved what he got. And I mean to see that you accept your share of his punishment.'

  Nate had learned to see his past as a single dark shadow that threw his empty life into sharper relief. But now that the shadow had become the foreground, the picture created was so ridiculous, he let out with the first honest laugh he'd had in ages. 'My share of the punishment?' He leaned forward and grinned into the face of the man who had once been Stephen Hebden, daring him to see the joke and laugh along. 'Well I have news for you. You enriched me by a hundred pounds before you brought out the damned rope and began speaking nonsense. If this is a curse, then many would welcome it. But if you wish to see me punished? Then take my luck with you, and we will call it even.'

  He pointed a finger at the rope on the floor. 'But do not come here, pretending to make my life worse with vague threats and portents of doom. There is nothing coming that will make things worse than they already are.'

  And then the Gypsy smiled with true satisfaction. 'You think so, do you? We shall see, old friend. We shall see.' And he rose from the chair and exited the room, leaving the silk noose on the floor behind him.

  In his dreams, Nate was at Newgate, again, surrounded by angry giants. They laughed and the sound was hollow and cruel, seeming to echo off the stone walls around him. He pushed through the crowd. But it was difficult, for he was so small and they did not wish to part for him. They had arrived early, to get a good view.

  And he had come late, for he'd had to sneak from home. Mother had said it was no place for the family. That father had not wished it. But was Nathan not the man of the family, now? It was his responsibility to be there, at the end. So he had forced his way through the mob to the front, and had seen his father, head bowed, being led to the gallows.

  He called out to him, and William Wardale raised his head, searching for the origin of the cry. His eyes were so bleak, and Nathan was sure he must be lonely. There was no friend left who would stand by him at the end. He looked down at Nathan with such love, and such relief, and reached out a hand to him, as though it could be possible to gather him close, one last time. And then, his hand dropped to his side, and a shudder went through him, for he knew what Nathan did not. While he was glad that his last sight on earth would be his son, he had known what it would mean to a child.

  The hangman bound his father's hands, and the Ordinary led him through a farce of meaningless prayer. And all around Nathan, the people were shouting, jostling each other and swearing at those who would not remove their hats so that the men in the back could see. Vendors were hawking broadsides, but he did not have the penny to buy one. So he picked a wrinkled paper from the ground before him, to see the lurid cartoon of his father, and his supposed confession.

  It was lies. Every word of it. Father would never have done the things he was accused of. And even if he had, he would not have told the rest of the world the truth on the final day, after lying to Nathan, over and over. But even if it was lies, there were tears of shame pricking behind his eyelids as he read.

  The hangman was placing the hood now, and a woman began to scream. He hoped it was his mother, come to take him home before he saw any more. His coming had been a mistake: there was nothing he could do and he did not want to see what was about to happen.

  But it was a strange, dark-skinned woman leaning out of a window above the gallows. She was screaming in triumph, not fear, and her face had the beauty of a vengeful goddess as she stared down at the bound man and the laughing crowd.

  And at him. She had found Nathan in the crowd, and stared at him as though she knew him. And then, she had shouted, in a voice so clear that the rabble had hushed to catch her words.

  I
call guilt to eat you alive and poison your hearts' blood. The children will pay for the sins of their fathers, till my justice destroys the wicked.

  She pointed at him as she spoke of children. And smiled. The adult Nathan screamed to the child to look away. The woman was mad. He should not mind her. And he should run from this place. If he did not, it would be too late.

  And then, there was a thump, and his father's body dropped as the floor under him disappeared. As he fell, so did the woman in the window, dangling from the silk scarf that was wrapped about her neck.

  In his child's mind, Nathan thought that the worst was over. But since then, the adult Nathan had seen enough in the Navy to understand what happened to a hanged man if there was no one to pull on his legs and help him to an easier death.

  The kicking had begun. His father, and the garish puppet of a woman hanging from the window above him.

  It had seemed like hours before the bodies stilled, the crowds had begun to part, and his mother had come for him.

  When Nate woke, the bedclothes were wet with sweat and tears. And there was the Gypsy's silk rope on the dresser beside him. Why had he bothered to pick the thing up and bring it home with him? The gesture was macabre, and meant to upset him. He had been foolish to play along. And Stephen Hebden had managed to raise the old nightmare to plague him.

  But Stephen was not Stephen any more. His old friend was long gone. The man who had visited him was an enemy. A stranger. A Gypsy who was as angry and full of tricks as his mother had been. He must never forget that fact, or Stephano Beshaley and his curse would taint his present, just as the man's mother had marked his childhood.

  He might not be able to prevent the dreams, but during the day he would keep his mind clear of emotion, just as he did when he was at the gaming tables. His waking life would be no different, because of the Gypsy's visit. At one time or another, Nate had endured public disgrace, loss, starvation and physical hardship. There was little left that could move him to fear, anger or joy. He'd held a hangman's noose when he was still a child. The colourful rope on the nightstand--and its accompanying nightmare--did not compare to the horror of that day.

  But his mind wandered to the people Stephen might search out when his plans for Nate failed. His sisters, perhaps?

  Even a Gypsy could not stoop so low as to hurt innocent girls. Beshaley's mother had stared directly at Nate as she'd said her curse. And he'd felt marked by the words, as if touched by a brand. Surely he was meant to pay the whole debt. Helena and Rosalind would be safe.

  They had to be. How would the Gypsy even find them? When last Nate had seen them, they were tending their failing mother, waiting for him to come home. But he had lost them in the throng of strangers that was working-class London and had searched for them without success. Mother must have died, never knowing what had become of him, for she had been very sick, even before he'd disappeared. Helena and Rosalind were as lost to him as if they had never been born. It made him ache to think on it. But he could take some consolation in the fact that it would leave them safe from harassment.

  Then who else would the Gypsy turn to, once he had failed with the Wardales? Did Nate owe Lord Narborough and his family a word of warning?

  His own sense of injustice argued that he owed them nothing at all. They had heard about the curse as well. But they viewed it as little more than a joke. It had not scarred their lives as it had his. There was no sign that Marcus Carlow had been touched by fear. Nate should think of him as the Viscount Stanegate now that he had grown into his title. From the occasional mention of him in The Times, he had become just the man his father had hoped. Upright, respectable and honest. The sort of man that all their fathers had expected their sons to be.

  If there was fault to be found, it did not lie with Marc or his siblings. It was their father who should bear the blame. Lord Narborough had claimed to be a friend of his father, but shut his doors to the Wardale family when they had needed help.

  And Narborough had been the one to pin the blame on Father, when the murder had occurred. He had wasted no time in seeing to his apprehension and imprisonment.

  It had gone so quickly. Too quick, he suspected. It was almost as though Narborough had seen the need for a scapegoat, and chosen William Wardale. Nate was sure, with all his heart, that his father was not a murderer. But someone had done the crime. And if there was a man alive who knew the truth, then it was most likely to be George Carlow. The murder had been committed just outside his study, after all. And he had been the one who called the loudest for a hurried trial and a timely hanging. Suppose his father had blundered on to the scene just after George Carlow had struck the fatal blow?

  Nathan tried to muster some glee that the Gypsy would visit them next. The Carlow family was due for a fall. But he could find no pleasure in it. While he was sure that the senior Carlow was a miserable old sinner, the Gypsy had called for the punishment of the next generation. Would it be fair to see the curse fall upon Marc or his good-natured brother Hal? And what of their sisters, Honoria and Verity?

  Nate thought again of his own two sisters, hiding their identities from the shame of association with the Wardale name. Even if George Carlow had been the true murderer, did the Carlow girls deserve to be treated as his sisters had? If Stephano Beshaley removed the protection of the older brothers, then brought about the downfall of the family, what would become of them?

  Even if justice for Lord Narborough was deserved and forthcoming, could it not be delayed awhile? The girls were infants when he'd seen them last. They must be near old enough to make matches for themselves. If it was possible to stall the Gypsy, even for a month or two, then they would be safely out of the house and with families of their own, when retribution came.

  It went against his grain, but Marc Carlow deserved some warning of what was coming, so that he could watch out for his sisters. They had all played together as children, and been good friends--until after the trial, when their prig of a father had forbidden further association.

  Stephen had been there as well, of course. Once, they had been as alike as brothers. He forced the thoughts out of his head. With nostalgia would come sympathy and regret. And after that: weakness and fear. He could not afford to feel for the man who wished his destruction. Stephen Hebden had died in a foundling-home fire. And Stephano Beshaley was a bastard Gypsy changeling, who had turned on them the minute he had a chance.

  And the man who had once been Nathan Wardale would not let himself be ruled by curses and grudges and superstitious nonsense any more than he had already. The Carlows would be no more happy to see him than he would be to go to them. But he did not wish them a visit from the Gypsy, now that Stephano had taken it into his head to resurrect the past and deliver vengeance where none was deserved.

  Nate dressed carefully, as anyone might when visiting the heir to an earldom, and tucked the length of silk rope and its accusing knot into the pocket of his coat.

  Chapter Two

  Diana Price resisted the urge to place her head in her hands and weep in frustration. The Carlow daughters were pleasant, and she viewed them more as friends than a responsibility. But some days her job as their companion was not an easy one. 'You will have to choose someone, Verity. The whole point of the Season is to find an appropriate match. It makes no sense to reject the entire field of suitors, before the rush is truly underway.'

  She would have called the look on Verity's face a pout, had the girl been prone to such. 'I know what the point of coming to London was, Diana. But I had hoped that if Honoria would take care of the obligation and find herself a husband, then you would all leave off bothering me. Do you think Marc will force me to marry this year, even when I can see already that none of the available suitors are likely to suit?'

  'Your brother will do nothing of the kind, Verity. But if you claim that none of the gentlemen in London suit you, then you are far too selective.'

  'Only yesterday, Diana, you were criticizing Honoria for not being selective eno
ugh.'

  'Because she was not. It does not pay to encourage the advances of every man who shows an interest, Particularly not when you are as lovely as Honoria.'

  Verity gave her an arch look. 'And since I am not, I will be forced to marry a man who I do not love, just because he has offered?'

  Diana reached out to hug the girl, who was quite as lovely as her sister, even though she lacked the older girl's confidence. 'That is not what I mean at all, dear one. It is simply that I do not wish you to discount gentlemen without giving them a fair hearing. You are young, yet. Though you might think that infatuation is the most important thing, it is not.'

  'And you, Diana, are not so old that you should confuse the words love and infatuation. They sound nothing alike.'

  'In tone, perhaps not. But when they are felt in a young heart, they can be easily confused. I am sure if you are given time, you will discover that there are much more important factors to consider when accepting an offer.'

  Verity sighed. 'Like money, I suppose.'

  'While it is nice, I doubt you will need to concern yourself with the wealth of your suitors.' Any fortune hunters would have a hard time getting close, as long as Diana watched carefully. 'I am thinking more of kindness, stability, common sense...'

  Verity rolled her eyes. 'All characteristics that can be gained with advanced age, I am sure.'

  'It is not necessary, or even advisable, for a husband to be quite so young as his wife. In some cases, it might be better for a wiser man to--'

  'Ugh.' Verity put her hands over her ears. 'Do not talk to me further about the need to find a sensible old man to offset my youth and inexperience.'