“That won’t be necessary.” How her voice managed to strain through the anger closing her throat was a wonder. She cleared it, then tried again. “My family and I will be staying right here.”
“Theatrics, is it?” He chuckled, discordant and altogether unnerving. “Shall I bring in the magistrate and shackles as well?”
“Only if you prefer the weight of irons on your wrists to the greed in your heart.” She sucked in a breath. Had those horrid words come from her?
A tic began at the corner of Mr. Spurge’s left eye and spread to a vein in his temple. Throbbing, it grew into the size of an angleworm. He leaned over the counter. “Such insolence will gainsay you the darkest of cells at the workhouse.” The vein turned purple. “Or worse.”
Faith! The mere thought of a damp cell in a workhouse drove a chill into her heart. She forced a calm to her voice that she didn’t feel. “I hate to disappoint you, sir, but …”
She bent and remained crouched, unwilling to reveal the strongbox to Mr. Spurge. With a quick turn of the lock, she rifled past Alexander’s envelopes and snatched the bag of coins he’d given her. She plopped it onto the counter, jingling the coins on purpose.
The sneer slashing across Spurge’s face goaded her like a hot iron. Her chin rose. “On second thought, I don’t hate to disappoint you at all. There is the hearth payment. Take it and be gone.”
He snaked out his hand and untied the pouch. His brows rose, along with a coin. Slowly, he lifted a guinea to his mouth and bit the metal, doubting, testing, frowning. Chucking the coin back into the purse, he turned and gazed about the taproom. “Not a huge increase in patronage, I see.” His dark eyes returned to her, pinning her in place. “I wonder if you have taken up a side profession, Miss Langley?”
“I resent your implication, sir.” She measured her words, counting the value of each one, praying to God nothing more would slip out her mouth and indebt her to more time on her knees begging for forgiveness.
“You might want to think on it, for I expect fifty pounds next time.” The pouch vanished into his pocket. “And no less.”
“What? No!” Fifty? She staggered back a step. “But the final payment on the hearth plus rent should be only forty pounds.”
“Interest, my dear.” A slow smile lifted his lips, uncovering the few teeth holding onto his gums for dear life. “You don’t think I allow you the liberty of installed payments for nothing, do you? Fifty it is.”
She set her jaw, locking it against the rage building inside. “Then you shall have it.”
“You’re right. I shall. In four weeks’ time, Miss Langley.” He tipped his hat. “Until then, good day.”
With a groan, she bent and slammed the strongbox lid shut.
“Johanna? Was that Mr. Spurge’s voice I heard?” Mam’s voice called to her from the stairway.
Jo stood, hoping confidence would rise along with the action. “Yes, Mam.”
“Is all well?”
She gritted her teeth then forced a smile. “Yes, Mam.”
The words tasted metallic. But it wasn’t a lie. Not really. For tomorrow she’d visit Tanny Needler and offer herself to do his dirty work. He always paid well.
But could she afford the loss to her dignity?
The smell of rain hung in the afternoon air. Thick and earthy, pressing down on Alex as he stepped from the carriage. He flipped the jarvey a coin and glanced at the sky. When those clouds broke loose and shook out their fury, the whole of Dover would be washed clean—until the resulting mud splattered up against everything.
As he strode to the viscount’s front door, he pulled out the invitation that had arrived earlier in the day, when he’d been out. Not that he’d need to hand it over for admittance, still, being that the time of his requested presence was a full two hours earlier than usual, it wouldn’t hurt to have it available. Coburn’s footman was a puffed-up fellow. Without proof, the man just might make him wait on the stoop until the customary start of gaming.
He lifted the lion-headed knocker. As it fell against the brass plate, he pulled out his pocket watch. The second hand moved on a downward slope. One. Two. Three. A week of playing cards with the viscount and his cronies had taught him the household ran with military timing—until the cards were pulled out. Then all bets were off, or rather on. Very on tonight, as a matter of fact, since Johanna had handed him an envelope of money from Thatcher.
Four. Five. Six. He snapped shut the watch’s lid and tucked it away. The door swung open, as expected. But his eyes widened as a dark-haired beauty greeted him.
“Good evening, Mr. Morton.” Louisa’s resonant voice poured out like a fine wine.
“Miss Coburn.” He doffed his hat and bowed, catching a whiff of civet musk—the same French perfume he’d smelled on her before. As he rose, he captured her gaze with a rogue grin. “A pleasure to see you again.”
He’d bet five to one the flash in her eyes was anything but pleasure—nor was the taste of the lie in his mouth.
“Please, come in.” She stepped aside.
His footsteps echoed off the marble tile. Crystal lamps already lit the grand foyer, though evening had yet to leave a calling card, such was the greyness of the day. The footman—his usual escort—was nowhere in sight. Alex waited for Louisa to close the door, then asked, “Short staffed?”
“Not at all.” She lifted one shoulder, the movement glinting light off the diamonds on her necklace—the pendant she’d worn to the Oak Apple Eve dinner. Did she never take it off?
She swept past him, casting a backward glance. “I simply sent John on an errand.”
In three strides, he caught up to her side. “To what end, when you obviously knew I’d be arriving?”
A smile curved her lips, yet she continued to face forward as she led him down the corridor. “To have you all to myself, of course.”
He turned her words over in his mind, examining them from every possible angle. She’d had more than enough opportunities to cross his path the past week. Often arriving early, he’d lingered in the sitting room, waiting for the viscount and hoping she might appear. She hadn’t. Two days ago, he’d dined here, yet she’d declined the meal. Too fatigued. He’d even taken to riding the surrounding grounds should she venture out for a walk, making sure to pass the windows of the west wing that housed the family’s bedchambers. She would have seen him. She could have ventured out. But no. So why the sudden urge to see him now?
He shot her a sideways glance. “I’d say your plan worked, Miss Coburn. I am at your service.”
Finally, she faced at him. “Are you always this pliable, Mr. Morton?”
Pliable? He suppressed a snort. If Magistrate Ford heard that one, he’d choke on his own laughter. “I shall have to quote you on that sometime.”
Her expression remained placid. Once while on an information reconnaissance in Paris, he’d viewed the famed Mona Lisa. Were Louisa’s hair let down and straightened, she might have been the model.
She made an abrupt turn into a hallway he’d never seen. Sconces had yet to be lit in this stretch, so shadows escorted them. There were no doors except for one at the very end, making this the perfect corridor should someone wish to entrap him. As they walked, he listened for a floorboard creak from behind, ready for anything. “Where are we going, Miss Coburn?”
“My sanctuary.” At the end of the hall, she pulled open the door.
He followed her out into paradise. Palm trees lined a pea gravel pathway. The hydrangea and ivy were easy enough to identify, but Louisa paused to sniff a flower he couldn’t name or even guess as to which part of the world it hailed from. The path skirted the garden, close to a high stone wall encircling the area. Bird chatter was as loud as a gathering of washerwomen. The only thing amiss was the pewter sky, clouds bullying down with grey fists. A curious time for a stroll through a garden.
Louisa veered off the gravel onto a worn trail leading into the middle of the plot. The path ended at a fountain, surrounded by four wrou
ght-iron benches painted white. Louisa sat on the nearest. He joined her, leaving enough space for propriety, though he probably needn’t have bothered. If the woman had no qualms about asking a man she barely knew to join her in such solitude, she likely wouldn’t mind him sitting next to her.
She turned to him. “Do you like riddles, Mr. Morton?”
He bit back a laugh. Did the little vixen not know she was the biggest riddle of all? No, not quite. Even larger was the question as to why Ford would order him to marry the woman—and how he’d get himself out of the situation.
He forced an even tone to his words. “I do. Perhaps you can help me solve one.”
A perfectly arched brow rising just slightly was her only answer.
But it was answer enough. He continued, “Why would an English woman wear French perfume, a Cross of Lorraine, and if I am not mistaken, dress in a gown made of silk from Lyon?”
That same brow sank, as did the other. A woman cornered was a dangerous animal. “And why would a man be informed of such things?”
“Touché, mademoiselle.” He covered his heart with his hand, feigning a direct hit. “Then for the moment, we shall leave my questions tabled. Perhaps it was a riddle of your own you wanted to discuss?”
“Yes, which is why I’ve brought you here. I’ve spent many hours thinking on something the past several days, yet can find no answer. What is it exactly, Mr. Morton, that you think you can help me with? And more importantly, why?”
Help? The woman dealt out her conversation like a dropped deck of cards. He scrambled to pick up mental clues for a moment, then remembered the note he’d sent along with the flowers. Draping an arm over the bench’s back, he leaned against it. “Apparently you do not recall the conversation we had at the Oak Apple dinner. I offered to help you with your man hunt.”
“La, sir.” She flicked her fingers in the air as if batting away an offending pest. “If you’re speaking of my father’s wish to marry me off, you’re wasting your time. I have no interest in you.”
Half a grin lifted his mouth. What a welcome change from having to fight women off. “That is no surprise, Miss Coburn, for I suspect it’s Robbie who’s stolen your heart.”
A rumble of thunder competed with the cascading water from the fountain. Her face gave no hint as to what went on behind those dark eyes. Were she a man, she’d be fabulous competition at her father’s gaming table.
She stood, smoothed out her skirts, and walked over to the fountain.
His grin grew. “Do you deny my premise?”
She traced the rim of the fountain with her fingers. She wouldn’t answer the question, of course. Nor did she need to. Her movement revealed more than any false words she might string together.
At last, she turned and faced him, stalking forward on padded feet. A lioness to the kill. “I am an opportunist, Mr. Morton, and I sense an opportunity with you.”
Her words were as tempestuous as the coming storm. He kicked out his legs, crossing one over the other. “Now that is a riddle. Do tell.”
She stopped directly in front of him. “You’re new here. A novelty. One which my father enjoys. I simply ask that you continue the diversion for several weeks more, for I can hardly bear to be in the same room with him after what he did to Robert.” The lioness’s fangs came out in a small smile. “You will, of course, be well compensated.”
“Why several weeks?”
“That’s when I plan to leave with Robert. He will pay you well for your distraction.”
He smirked. “I was correct, then.”
“That’s immaterial. Will you do it?”
“I shall, but on one condition.”
She angled her chin. A tot couldn’t have looked more curious. “What?”
“The diversion is to be of my own making.”
She laughed. “Oh, Mr. Morton. I don’t care how you manage to keep father’s attention, only that you do.”
He studied her for a moment. A beauty, but mostly bought, nothing like the natural allure of Johanna Langley. This woman hid her secrets well, all perfumed and tied up with a bow. What was it about her that Ford wanted him to unwrap?
He stood and offered his hand. “Shall we seal the bargain?”
Her fingers were cold against his, clammy and moist. Did his touch unnerve her—or the fact that she’d have no control over his means of distraction?
“You are an enigma, Miss Coburn.” He drew back and swept out his arm. “Tell me about this place, your sanctuary.”
She eyed him for a moment before answering. “I am in your debt now, I suppose. Come along, and I’ll take you the long way back to the house.” She turned and bypassed the fountain, choosing the path on the opposite side from the way they’d come.
Thunder rumbled closer, quieting the birds, stilling the insects. Could she not have simply told him about the garden instead of dragging him through it?
When he caught up to her side, she continued, “Perhaps you already know my father’s record with the East India Company?”
He nodded.
“That was all before I was born, of course. Such tales, though. So vivid. After Mother died, Father’s stories of Punjabis, elephants, and exotic flowers unmatched anywhere in the world, well … it was the only thing that quieted me. The only place I could go to escape the pain of losing my mother.”
He glanced at her. It was hard to reconcile the steel maiden next to him with a weeping little girl. “You don’t seem the sentimental type.”
“I am not.” The path opened onto a walkway wide enough for a small cart to travel, and she turned left. “Nevertheless, I am human, and as I’ve said, an opportunist. Father’s stories of India filled an empty spot inside me, so much so, that it became difficult to distinguish myself apart from the land. I tried to recreate it in this garden, but the truth is I belong there, Mr. Morton. Nowhere else. Father cannot—will not—understand.”
“Aah …” He stepped over a small pothole in the trail, all the while looking for holes in her story. Either she was playing him, or telling the truth. But which? “Allow me to hazard a guess. Your father wishes you settled here, firmly planted in English soil. And against those wishes, Robbie’s agreed to make your dream come true, hence your little excursion next month. But I wonder, Miss Coburn, what fires you most, becoming a bride to Robbie or to an exotic land?”
She stopped dead in her tracks. As still as the dark air around them. Tension lashed out in her tone, sharp as the crack of thunder overhead. “You are overly perceptive, sir.”
For a moment, a very small one, compassion squeezed his heart for the little princess used to getting her own way. Exposure was never a pleasant embrace, as evidenced by the strained lines on her neck.
“Everyone is wild for adventure, Miss Coburn, but forcing one is a dangerous affair. Better you should leave that in the hands of God, hmm?”
Her face cut to his. “I didn’t know you were a religious person, Mr. Morton.”
“Everyone has faith, Miss Coburn. The question is, Faith in what?”
Storm shadows darkened what daylight remained, hiding her beauty. “I learned long ago that faith in myself is the surest—the only—dependable force upon which I may rely.”
He smiled. “Then the Indies are the best place for you, and I wish you Godspeed.”
“What? No theological debate?” Her voice rose as high as her brows. “No damning of my eternal soul?”
“Not from me.” He shrugged. “Your desire will accomplish that, I think. Either that or God intends to grab hold of you as surely as He snatched the fleeing Jonah.”
As soon as the prophet’s name left his mouth, the heavens let loose. Rain drowned any further conversation. Louisa took off at a sprint down the path. Alex smirked and strolled on. Running wouldn’t lessen the drenching of already soaked garments.
“Oh!” A cry competed with the next roll of thunder, just beyond a bend in the path.
He shot ahead. “Miss Coburn?”
Louis
a slumped on the gravel, clutching her leg, her skirt pelted with mud. She rocked slightly, moaning with the movement. An embroidered slipper lay upside down behind her, half sunk in a small pool. Pah! Women and their silly shoes.
He dropped to one knee beside her and threaded an arm around her shoulder, the other beneath her knees. Streaks of cosmetics rained down her face as she looked up at him.
“I’m fine. Merely a slip up.”
He lifted.
“Mr. Morton!”
“We’ll assess inside.” He raised his voice, competing with the rage of wind and water. “Hold on.”
“Put me down!”
Clutching her against his chest, he dashed forward, dodging falling palm fronds. The flowers around him took a beating, stripping petals, breaking stems. By the time he reached the door of the manor, paradise was battered to death, as was the rest of daylight.
His shoes scritched on the polished floor. He ignored the woman’s protests, too busy navigating the inside hallway, for the tiles were more treacherous than the wet gravel outside. Retracing their earlier route, he turned and crossed the grand foyer. The household staff would be up late tonight cleaning his filthy trek onto the carpet in the receiving room.
He bent to set the woman on the sofa near the hearth, but before he loosened his hold of her, a deep voice grumbled from behind.
“Is taking my money at the card table not enough, sir, that you must also take my daughter?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Thunder rattled the windowpanes in the taproom, creating an offbeat rhythm to the music of the band. Jo suppressed a wince at the racket. It was bad enough when Mr. Quail eked out songs on his violin, but at least he had a sense of tempo. Tonight his men were on their own, and judging by the peg-legged sprinting of a folk tune that should ramble, they were quite enjoying his absence.
She handed the customer in front of her a mug, offering him a smile as watered down as the cider.
“Keep ’em coming.” His face screwed up like a dishcloth wrung too tightly. “A few more and maybe it won’t sound so bad.”
“I’ll see if they can play something a little less—” Noxious? Loud? Headache inducing? She swept back a wisp of hair and finally suggested, “lively.”
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