“Take care, sir,” she said, loosening Claybourne’s grip with a slap at his black gloved hand. “You’ll hurt him.”
“He’s as guilty as sin, Miss Mayfield,” Claybourne said, taking a tighter hold on the frail shirt and tearing it even further. “He’s one of a pack of young thieves that preys upon people along Threadneedle Street. He must be dealt with to the full extent of the law.”
Claybourne started dragging the boy up the steps of the Bank, but she ran ahead and stopped him with a hand to his chest, a very solid and uncompromising barrier.
“Out of my way, Miss Mayfield.”
“Where are you taking him?”
He brushed her aside, but she clung to his arm and stopped him again, wedging herself between the boy and his immoveable judge. Her efforts brought her chest against Claybourne’s belt, and even as he bent his angry face to hers, she marveled at his strength.
“I’m taking the little bandit to a bank guard, who’ll then take him to the police, who will then lock him up where he belongs.” He bent closer, if that was possible, and the obsidian of his eyes turned to molten scarlet. “It’s what I do with thieves.”
“This boy is not my thief, Mr. Claybourne. The real thief was taller and … wore a green shirt. This boy’s shirt is brown. What’s left of it.” She stepped out from under Claybourne’s ill-tasting doubt and looked directly into the boy’s upturned face. “Isn’t your shirt brown, lad?”
He nodded his head slowly, never dropping his gaze from hers. The boy hadn’t spoken at all, seemed incapable at the moment, with his mouth gaping and his eyes as wide as the sky. She wondered if he wasn’t a mute. In any case, Claybourne had no right to beleaguer anyone without absolute proof.
“There! He’s completely innocent of the crime.”
“An innocent doesn’t run,” Claybourne said, growling as if he’d as soon throw the boy off London Bridge.
“If you were being chased along Threadneedle by an enraged giant, Mr. Claybourne, wouldn’t you run, too?”
Claybourne’s eyes shifted to the street and the crowd gathered below the stairs, then back to her. His anger paled his brow and then his neck. He let go his grip on the boy’s collar with a snap and then looked down at his own hand as he closed his fist.
The boy scampered to her side. “Thank you ever so kindly, miss,” he said.
“You’re very welcome,” she said, straightening the torn and rumpled shirt. The poor child. Motherless, no doubt, and grateful for her gentle encouragement. “What’s your name, lad?”
“Pepperpot, miss. Giles Pepperpot.” He smiled grandly at her and slipped his warm, calloused hand inside hers, letting it hang there among the folds of her skirt.
Claybourne muttered a curse and grabbed his hat from her other hand. “You’ve let yourself be taken in, Miss Mayfield.”
“Have a heart, Mr. Claybourne, and let him go. We’ll finish our business at the Bank and then part as we planned. Away with you, lad, before the great man can catch you.” She patted the boy’s matted head and he sped away, tucking in his shirt as he went, his filthy bare feet slapping the pavement. The crowd muttered its disappointment and dispersed as soon as he was gone.
“You’re a fool, Miss Mayfield.”
“If granting a kind word to an unfortunate child makes me a fool, then I wear the label proudly. You, on the other hand, are miserly and cruel, Mr. Claybourne. Not that it surprises me. I knew it by inference before, and now you’ve shown me in vivid detail.”
“And where do you suppose your bag is now, Miss Mayfield?” he asked, taking her elbow and starting up the steps toward the Bank.
“I couldn’t even imagine. It was probably snatched from little Giles by the older boy—”
Claybourne stopped on the step above and bore down on her like a thunder-heavy cloud. “Damnation, woman! You knew it was he! That little thief stole your good sense as well as your bag! You let him escape when I had him by the nape.”
“Yes, I did. The bag was long gone. There was nothing to be done. Giles Pepperpot is a poor little boy—”
“He’s a thief, madam. He’d rather slit your throat for a ha’penny than to look at you.”
“You may be a cutthroat, Mr. Claybourne, but that doesn’t mean that every man is. Children like Giles need care and comfort and a good home. In fact, if I had thought about it in all the commotion, I’d have given Giles money to buy himself a new shirt to replace the one you tore.” She reached for the purse that hung from her belt, prepared to shake the coins in Claybourne’s face.
“My purse—”
It was gone. Nothing remained but the short length of cording, cut sharply.
Claybourne’s growling anger smoothed into the rumble of insolent laughter. “Stolen by your wretched little angel?” he asked, lifting a diabolical eyebrow, knowing the answer as clearly as she did. “Who’d have thought it possible?”
Heat rose in her cheeks. The boy’s gratitude and need for affection had only been a ruse for cutting her purse from her belt. The little imp. The thought was strangely comforting. “Well, Mr. Claybourne, with a bit of luck, a clever lad like Pepperpot might survive his poverty to become a ruthless financier just like you.”
Claybourne grunted and captured her hand to fit it into the crook of his stone-rigid arm. His long legs took the steps two at a time and sent her running to keep up with him.
“You married Mayfield’s daughter?”
“Less than an hour ago, Lanford.” Hunter handed him the note that changed Miss Mayfield’s address to his own. That change now seemed so much more significant than simply a new address. He was married—to, to that green-eyed, willowy bit of opinions waiting for him in Lanford’s reception room. “I’ll have a copy of the registry sent to you tomorrow.”
“Is she pretty?” Lanford raised his eyebrows and smiled too broadly.
The man didn’t need to know that his new bride was somewhat more attractive than he’d reckoned for, somewhat less insignificant.
“Never mind, Mr. Claybourne. I suppose looks wouldn’t matter, would it? You’d have married a goose if it would have brought you that railway.”
“Good day, Lanford.” Hunter left him behind his desk and strode deliberately to the door, tired of the banker’s society.
Lanford followed him like a puppy. “I knew you’d come up with something, Claybourne. But I never really thought the woman would agree to marry you.”
Hunter turned as he caught the door latch. “Think what you will. I came here only to inform the Bank of England that Miss Mayfield and I are now legally wed, and that her shares in the Drayhill-Starlington Railway will revert to her one year and one day from this date.”
“And, by way of marriage, they will become yours at the same time. A bold step, Claybourne. Though I don’t know why you would want those shares—you’ll become sole owner of a five-mile line of iron track that begins in a bog, leagues from any town, and then dead-ends at the foot of a chalky cliff. I don’t understand it, myself. But you are a man of unerring judgment where finance is concerned. You must know what you are doing.”
“You and the Bank have benefited countless times from my advice, Lanford.”
“Yes, we have. And I suspect we will again. Would you, by any chance, be looking for investors in the Drayhill-Starlington?”
He had never felt quite so absurdly possessive, as if the railway was the woman herself and he craved some singular claim on her. “No investors, Lanford. I’m in this one alone.”
“Let me know if you change your mind.”
“I never change my mind.” Hunter threw open the door, wondering if his wife would still be waiting for him.
She wasn’t.
Chapter 5
“What do you mean I haven’t an account here at the Bank of England?” Felicity held fast to her temper; her heart had taken off on its own at the teller’s outrageous statement. “You’re quite wrong! My uncle, Foley Mayfield, put one thousand pounds into an account for me just three
days ago! Have you spent it already?”
“I can assure you, miss, the bank does not spend your money for you. But I must repeat: there is no account here in the name of Felicity Mayfield, or Foley Mayfield, or even in your father’s name. I’m sorry.”
“But Uncle Foley said—” Oh, but he’d said a good many things that day, that very singular day when he’d sold her to Hunter Claybourne.
“Would you care for a hot cup of tea, Miss Mayfield?”
“No. Unless you want it dashed into your face, sir.” She was instantly sorry. “Please forgive me. It’s just that I’m …”
She was penniless, homeless, without even a change of clothes. And all her irreplaceable work had been stolen by that scamp Pepperpot!
She pushed away from the teller’s stall and crossed the lobby to the lofty windows that looked out onto the street. Perhaps Uncle Foley had forgotten to put the money into the bank. He had been in a devilish hurry to sail that day.
No. She was just making excuses for him. He’d failed her, as no other could have done.
Hunter was beyond surprised to find his wife in the lobby, staring out the window, her bonnet sitting askew. No doubt searching for that grimy urchin who had just stolen her blind. Probably looking to reward him with a basket of cakes, had she any money to purchase such a reward. He curbed his anger. He couldn’t very well make a scene in the bank lobby. He knew far too many people here.
He caught her elbow. “Where have you been, Miss Mayfield?”
She turned sharply, her eyes liquid and angry, and he felt a moment’s guilt for the day’s business.
“I’ve been busy falling off the turnip wagon, Mr. Claybourne,” she said, righting her bonnet with a yank. “I would like to leave now. It seems I have pressing business at the Hearth and Heath in Fleet Street.”
The reckless woman had no sense of her own helplessness. “Have you any money, Miss Mayfield?”
She opened her mouth to answer at the same time her hand unconsciously touched the empty place where her purse had once hung. She sent a look of impatience toward the teller stalls, then shook her head at him.
“I’m momentarily without funds,” she said, raising her chin, quite proud of her loss, it seemed. As if she’d just donated a million pounds to a worthy charity, instead of losing her last penny to a stinking urchin.
“And what do you plan to do about your lack of funds?” he asked.
“I …” She seemed to look for an answer in the cavernous ceiling of the bank lobby. She had caught up her lower lip between her teeth, deepening the rose tint of her mouth and lighting a spark in the center of his chest that burned an instant path to his loins. He took a sharp breath as it hit, but hid the sound inside a growl.
“Where do you live, Miss Mayfield?” he asked sharply, wishing away this damnable attraction to her.
But she tilted a slender hip into her palm and cocked her head in open defiance, tipping her bonnet off-center once again. “I live wherever I please.”
He didn’t like this all of a sudden. His legal wife, let loose on the city without means. He could see the headlines in the Times: “Hunter Claybourne’s wife found sleeping in a dish crate in Hyde Park.” That wouldn’t do at all.
“Have you no rooms anywhere?” He hadn’t considered the living arrangements between them. Hadn’t thought it necessary.
“Why should I pay rent all the month, when I’m gone for days, weeks at a time? I live in a boardinghouse when I’m in London and take my rent in kind when I’m traveling.”
“In kind?” He was stunned by the implication, imagined beady-eyed innkeepers and seedy bedrooms, sweaty hands reaching for the private curve at the base of her breast. His own hand ached for the same. “What the hell do you mean by ‘in kind’?”
She gave him a look of annoyance, as if he were out of his league and she was too busy to explain. “Innkeepers are quite happy to exchange meals and lodging for my favorable listing in the travel gazette.”
He hadn’t realized that he’d been holding his breath until he blew it out of his chest in a storm. “You live by that means? By barter? For mention in a gazette?” Good God, he’d married a gypsy!
“By bartering, and by selling my articles to the Hearth and Heath. What did you think I meant, Mr. Claybourne?”
He frowned and led her out of the Bank into the gray blanket glare of noon. They had just reached the bottom step when a young man in a moth-eaten tweed suit rushed in between them.
“Felicity!” the man shouted, as he yanked the woman into his embrace, causing the hair to bristle on Hunter’s neck and a spot of coal-hot anger to blossom in his gut.
“Adam Skinner!” Miss Mayfield hugged the man even more fiercely in return. She finally pulled away from him and stood back to gaze on him in too-obvious admiration.
The Skinner person swabbed his hat from his head and beamed at her. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, Felicity!”
“What are you doing here, Adam? Last I knew, Mr. Dolan had sent you to Cardiff to report on the auctions.”
“I left Dolan’s weeklies for the Times. I’m working here in Threadneedle now! Special reporter to the Bank. Reporting on the great Hudson’s demise.”
“Special reporter! How wonderful!” She hugged the giddy-faced man again, and Hunter wanted to toss him under a speeding dray.
Instead, he reached down and separated them. “You’d best be on your way, boy.”
The man looked like a chicken whose feathers had been stroked backward. “Who is this fellow, Felicity?”
She sent Hunter a damning glare and fluttered her hand as if she were explaining away a stray dog. “Just my husband. Never mind him.”
“Your, your what?” Skinner’s mouth sagged, and he took a long step backward. “You got married?”
“Well, I…” She seemed abruptly awkward and unsure of herself, casting Hunter a stammering glance that spoke of past indiscretions.
“Enough, wife.” He’d have led her immediately to the carriage, but he looked up from her wrathful displeasure into the white-browed, laughing eyes of Lord Meath. Damnation, but there were too many people about this morning.
“What’s this I hear?” Meath said, his forehead furrowed in genuine concern. “You’ve gotten yourself married, Claybourne?”
“Good to see you, your lordship.” Hunter took Meath’s outstretched hand.
“Is it true, Claybourne? Have you married at last?”
Meath was a member of the Board of Trade, a man whose reputation and goodwill meant more to Hunter than any man’s in the City. He seemed quite pleased at the moment, but a single stray word from his scowling bride could ruin it all.
Skinner watched the exchange with far too much reporterly interest, his notepad and pencil at the ready.
Hunter pulled his wife against him and settled her beneath his shoulder. Fortunately, she fit perfectly. “Lord Meath, I present to you my wife, Miss—”
“Mrs.—” she corrected, boring a sharp fingertip into his ribs.
“Mrs. Claybourne.” He must work on this breach in his thinking, and on his wife’s behavior in the presence of a viscount. “Mrs. Claybourne, Lord Meath.”
Meath smiled down on her and took her hand. “I am charmed, my dear. When was the happy event?”
“An hour ago,” she said quickly.
Meath laughed and patted her hand. “You have snared a very eligible jackrabbit, Mrs. Claybourne. Many women have tried. However did you do it?”
Felicity tipped her head up toward her intolerable husband and considered telling the absolute truth: he blackmailed me, your lordship. But Claybourne had narrowed his eyes to slits, like an ill-humored dragon disturbed from its afternoon nap. She decided against the absolute truth; the explanation would take all day and she didn’t trust Claybourne’s reaction, not after his treatment of dear Adam.
“Dear, sweet, Mr. Claybourne insisted that I marry him,” she said instead, settling a false smile on her face. Claybourne must have approved;
he seemed to start breathing again. But would he breathe as easily if he knew she’d noticed that weakness in his defenses? He was much impressed with himself and seemed determined to have others return his good opinion.
“Well, then!” Meath said, beaming at Claybourne. “Your heart stolen away by true love. Good. Good. Should happen more often these days. Congratulations, Claybourne.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“You and your lovely wife must come to dinner sometime in the next month.”
Felicity opened her mouth to decline, but Claybourne grabbed her hand and placed it on his arm, then clamped his own hand down on top of hers.
“We would be delighted, your lordship,” Claybourne said, his white teeth gleaming in the afternoon sun.
It seemed strange to her that the beastly man could transform himself in the daylight into quite a handsome figure, his primitive darkness turned to dignity, his blunt-shouldered hugeness turned to a nearly charming presence. And strange indeed that her heart fluttered wildly when she studied his face in search of some kind of virtue. A fruitless venture, to be sure.
“Good to see you, Claybourne.” Lord Meath was glancing down Threadneedle Street, kneading his gloved palms together. “Well, I’m off to the club to rub some salt into some very sore wounds. Word is that George Hudson is going to hit rock bottom in the next few days.”
“Indeed.” Claybourne seemed relieved to be talking business.
Felicity wanted to be done with the man and his overwhelming presence, wanted most of all to pursue her own business at the Hearth and Heath. How else was she to live? Bartering for food and lodging only succeeded half the time; she often had to pay her own way. And now that Giles Pepperpot had run off with her purse and a whole month’s worth of finished travel articles, and her uncle had left her penniless, she needed to explain the delay to Mr. Dolan, and then somehow recreate her work as soon as she could manage.
But this Lord Meath fellow seemed to have Claybourne’s full attention.
“You right about Hudson all along, Claybourne. There will be resignations among the Board Members. Your timely warning saved my own fortune and my name. I thank you. Again.”
Ever His Bride Page 6
