“Well, I didn’t see you offering for her hand.”
“No. I was afraid if I asked her, she’d just laugh.”
The men chuckled and thumped each other on the back.
“I suppose we’ve worn out our welcome, Alfred, old man,” Beckett said, looking forlornly back at the inn. “You really must stop getting into rows with that Fanshaw fellow.”
“Don’t go blaming this on me, Beckett. I distinctly remember you calling him a… what was it, now? A
‘mutton-headed squeaker.’ Oh, and also a ‘windy, weasel-gutted jingle-brains’.”
“Ah,” Beckett replied, “but you’re forgetting that he first called you a ‘gawky, rattle-pated gollumpus,’ which, as you know, is a contradiction in terms. I was merely leaping to your defense, old boy, if not the defense of the King’s English.”
Beckett and Alfred continued down the dark street, toward the corner of Poole and Lansdowne. They finally reached the intersection, and waited for a coach in the misty lamplight. A fine drizzle dampened their clothes and turned the cobblestones glossy.
Beckett leaned up against the cold lamppost, folding his arms across his gray and black-striped waistcoat. The jacket had disappeared long ago, whether before or during the fisticuffs, he couldn’t remember.
He cocked his head—was someone moaning? Certainly he was in his cups, but that had never before affected his hearing. Beckett listened again for the strange sound.
“There it is again!”
“Wha—”
“Shh!” Beckett hissed.
The two men held on to each other unsteadily and listened as the sound seemed to emanate from a pile of rubbish alongside the gutter. It sounded like an animal in distress. Beckett crept toward the source of the sound, and in the dim lamplight, he saw a bedraggled cat hunching over a pile of fish heads in the trash-strewn alley.
Beckett held out his hand to the animal, carefully moving closer to it. But as he neared, the skittish cat sprang away, revealing a sight that made Beckett stumble backward in surprise.
In the misty lamplight, he saw the face of a young woman lying motionless, surrounded by a stinking pile of rubbish that covered her like a vile blanket. Her eyelids were closed and dirt smeared her cheek… but even in such a condition, she possessed an ethereal beauty that made his gut tighten to look at.
A small bare foot stuck out from under a ripped sack. Beckett gingerly lifted the sack away, wrinkling his nose at the smell of decaying fish and cabbage that rose from the gutter. The stench made his stomach roil.
The girl’s only clothing was a dirty, damp nightdress, which was molded like a second skin to her body beneath. Black grime and dried blood covered the soles of her feet. Her head rested at an awkward angle, and her arms and legs were askew. She looked like a doll that had been thrown away by a careless child.
A surge of protectiveness rushed through his veins, and he fought against it. He didn’t want to feel anything for any woman, least of all this mysterious girl. And yet the urge to take her into his arms, to shield her from whatever had brought her here lingered. Unable to stop himself, he reached out to touch her face.
“It looks like some unfortunate trollop has been thrown out for the night,” said Alfred. “Cover her back up and let’s go.”
“What?”
“You heard me.” Alfred stepped back and crossed his arms. “Let’s go. I’m tired and I’m wet, now leave the wench where she belongs, in the gutter!”
Nausea washed over Beckett in waves as the odor of excrement and rotting meat filled his nostrils. He couldn’t believe his friend was immune to the danger this girl was in, foxed as he was or not.
“Alfred, are you blind? She’s not from the gutter! Look at her nightdress. Lady Granville has one that is quite similar, if memory serves me right.” Beckett fingered the detailed embroidery on the collar.
“And how would you know what Lady Granville’s nightdress looks like?
Beckett rolled his eyes heavenward. “Nothing but flim-flam, Alfred, I assure you.”
“I’ll wager you know more about Lady Granville’s nightdress than Lord Granville does, and about what’s under it, as well!” Alfred kicked Beckett’s shin lightly in admonishment. “But the fact remains that the girl must be a harlot.”
“What of it? You should have no prejudice against her if she is, having gotten to know a few quite intimately yourself. It’s no reason to leave this poor girl to die.”
“Well, what would you have us do, Beckett?”
“We can’t leave her here.
“Oh, can’t we?” Alfred sighed, folding his arms. “At least try to wake her and see if she’s alright. If she is, we’ll go on our way.”
Beckett nodded. His head was still slightly fuzzy from drinking and being tossed into the street, and the obvious had escaped him. If the girl was fine, they could be good samaritans and help her home. Yes, that was a good plan.
“Miss… Miss?” Beckett reached down and touched her cold, bare arm. There was no reaction from the unconscious girl. He tried again, shaking her shoulder with a little more vigor. “I say, are you alright?”
Still, she did not move.
“Perhaps she’s dead, Beckett,” Alfred whispered, as if his words might offend her should that be the case.
Beckett grasped a clammy wrist and felt for a pulse. He found a strong heartbeat.
“No, she’s quite alive, old man. But she might not survive the night if we leave her here. Help me get her up.”
“Oh, why don’t we just leave well enough alone? What business is it of ours?”
“Think of what might happen to the girl if we don’t take her with us,” Beckett insisted.
“Think of what might happen if we do. ‘Zooks, man—do you really want to be responsible for some wayward girl, whatever her story is? Can’t we leave her at one of the hospitals?”
“Alfred, I wouldn’t leave one of my worst enemies in one of those hospitals, and you know it. It’s too late to call a physician. That will have to wait until morning. Now, you lift her shoulders and I’ll take her feet.”
Alfred groaned, putting his hands under the girl’s arms and lifting her upper body. Beckett took her ankles.
“This is a bad idea, old man.”
“You never want to do anything heroic.”
“No, I never want to do anything utterly stupid, that’s all. I still remember how you insisted it was our duty as officers to save those kittens from Napoleon’s guns in Salamanca. It wasn’t enough that you’d rescued a convent full of virgins, oh no! You had to save their cats, too. I still have the scars from that little escapade. And then there was the cow that we helped to give birth—a very messy episode, as I recall.” Alfred shifted the girl’s weight and leaned closer. “And need I mention that irate goose who tried to peck us to death when we rescued its eggs from being Wellington’s breakfast?”
“Oh, quit complaining. You couldn’t turn your back on any of those creatures any more than I could—just as you can’t turn your back on this poor girl now. Besides, we’re going to be heroes, you mutton head.”
Beckett saw the girl’s head droop to the side. A mass of damp honey-blond curls fell away from her face and revealed a nasty bruise near her hairline.
The thin nightdress clung wetly to her body, so that it was almost invisible. Beckett wanted to be a gentleman and avert his eyes from this involuntary display of her charms. He wanted to ignore the effect such sweetness was having on his own body. He wanted to tell himself she was just another stray, like the swan he had found walking down the middle of the Strand, or the puppies he had rescued from the pond in Hyde Park. But she wasn’t.
Her innocent beauty, her vulnerability overwhelmed him.
Beckett adjusted the weight of her in his arms. Though she was far from heavy, his muscles strained to keep her aloft. The fisticuffs at the inn had exhausted him.
A coach slowed beside the curb and stopped, the black horse stomping its hoof impatiently. Stea
m blew from its nostrils into the cold, damp night. The two men gingerly placed their silent cargo inside, under the driver’s suspicious gaze.
“Take us to Covington Place!” Beckett yelled to the white-haired coachman.
As the vehicle rumbled down the street, Beckett quietly gazed at the girl across from him. He watched her face in the moonlight as her head jiggled against the side of the cab, and he fought the desire to pull her into his arms and cradle her.
What was he doing rescuing this strange girl in the middle of the night? This was no stray kitten he was bringing into his home. She could be anything from an innocent lost lady to a killer, for heaven’s sake.
And yet, he’d never been able to turn away a creature in need. But would he later regret this penchant for rescuing strays?
He laughed at himself. He already had so many regrets, what was one more?
Chapter Three
As the coach turned onto Curzon Street, Beckett ran his hands over his face, trying to wake himself up.
He felt so tired that he was almost nauseous. His head pounded like a drum and his belly burned.
Luckily, they wouldn’t be returning to the Goose and Gunner anytime soon. The rot-gut he drank at that inn would surely kill him one of these days.
The coach came to a jolting halt in front of No. 10 Covington Place, and Beckett felt his stomach lurch like a ship on the high seas. He gazed down at the mysterious girl before him. How was he going to get her inside when all he wanted to do was crawl into his bed and stay there for at least twenty-four hours?
Beckett groaned and opened the door of the coach, stepping out. He reached back in to receive the girl’s feet as Alfred lifted her shoulders. Finally, they managed to get her out and entirely into Beckett’s sagging arms, and headed up the walk.
The ornately carved door of the townhouse opened silently, as if by magic. Beckett’s valet, Hartley, stood behind it as they entered the foyer. Since Beckett could only afford one manservant, the long-suffering Hartley assumed the duties of butler, as well. Sitting on the man’s shoulder was Beckett’s African gray parrot, Caesar. Both looked at Beckett with interest.
“The lady, sir?” Hartley asked.
“A poor woman in distress. We will be looking after her for a few days. Let’s get her upstairs.” With a nod to the valet, Beckett commanded him to light their way.
“Hello. You’re a pretty bird,” said Caesar.
“Hello, Caesar,” Beckett replied as they trudged up the staircase. He said to Hartley, “What’s he still doing awake?”
“Still awake,” said Caesar.
“I put him to bed, sir,” Hartley explained, “along with Master Monty, Miss Cleo and the puppies—as you instructed. But Master Caesar simply would not keep quiet. He kept screeching and jabbering until I could take no more. I’m afraid he does that when you are out late at night, sir.”
The familiar clicking of twenty toenails accompanied them on the stairs, and Beckett glanced down to see his mongrel, Monty, bounding up beside them onto the landing. “Come to see the new addition, eh, Monty?”
The big brown dog panted up at him in response, his thick, pink tongue hanging out of his mouth.
“What luck, Monty,” Alfred whispered. “Your master has found you another playmate!”
“Hartley, we’ll need fresh linens and a bath for our wayward miss. She’ll sleep in my room tonight,”
Beckett ordered.
“Your room, my lord?” Hartley asked, an eyebrow raised.
“Yes, my room. And don’t look at me like that. I’ll sleep next door in the sitting room. I want to keep an ear open if she awakens. She may be frightened by the unfamiliar surroundings.”
The servant turned to go, but Beckett swung around and blocked him with the girl’s dangling legs. “The girl has nothing to fear. I promise to be a perfect gentleman. But I’m sure she thanks you for your concern.” He gave the older man a wicked grin.
Hartley nodded his graying head, fighting a smile of his own. “This must certainly be the most interesting stray you’ve rescued, my lord. But I’m afraid she smells as bad as the rest of them put together.” He chuckled and moved down the dark hall with Caesar still on his shoulder, lighting the sconces as he went.
Beckett looked at the unconscious girl in his arms and took another whiff, turning up his nose. “My word, I think he’s right.”
Alfred nodded, stifling a yawn. “Why can’t you rescue sweet-smelling females?” He turned to go down the hallway toward Beckett’s bedchamber, then stopped abruptly. “But who shall bathe her, Beckett?”
“I have no idea… but it certainly won’t be you.”
“Oh, trying to keep her all to yourself, are you?”
Beckett turned from him, adjusting the girl’s weight in his arms. Lord, but she was getting heavier by the second.
With Monty at his side, he walked down the short hallway to his bedchamber. Once inside, he carefully laid the girl’s limp body on the huge bed, while Alfred followed him and lit the candles.
The girl’s hair spread around her shoulders like a halo on the linen-covered pillow. Beckett pulled the covers around her and watched her for a moment. No, she certainly wasn’t a trollop, so what was she?
Who was she?
Hartley hurried into the room carrying linens, towels and blankets, then returned again with a pitcher of warm water. Crossing the room to the washstand, he poured the water into a blue porcelain basin.
“Thank you, Hartley. That is all,” Beckett said, and the valet took his leave.
Beckett set the linens on the edge of the bed. “I’m quite sure she won’t awaken this evening—we shall try to solve the mystery tomorrow. Now, Alfred, help me get her undressed.”
“I didn’t think you needed any help undressing a woman, Beckett.”
“I don’t, you fool! But I’m bloody tired and I want to go to bed, so give me a hand.”
“No, Beckett, this was your idea. I’m not interested in playing nursemaid.” Alfred folded his arms in front of his chest, and leaned closer to the unconscious girl. “I’ll just have a look at her when you’ve cleaned her up.”
“You know, Alfred, sometimes you can be a damned nuisance.”
“Poor Beckett. Perhaps it’s being such a bloody good Samaritan that’s a damned nuisance.”
Beckett gave Alfred a warning look, but his friend’s words gave him pause. Gads, was he doing the right thing? All he knew was that if they had left the girl there in the street, he wouldn’t have been able to sleep tonight.
Beckett looked Alfred straight in the eye. “And if that had been me tonight, Alfred, and you didn’t know me… would you have come to my rescue?”
“Of course not! I would have left you to rot.” Alfred rested his fists on his hips and sighed. After a moment he added, “You know what the streets are like these days. You never know who might be lurking ‘round a corner, especially in that area.”
“But would you have helped this woman if I hadn’t forced you to?” Beckett prompted.
“If I say yes, will you be quiet? Let us cease with these hypotheticals. She’ll be gone soon, anyway.”
Beckett felt his eyes grow heavy as he stared at Alfred. “I wonder who she is, really….”
“You always did love a good mystery, old man.” Alfred started for the door. “I’m going downstairs and have myself another drink. Then I am going to sleep in my usual spot: The Blue Room.”
“You’re leaving me to do this alone?” Beckett grinned at Alfred, then yawned.
Alfred chuckled, saying over his shoulder, “You know, I just thought of something—if you ever call her ‘my pet,’ it won’t be the least bit of a lie. Enjoy bathing her!”
The door closed and Beckett turned his attention to the unconscious girl lying across his bed. His arms and legs felt like lead, and his eyes watered from yawning. Normally he might have been more excited at the prospect of washing a beautiful woman, but he was so tired, he just wanted to go to sleep.
<
br /> Monty scooted himself closer to the bed and put his chin on it, his big, black nose sniffing energetically at the myriad smells covering the unconscious girl. His tongue snaked out and licked her hand.
“Monty, no!” Beckett whispered, frowning. “I need you to act as chaperon.” The dog moved back, but continued to look at the girl as if she were the sweetest-smelling thing he’d ever encountered.
Beckett tapped his chin and surveyed the situation. Perhaps he could just get her out of the damp nightdress and dry her off—instead of giving her a more thorough wash. But beautiful or not, the fact remained that she smelled like the contents of a sewer. He moved closer, and a quick appraisal showed that most of the filth was on her dress.
Beckett lifted up her arm and brought his nose near. Her skin was soft to the touch and her dainty hands and fingers were free of calluses. That lent credence to his earlier assumption. She wasn’t a common street-walker, of that he was certain.
Beckett reached down to remove the wet clothes from her clammy body. His gaze fell on the taut nipples straining against the thin fabric. Even in the dim light, he could see their shadow.
Gadzooks—he felt like a peeping Tom in his own bloody bedchamber!
Despite the vision before him, his eyelids began to droop as he reached for the lacy collar of her nightdress. Still, he told himself, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d undressed a woman with his eyes closed—although on most occasions he’d been kissing her at the same time.
He felt his way to the buttons down the front of her dress. There were so many of them, and the damn things were as tiny as pebbles. They were probably made this way to discourage young women from hasty trysts with lovers. And they were cleverly the size of a woman’s fingers, not a man’s. This was illogical indeed, he thought groggily, considering it was usually a man’s hands that unfastened the tiny buttons—at least here in London. In the country, perhaps it was different….
Finally he was through them all, and he eased the garment from her shoulders. His hands lingered there, and his eyes fluttered open as his forearm brushed against what lay below those creamy shoulders. The softness whispered across his skin like rose petals in the wind.
The Marriage Bargain Page 2
