Kerner swiped at his bearded face with a trembling hand. “Aye. I’m sorry.” As if lurching out of a trance, he said, “Tend to those girls. Coleman is probably scaring the piss out of them.”
“Ah, leave off the man. He’s not as rough as he lets on.” Matthew flung off whatever mud he could from his hands and jogged his way back down the street until he reached the cart. “We got him,” he called out to Coleman, who was bent over the cart, waiting for the verdict.
Coleman huffed out a breath. “Good.”
Heading toward the back of the cart, Matthew leaned against the uneven planks of wood. Neither barefooted girl was crying anymore—thank God—but both were still tucked against the barrels they’d been removed from, huddling against each other.
Coleman gestured toward the two. “You should probably take over. They don’t seem to like me. Or my stories.”
Hopefully the man hadn’t been sharing the wrong sort of stories. Swiping his muddied hands against his linen shirt, Matthew held out both hands toward them and gently urged, “All of us are here to help. My name is Matthew and this gent beside you is Edward. Now. I want you both to be brave and ignore the mud and the scary eye patch. Can you be brave enough to trust me? Just this once?”
They stared, still clinging to each other.
Matthew lowered his hands and smiled in an effort to win them over. “Tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it. Do you want me to act like a monkey? One-eyed monkeys are my forte, you know. Just ask anyone.” He scratched his head with his fingers and softly offered, “Ooh, ooh, eee, eee, aah, aah.”
Coleman leaned down toward them. “I can do a better monkey than he can. Watch this.” Coleman swung his long, muscled arms in the air and garbled toward them.
The girls darted away from Coleman. Their dark braids swayed as they scrambled toward Matthew in clinging unison, as if deciding that Matthew was a better choice than Coleman.
Matthew bit back a smile. Good old Coleman. He could always depend on the man to scare anyone into cooperation. Matthew held out both hands. “There’s no need to be frightened. He’s merely being silly. Now come. Give me your hands.”
The girls paused before him, each slowly taking his outstretched hands, though they still clung to each other. Those small, cold fingers trembled against his own.
Matthew gently tightened his hold on them, trying to transmit warmth and support. He leaned toward them and whispered, “Thank you for being so brave. I know how hard that was. Are you ready to go back to Sister Catherine? She’s been very worried.”
To his astonishment, both girls flung themselves at his throat, bumping their heads against his shoulders. They sobbed against him.
Matthew gathered them, sadly unsurprised as to how little they weighed, and draped each girl around a hip, ensuring his pistols were out of the way.
The thudding of a single horse’s hooves echoed in the distance. The girls tightened their hold against him as he turned toward the sound.
The lamppost beyond resembled a golden halo eerily floating in the bleak distance. The steady beating of hooves against the trembling ground drew closer as the silhouette of a man in full military attire with a sword at his side, pushed his horse toward them.
Marshal Royce. The bastard. Now he arrived.
Matthew glanced at each girl and chided, “This here man was supposed to assist, but the mayor wouldn’t let him out of the house in time to play. The mayor is his mother, you see. And neither do enough for this city. Make sure you remember that when women are finally given the right to vote.”
The horse whinnied as it came to a stop beside them. “I heard that,” Royce snapped from above, his rugged face shadowed. “Why don’t you also tell these girls how I always look the other way when you’re doing something illegal?”
Matthew glared up at him. “Why don’t you offer up your horse so I can take them back?”
Royce wagged gloved hands and commanded, “I’ve had a long night that included almost getting my throat slit. Why the hell do you think I’m late? Hand them up. I’ll return them myself.”
Their arms tightened around Matthew and sobs escaped them.
Matthew stepped back, adjusting his hold on them. “You know, Royce, I don’t know if you care enough to even notice, but these girls have been through enough and don’t need to hear about throat slitting. So tone down that voice and get off the horse. I’m taking them back. All right?”
Royce hesitated, then blew out a breath. With the swing of a long, booted leg, he jumped down and off the horse with a thud. Digging into his pocket, he held out a five-dollar bank note. “Take it to pay your bills,” he grudgingly offered. “I heard you up and stole another shipment of pistols. Just know the next time you do something like that on my watch, I’ll ensure you and your Forty Thieves end up in Sing Sing Prison. And believe me, men don’t sing sing there.”
The bastard was fortunate Matthew was holding two girls. “I don’t need your money. Give it to the orphanage. They need locks on their goddamn doors.”
“You won’t take money from me and yet you have no qualms stealing.” Royce shook his head from side to side, lowering the money he held. “Your pride is going to hang you one of these days.”
“Yes, well, it hasn’t yet.”
CHAPTER TWO
All that you hear, believe not.
—The Truth Teller, a New York Newspaper for Gentlemen
July 22, 1830
Manhattan Square, late evening
“BRING HER OUT!” a man yelled in a riled American tone that drifted from beneath the floorboards of her music room. “Bring that woman out before I damn well dig her out!”
Bernadette Marie let out an exasperated groan and dashed her hands against the ivory keys of the piano she’d been playing. She really needed to lay out more rules for these American men. Not even the hour was sacred anymore.
Heaving out a breath, she gathered her full skirts from around her slippered feet, abandoning her Clementi piano, and hurried out of the candlelit music room. Rounding a corner, past countless gilded paintings and marble sculptures, she veered toward and down the sweeping set of stairs that led to the dimly lit entrance hall below.
She paused midway down.
Hook-nosed, beady-eyed, old Mr. Astor glanced up at her from the entrance hall. “Ah!” He tugged on his evening coat and strode around the sputtering butler. “There she is.”
Mr. Astor was not the man she had expected to see, given the late hour, but the endearing, quirky huff of a man had long earned her trust. He was one of the few to have welcomed her into the upper American circle, which had been most hesitant about accepting her due to the fact that she was British. He had also become the ever-guiding father she’d never had. Of sorts.
She hurried down the remaining stairs. “Mr. Astor.” She alighted to a halt on the bottom stair and smiled. “What a pleasant surprise. Emerson, you may go.”
Her butler, whom she had dragged all the way over from London—much to the poor man’s dismay—hesitated as if wishing to point out that the hour was anything but respectable.
Mr. Astor snapped out his hat to the man. “Take it and go, you Philadelphia lawyer. I’m not here to kick up her skirts.”
Bernadette cringed. The mannerisms of New Yorkers, even ones as privileged as Mr. Astor, was something she hadn’t quite gotten used to. She had watched in unending astonishment all but two weeks ago as, after a meal, the man had wiped his greased hands on a woman’s dress at a dinner party. Prankster that he was, he thought it was funny. And it was, in a son-of-a-butcher sort of way. But the woman whose gown was ruined didn’t care for his humor at all, even though he had offered to buy her four new gowns.
Not that Bernadette was complaining about the company she was keeping these days. No, no, no. He and all of New York were refreshingly, gaspingly glorious in comparison to the boring, overly orchestrated life she’d left behind. “Emerson, go. You know full well Mr. Astor deserves late entry.”
If only it were true.
Mr. Astor swung toward her, patting frizzy white hair back into place with a gloved hand. Dark eyes glinted with unspoken mischief. “I’m here to collect on a debt, Lady Burton.”
Bernadette stiffened at being addressed by a name she had never hoped to hear again. ’Twas a name only a select few in New York knew of, given she now publicly went by the name of Mrs. Shelton. And coming from Mr. Astor, it was especially troubling, be he jesting or not. “Is there a reason you are addressing me as such?”
He clasped his gloved hands together, bringing them smugly against his gray silk embroidered vest. “I’m a man of business first, dear. That is how this son of a German butcher came to trade and buy every last fur from New Orleans to Canada, making me the wealthiest man in this here United States of our Americas. Because when an opportunity presents itself, a man has to set aside being nice for a small while and lunge on said opportunity. So I suggest you do the favor I’m about to ask, Your Highness.”
She rolled her eyes, sensing he knew she wasn’t about to cooperate. Their viewpoints were never the same despite their bond. “I am not the queen. Please do not address me as such.”
“Ah, but you’re related to the woman.”
“My husband was related to the woman. Not I.”
“Are you telling me I can’t depend on you for anything? What sort of friend are you? Is this how you British get on?”
Drat him. She knew it would come to this. New York, after all, hadn’t really been her original destination when she had left London with a deranged twinkle in her eye. She had actually planned on staying permanently in New Orleans to better explore the history of privateering—and its men—until she was robbed right down to her petticoats during a less-than-reputable street masking ball. She had wanted to know what it would be like to frolic with the locals and found they didn’t frolic fair at all.
If it weren’t for Mr. Astor and his grandson, who at the time were all but strangers when they had heroically come to her assistance that night on the street, she might have been robbed of a lot more than just her reticule and gown. After that night, they had all become not only good friends, but old Mr. Astor had also brilliantly proposed she abandon New Orleans and accompany him and his grandson back to New York City under an alias to stave off all the newspapers who sought to exploit her after what had become known as “The Petticoat Incident.”
It was good to be plain old Mrs. Shelton, living in New York City, entertaining good-looking men whenever she had a fancy for it, as opposed to being Lady Burton gone wild, who had made United States gossip history by being included in every American newspaper from New Orleans to Nantucket. She had no doubt whatsoever that London had also long heard of it by now. Right along with her father. Gad.
She drew in a ragged breath and let it out. “I am forever indebted to you and your grandson, Mr. Astor. You know that.”
“Then do as I say, will you? Because my grandson is actually the one who stands to benefit from this. We are talking about squeezing ourselves into British aristocracy and making those prissy, tea-sipping bastards acknowledge that money is what makes power. Not a name smeared with drips of blood.”
Her brows rose. “You wish to...squeeze yourself into British aristocracy? I see. And what is it that you believe I would be able to do for you in that regard?”
He shifted toward her, his aged features taking on the sort of mock severity he reserved only for business associates. “You would be able to help us open doors, is what. How? By overseeing the first American marry into aristocracy. ’Tis a nugget of an opportunity. What I need is for you to assist this American girl along. Georgia Emily Milton is her name. Though, we’ll have to change it. ’Tis overly Irish and plain and needs tinsel. You see, there is an aristo this girl seeks to wed—a Lord Yardley who is next in line to become the Duke of Wentworth—who is already willing and waiting. What you need to do is make her palatable to British society, for her sake and his. It would involve teaching her everything you know about the ton, then guiding her through a Season over in London next year. The duke and I will ensure you have infinite resources to guards. No man will touch you whilst you’re in London. No man. Unless you want him to.”
An astonished laugh escaped her. Oh, now, this was humor at its finest. “Whilst the idea is most amusing, and I have no qualms about assisting this girl if that is truly your bidding, I am not going back to London. It would be an even bigger mess than the one I left behind and I will admit that I am infinitely fond of my new life. None of the men here in New York know who the bonnet I am and I can skylark all I want without getting dashed for it. Unlike back in London, where I was getting dashed for even breathing.”
He stared at her for a long moment. “You owe me.”
Bernadette let out an exasperated laugh. “I do not owe you hanging myself. I am not crossing an ocean for that.”
He gestured grudgingly toward the adjoining parlor. “Would you rather my favor involve a piano and a parlor full of naked men? Is that it? Would that be more to your devil-may-care liking?”
Oh dear God. Americans. No wonder the British finally relented on letting them go. Bernadette lifted a brow, knowing that, as always, the man was merely being crass for crass’s sake. It was time he realize that she was no longer the same girl he and his grandson had to rescue on the streets of New Orleans. She knew how to rescue herself and she was not about to touch a toe to London by exposing herself to vicious gossipmongers who knew nothing about a woman’s right to a life or privacy. “The last time I was in London, Mr. Astor, I had a man break into my home, intent on proving to me that he could beget me with his child in the hopes of beguiling me into matrimony. And he was the friendliest of my money-salivating suitors.
“Sadly, my inheritance has only served to encumber my happiness thus far, and I am trying to create a relatively pleasant life for myself. Going back to London would only impede that. For heaven’s sake, I have yet to do a sliver of all my plans. In fact, I’m about to negotiate a two-year trip to Jamaica.”
“Two years?” He pulled in his chin. “What for? Last I knew, all they had in Jamaica was water and sand.”
“Port Royal and Kingston happen to be known for their extensive privateering history. I also hear that the men there dress down because of the heat.” She smirked. “That alone would be well worth traveling for. And unlike New Orleans, I intend on hiring a guard to accompany me everywhere I go. So you see, Mr. Astor, that is what is next for me. Not London rain and pasty pale men, but Port Royal and sun-bronzed pirates.”
He stepped toward her. “You know I would not normally ask this of you, but my grandson stands a chance to follow in the footsteps of this girl if we do this right. He stands to marry into aristocracy. ’Tis something he and I have talked about for years. Hell, I would have gladly married him off to you to ensure that title, but for some reason, you won’t have him.”
Bernadette lowered her chin. “The boy is twenty.”
“And all the more virile for it! Unlike your old William, he’ll ensure you have twenty sons in twenty minutes.”
She cringed at the thought. “Mr. Astor, really. Jacob, whilst very lovely, is fifteen years younger than myself. I wouldn’t even know what to do with him.”
“Lovely? Did you just call him lovely? Don’t ever call him that.” He sighed. “I need you. My grandson’s entire livelihood needs you. Don’t make me kneel for this.”
“Why would you ever want that poor boy to be part of the aristocracy? ’Tis a queernab existence I have spent my entire life trying to escape. Besides, with your vast fortune, you and Jacob already have everything.”
“Everything but that.” He hissed out a breath. Eyeing her, he went down on a grudging, wobbly knee, grazing the hem of her gown, and slowly spread both arms wide, giving sight to everything k
nown as Mr. Astor. “The dreams of a mere butcher’s son is something you would never understand. You, who were born unto a rare breed few touch. Do this for me. Seven months of training this girl here in New York, a little over a month of continuing to train her during travels abroad and one month in London. One. That is all I ask. My wife will be the one playing chaperone. Not you. So you needn’t worry in that. I tell you, this girl is going to establish a taste for all things American if we do this right. ’Twill be a sky-brightening storm that will finally see that my grandson wed into his dreams. I beg of you. Take pity upon his dreams and mine. Have you never had a dream?”
Too many. She had once dreamed of sweeping, heart-pounding adventures, true love meant to make one sigh and unadulterated passion that no music from her piano could ever evoke. All of that had drowned rather quick, however, when her father married her off at eighteen to an old man whose idea of love, passion and adventure was a carriage ride through Hyde Park and a pat on the hand.
She’d been trying to make up for it ever since.
Sensing that the man wasn’t about to relent, Bernadette sighed. She did have unfinished business in London with her father after she’d packed up old William’s estate and sailed into the night without a word to anyone. She supposed she owed her father one last visit. Bastard. “So be it. I will take on this girl as it means so much to you. But I am not staying in London beyond a month. Is that understood?”
His face brightened as he scrambled up onto booted feet. He grabbed her hands in both of his and shook them. “’Tis a pleasure doing business with you, dear, as always.”
“Yes, yes, and you are most welcome. In truth, this idea of introducing an American into London society would be rather gratifying. Those self-righteous bastards, who dare act like gods thinking their blood is pure, deserve to have their blood tainted.”
“I knew you were the woman to oversee this.” He tapped at her hands one last time before releasing them. “Though I will say, my dear, after London, I highly recommend you settle down before you set fire to those skirts. You’ve broken enough hearts. You ought to remarry.”
Forever a Lady Page 3
