The Way The Wallflower Wed

by Devon, Eva

“Two of them,” Peterbrooke said.

  They might as well pickle their innards.

  “Anything else, loves?” she asked with a wink.

  “Not tonight, dear. Not tonight,” said Peterbrooke.

  Marcus shook his head, unable to keep his thoughts away from Pippa. How was she coping with her father?

  What a damned ass that man was.

  “How long will you stay in England?” Peterbrooke asked, leaning back nonchalantly.

  “It’s full of poncing dandies and people who know nothing of history and the fact that it predicts the future. So hopefully, not long.”

  Peterbrooke’s lips twitched with amusement. “How true.”

  Marcus scowled, eager for his gin. “We are in a right state and a state of war for the next God knows how long. If that fool Napoleon had just read a few books, he might understand that men like him are never long for this world.”

  Peterbrooke paused as the barmaid brought their gin and grinned at them. When they merely tossed her a few coins, she sighed and sashayed off.

  Peterbrooke lifted his gin glass and took a swallow. “Do you think Napoleon shall fail? He seems terribly determined.”

  Marcus eyed his friend, surprised. “He’ll burn out. Just you watch. He has an ambition for power that is far too intense.”

  Peterbrooke nodded and took another swallow of gin as if the world was a vastly tiring place. “He’ll kill thousands in his attempt.”

  “You are the expert in war, old friend,” Marcus said, hating to think of the battles ahead for so many.

  “Indeed, I am,” Peterbrooke said. He leaned back as the barmaid brought a bottle over, anticipating their needs, and plunked it down before them.

  She gave them one last look, as if hoping they might change their mind. But when she realized they were both more interested in talking with each other than her charms, she headed off, swinging her tray with ample skill.

  “So, why are you here?” Peterbrooke asked, pouring out more of the bitter liquid.

  “I’m in London because my assistant is being held prisoner.”

  “Prisoner?” Peterbrooke coughed on his gin. “Has your assistant committed some sort of crime? Are they in jail?”

  “Jail? No,” Marcus admitted. “Crime? The only crime is being female.”

  Peterbrooke coughed again mid-swallow and his eyes went red.

  Marcus banged him on the back.

  Peterbrooke waved him off. “Steady on. What the devil do you mean?”

  “My assistant is female,” Marcus repeated.

  “Your assistant is female?” Peterbrooke echoed, eyeing his gin as if it might have some extra power that was leading his mental faculties prematurely astray.

  “Is there something amiss with your hearing?” Marcus asked. “Have you seen your doctor as of late to inquire if there’s some trouble there?”

  “There is nothing wrong with my hearing, as you well know,” Peterbrooke informed. “I am only repeating the astonishing news that you have a female assistant. It is not typical, you know. But, then again, nothing with you is particularly typical.”

  “Exactly.” Marcus took a careful sip of gin, which burned down his throat and into his belly. “So you should not be surprised.”

  “Well, I’m not surprised at anything you do, but it is difficult on her, don’t you think?”

  “Obviously, yes,” Marcus growled. “Her father is causing a great deal of trouble.”

  “Her father? Why would her father care?”

  “Her father is Mr. Post,” Marcus intoned. “A gentleman from a rather up-and-coming part of town who seems to think it would be horrific if his daughter was my assistant.”

  “Ah, I see.” Peterbrooke rolled his eyes. “New money. They don’t understand the rules of society very well. Do they? They think they have to behave a certain way and they don’t yet realize that once you have enough money, you can do whatever the devil you please.”

  “Not just old money,” Marcus pointed out, “but a name to go with it. For instance, I could probably run around the park naked and, while it might be a subject of conversation for a week or two, my reputation would not be completely destroyed.”

  “Fair point,” Peterbrooke said, “but please don’t. As well put together as you are, no one wants to see that except for a few ladies.”

  Marcus laughed. “Have no fear on that score.”

  He now knew that view would be limited to Pippa. He was quite happy to be naked in her presence, but he wasn’t about to start showing himself off to anyone else.

  “I’m not entirely certain what to do,” he confessed. “It’s a bit of a dilemma. Her father has her locked up in his house and won’t let her out.”

  “I beg your pardon.” Peterbrooke shuddered. “That’s fairly medieval.”

  “Do not play so innocent,” Marcus warned. With Peterbrooke, it was often impossible to tell if the man was exaggerating or in earnest. “Ladies are still kidnapped, ruined, then forced to wed, even though the law says that it is not allowed.”

  “Hmm,” said Peterbrooke, hooking his arm over the back of his chair. “True. Too true. It takes society far too long to catch up with the laws. And men do like to think that they are owners of all their wives and daughters. Even their sisters.”

  “They are,” Marcus ground out. Sometimes it seemed impossible that half the population of England was chattel, owned by the other half. “The law says it’s so, and it has for a very long time. That law is far older than the one citing that young ladies may have some sort of choice in who they wed. Hence her father’s damnable attitude.”

  Peterbrooke gave him a sympathetic look. “The father does not wish her to wed you.”

  He stared at his friend. “How did you know I intended to wed her?”

  “You’re not a fool. If she’s such a good assistant, which she clearly is from your admiration, the only way to keep her and get her away from her old man is to wed.”

  “You’re correct,” Marcus granted, eyeing his gin but now finding no desire to drown his sorrows when Pippa was all but imprisoned. “We did plan to marry for the reasons you suggest, but. . .”

  “Do you love her?” Peterbrooke asked quietly.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Marcus bit out. “Of course not. I think she’s remarkable, but love? I have no time for it. I’m far too interested in things that are not animated. You know my parents were absolutely frustrated by my view of the world, and they were fairly certain I would never have an heir because I had so little interest in humans.”

  Peterbrooke guffawed. “Your interest in humans really is quite limited to dead ones.”

  “That sounds terrible.”

  “But true.”

  Marcus nodded. He usually gave little thought to others but he could not shake Pippa from his thoughts.

  “I do not know what to do about Pippa,” Marcus finally confessed. “I could storm the house, but that would create a scandal.”

  Peterbrooke laughed dryly. “When the blazes have you ever cared about a scandal?”

  Marcus grumbled, “Never, but this is particularly difficult. I feel like I might have to go with saber drawn and pistol in hand to get her out. And I don’t particularly wish to end up in an English court of law defending my sally into her home.”

  “Would you like me to have a word with him?” Peterbrooke asked.

  “You could, but the father’s opinion is not the worst of it.”

  “There’s more?” asked Peterbrooke as he drank the last of his gin.

  “Westmore has asked her father for her hand. To drive me mad.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I am.”

  Peterbrooke let out a sound of disgust. “Westmore has been getting more and more audacious in the ways he has to denigrate you in public to soothe his inferiority. It is a damn shame really, considering you two used to be friends.”

  “It is a shame but it happens, as I understand, even amongst brothers,” Marcus ob
served, wishing it was not true.

  “It does,” Peterbrooke agreed. “When envy and jealousy enter a man’s heart, there is no cure.”

  Marcus shoved his gin away, needing his wits. “Perhaps I can slip into her house this evening.”

  “Don’t get shot as a thief,” Peterbrooke warned firmly.

  “I’m better at sneaking than that, as you well know,” Marcus pointed out. “I’ve snuck into tombs in Egypt before with whole groups guarding the entrances.”

  Peterbrooke laughed, this time with amusement. “Of course you have, old man. And then there was that time in France—”

  “Don’t even mention it. I don’t wish to discuss it,” Marcus cut in quickly.

  He did not like to think of all the things he’d gotten up to during the war, and there had been a great many.

  Peterbrooke lifted his glass in a slight salute.

  Over the years, Peterbrooke had tried to recruit Marcus as a spy, but he had insisted that it was not the game for him. He was far more interested in history that had already occurred rather than making it.

  Marcus considered Westmore’s intent to wed Pippa. He couldn’t leave her in her father’s house any longer. It was too great a risk. What if Westmore tried to marry her this very night?

  The idea hit him so hard he felt ill. He couldn’t allow such a thing to befall her. “I must go at once.”

  “To save the lady you do not love?” Peterbrooke raised his glass in salute. “She must be a truly remarkable assistant.”

  “She is,” Marcus returned.

  “Then go and get out of London as quickly as you may.”

  Marcus nodded. “We shall depart for Italy.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. I’m a bit worried about Westmore if all you say is true,” Peterbrooke breathed.

  Shaking his head, Marcus thought of the boy who had always been by his side. “No,” he insisted. “Our rivalry will not go further than Egyptian artifacts and opposed views. Once I am in Egypt, he will only think of me when he goes there. Thankfully, he spends most of his time in London. He prefers to regale everyone with tales of mummies and treasure.”

  “Let us hope you are correct,” said Peterbrooke, though doubt lingered in his hard eyes. “Here’s to your future wedding to Miss Post.”

  “Thank you,” said Marcus, relieved to finally be taking action to free her. “I’m looking forward to it myself.”

  “Love or no love?” Peterbrooke asked.

  Marcus refused to be baited. “I admire her greatly and that is all that matters. She’s infinitely capable and there’s not a better woman in all the world.”

  “A compliment,” Peterbrooke crowed. “Not a better woman, eh?” A knowing look warmed Peterbrooke’s usually implacable visage. “I think you are indeed in love.”

  Marcus merely shook his head at his friend and, with hope in his heart, he headed out to the dark streets. He was determined that he and Pippa should be on their way to Italy by dawn.

  Chapter 23

  Pippa eyed her door for undoubtedly the hundredth time that night.

  Her father had locked it.

  It was absurd.

  She had not realized she was quite such a prisoner. He’d had her watched and followed, yes, but she had not realized that she would be barred!

  Did her father truly find her so untrustworthy?

  Apparently hieing off to Cornwall to become Roxley’s assistant did indeed make her untrustworthy.

  It had never occurred to her that her father would go to such extremes.

  Was Roxley really such an appalling option to him?

  It seemed so, especially when Westmore, a popular ton aristocrat, was offering to become his son-in-law.

  It was not to be born. Just days ago, she had been her own woman—independent, important, praised for her capability.

  That was who she truly was! Not a young lady dictated to by her father and society.

  She had to escape lest she find herself bound in matrimony to a man determined to control her.

  More than anything, she needed to find a way to slip out of her father’s house.

  She could not allow herself to be locked up in her room like some bizarre Rapunzel. That was not the sort of person that she was. She had never been a damsel in a tower, and she was not about to become one now.

  She looked about her small but elegant room, assessing her options. She supposed she could use a letter opener and wedge open her door and escape down through the hall.

  But there were a great many risks. The floorboards creaked and it might be difficult to get past the servants.

  She turned slowly about the room, pondering her possibilities. Unable to sleep, she had spent hours staring at the golden clock until it chimed half past one in the morning.

  Everyone else in the house had gone to sleep, but there was a chance that her father had sent one of the footmen to stay awake and keep an eye on her.

  It seemed likely given her father’s determination to see her wed to Westmore.

  Slowly, she turned. How could she escape? How?

  She spotted her tall windows overlooking the street and stopped. The long glass-paned windows faced the front of the house, looking out onto the small park.

  There was a drop down. One that she wouldn’t be able to survive unscathed without assistance.

  There was no way she’d be able to climb out the window and shimmy down. It was a straight brick-faced wall. She would crush her legs on the pavement if she tried.

  There had to be another option.

  She thought again of Rapunzel, but she did not have long hair. Certainly not like the young lady of that story.

  But she did have. . . She turned her gaze to her armoire filled with gowns she loathed. Gowns her mother had picked out.

  She and her mother had spoken very little. Her mother was always busy attending parties and teas, with no time for her children, and they had little in common in any case. For as long as she could recall, they’d spent little to no time together, much like her father and herself.

  Truly, she hated the gowns her mother picked for her. They were not for her, but some imagined daughter who was dainty and beautiful. The frocks were lacy, frothy, pastel, covered in beads, and absolutely inappropriate for a person such as herself.

  She was a determined young woman, not a piece of cake.

  Finally, she could think of something that those dresses would be quite good for. Though they might appear delicate, they were excellently made and would stand up to a great deal.

  She crossed to the armoire, yanked it open, and pulled out several gowns.

  She eyed them.

  Would it work? Was she risking her life? Was she absolutely mad?

  Well, all she knew was that she had to chance it. She could not remain here. The next thing she knew, her father was going to bundle her out of the house, put her into a coach, and find a church nearby.

  Once in the nave, he’d somehow find a way to make her say, “Yes.”

  She did not doubt her father’s determination nor Westmore’s. She’d never seen such a look in a man’s eyes as she’d seen in the earl’s. While some might like to believe that women could not be manipulated into marriage without their consent, she was no fool.

  History was full of such things, and she was not about to allow herself to be the victim of history.

  She would be the heroine of her own life instead.

  So, without wasting any more precious time, she began tying the dresses together. Firmly. In strong knots.

  It was a good thing she had done a great deal of reading over the years. Knots had come up in several books and, years ago, she’d practiced the principles she’d read.

  She thought of all the ways that one could make the strongest ties and she did so until all seven gowns were linked together.

  She then made a loop and tied it about one of the feet of her bed. The bed would be able to bear her weight, thank goodness. It was quite a monstrosity and she hoped t
o never have to sleep in it again.

  She then turned to the window, hauled it open on its well-oiled hinges, and flung the makeshift rope out into the darkness.

  As she neared the sill, she faced her moment of truth.

  The street was dark. The lamps were far and few between in this part of town, even though they were not in one of the poorest sections.

  The front of the house was bathed in shadows.

  She gazed down onto the quiet, shadowy street. Most people were either still out gambling, or drinking the night away as best they could, or they were at home asleep like sensible people.

  This was her chance.

  She had to do it before the coaches started rumbling back after a night’s debauchery.

  Pippa took a breath, looked at the rope, and girded her loins. She hooked one leg over the edge, then the other. Determined, she took strong fistfuls of the tied gowns. She wrapped the rope about her hand, and then she began to lower herself out the window.

  Her heart caught in her mouth as she dangled. It was far harder than she’d anticipated, for she did not often climb walls.

  But slowly, oh so slowly, she wrapped her legs about the makeshift rope, feeling quite proud of herself as she did so.

  She shimmied down in fits and starts, barely making progress. Then suddenly she slipped so fast she had to bite back a yelp.

  Before she knew it, she was more than halfway down and could see the pavement beneath her. She was adrift between her room and the ground for a moment. She could feel the gowns giving way just a bit. Her stomach twisted in fear.

  Did she dare jump?

  She was almost there.

  Hands grabbed her ankles. She stifled a scream, looked down, and was astonished and terribly grateful to see before her the very man she was longing to run to! The very man she thought might rescue her, but the one that she had decided she would not wait for.

  The Earl of Roxley assisted her down and into his arms.

  “Where the devil have you been?” she asked, her heart lighter than it had ever been.

  Chapter 24

  The sight of Pippa dangling from her own window had nearly caused Marcus apoplexy, and he was not a man easily shocked.