by Royal, Emily
I could ask Mr. Clayton for extra work,” Meggie said. “A few more hours at the Rose and Crown will soon add up.
“Best get going,” Mrs. Preston said. “You were due at the Rose and Crown five minutes ago.”
Meggie glanced at the clock on the desk and gave a low cry.
“On no—what will Mr. Clayton think of me?”
“Doubtless the same as I,” her companion said. “That you devote too much of your time to others. Now, run along and tell him he’s not to utter a single harsh word unless he wishes to answer to me.”
Meggie grabbed her shawl and dashed out of the tiny building. By the time she reached the inn, her sides ached. But she welcomed the exercise, which helped to stave off the bitter cold. With winter well on its way, the country was gripped by frost.
A side door opened, and a voice called out. “Afternoon, Meggie!”
“Mr. Clayton, forgive me, I…”
“No matter, lass,” he said, “you’re here now. Come in quickly. We’re in sore need of your stew tonight with this cold weather, and we have a full house—plenty of empty bellies. Mary’s got a nice bit of scrag end.”
“I’d best get started,” Meggie said. “That’ll take some time to cook.”
The innkeeper took her arm.
“Before ye go to the kitchen, lass, best make yourself presentable. There’s a gentleman to see you.”
“A gentleman?”
“I recognized him right away, though it’s been eight years. I took him to the parlor where you can attend him in private.”
Meggie’s stomach clenched. Mr. Clayton could only mean one man—the man she feared above all others. A man who’d only ever looked at her with dislike, as if she were an insect he’d rather stamp out.
The last time she’d seen him had been eight years ago when she’d lain in a hovel, ruined, broken, and bleeding. Impervious to her grief, he’d lectured her on the shame she had brought upon his name while she grieved for an innocent life.
Billy…
In the years since, Alderley had given her a small stipend that contributed toward her board and keep. But she would have exchanged it in a heartbeat for a single word of affection from the man who was her father.
“How long has he been waiting?” she asked.
“About half an hour.”
“I’d best go directly, for he’ll be angry.”
“Tidy yourself up first, lass. Ye look like an urchin!”
“I doubt he’ll care.”
“A little effort on your part won’t hurt,” he said. “Gentlefolk set too much store on manners and looks, but it’s not our place to disagree. And you must understand why he could never publicly acknowledge you, don’t you?”
“Of course,” she said, blushing at his reference to her birth.
After splashing her face with cold water, she approached the parlor and knocked on the door.
“Enter!”
A shiver of fear rippled through her. Eight years had passed, but she still recognized the voice—a cold, nasal tone with a sharp edge as if every word were barking out an order.
He sat in a chair, the light from the fireplace casting sharp shadows across his face. With a huff of irritation, he struggled to his feet, his knuckles whitening as he gripped his cane.
She dipped into a curtsey. “Lord Alderley.”
“Come here, child!” he snarled, tapping his cane on the floor. “Let me see you.”
She approached him until he raised his hand.
“That’s far enough.” He looked her up and down, then circled her, muttering to himself about her appearance, as if he were a farmer inspecting a cow at auction. Thin, bony fingers grasped her chin and tipped her head up. His eyes narrowed in concentration, then he released her.
“I’d hoped for better,” he said, “but you’ll do.”
“For what?”
“It’s not your place to ask questions.”
“It is if the answer affects my life,” she said.
His face darkened, and he curled his hand into a fist. For a moment, he looked as if he was going to hit her. Then he sighed and sat down again, gesturing to a chair.
She folded her arms and tipped her chin up. Maybe a show of defiance would persuade him that she’d not be suited to his purposes, whatever they may be, and he’d leave her alone.
“Are you not going to sit?” he asked.
“Why should I?”
“Out of common courtesy, if nothing else. After all, I’ve been supporting you all your life. I can withdraw that support in an instant.”
“Then why don’t you?” she cried. “Why don’t you leave here?”
“Because I have use for you. The time has come for you to show your gratitude.”
“Gratitude?”
“Who fed and clothed you from the day you were born?” he asked. “Who took care of you after your sordid little disgrace when you showed yourself to be a slut, just like your mother?”
She flinched and stepped back.
“Stop right there, girl!” he said. “It’ll be worse for you if you continue to defy me.”
He gestured toward the chair. “Don’t try my patience,” he warned, his grip tightening on the cane.
She took a seat.
“That’s better,” he said. “Perhaps, after eight years, you’ve learned your lesson.”
The memory of loss overcame her will to defy him, and a tear splashed onto her cheek.
If Billy had not died—if she’d not killed him—would he be here now?
“Now’s not the time for self-pity,” Alderley said. “Your life is about to change for the better.”
“I have a good life here,” she said.
“What, tucked away in an obscure little village?”
Wasn’t that what he’d wanted? Obscurity for his bastard?
“I have occupation and fulfillment here,” she said. “It takes my mind off…”
He raised his hand. “Do not speak of it! You do me great injury by referring to it now. I’ll forgive you this once, but shan’t be lenient a second time. As for your husband, he’d have you horsewhipped if he discovered your sordid little secret.”
“My what?”
“Your husband,” he said, triumph in his voice. “You should thank me for finding someone willing to take you on.”
“You expect me to marry?”
“I do,” he said. “He’s a respectable man—given his origins. And he’s wealthy. You’ll want for nothing, as long as you behave as a wife should.”
Dread rippled through her. Despite his words, it was clear that Alderley didn’t like the man he’d promised her to.
“I don’t want to marry,” she said.
“It’s not your place to question my judgment.”
She rose to her feet. “I won’t marry him!” she cried. “I can see you don’t like him.”
He jumped out of his chair and gripped her arm.
“You’ll do as you’re told,” he snarled, “and Hart will take you, even if I have to drag you down the aisle in chains! I’ve wasted enough money on you, and it’s time I reaped the reward!”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Did you never question the identity of the landlord for that pathetic little school you value so highly?” He gestured around the room. “Or who owns the freehold of this tavern?”
He pushed her back, and she stumbled against the door. “I’m sure Mrs. Preston will be most aggrieved if Mr. Adams raises the rent to a prohibitive level—or turns her out altogether—and Mr. Clayton will have much to say if his landlord, Mr. Attlee, evicts him on grounds of running a house of ill repute.”
“You mean…”
A slow smile crossed his lips, and he nodded. “Yes, my dear child,” he said. “I’ve owned you—and those on whom you depend—from the day your mother dumped you.”
She drew in a sharp breath as the enormity of his words settled upon her. She thought she’d been enjoying a free and independent life.
But in reality, it had never been her own. And now, she had two choices—to submit to the demands of the man who’d resented her all her life or to defy him and watch as he destroyed the lives of the few people she cared for.
He strode toward the door, and she moved aside, unwilling to feel his hands on her once more. A smile of victory glittered in his eyes.
He knew he’d cowed her.
“We leave immediately,” he said.
“What about my things?” she asked. “My friends?”
“I’ve wasted enough time on you, girl, and wish to return home before nightfall. The marriage takes place next week.”
Next week! Good lord!
“At least permit me to say goodbye,” she pleaded.
“Don’t be a fool,” he snapped.
He opened the door to reveal two liveried footmen. They stood a head taller than Meggie and had brutish thick-set frames. As Alderley pushed her through the door, they flanked her on either side and, like gaolers, they escorted her down the stairs and through the main parlor. Her cheeks warmed with shame as the patrons ceased their chatter and stared.
“Meggie?”
She heard Mr. Clayton’s voice and turned to catch a glimpse of his shocked white face. He moved toward her, but the footman blocked his path.
“Best make no fuss, sir,” she said, “if you want to avoid trouble with your landlord, Mr. Attlee.”
The footman grasped Meggie’s arm and hauled her toward the waiting carriage, then he pushed her inside and squashed himself beside her.
Alderley climbed in after them and sat opposite.
Meggie leaned out of the window. “Mr. Clayton!” she cried.
“That’s enough, miss,” the footman said. “We don’t want to upset his lordship, do we? Not when he’s been kind enough to take care of you.”
“Lord Alderley,” she pleaded. He ignored her.
“Father!”
“Control your charge, Wilkes,” he said to the footman. “Teach her the consequences of disobedience.”
“With pleasure, your Lordship.”
Wilkes tightened his hold on her. Scars and bruises adorned his hands—the trophies of a man who used his fists. His thickset body pressed against hers. Brute strength radiated from him. He could control her body with one hand, and Alderley held the fate of those she held dear in his hands.
What could she do but yield? Even if she escaped, the few friends she had in the world would suffer.
The carriage set off, and she lurched forward with the motion. Thick fleshy fingers grasped her arm and yanked her back to the seat.
She tried to free herself, but his grip was too firm. “Do you intend to have me incarcerated?” she asked.
Alderley snorted. “Wilkes will tend to you until you’re no longer my responsibility. Once you belong to Hart, there will be no necessity for correction on my part.”
The footman licked his lips as if he relished the prospect of correcting her.
A week under Wilkes’s command was almost too much to bear.
But what would come after?
And what man could be such a fearsome prospect for a husband that even Alderley felt the need to assign a gaoler to prevent her from escaping him?
Chapter Three
Dexter and his business partner climbed out of the carriage, and both stared at the building.
The Alderley family chapel.
“Hell’s teeth, Peyton, did you ever see such a godforsaken place?”
His companion laughed. “You’ll find it a fitting environment for your black heart.”
It was a testament to Peyton’s usefulness that Dexter didn’t call him out for such disrespect.
Oliver Peyton employed his business brain during the day with the accuracy of a master swordsman, and he was the only worthy opponent in chess in London. But by night, he was a dandy, who set reason aside and pursued women with gentle charm instead of a hunter’s ruthlessness.
Unlike Dexter, to whom the game of seduction was just another chess match, where he could read a woman’s intentions and desires several steps in advance.
Nobody could beat him at chess.
Or at seduction.
Oliver gave him a nudge.
“Cheer up, old boy. Alderley might swap the brides back!”
“Let’s hope not,” Dexter replied.
Oliver laughed. “You prefer to shackle yourself to a dried-up old maid from a country village than the honorable Elizabeth?”
Perhaps. Dexter had reconciled himself to his fate. However unpalatable she was—and a natural daughter raised in the gutter could not be considered anything but unpalatable—his bride would, most likely, be so grateful for being elevated from the mud pile that she’d submit to his every command.
“I daresay you’ll relish the gratitude of a peasant,” Oliver continued, “and I’m sure she’ll be obliging enough to remain indoors while you explore London’s bawdy houses to dine on sweeter meat!”
“That’s enough!” Dexter growled. “In less than an hour, the woman will be my wife.”
Oliver’s smile disappeared. “I’m sorry, my friend, I was only trying…”
“I know,” Dexter sighed. “To make light of this godawful situation, I find myself in.”
“You could always call it off,” Oliver said. “None would think the worse of you.”
“It’s a question of honor,” Dexter said. “And this way, I can keep Alderley in my sights. If he wishes to sacrifice one of his pawns, let it be to my advantage. He must have a purpose for giving her to me. Once I discover that purpose, I can use her for my own ends.”
Oliver shook his head. “I almost feel sorry for her.”
His words, unwittingly repeating Harold Pelham’s observations of a fortnight ago, pricked at Dexter’s conscience.
Dexter gestured toward the chapel. “Best get this over with.”
The chapel was empty save for the parson and a black-clad man Dexter didn’t recognize. He stood and issued a stiff bow as Dexter approached him.
“Mr. Hart,” he said. “Permit me to introduce myself. Mr. Turner, at your service. I’m his lordship’s steward.”
“What happened to your predecessor?” Dexter asked.
The man colored and averted his eyes.
“Never mind,” Dexter said. “No doubt the challenge of restoring Alderley’s finances proved too much for him. I wish you greater success, though unless you’re practiced in alchemy or witchcraft, you’ll have a struggle on your hands.”
“Which is why I’d be most obliged if you saw fit to discuss his lordship’s debt with…”
Dexter raised his hand. “First, I deem it unseemly to discuss finances on what is supposed to be the happiest day of my life. And second, any plea on behalf of the Alderley estate must come from his lordship’s mouth, for me to consider it.”
A creak echoed around the church as the doors opened. A solitary figure stood, silhouetted in the light. Dexter sighed in irritation. He’d recognize that shape anywhere, given the numerous occasions on which it had been shown to him.
The newcomer walked down the aisle, slowly, as if in a procession, and the parson let out a nervous cough.
“I was right,” Oliver whispered. “Alderley has swapped daughters.”
The woman tipped her head up, greed and desperation in her eyes.
“What are you doing, Elizabeth?” Dexter hissed.
“I’m come to demand you see reason.” She reached out her hand, and he brushed it aside. Her lips thinned into a frown, and it struck Dexter how unattractive she really was. Her sharp handsomeness displayed a meanness of spirit, which only served to emphasize what a lucky escape he’d had.
“What’s done is done,” he said. “You do yourself no favors being here, and your father would object to his prize possession, tainting herself with my presence.”
“I can still persuade him,” she said, her tone taking on a nasal whine. She grasped his wrist, her hand moving too quickly for him to avoid he
r. But where he’d once hardened at her touch, his skin only tightened in revulsion.
“You cannot want to marry that little harlot,” she pleaded. “Think of your reputation! You’ll be a laughing stock, tied to a woman of no parentage.”
“She’s your sister,” he said, shaking off the offending hand. “You have at least one parent in common.”
“She’s a whore.”
Elizabeth’s voice bore all the cultivated brittleness of a lady, but the coarse expression gave her voice a shrewish tone.
He pushed her aside and strode to the front of the aisle where the vicar stood, waiting. Oliver joined him, and he stood, motionless, staring straight ahead.
The chapel clock struck two, and the doors creaked open, then shut with a bang. The vicar straightened his stance and gave a sigh of relief. Sharp, confident footsteps approached, accompanied by a lighter, softer footfall, moving at an irregular pace, as if their owner were being dragged along.
It seemed the bride was as reluctant as the groom.
“I’ll be damned!” Oliver cried. “Guttersnipe she may be, but she scrubs up well.”
“Spare me the humor,” Dexter growled.
“I’m not jesting,” Oliver replied. “Of all the indignities this union has piled upon your head, I can think of several women who’d be a worse prospect for warming your bed.”
“Perhaps you’d care to take my place.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Oliver laughed. “But it looks as if your reputation has preceded you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve never seen a woman so miserable.”
Dexter could no longer resist the temptation. He turned and caught sight of his bride.
Chapter Four
“Do nothing to disgrace my name,” Alderley said. “Do you hear?”
He leaned forward. “I’ll hear you say it, girl.”
Wilkes gripped Meggie’s wrist until tears of pain stung in her eyes.
“Yes, Papa.”
