The Bewildered Bride (Advertisements for Love)

by Vanessa Riley

  Wycliff shook his head. “Adam should’ve been strong enough to wait. He put a copied ledger in your trunk and dragged you off into the night like thieves.”

  “Copied ledger? He didn’t. The returned trunk was empty except for the half registry. No jewelry, no books, just an old dress I can no longer wear.”

  Wycliff rubbed his forehead. “Empty save the half a piece of paper and an old dress? It doesn’t matter. As your protector, I’ll always keep my business from you, from you and Chris.”

  “That’s where you are wrong. I didn’t mind Adam including me in some of his doings. It was the secrets, the things he didn’t share that made me question everything.”

  “That made you hate Adam. Will you hate me? I have secrets.”

  “Time does no justice when you are hurting, when you need someone to blame. What happened to Adam and me wasn’t his fault.”

  “Ruth, I thought about what you said to me in your father’s office. You’re right about me. I’m no different than Adam.”

  “There was good in Adam. He died reaching for me.”

  Wycliff looked down at Chris and picked grass from his frizzy locks. “I am sorry, Ruth.”

  His raspy voice sounded broken and distant.

  I put a hand to his shoulder.

  There was tightness in his muscles. I forgot myself and put my whole palm to it.

  He didn’t move, and he didn’t stop my fingers probing the tension in his arm.

  “Do you like?” His heavy graveled voice sent tingles down my skin worse than a feather’s tickle.

  “It’s not very ladylike to admit that.”

  “Ruth, it’s honest.”

  “Then yes, very much so.”

  If smiles could be lazy and unbothered and beautiful, his was.

  When I squinted at him again, he frowned. “What, my lord?”

  “Your head is hurting again.”

  “Any time I wear these spectacles long.”

  “Then take them off.”

  “Lord Wycliff, there’s too much to see.”

  “This shouldn’t be your only outing here. Your barrister should take you and Christopher often. That little boy loves it here.”

  “I’ll mention it.” If I saw him again.

  “You’re so beautiful today. You dressed for him?”

  “Yes, but he had to work.”

  “That’s a recurring theme. Something that ends with my gaining, then I do something to upset you.”

  “You’ve done nothing today. You’ve been perfect.”

  His smile returned, brilliant, even toothy. He reached over, took my spectacles, and put them in his pocket. “Close your eyes.”

  I did as he requested.

  I trusted him.

  His hands were at the back of my skull. His palms were rough against my cheeks, and I smelled food: the baked bread and mustardy shaved meat.

  “The eye is a muscle. It can hurt when overworked.”

  “There’s a lot to see.”

  “You have a nose, two ears, a mouth, skin, lovely skin. They should work more.”

  “How does one enjoy Vauxhall without seeing it?”

  Wycliff knelt behind me, his fingers dancing along the nape of my neck. “You have a beautiful set of shoulders.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  His hands stayed on me, stroking circles. “Now listen to the music. Remember the band up in the stand. Can’t you hear their music?”

  “You’re going to sing?”

  “I’m trying to get rid of your headache, not make it worse. Just listen.”

  The rumble in his laugh was dark and delicious. I leaned back against him and felt his chest vibrating from his hoarse hum. The heavy ticking of his heart sounded better than my favorite clock. “Yes, this is good.”

  That dangerous feeling stirred, the one that wanted his kiss to follow where his hands had touched—weak temples, a lonely arched neck.

  His beard skimmed the top of my brow, furry and soft. Such a sweet bear.

  My pulse raced like it was in a marathon, but my headache eased.

  He sat again beside me, shoulder to shoulder. “Now open wide. Let me put some of the good bread to your mouth. Open for me.”

  Hesitation wouldn’t do, not for Wycliff. I lowered my lip and stuck out my tongue.

  His chuckles trembled through me as his fingers went to my mouth. Then I tasted a piece of fresh bread that had absorbed the gravy of the sliced meat. The tang of the mustard seemed to head straight to my nostrils.

  “The bread is so good, but the mustard is so strong.”

  “Do I stop feeding you, Ruth?”

  “No. Less mustard.”

  He laughed again and things were good, almost perfect.

  Perfect would be Wycliff asking again to be more than a good cousin. This time I’d let him.

  Chapter Twenty

  When Worlds Collide

  The sun had begun to lower when Wycliff carried the sleeping Christopher out of his carriage. The boy snored like a mill saw but had a tight grip about Wycliff’s neck.

  Between this pressure and all the yelling and laughing he’d done, his throat was sore. His voice would be very hoarse if he was lucky enough to still have one.

  Freeing his neck, he shifted the boy. Christopher was good and pure. He must take after his mother completely.

  Wycliff stuck his free hand inside his carriage and clasped Ruth’s. “Let me help you.”

  “Yes. I wonder if we have an audience looking out of Mama’s parlor.”

  He half turned and saw lights burning in the front room of the Croome townhouse. “Well, they’ll be pleased. I have returned you two at a respectable hour.”

  Ruth nodded and came close to his side.

  She’d been silent in the carriage, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable quiet. It felt like the peace of old comfortable friends.

  The little boy yawned, his cap falling. Wycliff stooped, and he felt Ruth jerk a little.

  “Just getting this.” He handed her the knit bonnet then put his hand on her waist and headed to the entry. “You think he had fun?”

  “Yes. You’ve been so good to him and me.”

  Christopher fit with them. Wycliff had thought it would make a difference, not knowing if the boy was his flesh. It didn’t. All the feelings—the protectiveness, the wariness, and the pride he associated with his own father, bubbled. It grew more and more for Christopher.

  Her fingers tangled in the strings of her bonnet. A few curls dropped about her darkening cheeks. “Did you say something?”

  “Maybe. My thoughts might be too loud, unlike what’s left of my voice.”

  “Your voice is not so bad. Not when you get used to it.”

  He adjusted the boy and then took the first step of the entry. “Christopher is amazing. If I can teach him to fish, he will make a fine Baron of Wycliff.”

  “That’s my son, but he’s only your heir until you marry, my lord, and have a son. We know you shall marry. Peers must.”

  He stopped on the third step and waited for her to join him. “I’ll not comment, Ruth. I remember being tossed out the last time I shared my direct opinion.”

  She smiled then her expression sharpened. “I’m surprised that every eligible daughter in Mayfair hasn’t been paraded before you at Blaren House. The marriage-making-mamas must be slacking off in their duties.”

  How could she be serious? He offered a soft laugh, one that wouldn’t startle Christopher. “Fortunately, the sjambok eviction has put them off.”

  The door to the house opened. The butler, Clancy, had a frowning look. Every time he’d seen the man, he possessed a cheeky grin. Now he looked mournful.

  “What’s wrong, Clancy?” Ruth asked as she handed him her bonnet and gloves.

  Mrs. Fitterwall came from the hall. “Clancy, don’t be upsetting Mrs. Wilky. There’s nothing she can do about it.”

  Ruth looked down as if this was some unspoken dig, but Wycliff had that sense, that sen
sation crawling up his spine, that this was about him. “Why not let Mrs. Wilky decide? She knows her own mind.”

  “Yes, I do. Mrs. Fitterwall, put Chris to bed first.”

  The woman blanched as if she’d just heard Ruth’s voice for the first time.

  The housekeeper complied without a complaint. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Clancy fumbled with the buttons on his livery. “Mrs. Johnson’s in the parlor with your mother.” His voice became lower and lower as if he spoke in secret. “She’s in an awful state. She’s been asking for you, ma’am.”

  Ruth ran to the parlor, and Wycliff chased behind her.

  When she opened the door, Mrs. Johnson was red faced, prostrate and crying on the sofa.

  Mrs. Croome was there in her lace mobcap, seemingly unbothered. She’d even knitted. What type of dire situation was this?

  Mrs. Johnson wiped her eyes on a very wrinkled handkerchief, something that had been twisted up tight. His cynical spirit thought it purposeful for dramatic effect.

  The woman lifted from the sofa and came to Ruth, taking both of her hands. “You are here with him. You have to help. Make him help me.”

  “Me…him?” Ruth’s tone wasn’t quite questioning. It sounded suspicious. That was his girl.

  “Talk to my daughter, Mrs. Johnson. Lord Wycliff, why don’t I see you out and let these two have a conversation.”

  His sense about things like cheaters, scandalmongers, and bad tailors nudged him. “Ma’am, I want to stay. I need—”

  “He’s the one. Mrs. Wilky, use your influence. Make him help.”

  Ruth folded her arms. “Make Lord Wycliff help what? What are you talking about?”

  “Look at me,” the hysterical woman said. “You know me. Madame Talease’s brothel. We shared a room. I tended to you when you came. You have to remember me.”

  Ruth’s blinked a few times. “I don’t know you. Why are you lying?” She looked toward Wycliff’s direction and then back toward her mother. “I was at Madame Talease’s, but I don’t know you.”

  Mrs. Johnson wiped at her eyes. “Maybe not directly. Your face was bandaged, your fever was high. I thought maybe you would know me. I hoped you would recognize me. I was good to you.”

  Ruth balled her fingers.

  The room felt on fire as if the rage coming from her fists heated the air. She stepped closer to Mrs. Johnson. “You’ve been to this house many times over the past six months. Why is it important to announce this today and in front of my company?”

  “Because your cousin is ruining my husband. We’ll lose everything.”

  Ruth tweaked her spectacles. “You are here to blackmail me. My mother, everyone here knows that I was at Madame Talease’s, sold to the woman after the vicious attack that killed my husband.”

  “No, Mrs. Wilky, no blackmail, but a favor. The baron is ruining my husband. He’s doing it. You can get him to stop.”

  Wycliff half leaned on the fireplace, not denying or confirming anything. His business would never involve Ruth. His worlds, his finance dealings, and his personal affairs would never again mix.

  Mrs. Croome, who surely understood from all of Mr. Croome’s dealings, sat silent, sipping her tea.

  Ruth gripped the couch’s high back. “Mrs. Johnson, I don’t know how to help. Lord Wycliff is here. Appeal to him yourself.”

  Mrs. Johnson balled the handkerchief into her palm. “I might have something that I can give you, my lord. I have a book.”

  He had a feeling this was the missing ledger, but he’d let this woman expose her duplicity. “I’m sure the Croomes have plenty of novels. Probably one or two editions of the Good Book for meditation. I have poems.”

  “But this belonged to your cousin, my lord, Adam Wilky, her late husband.”

  So, Milly from the bawdy house had the second set of ledgers, the ones that told of Mr. Johnson’s dirty dealings. Was that how Milly done come up—extortion? “Where did you get these books you believe to be Adam Wilky’s?”

  “From Ruth’s trunk.” The woman laced her fingers together and bowed her head. “I took it from the brothel.”

  Ruth’s face was unreadable for a second, but then her frown pinched tight. Something was about to burst.

  “You were here when my trunk came. You said nothing.”

  “I didn’t want to expose myself if you didn’t remember, but when you were dumped at the brothel, I cared for you. I thought there would be jewels in your trunk. I’d never seen such an elegant negress. I found the ledger hidden in the lining. I read it. Your husband identified things that Mr. Johnson didn’t want known.”

  Wycliff’s insides churned. He started to loosen his cravat. “You used the information to force Mr. Johnson to marry you. Why give up a document that proved his guilt?”

  “It helped him come up to snuff, but I’m good to Mr. Johnson. He’s happy. I’ll give you the pages that indict Soulden Wilkinson. He’s horrible.”

  Ruth shook her fists. “I don’t care for this nonsense about how you schemed for a criminal husband. Why are you here now?”

  “That Wilkinson name or most of the name on that torn piece of registry. Those people keep Mr. Johnson up at night. He thinks Soulden Wilkinson will kill him. Your cousin, Lord Wycliff, is now the head of the family. He can help. He can get my husband’s shipments moving. Mr. Johnson’s talking bankruptcy.”

  “So, Milly done come down? Or was about to.” Wycliff covered his mouth and took a step back when Ruth glared at him.

  “No jokes, Wycliff.” Her voice was stern, powerful, more than feisty.

  She pointed a finger at him before turning back to Mrs. Johnson. “Why didn’t you say something before? You know the jokes I’ve suffered. You laughed with the circle of knitters, women who didn’t believe I had a husband. Couldn’t you tell I needed a friend, a true friend?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to admit my past as one of Madame’s girls, either.”

  “Or that you are a thief?” Ruth’s tone was icy calm, too calm. “I think you need to leave.”

  Mrs. Johnson came to her. “I know I’ve done wrong. But you know what it’s like to be desperate. And you are a mother. My baby needs to know his father as he is, not a shell of a man who’s lost everything.”

  She put Ruth’s palm on her stomach. “Feel my baby’s kick. Help this child.”

  Rubbing her temples, Ruth turned to him. “I don’t know how to ask you this.”

  “Don’t.” Wycliff kept his words low. It was all he could muster. “This is not your fight. Keep your big heart safe and nowhere near this disagreement.”

  Mrs. Johnson stepped to him. “Please, for my baby. I can’t go back to where I came from, and I love Mr. Johnson. I have to save him. Please ease the credit on him, Lord Wycliff. Let his shipments sail.”

  Johnson was as guilty as Uncle Soulden, but maybe he’d try to live right for this child to come.

  Wycliff groaned but decided to offer an olive branch. “Tell Johnson to use Captain Steward. He found the money to keep his ship moving. I’m financing him.”

  “The captain was killed today on the docks. Someone started gossip that he cheated the payroll. His men rose up against him. He’s dead.”

  Wycliff held back the choice words he wished to utter, the language he’d use on the docks. This was injustice, so wrongful, the murder of Steward. Nothing on his tongue was appropriate for these women.

  “The captain was a good man. He had the money for his crew. I eased credit to him. He should not have been killed.”

  “He was murdered.” Ruth’s words cut through his gut. She was right.

  This was his uncle’s hand. A message—anyone associated with Wycliff, left unprotected, would die. Soulden the blackguard was wounded, but the dog wasn’t done.

  Mrs. Johnson lifted her hands to Wycliff. “Ease the credit to Mr. Johnson. Only Wilkinson’s ships can save my husband now.”

  Wycliff turned away, fingered the garniture vases above the fireplace, fragile porc
elain, easily broken with a shove or a careless hand. “Your husband can’t be saved, not by me. Captain Steward was the only way, and he’s gone. I’ll see to his wife and family.”

  The dark-haired beauty began to cry. “You’ll not help? Lord Wycliff, please. Ruth?”

  Uncle needed to be put down like a mangy animal before he touched anything else of Wycliff’s. “Your husband knows who is responsible for Steward’s death. I suggest you and Mr. Johnson be very careful.”

  The woman wept harder and sputtered words that didn’t sound like a lady, but old Milly-from-the-bawdy house. “Please work on him, Ruth.”

  Mrs. Croome set down her empty cup and took Mrs. Johnson’s hand. “You must go. Leave the men’s business to them. It’s the best way.”

  The sobbing woman took Mrs. Croome’s arm and left the room.

  When the door shut, Wycliff prepared himself to hear Ruth try to change his mind and her disappointment when he refused. There was no changing on this, even for her.

  Yet, Ruth said nothing.

  Her silence made it harder to breathe. “Say something.”

  She rubbed her temples. “It’s true? And Mr. Johnson knows you are destroying his business?”

  “Yes. And I’m destroying Soulden Wilkinson. He led the evil that hurt you and Adam.”

  “Adam’s uncle? Why does everything come back to him?”

  “Ruth, I’ve asked nothing of your business at the brothel. Don’t ask of my business. It’s the only way to protect you.”

  “What?”

  “Adam failed by involving you. He should’ve finished bringing his uncle and Johnson to justice before taking you as his wife. He thought he could have everything, instead he made you a casualty in his war. You deserve peace, not a war.”

  “Does that mean I won’t see you again until you’ve won? I definitely won’t see you, if you lose.”

  “You want to see me again, Ruth?”

  She sat on the back of the sofa. “Is that all you heard?”

  “That’s all I needed to hear. I’ve kept my business separate from you and will continue to do so. You won’t see that side of me. You’ll have Wycliff the man of peace, not the one enforcing judgement.”

  She took off her spectacles and set them in her palm. “But peace and war are both you?”