Books by Theresa Romain
Stand-Alone Works
Those Autumn Nights (novella) in A Gentleman for All Seasons
My Scandalous Duke (novella)
The Prodigal Duke (novella) in The Dukes of Vauxhall
Desperately Seeking Scandal (novella) in The Duke’s Bridle Path
Rhapsody for Two (novella) in How to Ruin a Duke
Romance of the Turf
The Sport of Baronets (novella)
A Gentleman’s Game
Scandalous Ever After
The Way to a Gentleman’s Heart (novella) in Mrs. Brodie’s Academy for Exceptional Young Ladies
His Wayward Bride
Royal Rewards
Fortune Favors the Wicked
Passion Favors the Bold
Lady Rogue
Lady Notorious
The Matchmaker Trilogy
It Takes Two to Tangle
To Charm a Naughty Countess
Secrets of a Scandalous Heiress
Holiday Pleasures
Season for Temptation
Season for Surrender
Season for Scandal
Season for Desire
Everyone has secrets…
Though their horse-racing family is as troubled as it is talented, all of the Chandler siblings have found love…except eldest brother Jonah. Married four years ago and abandoned after his wedding night, single-minded Jonah now spends his days training Thoroughbreds—while his lost bride is a family mystery no one dares discuss.
And that’s just the way Jonah and his wife, Irene, want it.
The biracial daughter of a seamstress and a con artist, Irene has built a secret career as a spy and pickpocket who helps troubled women. By day she works as a teacher at Mrs. Brodie’s Academy for Exceptional Young Ladies; in spare moments she takes on missions that carry her everywhere from London’s elite heart to its most dangerous corners.
Jonah agreed to this arrangement for four years, until Irene’s family fortunes were made. After surviving on passionate secret meetings and stolen days together, now it’s time to begin the marriage so long delayed. But as these two independent souls begin to build a life together, family obligations and old scandals threaten to tear them apart…
Acknowledgments
Jonah and Irene’s love story has been in my mind since I started planning the Romance of the Turf series, but it has taken years to bring to the page. In order of the publication process, I offer deepest gratitude to:
Mr. R, my husband and first reader, who patiently critiqued many, many versions of many, many chapters.
Amanda Wen, whose comments are always as funny as they are helpful, and who never lost faith that I would finish the book.
Little Miss R for loving interruptions (yes, I can play with you now) and for naming Helena’s foal.
Paige Wheeler for guidance on this manuscript, as on the books that have come before. Go team—ten years and counting!
Kim Killion for designing the gorgeous cover art.
Tori Anderson, who provided a thoughtful, thorough sensitivity read and cover consultation.
Suleikha Snyder for timely and insightful cover feedback.
Joyce Lamb for an eagle-eyed copyedit.
Rose Lerner for a last-minute read and for amazing story notes.
Olivia Dade, who sent months of good vibes from across the pond.
Ana-Maria Bonner for turning a Word file into a beautiful book.
And for the readers who have enjoyed the Romance of the Turf series and wondered how the plot threads would wrap up.
Thank you, thank you, thank you. Without you all, this book wouldn’t exist. May life bring you happily-ever-afters in whatever form you prefer.
His Wayward Bride
Copyright © 2019 by Theresa St. Romain
Cover Design: The Killion Group, Inc.
Image copyright: Taria Reed/The Reed Files
This is a work of fiction. All names, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Thank You
Chapter 1
July 1819
Irene knew these London streets as well as the beat of her heart. With the pawnbroker’s money in her pocket, she dashed and elbowed through crowds. I have enough time, she repeated with each ragged breath. If I hurry, there’s enough time.
Time enough to reach Petticoat Lane. To find the familiar gap in the row of shops and stalls, the narrow entrance to the by-way on which her mother lived. Time enough to pay the landlord. Time enough to avert disaster—again. The church bells had not yet tolled noon. She could still meet Mr. Harris before the eviction.
Why did there always have to be such a rush and surprise, a last-minute scramble?
She knew the answer all too well. Her father had sworn—had sworn—to her mother that he’d pay back the rent money. But the lure of a wager or wench was always too strong for him. This morning, when Irene’s young brother, Laurie, called upon her in a panic at the girls’ academy where she taught, she’d realized that Victor Baird had failed his family once again.
Thank the Lord it was Saturday and Irene had no lessons to teach. No covert missions either. Irene owned the day—and she’d now seize it by protecting her mother and brother from eviction. No thanks to you, Father.
For a largely absent father, Victor Baird had always determined a great deal about Irene’s life. From the American pronunciation of her name—Eye-reen, without the long dancing vowel the English pinned to the name’s end—to the fate of her wedding ring, now nestled in a pawnbroker’s jewelry case.
The state of her marriage…she didn’t know whom to blame for that.
Never mind that. Run. Dodge. Duck. Onward. Would this woman with the plumed hat never decide whether to enter the milliner’s shop? She and her hat took up half the pavement, all mass and indecision.
Aha, a gap in the crowd! Irene tried to slip around the woman, but a stout blow caught her heavily in the ribs, leaving her gasping. In her hurry, she hadn’t noticed the handle of a rag seller’s cart protruding over the pavement. Reeling, she missed a step and lurched into the swift-moving traffic of the street.
Horses, riders, whinnies, shouts. A hint of burnt sugar from a pastry shop. Dust and droppings. The flick of a parasol edged in lace. Shoving pedestrians, the curse of a jarvey who took up rein abruptly. These passed in a whirl, then she stumbled back onto the relative safety of the pavement. Throwing a palm out flat for support, she recovered her balance before the plate-glass window of a shop.
An elderly gentleman in a tall beaver hat paused, planting his cane beside her. “My dear young la—” He peered over gold-rimmed spectacles, frowning. “Hmph. Are you unwell?”
Young. Ha. Only the aged would call a woman of twenty-seven yo
ung. But the man’s broken greeting made Irene’s smile drop as quickly as it had arisen. He’d noticed her light brown complexion and pulled back his polite words. Yet women with African heritage moved freely about London by the thousands, working all sorts of respectable jobs.
Pulling a breath deep within her aching ribs, Irene straightened her bonnet and shook out her sensible dark blue gown. “I’m quite well, sir. Thank you.”
As the bemused man walked on, Irene slipped her gloved hands into her pockets. A trained pickpocket knew how vulnerable one was to theft, but all was well, the money as hidden as her newly bare ring finger.
Church bells had chimed the half hour long before. They would peal for noon at any moment. Irene hurried on, plunging back into the whirlpooling crowd.
Then she heard it—a high-pitched whine of animal pain floating above the ordinary street noises.
She halted. Someone bumped into her, then sidled on with a grumble to which she paid no heed. That pained sound came again. A yelp? A hurt dog somewhere near at hand?
Her feet and conscience waged a tense, silent battle. She had to rush on. She had rent to pay. But she couldn’t allow an animal to be hurt.
Conscience won, and she turned her feet toward the sound. It had come from a narrow alley threading off to her right.
A trio of boys drew together, backs to Irene. One lifted a clenched hand. A rock! He was going to throw a rock! The animal whine came again, high and scared.
With determined strides, Irene covered the distance between them. “Boys! Stop!”
Two of the three whipped around, eyes wide. One had light brown skin like Irene; the other was as pale as her father. Their youthful expressions were identically guilty. Exchanging glances, they broke away and hared down the alley.
The remaining boy, red-haired and set-jawed, seemed not to notice. The rock was still in his hand, poised to throw at the cowering dog.
With a second look, Irene recognized him. “Charlie Catton!”
The son of one of her mother’s fellow seamstresses, he startled at the sound of his name. Like Irene’s mother, Susanna, Charlie’s widowed mother eked out a living of meager respectability by stitching away her days above a tonnish dressmaker’s shop.
“Charlie,” Irene chided. “You aren’t going to throw that rock, are you?”
“She stole my food!”
“And hurting her will bring it back, will it?”
The dog cringed, hiding her long-nosed face under filthy front paws. Reluctantly, Charlie dropped the stone to the street and kicked it away.
“But she did steal my food,” he muttered. “I was carryin’ a meat pie home to Mum, and this dog snapped it out of my hand. She gobbled it in one bite and followed me like she wanted more. I tried to chase her away, but she wouldn’t go.”
Hunger padded the streets of London, always. Irene couldn’t fault either dog or boy for their desperation. “And what about the other boys?”
“I dunno them. They said she steals from them too. They were the ones started throwin’ rocks.” Charlie looked away. “I don’t think I would’ve thrown the rock.”
Irene sighed. She had nothing to feed the dog or the boy. And the first bell of noon tolled from a nearby church.
She gritted her teeth in frustration, but there was only one right thing to do—reach into her pocket. “Charlie, take these coins and get more meat pies. One each for you and your mum.”
The bell tolled again, slow and sonorous.
“I’ve got to go. My best to your mother, all right?” She took a half step, then halted. She couldn’t leave the dog here, in case the other boys came back to torment her.
“Come here, girl.” Irene scooped the animal into her arms. The dog was just a puppy, but already large, and her fur was wiry and matted. “I have a call to pay, and you get to come with me. I’ll carry you, though you’re no feather.”
The dog studied Irene with mild brown eyes, then settled into an awkward bundle of limbs. I trust you, the eyes communicated, and with that, Irene rushed back the way she’d come.
Back into the crowds, not far to go. People squeezed along the pavement in both directions. Mud from a recent rain splashed up, wetting Irene’s hem. How many times had the bell tolled? The distance seemed endless, her every step too short.
One street more, and there was the familiar turn. Where it intersected with the main thoroughfare, the buildings were square and confident. As the narrow street wandered farther back, the buildings slumped with fatigue. In one such lodging house, Irene’s mother and thirteen-year-old brother made their home.
But…what was happening? Irene stopped and stared, openmouthed, at the blizzard of belongings snowing from the top story of Harris’s lodging house. In the street below, a knot of people had gathered, curious.
“It only just struck noon,” she whispered. “He promised he wouldn’t toss them out before noon.”
In her arms, the dog whimpered as if echoing her distress.
Recalling herself, Irene snapped out of her startle. She crouched, releasing the dog to the cobbled street. “Stay,” she said. “I’ll be back for you when I can.”
Then, marshaling the composure that served her so well before a classroom, she dusted at her dog-muddied gown and marched toward the gaping throng. Papers flapped down like gulls from the open windows above. Snips of fabric rained like colored fire. The onlookers didn’t bother snatching at these oddments, too small or too soiled to be of any use. They only looked up, agog, at the unending fall of worthless scraps.
Irene shut her eyes for a second. So. Here was the evidence of how bad her mother’s habit had got. Every time Irene visited, it was worse, no matter how much she stealthily carried off to discard. The last time she’d called here, a fortnight before, there had been no place for her to sit amongst the piles of rescued items, as Susanna called them.
Irene shouldered into the ring of people watching. “This isn’t Covent Garden,” she snapped. “It’s a woman’s life, not your entertainment.”
Wrenching open the front door of the lodging house, she wrinkled her nose against the ever-present smell of boiled cabbage. Hardly had she stepped into the cramped foyer before she bumped into the wizened landlord.
“Mr. Harris! Sir!” Irene fumbled for coins. “Call off your helpers. I have my mother’s rent in full.”
Five shillings a week Susanna paid, a steep rent for her plain rooms. Some beetle-headed landlords refused to rent to black families at all, and those who did accept black people as tenants charged them a higher rate. At least Harris’s lodging house was both safe and near Susanna’s workplace. With her bad ankle, a short walk was vital.
“Mrs. Chalmers.” Harris greeted Irene with the false name she’d once given him. “You could pay me twenty pounds, and I’d still toss her out. The ceilings are sagging under the weight of her rubbish, and the other tenants are complaining.”
Gray-bearded and bald, Harris was a stooped man with rheumy blue eyes. For the year and a half Irene had known him, he’d spoken with a wheeze, coughing into a blood-specked handkerchief. His physician had expected him to be in the grave long ago, he had once told Irene, but he was too stubborn to do as expected.
Irene respected stubbornness. It had carried her far. She used it now, wheedling, “It’s just paper and cloth. How bad could it be? My mother is employed steadily, and she is a respectable tenant.”
“I warned her a week ago, she’d be out unless she cleared her rooms of rubbish by this morning. She didn’t discard a single piece.” Coughing into his handkerchief, he gestured with his free hand toward the doorway. “So I’m having the rooms cleared for her. The quick way.”
Damnation.
Though she hadn’t known of this demand, Irene could not fault the elderly man. She could hardly stand to be in her own mother’s company, since such company was wed to innumerable, pressing belongings. Even now, a good daughter would be climbing the steps, taking Susanna’s hands, comforting Laurie. Rescuing what pos
sessions they could use. Planning where they could go next.
Instead, Irene turned away from the stairs. Outside the doorway, her mother’s hoard fell like a soft rain on this sullen summer day.
She had failed.
All the skills she’d developed over the past six years, and none of them did her any good now. The maps she’d memorized, the pockets she’d picked, the letters she’d stolen, the reputations she’d saved. All to help women like her mother, who had placed their trust in the wrong men—yet her mother was the one woman she couldn’t help.
Susanna descended the stairs, the stutter-stomp of her listing gait unmistakable. When she rounded the turn in the staircase, she spoke up, her tone sweet but unyielding. “Mr. Harris, this will not do. Your friends are laying hands on my personal belongings.”
Harris hid behind his handkerchief. “They’re not friends. They’re the sons of the butcher at the end of the lane.”
“Their identities are the least of my concerns. You must have them stop.” Susanna Baird reached the foyer floor and stood with eyebrows lifted. Waiting for action with a quiet certainty.
Irene’s mother was lovely and petite, with dark skin burnished warm by the yellow stripe of her gown. Perhaps Susanna’s confidence came from her ability, for she was a masterful seamstress who could fashion elegance from little more than sackcloth and wishes.
“Where’s Laurie?” Irene craned her neck to see whether her brother had followed their mother downstairs.
Susanna didn’t shift her gaze from the landlord. “Upstairs. In the rooms which ought still to be ours. Trying to reason with the people Mr. Harris sent to throw a paying tenant’s worldly possessions out into the street.”
His Wayward Bride (Romance of the Turf Book 3) Page 1