by Cheryl Holt
“About what? About Mr. Swift?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not the person to advise you on the topic. You must have a family member who could offer counsel.”
“There’s just Mr. Bolton.”
“If that’s the truth, Miss Markham, I feel very sorry for you. Now I don’t wish to be rude, but I have other issues to deal with at the moment.”
“Yes, yes, of course. I understand.”
“Please don’t accost me about this again.”
“I won’t.”
“If you’ve landed yourself in a jam, I can’t fix it for you. You’ll have to speak to Mr. Bolton and seek his assistance. You have no other option.”
“Yes, I’ll speak to him,” she lied, having no idea how any such conversation would proceed—or how it would end. “Would you happen to have an address for Mr. Swift so I could write to him?”
“I possess no contact information.”
Mr. Stanton walked on, and she hovered for a few minutes, but she might have been invisible. No one ever noticed her. It was why she engaged in so much mischief without being told she shouldn’t.
She wandered to the foyer so she could sneak up to her room, and as she approached the stairs Mr. Bolton’s clerk, Bentley Turner, was dawdling there.
He showed up at the oddest times and managed to force their paths to cross. She wasn’t stupid. She recognized that he fancied her. He constantly asked her to accompany him to the theater or other nonsense, and he’d pose any invitation so it sounded as if she’d be granting him a huge favor if she accepted.
But she wasn’t about to encourage him.
He was the epitome of everything she was trying to escape by allying herself with Nicholas Swift. Nicholas promised passion and the immoral existence she relished.
Mr. Turner was dressed in his brown suit which seemed to be the only one he owned. He had to be at least forty, and he was short and slender, his salt-and-pepper hair beginning to bald. He looked like the steady, tedious clerk he was.
The main difference between him and every other fellow in her father’s congregation was that he didn’t act as if he’d be a heavy drinker. Nor was he the type to grow angry and beat a girl for no reason at all as her father had liked to do.
She suspected he was hoping she might agree to let him court her, and she should have grabbed him by his brown lapels, shook him, and said, never in a thousand years!
He was a dunce who counted pennies to earn his wages and who would have to be in bed by eight so he could rise at dawn and be the first to arrive for work at Mr. Bolton’s warehouse. She’d drown herself in the Thames before she’d attach herself to such a dreary boor.
“Oh, hello, Miss Markham.” He casually greeted her as if she wouldn’t realize he’d been waiting for her to pass on by.
“Hello, Mr. Turner.”
“You’re especially pretty this evening.”
“Why, thank you.”
“I was about to have a glass of punch. I’m sure you’re terribly busy, but I was wondering if you would like to join me. I’m never good at wedging myself into a crowd. You’d help me enormously.”
“Not tonight, Mr. Turner. I’m not feeling very well. I’m going up to my room.”
He studied her meticulously, causing her to note that his eyes were a brown shade that exactly matched his suit. But they were kind eyes, and she had to admit he seemed like a very gentle soul. She’d heard somewhere that he’d lived with his mother, but she’d recently died, and Libby supposed he was lonely.
“Yes,” he murmured, “you appear extremely upset. What happened?”
“Honestly, Mr. Turner! That’s quite a personal question.”
Without meaning to, she’d snapped the remark at him, and he was embarrassed by her sharp tone. He backed away. “Yes, sorry, sorry. I shouldn’t have pried.”
“It’s all right. I’ve had the worst day.”
His scrutiny intensified. “You know, Miss Markham, I don’t think you have many friends.”
“I have enough.”
“It must be hard for you residing here with the Boltons.”
She was shocked that he would skirt on the edge of a derogatory comment about Mr. Bolton, and she said, “It’s not always easy.”
“If you’d ever like to talk about your burdens, I would be happy to listen. I’m older than you are, and I’ve been out in the world a bit. I might have advice to offer that you’d find useful.”
“I don’t have any burdens,” she claimed.
“Don’t you?”
The query hung there between them, and he was gazing at her as if he’d guessed what was wrong. She didn’t see judgment or condemnation in his expression. He was simply concerned about her, and it had been so long since anyone had fretted over her. No one ever had really. She reached out and squeezed his hand, and she figured it would send him into paroxysms of joy when he reflected on it later on.
“It’s sweet of you to worry about me, Mr. Turner, but I’m fine.”
“Yes, Miss Markham, I’m certain you’re grand. A vivacious sprite like you! What could possibly be vexing you?”
“What indeed,” she mumbled. “Goodnight.”
She fled up the stairs before she started to cry like a weepy baby, and he watched her as she raced away. She yearned to rudely shout down at him. Stop being so needy! It practically oozes out of you. I would never be interested in you. Leave me alone, and pick a girl who’s as plain and ordinary as you are.
Yet she tried to never be cruel, to never be spiteful or priggish so she wouldn’t resemble her deceased father in even the slightest way.
She kept on without pausing, and she shifted her focus from Mr. Turner to Nicholas Swift. She couldn’t believe Nicholas would skip off without telling her. Not after they’d become so devoted to each other. Not when they were so close.
First thing in the morning, she’d rush to his apartment to confirm he was truly gone. If he wasn’t, she’d confront him about his plans for their future together.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Might I speak with you for a moment, Kit?”
Christopher had been wandering through a crowded parlor when he turned to see Mr. Bolton summoning him from the door to his library.
“I was looking for Priscilla, sir,” he said.
“Let’s you and I chat first.”
Mr. Bolton’s tone was firm and unbending, providing a hint of why he was so successful with his soap company. Usually, he seemed like a bit of a bungler, but he could be quite shrewd when the situation called for it.
“Fine, Mr. Bolton, let’s chat.”
Christopher followed him into the room and closed the door behind them. There was a massive desk on the far wall as well as numerous chairs and a sofa, but apparently this was a conversation that needed to occur while they were standing.
“Whiskey?” Mr. Bolton asked.
“A whiskey would be perfect.”
Mr. Bolton went to the sideboard and poured them both a tall glass. Christopher sipped his while Mr. Bolton nervously downed the entire contents in one gulp. Christopher knew what the topic would be—Catherine had warned him—but he was curious as to Mr. Bolton’s view of the debacle.
He and Christopher were barely acquainted, and he was no father figure. Surely he wasn’t about to dispense a lecture on morals and womanizing!
“What is it, sir?” Christopher inquired. “If it’s so bad that you have to imbibe before you can begin, it must be horrid.”
“I thought I should advise you that Priscilla is upset.”
“Isn’t she always?”
“Yes, but it’s more severe than normal.” The poor man’s cheeks flushed a hot shade of red.
“Spit it out, sir. If you don’t, you might choke on it.”
“My daughter saw you this afternoon while she was out shopping.”
“Yes, I heard. I was strolling with acquaintances.”
&
nbsp; “Very pretty acquaintances.”
“Yes. They were very pretty.”
“Is there something you’d like to tell me?”
“No.”
An awkward silence developed, and Christopher wasn’t about to break it. He was thirty years old and would choose his own companions. He wouldn’t be scolded, and if Bolton presumed he could complain and chastise he was in for a surprise.
Christopher had agreed to take Bolton’s immature daughter off his hands. He was willing to put up with her temper and spite so he was doing Bolton an enormous favor. Bolton wasn’t his father or his vicar or his commanding officer, and he was in no position to admonish Christopher on any issue.
“Here’s the problem, Kit,” Mr. Bolton ultimately said. “Priscilla is convinced you’re dallying with trollops.”
“What if I am?” Christopher snidely retorted. “Are you about to claim it’s appropriate for her to tattle about me to you? Is it your opinion that she should be able to meddle in my private affairs?”
“No! Your relationship with her is not my business. You’ll have to find the means to get on with her. Every husband has to devise his own path.”
“I expect mine to be particularly difficult.”
“I’m certain it will be.”
“So what is your point?”
“My purpose is to caution you about being discreet. Monogamy is never possible in a marriage, and with Priscilla as your spouse there’s not a gentleman in the land who would condemn you for seeking outside contentment.”
“I’m delighted to hear it.”
“But my God, man! You can’t be flaunting your liaisons in front of her. She’s not the sort of girl who will take that kind of thing lying down.”
“I don’t imagine any bride would, but in my own defense I was just walking down the street. I’m not involved with anyone.”
“Be that as it may, you’ll have to be more careful or I’m afraid she’ll make your life a living Hell.”
“That will be my plight no matter what.”
“You’ll have her fortune though,” Bolton said, as if money solved every ill. “It will help to smooth over the rough spots.”
“I’m sure—whatever the final amount—it won’t be nearly enough.”
Bolton poured himself a second whiskey and chugged it down. “I told her I’d do what she wanted, but I wasn’t serious. I was simply indulging her to avoid an argument.”
Christopher’s shoulders slumped. “What was it you told her you’d do?”
“I’m to threaten you so you’ll behave as she wishes.”
“Threaten me how?”
“I am to remind you how desperately you need her dowry.”
“I’m hoping to receive it, but my world won’t end if I don’t. The two of you shouldn’t assume that I will humiliate myself over it. If that’s what you believe will occur, you’re grossly mistaken.”
Bolton scoffed. “I’m not talking about humiliation or any such nonsense. It’s not my intent with this discussion.”
“If it’s not about humiliating me, what is it about?”
“Priscilla aside, we shouldn’t forget that your father and I have planned this match for many years.”
“I haven’t forgotten.”
“Priscilla demands you pledge to be faithful, and if you won’t I am to apprise you that we will not proceed with the wedding.”
“You’ll breach the contract with me?” Christopher asked.
“No!” Bolton firmly stated. “It’s merely what I promised my daughter. I’m happy to have you as my son-in-law and to keep the money in the family. It’s been my goal ever since I first approached your father about it.”
That wasn’t precisely true. After his brother Richard had died, Bolton had spent long months trying to buy himself a peer for Priscilla, but with his soap empire weighing him down he hadn’t had any luck. But there was no use bickering over ancient history.
“So…I’m glad to have gotten that off my chest,” Bolton cheerily said. “Are we on the same page about this?”
On the same page? Christopher didn’t think they were even in the same book.
“Thank you for sharing your views,” Christopher said.
Bolton was all smiles, and he waved to the door. “The party is in full swing. Go out and enjoy yourself, but be aware that Priscilla will accost you.”
“To initiate a quarrel?”
“Well…ah…”
“I won’t quarrel with her, sir. In fact, I doubt I’ll confer about this with her at all.”
“If you won’t, she’ll pester me over it again.”
Christopher sighed, hating every facet of his association with the man. “And before I leave, sir, I have to be clear with you on one issue.”
“What is it?”
“Priscilla will be my wife, and I can’t have her running to you over every trifle. You have to deal differently with her. I can’t have this type of meddling from you. I suppose—since we aren’t wed yet—I can’t stop it for now, but once she’s my bride you’ll have to refuse to ever gossip about me with her.”
“Of course, of course. I would never interfere in your marriage.”
Christopher nodded. “Good to know.”
He finished his drink and headed out. He could feel Bolton watching him, and he braced for a ridiculous final comment, but Bolton was blessedly silent.
He went out to where the guests were merrily reveling, and Gertrude was over in a corner. She looked miserable, as if she was suffering through the event.
“Have you seen Priscilla?” he asked as he walked up. “Apparently, she’s dying to speak to me.”
“I haven’t seen her recently, but I’m sure she’ll find you.”
“I’m sure she will.”
“And Kit”—she actually wrung her hands—“ignore her, will you? She doesn’t mean half of what she says.”
“She means every word.”
“Your life is your own affair—despite what she presumes. Remember that, would you? Mr. Bolton and I are on your side.”
“I appreciate it. Thank you.”
“She’s too spoiled and immature to be a wife.”
“It’s a little too late for you to realize it.”
“Just…don’t let her bait you.”
“I won’t.” He nearly stomped off, and he probably should have, but he figured he should unburden himself before the quagmire exploded into a big mess. “I have to address a thorny subject with you. I should have mentioned it ages ago, and I’m embarrassed that I didn’t.”
“What is it?”
“I suggest you have a talk with Libby Markham.”
Gertrude scowled. “About what?”
“She’s interested in an acquaintance of mine, and he’s not a fellow with whom she should ever have been flirting.”
“You’re just telling me now?”
“I shouldn’t have kept her secret, but I barely know Miss Markham, and I certainly have no authority over her. Nor have I any duty with regard to her welfare. If I had counseled caution, she’d have laughed in my face.”
“I understand. She’s very independent, and it’s hard to dissuade her from any conduct.”
“Yes, it is, and my friend is an avowed libertine.”
“Oh, my goodness.”
“He left the city on the spur of the moment, and she was quite distressed by his departure. She was anxious to learn where she might write to him.”
“Is she ruined?”
“I couldn’t guess, but I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“If she has been loose with her favors, Mr. Bolton won’t be happy. As it is, he was stunned to discover he’d been named her guardian after her father died. He and Vicar Markham had been cordial when they were boys, but they’d had scant contact as adults. If she’s misbehaved, I can’t imagine how he’ll respond.”
“I like her,” Christopher said. “She’s young and
flighty, but she has spirit. I hope—should moral penalties be imposed—that you will argue for leniency. I’d hate to have him be cruel to her.”
“I’ll have to listen to what she confesses first. She might be beyond redemption.”
“Is anyone ever completely beyond redemption? That’s not a very Christian attitude.”
With that rude remark deftly hurled, he continued on to the verandah. Once Priscilla located him, he would lead her out into the garden and away from any eavesdroppers.
It didn’t take her long to find him, and a minute or two later she snapped, “Kit! I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
“I heard you were.”
“I need to speak to you on a very important topic.”
“I heard that too.”
“Have you talked to Father?”
“I have.”
“So you’re aware of what it’s about.”
“Yes, I’m aware.”
He studied her, thinking how exhaustingly confident she was. From the day she was born, she’d been rich and told she was special because of it. She had grown up throwing tantrums to get her way, and there had never been any consequences for her acting badly.
Mr. Bolton was the worst at reining in her horrid tendencies, and he seemed eager to dump her on Christopher, to have him try to introduce some restraint when—for twenty years—those in her immediate family hadn’t been able to bring her to heel.
He’d like to claim he’d been tricked or lied to about her temperament, but he’d signed the contracts while being fully cognizant that marriage to her would be a great trial.
After they were wed, he wouldn’t have to spend much time with her. He could stash her in the country and come to town. Or better still, he could send her to town and stay far away in his own corner of rural England. He would never furnish her with any access to the money so in that manner he’d control her more serious excesses.
He didn’t view her as special because she was wealthy. He typically found that—the more money a person had—the more obnoxious he could be. In her case, it was definitely true. What fascinated him about her though was that she was so young and inexperienced at life, yet she was so adamantly certain she understood the world and the people in it.