He put up a hand. “I was jesting.” But now he turned serious. “You’d best leave that inn in Grub Street. The landlord seems a decent man, but his wife is intolerable.” He indicated Sylvie, seated between them, with a covert motion of his chin. “Bad influence.”
Now he was criticizing her. “Jed is a wonderful man. He was my father’s head groom when I was a child. He married after coming to London. If I’d known what Millie was like, I might have chosen to stay elsewhere, but the Bellowing Bull is cheap, and Jed knows his way about London.” Why should she justify herself to Colin? “I expected to stay a week at most. I never imagined you would prove to be so stubbornly unresponsive.”
“No, how could you have known?” he said mildly. “But now you really must go elsewhere. I am entirely willing to contribute to my daughter’s upkeep, so—”
“No!” she said. “When I said I didn’t want your money, I meant it.”
“You have sufficient means to keep our daughter in the style to which a young lady should be accustomed?”
Our daughter. How dare he? She’d been Bridget’s and only Bridget’s until an hour ago. With difficulty, she tamped down her growing irritation. “I have the rent from a house in Manchester, which I inherited from my husband. I shall also rent out the manor house in Lancashire where I grew up. Those rents, plus rents on the cottages nearby, are all I need.”
“Where do you intend to live?”
“Not in London,” she said, and then, thank God, they turned into Berkeley Square. She didn’t want to discuss her plans with him. She truly didn’t know what she would do next. She hadn’t thought that far ahead, beyond knowing she couldn’t do what she really wanted—to just go home.
Her little Lancashire estate, the lovely village, the familiar fields and streams would be enjoyed by someone else from now on, thanks to Martin Fallow.
Colin pulled the curricle up across from Gunter’s. The day was sunny but brisk. “Let’s go inside. It’s a bit chilly to eat ices outdoors today.”
A boy came forward to take the horses’ heads. Evidently he was known to Colin, who greeted him cheerfully by name. Colin helped Bridget down and then plucked Sylvie off the seat and swung her to the ground. His arm didn’t seem to be bothering him at all, just as he’d said.
Indoors, they settled themselves at a table. Colin read the list of options to Sylvie.
“Chocolate!” she said. “That’s the sort I want.”
“You haven’t heard them all.” He continued on down the list.
“Raspberry!” she cried, and when he got farther down, “Barberry! I love barberry ice.”
“You must choose one flavor, Sylvie,” Bridget said. This was going to take hours, and…not that she had to be anywhere in particular, but a sense of urgency possessed her. She had to do something. She had to make arrangements with her man of business, find someplace to live…
“Which is your absolute favorite?” Colin asked.
“Chocolate!” Sylvie cried. “But I like strawberry and raspberry and barberry and lemon and”—
“I’m having lemon,” Bridget said. “You may have a spoonful of mine.”
“And I’ll have barberry,” Colin said, “so I’ll share that with you. Now you only have to choose between chocolate and raspberry.”
“Why not both?” Sylvie said. “Mr. Fallow would let me have both.”
“You know no such thing,” Bridget said. “Besides, you’ll get a bellyache if you eat two ices.”
“You know no such thing,” Sylvie repeated. “I’ve never had two ices before.”
Colin raised a languid brow, and Sylvie had the grace to look abashed. “Don’t be pert,” he said. “Your mama is merely trying to take proper care of you.”
Bridget sighed. “It’s my fault for encouraging her to think for herself.”
“Tell you what,” Colin said, dimpling again. “We’ll start with chocolate, and if you finish that and are still hungry, I’ll order a raspberry ice. If you don’t finish it, I’m sure your mama or I will.”
The ices were delicious, and Bridget savored every bite of her lemon ice, followed by a spoonful of Colin’s barberry, and a good third of Sylvie’s raspberry ice. Soon they were in the curricle again, headed back to Grub Street.
“That was . . . scrum . . . scrump . . . I don’t remember the word,” Sylvie said.
“Scrumptious,” Bridget said. “Yes, it was. Thank you so kindly, Mr. Warren.”
“Yes, thank you kindly,” Sylvie parroted. “When may we go to Gunter’s again?”
“We won’t, my love,” Bridget said. “We’re leaving London tomorrow.”
Sylvie burst into tears.
“Don’t cry,” Colin said. “That’s not the way to get more ices.” He turned to her too-independent mother. “To live where?” Not in London, she’d said. Damn it, he’d taken responsibility for this child. He couldn’t just walk away and forget her.
He didn’t want the responsibility. He wasn’t suited for it. He was sure to do something thoughtless. And Sylvie was an irritating brat.
But it seemed that she was his flesh and blood. He was beginning to understand his cousin Miles’s determination to take care of his own illegitimate daughter. Not only that, Bridget shouldn’t have to shoulder the responsibility on her own.
Bridget scowled. “I haven’t decided.”
“Not back to Lancashire?” He wouldn’t mind that; his own estate and Miles’s were both in that same county.
“How can I?” she retorted. “We’ll be shunned. No one will receive me, and what’s worse, Sylvie will suffer for it.”
“It’s a pity, since my own estate is there and so is that of my cousin, and we would both be delighted to help out in any way we can.”
“It’s bad enough having to deal with Martin’s lies. Being seen as the cast-off mistress and illegitimate child of one of the Warrens would only make matters worse for us.”
“You should have thought of that before you got me involved.”
“Since I don’t intend to stay in Lancashire, it doesn’t matter. You’ve been very kind, and I appreciate it, but I don’t need your help anymore.”
Must he look chagrined? thought Bridget. He’d certainly handled Sylvie well, but she wasn’t truly his. All he’d contributed was his seed, nothing more.
“I want a fresh start someplace else,” she said. “Someplace where no one knows who I am.”
“But you don’t know where.”
She shook her head.
“Then how can you possibly leave tomorrow?”
She huffed. “The day after tomorrow, then. I’d rather not impose on Jed any longer. Maybe we’ll go to Bath. Or Harrogate, although that’s too close to home for comfort. Or maybe Lyme Regis—it will soon be summer. Sylvie will like sea-bathing, won’t you, love?”
“Are there ices?” Sylvie said.
“I expect so.” Bridget didn’t intend to go to any of the places she’d mentioned, not that she had anything against them, but she needed someplace more remote, someplace where Martin wouldn’t find her . . .
For an appalling truth struck her now with full force. When Martin had said, “You’ll regret this,” he hadn’t meant she would regret taking up with a rake. He meant he hadn’t given up. That he still wanted to marry her.
She didn’t know how she knew this, and yet she surely did. She couldn’t bring herself to believe he was moved by an undying passion, but he was certainly acting that way. What else but passion could cause such relentless pursuit?
“Regardless,” Colin said, “you must keep me apprised of your whereabouts.”
“Yes, of course.” Martin had found her in London—but how? Nobody knew where she was, not even her man of business, who would look askance at such a lowly address.
&
nbsp; If Martin had traced her this time, he would do so again. Of that she was suddenly, horribly sure.
“I mean it, Mrs. Black,” Colin said. “Sylvie is partly my responsibility now.”
“Yes, I’ll keep you apprised. Why wouldn’t I?” Not that he would be in a position to help her again.
For she no longer had a choice. She and Sylvie couldn’t stay in England. They would have to go abroad.
Reluctantly, Colin left his newly-acquired daughter and her mother at the Bellowing Bull. He would have much preferred to put them up at a decent hotel, but Bridget had refused that offer of help, too. He didn’t trust her to keep him apprised of their whereabouts. She needed help with the child, damn it—and not only monetary. Sylvie needed the influence of a father. If Bridget married a decent man, someone honest and well-respected . . .
Unfortunately, that sort didn’t usually choose a ruined woman, no matter how alluring. There were plenty of pure and proper virgins about.
Bridget had no idea where she was going, and although she wasn’t precisely impoverished, nor was she plump in the pockets. If she left without telling him, she would most likely travel by stage and be easily traced.
That settled, he turned his mind to Toup. If that cur had had him assaulted, he must be dealt with immediately. Colin had left word at the Bellowing Bull that the enterprising urchins, Bob and Al, could find him at his lodgings. Bright and early the next morning, the two of them arrived, bursting with news.
Too bright and early, for he’d slept rather better than usual. Their loud, insistent attempts to convince the porter that Mr. Warren would indeed see them penetrated Colin’s haze of sleep. He woke properly when Fletcher entered, announcing their arrival.
“Now? It’s the crack of dawn.” He stretched, resigned. “Put them in the parlor and bring coffee and something to eat.” He pulled on a shirt and breeches and emerged from his bedchamber to see the boys hovering uneasily by the door, Bob’s red muffler crushed in his hands and Al still scratching—his head this time.
“You was in the right of it, guv,” Bob said. “Ole gravy stains met up with a toff name of Toup at that same ’ell last night. We couldn’t get close enough to ’ear what they was talking about, so we split up and followed them.”
“That was a good idea,” Colin said.
Fletcher came in carrying a tray with three cups of coffee and some bread and butter. He set it on the table and eyed the boys disapprovingly, probably hoping that Al in particular wouldn’t leave any lice behind.
Colin hoped so too, but he shrugged it off as the price of information. “Want some breakfast?”
Their bright eyes lit up even more, although both hesitated at an invitation to sit—Al, who had social ambitions, less so than Bob, who knew his place and preferred it that way. To Colin’s surprise, he realized that he was hungry, too. He hadn’t had much appetite in the last several months. He buttered bread and served them coffee.
“So tell me, where did they go?”
“Toup went to his lodgings,” Al said glumly, clearly wishing he were the bearer of more interesting news.
Bob grinned around a mouthful of bread. “Gravy stains cased a joint on Brook Street. Belongs to Lord…Garrison.”
This was not good news.
“Then I followed him back to a lodging house near that ’ell,” Bob said.
“We seen him there afore,” Al said, “so we thinks them’s his digs.”
Colin thanked them and pondered while they polished off the bread and coffee. He would have to set his concerns about Mrs. Black and Sylvie aside until he’d dealt with Toup.
Or maybe not. He gave them each a half crown. “I’ve got another job for you. If Mrs. Black hires a coach or books a ticket on the stage, let me know immediately.”
“Why?” Albemarle asked.
Bob gave him an admonitory glare.
Albemarle shifted uneasily and scratched his armpit. “Me mum’s sure to ask why, and what am I to say? She don’t approve of toffs having fancy women.”
“She’s not my fancy woman. She’s the mother of my daughter, for whose existence I take all the blame.” Not true, damn it—Bridget had done the seducing—but that would make Al and his mother think even less of her. “I’m responsible for my daughter. Before they leave, I must give Mrs. Black some money to help her take care of Sylvie. Surely your mother would understand that.” He raised his brows. “Does your father take care of you?”
“Nah, he left when I was a nipper. Me mum’s on her own.”
“Right, then. She could have used some help, couldn’t she? Well, I’m making sure Sylvie’s mother has all the help she needs.”
Albemarle seemed unconvinced. “Then why don’t you just give her the blunt now?”
Bob cuffed him. “What business is that of yours? Tell your mum a tale. What she don’t know won’t hurt her.”
“She knows when I’m fibbing,” Albemarle said.
“Better not lie to your mother,” Colin said, who’d lied to his own mother times out of mind—but she’d been a liar, too. And his father, and both Miles’s parents. What a lowering thought that Al’s mother, most likely a charwoman or some such, was a better parent than his wealthy, educated ones. “Tell her the truth. Tell her I’m trying to do right by my daughter, but her mother is a proud woman and might refuse it. But if she’s leaving and I’m staying here, she’ll know I’m not trying to purchase her favors, and maybe she’ll accept it.”
“Makes sense to me,” Al said. “But might not to me mum.”
“If she doesn’t want you to work for me, Bob will do the job on his own.”
Al’s face fell. “You gets all the good jobs, Bob.”
“Aye, and you’ve got a mum,” retorted Bob. “Count your blessings.”
Sylvie had a mother, too, which should be enough. It had been up till now, but Colin knew it wasn’t enough anymore.
The boys took their leave. Colin dressed and made his way to Brook Street, arriving just as Lord Garrison returned from his morning ride.
“This is the second time in a fortnight I’ve seen you up before noon,” Miles said. “Turning over a new leaf, coz?”
Maybe he was—better than being a dead leaf, drifting to nowhere, as he’d been for the last several months.
“Toup had me attacked by a footpad. Clubbed and stabbed me.”
“The hell he did.” Miles dismounted and passed the reins to his waiting groom. They went into the house and up to Miles’s library.
“I’m lucky to be alive,” Colin said. “I think he has his sights set on you now.” Miles’s mouth quirked up—evidently this threat caused more amusement than anything else. Which Colin understood completely, so he added, “Or maybe on Melinda.”
Miles turned serious now. “Revenge for fleecing him at piquet.”
Melinda, Miles’s wife, was the best piquet player Colin had ever met. She’d trounced him when she was only nine years old; he’d been close to sixteen at the time. She’d recently won a tidy sum from Toup—money the man couldn’t afford to lose.
“This calls for some brandy.” Miles poured for them both.
Colin took a sip. “He had someone following me, and last night the same man was watching your house.”
Miles pondered. “I’d rather not make this public.”
“Understood.” Colin stifled a laugh. Miles and Melinda had caused enough scandal lately.
“We can’t hang him ourselves, but we can do the next best thing—transport him.”
“To the Antipodes?”
“To America. Easier to do at short notice.” Miles raised his glass in a toast. “We’ll ship him out tomorrow.”
“We’re going to America,” Bridget said. “I’ve found a ship that’s leaving tomorrow, but don’t tell Millie. In fa
ct, don’t tell anyone.”
Jed frowned. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t want Martin Fallow to find out where I’ve gone,” she said. “I need you to do me one last favor. I want to make it seem as if I’m taking the stage to Bath. That way, Martin will lose track of me.”
“You think he would follow you to America?”
“No, but I’m not taking any chances. I intend to disappear.”
“What about Mr. Warren? Seems to me he might like to know where his daughter’s gone.”
She sighed. Jed couldn’t help being male. She didn’t want to keep Colin apprised of her whereabouts, but she’d promised. “I’ll write to him. You needn’t give me that skeptical look. I told him I would let him know where we are, but he’ll be relieved to know we’re gone. He’ll go cheerfully back to his carefree, good-for-nothing life.”
“That’s unfair, Miss Bridget. He got rid of Mr. Fallow, and he handled Miss Sylvie very well, I thought.”
“He’s a rake,” Bridget said. “He can charm any female from nine months to ninety years old.” Yes, he’d shown himself to be extremely competent at dealing with difficulties, but he would tire of Bridget’s problems. Besides, he showed a tendency to interfere—one thing Bridget would not tolerate.
“The stage leaves very early and the tide isn’t much later, so we can appear to leave for one place and actually head for another. All you have to do is say you left me at the coaching inn.”
“Very well, Miss Bridgy,” Jed said.
Relieved, she went away to arrange their passage to New York.
Early the next morning, Bridget, Sylvie, and Mary Joan left in a hackney coach. At the busy coaching inn, which was only a little out of their way, Jed transferred their bags to another hack to take them to the docks. Hopefully that was enough to foil Martin Fallow.
The Rake's Irish Lady (Scandalous Kisses Book 2) Page 8