A shimmer of fear flashed through Lila’s eyes. “You cannot be serious. You would not do that to me.”
“I can and I will. You have two choices: you may take the draft and leave with Mr. Walker, who will see to it you are put aboard the Constantina, headed for Bombay. Or you will leave in the custody of Constable Walker and find yourselves escorted directly to Newgate.”
Lila lifted her chin. “Impossible. I require a minimum of three days to properly pack and put my affairs in order.”
“I think not. I will send you off in the same manner you bid me farewell: with only the clothes on your back. You, however, will not be left bleeding and unconscious. I would not treat a dog in such a fashion.”
Icy stillness settled over the room.
Jonathon glanced over his shoulder. “Constable Harrow, it appears they are electing to refuse my generosity—”
“Take it,” Lila hissed, driving her elbow into Richard’s side. “Take it.” Poke. Jab. Prod. “Take the money, you idiot.”
Richard pocketed the envelope. Jonathon stood back as they swept out of the room, out of the house, and into Mr. Walker’s carriage. Relief poured through him. From across the room, he felt Constable Harrow watching him curiously.
“Would you really have done it?” Harrow asked. “Sent them both to prison?”
“Absolutely.”
Harrow nodded. “Glad to hear it. Most folks in your position wouldn’t want the scandal.” He stepped toward the window and joined Jonathon in watching the carriage pull away. “If either of them has the nerve to set foot again in England, you let me know.”
“Thank you, Constable. I will.”
The constable departed, leaving Jonathon alone in Richard’s study. He glanced around the room in disgust. It was a fine home, excellently situated, but he wanted nothing to do with it. The property and contents would be sold forthwith.
Richard’s ancient butler greeted him in the foyer. He held out the top hat with the crimson ribbon and the overcoat with the withered flower. “Your garments, my lord.”
“Burn them,” Jonathon said, then stopped himself. “No. Send them to Constable Harrow’s office. He can hold onto them for me should they be necessary.”
“Very good, my lord.”
Jonathon moved to leave, then stopped. He studied the elderly man. “You may have overheard our discussion. Your employer will not be returning.”
“Very good, my lord.”
Jonathon wished he would quit saying that. “Did my cousin have any other servants who should be notified their services are no longer required?”
“Just my wife and I. We’ve been in his employ for the past dozen years or so.” Tension crossed the man’s face, but his voice gave nothing away.
Jonathon made a guess: “Might I assume you are due back wages?”
Relief blossomed in the elderly man’s eyes. “Yes, my lord. I did not want to speak ill of my employer, but…” His voice trailed off as he lifted his shoulders in a helpless shrug.
“It would not be possible for you to make me think any less of the man,” Jonathon assured him. “I will send my secretary this afternoon to settle my cousin’s affairs. You and your wife will receive full back wages, with interest, and a comfortable pension to see you through the rest of your days. Will that be satisfactory?”
Pride gleamed in the elderly man’s eyes. “Yes, my lord.” Then he hesitated. “But, if he’s not coming back, what should I do with his things?”
“His things?”
“His clothing and such.”
Jonathon hadn’t considered that. “Take whatever you want. The rest I’ll put up for auction with everything else.”
The man nodded, hesitating. “Forgive me, my lord, if it’s too bold of me to suggest…”
“Yes?”
“With winter coming and all, St. Mark’s is always on the lookout for warm clothing to pass along to the needy.”
For the first time since he’d entered his cousin’s home, a genuine smile curved Jonathon’s lips. “An excellent suggestion. You may donate every item of Richard’s clothing to the church’s charity bin. Well done.”
Chapter Eighteen
Brianna rested her book on her lap and leaned forward, surreptitiously appraising her audience beneath the sweep of her lashes. Her four young charges watched her with rapt attention, eagerly awaiting her next word. Excellent. In a voice of hushed wonder, she continued the passage wherein Aladdin discovered his magic carpet "…even with amazement as great he saw the carpet dispread between palace and pavilion. Like their lord, also the royal doorkeepers and the household, one and all, were dazed and amazed at the spectacle.”
“Pardon me, Mrs. Donnelly, but Cook has luncheon prepared,” announced a friendly young maid from the doorway.
The boys, who ranged in age from eight to thirteen, let out a collective groan. “Not now.”
“Yes, now,” retorted the maid with a cheeky smile. “Or Cook’ll be after me if her soup’s left to get cold. I won’t have that, not for you lot of ruffians.”
Determined to present a unified front, Brianna firmly closed the book and stood. “You heard her. Off with you all.”
“Please, Mrs. Donnelly. Please, can’t we have a bit more of the story?”
“I’ll tell you what,” she said, biting back a smile. “If you don’t dawdle over your Hindi lessons this afternoon, we’ll have time to finish this chapter. How’s that?”
The boys gave a jubilant Huzzah! and bounded down the stairs toward the kitchen.
The maid smiled at her from the doorway. “You coming?”
Brianna nodded. As was customary, she ate her meals informally in the kitchen with her charges. “I’ll be right down. I just need a moment to freshen up.”
“I’ll pour you some tea,” the girl promised, then turned to follow the boys. Like all of the staff employed in the Ottweihler household, she was warm and friendly, welcoming Brianna into their midst. All told, her situation was more than adequate. The Ottweihler boys were bright and respectful, her room was warm and comfortable, the staff was friendly, her pay was generous, and she had the luxury of two afternoons off a week to enjoy London at her leisure.
And to dream of bumping into Jonathon by chance on the street. Or perhaps spying him in a shop or at a café. At times that prospect filled her with joy. Other times she was overcome by dread. She would be expected, of course, to maintain a semblance of dignity and decorum. To greet him with a polite nod (if he chose to recognize her) and continue on her way. To pretend that nothing had passed between them at all. Impossible.
She set aside the book she’d been reading, 1,001 Arabian Nights. The collected stories never failed to fascinate her. Aladdin, Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves, Sinbad the Sailor, The Fisherman and the Jinni. But perhaps even more poignant was the story of how the collection came to be.
According to legend, every day the Persian king would marry a new virgin. After doing so would dispatch the previous day's wife to be beheaded. This was done in anger, having found out that his first wife was unfaithful to him. He killed 1,000 such women by the time he was introduced to Scheherazade.
Against her father's wishes, Scheherazade volunteered to spend one night with the king. Once in the king's chambers, Scheherazade asked if she might bid farewell to her beloved sister, who asked her to tell a story during the long night. The king lay awake and listened with awe as Scheherazade told her first story. The night passed, and Scheherazade stopped in the middle of the story. The king asked her to finish, but Scheherazade said there was no time, as dawn was breaking.
The king spared her life for one day to finish the story. The next night, Scheherazade finished that story and then began a second, even more exciting tale which she stopped halfway through at dawn. Again, the king spared her life for one more day to finish the second story.
And so the King kept Scheherazade alive day by day, as he eagerly anticipated the finishing of the previous night's story. At the end of 1,
001 nights, Scheherazade told the king that she had no more tales to tell him. But during those 1,001 nights, she had beguiled him completely with her words. The king had fallen in love with Scheherazade. He spared her life and made her his queen.
Brianna released a wistful sigh and ran her fingers over the cover of the book. More romantic frippery, not unlike The Prince of Thorncastle. Still. If only she and Jonathon had had 1,001 nights, rather than just a handful. If only—
“Pardon me, Mrs. Donnelly.”
Brianna turned to find Mrs. Ottweihler’s personal secretary standing in the doorway. “Oh. Hello, Mrs. Keyes.”
“Mrs. Ottweihler would like to see you in the front parlor.”
“I…” Brianna stopped, nonplussed. Although she hadn’t been there long, she’d accustomed herself enough to the hierarchy of the house to understand that a summons of this nature was unusual. “Is anything amiss?”
“I expect not. This way, if you please.”
Brianna’s thoughts spun as she made her way down three flights of stairs and into the front parlor. Perhaps Mrs. Ottweihler disapproved of her teaching method, or the books she’d selected for her grandsons, or the way Brianna styled her hair, or—
Mrs. Keyes opened the door and ushered her inside.
Jonathon Hollinshed, Viscount Brooksbank, set aside the cup of tea he balanced on his knee and rose. Brianna could only gape at him, feeling as though the air had been sucked out of the room. In all her imaginings, she had pictured an accidental meeting. A chance passing on the street. Nothing like this.
Not him standing in front of her, so tall and strong and impossibly handsome he made her teeth ache. His bright blue gaze locked on hers, the slow burn that made her insides puddle and her knees go weak.
“Mrs. Donnelly,” he said, giving a polite bow.
His voice. How had she forgotten what his voice could do to her? So low and husky, his breath a warm caress in her ear. And his touch, his fingers… She clenched her jaw, stiffened her spine, and balled her fists into the sides of her skirts. She would not shame herself by letting her emotions overcome her.
“Lord Brooksbank,” she managed. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“I hadn’t realized the two of you were acquainted,” put in Mrs. Ottweihler. The woman was easily in her late fifties, yet she watched the drama unfolding before with an expression of impish delight.
“Indeed,” Jonathon returned, tearing his gaze away from Brianna to acknowledge his hostess. “I was exceedingly fortunate to have the privilege of escorting Mrs. Donnelly from Liverpool to London.”
“How lovely.”
“Yes.” His gaze swung back to Brianna as he continued, “During our trip, we passed an evening in the company of the Earl of Warwick. In her haste to depart the next morning, Mrs. Donnelly left an item behind. I wish to return it to her.”
“How very thoughtful of you,” said Mrs. Ottweihler.
Brianna hadn’t realized until that moment that the sight of Jonathon standing before her had caused a tiny kernel of hope to explode within her. At the explanation of his presence that hope plummeted, settling like stone within her belly.
“If you wouldn’t mind,” Jonathon said, still addressing Mrs. Ottweihler, “might I impinge on your hospitality and speak to Mrs. Donnelly alone?”
“Why, of course.” With a flurry of gracious words and an elegant sweep of her skirts, Mrs. Ottweihler acquiesced. The door clicked softly shut behind her.
Brianna steeled herself as she regarded Jonathon. Was this a courtesy visit, or worse—a shudder of horror ran through her—did he intend to give her money? Repay her triple the sum of their traveling expenses? Granted, that had been their agreement when they’d begun their journey, but after the intimacy that had passed between them, surely he couldn’t mean to pay her. No. It simply couldn’t be.
She attempted a smile and took the matter firmly in hand. “This is very kind of you, my lord, but unnecessary. I’m sorry you misunderstood the situation.”
His expression sobered. The fire that had burned in his gaze from the moment she entered the room abruptly dimmed. “Misunderstood?”
“You said had something to return to me. I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time. Lady Warwick only loaned me her gown. It was not mine to keep.”
“I wasn’t referring to the gown.”
“Oh?”
“No.” He held out his hand. Arthur’s pocketwatch rested in his palm. He studied her, but didn’t take a step closer, waiting instead for her to move to him. Brianna stood with her feet rooted to the floor. Dare she move closer? Reclaim the watch and in so doing trace her fingers against the palm of his hand? The risk was simply too great. His scent, his presence, his very being would engulf her and she would lose all composure. She could not touch him and then pull away. Not again. She would shatter into a million little pieces.
“Well.” Jonathon gave a sheepish grin. A crescent shaped, alarmingly seductive dimple showed on his left cheek. He arched one tawny gold brow. “This certainly isn’t what I thought would happen when I saw you again.”
“You thought of me?”
“Thought of you?” he echoed. “Yes. I thought of you. In fact, possession of your late husband’s watch has been quite a boon. I have been able to mark our time apart with remarkable accuracy.” His eyes never leaving hers, he touched the spring to open the brass case, then brushed his thumb around the numbers etched into the bezel. “It has been precisely fifty-three hours, 37 minutes, and twenty seconds since I fell asleep with you in my arms at Wakefield’s. You were my last breath at night, and my waking thought in the morning. You were part of every move I made during the day and you filled my dreams at night.”
“I see.” She drew in a ragged breath. “And what did you think would happen?”
“Happen?”
“When we saw one another again.”
“Do you promise you won’t laugh?”
“Laugh?” The ache in her chest was so large she could barely speak. “No. I won’t laugh.”
“Well, I had several scenarios in mind. I suppose my favorite was the one wherein I imagined you would be so overjoyed to see me that you would launch yourself, missile-like, straight into my arms.”
And Brianna, without another thought, without another word, did exactly that.
Jonathon enveloped her in an embrace so tight their bodies melded into one. His lips crushed hers in a kiss of breathless, searing intensity. When he drew back, however, his expression fell somewhere between anguish and anger. “How could you leave me like that?”
“Leave you? I was trying to make it easier for you.”
“Easier? You nearly killed me.”
“I didn’t think I had a choice. You’re a viscount, after all.”
“Yes, I am. I’m also obscenely wealthy, disgustingly pampered, and ridiculously headstrong at times.”
“And I’m—“
“The woman I want to spend the rest of my life with, if you’ll have me.”
He wrapped his hands around her waist and effortlessly lifted her. He set her atop a mahogany sideboard, bringing them eye-to-eye. Then he dug into his pocket and presented her a small box wrapped in dark emerald green.
“I know you mentioned you wanted a gold ring in the shape of a dragon with rubies for eyes. As it turns out, that’s a rather difficult item to acquire in London. I know. I’ve spent the morning trying. Until I can have that made, I hope you’ll accept this. It belonged to my grandmother.”
Moving with infinite care, she pried open the lid. An enormous, square cut emerald ringed by a band of brilliant diamonds winked up at her. Her heart skipped a beat. “Does this mean?”
“Say you’ll marry me, Brianna.”
She swallowed hard. When she spoke, her voice was little more than a rough whisper. “You’ll marry me, Brianna.”
Their gazes locked, and Jonathon’s lips split in a grin that matched her own. “I love you, angel.”
“And I love you, Mr. Broo
ks.”
The next few minutes passed in a blur. Before Brianna could explain anything to Mrs. Ottweihler, or come to any arrangements regarding tutoring her charges (already in the short span she’d been there, she’d grown fond of the boys), Jonathon whisked her out the door and into his waiting carriage. There would be time that afternoon for making explanations and arrangements, he assured her. But at that moment, he had a pressing matter to attend at the docks.
And so he tucked her inside her coach and wrapped her in his coat (she’d been rushed out the door too quickly to retrieve her own). Apparently his driver had already been given instructions as to their destination. He sped through the chilly, narrow streets, expertly ferrying them past the austere brick walls that encircled the East India Docks, and then brought them through the towering wooden gates.
Brianna stared about her in wonder. As she had traveled into London via mail carriage and reported directly to the Ottweihler residence, she had entirely missed the rich influx of nationalities coming into England from all over the globe. She heard snatches of Hindi, Mandarin, Farsi, French, and German, as well as accents that ranged from American to Scottish to Irish. Stevedores, longshoremen, cooks, Chinese sailors, lascars, and merchants were busily occupied unloading cargos from around the world. Not everyone in her new home was purely British, and that realization put her greatly at ease.
As the driver reined to a stop, she shot a curious glance at Jonathon. His expression was unusually grim as he watched a particular ship, the Constantina, raise its foresail in preparation to depart. The ship caught a mild gust of air and began its lumbering trek upriver. From the dock, a tall man in a conservative overcoat tipped his hat toward Jonathon, sending silent acknowledgement that some mutually desirable event had just transpired. Brianna could almost feel the tension leave Jonathon’s body.
Unable to contain her curiosity, she asked, “Do you have a cargo aboard?”
Wicked Games (The Sun Never Sets Book 3) Page 18