Wedded in Sin

by Jade Lee

  “We still need to talk,” he said, cursing the timing.

  “I know. Where are we going?”

  “It’s not far.”

  Four blocks later, they arrived at the Beehouse. Originally it had simply been Bea’s House, as the madame’s name was Beatrice. But that was many years ago. Bea was gone and Missy had taken her place. And Missy had reason to be grateful to him.

  The woman had had a thieving employee—or so she’d believed—but he’d discovered the real culprit. It had been a dog who had a fondness for Missy’s favorite purse. After he’d recovered her missing coins, the madame and he had developed a kind of friendship. Shared meals, shared secrets. Nothing to topple kingdoms—only a marriage or two. But she recognized the wisdom in having a smart gent in her circle of friends, and he liked having another place to loiter when he was bored.

  Given their connection, Missy would let him do what he wanted in the basement of her home and say nothing to anyone about it. That is, assuming it wasn’t being used at the moment and that he paid her ridiculous fee on quarter day.

  Slipping through the shadows, he crossed to Missy’s window and rapped twice. As expected, she was there, her eyes narrowing as she peered out into the darkness. He stepped into the light spilling out from her window and saw her eyes widen. A moment later, she jerked her head toward the back door.

  He brought Penny round to the back, though he could feel her body tightening with every breath she took. She was a moral woman, he knew, and her judgment of this place would run deep. He had perhaps three minutes more to get her inside before she balked. So when Missy opened the back, he pulled Penny inside with him and quickly shut the door.

  “We need to use the dungeon,” he said quietly. “Is it available?”

  Her penciled-on eyebrows shot nearly to her forehead. “You ain’t never swung that way afore.”

  He shook his head. “Not for its usual purpose. We need a place to have a right good row where no one will think anything of it.”

  “Ah,” she said, understanding. She tried to peer at Penny, but Samuel stepped in the way. Missy wouldn’t talk—probably—but there was no sense in giving her more information than she needed.

  “A right good row, Missy. And no one the wiser.”

  She nodded. “Yer in luck. We’re not that busy, and them that are here don’t seem to want to be whipped.” She pulled an enormous key ring out of her pocket, pulled off the largest and most hideously ornate one, and handed it to him. “Ye got it for the night. But mind, if yer row turns bloody, ye’ll owe me extra for the cleaning.”

  “Thank you, but I assure you there won’t be bloodshed.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” muttered Penny from behind him.

  Samuel sighed, pleased that Penny’s equilibrium returned, but saddened that he would have to fight through her anger. Missy, on the other hand, thought that the funniest thing she’d heard in a long time. She was cackling as she led them down the hallway and then hauled open the door to what once had been the root cellar. Bea—a woman with uncommon foresight—had remodeled it decades ago to look like a fanciful descent into hell. Samuel thought the ornaments cheap and rather silly, but one glance at Penny’s face and he could see that he’d just confirmed her worst suspicions about brothels.

  Well, there was no help for it now, and so he led her firmly down the stairs. At the base, they confronted a heavy iron door, which was unlocked by the ornate key. It was pitch dark in there, but he had a general idea where things were. A table nearby had a candelabra set at the ready. He dropped Penny’s satchel on the floor, then fumbled to light the candles. A few moments later, he’d lit them and four sconces about the room. Then he turned to see that Penny was half a breath away from bolting.

  “What is this place?” she breathed, shock and fear in her voice.

  He turned, looking about to see the room from her eyes. Yes, he supposed seeing a torture rack against the wall and a restraining table would be rather startling to a well-bred woman. Especially after what they’d just witnessed. Add in the shelving full of whips and shackles, gags and…well, things that he knew the names of but most people didn’t, and he feared his plans for a discussion were all for nothing. Still he had to try, so he strove for a calm, reassuring tone.

  “This is a specialized room, Penny,” he said as he shut and bolted the door. “And well used to screams, so you may screech at me all you like.”

  “I don’t screech!” she all but shouted.

  He nodded. “Excellent.” He thumped the wall, which was heavy stone. “I’m sure no one heard that. And believe me, I have tried from above to see if any words could penetrate the ceiling. Nothing intelligible, I assure you.” He frowned. She did not look reassured. “Truly, Penny, some gentlemen have rather violent tastes. Try not to look at the decor.”

  Her jaw went slack for a moment. “Try not to look at it? At what, pray tell, am I supposed to look? The meat hooks on the ceiling? The dark stains everywhere?”

  “It’s paint, Penny. For atmosphere.”

  She shook her head. “Not all of that is paint. The smell gives it away.”

  He grimaced. How could he forget that she was unusually perceptive? “Well,” he said with a sigh. “I am very sorry that this disturbs you. Pray will you sit down.” He held out a chair for her. Sadly, as he moved it, the shackles set up a rather loud clatter on the floor.

  “I shall stand, thank you, Samuel.”

  He couldn’t blame her, but neither could he let their conversation be deterred because of her sensibilities. “Very well,” he said rather lightly as he settled himself into the chair. He knew for a fact that Missy made sure to clean the chamber regularly. And it wasn’t as if he was going to have her strap him into the thing. “I have need of an answer from you. I’m sorry that it may be a rather painful answer, but it is imperative that we get to the bottom of it now. Truly, I fear for your safety—and your sanity—if you continue as you have been.”

  She frowned and folded her arms across her chest. “Very well,” she snapped. “What is this all-important question?”

  “Why are you so angry?”

  She gaped at him. Her jaw dropped, her fists fell onto her hips, and she drew a deep breath with which to blast him. Samuel relaxed backward. It would take a while for her to get past the initial fury. He estimated twenty minutes at least. But then she surprised him.

  She just huffed out her breath and leaned against the table. He wondered for a moment if the stains and the straps would bother her, but she seemed to have already dismissed them from her mind. Instead, she just shook her head.

  “You are the oddest gent I have ever met.”

  He tilted his head, unsure how to take that statement. “No one but you has ever said that to me before,” he mused softly.

  She blinked. “Of course they have.”

  “I assure you, they have not. People as a rule are much more condescending when they speak to me. They are either angry and tell me to bugger off—”

  “I can do that, if you like.”

  “Or they are amused and call me something like a sweet thing or a cute bean. I ask you, what bean would ever be considered cute?”

  “So no one has said ‘odd’? But you are.”

  “And is that bad or good?”

  She shook her head. “It’s just odd.”

  “And you, my dear, are avoiding the question at hand.”

  She grimaced and hopped up such that she sat on the table. In fairness, her grimace might be because of the table, not the topic. “I am not. Hell, Samuel, you’re a brilliant man. Don’t you think I have cause to be furious?”

  “Of course you do. But this particular problem is only a couple days old. And your parents were killed not yet two months ago. Your fury is a good deal older than that.”

  “It is not.”

  “Those grooves set between your brows, the habit of clenching your fists tight to your hips, and the deep brackets around your mouth indicate dif
ferently. Those are patterns established very early, very young.”

  Her eyes widened and her hands went to her mouth. He almost smiled. Penny was the least vain woman he knew, and yet even she was horrified by what he’d just said. Could all that anger be carving itself into her face?

  Of course it was, and so he stood and crossed to her. With gentle but firm fingers, he pulled her hands away from her face. It wasn’t easy, especially as he could tell she was barely keeping herself from slugging him.

  “Penny, you have been angry for a very long time. This last debacle has merely pushed you to the very edge. It makes you want to throw yourself at Jobby when you know it would do more harm than good. It makes you want to hurt me now when you know I am merely trying to help.” He took a deep breath. “It makes you what to hurt everyone and everything, including perhaps yourself.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense!”

  “Very well, then perhaps it makes you want to hurt Tommy.”

  She blanched and he knew he’d struck a nerve. She was hot to deny it, but he pressed his hand to her lips. “Think before you scream at me, Penny. You can tell me everything, you know. I am the last person who would judge you.”

  It wasn’t enough. With more strength than he’d expected, she shoved him backward. He stumbled, but fortunately caught himself on the shelving of dangerous implements. Meanwhile, she leaped off the table to advance on him, spitting words like an angry cat.

  “What do you know about life with a baby? There’s food and teething and he wakes every night! Nappies to be changed, and he’s in everything! I can’t get anything done!”

  “Of course—”

  “But I would never, ever hurt him!”

  “I believe—”

  “He’s the sweetest, funniest, smartest child. Everyone says so. He explores everywhere, most of them places he shouldn’t be. He tries to eat everything, and my God, when he cries, I sometimes want to scream right back. Everyone thinks I’m a slut because of him. I used to get looks from people on the street. Kind ones, happy ones. Now they curl their lip, and I’ve been spit at. Spit at! Because they think I’m a tart. But they don’t know me. You don’t know me! Because I would never, ever hurt Tommy!”

  There was more screaming. Every time he took a breath, every time he tried to move away from the shelving, she started up again. She loved the boy; that much was clear. But also the well of frustration and anger boiled out of her at the same time. She was a woman alone saddled with an infant boy. Of course she was exhausted and angry.

  And yet, that wasn’t the source of her fury. It was part of the problem, but not the source. So he waited, his hands raised in defense, his eyes watching to see if she lunged for any of the implements on the shelves.

  She didn’t, thank God, and eventually she stopped, her breath coming in ragged gasps as exhaustion took its toll. But she still had the strength to glare at him. Then she repeated what she had said before.

  “You don’t know me. I would never hurt Tommy. Don’t you see that? Don’t you see me at all?”

  She stumbled backward, finally allowing him to move away from the wall. He would have caught her, but she was more likely to punch him than thank him for his help. Besides, she steadied herself on the edge of the chair. Her back was to him, and he could see the clenched ripple of her muscles as she heaved in great gulps of air. Then he waited a bit longer, wondering if her good sense would return.

  “Penny—”

  “I would never hurt Tommy.”

  “I know.”

  She released a shuddering breath. “Then why would you say such a thing?”

  “Because you’re angry, Penny. And some of your anger is directed at him.”

  “Because raising him is hard!”

  “And because there’s something else about him that infuriates you.”

  She shook her head. “No! He’s a child! It’s not his fault!”

  “What isn’t his fault?”

  She whipped around, her eyes narrowed and this time her fists were raised. “You’re twisting my words!”

  “You know I’m not.”

  She didn’t answer. She stood there, her eyes glaring, her fists raised, and her body clenched so tight it was a wonder she could stand upright. And in that position, he knew she would never talk, never say the fury that was etched deep inside her. Which meant he would have to do it for her. Or at least try.

  So he took a deep breath, raised his hands palms outward in surrender, and plunged on in. “Shall I take a guess, Penny? Shall I say that your father was an idiot? He never saw what you did for him, never appreciated how much of the work of cobbling you did? All he could see was that you were a girl and that he did not have a son.”

  “My father loved me!”

  “Of course he did, but absently, in the way of all great artists. They see only their art, not those that support him day by day. If he had let you take your rightful place at his side, if he had let people know that you were his heir, then none of this would have happened. No one would believe that he’d given ownership to Tommy, which could then be sold to Cordwain. And even if they did, you could have been apprenticed to any of the other shoemakers. But he didn’t do that. And he certainly didn’t tell anyone that you had been making the shoes for months, if not years.”

  She swallowed, her eyes wide. There was denial in her face, and her fists had dropped down low as if she couldn’t bear to raise them against her father. “It would have ruined him if word got out that he could no longer make boots.”

  “Maybe. But it would have been the making of you.” He stepped forward, gently touching her wrists. When he went for her hands, she twisted the fists back and away from him. “Your father is the one who didn’t see you, didn’t know you. Of course that’s not Tommy’s fault. It was your father’s. And your mother’s, too, for not making him see his only child.”

  She turned her face away, but not before he saw what was in her eyes. It wasn’t fury, as he had expected. It wasn’t even the shimmer of tears. What he saw was a bleakness, an emptiness that told him that he had guessed right.

  Meanwhile, she bit out six words, spoken in clipped accents as if she’d pushed them through clenched teeth. “My father was a good man.”

  He shrugged. “He was certainly a good shoemaker,” he said quietly. “He might have been a good man, too, but he was a terrible father.”

  She flinched at that, but didn’t speak. And the longer she stood there, body clenched tight, the more he began to worry. He thought that would be the release she needed. Finally, someone had said the words that were damned up inside her: Her father was an idiot. Her father hadn’t valued her as he should.

  Except her shoulders didn’t release; her mouth didn’t soften. If anything, she coiled tighter, and held back even more.

  Which meant he’d been wrong. This wasn’t the source of her anger. He huffed out a frustrated breath. Damn, he was lousy at this type of conversation. Give him a set of clues, and he could make brilliant deductions. Scuff marks on the floor, a missing purse, even something spoken that was obviously a lie—all those things were clues that he used to make clever deductions. With Penny he’d done all that and obviously come up with the wrong answer. Which left him totally at a loss.

  He touched her averted cheek, stroking his finger across her flawless skin. “I don’t know what to say, Penny. And that is a rare thing indeed.”

  She didn’t smile at that, though he imagined her expression lightened a bit. Then she released a long breath, but not as a woman finally letting go. Not even in a snort of frustration. More like a slow hiss from a pipe. Steady. Mechanical. Not a release, just a symptom.

  Then she began to speak.

  “My father loved me deeply,” she said, her voice flat. “When I was little and got a new dress, he would take my hands and we would dance about the room. Whenever I was with the customers, he kept an eagle eye on me to make sure no man said anything wrong or touched me in any way. And when boys came to
call, he tortured them mercilessly on their parentage, their prospects, their…everything.” She shifted slightly, puffing out her chest as she mimicked her father. “‘The man for my Penny has to be worthy of her.’ That’s what he said. That was his love.”

  “Were there many boys come to call?” he asked. It was not what he meant to ask. It wasn’t in the least bit relevant, but neither was his irrational surge of jealousy at the thought of it.

  She shrugged. “Enough. Among my set, I was considered quite a catch.”

  “You still are, Penny.”

  She didn’t bother to argue with him. She merely shook her head. He knew what she was thinking. Everyone believed her a tart. She was now impoverished and had a baby to boot. Among most people, she’d fallen far from desirable.

  “If only you could see this rationally, Penny. If only you understood how your skills, your determination, and your strength make you a prize.”

  Then she did look at him, and he saw fear in her eyes. A stark terror that froze the breath in his lungs.

  “I once asked my father to let me sell shoes for him. Ladies slippers, much like what I am doing now. We would be Shoemaker and Daughter—shoes for lord and lady alike.” She fell silent, obviously remembering. The fear hadn’t left her eyes, and he knew they were getting close. But she’d stopped speaking.

  “I assume he said no,” he prompted, hoping to get her to continue.

  It worked. She nodded slowly. “He said, ‘What good would that do when you will be off and having babies with Wesley before the year’s end?’”

  He frowned, his belly tightening. “Wesley?”

  “Wesley Barlow, the son of a baker my father liked. Wesley and I have known each other since we were Tommy’s age.”

  “And your father expected you two to wed?”

  She nodded, but the motion was more of a jerk. “I thought…I thought he was right. Wesley was my choice and I…” She looked down at her hands. Only now did he notice that they weren’t clenched. Instead, they were limp. Almost as if she hadn’t the strength to move them.

  “Did you love him?”

  “Yes.”