by Cheryl Bolen
When the kiss ended, he settled his hands on either side of her face and looked at her—well, there was no other word for it—lovingly. “I don't like to think of you risking that lovely neck of yours. In fact, I have a proposal to make an honest woman of you.” He drew her into his arms for another searing kiss.
“About that proposal?” she finally managed, a hopeful lilt to her voice.
“I don't know why in the blazes I should care one fig about you. You've done nothing but lie to me from the moment we met.”
“My kiss was not a lie.”
He pulled back and peered at her through narrowed eyes. “What about what you called me this afternoon?”
“When I told that awful man you were my lover?”
He nodded.
“That was not a lie, either.”
“That settles it, then.”
Her heart fluttered most agreeably. “Settles what?”
“I propose to make an honest woman out of you. No more smuggling.”
“Actually, my dearest Mr. Birmingham, I'm not nearly as dishonest as you believe me to be.”
“Enlighten me, please.”
“I was so desperate to get away from Finkie that first night . . . “ She drew a deep breath. “It was my . . . wedding night. I would have answered to any name.”
“Then your name's not Isadore?”
She shook her head.
“You are well born, are you not?”
She nodded. “Until two weeks ago I had answered to the na milady Sophia Beresford for seven and twenty years.”
He nuzzled soft kisses along the column of her neck. “I should prefer an entirely different name for you.”
“Pray, what name would that be?” She circled her arms around him, her heartbeat galloping.
“Mrs. Birmingham?”
She started to bawl. This was no dainty weep. It was a full-fledged, open-mouthed, wail that originated deep in her chest like a spewing volcano and gave every indication it would never terminate.
“Pray, my dearest, why are you crying?”
She sniffed. She wiped her tears on her sleeve. She took his proffered handkerchief and blew her nose in a most UNdainty fashion. And she attempted to still the crying long enough to speak. “You know I cannot marry you. I am already married.” This was followed by a whimper which lifted into another full-fledged wail.
“Then I'll just have to kill Lord Finkel.”
She shook her head. “They'd hang you, and then I would have to throw myself from the dome of St. Paul's.”
“Well, then, let me see. If you'd been honest to me that first night, you and I could have been spared much grief.”
“How?”
“I had just come from Yorkshire where I learned that Lord Finkel was already wed to a woman he deserted when he was a young man. Therefore, your marriage to Lord Finkel was never valid.”
Her tears stopped as quickly as a hand clap. She threw her arms around him.
“There is one thing I should like to know,” he said.
“I will forevermore be nothing but honest with you.”
“Yesterday, when you were distressed about the stolen gold, you spoke of someone who was very dear to you.”
“My brother, the Earl of Devere.”
“I don't suppose his name is Dorian?”
She laughed. “No. His name is Alexander Beresford, the 7th Earl of Devere.”
“There's more to your story.”
She sighed. “Indeed. To start from that first night at the Prickly Pig, I knew then there was a special connection between you and me. And later . . . I knew I was in love with you. If I left Grosvenor Square I would never see you again. Even though I thought myself married, I could not give up my hope for some kind of union with you. My only hold on you was to be Isadore.
“I knew she would try to contact you and determined to intercept her. The only way that could succeed would be for me to give her eighty thousand in exchange for the gold. I begged my brother to get his hands on that enormous sum with the promise it would be paid back within a week.”
“I see. Your brother's money is gone, and I can't pay for a delivery I didn't receive.” He sighed. “This is a difficult situation. I have the eighty thousand, but it's not mine to just hand over to your brother. I'll have to discuss it with my brothers. But I vow I will not let your brother be destroyed.”
“I suppose I need to accept your offer,” she said. “I must reform your wicked ways. I shall use my dowry to help you financially because I beg that you never again involve yourself with smugglers.”
He held her tightly and laughed, a deep raucous laugh.
“Pray, what is so funny?”
“You don't know who I am?”
“Of course I know who you are. You're Mr. William Birmingham, smuggler of gold bullion, my future husband, and the only man I could ever love.”
He stood back and drew her hands into his. She felt incredibly secure.
“You've heard of Nicholas and Adam Birmingham?” he asked.
“Who hasn't? They're the wealth- - -” She stopped, suddenly realizing her great stupidity. “They're your brothers?”
His eyes laughing, he nodded.
“You're from that Birmingham family?”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
“Why in the world do you resort to smuggling gold if you're that ridiculously wealthy?”
He shrugged. “A single man can take risks. I liked the excitement.”
“Then I daresay you must marry.” She moved into his arms. Nowhere on earth could ever feel better.
Chapter 20
He stood there in what must have been Lady Finkel's bedchamber luxuriating in the feel of this woman he loved so dearly. His grip on her may have been too tight, but he was dazed by relief that he'd snatched her from Finkel's clutches barely in the nick of time. If he'd been minutes later, the consequences were unthinkable.
His head bent to hers once more when there was a loud commotion coming from downstairs. He drew back. “I hope it's Thompson with my brother.”
They both raced toward the stairway.
From the marble entry hall, Nick looked up at him, his feet planted. “We got the weasel Finkel, or I should say the General and his men got him. We have to give statements to the magistrates. Those papers you sent in the oilskin packet are locked in my safe.”
Thompson brushed past Nicholas Birmingham, peered up at his master, and spoke in a voice ripped by terror. “Where is Miss Dorothea?”
How remiss William had been to forget all about Isadore's . . . or Sophia's, elder sister.
“She's been tied up in a room on this floor, I believe,” Sophia said. “Perhaps you can relieve her of the bindings.”
The valet flew to the curved stairway and began to jump the steps two at a time.
“Do you think,” Sophia whispered to William, “I should tell him she's my maid?”
William's brows shot up. “Why, you vixen!” Then he shook his head. “Let her be the one to tell him.”
“Dottie's very loyal to me. I'd best go give her permission to speak.”
“She speaks?”
Sophia shrugged. “Another lie, I'm afraid.”
When he and Sophia arrived at the chamber where the maid was being held, Thompson was already on his knees untying her, crooning in a tender voice. “You'll be safe now, my dear Miss Door. I would die myself before I'd let anything happen to you.”
Sophia's face softened as she watched the pair. “Everything's over now, dear Dottie. You may speak.”
A look of shock registered on Dottie's face.
Thompson looked at the object of his affections as if she had turned purple.
The maid's face clouded. Her gaze dropped to her lap.
The valet's big hand curved along her slender face. “You can speak?”
She nodded.
“Then why do you look so wretched? If Finkel or his men have abused you, I will kill them.”
Dottie s
hook her head but still did not look at Thompson. “I was not abused.”
“Then what, love, is troubling you? Please don't tell me you're married to another?”
She shook her head again and tried to stand, but she couldn't get past Thompson's broad body.
Thompson got to his feet and helped her up.
“I've enjoyed these past two weeks, getting to pretend I was a fine lady like Lady Sophia.” Dottie glanced at Sophia. “I enjoyed your attentions, Mr. Thompson, but the pretending be over, and now I return to being a lady of no consequence.”
“That is not true,” he protested.
Tears gathered in Dottie's eyes as she strode toward the door. “ milady, will you tell Mr. Thompson what I am?”
The poor woman, William thought. She did not think she deserved Thompson.
Sophia took her maid's hand. “But Dottie, you cannot be so cruel to Mr. Thompson. I'm to marry his master, so you and I will both be coming to live with them at Grosvenor Square.”
Dottie's mouth gaped open. “How can you marry Mr. Birmingham when yer already married?”
Sophia beamed with happiness. “My marriage to Finkie was not legal because he was already married!”
The maid finally smiled. “I be ever so happy for ye. That Finkel was wicked through and through.” Dottie drew a long breath and spoke just barely above a whisper. “I'd rather not be here when Mr. Thompson finds out what I am. I'll go to yer brother's and begin to pack our things for yer new home.”
The thin creature slipped out the door as quietly as a flea.
Sophia peered at Thompson. “Allow me to introduce myself to you, Mr. Thompson. My true name is Lady Sophia Beresford. Dottie—whose true name is Dorothea—is my most beloved maid. A more capable servant does not exist.”
William cleared his throat. “My good man, it appears Miss D . . . , er, Dottie, thinks you've been attracted to a fine lady and will be repulsed to know she's a mere maid.”
Thompson could not respond for several moments. “I will own, sir, I am stunned. I truly took Miss . . . Dottie for a fine lady.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Her muteness brought out protective instincts in me that I never knew I had.”
Not the response William was hoping for. He'd been so happy that these two middle-aged souls had found love. He'd hoped Thompson would insist he loved the former mute no matter who she was.
Truth be told, William was disappointed in Thompson for the first time since they'd been together these ten years past. He gave his valet a nod, and the man left him alone with . . . Sophia. It was bloody difficult to think of her as anyone but Isadore.
“Well, my love, I have much to do now. I must give statements to the magistrates about Finkel. I must ask Lord Devere for your hand in marriage, and if he agrees, I must procure a special wedding license.”
“My brother will agree. I'll go speak with him right now.”
“He lives on Curzon Street?”
She nodded. “At Number 3.”
“Then I will be there when I finish with the Finkel mess.”
* * *
It was nearly dark when he arrived at Devere House. Since rains were threatening, he'd come in the coach, but his driver was unable to park directly in front of Number 3 because another conveyance was there.
Once he disembarked, he tossed a glance at the long cart in front of his coach. Good lord, it fit the description of the one the real Isadore had delivered to his house! He turned and went toward it, but a half a dozen men in red vests gathered around him. Bow Street runners.
“Lord Devere has given orders that no one's to come near this cart.”
Nodding, he turned and strode to the door of the fine mansion at Number 3, hoping to God the cart was the one with his gold.
Sophia must have been watching for him. She came flying out the door. “Wonderful news, William!”
He eyed her mischievously. “You persuaded your brother to allow you to marry a Cit.”
She came to take both his hands. “Well, that too.”
He raised a single brow teasingly.
“Bless my brother, he was having me—or likely his eighty thousand quid—watched by a Bow Street runner who grew suspicious when he saw most unsavory looking men take off with your cart. So he followed. Once he had the destination, he reported to my brother, who authorized a half a dozen runners to restore the cart to us. Apparently one of Isadore's postillions got too greedy.”
“That is wonderful news. About the Bow Street runners finding and returning it.” He moved to his loyal coachman and spoke. “You need to find the General and have him gather up men and take this cart to Threadneedle Street. They know what they're to do.”
Inside Devere House, which was much in the style of his own house but twice as large, Sophia's brother gave him a friendly greeting.
“He knows all about the wicked Lord Finkel's doings,” she explained to William. “He and I were also working together to bring the odious man to justice.”
“Then it appears, my lord, we have other things in common besides a high degree of concern for Lady Sophia's welfare and happiness,” William said.
Smiling, Lord Devere nodded. “Won't you come to the library?”
They began to walk beneath a chandelier suspended high above the corridor which ran alongside the broad stairway. To his surprise, Sophia stayed at his side. Was he not supposed to meet privately with the earl to ask for her hand?
“I've got your eighty thousand, my lord. I shall never forget what lengths you went to for the woman I love. It could not have been easy.”
Devere groaned. “You have no idea.”
“Oh, but I do. You forget I've moved in banking circles my entire life.”
“It appears,” Devere said, “my sister's to marry one of the wealthiest men in the kingdom.”
“My brothers and I have that distinction,” William said. “Because my father was not an aristocrat, he was at liberty to settle his fortune equally among all three sons. As the youngest son, I'm well aware of my good fortune.”
Sophia linked her arm through his. “Your enormous fortune, my love.”
He patted her hand, then addressed Lord Devere. “Do I take it that you're sparing me from having to make a formal request for her hand?”
“When you know my sister as well as I do, you will know that when her mind is made up, nothing gets in her way. Besides, I trust her judgment. That shabbiness with Finkel was forced on her because she wanted to protect our sister.”
William found much to admire in his prospective brother-in-law. He was especially pleased that Lady Sophia's brother didn't sound disappointed in her choice. William had prepared himself to be shunned by an arrogant earl, but Devere was not like that at all.
His eyes shimmering with warmth, Devere looked from one to the other. “We have already had marriage contracts drawn up for my sister.”
Were they the ones she'd had for the marriage to Finkel? “I don't require a dowry, you know.”
“Sophia thought you might say that.”
She looked up at him admiringly. “I would prefer to pass my money on to my sister.”
“Theodora?” William asked, tongue in cheek.
“Actually her name is- - -”
“Lady Maryann.” He pulled a letter from inside the breast of his jacket and handed it to Devere. “From Finkel's stash. I thought you might want to burn it.”
Devere took it, looked at it long enough to confirm it had been written by his youngest sister, then walked directly to the fire and tossed it into the flames.
“I will need your signature on documents that will protect Sophia in the event of your death or abandonment.”
William went to the writing table, scanned the documents, then signed the last page. “I'm happy these were already drawn up. I will have the special license tomorrow, and I'd like to marry immediately.”
“Me too,” she said.
“I've never seen my sister like this. If there were such a thing, I would almost bel
ieve she's been taking a love potion, the transformation in her is so complete.”
William felt as if he'd just grown a foot taller. “There is no more fortunate man in the kingdom than me.” He smiled down at her.
* * *
She had sat in the church and softly cried as she watched Lady Sophia marry for the second time in as many weeks. Dottie had cried both times but for entirely different reasons. When her mistress had married Stinkie Finkie, she'd known it was a disaster. Today, she wept for joy. Lady Sophia and Mr. Birmingham were perfect for each other. She'd known it since that first night at the Prickly Pig.
The night she met Mr. Thompson, she thought ruefully.
How difficult it was going to be living in the same house with the only man she could ever love. She had given a great deal of thought as to how she would behave when she was near him and decided she would attempt to be as disinterested in him as she'd been in the upper servants at Devere House. None of them had ever turned her thoughts to kissing.
And other things.
Only one thing marred her mistress's wedding day. Rain.
After the wedding, while Lady Sophia and her bridegroom were being toasted at a wedding breakfast at Devere House, Dottie traveled a few blocks away to her mistress's new home. Lady Sophia had requested the coach for her long-serving maid to keep her from getting wet.
Rain turned Dottie's thoughts to those magical rainy days when she'd ridden alone in the coach with Mr. Thompson. When he thought she was a fine lady. How she longed to turn back the hands of time.
As the coach rounded the corner to Grosvenor Square, Dottie's stomach tightened. Mr. Thompson, who had sat at the back of the church at his master's wedding, was returning to the house. And getting very wet doing so.
She braced herself to act stiffly.
By the time the coach stopped and the coachman let down her step, Mr. Thompson was moving to the front door. When he heard the coach door open, he turned. Their gazes met and held.
Then he did a curious thing. He began to move to her. She was still within the coach.
When he got a foot away from the coach's steps, he stopped. Then he did something that was even more curious. He took off his voluminous black cloak and laid it in the puddles. “I shouldn't like to see the lady's slippers get muddy.”