by Deb Marlowe
He reared back. Without meeting her gaze he stood and turned away from her. “And I’ve failed. In all these years, matters have only grown worse instead of better. Marstoke is my best—indeed he may be my last chance—to accomplish my goals.” His head bowed. “There’s more.”
“More?”
“You know how hard I’ve worked. How disappointed I’ve been in my failures. In desperation, I may have . . . committed certain indiscretions. Made the wrong sorts of contacts.”
“Who?” Brynne frowned. “Whose acquaintance would keep you from saving me from such a fate?”
He didn’t answer, didn’t turn to face her.
“Radicals?” she asked. “Whores? Other men’s wives?”
“Stop!” He spun around. “I won’t discuss it with you. Suffice it to say that there are certain letters in existence which could be the end of me, should they become public. And Marstoke has them.”
Brynne gasped.
“You’ve shed your blinders in other areas, Brynne, do not choose to be naïve now. This will prove to be a misunderstanding, I am sure. But if it does or not—the marriage must take place. He wants you—and he means to have you.” His expression grew pleading. “But, my dear, you must believe that I will help you. You will not be powerless. I will speak to the marquess. You are simply going to have to trust me. And to refrain from going off half-cocked.”
Brynne could not rise from her seat. The twin burdens of betrayal and disbelief weighed her down, pressing her into her chair. She’d been convinced as she rushed home tonight that this time her need was great enough to penetrate her father’s ever-narrowing focus.
For the first time she was glad her mother had died, glad that she had not lived to see her daughter discarded like some sort of sacrificial lamb. But then again, had her mother lived, her father might never have retreated so far from her or focused so zealously on his political agenda. Brynne might have had a Season, a chance at a normal life. She might even have been married by now.
She shook her head and pushed herself to her feet. Her father didn’t really know whom he was dealing with. He looked at her, but never saw past the silk gauze overlay of her gown. He took for granted the girl who could dress like a confection, dance gracefully and sing rather better than that. But she was her mother’s daughter too—and it appeared that he had forgotten everything that that implied.
What he would have known—had he looked up from his desk for any reasonable amount of time and realized just who was running his house, managing his schedule and juggling the fragile egos and high-strung tempers of his political cronies—was that Brynne was a problem solver.
And this was a very big problem.
She’d be damned before she forfeited her future to such a pair. Lord Marstoke could wallow in his twisted anticipation and her father could lose himself in visions of grand reform, but Brynne was going to make plans of her own.
Ram-rod stiff, she nodded once in her father’s direction. He had already turned back to the comfort of his abandoned papers. She turned on her heel. Just as she pulled the door closed, an entirely new sound cracked the sacred silence of the study.
“I’m sorry,” her father said softly.
As was she.
***
Society’s collective wisdom became clear to Brynne the next day. It was a bloody brilliant piece of work, curtailing its young women with convention and restricting them with endless rules. Because really, once she’d cast all that aside, it became startlingly easy to arrange an escape.
Not so easy to arrive at that decision in her mind. She spent a sleepless night and a bleary eyed morning wrestling with herself, fighting to reconcile the expectations that her father, her friends and Society had for her against the nightmare of a future as Marstoke's wife. Her instinct was to run, but she forced herself to think, to understand all that she would be giving up should she take so drastic a step—and she decided to go anyway.
She began with a few sympathetic words regarding how tired her maid was looking, and followed them up with a generous offer of a few days to visit home. By the next morning, she’d obtained a bit of privacy. Her next acquisitions were a threadbare cloak and a market basket for a disguise—and suddenly the city lay open at her feet.
Amazed, she moved quickly through the streets, keeping her mouth shut, her stride brisk and a harassed expression upon her face—and no one looked twice in her direction. Almost, she wished she’d discovered this trick years ago. When she thought of the adventures she might have got up to . . . but no. Her purpose was clear. In almost the same instant she’d decided to run, Brynne had known exactly where she meant to run to.
Finding the notorious address was child’s play. Accepting the ordinary, solidly middle-class appearance of the place was something else again. Brynne walked past the brick townhouse several times. Half Moon House. Surely a place so ingrained in the hearts and minds of London's people should look . . . somehow different.
But there it was—the infamous panel above the door—a gorgeous wooden fanlight, the intricate shapes of a half moon and the surrounding stars carved out and replaced with crystal so the light within always showed through. It was a feature that anyone in London could describe. Still, she asked a passing jarvey to confirm the address. With his assurances ringing in her ears, she stared again at the house of Hestia Wright.
Hestia Wright—former courtesan, once mistress to kings and the most powerful men in the world—now a woman who offered solace and sanctuary to all of her sisters. Any woman could come to her for help, it was said, and not be turned away.
“Are ye alright, then, miss?” The jarvey, still boxed in by traffic, regarded her with a kind eye.
Brynne caught her breath. There was a knowing expression in his face as he looked from her to the house.
She considered. Was she? Could she really leave her life, her status, and her only family behind? The image of Marstoke's hard eyes rose up in her head, followed by a picture of her father's pen. “I will be,” she answered. Throwing caution to the wind, she approached the coach and drew out a heavy purse. “I have a proposition. Will you listen?”
“Listenin’ is free,” he said with a shrug.
She put forth her request simply, and handed him the pouch.
He hefted the extra weight and raked her with an assessing eye. “I’m not in the habit of helping young ladies,” she didn’t miss the emphasis on the word, “to run away from home.
His astuteness only convinced her that she’d made the right choice. She shrugged. “I’m going, whether you help or not.”
He’d rubbed a hand across his jaw. “Must be a spot o’ trouble yer in,” he mused, “ter be runnin’ here.”
“You have no idea,” she said simply.
He’d briefly closes his eyes. “All right, then.”
All of which explained why Brynne now found herself creeping through the kitchen plot at the back of her father’s house in the darkest hour of the night. She fetched her portmanteau from behind a haphazard stack of pots and sent up a prayer that everything she owned wouldn’t smell strongly and permanently of onions. One quick glance back at the dark house—the only goodbye to her old life she would allow—and she was through the gate and slipping along the South Portman Mews.
She heaved a sigh of relief when she reached the intersection with Gloucester Street. The hackney was there, a dark bulk in the shadows beyond Montague House. Without a word she slipped in. Almost before the door had closed, the driver clucked to his horses and they started off.
Brynne clutched her bag and stared out the window—and oddly enough it was the Duke of Aldmere that centered in her thoughts as they moved quickly through the deserted streets. The past was too painful, the future too uncertain to contemplate, so she watched the dark slip by and wondered what the duke would think of her escape. He’d thought her brave last night.
The thought caught her up. Only twenty-four hours ago she’d been setting out to attend the Dalton’s ball
, a young woman content, if not thrilled with her engagement. Now she was on her own—and pulling up before the innocuous brick townhouse. The half moon and the stars above the door shone in welcome.
Her heart in her throat and hope beating in her chest in its stead, she put her hand on the door.
Outside, the heavy bulk of the driver stalled her. “A moment, miss,” he whispered.
She heard it then, the sound that had put a brittle edge in his voice; someone, quite nearby in the darkness, sobbed as if the world was ending and her heart was breaking. Brynne’s gut clenched in sympathy. Never in her life had she heard such an outpouring of despair—but how long would she have lasted in Lord Marstoke’s clutches before she sounded as broken as this unknown girl?
Not long, she suspected. She kept the door cracked and a hand on her portmanteau, holding herself ready and poised for flight, just in case.
“Here now, here now,” the driver soothed, his voice gentle as he approached a bundled form crouched low against the house’s wrought-iron fence. “Where is he, the rotter that done this to ye?”
A shaky whimper was his only answer.
“Still here, then?” The driver’s head came up and his tone grew sharp.
The bundle moved. “No. Gone.” Thick and fluid, the answer was barely distinguishable.
“Come along with ye, then. You’ve come to the right place.” The driver gingerly reached down to assist the girl to her feet. “Miss,” he hissed in Brynne’s direction. “Come ye and take her other side. She could use the help and I don’t dare leave ye out here alone.”
Brynne slid out of the carriage and did as she was bid. The girl shuffled slowly, and together they helped her manage the few steps from the gate to the door. The driver’s knock was answered at once, as if middle-of-the-night visitors were nothing out of the ordinary in this household. A burly footman ushered them in, pulled a bench close for the unfortunate girl, and disappeared into the back of the house—and thus was Brynne’s first entrance into Hestia Wright’s infamous home vastly different than she had anticipated.
Truly, she hadn’t known what to expect, but that first step over the threshold was such a momentous act—tantamount to throwing her old life, her very identity away—that she would not have been surprised by an accompanying crack of lightning or trembling of the earth. Instead she found herself fading into the background as the footman returned with reinforcements.
Two women accompanied him into the entrance hall, both in hastily donned night robes and both utterly focused on the bruised and bleeding girl still sobbing quietly on the bench. Brynne stared as they examined and comforted her, surrounding the poor creature in a cocoon of soothing concern. One of the women was as young as she, with a softly rounded figure and hard eyes. But it was the other woman who captured her attention. Slightly older, perhaps just into her third decade, she stood tall and elegant, and moved with a svelte grace that caught the eye and held it. Loosely braided, her golden hair framed a dainty, almost elfin beauty. She hovered over the unfortunate girl, an exquisite, ethereal vision, almost too fine for this world.
Her manner, though, in direct opposition to her looks, appeared all that was confident and capable. Somehow she managed to sound both brisk and sympathetic as she questioned the girl, even as she examined her injuries with competent hands.
“It’s Letty again,” the other, younger woman said with a catch in her voice. She glanced over at the older woman. “She’s one of Hatch’s girls.”
Brynne nearly flinched at the grim look that passed over that angelic face. If she’d had any doubt that this was Hestia Wright, it would have ended with that expression. Clearly this was indeed the woman who stood as champion to her less fortunate sisters. And it looked as if this Hatch was in for a taste of retribution.
“It has been a while since I’ve seen Hatch. I’ll stop around for a little visit in the morning.”
The bloodied girl made a sound of fear and protest, but Hestia merely patted her in reassurance. “Not to worry, dear. We’ll just have a little talk about respect and good manners. They are only good business, you know.” She knelt down and took both of the girl’s hands in her own. “You have nothing to fear.”
She stood and passed Letty and her fresh spate of weeping to the other woman. “Callie, would you take our young friend upstairs? I think Sally’s room would be best, don’t you? Tonight she shouldn’t be left alone.”
As the younger woman gently led the girl away, Miss Wright turned a wry smile upon the hackney driver, still lingering near the door. “Ah, Jinks. I can always count on you to bring me a lap full of trouble.”
“Here now, ye won’t be laying all the blame on me, Miz Wright. That one t’weren’t my doin’. I jest found her curled up against yer fence.” He thrust his chin in Brynne’s direction. “Now this one, on the other hand, I’m forced t’ claim responsibility fer. I brought her to ye.” His mouth twisted. “And me gut is tellin’ me that she’ll be more than the usual amount o’ trouble.”
Brynne’s chest tightened as she stepped forward, her lungs refusing to draw in air. “Miss Wright,” she began. “I’m afraid that I’ve also come seeking your help. I’ve heard so much about you—all the stories—how you were bitterly betrayed by the men in your life, how you rose above the horrid circumstances they left you in, how you’ve dedicated your life to helping others who’ve been left with no chance and no voice.” She faltered, suddenly unsure, as every vestige of warmth drained from the other woman’s already pale complexion. “My name is—”
“I know who you are,” Hestia Wright whispered. She sank down onto the bench that Letty had just vacated.
Brynne stood silent a moment, absorbing this. This was hardly the welcome she’d hoped for—or imagined at least a thousand times over the last hours. “Then you’ll know that my father . . .”
“Your betrothed,” the other woman cut in, her voice sharp. “I know who your betrothed is.” She waved a hand, beckoning, and Brynne answered, sitting down beside her on the bench. Hestia Wright ran a caressing finger along her hair, across the breadth of her cheek, and then she reached down to grip her hand tight.
“Dear God,” she whispered. “How I’ve felt for you, feared for you, but I never dreamed that you would . . .” Her other hand shook as she raised it to her mouth, but it couldn’t contain a bitter, almost hysterical laugh. “The irony of it—of you coming here, seeking me out—I can scarcely take it in.”
Brynne’s breath caught. “Then you’ll help me? I can stay?”
Hestia Wright’s beauty was legendary. Even in mussed nightclothes she might have been a work of art, an idealized figure of warm golden curls and an iced sapphire gaze sprung straight from a master’s brush. Brynne could only watch, hopeful, helpless, as those renowned eyes narrowed, staring over her shoulder at a future she could not see.
“Miss Wright?”
“Yes.” Her grip tightened around both of Brynne’s hands then. “Dear God help us all, but yes. You can stay.”
Three
I have danced through the halls of the finest palaces, dandled Princes on my knee, entertained the greatest minds of an Age. But I have also knelt next to a bleeding woman in the meanest streets, plucked infants from the bodies of their dying mothers and tried to blaze a torch of light against the black depths of despair threatening so many. An extraordinary life it has been, and a happy result is many friends in places both high and low. Remember that as you listen to my story. It begins in Bath . . .
—from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright
London, Three Months Later
Weary, the Duke of Aldmere shifted in his seat. A futile effort, since his discomfort came from within and was in no way due to the furniture. To the contrary, he regularly referred to the padded leather monstrosity as his throne. Crafted specifically to his measurements and situated elegantly behind an expansive desk of polished mahogany, the thing might well have been gilded and bejeweled, for without a doubt it was from
this seat that he ruled an empire.
A duke’s days—his days—were filled with duty, responsibility and obligation. Estate management and agricultural concerns vied with financial matters and business interests, and that didn’t take into account his political duties or the piles of social invitations that arrived daily. Morning, noon and night Aldmere granted audiences and granted favors, he took his seat in the Lords, he attended meetings and chaired committees, and very occasionally he allowed himself to be rigged out in formal dress and dangled like a brass ring before the hopeful mamas and daughters of the beau monde.
Thus was a dukedom run, and his life lived. His days stretched out before him, endlessly busy, endlessly the same . . . and today, just seemingly endless.
“Your Grace? Your Grace?”
Startled, he looked up, his attention caught by the concern in his secretary’s tone. “Yes, Flemming. What is it?”
“A letter, your Grace, from Killingworth Colliery.” The man’s expression was oddly hopeful. “Their locomotive is nearly complete and Mr. Stephenson invites you to attend the testing of it.”
This should have been exciting news. He’d been keenly following the intriguing developments of locomotive engines in the North lately, and yet he stared at the letter, waiting for a rush of enthusiasm that would not come.
He nodded. “Thank you. Just leave it there and I’ll attend to it directly.” He lifted the report in front of him. Five and thirty years he would mark at his next birthday. The prime of his life, surely. Too young to feel so jaded and . . . bored. Too young to stare down the corridor of his remaining life and feel his ballocks shrink at the sheer meaningless of it all.
He stifled a curse. One might imagine that if you were afflicted with such a terrible lethargy, it might at least come with a bit of calmness or tranquility. But oh, no. Aldmere faced the empty years to come and suffered a surge of restless frustration that he could do nothing about. When was the last time he’d felt simply normal, at peace? He damned well knew the answer—he’d been fifteen years old and as green as grass. Perhaps it was time and past to just accept the fact that he would never feel that way again.