by Julia London
“We have whiskey, sir. I could not say if it was Scotch or Irish.”
That rankled—Irish whiskey could hardly be counted in the same class as Scotch whiskey! “A dram of what ye have, then,” he said, and wondered if the footman always looked that pinched or if he was merely sneering at his scarred face.
Never mind that. He had a look around; the tables in the common area were all but full, and in addition he could see four doors leading to other areas. Private rooms, no doubt. Probably where Nigel was now with his sycophants, filling their gullets with port. The footman brought him a dram of inferior whiskey, and Liam sipped carefully, as this quest to put himself in front of Nigel was costing him a pretty pence, and he would do well to make his whiskey last. Which made him wonder, rather impatiently, how exactly he might acquaint himself with the private rooms.
But as good fortune would have it, jolly old Nigel came bursting out of one door a moment later, laughing so uproariously that several of the club patrons swiveled in his direction to see what he was about. “Keep your cards on the table, Maxwell. I’ll just be a moment,” Nigel called loudly to his companion, then proceeded to bang his way through the tables toward the front of the club. There he spoke to the man who had let Liam in, talking loudly about something to do with the fire. When the man seemed to promise to take care of whatever it was that had upset his cousin, Nigel turned, obviously prepared to teeter-totter back to his private room. Not one to miss an opportunity, Liam threw the rest of his whiskey down his throat at the same time he came to his feet and grabbed his coat, slinging it over his arm.
He stepped in front of Nigel as his cousin reached the last table between him and the private room. “Pardon, sir,” he said, looking Nigel directly in the eye.
“Yes, yes, of course,” Nigel muttered, trying to bob around Liam without so much as a glance.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Liam suppressed a sigh of irritation and said, in a voice of incredulity worthy of the theater, “Mo creach, could it be? Cousin Ni gel?”
“What? What’s that?” a startled Nigel asked, raising his bleary gaze to Liam’s face, squinting. “Pardon?”
All right, then, how hard would he make this? “Nigel, old chap! Do ye no’ remember me, then?”
“Remember you? I daresay I don’t, sir. I—” He stopped, peered closely at Liam, then reared back, hands on belly. “Liam? Cousin Liam?” he exclaimed. “By jove, it is you!” he exclaimed, still peering, as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. “How long has it been? Ten years?”
“No’ as long as that. Seven?”
“Seven! Seven…bloody saints! Well, you’ve changed a bit, haven’t you? A bit gray around the gills, what?” Nigel observed, then, his gaze traveling the full length of Liam. “A bit thicker, too, I’d say!”
Coming from someone who had gained at least two stone and had added the distinction of sot to his mantle since last they’d met, Liam didn’t think his cousin’s observations were terribly amusing. “A wee bit of gray, I suppose,” Liam admitted. “Ah, but ye look the same, Nigel!”
Nigel grinned, smoothing his soiled waistcoat. “I suppose I’ve done rather well, all in all. Well, then, Lockhart—do tell what brings you to London after all these years? The last we saw you, you had purchased a commission into the navy, wasn’t it?”
“Army. Highland Regiments.”
“Aaah,” said Nigel, nodding slowly.
The goat had no idea what Liam meant by that. “Just back from the war against Bonaparte,” he added helpfully.
“Oh.” Nigel’s eyes grew round. “Ooh,” he said again. “Back to London, really? I thought your people were in Scotland.”
Aye, thank God. Liam glanced ruefully at his cousin and tried hard to affect a sad mien. “I’m afraid we’ve had a bit of a falling out,” he said quietly.
“A what?” Nigel all but shouted, not understanding.
Liam clenched his jaw, leaned forward, and said again, “A falling out. I’m rather at odds with me family.”
“The Scots?” Nigel asked, confused.
“Aye, the Scots.” God blind him, what a blockhead! “Father in particular. He’s of the old way of thinking. Doesna believe in the Royal Army, if ye take me meaning.”
Nigel blinked, swayed backward, then forward again. Suddenly, his eyes widened. “Ooh, I seeeeee,” he said low, nodding enthusiastically. He suddenly clamped a hand on Liam’s arm. “There now, cousin, you simply must come join me and my companions.”
Victory. “Ah, I wouldna think to intrude—”
“No intrusion! The more the merrier!” Nigel paused to stifle a hiccup, then asked, “You enjoy a good card game, don’t you?”
“Aye, of—”
“Of course you do! Come along, then—you must tell me all about my Scottish cousins,” Nigel blithely continued, pushing Liam in the direction of his private room. “Ah, yes, the Scottish Lockharts. How frightfully quaint. What, there were four or five of them, weren’t there?” he asked, as if referring to a herd of livestock.
“Five in all,” Liam bit out as he turned and accompanied Nigel to the private room.
Nigel stepped through the door first, unremarked by his two companions, who were engaged in a heated argument over a card. “Look here, Maxwell! Uckerby!” Nigel boomed, drawing Liam forward. “Look who has come to join us! My Scottish cousin Lockhart!” That succeeded in gaining the two men’s attention, and they turned identical bloodshot gazes to Liam.
“My Scottish cousin Lockhart!” Nigel said again, then laughed and clapped Liam so soundly on the back that he nearly lost his breath. “He’s from Scotland.”
In spite of the fact that he was forced to endure the company of Lockhart, Maxwell, and Uckerby for the rest of the evening, and worse, well into the early-morning hours, Liam felt good about his progress with Nigel. They had not spoken again of his defection from the Scottish Lockharts, but Nigel did invite Liam to join him again the next evening at the exclusive White’s, where Nigel held a membership. “There’s better gaming there, you know,” he informed him. Liam certainly hoped so.
The next afternoon, in between thoughts of Ellie, Liam penned another letter home.
Dearest Mother, Cousin Nigel sends his regards.
he wrote, then paused to study the letter and found it lacking somewhat. He therefore added:
I ate quite a good goose yesterday. Fondly, L.
He sealed the letter, took it to the post, then walked to Hyde Park.
He had determined, in the bright light of morning, that his stomping on a mouse in the dining room and in the course of a delightful supper had been rather inelegant. It was, upon reflection, something he was quite certain his mother would have objected to and a deed for which she might have perhaps tossed him out on his arse. Which meant, naturally, that he must apologize to Ellie. And he could hardly make an apology empty-handed, could he? He needed something to soften his transgression, such as flowers. Big and beautiful flowers. Hence his trek to Hyde Park, where he remembered there were several gardens full of blooming roses.
Indeed, there were several gardens, and Liam perused them all, finally deciding that the small garden near Park Lane had the best specimens. So he circled round until he reached that garden again, stepped over the rock border separating the roses from the pedestrian thoroughfare, and carefully moved to the middle of the patch to closely study the various bushes. After a quarter hour of hemming and hawing, he settled on the bloodred roses in the very middle of the garden, and pulling his dagger from his boot, he made several cuttings, exclaiming sharply with every prick of a thorn.
When he at last had what seemed to him a suitable bouquet to accompany his apology, he slipped the dagger back into his boot and turned toward the thoroughfare. A frown instantly washed over his face as he glared at the various onlookers who gaped at him in surprise and dismay. Barmy English! What, were these the only roses in all of Britain, then? Would the entire populace of London begrudge him a measly dozen of them? Liam carefully inched
his way through the thorny bushes to the edge of the garden, stepped over the rock border, and straightened his clothing. With a scowl for the lot of them, he set off, his homemade bouquet in hand, feeling rather cheerful for the first time since he had arrived in London.
Ten
Having passed another interminable day with a walk in the square and a call on her sister Eva, Ellen took the eardrops her sister had given her (they are really too vulgar for polite society…but you can wear them) to High Street, where she sold them for a paltry three pounds. Cheap, the shopkeeper had called them.
Ellen returned to Belgrave Square late that afternoon, and met Agatha in the dark foyer just as she was leaving.
“Natalie’s napping. And he’s gone for the evening,” she said, meaning Farnsworth, which was always welcome news. “And oh, yes, mu’um, I brought a cake,” Agatha added as she draped a cloak around her bony shoulders. “It was all I could manage today.”
Dear, dear Agatha. How the poor woman managed to endure Farnsworth was beyond Ellen’s ability to comprehend, much less try to provide for her and Natalie. “How thoughtful of you, Agatha. A cake is just the perfect thing. Thank you,” she said, and reached for Agatha’s hand, squeezing it tightly. “I don’t know what we’d do without you.”
That set the woman’s mouth in a frown. She tied the cloak tightly at her throat in sharp jerking movements, then turned toward the door to take her leave. But she paused, frowned at Ellen one last time for the day. “I’m sorry, mu’um, but I can’t help worry about the two of you, if you don’t mind me saying. It ain’t right.”
No, it wasn’t right. It bordered on criminal, actually, but what could she do? Ellen forced a smile. “Please, you mustn’t worry. We are quite all right—it’s truly not so bad.”
Agatha snorted her true opinion of that, but seemed unwilling to say more, and glanced at the door. “Well, then, I’ll take my leave until the morrow,” she said, and tightening her cloak about her, she walked to the door, muttering to herself.
Ellen watched until she had closed the door behind her, then felt that horrid loss of liberty she always felt when the door of the old mansion closed. Agatha was right, of course—this wasn’t right, not right at all to be banished to the second floor of this wretched house, to live out her days between those rooms, Belgrave Square, and Eva’s house. It was unconscionable, yet she was trapped—Farnsworth held all the cards. He doled out money sparingly, and in her case, not without a certain amount of begging. He lived so austerely that there was nothing in the house of any value that she could sell to earn her freedom. And Eva, dear God. She loved her sister in some way, but Eva was permanently cowed by Farnsworth, permanently angry with Ellen, and was fearful of giving her as much as a quid. Her sister eased her conscience by helping Ellen in other ways—by giving her hand-me-down clothing.
Beyond Eva, Ellen had no real contacts other than her dearest childhood friend, Judith. But Judith lived in King’s Lynn, which might as well have been across the North Sea. Their friendship existed in letters only—Ellen hadn’t seen Judith in fifteen years, and worse, she had never had the courage to tell her the complete truth about Natalie.
No, there was no easy way out of her predicament, a fact Ellen had finally accepted when her mother had died more than two years ago. Up until then she had held on to the hope that someone—Daniel—would save them. Now she knew no one would save them but herself, and given her lack of resources and abilities, she was doomed to live this empty, dark existence until she found a way to free Natalie from it.
There was no question of that—she would find a way, or die trying.
Wearily, Ellen turned from the door and made her way to the second floor, where Natalie was hard at work setting up a tea service on her little table. Ellen discarded her pelisse and bonnet and moved woodenly into her bedroom. At her bed, she dropped to her knees, shoved her hand between the mattresses, and withdrew the thin cigar box she had stolen from Farnsworth’s study a year ago. She flipped open the lid and gathered up the pound sterling and the coins she had saved. Most of it had come from selling her mother’s jewelry, trinkets here and there. Or Eva’s gifts, when possible. She added the three pounds she had received from the shopkeeper and looked at the contents of the box. Given that she’d accumulated the money over two years, it was frighteningly little. At this pace, she’d be six feet away from her grave before she’d save enough to send Natalie away.
Ellen closed the box, shoved it back between the mattresses, and pushed herself to her feet. She walked to the windows of her room overlooking Belgrave Square, saw the clouds gathering on the horizon, behind which the sun was starting to slide. She was sick to death of fretting, of floating just beneath the surface, seeing life as some watery image beyond her grasp.
She preferred to think of something warmer; and interestingly, for the third or fourth time that day, she wondered, with a smile slowly spreading her lips, what the captain was doing.
Now there was a man who was very different from the rest of his tedious sex. Quite amusing, really, and quite a fun diversion from the usual monotony of her life. All in all, she found him rather wildly charming. Just thinking of him stomping on the mouse made her chuckle. Not that she approved of his method for ridding the house of the pest, certainly not, but one couldn’t help but admire a man who took life by the bollocks and met it head-on. Ellen rather suspected the captain was not a man given to convention in anything and did exactly as he pleased, the world be damned if they didn’t care for it. She particularly admired that, since her own life had completely buckled under the pressure of bloody convention.
The captain’s sudden appearance was, much to her considerable surprise, like a shock of light in her gloomy little world.
Feeling a little lighter, Ellen turned away from the window, yanked on the bellpull, signaling for an early evening tea.
She busied herself with another boring and not entirely forthcoming letter to Judith (we’re quite fine, the weather is tolerable) while she waited for the tea. She had not quite finished when she heard Follifoot’s muffled knock on the sitting room door, followed by Natalie’s cheerful voice. She completed the letter, glanced at the clock—six o’clock. Farnsworth would be gone now. She repaired to her vanity to freshen up.
She emerged from her room a quarter hour later, and was surprised to hear Natalie talking. “Now you take a sip, like this,” she heard her daughter say, and thought certainly she had captured the weak-willed Follifoot, and quickened her pace to free the poor man.
It was not Follifoot, however.
Actually, it was Liam, who was feeling rather huge and awkward at present, perched precariously atop one of Natalie’s wee chairs at her wee table such as he was, his knees almost to his chin. In one hand he held the roses, which, he was alarmed to see, appeared to be wilting. In the other he held a wee teacup between thumb and middle finger, the thing dwarfed by his man’s hand. Yet he followed Natalie’s careful instructions, lifting the tiny thing to his lips and tossing the imaginary contents back as he would a dram of whiskey.
“Captain?”
Her voice stunned him; he had not heard her coming. He instantly jerked his gaze up, saw her there in the doorway, a long tail of silken hair falling over her shoulder, and her pretty blue eyes widened in alarm. Liam came out of his chair so quickly that Natalie had to grab the little table and her teapot to keep them from toppling over, and his miniature chair went flying backward. The captain looked at the chair, then at Ellie, and realized he was still holding the flowers and the teacup.
“I, ah…Good evening, then.” He gave her a quick bob of his head and shoved the teacup at Natalie, who dutifully took it and put it aside.
“We’re having tea,” she cheerfully informed her mother. “Follifoot brought it.”
“Yes, I see,” Ellie said, still looking at Liam with an expression that appeared both perplexed and pleased that he had come again—at least that was what he hoped her expression meant. He could feel his sk
in growing warm under her careful scrutiny, and anxiously shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “I…I suppose ye might wonder what brings me round, then, eh?” he blurted uncertainly, not mentioning that he’d slipped into her rooms while Follifoot had been setting down the tea service.
“I must say I am a bit surprised,” she said, gliding further into the room in a gown of pale green that made her skin glow. “Nonetheless…we’re happy to have you call again, sir. We quite enjoyed our supper, didn’t we, Natalie?”
“I thought the supper was very good, but I didn’t like him killing the mouse, really,” the lass admitted.
“Mo creach,” Liam muttered. “I didna mean to hurt ye, lass,” he said with much exasperation, to which Natalie shrugged insouciantly as she arranged a stuffed bear on the chair that had been opposite him.
Liam forced himself to look at Ellie again and figured there was no going back now. He might as well have his say and be done with it, let the chips fall where they may. “Very well, then. I’ve come again to apologize, if ye’ll allow it. I couldna sleep knowing I’d unhinged ye so, and I’m dreadfully sorry for it.”
Her eyes widened with surprise, and she flashed him a warm, perfect smile. “Oh, Captain!” she exclaimed laughingly. “You must not fret over such a trifle! It certainly did not unhinge us, and I, for one, am grateful for your assistance.”
At least she didn’t despise him. Good. Bloody good. All right then…Liam shifted his weight again, dropped his gaze to the carpet, wished to the Lord above that he had, just once, learned a bit of charm from Grif, and wondered what he would say now.
“I beg your pardon, but…are those flowers for us?”