Perfect Knave

by Kress, Alyssa

  Emile had panicked.

  Click. Click. In the exchequer, Latham's ivory bead was like a nail, driving into Emile's skull. But he stared across the table at his father-in-law, determined not to panic again. While there was breath, he reminded himself, there was hope. He cleared his throat and prepared to fight on. "Ahem."

  Latham lifted white brows.

  "Uh..." This morning Emile had realized there might be a way to annul the marriage altogether. But he had to be careful how he sought the necessary information. It was a delicate situation. "Um, have you ever been to Dover?" he asked Latham.

  The other man's brows remained lifted. "Aye. Many times. Dover is a seaport. I am there often."

  Emile's tongue slipped out and ran over his upper lip. "Were you there, do you think, six or seven and twenty years ago?"

  Clearly intrigued, Latham leaned back in his chair. "I cannot think of a year that has gone by without my visiting Dover."

  Emile licked his lip again. Normally, discussing his antecedents didn't bother him. But normally he had nothing to do with honest, respectable folk. It was more difficult than he'd imagined to root for the crucial fact. "Uh, and when you were there— Ahem. When you were there—" His gaze slid to the side. "Did you ever visit...the ladies?"

  Latham took a moment to reply. When he did, he'd apparently caught Emile's meaning, for his voice turned sharp. "Six or seven and twenty years ago, my wife was still alive."

  Emile nodded quickly, curling both lips between his teeth. How to mention that the existence of a wife rarely mattered to those who 'visited the ladies?'

  But there was no need to explain. Latham spoke again, his tone gentler. "I was in love with my wife. There was no need to lie with a prostitute—or with any other woman—while she lived."

  Emile nodded again, so ashamed that he couldn't lift his head. He heard the shifting of Latham's black brocade and imagined the older man was regarding him with disgust.

  "I fathered no children in Dover. If that is— Well! There is no way Lucy could be your half-sister," the merchant stated firmly.

  To Emile's surprise, there was no disgust in the old man's tone. He sounded closer to compassion.

  Emile looked up.

  The expression on Latham's face was baffled. "Why did you not ask me yesterday morning," he inquired, "before the vicar blessed the union?"

  Quite simply, the thought hadn't occurred to Emile. It hadn't occurred to him that the woman who had given him birth, who'd kept him locked in a room with half a dozen of her other brats, occasionally throwing a crust of bread into the filthy cage— It had never occurred to Emile that such a person could possibly hold the key to his deliverance. Silently, he shook his head.

  Latham's expression remained confused until the door behind Emile swung open.

  "Father," a clear, female voice pronounced. "You sent for me?"

  Instinct had Emile jump to his feet. The last time he'd been as close to Lucy she'd tried to take off his hands.

  "Yes, Lucy. Be seated." Latham spoke briskly. "We have business to discuss."

  As if his rising had merely been a matter of politeness, Emile gave his wife a bow.

  In return, she dealt him a venomous glare.

  Emile was careful to suppress any hint of joy. She'd changed her mind! That face— Oh, yes. She was now willing to let him go.

  Lucy swung her poisonous gaze toward her father. "What business?"

  "Sit down, sit down," Latham hummed.

  Emile pulled forth another joint-stool for Lucy, meanwhile keeping his grin under wraps. It seemed his crudeness the night before had led to a good result, after all. Having stewed the matter through the night, Lucy was now ready to help him play dead. He was sure of it.

  Sniffing, Lucy swept her skirt aside and sat on the stool. "I am seated." She looked at her father, not toward Emile. "What business?"

  Latham reached for a rolled parchment that lay upon his desk. "The business of your dowry."

  Emile's brows snapped down. "The dowry?"

  "It is a significant sum of money. Properties, incomes, estates." Latham upturned the roll of parchment and tapped its end on the tiled tabletop. "It is a vast sum, to be blunt, and I would not have it dealt with irresponsibly." His gaze narrowed suddenly, accusingly, on Emile.

  Emile put on a face of affronted pride. Heaven knew he had no designs on that twice-bedamned dowry.

  "Irresponsible?" Lucy's voice was sickly sweet as her own gaze flicked over Emile. "Why, I cannot think of what you mean."

  Latham rubbed a finger across his lips. "This marriage was...precipitous."

  "Hmph!" Lucy said.

  "And so I have been thinking." Latham continued to rub his lip, his eyes resting thoughtfully on Emile. "I have been thinking of what would be best to...protect our interests."

  Emile could feel the blood that had been rushing so happily through his veins begin to slow. The old merchant was up to something, and it did not smell good. "Protect 'our' interests?" Emile asked. "What does that mean?"

  Leisurely, Latham moved his gaze from Emile to Lucy. "It means I am going to delay the gifting of the portion."

  This statement landed like a heavy stone in a calm pond. Waves radiated from it, growing larger and stronger as they travelled.

  "You are going to do what?" Lucy asked.

  "I am going to delay the gifting of the portion. For a year. We will see if this union...takes root. If so, at the end of the year you will get your dowry."

  "You want us to stay together a year?" Lucy's voice went high.

  "A year," Latham persisted, calm.

  Panicking, Emile reminded himself that a year, a decade, it made no difference. Now that she hated him thoroughly, Lucy would help him play dead. Of course she would.

  Meanwhile, Lucy blinked at her father. "I see. Ahem. A year." A sarcastic curl took over her lip. "And what, pray, are we to live on in the meantime?"

  "Yes," Emile chimed in woodenly. "What to do in the meantime?" A year! He might as well run back to Stone, have done with the business in a flash.

  Latham nodded sagely. "A good question."

  Lucy lifted her chin. Emile's spirits rose as he saw the challenge in her eyes. She wasn't going to let her father get away with this. "We will have to live here," she declared.

  "Nay, not here." Latham's reply was quick.

  The challenging light in Lucy's eyes leaped. "If we cannot live here, then there is no choice. We have to be given the dowry." She slid a derisive glance Emile's way. "There is nothing else to live on."

  A sound argument. Emile's spirits lifted yet more. He could not keep a wife. He could hardly keep himself most days.

  But Latham only smiled. "You will have sufficient to live on. A part of the dowry. That is what I will give you. Enough of the dowry to live on in comfort for a year. Enough to prove you—er, that you both can handle it."

  A part of the dowry! Emile stared at the man. The demon had an answer for every problem in this ridiculous union.

  Lucy, however, remained unsatisfied. "A part?" She tilted her head. "How big a part?"

  Despite his troubles, Emile nearly smiled.

  "Three hundred pounds." Latham's tone was like Lucy's, haggling.

  "Three hundred and fifty," Lucy returned.

  Emile blinked. These were tremendous sums they were discussing—and they were only a part of her dowry? A pox on it all. The stakes were far higher than he'd imagined.

  But—Lucy would still let him go. She had to. He could not possibly stay, not for a week, let alone a year. Sweat broke out on his chest.

  Meanwhile, Latham slid the red ribbon off his roll of parchment. "There is a sweet piece of land to the west of here. The owner is down in funds and eager to sell."

  Lucy raised a brow. "Sheep?"

  "Nay. 'Tis rich land. Wheat and barley."

  Land. Roots. The very ideas made Emile suffocate. Lucy, however, looked pleased.

  "Enough for a year," she murmured, dreamy.

&nb
sp; "Not merely to live on," Latham added with a sly wink. "But to make a sweet profit, too."

  "Yes, yes." Lucy's voice took on a fast, happy edge. "And then collect the dowry at the end. It is an advantageous deal."

  Collect the dowry at the end? Emile turned to stare at her. Three hundred pounds was not enough?

  Lucy stared right back at him, her lips flat.

  Emile's blood chilled. Of course three hundred pounds was not enough. She wanted the whole dowry, not just a part. Her pride was at stake, the pride he had trampled the night before.

  "I am inclined to agree to the bargain." Lucy turned back to her father. "Except that I would have you gift us three hundred and fifty pounds."

  "Three hundred even should prove sufficient," Latham demurred. "Do we have a deal?"

  "No!" Emile exclaimed. He turned toward Lucy with his own determination. "He should give you three hundred seventy-five in coin." Maybe if he raised the price high enough, he could quash the whole idea.

  "For the short term, it hardly matters," Lucy replied crisply. "The dowry is the thing."

  Of course it was. Could he have hoped otherwise? Lucy would never be convinced to take a penny less than her full dowry.

  Emile knew he was turning pale. He also knew he couldn't do it. He absolutely could not stay with her for a year. He couldn't stay with anybody for more than a week. Not since the disaster of Crockett.

  The thought of his old mentor made Emile's throat go tight.

  "Oh, very well." Latham sounded reluctant. "Three hundred and seventy-five pounds. Let us conclude."

  Emile's nostrils flared as he considered his options. He did not have to stay with her. There was another way out, one that didn't require her cooperation. He hadn't wanted to use this strategem, but if there was no alternative...

  Lucy turned her gaze toward her father. "We have a deal."

  Latham tilted his head at Emile, questioning. "Do we?"

  Emile's jaw clenched. He didn't want to abandon Lucy and leave her legally married while he skipped free. But if she would not cooperate... Emile glanced at his wife's chill, composed profile. She was not going to cooperate.

  "Aye," he told Latham. "We have a deal."

  Lucy's lashes jerked. She clearly had not expected her husband's assent.

  "I bow to your father's superior wisdom and experience," Emile explained.

  She turned, her eyes narrowed.

  Emile smiled. Yes, let her be the one to worry now. Meanwhile, he waved an arm, expansive. "Whatever your father says is fine with me."

  He would need money, of course, coin to blind Latham's pursuers. A bribe would always turn the head of one sent to find you. Emile's mouth twisted. Fortunately, he knew just where to find some silver.

  Latham beamed.

  Lucy frowned.

  "That is excellent, excellent," Latham chortled. "There is just one little detail. One tiny, insignificant formality." He took the rolled parchment and spread it open upon the black and white tiles of his desk. "A waiver. If you would be so good as to sign this, Fox. To signify you agree to the delay of your property."

  Emile hesitated. There was far too much innocence in the old merchant's eyes.

  Beside him Lucy hissed, "Do not sign."

  Calmly, Latham held the parchment spread with one hand. With the other, he picked up a quill pen. "Of course he is going to sign. The man does not want to go to court over this thing, after all."

  Go to court! Emile bobbed to his feet. Appear before some officer of the law? Indeed not! It was all his sorry neck was worth to avoid a situation like that. Even if he planned to hare off at the first chance he got, he would do whatever necessary to avoid the possibility of a court appointment. "By all means, let us keep this friendly." Emile smiled and reached for the quill pen Latham held out.

  "Idiot," Lucy muttered. Her eyes shot sparks as she crossed her arms over her chest. "Sign your own fate."

  Emile ignored her. He knew his fate. He was leaving.

  Gripping the quill, he slowly scratched out the proper letters. For once, he thanked Crockett for having made him toil over a slate. He felt shamelessly grateful to show he could sign his own name.

  On the opposite side of the desk, Latham did not even try to conceal his relief.

  Emile felt just the same. Relieved. Within the hour he would be a free man again.

  To his side, Lucy rustled. She rose to her feet.

  Quill still in hand, Emile's sense of triumph faltered.

  "Are we finished?" she asked.

  Latham's smile was serene. "Quite."

  Emile closed his eyes. There was no reason to feel guilty. He'd given Lucy a way out of this. She had turned him down. After which she had slammed her bedroom door, no doubt causing her father to think up this present, devious scheme. If she were left awkward, it would be her own fault.

  "Then I bid you good day." Lucy gathered her considerable skirts. "There is much to be done if we are to leave on the morrow."

  Latham's fatuous smile vanished. "The morrow?"

  "Hm. Perhaps that is a bit hasty." Lucy shook out her skirts, using more force than was necessary. "The day after, then. I assume you will provide people for our new establishment?"

  "Of course." Latham still looked taken aback. Apparently, even though he'd orchestrated this result, he was surprised to have it executed so swiftly.

  Lucy lifted her chin. "Good day, then." But as she turned, her eyes met Emile's.

  He felt pinned to the spot. He probably should have felt guilt, but instead he was hit with something far more elemental. Fire, earth, and water. Lucy's fierce, defiant gaze pierced right through him, driving a shaft through his chest and causing an explosion in his groin. For the span of a heartbeat, Emile felt deep regret that he hadn't bedded down with all that fire when he'd had the chance.

  Then Lucy's gaze flickered down, disdainful, taking the measure of the man she'd decided to keep, after all. It was like a breeze cooling Emile's flare of ardor.

  With one last flash of her eyes, Lucy swept from the room. Her skirts rustled loudly as she went down the hall.

  "A stubborn, strong-willed girl, my Lucy," Latham remarked.

  Still gazing at the open door, Emile felt a half smile lift his lips. A bit of an understatement.

  "But strong-willed is not the same as strong," Latham went on. "Lucy needs a lot of help."

  Emile turned, raising an incredulous eyebrow.

  But the old man didn't appear to be joking. He gazed at Emile with eyes that suddenly looked uncertain. "You will take care of her, now, won't you, Fox?"

  Guilt returned as a sudden knife in his belly. Emile felt a startled smile jump onto his face. Though his reflex was to lie, he found a truth that would work just as well. "I—I will do my best."

  Latham nodded, looking satisfied. "That is all I can ask. Your best."

  The knife turned in Emile's belly. His silly smile faded as he watched Latham roll up his parchment.

  "Good day, then," Latham said, pleasant.

  "Good day," Emile croaked back. He made for the door. But the old man's words echoed in his head.

  All he could ask. Strange that the shrewd merchant should end up so badly hoodwinked. As he passed over the threshold, Emile wondered how the cagey old man could have missed that Emile's best was never any good at all.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Lucy was careful as she opened her father's barn door. Even so, the door creaked loudly at the quarter mark. Wincing, she stopped and then carefully craned her head around the wooden frame.

  The loud creak was no matter. The man rustling about in the second stall down hadn't heard a thing.

  "A pox!" the man muttered. Stalks of hay went flying. Grunting, he dragged a bale of hay over the earthen floor.

  Lucy closed her eyes. A sick fist clenched in her stomach.

  Not that she was surprised to find Emile here. This morning she'd discovered the sack of her father's silver. She'd figured out that even Emile's kiss two night
s ago had been a sham. He'd not been carried away by passion. He'd only been trying to distract the victim of his crime.

  Lucy relaxed the grip she had on the weathered handle of the door. The insult meant nothing. She had to dismiss all weakening emotions if she wanted to regain control of the situation. With a deep breath, she strode into the barn.

  Emile was oblivious to Lucy as she walked up to the opening of the stall. She had time for a leisurely view of his borrowed purple trunk hose, ballooned about his derriere as he bent over a bale of hay and searched its other side.

  Lucy crossed her arms over her chest and leaned one shoulder against the side of the stall. "I thought I might find you here."

  Emile's frantic rustling stopped. He froze.

  Lucy willed her hands to relax upon her arms as, slowly, he turned.

  He poised, twisted, his palms on the bale of hay. His eyes were wide, like a cornered animal.

  Lucy lifted a hand to examine her nails. "Looking for something?" Her stomach clenched up again so she kept her gaze on her nails. "It is not there."

  There was a short beat of silence before his soft reply. "So I see."

  Lucy chanced a glance at him.

  He was staring at her, his face absolutely blank. Oh, yes, he knew the value of the goods he'd secreted in the sack. Hanging value.

  "We need to talk about this," she said.

  That gave him a spark of hope. Lucy saw it flicker in his gold eyes. Perhaps he might not be arrested on the spot. Awkwardly, he straightened. "Yes?"

  "About our marriage," Lucy added.

  The hope in his face dimmed. Sinking to a seat on the bale of hay, he carefully asked, "What about our marriage?"

  To her disgust, Lucy couldn't hold his gaze. She was furious to feel a lump of humiliation in her throat as she averted her eyes. She'd thought she'd reached the bottom of her shame, but no. Her husband was out here in the barn searching for his loot, ready to risk a hanging rather than stay with her.

  Through her tight throat, Lucy gave a short, harsh laugh. "Do not imagine I want to stay married to you any more than you want to stay married to me. There is little to recommend our acquaintance, let alone a marriage."