Unlacing the Innocent Miss

by Margaret McPhee

  Yet she would have it just the same, he thought. He would not leave her or her family penniless. And he could only be thankful that he had taken care during their love-making not to spill his seed within her. At least she would be able to find herself a husband without the fear of his child growing within her. His fists clenched at the image that thought conjured.

  He lifted the newspaper and its rope from where it lay on the rug, noticing for the first time that the rope had been tied to form a small noose. Some sick bastard really wanted to hurt Rosalind, and Wolf resolved to discover the gem merchant’s role in it. He threw both paper and rope into the fire, taking Rosalind’s hand in his and making her stand there and watch while they shrivelled and burned, until there was nothing left of either.

  Wolf slept on some blankets on the floor that night, leaving Rosalind alone in the bed. She had known, as soon as she caught sight of that slim black silken rope tied around the newspaper, that something terrible was about to happen. Her whole future destroyed in a single moment. And she thought as she lay there sleepless through all the long hours of the night, of how she had spent her life ever fearful that the secret would be learned. A bitter smile curved her mouth at the irony of it, for now the whole of London knew the truth of her. What her mother had sought to prevent all of the years had come to pass: Rosalind was ruined, utterly, completely. All the fear, all the hiding and keeping secrets had been for nothing. But she did not care about the newspaper nor that she was ruined. They seemed as nothing compared to Wolf’s rejection.

  She had not thought him to be a man so shallow. He did not want her, because the world thought her father a murderer. He did not want her, yet she could not stop from loving him. And she remembered his words: Our stations are so very distant—an excuse rather than tell her that he did not want her because of something they said her father had done. She had thought Wolf the bravest, strongest man in the world, but in reality, he was as much a coward as she.

  All of her hopes had gone, all of her dreams shattered. She was alone once more. Under cover of the darkness, the tears slipped silently down her face. Better that Evedon would have called the constable than to have been captured by Wolf. Better to have told Evedon the whole wretched truth herself, than to have fallen in love with her captor. She wept, as quietly her heart broke.

  Chapter Fifteen

  They left for London the next day, catching the early mail coach and arriving late in Stamford where they stayed overnight in the George Inn. She slept in the bed, while Wolf took the chair. Barely a word passed between them. And then they were up early the next morning and on the mail that took them to London.

  Her father’s crime had driven a wedge between them. It was as if their love had never been. Wolf’s expression was as hard and determined as the night that he had first collected her on Munnoch Moor, his jaw clamped tight with self-control. But his eyes had changed since then, they were softer, sadder; she could see it on the rare occasions that his gaze met hers.

  He led her through the busy streets, keeping hold of her arm, as if he feared that she would run away again. But he need not have worried, she thought bitterly, she was done with running. He was careful to maintain a distance between their bodies, yet beneath his gentle grip; her skin burned. He seemed to be shielding her with his body as he pushed slightly ahead keeping her a little behind, as if clearing a path through the crowds. He blocked a shove, parried a push and waylaid a pickpocket’s hand.

  He finally stopped in a smart London crescent—Cumberland Place. Built of honey-coloured sand stone, the houses were large and elegant in design. Their window frames were all painted an immaculate white and their heavy panelled front doors, a glossy ebony black adorned with gleaming brass door knockers. A liveried coach and four was being walked up and down the cobbles as the coachman waited for his passengers to appear from one of the houses.

  Suspicion prickled at Rosalind’s scalp. She eyed Wolf warily, wondering if he had brought her here to hand her to Evedon after all.

  ‘You said that we were going to your home.’

  He did not look round, just began to climb the steps leading up to one of the front doors. ‘I did that.’

  ‘Wolf!’ Rosalind stood where she was.

  He looked at her then, his eyes a searing silver as they seemed to reach in and search her very soul.

  ‘Is Evedon within?’ she asked with trepidation. ‘Do you take me to him?’

  ‘The expression on his face was closed, just as it had been since learning of her father, so that she could not read what he was thinking, what he was feeling. The seconds lengthened and his gaze did not waver until at last he spoke. ‘This is my home, Rosalind.’

  Surprise widened her eyes. ‘But I thought…’ She gasped, and then recovered herself. He could not possibly be telling the truth, could he?

  ‘Thought what?’ He waited.

  She shook her head and gave a tiny shrug of her shoulders, unwilling to say the words.

  The door at the top of the stairs at which they stood suddenly opened, and Rosalind was amazed to see a butler standing there.

  ‘Mr Wolversley,’ the butler intoned.

  ‘Good evening,’ replied Wolf.

  Rosalind’s mouth dropped open.

  Wolf looked at her again. ‘Until I have spoken to Evedon, it would be better if you did not linger on the street.’

  She nodded and word lessly followed him inside.

  The house was large and luxurious. The hallway was all white marble and sweeping staircase, pristine and austere. Wolf dumped the baggage he had been carrying on to the Italian tiled floor, and strode on, tall and confident, his long greatcoat tails kicking out, oblivious to how out of place his mud-splattered attire appeared in such surroundings. She supposed her own shabby appearance must be equally incongruent. She hurried along behind him, not entirely convinced that he was telling the truth.

  He led her into a drawing room decorated in cool pale greys and blues, its furniture plain but clearly of quality. The large bow windows revealed a view of the fading light in the street outside. He indicated for her to sit.

  She glanced all around the room, half expecting Evedon to appear, and then perched herself on a large blue armchair.

  ‘You honestly live here, in this house?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘I am surprised. I had thought your address to be elsewhere.’

  ‘In one of the rookeries, perhaps?’ he asked. ‘Or a flea-ridden doss-house?’

  ‘A conservative room in a lodging-house,’ she answered, feeling her anger rouse. ‘You misled me, Wolf.’

  He raised his eyebrows at that, the look in his eyes clearly throwing the accusation back at her for all his mouth did not utter the words.

  She blushed, knowing that she was being unfair. He had told her of his background, revealing the pain and bitterness that drove him on and made him the man he was today. He had bared his soul, and she remembered the wetness of his tears beneath her fingers, their saltiness upon her lips. A strong fierce man exposing his very vulnerability, while her own secret festered dark and untold. She had no right to chastise him. She was the one who had done the misleading. She was the one who had lied.

  ‘I did not mean that, I just thought…After all you said of the gentry…’

  ‘It is all true, every last word. I might be rich, Rosalind, but I will never escape the restrictions of my birth, nor do I wish to.’

  ‘But you were penniless. You were on the streets…’

  ‘I was. But not any more. I am a very wealthy man. Business has been good, and I am a shrewd investor. I earned every penny of my money, unlike the others who live in this street. And my neighbours hate me for it.’ He smiled, the same bitter smile of old, as if he did not care, but Rosalind knew better.

  ‘Then why did you take the job with Evedon, if you do not need to work?’

  ‘It is what I must do, Rosalind. It’s not about the money; it was never really about the money, although I’m well awar
e of the importance of money, having gone without it for much of my life.’

  ‘Wolf…’

  He turned away and stood looking out of the window, his face once more hard and determined. ‘I will make immediate enquiries as to your family, as I promised. You may stay here for how ever long it takes to find them. Treat the house as your own. Make your stay comfortable. If you wish for anything, anything at all, speak to Haddow and he will arrange it.’

  ‘Haddow?’

  ‘My butler,’ he said.

  Wolf did not want her to speak to him. That hurt. She held her head higher, her back straighter.

  ‘Stay inside the house, unless you wish to attract press interest and have the newspaper men camped on our steps.’

  ‘And Evedon?’

  ‘I will speak to him.’

  She nodded.

  There was silence, punctuated only by the tick of the clock upon the mantel.

  ‘Haddow will show you to your room.’

  He was a fake and a fraud, every bit as much as she, pretending to be one thing while underneath was something else. He professed to hate the gentry for their money and their power, while all along he was rich as Croesus himself. She had believed in him; she had loved him.

  Wolf opened the door and the butler appeared.

  She rose from her seat and followed Haddow as he limped from the drawing room, without so much as a backward glance at Wolf.

  The next morning, Rosalind stood by the window in the pristine front bedchamber that looked as if it had never been used, looking out at the empty road. The front door slammed and she watched Wolf’s tall figure hurry down the steps and disappear along the street.

  Damn him, she thought, damn him to hell. And her anger swathed the crack in her heart.

  He did not return until much later in the day, when she was sitting in the small dressing room that led from the bedchamber in which she had slept. She heard the thud of the front door closing and knew it was him. The last hours had been spent in a contemplation of the situation in which she now found herself, and her anger had grown to a fury. That which she had spent a lifetime fearing had come to pass, and just as her mama had warned, once the knowledge was out it had changed everything. One hint of the scandal, and the man she loved had withdrawn his offer of marriage. Wolf was using the fact that her father had been an earl as an excuse. Rosalind knew the real reason he could no longer stomach their alliance. She would be for ever branded a murderer’s daughter. There would never be any escape from it, no matter how much she did to hide it, no matter whether her father had been guilty or innocent.

  She thought again of the dark stranger who had paid Kempster to steal the jewels and plant them within her chamber. She remembered the look on his face after he had delivered that horrible newspaper and the salacious story printed within its pages. All of it hedged in truth but told in such a way as to render it obscene. Little wonder that Wolf did not wish to marry her after reading it. No man would. She wondered why this gem merchant should wish so much to ruin her. Who was he? She had seen the way that Wolf had looked at her after seeing him, with the faint glimmer of suspicion in his eyes. How dare he?

  She pressed her lips firm. Yes, she had lied. Yes, she had not revealed her past, but little wonder when his reaction justified everything that she had feared. And now she had no money, and no where else to go. She was ruined beyond redemption, shunned by all of polite society. Her family were lost, her life still at risk from Evedon, and goodness knows what else the dark stranger was planning. Wolf had said he would help her. He would find her family and speak to Evedon and sort all of her problems…all save her broken heart. But she did not want his help. She did not want to be dependent on his charity.

  She was angry with everything that had happened in her life. So angry that all of those years were lost to fear and timidity and forever hiding the real Rosalind Wardale. And all of the anger welled up until she could not stand it any longer. She rose to her feet and strode purposefully out of the room and towards the stairs, determined to unleash exactly what she thought of Wolf’s duplicity upon his head.

  Haddow was in the hallway. ‘How may I assist you, Miss Meadowfield?’

  ‘My name is Wardale, not Meadowfield, Miss Rosalind Wardale, and I would be much obliged if you would direct me to Mr Wolversley. I wish to speak with him.’

  The butler’s face was weathered and scarred in a way that she had never seen in any butler before, yet it remained completely impassive, showing not the slightest shock at the revelation of her true identity.

  ‘Mr Wolversley is not at home, miss.’

  ‘I heard him return, not ten minutes since.’

  ‘I repeat: Mr Wolversley is not at home. Is there something else with which I may help you, some tea perhaps?’

  Rosalind’s jaw clamped stubbornly. ‘No thank you.’ She walked back to the stairs and began to climb, slowly, stilt edly. She was on the first landing when she heard the butler’s uneven footsteps recede. A door opened and closed. There was silence.

  Rosalind turned on her heel and ran quietly back down the stairs. She began opening each of the doors that led off from the hallway, quietly so that Haddow would not hear, and peeped inside each room. The third door was lucky. It opened into a small room. In contrast to the rest of the house, it was shabby in appearance, its dark mahogany panelling and heavy dark velvet curtains that were drawn against the daylight lending it a snug air of secrecy. Although the day outside was fine, a fire burned on the hearth, casting the room in a warm amber hue. If she had expected book shelves, there were none. A small desk and a single rickety-looking chair was tucked in the corner of the room, and by the fire a couple of high backed armchairs, their leather worn and saggy with comfort, and a small mis matched table between them on which perched a bottle of brandy. Wolf’s den.

  The room seemed well-suited to him. She could imagine him in here relaxed, guard down. Everything about the room seemed to be imprinted with his presence. Even his scent hung about the place, so that she knew that this little room, so unlike the rest of the house, was where Wolf spent most of his time.

  She wandered over to the desk. It too was made of mahogany, darkened by age to a deep colour, a campaign desk by the look of the design. It was badly damaged on one side, as if a knife had hacked at it leaving that small part battered and gouged. She touched a finger to one of its scars, tracing its path across the surface. Battered, but still strong; marked, yet all the more handsome for a character revealed. Rosalind thought of Wolf.

  A noise sounded from across the room.

  She started, and turned quickly to confront Wolf, her heart hammering hard, her mouth strong and ready, her nostrils flaring with determination.

  But it was not Wolf.

  Campbell was standing by the chair, a glass filled with brandy in his hand. He must have been sitting in the chair with its back towards her, so that she had not seen him upon entering the room.

  ‘Rescued from a French colonel during battle.’ He gestured towards the desk. ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘Mr Campbell.’

  ‘Miss Meadowfield, or should I address you as Wardale?’

  ‘Then you know,’ she said, no question.

  ‘Aye, lassie, I read what they wrote within the news paper.’

  ‘No more pretences,’ she said. ‘All of London knows who I am. A most dishonourable murder they called it, as if any murder could be honourable. They named my father a murderer and me a murderer’s daughter.’

  ‘I am sorry, miss.’ Campbell’s eyes were shadowed, his voice gentle.

  ‘Not as sorry as me, I assure you, Mr Campbell.’ She smiled, a bitter smile. ‘My ruination is quite without redemption.’

  ‘Come tomorrow, it will be yesterday’s news. People forget.’

  ‘Not Wolf.’

  ‘What do you mean, lassie?’

  She shook her head, as if it were of little consequence, as if she did not care so very much. ‘He said that he hated the aristo
cracy, the gentry, those with money, the corrupt, the powerful. I believed him. I believed everything that he said. And then I discover that he lives here—’ she gestured around her ‘—Cum ber land Place, in a house grander than that which was my father’s town house. He has servants, money… He is not what he appears, Mr Campbell.’

  ‘None of us are, Miss Wardale.’

  ‘Wolf is as much a liar as me.’

  Campbell’s gaze met hers directly, and his eyes flashed with anger. ‘Wolf has earned every last penny of his fortune, through his own skill, through the strength of his character and fist and sword. He might have risen from the gutter, but he has never forgotten those that were there with him. The servants you speak of are people from his past, men that served under him in Wellington’s Army who were named useless because they can no longer fight. Men who lost limbs and eyes for their country, men who would be begging out on the street were it not for Wolf. He employed them, gave them back their respect, their ability to care for their families. He pays his staff twice the going rate of any of the tight fisted gentlemen on this street, and he’s a fair master.’

  She remembered Haddow’s pronounced limp, the footman with a folded and pinned sleeve where an arm should be, the silver hip flask…Lieutenant Will Wolversley, 26th Regiment of Foot. Her anger drained away.

  ‘Aye, he has a grand house, a fine carriage and four, and plenty money, but it doesnae change who he is…and it doesnae take away his pain. He’s a hard man, Miss Wardale, hardest of all with himself. But he’s no liar and I’ll not hear you call him such.’

  The silence that followed his words seemed to ring loud.

  ‘I did not know,’ she said.

  ‘Well, you do now.’ Campbell had not moved. His gaze stayed trained upon her.

  From outside they heard the sound of booted footsteps upon the stone stairs and then the opening and shutting of the front door and the hush of voices. The door to the den opened, and she did not need to look round to know that it was Wolf that had come into the room. She turned, her gaze meeting his. The firelight danced off the silver in his eyes. He glanced from Rosalind to Campbell and back again, and she could see the question in his eyes.