by Cheryl Holt
She staggered into her bedchamber and sat on the bed. She dawdled in the quiet and the dark, tears of indignation wetting her cheeks as she tried to decide what to do.
Could her life possibly get any more horrid than it already was?
Damian at 13…
I’m sorry.”
“Stop saying that.”
“It’s my fault.”
“We’ve agreed a hundred times that it was so shut the hell up, would you?”
Damian and Kit were roped together, their wrists tied, linking them to a string of boys who’d been arrested the prior few days. They were being led into the courtroom, and Damian was pretending not to care about any of it. And he didn’t. Not really.
He was an experienced criminal, but it was always possible he’d be caught. It was part and parcel of the path he’d chosen, almost a badge of honor among thieves to have been captured, to serve his sentence and come out hale and alive and stronger than when he’d gone in.
He was simply irked that Kit had brought him to ruin. If Damian had never been kind to Kit, he’d still be doing what he did best, which was making Michael Scott richer than ever.
But Kit had never taken to the felon’s life. He’d studied his lessons, but deep down, he’d never embraced the deviant tendencies necessary to thrive. He felt guilty and hesitated.
That hesitation had finally ended their lucky streak. Kit had delayed a second too long and had been seized by the man whose pocket he’d been picking. Damian’s foolish move was in wavering too, trying to pull Kit to safety. They’d both wound up being nabbed.
He glanced out into the seats, and up in the balcony Michael was watching the proceedings. Damian shrugged, and Michael shrugged too.
“I’m sorry,” Kit said again.
“Shut up!”
“You two!” a guard barked, and he whacked Damian with a thick baton. “No talking.”
Damian had no patience for any idiot who presumed they could boss him. The world wasn’t a fair place, and he wasn’t about to have a dolt ordering him to behave. He’d spent too much time with Michael, learning his ways, adopting his attitudes.
At being hit so hard, he was incensed. He came around swinging, grabbing for the man’s club, but it simply produced a series of wild blows that crumpled him to his knees and opened a cut on his forehead. His collapse yanked several other prisoners down with him, causing people to trip and tangle so they grumbled and chastised and told him to knock it off.
Kit lifted him to his feet and wiped the blood away, but Damian shook him off. He was so bitterly angry, and he steadied his breathing, hating to let others see him so out of control. He wanted to be quiet and still, like a snake about to strike. He wanted to be so small and so invisible that no one would notice him until it was too late, but his temper always overwhelmed him and wrecked his plans.
The prisoners straightened as a clerk entered and pounded a gavel. The audience stood, and after a lengthy wait, a fat, dour judge trudged in. He appeared hot and grouchy, as if his gout was flaring.
A barrister hustled down the line, asking names, asking for hurried details about arrests, about accusations. Most claimed to have no idea what had happened, why they’d been swept up, and Damian supposed it was true. The law was a hammer that cracked down without warning. Or maybe it was more like a shovel, scooping up the poor and clueless.
The barrister halted by Damian and whispered, “Michael Scott hired me.”
“That was generous of him,” Damian said.
“I’ll try my best,” the lawyer said, “but don’t get your hopes up.”
Damian scoffed. “I never get my hopes up.”
The clerk began calling cases, and the prisoners were dragged before the judge. He was either very cruel or having a bad day. Everyone was sentenced to jail, and mostly the crimes involved poverty: stealing a loaf of bread, taking an apple from a cart, failing to pay rent on the date it was due.
One year. Two years. Six months. People were quickly dispatched to their fates.
Finally it was Damian’s turn. Kit was brought forward too, along with several other boys who’d been at the back. They bristled and shoved, the younger ones looking bewildered, the older ones cynical, exhausted, and hungry.
The prosecutor announced a litany of charges, poverty charges again, Damian thought. Pick pocketing. Petty theft. Fighting. General mischief.
“Your Honor, if I may…” Damian’s lawyer attempted to say.
“No, counselor, you may not,” the judge snapped.
Despite the judge’s remark, the lawyer said, “My clients, Mr. Drummond and Mr. Roxbury, are good boys, Your Honor.”
“The allegation is pick pocketing.”
“Yes, Your Honor, but they were starving.”
“It’s no excuse—and you know it!”
The judge studied Damian, trying to cow him with his high position, his power and authority, but Damian refused to be cowed by any adult. He stared back as if daring the judge to react, and he got his wish.
“I’m ruling these boys to be incorrigibles. All of them.”
“Judge, please…” his lawyer said.
“My goal is to rid the streets of vermin.”
“Judge!”
“Be silent, counselor,” the judge shouted. “Seven years hard labor.”
Courtrooms were like an evening at the theater. Spectators attended to be entertained. Some gasped, some snickered, some laughed, some clapped.
“Seven years, Judge?” the lawyer asked. “Really?”
“Botany Bay!” The judge banged the gavel down. “Next case!”
Damian was proud that he didn’t flinch. He’d been expecting a few months at Newgate Prison. Michael could have smuggled in food and blankets, could have bribed guards to protect him and make his incarceration tolerable.
But Botany Bay…
“I’m sorry, Damian,” the lawyer murmured.
“Everyone’s so dreadfully sorry this morning,” Damian said. “Don’t worry about me, sir. Just tell Michael I’ll find him once I’m home again.”
The lawyer’s expression was grim and haunted, as if he was quite sure Damian would never be back.
Kit was in the front, and he was led out, the other boys too. Then Damian was pulled out after them, but he insolently glared at the judge the entire time. The judge saw his impudent stare and returned it, imbuing it with all the audacity the British Crown could bestow.
A younger boy glanced at Damian and asked, “Where is Botany Bay?”
“It’s in Australia. It’s on the other side of the world.”
“But…but…how will we get there.”
“On a ship. How do you suppose?”
“And how will we get back to England?”
“We never will,” Damian said, and a guard pushed him into the hall. His cut was still bleeding. He swiped blood out of his eyes and managed to stay on his feet.
CHAPTER FIVE
Georgina slipped into the breakfast parlor, having made it downstairs without encountering another soul. It was just past seven so there was no chance of Augusta or Sophia being up and dressed.
After she’d slapped Mr. Drummond on the verandah, she hadn’t returned to the party. She’d been too upset so she’d huddled in her room with a sofa pulled in front of the door in case he’d chased after her.
He hadn’t, but she’d garnered no relief from his lack of interest in igniting a confrontation. She’d paced most of the night, and at dawn she’d fallen into a fitful sleep.
What would she say to him when she saw him again? What would he say to her? She was furious and mortified, as well as mystified by his salacious proposal. What had she done to encourage him? She couldn’t imagine.
There was tea on the sideboard, sliced bread, jam, cheese, and cold meat. She poured herself a cup of tea, slathered jam on some bread, and sat down. She was jumpy and out of sorts, feeling she had to be on guard, as if calamity might strike the instant she wasn’t paying attention.
“Yes?” she asked.
“The butler sent me to find you.”
She sighed. It was so early. What catastrophe could have occurred at such an ungodly hour?
“Why?”
“Mr. Drummond has commandeered a group of servants.”
“And…?”
“He’s seized Master Miles’s suite for his own. They’re removing Master Miles’s belongings.”
“He what?”
“He’s taken the master suite, Miss Georgina. The butler thought you should be apprised at once.”
“I suppose, but what is it he wants me to do?”
“Stop Mr. Drummond? Or give him permission? He ordered us to help, and we didn’t think we should refuse. We were all wondering if you could explain what’s happening.”
“I have no idea what’s happening.”
“We’re afraid if we obey Mr. Drummond, we’ll be in trouble with Master Miles when he arrives. On the other hand, we’re afraid to defy Mr. Drummond lest he has the right to boss us. We’d hate to lose our jobs over picking the wrong side.” He gulped with dismay. “Have you any advice I can share with the rest of the staff?”
He looked so dejected, as dejected as she felt. She had no answers and couldn’t guess what was true and what wasn’t. She hadn’t the means to contact Miles and convince him to hurry home. The only thing she knew for certain was that intervention would be completely pointless.
Mr. Drummond was like a force of nature that couldn’t be deterred.
Still though, she said, “Give me a minute to finish my breakfast, then I’ll talk to Mr. Drummond. And tell everyone they’re not in trouble. Tell them to comply with his instructions and we’ll figure it out later.”
“Thank you, Miss Georgina.”
Her words had offered little solace, but he seemed less alarmed. He hustled off, and she downed her cup of tea and poured herself another.
At any other time in her life, she’d have leapt up and rushed to deal with the situation. She’d have scolded Mr. Drummond until he halted his nonsense, but she couldn’t prevent him from doing whatever he wished. Besides, she was missing the energy required to fight with him.
She’d been humiliated by his proposition and was scared to be alone with him again for fear that he might tender an even more sordid arrangement. She was also exasperated by Miles and feeling no urgency to fix his imbroglio. As he hadn’t seen fit to inform her of what had transpired, she’d been knocked off balance by Mr. Drummond and his assertions.
She had no authority to question his actions so why argue with him?
Footsteps sounded in the hall, and she braced, terrified it would be Mr. Drummond, but to her stunned surprise, Miles strolled in. He was disheveled, hadn’t shaved, and he reeked of alcohol. His boots were scuffed, his coat dirty, and he smelled like horses and fresh air, as if he’d been riding all night.
“Miles!” she said. “When did you get in?”
“Just now.”
He went to the sideboard, poured some tea, then sat across from Georgina. He pulled a flask from his coat and dumped a dollop of liquor into his tea. He took a long sip.
“Ah…that’s better,” he mused.
“I can’t believe you’re here. I could be staring at a ghost.”
“Why wouldn’t I be here? I promised you I’d attend the party.”
“It was last night.”
“No, it’s tonight.”
“No,” she countered. “Last night.”
“You’re joking. What day is it?”
“The fifth.”
“Oh.” He grinned sheepishly. “Sorry. I’ve been to three different house parties the past month. I lost track of time.” He toasted her with his cup. “How was it?”
“Fine.”
“Let me guess. Mother was her usual grumpy self while Sophia quarreled with Harold, flirted with all the bachelors, and was a general nuisance.”
“Pretty much.”
“Was Portia here?”
“Yes.”
“So she would have been obnoxiously pompous and pretentious.”
“Yes.”
“How about you? How did you act? Were you true to form?”
“Yes. I just greeted everyone and tried not to be annoying.”
“That’s my Georgina.”
She studied him, thinking how his dissipation was beginning to wear on him. He was blond and blue-eyed and had once been considered very handsome. But his golden hair was silvering to gray, and he had a bald spot in the back, although she doubted he realized it yet and no one would dare tell him.
He was only thirty-four, but he might have been much older than that, the years of debauchery taking their toll. He was five-foot ten and had been thin when he was younger, but his hearty diet had packed on the pounds. He had quite a paunch around his belly, crow’s feet around his eyes, and frown lines around his mouth. He looked tired, hung over, and drained of vigor.
He’d been Augusta’s beloved boy, Edward’s son and heir. Life had been served to him on a silver platter. He’d been coddled and protected, given everything he ever demanded, never blamed, never made to obey or behave. He was spoiled and entitled and impossibly vain.
She liked him though. Most of the time. He was kind to her—as kind as such an egotistical fellow could be anyway—and when he’d allowed her to manage the estate, it had been a gift she’d always cherish.
“Have you heard from your mother?” she asked.
“Not lately. Why?”
“We have a problem.”
“What is it?”
“Have you been in London recently?”
“Rarely, and even then, I sneak in and out.”
“So you wouldn’t have gotten any of your mail.”
“I got most of it, but I was traveling. I may have missed some letters.”
She nodded, watching as he went to the sideboard again, as he loaded a plate with food. He refilled his teacup, added more liquor, and she wanted to caution him to slow down, wanted to inform him that she needed him sober and clear-headed, but she wasn’t foolish enough to chastise him. Even if she tried, he’d never listen.
“There’s a man here,” she said. “His name is Damian Drummond.”
Miles froze for an eternity, then he scowled. “Damian Drummond? Really? How curious.”
“You remember him?”
“Oh, yes, I remember him.”
“He insists he owns Kirkwood now.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Have you been gambling, Miles?”
“No more than usual. I’ve explained to you a hundred times, Georgina. It’s how a gentleman passes his evenings.”
“I understand. It’s just that Mr. Drummond claims you were deeply in debt, and he bought up all your markers. They included a mortgage on Kirkwood.” There was a lengthy pause as she scrutinized him, hoping he’d deny it. “Did you wager over Kirkwood.”
He shrugged. “Probably.”
She gasped with affront. “You don’t recall?”
“I gamble, Georgina. I loaf and play and cavort with my friends. It’s what a gentleman does. It’s not a crime.”
That petulant expression crossed his face, the one that indicated he was Miles Marshall and wouldn’t be questioned about any act he perpetrated. Augusta had doted on him, had refused to let Edward inflict discipline, and he’d grown up assuming he was imperious and very grand, like a king whose conduct could never be wrong.
“You wagered over the estate,” she glumly said. “Was it lost with a turn of the cards?”
“I don’t think so but don’t worry, Georgina. I’ll simply win it back. Honestly, why are you fretting? I’ll fix it so I hardly see why I must be interrogated. I’ve only just arrived and you’ve been nagging since I walked in the door.
He dug into his food, pretending to ignore her, but he kept peeking at her. His mind w
ould be awhirl, frantically inventing stories she would never believe.
“What did you do to Mr. Drummond?” she ultimately inquired. “He seems particularly angry with you.”
“What did I do?” he huffed. “You’d be better off asking what he did. He’s a liar and a troublemaker.”
“Yes, so your mother advised me. How old was he when he told all these lies?”
“Ten or eleven, I suppose.”
“And how old were you?”
“Sixteen?”
“What was the lie?”
“I really don’t recollect.” He pushed back his chair and stood. “I need a bath and a nap. I’ll meet with you later. You can tell me about all the minor catastrophes that occurred while I was away and all the wonderful repairs you’ve implemented that will prove you’re stupendous.”
“You can’t go up to your room, Miles.”
“Why can’t I?” he sullenly pouted.
“Because Mr. Drummond has seized it for himself.”
“He what?”
“He’s moved in, and he’s moved you out.”
“He wouldn’t dare!”
“He has.”
“The man is mad as a hatter.”
“He says he foreclosed and Kirkwood is his now.”
Miles looked thunderous. He leaned forward and hissed, “He said that and you allowed him to stay on in my house?”
“We didn’t know what to do, Miles. We had no idea where you were, and he simply barged in and took over.”
“When?”
“Two days ago.”
“Why didn’t you stop him? It appears to me you’ve been sitting here, twiddling your thumbs and letting him gambol as he pleases.”
“Your mother and I—”
“My bloody mother can screw off!” he shouted. “I’m asking what you did to stop him.”
“I didn’t do anything, Miles. I couldn’t figure out how.”
“He’s a liar! He strutted in with his tall tales about Kirkwood, and you accepted him at his word! What is wrong with you?”
“Like I said, I didn’t know how to stop him.”