For once Littleton did not argue with his son-in-law. He did gesture for Marcel to break open a bottle of brandy. “We all need it.”
Mavis ran to Penny, crying, half in relief and half because Nicky wanted to shoot Nigel.
“He is my brother!” she wailed.
Nicky came right behind her. “Well, he would have killed mine, and your stepsister, too.”
“What will happen to him now?”
“He ought to hang.”
The constables gathered up the weapons and checked the accused for injuries, of which there were many and varied. They chose not to ask for details. “No talk of taking the law into your own hands, young sir. There will be a magistrate’s hearing, then a trial. They’ll likely be transported.”
West was conferring with Cottsworth, who was leaning against the carriage, after the grueling ride. “I could populate New South Wales with criminals all by myself, it seems. I wonder if Nigel will be on the same boat with my arsonist.”
Both of them welcomed the bottle Marcel passed around. Sir Gaspar, a bottle of his own in hand, huffed that a trial would be bad for Penny, bad for the other girls’ chances of making good matches—with an eye toward Nicky—and bad for business. Besides, it would be bad for Nigel’s mother’s nerves. Goldwaite did, however, have an investment in Jamaica, and a partner with a shipping concern.
“I can get him there, and ensure he stays there, if you are willing, Westfield. His mother and I can go visit sometime if she wishes.”
“What do you think, my love?” West asked Penny. “I would agree as long as he knows I will kill him on sight if he ever steps foot on English soil.”
One of the constables warned, “Here, now, my lord, none of that talk or we’ll have to write it in the report.”
Penny touched her neck, where the maggot had held his knife. Then she looked at West, who would abide by whatever decision she made. “Well, Nigel did not actually hurt me or profit from the attempt, and he did say he was looking forward to a boat ride, so I suppose that is as good a solution as any.”
Mavis and Sir Gaspar hugged her because they were happy to have the dirty linen swept under the rug, or under Jamaica’s sands. West hugged her because he hadn’t in at least ten minutes.
After that, it was only a matter of arranging transport. The constables waved down a farmer and his wagon to carry Nigel’s cohorts to the local lockup after a stop at the surgeon’s. Still unconscious, Nigel was bound and bundled in with Sir Gaspar and Mavis, with Nicky happy to hold a gun on him. Cottsworth would drive the curricle back to London, in a hurry to report to Lady Bainbridge that everyone was safe. Everyone who mattered, anyway.
Littleton’s driver always carried an extra set of leathers, so he fashioned new harnesses for the horses West had cut loose from Nigel’s coach. West tied Sungod and the spent gelding to the back.
“But who will drive?” Penny wanted to know.
“I will, my love. You can sit beside me until we reach the outskirts of London. It would cause far more talk if a viscountess is seen beside a common driver.”
“There is nothing common about—,” Penny started to say, but Marcel interrupted.
“Non, chère. I will drive. Monsieur Littleton will sleep with George, and you must have the proper reunion, no?” He held up one hand, with its lace cuff. “Me, I have been a coachman, so you will be safe.”
“Is there anything you have not been?” West asked softly, handing Penny into the carriage.
“Oui. I have never been an opera singer, but I shall en deavor to sing very loudly, all the way back to London.” Marcel winked and climbed up to the driver’s bench.
“The horses are tired,” West reminded him with a smile, “so you must go slowly. Very slowly.”
So West and Penny had hours in the comfortable carriage, with a bottle of excellent wine, a hamper of uneaten food, and music. The shades were drawn again, and West had Penny in his lap, on the leather cushions, on her knees, in the corner, half on the floor, every way he could think of to give her pleasure with his hands and his mouth and his words of love. Maybe not thirteen times, but who was counting? Certainly not Penny, who was floating on a cloud of sensual euphoria.
“I told you I would make it up to you.” He was grinning.
Penny was almost too sated to smile, but she did have stars in her half-closed eyes. “But don’t you need . . . ?”
“I have everything I need right here.” He kissed her lips. “And here.” He kissed her bared breasts. “And here . . .”
He worshipped every inch of her beloved body, from the top of her gold curls to the bottoms of her pink toes.
“I love you, Lord Westfield.”
“Because I make you feel so good?”
“Because you are so good. I have decided that you are the perfect husband for me. I could not have found a better match if I searched for thirteen years.”
“That is a good thing, Lady Westfield, because I do not intend on going anywhere. You are mine, and I am yours—forever. A bargain?”
“A bargain,” she agreed, and they sealed that vow with another soul-binding kiss.
West had one last question: “And you finally trust me, don’t you?”
“With my life.”
“But you’ll still carry a pistol?”
She laughed. “Which I will not hesitate to use if you ever betray that trust.”
“I won’t. But tell me, would you truly have shot Nigel?”
“If he threatened you? In an instant. You are the love of my life. No, I would have no life without you, no joy, no sunshine.”
He stroked her hair. “Nor would I, my golden girl, if I lost you. I do love you, Lady Westfield. And we are still a few miles away from home.”
Viscount W. and Miss G. were married according to contracts and parental decree, after a long betrothal . . . and they lived happily ever after, raising three handsome boys with dimples, a golden-haired daughter who was the apple of her father’s eye, and the finest horses in all of England.
Read on for an excerpt from Barbara Metzger’s
The Wicked Ways
of a True Hero
Available at penguin.com or wherever
books are sold.
The end was near, inevitable and inescapable. All men had to meet their fates. Like all men, Daniel Stamfield protested his imminent demise.
“Great gods, I’m not ready!” he shouted, his fist raised to the heavens.
The gods, great or small, did not answer, but his companion cringed farther back on her side of the bed.
Daniel did not notice. He leaped from the bed, bare as the day he was born, and charged to the dressing table. He grabbed the bottle there—brandy or gin or spice-scented cologne; he didn’t care which. He ignored the nearby glass just as he ignored Miss White’s mew of distress when he raised the bottle to his mouth and took a long swallow. Then another. The liquor could not change the outcome, nor delay it. Being dead drunk on judgment day wasn’t such a wise act, either, he realized, which only reminded him.
“Dead. I’m a dead man.” He went back to the bed, as if sinking into the downy mattress, pulling the covers over his head and Miss White closer to his cold body, could save him. “I’m too young to die. Not even thirty. I thought I had more time.”
Don’t all men think that?
The note was still on the bed, though, where he’d tossed it after the manservant brought the damn thing. On a silver tray, no less. Daniel stared at it now—the expensive stationery, the flowing script, his name on the front of the folded sheet, the familiar seal on the back. His blue-eyed glare couldn’t make the missive disappear, this death warrant, this end of his carefree days, this letter from his mother.
“They’re in Town,” he told Miss White, “expecting me to play the beau for my sister’s come-out.” He looked longingly back at the bottle on the table, then at the window overlooking the valley, as if escape lay in that direction. There was no escape, Daniel knew, not anywhere in Lo
ndon. “I wrote that Susanna was too young to make her curtsies at court. I said she and Mother should come to Town before next Christmas to shop, to take in the theater and visit the lending libraries. A few tea parties and morning calls to Mother’s old friends, especially those with daughters Susanna’s age. I’d take her to Astley’s Amphitheatre to see the trick riding. Susanna would like that. I did at her age.”
Daniel still enjoyed visits to the circus, but now he went more to admire the bareback riders in their tights and short spangled skirts. He groaned at the memory that would be just that, a fond, forlorn dream, now that his family was in Town. “A short visit would have been fine—a chance for Susanna to see the metropolis and pick up a bit of Town bronze and perhaps make some new friends before facing the marriage mart next year. A week or two, that’s what I told them. Did anyone listen to me, the head of the family? No, damn it. They are here now, here for the whole blasted spring Season. Weeks. Months. Maybe into summer. An eternity of balls and routs, masquerades and presentations and operas. Balls,” he repeated, with a different meaning.
No more bachelor days, wagering and wenching and lying abed, when he found his way home at daybreak or later. No more race meets or prizefights or tavern brawls. No more comfortable clothes, either. He grimaced at the loose shirt he pulled over his head, the baggy Cossack trousers he dragged on. They’d soon be gone, along with the opera dancers and actresses and serving girls.
The spotted kerchief he knotted at his throat felt like a noose. “Gads, they’ll expect me to wear satin knee breeches and starched neckcloths.” He could feel the rash already. And that was the least of his itches.
Some men came home from war with wounds or scars or medals. Daniel Stamfield had come home with a rash. Like all the men of his family, Daniel had a gift—or curse, depending on how one felt. Somehow they could all tell truth from lies. His uncle the Earl of Royce heard discordant notes. His cousin Rex, the Royce heir, saw scarlet. Harry, his other cousin, from the wrong side of the blanket, tasted bitter lies on his tongue. Daniel? His curse wasn’t subtle or private. That would have been too easy, too comfortable for a man who already stuck out like a sore thumb because of his overlarge, ungainly size. A sore thumb? He’d be happy with that. Instead he got itchy toes, itchy ears, bright red splotches on his neck, his face, his hands. Worst of all, a lot of lies, continuous lies, blatant lies, gave him a rash on his private parts. That was how he’d been thrown out of Almack’s his first time at the hallowed hall of propriety. He’d scratched his arse. What if Susanna was denied vouchers for that sacred altar to the matchmaking deities because of him?
Hell, he would die at the first Venetian breakfast from all the polite mistruths and insincere flatteries the beau monde mouthed. His mother and sister would die, too, of embarrassment. Susanna’s Season would be ruined, a debacle, a disgrace. No gentleman would marry her. Sweet little Sukey would be an old maid at seventeen, all because of him and his sensitive skin. He should have stayed in the army, no matter the cost. Perhaps he had time to reenlist. So what if the war with France was over and that madman Napoleon was finally defeated? There was bound to be a battle somewhere, some way he could prove useful. More useful than he’d be to poor Susanna.
All the Royce descendants were invaluable to the government, in necessarily secret service to their country. They’d be burned as witches or warlocks if anyone suspected their hidden talent, or ostracized as charlatans. Mind readers? The devil! Truth knowers? Bosh. So they worked behind the scenes, disguising their gift as wisdom, wit, and uncanny luck.
Uncle Royce advised the courts. Harry used to run a spy network. Rex worked with Bow Street after he was wounded in the Peninsular War, after Daniel left the army. Together Rex and Daniel had been the dreaded Inquisitors, the intelligence officers in charge of gathering information from captured enemy officers. Daniel’s size alone intimidated their prisoners. Their unfailing results terrified everyone else, even their superiors. Since only a select few could know of the family trait, the War Office let stand the rumors that the Inquisitors were torturers, immoral brutes. They were despised by friend and foe alike, despite the countless English lives they saved. Daniel had constant rashes.
He came home when his father died, relieved to have an excuse to leave the army and his ugly but important employment. The life of a country squire, or a town buck, was just as filled with falsehoods, though, and boredom to boot. Then came the guilt over leaving Rex to serve the country by himself, until the fool got shot.
Daniel had sworn to look after his cousin and best friend. He’d failed. He’d lied, which was the worst thing a Royce relative could do. When Rex turned into a morose, hermitlike cripple, Daniel turned into a libertine, a wastrel, a gambler, a drunk. He threw himself into whatever debauchery London offered, along with its other dregs and demimondaines. So what if his new companions lied and cheated? Their haunts were usually too dark for anyone to notice Daniel’s spots, and half his neighbors itched just as badly, from lice or fleas or bed-bugs. Women were paid to please, and Daniel paid them more not to pretend any tender feelings or passion. His size and reputation protected him from the dangers of the night, and his mighty fists protected him from anyone stupid enough to try in the shadows.
Then Rex came to London as a favor to his father and got involved with solving crimes. The clunch almost got himself killed again for his efforts, but he actually liked working with Bow Street’s investigators. Rex tried to drag Daniel out of the gambling dens and into his detective work, but Daniel was having none of it. Damn, did they think the suspects were going to confess when they knew they’d be hanged or deported? No, the scum told lies on top of lies, and Daniel got more rashes.
Even Harry, the earl’s illegitimate son, tried to enlist Daniel in his sanctioned skullduggery, uncovering blackmailers and traitors and revolutionaries in the government. Were there no honest politicians?
Both of his cousins wanted Daniel to continue their work in Parliament of the police precincts. Uncle Royce offered him a magistrate’s position, so he could use his gift in the courts. England needed him, they all said. He should be working, they all said, for the good of king and country.
Daniel had said no. He was not interested in their noble missions, their self-righteous sacrifices, not when he could enjoy a redheaded wench and a bottle of wine. He’d served his country; he’d done his share. So no, he would not mingle among the gentlemen who ruled the kingdom, to listen for their lies. No, he would not preside over the courts where bewigged barristers spewed pre varications to save their clients. No, he would not sit at some battered desk to hear scurvy felons falsely plead their innocence. No, he would not need a tin of talcum powder on his posterior every day.
“No chance of saying no to my mother,” he told Miss White, his voice full of regret and resignation. He might be brave, and full of brawn if not brains, but she was his mother. She was also Lady Cora Stamfield, née Royce, daughter of the former earl, sister to the current Lord Royce, widow of one of the largest landholders in the eastern shires. Formidable in her own right, she ran Stamfield Manor and the rest of the parish, as well. Mostly, though, for years now she’d asked for nothing from Daniel but his happiness. She was not one for rants and recriminations, only steadfast love and loyalty to her only son. He knew she worried while he was with the army, and more so while he wallowed in London’s pleasures. Sowing his oats, she’d called it, and she waited for him to reap his harvest and come home. He hadn’t, except for short visits. So how could he refuse her request to join her and Susanna at Royce House?
“Now she remembers I am the man of the family, when she thinks she needs me.”
Daniel wouldn’t be the head of the household if the earl came to Town, nor would his presence be required. Mother was staying at the earl’s mansion in Mayfair, after all, and Lord and Lady Royce held enough power in London to oversee seven debutante balls. But the earl and his countess were recently reunited and enjoying their life in the country. Rex, Viscount Re
xford, that is, had enough countenance and connections to aid Lady Cora and Susanna, too, but he was the proud father of twins, with another child due soon. He would never leave his beloved Amanda and their brood to take over escort duties. Even Harry would have done in a pinch, now that he was recognized in polite society. The former master spy, though, was also deliriously happily wed, traveling on honeymoon, showing off his beautiful bride to relatives, inspecting his new estate, and awaiting his first child.
“Like rabbits, that’s what they both are,” Daniel said as he pulled on his scuffed boots. “And curse them all for not being here when I need them. I’d rather face the blasted French cannons on my own than the ton without a friend at my back.”
Miss White made a soft sound of commiseration, or protest at being ignored. She was here, wasn’t she?
Daniel sat beside her on the bed, gathering her close. “I am sorry, puss. I know you’d stand by me, but it will never do. You wouldn’t be welcome at Royce House, you know. You’re a beauty, my pet, but not of their elevated, rarefied world. No more than I am, but I have no choice. You’ll be happier here.” He looked around at the comfortable rooms he’d taken over from Harry, above McCann’s Club. No one cared what time he came or went, in what condition, or with which companion. The service was excellent, the food ample, and the company undemanding. He’d miss it, the freedom, the camaraderie, the easy acceptance of who and what he was, with no demands that he become anything else. But his mother wanted him to reside with the family, likely to be at their beck and call. “I’ll miss you most of all, my dear, but you’ll do. You already rule the kitchens here, so you won’t go hungry, and Harry will return soon and take you up again.”
He gave Miss White one last kiss on the top of her silky head, then stood and brushed her white cat hairs off his coat. That was the least he could do for his beloved mother—present a neat appearance on this first day. She’d be disappointed in him soon enough. Like everyone else in the family already was.
The Bargain Bride Page 29