The Bargain: A Port Elizabeth Regency Tale: Episode 2

by Vanessa Riley

  "Praise be unto Prov…" Mrs. Wilkins snorted a harsh noise, her chin bobbling in the throes of sleep. With a fold and a tuck, Madeline secured the dear woman's blanket then tugged a book from the abigail's reticule.

  "You two are my first guests in this new coach." The earl's tone was low.

  He needn't be concerned about awakening Mrs. Wilkins. After this harrowing day, wild elephants couldn't rouse her.

  Slumping near the window, Madeline glanced at the retreating landscape, the evergreens reflecting in the puddles. She'd enjoy nature now, before they crossed the Severn Gorge. Seeing the bottomless chasm would rattle her frayed nerves. The last time, ten years ago, she took this route with her parents and had curled next to Mama and hid within the folds of her shawl. Abba Father, please allow each of my steps to be surefooted. Tell Mama I miss her.

  Lord Devonshire inched closer. Though the carriage rocked with each clip-clop of the horse team, he didn't sway. His tall frame sat erect like a sleek marble sculpture. "Is there anything I can do to make you comfortable?"

  Mrs. Wilkins's bonnet fell onto her lap, her snores bleating to an embarrassing high pitch. The symphony of snoots quieted, but not before one protracted trumpet.

  "No, sir." Madeline's cheeks warmed. Explaining her hasty exodus from Avington would lower his opinion of her, not that she needed his good opinion.

  Egad. Step-mother was right. Madeline did over think things. She yanked her bookmark, flipped a few pages, and tried to lose herself in the passage.

  He rapped the book and lowered it. "You'll ruin your sight, reading all the way to Cheshire. At our next stop, I'll have a lantern set down, unless I can capture your interest."

  Another opportunist. Yes, he'd saved her from being trampled, but he was still a man. Did they do anything but seek their own pleasures? Like Mr. Kent.

  Kent's sibilant whispers turned to yells ringing in her ear. He threatened to kill her for refusing his proposal. What type of life would she have if she'd eloped with a man of such vile temperament? She shuddered. Shoving her novel in Kent's eye darkened it and helped her escape.

  "Miss St. James? Are you well?"

  "Yes." She glanced at her wet hero. "You must be cold. I should return this." She lifted the tailcoat an inch and an ache rippled along her elbow. She clenched her teeth and let the jacket fall back to her shoulders.

  "Just damp." He whipped his sleeves, rustling ivory buttons. "You seem to favour your right arm. Did I injure you in our last embrace?"

  "No…no, my lord." Her breath hitched, and she sniffed an odour similar to fresh dye. It reeked. She huddled deeper in the tailcoat and swathed her nostrils. The mild fragrance of sandalwood lingered in Lord Devonshire's jacket. Peace reined in every storm, and this one smelled of safety, like her father's robes.

  The earl shifted his boots hard onto the floor. "Some say confession is good for the soul. Do tell. Why were you at Tilford—a gaming den, no less?"

  Madeline wobbled on the tufted cushion. "My carriage broke down. One usually has no choice where this happens."

  "And your driver's missing? Such a fanciful story. I love a quality Banbury." He folded his arms like a solicitor in the midst of an inquiry. "Are you running from or to someone?"

  "To my aunt in Cheshire, Lady Cecil Glaston. She's to tour Italy with me." Well, it would be the plan once Madeline convinced the art patroness. Madeline intended to sculpt such a stirring picture, Aunt would be anxious to see Michelangelo's David and abandon holding a matchmaking season. After Mr. Kent's betrayal, Madeline wasn't ready to belong to any man.

  "I think you are running from someone whose wrath you fear. Don't lose courage. So much trouble is wrought from silence." For one second, the earl's sky-blue pools seemed to ripple with hurt before he blinked them clear. "We mustn't allow this."

  She squinted at Lord Devonshire. Could he know she'd kept quiet about Mr. Kent?

  "Help me, Miss St. James, my brave lass?"

  Madeline's heart responded to the plea, thundering within her ribs, but could she be of aid without inviting Kent's revenge?

  Lord Devonshire reached for her hand. "Tell me your secret. My dear, you can trust me."

  For More Information about purchasing go to www.VanessaRiley.com.

  Sneak Peak: Swept Away

  Only one thing frustrated Charlotte Downing more than waiting on a man: being told "no" by one. With the shoe clerk from Ella's Establishment refusing her purchase without the owner's permission, she'd suffered both. Tapping her foot, she stifled the urge to shift upon her chair. The shopkeeper could return any moment, and she shouldn't appear too anxious. That would expose weakness, maybe doubling the price. If her late father taught her anything, it was never cede anything early in a negotiation.

  Her gaze lifted to the pair of fairy slippers displayed on an upper shelf of the Ella Store. Protected by a clear glass case, the footwear remained isolated, distant. A little like herself, especially during her lengthy time of mourning.

  She blinked, then imagined fingering the crystals-tasseled to the sides and the velvet bows lining the gilded heel. Her heart raced. Those shoes had to become hers. If she'd ever known love, surely it would feel like this, palms perspiring with expectation.

  She'd watched enough of Father's dealings to know how to get her way. The shop owner wouldn't stand a chance against a Downing. Right?

  Doubt swirled inside her chest. Could she be as good as the late duke at anything? She pressed at her bodice, smoothed her tightening collar, and returned her thoughts to her goal. Charlotte, the new Duchess of Charming, would sweep low and curtsy for the queen in those shoes. Everyone would study her court dress of white silk, with its trims of scarlet and pearls. They'd eye her traipsing in those beautiful slippers and accept Charlotte as a picture of grace and elegance.

  The gossip would certainly arrest.

  Look at the girl with the man's title.

  How much did the old duke pay the Mad King to keep his legacy?

  Moisture dampened her lashes. She batted her lids and fanned her brow, anything to stave off a full cry. Everything still hurt—losing Father, being left to figure things out alone. What to do of his charities? They'd traveled so much, where should she make her home?

  Mercy Goodmom, her companion, moved from the rattling store window. With a push at the wide cinnamon-colored banding of her bonnet, she tipped it backward and tugged an escaping brunette curl. "The wind outside nearly blew me away. Must we….Oh my." Mercy rushed to her side and pulled out a handkerchief. "Duchess, don't go getting worked up. Think of the yummy hot chocolate we sipped at the coffeehouse."

  Charlotte took the soft lawn cloth and dabbed at her face. "We had a good day roaming the streets of Cheapside, outrunning our cluster of attendants."

  She patted her mouth, her kid gloves smearing moisture about her face. Not very regal. Definitely nothing a duchess should do.

  Her companion shook her head, dug into her over-sized reticule, and yanked out another handkerchief. She dusted the pristine chair next to Charlotte's and plopped on its seat. "We've stayed too long. Time to go back where we belong."

  Mercy's way of almost singing a rebuke was both endearing and loathsome.

  Where exactly did Charlotte belong? The town house filled with all her father's expedition treasures? The country home layered with his papers and books? Everywhere, bits of him remained, reminding her of how much he fashioned every aspect of her life.

  Stomach churning, she siphoned a slow breath. "If I am to be presented at court…" Charlotte's voice sounded low, wispy to her ear. She cleared her throat, raised her tone. "It must be on my terms."

  "Oh, I hate that look in your eyes, the wild stare. Nothing but trouble comes next. The slippers aren't worth it." Her companion fished in her bag again and pulled out a paper-wrapped bonbon, popping the sugary treat into her mouth.

  "Is it five yet, Mrs. Goodmom? The owner should be back by now."

  Crunching and munching, Mercy nodded.

&
nbsp; Where was he? Setting her umbrella on the spotless pine floor, Charlotte popped up. The hem of her dark gray skirts swished about her short boots as she rushed toward the shelving displaying her slippers.

  "Look at these, Mercy. The stitching, the crystals. Is there a better pair? I think not." They were fine enough for dancing, to skip and twirl about a properly chalked floor. At a distance, one might even think the white gems matched the beading on her gown.

  She fingered the glass.

  Mercy's rotund silhouette appeared at her side. "You put too much energy on this and overtask yourself. Next thing you know, you'll be sick and can't attend your presentation."

  She'd not miss this one. With both parents dead, and no close relations, there wouldn't be a reason to delay this meeting. "Don't even think such heresy. I will be presented this time."

  Her companion folded her arms and gazed toward the window. "We should go out tonight for fun. We need a practice before the big day. I know, the Fairwilde soiree, the Rundle invitation."

  Father's friend? More stories of how great Father was. As if she didn't know of his acclaim. "I will go out for Friday's presentation. It's the day I return to society with these slippers."

  Mercy put a hand to her hip. With her chestnut-brown spencer, she looked like one of the mugs from the coffeehouse they'd just left. "Duchess, I wish you would get flustered over attending an entertaining dinner, or dare I say a man—not shoes."

  Charlotte swiped at her brow then glanced at her heart's desire trapped in glass. "Well, if I could wear a gentleman on my feet and be as stylish, he might do."

  The door to the shop blew open, letting in a harsh blast of wind before slamming shut. Her heart raced as icy air swept through her, chilling down to her chemise. The weather wouldn't hold up much longer. Where was the person in charge?

  With a huff, Mercy offered a toothy smile, one inflated by candy bliss. Well, dear Mercy was sweet enough without the added sugar. "You don't have to outdo him you know. Even the duke could accept 'no.'"

  A knot lodged in Charlotte's throat. There was so much to prove to the world. And from heaven, the always-right, always-in-control man had to be watching, judging her. "Father was formidable. Only death stopped him from getting what he wanted. I'm not dead."

  Mercy squinted. "Your time of mourning ended last week. You can dress as you like, do whatever it is you want. That includes not continuing to dress as a martyr."

  Charlotte folded her arms and tugged on her sleeves. The dark wool of her half-mourning gown had become a protective layer, allowing her to beg off from outings and all the uncomfortable things in her life.

  It let time stand still as she embodied a dutiful daughter honoring her father, not a girl lost. Lord, what is it I am called to do?

  No answer. Just the screech of the wind slamming against the window.

  Wasn't silence an answer?

  Filling her lungs with the scent of tangy wood polish and resolve, she squared her shoulders. "I have a picture in my mind of my come-out, particularly the way I'll look. It will be so."

  Pulling on the slackened ribbons of her bonnet, she marched to the attendant's stand and tapped on the maple top until the clerk returned from the back room. "Is the proprietor returning? We've waited quite a long time, almost an hour."

  "Ma'am." The short fellow scratched his bare skull. "He should 'a been back by now." His gaze lifted. "The weather must be delaying him, but trust me. He'll not sell those slippers. I could make ye a similar pair, but it will take two weeks."

  When he was alive, Father had always stared a man in his eyes. She leaned over to catch the clerk's gaze. "Two weeks is too long. I need them Friday."

  "It's Tuesday. Shoes don't magically appear. No mice in the back workin' all night." The man chuckled, pushed his spectacles back upon his short nose. "Mice." He laughed again, then disappeared to the rear.

  She let her hand go limp, dropping and then swatting the counter. How could the answer be no? "Why display shoes if they aren't to be sold?"

  Fingers tapping, she pondered her arguments for the proprietor—that is, if he showed. The answer would be no for someone else, but not Charlotte. She was every bit as astute as her father, so she couldn't be dissuaded.

  "We'll come back tomorrow." Mercy raised her palm to her eyes and looked outside. "So dark and gray. The overcast skies will catch us if we stay any longer. Well, maybe it won't last long, or we could nap here."

  "Tomorrow. I'll possess these shoes." She moved to the door, but half-pivoted toward the back of Ella's. Strengthening her voice, she made a final stand. "Good sir, let the owner know to expect us at the start of business."

  As she rotated to exit, the door to the shop opened and a man bounded inside. He forced his collar down. "The weather's…" His autumn-brown eyes locked with hers. A dimple showed on his heart-shaped face. "The weather's very strange."

  Her pulse stopped as a wide smile appeared upon his lean countenance.

  "Ladies." The tall gentleman in onyx and snow-white evening wear dipped his top hat, an expensive, familiar thing. "Be careful. The clouds are ready to burst."

  "Then we must go." Mercy took the lead and grabbed Charlotte's arm. She had to be quite concerned, for the woman didn't flirt with the handsome man, not once.

  "Ladies." With one hand, he opened and held the door. With the other, he balanced his chapeau. Given the cut of its short cylinder and the tidy inch of banding about its circumference, it had to be constructed by Papa's favorite haberdasher.

  The lump returned and all she could do was blink away the stirred sense of loss.

  Mercy towed her forward. "Tomorrow, we agreed. No second thoughts."

  The wind ramped, clanging the overhead signs strewn along Fish Street Hill. Charlotte wrapped her arms tighter about her middle and trudged toward their carriage parked along Gracechurch. The walk seemed extra cold, as she held no paper bundle of her treasured shoes within her mitts.

  The howl of the growing gale warbled the panes of glass forming Ella's street front. Edwin leaned against the door, hoping to catch a final glimpse of the ladies. It wasn't dark yet, but the two shouldn't be walking alone in this weather.

  Perhaps he should run and catch up to them and escort them to their transport. That's what a gentleman would do, but Edwin wasn't gently born.

  How did his elder stepbrother put it? A product of low birth.

  It didn't matter that the trade of selling shoes had restored Lord Rundle's circumstance and continued to afford things such as twenty shillings for a hat. Twenty.

  He popped off the expensive thing and dusted the rich fabric upon his sleeve. A hat, more than a man's weekly wages?

  For the sake of his stepfather, he'd bear the slights, buy costly headgear and linens, all to prove himself worthy of the man's respect.

  With a final glimpse, he caught the blur of the young woman's dark skirt turning the corner. What if that was his dear sister, Lillian? Insides twisting, he tucked on his beaver dome and moved to straightening the shoe displays.

  It wasn't Edwin's place to chase after a customer. Or to contemplate the tears gathering in her crystal blue eyes.

  Not his place to be concerned for a class in which he didn't belong.

  Straddling the gentry's, the merchants', and the workers' stations in society bore too much weight. Designing and selling shoes were comfortable to him, all he really knew. Happiness had to be in that.

  "Mr. Cinder." Farmington, his clerk, stood at the counter with a bolt of tan kid leather. "The duchess and her companion will be here in the morn to convince you to sell the slippers. I tried to tell them we could make something similar, but you know how the genteel get."

  "Perhaps she'll be in a better mood once the storm has passed. Bluster and foul moods go hand in hand." Edwin moved to his mother's wedding slippers, a pair he'd crafted with his own fingers and lasting tools. She prized the shoes, loved them with all her heart. Upon her deathbed, she wished them displayed here, in the store that
made their fortune and her marriage to Lord Rundle possible.

  Farmington rushed over with a duster and a stool. He wiped the glass container free of smudges. "Hopefully, they'll order a similar pair and be happy to wait for an Ella creation."

  Farmington's words settled into Edwin's head. Duchess, aye? That might make the young lady a companion or better, a governess. A jolt went through him. Could those bluest of all eyes be in reach? "You say they'll return tomorrow?"

  "Yes, sir." Farmington shoved his hands into the pockets of his dark apron. "Now go on. I can lock up. I see you are dressed for your stepfather's dinner." Stomach bulging, he stepped down and moved to the seating area. "Oh, one of the ladies left an 'mbrella. I'll hold it for them."

  "No. They'll need it now. I'll see if I can return it. Goodnight." He scooped up the peach-colored thing by the pearl handle and rushed out the door. Nothing but catching the young lady and capturing her name filled his brain.

  The wind chilled to the bone as he turned the corner. Trotting, he scanned to the left and then the right. Which way had those pretty eyes gone?

  His brand new top hat lifted from his brow, hurtling down the sidewalk. Grousing, he gave chase. Maybe it would lead him to the ladies. One could hope.

  Wedged between a door and its frame, Edwin settled his long fingers upon the brim, but another arctic wind swept the commerce-filled street, sending the hat flying.

  Lord, let it not splatter with mud. His stepfather would never forgive it. Lord Rundle was fastidious and noticed every mark or bit of lint.

  Abandoning the sleek hat and arriving at his stepfather's party disheveled and ill-dressed would not bode well. The poor man would think Edwin didn't care for him or his opinions. That simply wasn't true.

  Lord Rundle was a good man, a godly one, whose fussiness was only to make his children happy. And for some unknown reason, he treated Edwin well, even forcing him to go to tutors to speak like an equal to the man's gently bred sons.