"I'll start." Her voice lowered to a gruff, masculine octave, Percy said, "Well, daughter, how was your visit with the Hartefords?"
"Um, fine," Charity said.
When she said nothing more, Percy/Papa said, "Is there anything you wish to tell me?"
Charity expelled a breath. "As a matter of fact, yes. Father, I ... you see, there was a bit of a problem. A misunderstanding, really—"
"Spit it out, girl. I haven't all day to jaw—the shop doesn't run itself, you know," Percy/Papa grumbled with startling accuracy.
"Right." Pulse quickening, Charity said, "Well, I was helping, um, a friend to avoid an unfortunate situation and, unfortunately, the situation was misinterpreted—"
"Who is this friend you speak of?"
"Percy's brother. Mr. Fines," Charity said haltingly.
"Never did like that Fines chit. Nothing but trouble. Her brother can't be much better."
"But it wasn't Mr. Fines' fault. He was being falsely accused of ... of ..." Charity wracked her brain for a euphemism.
"Prevarication is a stepping stone to sin," Percy/Papa warned.
" ... keeping company," Charity rushed on. "With, um, a married lady."
"The bounder! Discovered in flagrante, was he?"
"But he wasn't ... that is, the lady was in his bedchamber, but he didn't invite her there—"
"Egad, are you defending this philanderer?"
Hands clammy, Charity stammered, "N-no. I mean, yes, I did, because he didn't do it. The philandering, I mean." With spiraling panic, she blurted, "Her husband got it wrong."
"He was there too? What sort of depraved gathering was this?" Papa bellowed. "I knew I should have never allowed you out of the house. From here on in, girl, you're to stay away from that Fines lot, you hear me?"
Charity felt the blood drain from her face. "Please, Father, I—"
"Do you hear me?"
She shrank back, whispering, "Yes, I hear you."
The next moment, she was once again back in the carriage, staring into her friend's rounded blue eyes. Percy was chewing upon her lip, her brow pleated. Mrs. Fines and Mr. Hunt watched on with somber expressions.
"Well," Percy said, "it appears we have some work to do."
Letting out an unsteady breath, Charity gave a slight nod.
"Right then. Let's start with the married lady in the bedchamber bit ..."
The carriage rolled on, and Charity gathered up the pieces of her courage—and her story.
FOURTEEN
"We're almost at Sparkler's," Nicholas said.
Stirred from his brooding, Paul lifted the curtain. As they wound their way into the heart of London, he saw streets crammed with people and horses, vendors hawking their wares before the great dome of St. Paul's. Despite the early afternoon hour, the ubiquitous haze from the chimney stacks darkened the sky. The mingled scents of kitchen fires, rubbish, and the murky Thames wafted into the cabin.
"Nothing like the sweet smell of home," he said.
Nicholas cleared his throat. "Before we arrive, is there, er, anything you'd care to discuss?"
Not an order or demand, but a question. This was a first.
Paul quirked a brow. "Is this your attempt at being tactful?"
"I'm trying to be helpful." After a pause, the marquess muttered, "It has come to my attention that in past conversations I may have been perhaps too ... hasty."
It was the closest to an apology Paul had ever gotten from the other man. There could only be one reason for it. He drawled, "Your lady talked some sense into you, did she?"
"Helena thought that I was too hard on you. About the boxing, I mean." Nicholas frowned. "She said that I ought to have listened to your plan before jumping to conclusions."
"This is why I adore your marchioness. Not only is she beautiful, she's always right."
Nicholas gave him a look that told him not to push his luck.
Being himself, he pushed his luck. "I accept your apology, old chap," he said graciously.
"I'm not apologizing," his lordship said between his teeth. "I'm merely saying that I am willing to listen if there's anything you care to discuss. About present circumstances."
"There's nothing to discuss. I'm marrying the chit," Paul said.
In the end, the decision had been surprisingly simple. His honor demanded that he wed Charity Sparkler. Though marriage hadn't ranked high on his list of priorities—being slightly more preferable than, say, getting a tooth drawn—marriage to Charity didn't seem so ... terrible.
He already knew that he enjoyed her company. She was steady and sensible, undoubtedly the sort of influence he needed in his life. And the way she'd defended him against Parkington? Her sweet loyalty would warm him for the rest of his days. And as he thought of the marital nights that awaited him, certain parts of his anatomy heated even further ...
"I gathered as much from your, ahem, proposal," Nicholas said.
Paul winced. In hindsight, his offer had been fumbling at best. But he'd been so furious at himself for putting Charity in harm's way that he hadn't been thinking clearly. And she hadn't exactly helped matters. He found her streak of willfulness both annoying ... and strangely arousing. There were so many facets to her, so much to discover beneath the surface. In truth, he'd been fascinated with her since their first encounter in the parlor.
A notion struck to him: could this latest fiasco be Fate's way of giving him a shove in the right direction?
Still ... "It would have gone better had she cooperated," he muttered.
"Welcome to marriage," Nicholas said with a faint smile. "Take my advice, Fines, and go gentler in the future. Lure with honey rather than vinegar, if you take my meaning."
Given Paul's rather infamous success with the ladies, 'twas the height of irony to be told this by the taciturn marquess. For some reason, Paul's charisma and confidence seemed to evaporate around Charity. She made him feel awkward, like a bumbling schoolboy.
Face heating, he said, "Don't worry, I've got things in hand."
For once, he was going to do things right. He even had a three-part plan. First, he would woo Charity, use every charm at his disposal to convince her to marry him. Once wed, he'd treat her with the affection and respect she deserved. When it came to bedroom matters, he would certainly see to her and his own enjoyment, but he would always keep his head. Which led to the third and most critical point of all: none of this neck-or-nothing business. From here on in, he was going to be the master of himself. To be a worthy and respectable husband to Charity.
"Have you planned what you'll say to Sparkler?" Nicholas asked.
"You know me: I've a talent for being extemporaneous." The truth was Paul hadn't a clue what he was going to say. "If that doesn't work, I'll use my natural charm."
The carriage came to a halt. When the door opened, Paul stepped down first. Scanning the row of crowded storefronts, his gaze latched onto the shop in the middle.
His jaw slackened. "That's Sparkler's?"
Beside him on the walk, Nicholas said neutrally, "It appears so."
Though Paul knew of Sparkler's, he'd never shopped there. He patronized the more fashionable establishment of Rundell, Bridge, and Rundell, located a few blocks away on Ludgate Hill. Compared to this other shop, Sparkler's was a dump.
The store was a plain box, without any decoration, not even a planter, to relieve its severity. The weathered grey exterior could have used a new coat of paint—about a decade ago. The sole indication that this was indeed an emporium that offered priceless jewels was the small sign hanging above the entryway, and its modest lettering did not inspire confidence.
"I thought your office could use refurbishment," Paul said under his breath. "Holy hell, who runs a jewelry business in this fashion?"
"If that's a sample of your natural charm, I predict trouble ahead," Nick said.
At that moment, the Hunts' carriage rolled up behind them. Hunt exited first, handing down Percy and then Mama. Anticipation made Paul stride o
ver.
"I've got Miss Sparkler," he said.
Looking amused, his brother-in-law stepped aside.
Paul found himself looking up into Charity's surprised eyes, which widened further when he reached up and caught her gently by the waist. Egad, he could almost span that narrow expanse with his two hands. He lifted her from the carriage, absorbing her delicious little tremor. Her lashes beat rapidly as did the pulse just visible above the demure ruffle of her neckline.
"How was your journey, my sweet?" he said.
In the next blink, she recovered. "We've arrived at a good hour," she said briskly. "There's usually a lull in customers in the early afternoon, so Father should be free to speak with us."
Paul thought the lull at Sparkler's likely wasn't limited to the present hour. Wisely, he withheld that comment, offering instead, "I look forward to meeting with your father."
"That makes one of us," she said, and his lips twitched at the honesty of her words. "But there's no sense in delaying matters. Come along, then."
She led the way through the narrow entryway of the shop. Paul had to duck to pass through. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw that the interior was as shabby as the exterior. The dreary beige room was lined with utilitarian display cases, a few worn lamps flickering on the counters. The main redeeming quality of the place was its tidiness. Not a speck of dust could be found, and the merchandise was arranged in neat rows behind glass.
He peered into one of the cabinets. To his surprise, he saw that the goods—in this case, gentlemen's accoutrements—were of premium quality, as fine as anything he'd seen at Rundell's and so much more the pity. A jeweler ought to know that a fine gem required a matching setting to display its true brilliance. With his shop's lack of style, Sparkler was cheapening his wares.
"Miss Charity, we weren't expecting you back so soon." A clerk as old as Methuselah hobbled from behind the counter. His wide smile boasted a remarkable absence of teeth. "Thought you'd be awhile rubbing shoulders with the carriage set."
"There was a change of plans, Mr. Jameson," Charity said. "Is Father available? We've a matter to discuss with him."
"Mr. Sparkler's occupied." Jameson's rheumy gaze darted to the back. "He's with a business associate in his office, and the fellow didn't look too happy."
Charity's face drained of color. "Which associate is it?"
The sound of voices preempted Jameson's reply. A moment later, a door swung open at the back of the shop. Paul knew straightaway that the thin, grey-haired gentleman leading the way was Uriah Sparkler. Though the man's demeanor was pinched and stern, his ascetic features held a shadow of Charity's delicate beauty. Following him was a more robust fellow in his thirties, dark-haired and with an elegant, ruthless air about him. This last observation was reinforced when the man's gaze cut to his.
Paul flashed to a performance he'd seen at Vauxhall. An Indian snake charmer had played a flute whilst a cobra had woven back and forth, staring into the audience with unblinking black orbs identical to the ones boring into Paul now. His muscles bunched; his hands clenched on instinct.
"Charity?" Sparkler came toward them. From the incredulity and anger stamped on the man's features, it didn't take a genius to guess that Parkington had wasted no time in spreading his dirty lies. The bastard.
"Hello, Father. Mr. Garrity." Charity did a quick curtsy. "These are my friends—"
"I don't care who they are," Sparkler said in a voice that shook. "What is going on? Mr. Garrity here has informed me that rumors of your behavior are circulating around London."
Charity's lower lip quivered, but she said bravely, "Father, it's not what it sounds like—"
"Were you or were you not caught alone with some blackguard?"
Seeing Charity's cowed expression and shimmering eyes, Paul could hold silent no longer.
"The blackguard you are referring to is me." He stepped forward and bowed. "Paul Fines at your service, sir. And let me assure you that Miss Sparkler is an innocent victim here. She has done nothing wrong," he said with emphasis. "She was attempting to defend me, and in doing so, got caught in the crossfire."
Irate color replaced Sparkler's pallor. "A Fines is involved. I might have known." His glare shifted from Paul to Percy, who gave him a weak wave of her fingers.
"Please, Father. Nothing happened. It was a misunderstanding—" Charity pleaded.
"According to the Earl of Parkington, you were caught in flagrante, Miss Sparkler." Though Garrity spoke quietly, his words dripped with venom nonetheless. "I would not call that nothing. The whole Town is abuzz over your unbecoming conduct."
Charity shrank back as if slapped.
Anger sizzled through Paul's veins. "Who are you to judge her, you bounder?"
Garrity's stare remained hard, unwavering. "I was her fiancé, according to the marriage contract Sparkler and I signed three days ago. But now I must reconsider: a man such as I will not take on soiled goods."
This revelation took Paul aback—Charity Garrity?—but only for a second. "She is not soiled goods, damn your eyes," he growled. "She's an angel. Not that it matters: you're not marrying her—I am."
"What?" Sparkler choked out.
"I am marrying your daughter," Paul said through his teeth—probably not the best way to speak to one's future in-law, but his back was up at the other's mistreatment of Charity.
Why wasn't Sparkler defending his daughter, giving her the benefit of the doubt? Anyone with eyes could see that she was a sweet, innocent girl incapable of such misdeeds. But the old man wasn't even listening to her. Paul suddenly flashed to his troubles with his own father, which seemed pale in comparison. At least Jeremiah had tried to understand him.
"Over my dead body!" Sparkler's sparse frame vibrated within his ill-fitting clothes. "Mr. Garrity and I have an agreement."
"Had an agreement," Garrity said in cold tones. "You promised me a maiden of unblemished virtue. Not this,"—his eyes flicked to Charity—"disgrace."
A gasp broke from Charity's lips; Paul saw red. Before he knew what he was doing, he was heading straight for the bastard. Hands pulled him back, restrained him.
"Let me go," he grated out, struggling.
"Cull ain't worth it," Hunt said from one side.
"A brawl won't help anything," Nicholas said from the other. "Keep your wits about you, Fines. There are matters to sort out, the most important being Miss Sparkler's future."
Chest heaving, Paul fought for control.
Lines of displeasure bracketed Garrity's mouth. Donning his hat, he said, "I don't suffer fools, Mr. Fines, nor insults. You have inconvenienced me, and I shan't forget it."
Paul returned the other's glare measure for measure. "We can settle it now or at dawn, if you wish. You've only to name the place."
Garrity's smile was not a smile. "You're not worth dirtying my hands over."
"Mr. Garrity, wait!" Sparkler stumbled after his associate. "We had a deal, you and I—"
"Your daughter violated the terms." Garrity spoke without turning. "The deal is off."
In a last ditch effort, Sparkler flung himself in the other's path, blocking access to the door. "We can come to an understanding. Perhaps my daughter is not at fault, I've raised her to be a good girl—"
"Out of my way, Sparkler." Garrity's tone dripped with menace.
After a few seconds, Sparkler drew in a shaky breath and moved aside.
Garrity slammed the door behind him.
In the aftermath of stunned silence, a calm voice inserted itself. "Well, thank goodness that is over. What a dreadful man. I'm sure you must be relieved, Mr. Sparkler."
Sparkler, who remained slumped against the doorframe, raised an unfocused gaze to Paul's mama. "Relieved?" he said in a dazed voice.
"That Garrity fellow is clearly not deserving of dear Miss Sparkler," Anna Fines said. "And all the better to discover that before it was too late. Thus, despite the unfortunate circumstances, I do believe things have worked out for the best, don't
you?"
Though framed as a question, it was not. Having had years of experience dealing with his mother's brand of velvet-covered steel, Paul was aware of this. Sparkler was not.
"Best?" the jeweler sputtered. "Everything is ruined! All because of—"
"A mistake," Mama said in a tone that few would dare to contradict. "All of us are here today to bear witness to the fact that no misconduct occurred between my son and Miss Sparkler. That said, Paul has offered for your daughter, and I hope you will find joy in the fact as I and others have. Our children have many supporters, you see, including the Marquess of Harteford."
She nodded to Nicholas, who bowed. Looking confounded, Sparkler returned the courtesy.
"The marquess will assist in procuring a special license," Mama informed Sparkler. "Our children's nuptials can occur within a sennight, which gives us little time to prepare, but I'm certain you agree that expediency is key to minimize any disruption"—her gaze pointedly encompassed the store—"to business as usual?"
Again, not a question.
"I am ruined. This is the end," Sparkler whispered.
"Please, Father, don't say that—"
"My life's work, gone. Because of your reckless behavior." Sparkler turned stark grey eyes to his daughter. "How could you?"
The bastard might as well have stuck a blade in her chest—it might have been kinder. Rage rushed through Paul's veins as a single droplet trickled down Charity's cheek.
"Miss Sparkler is not to blame," he said fiercely, "but 'pon my honor, I shall do what is necessary to ensure Sparkler's survival and success."
As soon as the words left him, his mind reeled. Dear Lord, did I just sign up to ... work? And how in bloody hell am I going to straighten out this dump and prepare for the tournament—less than two months away?
Before he could backpedal or at least clarify his time schedule, he glimpsed Charity's face. His breath caught. Through the veil of her tears, she was gazing at him with ... wonder. As if he'd just hung the sun back in her sky. His chest pounded with the sudden desire to have her always look at him thus.
"You? What are you going to do, unless ..." Sparkler wet his lips. "How much did you say you are worth, sir?"
Her Prodigal Passion Page 11