"Let's try out that hypothesis," he suggested. "First thing back, I'm buying you a diamond tiara."
"Now you're being silly—"
His stratagem proved successful. In fact, their mutual distraction worked so well that he didn't realize that they'd arrived at Sparkler's townhouse until the groom knocked on the carriage door.
As Charity frantically shoved pins back in her hair, he straightened his cravat and looked out. The rain had stopped, but the sky remained gloomy and grey, the streets sloppy with puddles. The Sparkler residence was similarly uninspiring: a narrow, weather-beaten building with windows that peered at visitors like suspicious eyes.
Thank God they were just stopping by to collect a few of Charity's things for their stay at his mama's. At this hour, his father-in-law would be at the shop, so another bonus there.
"Ready, love?" he asked.
Cheeks still flushed, Charity nodded.
He stepped down first, reaching up for her. As her boots touched the ground, the door of the house swung open.
A woman—the housekeeper, he presumed—came running out, her cap askew and frizzy strands sticking out from beneath. "Oh, Miss Charity, thank God you're back!"
Charity tensed against him. "What's amiss, Mrs. Doppler?"
"It's your father," the woman said, twisting her apron. "He's in a bad way. Again."
TWENTY-FIVE
"Are you certain he'll recover, Dr. Harrison?" Charity asked anxiously.
"Aye, he's lucky this time. But as you know, Mrs. Fines, this isn't the first instance your father has had a spell," the portly mustached man replied. "Yet he refuses to take my advice to work less and rest more."
"Nonsense," her papa argued weakly from the bed. He looked so grey and frail that Charity's heart lurched, and she rushed over to prevent him from getting up. "Have a shipment of silver plate coming in today," he said between labored breaths. "I must inspect it."
"Please, Father," she pleaded, "you must rest."
"For God's sake, Sparkler, don't push your luck." Dr. Harrison's brows lowered in a censorious manner as he set a small brown glass bottle on the bedside table. "Mrs. Fines, make sure your father takes a spoonful of medicine at noon and bedtime—it'll help him rest, which is what he needs if he wishes to recover."
"Don't need that snake oil," her father said, "or a damned quack."
Dr. Harrison's moustache bristled. Charity wanted to apologize, but she had to concentrate on keeping her struggling parent in bed. Through his worn sleep shirt, she could feel the fragility of her father's bones.
Before she could beg him once again to be still, her husband intervened. With a single hand, Paul pushed her father back into bed and held him there. Gently, but firmly.
"You're not helping anyone, sir," Paul said. "You'll be of no use at the shop in your present condition. You're certainly not helping yourself by committing suicide through overwork. Then there's Charity, who'll be heartbroken if you die. Since she hates shopping, I'll have to pitch in and get her a proper mourning wardrobe. Do you really wish to put everyone through all that trouble?"
Charity looked nervously at her papa.
"That's absurd!" Father sputtered. "The shop needs me. Who will tend to it if I don't?"
"Put that way, how can I refuse? I'd be honored to keep an eye on Sparkler's during your recovery." Paul frowned. "Well, honored is doing it a bit brown. As I've said before, I'm willing and able to do what is necessary."
"You? What could you possibly do?"
Charity winced at her father's scathing disdain. "Paul is offering to help—"
"He's done plenty already. Ruined you and the future of Sparkler's. Everything would be fine if you'd just married Garrity as I'd planned."
The muscle ticked along Paul's jaw. "She's my wife now, Sparkler, and you'd better get used to that."
"Please, Paul, my father doesn't mean—"
"I mean every word. You're a good-for-nothing rake …"—her papa's words came out slurred—"and you'll never amount to more."
Though his color was high, Paul gave a sardonic bow. "Thank you for the vote of confidence."
"Bloody … fop …" Father's eyes closed, and a snore escaped him.
Charity sagged against Paul, whose frame quivered with tension.
"I put some laudanum in his tea earlier," Dr. Harrison said, "and next time I'd advise you to use an even stronger dose. Stubborn old goat."
"My father doesn't mean to be surly," Charity said quickly. "Please know that he—we, that is—truly appreciate your expertise, Dr. Harrison."
The doctor gave a gruff nod. "Ever since you were a girl, you've been the sensible one of this household. Now keep giving your father the medicine like I told you, and for God's sake, stay by his side and make sure he doesn't overexert himself for at least a fortnight. His heart can't handle it. You do understand what I'm saying, even if he doesn't?"
Fear seeped through Charity. "Yes, doctor. I'll take good care of him."
After Dr. Harrison departed, Paul took her in his arms.
"Don't worry, sweeting," he murmured. "Everything will be alright."
"But look at him, Paul." The pallor of her father's face made her throat burn. "He can't go on working the way he has, but Sparkler's means everything to him. He won't stop."
"We'll have to make him stop then."
"How?" she said in frustration.
"Once he knows that Sparkler's is in good hands, he'll be able to rest easier. And you will too, I hope. Leave everything to me."
"But the tournament. You're supposed to leave for training next week—"
"I'll make alternate arrangements with Traymore. I can train in London if I have to. Jackson's Saloon is as good a place as any," he said decisively.
She stared at him in wonder. He would do that ... for her?
She'd always believed that he was a hero; now she knew he was the noblest of men. Yet she couldn't allow him to risk his chance at winning—at achieving the one thing that mattered most to him—out of marital duty.
"No," she said, shaking her head. "The Championship is too important. You'll need your focus—"
"How well will I focus if I leave my wife in the middle of a crisis?" he chided. "You need to be by your father's side, sweeting, and you'll have your hands full when he wakes. Which reminds me: I'll let Mama know that we shan't be staying with her. It'll be easier for you to nurse him with us here."
Despite the terrible situation, Charity's heart swelled. He was the kindest, most generous of husbands. Yet the toughest, most virile. She loved him so much.
His softness. His hardness. All of him.
Lifting one of his hands, she kissed the callused knuckles. "No one has ever been so good to me," she said fervently. "Thank you, Paul."
"'Tis my pleasure to take care of my wife," he said in a husky tone. "Now kiss me properly before I toddle off and see what's what at the shop."
She did, and the warmth of their kiss banished some of her chill.
*****
Paul arrived at Sparkler's just as a pair of customers was leaving. The ladies were dressed in fashionable gowns and chattering as they came down the pavement.
"Dreary place, isn't it?" the one with the yellow plume in her bonnet said.
"It had the feel of a warehouse," the other said with a shudder. "No style whatsoever."
Yellow Plume said with a laugh, "And that clerk? He belongs in a museum, not a jewelry shop."
"Well, we've had our misadventure, and it shan't bear repeating." Her friend sniffed. "Back to familiar waters?"
"Rundell's had a lovely diadem in the window," Yellow Plume agreed.
Paul bowed politely as they passed, ignoring their arch looks. Once their carriage rolled off, he stepped into Sparkler's and saw with dismay that the biddies were right. The shop looked as shabby as it had on his last visit—worse, in fact, for now several large boxes were stacked haphazardly upon the counters. The clerk, Mr. Jameson, worked at removing the contents. If the old
man were in a race against a tortoise, Paul would give the reptile the edge.
"Good day, Mr. Fines." The clerk's face scrunched into a smile that displayed his plentiful wrinkles and not so plentiful teeth. "Wasn't expecting you. Honeymoon over already?"
He could say that again.
What in bloody hell had Paul gotten himself into? With a feeling of panic, he said, "Sparkler's held up. I'm here in his stead."
"That's mighty kind of you, sir. Could use a hand. Shipment of plate arrived just now and I was working on ..." Jameson frowned. "Wait a minute, what do you mean held up? How late is the master going to be?"
Paul gave the explanation.
"Mr. Sparkler will be out indefinitely? And Miss Char—I mean, Mrs. Fines—will be with him?" Jameson looked as if the rug—if there'd been one over the worn floorboards—had been pulled from beneath him. "But I'm just a clerk. How on earth will I manage the entire shop?"
"You won't." Paul rubbed the back of his neck. "I believe that pleasure is to be mine."
"You?" A notch worked between Jameson's grizzled brows.
He shared the other's disbelief. He hardly knew what he was doing here. Never mind the fact that he'd stopped off at Traymore's club directly before, informing the other of the altered plans for training. While the viscount hadn't been pleased, he'd grudgingly accepted Paul's decision.
"But you will make absolutely certain that you're ready to fight in five weeks?" Traymore had said. "I've got money on you, Fines, and more than that, my pride's on the line. I don't like backing a losing proposition."
"I won't lose," Paul had said firmly.
Now he had to wrestle down his growing doubts and trepidation. With the work to be done here, would he have time to train sufficiently? Would he be in top condition, be strong and fast enough to win?
Yet what choice did he have?
The shop's in terrible shape, old Sparkler even worse. There's no way I can leave Charity. Not now—when she needs me the most.
For her sake, he would have to find a way to balance training with the demands of the store. If he had to, he would get his practice in before dawn and spar again after the shop closed. Whatever it took, he would do it.
And, hell, it might be worth the effort just to see Uriah Sparkler eat humble pie.
"Well, better you than me." Jameson blotted his forehead with a handkerchief. "Running this place is a young man's job, and I'm not as spry as I look."
Paul eyed the heap of boxes. He had to begin somewhere, and it was time to take matters into his own hands—literally.
He slung his jacket over a counter and rolled up his sleeves. With a sigh, he said, "Let's do something about this mess, shall we?"
TWENTY-SIX
As much as Charity loved her father, she had to admit that he was a difficult patient. She spent the next week in a state of frenzy—trying to keep him in bed, convince him to take his medicines, and coax him into eating more than a few bites of food, all his favorites that she'd had specially prepared. He complained about everything and demanded incessantly, "Take me to the shop." A few days ago, when he attempted to get up on his own, he grew faint and almost fell to the ground before she rushed over and caught him.
By week's end, she was exhausted from worry and lack of sleep.
As she fluffed his pillows to make them more comfortable, Father grumbled, "I'm going back to the shop tomorrow. I'm fit as a fiddle."
"Let's see how you feel tomorrow," Charity said.
"I'm telling you I'm fine. Which I won't be if that fribble has destroyed my life's work." His grey brows lowered in a glower. "By now, he could have frittered away the entire store. Or razed it to the ground on some drunken lark. That's what these feckless young bloods do, you know."
Her jaw clenched. She didn't like the way her father put Paul down. How he did so constantly. He seemed oblivious to all the efforts her husband was making, and his behavior was unappreciative to say the least.
Her patience fraying, she said, "That fribble happens to be your son-in-law and my husband. I'll thank you to speak of him more kindly. He's had to compromise his plans in order to oversee the shop during your illness."
"Plans, hah. Boxing isn't a plan—it's a waste of time," her father groused.
She knew that he was wrong. Paul was making such a sacrifice for her, for Sparkler's. Every morning for the past week, he'd been up and out of the house before she even awakened. He'd arranged for pre-dawn practices at Gentleman Jackson's Saloon, boxing for several hours before he went to tend to the shop. After working all day, he went to practice again. He didn't arrive home until late at night; he fell straight into bed, exhausted. And the next day it began all over again.
Her papa's gaze thinned. "And I'll thank you not to take such a tone with me, missy. What happened to the obedient girl I raised? Am I nothing to you now? Nothing but an old cripple not worthy of the simplest courtesy and respect?"
Charity's cheeks burned. "Of course I respect you, Father. I just wish you would give Paul a chance. If you did, you'd come to love him as I do. Or at least like him. He's a good, honorable man and—"
"Love? Did you just say you believe yourself in love with this n'er-do-well?"
She swallowed as a wild light came into her father's eyes. She hadn't meant to admit her love aloud; she hadn't told anybody yet, not even Paul. She'd wanted to wait until the right moment to confess her true feelings to him … the right moment being when he might return the sentiment. After their magical week at the cottage in Chudleigh Crest, it had seemed possible that he might come to love her, at least a little. And now he'd selflessly placed her welfare and that of the shop before his own.
Since their return to London, however, they hadn't had much time to spend together, what with her nursing Father and Paul busy with his schedule. For the first time in their marriage, they'd also had to take separate rooms for the beds were too narrow to fit more than one occupant comfortably. It never rained but poured, and her monthly flux had arrived as well, putting an additional damper on their lovemaking.
Well, her courses were over now, and she planned to spend an evening alone with Paul when he returned home. Hopefully, the intimacy of their wedding trip would rekindle, giving her the courage to tell him the truth of her feelings.
Lifting her chin, she said, "Yes, Father, I love him."
She braced herself for her father's anger. His scorn, perhaps. So she wasn't prepared for the quiet resignation in his voice when he said, "I pity you, my daughter. That I do."
"Pity?" Her brow furrowed. "But why? I'm happy to love my husband."
"Aye. But does he love you?"
Her fingers pleated the edge of the sheet. "We're newly wedded. These things take time. And I … I have kept my feelings to myself until now."
"At least I know some of the sense I ingrained in you remains." Her papa gripped her hand with sudden strength. "Heed me: if you're wise, you'll never let him know of your love."
"Why do you say that, Father?"
"Because it can only lead to pain." His grey eyes flickered with shadows. "Sparklers do not lie to themselves: they see their true reflections in the looking glass. Haven't I taught you that? Look at yourself, my daughter—and look at your husband. You must see the difference."
Her heart beat faster. An image materialized of herself, covered in spots, watching Paul as he was surrounded by pretty debutantes. As he cast longing glances at the only one he'd wanted: raven-haired, violet-eyed Rosalind—the night to his sun. The one for whom he'd admitted that "sentiment lingered."
Just then, the gleam of her opal ring caught her eye, its fire renewing her strength.
"He thinks I'm beautiful," she said.
"Pretty words don't cost much, especially not to a silver-tongued rascal like him. Charity, my poor deluded child," her father said with such misery that her throat cinched, "all my life I've sought to protect you. To arm you with good sense and modesty so that you would know your place in the world."
"
My place is with my husband. We made a vow to each other before God."
"Are you such an innocent that you don't realize that such vows are broken more oft than not? Your husband is a known philanderer. Do you actually think he'll change ... because of you?"
"He promised me." Her voice wavered.
Father shook his head. "He may have made promises now, but they shan't last. With his sort, they never do. Mark my words: he will tire of you and toss you aside as carelessly as he does last season's fashion."
No. Paul wouldn't. He couldn't.
"It pains me to say this, Charity, but,"—her father let out a wheezing breath—"the truth is that whilst we Sparklers remain steadfast in everything we do, the same cannot be said of others. That is why we get left behind. Haven't you learned from my own suffering?"
"But Mama died. She didn't choose to leave." A voice, new and defiant, rose within her. Your suffering doesn't have to be mine.
"What does it matter? She's gone, isn't she?" His voice turned harsh. "She left me to raise you, an infant girl, on my own and with no one to count on but myself. It wasn't easy, and others in my shoes might have given you up to an orphanage or the workhouse. But I didn't abandon you—do you know why?"
Her breaths rapid, she shook her head.
"Because Sparklers stick together. We do our duty to each other. Hasn't it always been this way, you and me against the rest of them?"
Her defiant spark extinguished as memories crowded her: walking to and from the shop with her papa, taking hasty suppers together in the back room of Sparkler's. The hours they'd spent poring over the merchandise—and the triumph she'd felt when he had complimented her on the neatness of the displays. All her life, she'd yearned for his approval.
"I am trying to do what's right," she said, swallowing, "and so is Paul. He's worked tirelessly at the shop while you've been ill—doesn't that count for something?"
"He can't save Sparkler's." The starkness of his tone released a trickle of fear in her. The anger seemed to leave him, deflating him, and he slumped back against the pillows, his eyes closing. "We had one chance, and that was with Garrity. Well, that's gone now, and the only thing left to save is you. Your ... heart." His voice cracked as he said, "Protect it, child, for I may not be long in this world to do it for you."
Her Prodigal Passion Page 18