Never Dare a Wicked Earl

by Renee Ann Miller

  For a moment, there was an eerie, almost oppressive quiet. Even her breathing seemed to cease. The sound of metal scraping against metal shattered the void, and the door swung open.

  The large whiskered man from the alley stood at the threshold, a candle in his hand. His dark eyes looked like two black pits in his gaunt face. Without a word, he shoved the candle into a tarnished sconce that hung above the doorway. Its cracked globe caused odd, jagged shafts of light to skitter across the grimy walls in muted relief.

  Heart pounding against her ribs, she scrambled to her feet. “What do you intend to do with me?”

  He laughed, exposing black teeth, and kicked the door closed. It slammed against the jamb causing the candle in the sconce to perch forward like a drunken bird in a glass cage. Rubbing his hands together like a starved man about to feast on a hearty meal, he stepped toward her.

  She realized his intent. Corrosive bile burned her esophagus. She clasped a hand to her throat.

  His smile broadened. “Bet ye never had a real man,” he said with a salacious sneer, stroking a firm hand up and down the bulge in front of his trousers.

  She balled her hands as self-preservation took hold. Her fingernails dug painfully into her palms.

  The wretch moved closer. The pungency of his breath and the potent odor of sweat, clinging to his body like a shroud, drifted forward. Her nausea intensified. She stepped back against the cold wall.

  His large hands reached out and grabbed her shoulders to drag her body against him. He inhaled audibly. “Ye smell clean.”

  He pinned her to the wall while he tugged up her skirts. Before she could scream, his mouth came down on hers, fierce and hard, bruising her lips against her teeth. She tried to twist her face and body away. A futile effort.

  His mouth moved across her cheek. His coarse beard chafed her skin. “Keep fightin’ me, me little bird,” he whispered. “I likes it when a woman ’as a bit of fire in ’er belly.” He reached under her cape and tore her bodice. Cool air washed over her neck and upper chest. His damp breath panted against the swell of her corseted breasts. Her mind went numb, disembodied, as though she were a spectator to all that unfolded. He tugged at her corset, and with one last gasp of sanity, she rammed her palm into his nose.

  He stumbled back, cupping his face.

  She dashed toward the door. His hand reached out and snagged her wrist. “Ye bitch!” He flung her around to face him, and struck her cheek, knocking her to the floor. Flashes of light interspersed with dark colorless voids. They danced before her eyes while the metallic tang of blood filled her mouth.

  “I’ll teach ye good and right, I will!” He lunged atop her and dragged up her skirts.

  Terrified, she pounded her fists against his shoulders, chest, and head.

  “Stupid wench!” He struck her face again, hard. Not once, but twice with his open palm.

  Her head rolled back against the floor. Her mind teetered on the brink of darkness. The man’s ranting came to her as if she lay submerged under the churning of a rough and angry sea.

  * * *

  Little Marlie Row could only be entered by an archway too narrow for even a dogcart. Hayden’s stomach clenched as he and Trimble disembarked the carriage. The poorest denizens of the East End lived in these dirty warrens. Some so desperate, they’d do nearly anything to put food in their bellies, including attacking and robbing a woman.

  But the blackguard had taken Sophia with him, and only one thought crossed Hayden’s mind as to why a man would do such a thing.

  Bile traveled up his throat. He quickly unlatched a carriage lamp.

  “There’s a police station not far from here on Leman Street,” Trimble said to the coachman. “Get a constable.”

  They raced under the arch and scanned the addresses. Number Five was a decrepit tenement that looked abandoned. The few windows that graced the façade were missing panes of glass.

  Hayden turned the handle. The unlocked door opened, and the stench of sewage greeted him.

  “I’ll check the ground floor,” Trimble said, hastening down the corridor, holding his lantern high.

  With a nod, Hayden charged up the steps. The winding stairway was so tight, his shoulders brushed against the grimy walls, slowing him down. As he reached the first landing, a thud rattled the floor above.

  A woman’s cry pierced the cloying air, followed by an oppressive quiet.

  Heart pounding a steady tattoo, he bolted up another flight.

  As he moved down the narrow corridor, his gaze shot to the end of the hall. Weak light shone under a door.

  Three strides brought him there. He set his lamp down and shouldered the door open. It banged against the wall.

  A hulking man lay atop Sophia’s still body. Startled, the miscreant turned and peered over his shoulder.

  Sophia’s slim body suddenly moved, and she rammed her knee up, hitting the scum between the legs.

  The man howled in pain and collapsed onto her.

  “Bastard,” Hayden hissed through clenched teeth. He grabbed the man by the scruff of his coat, dragged him off her, and smashed his fist into the groaning man’s face.

  Unconscious, the miscreant hit the wall and slid to the floor. Hayden knelt beside Sophia and slipped an arm beneath her shoulders.

  “No!” She reached out, raking her fingernails down the left side of Hayden’s face.

  Pain seared his cheek. “Sophia, it’s Hayden—” His voice broke as a wave of emotion crashed upon him.

  Dazed eyes stared at him. “Hayden?” she rasped, her voice barely audible.

  “Yes.” His trembling hand traveled up and down her body, examining every inch, before settling on her abdomen. “Did he hurt you?” An inane question, since the dim light revealed her red cheek and blood seeping from the corner of her mouth. But she knew him, and that was a good sign.

  “No. I-I’m fine.”

  “Did he . . . ?” Fear knotted his gut as he tried to force the words out. “Violate you?”

  “No.” Her eyes drifted closed.

  Hands shaking, Hayden peeled off his overcoat, wrapped it around Sophia, and scooped her up.

  Trimble stepped over the threshold. The doctor raised his lantern, lifted Sophia’s eyelids, and seemed to study her pupils. “I need to examine her.”

  “We’ll return to my residence.” Hayden pulled Sophia’s limp body tighter to him.

  “Your residence?” Trimble echoed, his voice betraying disbelief.

  “I meant what I said, Trimble. I’ll wed Sophia by week’s end, if not tomorrow.” Whether Sophia liked it or not, she was about to become his wife. She might love her sainted Dr. Trimble, but he couldn’t allow her to marry the man. Not now. Not while she carried his child. There would be no turning back for either of them.

  Angus and two constables rushed into the room.

  Hayden snapped several orders at the policemen.

  One of the constables set his hands on his hips. “Wait a minute, sir. I need specifics as to what happened here before I arrest the man.”

  Angus leaned over and whispered in the policeman’s ear.

  The constable visibly swallowed. “Yes, my lord. I’ll send an inspector to your residence to write his report, if that’s fine with you?”

  Hayden gave the man a terse nod and, carrying Sophia, stepped into the corridor. His mind veered back to what had nearly happened to her. Thank God she was safe.

  Chapter Eighteen

  As Hayden descended the stairs of his town house, the front door burst open. He’d known the missive he sent to Edith would have her rushing to his residence posthaste. Nevertheless, he’d not expected her to arrive only minutes after receiving it.

  His sister, normally the picture of propriety and a person of sound judgment, looked in a state of dishabille. Instead of donning one of her fitted gowns, she wore her woolen coat over her wrapper and nightgown. And if that wasn’t laughable enough, one side of her hair was pinned up while the other hung about her shoulder
s in disarray.

  “Where is he?” she demanded, glaring at Hawthorne.

  Hawthorne’s stoic countenance faltered. “A-ah, Lady Prescott.”

  “Edith,” Hayden said, taking the last steps.

  She spun around.

  “I was expecting you. Please join me for breakfast?” He motioned to the center corridor.

  “Heaven knows I couldn’t eat a thing! And what has happened to your face? You look like you were in a brawl with a cat.”

  He briefly touched the scratches Sophia made on his cheek, then, with a gentle hand on the small of Edith’s back, Hayden prompted her forward, ignoring her question.

  Once in the dining room, he dismissed the footman who stood by the sideboard, picked up a plate, and turned to his sister, who paced the floor like a parading Grenadier Guard.

  “Sit, Edith. I shall bring you something to eat.”

  She withdrew his missive from her coat pocket. “Have you taken up opium smoking, or have you just taken leave of your senses?”

  Having filled the dish with an assortment of foods, including a poached egg, several sausages, and a scone with a large dollop of clotted cream and strawberry jam—Edith’s favorite—he turned a discerning eye toward her. “At least I had the decency to dress this morning.”

  “Dress?” She heaved an explosive breath. “How could I do so after being set upon with a missive stating you are to be married? Tomorrow!” She shook the paper violently in the air, emphasizing her distaste at its contents.

  He peered at Edith’s shoes. She wore open-toed slippers with three-inch heels and a flurry of feathers embellishing the leather band that ran above her instep. They resembled something a cancan dancer would don in one of the seedier music halls in Paris. Risqué by most standards, especially Edith’s. His lips twitched.

  “You might have donned decent shoes before you rushed over to offer me congratulations. Aren’t your feet cold in those things?”

  Her pale cheeks colored before she cast an angry glower upon him. “Whom, may I ask, are you to wed? I can think of no one. . . .” Her hand fluttered to her bosom. “Do not tell me it’s that lunatic Adele Fontaine.”

  “You truly do think me mad.”

  She sighed and slumped into the closest chair.

  Hayden placed the dish laden with food before Edith and poured her a cup of tea. “Sophia and I are to be married.”

  “Sophia?” Edith repeated. She blinked. “Sophia Camden? You cannot be serious.”

  A nerve in his jaw twitched. He’d thought Edith would be the one person who would not question him. The one person who would offer support, as she’d done when he’d announced his intent to marry Laura. He poured himself a cup of black coffee.

  “Have you become snobbish, Edith, or is it me you do not approve of?” He leaned back against the marble-topped sideboard and took a sip of the warm brew.

  “You know, well and good, I’m not a prig. But people will talk, and what they will say will be spiteful. They will wonder what transpired in this house while she resided under your roof. They will call her an upstart. They will say you have married beneath yourself. Again.” Edith cupped a hand over her mouth.

  “Was that what you truly thought, Edith? That Laura was beneath us. How can you even think that after what Father did?”

  “Hayden, I didn’t say I agreed with what had been said. Nor what will be said, only there are those who will take great pleasure in showing Sophia only a modicum of civility.”

  He took another sip of his coffee. “Then you should be relieved to learn Sophia is not only a competent assistant to Trimble, but the great-niece of Charles Camden. In fact, she is his only living relation.”

  Her brow furrowed.

  “You do not recognize the name?”

  Edith shook her head. “No.”

  “The man supplies most of the coal to Manchester, to its factories, and to the London and North Western Railway.”

  Edith’s eyes grew round. She opened her mouth to speak, but Hayden held up his hand. “She is also Vincente Gianni’s granddaughter.”

  Her mouth fell open. “The painter?”

  “The one and only.”

  “Oh,” she replied, her startled expression deepening.

  “Her great-uncle’s fortune, in and of itself, shall keep tongues from wagging. I do not doubt she’ll be accepted into the finest drawing rooms.”

  “I see,” she said. “I wish to know when this came about. You seemed barely civil to her, yet now you are to be married and in such haste.” She drew in a sharp breath. “Hayden, you didn’t . . . ?”

  “Force myself upon her? Does the blood coursing through my veins predispose me to acts of a heinous nature? If it does, my dear sister, I must remind you it courses through your body as well.”

  “I know you would never force yourself upon a woman. I just thought perhaps you had, well, seduced the poor girl.”

  “I hardly think a woman of twenty-four is a girl.”

  “No, certainly not. But she is not, shall we say, as experienced as the women you usually consort with.”

  “You have always been the wisest bird in the flock, my dear.”

  “Oh, Hayden, not while she was under your roof. Under your protection.”

  Uneasiness settled in his stomach. He had seduced Sophia, but he’d feel no shame. No, he’d try to set things right. He would be a good husband. Faithful. Devoted. And God knew he’d love the child. Sophia’s and his. He would make his family proud and protect them. “I grow tired of this conversation.” He straightened and placed his coffee down. “The wedding is at eleven tomorrow. The guest list shall be short. Only you, Henry, Celia, and anyone Sophia wishes to invite.”

  “What of our family? Surely, you mean to include at least Great-Aunt Hortense?”

  He considered telling Edith what had happened to Sophia and the bruises that marred her face. He would tell her later. “If Sophia wants we will have some grand event later.”

  “But Hayden—”

  “The matter is settled. Eat your food, dear. I need to go shopping. I have a wedding ring to purchase.”

  * * *

  Sophia awoke in a lovely bedchamber decorated with a yellow damask counterpane and flowery primrose chintz curtains. The mahogany furnishings were sturdy but distinctly feminine with soft edges and delicate carvings of roses and leaves. Even the four-poster in which she lay had intricately carved buds and flowers in full bloom.

  Where was she? She lifted the bedding to toss it off. A memory blossomed in her foggy head of Hayden cradling her in his arms.

  Was she at his town house? She glanced around again. Yes, and this bedchamber—with its exquisite furnishings—belonged to the lady of the house. The room that adjoined his. She’d seen it once when a maid had left the door open while cleaning it.

  The man was scandalous. Outrageous enough he’d brought her here, but to place her in this bedchamber was beyond the pale. And what did it mean?

  She settled back into the feathery pillows. The scent of Hayden’s shaving soap drifted to her nose, along with a faint remembrance of him lying in this bed, his arms wrapped around her, telling her she should have told him about the baby. She set her fingers to her temple. A fragment of a dream? Yes, what else? The image resurfaced—clearer this time. She shook her head, and another vision shifted to the forefront, this one of Thomas spooning a sedative into her mouth. No doubt, the tincture lingered, clouding her perception.

  A knock sounded on the door. Dressed only in her shift, she tugged the counterpane up to her neck. “Yes, come in.”

  Alice entered the room with a scuttle of coal. The tension in Sophia’s body eased. Yet, instead of greeting her in her usual, animated voice, the young maid acted anxious and uncomfortable. She bobbed a quick curtsey. “I’m to tend to the fire, miss, I mean, my lady.”

  My lady? Sophia wondered what Hayden’s servants had concluded by him having brought her here, instead of her own residence. They probably knew more about wh
at was going on than she did.

  “What is being said belowstairs, Alice?”

  “It isn’t my place to say,” she replied, squatting before the grate.

  The maid had always been so forthright, but the walls separating their classes now stood erect. “Won’t you tell me?”

  The young woman glanced over her shoulder. “I don’t wish to lose my job.”

  “You know I wouldn’t jeopardize your employment by repeating anything you say.”

  Alice nibbled on her bottom lip.

  “Or anything you have said in the past,” Sophia added quickly.

  A sheepish expression settled over the servant’s countenance. “I knew you were different. A right proper miss who could speak French and all, but never in my life would I have guessed you a great heiress or that you would be marrying his lordship.”

  With a gasp, Sophia sat up straight. “Is that what they’re saying?”

  Alice’s head bobbed. “Yes. I heard your great-uncle owns half them collieries up north and your grandfather was a famous painter, and that his lordship is to marry you tomorrow.”

  The room spun. Sophia leaned back. “Tomorrow?”

  “Yes, miss. A vicar was here talking with his lordship.” Alice stepped closer and spoke low as if the walls could hear. “And it’s said his lordship’s sister called upon him early this morning wearing nothing but her unmentionables. Her ladyship always resembles a fashion plate, so I thinks Peter, I mean the person who told me, was tugging my leg.”

  Sophia hoped so, for the implication reflected Lady Prescott found the idea of a marriage between Sophia and Hayden distasteful. She probably wished her brother to marry a young blue-blooded debutante.

  “And Chef is in a tizzy. Says he absolutely cannot make a wedding cake in so short a time, nor the wedding breakfast. Keeps saying merde this and merde that. Elsie thinks merde means mother. I never heard a grown man call for his mother so much in all my life.” Alice took a deep breath. “And there’s a florist in the blue drawing room, filling his lordship’s fancy Sevres vases, you know the ones Mrs. Beecham won’t let me touch, with more flowers than I ever seen in my whole life.”

  Another memory slipped back into place, this one of Hayden telling Thomas that he would marry Sophia because of the baby. She touched the side of her bruised face. It was starting to throb, as was her head. Whatever medicine Thomas had given her was wearing off.