The Earl's London Bride

by Lauren Royal

  Robert nodded, digesting the information. Both Duke’s Place and the Minories were nearby, just outside the old Roman wall. “I won’t need a license or anything?”

  “Nah. Just two crowns for the curate and a couple of witnesses.”

  Not a problem, thought Robert, imagining the stash of coins, gold, and gems that awaited him upon his marriage.

  His stomach roiled, protesting another swig of ale. He was sorry it had come to this, sorry she wasn’t submitting to him of her own accord. But she was his due, and once the deed was done she’d get used to the idea. She’d come to his bed and bear his children. Eventually. She’d always been a cold one, anyway—he’d never expected to find her a warm and willing wife.

  And when she was his, everything she owned would be, too.

  He looked up at his two drinking companions. “Either of you heard of Lord Greystone?”

  “Nay, never heard of him,” the man next to him muttered.

  “Nah.” The man across from him shook his head.

  “Hey,” he called out, his voice slurred. “Anyone here know a Lord Greystone? Colin Something-or-other?”

  “Chase,” someone called out. “Colin Chase.” The man wore a long, crimped periwig and was dressed a tad more stylishly than the average patron of the King’s Arms; Robert believed he could be acquainted with Colin Chase, or at least know of him.

  “He got a brother? The Marquess of something?”

  “Cainewood. The Marquess of Cainewood. Jason Chase.”

  “Right.” And Amy had been riding in Cainewood’s carriage, with Cainewood’s sister. It all fit together.

  Pleased with his powers of deduction, Robert paused for another swallow and dragged his sleeve across his mouth. “Anyone know where Cainewood lives? I’ll pay someone”—he burped loudly—“ten shillings to show me where he lives.”

  There was a scraping of benches as men rose, eager to collect ten shillings for such an easy job. Robert wasn’t so sotted, however, that he didn’t realize most of them probably didn’t know Cainewood’s house from the London Bridge.

  “You,” he said. He rose unsteadily and pointed at the man who had answered his questions. “You’re the one. Come along.”

  Gesturing for the man to follow, he stumbled through the door and out into the street. His companion pressed himself up against the wall as Robert paused to throw up in the gutter, his vomit barely adding to the refuse and filth already there.

  Robert stood up, swiped a sleeve across his mouth, and let loose a loud belch. “That’s better. Let’s go.”

  Shaking his head in disgust, the man led the way all the same.

  Ten shillings was ten shillings.

  FORTY-THREE

  AMY JERKED awake, struggling against a hand over her mouth—a grimy hand, smelling of ale and sweat and vomit. She gagged.

  “Hush,” came a hiss in her ear. “Make a sound and I’ll kill you, I swear it. I’ve got a knife.”

  She froze at the sound of Robert’s voice, but didn’t believe him for a second. Jeweler’s tools were the closest thing to a weapon he ever touched. He wouldn’t know what to do with a serious knife even if he truly had one.

  She lashed out, scratching at his face and kicking her legs wildly. He fell awkwardly on top of her, pinning her legs beneath his heavier ones. Her arms came around, and she sank her fingernails into his fleshy back.

  “Blast it, Amy, I didn’t want it to be like this,” Robert whispered fiercely. His body held her crushed to the bed as he groped with a hand in the darkened room. Something fell and rolled along the floor. “Blast it all!” he muttered, coming up on one elbow.

  Her head exploded in pain. One second she was fighting for her life, and the next second the world went black.

  ROBERT PULLED himself off her, panting from unaccustomed exertion. The heavy candlestick thudded to the floor as he dropped to his knees and scrabbled under the bed for the candle. When his fingers closed around it, he ran to the fireplace to light it and rushed back to examine Amy.

  A thin trail of blood ran from her scalp down her forehead. For a minute Robert panicked, searching incompetently for a pulse. He pressed his ear to her chest, heard her heart beating, felt the rise and fall of her even breathing. Thank the heavens. Dead, she was useless to him.

  He needed to marry her to get his hands on her fortune.

  He ripped long strands of the sheet and tied one around her head as a crude bandage, used another as a gag, and a third to bind her hands together. Hoping she’d cooperate and walk when she awakened, he left her feet unbound.

  He wrapped her awkwardly in one of the blankets, then grabbed her under the arms and tugged her limp form off the bed. He hadn’t counted on the dead weight. Petite Amy felt heavy as a horse. Pausing twice to rewrap the blanket around her, he dragged her to the open window, where a ladder waited.

  With a mighty effort, he hefted her inert body over one shoulder and ducked out, feeling for the ladder with an unsteady foot. Balancing her precariously, he lurched down a rung at a time, more than relieved when the hackney driver met him halfway and relieved him of his heavy burden.

  The driver dumped Amy onto the bench seat, and Robert climbed inside. “You know where to go,” he growled under his breath, sending the man up top with a wave of his hand.

  Robert wedged himself next to Amy and fought to catch his breath as the cab squeaked through the quiet streets.

  The sidelamp threw light into the interior, casting a yellowish glow onto Amy’s slack face. Thankfully, her wound was superficial, the bandage stained but the bleeding stopped. He tucked the errant blanket tighter around her, then slumped against the side of the coach, relieved and exhausted.

  A bellman called the hour of midnight, the words resonating through the thick, clammy fog. Three-quarters of an hour later, the springless cab bumped through Aldgate and into Duke’s Place, rattling to a stop in front of St. James.

  The door was unlocked, it being a church, but no one was inside. Robert walked to the altar, his footsteps on the stone floor echoing in the deserted chamber. Votive candles were set about the sanctuary, flickering, contributing to the eerie atmosphere.

  Robert had never been in an empty church before. Truth be told, he hadn’t been in a church at all in recent memory. In his opinion, life was for living, and there would be ample time for regret and penance when he was older.

  He shivered.

  “Anyone here?” he called, half expecting the figure on the cross to look down and answer him. But it didn’t, of course. The sanctuary was silent save for his own breathing, which sounded louder and louder as he became more agitated.

  The place was giving him the creeps. Everyone knew that dead clergymen were buried under the floors of these churches, and suddenly Robert was certain one of their ghosts was about to pop up and grab him. He turned and ran down the aisle and out the door.

  “No one’s there,” he yelled at the hackney driver, as though it were the man’s fault.

  The driver shrugged. “It’s Saturday evening.”

  It was actually Sunday morning by now, but Robert didn’t bother arguing. Besides, what if someone needed a priest on a Saturday night? They must be available somewhere. “Take me to St. Trinity, in the Minories,” he ordered before jumping into the cab and kicking the half-door shut.

  The driver shrugged again, then took a swig of the brandy he carried with him against the winter chill. He didn’t care if the young fellow wasted his time. Robert had promised him a full evening’s pay, and he’d quoted triple his usual night’s take and demanded half in advance.

  St. Trinity was a scant three streets away, much too close for Robert, who had yet to recover from the last stop. The deserted streets contributed to his unease. Londoners stayed inside at night, venturing outdoors only for necessary travel, and then generally with an escort of footmen and linkboys to light the way. The law required citizens to hang lamps outside their houses on dark nights, but no one complied; the unlit, foggy street
s were spooky, and Robert felt nervous and shaky.

  He forced himself to get out of the cab and slowly walked up to the massive church doors.

  Inside, St. Trinity looked much like St. James. His feet made a shuffling sound as he crossed the threshold, and his heart hammered in his chest as he scanned the flickering, shadowed walls. When a door at the other end opened, he jumped, letting out a little shriek.

  A florid, balding man stuck his head into the sanctuary and smiled. “Feel free to pray here, my son. Problems seem smaller when you share them with our Lord.”

  The curate stepped out into the sanctuary, and Robert saw that he was plump and healthy, evidently well fed and cared for, unlike most parish priests. Apparently the curate of a privileged church enjoyed a highly lucrative position. The man didn’t look frightening in the least.

  The whole chamber seemed to lighten, and Robert heaved a sigh of relief. “I’ve come to get married, Father.”

  The clergyman looked pleased. “Ah, I see. Have you need of a—shall we say ‘special’—certificate?”

  “Nay, the date matters not. But the lady is…reluctant.”

  “That’s none of my concern. The price will be three crowns.”

  “I heard tell it was two.”

  “Two and a half, then. Special, for you.”

  “Done.” In truth, Robert would have paid ten crowns or more, and gladly, for securing Amy and her riches.

  He turned toward the door, intending to fetch Amy posthaste and get it over with. He hoped mightily that she had awakened, or that it wouldn’t matter either way to the curate.

  “I’ll see you Monday morning, then,” the curate called out.

  “Monday?” He swung back. “I—can we not do it now?”

  The clergyman smiled wider, showing large, uneven teeth. “The Sabbath approaches, my son. There will be no weddings until Monday.”

  “But…”

  “Bring with you two witnesses and a pistol—the latter will make it go faster.” He winked at Robert. “I have five other weddings Monday, so come early or expect to wait. Good evening.” He disappeared, shutting the door behind him, leaving Robert standing openmouthed.

  Where was he going to get a pistol? And, even more difficult, whatever would he do with Amy until Monday? He cursed himself, loudly, for acting without planning first, then clapped a hand over his mouth. Surely cursing in a house of the Lord was much worse than cursing elsewhere.

  He bolted for the door.

  His heart was pounding so hard that it took him a few moments to notice the hackney’s door was wide open and he could hear someone running down the street.

  Amy had escaped.

  FORTY-FOUR

  AMY RAN AS fast as she could, clutching the blanket in front where her hands were tied together. It flapped behind her, floating in the draft, not providing any warmth to speak of. But she held on to it for dear life, knowing it could save her from freezing to death later on, if she couldn’t find shelter.

  With every jarring step, pain burst in her throbbing head. Racing along the scum-lined street, she stumbled over rocks and debris. A sharp sliver sliced into one bare foot, but she scarcely noticed. As she turned onto Whitechapel she developed a stitch in her side, but she scarcely noticed that, either. She was too preoccupied with the pounding feet she heard approaching—feet that were bound to be Robert’s, since she’d seen no other soul in the gray, foggy night.

  She ducked into a narrow space between two buildings and hunched over there, trying with little success to maneuver the blanket around her shivering shoulders. The nightgown she’d borrowed from Kendra was all but useless against the winter cold.

  Robert ran past, panting heavily, a dark shadow against the fog. She held her breath and flattened herself against one of the walls, trying to make herself invisible.

  As his echoing footsteps faded away, Amy released her breath. The stench of rotting refuse made her want to gag. Still, she forced herself to stay motionless, pressed against the rough, cold stone wall for what seemed like hours, though she knew it was only minutes.

  As the chill seeped into her body, penetrating to her very bones, she listened. She heard a baby crying, a couple’s raised, angry voices, her own heart thudding in her chest.

  The footsteps didn’t return.

  Minutes ticked by. She grew colder still; she would have to find shelter soon. Barefoot, clad in only a thin white nightgown and blanket, gagged and with her wrists bound, she imagined herself to be quite a sight. Regardless, someone would doubtless help her, take her in for the night, if only she could get to their front door. The arguing couple was her best bet—at least she knew they were home and awake.

  Not an attractive alternative, but she was in no position to be choosy.

  She waited a few more agonizing minutes, while her heart slowed to its normal rhythm, her breathing became more regular, and her shivering escalated to new heights. Finally convinced she had escaped successfully, she decided to venture forth.

  Her deep, fortifying breath created a cloud in the frigid air. She peeled herself away from the wall and limped to the edge of the buildings. Her eyes now adjusted to the unlit London streets, she stuck her head out and looked both ways, seeing nothing that alarmed her, although she couldn’t see far through the fog.

  She thought the bickering couple lived across the narrow street, down Whitechapel to the right. The hazy yellow of a lit window in approximately the right place confirmed her guess.

  Steeling herself to leave her cramped, freezing cold haven of safety, she counted. One, two, three…now.

  She bolted across the street, angling toward the comforting light of the window. Suddenly, a rickety noise sliced through the blanket of fog as a coach came barreling around the corner. Releasing a whimper of fright that was muffled by the gag in her mouth, she dropped her blanket in the middle of the street and, reaching the other side, took a sharp left, running the opposite direction of the coach’s travel.

  It was no use. Before the hackney even screeched to a halt, Robert jumped off and gained on her immediately.

  A fierce tug on the back of her nightgown brought her stumbling to her knees. She broke her fall with her elbows and bound fists. Numb with cold and shock, she scarcely registered the new scrapes. An instant later, Robert threw himself on top of her, forcing her facedown into the dirt and knocking the wind out of her lungs.

  “Curses and furies!” he hollered. “Did you think you could actually escape me?”

  Even had she not been gagged and breathless, she wouldn’t have answered him.

  Darkness had closed in again.

  MORNING SUN fought to illuminate the room through a small dirt-streaked window. Blinking in the dimness, Amy struggled toward consciousness. Although she was alone and ungagged, her hands were still bound together. She was lying in a bed. Beneath a dirty, threadbare blanket, her feet were tied to the bedposts.

  She lay still, taking stock of herself. Her head ached, her knees and elbows burned, her body felt stiff and sore, bruised all over. She needed a chamber pot, but that would have to wait.

  Diminished but still whole, she was determined to fight Robert to her last breath.

  Her scraped elbows were roughly crusted over with new scabs that cracked and opened when she moved. She licked her dry lips, tasting coppery blood in the corners where the gag had rubbed them raw. She tested the bonds on her wrists, twisting them experimentally. They chafed horribly, the skin red and abraded. But, with patience and her teeth, she was sure she could untie the cloth strips. This time, however, she’d have a plan before she did anything.

  The room gave no clue to her location. The window was so obliterated with dirt that she had no view of the outside. Dark shadows against the panes told her it was barred, anyway. The plain chamber contained nothing more than her flea-ridden bed, a rough table, and two chairs on a filthy, bare wooden floor. A paltry fire gave off little warmth and a fair amount of smoke, laid as it was in a blackened fireplace that
had long been in need of cleaning.

  She had no memory of her arrival here. She thought she’d been in Whitechapel when she made the failed attempt at freedom, but she could be a day’s ride from there for all she was aware of the lapse of time. She would have to wait for Robert’s return before she could begin to plot her escape.

  Closing her eyes, she prayed for the oblivion of sleep.

  FORTY-FIVE

  COLIN LEANED LOW over the saddle, his hands clenched on the reins, the paper crumpled in one fist. He couldn’t read it while Ebony’s pounding hooves ate up the miles of rutted road, but Ford’s scribbled words were burned into his brain.

  Amy is missing. Come immediately.

  His heart had been hammering since he’d set eyes on the cryptic note. He’d wasted no time setting out for London, his fevered imagination conjuring up scenes featuring every possibility, from Amy deciding to leave England on her own, to Amy lying dead in a ditch, a pistol wound in her chest.

  The wind whipped past as he barreled along, praying mightily. He made the most outlandish promises, bargaining with the Almighty for her safe return. He would dedicate himself to the rebuilding of St. Paul’s Cathedral (though the great architect Wren hardly required his assistance). He would give all his riches to the needy (what riches?). He would marry Priscilla immediately, remain faithful and devoted to her the rest of his days, and never spare a single thought for Amethyst Goldsmith again.

  This last promise was the most unlikely of all.

  He’d been at war with himself for months now. It was a losing battle. As he shot through the City gates, one spurred boot nicked a vegetable barrow. He turned in the saddle, watched lemons and artichokes plop to the muddy street, yelled an apology to the vendor…and finally admitted to himself that he couldn’t let Amy go to France.

  The thought of passing days, months, years of his life at Greystone without her—whether she was living with her aunt, married to someone else, or cold in her grave—made him sick in his gut. They belonged together.