The Scoundrel Takes a Bride

by Stefanie Sloane

  “It’s a sad tale—a tragedy, really. The troupe had traveled south for a scheduled appearance in Sussex. The day before the performance, the lady of the house was murdered. Murdered! Maggie was not back in London for a fortnight before she lost her mind over the ordeal. Most of us weren’t even given the chance to say good-bye before they carted her off to Bedlam.”

  Camilla stared at Sophia as if seeing her for the very first time. “No, that color won’t do at all.”

  Nicholas reached for the silk gown and held it between his fingers while he admired the beadwork. “Good God, that is tragic. And poor Maggie, is she yet alive?”

  “Do you know, I’ve no idea,” Camilla answered honestly, carefully tugging the fabric from his fingers and lovingly folding the gown. “I tried to visit her once—even brought a new night rail for her. They wouldn’t let me see her. The guard said she was in confinement for attempting to injure herself. Only family and her doctor were allowed in.”

  “Family?” Sophia asked in a quiet, gentle voice.

  Camilla finished folding the dress and returned it to the trunk. “Maggie had one sister living—Rosamund was her name. But she couldn’t be bothered to come up to London for her sister. So that left her doctor. If she is still alive, would that mean that she’d only ever been allowed to see her doctor and no one else?”

  Nicholas glanced at Sophia knowingly. “Aye, I suppose it does.”

  “That makes Maggie’s story even more tragic,” Camilla muttered, straightening the skirt of her own beautifully stitched gown. “Now, off with that dress, young woman. Thinking on Maggie has made me sad and I’m in no mood to dilly-dally.”

  June 13

  THE HALCYON SOCIETY

  It had never occurred to Sophia that Bedlam would be difficult to visit.

  Of course, it had never occurred to her to consider Bedlam at all.

  Sophia watched as the women in the Halcyon afternoon sewing class perfected the buttonhole. She was glad that none in the Society’s care had required the services of England’s infamous mental institution.

  During her time working with the Runners, there had been passing mentions made of criminals being sent to Bedlam rather than prison. She’d never been allowed to interview those men while they were in the court’s custody and there was absolutely no chance anyone would reconsider once they were behind the walls of Bedlam.

  The hall door squeaked, drawing Sophia’s attention away from her thoughts. Young Abigail appeared and hurried toward her.

  “Beg pardon, my lady. Mrs. Mason asked that I fetch you. There’s a man here to see you.”

  Sophia smiled at the girl. “Ah, Lord Stonecliffe,” she explained, settling her hand on the girl’s shoulder as they walked from the room.

  “Oh no, this man is far more devilish than the earl, of that I am sure.” Abigail’s hand clamped over her mouth the moment the words slipped from her lips. “I’m sorry, my lady. I should not have said such a thing.”

  “It’s all right, Abigail. And if it is the man I think it is, I rather agree. But we will keep this between the two of us, all right? Mr. Bourne has not had an easy life, you see.”

  “You can trust me to keep our secret, Lady Sophia,” Abigail said solemnly, moving her hand to her heart. “I swear on my dead granny’s grave.”

  Sophia dropped a kiss on the crown of the girl’s head. “Thank you, Abigail. I knew that you would understand.”

  Sophia steered Abigail toward the stairs and waited while she took the first step down, then followed.

  Nicholas waited in the foyer. Sophia and Abigail reached the landing and the young girl pressed onward at an industrious clip, reaching the foyer before Sophia.

  “It is a pleasure to welcome you to Halcyon House, Mr. Bourne,” Sophia commented as she joined the group. “May I introduce Abigail?”

  “A true pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Bourne,” Abigail said cheerfully. She rolled her shoulders back and stood up straight. “Now, I’ll see to the tea.” She quickly curtsied and turned toward the stairs with military precision.

  Nicholas chuckled. “She reminds me of a girl I used to know.”

  Sophia batted his arm playfully. “Come, have a seat in the parlor. We must talk of Bedlam. Have you made any progress in gaining entry?”

  Nicholas caught Sophia’s arm. “Yes, we will talk. First, though, now that we are …” He paused, then pulled her close.

  “Yes?” Sophia asked, keenly interested to hear just what Nicholas would say.

  “Friends. Lovers,” he replied, his breath tickling her skin. “Soul mates. Have I forgotten anything?”

  Sophia was vaguely aware that they should not be having this conversation in the foyer and attempted to gather her wits. “No, I believe you have thoroughly covered every point.”

  “Good,” he growled, his lips nearly touching the sensitive lobe of her ear. “Because I do like to be thorough. But, as it so happens, I do not like tea.”

  “Tea?” Sophia asked, sure that she’d missed something important, but her mind was far too befuddled by Nicholas’s nearness to ascertain what that might be.

  He pulled back slightly and looked at her, mischief sparkling in his eyes. “Yes, tea. In the interest of absolute honesty, I feel it is time I told you that I do not like tea. In fact, I hate it.”

  “But you love me?”

  “Well, yes,” Nicholas replied automatically. “After all, you’re not tea.”

  A solid rapping at the door startled Sophia and she squeaked with surprise.

  Abigail came rushing down the stairs, slowing when she saw Nicholas and Sophia standing in the foyer. “Beg your pardon, my lady. There’s someone at the door.”

  “Of course, Abigail,” Sophia replied, stepping back to put distance between herself and Nicholas.

  Abigail took the remaining stairs at a quick, efficient clip, her boots making a small clacking noise as she hurried to the door.

  Sophia noticed that Nicholas had not let go of her arm. “Mr. Bourne, my arm, if you please,” she whispered, tugging gently.

  Instead of obliging her request, Nicholas began to rub the pad of his thumb against the sensitive skin on the inside of her elbow.

  Sophia sighed at the seductive caress, the circular pattern Nicholas traced and retraced lulling her into a carnal haze.

  “Hello there, Abigail. I’ve come to see Lady Sophia. I trust she is here?”

  Langdon’s voice instantly pierced the bubble of sensation that Abigail’s opening of the front door had not.

  “Of course, your lordship. Do come inside.”

  23

  There was no mistaking his brother’s voice. Nicholas released Sophia’s arm and took a step back just as the little maid opened the door far enough to reveal Langdon.

  “Well, this is a surprise,” Langdon proclaimed, smiling with pleasure at the two.

  “Is it?” Sophia asked nervously.

  Langdon removed his greatcoat and handed it to the waiting girl. “A happy surprise, I assure you. What brought you to the Halcyon Society, Nicholas? Am I correct in assuming you’ve not been here before?”

  Abigail curtsied, then made haste for the stairs.

  Nicholas watched as his brother took Sophia’s hand and kissed it, his lips lingering against her soft skin. “Yes, you are—as always. I’ve heard so much of the Halcyon Society that I wanted to see the charity for myself.”

  “You are a kind man, Nicholas. For the life of me, I will never understand why you hide your good qualities,” Langdon declared, pride beaming in his eyes.

  Nicholas felt the weight of Langdon’s thoughtful words as though they were bags of sand, tied to his wrists and ankles, intent on dragging him to the bottom of the cursed sea.

  “Well, do not get ahead of yourself. After all, it is very poor form on my part to only now be visiting the Halcyon Society, when I should have been supporting Sophia’s charitable endeavors all along.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” Langdon
replied, finally releasing Sophia. “In fact, perhaps you’ll do me a favor and convince Sophia to devote herself to another, more urbane charity.”

  Nicholas could not understand his brother’s request. “Whatever for? I cannot think of a more deserving organization. Can you?”

  “Whether or not the Halcyon Society is deserving is not the issue, Nicholas,” Langdon explained patiently. “The issue is Sophia’s safety. Which I fear is compromised by the Society’s clientele.”

  “Well, you’re mad if you think I will encourage Sophia to listen.”

  Sophia cleared her throat. “Gentlemen—”

  “Then protecting Sophia is of no consequence to you?” Langdon interrupted.

  Nicholas gritted his teeth until his jaw hurt. “From what, precisely? Life?”

  “Langdon, I’ve just invited Nicholas to stay for tea,” Sophia broke in, gesturing toward the parlor. “Won’t you join us? There will be biscuits as well. But no arguments.”

  “Including the one we are currently engaged in?” Langdon hazarded a guess.

  “Especially that one.”

  Langdon breathed a frustrated sigh. “And we must have tea?”

  “I adore tea,” Nicholas lied.

  “You adore tea?” Langdon asked flatly.

  “Boys,” Sophia warned, then held out her hand to Langdon and allowed him to escort her to the parlor.

  June 14

  BETHLEM ROYAL HOSPITAL

  THE MOORFIELDS

  JUST OUTSIDE LONDON PROPER

  “Rather dodgy looking for a hospital that is meant to keep the insane on the inside, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Sophia looked up the long drive of Bethlem Hospital and found she could not argue with Nicholas’s assessment. “It’s my understanding the hospital was deemed unsafe in 1807. They are currently building a new location in Southwark, though work is not expected to be completed for another two years.”

  It was an unsettling thought, Sophia realized as she examined the cracked façade of the large building and broken balustrades on each side of the wide steps leading to the hospital. Six years had passed before the hospital’s governing board had seen to the welfare of its patients. Which was not only dangerous, but downright inhumane.

  “And why do their families not care for them?” Mr. Singh asked, his eyes focused on the statues of “Raving” and “Melancholy Madness” that crowned the gateposts of the hospital.

  “Do you not have insane asylums in India, Mr. Singh?” Sophia asked, the crunch of their shoes on the gravel drive the only other sound to be heard.

  Mr. Singh turned to look at Sophia. “We do, my lady. But it is not a place where people heal, despite what those in power would have you believe.”

  A guttural cry rang out from somewhere in the building, cutting through their conversation and echoing across the hospital grounds. “Then our two countries have even more in common then I’d originally thought, Mr. Singh.”

  “I suppose we do,” he answered, then turned to look at the menacing statues yet again.

  Nicholas slowed his pace as they neared the stairs. “Come, the time is at hand; we must focus our efforts if we’re to reach Miss Pemble.”

  Sophia stared up at the building one more time, steeling her mind to block out her fear. “Shall we review?”

  The two men nodded in agreement and waited for Sophia to continue.

  “All right, then,” she began, pausing as a second desperate scream sounded from the hospital. She shrugged off the discomfort the unearthly sound had brought with it. “I am Miss Pemble’s long-lost niece. It was only recently that town records showed her to be living here. I came straightaway to London to inquire whether she is well enough to accompany me back to Hertfordshire, where my husband and I would gladly welcome her into our home.”

  “The husband,” Nicholas added, raising his hand.

  “And Mr. Pamuk, an expert in mental illness brought in to assess the aunt,” Mr. Singh said, smoothing out the lapels of his new coat.

  They reached the stairs and began to climb them slowly.

  “Are we ready?” Nicholas asked, looking at Mr. Singh, then Sophia.

  “I do not think we have any choice in the matter,” Sophia answered, standing to the side as Nicholas pulled open the door.

  “No need to be negative,” he whispered. “It is only a mental institution. What could possibly go wrong?”

  A multitude of things, Sophia thought as she crossed the hospital’s threshold and waited for the men to join her.

  “Follow me, please,” Mr. Singh said with authority. He stalked toward a woman sitting behind a desk just ahead.

  Nicholas tucked Sophia’s arm into the crook of his. “Well, let us look on the bright side, at least we’re playing man and wife, which means I have every reason to comfort you should Singh be beaten senseless by Miss Pemble.”

  “Only you could come up with such a ‘blessing,’ ” Sophia replied.

  The two crossed the room to join Mr. Singh, where he stood talking with the woman.

  “Come along, Mr. and Mrs. Felton,” he instructed, his impatient tone perfectly suited to a man of his position. “Miss Dwyer requires the paperwork.”

  “Of course,” Sophia said as they joined Mr. Singh in front of the desk. She loosened her reticule’s drawstring and reached inside. “Here we are. Birth records, church affiliation, and the family tree from our Bible.”

  Sophia held her breath as Miss Dwyer examined the papers. Nicholas had procured the required proof. And while it had all looked very real to Sophia, she was hardly an expert.

  “Wait here,” Miss Dwyer told them in a flat voice as she pushed back her chair and stood. A ring of keys rattled as she walked to a door on the opposite side of the room. She untied the ribbon holding it, chose one, and fitted it into the lock. She pushed the door open and stepped through, slamming the heavy panel shut behind her.

  The sound of the door being relocked on the other side reached Sophia’s ears. “What does this mean?”

  “I have no idea,” Nicholas replied as he scanned the sparsely furnished lobby.

  Hardly reassured by his response, Sophia began to mentally calculate how much time they would have to explain themselves should Miss Dwyer return, intent on discovering why one would attempt to break into a mental institution.

  “I saw in Miss Dwyer a gentle spirit,” Mr. Singh said. “I feel sure she is only following protocol and will return shortly with the answer we desire.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Singh,” Sophia replied, “though I don’t know that we can rely on the quality of Miss Dwyer’s spirit should the papers prove inadequate. Therefore, do either of you have an explanation as to what we are doing here?”

  A lock being thrown back rattled the door.

  “Because if you do, I would suggest sharing it. Now.”

  Miss Dwyer appeared, the papers still clutched in her hand, with a tall, slim man following behind her.

  “I apologize for the wait,” she said, returning to the desk and sitting down. “I only started here last week and you’re the first visitors I’ve met.”

  She handed Sophia the papers then opened a desk drawer. Pulling a form of some sort from a stack, she set it on the desk in front of her. “Now, let me sign here,” she explained, dipping a quill into a tidy pot of ink and writing her name near the bottom of the form.

  She offered the quill to Nicholas and turned the paper upside down so that he could read it. “Once you’ve reviewed and agreed to the following, please sign on the line just below mine.”

  Sophia purposely avoided looking at the document, reasoning the less she understood of their crime, the better.

  “All right,” Nicholas said, signing his false name and returning the quill to Miss Dwyer.

  The nurse examined the paper one final time. “I believe everything is in order. Michael here will take you back to see Miss Pemble.”

  The orderly’s long face twisted into a semblance of a smile and Sophia returned th
e unsettling yet kind gesture with one of her own.

  “Follow me,” Michael said in an impossibly deep voice, turning and retracing his steps to the door.

  Mr. Singh resumed his role and gestured for Nicholas and Sophia to keep up. “Do not lag behind, Mr. and Mrs. Felton. A mental institution is not a place where one would wish to be lost.”

  Michael unlocked the door and pushed it open. “It will be necessary for me to always take the lead. Impolite, but I’d rather you be safe than dead.” He walked through the door, followed by Singh, then Sophia, with Nicholas in the rear.

  Another orderly stood just inside, on the right. He pushed the door shut then threw a thick metal bar into place across it, securing it within a second band of metal before affixing it with a sturdy-looking lock.

  “You mentioned death, Michael,” Sophia said, following closely behind Singh as the orderly moved forward down a narrow corridor. “Do you refer to the violent nature of my aunt?”

  They came to a second door and Michael paused to unlock it. “Miss Pemble? Violent?” he countered, waiting until they’d all made it through and he’d left the re-locking of the door to yet another orderly. “No, ma’am. I’ve never seen Miss Pemble raise a hand to no one—and I’ve been here going on fifteen years. No, it’s not Miss Pemble you’ll need to look out for. It’s the rest of the patients housed in the Incurable Ward. We’re holding the building together with a bit of wire and paste. Who’s to say when one of them will come busting right through. If we make it to the new building without an incident, it will be a miracle.”

  They started up a set of stairs; three more flights followed until they reached a landing that opened out into a much wider hall than those they’d traversed thus far. Two signs were hung side by side on the wall they faced, one reading “Curable Ward” with an arrow pointing east; the other, “Incurable Ward,” its arrow pointing west. A long line of people stretched the length of the entire hallway, three deep in some spots.

  “You’ll want to watch out for that lot,” Michael said as he led them toward the Incurable Ward. “They’ve each paid a penny to see the mental cases—and the patients know it. My guess is, if anyone gets loose, it will be one of their numbers that’s attacked first.”