by Laura Martin
‘Don’t shake your head and act all innocent,’ he hissed. ‘I know exactly what you’ve been up to. Using that criminal to defraud me out of my house. To take the roof over your own family’s head for your own gain.’
Slowly understanding dawned. This wasn’t about her engagement to Ben. It was about the wager he’d made with her father and the resulting agreement that he would take the house in lieu of payment.
‘I knew nothing about the wager,’ she said, ‘but he won’t go through with it.’
It was as if her words didn’t even penetrate her father’s mind. He curled up a lip in disgust, brought back a hand and slapped her squarely across the cheek. The sound of the blow reverberated in Francesca’s ears and her head snapped back. Yelping involuntarily from the shock and the pain, Francesca recoiled. Never had she expected her father to act like this.
‘And then I find my whore of a daughter is out prostituting herself to the very man who wants to ruin me.’
‘Ben isn’t going to ruin you, Father,’ she said, her hand cupping her cheek. ‘You did that to yourself a very long time ago.’
‘So you don’t deny it?’
Francesca tried to rein herself in, but something had been unleashed inside her. ‘I don’t deny I’ve spent the last week with a man I am not married to. I don’t deny we’ve been intimate and I don’t deny I’ve loved every minute of it.’
She saw her father raise his hand again and tried to stop herself from cowering away. These were only physical blows, she would recover, she told herself, but still she felt her arms raise up and her body jerk away.
‘We’re going to be married,’ she blurted out, her eyes still closed in anticipation of the slap.
‘No, you’re not,’ her father said. ‘He’s a dirty criminal. A thief, a liar, a cheat.’
Francesca laughed, seeing her father as he truly was for the first time; a man to be ridiculed.
‘Don’t laugh,’ he said, raising his hand again. Francesca refused to cower and looked him directly in the eye.
‘Eighteen years ago you ruined a young boy’s life and you have the audacity to call him a liar and a cheat.’
Her father laughed, a mirthless chuckle that scared her more than a raised hand could ever do. ‘He was nothing, a nobody. A necessary sacrifice to save one of the greatest families in England.’
‘He wasn’t a nobody,’ Francesca said, shaking her head in disgust. ‘He had a family who loved him and a future that could have contained anything.’
‘He was the son of a servant. A troublemaker. A nobody.’
Francesca looked at her father with disbelief. For her entire life she’d been making excuses for him, telling herself that he’d only done this or that because he didn’t know any better. Now she could see she’d been wrong. Her father wasn’t a bumbling fool, circumstances hadn’t got the better of him, he was a cruel and petty man.
‘I didn’t recognise him at first,’ her father said. ‘Even when he came here and sat at my table I didn’t recognise that runt of a child I sent to Australia.’
‘Do you really have no remorse?’ Francesca asked with disgust, but her father didn’t seem to hear her.
‘I invited him to my table, played cards with him and all he did was deceive me.’
‘Hardly a crime, unlike what you did to him when he was a child.’
‘Did he tell you he was planning on taking the house from me?’
Francesca nodded, not even bothering to try to explain again that Ben wouldn’t have gone through with it. Her father wasn’t listening, too caught up in his own monologue, too busy justifying his own heinous behaviour by condemning another.
‘You probably laughed at me while you whored yourself to him,’ her father said, picking up his glass and taking a gulp of the port that was filled almost to the brim. ‘Well, I shall be the one laughing now.’
Feeling a spark of unease begin creeping through her body, Francesca tried to stand, but was jolted back down as her father pressed a forceful hand against her shoulder.
‘What have you done?’ she asked, her eyes flicking to the locked door.
Her father smiled, a malicious grin that showed his port-stained teeth and made Francesca feel sick inside.
‘I hear the punishment for an ex-convict found to be stealing again is much harsher. Perhaps even the noose.’
‘No,’ Francesca said. ‘Please, Father, whatever it is you’ve done we can still put it right.’
‘I’ll not have that boy take my house from me,’ her father said, ‘or make a fool of me through my own daughter.’
She stood, lunging at her father, trying to grab the key to the door from the pocket he’d deposited it in, but despite the alcohol he’d imbibed already this morning her father was surprisingly quick.
‘All these years,’ Francesca said as he gripped her wrists, bruising the delicate skin with his fingers, ‘I’ve made excuses for you, I’ve made allowances. All these years I’ve told myself you aren’t evil, just desperate, but I can see now I was so wrong.’
Her father didn’t deign to answer, instead gripping her by the shoulders and pushing her along in front of him. With the key she’d tried so desperately to get her hands on he opened the door, but before she could even think about escaping he pushed her roughly towards the stairs. When Francesca fought him every step of the way he picked her up, tossed her over his shoulder and started to ascend the stairs.
On the first floor he made a turn, bypassing her room and starting for the stairs that led up to the smaller rooms once used by the servants when they’d employed more than the bare minimum a house needed to get by. Out of the corner of her eye Francesca saw movement and raised her neck to see her mother’s gaunt face peering out of the bedroom she hadn’t emerged from for years.
‘Mama,’ she called. ‘Help me!’
Francesca felt her heart break a little as her mother steadfastly refused to meet her eye, instead closing the door quietly on the situation in the hallway.
On the second floor her father, panting and gasping from the effort of carrying her when he did not normally engage in any physical activity, threw open one of the doors to an empty servant’s bedroom and flung her unceremoniously inside. Before she had even had chance to get to her feet he had closed the door and locked it.
With a sinking heart Francesca rattled the handle. The door was solid and well made and unlikely to give way no matter what she did to it. Quickly she crossed to the window, wondering if that might provide her with an easy escape route.
It was locked and the glass thick, and the window itself small. Hardly an ideal window to escape through. Slumping back against the wall, Francesca let her head drop into her hands and allowed the tears to fall. To think she’d been worried about leaving her family, she’d felt guilty about going back on the agreement her father had made with Lord Huntley to provide a little money in exchange for her hand in marriage. In accepting Ben’s proposal she’d thought she was letting her family down.
All these years she’d made excuses for them. For her father who was selfish and cruel and her mother who hid herself away from the world, not rousing herself from her bedroom for anything at all.
She thought of Ben, the man who’d built a good life despite what her father had orchestrated against him. Now who knew what fresh lies her father had organised? It wasn’t fair on him and it was all because of his acquaintance with her again.
Shaking her head, she told herself not to be ridiculous. It was her father’s doing, not hers. She needed to learn when to accept responsibility for things and when to realise it was others at fault. It was her father who had done these things, both eighteen years ago and now.
Wiping away the tears, Francesca stood and crossed to the window again. She couldn’t change what her father had done, but she could work on a way of getting out of this situation and helping th
e man she loved.
Chapter Twenty
Ben ducked and weaved, landing a couple of punches on his opponent before backing away again. Today he felt light on his feet, as though he were flying through the air rather than walking on the ground, and his reaction time was nearly half what it normally was.
He dodged a couple of punches, landing one more on his opponent’s chin before the man on the edge of the ring called time.
Ben shook hands with the other man, grabbed the cloth offered to mop his brow and crossed over to where George Fitzgerald had been watching him.
‘I can’t believe you’re getting married, too,’ Fitzgerald said, ‘and to a lady. First Robertson and now you.’
Sam Robertson had set sail for Australia just before Ben had left for his trip to Essex with the beautiful Lady Georgina as his companion, despite her being due to walk down the aisle and wed a duke that very same day.
‘There must be something in the air,’ Ben said with a grin. ‘It’ll be you next.’
Fitzgerald grimaced. ‘I hardly think so. How did it happen?’
Ben grinned, unable to stop himself. He still didn’t really know how it had happened. One minute he’d been quite content conducting a passionate affair with his childhood friend and the next he’d decided he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. Shaking his head, he knew that wasn’t quite true. The feelings had been there for a while, he’d just needed some help to figure out exactly what they were.
‘My father gave me some good advice,’ he said slowly. ‘He told me to look to what would make me happy and stop living in fear of having things taken away.’
‘That is good advice,’ Fitzgerald murmured, ‘Especially for a man who doesn’t trust anyone.’ He looked unusually serious with a thoughtful frown on his face.
‘Do you disapprove?’ Ben asked. His friend’s opinion was important to him. For so long Fitzgerald and Robertson had been like brothers to him, they’d been through so much together, and he wanted Fitzgerald to like Francesca.
‘Good Lord, no,’ Fitzgerald said. ‘Any woman who can have you even think about settling down must be worth her weight in gold.’ He paused, his expression turning serious. ‘I just want you to be happy and it would seem Lady Somersham makes you happy.’
‘She does,’ Ben said quietly.
‘I knew that was why you’d never forgotten her.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You loved her all along,’ Fitzgerald said simply.
Ben opened his mouth to protest, but slowly closed it again, considering his friend’s words. For eighteen long years Francesca had haunted his thoughts. He’d assumed that was because of the dramatic way they’d been ripped apart without any natural closure to the relationship, but there might be some truth in Fitzgerald’s words. Perhaps his love for her as a child was what had driven him back here.
‘You are a romantic,’ Ben said, shaking his head. It might be the truth, but he wasn’t about to admit it. Eighteen years was a long time to be in love with someone without even knowing it yourself.
‘So where will you live?’ Fitzgerald asked. ‘Here? Australia? Some neutral third country?’
Ben shrugged. ‘We’re not sure.’
‘She’s reluctant to leave her family?’
‘Maybe. But I’m reluctant to leave mine.’
‘The reunion was everything you hoped for?’
Ben nodded, remembering his father’s happy face when he’d first set eyes on the son who’d been absent from his life for nearly two decades. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to return to Australia yet, knowing that he might not ever be able to make the trip to England again.
‘And your brothers were happy to see you?’
Ben had often wondered if his brothers would welcome him after so long. He’d read the story of the prodigal son in the Bible when he was a child—there could always be resentments from those who’d been at home all along when a brother returned. It was possible they wouldn’t like him barging into the family, changing the dynamics.
‘They were. There was no resentment, no hostility, just pure happiness that I’d made it home.’
‘Take your time over the decision,’ Fitzgerald said as they ascended the stairs from the boxing club. ‘There’s no need to rush. I’m sure you and Lady Somersham will be happy wherever you decide to be, but you don’t want to regret your choice.’
Ben was just about to open his mouth to reply when a smartly dressed man crossed the street towards them. Behind him trailed four well-built young men. He’d seen enough of the world to know trouble when it approached.
‘Do you know them?’ Fitzgerald asked in his ear.
‘No.’
‘I’d say you’ve upset someone.’
Ben would have to agree. The sombre expressions of the men didn’t hint at good news.
‘Mr Benjamin Crawford?’ the smartly dressed man asked, looking from Ben to Fitzgerald and then back again.
‘That’s me.’
‘If you would come with me, sir, no fuss.’
Ben felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end at the sense of déjà vu. He might not know this man’s name or where he came from, but he was certain he was a magistrate.
‘Who are you?’ Ben asked, trying to work out what he’d done and coming up with nothing.
‘Mr Francis Poole, magistrate and Member of Parliament.’
‘And why should I go with you?’ Ben asked. He wasn’t about to flee, there was no point. If he was accused of something, they wouldn’t let him get away. The magistrate probably had a few more men stationed at various points nearby. Ben was fast on his feet, but he knew when he was outnumbered.
‘You have been accused of a heinous crime,’ Mr Poole said, his eyes scrutinising Ben, as if trying to work out if he were facing off with a dangerous man.
The pieces all started to fall into place. ‘By Lord Pottersdown, no doubt,’ he murmured to Fitzgerald.
‘I have the authority to take you into my custody and search your premises.’
‘What is it I’m supposed to have done this time?’ Ben asked. He felt uneasy. It didn’t matter if he was guilty or innocent, that didn’t seem to concern the system of law in England overly. Once you had been falsely convicted of a crime you didn’t commit and sentenced to hard labour and transportation you lost faith in the justice system.
‘Theft,’ the magistrate said, motioning for two of the brawny men he’d brought with him to approach Ben.
‘Unlikely,’ Fitzgerald said calmly. ‘The old man is destitute and in debt, he doesn’t have anything worth stealing.’
‘A search of your rooms will either prove your innocence or condemn you,’ Mr Poole said.
‘Lord Pottersdown has a habit of planting evidence,’ Ben said calmly. Inside he didn’t feel calm. Part of him wanted to run, to flee and find the first ship to take him from this country, but he knew it would be pointless.
This time he had to stay and fight, to clear his name and put a stop to Lord Pottersdown’s ridiculous attempts to blacken his name.
With a rush of concern he thought about Francesca. She’d returned home alone to tell her family she wasn’t going to be marrying Lord Huntley and would instead marry Ben. No doubt the news wouldn’t go down well and Ben wondered if he should be concerned for Francesca’s safety. Surely her father wouldn’t harm her. He hadn’t before, but the old man was desperate, believing he was about to lose his house and have his debts come crashing down around his shoulders. Silently Ben cursed himself for making the Viscount believe he would take the town house from him—no doubt it was that deception that had triggered the old man to think about retaliation.
‘Go and find Francesca,’ Ben instructed Fitzgerald. ‘Make sure she’s safe.’
‘And you?’
‘This isn’t my first time in c
ustody,’ Ben said grimly.
‘Take care, I’ll be back as soon as I can.’ Fitzgerald paused, looking at the magistrate. ‘Where will you be holding Mr Crawford?’
‘The cells at Giltspur Street Compter.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ Fitzgerald protested. ‘He’s not a common criminal.’
Ben shook his head ruefully. Cells were much the same wherever you were held. Dark, filthy and full of hungry rodents. If he had anything to do with it, he wouldn’t be staying long so it didn’t much matter.
Lord Pottersdown might have got away with falsely accusing him once, but he’d been a child then, helpless and naïve. Now he was a man of the world with nearly twenty years of experience of dealing with the most hardened of criminals. This time he would fight every step of the way.
‘I’ll come with you,’ Ben said, giving one of the brawny men a hard look until he stepped a little further away.
‘Good. We don’t want any trouble,’ Mr Poole said.
‘Have you been a magistrate long?’ Ben asked.
‘A few years.’
‘Then you should know when a story is a load of twaddle,’ Ben said, shaking his head.
‘Lord Pottersdown is a respected man...’
‘He’s a desperate man with more debt than either you or I can begin to imagine and a vendetta against me.’
‘A vendetta?’ Mr Poole asked mildly.
‘I’m going to marry his daughter and he does not approve, and there was a little matter of a gambling debt he was unable to pay.’
Ben did not think it would help his case if he mentioned the man had falsely accused him before. The magistrate probably wouldn’t look too kindly on the information that his suspect was a convicted criminal. For theft.
‘And his daughter would be...?’
‘Lady Somersham.’
‘And she’ll confirm all of this for you, will she?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then it sounds like you have nothing to worry about, Mr Crawford. If you would just come with me while we sort everything out.’