The Copeland Bride

by Justine Cole

  She looked again at the two men. Although she couldn't see them clearly, she sensed they were young. She needed money so badly, she just might risk it. I've been lucky so far, she reminded herself—but no, that wasn't quite true. It hadn't just been luck; she had been careful. She had not taken foolish chances. And setting upon two rich young gentlemen was foolish. She stood there indecisively, then reluctantly began to turn away just as the shorter of the two stumbled, barely saving himself from falling onto the muddy cobblestones.

  Why, he's drunk, Noelle thought, her interest caught anew. That does change the odds a bit, doesn't it?

  Sidestepping a pile of rotting garbage, she moved from the doorway that had provided such poor protection from the drizzle and stealthily crept closer to the men, finally concealing herself in a small recess between two buildings.

  The shorter of the two turned. He had a boyish face with full cheeks and small merry eyes. Unruly sandy hair peeked out from under a tall beaver hat.

  "Quinn, old boy," he addressed his companion, "sorry to be such a deuced poor guide, but I'm afraid I've got us lost." He punctuated this pronouncement with a loud hiccup. "Bradley's Hotel should have been right here." Gesturing vaguely into the night air. he took a final swallow from the bottle he held before passing it on to his companion.

  "Don't worry, Tom." His companion's voice was deep and strong, the American accent unfamiliar to Noelle. "At least we'll both be spared an unpleasant evening with Simon." He drank deeply from the bottle.

  Noelle strained to see the face of the speaker, the man called Quinn, but he remained turned away from her. He was even taller than she had first imagined. Powerful shoulders thrust against the seams of his coat. He was hatless, and the raindrops in his raven-black hair sparkled in the glow of the streetlamp.

  "Come now, Quinn. your father's not a bad sort," Thomas expostulated, lowering himself unsteadily onto an adjacent doorstep. "The old boy could have left you home in America to run the company. Instead you're here, renewing our schoolboy friendship and enjoying London's elegant nightlife." He laughed uproariously at the irony of his own poor joke.

  "I wish to God he had," Quinn replied sourly, handing the bottle back to Thomas. "All he's done these past three months is lecture me about my unsuitability to be the heir of Copeland and Peale."

  Noelle's ears picked up at this reference. She had no idea that Copeland and Peale was a small but prestigious builder of oceangoing ships; she only knew that such an imposing name undoubtedly meant money.

  If I could just see his face, she thought. I've no intention of taking him on cold sober. She shuddered slightly as she again observed his broad, powerful shoulders.

  Quinn continued bitterly, "My God, I think he's gone crazy. He can't seem to look to the future. He's going to ruin Copeland and Peale with his damned pig-headed stubbornness."

  Privately Thomas thought Simon wasn't the only stubborn one, but he wisely kept this opinion to himself.

  "He refuses to put up any capital for experimentation. The initial studies I've done on hull shape are staggering, but they need to be extended. We could revolutionize the China trade, but Simon refuses to take them seriously. Even conservatively, Tom, Copeland and Peale ships could make the New York to Canton run in one hundred and ten days and be back in less than ninety."

  "Ninety days?" Tom didn't bother to hide his incredulity. "It's impossible! I don't blame Simon for being skeptical."

  "No, it's not impossible," Quinn insisted. "With some radical hull revisions, our ships will do ten knots or better. Unfortunately, I'm not the only one doing experiments with hull shapes. If Copeland and Peale isn't to be hopelessly outdated in fifteen years, we need to start now—more hull experiments, a model, and then a ship. I don't know how Simon can be so blind. I've a mind to get out now and start on my own. He's going to bankrupt us, the bastard, or, at the very least, turn us into second-rate shipbuilders."

  Thomas's eyes widened at the venom in Quinn's tone. "Now, now, old boy, have another drink. With more of this good rum in you, things won't seem so bad."

  As Quinn turned to take it, the full glow of the streetlamp fell on his rugged face. Noelle drew in her breath sharply. The American was young, in his mid- to late twenties, and incredibly handsome, but it was an unconventionally rugged handsomeness, foreign to Englishmen. His skin was bronzed. The black hair Noelle had observed earlier tumbled over a broad forehead. His cheekbones were high; his nose strong, narrow at the bridge; and the line of his jaw clean and hard. Dominating all was a pair of piercing eyes, black as chipped onyx.

  The tiny hairs at the back of her neck prickled. Her instincts, finely honed from living by her wits for so long, warned her that this was not a man with whom to trifle.

  "At least Simon should be pleased at the way you've been received socially. With half the hopeful mothers in London pushing their unmarried daughters at you, you've become the catch of the season," Thomas remarked, not without envy.

  Noelle looked at Quinn more sharply. She tried to imagine why rich ladies with beautiful clothes and plenty to eat would possibly want to marry this menacing stranger. He was undoubtedly handsome, but couldn't they sense the savagery in him? Wives were property, owned by their husbands. They would have to be daft to put themselves under this man's control.

  "Believe me, Thomas, it's not something I'd wish on my worst enemy!" Quinn took a thin cheroot from his pocket and lit it. "All those overdressed, overstuffed matrons pushing their whey-faced daughters at me. It's enough to turn a man against women!"

  "By Jove!" Thomas hooted. "Quinn Copeland a misogynist! That'll never wash, old boy. No, from what I've seen, you're a marked man, marked for the parson's mousetrap!"

  "Shut up, Tom," Quinn growled. He pulled deeply from the bottle, swallowing the rum as though it were water.

  Thomas grinned, enjoying Quinn's discomfort. "You can tell me. Which one of our high-steppers are you going to choose as your bride?"

  "Dammit, Tom, not you too!"

  "Oh, Simon's been at you, has he?".

  "For years," Quinn responded, leaning indolently against the lamppost, the smoke from his cheroot curling around his black hair. "At one point he told me he was no longer requesting that I marry, he was ordering it."

  "That's rather heavy-handed, even for Simon, isn't it?"

  "I thought so," Quinn replied sardonically.

  Even in his befuddled state, Thomas sensed there was more to the breach between Simon and his headstrong son than disagreements over either the management of Copeland and Peale or Quinn's marital status. "If he wants a Copeland bride so much, why doesn't he marry again himself?"

  "You miss the point, Tom. Simon, like many Americans, is a self-made man. He rose from being a carpenter's apprentice when he was thirteen to one of the greatest shipbuilders in the world at forty. Now, at fifty, he wants to forget that he was ever a carpenter's apprentice. He wants the name Copeland to be as respected as Winthrop or Livingston or Franklin. Although he won't admit it, he has visions of a Copeland dynasty, oldest son to oldest son. But for this dynasty, he needs a woman. Not any woman, naturally. Only someone of impeccable breeding can be the next Copeland bride." Quinn flicked the last of the cheroot into a puddle where it hissed sibilantly as it went out. "Of course, he also believes the right wife will settle me down and make me respectable."

  Thomas snickered, his words beginning to slur together. "See it all now. Quinn Copeland, august citizen, pillar of the church, cornerstone of the Copeland dynasty, arrives home promptly at six o'clock. Kisses the pudding-faced wife at the door."

  "Pinches the maid," Quinn interjected, grinning lecherously.

  "God's life, no, man!" Thomas exclaimed with mock horror. "Not in front of the children!"

  "All six of them," Quinn said piously.

  "Six! You forgot the twins!"

  "Eight?" Quinn roared, pitching the now-empty bottle into the overflowing gutter. "Damn it, Thomas Sully, you've gone too far!"

  With an u
nsuccessful attempt at dignity, Thomas raised himself from the stoop. "I'm not the one who went too far. She's your potato-faced wife!"

  "You said pudding-faced. Make up your mind!"

  "Pudding, potato—either way you'll only be able to make love to her with her nightgown covering her ugly face!"

  "You're talking about my wife, you bastard," Quinn bellowed as he playfully cuffed his already staggering companion.

  Noelle observed the two of them trading friendly obscenities and throwing harmless punches at each other. They were oblivious to the damage the drizzle was inflicting on their beautifully tailored garments. Could feed a family of six for a year on what those clothes must have cost, she thought. The Englishman was as drunk as a blacksmith on payday.

  She studied the American again, his head thrown back in laughter, rain glistening on his chiseled face. Her uneasiness would not leave her. Then she thought of the solitary room she desperately wanted to keep and the money she needed to do so.

  Noelle made up her mind. She would give the American wide berth; Thomas Sully was her mark.

  Drawing two breaths to calm herself, she stepped out of her hiding place and walked toward them, wiggling her scrawny hips provocatively and smiling seductively in perfect imitation of the women she had watched so often.

  The two men, arms thrown around each other's shoulders, had broken into a lively, if somewhat bawdy tune:

  "What is a friar wi' a bald head?

  A staff to beat a cuckold dead?

  What is a gun that shoots point blank,

  And hits between a maiden's flank?"

  They broke off their song as Noelle approached them, stopping several feet in front of Thomas. Resting her hands brazenly on her narrow hips, she smiled boldly at him.

  "Evenin', Guv'nor. 'Ow 'bout a bit of fun?" She broadened her vowels and dropped her consonants with ease, a practice she had astutely adopted so that she did not stand out from the rest of the prostitutes.

  "Well, well," Thomas slurred drunkenly, "if it isn't one of London's fairest flowers, a fashionable impure, gracing us with her presence." He doffed his tall beaver hat and bowed deeply in front of her. The movement would have been gallant had he not spoiled it by belching loudly at its conclusion.

  Noelle giggled coquettishly. "Gor, sir, ain't you the one." Looping one of her arms through his, she moved closer to him, preparing to pick her moment carefully. He smelled of tobacco and rum, a not altogether unpleasant combination. Deliberately she pressed her body next to his, tilting her shoulders forward to reveal more of her breasts.

  Looking at him through partially closed lids, she whispered seductively, "Yer a fine lookin' cove, y'are, Guv."

  Quinn snorted with amusement.

  "What the devil are you laughing at?" Thomas challenged, shooting Quinn a superior glance. "This young lady is undoubtedly one of the more experienced judges of men in London."

  "I don't doubt she is experienced, Tom," Quinn retorted, a smile playing lazily at the corners of his lips, "but I question how discerning she is."

  Noelle felt a small stab of shame at their jests. What do you expect? she chided herself. You want them to believe the worst.

  The American's eyes raked over her impersonally, taking in the tawdry ostrich plume stuck in her frizzled hair, the painted cheeks, and her partially exposed breasts.

  Noelle's face burned under his gaze. I must ignore him, she told herself; do what I'm here to do and get away quick as I can.

  She squeezed Thomas's arm to distract him. "Oh, ain't you the strong one. There are them that says yer can tell a lot 'bout a man from the size of 'is arms."

  She flirted outrageously as, with lightning speed and a feather touch, she extracted a heavy watch from his pocket and unobtrusively slid it into one of the large pockets she had sewn into her gown for just such a purpose. Keeping her eyes on Thomas, she continued her charade, all the while looking for any sign that he was aware of what had happened. He was grinning drunkenly at her, obviously enjoying her flattery. Conscious of the comfortable weight of the watch deep in her pocket, Noelle began to feel easier about the encounter. Still, she cautioned herself, she must do nothing to raise his suspicions.

  "I can tell yer a flash cove with the 'igh-flyers, I can," Noelle bantered, tickling his lapel with her forefinger. "I don't mind sayin' I've earned my fair share of compliments too, ducks." Her pink tongue flickered across her vermilion lips. "Let me show yer wot I mean."

  Eyeing her full breasts, Thomas was momentarily tempted, but the sight of her sunken cheeks and garishly painted face immediately brought him back to his senses.

  "My dear lady, you tempt me beyond belief. If I only had the time, I would be delighted to partake of the pleasure you offer." Ever the gentleman, he tipped his hat to her.

  Noelle giggled, whether from amusement or relief, even she could not have said. "Yer a rare one, Guv'nor, y'are." She waved three fingers coyly at him in farewell. "Anytime yer want me, just look fer me at the Cock and Pheasant."

  Turning her back on the two men, she sauntered away, swinging her hips gaily. Her spirits leaped as she furtively caressed the smooth, solid object lodged deeply in her pocket. She had done it! This watch would do more than pay her rent. She could buy a new dress, perhaps even a hat.

  Absorbed in her reflections, she was unaware of the footsteps approaching her until it was too late. Fingers like steel talons bit painfully into the thin flesh of her emaciated arms, jerking her to a stop. The sodden ostrich plume flew from her hair and landed in a rain-swollen ditch. Her heart racing, she spun around to find the American staring coldly, his eyes frozen black flints.

  "Not so fast."

  "Beggin' yer pardon, sir?" she stammered.

  Effortlessly he pushed her against the damp stone wall behind her, cutting off any avenue of escape. Now his large hands rested lightly on her shoulders, but she was not deceived. She knew that her slightest movement would once again bring the pain of those steely fingers biting into her tender flesh.

  "Well?"

  Gathering her scattered wits, she kept her voice steady. "Gor, sir, yer needn't be so rough. If yer was wantin' me, just tell me so." She tried to smile coquettishly. "Say 'alf an hour at the Cock and Pheasant?"

  "That's not what I'm after, and you know it."

  Thomas, gasping in astonishment at Quinn's actions, hurried to catch up with them. "I say, Quinn, what's this about?"

  Without taking his eyes from her, the American ran his hands down her sides to her waist.

  She began to struggle. " 'Ere, now, don't you be touchin' me like that."

  The hands went back to her shoulders and then moved to the top of her bodice. She gasped as he cupped her breasts, and her struggles became more frantic. With his forearm, he pinned her against the wall so he could continue his leisurely search of her body. Finally he found what he wanted. Thrusting his hand into the hidden pocket, he pulled out the gold watch and dangled it accusingly in the air inches from Noelle's stricken face.

  "In addition to being a whore, she seems to be a first-rate pickpocket."

  "Good God!" Thomas was unable to conceal his embarrassment. "She played me for a fool."

  Quinn handed Thomas his watch, then looked at Noelle impersonally. "Don't be too hard on yourself, Tom. She's an accomplished thief. I've seen this trick pulled before, but even at that, I almost missed it. She's probably been at this game for years."

  Noelle stood frozen in a blind, nameless panic. What a fool she had been! She had betrayed herself by not following her instincts. At her first sight of the American, she had known he presented too great a risk. "One of these days somebody's gonna get yer and ya won't soon forget it." Billy the ragman's prophetic words came back to her.

  Suddenly she remembered the knife tucked safely in her boot, the one place the American's burning hands had not searched. How could she get it out? She looked up at the two men, her eyes wide and pleading.

  "Please, 'elp me. I'm feelin' so sick. I feel like I
. . ." Closing her eyes, she fell to the ground, being careful to tuck her boot under her full skirts as she landed.

  "Dash it, man. What a bloody pickle this is turning into! Leave her here so we can continue our drinking in a more congenial atmosphere." Thomas began to walk away.

  "Not so fast, Tom," Quinn interrupted. He looked down at the still form at his feet. The side of her face was pressed against the edge of a rain-swollen pothole; the spiked ends of her hair dipped into the muddy depression. He felt a flash of pity for the sorry Creature and looked around for a drier place to deposit her. He spotted a doorway protected by an overhang.

  Through half-closed eyes, Noelle saw the American begin to lean over her. Before he could touch her, she tore the precious knife from her boot, leaped nimbly to her feet, and thrust it menacingly in front of her.

  "Not one step farther, or I'll cut out yer cold-blooded 'eart, I will, and dangle it in front of yer scurvy face!"

  "I don't think so." He gave her an odd, twisted smile, his momentary pity forgotten. Slowly he began to circle her, his arms flexed at his sides.

  She backed away, holding the knife up like a talisman to protect her from evil. She looked like a small animal fighting for survival: hair in wild disarray, enormous eyes shooting murderous sparks, scarlet mouth compressed with determination.

  Relentlessly he advanced on her, his weight easily balanced on the balls of his feet.

  Was he insane? she wondered frantically. She had a knife, and he was unarmed, yet he seemed to have no fear. And then, as her heel touched something solid, she knew why. He had backed her into a wall!