Across from her, Will took off his hat and raked his fingers through his hair. The glow of a streetlamp shone in the window, tracing a grimace on his face. “I am sorry, Mina, about the whole evening. I should not have exposed you to my family in the first place. Percy and Alice had no right to say such ghastly things about you.”
Despite the chill of the evening, his defense of her wrapped around her shoulders like a warm embrace. “Well, if nothing else”—a small smile ghosted her lips—“this evening has made me realize that perhaps life at the inn isn’t as bad as I imagine it to be. Father is strict, but at least he is not spiteful. Our cook may be outspoken, but her words are kind. And”—her smile grew—“I did get to dine in a London townhouse just like a real lady.”
“Oh, Mina, you are a real lady. You are—” His voice cracked along the edges, and he cleared his throat. “You are something special. Very special. I hope you know that.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, unsure if he could even hear the words for the way her throat closed around them.
Will blew out a disgusted breath. “But blast that Percy for being a scoundrel. To have such blatant evidence brought against him and then turn it around that way. The devil could learn a trick or two from him.”
His head hung, and her heart broke. Gone was the carefree man laughing over a mug with his good friend. This William Barlow was a stranger, with his shoulders bowed by the weight of how to rescue his uncle. That he loved the old fellow was more than evident.
Her admiration for him grew, as did her pity. “What will you do now?”
He straightened, yet said nothing more. For a while he looked out the window at the passing streetlights, then eventually heaved a sigh. “I don’t know. There’s nothing to do but look for more evidence, I suppose. Christmasing at Uncle’s estate ought to give me ample time to find something.” He turned his face back to her. “Mina, if you are willing, and if I approached your father, do you think he’d give you permission to travel with me?”
“Over Christmas?” The words squeaked out of her. What a dream that would be. Snowflakes and sleigh rides and an estate swagged with greenery. What a story to live inside of! But as the carriage juddered along the cobbles of London’s streets, reality smacked her hard. What was she thinking? Father would never let her go. And besides, continuing the charade would only cause more harm than good, for surely they’d be found out. An afternoon tea or an evening dinner was a far cry from spending an entire week together.
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. It may be time for you to tell your uncle the truth of us. Surely if you explain we were only trying to save him from the possibility of an asylum, he would understand.”
Will grunted. “He would have, had I not ruined my testimony in my younger years.” His haunted gaze met hers. “I came up with some fancily embroidered lies in the past in order to gain my uncle’s money. I am certain he cannot help but wonder if I have changed. Sometimes I wonder myself.”
His mouth twisted as if he sucked on bitter whortleberries; then he sank back against the cushion and rode in silence the rest of the way, apparently lost in thought.
So did she. How did one make someone believe the truth when the truth had been based on a lie? The question played over and over in her head until the cab jerked to a stop. Will helped her out and faced her. Even in the darkness, a strange light gleamed in his eyes, and he stepped closer.
“Mina…” Her name on his lips was like a kiss, and he bent closer.
The space between them came alive with promise. Her heart pulsed in a crazed beat, throbbing in her wrists, jittering her knees. If he leaned, just barely, his mouth would be on hers.
She swallowed. What was she thinking? He was a man of means and possibly a future heir to an estate. She was nothing but a girl who ran mugs of ale and plates of sausages to hungry men. It had been a lovely dream—but one built on a lie. It was time to be done.
“Good night, Will,” she blurted, then whirled toward the front door.
Her fingers pressed against the wood, about to thrust the thing open, when she froze. She couldn’t very well waltz into the taproom wearing her best coat and gown and not expect to meet a few tawdry remarks. Or worse—run straight into Gilbert Grimlock.
She hesitated, waiting for the cab door to close and horses’ hooves to clop off, then darted around to the back. What a ninny. So many things had happened tonight that she hardly knew what to think.
Shoving open the courtyard door, she slowed her breathing, then crossed to the kitchen entrance. She eased the latch handle open, releasing the lock. If God smiled upon her, Martha would either be dozing in her corner chair or absent altogether.
Slowly, she nudged the door open, bit by bit, then slipped inside. A single lamp glowed on the counter. Clean dishes sat atop cupboard shelves, and scattered on the worktable were Christmas pudding moulds of various shapes and sizes—most dented, all tarnished. The sight pulled her brows into a frown. No doubt Uncle Barlow’s kitchen contained moulds that shone like an August sun.
Holding her breath, she slipped her glance to the corner—but no Martha. No “peas and porridge” or “peas and anything,” for Cook’s chair sat empty. Her gaze drifted to the work clock ticking away on the wall. Eleven o’clock? By faith! It was later than she’d accounted.
A slow smile twitched her lips. Why hadn’t she thought of that before? Mr. Grimlock was surely abed by now. She needn’t have rushed the evening after all.
The tension in her shoulders unwound, and she turned to secure the door. She’d just have to take care when she climbed the stairs and passed by his chambers on her way to her own. The floorboard in front of his door was notoriously squeak—
“Mina?”
She whirled. A gargoyle stood on the threshold, beak nosed and beady eyed, blocking the escape to her room.
Gilbert Grimlock.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Moths, and all sorts of ugly creatures…hover about a lighted candle. Can the candle help it?
Great Expectations
Mina clutched her hands in front of her, vainly seeking some kind of support to withstand the malignant gaze of Gilbert Grimlock. Rifling through a hundred excuses she could offer the man, she discarded each one in turn, even while knowing the longer she stood there without saying something, the guiltier she appeared to be.
“I—I thought you to be abed, sir. I…” Her words languished. Apparently opening her mouth and expecting some sort of alibi to slip out wasn’t the most brilliant of strategies.
Mr. Grimlock stalked from the doorway, advancing toward her. He was a boggy sort of fellow, with his ever-present sheen of perspiration winking on his brow and coating his upper lip. The fabric beneath his arms darkened in circles, lending to his appearance of being perpetually moist. The man was a fungus. A black mold, the kind that if inhaled would settle deep in the lungs and force one to cough out the violation.
He stopped inches in front of her, far too close for propriety, bringing with him the sickening smell of potatoes left too long in a cellar. “There are still a few patrons in the taproom. My duty is the management of this inn during your father’s absence. I can’t very well do that with my eyes closed.” Bending, he studied her, his dark gaze spreading over her skin like a rash. “I thought you suffered from a headache?”
“I do—I mean I did.” It took everything in her to keep from fleeing out the back door. Instead, she forced her hands to smooth down her skirts, hating that her palms had acquired the same moistness that Mr. Grimlock embodied. “My headache is much better now. Thank you for inquiring, and I am sorry if I disturbed you. Good night, Mr. Grimlock.”
She edged past him.
But he sidestepped, blocking her, and grabbed her shoulders. “Your coat is cold and damp. Where have you been at this time of night?”
“I—” She froze. What to say? She certainly couldn’t admit to romping about the London streets in a carriage alone with a man. “I had a previous engagemen
t I could not miss.”
Mr. Grimlock’s eyes narrowed to thin slits. Small dots of perspiration glimmered on his forehead from the movement. “What kind of engagement could you have possibly had at this time of night?”
“A private one.”
“Private?” With the crook of his finger, he lifted her chin. “I wonder what kind that could be?”
She stiffened beneath the touch of his calloused skin, rough and far too heated. “Excuse me, Mr. Grimlock, but it is late, and I should like to retire.”
He bent closer, nearly nose to nose, his knuckle drifting down from her chin and tracing a line against the bare skin of her neck.
This was not to be borne! She wrenched away. “How dare you!”
One of his brows arched, and a single, crude drip broke free from the collection of wet dots on his forehead and trickled down his temple. “How dare I? I am not the one roaming the streets at night. Unless you tell me what you’ve been about, your father shall hear of this.”
Fury ignited deep in her belly, shooting up sparks and shaking through her. “I will not be bullied around by you, sir. You can be sure my father will hear of this, for I shall tell him of your untoward behaviour.”
She darted sideways.
But his hand shot out, and he grabbed her arm. “Not so fast. You never did answer me, and I will not be put off. Where were you tonight?”
“It is none of your business. Good night, Mr. Grimlock.” She jerked aside—and his fingers dug into the tender part of her upper arm, clasping her all the tighter and pulling her to him. Even through the thickness of her coat and gown, the moisture of him seeped into her clothing.
“The business of the inn is my business until your father returns.” His breath landed hot on her neck, leaving a clammy vapor behind where it touched.
“Let me go! My life is not part of that business.”
“It could be, if only you would let it. I have your father’s approval. You have but to say the word, and you could be Mrs. Grimlock by Christmas. We will run this inn together someday, you and I.”
The thought of marriage to this beast—especially the marriage bed—surged a strong revulsion through her veins, and she yanked from his grip, the force violent enough that they both staggered.
She used the momentum to finally fly past him. “Good night, Mr. Grimlock.”
An oily chuckle followed her down the corridor. “See you in the morning, Mina.”
She dashed up the stairs and darted into her room, shut and locked the door, then leaned back against it. She’d not be able to hold off Mr. Grimlock for much longer. Closing her eyes, she forced away the awful image of his sweaty visage.
If only Will had asked her to be his real bride.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Love her, love her, love her! If she favours you, love her. If she wounds you, love her. If she tears your heart to pieces—and as it gets older and stronger it will tear deeper—love her, love her, love her!
Great Expectations
Will stared at the affidavit on his desk. Which barrister had requested this? Bagley? Whimpole? Snavesgate? As hard as he tried to remember, all that came to mind was a sprinkle of freckles on creamy skin, doe-like blue eyes blinking up into his, and a tremulous smile on lips that had been close enough to kiss. When had Mina Scott become such an enigmatic beauty—one he couldn’t get out of his head?
“Come on.” Fitz’s voice pulled his attention away from the stack of documents. His friend shoved his coat and hat toward him, nearly knocking him backward on his stool.
Will grabbed the things out of reflex and glanced at the wall clock, then frowned up at Fitz. “Where are we going? It’s only half past two.”
“You need some air.” Fitz turned on his heel and strode toward the door.
Rising, Will shrugged on his coat and clapped his hat atop his head, trying to make sense of his friend’s words. By the time he caught up to Fitz at the top of the stairs, he truly did need some air—and some answers. “What’s this all about?”
Fitz paused with his hand on the doorknob. “You just sent that last runner to Harberry Court.”
“So?”
“Barrister Grovener’s chambers are on the other side of town.”
The wind punched out of his lungs. Sweet heavens! That mistake would no doubt come back to sink teeth into him. Fitz was right. A walk in the air might do him some good. He yanked open the other door and beat his friend outside and down the stairs to the sidewalk.
“I can only assume this is about your uncle,” Fitz said as soon as he fell into step. “Wasn’t that dinner last night? Oh…egad! How callous of me.” His friend shot ahead then walked backwards in front of him, concern folding his brow. “You didn’t get the inheritance, did you, ol’ chap?”
Will shook his head. “Uncle Barlow didn’t announce it yet.”
“Whew. You had me worried there for a moment.” Stepping sideways, Fitz pivoted and once again joined Will’s side. “You haven’t heard from your mother, have you? Has she fallen into a worse state of health?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Well, if it’s neither of those things, then what has you so addlepated?”
For a moment, he walked in silence, which was easy enough to do with the clamoring of peddlers and passing vehicles making more than enough noise. Fitz’s question rattled around in his skull like a penny being dropped into a tin and given a good shake. What was it that bothered him to such a degree?
He glanced sideways at his friend. “I’m not sure, actually. For some reason, I can’t stop thinking about last night. I suppose because it was a perfectly awful evening, thanks to my cousins. You should have seen them, Fitz. They were both in rare form. Percy collected bogus evidence I can only assume he plans to use against Uncle Barlow, then he dredged up my past for all to hear. Worse, both he and Alice said horrid things about Mina, behind her back and to her face. Ahh, but Mina…”
His pace slowed, and once again Mina Scott’s sweet face crowded out the real world. If he listened hard enough, he could still hear the magic of her laughter as she’d bantered with Uncle Barlow.
A tug on his sleeve yanked him sideways, and he barely avoided stepping into a puddle of sewage and ruining his shoes. “Thanks.” He gave his friend a sheepish smile. “Looks like I owe you yet again.”
Fitz rolled his eyes. “If I had but a farthing for each time you said that, I’d own a matched set of high-steppers and a shiny new barouche. Now then, what about Miss Scott?”
His smile stretched into a grin. “You should have seen her. A champion and a sport. She put up with Alice’s jabs and Percy’s slights—which as you know isn’t easy to do. And she’s completely stolen Uncle Barlow’s heart.”
“Hmm…I’m beginning to wonder if she’s stolen your heart as well. I didn’t think it possible after the way Elizabeth…well, you know—”
Fitz continued speaking, but his friend’s voice faded, as did the squawking of a nearby vendor hawking apples. All he heard was the rush of blood whooshing in his ears and the echoing repeat of Fitz’s words, “She’s stolen your heart as well. She’s stolen your heart as well.”
His step hitched. So did his breath. Were Fitz’s careless words correct? Shoving down the thought, he shuddered. He’d never again hand over his heart to a woman only to have it sliced open and bled out. Once had been more than enough.
“—announce?” The expectancy written on the curve of Fitz’s brow hinted he’d missed a question.
“Announce what?” he asked.
“Who’s to be his heir.” His friend looked down his nose at him. “This little walk isn’t helping, is it?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course it is. Uncle Barlow has invited us all to his estate for Christmas, so I expect he’ll announce then.”
Fitz’s eyes widened. “How on earth did you get Miss Scott to agree to that?”
“I haven’t. Not yet, anyway.”
“I see. Uh…?” Fitz hitched his thu
mb sideways, indicating the open door of the Brass Rail Pub.
Will shook his head. A mug of ale would only muddle his already fuzzy thinking.
Fitz frowned but kept on walking. “I suppose even if Miss Scott does agree, her father wouldn’t allow it. It’s not like you’re her beau or…well, there’s a thought for you, eh?”
“How can you even suggest such a thing? No, I shall simply have to persuade her father, that’s all.”
Fitz cuffed him on the back. “While your tongue is light and quick, I don’t think even you can talk your way into gaining his permission to let her go with you.”
Tugging the brim of his hat lower, he looked up at Fitz. “You’re right. Maybe I do need to become Mina’s beau.”
“A pretend beau…or a real one?”
Exactly. His chest squeezed. So did his breath. “That, my friend, is a question I shall have to think long and hard on.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
My dear if you could give me a cup of tea to clear the muddle of my head I should better understand your affairs.
Mrs. Lirriper’s Legacy
Tea was life, comfort, all that embodied warmth and fulfillment…usually. But this afternoon, Mina stared into her cup, finding no solace whatsoever. Every creak of a floorboard outside the inn’s sitting room door might be Mr. Grimlock on the prowl. Each footstep could be his. Dodging the man all day had stretched her nerves thin, and she just might snap if he dared to breach her weekly tea with Miss Whymsy.
“What has you so preoccupied, my dear? Is it your father’s return?”
“Hmm?” She glanced up at her old friend. “I’m sorry, but what were you saying?”
“You see?” Miss Whymsy smiled, the skin at the edges of her eyes crinkling into soft folds. “Your mind is elsewhere.”
She stifled a sigh. There was no hiding anything from a former governess proficient at coaxing truth from naughty children. “I own I am a bit pensive, though it has nothing to do with my father. Please forgive me?”
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