The Bachelor's Bargain Page 13

  “Did you hear me, Blackthorne?” Walker asked. “I told you I will never go to France.”

  “Dash it all, Walker, you have to come.” Ruel swung around. “Someone is trying to kill me.”

  The Indian stared at him. “Kill you? Why?”

  “Any number of reasons. Wimberley believes himself cheated of his fortune. Barkham blames me for the seduction of his wife. Droughtmoor claims I ruined his sister.”

  “You loved these women?”

  “Of course not. They were mere amusements. Any man in my position can be expected to have engaged in various dalliances.”

  “But now you are a married man. You will be faithful to your wife, will you not?”

  “Well, I . . . I . . .” Ruel glanced out the window. Anne was nowhere to be seen. It had not occurred to him that if he expected faithfulness of her, he would be held to the same exacting standard himself. Could he be loyal to only one woman for the rest of his life? Hard to imagine. Yet the thought of wanting any woman other than Anne . . . that was difficult to imagine also.

  But she did not want him. Refused to have him in her private chamber. Would not allow even his hand on hers. “Do not touch me.”

  “If you are settled with a wife and children,” Walker said, “why would these enemies pursue you for revenge? Surely what happened was many years ago when you were barely more than a boy. Among the Osage, a peace gift is given to the one wronged. Why not present these three men with a small measure of your wealth, Blackthorne, as we do among my people?”

  “Your people!” Ruel took the man’s shoulder. “You admit it. The Osage are your people, Walker, and they always will be. Come to France and America. Help protect me.”

  “I cannot.”

  “You must. On a roadway in Missouri, I was attacked, stabbed, and left for dead. At sea I was beaten senseless and expected to die. Neither time was I robbed. Both incidents were investigated, but no perpetrator was found and no motive revealed. Three weeks ago, someone shot me through the left shoulder, six inches from my heart. When I fell, the marksman vanished. Who was it, Walker?”

  “People said it was the gamekeeper, a spurned suitor of Lady Blackthorne.”

  “William Green was drinking ale at the Boar’s Head Tavern in Tiverton at the time of the shooting. A number of reliable witnesses attested to that fact. Who wants me dead so badly he would see me tracked to the ends of the earth by his hired assassins? And if this murderer is so determined and so deceitful that he would send someone to ambush me rather than challenge me to a duel himself, how am I to defend my life? Walker, you have always been loyal. You were the one I came to as a boy when I was frightened, sad, or angry. Indeed, you are the only man I can trust. Help me now. I need you.”

  The Indian looked away, his expression troubled. “You ask much of me.”

  “Please, Walker.”

  His focus on the ground, Walker nodded. “Very well, then. I shall go with you to France.”

  “It is not for me alone.” He glanced out the window. “Anne was almost killed by that ball, Walker. She has no idea I am a marked man, and I shall not have her wounded in this way again.”

  The Indian lifted his head, surprise written in his brown eyes. “You love her then?”

  “Nonsense. Love is for dandies and fluff-brained ladies. I merely want the woman protected . . . for business reasons as much as anything.” He put his hand on the Indian’s arm and turned him toward the door. “Come now, Walker, you had better shut down the smithy and pack your things. We leave for London in the morning.”

  As Walker nodded farewell, Ruel stepped to the window again. At that moment the arboretum gate swung open, and Anne slipped out of the shadows onto the path. She wrapped her shawl closely about her shoulders as she hurried toward the house. Ruel wondered if only the evening breeze had chilled her—or if perhaps a man’s fiery kisses had made her shiver.

  Four carriages emblazoned with the crest of the Duke of Marston drew rows of spectators as they rolled into London. Ragged boys chased after them while little girls in patches waved from the windows of houses. The curious stares made Anne shrink into her seat. The city was enormous, gray with soot, and so very crowded. Though trees had leafed out in small gardens and flowers bloomed in clay pots, dirt lay heaped in corners, soggy newspapers littered the sidewalks, and the smell . . . oh, the smell. She lifted her handkerchief to her nose and drank in the scent of the lavender blossoms in which the linen fabric had been stored.

  “Ah, London,” Ruel said. “Cesspool of England. Home to harlots, actresses, fishwives, and other countless squashed cabbage leaves.”

  Anne eyed him. For some reason Ruel was angry, and the closer they drew to town, the darker his mood grew. Now he looked a veritable volcano, smoldering inside his black traveling coat and high, starched collar. His eyes flashed a steely silver gray as he observed the city through the carriage window.

  “Armpit of the Thames,” he said under his breath. He had spent the journey discussing one thing and another with his brother. They had talked politics, world affairs, business. Though Anne and Miss Prudence Watson were the only others in the coach, they might have been tufts of horsehair protruding from the seat for all the attention the men paid them. At the coaching inns where the travelers stayed each evening, Ruel played cards, wagering and usually winning large sums of money before he retired to a room alone.

  She should have been grateful. Clearly her husband was honoring his promise to keep his distance. All the same, the situation grated.

  Anne deplored gaming. She disliked bumpy roads. And she was growing to despise her aloof spouse more than ever. She supposed his ill temper had to do with her insistence that he make a vow of restraint. Too bad. The longer she had thought about their conversation in the arboretum, the more thankful she was for having the presence of mind to extract his promise. The fact was, she did not trust herself.

  Ever since that afternoon, she had found herself thinking about the marquess, remembering the way he had held her so tightly beneath the trees, recalling the warmth in his eyes and the scent of his breath. She had wanted him to kiss her then. No matter how misguided that desire, she was not capable of preventing it. Worse, she still wanted his kiss, and each night as she fell on her knees in prayer, she thanked God she would never know it.

  What would become of her if she allowed the man his spousal rights? She would become pregnant, of course. She would bear a child, outlive her usefulness to Ruel in the lace venture, and be cast into the streets like the poor women he termed “squashed cabbage leaves.”

  “The house on Cranleigh Crescent should be opened by now, but just barely.” His low voice against her ear startled her. Lifting her head, she realized that Sir Alexander and Prudence were deep in conversation—hidden artfully behind her open fan. Having worried about a growing attachment between the two, Anne would have liked to eavesdrop. But Ruel had chosen the moment to confer privately with her.

  “The servants should have aired out the rooms and put things right,” he remarked. His shoulder pressed against hers, and his warm breath stirred the hair over her ear.

  “How nice,” she managed.

  “For appearances’ sake, you will take the suite next to mine.”

  Anne dipped her head in acknowledgement. If she intended for the marquess to keep his part of their agreement, she must keep hers and pretend to be his loving wife. If they slept in different wings, every footman and maid in the house would know. Gossip in the great houses ran rampant, as Anne well knew, and what a maid from one family whispered to a maid from another was soon common knowledge in Society.

  “Miss Watson will be returning to Trenton House, of course,” Ruel continued. “I understand her elder sister is expected home at any time from a journey abroad.”

  “Indeed, as Prudence herself has informed me. Although she has not received a letter from Mr. and Mrs. Locke in several weeks, she learned of her sister’s whereabouts in The Tattler. My friend and I are among Miss Pi
ckworth’s most avid readers, you know. Nothing in Society—whether rumored or factual—escapes our intelligence.”

  Anne watched Ruel’s left eyebrow lift as he regarded her. In truth, she had little use for Prudence’s devoted appetite for every tidbit of information dealt out by the mysterious Miss Pickworth. As a minister’s daughter brought up in Nottingham, Anne was unfamiliar with the names of London’s ton and cared not a whit for their intrigues and assignations.

  But she had learned to appreciate Miss Pickworth’s column in The Tattler for another reason. Once the gossip was dispensed, the anonymous writer answered questions put forth by her readers. So impassioned were the queries—and so sensible Miss Pickworth’s answers—that Anne had come to eagerly anticipate the arrival of the newspaper each afternoon. Indeed, she had even considered setting her own dreadful situation before Miss Pickworth in hope of some response that might lead to a happy resolution.

  “I shall be most disheartened to lose my friend’s companionship,” Anne said. “Perhaps if your brother had not so hastily engaged himself to a Frenchwoman, Miss Watson might have continued in my presence a great deal longer.”

  Ruel studied the two whisperers for a moment and then returned his attention to Anne. “As it is a short walk across the green, I imagine you will have ample opportunity to meet with Miss Watson while we are in London. We shall take callers, give dinner parties, and attend balls.”

  “How delightful.”

  His expression darkened. “Lady Blackthorne, you will behave as Mrs. Davies instructed you, and your manners will be impeccable. No matter what is said of you, you will hold your head high. You will remember that you are the daughter of a minister, the heiress to a duchy, and the wife of a marquess.”

  “A man with whom I am deeply in love,” she added. “And how long are we to continue our charade before Society, Lord Blackthorne?”

  “Until the time is right.”

  “This pretense is all about France, is it not? You are waiting for something to happen in Paris.”

  “Insightful, as always.”

  Anne drew away and fingered the fringed curtain on her window. Then she leaned into him again to whisper her concern. “Do you expect that little emperor to do something to make your lace venture more profitable? Surely he will not permit the aristocracy their fripperies. The common people fought far too hard against such luxury.”

  “The little emperor’s name is Napoleon Bonaparte. You must learn to call him Boney among your new friends.”

  “Friends? You once called them predators ready to tear me apart with fangs and claws.” Anne could not deny how much she dreaded the coming weeks in London, but she dared not allow the marquess to sense any trepidation in her, lest he use it to gain the upper hand. “So, this Boney . . . how can he possibly help you?”

  “I am counting on him to blunder into a war with England and Prussia.”

  “Good heavens,” she said aloud. Catching a glance from Sir Alexander, she lowered her voice again. “I cannot cherish the prospect of touring France in the midst of such hostilities.”

  “There are a great many things about this venture I cannot cherish.” He studied her so intently that Anne felt her cheeks grow warm. “I suppose you bade your farewells to everyone at Slocombe House.”

  “I was sorry to leave Mrs. Davies and Mr. Errand. Even Mrs. Smythe, for all her blustering, was good to me. The kitchen staff, too, became dear friends, many of them.”

  “And the gamekeeper?”

  “William Green? He shot the both of us, you will recall. Why should I be sorry to leave such a man as that?”

  “You expect me to believe you were not in love with him?”

  “In love with the gamekeeper?” she said. “Upon my honor, sir, that is absurd.”

  Without speaking, Ruel turned to the window. “Marston House at last. I see Miss Watson’s sister is just arriving at Trenton House as well. How fortunate for us all.”

  “Sarah!” Prudence squealed at the sight of her sister’s carriage. “Oh, Sarah is home at last! Look, Anne! She is come!”

  Anne grabbed the edge of the leather seat as the carriage slowed. Though Prudence was pulling on her arm and bouncing up and down on the seat, all she could think of was William Green. In love with a man like that? How could Ruel possibly think such a thing? Where had he gotten so ridiculous a notion? But he had said it with such confidence . . . tossed it between them like a gauntlet. She had no weapons with which to duel such a man as the marquess. How could she prove him wrong? For that matter, why did he even care?

  Ruel stepped out of the carriage and tugged the tails of his coat into place. Then he held out one gloved hand to Anne. At the sight of his cold eyes and rigid mouth, her dismay changed to anger. She set her hand in his and leaned through the door.

  “I rejected the gamekeeper two times,” she hissed in his ear as she descended. “That is why he shot me.”

  “I saw you go into the arboretum—”

  “Sarah!” The young woman fairly flew out of the carriage, knocking Anne and Ruel aside in a rush to see her sister.

  “Prudence!” The mahogany-haired beauty running across the crescent-shaped sward of green park between Marston House and Trenton House stole their attention. Picking up her skirts, she hurtled headlong at her sister.

  “Oh, my dearest Sarah!” Prudence cried, bursting into tears and sobbing on the other’s shoulder as they met in a fond embrace. “You cannot imagine how happy I am to see you! After you and Mr. Locke left me all alone at Trenton House, I became utterly despondent, and thank goodness for the Duke of Marston who invited me to Slocombe in the country to recover my health. Anne Webster was given to me as lady’s maid, but she is no longer Anne at all, for she has married the marquess! Oh, Sarah!”

  “Prudence, my poor sister.” Mrs. Locke made no attempt to muffle emotion. “Oh, Pru, how you must have suffered.”

  “I feared for your life every day. Dear Sarah, I am so glad you came back!”

  “How could I not? Oh, but you are thin! Let me look at you.” She held her sister at arm’s length, her brown eyes misty and her lips trembling. “Goodness me, you are dreadfully wan.” She pressed her fingers to Prudence’s cheeks. “What has happened to my little sister? My darling Pru with her golden locks and happy smile . . . my precious, silly girl!”

  Prudence sniffled. “Sarah, now that you are home, I shall be myself again.”

  “Of course you shall! And who is this?” She caught Anne’s hands. “My dear friend, are you now a marchioness? Can such a thing be true? But you are a lovely girl and of such a pleasant disposition. Of course, the marquess adores you. I can see it perfectly. What a sweet companionship! Oh, my dear Lady Blackthorne, I am so happy for you!”

  Anne could hardly resist the flood of warmth she felt as she was swept into Sarah’s embrace. Enveloped in the scent of roses, she slipped her arms around the woman and held her tightly. “Please call me Anne, as you did before. I am not so very different from the lady’s maid who once waited upon you.”

  “Then you must call me Sarah, and we shall consider ourselves equals and friends.” She beckoned the handsome gentleman who now strode across the green. “Charles, I have wonderful news. My dear lady’s maid has become a bride! She has wed Lord Blackthorne.”

  “Upon my word, I am pleased to hear this happy news.” Mr. Locke removed his hat and gave Anne an elegant bow. “I wish you great joy, my lady. And you, my lord. My heartiest congratulations.”

  Anne stood to one side as the travelers were caught up in the swirl of coachmen unloading trunks and footmen offering trays of drinks. When the Lockes realized that in Prudence’s absence Trenton House had been shut up for several months and would be unready to receive them, Ruel offered rooms in his father’s house. Accepting with gratitude, Prudence and Sarah chattered excitedly about their adventures and vowed they must invite their middle sister, Mary, to join them as soon as might be. Amid the hubbub Anne spotted Mr. Walker climbing down from a
carriage.

  In spite of the marquess’s more luxurious vehicle, she realized she gladly would have ridden in the servants’ coach. Surely Mr. Walker would never stoop to accuse her on unfounded rumors. The blacksmith, hat pulled low on his head, was starting up the steps into the house when the marquess noticed him.

  “Walker! Do come and meet the Lockes.” He caught Anne’s arm and urged her into the gathering. “Perhaps you would introduce your friends, my dear wife.”

  Anne swallowed, uncomfortable at playing such a farce before those she had grown to respect and admire. The Indian kept his eyes to the ground as she made the introductions.

  “You live in Tiverton, then, Mr. Walker?” Sarah Locke asked.

  “I am a blacksmith.”

  “How very nice.” She glanced at Anne, clearly uncertain as to how a blacksmith and a marquess had formed so close a friendship. “And you hail from America. Lord Blackthorne, I believe you have recently returned from that country. We had heard you might have lost your life in such a savage place.”

  “St. Louis is hardly uncultured, madam,” Ruel informed her. “Indeed, the city is quite as civilized as London. More so, in many ways.”

  “But of course. How thoughtless of me. And St. Louis is home to your Chouteau relations.” She waved her hands in agitation. “How could I have forgotten? Yet, I am so beside myself to see my sister again, and now Anne is wed into the aristocracy—”

  “Sarah, you are all aflutter,” her husband said gently. “I fear in a moment you’ll begin to weep great rivers of tears all over your sister and the marchioness. My lord, may I suggest that we all go inside and retire to the drawing room?”

  “Tea. Superb idea,” Ruel said. “You will join us, will you not, Walker?”

  “Thank you, but I am not in the custom of drinking tea. Excuse me.” He gave the company a curt nod and continued up the stairs and into the house.

  Still chattering like squirrels, Sarah and her younger sister followed. After giving instructions to his footmen regarding their trunks, Mr. Locke turned to Sir Alexander. The two men had been at school together, Anne knew, and were not only friends but business partners in a tea enterprise. Engrossed in conversation, they climbed the steps to the front door of Marston House.