No Choice but Surrender (33 page)

A fortnight passed before Brienne saw Ralph Harcourt again. It was a cold and rainy day, but she had promised Mrs. Whitsome that she would go to the market and buy some aniseed for Cook. The housekeeper had been crestfallen for days after Brienne refused Ralph Harcourt's proposal of marriage, and Brienne had tried to cheer up the elderly matchmaker, but it had been to no avail. Gossip had it that the wealthy merchant's son suffered greatly from the rejection of an unknown young woman and was now seen in the company of a Mathilda Geddings at the Lower Assembly Rooms. So with Mrs. Whitsome's heart broken, Brienne had left for the market, promising to keep her hood about her along with her wits.

The market along the Avon was spilling with goods. Everything from caged green monkeys from Antigua to an even greener hogshead cheese from Chester could be had for the quibbling
There
were makeshift stalls fragrantly laid with salted pork, dried jerky, and sausages. Wily hags freely bartered their summer-dried herbs, hiding their potions smelling of prohibited gin under the counter until a gent with a "sickness" came to call.

Brienne procured the aniseed easily, bothering neither to
haggle
the fee down nor to shop the other stalls for a better price. Her trips to the market had always seemed a small adventure to her, distracting her from the bothersome headaches that had plagued her ever since she had run from Osterley. But today the stalls seemed to
wreak
of strong, offensive odors. Whereas before the sweet smells from the taffy man and the winery had always tempted her, now they made her head feel light. Watching the rabbit can pass by, her stomach turned uncomfortably.

Walking away from the stall, she bade the seller a hasty farewell. She turned to the edge of the sprawling market near the waterfront and walked quickly to the embankment, hoping the chilly river breeze would steady her senses enough so she could endure the walk back home. There were people everywhere; some built makeshift fires to cook their suppers and others just wandered along through the crowds, searching for a wealthy, wayfaring gent whose purse they could lighten. As she passed the back of the harnessmaker's, she heard a female giggle and then some cooing.

"Lovey, not to worry.
You'll be taking a bite out of him soon."

"And you'll cling to me, won't you?" a man's voice rasped sarcastically. "When I have everything back, you will expect to be my queen."

"I'll stay with you, lovey
. '
Twas a sign I knew when I found you here, keeping watch on The Crescent. If my brother hadn't been kicked out of that fair in Bristol, we'd never have—" There was a great moan and her voice was muffled.

"Do not remind me of it!"

"But, lovey, when you get the house back, you'll come around. I know it. And then I will be countess." Brienne heard a lewd sucking noise.

"I'll come around. And you'll beg for it, painful though it may be."

"I'll beg for it now, if that be what you want, lovey." The woman cooed again, and the man laughed unpleasantly.

Thinking the rather obscene conversation to be of no concern—just a maid's dalliance—Brienne had almost turned- away from the stall when two bodies showed themselves amongst the new pieces of a leather hackamore.

Fear rose in her like poisonous, liquid mercury. The man was dressed like a commoner, with a once-fine, soiled, and patched topcoat, threadbare hose, and worn-out gaiters. The last rime she had seen him, he had been wearing the heaviest of satin with the most elaborate embroidery. But there was no mistaking him, from his laugh, which she had heard a thousand times in her nightmares, to his hands, long and completely white from his nails to his wrists. Horrible, effeminate hands, hands of death, she thought as she held back a sob. The man she saw in the harnesser's was none other than her father! And the woman he was caressing publicly through her loosened stays was none other than her former maid at Osterley, Annie!

The man looked up as a snake does when it senses a mouse. Seeing this, Brienne quickly backed away and screamed silently. Her breast beat wildly with her terror-stricken heart.
God, ob God, oh God,
she whimpered as she stumbled along the embankment, trying to put distance between her and the earl. Suddenly, despite her churning stomach, she tan and ran as if for her very life.

"You've changed your mind, princess?" She stifled a scream as she slammed into a solid, masculine form. Looking up, she shed tears of relief when she saw the handsome, boyish face of Ralph Harcourt. "What is it, love? Why are you running?"

"My hood!" she cried in terror.

"Your hood?"

"My hood!
Cover my hair! My God! You must cover my hair!" She clutched wildly at her back, trying to snatch the hood up. Ralph quickly helped her pull the material over her locks so that the startling burgundy color was completely hidden from view. "Take me away from here. Please, Ralph. Take me away!" Brienne sobbed into his cuff.

"But what is this?" he said, bewildered. Taking one look at her terrified visage, he uttered, "Of course!
Of course!"
Stopping a passing hackney, he helped her inside and firmly shut the door behind them.
"Where to, my lady?
Back to
The
Crescent?"

"No!" she gasped before she could stop herself. She forced herself to calm down and remind herself that the earl no longer held claim to Number One. She took several deep breaths, and wondered if her father had come to Bath uninformed of his loss. Thinking more rationally, she said, "Yes. I'm afraid I was mistaken. I suppose I should go back to The Crescent."

When she was safe inside the kitchen of Number One, drinking a beaker full of warm milk, Brienne asked Ralph, "How does it feel to have made your offer to a coward?"

"A woman need not be brave, especially when she has been so terribly frightened." Ralph bent down to her, concern hardening his beautiful, Romanesque face.

In the background Brienne heard the comforting squeal of whirring iron as the dog-wheel spit went around and around, powered by a small, gray-muzzled mongrel that Cook pampered and called "my precious."

"What has made you so frightened, princess?" Ralph asked sharply.

"Please, I cannot tell you." She looked away; terror rose in her violet eyes.

"Then get away from here!" With a look of exasperation on his face, he turned and looked around the kitchen. "You deserve better than this, Brienne. You deserve protection and a fine home. I have wonderful homes in London and Bristol, and I vex myself every day that you are not mistress of them." '

"Please, just give me some more time," she pleaded.

"And what do you need all this time for?" Gently, he lifted her chin.

"I don't know." She looked into the fire; misery shone bright on her face.

There was a long, soul-wretching silence as he pondered her. Finally he said in a bleak voice, "You don't love me, do you?"

"It's not that!" She denied it, but she could see he didn't believe her.

"I suppose I'd guessed as much." He stood up, angered, and yet for the time being resigned. "You don't have to answer me right away. But when you do, princess, you know where I live. Call for me at any time. I mean that." He tilted her head up and kissed her passionately on her mouth. "I'd make you love me. Know that."

"I think you could," she answered truthfully. "Just give me a few more days. I'm sure I'll give you the answer you want then."

After his departure, Brienne sat on the kitchen bench and watched the mongrel run its wheel, around and around. Cook had told her of dogs that had been forced to run by having the pads of their feet burned. They ran the wheel in hope of finding relief from the pain. But of course, "my precious" wasn't the type to run away on slaughter day, not having undergone such mistreatment. But as Brienne watched the dog perform its arduous task—a mongrel of less than two stone roasted a side of beef that was near five—she couldn't help but note similarities between the mongrel's situation and her own. Both of them had arduous tasks to perform. Around and around in her mind spun the questions, what should she do now that the earl was in Bath? How could she stop him from carrying out his nefarious schemes?

When the body was found, the servants at Number One indulged in all sorts of morbid speculation. Mrs. Whitsome sent the footman out at dawn to get the edition of
The Bath Chronicle
that held die details of the gruesome murder and the description of the unknown body.

It seemed that the mysterious girl had common enough features, a large, full figure, and indistinct coloring. There were unusual markings on the body—a cluster of three black moles of various sizes on the girl's upper lip. A sickening sensation came over Brienne as she read about the body's brutal rape with a harness tanner's knife.

Completely subdued, she gave the paper back to the other curious servants and left for her room, now knowing the ugly truth. All she could think about was Annie back at Osterley, when she had wickedly thrust herself into the pink polonaise. The maid's upper lip had twitched sensuously when she talked; Brienne recalled how proud Annie was of the fact that she required no patches to look lusty. Annie possessed natural markings that created the effect—three moles.

Brienne bit her upper lip, thinking hard. Perhaps she should write to Avenel. He could handle the situation. But her head started to pound when she seriously considered the possibility, and she knew she wouldn't do it. She remembered the scars that the earl had viciously produced on him, and suddenly a fierce protectiveness came over her. Hardly believing it herself, she pictured Avenel actually vulnerable when put up against such unholy evil as her father. No, she would not ask him to come. She would not involve him.

She now knew she had to find a way of dealing with her father before he sought his revenge on the new owner of Osterley. As much as the idea of being the earl's spawn repulsed her, she felt that if she could put him away, perhaps it would absolve her of her heritage. But the only way to do that was to go to a man more powerful than the earl himself. She would have to go to the Duke of Degarre.

That had been no easy
task,
she told herself several days later. First she had had to convince the coachman to take her to Castle Coombe, where the duke lived. Then she'd had to convince Mrs. Whitsome of the necessity of the trip without alarming her. Finally she had claimed that the entire outing was a rendezvous with Mr. Harcourt, so she had been allowed to go. It was Brienne's luck that the housekeeper was so busy that she couldn't serve as chaperone and sent a young serving maid in her place.

Now riding in the carriage, as a spring rain began to let up, Brienne felt as nervous as she had the day she left Tenby,

perhaps
even more so. For this was a nasty business. She looked out the rain-washed window and saw the first towers of the aged castle. Before she knew it, she was gathering her cloak about her to descend to the ground, not bothering to awaken the tiny maid who had drifted off to sleep before they'd left The Crescent.

Swallowing her fear and then her pride, she walked up to the huge medieval door and knocked on it loudly enough to awaken the dead. "I have come to see the duke," she said to the silver-haired footman who answered the door.

"The duke?"
The tall, thin man opened the door wider, allowing her to enter.

"He is in?"

The man cocked his head and smirked at her.

"I realize this must seem extraordinary. But I must have an appearance—"

"No explanations are necessary. The duke resides in the morning room at this hour. Follow me."

She followed him through the maze of dusty halls and steep, crumbling stone stairways and finally was let into a large room with high, soot-stained gothic windows and dingy tapestries. The first thing she noticed about the room, however, wasn't the duke himself
nor
its cathedral atmosphere; rather, it was the sickly sweet odor of the room. It made her want to retch right there on the stone floor. But she swallowed her bile as she walked toward the thronelike chair on which the duke was seated, praying that his action against her father would be swift and her trip worth the risk.

"Your Grace, my name is Brienne M-Morrow," she stuttered, suddenly fearing the large bulky man who was the Duke of Degarre. She was surprised that he appeared so unkempt and lifeless—and dirty. His knee breeches had yellow egg stains dried upon them, and his hair—or what was left of it —was shiny and greasy. He certainly didn't look like a man with much authority, and when she finally met his faraway gaze, her hopes sunk into a quagmire of despair.

"Morrow, speak to me of the young Morrow," the duke mumbled incoherently. His eyes wandered across her face.

"Your Grace, you must help. Oliver Morrow has—" she began.

"The Younger will help. Speak to me of Morrow."

"I shall speak to you of Morrow," she said, her voice trembling with hopelessness and anger. This man could hardly hear her words, much less understand them. No wonder the footman had looked upon her with such ridicule. She continued, "It is because of you that he has been able to commit these heinous crimes unchecked. I know now why. It is all because of you—all because of you and your vile Chinese drug."