The Accidental Abduction (7 page)

But her sister gave no sign of having heard. “You already married to save us once, Leannah. You shouldn't have to keep paying for . . .”

“Stop,” said Leannah softly. “Please, don't say it.”

Genevieve fell silent, but it didn't matter. The words still hung in the air between them.
You shouldn't have to keep paying for Father's mistakes.

“Should or shouldn't doesn't matter,” Leannah said. “We all have to deal with what is.”

“You've already saved us all more times than any of us know,” said Genevieve.

“I haven't done so much. It was Elias . . .”

The sound Genevieve made was loud, dismissive, and entirely unladylike. “Elias never would have made Jeremy his heir if you hadn't remained so good and true.
And
it was you who stopped Father from selling off the land while he had management of Elias's affairs, and kept us together after . . . well, afterward.”

Leannah had no answer. She could only wrap her arms around herself and sit in stunned silence. She had always believed she'd kept the extent of the family's troubles entirely to herself. It seemed she'd been underestimating Genevieve for a very long time, and perhaps not only Genevieve.

“How much does Jeremy know?”

“More than you want him to.”

“That wouldn't take much.”

Genevieve reached across the table and grasped Leannah's bandaged hand. “Let me help, Lea. Mr. Dickenson isn't a bad man . . .”

“He wants to marry an underage girl without the consent of her family.”

“Only because I talked him into it.”

“Which hardly speaks to strength of character on his part.”

“But it should prove I'll be able to manage him.”

You don't need a man you can manage,
Leannah thought wearily toward her sister.
You need a man strong enough and quick enough to understand you. One who will see all the good and beautiful things you are, and love you for them.

Leannah pictured Mr. Dickenson as he had been in their little dining room when she'd invited him to dinner. He'd stared down at the pale soup Mrs. Falwell ladled out to him. He'd seen the crack in the china plate, and the lack of meat among the vegetables. He would have turned up his nose at it if etiquette had permitted. No, Genevieve would not be able to manage this man. She was beneath him, and Anthony Dickenson was not one to let her ever forget that. He'd get her to sign her name and body over to him. Then, he'd take her away to a grand house and a life of misery.

But she could not say that. Genevieve would never listen.

“You expect me to trust so much in your judgment and yet you also expected to be able to get all the way to Gretna with only one bandbox.”

Genevieve turned her face stubbornly away, but the color was already rising in her cheeks. Leannah's tired, troubled mind cleared. She thought on her sister's cleverness, and her many other fine but misapplied qualities. All those qualities had surely been in play when Genevieve conceived of this elopement. Further, it was clear Meredith had been correct, and this had all been planned days, if not weeks, ago.

“You'd never elope without at least one decent dress, and a pair of dancing slippers,” Leannah said slowly. “What's going on?” But she didn't need Genevieve to answer. Even as she spoke, the remaining pieces of the puzzle tumbled into place. “Genevieve, please tell me you didn't involve Uncle Clarence in this scheme!”

Their uncle, Clarence Morehouse, was the priest at St. Timothy's in Vauxhall parish. As such, he could go to the archbishop at any time to obtain a special license. Once that was in hand, he could marry Genevieve to her intended anywhere—in a church, a sitting room, or the private parlor of the Three Swans.

Genevieve shrugged as if it was of no consequence. “If we'd had to go all the way to Scotland, you could have caught us.”

“I did catch you.”

Genevieve made no answer. Leannah tried to run her fingers through her hair, only to be stopped by the myriad of tangles.

“When was he to meet you?” she asked.

Genevieve glanced at the carriage clock on the mantel. “He should have been here already,” she said and for the first time worry crept into her voice. “He sent a message to Mrs. Falwell once he'd gotten the license.”

“How did you even get Uncle Clarence to agree? He's not the smartest man, but he wouldn't participate to a runaway marriage.” Understanding, unwelcome and cold, dawned. Leannah felt the blood drain from her cheeks. “Genevieve, you didn't!”

“I wonder that you ask me anything at all,” Genevieve sniffed. “You seem to know all the answers.”

“You lied and told him there was a baby!”

“He wouldn't have agreed any other way. As it was, he still wanted me to confess to you and Father.”

Now it was Leannah who couldn't speak. She stood and walked to the hearth. She was shaking again, and wrapped her arms tightly around herself. She couldn't even think. Her mind had gone entirely blank. Almost idly, she wondered how Harry Rayburn was doing out in the public room. How much had Mr. Dickenson told him?

And what must he think of me now?
she hung her head.

“What was I to do, Leannah?” said Genevieve from behind her. “It's not as if my season's been a roaring success.”

Neither of them mentioned that this was in part because she'd spent a certain amount of that season closeted in her room writing letters to the women's newspapers that spoke against the dissolution of a woman's individual legal status upon marriage. Not that she'd told anyone that was what she'd been doing. However—as Leannah had pointed out when she confronted Genny—if she really wanted to remain anonymous, she should have chosen a better nom de guerre than “G. M. House.”

“I'm all there is, Leannah. I have to make a decent match so we can survive until Jeremy's of age.” Her face flushed, and Leannah steeled herself for the outburst, which was not long in coming. “We shouldn't have to do this!” Genny cried. “We're adult human beings! You have twice as much sense as any man I've ever met! Elias should have left you the land, not a mess of lawyers, a sick man, and a twelve-year-old boy!”

“But he didn't and we must live with what is, not what we want to be,” said Leannah as calmly as she could. “You do not have to marry, Genny, and you certainly do not have to marry Mr. Dickenson. I would never, ever ask you to do anything so against your principals.”

But Genny just shook her head. “My principals won't keep the family safe and together. I can't afford to stand on them while you . . . give yourself away yet again.”

“I've made my choices,” said Leannah quietly. “You should be free to make yours, you and Jeremy both.”

“But what about you? You have as much right to your freedom as either of us.”

“It's too late for me.” But her thoughts had already strayed back to Harry Rayburn. What was he doing out there? Was he thinking of her? Wishing perhaps that they were the ones to share the inn's simple meal, and then, and then . . .

Unless of course he'd heard the whole, sordid story from Mr. Dickenson's cynical mouth, and had already left in disgust.

“It's not too late for you,” said Genevieve. “You're just playing the martyr because you haven't the heart or the nerve to do anything else.”

This blunt statement tipped Leannah over into genuine anger. “That's enough. If you think you will change our situation one bit by running off with a man who doesn't love you, then you are nothing but a silly schoolgirl and what you really need is to be sent to bed without supper.”

Genevieve clamped her mouth shut and turned her face toward the fire. Leannah didn't watch her. She faced the window instead, struggling to get her breathing under control. She'd done so much, she'd tried so hard—to have her little sister accuse her of cowardice was more than she could stand. It wasn't cowardice to do one's duty. When would Genevieve understand that they all must live the lives they'd been given? For Leannah, that meant holding the family together until Jeremy was twenty-one and Elias's land could be released from the trust. Anything else was not only foolish, but dangerous.

This wasn't any lack of nerve or heart. This was cold, hard reality. It didn't matter what Genevieve thought she was doing or why.

“I'm sorry, Leannah,” Genevieve's meek words interrupted her thoughts. “I shouldn't have done it, and I certainly shouldn't have involved Uncle Clarence.”

Genevieve was sitting with her hands clasped in her lap, her green eyes wide and anxious—the very picture of worried repentance.

Do you think I'm going to fall for this again?
But Leannah didn't say anything. Her heart was too strained and sore to continue this conversation.

You're just playing the martyr because you haven't the heart or the nerve to do anything else.
It was infuriating. It was ridiculous.

She might have been able to continue in this vein if she hadn't also been thinking of Harry Rayburn and the sensation of his arms wrapped around her, the brush of his lips against her ear, and the press of his hand against her mouth.

Leannah sighed. She sighed for trouble and secrets and younger sisters with good hearts who truly did want to help. But most of all she sighed for the thousands of things that could never and would never be.

“Let's go upstairs, Genevieve,” she said, putting her back to the public room and the lingering, tempting specter of Harry Rayburn. “We'll start for home tomorrow.”

A
nthony Dickenson, Harry decided, was not a man who improved upon closer acquaintance.

As soon as the parlor door closed, he rounded on Harry.

“Now, look here! Exactly who are you? And what business of yours is any of this?”

Actually, it was a bit of a surprise to Harry that this fastidious dandy would be involved in an elopement. Dickenson's buff coat had at least half a dozen capes to it, and his Hessian boots were polished mirror bright, that is, where they weren't splattered with mud from the yard. His dark, artfully arranged curls had suffered somewhat from the rain, and when he pushed his coat open, Harry saw a quizzing glass dangling from the gold chain around his neck.

Harry's mouth twitched, but he managed to meet Dickenson's drooping brown eyes. “I'm Harold Rayburn,” he said. “I'm a friend of the family, and I'm here to help Mrs. Wakefield bring her sister home, unharmed.”

Dickenson lifted his quizzing glass and regarded Harry through the lens. Dear God, he hadn't met with this much affectation since he'd come home from university. “Yes,” Dickenson drawled. “You look like the sort of friend she'd have. What's your trade?”

“It's not making off with young girls in the dead of night.”

That drew Dickenson up to his full height, which was still a good three inches or so shorter than Harry's. Harry watched various shades of contempt and anger flicker across the man's sallow face. His hands itched and his heart started pounding, but it wasn't fear that set his blood racing. God help him, he wanted the man to take a swing. He not only wanted some reason to fight, he wanted it badly. If Dickenson swung first, that was all the excuse he needed.

No, no, I don't want it. Not now, not ever.
Unease warred with the unwelcome anticipation in his blood.

Fortunately, Dickenson didn't swing. He just twitched his pale mouth into a commonplace sneer as he looked Harry slowly up and down.

“If you were a gentleman, I'd make you regret that.” Then coolly, deliberately, Dickenson turned his back. Absurdly, Harry found he had to suppress a shaky laugh of surprise. He'd just been given the cut direct, as if this were a tonnish ballroom rather than a public house. Dickenson thought he'd just won some triumph over his underling. It was really too much, especially coming from a man who wasn't even an honorable, and who also apparently had no idea how close he'd come to being laid out flat on the floor.

“Landlord,” Dickenson cried. “I need a drink! Brandy, if there's anything decent to be had in that hole of yours.”

Whatever's in the cellar's going to be a sight more decent than what's at the bar.
But this time, Harry kept his mouth shut. His hands were still shaking and the frustration of action delayed or denied still sizzled dangerously beneath his skin.

Think about Mrs. Wakefield,
he ordered himself as, inch by painful inch, he reeled in temper and nerve.
You are her escort and protector here. Think how it would look if you planted your fist in that smug face without provocation.

He put his foot on the bar's brass rail and waited for Dickenson's next move, and it had better not be toward the parlor, or heaven help them both. He hoped Mrs. Wakefield was having a better time of it in there. He wished he could send her some word of reassurance. Although, if there was any way he could speak openly, reassurance was not the first thing he'd be offering her.

She's a widow
, whispered desire's warm voice from the back of his mind.
There is no Mr. Wakefield in this world. She's out of mourning.

She could say yes, if he asked. If he took her in his arms and he kissed her, if he whispered how very much he wanted to touch her, to arouse her passions, and then satisfy them all. She could say yes. She wanted to say yes. He saw it in her eyes, and he heard it in the hitch of her breath.

At least he thought he did. Harry's face twisted into a scowl. He'd seen her cheeks burning with heightened color and her eyes widen as she looked at him. He had held her against his chest and felt how she was so lush and warm and eminently desirable. She had let him take that liberty, but what did that mean? It might mean everything. It might mean nothing at all. Maybe she was only confused and tired and hadn't quite been able to pull herself quickly away. But it might mean she felt this same fire that burned in him.

At the moment, however, the point was entirely moot. Mrs. Wakefield was on the other side of that door with her runaway sister, and he was stuck here playing watchdog to Anthony Dickenson. He couldn't ask her what she thought of the weather, much less begin the delightful task of seducing her.

“Here you are, sir.” Mr. Jessop set a glass of dark liquid on the bar in front of Dickenson. “That's the genuine article, you'll find,” he added as Dickenson gave it a doubtful sniff. “And what can I get you, sir?”

“Beer for me, Mr. Jessop, and one for yourself,” Harry fished another half crown out of his pocket and handed it across. Since he was feeling so much like an undisciplined boy, maybe he should act like one, at least a little. Harry had spent three terms at Oxford. He'd enjoyed the time and made some good friends, although it quickly became obvious he didn't have any genuine inclination to scholarship. But he'd also been forced to hold his own among scions of the aristocracy who didn't think a mere merchant's son, however wealthy, had any business walking their hallowed halls. He'd learned when to fight them, and when to speak and when to hold his tongue. He'd also learned several effective methods for getting under the skin of exactly Dickenson's sort of snob. One of the best was to simply spend generously and have a splendid time while they were trying to turn up their well-bred noses.

Mr. Jessop's eyes lit up at Harry's invitation, and the sight of the half crown. “Well, I'll not say no to that, an' thank you, sir. We've got an excellent bitter. My wife's nephew brews it.” They both ignored Dickenson's pained groan. Mr. Jessop brought out an earthenware jug and plied it expertly, raising just the right amount of foam on the golden beer. “Now, you see what you think of that.”

“Your health.” Harry raised his glass and received Mr. Jessop's toast in return. He drained it heartily, and without any difficulty. It really was very good.

Dickenson on the other hand, looked like he was drinking vinegar rather than brandy.

It was then Mrs. Jessop and her serving girl emerged from the kitchen. Mrs. Jessop carried a tureen, and the girl had a plate of bread and a crock of butter.

“Now then, sirs,” said Mrs. Jessop as they drew a table up to the fire and laid the cloth. “I know it's not much, but we've some lovely stew, piping hot, and the bread's fresh this morning and . . .”

“You can keep your stews, woman,” snapped Dickenson. “Christ and damn, if it wasn't for this rain . . .”

“That smells wonderful, Mrs. Jessop. Thank you.” Harry pulled a chair up to the table and began at once to tuck in. The food was plain but hot and good enough. Harry had certainly eaten far worse on board ship and in any number of foreign ports where Dickenson probably wouldn't be caught dead if he could help it. It didn't hurt that Harry was starved, and had the distinct feeling the already long night was going to do nothing but get longer. For one thing, he wasn't going to be taking his eyes off Dickenson, no matter what happened. The man was staring at the parlor door, clearly trying to work out if there was any way he could snatch up Miss Morehouse and bolt.

Harry tore off another hunk of bread and mopped up the last of his stew. Dickenson cast him another disparaging glance, and set about pouring himself a third brandy. Harry's itch to pick a fight had faded, replaced by a wholly immature glee at Dickenson's discomfort. Despite this unadmirable, but persistent sentiment, food and drink had steadied Harry and he felt much better able to handle the man in front of him. He watched Dickenson knock back a fourth brandy. Unless Harry very much missed his guess, the man was about to begin justifying himself, and there would be some insult as a digestif. That fight he'd so narrowly avoided before might just follow after all.

Consider Mrs. Wakefield, Rayburn, and keep your head.

Not that considering Mrs. Wakefield was the sort of activity calculated to help him, or any man, keep his head. When he'd walked into the parlor and seen her sitting by the fire with her red-gold hair cascading in shining waves over her shoulders and arms, he'd barely been able to breathe. When she'd taken off his coat to reveal that damp muslin dress clinging to every inch of her magnificent body, he'd almost forgotten he was a civilized man. He'd wanted nothing more than to catch her around the waist and to kiss her until she couldn't think straight. But that would never be enough, and he knew it. It wouldn't be enough even if he were to lay her down in front of the fire, peel that wet dress off her, and wrap her up in his arms instead. It wouldn't be enough until he was able to bury his aching member inside her. Until he heard her call his name and beg for more.

Dammit, he really was going to have to stop considering Mrs. Wakefield or he wouldn't be able to sit down anymore, let alone sit still.

“I suppose,” drawled Dickenson, “that woman's been pouring her heart out to you and telling you what a horrid individual I am.”

If she'd been able to give full vent to her feelings, Harry suspected “horrid” was the tamest word Mrs. Wakefield would choose. Harry rubbed his side, remembering the blow she'd so unceremoniously dealt him. He tried not to think about how it would feel to grab her wrist and wrestle that whip away from her, or to see those emerald eyes alight with the joy of the challenge as he tried.

“It's not as if any of this was my idea,” Dickenson was saying. “I would have done the whole thing by the book but the confounded woman wouldn't agree. Probably holding out for more money, the greedy chit.”

Harry's fantasies dropped away. All his attention snapped back to the room around him, and to Anthony Dickenson at the very center of it.

“What did you say?” Harry inquired.

Mr. Dickenson set his glass down on the bar. He straightened, but not steadily. “I
said
, Mrs. Wakefield's got no business being picky about who comes courting her sister. She's lucky to get any offer at all, after the way she's carried on.”

He's drunk. Don't do it,
Harry told himself.
Let it go.
But he wasn't listening to himself. He got to his feet. He walked over to the bar. That unholy eagerness was back and it had brought his frustrated lust as reinforcement. “You will be cautious, and polite, about how you refer to Mrs. Wakefield.”

“Ohhh-ho!” Dickenson's eyebrows shot up. “The boy thinks he's got teeth.”

Harry realized his hand had already curled into a fist.
It's the brandy. It's the brandy. Let him babble. It doesn't mean anything.
But all he could see was Dickenson's smug face. That sight got down deep in him and it was foul and filthy, and goaded him hard. The man thought birth and family made him, thought he could tread across other lives with contempt and disregard because they didn't measure up.

“Now, then, sir, there's no call for anything unpleasant,” said Mr. Jessop. “Is the brandy not to your taste? I've another bottle, very fine . . .”

But Dickenson wasn't going to be distracted. “Or maybe you just haven't heard about the methods the good widow used to get her fingers into that property she's holding on to so tightly. Maybe I should enlighten you as to your
lady's
morals.” He fondled his quizzing glass. “But being in trade yourself, maybe you don't object to a woman with such capital business sense that she's ready to sell herself and her sister off to the highest bidder . . .”

Probably Dickenson was an habitué of Gentleman Jim's, or some other fine establishment where they taught boxing as a science. Harry had learned to brawl on the docks around his father's warehouse among the men and boys for whom fighting was a way to stay alive. His first punch went straight to Dickenson's guts, and when the man doubled over, the second blow landed right on the back of his head, dropping him like a sack of bricks. But it wasn't enough to appease the vicious anger roaring in Harry's veins. He had to teach the man a proper lesson. He drew his foot back, ready to plant a kick in the bastard's ribs. Roll him over with that, get the next one in his back.

“Harry!”

Mrs. Wakefield's shout cut through the vicious determination of his thoughts and Harry's head jerked up. She stood in the doorway, her face shocked and pale as she stared at him.

“I'm sorry,” said Harry to her. “I'm sorry.”

But it was Mr. Jessop who answered. “No need to apologize, sir.” He stumped out from behind the bar. “Very neat job you made of it, if I may say. Martin! Come help me get this mess off the floor!”