Wedded in Sin (3 page)

“But it’s
wrong
,” Penny repeated, trying desperately to find a way to stop this. “All of it is just…”

“Legal,”
said Cordwain with a sneer. “All legal. Now get gone from here, girl. And take your brat with you. I can’t have the likes of you around my place of business.”

That was the final insult. The living fury beneath her skin broke free. She launched herself at Cordwain with the only weapon she had—her nails and her fury. But she never connected. Before she even realized she’d leaped, the toff had her around the waist. It was no small feat, given that he still had Tommy wrapped around his neck. And for a too tall, no-good toff, he was damned strong.

“We’ll have none of that,” he scolded, not winded in the least despite the way she was flailing in his one-armed grasp. “It’s too late; surely you can see that,” he continued.

He was right. While she was trapped by the toff, the constable had stepped between her and the bastard Cordwain. Jobby, too, had recovered and was now looking as dark and violent as she felt. Still, she would have fought on if it weren’t for Tommy. All her struggles were putting the toddler in danger. Apparently the stranger knew that, too, because he was quickly shoving the boy into her arms even as he set her back onto her feet.

“There, now, hold the boy before he gets hurt,” he said.

“That’s right, you b—”

“Enough, Cordwain,” cut in the constable. “Damned if you don’t know how to make a bad situation worse every time I see you.”

The bastard puffed himself up, his face flushed and his mouth starting to open, but the toff was there beforehand, his manner somewhat bumbling but his eyes very keen.

“One question, Mr. Cordwain, if I may. Did you know this solicitor before the sale?”

“Wot? Why—”

“How close were the two of you?”

“I didn’t know the damned man before he took my money!”

“Well, that’s clearly not true,” said the gentleman with an eye roll. “You don’t just give a man money for a store out of the blue. How’d you know he was Tommy’s guardian? ’Specially since the lad’s sister didn’t even know.”

Cordwain’s brows narrowed and he looked to the storefront. “Everybody knows I’ve wanted this property. Been trying to buy it, but her dad wouldn’t sell.”

“I see,” said the gentleman, his brows drawn together in a frown. “But what has that to do with Mr. Addicock?”

“He contacted me. Said as he knew I wanted to buy it, and would I do it now? And for a bloody high price, too!” Cordwain’s face snapped around to glare in their direction. “Had to spend all my savings for it. Every last groat!”

“Well, every last groat except for the men you’re paying right there.” He gestured to the three sour-looking thugs loitering around the shop’s front door. “Five men plus the constable to evict one woman and a babe? Seems rather excessive, doesn’t it?”

“I knew she would be trouble,” the bastard growled. “And I was right.”

“Huh.” That was it. Just a grunt more than a word, accompanied by a glance at the constable, who simply shrugged.

“No!” Penny cried. “No!”

“I’m afraid so, Miss Shoemaker. It’s the law. Do you have someplace to go? A relation perhaps? Or a friend?”

Penny stared at them. Cordwain, the constable, Jobby and his henchmen, then the toff last of all. They all stared at her like mutton. Blank male faces of differing personality, but all dumb, all blind. “Can’t you see…” she began, praying that one of them would help her. After everything she’d done since her parents’ murder, everything she’d survived, this final humiliation was too much. It was—

“I’ll see to her, Constable,” the gentleman said. “Just let me get my bag.” Then, without so much as a by-your-leave, he strolled straight over to her satchel and flipped it over his shoulder.

“But—”

“Best go with him,” the constable said, giving her a sad smile. “Nothing to be done here.”

“But…” Her gaze traveled to her home. She’d been born in the upper story of that building there, as had her father. The shop had been her grandfather’s pride and joy, and her father’s after that. One month ago, she had found a way to save it. She’d just begun to dream of opening its doors again to show her wares just like a Shoemaker had for over fifty years. It couldn’t be taken from her. Not without warning. Not like this.

“Come now,” said the gentleman as he gently cupped her elbow. “There’s stuff to be done and it isn’t here.”

“But—”

“Just walk,” he ordered. Not harshly, but with enough authority that she obeyed. She spoke not a word, and to her added fury she found she was crying. Big, wet tears leaked down her face. She couldn’t stop it, and she damn well couldn’t hide it.

They were three blocks away when the toff finally said something that jolted her out of her misery.

“Tell me why I’m carrying a bag of body parts.”

Chapter 2

“They’re not body parts!” she cried. Then she forcibly
pulled her emotions under control. By all accounts, this man was trying to help her. She shouldn’t be taking out her frustration on him. “They’re called ‘likes.’ They’re wood blocks cut into the shape of our customers’ feet. A shoemaker then makes the shoe to fit the mold.”

He glanced at her, and she was startled to see his eyes twinkling in the sunshine. Was he teasing her? Perhaps, but when he spoke, his words were very serious. “I know what they are, Miss Shoemaker. What I want to know is why—when armed men were bursting through your door—you took the time to grab a bag of wooden feet.”

Penny resettled Tommy on her shoulder, using the time to think how to respond. Now that they were away from all the frightening things at home, the child was starting to droop against her. He’d be asleep before long.

“They’re the only thing I have left from my father,” she said softly. Even added a slight sniff as if she were teetering on the very edge of despair. She was teetering, but not headed toward despair. Seething anger was her particular demon.

Apparently, the toff wasn’t fooled. She hadn’t even finished her sniff when the man burst out laughing. “My dear, you will have to do a great deal better than that if you want to fool me.”

She sniffed again, but not in tears. Damn the man for being smart. “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t even know your name.”

“Oh! Bother, of course.” He stepped back and executed a rather florid and formal bow. “Mr. Samuel Morrison at your service.”

She frowned, searching through her memories of the different gentlemen who had frequented her father’s shop. Her job had been to smile sweetly at them as she served them tea or something stronger. She’d learned very young that delicate line between being charming without actually flirting. And if she ever crossed the line, her mother had been there to haul her back by her ear. But she didn’t remember a Samuel…

“Oh wait! Your father was Baron Hugh Morrison. His feet might be in that bag you’re holding! And your brother…”

“Gregory.”

“Yes! Oh, he was such a serious little boy.”

“We call him sullen.”

“But I don’t remember…”

“A younger son?”

She flushed. She knew something about being passed over by a parent. Apparently, Samuel did, too. “Er, perhaps I was away when your family came for shoes,” she offered.

“You weren’t. I never had the joy of a Shoemaker boot, but my father swore they were the very best.”

Now she really was touched by a bit of melancholy. Her father had been the very best shoemaker in England, and times like this, she missed him terribly. But rather than dwell on what was lost, she glanced over at Mr. Morrison, only to find him watching her closely. His eyes were the dark brown of fine leather stained honey. Most would call it a simple brown, but she saw the lighter streaks, especially now with the sun shining on his face.

And she shivered. Not in fear, but in sudden awareness. There was a banked intensity in him. He spoke casually and sometimes with a touch of irritation, as if he couldn’t be bothered with whatever it was that you were saying. But the way he looked at her said that he was anything but casual about his environment. Indeed, she believed he saw
everything
, and that worried her. She was too used to hiding things for her to be easy around someone who
noticed
.

“Um,” she said, scrambling for some way to distract him. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Morrison.”

“Hmmm, that remains to be seen. I was about to turn you in to the constable, you know. The bill of sale stated everything in the home and shop. Including, I’m sure, these very body parts that I’m hauling around.”

“They’re not body parts!” she huffed. “Stop saying that!”

He chuckled. It was a nice sound, though surprisingly gruff. As if he weren’t used to laughing and was as surprised as she by his amusement. “But I like saying it. Tickles my admittedly macabre sense of humor.”

She opened her mouth to say something to that, but really what could one say? Exactly what did he mean by “macabre”? She knew the word, though only vaguely. It had to do with death, funerals, and gloomy things. But he had said “sense of humor”, so that couldn’t be right. Meanwhile, he had begun swinging the satchel left and right, talking in an almost singsong way.

“This is not a well-made bag, you know. I noticed it because the seams were old and weak. Any little provocation could have it splitting wide open and spilling wooden body parts all over the street. Just imagine what might happen if I accidentally knocked it against a tree.”

He was fitting word to action and she nearly leaped out of her skin to catch it. But with Tommy now asleep on her shoulder, she couldn’t move fast enough and he kept it maddeningly out of reach.

“Please, sir!” she gasped as she looked hurriedly about her. “Please don’t throw that around!”

“But you threw it right in a pile of rubbish.”

“I didn’t—” She snapped her mouth shut. Of course she did. And he had seen. And now he was looking for an explanation. He was looking at her, the bag still swinging back and forth. He didn’t even look like he was paying attention to her, but she knew that was an illusion. Especially when he arched a brow. “I detest repeating myself, Miss Shoemaker. Why did you risk everything on grabbing a bag of wooden feet?”

“Because they are mine! And that bill of sale is completely false!” Damn the man for turning her into a shrew in the middle of the street. Back there was bad enough when she was fighting against armed bullies, but now they were strolling along near Bond Street on a beautiful day. And now he’d managed to poke at her until she was as furious and
helpless
as she had been back there.

As if he knew he’d pushed her to the very brink, he stopped swinging the bag. It slowed, then eventually came to rest against his leg. She stared at it, unable to meet his gaze. It took her a few moments to get her temper back under control, but when she did, she spoke in low tones.

“They are the feet of all of Father’s most prestigious clients. Nobs as a rule don’t like coming in to get their feet measured. They’d much prefer to send a messenger. ‘
I’d like a pair of riding boots like Lord Whomevers. I need a new left shoe as my old one is terribly scuffed.
’ They can’t be bothered to come in and get a new foot whittled, and besides, that takes time to get the mold right.”

He nodded, taking up the flow of her words, his agile mind easily understanding what she was saying. “So that makes the molds rather valuable, I would guess. Whoever has the wooden feet is most likely to get the nob’s business.”

“Yes.”

“But that still doesn’t answer the question. Why would
you
care about that? Your father was the shoemaker, not you.”

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t because everyone knew that women couldn’t be shoemakers. They were too weak, too soft, too mutton-headed. Everyone knew that, which was why she couldn’t get a job as a shoemaker’s apprentice even though she’d been making shoes all her life. Her father’s hands hadn’t always worked so well, and she was right there, eager to help. She’d learned every aspect of the trade by the time she was twelve, but still no one would buy from a girl.

That was why she had started selling shoes made by Tommy’s “father,” whom no one had ever met. And yes, at the moment, she only made women’s shoes, but one day that would change. One day, Tommy’s “father” would open the shop again and send notes round to all the nobs with feet in her bag. He would offer them new shoes at a discounted price if only they would send a drawing of what they’d like. But it would be her, of course, making the shoes in secret and sending them on.

Except now a damned toff was looking at her much too clearly. It was bad enough that she’d just lost her shop and home. Now he could expose everything else. People wouldn’t buy shoes made by a woman. And if she couldn’t sell shoes, then how would she and Tommy survive?

“Is your father still alive then? Or an uncle or…” He glanced at the babe asleep in her arms. “Tommy’s father?”

“Yes,” she said, forcing herself to meet his eyes calmly. “Tommy’s father. I measure the customer’s feet, manage the leather and cording, and he makes them.”