A Lady by Midnight (28 page)

“Oh, no.” Kate covered her mouth with her hand. “You didn’t.”

Kate stared at Aunt Marmoset, uncertain what to say or do. In the past weeks, she’d come to think of this woman as . . . as the closest thing to a mother she would likely ever know. And now to learn she’d been turned away, even as an infant.

For a moment she was back in Miss Paringham’s sitting room, swallowing dishwater tea and dodging blows from a cane.
No one wanted you then. Who on earth do you think will want you now?

“I’m so sorry,” Aunt Marmoset said. “I know you may never forgive me, and I’ll understand if you don’t. But I’m so fond of you, dear.” She sniffed. “I truly am. I love you like one of my own. If I’d only known that my moment of peevishness would have such dire consequences . . .”

“You didn’t know,” Kate found herself saying. “You couldn’t have known. I don’t blame you.”

“You don’t?”

She shook her head honestly. “I don’t.”

Miss Paringham’s scornful words that day hadn’t altered the course of her life. She doubted a few moments’ ugliness from Aunt Marmoset had been enough to determine her mother’s entire future. For Elinor to grow so desperate, more than one door must have been closed in her face. Or perhaps she’d simply been unwilling to live by others’ rules. Kate would never know.

Aunt Marmoset clasped Kate’s hand. “Do you know how she responded that day, when I turned her away?”

Kate shook her head. “Tell me, please. I want to know everything.”

“She lifted her chin, bade me a good day. And she walked away, smiling. She kept her dignity, even after I’d lost mine.” The older woman’s papery hand squeezed Kate’s. “You have so much of your mother’s fire.”

Your mother’s fire.

At last, Kate had a name for that small flame warming her heart. She did have something of her mother. She’d carried it inside her all along, and it was more precious than a memory of her face or a verse her mother might have sung. She had the courage to smile in the face of cruelty and indifference—to clutch her dignity tight when she had nothing else. That inner fire was how she’d survived.

She would find an answer to this situation, and it would not involve marrying anyone. Anyone other than Samuel, that was.

“Should we tell Evan this?” she asked. “Perhaps he’d feel less obligated to marry me if he knew that—”

“
Less
obligated?” Harry cried. “Surely you know him better than that, Kate. If Evan hears of this, he’ll have us scraping your shoes in penance. He’ll dress Lark in sackcloth and ashes for her debut. He will certainly not feel less obligated.”

Kate chewed her lip, knowing Harry was right.

She did have one last source of hope, however. Susanna. Perhaps Susanna could make Lord Rycliff see sense and release Samuel from the gaol.

Just then, Susanna and Minerva entered through the parlor door. Badger scampered to the floor as Kate stood to welcome them.

Susanna wasted no time on pleasantries. “It’s no good, I’m afraid.”

“He won’t be moved?” Kate asked, deflating back into her chair. “Oh no.”

Susanna shook her head with so much agitation, her freckles blurred. “What good is a ‘code of honor’ if it flies in the face of all common sense? Bram insists that he’s bound to do as Thorne asks, even if he personally disagrees. He won’t hear any argument. It’s all wrapped up in pride and brotherhood and his wounded leg. I tell you, whenever that dratted leg is concerned, Bram’s impervious to reason. If the man ever had a sensible bone in his body, it must have been his right kneecap.”

She sat down next to Kate. “I’m so sorry. I tried my best.”

“I know you did.”

Minerva added, “I considered asking Colin speak to him, as a last resort. But I worried it might work against us.”

Kate tried to smile. “Thank you for the thought.”

“Surely one of them can be worn down, over the course of days,” Susanna said. “This can’t last forever.”

But even if it lasted days, it would be too much. No one could understand just what it meant for Samuel to be confined. Here was a man who’d etched the date of his release on his
own arm,
working carefully despite the teeth-gritting pain, because he knew he was in danger of losing all hope and forfeiting his last shred of humanity. Accepting chains must be torture for him.

“We’ll find another way,” Susanna said. She looked around the parlor at Lark, Harry, Aunt Marmoset, Minerva . . . finally coming back to Kate. “This is Spindle Cove. Here we have six intelligent, resourceful, strong-willed women in one room. We will not be thwarted by a few unreasonable men and their silly toy-soldier games.”

“That’s right,” Minerva said. “Let’s go through all the alternatives.”

“I can’t run away,” Kate said, ticking them off on her fingers. “Marrying Evan is out of the question, as is marrying anyone else.”

“I know!” Lark said. “Kate, you could take religious vows, so you’re forbidden to marry anyone.”

Aunt Marmoset coughed on her spice drop. “A Gramercy woman, sent to a nunnery? That would be unspeakably cruel—to the abbess, most of all.”

Harry wagged a finger, eyes keen. “Wait a moment. Perhaps she could marry Evan just for a few minutes, and then apply for a dissolution or annulment.”

“I can’t do that,” Kate said. “I did think of it, but the vicar told me annulments aren’t easy to obtain. Plus, it would be dishonest. Evan’s been so good to me—I couldn’t lie to his face that way, reciting vows I’ve no intention to keep.”

“Susanna had the right idea,” Minerva declared. She adjusted her spectacles. “In this village, we beat the men at their own games. If they want to play soldiers, we’ll assemble our own army of ladies. We’ll have at them with bows, pistols, rifles—even a trebuchet, if Sir Lewis will lend it—and stage a jailbreak by force.”

Aunt Marmoset perked up. “My dear, I like the way you think.”

“No, no,” Kate said. “That’s certainly an . . .
exciting . . .
idea, Min. But we can’t. There’d be too much chance of someone getting hurt, and the last thing Samuel needs is another siege.”

His unpredictable reaction to blasts was at the very heart of the problem.

“Besides, even if we were to break him out of the gaol, that wouldn’t change his mind. We’d just be back where we were last night.”

Kate believed, with all her heart, that she and Samuel could build a happy life together. But when he’d made that bargain with Evan last night, he revealed his own doubts. He’d passed her into someone else’s keeping, the same way he’d left her at Margate two decades ago. He doubted his own worth. And he didn’t believe her when she said she’d give up everything for him. She had run out of ways to convince him with words.

And there was still the problem of public scandal. She couldn’t adopt the family name, then turn around and drag it straight through the seediest lanes of Southwark. Even after Aunt Marmoset’s confessions, she wouldn’t wish that on any of the Gramercys—and she didn’t want that cloud hanging over a marriage to Samuel.

In a nervous gesture, she twisted the ring on her finger, turning the pale pink stone this way and that to catch golden flashes of sun. So beautiful. She couldn’t imagine ever removing it. Samuel had chosen it especially for her.

The stone had inner fire. So did she.

“Well, we must do
something,
” Minerva said. “Print pamphlets. Stage a hunger strike in the green. Go without our corsets until someone relents. This is Spindle Cove. Heaven forbid we let etiquette and convention carry the day. Just look at your dog. Even he agrees with me.”

Kate looked down at Badger, who was happily gnawing his way through yet another copy of
Mrs. Worthington’s Wisdom for Young Ladies.

She bent and scratched him behind one funny, half-cocked ear and whispered, “This is all your fault, you know.”

If not for Badger, she might never have pulled the truth from Samuel after the adder bite. She might never have come to know his softer side, and grown to love him for it. Melons would have far less meaning in her life.

In her mind, the wisp of an idea began to coalesce. Maybe . . . just maybe . . . Badger could be the key to this problem, too.

“I think I may know just what to do,” she said, growing excited as she looked around the room at her family and friends. “But I’ll need help getting dressed.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

S
o this was Spindle Cove’s excuse for a gaol.

Thorne had always wondered about this tiny building settled on the village green, not far from St. Ursula’s. At first he’d assumed it to be a well house for a spring that had long dried up. Then someone told him it used to be a baptistery for the original church.

At any rate, now it was the gaol.

The structure was small, round, and fashioned of windowless sandstone walls. It must have been built during the same era as the original Rycliff Castle—in other words, forever ago. The wood ceiling, of course, had long since rotted away. Instead, a lattice of iron bars overhead kept prisoners confined while admitting fresh air and golden shafts of sunlight. Here and there a bit of moss or fern sprouted from a crack in the wall.

As with all things in this village, it was a little too quaint and charming. But it would be effective enough. The only break in the stone walls was the single forged metal door. The handiwork of Aaron Dawes, no doubt, and Thorne knew him to be a capable smith.

A heavy set of iron cuffs encircled his wrists, linked by a chain. The shackles were genuine, taken from Sir Lewis’s collection. The only keys to both cell door and irons were in Bram’s possession, and he’d given his word.

Thorne was well and truly confined.

The night hadn’t been easy. Sitting chained in the dark . . . the silence poked at the wild, feral creature in him. But the restraints were good, and the walls were solid. Even if he went a bit mad and his resolve crumbled, he wouldn’t be muscling his way out of this cell.

Which was fortunate, because if he did muscle his way out of the cell, taking on the guards would be no difficulty.

“Tell me again how is it that
you
two,” he asked, “are the village gaolers?”

Finn and Rufus Bright sat outside the cell’s grated door with a pack of cards. They were twins, just nearing sixteen years old, and Thorne didn’t like trusting them with a few hours’ watch from the southeast turret of Rycliff Castle. He would have never set them to guard a dangerous criminal.

“Used to be our despicable sot of a father’s duty,” Rufus said. “He was the riding officer, before he switched sides of the law. Better money in smuggling, I suppose.”

“Once he was gone,” Finn said, “the task fell to Errol, as his eldest son.”

“And Errol’s gone to Dover this week.” Rufus split and shuffled the deck of cards. “So lucky you, you get us.”

Lucky them, the youth surely meant. As much hell as Thorne had given Spindle Cove’s youngest militiamen over the past year, he could only imagine they were enjoying this.

He heard Bram’s voice. “Finn, Rufus. I hope you’re treating your prisoner well.”

“Yes, Lord Rycliff.”

“Thorne?” Bram peered through the door grate. “Not yet wasted to bones, I gather.”

“Not even close.”

“Don’t think this isn’t costing me. My wife is not pleased. And in case you’re wondering, Miss Taylor—Lady Kate, I suppose I should call her now—is not pleased, either.”

Thorne shrugged, indifferent.

Katie would be pleased, eventually. In time, she’d see that this was best. Drewe could keep her safe
and
make her happy. She might have put on a brave face for him last night, told him she’d leave behind everything to be with him—but he knew her too well. She’d longed for a family all her life, and he couldn’t offer her anything to replace the Gramercys. And after last night, he knew he wasn’t fit to be a lady’s husband. He couldn’t even keep her safe.

“So what’s happening?” Thorne asked. “Have they seen the vicar for a license yet?”

“I’m not sure,” Bram said. “But she’s just come through the front door of the Queen’s Ruby.”

“How does she look?”

“Like she’s about to be married.”

A black, bottomless pit opened up in Thorne’s chest. He contemplated jumping into it.

“She’s walking toward the church,” Bram said. “All the rooming house ladies are following her. The Gramercys, too.”

“Tell me what she’s wearing.”

Bram cut him an annoyed look. “What do I look like to you? The Society columnist for the
Prattler
?”

“Just tell me.”

“Ivory frock. Two flounces and a great deal of lace.”

“Is she smiling?”

Stupid question.
Her smile wouldn’t give any clues to her inner emotions. His Katie would be bravely smiling, even if she were walking to a guillotine.

“Her hair,” Thorne asked. “How is she wearing her hair?”

Bram growled. “Good God, man. I agreed to imprison you, not provide fashion reports.”

“Just tell me.”

“Her hair is up. You know how the ladies fix it—mass of curls on top, wound with ribbons. Someone’s stuck little blossoms between the curls. Don’t bother asking me what kind of flower. I don’t know.”

“Never mind,” Thorne scraped out. “That’s enough.”

He could see her in his mind’s eye. Floating in a lacy cloud, tiny stars of jasmine studded in her dark, shining hair. So feminine and beautiful. If she’d taken that much care with her appearance, she must be approaching her wedding with joy, not unwillingness or dread.

This was good, he told himself. The best possible outcome. He’d worried she might hold out longer, strictly for the sake of being stubborn. But she must have seen the wisdom of it, once she had a few hours to reflect.

“Susanna’s with her,” Bram said. “I’ll go inquire about their plans.”

Restless, Thorne paced the small round cell. He lifted and spread his arms, pulling against the irons. Every primal instinct in his body wanted to break free. He’d been prepared for this. This was why he’d exacted the promise from Bram—because when the time drew close, he knew only physical restraints could keep him from going after her.

Less than an hour now, surely, and it would be over. A matter of minutes, perhaps. When the church bells sounded, he’d know it was done.

Instead of church bells, however, he heard a scraping of metal in the lock. In response, his body screamed,
Make ready. Prepare to bolt.

He turned his back on the door, clenching his hands in fists. “Devil take you, Bram. I told you not to open that door. You gave me your word.”

“I’m not releasing you,” Bram called. “I have a new prisoner, so you’ll have to share the cell.”

“A new prisoner?” Thorne glared hard at the wall as the door clanged shut. “I’m the first prisoner this gaol has seen in years. Now two in one morning? What’s the offense?”

A soft, melodic voice answered him. “Possession of a nuisance animal. Destruction of property.”

No.

His iron chains seemed to double in weight, and they pulled directly on his heart. He turned.

Of course it was Katie.

She was here, in gaol with him. And Bram had no future in Society columns, because his account of her appearance was a mere ghost of the reality. A man might as well witness a comet streaking across the sky and describe it as something resembling a glowworm.

Her frock was gauzy—sweet and revealing, all at once. Her hair was piled in dozens of intricate coils and twists, and her skin could have made angels weep. She was radiant.

A bit of fire flashed on her finger.

Sweet mercy. She was still wearing his ring.

Thorne pushed down the unwelcome surge of hope. His spirits shouldn’t be buoyed by her presence. He shouldn’t want her here at all. She didn’t belong with him in a gaol of any sort—not even a relatively quaint and charming one.

“Well . . . ?” She twisted, trying to catch his approval. “I wanted to look my best for my wedding.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said. “What the hell sort of game is Bram playing at?”

“It’s not a game, unfortunately. I’m under arrest.”

“For what?”

She pulled a thick black book from beneath her arm. “You were right. Letting Badger chew books was horrendous neglect on my part. Just look what the little beast has done.”

Thorne couldn’t risk drawing any closer to her, but he cocked his head and peered at the book. It was old, thick, bound with black leather . . . the gold leaf letters on the spine had been mostly destroyed, and most of the pages were shredded.

“Jesus,” he breathed as realization dawned. “Tell me that’s not what I think it is.”

She nodded. “It’s the St. Mary of the Martyrs parish register.”

“Not the one that—”

“Contained my birth record. Yes. As well as the record of my parents’ marriage.”

Thorne couldn’t believe this. “You allowed Badger to do that. On purpose.”

“It doesn’t really signify how and why it happened, does it? It’s done.” She squared her shoulders. “There’s no paper record of Katherine Adele Gramercy. Not any longer.”

The enormity of her words swamped his mind for a moment. He groped for some cord of reason or logic in the vast, nonsensical sea.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Destroying that book doesn’t change who you are. You’re still Lady Katherine Gramercy.”

“Oh, I know who I am. And the Gramercys know it, too. But this mishap”—she held up the mangled register—“makes my identity more difficult to prove. Evan says we’ll need more witnesses before we even can approach the courts. It could take us years to have it all sorted out—until well after Lark’s season, I expect, and after Evan has a chance to arrange the finances and prepare me to inherit.”

“So you’re saying . . .”

“I’m saying I’m free, for now, to do as I please.” She approached him slowly. “I’m saying that someday I’ll take the Gramercy name, legally and publicly. But in the meantime . . . I’m hoping to share yours.” Her voice went husky with emotion. “I told you I’d give up everything, Samuel. I can’t fathom any life without you in it.”

Thorne stared at her a moment. Then he went to the door of the cell. “Bram!” He rattled the bars. “Bram, open this gate. Now.”

Bram shook his head. “Not a chance. I gave my word.”

“To hell with your word.”

“Curse me all you like. Rattle your cage as you please. You asked for this. You told me to keep you in gaol until Miss Taylor is married.”

“Well, she can’t get married while she’s locked in here.”

“On the contrary,” she said. “I believe I can.”

He turned to find her gazing at him from beneath lowered lashes. A shy smile played about her lips.

“No. Don’t think it. It’s not going to happen.”

“Why not?”

“For God’s sake, I’m not going to marry you in a gaol.”

“Would you rather we do it in the church?”

“No.” He growled with frustration.

She tilted her head and regarded the sunlight streaming through the lattice of iron overhead. With her fingertips, she brushed a bit of ivy curling through the wall. “As prisons go, it’s rather a romantic one. This is consecrated ground, so there’s no difficulty on that score. We did have the banns read over the past few weeks. I’m all dressed for the occasion, and you’re still wearing that devastating suit. There’s no impediment whatsoever.”

No, no, no.
This was not going to happen.

“Lord Rycliff, would you kindly send for the vicar?” she asked.

“Don’t,” Thorne ordered. “Don’t. I won’t go through with it.”

“I thought you might say that.” Katie dropped onto the room’s only bench—a simple wood plank. “Very well. I can wait.”

“Don’t sit on that,” he exhorted. “Not in your wedding frock.”

“Shall I stand and call for the vicar, then?” When he didn’t answer, she stretched her legs out in front of her and crossed them at the ankles. “I’ll just wait until you change your mind.”

Thorne snorted. So that’s how she meant to play this. A war of wills.

Well, she’d made the first fatal mistake in battle—underestimating her opponent.

He leaned against the wall—as far away from her as he could possibly put himself, in the small round cell.

“You can’t wear me down,” he told her. “You cannot outlast me.”

“We’ll just see, won’t we?” She looked up at the shards of blue sky. “I’m not going anywhere.”

K
ate stayed true to her word. She didn’t go anywhere.

Neither did he.

Of course, that didn’t stop all Spindle Cove from coming to them. Over the course of the day it seemed every man, woman, and child in the village had a turn at peeking through the barred door and sharing words of encouragement or wisdom.

The vicar came to offer counsel. The Gramercys came to call. Evan gave them his blessing, in case Samuel was waiting on it. Samuel made it clear he wasn’t. Aunt Marmoset passed Kate spice drops through the bars.

Mrs. Highwood dropped by to suggest, in rather obvious fashion, that if Lord Drewe were still interested in getting married today, her Diana would be available.

At suppertime the Fosburys brought over some food. Kate offered Thorne a morsel of cake with her fingertips, but he warned her off with a stern glare.

She popped it in her own mouth instead, making a show of licking her fingers clean.

Don’t think you’re hiding that flash in your eye.

He was so stubborn. After the fight last night, he’d thrown everything he had into building up one last fortified wall. But she would break it down. She’d be damned if she’d let him live in that cold, unfeeling prison he’d constructed. Not now, when she knew how much love and goodness he had to give.

And as Kate saw it, she was simply repaying a favor. All those years ago, he hadn’t left her behind. His conscience hadn’t let him leave the Hothouse without her. She would not leave this gaol without him.

By evening the whole village had gathered on the green. Kate and Samuel’s standoff had turned into an impromptu festival. Ale was flowing freely, thanks to the Bull and Blossom. The militiamen organized a betting pool, placing wagers on how long the couple’s imprisonment would last.

As the sun was setting, Badger came by. After depositing the gift of a limp church mouse just outside the door, he settled down in the grass and propped his head on his paws. Waiting. For hours. Until moonlight poured through the gaps overhead, like streams of quicksilver.

“Think of the dog,” she crooned. “Look at him. You know he won’t leave. He’s going to sit there all night long. Out, exposed in the elements. Poor little pup, shivering in the cold.”