Her Prodigal Passion (30 page)

Yet she had a final blow to deliver.

"Marrying you was the biggest mistake of my life. I want you to leave," she said.

"Good," he shouted over the pounding in his ears, "because I'm going. I'm going to focus on the tournament like I should have in the first place instead of wasting my time with that sinkhole of a shop—and you!"

"Go do your stupid boxing. Or go to hell for all I care," she snapped.

Rage darkened his vision. In that moment, she represented every failure he'd ever had in his life—and he couldn't get away fast enough. He turned and stalked out without another word.

THIRTY-FOUR

"I'll be off now." Mr. Jameson poked his head through the curtain of the back room.

Bent over a ledger, her father gave the clerk an absent wave.

Charity said quickly, "Thank you for staying so late. I'll walk you out, Mr. Jameson."

As they headed to the front of the shop, the clerk said in an undertone, "Has your father seen a physician of late? He doesn't yet seem his old self."

Charity shook her head in frustration. "He refuses to see Dr. Harrison. And he's not eating or sleeping well. His worry about the shop's future keeps him up all hours."

"Any news from Mr. Fines?" Jameson said hopefully.

An arrow shot through Charity's heart. Paul had been gone over a month. He hadn't written, and even if she wanted to send him a letter, she wouldn't know where to address it. The Fancy tournament had begun, the roving matches moving from county to county. The locations of the matches were kept secret until the last moment as prizefighting was not strictly legal and frowned upon by local magistrates. According to the papers, the bouts were attended by thousands, and the wagering that took place added up to hundreds of thousands of pounds.

At any rate, what would she write to Paul? While her anger had faded, her hurt had not. She could not bring herself to apologize, even though she regretted her part in their quarrel. She'd acted badly. With deep shame, she recalled how viciously she'd lashed out, wanting him to feel the same pain that she had over his betrayal.

Yet
had
he dallied with Rosalind?

Whenever she faced that question—and it was often—she experienced a volatile mixture of anger, bitterness, and longing. Paul had denied an
affaire
with his former flame; could she believe him at his word? She tried to take a logical approach. She pitted the precious memories of Chudleigh Crest against the ugly encounter with Rosalind, trying to decide which had been real.

Magic versus reality: what was the more likely truth?

As the days went on, her hope dwindled.

"No," she said quietly. "No news."

Jameson patted her arm. "I'm sure he's just busy. He's stunned everyone, coming out of the blue and winning all those fights." Excitement sparked in the old man's rheumy gaze. "According to the papers, he's got a real shot at becoming Champion now. One more match and he'll make the final fight two weeks from now."

She forced a smile. "Yes, he's done very well."

He's free now to pursue his true dreams. Why would he ever come back?

"He'd have done well here too, given half a chance. But not my place to say." Jameson pulled on his cap, tipped the brim. "Good night to you, Mrs. Fines, and see you in the morning."

Charity watched from the doorway until the clerk's hunched figure disappeared down the street. The balmy night air felt good, an escape from the stifling confines of the shop. At half-past nine, the other shopkeepers had closed their establishments. The street was dark and empty save for a stray hawker's barrow in the distance.

She and her father had been at Sparkler's more than twelve hours already; her muscles ached with fatigue, and she was ready to go home. Though the thought of what awaited her there—an empty house, a cold bed—didn't exactly lift her spirits. Strange how she'd never noticed how dreary her existence was until Paul had come along. For a short time, he'd lit her world up.

The ever present heat pushed behind her eyes. Chiding herself for the umpteenth time not to be so dashed maudlin, she closed the door, preparing to lock up. When she searched her skirt pockets, however, she couldn't find the key. Perfect. Now she was a feather wit
and
a watering pot. If only she had looks as well, she could be debutante of the year.

As she headed to the back room to retrieve the key, she heard the door bell jingle behind her. With a smile fixed on her face, she turned, saying, "I'm afraid we're closed ..."

Her sentence sputtered out. Her brain tried to assimilate the sight of three large brutes—menacing in black greatcoats—standing inside the shop.
Cutthroats?
Before she could scream, one of them grabbed her, his thick leather glove smothering her cry.

"Button yer 'ole if ye know what's good for ye," he said. "Where's the old man?"

She struggled frantically, shouted a muffled warning to her father. Panic thumped in her chest as her papa emerged from the back. Dear God, what would they do to him—

The sight of the pistol in his hands delivered another shock.

Father ... with a
firearm
?

"What do you want?" her father demanded.

One of the villains stepped forward, a hulking man with dark whiskers. The leader? "Don't bugger yourself more than you already 'ave, Sparkler. Put the bleedin' piece down. We've just come fer a chat."

"Garrity sent you?" her father said.

Charity's breath puffed against the suffocating leather. Mr. Garrity? What did he have to do with these ruffians?

"Mr. Garrity 'asn't 'eard from you," Dark Whiskers said, shaking his head and making a
tsking
noise. "And our employer, 'e don't like those who welsh on their debts. That's why me and the boys are 'ere—to apply a bit o' persuasion, see?"

The other two laughed, the pitiless sound sending chills down Charity's spine.

"Let my daughter go." Her father sounded weak and faint. The gun shook within his frail grip. "She's got nothing to with this."

"I wouldn't agree." Dark Whiskers crossed over to her. When his beefy hand reached toward her, she shrank back, but his accomplice held her in place. She yelped as the leader yanked at her topknot. Her hair tumbled down, and, shaking, she could do nothing as he fingered a long wavy strand of her hair.

"Pretty little piece." His leering grin made her skin crawl. "And a valuable bargaining chip, eh?"

"I'm warning you,
let her go
. Do it or I'll ... I'll shoot!"

The pistol wavered madly in her papa's hand, and Charity was overtaken by a fresh wave of fear. To her knowledge, he had never shot a gun—had never even gone hunting. What if he accidentally injured himself?

The leader must have been thinking the same thing, for his beady eyes narrowed. "Put the bloody pistol down before you shoot yourself or your precious daughter. We 'aven't come to 'urt you—but we will if you don't stop wavin' that damn thing."

"What do you want?" Father said in a trembling voice.

"To collect what's owed. Where's the blunt?"

"I ... I don't have it. Not yet." A thin line of perspiration trickled over her father's pale brow. "But I will have it soon, if Garrity would only—"

"Our employer's been more than patient wif you. Seein' as 'ow you've already failed to keep up your end o' the bargain once before,"—the brute cast a knowing glance at Charity, confirming her sudden terrible suspicion of what that bargain had been—"you're lucky 'e gave you a second chance. But time's up, Sparkler: Mr. Garrity wants 'is thirty thousand quid."

Charity's breath halted. Her papa owed
thirty thousand pounds
to Mr. Garrity
?

Alarmingly ashen, Father stammered, "I've got f-five thousand. I'll get him the rest soon, I promise—"

"Mr. Garrity's tired o' waitin'. 'Is instruction was to collect." The leader motioned to the other cutthroats. "C'mon, lads, start loadin' up. Ev'rything we can fit in the wagon. Start wif the jewelry first."

Charity was thrown aside. As she caught herself against a counter, her previous captor removed a cudgel from his greatcoat. He stepped over to a display case of necklaces and, without hesitation, brought the iron head down. Glass shattered, the shards tinkling onto velvet. He reached in, scooped out the contents, and dumped them into a sack. His fellow cutthroats did the same, methodically ransacking the shop.

"No, stop. Stop I say! Not my shop!"

Before Charity's stunned eyes, her father went running into the fray, tackling the leader. The ruffian grunted, hauling him up by the throat, shaking him with such force that the pistol flew from his hands. Her papa dangled as if from a noose, his feet jerking.

"Leave my father be!" She lunged forward, and a fiery pain seared across her scalp.

One of the cutthroats had caught her by her hair. His vicious grip tightened, and he laughed as she struggled as helplessly as a mouse pinned by the tail. "'Tis men's work, little hussy. Stay out o' it."

She ignored the pain, trying to tear free. Trying to get to her father whose eyes were bulging and glazed, his hands clutching his chest.

"Stop, he's ill!" she cried. "You're hurting him!"

Her papa made a loud gasping noise ... and slumped in his captor's grip.

"What in bloody hell?" The man released him.

Father crumpled to the ground. Didn't move.

"Father!" The hold on her loosened, and Charity scrambled to her papa's side. Cradling his head in her lap, she placed a shaking hand on his neck. His pulse fluttered as lightly as a moth's wings.

His eyes opened. "Daughter?"

"Yes, Father, I'm here," she choked out.

"S-sorry ..."

"No, save your strength. We'll call for Dr. Harrison—"

"Too ... late." With obvious effort, he raised a hand to her cheek. "My poor Charity ... who will take care of you now?"

"I'll be fine, Father. So will you. We'll be together, the two of us, like we've always been."

"Something ... need to tell you ..."

His hand fell, his head rolling to the side. Desperately, she patted his chest, trying to find a beat, a sign. But there was ... nothing.

"No," she whispered.

"I didn't do it." The leader's shaken voice came from above her. "Wasn't my fault. Daft bugger came runnin' at me, just holding 'im back I was—"

Her head whipped up. "You're a
murderer
!"

"Ain't gettin' paid eno' for murder," one of the others muttered. "I'm gettin' out of 'ere."

Two of them rushed from the shop. The leader took another look at her face and backed away with his hands held up, repeating, "I didn't kill nobody."

"Get out!" she cried.

He ran off.

It was just her and her father again. The two of them ... together in the shop. She clung to his hand as the chill came to claim them both.

THIRTY-FIVE

"We'll have your things packed," Percy said, "and you'll come stay with me."

Charity concentrated on snipping the black grosgrain ribbon. She wound it around a sprig of fresh rosemary, tied a neat bow, and added the mourning memento to the pile on the coffee table. She raised her eyes to her circle of female friends, all wearing dark gowns and concerned expressions.

She forced a smile. "There's no need. I'm fine."

Mrs. Fines said quietly, "'Tisn't good to be alone after a loss, my dear. You need company. And rest—you haven't slept more than a few hours these days past."

Charity paused to look around the parlor, which was draped in black. She'd kept vigil here, staying at her father's side until the church service earlier this afternoon. The funeral had been an intimate gathering, with no more than a dozen in attendance. Percy, Mrs. Fines, Helena, and Marianne had accompanied her back to the house afterward.

Her throat thickened, but she did not cry. Grief seemed to absorb her tears. She felt dry, hollow as a husk. Her head ached, and her insides buzzed with numb, restless energy. Picking up the sewing shears, she resumed cutting lengths of the ribbon.

"I appreciate your concern, truly I do," she said, her eyes on her task, "but I wish to stay here."

"Will you eat something at least?" From across the coffee table, Helena held out a plate of sandwiches. "All you've had today is tea."

Even though she had no appetite, Charity saw the worry on all the ladies' faces. So she put down the scissors and took the plate. The sandwich tasted like sawdust.

"We should ring for some hot milk as well," Mrs. Fines said.

"Given the occasion, I think something stronger is warranted." This came from Marianne, who removed a silver flask from her jet-encrusted reticule. She tipped amber liquid into a tea cup and handed it to Charity.

Charity sniffed the contents. "What
is
this?"

"Cognac," Marianne said.

"I don't think—"

"Drink up."

Grimacing, Charity held her breath and downed the contents. Fire blazed down her throat. An instant later, the burn mellowed and warmed insides that she hadn't realized were cold.

"Better?" Marianne asked.

"Yes," Charity said.

"Onto details then. First off,"—at Marianne's uncharacteristic hesitation, Charity instinctively braced—"does anyone know how to get a hold of Mr. Fines?"

"Mr. Hunt is searching for him," Percy said. "He thinks my brother might be in Yorkshire."

Charity's head jerked up. Her friend hadn't mentioned this.

"You have enough to contend with," Percy told her, "and before you argue, yes, Paul does need to know about what happened. He cares about you so very much."

"Percy is right. The nonsense in the past must be put aside, my dear. At a time like this, you need your husband, and I'm certain my son needs you, too," Mrs. Fines said stoutly.

Charity wasn't as certain. Paul was likely doing just fine without her. She twisted the ring on her finger; in the gloom of the parlor, the opal appeared milky white, its fire dimmed.

Over the past three days, she'd spent a great deal of time in sober contemplation. Why hadn't her father told her about the enormity of his debt? Why had he kept his burdens to himself at the cost of his health ... his life? Through the veil of grief, she'd come to see the truth: she was her father's daughter. She could see now how pride and fear had blinded him, much as it had blinded her.