Marrying Winterborne (30 page)

It still terrified him to think that she had gone to an East End slum district last night. Even though he'd heard about it after the fact from Ransom, knowing that she was safe, the story had nearly brought him to
his knees. “You're sure she wasn't harmed?” he'd asked Ransom a half-dozen times, and the assurances still hadn't been enough to satisfy him.

In the past eighteen hours, Rhys had come to understand far more about poor Ioan Crewe and the choice he'd made after Peggy's death. He would have to make Helen understand that in risking her own life, she had risked his as well. It would break him to lose her. He wouldn't survive it.

But at the moment, what Helen needed most was to be protected from the man standing in front of him. As he stared at Albion Vance, Rhys felt whatever there was of the decent, humane part of his nature being swallowed up by the side he always tried to keep hidden. It was from an earlier, rougher time in his life, when violence had been habitual and necessary. There were things he preferred people not to know he was capable of . . . and what he was willing to do to Albion Vance definitely fell in that category.

Slowly Rhys approached the group of men. The platform manager was the first to notice him, giving a look askance at the big-framed, scowling stranger who wore no overcoat, hat, or gloves. Following the platform manager's gaze, the others turned as well.

As Vance recognized him, a quick succession of emotions crossed his face—surprise, anger, frustration, defeat.

“She's not on the train,” Rhys said flatly. “I have her.”

Sighing, Vance turned to the railway employees. “It seems there's no need to trouble yourselves. Go about your business.”

Since there was no other way to leave the platform, Vance was compelled to walk beside Rhys.

The importunate clanging of a bell rent the air, and the down-train sounded two short, shrieking whistles.

“I should have told Helen the brat had died,” Vance said after a moment. “I hadn't expected her to take such an interest in the creature. But that's how women are, their emotions eclipse all judgment.”

Rhys didn't reply. Hearing Helen's name on his lips provoked a nearly irresistible urge to seize him, break joints and bones with his bare hands, and hurl him onto the tracks below.

“What will you do about her?” Vance asked.

“The orphan?”

“No. About Helen.”

Rhys's fists clenched.
Stop saying her name.
“I'm going to marry her.”

“Even now? Oh, my. What a fine litter of mongrels you'll breed.” Vance sounded amused. “And my grandchildren will inherit your fortune.”

As they reached the foundation of an overhead footbridge, Rhys gripped the front of Vance's coat with one hand and shoved him against the support posts.

Vance's eyes widened and his face reddened. He gripped Rhys's wrist, gasping.

Leaning closer, Rhys spoke quietly. “When I was a boy, my father sent me in the afternoons to work for the butcher, who'd hurt his hand and needed help dressing the small stock. Most men have a natural distaste for such work. It turns the stomach at first. But soon I learned to saw along the center of a hog's backbone, cleave through a sheep's ribs, or break the jawbone of a calf's head to remove its tongue, and think nothing of it.” He paused deliberately. “If you ever try to communicate with my wife again, I'll carve you like a saddle of lamb. It will take ten minutes, and you'll beg for
killing before I'm done.” Easing his grip, he released him with a slight shove.

Vance straightened his coat and gave him a hostile, contemptuous glance. “Do you think I fear you?”

“You should. In fact, you should leave England. For good.”

“I'm the heir to an earldom, you lowbred swine. You're mad if you think you could bully me into living in exile.”

“Good. I'd prefer you to stay.”

“Yes,” Vance said sarcastically, “so you can have the pleasure of carving me like a mutton loin, I understand.”

“Do you?” Rhys fixed a murderous gaze on him. “You've spent years proclaiming to the world how you loathe the Welsh. How uncivilized my kind is, how brutal. How savage. You don't know the half of it. I've never been able to forget the sound of Peggy Crewe's screams as she lay dying in childbed. Like someone was using a fishing line to hook out her organs one at a time. One day soon I'll try that on you, Vance. And we'll find out if you can scream even louder.”

As he heard the vicious sincerity in Rhys's voice, Vance's smirk vanished. He finally wore the look of real fear: the focused eyes, the tiny spasm of tight facial muscles.

“Leave England,” Rhys advised softly. “Or your life will be very short.”

A
FTER EXCHANGING A FEW
words with Ransom, who had waited outside the carriage, Rhys entered the vehicle and thumped the ceiling to signal the driver. He lowered into the seat next to Helen, who had leaned back in the corner with the child in her lap. She was in uncharacteristic disarray, her hair tousled, and she looked dazed and tense.

“Did your errand go well?” she asked uncertainly.

“Aye.” He stroked Helen's soft cheek, staring into her eyes. “Relax now,” he murmured. “You're safe with me. He won't bother you again.”

As his gaze held hers, her brow smoothed out, and she let out a long sigh. Her anxiety seemed to ease into quiet certainty. “Where are you taking us?” she asked as the carriage pulled away from the station and proceeded along Waterloo Road.

“Where would you like to go?”

“Anywhere,” she said without hesitation, “so long as it's with you.”

Pleased by her answer, Rhys rewarded her with a kiss, and felt the little girl squirm between them.

Drawing back, he took his first good look at the child he'd promised to raise as his own. She bore a close resemblance to Helen, with those innocent round eyes and silvery-gold hair. To his amusement, she turned and
hugged Helen possessively while sending him a sideways glance. The maneuver dislodged her hat. It slid from her head, revealing a thatch of short locks that looked as if they'd been hacked off with spring pruning shears.

“We'll go home to Cork Street for the rest of the day,” Rhys said, returning his attention to Helen. “I'll make arrangements for us to leave tonight by special train to North Wales.”

“We're eloping?”

“Aye, it's a full-time job to watch over you. I can either marry you and keep you safe with me, or hire at least a dozen men to follow you everywhere.” Resting his arm along the back of the carriage, he toyed with a lock of hair that had slid free to dangle at her ear. “You can write a note to Lady Berwick and the twins, to let them know what's happened.” A rueful smile played at his lips. “While you're at it, write to Trenear and Ravenel—and try to word things in a way that won't bring them down on me like the wrath of God.”

“They'll understand,” Helen said softly, and nuzzled her cheek against his hand.

Rhys would have kissed her again, but the child was turning around in Helen's lap, staring at him with open curiosity.

“Who is that?”

“He is . . . soon to be my husband.”

Conscious of the little girl's attentive gaze, Rhys reached into his coat and took out a tin of peppermint creams. He popped one into his mouth, and extended the open tin to her. “Would you like a sweet,
bychan
?”

Cautiously she reached out and took one. As she nibbled at the peppermint cream, surprised pleasure spread over her face.

Noticing the traces of dirt beneath her fingernails,
and the shadows of grime at the inside edge of her ear and the crease of her neck, Rhys asked Helen, “Why has no one given her a proper bath?”

Helen replied quietly, her eyes filled with concern. “A punishment at the orphanage has left her a bit . . . reluctant.”

Wondering what they had done to make a small child afraid of bathing, Rhys frowned. “
Wfft
.”

A few seconds later, he heard an answering “
Wfft
.”

He looked down at the little girl, who had imitated him perfectly. His lips twitched. “Have you tried bubbles?” he asked Helen.

“Bubbles?”

“Aye, a bath topped with foam soap to play with.”

Charity spoke to him for the first time. “I don't like baths.”

Rhys gave her a quizzical glance. “Not even a nice warm bath?”

“No.”

“Would you rather smell like flowers, or a sheep?”

“Sheep,” came the prompt reply.

Rhys struggled with a grin. Resorting to bribery, he asked, “Do you want a toy pipe, to blow big bubbles that float in the air?”

Nibbling at the last morsel of peppermint cream, Charity nodded.

“Good. You can have one if you sit in the tub with water and foam soap.”

She ate the rest of the sweet before saying, “No water.”

“A little water,
bychan
,” he coaxed. “You can't have bubbles without it.” He demonstrated a space of approximately two inches, with one hand suspended above the other. “Only this much.”

The child gave him a considering glance. Slowly her tiny hands came to the outside of his and pushed them closer together.

Rhys laughed. “A born negotiator, you are.”

During the exchange, Helen watched them with an arrested expression.

To his surprise, Charity levered off Helen's lap and began to climb over him cautiously. He remained still and relaxed. “You're not a pickpocket, are you?” he asked in a tone of mild concern as she reached into his coat. Perceiving that he wasn't going to stop her, she began to fish inside his coat pockets. Finding the tin of peppermint creams, she pulled it out. “Only one more for now,” he cautioned. “Too many sweets will bring on a toothache.” She took one white morsel, closed the tin, and gave it back to him, every movement delicate and precise.

He studied her, this small person who would bring about such large changes in his life. Charity. The name didn't exactly roll off a Welshman's tongue. Moreover, virtue names—Charity, Patience, and so forth—were given so often in workhouses and orphanages nowadays that they had begun to acquire the connotations of an institution. A girl from a comfortable family might escape the stigma, but for an actual orphan, it would be a lifelong reminder of her origins.

No daughter of a Winterborne would have a name meant to humble her.

“Charity isn't a name we usually give to girls in Wales,” he said. “I'd like to call you something that sounds a bit similar.”

She looked at him expectantly.

“Carys,” he said. “It means ‘little loved one.' Do you like it?”

She nodded, and caught him thoroughly off guard by sitting in his lap. She weighed no more than a cat. Bemused and disconcerted by her ready acceptance of him, Rhys adjusted her on his legs. “Carys Winterborne. It's a fine name, aye?” He glanced at Helen, and saw that her eyes were glistening. “We can call her anything you—”

“It's beautiful,” she said, smiling through her tears. “Beautiful.” She reached out to caress his face, and nestled into his side.

For the rest of the way home, they both leaned against him . . . and it felt right.

“F
ERNSBY,
I'
M ELOPING
.”

After settling Helen and Carys at his house, Rhys wasted no time in going to his office and summoning his private secretary for an emergency meeting.

The statement was received with impressive sangfroid: Mrs. Fernsby displayed no reaction other than adjusting her spectacles. “Where and when, sir?”

“North Wales. Tonight.”

It wasn't soon enough. Now that an actual wedding ceremony with Helen was within his grasp, he was in a fever to make it happen. He felt damnably giddy, poised at the brink of doing something foolish.

The feeling reminded him of an afternoon, late the previous summer, when he had been drinking with Tom Severin and some of their cohorts in a public house. They had watched some bees that had flown in through a window and settled on an abandoned pewter quartern with a few drops of rum left in it. The bees had guzzled the rum and had become noticeably inebriated, trying to fly away in dizzy, aimless loops, while one bee had simply reclined with its heels up at the bottom of the mug. Rhys and the others had found it uproarious, especially since they had been drinking steadily and were full up to the knocker themselves.

Now Rhys had far more sympathy for the bees,
knowing exactly how they had felt. This was what love did to a man, turned him into nothing more than a half-crocked bee, flying upside down and in circles.

“If you intend to marry by special license,” Mrs. Fernsby said, “there might be a problem.”

He gave her a questioning glance.

“As far as I know,” Mrs. Fernsby continued, “the Archbishop only grants special licenses to peers or peeresses in their own right, members of Parliament, privy councilors, and judges. I'm not certain whether Lady Helen has the right or not, since hers is only a courtesy title. I'll try and find out.”

“Tell the Archbishop to make an exception if necessary. Remind him that he owes me a favor.”

“What favor?”

“He'll know,” Rhys said. Filled with vigor, he paced around his desk. “We'll take my private train carriage to Caernarvon. Arrange for a suite at the Royal Hotel for at least a week.”

“Will you want Quincy to travel with you?”

“Aye, and find a lady's maid to come with us.”

Now Fernsby was beginning to look perturbed. “Mr. Winterborne, one can't simply ‘find' a lady's maid. There's a process—putting notices in the paper—conducting interviews—reading recommendations—”

“Fernsby, of the hundreds of women I employ, can you not find
one
who can arrange a lady's hair and button the back of a dress?”

“I believe there's slightly more to the job than that, sir,” she said dryly. “But I will find someone.”

“While you're at it, hire a nursemaid as well.”

Mrs. Fernsby stopped writing. “A nursemaid as well,” she said dazedly.

“Aye, we'll be bringing a four-year-old girl with us. Also, she'll need clothes and toys. Put one of the sales clerks in charge of that.”

“I see.”

“And Lady Helen will need some new things to wear. Have Mrs. Allenby take care of it. Tell her I want to see Lady Helen in
anything
other than black.” Tapping his fingers on the desk, he mused, “I suppose it might be too much to ask for a wedding dress . . .”

“Mr. Winterborne,” Mrs. Fernsby exclaimed, “do you
actually
expect all this to be accomplished by tonight?”

“Fernsby, you have the greater part of a day, as long as you don't lollygag over lunch.” As she began to protest, Rhys said, “I'll handle the arrangements for the special train.”

“What about all the rest of it?” she called after him, as he strode from his office. “What about flowers? A cake? What about—”

“Don't bother me with details,” he said over his shoulder. “Just make it all happen.”

“S
O NOW WE
'
RE
friends again,” Tom Severin said in satisfaction, stretching out his legs and resting them on the large bronze desk in his fifth-floor office.

“Only because I want something,” Rhys said. “Not because I have any liking for you.”

“My friends don't have to like me,” Severin assured him. “In fact, I prefer it if they don't.”

Rhys sternly held back a grin. “The friendship is contingent upon whether or not you can actually provide the favor,” he reminded him.

Severin held up a hand in a brief staying gesture. “A
moment.” He raised his voice. “Barnaby! The information I requested?”

“Here it is, sir.” Severin's personal secretary, a stocky fellow with rumpled clothing and hair that sprang in a wild mass of uncombed curls, hurried into the office with a sheaf of papers. He set them carefully on the desk. “Four private stations I've found so far, sir. Awaiting confirmation on the fifth.”

As the secretary hastened away, Severin picked up the pages and sorted through them. “What about this one?” he asked, handing a paper to Rhys. “A small bespoke station with a dedicated line connecting to the Great Western route. We can run a special train from there to Caernarvon. The station building is a two-story structure with a drawing room for entertaining prior to departure. No crowd, no tickets, no waiting. My general manager will personally see to it that your private carriages are coupled with our best rolling stock, including a new locomotive and extra passenger carriages with compartments for servants.”

Rhys smiled, glancing briefly over the page before giving it back to him. “There's no way in hell that any other man in England could provide all this on such short notice.”

“Two other men in England could,” Severin said modestly. “But they wouldn't give it to you as a wedding present, as I'm doing.”

“Thank you, Tom.”

“Barnaby,” Severin called, and the secretary rushed back in. Severin handed the page to him. “This station. Everything has to be ready by tonight. Make certain Winterborne's private carriage is stocked with ice and fresh water after it's delivered.”

“Yes, sir.” Barnaby nodded wildly and ran out.

Severin sent Rhys an inquiring glance. “Do you want to walk to a food shop for lunch? Or at least have a whiskey here?”

Rhys shook his head regretfully. “I have too much to do. Let's meet after I return from Wales.” It occurred to him that he would be a married man then. Helen, in his bed every night, and sharing breakfast with him every morning . . . for a moment he was lost in a daydream, imagining ordinary life with her, the multitude of small pleasures he would never take for granted.

“Of course.” Severin's blue-green eyes were friendly and inquisitive. The angle of the light on his face caught his right eye, illuminating the extra green. “This takes a bit of getting used to,” he said. “All this smiling and good spirits. You've never been one of those lighthearted fellows.”

“I'm not lighthearted, I'm . . . wholehearted.”

Severin smiled reflectively as they stood to shake hands. “It must be nice,” he mused, “to be any kind of hearted.”

R
HYS RETURNED TO
Winterborne's, finding that most of his executive staff was rushing about at a berserk pace that rivaled Barnaby's. Sales clerks and dressmakers' assistants carried stacks of white boxes and armloads of garments to his private office, where his social secretary, Miss Edevane, was making detailed packing lists. Things were being accomplished, he observed with satisfaction. He decided to find Fernsby and ask about her progress.

As he approached her desk, he found himself following behind Dr. Havelock. The older man carried a tray bearing silver-covered dishes, a glass of iced lem
onade, and a tiny vase containing a perfect half-open rosebud.

“Havelock?”

The lionesque head turned as the older man glanced over his shoulder. “Winterborne,” he said gruffly.

“Who is that for?” Rhys asked.

“Not you.” Havelock proceeded to Fernsby's desk and placed the tray on it. “I heard about the frenzy you've created up here, obligating your entire office staff and three other departments to work themselves to the bone. All the fuses lit at once, as usual. Why must an elopement happen with such all-fired haste?”

“Elopements aren't usually known for being slow,” Rhys pointed out.

“Are there parents in pursuit? A rival lover determined to prevent the wedding? No—only an impatient bridegroom who won't cool his heels long enough to allow his hardworking secretary enough time for lunch!”

Just then, Mrs. Fernsby came to her desk. Her gaze fell on Rhys first. “Sir, we found a temporary lady's maid: one of Mrs. Allenby's assistants in the dressmaking department. Mrs. Allenby is altering at least two finished dresses from an order placed by a customer with similar measurements to Lady Helen—the customer agreed as long as we replace them with free dresses of more costly design. As for the nursemaid, Miss Edevane has a younger sister who would be delighted to accompany you and Lady Helen to take care of the . . .” Her voice trailed away as she noticed the other man standing nearby. “Dr. Havelock. Has something gone awry?”

“No, Mrs. Fernsby,” Havelock said, “but something might well go awry if you forego proper nutrition, es
pecially at the bruising pace Winterborne has set.” He guided her to the desk and urged her to sit.

“You brought lunch for me?” Mrs. Fernsby asked in bewilderment, picking up the linen napkin on the tray and placing it on her lap.

“Indeed.” Havelock glanced at her covertly, assessing her reaction. A flash of triumph entered his eyes as he saw how pleased she was, and he quickly covered it with another burst of indignation. “If it were left to Winterborne, you would soon be carried to my door in a state of nervous exhaustion and malnourishment. And I already have enough patients to attend to.” He removed the silver covers, and turned the rosebud so that it was shown to its best advantage.

“I am rather hungry,” Mrs. Fernsby said delicately, as if she could hardly summon the strength to lift a fork. “Will you keep me company, Dr. Havelock?”

“I suppose I must,” came his enthusiastic response, “to make certain Winterborne allows you fifteen minutes of peace.”

Rhys tried to sound grudging. “Very well, Fernsby. You can have food. But only because Havelock insists on it.” Before turning away, he exchanged a quick glance with Mrs. Fernsby, and her eyes twinkled at him.