The Rake's Irish Lady (Scandalous Kisses Book 2) Page 3

  Lately she rather wished she’d put up with solitude. She had scarcely pulled a chair to the table when the commentary she’d dealt with for days began once again.

  “I hear that fine gentleman you visited last night wasn’t interested, just as I warned you,” Millie said.

  “Mr. Warren was called away suddenly,” Bridget said.

  Millie all but rolled her eyes. She had started out reluctantly respectful, but gradually Bridget’s status as a fallen women had outweighed her gentle birth. By now, Millie was clearly straining to keep her tongue between her teeth, and only doing so for Jed’s sake. “In the middle of the night?”

  “Yes,” Bridget gritted out. “By his cousin, Lord Garrison.” Drat, she shouldn’t have revealed that. She was becoming too tired and dispirited to think straight.

  “He’s cousin to a lord?” Millie’s concerns about impropriety paled next to her fear of meddling in the lives of the privileged.

  Bridget shrugged. “That’s neither here nor there. Mr. Warren promised to talk to me later.”

  “I don’t want Mr. Warren,” Sylvie said. “Mr. Martin Fallow said he is my papa.”

  “He told you a lie,” Bridget said. “He is not your papa.”

  You told me a lie, Sylvie’s accusing eyes said. You said my papa was dead. They’d been over and over the reason for this, but a five-year-old didn’t understand reputations and saw the lie as both an insult and a betrayal. “He would be if you married him,” she said now. “Millie says so.”

  “Yes, but I’m not going to marry him,” Bridget said, trying not to show how much she resented Millie’s suddenly-acquired influence. A man who tells lies would not make a good husband and father. She bit her tongue on an argument which for obvious reasons wouldn’t impress Sylvie at all. Instead, she said simply, “I don’t love him.”

  “But he’s ever so handsome,” Sylvie said, preening herself and getting flour on her face. “And he gives me sweets.”

  The kitchen maid, a slattern named Nan, had loaned Bridget the clothing she’d worn last night. She giggled, plunking a mug of lukewarm coffee and a pitcher of cream on the table. “You’re the one what’s in love with him, ain’t you, ducky?”

  Unfortunately, yes. Sylvie had fallen under Martin’s spell the day he’d arrived in Lancashire, all shiny good looks and charm. Bridget thanked Nan and dolloped cream into the coffee. “Handsome is as handsome does,” she said automatically, and cursed herself for giving Millie such an opening.

  “And right handsome he’s doing, offering to marry you and acknowledge a child not his,” Millie said.

  “Destroying a woman’s reputation to get one’s own way is not handsome,” Bridget snapped. She’d turned it over and over in her mind. Her two small properties in the north were nothing compared to his own estate in Ireland. Marriage would get Bridget in his bed, but she doubted Martin ever went without a woman unless he chose to, so he didn’t need her for that. Why had he suddenly appeared after so many years? And more to the point, why, when she’d refused him, hadn’t he accepted that refusal and gone off to court someone else?

  “Seems to me it’s downright noble of him,” Millie had said, “to have such a care for you and Sylvie that he’ll marry you in spite of your shame.”

  With great difficulty, Bridget muffled a retort. Whatever Martin might have given as his reasons, his resulting actions were more dastardly than noble. However, for Jed’s sake, she had to be polite with Millie.

  Nan put several slices of bread and a hunk of cheese in front of Bridget and returned to rolling the pastry. Bridget mulled over her predicament with the coffee, chewed it over with the bread and cheese, and once again came to no conclusion.

  But it didn’t matter much, did it? If only she could convince Colin Warren to acknowledge he’d fathered the child, everything might work out reasonably well. Colin, as a Lancashire native and cousin to Lord Garrison, had far more standing in the county than Martin Fallow, an outsider and Irish to boot. The vicar would believe Colin. Martin would be shown as a liar and would have no choice but to slink back home. Bridget’s neighbors still wouldn’t receive her, but she could move away and start again elsewhere.

  In the meantime, Martin didn’t know where to find her, so she was safe for now. She would wait and hope that Colin Warren, another selfish man, fulfilled the promise he’d made.

  Chapter 2

  After four days, one more advertisement, and another attempt at Colin’s window, Bridget gave up hope—a useless emotion, because it didn’t spur one to action—and decided to do something. He’d locked the bedroom window, making it plain he didn’t want to see her again. She and Jed repaired to the taproom of the tavern at the other end of Grub Street, where they could talk without Millie’s interference. It was patronized mostly by writers and artists—as close as she’d been able to come to a discreet location to meet Colin Warren.

  She took a bracing swallow of ale. “I wish we could abduct him.”

  Jed widened his eyes and glanced furtively about. “Now that’s plain daft, Miss Bridget, and well you know it.”

  “Do you have a better idea?” She glared at him. “Besides my marrying Martin Fallow.”

  “Miss Bridgy,” Jed said in that soothing voice he’d used when she was a child. “If the man doesn’t want to talk to you, you can’t force him.”

  “I have to try,” she said. “If I can only get him to listen for long enough to understand the situation, he may agree to help.”

  “Not if you abduct him. More likely we’ll end up in Newgate.”

  “I know that,” she grumped. “But my only remaining option is to approach him in public, like some shamed woman begging him to save her and her child from a fate worse than death.”

  He grunted.

  “I kept my mouth shut in front of Millie, but I’m not ashamed, and if people think it’s more appropriate to marry a man one dislikes than to have one night of fun that happens to result in a child, that’s their problem. I refuse to let it be mine. But however this ends, it will affect Sylvie’s future.” She scowled into her ale. “It’s so unfair.”

  Jed shrugged, and he was right—why should anyone expect fair? He took a swig of ale and wiped his mouth.

  “A man can do anything he likes, but let a woman make one mistake, and she’s an outcast,” Bridget said. After six months of marriage with plenty of carnal activity and no pregnancy, she’d assumed herself barren. As an extra precaution, she’d only gone ahead with the seduction of Colin Warren because she was midway through her monthly cycle—past the time when one was most likely to conceive, or so the stories went.

  Apparently, the stories were wrong. “I can’t let myself be—be defeated like this,” she said.

  “He’s not trying to defeat you,” Jed said. “He’s just not interested.”

  “I meant Martin, not Colin,” she said. “I don’t care about Colin one way or the other, but I wake up at night wanting to kill Martin.”

  “If that’s how you feel, you should marry him and make his life a misery.” He guffawed. “Now that would be a fate worse than death.”

  She swatted at him.

  “A fitting punishment, and it’s legal, too.” He grinned. “All right then, Miss Bridget. We’ll put a watch on and see where Mr. Warren goes tonight, and wait for him to come out on his way home.”

  “By then, he’ll probably be too drunk to be any use,” she said.

  “Do you have a better idea?” asked Jed.

  Someone was following Colin tonight—the same someone who’d been watching him for the past three days, a grubby fellow with a spotted neckcloth.

  Damn Mrs. Black. What did she think to accomplish by sending someone to follow him about? Hadn’t done her a bit of good, by what he could see. She hadn’t approached him, and he’d made certain she
wouldn’t come through his windows again by the simple expedient of locking them. If she broke the glass to get through, he would have her taken straight to Newgate.

  No, who was he trying to fool? He didn’t want to listen to her, but he’d promised, and so he would. He hadn’t told her when he would talk to her, just that he would. What with a meeting with his man of business one day, an evening with friends the next, and an engagement with his fencing master today, he’d been too busy until now.

  But damn it all, she’d threatened him! After going that entire night without sleep, he’d taken a long ramble in the cool of the morning, ending up at Hatchard’s Book Shop, where he’d bought a book on Irish myths. What had started out as idle curiosity had finished with indignation, when he’d learned that the Ban Shee was a harbinger of death. Blast the woman, how dare she?

  The more he thought about her, the more her actions confused him. She had him followed but didn’t approach him. According to Fletcher, his valet, there’d been another advertisement before her visit to his bedchamber—one in which she’d offered him another night of debauchery—but she’d denied any such intention, and her latest contribution to the agony column had been a polite reminder of where he could find her—which didn’t accord at all with a death threat.

  Tomorrow he would no longer have an excuse. He would have to get it over with. It would only take a couple of minutes. There was no reason to suppose the child was his, and so he would tell her. If she didn’t make too much fuss, he would give her a few guineas—perhaps ten, as a reward for persistence—and send her on her way.

  Let her flunkey follow him about; he didn’t suppose the man was dangerous. Still, he took along a stout walking-stick, a not unwarranted precaution considering where he was headed. He’d decided to try out a new gaming hell near Covent Garden, which would probably be a bore, but at least it was a different bore. With luck, he would lose a fortune and have good reason to wake the next day in despair.

  By three o’clock in the morning, Bridget was sick and tired of waiting outside the gaming hell. It was a decidedly low place, the kind patronized by young gentlemen who fancied they knew something about the rough side of life. The only women who went in and out were prostitutes, and the porter had the look of a street bully. She’d brought her pistol with her this time, for safety’s sake.

  The two urchins who’d followed Colin there swore he’d gone in, and the one who’d remained on watch while the other came to fetch Bridget and Jed was adamant his quarry hadn’t come back out. Satisfied, she’d sent the boys home, but now she wasn’t so sure.

  “For a gamester, the night is young,” Jed said from the box of the hackney he’d borrowed. “Haven’t you heard the stories about Charles James Fox? Gambled four days straight without sleep, and even debated in the Commons for a couple of hours in between.”

  “Is that meant to reassure me?” she grumbled through the open window of the coach. Jed was playing jarvey, and Bridget was stuck inside, safe and bored. She’d even dozed briefly, waking with a startled lurch.

  She couldn’t afford to nap even for a short while. She mustn’t miss this chance after all the bother she’d put Jed through. “I have to get out of here and walk about a bit, or I’ll fall asleep.”

  After a long second, Jed replied grudgingly, “All right, then. A step or two won’t do any harm. There’s no one about, but be quick and stay close.”

  He moved to climb down from the box, but she said, “Don’t bother.” She opened the door herself and jumped out without lowering the steps. “Ah. Much better.” She stretched her legs and took a few turns around the coach, fed a bit of carrot to each of the horses, and circled the coach again.

  The door to the gaming hell opened and two men strolled out. Bridget ducked behind the coach.

  “It’s a hack!” one of the men said as if he’d made a momentous discovery. “Just what we need.” He shambled across the street, followed by his companion.

  Jed tipped his hat. “Sorry, sir, but I already have a customer.”

  The first man peered into the hack. “I don’t see a customer. Do you see a customer, Fred?”

  As bad luck would have it, the one called Fred stumbled past the coach and spied Bridget behind it. “Here’s someone looking for a customer,” he said, and continued around the hackney. “Aren’t you a pretty little tart!” He tried to sling an arm around her, breathing brandy and tobacco fumes in her face. “How much for a quick one?”

  Bridget evaded him. “I’m not for hire. Go away. This is my coach.”

  “Of course it is, sweetheart, and you’d love to take us for a ride, wouldn’t you? Our luck was in, so we’ve plenty of blunt tonight. Ain’t that right, Mort?” He made a grab for her arm.

  Curse it, she’d left her pistol on the seat. She whirled away and ducked under the traces, emerging on the other side of the coach.

  “Here,” Jed growled, reaching down a hand to haul her up beside him, but Mort nipped around and tugged at her gown.

  Bridget slapped at him and got a foothold on the coach. “Let go of me, you fool! I’m not a whore!” A strong hand grabbed her other foot. She shrieked and struggled, trying to kick, clinging to the hack with one hand and Jed with the other, while Mort laughed.

  Fred appeared and yanked the other foot off its perch.

  Cursing, Jed reached for his cudgel, but it was too late. An arm encircled her waist, and Bridget tumbled to the cobblestones.

  Instead of losing, Colin won over three hundred pounds. Gloomily, he scooped up his winnings and made for the door. Maybe if he gave it to some charity or other, he would wake tomorrow in a better mood. All he wanted was to feel good, damn it all!

  A fight with a footpad or the grubby stranger who’d followed him might be fun. With that in mind, he stowed most of his winnings in his pocket and the rest in a small purse, which he dangled temptingly from one hand. In the other, he took firm hold of his walking stick as he exited the gaming house.

  A woman lay on the pavement in the middle of the street, yelling bloody murder, trying to fight off a fellow—a casual acquaintance of Colin’s—who’d left the gaming house a minute or two earlier. His friend looked on, laughing drunkenly. The driver of a hack waved his cudgel and shouted as he clambered down from his perch, but that wouldn’t do the trick.

  Colin charged forward. With one swing of his walking stick, he knocked the onlooker off his feet. Now for the other fellow. He brought the stick down on the man’s rear with a resounding whack. The man yelped, the woman kicked and pummeled, and Colin reached down to drag him off her. He heaved the man up by his coat, tossed him into the dust, and turned to help the woman.

  Bridget struggled up, trying to straighten her skirts as she rose. Colin reached down to assist her.

  A footpad appeared from nowhere, brandishing a club. “Watch out!” Bridget cried.

  Colin whirled, ducking, and the club caught his head with a glancing blow. Colin staggered back, reeling. The thief then drew a knife and lunged at him. Colin swerved just in time; the knife ripped his sleeve instead of going straight to his heart. Bridget swung her reticule at the assailant as Jed joined the fray. The thief snatched Colin’s purse and fled.

  Colin swayed, clutching his arm. He slumped to his knees on the cobblestones. Blood welled up between his fingers. He slid slowly to the ground, and Bridget’s desperate plunge toward him came too late. His head hit the cobblestones with a soft thud. He didn’t move. Blood spread in a horrifying stain on his coat sleeve.

  “Oh, no.” Bridget removed her pelisse, folded it, and gently lifted his head to set it underneath. “Help me, Jed. Take his coat off so I can bind the wound.”

  Jed took out a knife and instead of trying to remove the coat, he slashed the sleeve wide open, while Bridget tore her petticoat into strips. She wound the strips of fabric around his arm, binding it tig
ht. There was so much blood. They had to get him someplace where she could wash the wound and bandage it properly.

  “Help me get him into the coach,” she said, uneasily eyeing the man called Fred, who had staggered up from the cobblestones. She didn’t know if Jed could handle the two drunks if they tried assaulting her again.

  Jed sighed. He growled to Fred, “My master won’t take kindly to this.”

  The drunkard’s mouth dropped open. “She’s Colin Warren’s whore?”

  “So sorry.” The one called Mort got to his feet as well. “Should have said so.” He put his arm across Fred’s shoulders, and together they weaved away.

  “Why did you say that?” Bridget demanded, as Jed took Colin’s shoulders and she took his feet.

  With a mighty heave, Jed got his burden onto the floor of the hackney. “It got rid of them, didn’t it?” He sounded so fed up that she cut off a retort and took her seat.

  Jed shut the door and softened his voice a little. “See if you can rouse him and have that waste-of-time talk.” He climbed back onto the box and set the horses in motion.

  Colin wouldn’t wake up. She tapped and pinched his cheeks, then knelt next to him and pulled his head into her lap, but he might as well have been dead for all the response he gave.

  She’d never meant for him to be harmed. As for the way he’d come dashing to her rescue . . .

  Astonishingly, two tears rolled down her cheeks. She shook them away. Oh, Mother Mary, what if he dies? She reached out a hand and pulled down the window. “Jed, he won’t wake up.” She would have to ask one more favor. “All this jolting can’t be good for him, and that petticoat wasn’t clean, and it’s a long drive back to his lodgings.” She paused. “Jed, I—”