CHAPTER ONE
“Avoiding the discomforts and indignities of desperation requires cleverness. Sadly, no amount of pleading will increase your allowance of that coveted commodity.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her nephew upon receiving his request for an increase in funds.
August 20, 1817
Keddlescombe, East Devonshire
“He fancies you, Miss Battersby. When do you suppose you might marry?”
Sarah avoided her young student’s gaze, focusing instead on the basket of apples at her feet. Little of the fruit in this tree had yet ripened, but there was enough for today, and that would have to do.
“We are not engaged, Miss Cresswell.”
A leafy branch recoiled and shook as the long-limbed, redheaded Lydia Cresswell plucked another blushing-green apple and plunked it into Sarah’s outstretched hand. The girl was thirteen and positively enraptured by anything to do with courtship and romance, which made her companionship trying. Still, while she was ten years younger than Sarah, she had already sprouted taller by an inch and possessed frightfully long arms, so she had been assigned ladder duty.
“Oh, but Mr. Foote has been saying so.”
Sarah frowned. “To whom?”
“Well, everyone, I suppose. He insists you have accepted him.”
Throat tightening, she glared up at the girl’s narrow back. “You must not fall prey to gossip. Do you recall our recent lesson from Proverbs?”
Lydia sighed loudly and recited, “He that keepeth his mouth keepeth his life.”
Sarah propped her hands on her hips. “Very good. God approves discretion. Let us practice that virtue, shall we?” She considered the basket. “I believe this is sufficient.” Her stifling tone must have penetrated, because the loquacious Lydia glanced over her shoulder and nodded before descending the ladder.
They had managed to procure twelve apples—enough to make the pies Sarah had been promising the girls. Picking up the basket, she worried her lip between her teeth. Flour and sugar remained. For that, they must visit the market in the village square. And for those items and her mother’s tea, she must spend her last few shillings.
She glanced at Lydia, who was liberating loosened leaves from her fiery hair. “Here,” Sarah said, heaving the basket into the girl’s arms. “Carry this back to the school and inform Mrs. Blake she may heat the oven. I shall be along shortly with the remaining ingredients.”
“Oh! Are you certain you do not wish me to come al—”
“Quite certain.” The last thing she needed was for the budding young gossip to observe her haggling with the miller over every ounce of flour. Poverty was humiliating enough. Sarah waved at the road toward the vicarage. “Off with you, now.”
Watching Lydia descend toward the northern end of the long, green valley, Sarah pressed her lips together and fought against the despair that always crouched nearby. She let her eyes drift to her right, where the valley widened before ending at the sea, then left, where St. Catherine’s Church stood in a narrow, emerald juncture. Most mornings, it was surrounded by mist, but by afternoon, one could see it from anywhere in the valley. The Norman-era church with its proud, thirteenth-century stone tower and oversized oak doors was as familiar to her as her own hands. Her father had been the vicar here since before she was born.
On the opposite slope of the valley, halfway up the hill from the church, sat the vicarage—a white, two-story cottage nestled beside a larger, older stone building that had once been part of an abbey, now home to St. Catherine’s Academy for Girls of Impeccable Deportment.
Behind her lay the neighboring valley, where the white, cob-and-thatch cottages of Keddlescombe dotted the lush, green landscape.
She closed her eyes. These twin valleys by the sea cradled her home—the stalwart church that had withstood time and turmoil and Tudor suppression; the cottage where she had been born and reared; the school that gave her both purpose and income; the village where no stranger lived. All of it should bring her comfort. Should.
Her hand covered her mouth, a moment of weakness. No. She would not cede ground. She would fight, as she had for two long years. She would find a way.
Dropping her arms to her sides, she tightened her jaw and patted the pockets of her worn, striped overdress. The quiet jangle of sadly few coins only raised her chin higher. With a determined stride, she took the hill road down to the village.
As she entered the central square, the blacksmith, Mr. Thompson, shouted a greeting. She forced herself to smile and gave him a friendly nod. Glancing around, she noted that the open green at the heart of the village was fair teeming with farmers, fishermen, and their wives. She had hoped to encounter fewer people on this particular day, but now was the thick of harvest time, and such busyness was to be expected. Lowering her eyes and the brim of her straw bonnet to avoid drawing attention, she headed for the miller’s cart, spotting it in its usual location on the east side of the green.
“Ah, Miss Battersby,” the tall, aged Mr. Miller said as she approached. “Good day to you. Come to fetch a bit of flour?”
“Indeed.” She smiled politely up at the crinkle-faced man. “One pound, if you please.”
Mrs. Miller, his rounder, much-younger wife, appeared from behind him to say, “So little, Miss Battersby? Cannot make more’n a single loaf with that paltry amount. Why not purchase ten? ’Tis less costly per ounce and lasts a good bit longer.”
Sarah’s smile tightened. “One pound is all I require for now,” she said quietly.
Mrs. Miller’s eyes darted past Sarah’s shoulder and widened. It was all the warning she had before an unwelcome hand pressed her lower back and a loathsome voice said, “Nonsense. Make it ten pounds, Mr. Miller.” The man she despised with all her being leaned close to murmur lovingly against her cheek, “I shall not have it said my betrothed has been deprived.”
Using her elbow and the brim of her bonnet, Sarah discreetly shoved against his lanky form, creating much-needed distance. His hand fell away. “I am not your betrothed, Mr. Foote. Kindly desist in claiming so.”
Dark hair, slick and shining with the lard pomatum he used, was pulled straight back from a shortened forehead. This was at odds with the relatively small eyes, long nose, and comically prominent chin. Mr. Foote was a most unhandsome man, but that did not bother her overmuch. In fact, if his soul were not far uglier than his face, she might be more amenable to his suit, particularly since he was one of precious few eligible males within miles of Keddlescombe who were neither old enough to be her grandfather nor young enough to require parental consent for marriage. He was also a landowner with four tenant farms and a sizable income—as he was fond of reminding both her and her mother.
His dark eyes narrowed on her. Small lips peeled back to reveal brown, overlapping teeth. His grin did little to enhance his attractiveness. “There, there, my dear. Mr. and Mrs. Miller surely understand the passions of youth. I see little need to disguise our affections, despite your father’s … condition.”
Heat flared in her chest, rising into her face. Her skin prickled with it. “Do not speak of my father,” she hissed. “You are unfit to utter his name.”
As usual, Felix Foote refused to be insulted. He shot Mr. Miller a patronizing grin. “Ladies must be forgiven their upsets, for they are delicate in their constitution. I fear my dearest Miss Battersby is overwrought by the Reverend Mr. Battersby’s unfortunate ill health.”
“For the last time,” she gritted, her rising nausea mingling with despair and frustration. “I am not your Miss Battersby. We are not engaged! Do you hear me? Not! Engaged!” By the time she had finished, her voice was loud enough to carry across the green. She knew because everyone—simply everyone—in the square stopped to stare at her: Mrs. Jones, who managed the bakery and secretly gave Sarah five loaves of bread per week. Mr. Walton, who had taught her to ride when she was seven. Ann Porter, with whom she had played cricket in this very green. And a dozen more she had known since childhood. They all stood silent and round-eyed as the vicar’s daughter screamed her foolish temper past its boiling point.
Mr. Foote grasped her elbow and pulled her closer, his rotting-fish breath wafting across her face. “It is not unseemly to declare ourselves, Miss Battersby. Everyone in the village comprehends your position. You will need the care of a husband soon.” His fingers dug into her flesh. “To argue otherwise is foolhardy.”
Heart pounding, Sarah glared up at him. Her fury had nowhere to go. He was right. Soon, her father would be gone in body as well as in mind. The living provided by the church would cease. And she and her mother would be—she swallowed and breathed against the tightness in her chest—quite destitute.
For over a year, Felix Foote had been circling, constantly reminding her he was her only choice. She had searched and scraped for another, but it had not appeared. She had stalled and resisted, hoping his eye would wander elsewhere. But she was cornered, and she hated it, hated being so impoverished that she could only buy one pound of flour at a time. In fact, the only thing she hated more was Felix Foote.
“Impossible,” she muttered to him now. “I cannot marry you. Ever.”
That oily, nauseating grin reappeared. “Cannot marry me? Whyever not?” he laughed loudly. “Scarcely a line of suitors clamoring at your door, I daresay.”
Quite when the decision to lie entered Sarah’s mind, she could not say. It was not in her nature. She was, in truth, horribly inept at pretense, possessing a fair complexion that reddened with guilt at even the most innocuous deception. Her students had once begged her to perform in one of their dramas. They had never asked again.
She had many faults—pride first among them—but she was no deceiver. Except for today. Today, the lie escaped her lips with such ease one would have thought it a frequent visitor.
“To marry you is impossible, Mr. Foote,” she announced, her voice carrying across the green. “For I am promised to another.”
Shocked murmurs and speculative whispers sounded through the village square. Mrs. Miller’s eyes grew as round as the wheels of their cart while her husband’s brow lowered in a puzzled scowl. At last, Mr. Foote’s grin faded, slowly replaced by a snarl of displeasure. “Who? Look around, Miss Battersby. ‘Another’ does not exist for you. Perhaps in your grief, you have taken to inventing phantoms.”
She tilted her head and gave him a tight, satisfied grin of her own. Hatred, it appeared, could lend one boldness one did not otherwise possess. How else to explain her scandalous reply?
“Believe as you like, Mr. Foote. This phantom shall be my husband, not you. He shall father my children. Furthermore, if you do not cease your despicable attentions”—she yanked her arm from his grasp—“he shall deliver the punishment you richly deserve.”
*~*~*
August 25, 1817
Whitechapel
Death waited, patient and foul. Blood marked Colin Lacey’s wrists where they were bound above him, wetting his arms down to his shoulders, but the flow had long since slowed to a stop, replaced by numbness. The butcher’s hook held the ropes fast, held him at the butcher’s mercy.
None would be granted.
“Pity you did not exhibit equal reticence at the tables, my lord,” the butcher murmured. “A modicum of restraint might have saved us both much aggravation.” A sigh, then the snick of a knife leaving its sheath served as reviled punctuation.
Bright, cold agony sliced. Silver light flashed behind swollen eyelids as air hissed through teeth and into lungs. The flesh over his ribs gaped and wept in a warm flow.
“One word, my lord. A name. And this shall end.”
His shirt had been torn from his back hours earlier. It now hung in three rags from the waist of his trousers. He fancied if he ever managed to break loose from his bindings, the cloth would prove convenient for soaking up his blood.
Rusty laughter shook inside his chest. He was never leaving this putrid place, thick with late-day heat and the odor of animals that came here to die. No, his bones would join those of cattle and swine. He was not so foolish as to believe a name would save him, either his or anyone else’s.
“Come now. You are the brother of a duke. His heir at present, yes?” The butcher paused as though Colin might answer, then answered himself in his oddly soft, cultured voice. “Yes. The heir to the Duke of Blackmore has little need for credit at my humble gaming houses. After the Home Office took an untoward interest in my businesses, the coincidence was rather more than credulity could bear. To whom did you provide information?”
Long silence earned him another stripe, just below the last. This time, although pain flashed, it was but a white peak amidst a range of equally jagged mountains.
A door creaked. Boots shuffled. “Beggin’ your pardon, Mr. Syder.”
“Benning. I trust this interruption is of a vital nature.”
“Y-yes, sir.” Boots scraped and shambled again, then the low London voice came from only feet away. “Johnstone sent word the Gallows Club was raided. Roughly an hour past.”
If Syder ever grew angry, Colin suspected it would sound like the dark silence that followed Benning’s news. But Syder had not built an empire of thievery, brutality, and vice by being a slave to intemperance.
“Who was it?”
“Two of Kirkwood’s men, along wif seven more we never seen. Took Johnstone, they did.”
More silence, then a sigh from Syder. “My lord, I fear I must leave you in Mr. Benning’s tender care. Might I suggest you loosen your tongue? He is less subtle than I in his ministrations.”
Reflexively, Colin swallowed against his rising gorge. Footsteps, calm and evenly paced, receded until a door squeaked open and closed. Knuckles popped.
“You lasted longer than most, m’lord. Grant ye that.” Benning, whom Colin remembered as a massive, pockmarked brute with hands the size of millstones, shifted near enough that his bulk deadened the noise of livestock outside the door. His breath wafted over Colin’s swollen face. It smelled of ale and onions.
“Kill me,” he whispered, his aching jaw scarcely able to form the words. “For I have nothing to say to you.”
“You’re like to die, sure enough.” Colin sensed the grin in the brute’s voice. “But not just yet.” Heavy bootfalls thudded against the hardened dirt, heading in the direction of the table on the far side of the space. It was where Syder had assembled his tools—knives and other blades mainly, but also hammers and saws. After Benning’s initial beating, Colin’s eyes had swollen shut. In some ways, that had been a mercy. But now, he wished to know what Benning was retrieving, which instrument would be the source of his next dose of agony.
Metal scraped wood as Benning lifted the tool, whatever it was, from the table. Colin’s heart lurched into a frantic rhythm. Why he now panicked, he could not say. It could be no worse than what he had already endured. Could it?
Benning drew close. A damp breeze of ale and onions bathed Colin’s forehead. A millstone fist gripped his forearm, just below the rope.
Dear God. Was he about to lose his hand?
He heard himself wheezing, struggling, hectic and piteous. His mind flew backward from the horrifying reality, crouching at the rear of his skull.
His hand. He would never play again. Never feel a woman’s flesh.
Dear. Holy. God.
His arms jerked. The blade bit. He could not feel it, could only sense the motion and pressure as Benning worked it back and forth. Suddenly, his hands released, his arms falling agonizingly down. His legs left him, and he collapsed. Stunned. Useless. A heap at Benning’s feet.
“Eh,” the brute grunted, nudging Colin’s knee with his boot. “No time fer that, m’lord. I’s paid to cut you loose. Not get nipped by Syder.”
Colin’s blood pounded inside his head, at war with his panting breaths, forming a deafening cacophony. “P-paid?” he managed.
The rope binding his ankles was yanked and severed. “Aye.”
Attempting to move his arms, Colin groaned as needles flared across the numb flesh. The fire slowly spread until he had to grit his teeth to keep from screaming.
The scraps of his shirt were yanked from his waistband, torn into strips, and wrapped tightly around his ribs. A massive thumb stretched his eyelid. A blurry, pockmarked face peered back at him, thick lips downturned. “You’ll ’ave to force ’em open. They’ll come right in a day or two, but by then you’ll be dead iffen you don’t run fast and far. Understand?”
“Yes.” He felt the wormy trembling begin beneath his skin. Sensation returned to his shoulders, making him want to vomit up the pain. He could scarcely move his arms, but at least he still had his hands. For that, he was most thankful. “Who paid you? Was it my brother?”
Benning stood from his crouch and moved to the corner where Colin’s coat had been tossed. He stooped to retrieve it. “Nah. Doubtful he knows anything.” The man’s dialect was thick and round, sounding more like, “Dow’foh ’ee knows anyfing.” Before this year, having rarely associated with men of Benning’s ilk, Colin might have had trouble following his mutterings. Much had changed.
“Then, who? I took you for Syder’s man exclusively.”
Benning circled behind him, gripped him beneath his arms and pulled him to his feet in a rough motion. Colin could not stop his pitiful groan as excruciating pain tore through his shoulders. His legs at first refused to hold him. Shamefully, he slumped against Benning, who steadied him with a heavy forearm around his chest and began forcing his arms into the sleeves of his coat.
“Things change. The nob pays better.”
Panting roughly, head swimming, Colin paused to catch his breath as Benning came around to face him and quickly fastened his buttons like a nursemaid dressing an infant. “Who is the nob, Benning?”
The blurry brute finished his task and moved to the door, cracking it to peer out. “I can get you to your ’orse. No more’n that.”
“Whoever it is, he must have offered a princely sum. Syder will not pursue only me for this.”
Benning returned to Colin’s side, grasped his arm and hauled him forward, dragging his stumbling, bleeding, weakened body toward the door. “It’s touched I am by your concern, m’lord. Fact is I don’t plan to stay put. Best you do likewise.” Benning stuffed a hat onto Colin’s aching head, tugged it low over his swollen brow.
The darkness at the end of dusk disguised their movements as they crept through the stockyard. A few cows shifted and lowed at their passing, but no shouts of alarm sounded. Soon they entered a stable, where Benning apparently had already saddled Matilda. The pretty bay mare snuffled Colin’s outstretched hand.
“Good to see you, love,” Colin whispered, stroking her warm nose. His arms, still weak, quickly fell back to his sides as Benning led her to a mounting block.
“Think you can manage it?” he asked.
Forcing his eyes to open further and swallowing down his lingering nausea, Colin gave his best imitation of his old self. “The day I cannot mount a female is the day I am cold in the grave, Benning.”
The man snorted and waved to the block. “Them’s prophetic words, m’lord. Prophetic words, indeed.”
*~*~*