April 1816, Cleadon

 

Francine Walters, known as Francie to her friends, was having a horrid day. Mrs. Crumstokes was most definitely not one of Francie's friends. The terrible woman had not only canceled all the orders for her beastly daughters, she'd done so after the fabric had been cut and the sewing begun. This morning was to have been the first fitting, and Francie had generously agreed to do it at the Crumstokes' residence. Francie had accepted the cancellation with hardly a word, primarily because she couldn't trust herself not to curse. She knew that her fair hair and wide blue eyes worked against her in such an exchange. Everyone assumed she was a timid ingénue. But she was soon coming on one and twenty, and although she might have her father's fair coloring, she certainly had her mother's determined will. Even more so now that her mother Frances Walters had passed on. Being the eldest in the household, with two younger cousins to think of, made her worry and plan as she never had before. Not that the worry had paid any dividends. The matrons in town had taken to talking about how inappropriate it was for two young women to run a modiste shop by themselves, and their commissions had dwindled to nearly nothing. 

As though that weren't enough, Francie accidentally stepped in a puddle on the way home, dragging her hem into the mud because her arms were too full with her carefully wrapped dresses to raise her own skirts. To say that she was cross would be a vast understatement. She was nearly spitting with irritation as she entered the rear door. She changed her gloves and wiped at her hem with a flannel, to very poor effect. She was distracted from her annoyance when she heard the rumble of a man's voice at the front of the shop.

Curious, she went to see who had come, but when she saw her cousin Phoebe she stopped short. The poor thing had gone so pale as to look waxen and her hand was resting on the pistol they kept under the front counter. It had been Francie's father's, and she kept it cleaned and primed. Part respect for a family relic and part common sense. A particularly loutish type was leaning on their pristine glass ribbon case, perhaps the very same scoundrel who had come looking for Phoebe yesterday. He was leering and clearly trying to intimidate the young woman. Then he said something so shocking Francie could barely believe her ears.

“Ye see, men pays lots to be the first on a girl. And they likes the pretty young ones best.”

Phoebe's hands flew to her mouth in shock. Francie's protective instincts flared and she grabbed her pistol. She didn't know if it was primed, and didn't even care.

"Get out of our store, you vulgar snake," Francie said evenly, barely even recognizing her own tone. "How dare you speak to a lady in such a vile manner?"

The lech backed away with his arms raised, but a smirk on his face. Francie's ears were buzzing so loudly she barely heard his next comments. “I’ll tell ye how I dare, missy… Jack Grenard fled town in the dark o’ night, owing my boss a great sum of money. And my boss has a contract that says the welsher was to turn over his two daughters to my boss if’n he couldn’t pay. So if you girls can’t pay before the end of the week, then me and my two friends out there are to bring Jack Grenard’s daughters back to Lunnon.”

“Get out,” Francie said again, “and never come back into this store again. Or you will discover just how good a shot I am.”

“Don’t think to be leaving this shop," he said darkly when he reached the door. "We’re watchin’ day an’ night. I can snatch ye off the street. I sure can. It's the law, y'know.”

With that, the blackguard was gone. Phoebe leaned against the post behind her, then sank to the floor. Francie knelt to take her cousin's hand, setting the pistol aside on the floor.

"Where's Lydie?" Phoebe asked after her sister, alarmed.

"Upstairs cleaning the old bird Mr. Simonton gave us." Francie knew the job couldn't have been done in the less than quarter hour since she'd left the girl to walk out and back from the Crumstokes. "I'm going to put it in a pot with vegetables and herbs, then make a small loaf of bread and call it dinner. Why?"

"Please don't mention this to her." Phoebe's hands squeezed tight. "I don't want her frightened. Somehow I'll find a way out of this. Help me think of a way, or a place even, to hide Lydia. At least until I can thing of something, some way, to get this settled."

“We will talk to the constable, Phoebe,” Francie said, putting her arm around her shaken cousin. “Your father was a gambler of the worst sort, especially if he sold you and your sister to repay his debt.”

“But he didn't hand us over!" Phoebe, ever the defender of those she loved said, tears streaming freely down her face. "He didn’t do it. He came here with us to save us from Donovan. If he truly didn’t care about us, he could have fled to the colonies, or Australia, abandoning me and Lydia to his money-monger.”

Francie barely repressed the desire to roll her eyes. From what she'd gathered about the man, Jack Grenard's cases of conscience were as rare and fleeting as a typical man's indigestion. The only thing Jack Grenard had ever truly cared about was Jack Grenard. Francie knew what a father could be, should be. Her own father had literally worked himself to death to support her and her mother. It was because of Tim Walter's hard work that any of them had a roof over their heads today. That and her mother's savvy in turning what money he'd left into a thriving dress shop.

“Papa would never have sold us,” she said. “He loved us! For all that he was often in his cups, he did love us."

“Aye, he did,” Francie said, hoping to stem her cousin's tears. “But I think he loved his drinking and gaming as much as you, if not more. Else why would he have done what he did?”

After some miserable sniffling her cousin finally said, "I wish Wally were here. I wish he was still alive because he would know what to do. I can't believe it's almost been a year.”

Francie couldn't help but to give a sad laugh. “We have had a horrible few years, haven't we, Phoebe? First Wally gets press-ganged, your mother dies, your father dies, my mother dies... I'm so sick of death. I want to live. I want to experience everything I can before I die of very old age."

"That's what Wally used to say," Phoebe said quietly.

"Must have been something our mothers inspired in us. I wish I remembered him, but I was much too young when your father took your mother and brother to London.”

“You were just a babe yourself, but you would have—” Her cousin stopped when they heard the jangle of the bells on the door.

Francie grabbed the pistol and rose up on her knees to peer over the counter. If it was that blighter again she swore she would shoot him. She might even shoot if it was Mrs. Crumstokes. However, she was startled to see two men at their door. That snake sent in his two ruffians to threaten Phoebe again! Anger and training collided, having her pull the trigger before she'd really assessed anything about them save their gender. She aimed at the larger, darker one as he seemed more threatening.

The shot made her ears ring, and the smoke from the powder made her cough and gasp, but she was still able to hear a string of oaths erupt from the man she'd hit. To her chagrin he did not sound like a street thug. To the contrary, he sounded like a very well educated, very angry man who was quite creative with his invective. To her alarm, her cousin was already rounding the corner and approaching the men.

"Miss Grenard!" the fair one said. These men certainly knew her cousin. Did that mean they were or weren't the thugs?

“Quick!" The fair one continued. "Some strips of cotton and spirits if you have it.”

“Phoebe, who are these men?” Francie said, catching hold of her cousin's arm. “Do you know them?”

“I… I… don’t know,” she whispered.

“Be quick please,” the blond said, helping his friend onto the settee in the corner. “My friend is bleeding, and I need to stop the flow of blood.”

“Bloody hell, why did ye shoot me?” The dark one glowered at Francie.

“Aren’t you with…” Francie looked to Phoebe then back to the man she'd shot, “that man that was just in here?” No one seemed inclined to agree with her assumption.

Francie heard her cousin gasp behind her.

“Oh dear God!" Phoebe said. "I know you both. I mean… I don’t know which one you are, but…”

Francie turned to frown at Phoebe because that made no sense.

The fair-haired man began to sound impatient. “You’re muttering nonsense and my friend is injured here. Do you have a place for him to lay down so I can examine him and stitch him up?”

Francie couldn't help but nod her agreement, at least at the nonsense part.

“Harry,” the dark-haired man said, groaning. “If I die, you’d better never tell a soul it was a little girl that shot me.”

“I’m not a little girl,” Francie protested, “and you were just scratched. If you die from that, then you’re not much of a man.”

The fair one, Harry, sighed in a long-suffering way. “Reggie, you’re not going to die. I’ve seen worse." Turning his attention back to the cousins he asked, brusque again. "Where can we have some privacy? I need to tend to his wound. And did you have spirits of any sort?”

“Yes,” Francie said. Turning, she saw Lydia stood behind the counter, brown eyes filled with terror. “Lydie, don’t get squeamish. Go get my mother’s brandy bottle.”

“Am I right?” Phoebe asked. “You’re friends of my brother.”

Francie allowed herself a bloody hell in her own mind. She'd just shot one of Wally's friends.

“Is that the welcome you give friends?” It was the dark, dangerous looking one. Reggie, his friend had called him.

“We didn’t know…” Phoebe said, waving the men into dressing room where they fit dresses to their customers for alteration. Francie moved ahead of them to scoop up the fabric she’d had spread out over her cutting table, and assisted the injured man onto the table.

“Did you see the man who walked out just minutes before you entered?” Francie asked. “He came in here and threatened us. All of us.”

“No, he threatened me and Lydie,” Phoebe corrected. “You have nothing to worry about.”

Francie could barely believe Phoebe had said that. “You’re my cousins and I will not stand by and see you punished for your no-good father’s debts! I know you loved him, but he didn’t care one whit about you and your sister.”

“He did, Francie! He took us away—”

“After he sold you to his money-lender,” Francie reminded her with asperity. “I heard the man, Phoebe.”

“Please, Francie,” Phoebe murmured. “Not here. Not now.”

“What is happening?” asked the fair-haired man, finally distracted from his friend's injury. “Who is the man that threatened you?”

“It’s nothing,” Phoebe said, casting a stern look at her cousin. “I’ll take care of it.” She shoved a stack of fabric scraps at him.

The young man blinked and looked at the pile of fabric in his hands. “If you will excuse us a moment, Miss Grenard, I must tend to my friend’s wound.”

Lydie handed the brandy bottle to Francie, who then gave it to the young man. He tasted from it and frowned.

“What is in this bottle?”

“Gin.” Francie said. “It was my mother’s. She died two months ago.”

He took a swig and coughed. “That’s not gin,” he said in a choked voice. “It’s more like rotgut." Finally able to take a full breath he said, "But whatever it is, there’s more than enough alcohol in it to serve my purpose.” He handed it to his friend. “Drink some of this, but save me about half.” Reggie shrugged his undamaged shoulder and took a long pull from the bottle while Harry continued to fuss. “If you’ll excuse us for a few moments, while I tend to my friend. But first,” he added, “is it possible to get some extra candles? I need as much light as I can get.”

Francie lit the two lanterns they had and hung them on the hooks over the table and Phoebe backed out of the room. If it were any other day Francie would be perturbed that her cousin had left her to deal with Wally's friends. But Phoebe had far too much on her mind with the news of Jack Gerard's latest perfidy. It took a man of great evil to have ill effects so far after he was in the grave.

A thought struck Francie, leading to a sense of dread. "You won't go to the Constable, will you?"

"We should," Reggie said, lifting the bottle to his lips again. Harry snagged it from his friend and eyed the amount of liquor left.

"Who were these men you and Miss Grenard were referring to?"

Francie glanced over to the doorway to make sure Phoebe wasn't close. "If you truly are Wally's friends then you most likely know what a rotter Jack Grenard was."

Harry nodded a bit sadly.

"Well it seems he left debts in London. Debts he covered with the lives of his own daughters, debts that just caught up with Phoebe today."

"Bloody hell," Reggie muttered.

"My thoughts exactly," Francie agreed. "The man who delivered the news left our shop not five minutes before you arrived. He'd told us that he had two men with him. I'm afraid my assumption was that you were with the blackguard." She shrugged with a chagrined smile. "We rarely have men visit the shop, much less three on the same day."

"Don't worry, Miss....?" Harry fished for her last name.

"Walters," she supplied.

"Don't worry, Miss Walters. We will do our utmost to protect you, as Wally would have done."

"I'm not convinced they need our protection," Reggie complained, pointing to his bloody shoulder.

"If you'll excuse us," Harry said.

"Of course, Doctor....?"

"My apologies. I'm Mr. Manners-Sutton."

Francie did a most perfunctory curtsy and turned to leave.

"Oh, Miss Walters," Mr. Manners-Sutton said in a distracted tone. "If you could search for the ball, that would be helpful."

She turned, confused, and instantly regretted it. There was now rather a bit too much of Mr. Burnham on display. She went from wondering why Mr. Manners-Sutton wanted her searching for a ball, thinking he meant a dance, to wondering if all men had the smooth, dark skin and dark curling hair she saw on Mr. Burnham's chest and arms. And the blood. Good Lord. Mr. Manners-Sutton removed the flannel that Mr. Burnham had been pressing there. It revealed the hole in his shoulder and dark red blood streamed out at an alarming rate. She felt the room tilt and grabbed at the door frame to steady herself. She'd done that. She'd caused harm to another human being. Her gaze flew to his face, fearing what she would see but unable to stop herself. He grimaced in pain, then looked up to see her staring. He set his jaw and held her gaze steadily until she turned and fled from the room.

 

***

 

Bloody hell. Bloody, savage, rotting hell. Reggie had a mind to throw things around a bit. He might if Harry weren't poking at his shoulder.

"Does that hurt?" the doctor asked mildly while digging a finger deeper under the skin.

"Of course, it bloody hurts," he hissed out. The last thing Reggie was going to do, however, was give that fair haired little chit more to crow about. So he wouldn't acknowledge his discomfort by either a fit of temper or crying out in pain. He'd chew glass first.

He was surprised she hadn't refused Harry's offer of protection. In his experience the sort of woman who could hold a gun steady as an officer didn't care for masculine protection. She hadn't even seemed particularly sorry she'd shot him until she'd established that he was more friend than foe. It was cruel irony that she had a most pleasing face and form. Were she an actress he would pursue her relentlessly. That cupid's bow mouth begged for kisses when it wasn't pursed in distaste.

What right did the gel have to scowl at them? They weren't the brutes she claimed to be afraid of, and he was the injured party. Quite literally! At the very least she could bring some more appealing spirits than the rotgut gin she'd served him.

Harry poked again and Reggie hissed, only barely keeping himself from calling out in pain.

"Hm," the doctor said mildly. "Hold steady."

With that, his friend sent a sharp shooting pain through his shoulder. Even Reggie couldn't contain the shout that erupted from him. "Enough," he said hoarsely. He dropped his voice lower. "We can finish this at the Inn. You’re taking perverse pleasure in torturing me.”

“I have to sew this closed or you will reopen it, and bleed again, every time you move that arm.”

Reggie knew that tone. It was the one Harry used right before calling in three sailors to hold down the one who was refusing his doctoring. It didn't pass Reggie's notice that Harry didn't have other sailors here at his beck and call. At a stalemate, the two friends glared at each other.

"Doctor?" Miss Grenard stood at the doorway.

"Yes?" Harry turning at the young lady's interruption gave Reggie the satisfaction of technically winning the staring contest.

“I… I um… was thinking that it might help to ease his nerves if I were to hold his hand while you sew his wounds.”

That bore more promise than Harry stabbing at him with needles. “Yes. Let the lady in. That sounds like a wonderful idea.” He grinned at her and goaded his friend. “I need someone beautiful to gaze upon while you do cruelty to my flesh.”

Harry nodded to the young miss, who was now blushing prettily. “Maybe with you here the patient will be more likely to comply. Reggie has never been a good patient.’

Reggie had a mind to thump his friend, injured arm or no. He didn't realize he'd been rising to do so until he felt Miss Grenard's hand staying him.

Harry scowled. “Stay still Reginald or I will send Miss Grenard out.”

Fine. She was infinitely better to look at than Harry at any rate. All dark curling hair and lush curves. Her touch was gentle, almost hesitant, as she took his hand in hers. Quite the juxtaposition to the jabbing, brutish force his friend was using with the needle. He was enjoying looking at the dark fan of her lashes when Harry poured gin in his wound, making him suck in a harsh breath and wince. It was only the lady’s presence that kept him from calling out another string of curses. He was about to apologize for squeezing her hand too hard when he realized she was blinking too fast and her eyes were rolling up.

"Harry!" Reggie managed to hold her with his good arm as she swayed. Harry scooped her up from behind as she swooned to the floor. The doctor then toted her out to the front room.

His friend and the ladies spent what he thought was an inordinate amount of time fussing over the petite brunette while the pain truly began to set into his arm. When the curtain rustled again it was none other than the fair termagant.

"Here to finish me off?" he jibed.

"Yes," she answered, her guileless blue eyes betraying little of what she was thinking. When she approached him in the close space he wondered if he should back away, but her attention shifted from his face to his shoulder. She picked up on of the fabric scraps to dab at the drying blood and he hissed a breath through his teeth. The wound had become more sensitive as his shock had worn off. He'd seen the effect many times among his shipmates. Some wounds, even serious ones, might not be felt as much when they occurred as they did an hour later. "I'm sorry," she murmured.

"You're the soul of contrition, I can tell."

She frowned at him severely enough that he worried for a moment that she might thwack him on his throbbing shoulder. "Perhaps I am when I don't have lowlife scoundrels threatening my family."

 "Just to be clear, I'm not the lowlife scoundrel, correct?"

She put some of the wretched gin on her cloth and set to cleaning his wound again. "That remains to be seen."

He had to chuckle at her shrewish behavior. The girl certainly wasn't easily cowed! "I would like to remind you that I am the injured party." She snorted at his complaint. "Who knew that such a wicked tongue could be housed in such an Angelic face? Not to mention," his gaze moved down her body, "where you keep your black, murderous heart."

That only made her scowl as she bent to her work. Her touch was firm but kind, the sharp poke of the needle at a steady rhythm.

He noted that she was wearing fingerless gloves. "You're getting blood on your hands."

"It's no matter."

She'd finished the front that Harry started and cut the thread, moving around behind him. He realized the room was tilting a bit, as though he'd had a few too many cups of rum. If this injury made him lightheaded enough to pass out he would never forgive her. Or Harry for leaving him alone with the little hellion.

"Why did you shoot me?"

"As I said, I thought you were one of the men who threatened us." Apparently being behind him loosened her tongue. "What I worry about," she said, "is what will happen to Phoebe? Wally wouldn't want her to be pressed into a workhouse or worse."

"What do you mean worse?"

"I can't possibly repeat what he said," she confided in a hushed tone.

Anything that caused this virago to shy away must be horrid indeed. He imagined he knew what would cause her such shock, and lead her to shoot the very next man who walked through the door. And some bloody bastard thought to do that to Wally's sister? He let out a string of curses that jolted her and made her drop her needle. He rose unsteadily to his feet, but firmed his jaw and strode out to the front room in search of the dark-haired beauty. Spying her on a settee, he approached.

“Miss Phoebe, marry me. We shall live in Bermuda where those men will never find you or your sister.”

The horrified look that Wally's sister returned made him think that perhaps he was being too forward in his approach. “What?” she croaked.