Ever His Bride (3 page)

“I
am
outraged, Mr. Claybourne!”

“So am I, Miss Mayfield. No one steals from
me. No one.”

“Sir, you are a lunatic!” She clutched the
crinkled ribbon at her throat, remembering the heat of his hand,
the silk of his breath. “My father left those shares to me as my
inheritance. They were mine to spend or to invest as I
pleased.”

“Do you read, Miss Mayfield?” Claybourne’s
hand was steady as he held out a sheaf of papers toward her.

“Of course, I do!” Felicity reached across
the distance and snatched the document.

“Then you can see for yourself, paragraph
three: the Bank of England has legal hold of your shares, in trust,
until you reach the age of twenty-five. Or until—”

“Until I reach the age. . .” Terrified by his
calculated certainty, she hurried along in the paragraph, sure that
she would find the error in his interpretation. Her father wouldn’t
have done this to her! And then she saw it, the terrible phrase
laid down like a whispered curse from the grave.

“Until I reach the age of twenty-five, or
until I’ve. . . been married for the period of one year.” Her knees
came unstrung as the life seemed to drain from her, leaving her
wanting air and hope and grasping for the back of the chair. Then
let her gaze rise to meet Claybourne’s.

He seemed an ill-bred bear who’d wandered
into the Cobsons’ parlor, his savagery disguised as patience as he
waited to snag a tasty morsel from the tea tray. His head was
cocked, his shoulders bent forward, his hands clasped behind
him—prepared, she was sure, to strangle her.

But the pompous man was right about this
damnable clause. According to the document, she had no right to the
shares for another five years. She was too far from the hearth for
the heat that sizzled the tips of her ears to be anything but
shame.

“I knew nothing of this, sir. Truly. I would
never have agreed!” An uncomfortable memory of her uncle’s
vacillating gaze as she signed the Power of Attorney suddenly
clarified. Uncle Foley had deceived her!

Claybourne shrugged and sighed. “Whether you
knew of it or not is immaterial. You and your family have committed
a fraud against me. I want my money returned immediately.”

“Thirty thousand pounds!” She covered her
mouth and laughed again at the absurdity. She had a thousand pounds
to her name, money left over from the sale of the shares. The rest
she had invested in her uncle’s venture. “Mr. Claybourne, I haven’t
got that kind of money. I’ve barely enough to last me the
week.”

“Then I will take your shares.”

Now the man was being stupid, and she fixed
her most scathing gaze on him. “Sir, you know very well that I
cannot give you either at the moment. But rest assured that my
uncle will return within a year. He expects to quadruple my
investment, with the picks and shovels and other indispensable
goods he plans to buy in San Francisco then sell to the miners in
the gold fields. Allow me that short time to repay you, Mr.
Claybourne, and I will double your money.”

But Claybourne had gone deadly calm.

“Your uncle is an ass.”

“How dare you! Uncle Foley is a kind and
gentle man who helped my father when times were lean—”

“He’s a witless felon, who will be stripped
of his money—my money—long before he arrives in San Francisco to
purchase his wares. He’ll be lucky if he isn’t murdered in his
sleep.”

“How dare you!”

His gaze was the sort of terror that
beckoned. She couldn’t look away.

“Thirty thousand pounds, Miss Mayfield, in a
satchel? Do you know what a man will do for that kind of money? Do
you know how low he will sink to attain it?”

“
I
don’t, Mr. Claybourne, but
obviously
you
do!”

The air grew still and she knew better than
to breathe or to move as he approached her. Obsidian— that was the
color. His eyes shone like obsidian, sharp and brittle, offering
nothing but blackness. The mocking edge to his humorless smile was
in truth a small scar on the upper ridge near the corner. Though
why she was looking just there, at the fine fullness of his mouth,
when she ought to be preparing for his imminent assault, was a
matter she’d have to sort out later.

“Repeat such words, my dear little felon, and
those five years in prison will turn to fifty.”

“Better five hundred years of prison squalor
than a marriage to you!” She hurried to the far side of the room to
rid herself of the dizzying sensation of looking up at him. “Sir,
before we continue this discussion, I beg your indulgence to speak
with my solicitor.”

“The honorable Mr. Biddle? I think not, Miss
Mayfield. Your choice is five years in debtor’s prison, or one year
married to me. Take it or leave it.”

“Married to you? To a foul-tempered monster
who would pluck the pennies from his own dead mother’s eyelids?
I’ll gladly leave it, Mr. Claybourne.” To make her point, and to
keep her knees from knocking together, she sat down.

But Claybourne’s brow only deepened; his eyes
darkened and threatened as he stared down at her. She feared for a
moment that he might backhand her. But he muttered a curse, then
turned from her and threw open both parlor doors.

The Cobsons stood frozen in place as if their
eavesdropping had been caught in wax by Madame Tussaud herself.
Claybourne peered down at them, nearly as tall as the door
itself.

“Evening, sir!” Mrs. Cobson scooted backward
and pasted herself against the wall. “We come to ask if you need
anything!”

Claybourne ignored the woman and bent his
displeasure on her husband. “Lock her up, Cobson.”

Cobson brightened. “My wife, sir?”

“Mine,” Claybourne said.

“I am not your wife, Claybourne,” Felicity
said, feeling recklessly brave as she followed him into the
vestibule. “Nor will I ever be.”

He ignored her and turned to Cobson. “The
expense of tracking down Miss Mayfield, should she escape, will
fall upon your head, Cobson. I’ll send word as to what to do with
her.”

“Do with me?” She caught Claybourne’s arm to
turn him, but might as well have been trying to turn the Houses of
Parliament for all she could move him. “I’m not a potted palm, Mr.
Claybourne.”

Claybourne shifted his glare to Felicity and
she battled the urge to close her eyes against him. “No, Miss
Mayfield. You are a thief.”

Then he stalked from the house and became a
part of the damp London night.

“He can’t do this to me!” Felicity said
finally, trying to shake loose the inconceivable notion of having
to tack his name onto her own. Felicity Mayfield Claybourne. The
very thought made her face heat.

“Lock us down tight, Theda,” Cobson said,
frowning at Felicity as though she had already cost him a day’s
pay. “She’s not to get away.”

“Yes, yes, Cobby. Go on up, now. I’ll take
care of everything.” Mrs. Cobson locked the door and stuffed the
key into her pillowy cleavage. She patted Felicity’s arm. “You’re
lucky, dearie. We’ve an empty room tonight. Cobby, I put Rawley and
Horville in the dormer.”

Cobson turned on the stairs. “What about that
bloody draper and his whimpering family?”

“Gone.” Mrs. Cobson grinned and shook the
purse that dangled from her sash. “His cousin paid his charges to
us, as well as his debt to Mr. Nash. Left us before supper, so we
got another day’s take without even havin’ to feed them.”

“That’s my girl.” Cobson’s clomping boots
disappeared into the darkness abovestairs.

“Come along to your room, Miss Mayfield.”

“I’ll stay down here, if you please.”
Felicity pointed to the parlor, a simple room that wouldn’t feel so
much like a prison cell.

“You heard Mr. Claybourne, same as I.
Wouldn’t be pleased at all if you were gone when he come back. He
paid extra for Cobby to fetch you in from the country. And I’ll not
be spending our own good money to fetch you back. Come along now.”
Mrs. Cobson took a fingerhold of Felicity’s sleeve.

“He can’t make me marry him.”

“Probably not. But, dearie, he’s a very rich
man, is Mr. Claybourne, and very powerful. A fair-enough catch for
a woman in such dire circumstances.” Mrs. Cobson took in a breath
and started up the stairs, towing Felicity behind her.

“I’d rather go to prison.”

“Suit yourself, m’dearie, but I’d think on
it. Five years can be a very long time in the Queen’s Bench.”

A single night at Cobson’s Rest had seemed an
eternity. She hadn’t slept a moment and now sat on the edge of the
sagging bed, watching the early morning ooze its grayness into the
darkened corners of the tiny attic room. She had listened all night
to rats scratching their way along the baseboard inside the walls,
and to the sawtooth snoring from the rooms on either side of her.
The Knotted Mazel would have been sweet heaven compared to the
Cobson’s filthy sponging house. Yet, if even half the horror
stories she’d heard about debtors in the Queen’s Bench Prison were
true, then—

“Uncle Foley, what have you done to me?” He
couldn’t have known what trouble his enterprise would cause her.
He’d invariably been there when her father had needed him. His
business dealings hadn’t always been sound, but without exception
he’d been honest. And his scheme to sell tools and supplies in the
gold country had been brilliant. When he’d come to her with the
idea of selling off her shares in the railway and setting aside a
thousand pounds to keep her in case of an emergency, she’d agreed
in an instant. But he
couldn’t
have known about the rider to
her father’s will. He wouldn’t jeopardize her freedom, her life,
would he?

Certainly not! Uncle Foley would return in a
year, with more than enough money to repay Claybourne. Then she’d
be free of debtor’s prison without having to marry the merciless
monster in the process. Surely she could bear up in the Queen’s
Bench for a year, use her emergency funds to pay for decent
lodgings inside the prison, purchase proper food, blankets and warm
clothing from the wardens. Just one year, one whole year without
trees and meadows, without the rumble of the rails beneath her
feet, country inns, fetes and fairs. . .

And what about the
Hearth and Heath!
Her readers would soon forget her entirely if she couldn’t report
regularly on the quaint places she traveled to. Then Mr. Dolan
would fire her! She’d have no money at all! How could she live?

“Blast it all!” She tried the low-slung attic
door again. It was locked, as it had been all night. She gave the
panel a good smack with the heel of her hand, then turned back to
the bed. She’d given up pacing. The ceiling hung so low and sloped
so steeply that her neck had a crick in it. She was hungry and
cold, and so deeply in debt she might not see another inn until the
middle of the next decade.

“Miss Mayfield? Are you there, girl?” Mrs.
Cobson’s voice from the other side of the door seemed almost
friendly in the gloom.

“Where would I have gone, Mrs. Cobson?” she
asked through the keyhole.

The lock rattled and the tiny door opened.
Mrs. Cobson entered in a shuffling crouch, then straightened when
the ceiling allowed.

“You’re to come with me,” she said.

“Is he here?” Panic raced up her spine,
settling like cold dread on her shoulders.

“Mister Claybourne? No, no. He’s sent for
you. There’s a carriage downstairs.”

“Where is it taking me? I have the right to a
trial, and to speak with my solicitor. Mr. Biddle will know what to
do. Claybourne can’t simply throw me into prison!”

“With his kind of money, he can do anything
he wants.” Mrs. Cobson snorted and smiled as if such a grimace was
meant to comfort her. “But Mr. Claybourne isn’t going to hurt you.
His ways are a bit odd, but he’s not a murderer. Leastwise I don’t
think he is. Come along, Miss Mayfield.” Mrs. Cobson shook her ring
of keys like a dinner bell.

“I’m not going to marry him.”

Mrs. Cobson set her fists against her
apple-round hips. “Then he’ll probably drop you off at the Queen’s
Bench when he’s done with you. He’s paid your charges to us for
your time at Cobson’s Rest, and now you’re to be put into his
brougham. Where you go from there, I don’t know, and I can’t waste
my time caring. Now, do you come with me peaceably, or do I get Mr.
Cobson to haul you downstairs like a sack of potatoes?”

Hoping there might be a way to escape once
she was outside on the stoop, Felicity snatched up her portmanteau
and shawl, ducked her head and willingly followed Mrs. Cobson
through the tiny door and down two flights of canted, squealing
stairs to the vestibule into the waiting grip of Mr. Cobson
himself. Flanked now by both Cobsons, she was whisked out the front
door and handed up into the cab of the brougham. The carriage door
slammed behind her and was locked down tightly from the outside.
Shutters shot across the window glass in the doors, restricting her
view of the outside world to a pair of small round windows set into
either side of the carriage wall. A perfect prison cell on wheels!
Claybourne must practice this sort of kidnapping regularly.

Before she could bang a protesting fist
against the ceiling, the carriage shuddered forward into the
smoke-bound fog.

“Damn the man!” He couldn’t just deliver her
to a prison without a trial; there were laws against such things.
And yet she believed Mrs. Cobson, that Hunter Claybourne could, and
would, do anything he wanted without the slightest twinge of
conscience or consequence.

But in the next moment, the brougham turned
sharply away from the Queen’s Bench Prison, crossed London Bridge,
rolled up King William Street, and finally stopped in Cornhill
Street across from the front of the Royal Exchange, and opposite
the majestic edifice the Bank of England.

The Bank of England? Had Claybourne learned
of the thousand pounds her uncle had put into the bank for her? Did
the piggish lout think to make her entirely penniless before
dashing her into prison?