Margaret Moore (2 page)

She scrutinized his clothing. Living with her uncle, a silk merchant, all these years, she had learned much about fabric. This man’s jacket and breeches were made of coarse, dark wool. His linen, while apparently clean, was very plain. He may be a solicitor, but he was certainly not well-to-do.

Nor did he sound like any gentleman she knew. Of course, he might have been raised in the country, where there were any number of dialects.

“Here is the tavern,” her escort said as they reached a building with a sign above its entrance, rocking in the slight breeze off the river, declaring it to be the Bull and Crown.

She hesitated.

“What is it?” he asked, regarding her with his mysterious dark eyes, so hidden beneath black brows, she assumed more than knew that they existed.

“I have never been in a tavern before.”
And what if this is just a ruse, and once I am inside …?

“Ah. If you would rather not go in—”

“As you said, Bankside is a dangerous place. Perhaps I am wrong to trust you.”

“Perhaps,” he calmly agreed. He slowly crossed his arms. “If you leave me here, what will you do?”

“What I was going to do before—leave London.”

“How? By stealing a boat?”

She didn’t answer.

“If that is what you intended to do, I may have saved your life in more ways than one. Have you any idea what would happen to you if you were caught stealing?”

“I would be arrested,” she replied, trying to sound matter-of-fact, even though that possible fate terrified her. She had never been inside a prison, but she had heard about them, and it was enough to turn one’s stomach.

“You would be taken to a prison little better than your idea of hell and, if convicted, branded, transported or perhaps even hung. And what of the boat you stole? It might be some poor man’s only means of earning a living.”

“I had not considered that,” she confessed.

“I thought not.”

She did not need him to criticize her, too. Her uncle did that quite enough. “Then what am I to do? Marry a man I hate? I would really rather die—or try to fend for myself.”

“It is an easy thing to say one would prefer death to a less-than-ideal fate, yet I think you would answer differently if it truly came to that.” He lowered his voice, and a quiet calm infused his tone as he gazed into her face. “At least, I hope you would. A comfortable life is not something to be thrown away. And your family is not something you should abandon without better cause.”

“My uncle will abandon me if I continue to oppose his plans. He will surely cast me out of his house into the street with nothing but the clothes on my back.”

“Then why run away?”

“Because this way, I can …”

She fell silent. She had more than a few clothes on her back, and all her pin money and jewelry hidden upon her, too. “Have you ever been forced to do something you hated,” she asked, “something that seemed against your very nature?”

He nodded slowly, and a strange, world-weary expression flitted across his features as he regarded her with his dark, intense and inscrutable eyes. “Many times.”

Before she could speak, he went on. “I am not ignorant of desperate situations, mistress. Please allow me to give you my professional advice. You will be safe with me, I promise you.”

Could she trust him?

How could she be sure he was even a lawyer at all?

In the end, all Vivienne could do was rely on her instincts. “Very well, sir, I will hear your advice.”

A
s she entered the tavern, Vivienne’s eyes stung from the sudden assault of smoke. She blinked and squinted as she tried to distinguish the shapes barely illuminated by cheap candles. Some were men sitting at tables, hunched over their drinks. Dogs wandered about, sniffing and snuffling along the floor. One or two people moved swiftly; by their curved bodies she guessed they were serving wenches.

“This way,” her companion muttered, taking her hand and leading her through the maze of benches, scarred wooden tables and drunken patrons.

She could see better now, yet wished she couldn’t at the sight of the filthy, curious or leering faces. They made Sir Philip’s lustful looks seem the height of propriety.

Her companion ignored them all as he made his way through this place as if he were the king of it, or as if he were oblivious to anything but the object of his quest, the empty table at the far end of the room.

When they reached it, he gestured for her to sit on the rough wooden bench nearest the wall. “This is as much privacy as a tavern such as this safely affords,” he said.

He waited until she had settled herself before sitting opposite her. Although she could see the rest of his face better now, the single candle burning feebly in its holder on the table did not do much to light his dark eyes.

“What is your name?” she asked.

“If I am to give you legal advice though I am not in your pay, I think it would be best if I do so anonymously,” he said, sounding very businesslike—or like an attorney, she supposed. “Nor should you tell me your name, or that of any of the parties involved.”

A serving wench appeared at the man’s elbow. She ran a curious gaze over Vivienne, then grinned. “Been a long time, my buck.”

Vivienne stiffened.

“The courts not keepin’ you busy enough?”

She breathed again.

“He’s somethin’, ain’t he?” the woman continued, grinning at Vivienne. “Brains in that handsome head o’ his and shoulders on him, eh? Not too many solicitors from this part o’ the city, but he done it.”

“Polly,” the solicitor said evenly, turning to look at her and giving Vivienne a better view of his remarkably fine profile, “this is business. Wine, if you please. Your finest—and not watered down,” he added.

“Nothin’ but the best for you, o’ course!” the wench said. She laughed and displayed black teeth as she winked at the lawyer. “She’s a beauty, I must say. And business, is it? I’ll wager it is! There’s a room upstairs for your business, if you like.”

Vivienne flushed hotly. “I am not a harlot!”

“No?” the woman replied with a hint of amusement. She addressed the man. “Jack said you give that up, but I didn’t believe him. Guess he was right, after all.”

“Polly, just fetch the wine,” the man replied in a low voice.

“Aye, I will,” she replied, still chuckling as she sauntered away, hips swaying.

“She is a friend of yours?” Vivienne inquired coldly, all the heat of shame at being thought a harlot gone as she wondered what kind of man was sitting across from her.

His brows contracted and suddenly he reminded her of a painting of the god Mars she had seen once.

Dread again threaded down her spine and she searched through the smoke for the door. She wished she had not taken him up on his offer, even if he really was an attorney.

She splayed her hands on the table and began to rise. “I think I have made a mistake—”

He covered her right hand with his. “Lawyers are not born lawyers,” he said softly, his sincere gaze searching her face. “I know Polly because I grew up not far from here.”

“Yet you would have me believe you are a solicitor? How do I know you are not in league with that woman, that this is not some ruse?”

“To what avail?”

“To rob me, or worse. First you gain my confidence, then you bring me to your lair and—”

To her astonishment, he laughed, a low, deep sound that seemed sad, somehow, too. “My lair? I assure you, madam, the only lair I possess are chambers near Chancery Lane.” He sobered, and regarded her with more respect than ever Uncle Elias or Sir Philip had. “I see I was quite wrong to think you were foolishly naive.”

“I told you, I am not a fool.”

“Just desperate.”

Vivienne sat down. “Yes.”

The serving wench returned with the wine. As she set down two pewter mugs, she gave Vivienne a warm smile. “Whatever you’re up to, take care of him, won’t you, m’dear? He’s a good friend to me and mine. Sees to all the legal troubles for lots of folks’d be taken advantage of otherwise.”

Vivienne didn’t respond as her companion paid for the wine. “Thank you, Polly.”

Mercifully, an impatient customer shouted drunkenly for more ale, causing the woman to hurry away.

“What did she mean?”

“She means, I often give advice. Now, about your problem,” he replied, once more the cool, efficient advisor. “When is the wedding to be?”

“The arrangements have not reached that stage yet.”

One of his eyebrows rose questioningly.

“But they will,” she affirmed. “My suitor,” she said, her tone sarcastic in the extreme, “has apparently made his intentions clear.”

“Apparently?”

“To my uncle, not to me. Indeed, they both act as if I have nothing to do with the marriage at all, except to be there in body.”

“Your uncle is your legal guardian?”

She nodded. “My parents died five years ago. I came to live with my uncle then.”

“It could be that your uncle and your suitor consider the business side of a marriage not of interest to a young woman.”

“It is not the ‘business side of a marriage,’ as you call it, that I object to.” Vivienne leaned forward, more into the light, trying to see him better. To see his eyes. “It’s the groom. I don’t love him, and he doesn’t love me. He doesn’t even like me, except that he would like me in his bed.”

The very notion of making love with Philip made Vivienne shiver with disgust. She couldn’t even imagine kissing him on the lips.

Kissing
this
man, however … suddenly it was very easy to imagine pressing her lips to his, their breath mingling, his powerful arms tightening about her …

She forced that image out of her mind. “Unfortunately, my uncle sees marriage only as a business proposition. I am the object to be sold, and my suitor has the appropriate payment.”

“What is the payment?”

“A title.” Vivienne wrapped her hand around the cold pewter mug. “The man my uncle wants me to marry is a nobleman.”

The lawyer’s eyebrows rose and she could finally see that his eyes were as brown as his hair. “You are not titled?”

“No, I am not,” she replied, a little flattered by his surprise. “Nor is my uncle, or any of my family.”

“You do not want a titled husband?”

She sighed with exasperation. “If I loved him, a title would be a charming addition. However, I do not love him, so if he were the king himself, I would not want to marry him.”

“That is a very unusual attitude.”

“Perhaps, but it is mine. My uncle doesn’t care at all about my happiness. You see, if we wed, my uncle gets a title in the family and an introduction to the court, which he can use to his advantage in business. He does not think of me at all.”

“Is the bridegroom ignorant of your true feelings?”

“Even if he were the greatest dolt in England, he could not be. I have given him no encouragement at all. Unfortunately, my uncle is well-to-do, and the groom, for all his breeding, is not overly wealthy. I will be my proposed spouse’s way to regain a squandered fortune.”

“Did
he
squander it?”

“No. Not even a title would overcome that deficiency in my uncle’s eyes. My suitor plays the much-put-upon heir to perfection.”

“Are there other objections?”

She ran her finger around the rough edge of the mug, then raised her eyes to look at her companion. “Need there be more? My parents loved each other and they were very happy. I want to marry for love, too, not gain or social position.”

“I gather your uncle does not consider your reason sufficient impediment?”

“No. He will not listen to me at all.”

The solicitor leaned back and regarded her thoughtfully. “Then what you need to do is change
his
mind about your suitor. Search out those things most likely to upset your uncle, not you. Debts your suitor has kept secret, for example, or liabilities he has not spoken of.”

At once Vivienne saw the wisdom of his advice and realized she had been trying to discourage her uncle in the wrong way.

He was a man of business, and it was business, not emotion, that he understood best.

“Or …” the lawyer began. Then he hesitated.

“Or?” she queried, wondering what else he could suggest.

He shifted forward, bringing more of his face into the candlelight.

She had never seen lips like his, full and yet with no hint of softness about them. They were undeniably masculine. Virile. And incredibly alluring, so tempting she could scarcely attend to his next words, which were spoken softly, in a low, confidential whisper. “Has your would-be groom ever behaved improperly toward you?”

“Only by persisting in his suit.”

“He has not tried to seduce you?”

If Philip had used that tone of voice, and looked at her with such intense, dark eyes, and possessed such lips, she might have been tempted.

“Forgive the personal nature of my questions, but has he ever done so?” her companion repeated.

Vivienne forced herself to concentrate and answer him. “Thankfully, no.”

He looked relieved a moment, before his face assumed its usual serious demeanor. “Is there nothing else you can say against him? Does he gamble? Drink to excess? Wench?”

She shook her head. “I have heard nothing of any indulgence in serious vices.”

“Then I must say you have very little with which to condemn him as unworthy.”

“I will not marry without love,” she reiterated.

“And obviously, you are so adamant about this, you will risk your life.”

“Yes.”

He took a sip of wine, then very slowly and deliberately set down his mug and raised his eyes to regard her steadily. “Then my advice is, go home.”

“But—”

“Allow me to finish,” he commanded, and in such a tone, she did. “Return to your home and find ways to delay the proceedings.”

“Delay?”

“Yes, and while you do, try to find out all you can about the proposed groom.”

“I don’t want to know more about him,” she murmured, realizing she would much rather know more about the man facing her.

“It is your best chance. Every man has something to hide.”

“Even you?” she blurted.