The Love List (5 page)

“Or perhaps he is merely testing my commitment to our cause,” her father murmured.  “Perhaps he doubts the depth of my conviction.”

Brynne straightened on a surge of panic.  “Please, father—do not try to explain this away!  I did not create this tale, nor did I mistake the marquess’s intent.”

But the distance had returned to her father’s eyes.  “Great change requires great sacrifice, Britannia.  Our society stands on the verge of upheaval.  We cannot continue long as we are.”  His eyes fell shut.  “Already I’ve given so much.  Your mother . . . ”

“Would surely not let me be thrown to the wolves.”  Nausea swirled in her gut.  “You named me for the land that you love, but I never believed that you loved me less.  When I was a girl you told me many times that you were creating a better world for me.”

He reared back.  Without meeting her gaze he stood and turned away from her.  “And I’ve failed.  In all these years, matters have only grown worse instead of better.  Marstoke is my best—indeed he may be my last chance—to accomplish my goals.”  His head bowed.  “There’s more.”

“More?”

“You know how hard I’ve worked.  How disappointed I’ve been in my failures.  In desperation, I may have . . . committed certain indiscretions.  Made the wrong sorts of contacts.”

“Who?”  Brynne frowned.  “Whose acquaintance would keep you from saving me from such a fate?”

He didn’t answer, didn’t turn to face her.

“Radicals?” she asked.  “Whores?  Other men’s wives?”

“Stop!”  He spun around.  “I won’t discuss it with you.  Suffice it to say that there are certain letters in existence which could be the end of me, should they become public.  And Marstoke has them.”

Brynne gasped.

“You’ve shed your blinders in other areas, Brynne, do not choose to be naïve now.  This will prove to be a misunderstanding, I am sure.  But if it does or not—the marriage must take place.  He wants you—and he means to have you.”  His expression grew pleading.  “But, my dear, you must believe that I will help you.  You will
not
be powerless.  I will speak to the marquess.  You are simply going to have to trust me.  And to refrain from going off half-cocked.”

Brynne could not rise from her seat.  The twin burdens of betrayal and disbelief weighed her down, pressing her into her chair.  She’d been convinced as she rushed home tonight that this time her need was great enough to penetrate her father’s ever-narrowing focus. 

For the first time she was glad her mother had died, glad that she had not lived to see her daughter discarded like some sort of sacrificial lamb.  But then again, had her mother lived, her father might never have retreated so far from her or focused so zealously on his political agenda.  Brynne might have had a Season, a chance at a normal life.  She might even have been married by now.

She shook her head and pushed herself to her feet.  Her father didn’t really know whom he was dealing with.  He looked at her, but never saw past the silk gauze overlay of her gown.  He took for granted the girl who could dress like a confection, dance gracefully and sing rather better than that.  But she was her mother’s daughter too—and it appeared that he had forgotten everything that that implied.

What he would have known—had he looked up from his desk for any reasonable amount of time and realized just who was running his house, managing his schedule and juggling the fragile egos and high-strung tempers of his political cronies—was that Brynne was a problem solver.

And this was a very big problem.

She’d be damned before she forfeited her future to such a pair.  Lord Marstoke could wallow in his twisted anticipation and her father could lose himself in visions of grand reform, but Brynne was going to make plans of her own.

Ram-rod stiff, she nodded once in her father’s direction. He had already turned back to the comfort of his abandoned papers.  She turned on her heel.  Just as she pulled the door closed, an entirely new sound cracked the sacred silence of the study.

“I’m sorry,” her father said softly.

As was she.

***

Society’s collective wisdom became clear to Brynne the next day.  It was a bloody brilliant piece of work, curtailing its young women with convention and restricting them with endless rules.  Because really, once she’d cast all that aside, it became startlingly easy to arrange an escape. 

Not so easy to arrive at that decision in her mind.  She spent a sleepless night and a bleary eyed morning wrestling with herself, fighting to reconcile the expectations that her father, her friends and Society had for her against the nightmare of a future as Marstoke's wife.  Her instinct was to run, but she forced herself to think, to understand all that she would be giving up should she take so drastic a step—and she decided to go anyway.

She began with a few sympathetic words regarding how tired her maid was looking, and followed them up with a generous offer of a few days to visit home.   By the next morning, she’d obtained a bit of privacy.  Her next acquisitions were a threadbare cloak and a market basket for a disguise—and suddenly the city lay open at her feet.

Amazed, she moved quickly through the streets, keeping her mouth shut, her stride brisk and a harassed expression upon her face—and no one looked twice in her direction.  Almost, she wished she’d discovered this trick years ago.  When she thought of the adventures she might have got up to . . . but no.  Her purpose was clear.  In almost the same instant she’d decided to run, Brynne had known exactly where she meant to run
to
.  

Finding the notorious address was child’s play.  Accepting the ordinary, solidly middle-class appearance of the place was something else again.  Brynne walked past the brick townhouse several times.  Half Moon House.  Surely a place so ingrained in the hearts and minds of London's people should look . . . somehow different.

But there it was—the infamous panel above the door—a gorgeous wooden fanlight, the intricate shapes of a half moon and the surrounding stars carved out and replaced with crystal so the light within always showed through.  It was a feature that anyone in London could describe.  Still, she asked a passing jarvey to confirm the address.  With his assurances ringing in her ears, she stared again at the house of Hestia Wright. 

Hestia Wright—former courtesan, once mistress to kings and the most powerful men in the world—now a woman who offered solace and sanctuary to all of her sisters.  Any woman could come to her for help, it was said, and not be turned away. 

“Are ye alright, then, miss?”  The jarvey, still boxed in by traffic, regarded her with a kind eye. 

Brynne caught her breath.   There was a knowing expression in his face as he looked from her to the house. 

She considered.  Was she?  Could she really leave her life, her status, and her only family behind?  The image of Marstoke's hard eyes rose up in her head, followed by a picture of her father's pen.  “I will be,” she answered.  Throwing caution to the wind, she approached the coach and drew out a heavy purse.  “I have a proposition.  Will you listen?”

“Listenin’ is free,” he said with a shrug.

She put forth her request simply, and handed him the pouch. 

He hefted the extra weight and raked her with an assessing eye.  “I’m not in the habit of helping young
ladies
,” she didn’t miss the emphasis on the word, “to run away from home. 

His astuteness only convinced her that she’d made the right choice.  She shrugged.  “I’m going, whether you help or not.”

He’d rubbed a hand across his jaw.  “Must be a spot o’ trouble yer in,” he mused, “ter be runnin’ here.”

“You have no idea,” she said simply.

He’d briefly closes his eyes.  “All right, then.”

All of which explained why Brynne now found herself creeping through the kitchen plot at the back of her father’s house in the darkest hour of the night.  She fetched her portmanteau from behind a haphazard stack of pots and sent up a prayer that everything she owned wouldn’t smell strongly and permanently of onions.  One quick glance back at the dark house—the only goodbye to her old life she would allow—and she was through the gate and slipping along the South Portman Mews.

She heaved a sigh of relief when she reached the intersection with Gloucester Street.  The hackney was there, a dark bulk in the shadows beyond Montague House.  Without a word she slipped in.  Almost before the door had closed, the driver clucked to his horses and they started off.

Brynne clutched her bag and stared out the window—and oddly enough it was the Duke of Aldmere that centered in her thoughts as they moved quickly through the deserted streets.  The past was too painful, the future too uncertain to contemplate, so she watched the dark slip by and wondered what the duke would think of her escape.  He’d thought her brave last night.  

The thought caught her up.  Only twenty-four hours ago she’d been setting out to attend the Dalton’s ball, a young woman content, if not thrilled with her engagement.  Now she was on her own—and pulling up before the innocuous brick townhouse.  The half moon and the stars above the door shone in welcome.

Her heart in her throat and hope beating in her chest in its stead, she put her hand on the door.

Outside, the heavy bulk of the driver stalled her.  “A moment, miss,” he whispered.

She heard it then, the sound that had put a brittle edge in his voice; someone, quite nearby in the darkness, sobbed as if the world was ending and her heart was breaking.  Brynne’s gut clenched in sympathy.  Never in her life had she heard such an outpouring of despair—but how long would she have lasted in Lord Marstoke’s clutches before she sounded as broken as this unknown girl?

Not long, she suspected.  She kept the door cracked and a hand on her portmanteau, holding herself ready and poised for flight, just in case. 

“Here now, here now,” the driver soothed, his voice gentle as he approached a bundled form crouched low against the house’s wrought-iron fence.  “Where is he, the rotter that done this to ye?”

A shaky whimper was his only answer.

“Still here, then?”  The driver’s head came up and his tone grew sharp.

The bundle moved.  “No.  Gone.”  Thick and fluid, the answer was barely distinguishable.

“Come along with ye, then.  You’ve come to the right place.”  The driver gingerly reached down to assist the girl to her feet.  “Miss,” he hissed in Brynne’s direction.  “Come ye and take her other side.  She could use the help and I don’t dare leave ye out here alone.”

Brynne slid out of the carriage and did as she was bid.  The girl shuffled slowly, and together they helped her manage the few steps from the gate to the door.  The driver’s knock was answered at once, as if middle-of-the-night visitors were nothing out of the ordinary in this household.  A burly footman ushered them in, pulled a bench close for the unfortunate girl, and disappeared into the back of the house—and thus was Brynne’s first entrance into Hestia Wright’s infamous home vastly different than she had anticipated.

Truly, she hadn’t known what to expect, but that first step over the threshold was such a momentous act—tantamount to throwing her old life, her very identity away—that she would not have been surprised by an accompanying crack of lightning or trembling of the earth.  Instead she found herself fading into the background as the footman returned with reinforcements.

Two women accompanied him into the entrance hall, both in hastily donned night robes and both utterly focused on the bruised and bleeding girl still sobbing quietly on the bench.  Brynne stared as they examined and comforted her, surrounding the poor creature in a cocoon of soothing concern.  One of the women was as young as she, with a softly rounded figure and hard eyes.  But it was the other woman who captured her attention.  Slightly older, perhaps just into her third decade, she stood tall and elegant, and moved with a svelte grace that caught the eye and held it.  Loosely braided, her golden hair framed a dainty, almost elfin beauty.   She hovered over the unfortunate girl, an exquisite, ethereal vision, almost too fine for this world. 

Her manner, though, in direct opposition to her looks, appeared all that was confident and capable.  Somehow she managed to sound both brisk and sympathetic as she questioned the girl, even as she examined her injuries with competent hands. 

“It’s Letty again,” the other, younger woman said with a catch in her voice.  She glanced over at the older woman.  “She’s one of Hatch’s girls.”

Brynne nearly flinched at the grim look that passed over that angelic face.  If she’d had any doubt that this was Hestia Wright, it would have ended with that expression.  Clearly this was indeed the woman who stood as champion to her less fortunate sisters.  And it looked as if this Hatch was in for a taste of retribution.

“It has been a while since I’ve seen Hatch.  I’ll stop around for a little visit in the morning.” 

The bloodied girl made a sound of fear and protest, but Hestia merely patted her in reassurance.  “Not to worry, dear.  We’ll just have a little talk about respect and good manners.  They are only good business, you know.”  She knelt down and took both of the girl’s hands in her own.  “You have nothing to fear.”

She stood and passed Letty and her fresh spate of weeping to the other woman.  “Callie, would you take our young friend upstairs?  I think Sally’s room would be best, don’t you?  Tonight she shouldn’t be left alone.” 

As the younger woman gently led the girl away, Miss Wright turned a wry smile upon the hackney driver, still lingering near the door.  “Ah, Jinks.  I can always count on you to bring me a lap full of trouble.”

“Here now, ye won’t be laying all the blame on me, Miz Wright.  That one t’weren’t my doin’.  I jest found her curled up against yer fence.”  He thrust his chin in Brynne’s direction.  “Now this one, on the other hand, I’m forced t’ claim responsibility fer.  I brought her to ye.”  His mouth twisted.  “And me gut is tellin’ me that she’ll be more than the usual amount o’ trouble.”

Brynne’s chest tightened as she stepped forward, her lungs refusing to draw in air.  “Miss Wright,” she began.  “I’m afraid that I’ve also come seeking your help.  I’ve heard so much about you—all the stories—how you were bitterly betrayed by the men in your life, how you rose above the horrid circumstances they left you in, how you’ve dedicated your life to helping others who’ve been left with no chance and no voice.”  She faltered, suddenly unsure, as every vestige of warmth drained from the other woman’s already pale complexion.  “My name is—”