Ever His Bride (7 page)

“You’re not going to tell me who she is, are
you?” Denning waited a beat for an answer, then sighed as he
retrieved his hat and cane. “Stephie will murder me in my sleep
when she learns that I married you to your mystery bride and didn’t
confess it to her. You’ll find your match in that wife of yours,
Claybourne.”

“Good afternoon, Denning.”

“And a good wedding day to you, Claybourne.”
Denning offered one last grin then let himself out.

Wedding day. Now there was a preposterous
notion. And yet he found himself imagining her hair tugged free of
its bindings, a halo of gold, rumpled bedclothes—Damnation!

He yanked on the bell rope.

“Sir?” Tilson said, brushing a fall of crumbs
from his chin as he entered. “Sorry,” he mumbled around whatever
morsel was in his mouth.

Tilson was a capable young man with a growing
family, the perfect amalgamation of pluck and anxiety to make for a
loyal clerk. He asked few questions and offered fewer opinions, but
his wife coddled the man like a babe, sending scones and jam with
him every morning, and having a box lunch delivered promptly every
half-noon. She treated her husband like a monied merchant, then
complained at the state of the family finances. He had often
overheard her heated whispers through the office door, bleating at
Tilson to beg a raise in pay.

But Hunter had studied Tilson’s household
finances and had judged the salary he offered suitable for a
married man with two children. The woman still hadn’t forgiven him
for throwing open his office door on one such argument and
presenting these fiscal facts to her in black and white. Mrs.
Tilson had sped from the office in a veil of weeping, leaving
Tilson to decide between rushing after her and staying at his desk
during work hours. Tilson had wisely chosen to stay, but looked
much the worse the next morning for what must have been a long
night’s battle under the barrage of his wife’s ignorance of
business.

Wife.

He wondered what sort of mood his own was in
at the moment.

“Sir?” Tilson said, following with a clearing
of his throat.

“Ah, yes.” Hunter shrugged into his coat,
annoyed at the recent lapses in his thinking—lapses which had begun
late last night, and in the confounding presence of Miss Mayfield.
And in her absence, even sleep had been elusive. “I’ll be lunching
with Lord Spurling at Hammershaw’s, then attending a meeting of the
Committee at Lloyd’s. Should last the afternoon.”

“Yessir.”

“See that the bailiff delivers the notice of
foreclosure to Treadmore. He’s had his last warning. I want him out
by morning. And . . .”he began, remembering the marriage contract
on his desk. He’d promised a copy for Miss Mayfield, but the
meaning of the five clauses was still too unsettling for others
eyes to see. Especially the hen-pecked young Tilson.

“Yessir?”

“Nothing more.” Hunter folded the contract
and locked it in the safe. “I take it that Miss Mayf . . . my . . .
wife is waiting for me?”

“As you required, sir.” Tilson lowered his
gaze for a moment, toeing his shoe along an arc of gold in the
carpet. “Though Mrs. Claybourne didn’t seem at all happy about it,
sir, if I may say so.”

“No, Tilson, you may not say so. Ever.”

“Yessir. Thank you, sir.” Tilson turned to
retreat, but stopped and brightened a degree. “Oh, and . . .
congratulations, sir, on your, uh . . . recent—”

“Good day, Tilson.” Hunter lifted his hat
from the coat tree, brushed past the man, and let himself into the
mezzanine.

The spectacle of marble and mahogany and
brilliant brass stirred joy and satisfaction in the center of him,
just as it always did—aromatic of beeswax polish and the fragrant
spices from the India traders, and ringing with the sounds of
pristine heels upon gleaming stone.

This was his kingdom, his impregnable
fortress. The Claybourne Exchange. The more conservative and
elegant rival to the almighty Royal Exchange in its influence on
the country’s wealth, but far more capable of overcoming the
vagaries of the world’s markets than that ponderous behemoth across
the street. Kings, counts, and foreign governments crossed Cornhill
Street to trade in the Claybourne Exchange. None could doubt his
supremacy and none dared challenge him.

Especially a chit like Miss Mayfield and her
felonious uncle. A year was a long time to wait for the
Drayhill-Starlington shares to finally become his, but he’d already
begun to redesign his plans to fit the new schedule. In time, he
would cause the delay to work to his advantage.

Turning flotsam into cold, countable cash:
that was his strength, his claim to power.

He greeted a knot of wealthy clients as he
passed them on his way down the stairs. He’d made a dozen fortunes
for these men; without his guidance they would lose them again, and
so they stayed on. Some even sought his friendship, which he always
declined. Friendship and business didn’t mix, so he avoided
friendships, relationships of any sort entirely. Uncomplicated
acquaintances provided him with the contacts he needed for success.
Beyond that, he needed no one.

Especially not a wife.

“A glorious day, Claybourne, wouldn’t you
say?”

Hunter turned on the stairs and stared up at
Lord Vincent, wondering for an awkward instant if the grinning
fellow had somehow heard of his recent marriage. Not that it
mattered. The marriage wasn’t to be a secret; he had just planned
to keep the fact of it private.

Hunter offered his most pleasant smile,
searching the man’s face for a trace of such news of his marriage.
“You gentlemen seem in grand spirits.”

“Why wouldn’t we be?” Vincent laughed and
bounced the two steps down the stairs to sling a hail-fellow’s arm
over Hunter’s shoulder. “Brakestowe Iron Works!”

The group rumbled “ayes” and “hurrahs” from
the landing.

“Ah, yes.” He’d forgotten. This exchange
wasn’t about his marriage. More evidence of Miss Mayfield’s
distractions from his day; he should have remembered that
Brakestowe’s quarterly profits were announced at nine, should have
been there to hear the good news himself. Instead, he’d spent his
morning marrying himself to a thief.

“The shares have sold out, as you probably
know, and are now worth half-again as much as we paid for them,
just as you said they would be, Claybourne. You’ve made us all very
happy.”

“And very rich,” added Lord Haverstone.

Hunter offered a benevolent smile and patted
Vincent on the arm. “Did you think I would misadvise you, my
lord?”

“Never!” the man bellowed, raising a fist in
salute. “Hurrah!”

The others followed suit, and Hunter
continued down the stairs to a satisfying round of cheers. He
counted bishops, peers, and members of the royal family among the
most prestigious of his clients. Yet he never revealed to anyone
the names or the substance of his dealings with them. Privacy and
security were the bywords of the Claybourne Exchange. His good name
was his fortune.

Branson, his footman greeted him at the curb,
glancing warily toward the fiercely frowning woman who glowered
from the window of the brougham. A wet cat locked in a wire
cage.

“Good luck, sir,” Branson said, stepping
away.

Hunter opened the door himself, expecting his
wife to spring on him. Instead, she continued her murderous glower
and leaned deeper against the seat, her arms folded across the ugly
portmanteau that dwarfed her lap. He wondered for an unsettling
moment if she might be armed with pistol or knife.

“Do you find great joy in imprisoning me, Mr.
Claybourne?” she asked, as he took the seat opposite her.

“We’re going to the Bank of England, Miss
Mayfield. Drive on!” he said with a rap to the roof. The carriage
entered the traffic.

“To the Bank? Why? I thought we were finished
with each other. I have work to do, Mr. Claybourne.” She lifted a
writing portfolio from her bag. “Do you see this? My travel
articles for the
Hearth and Heath.
I have deadlines to
meet—”

“One final detail, Miss Mayfield. A paper to
sign.”

She peered out the window and added another
fret to her brow. “Why travel in a carriage, Mr. Claybourne? Why
not walk? The Bank of England is right there, across Threadneedle
Street. Is your station so lofty you’d rather not brush shoulders
with the rabble, or dirty your boots on the street?”

To answer the woman was to give credit to her
comment, so he remained silent. The short ride was punctuated by a
grisly growling coming from somewhere in the vicinity of his wife’s
midriff. The Cobsons weren’t known for their generosity; she
probably hadn’t gotten a crumb from them this morning. He supposed
he ought to feed her. He didn’t want her fainting, or rumors to
spread that he’d let his own wife starve. That wouldn’t do at
all.

“Come, Miss Mayfield.” He stepped from the
carriage onto the crowded walk in front of the Bank.

Branson moved in to help her down the step,
but Hunter stuck his gloved hand out and she allowed him to help
her down. Her own gloves were worn and fawn colored, and looked
small inside the black leather prison he’d made of his own hand.
She lifted her green gaze to him for the briefest moment, and he
was transported suddenly to a misty meadow. He missed the pressure
of her touch when she yanked her hand away.

She stood on the curb and chewed on her lower
lip as she surveyed the block. She set her ever-present portmanteau
on the ground and adjusted her bonnet. “How long will this take,
Mr. Claybourne? I have business in Fleet Street.”

“Come,” he said, taking her elbow as she
stared up at the edifice.

He’d taken only a half-step when she gave a
shout, then bolted from him into the oncoming crowd. Her uncle had
escaped him, but he damn well wasn’t going to let her get away too.
He caught her before she’d passed another hitching post and held
fast to her waist, a tantalizing expanse made more so by her rapid
breathing.

“Let me go, Claybourne!” She squirmed and
tried to twist out of his hands.

“You can’t run from me, woman.”

“I’m not running, you blockhead! Someone just
stole my bag!”

He glanced up from her anger and saw the
thief shifting through the crowd, trying to look like a part of the
noontime foot traffic. Damned parasite.

Felicity watched in amazement as Claybourne
handed her his hat, then adroitly zigzagged through the oncoming
press of people. His progress was easy to follow; he was a full
head taller than anyone else, his raven hair darker than rail iron.
She wouldn’t have expected such agility from a man of his
temperament. But it was brawn, not neglected muscle, that flexed
beneath his coat. She wondered witlessly how that supple strength
would play against his linen shirt. A thoroughly indelicate thought
about a complete stranger, but he was her husband now. It was
probably quite all right for her to wonder what he looked like
without his shirt.

Even so, she felt that same flush creep out
of her neckline and quickly changed the direction of her thoughts
to the subject at hand. The two ragged boys, one nearly grown and
the other not more than ten or eleven years old. The larger had
elbowed her and the smaller had sped away with her bag. Her paltry
stash of ready money was still in the purse dangling at her waist,
but her portmanteau contained all of her clothes and all her
writing from the last month of travel. She hoped Claybourne would
catch at least one of the little thieves, hoped most of all that he
wouldn’t hurt them. He seemed capable of any kind of violence.

Claybourne came suddenly striding toward her,
wrestling with something, frowning ruthlessly and parting the sea
of people as easily as a steamship cuts through water.

“Is this the one?” he asked, shoving a ragged
boy to the ground at her feet, tearing the already tattered sleeve
with his carelessness. The boy cowered dramatically and a space
grew like a desert island around them as the crowd gathered quickly
for the spectacle.

“Well, is this the thief, madam?” Claybourne
repeated, his dark eyes glittering in misbegotten triumph, his
breathing steady but outraged.

“I don’t know. . .” she said, not at all
pleased with Claybourne’s rancor. She’d been the man’s victim for
the last twenty-four hours and knew exactly how the lad must feel.
“You needn’t frighten him, Mr. Claybourne. He’s just a boy.”

“Look up . . .
boy.”
Claybourne lifted
him by the upper arms to Felicity’s level.

“Mr. Claybourne, you’ve torn his shirt.”

“And he has stolen your portmanteau.”
Claybourne held him off the ground as if the boy weighed no more
than a scrap of yellowed newsprint that had blown past in the
wind.

The woeful lad’s eyes glistened gray as a
stormy sea; his blond hair bristled with caked mud. He smelled like
he hadn’t been near a hot bath in years, if ever. Belligerent pride
worked the guileless bow of his mouth, but stark terror seemed to
keep it shut.

She shifted her gaze to Claybourne’s face and
was disgusted by the open loathing she found there. He held the boy
as he would a bundle of stinking rubbish.

“Look closely, madam,” Claybourne barked,
giving the boy a teeth-rattling shake. “Yes or no, is this your
thief?”

It was, but she’d never confess it to
Claybourne. The lad probably hadn’t eaten in a week. Everything she
owned had been in her portmanteau, but she was a very wealthy and
lucky woman compared to the child dangling from Claybourne’s
malevolent hands.

“No, Mr. Claybourne, this is not the boy who
ran off with my bag.” It pleased her to see impotent anger blaze in
Claybourne’s eyes. “You’ve imprisoned the wrong person. Again. You
seem to be very good at that, sir.”

He set the boy hard on his feet, but held
fast to his shirt collar, his fist wound so tightly, she feared the
boy would be strangled.