Priceless (18 page)

“No, damn it.” Sawbridge mopped his brow. “Wouldn’t take anything from you. God knows how you got it.”

Dizzy with the malice that filled the air, Bronwyn asked, “Why wouldn’t you take anything from Lord Rawson?”

“Like father, like son,” Sawbridge quoted. “As the sapling is bent, so grows the tree. The sins of the father and all that.”

“Polonius indeed,” Bronwyn observed. “Pray continue.”

Lord Sawbridge smirked in self-righteous indignation. “If you wished to take a lover, m’dear, you should have taken me.”

Cold as the north wind, Bronwyn retorted, “I didn’t want you.”

“Your mistake. Your mistake.” His pudgy fingers pinched at her side before she could step away. “I’m as rich as Rawson, and my father never taught me the trade his father did.”

Blank as a schoolboy’s slate, Bronwyn stammered, “Taught a trade? What do you mean? Lord Rawson was never taught a trade by his father.”

“He can tell you, m’dear.” Lord Sawbridge rubbed his belly in solemn emphasis. “He can tell you.”

Bronwyn looked to Adam.

A bored smile stretched Adam’s lips. “He means I am a counterfeiter.”

“A counterfeiter?” Bronwyn suspected she’d stumbled into a nest of Bedlamites. “Of what?”

Daphne clarified it for her. “Your lover has been counterfeiting South Sea stock.”

The two bearers of bad tidings, Lord Sawbridge and Daphne, awaited Bronwyn’s reaction. She stared at them, noting their pleasure. She wondered what they expected from her—another explosion of wrath? A scene of denunciation?

She stared at Adam, noting his studied indifference. She thought she knew what he expected of her. A modicum of dignity, a dismissal of few words. “What rot,” she said crisply.

Lord Sawbridge and Daphne still waited with avid anticipation. Adam still smiled his chilly smile. Pinching the skin between her eyes, Bronwyn pronounced, “This is a most unusual evening.”

“Is that all you have to say?” Lord Sawbridge asked.

She took her hand away. “What do you want me to say?”

Swelling with triumph, Daphne suggested, “Perhaps her callous attitude betrays her knowledge of the crime.”

“Madness.” Bronwyn turned away from all of them. She wanted to be with someone sane, someone who understood the people and events surrounding them. She started across the room, no longer caring if she brought attention to Rachelle. At Madame’s side, she repeated, “Pure madness.”

“You’re in the midst of a whirlwind, aren’t you?” Rachelle took Bronwyn’s hand.

“I’m in the midst of a whirlwind?” Bronwyn gave a half-hysterical laugh. “You heard what Judson said about you?”

“How could I fail to hear?”

“Now Daphne and ol’ Sawbones are accusing Adam of counterfeiting.”

“I know.” Leading her past the new footman, Rachelle asked, “Do you believe it?”

Rolling her eyes, Bronwyn protested, “No one who is acquainted with Adam would believe it. Only a fool would fail to see his integrity. But why are they saying such a thing? Don’t they understand how he can hurt them?”

Rachelle stopped on the sill of her study. “Hurt them?”

“A rich man has his ways,” Bronwyn said sagely, “and Adam is a very rich man.”

Rachelle suggested, “Perhaps they believe they can hurt him more.”

“How?” Bronwyn demanded.

“By striking at his reputation and his family honor.” Rachelle put her cool hand to Bronwyn’s cheek, as if she wanted to emphasize her words with her touch. “It is well known Lord Rawson is tender about his honor.”

Repulsed, Bronwyn pushed her way into the study. “I wish to scream at them.”

Shutting the door behind her, Rachelle followed in a graceful glide. “Why didn’t you?”

Flopping back in a delicate chair, Bronwyn grimaced. “A childish tantrum will impress those idiots in quite the wrong manner. I apologize for my earlier outburst.”

Rachelle hesitated as if torn. Bronwyn lifted her brows in inquiry, but Rachelle shook her head in some inner denial and said only, “I think you for your spirited defense.”

“If I had been free to speak, I would have told them how Henriette died. How did such an ugly rumor get started?”

“Once someone discovered the old tale of why I left France, I suppose it was inevitable they would accuse me of Henriette’s death.”

“It’s an indication of the small minds that litter our society….” Bronwyn tilted her head. “What old tale?”

Moving cautiously, as if she didn’t want to alarm Bronwyn, Rachelle perched atop the desk. “They say I left France because I killed my husband.”

Her legs stretched out before her, Bronwyn wiggled her
feet and watched them with a detached fascination. “Outrageous.”

“Not at all. It’s the truth.”

All Bronwyn’s joints locked. All her mental functions ceased. She couldn’t speak.

“I did kill him. He was a nobleman, I was his wife, and I stabbed him to death.”

Forsaken in the salon, Adam ignored the whispers, the stares. Bronwyn had abandoned him. Abandoned him like a newly diagnosed leper. Sawbridge and Daphne had brought their accusations, Bronwyn had made a weak comment, and she’d left. Gone to Rachelle and left.

The blow staggered him. He’d expected, he’d hoped for, loyalty from Bronwyn, and she’d deserted him. Sickened, bumping into furniture and people, he walked out. He would go now. Go back to Boudasea Manor, go back and try to rescue his ailing business. He would just walk out—

But he found himself climbing the stairs to the room under the eaves, going like some wounded animal in need of succor to the den he shared with Bronwyn.

Maybe she’d made a mistake, he thought as he climbed. Maybe she’d been so stunned by the counterfeiting charge, she’d been unable to deal with it in public. Opening the door, he heard movement within, and his heart leaped when he saw Bronwyn’s beloved face, streaked with tears. He opened his arms, and she rushed to him. She crushed his waist with her hug, and he hugged her back. His jubilation couldn’t be contained.

Bronwyn supported him. She believed in him.

Without care for his still formal toilette, she clutched his waistcoat. “Do you know what Rachelle just told me?”

His leg collapsed under the impact of his surprise. “Rachelle?”

“Are you well?” She led him to the chair, settled him on
the cushion, perched on the arm, and wrapped her arm around his shoulders. “This night has been a shock, I know, but Rachelle gave me permission to confide her secret in you.” Anguished, she dug her face into his cravat. “Dear God, Adam, she killed her husband.” He stiffened, and she hastened to add, “For good reason.”

“I see.” He didn’t see. He didn’t see anything. Why was she talking about Rachelle?

“He beat her. He beat her so badly she still bears the scars. She showed me….” She shuddered.

Unable to help himself, he offered comfort in the squeeze of his hand.

“Her family wouldn’t help her. They blamed her. No one would help her, although everyone at Versailles knew what he was. She could do nothing, nothing.” Her voice broke, and his other arm hugged her waist. “Then she became pregnant.”

“Was it his child?”

She glared through threatening tears. “Of course it was his.”

“It’s a reasonable question,” he pointed out. “If he beat her so unmercifully, perhaps she found solace elsewhere.”

“It’s a stupid question!” she ripped at him. “Why would a woman who’d been raped in every way by her husband, who’d had bones broken by her husband—why would she ever want another man? She has no use for men.”

He paid her vehemence the compliment of gravity. “Why did she kill him?”

“Because he beat the baby! Henriette was a child of five, and he broke her ribs.” Tears trickled down her face, but she seemed unaware.

Without hesitation he declared, “He deserved killing.”

“God, yes. Her family was too powerful for her to be tried. His family didn’t want a scandal attached to his name, so they gave her money enough to live the rest of
her life. Old King Louis ordered her into exile, and she came here to raise her daughter in safety.”

Her nose was rosy, her eyes were puffy, and yet the sight of her tugged at him. Perhaps her compassion to Rachelle had blinded her to his plight. He pushed his handkerchief into her hand. “Wipe your face,” he commanded.

A spot spread on the embroidered silk of his waistcoat, and she dabbed at the damage.

“Never mind that. Blow.” He directed the handkerchief to her nose and she blew.

Twisting the handkerchief, she said, “Her daughter died of the very fate Rachelle sought to avoid, and the rumors accuse Rachelle of the crime which most fills her with dread.”

“Most unfair, but I have reason to know how unfair rumors can be.” He was testing her, he knew, and he rejoiced when her hand pressed the place over his heart. Now she would be indignant on his behalf. Now she would be compassionate. Now his faith in her would be rewarded.

Solemn and sweet, she replied, “And I, but I don’t believe our troubles are as weighty as Rachelle’s.”

Incredulous, he searched her every feature. Her tender mouth trembled, her sherry-colored eyes clung to his. The blotchiness of weeping was already passing.

Where was her righteous indignation for
him
?

Her calm passed, changed to bewilderment. “Adam? Why do you look at me like that?”

“Is this all you have to say to me?” he demanded.

“Well, I—no.” She fumbled for words, her face suffused with guilt. “I suppose you’re talking about Henriette.”

His calm exploded. “Henriette?” he shouted.

She flinched. “I know I should have told you before, but Olivia and I rescued Henriette before she died.”

Her audacity confounded him. How dare she discuss a dead woman whom he’d never met, when he’d been stripped of trustworthiness? “You’re talking to me about Rachelle’s daughter
now
?”

“I should have trusted you, but I was afraid you’d be angry.” She took a breath. “As you are. I didn’t even tell my father, but she said something I think you’ll understand.”

“Henriette said something you think I’ll understand?”

“And if you’ll stop yelling at me, I’ll tell you what it is.”

Rage, thick and blinding as a sea fog, overwhelmed him.

“She said that the bastard who abducted her had threatened to kill a man by dropping a stock on him. Now I have deduced—”

He didn’t shout this time. He whispered, “Don’t say another word.”

She opened her mouth.

“Nothing.” The ice of his soul chilled each word, and her eyes widened as the cold struck her. “I don’t want to talk to you, and I don’t want to hear you.”

Her mouth worked, tears welled up once more, and she asked, “Are you going to leave me?”

Bitter laughter rocked him. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? It would make it so easy for you.” Some monster reached up from inside him and made him say the one thing he shouldn’t. “No, I won’t leave you. I’m going to stay here and make your life hell, my dear. Living hell.” His walking stick in hand, he opened the door, then turned back. “Be here when I get back.”

Her cry didn’t bring him back, but he was tempted. Damn her, he was tempted. That made him angrier than ever, for he knew his father had destroyed him once more, but this time he had an ally. Bronwyn, his beautiful Bronwyn, had stabbed him through the heart.

Change Alley had a frantic look about it. Noblemen
and chimney sweeps scurried like ants, as if by their activity they could create prosperity where there was none. A September heat wave never checked their enterprise, for ruin stalked them. Adam sat at his table in Garraway’s watched with grim amusement, and wondered how he would ever find a conspiracy in a place where no one would speak to him.

Whoever had created the rumor of counterfeiting had chosen his target well. Adam had never been popular in himself. As Walpole told him, he was too serious, too menacing. But people used to deal with him because he was a respected, licensed broker.

Now he was only licensed.

All believed he’d cheated them. They wanted to believe it—they liked to believe it. Why not? It provided them with a focus, a person on whom to blame their troubles.

He lifted his finger for a refill of coffee. Garraway glanced his way and sent the barmaid.

He wouldn’t have minded the snubs, the jeers, the overloud comments, but did Bronwyn have to pretend she thought nothing of his disgrace? She never questioned him about his father, so he knew she’d been gossiping behind
his back. It grated at him when he thought of how she’d shrugged or, worse, laughed. Like a fool, he stayed at Madame Rachelle’s, waiting for the moment Bronwyn would declare her faith in him. The moment never came, and the tension between them mounted.

Oh, she felt it. But she considered any agony of his to be unimportant. Why? Too easily he knew the answer. She only toyed with him. His grand design to seduce her, trap her by affection, and then marry her had fallen to dust. Seduced, trapped, he cared for a woman who believed every lie spread about him. Believed them and didn’t care enough about him to clear his honor.

He wouldn’t even make love to her, although she pleaded for reasons. He slept on a chair, ignoring her temptations. Something in him rebelled at being used like a fancy man, to assuage the desire he’d taught her. But he wanted to. Oh, God, he wanted to. Misery moved through him slowly, like the darkest sludge of the river Thames.

A harsh, feminine voice interrupted his melancholy. “Ye Lord Rawson?”

The woman, painted, thin, obviously a prostitute, stood with one hip thrust to the side, her arms crossed over her chest. The odor of the docks clung to her. Warily Adam answered, “I am Lord Rawson.”

She threw a clump of paper on the table before him. “’Ere’s some of yer stock.”

After picking one certificate loose from the damp wad, Adam held it up. Ink ran from it, blurring the picture on the stock certificate. “If I had printed this, I would have done a better job.”

“They tell me this ain’t South Sea stocks. They tell me t’ find ye an’ get me money.”

“Who told you?” Adam asked.

“That snip o’ a clerk at th’ South Sea Company.” Hands on hips, the woman sneered, “Ye’re a fine gennaman, ain’t ye? Got so much money, ye got t’ rob us that ain’t got so
much. I know men like ye. I’ve ’ad customers like ye. Cheat an ’onest woman out o’ an ’onest wage.”

Adam held up his hand. “Madam, cease your harangue.”

“Who’s goina make me?”

Although her tone was belligerent, her expression belied her resentment. Tears hovered in her eyes. She wiped her nose on the fringe of her shawl. With a calm born of seaboard command, Adam ordered, “Straighten that back! Pull back those shoulders!”

Instinctively she did.

“First of all, I would know who sold you those stocks.”

She slumped again. “Some flunky o’ yers, no doubt.”

“Describe him, please,” Adam said crisply. “If you can describe him so I can discover his identity, I’ll pay your debt.”

“M’Gawd!” The woman sprang erect. As respectfully as any of his seamen, she asked, “Are ye ajokin’ me, m’lord?”

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a handful of gold coins, and tossed them on the table. She edged closer, gaze bound to the money. “Go on, take it,” he invited. In the blink of an eye, she snatched at it. He caught her wrist before she could bury the money in her pocket. “Tell me.”

“’Twas another ’ore, just like me.” She glanced around. “I know ’er. I’ll ast ’er who sold t’ ’er.”

“You know where to find me.” He released her and sat back.

She bounded away as if she expected him to change his mind, but when he didn’t move she whispered, “Ain’t ye th’ one?”

“No.” His lips formed the word, and he burned with renewed fury.

“Then I’ll find th’ bumhole bastard.” She grinned a gap-toothed smile. “Me loyalty can be bought, an’ ye jus’ found th’ way t’ do it.” Her hips rotated in wide circles as she left.

“At least the whores will talk to me,” he remarked to no one in particular.

“I’ll talk to you, too.”

Adam looked up at the young man who hovered before him. “Northrup. Good to see you. If you have information to impart, you’ll stay close enough for me to hear, yet far enough to avoid any watching eyes. Sit down”—he pointed toward a table nearby—“over there.”

Northrup wavered, stricken with the conscience of the young. Obviously he wanted to thumb his nose at public opinion, yet at the same time dreaded the treatment meted out to Adam.

Adam insisted, “I will not sit at the same table with you.”

Relieved of the choice, Northrup stumbled in his haste to sink out of sight on a chair against the wall.

“Have a drink,” Adam instructed. “Say what you wish, but don’t look at me.”

“This is wretched,” Northrup said.

“I’ll not argue with you.” Adam risked a glance at Northrup. The young man’s new boots were scuffed, his new clothes were wrinkled. The powder clung in patches to his wig, and he sat in round-shouldered misery. Adam inquired, “About what do you speak?”

“Everything. Everyone sneers about you, the directors of the South Sea Company are promising a dividend they can’t pay, the stock is plunging—”

“Didn’t you sell when I told you to?” Adam asked.

He received no answer.

The barmaid sauntered over to take Northrup’s order, saying, “Garraway tol’ me t’ tell ye I ’ave t’ see yer coin before I can serve ye.”

Adam’s lips tightened at this reply to his question, and he smacked the impudent girl with his walking stick. “I’ll stand the bill for Mr. Northrup. Bring him what he wants.”

She shrieked and swung on him, angry until she saw who had treated her so. Then she smiled in malicious amusement and assured him, “Garraway’s none too ’appy t’ ’ave th’ likes o’ ye clutterin’ up his coffeehouse, either.”

Poking at her with the tip of his stick, Adam said, “I’ll take no messages sent through his trollop. If Garraway wishes me to leave, let him come and tell me.”

Stomping her foot, she said, “I’m no trollop.”

Adam said nothing, only looked at her.

She bore it for a moment, then made a sign to ward off the devil and whispered, “I’ll do as ye say, only stop lookin’ at me wi’ those eyes.” She stepped back. “Stop it, do.”

Adam continued to stare until she broke and ran back to the bar. “Silly twat,” he commented. Northrup laughed weakly, wiping a trickle of sweat from his brow with a lacy handkerchief, and Adam returned to his attack. “You bought the third subscription released by the South Sea Company, did you not?”

“Yes.” Northrup raised his head. “And before you ask—yes, I bought it on credit. As did everyone.”

“Well, if everyone pledged to pay nine hundred pounds for a stock now worth four hundred pounds, you should rush to do so, too.” Adam couldn’t restrain his sarcasm, but he was sorry even as he spoke. Northrup leaped to his feet, and Adam ordered, “Sit down, boy.”

“I will not. I am not a boy,” Northrup said with a fierceness a that belied his calm.

“Please sit down, Northrup,” Adam amended. Northrup wavered visibly, and Adam said again, “Please.”

Northrup sat.

“You’ll have to pardon my lack of courtesy. No one has spoken to me for so long, I’ve lost the accomplishments required by polite society,” Adam said, half in jest.

“You never had them,” Northrup grumbled.

“Too true.” Adam plucked his handkerchief from his pocket and held it to his nose as a particularly malodorous member of the underworld passed. “Did you buy stock in the now outlawed companies?”

“Yes, I thought it wise to diversify. I thought it would protect me if the drop in the price of the South Sea stock
came rapidly.” Earnest as a minister on collection day, Northrup explained, “You see, I did believe you when you said it would drop.”

Adam rubbed the tightness in his temples. “Didn’t you realize that when the outlawed companies dropped, all the buyers, not just you, would have to sell South Sea stock to meet their obligations?”

“If that’s so obvious, why did Sir John Blunt have those companies outlawed?” Northrup demanded.

“He doesn’t understand how this credit works. Buying on margin is a new concept, one we must handle with caution. Damn, Northrup”—Adam rapped the table with his knuckles—“why didn’t you sell when I told you?”

Northrup’s resentment bubbled over. “Because you
told
me. You didn’t tell me
why
, and I thought I was smarter than you.”

Adam leaned back in his chair and thrust his feet out before him. “Well, we have both learned something, haven’t we? Northrup, if you’re going to stay in the money market, you have to remember a few truths. Hunger and greed are similar, but hunger can be satisfied. Be one of the hungry ones, not the greedy ones.”

From the room behind the bar, the sound of a scuffle ensued. A few sharp slaps, the barmaid squalled loudly, and Garraway came puffing out, marching up to Adam’s table. Drawing himself up, he announced, “I never tol’ that idiot what used t’ work fer me t’ say any o’ that, m’lord.”

Adam lifted a brow. “No?”

“No, an’ ye might as well get that lofty look off yer face. I ain’t denyin’ sayin’ it, I’m just denyin’ tellin’ her t’ tell ye.” Using a grubby handkerchief pulled from his apron, Garraway wiped his face. “Ye’re bad fer business right now. But Garraway’s ’as been ’ere seventy years an’ it’ll be ’ere another ’undred, so I guess I can lose a few customers because o’ ye. Weren’t any too good o’ customers, anyway.”

For the first time in days, Adam smiled. “Thank you, Garraway. You’re a gentleman unlike any other.”

One pair of feet tramped up the stairs with an exultant beat; one pair of hands shoved open the door at the top of the stairs. In a blaze of victory, Daphne called, “Your parents are below.”

Bronwyn lifted her head from contemplation of the Gaelic manuscript that had once meant so much and now merited only a dull inspection. Her bright new world was disintegrating, and she didn’t understand why.

“Listen to me,” Daphne insisted. “Your parents are here.”

“My parents?” Daphne’s satisfaction caught Bronwyn’s attention, and she focused. “
My
parents?” Her breath gripped her throat, her hand clenched over her stomach. They didn’t know where she was. They couldn’t know where she was. Cautiously she asked, “What parents?”

“Rafferty Edana, earl of Gaynor, and his wife, Lady Nora.” Daphne smirked. “Sulking up here will not make them disappear, I tell you. Your father is threatening to take you away and beat you.”

“Is he? Da always blusters and roars. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but his threats will come to nothing.” Bronwyn rose and with desperate calm stacked together her sheets of translation. “Is Rachelle with them?” She worried about Rachelle. The Frenchwoman had grown distant, thoughtful. The crowd at the salon had thinned.

Daphne’s voice rose a notch at the mention of Rachelle. “Yes, she is with them, listening as your mother laments the loss of your reputation.”

“That sounds like Maman.”

“You are not the only one who is worried about Rachelle, you know,” Daphne burst out defiantly.

Not understanding, not really hearing, Bronwyn murmured, “Of course not.” She straightened the striped silk blouse, then tucked her scarf into her bosom. As Adam
preferred, she used it to shield herself from masculine eyes.

Adam. God, Adam was worst of all. That one dreadful night, the mere mention of Henriette had driven him into a frenzy. She’d told him about the dying girl’s words, and he’d shouted at her. Since then, he listened and never heard her. He looked and never saw her. He slept in her room and never touched her.

At the mirror, she dabbed perspiration from her upper lip and her forehead. She picked up the pot of color to apply it to her face. Before she touched her skin, she paused. Putting down the carmine, she nodded at her reflection with determination. “They’ll take me as I am.”

“They will lock you in your room with bread and water,” Daphne taunted, gathering fury as her gibes failed to prick Bronwyn’s composure.

“You’re such a spiteful little thing, Daphne.” Bronwyn smoothed the light, plain skirt. “Someday you’ll do someone real harm with your nosiness.”

Daphne paled, too young to disguise her dismay, and Bronwyn pounced. “Are you the one who informed my parents of my whereabouts?”

Hands clenched, elbows straight, Daphne answered, “Not I.”

“Oh, come now. You look so guilty.”

“I am sorry I did not think of it, but no.” Daphne smiled tightly. “I did not.”

Bronwyn didn’t know whether to believe the girl or not. Most likely she would have admitted it gladly had she done it, and what did it matter? The damage was done. After gathering her ivory fan, her patch box, and her purse, she walked to the door. Daphne began to descend, and Bronwyn snapped her fingers. “Go on down. I forgot my handkerchief.” She smiled pleasantly at Daphne’s impatience. “So I can cry my tears of repentance.” She waited as Daphne proceeded down a safe length of steps, then
dashed back into her room. Leaning close to the mirror, she pinched her cheeks until they glowed.

Running down the stairs would improve her color, too, but she refused to exhibit such anxiety. Instead she walked, sedate and serene, remembering all the time that she was the flawless Cherie and not the plain Bronwyn. At the door of the salon she paused, as she had seen her mother do countless times. Her mother did it because it allowed the room to savor her beauty. Bronwyn did it because she needed the moment to gather her courage—but no one would ever know that, she vowed.