Once an Heiress (30 page)

But then there was Lily in that same parlor, scrubbing walls in the wedding gown she valued no more than the dirty rag in her hands. And finally, there she was, barely glimpsed from inside the hackney that drew him away to gaol — at his bedroom window with her hand pressed to the glass and tears staining her cheeks, hurt beyond all recall by the penniless blighter she’d been forced to wed.

Prior to meeting Ethan, Lily had been
the
talk of London. For good or ill, everyone took note of her goings and comings. She commanded a legion of hopeful beaus and struck terror in the hearts of every matchmaking mama. Since their first twirl around the ballroom, he’d managed to topple her off that pedestal and drag her down to the barely respectable depths he inhabited.

Unexpectedly, Ethan thought of Ensign Handford, Lily’s deceased fiancé. He never knew the man — knew nothing of him, even, except for the little he’d gleaned from Quillan and Lily’s vague comments. But Ethan pictured him now, a brave, upright man sacrificing his life in defense of an occupied nation and his own country’s security.

“I wish you hadn’t died, sir,” he whispered. Charles Handford would have been a good husband to Lily. He never would have humiliated her as Ethan had done.

Further, had Handford survived and married Lily, Ethan wouldn’t be suffering this torment. He never would have known this despair, or the maddening need he had for her, the unrelenting desire to be in her company, in her good graces, in her bed. If she’d been Lily Handford, rather than Lily Helling, she never would have come to town seeking a husband. Her dowry would have passed to the eminently deserving Ensign Handford. That good man would have had her fortune, as well as her respect, companionship, and —

“Damnation, he would have had her in bed, too.” A frustrated, possessive growl ripped from his throat at the vision of his luscious Lily in the arms of the suddenly despicable Charles Handford. He sat upright, his chest heaving. No, she was his — Ethan’s. He had claimed her body with his own, as surely as she had claimed his. There was no other woman for him. They were bound together, and he had to get home to her. This separation was driving him mad. “Does it drive her mad?” he mused. “Or does she welcome the respite?”

This new volley of self-inflicted mental flagellation was interrupted by a sharp rap on the wooden door. “Thorburn,” called the guard in the hall, “visitor.” Ethan stood as the door opened. Mr. Wickenworth entered at a trot, as though to escape the cell-lined corridor with all haste. The solicitor removed his spectacles to mop his forehead and eyes with a large handkerchief, and startled when the door slammed home behind him.

Replacing his spectacles, the solicitor blinked once, twice. As Ethan watched, Wickenworth toured the confined space with a slow rolling of his eyes and head, even tilting his chin upward to observe the dank, dripping ceiling.

“Oughf.” The man’s appalled sound vibrated from the back of his throat, filling the air with his disgust.

Ethan smirked. “My sentiments exactly. Please,” he said, gesturing to the rough little chair beside the rickety table. “I take it you received my letter?”

Wickenworth set a leather binder on the table and gingerly lowered himself onto the chair. It groaned in complaint, but held firm as the man settled into it. “I did, my lord. It was printed last night.” He picked up his binder and unwrapped the thong holding it closed. Opening it, he removed a sheet of newspaper and handed it to Ethan. “Worded just as you instructed.” Ethan found the notice toward the bottom of the page:

OFFERED FOR SALE:

The sailing vessel
Star Rover
, 48 feet in length.

Mahogany decks with teak appointments.

Hull, masts, and rigging in excellent condition.

Ideal yacht for pleasure-cruising, river or coastal travel.

Asking £1000.

Please inquire to E. Wickenworth, Esq., No. 82, Cheapside

Ethan gave a sad half-smile when he read the advertisement. His grandfather’s sailboat was the last bit of valuable property he had to his name. It had been an instrument of solace and joy to him as a child and young man. The days he’d spent on the water in the care of his grandparent had been bright spots of happiness and reprieve from the darkness of his father’s house.

More than anything, though, Ethan needed to get home to Lily, which meant he had to raise money to satisfy his debt with the bank.
Money
, he thought with bleak exhaustion.
It always comes back to money.
He hated to part with the boat, but he couldn’t see any other way.

He must have voiced the thought aloud, for Wickenworth cleared his throat, intruding on Ethan’s thoughts. “I beg your pardon, my lord, but if you don’t mind a bit of advice, it might be a better idea to sell the Bird Street house. After all, a thousand pounds might not meet your obligation with the bank — ”

Ethan jabbed him with a piercing stare. “No. That’s Lady Thorburn’s home. I will sell the clothes off my back before I make a homeless woman of my wife.”

The solicitor’s fingertips rubbed together on his thigh as he gazed thoughtfully at Ethan. He bent his neck in an approving gesture. “Very well, my lord. You’ll be glad to know I received an offer for
Star Rover
this very morning.”

Ethan’s brows raised. “Already?”

Wickenworth opened the folio again. “A man came to my office at ten o’clock, bank draft in hand. Here it is.”

Scarcely able to believe the speed of his good fortune, Ethan took the bank draft and looked it over. The numbers had the painstaking appearance of someone recently introduced to their formation by a primer. The signature was likewise scrawled with deliberate accuracy, rendering it utterly, awfully legible. Ethan felt the blood drain from his face. “Oh, no.”

There, at the bottom of the cheque, was the name Edmund Ficken.

“No, no, no!” Ethan growled out a curse and spun, driving the side of his fist against the stone wall of his cage.

“My-my lord.” The chair scraped as Wickenworth clambered to his feet. “Are you displeased? Do you not wish to sell to Mr. Ficken? I brought a bill of sale for you to sign, but if you do not desire — ”

“Does he know?” Ethan interrupted.

The solicitor’s brows furrowed, burying themselves behind the rims of his spectacles. “I beg your pardon?”

“Does Ficken know it’s my boat?”

The solicitor’s mouth worked soundlessly for a moment, his jowls bouncing up and down. “We-e-ll,” he said at last, elongating the word and glancing nervously about the room, “he did say to me — and these were his exact words, ‘Ain’t that Thorburn’s boat?’ and I affirmed it was your lordship’s. He seemed pleased, and handed over the bank draft straightaway.”

Ethan scoffed. “I just bet he did.”

“My lord?” Wickenworth’s brows once again retreated to await enlightenment.

What to say? Should Ethan tell the man of law that he was offended by Ficken’s very existence? That the man’s social climbing exploits left a bad taste in Ethan’s mouth? That he hated the bloke for having the devil’s own luck, while Ethan had lost everything at the tables? When he thought of it that way, his distaste for Edmund Ficken was not worth speaking aloud. He shook his head. “Nothing. I’ll sell. Where’s the bill?”

Business concluded, Wickenworth replaced the signed document in his folio, along with the other papers. He glanced at Ethan, his countenance conveying that something else tickled his tongue.

“What is it?” Ethan asked.

“My lord, I took the liberty of looking into your mortgage obligation to Dunraven Bank.”

Ethan straightened, flabbergasted at the man’s audacity. “You did what? I requested your assistance in the sale of my boat — that was the extent of your involvement.”

“Forgive me, my lord, for prying into your personal affairs, but Lady Thorburn came to me, seeking advice in the matter.”

He flinched. If he could magic away Lily’s knowledge and recollection of this whole sorry affair, he’d do so. Was it possible to sink any lower in his wife’s estimation? Clearly, she did not believe him capable of ensuring his own release. Planting his feet in a wide stance, Ethan fixed Wickenworth in a dark glare. “When?”

The other man dabbed at his forehead with his much-abused handkerchief; the gold ring on his little finger winked at Ethan. “The very day of your departure from Bird Street, my lord.”

Ethan cringed. “I don’t want her involved in this,” he said, casting his eyes out at the fog-shrouded city.

“My lord,” Wickenworth ventured, “Dunraven Bank demands a security of five thousand pounds.” The man’s unease became palpable as he paused. Ethan’s stony gaze flicked to his face. The solicitor squirmed where he stood. “You do not have five thousand pounds, my lord.”

Sneering, Ethan turned on a heel and paced the confines of his little cell, his legs aching from lack of exercise. “And here I thought you were to tell me something I didn’t know. Go away, Wickenworth.”

“My lord,” pressed the solicitor, “even with the sale of
Star Rover
, you are a long way from release. Lady Thorburn is working to raise the funds. I believe you should allow — ”

“No!” Ethan roared. He rounded on Wickenworth; the rotund man stumbled back and fell into the chair. Ethan leaned forward, bracing one arm on the little table, boxing the solicitor in. “I — told — her,” he seethed, every word forcing its way past his clenched teeth, “not to go after her dowry.” He pounded his chest with his free hand. “I can do this!”

Wickenworth regarded the raging viscount with pity. “She did request the dowry from her father, my lord.”

Ethan’s eyes slid closed and he exhaled slowly, his sense of degradation mounting with every word from Wickenworth’s mouth.

“Hear me out, my lord! Mr. Bachman refused her request.”

His shoulders slumped with relief. “Well, that’s good news,” he said, turning away and pressing his hands to his eyes.

A pounding at the door announced the presence of the guard again. “Thorburn, guest!” barked the voice. Ethan frowned and for a split second wondered whether Lily had come. But he’d jotted her a note the day he arrived, telling her in no uncertain terms she was not to set foot in Fleet Prison. The thought of his lovely wife in such a hellhole made him sick to his stomach.

The visitor was, however, female, if not a lady. She stepped into the dank cage with the skirt of her turquoise blue pelisse sweeping behind like the plumage of a peacock. A frivolous matching hat, adorned with fluffy plumage, rested atop her golden hair. Her lovely lips curled and her doe eyes were wide and full of mirth.

Ghita’s unexpected presence put him on guard. They had last parted on less-than-friendly terms, which made her guileless smile all the more suspicious. Her motivations in coming were likely questionable, yet he couldn’t deny that seeing her was a welcome reprieve from the drab gray sameness of his prison existence. Her unrepentant superficiality reminded him that life outside these heavy walls went on as it always did.

“Ethan, the air of this place makes my body feel as though there were a hundred thousand creepy things all over — spiders and bugs and a snake going down my back.”

He gave her a tired smile. “The English expression is ‘it makes my skin crawl.’ But your turn of phrase is much more evocative.”

Ghita preened at his compliment, ducking her head and glancing up in a coquettish fashion. The chair creaked as Wickenworth shifted in his seat. Ghita’s eyes narrowed upon him, as though just noticing his presence, despite the fact that he took up a third of the available space. “What is this person?”

“Forgive me.” Ethan turned to include Wickenworth, who rose for the introduction. “Ghita, this is Mr. Wickenworth, my wife’s family’s solicitor. Mr. Wickenworth, Signora Bellisario.”

Wickenworth’s eyes lit up. “Not Ghita Bellisario!” he gasped rapturously. He grasped her hand and pumped it up and down. Ghita’s startled face turned to an amused Ethan. “Madam,” Wickenworth continued, “I saw you last year in
Figaro —
three times, in fact. You were divine,
signora
, just divine.”

Ghita’s head fell back and a musical laugh escaped her creamy throat. “Thank you, sir, you are too kind.” For an instant, her face was free of guile, and her teasing smile reminded Ethan why he had once been so ensnared by her charms. “I did not think to find a patron of the arts here.”

“But tell me,” Wickenworth continued, “why have you not performed this year? I am disappointed with every production that does not feature your talents.”

A brow arched over Ghita’s eye, and she flicked a sidelong glance at Ethan. He wondered what answer she’d concoct, for surely she’d not give the man the truth — that she’d grown too comfortable in her position as Quillan’s mistress to continue with the stage.

“A singer,” Ghita started, laying a delicate hand upon Wickenworth’s arm, “such as myself must sometimes give the voice — ” here she touched her throat, drawing the poor, defenseless Wickenworth’s eyes there “ — an extended holiday, to rest and stay strong.”

Ethan turned and covered the snort he couldn’t contain. When he looked back, Ghita was throwing daggers at him with her eyes, while her ardent admirer stared, slack-jawed, at the graceful lines of her neck, reverent in the presence of the soprano’s instrument.

Like a hypnotized bumpkin at a country fair, Wickenworth nodded and mumbled his assent. “Yes, that makes perfect sense. Well,” he said more loudly, “take care of yourself,
signora
, and I hope to see you perform again.”

“Be assured of my coming forth triumphant return to the stage.”

“Oh, good, good.” Wickenworth vigorously nodded his head, setting his jowls to bouncing again.

The conversation having wound down, Wickenworth looked from Ethan to Ghita and back again, as though waiting for someone to initiate the next round of discourse. Ethan looked at Ghita, who cleared her throat and cast a meaningful glance at the solicitor.

Taking her meaning, Ethan extended his hand to the other man. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Wickenworth. Your assistance is appreciated.”

The solicitor’s mouth tightened as he looked disapprovingly between the two other parties.
He wonders why I wish to be alone with her,
Ethan realized. At length, Wickenworth took Ethan’s hand. “My lord,” he said curtly. “
Signora
.”