Книга - To Wed A Rebel

To Wed A Rebel
Sophie Dash


’Really unputdownable! I adored it.’  - lu dex (NetGalley)“It was done, they were bound, all was finished…”A fighter, a drinker and a notorious seducer, Isaac Roscoe was the last man that innocent Ruth Osbourne would ever consider as a husband – but that was before Roscoe ruined her prospects and reputation!Now destitute and disinherited Ruth is faced with an impossible choice, a life on the streets or exchanging vows with the man who put her there. Yet, knowing that marriage was Roscoe’s last wish, Ruth knew her revenge would be best served by saddling him with a reluctant wife.Determined to punish Isaac for his actions Ruth will stop at nothing to destroy him, body and spirit. Until it becomes clear that nothing she can do will hurt her disloyal husband more than he can hurt himself…Don’t miss the brilliant new historical romance from Sophie Dash, author of Unmasking a Lady







It was done, they were bound, all was finished…

A fighter, a drinker and a notorious seducer, Isaac Roscoe was the last man that innocent Ruth Osbourne would ever consider as a husband – but that was before Roscoe ruined her prospects and reputation!

Now destitute and disinherited Ruth is faced with an impossible choice: a life on the streets or exchanging vows with the man who put her there. Yet, knowing that marriage was Roscoe’s last wish, Ruth knew her revenge would be best served by saddling him with a reluctant wife.

Determined to punish Isaac for his actions Ruth will stop at nothing to destroy him, body and spirit. Until it becomes clear that nothing she can do will hurt her disloyal husband more than he can hurt himself…


To Wed a Rebel

Sophie Dash







Copyright (#ulink_cc05931a-7e86-543f-b171-253491235cd8)

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2016

Copyright © Sophie Dash 2016

Sophie Dash asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2016 ISBN: 9781474050012

Version date: 2018-06-08


SOPHIE DASH is usually found chained to a laptop in her David Bowie pyjamas, with a spaniel dribbling on her feet, a pen in her hair and biscuit crumbs across her keyboard. She has a cardboard cut-out of Spock in her basement, knows all the words to Disney’s The Little Mermaid and has seen Pride and Prejudice more times than you. Follow her on Twitter @TheSophieDash (https://twitter.com/thesophiedash)


Contents

Cover (#u29274e0d-b3e0-5335-883f-b2912fe77eb8)

Blurb (#uaa0aacbd-4eb4-5e56-9290-5ce08984dc32)

Title Page (#u635233e8-b799-5223-9f1f-24c6a0014481)

Copyright (#u8d8e303b-4416-5f78-bba9-0a92dc8d934e)

Author Bio (#uc5f1f547-4619-5d84-9e5d-d293878a85a7)

Prologue

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Part Two

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Part Three

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Part Four

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)

Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)


Prologue (#u2298a1a0-39da-5566-b992-cc1155e9bc21)

Soup-thick smoke pressed against the tavern walls, beer-soaked straw lay matted upon the flagstones, and all the furniture was as chipped, stained and weathered as the drunks who nursed their tankards around it. The Navigation was packed with rowdy customers after the evening’s boxing match beside the docks: celebrations, commiserations and coins were exchanged in abundance. Amongst all the filth was one individual who did not belong. The merchant’s birdlike features were scrunched up in distaste and his fine coat was crumpled with travel, dotted with Bristol Harbour’s rain, and smudged with the coal-smoke scents that dirtied the night. A man in his middling years, he shuffled cautiously past unkind faces and vulgar scenes, with a handkerchief pressed against his mouth, as though it would protect him from catching the ill repute that hung about the place as stubbornly as its grime.

“Roscoe,” he muttered to a barkeep. “Where?”

A rag was waved towards a corner occupied by three shapes. False female laughter could be heard, accompanied by a lower, amused tone. Lounging in between two women was a bruised and bloodied man. There was a cut above his eye and marks along his knuckles. Dark hair flopped across his forehead, mussed and damp, while yesterday’s five o’clock shadow had stolen away any sign that he was ever once a gentleman.

“Ladies, I’ve already told you,” said Isaac Roscoe, with an easy manner and a cocky smile, “I cannot afford your company tonight.”

“Don’t be cruel,” replied one, stocky and comely, her skin goose-pimpled from the chill and how little she wore. “You threw that fight. Got paid well for it an’ all. That’s what they’re all saying at the docks.”

“Then you better tell me who’s spreading those little lies, Mags,” he said into her ear, a deep purr that had the desired effect: lust and not a little fear. “That’d be bad for my business and for yours as well…” Isaac trailed off, his brown eyes snapping up when he found his conversation was no longer private. The merchant was hovering awkwardly nearby and stole away his easy mood. “We’ll finish this later, loves.”

Mags pressed her mouth to the cut on his lip, pulling a wince from him. “Be sure you do.”

The women were dismissed with a lingering smile that faded the instant they had gone.

The two men were left alone.

Isaac leaned across the table. “Do you have the money, Griswell?”

“You shall get it when I have what I want,” said the merchant, unwilling to sit down, lean on or touch any surface. “I want the happy couple broken up. I want that Osbourne girl put in her place.”

“She will be,” promised Roscoe, with a flash of teeth. “You know my reputation; I’ve never failed before.”

Money will buy you anything: flesh, sin and ruin. Isaac Roscoe knew his talents and others knew them, bought them – to use against others. He’d seduced his victims across the British Isles. He’d made a name for himself, yet not enough to limit his activities. It had made him a pretty penny and it would make him even more in the coming months.

“I have expenses,” Isaac continued. “I can hardly tempt a respectable woman while looking like a vagabond, can I?”

The logic was begrudgingly sound and Griswell threw a few slips of paper towards the younger man. “You’ll get the rest when my daughter is wed to that rich fool and not before.”

Isaac held a feral grin that bordered on dangerous. “That’s not what we agreed.”

“It isn’t, and yet you’ll still do as I command because you’re desperate,” sniffed the merchant. “If you won’t do it, Roscoe, I’ll find another who will.”

Pride almost won out. It compelled Isaac to refuse, to use his practised fists, to beat down the upper-class crow who gave him orders as though he were little better than the women whose warmth still remained in the cushions beside him.

“I want the girl ruined, I want the engagement called off, and I want my family tied with the Pembrokes. Those damn Osbournes don’t deserve to be connected to a family like the Pembrokes.” A hand was thrust towards Isaac, speckled and veined. “Do you understand me?”

Reluctantly, Isaac nodded, feeling Griswell’s cold rings bite into his palm. “Consider it done.”

The deal was made, a small sum was exchanged, and a woman was doomed to fall.


Part One (#u2298a1a0-39da-5566-b992-cc1155e9bc21)

Chapter One (#u2298a1a0-39da-5566-b992-cc1155e9bc21)

Ruth

Dresses made from Indian shawls, bright textiles, exotic dishes and flickering torches had turned Vauxhall Gardens into a far-off paradise. Summer had arrived and the evening was blissfully mild as it drew its night-time veil across London. The social season was coming to a close, with the wealthier classes hosting a few final balls and bashes, before vanishing to their country manors for cleaner air and better sport.

Against the vibrant backdrop, Ruth Osbourne was ill-placed. She was fresh from Miss Lamont’s Academy for Young Ladies and looked it: overwhelmed, unworldly and wide-eyed against the perfect, practised flirtations that the other women around her were well-versed in. Even Lottie, her dearest friend and fellow former pupil, managed to acclimatise herself far better at the grand party, which had been thrown by a rich earl with too much money, too little sense, and a thirst for fame.

“You miss the little ones, don’t you?” It was more an accusation than a question from Lottie. Ever since they’d gained their freedom, the bolder woman had been all too keen to forget she’d ever been sheltered from such an exciting social life. Ruth, on the other hand, kept looking back.

“There will be no one to look after them,” said Ruth quietly. “Miss Lamont isn’t kind.”

“That is an understatement.” Lottie snorted, quickly covering her mouth with her fingers. Well-bred ladies did not snort and she was determined that people would view her as one, even if her father had earned his money through trade. “They will have to look after themselves from now on.”

“Like you did?”

Lottie quietened then, expression softening. Back when they were younger, in the first days in the academy’s halls, Ruth had found Lottie hiding in a wardrobe, in pieces after a stern lecture from Miss Lamont. They were familiar to one another through their family acquaintances, but were far too different in temperament to strike up a natural friendship. At the academy, that had changed, for there was no one else. Lottie’s hands had held red, angry lines from the wooden rod their captor and instructor always carried with her. Young Ruth had not spoken and had simply scrunched herself up, in the empty corner opposite Lottie, their knees touching under their plain dresses, because she believed no one should be sad alone. They had been friends ever since.

“I never imagined it would be so wild,” said Lottie, as odd, trilling music met their ears.

It was like drowning. Ruth missed the academy’s halls, the little girls, the structure and routine. She missed knowing everything, being the one others turned to, an authority figure. Here, in London, she was a nobody and she knew nothing. The book smarts and collected air she held were no longer assets. Cleverness, she had been repeatedly told, was wasted in a woman. And worse still, she had never even spoken to a man – at least not one her age. Uncle Osbourne and their stuffy few friends and relatives did not count. But it was not as though any man would give her a second glance in her attire.

The cream summer dress Ruth wore was ill-fitting, layered with faded lace, and the gloves along her arms would not stay put. The lacklustre colour washed out her complexion and made her look like an old bag, not a young woman. Lottie had picked it out and it wasn’t ever worth the grief to argue, especially not when she relied on Lottie for so much. The dress would look stunning on the redhead, for she was taller, angular and sharper. On Ruth, her curves, attractive figure and her prettiness were concealed. Back at Miss Lamont’s, Lottie hadn’t given a fig what Ruth wore, though her expression had always darkened if Ruth was complimented for her attractive vulpine features and her long, chestnut hair.

“I feel ridiculous,” said Ruth quietly. “Everyone else is wearing all those bright clothes and I look like a ghoul in comparison. I thought you said they would all be dressed for a garden party, not a real ball.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that.” Lottie clung to her elbow, eyes dancing, red tresses piled high and coiled in a turquoise turban that matched her dress. She looked exceptional, more so because her companion did not. “In no time, you will be married and running your own house in Russell Square.”

“I can hardly believe it,” confessed Ruth, truthfully. “I haven’t seen Albert since we were children and now I am to spend the rest of my life with him.”

“Do not make me jealous.”

“What if we are not suited to one another?”

“It doesn’t matter – he’s rich.” And they both knew that Ruth was not. “He’s clearly besotted. He wrote to you, did he not?”

“Yes.” Ruth nodded. “Once.”

It had been a short, bashful note about their combined futures in a clumsy script. The other girls at the academy had squealed and clucked upon finding the letter and told Ruth how wonderful it would be, how lucky she was, and what a fine lady she would make.

I miss them, she thought. And, selfishly, she missed who she was to them: a leader, an anchor. She had always taken charge, always known what to do, always been the one to save the day.

But now I need saving…

Soon she’d have Albert – and soon, she reminded herself, life would be better. She’d find her feet again, she’d be happy again, she wouldn’t feel so lost, for he’d always find her. Isn’t that what love was about? And, more importantly, it was what Uncle Osbourne wanted.

“Father,” said Lottie, turning to the beady-eyed figure trailing behind them. “Can we go and see the animals? Gosh, can you hear them? How do the people in those far-off places tolerate them? Scales and claws – ghastly. I would have them all killed on sight. I bet they’re beastly to touch. Oh, and look! There are little canal boats. Now that is sweet. We must ride them, we must.”

“Not by yourselves,” replied Mr Griswell, bored and uninterested in all he surveyed. If he was not growing his finances and merchant business, he was not happy. The only time he ever seemed to show real emotion was when money was involved. At least Uncle Osbourne was not like that. Yes, he was reserved, strict and practical to a fault, but he was not as waspish or as spiteful as Lottie’s father seemed to be. Uncle Osbourne had reluctantly taken Ruth in, a skinny child, at five. He had never wanted children; he had never wanted a family. He only enjoyed his work. He thought people were too complicated and a child was an added difficulty he had never anticipated. But a poor relation – especially a young girl – in the workhouse would reflect poorly on his own status. Besides, he’d promised his brother to protect the child and it was, without a doubt, bad form to argue with a dying man. When Ruth arrived, her uncle put in place numerous rules about being quiet, about fitting in around his life, about being as unassuming as possible. Ruth was good at it, for she’d remembered all her mother had said to her in the last few days of her life: “Never be a burden, my darling.” And she never had.

What little money her father and mother had passed down to her went on her education, and it was a good education. She had made friends in the classroom and she had excelled. Beyond the academy, no one cared about how well she wrote in Latin or her knowledge about geography. No, to be a woman, one had to know the right way to wave a fan, to wear the latest dress, to flirt. Ruth’s face went red at the thought. Give her books, where other people did all the running around and courting: it was far easier to read about such matters than to experience them herself. Even if, at times, the prospect seemed…exciting.

She kept her gaze focused on the assembled guests, lest anyone approach her and expect her to be a real woman, to be like Lottie. “You should stop being so shy,” Lottie had always chided her, “You should be more like me.” But it wasn’t shyness, it was a constant fear, a knowledge that if she spoke up, if she tried, she’d do something wrong. And there was so, so much that could go wrong, especially at a large party such as this.

“I wish we were back at the academy,” she whispered to her friend.

Lottie only rolled her eyes. “You would.”

Mr Griswell ushered the two young women towards a small group who were stood a safe distance away from the performers. Flame conjurers gave the air a smoky smell, their bare feet skimming along the grass as they danced, shining with sweat, nerves like steel.

“There’s too many damned people here,” said the merchant, inclining his head towards Ruth’s uncle, Mr Osbourne, and a stout young man with them. The latter had lemon-coloured hair and an expression equally as sour.

“It isn’t decent. It’s no place for a woman, but I do not intend to stay long,” agreed Osbourne. “I have two gentlemen to pay respects to, then we go.” Business, as usual, was the order of the day.

“That’s him, that’s Albert Pembroke,” whispered Ruth, needlessly pointing to the younger man. “Do you think he will recognise me?”

Four steps away was her future husband. His belly pressed against his waistcoat and his blond whiskers stuck out from his round, ruddy cheeks. He wasn’t what one would call conventionally attractive – or attractive at all.

“He’s…he’s taller than when last I met him,” said Ruth tactfully.

“How old were you?”

“I was twelve; he was sixteen.”

Osbourne summoned his niece over with a wave as stiff as his appearance. “I had feared you would be late,” he said, guiding Ruth to stand before Albert, who gave a bashful bow. “It will not be long now, then we’ll be at the church, the deed done and everything as it should be.” The lines around Osbourne’s eyes grew deeper. “Ruth, is that a new gown?”

“It’s mine,” interrupted Lottie with a toothy smile. “Doesn’t it look lovely? I picked it out.”

Ruth’s uncle was a banker and firmly disapproved of lavish expenditure. His clients were fond of his frugal nature, as it made their own finances feel safe – as though someone who spent so wisely and dressed so poorly would never ill-treat their savings. Make do and mend was his work ethic and Ruth, as his ward, had adopted it too. Even at Miss Lamont’s Academy she had been the one to darn and mend garments for all the other girls – and allow herself to be taken advantage of.

Albert shuffled his feet and became exceedingly pink with Ruth’s approach. He went to speak, failed, and left Ruth to begin their stilted conversation. She didn’t, until Lottie nudged her sharply in the back, prompting her to gabble, “Are – are you well, sir?”

The young man puffed out his cheeks before nodding heavily, blowing air between thick lips. “I’d – yes – well, I am,” he stammered, before adding as an afterthought, “And you are well, I take it?”

“Yes.” Ruth nodded. “Quite.”

She rustled up a wan smile, as her uncle and Mr Griswell talked politics and Lottie was swept up by another high society friend to discuss an upcoming garden tour and ball the next day, leaving the couple to themselves.

“How are you enjoying the season, Mr Pembroke?”

“I could do without all this nonsense; makes me feel ill.” He flapped towards one tall figure who drew frightened gasps from the crowd as he cradled a large, hairy spider in his hands. “If I wanted to experience another country, I would go there.”

“I rather like it,” admitted Ruth. “It’s all so pretty, like a dream or something I have only ever read about.”

“I, well, I suppose it’s tolerable, though it doesn’t match your tolerableness.” Albert beamed, overly pleased at his clumsy compliment. “I never like these events; they’re always too loud and the music too modern. It’s all too heathen for my tastes and anyway…”

Once Albert began talking, finding Ruth to be a polite listener, he did not stop. Whenever she tried to interject, she was cut off and ushered back into silence. Torches were lit as the sun went down and while Lottie was free to skip off and mingle with other tittering women, Ruth was left to listen to her future husband’s complaints, gripes and moans. From gout to stomach upset, there was no ailment the man did not latch on to. The pair were to be husband and wife. They had a whole lifetime to get to know one another. And yet, as another hour slowly dribbled by, Ruth felt as though she knew everything the man would ever say, think, feel and do.

It was all arranged, the match agreed, and it would please her uncle. It was the right thing to do, wasn’t it? She couldn’t rely on her extended family any more. She must accept it. There was no other choice. Albert kept prattling on, and on, and on, while it felt as though a fault line was growing in Ruth’s chest, her ribs, her heart. The smoke was in her eyes; that was all. She didn’t cry, not since she was little, but she was close now, stupidly close – when she’d prided herself on being stronger, better, more removed from her emotions than everyone else. It was all too much, too soon.

I do not want to be Mrs Pembroke.

She couldn’t think like that.

She wasn’t allowed to think like that.

“Were it not for Godfrey’s Cordial,” continued Albert, “I doubt I’d get any sleep, what with my—”

“The boats,” interrupted Ruth, attempting a good-natured smile that fell flat. There was a catch in her voice. “Let’s find Lottie and go along the canal, shall we? She’d be terribly disappointed if we left without doing so.”

Albert pouted heavily, as though she had asked the world and, even if he had it, he would never give it to her. When they were married, it would be different, Ruth told herself. She’d run her own home, she’d have independence, she’d have children. Albert could provide all that. It was a practical, sensible choice…that stuck in her throat like a sharp slice of apple.

“Yes, a good idea, off with you,” said Osbourne, dismissing the youngest in their party.

A resigned huff left Albert, before he said, “If we must.”

In the dying light, the canal looked molten gold. Men and women in their finery rowed themselves along the water, laughing and drinking as they navigated the reeds and narrower stretches. One intoxicated group bumped and scraped the stonework beneath a low bridge as they bobbed by, calling and hooting. The three waited for them to pass – Lottie with amusement, Ruth with concern, and Albert with sheer disapproval – before climbing into their own craft. It dipped alarmingly at Albert’s end and only Ruth’s harsh looks kept Lottie from laughing.

“It’s not fair. I think the people in the other boat are having far more fun than the rest of us,” observed Lottie.

“Or they want us to think they are,” said Ruth.

Lottie was delighted at the opportunity to perch herself in a rowboat and spoke far too quickly for Albert to keep up, and with too much force for him to interrupt. She always chattered away when trying to impress someone and Ruth was grateful that, for once, her friend made an effort on her behalf. Albert nodded along and was already sweating from the small effort it took to wrestle with the oars. Ruth let Lottie’s words fade into background; she’d had years of practice, after all. She trailed her hand in the water, spied pale lilies with petals so thick they could have been made from marzipan, and watched dragonflies dart across the ripples that marked their progress.

“Did you hear about that awful Miss Ollis, the one who left the academy before us?” continued Lottie, though no one listened. “Ran off to France you know, to become an English tutor. There was a gentleman involved, and I use that term loosely, though heaven knows who’d want her…”

It won’t be so bad, Ruth reassured herself, as she let her gaze wonder over to Albert. When she’d imagined marriage, she’d hoped for love. Perhaps it had been childish. Her uncle would think so, and she desperately wanted to please him. After all he’d done, with how generous he’d been, she owed it to him to be grateful, to be obedient, to never be a burden…to marry Albert.

As they approached the bridge, claps and exclamations could be heard from an audience surrounding a performer. Another display, skit or creation. It was their shouts – along with a hard THUMP – that alerted Ruth to the fourth member in their little boat.

A snake, dropped by its keeper on the bridge, took its bearings. Thick and fat, it began to wind its way along the wood. Albert screamed. It was a high, quivering noise emitted as he bumbled back and – with a comical roll – fell into the canal. The motion jolted the boat dangerously. Ruth clung on, while Lottie scrabbled to climb behind her, sloshing water over their legs.

“Get it away, get it away,” hissed Lottie, her fan wielded like an offensive weapon. “Do something. Kill it, Ruth.”

“With what?” It was the harshest response she had ever given her friend and had they not been frightened for their lives, Ruth knew she’d have gotten an earful.

A pressure smoothed itself along Ruth’s ankle, over her skirts, winding upwards. Shock and fear kept her still as the scaled, dark green monster coiled its way towards her. She looked to Albert for help, only to find he had fled to the nearest bank, dripping profusely, not even casting a glance back. They had been abandoned. Left for dead. No one was coming. No one would help them; no one cared to.

“Albert,” she called, but he wouldn’t answer, pretended he couldn’t hear. His name felt clumsy on her tongue, as though it didn’t belong there and never would. “Albert, please!”

A heavy splash showered the two women. Strong, firm hands grabbed their craft and kept it steady.

“Hold still.” The stranger reached out and easily pulled the snake from Ruth’s gown. He draped it across his shoulders as one would a shawl. “Stay where you are. I will come back and get you.”

He moved so quickly that Ruth didn’t get a real look at him, only an impression. Tall, dark and controlled. She watched him go, unable to disobey his instructions even if she wanted to.

The man waded towards dry land and gave the creature back to its handler, who snatched it up and vanished into the mass of spectators, trailing foreign apologies behind him, before any repercussions could follow. True to his word, the stranger returned and eased the boat to a shallow stretch, bumping it into a grassy ledge. The assembled crowd cheered and Ruth felt her cheeks redden, suddenly aware that they were being watched. In fact, it seemed that many party guests assumed the entire scene had been a performance put on for their benefit. Her fear had been entertaining to that faceless, fickle lot.

God, she couldn’t do this, couldn’t be like this – like them – and they knew it.

Lottie was the first one to scramble back onto the grass in a sprawling unladylike manner. Her fingers were hard on their rescuer’s forearm and were hastily removed for appearance’s sake, while she muttered darkly about her ruined dress and sought to blame someone for it. Others came to help her, friends, ones Ruth did not share.

“Come on, love, let’s get you up,” said the man to the forgotten girl, slipping his warm hand into hers and pulling her to her feet. “Steady now, I’ve got you.”

And he did, for she could not have let go if she tried.

Speechless, Ruth allowed herself to be guided onto the bank, where Albert – sopping wet – was berating the nearest servant he could find for his “brush with death” and stealing away any attention or concern that might have been offered her way. And although Ruth was coasting away from the crowds, beyond sight and prying eyes, she wanted it. To escape Albert – her future – and Lottie and the awkward conversations with people who did not even care to remember her name.

A stone bench squatted nearby and Ruth was steered towards it. She groped for the cold surface. There was no one to stare here, no quips to reach her, a chance to gather herself. It was almost like solitude, were it not for the man who lingered beside her – an afterthought.

“I – I don’t understand these people,” she stuttered, after taking a deep breath, fighting to find her calm. “They all stood and watched. I heard them laughing.”

Mocking ghouls, monstrous smiles, masked intentions.

“No one even tried to help until you – you – I – I, you’re – forgive me, I haven’t even thanked you,” she forced out, dragging her eyes up to meet the stranger and losing any other words she might have offered.

This man was not like Albert. Where her future husband was circular, puffy and flappable, this man was the exact opposite: broad shoulders, hard features, dark eyes and tanned skin. There was nothing ridiculous or comical about him at all. No faults, no failings, no foppish tendencies.

She had not known men could look like that, like the ones from her books. The legends about knights and brave warriors had been fiction, a lie, non-existent, with crumbling illustrations in old yellow tomes. No one real, no one in existence had ever stirred the deeper, darker places in her core. Yet the figure who stood before her was very much flesh and blood.

A warmth curled in Ruth’s stomach. She felt a blush rise up her neck, and once she knew she was blushing, she blushed further.

“No thanks are necessary.” The way he stood, shadowed by the fading sun, made it hard for her to see his face. “You were far from danger; the creature was harmless.”

His clothes were dark and heavy with canal water. They clung to him and invited her gaze.

He spoke again, disrupting her thoughts – and she was glad for it – for that chance to find her composure. “You have the same expression you wore when confronted with the snake,” he said, his low laugh only adding to the warmth in her cheeks. “Surely I am not that frightening?”

Lips parted, she shook her head and averted her gaze. Frightening? No, yes, a little, but in all the right ways.

She needed to speak. It was her turn; it was only polite. Ruth was bad at this. She’d had no practice. She didn’t know what to say. “You have ruined your clothes,” she told him, hating how meek she sounded.

“I can get new ones.”

Another silence, further words needed, a space to fill. “We’ve rather ruined the party for you, haven’t we?”

“There’ll be others.”

“You shouldn’t have done it. We would have managed, and – and what if you catch a cold?”

“It will have been worth it,” he remarked, with a curve to his mouth that made her glad she was a small distance from him, for she wanted to lean into it. “Though I had thought you’d be more grateful.”

“Oh,” she grew pinker still. “Of course, I am entirely—”

“Forgive me, it was a poor attempt at humour and like I said, you were in no danger.”

“But you did keep Lottie from knocking the boat over and I cannot swim.”

“The canal isn’t deep.”

“Then you saved us from humiliation at least,” she told him, before clamming up entirely, realising she was almost bickering with him, when she had never argued with anyone in her life. And he was – this man, he was – well, quite unlike any other she had ever seen. He was not over fifty, he was not overweight, and he was no straggly youth trying to put worms down her dress. Not like…

“I need to find Albert,” she remembered, alert, alarmed.

The thought turned her stomach.

“Let me help you,” he said, extending a hand that she would not take. If she touched him again… God, she would never want to stop touching him. A mutinous thought crept into her skull: was this what it was meant to be like between a man and a woman?

“No, I can manage, I—”

“Ruthie!” On Lottie’s lips, her name sounded like an accusation. The young woman’s red hair was back to its casually coifed place, with her fan wafting feverishly as she breezed towards them. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to our dashing hero?” The question was asked without giving Ruth any time to reply, for Lottie instantly turned to the gentleman in question, her lips pressed together in a wide smile. “Sir, you saved our lives. We are quite in your debt.”

An odd feeling, akin to envy, lined Ruth’s stomach. It was unwelcome, unwanted and unfamiliar, as she listened in on the conversation she no longer felt a part of. And yet, the stranger met Ruth’s eyes and hers alone, mouth quirking up at the edge: their own secret communication. Though he was attentive enough as he considered Lottie’s words.

“The rumour is that you are a viscount, while others say you are the mysterious fellow who put this entire evening together. Which is it? You must tell me! Who are you?”

“Isaac Roscoe.” He inclined his head towards her. “And I am neither, more’s the pity.”

“Aren’t you going to introduce me, Ruth?” Though the long gown hid Lottie’s shoes, Ruth could have sworn she stamped her feet. “You cannot keep him all to yourself, especially not when you are already engaged.” She emphasized those last two words. The remark was made purely to shame her and she knew it. Mrs Pembroke. That was her future, her unhappiness.

“I – yes,” mumbled Ruth, almost tripping in her haste to stand up. “This – uh, is my friend Miss Charlotte Griswell.” Isaac’s eyes were a darker brown than Ruth’s own and once she caught them, she knew he’d guessed the paths her imagination had ventured down. A smirk found him, a mocking one that would have been cruel were it not for the mischief there, for the suggestion.

“What have you done to my dress, Ruthie?” Lottie came between the pair. “It’s beyond stained. It will have to be thrown out.” With a breathy sigh, the redhead angled herself towards the gentleman, conscious as to which position flattered her assets most. “You will have to forgive my friend, Mr Roscoe. This is her first big outing and she’s clearly overwhelmed.”

“I did not mean to…” interjected Ruth, before she was talked over once more.

“Unlike myself, she is not used to high society and now I fear we will have scared her off altogether, what with snakes falling from the sky,” continued Lottie, her fan fluttering faster, as though it could bat the other woman away. “We can only be thankful that such dashing individuals are always here to save the day.”

Isaac’s amusement was all too readable. “On the contrary, I think Miss Osbourne handled herself rather well. Better than others, in fact.”

Lottie’s smile grew more strained. “Well, we cannot all be so lifeless and stoic, can we? Now, where have I met you before, Mr Roscoe? The O’Neills’ ball? No, the Westcotts’ gathering last December? Wait, I am sure it will come to me…”

“I fear you are mistaken, madam,” he replied coolly. “Last December I was away on family business and before that I was serving as a lieutenant in His Majesty’s Royal Navy.”

Credit where it’s due, Lottie’s warm expression only wavered a fraction. “But I am sure you are coming to Lady Winston’s tomorrow night?”

“I did find my way to an invitation.”

“That’s splendid! I shall tell all my friends; they will be terribly excited to hear my rescuer will be in attendance.”

“Indeed.”

Lottie opened her eager mouth to speak once more and never got the chance.

“Do forgive me, but I should go in search of a change in clothes…” said Isaac, singling Ruth out, as though her friend did not exist all, as though a secret lay between them. “I shall look forward to tomorrow.”

Ruth shook her head, offering a garbled apology combined with another “thank you” that rolled into one word resembling nothing in the English language. Tomorrow. The man only smiled, bowed and took his leave, entirely aware of the pairs of eyes that followed him.

“I cannot believe it.”

“Yes, it is odd,” said Ruth quietly, her hands bunched together. “I am sure I never told him my surname and yet he already seemed to know it.”

“Never mind all that. It’s not fair,” huffed Lottie, snapping her fan closed with a slap against her palm. “You have already secured yourself a husband and now you are snatching up all the handsome men here too, even in that ugly gown?”

“You lent me this dress.”

“Did I? God, that snake was ghastly.” She flinched at the memory. “At least it proved that Albert is good at one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“He’s going to make sure someone gets punished for what happened, of course.”

“I am certain it was an accident—”

“Only the wealthy have accidents. In the lower classes it’s almost always carelessness. Now, come along, let’s eat.” Lottie hooked her arm around Ruth’s. “You will have to try the foreign dishes in case they’re spicy. I wouldn’t want to make a fool of myself.”

“And I do?”

“Don’t fuss so much, Ruthie.” Lottie patted her sharply, as one would a dog. “Tell me everything that Mr Roscoe said to you after you stole him away. He’s far too attractive and he clearly knows it. I am sure I’ve heard that name before. Someone here has to know him. I won’t rest until I’ve found out. I bet he’s rich – single too. The handsome ones always are. Can you imagine being engaged to him?”

“No,” said Ruth, too quickly. “I can’t.”

Though her mind had already spun a different tale. A wedding night, where it was not the sweaty, sallow Albert she lay with, but Isaac and his dark eyes and his strong hands and his warm mouth…

***

Lady Winston’s orangery was a much-admired structure in Richmond. It contained a whole variety of exotic plants and was only one small corner of the elderly woman’s newly renovated grounds. Londoners were keen to bask in anything that resembled rural life, especially if it was far easier to access than the actual countryside, contained no wild animals or commoners (“I don’t think there’s a difference,” Lottie had once commented), and still held all the delights of town. A late-afternoon garden tour had been arranged for a select few – an hour before a ball was due to begin – and Ruth found herself invited by chance due to her friendship with the Griswells. She had stayed with the family the night before and thankfully had her own room.

While at the academy, she and Lottie had shared everything and few nights went by without her room-mate keeping her up with incessant talk, snide gossip and belittling remarks. Theirs was a friendship borne of necessity, the pair being the two girls closest in age during their education and therefore thrust together. Despite their small clashes, Ruth had a fondness for Lottie. She admired her boldness and how quickly she brushed off minor mistakes, while Ruth, on the other hand, would dwell on them for days. Today they had even dressed alike, in pale pastels with straw bonnets, though Lottie’s garb was far flashier, with a red sash that matched her hair. Envy was not an emotion Ruth knew well, for she had always been grateful for what she possessed. But once – just once – she wanted something new. A dress that fit her shape, that flattered all she had, rather than burying it under drab colours and frumpy, outdated designs.

The air within the great glasshouse was sickly-sweet and humid. Servants flitted past them, making last-minute preparations before the dancing began. Albert was in attendance and Ruth was pushed towards him, forced to take his arm and contemplate her rapidly approaching future. He did not bring up the incident in the canal the night before, nor his embarrassing conduct, as though it had never happened. He chose instead to moan about the heat, the weather, and all the walking. When those subjects were exhausted, he complained that the birds were too loud, the ground too hard, and the sun too bright.

Ruth was lucky to be engaged. Everyone said so and took pains to remind her. Marrying a man like Albert Pembroke was more security than she could have ever dreamt of. He had a house in London, a country estate, and was incredibly wealthy. It was not like she would never have her own privacy, her space, her solace, a chance to escape the threat of his company. There would be a library, wouldn’t there? Books, a chair by a fire, peace and quiet?

There has to be. Or else I’ll go mad.

Ruth kept her head down, eyes on her skirts, for fear that he would somehow guess her mood. She was lucky, terribly lucky, terrible…

Ruth’s uncle, who had looked after the Pembrokes’ financial affairs loyally for years, had arranged the pairing. This was a smart match made by smart people who were smart with their money – and would continue to be so, with each other’s assistance.

“It’s all too green,” said Albert, nose running.

“You mean the grass?”

“I don’t see the appeal.”

“I suppose it is rather…green,” Ruth agreed, for the sake of regenerating their dwindling conversation. She did not want to disagree with him. She knew better than to do so – she remembered her instruction. It was never proper for a woman to speak her mind or – God forbid – give voice to her own opinions where they disagreed with a gentleman’s. “I did like the garden at the academy,” said Ruth as neutrally as she could manage. She sounded clumsy and mousey to her own ears. “Miss Lamont’s brother was a botanist, you see. He collected many plants and brought a few back.”

Albert did not reply, his expression sulky, and so Ruth kept speaking.

“Although I hardly have his flair for cultivation, I do like to hope the grounds looked far smarter when I left than before I arrived.”

Albert sniffed and eyed the fruit trees warily. “Didn’t they have gardeners for all that?”

Silence strung itself around them again and this time Ruth did not try to cast it away.

Sleepy sunlight gave the orangery a soft glow as the tour meandered back outside, led by Lady Winston, who firmly believed in the benefits of fresh air and would not let the gathering rest until a walk had been undertaken.

“It will aid digestion,” she had informed them all, marching off into the distance and compelling the small group to follow.

When at last all possible topics had been visited by Ruth and even Albert had run out of things to say, Lottie found them, excusing Albert with a curt smile and grabbing her friend’s arm.

“I spoke to Mrs Howe and she heard from Lady Frederickson that our snake charmer, Isaac Roscoe, had a minor disagreement with the Navy; a connection to a mutineer – it’s very scandalous,” said Lottie in hushed tones. “Now, I’ve the highest regard for those who’ve sailed, but you have to keep in mind Lord Nelson and his conduct. That being said, I’ve heard Mr Roscoe will be here tonight and I have to dance with him. You must make sure it happens. If you don’t, I will never forgive you.”

“I cannot make anyone dance with anyone,” replied Ruth. “Besides, you are the one who’s good at getting people to do what they wouldn’t do otherwise.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”

The redhead hummed, but let the comment slide as the tour continued and the air grew cooler.

“I thought we came to London to avoid such excursions. Give me plays, balls and culture, not another country estate that looks exactly like all the others I’ve ever seen,” scoffed Lottie, leaning heavily against Ruth as they plodded along. “I suppose you like all this, don’t you?”

“It is a marvellous evening to be outside,” said Ruth quietly, not eager to upset her friend.

“And it would be equally marvellous if the ball could begin and we were dancing, rather than trekking across the wilderness. Then I could be in Mr Roscoe’s arms and make everyone else jealous of me, as they should be.”

“It’s hardly wilderness,” said Ruth. “Can you smell the honeysuckle? I should like a house with honeysuckle growing up the side and lavender by the gate.”

“You will be able to have whatever you want when you’re Mrs Pembroke and stolen away from me.” The self-pitying tone she took was enough to stir up guilt within Ruth. “Heaven knows the family’s rich enough to give you all you could ever want.”

“I am certain that Albert will let you stay with us often,” said Ruth quickly, squeezing Lottie’s hand. “You needn’t worry, there will always be room for you.”

“Wonderful.” Her friend beamed in response, spinning her parasol, morose mood entirely gone. “Perhaps I shall visit the fortnight after your wedding, you know, if I am not intruding.”

“I will have to ask Albert.”

“A man like him must have wealthy friends,” said Lottie. “You can find me one and write to me. It will be a hobby for you, won’t it? I know you won’t let me down; you never do. Look, there.” She sheltered her eyes with her hand, squinting into the distance, to where a late supper had been prepared for them. “I am utterly famished. If I do not eat I will faint on the spot and won’t be able to dance at all. Hold my parasol, would you?”

“I cannot carry both and eat too—”

“Just don’t scuff it. Hold it properly, like – yes, that’s it.” She smiled. “You are such a darling, Ruthie.”


Chapter Two (#u2298a1a0-39da-5566-b992-cc1155e9bc21)

Isaac

The ballroom was sweltering. Clothes stuck to skin. Perspiration drew lines in the thick powder worn by older women (and a few dandified men). Only the most determined couples danced, faces shining, cheeks rosy, palms clammy. Not a single individual here was familiar to Isaac and for that he was thankful. There had been far too many close calls in London relating to his previous ‘work’ in sabotaging engagements. In a year or less he would be too well-known to succeed, but by that point he aimed to have all the money he required to free him from this life.

Then he would never need to do such tasteless deeds again.

Well, unless they sounded fun.

Eyes tracked his footsteps, there was nervous laughter from younger women – gaggled together like geese – and gossip followed, largely untrue, about heroics and sea battles and how he had wrestled a vicious beast to save two young women the night before. It was all tedious, even if it brought a smile to his face and a drink to his hands. He had barely taken a gulp before his employer was at his throat.

“Why isn’t it done yet?”

“It takes time,” said Isaac, scanning the assembled women with their pretty frocks and fickle dreams. “Where is the Osbourne girl? I haven’t seen her.” He hadn’t looked. “Don’t tell me you wanted me here purely because you enjoy my company? If so, the sentiment is not returned.”

Griswell’s tone was as sour as the wine. “I thought you had done this before?”

“I have, more times than I can count,” he replied levelly. “Didn’t you like the snake incident? Its owner was reluctant to put the creature at risk, but your money persuaded him.”

“My daughter was on that blasted boat.”

“No harm came to her and it made an impression.” It also kept him from getting bored. One woman was much like all the others in his profession. Why not add exotic animals and hysteria? Anything to keep his interest and get the job done.

Isaac needed a stronger drink – several stronger drinks – consumed anywhere that wasn’t here. It had been a while since he’d mingled with polite society and he was out of practice, too rough around the edges, blunt and careless. It was easy to hate them all. The challenge was not to show it.

“This isn’t a game, Roscoe.”

“And yet I play it so well.” Before the merchant could lose his temper, Isaac added, “I shall make little Miss Osbourne fall. She’ll throw her life away for me. It won’t be difficult; it never is.” And then, as always, he’d vanish with little thought as to the destruction left behind. “But you cannot bully a woman into holding feelings for you. It has to be done in a way that won’t arouse suspicion. It has to seem genuine.”

“If you don’t arouse something soon, she’ll be married to that oaf.”

Isaac flashed a sardonic grin. “Then I guess I am doing her a favour.”

It had taken great self-will not to aim a fist squarely into Griswell’s jaw, but the man paid well – or he would do, when this was all over. The merchant left behind stern words and a reprimand. He had no idea where Isaac’s target was, but the man’s daughter was easy to spot. Lottie’s red hair gave her away, a shining beacon in the candlelight. Now, there was a pretty woman not far from his grasp, but nothing usually was.

“Miss Griswell?” Lottie’s carefully considered expression was directed his way, ready to turn down any unworthy suitor, until – of course – she saw him. An expectant smile folded back her lips as he bowed. If only he’d been paid to seduce her; it would all be over by midnight and he’d be a rich man. “I take it that you are recovered from yesterday’s excitement?”

“Almost,” she replied, meeting his eyes with unnerving intensity. “But now that you’re here, I know there’s nothing to worry about.”

“There are no snakes here tonight, Miss Griswell,” he assured her. “At least, not the kind with scales.”

“I suppose such excitement is bland for you, what with your time at sea.”

“Now who have you been talking to?” Isaac’s practised smile grew thinner, an impatient flicker. She did not notice. They never did.

“No one who could satisfy my curiosity.” She gave him a childish pout. “You’re an enigma, Mr Roscoe.”

Her reply did not reassure him. If there were any here who knew his past, it put his aims in danger. “I am surprised Miss Osbourne isn’t with you tonight.”

“She’s not one for all this.” Lottie waved her hand at their surroundings: glittering chandeliers, peacock feathers, military uniforms and forced civility. “Not like us two, who are far more suited to such high circles. We are very much alike, you and I.”

“Where did you say she was?”

Her eyes narrowed. “I didn’t.” Women like Lottie wore jealousy like jewellery, on show for all to see and pander to. The hold he had over her was slipping – and if he couldn’t charm the friend, he would have no hope manipulating the Osbourne girl.

The things I do for money, he thought.

“Would you like to dance, Miss Griswell?”

Lottie’s demeanour changed entirely, gloved fingers resting on his arm, victorious. Her chatter never ceased as she tried to coax out his mysteries, flatter his ego or endear herself to him. He could almost hear the wedding bells sounding in her barren, shallow skull.

It was midway through the minuet, as their hands found one another, that she said, “You have rescued me from loneliness tonight, for Ruth’s never any company.”

“How so?”

“She constantly abandons me and finds some sad little corner somewhere, as though she’s above all this.”

“How could anyone possibly leave you, Miss Griswell?”

Isaac mistakenly, for a brief second, stumbled into guilt. It was Lottie’s hopeful expression that did it, that chipped at his resolve, when she became the person behind all the flirtatious comments and wilful actions. Another lonely woman, looking for a deeper connection under all the flat promises and endless, lifeless parties.

“Ruth’s usually hovering in doorways or sitting alone, still as a statue,” said Lottie, as the music played on and she faced the tall man. “I can’t tear her away from Lady Winston’s garden this evening, not even to dance. I can hardly understand her most days. Who wouldn’t want to—”

Ruth was in the gardens.

He had her now.

And so Isaac left Lottie, without apology, standing on the ballroom floor with a lost expression and the dance incomplete.

“Do excuse me,” were the only words he offered, moving on without a backwards glance. She did not call out; he knew she wouldn’t. To do so would be to risk looking even more foolish, mouth gaping, pride wounded, hopes crushed and surrounded by twirling, happy couples. Isaac had a job to do.

The gardens were littered with small groups who tipped wine down their necks and basked in the cooler air. Night had washed the colour from the leaves, leaving greys and blacks behind. No distant figure sat in solitude. No wanderer marked the grounds. The girl was nowhere to be found. As much as he hated to admit that Griswell was right, Isaac was running short on time. He must have overlooked her, walked straight past her, somewhere. He told himself he’d find her on his way back towards the punch bowl, because another drink never hurt, but his march was halted. The doors to the glasshouse, the orangery, were wide open.

Slapping footfalls came from within, along with high laughter – a child’s.

He followed it.

In amongst the narrow trees and sweeping plants, Ruth’s ill-coloured gown brushed along the floor, a whispering noise, as she slowly approached a shadowed hiding place. Isaac could not see what she chased, not until her purposely slowed movements gave the three-year-old, her playmate, enough time to dart out and weave through the pots. Their little game was filled with high voices and scary growls, clawed hands and delighted screams.

“Not so fast,” called Ruth, as she reached out and easily captured the little boy, swinging him in a wide arc. Bare feet, mucky from the flagstones, kicked in the air until they found their way back to solid ground.

“Again!”

“One more time and then we really have to…” Ruth saw Isaac’s silhouette in the doorway and she straightened up, alert.

All those clever, practised lines he had hoped to offer vanished. It made no sense. He was good at this; he was a professional. And yet there was nothing. No suave remarks, no quick wit. It had to be the wine. It had knocked him off kilter – that was all.

“Forgive me,” he finally said, feeling foolish, striding forwards. “I did not mean to frighten you – or the little one.”

“I’m not scared,” called the boy, receiving a gentle shush from Ruth. “I’m not, I swear.”

“Glad to hear it,” answered Isaac, analysing the situation, his target’s expression, and hoping that his head would provide any answer as to how to proceed. His mind was uncooperative, packed tight with cotton. All words left him, as though he’d never had them at all. Isaac fumbled, “We met yesterday.”

“I know.”

“I – your friend, she was worried about you – out here, by yourself.”

Ruth blinked heavily. “Lottie sent you?”

“You seem surprised.”

“I don’t have any other friends and Lottie won’t remember I exist until the ball draws to a close.”

“Ah,” said Isaac, swallowing thickly. “You don’t like talking much, do you?”

“Not – not when there’s nothing to say.”

“Then do you prefer dancing?” It was another attempt to rouse the brief flicker he’d seen by the canal bank, the more open, less wary and awkward woman.

“As much as anyone does.”

“That’s not the answer I was after.”

“Oh,” she said, cheeks colouring, gloved hands smoothing down her dress. “I am sorry, I did not – I am not very—”

“No, don’t apologise.” Isaac pressed his tongue to the back of his teeth. “I am asking you to dance with me – and badly at that.”

“Isn’t it too hot in the ballroom?”

“Then why not here? The music can still reach us.” He knew the second he asked, that he had pushed too far. Although every woman was trained to please those around her, this one was too cautious, book-smart and unaffected.

Good for you, he thought. Although it’s bad for me…

“I do not think that would be appropriate.”

“Do you always do what’s appropriate?” The challenge was an attempt to cajole her into a rash decision, but she saw through it.

Quiet, steady, she observed him and he knew she was too sensible for her own good. In fact, he knew what she’d say before she said it.

“Good evening, Mr Roscoe.” She bobbed her head, eager to leave, face growing redder by the second. Yes, she liked him, or liked the look of him, but she didn’t trust him. “I have to get this little one back to bed without his grandmother, Lady Winston, finding him. He’s told me there will be terrible consequences if he’s caught and I – I cannot have that on my conscience. Please don’t think me rude, but I have to go.”

“I could help you.” Before the refusal could find him, Isaac added, “I did a little exploring. I know a way upstairs where he won’t be spotted.” Or rather, he had searched half the house trying to track the woman down and knew several possible routes. “You’ll fare better at keeping the boy from trouble with my help.”

A delay, one second, two, before Ruth nodded and placed the little boy’s hand within her own. “Then I will accept your help.”

“And you’ll dance with me afterwards?” Isaac knew he was trying his luck, but if he didn’t, he wouldn’t get anywhere. He needed something to show for tonight, if only to squeeze more money from the merchant. A dance would secure further finances and if the girl proved too frigid for even his charms, he could cut and run. “I am the child’s best chance.”

Just when Isaac thought she would refuse, Ruth pursed her lips, eyes meeting his, holding the contact though every social convention should have warned her otherwise. Instinct should have told her he was bad for her. Common sense should have prevailed.

But Isaac knew he was handsome, he knew he was charming, he knew he could choose any woman and have her in his bed within hours.

“Lead the way,” said Ruth.

And he knew he had her now.


Chapter Three (#u2298a1a0-39da-5566-b992-cc1155e9bc21)

Ruth

Just as Isaac promised, the three moved undetected. Windows and doors had been left wide open to coax in the sluggish breeze and it made their journey easier. A side entrance from the greenhouse took them to a drawing room, a narrow hall and then a small study. A servant passed them, but she had been trained to keep her eyes averted from guests and walked on, a tray in her hands, not daring to take in their faces or the little boy hiding behind Ruth’s skirts. The child had been close to tears when Ruth first found him and proposed locating his mother – or even grandmother – in the dancing crowds. Worry lodged in Ruth’s mind all too easily. She remembered how severe her own education had been and how often the girls from the academy were punished and humiliated for minor misdemeanours. It was possible that the boy, Joshua, carried on because he simply wished to avoid going back to sleep. Doubt and anxiety clouded her thoughts. If Ruth could help him, she would. Even if that did mean using Mr Roscoe.

And he was a man who didn’t seem to mind being used. In fact, he invited it. Had she been a weaker woman, she would have taken him up on the offer. There was a way about him, an ease of movement, a knowing look that sent her pulse racing.

If anyone caught them, there would be trouble. At Miss Lamont’s Academy the rules about men had been clear and simple. She knew them back to front. Knew how to please, what social conventions to obey and how get by without any notice taken of her. Now, every step she took seemed to be the wrong one and took her closer to him.

Worse still, a sinful part of her welcomed it.

Ahead was the staircase, rising up from the main entranceway, with polished wood and ornate carvings. There were far too many people nearby, chatting loudly and clinking glasses. Their movements would be seen if they risked venturing from cover now – and so they waited in shadow.

Isaac’s arm was against Ruth’s. A small connection that made her mouth dry. She observed his profile, her frown growing heavier. There was a half-grin on Isaac’s face, as though this were some adventure – and he treated it as such, talking to Joshua in a low voice about how they had to be quiet. It was a game to them both and the little boy loved it, fists bunched into his nightclothes, eyes wide with a rebellious joy. The pair were two peas in a pod: naughty, mischievous and yet somehow making both traits seem endearing. Roscoe was far less alarming in this environment and she let herself admire his well-built form that echoed those heroes from classic mythology. He didn’t notice; he was distracted – and she could risk it, only for tonight.

“They’re leaving,” whispered Isaac. “Be ready.”

Ruth strengthened her grip on Joshua’s hand, only to find Isaac offered his own to her, seemingly without thought. He wasn’t looking her way, eyes on their escape. Ruth hesitated, fingers half-outstretched to his, hovering at a midpoint between them. It wouldn’t mean anything. Practicality told her to take it, as she would have taken Lottie’s hand. But he wasn’t Lottie and such behaviour between a man and a woman was different and surely if she placed her hand in his then—

“Now,” said Isaac quickly, grasping Ruth’s wrist and pulling her and Joshua free from their hiding place. Music brushed against them. The hallway and far ballroom were visible for a flash, before their feet were on the stairs. Ruth adjusted her grip, gloved palm against Isaac’s, holding on tightly. They were almost on the landing, fighting laughter, swept up in the excitement, when Lady Winston appeared. She wore a shawl so fine that it looked like a cobweb across her shoulders, gown glittering in the low candlelight, faded hair and light clothes giving her all the appearance of a ghost.

Isaac pulled up short, Ruth almost tripped over him and the little boy crashed into her legs. The moment Joshua saw his grandmother, he bolted up the final steps and flew at her, arms outstretched. Ruth’s hand was cold from where the boy had dropped it. The other was still in Isaac’s and she quickly stole her fingers back and kept them close, bunched up against her stomach.

“You are meant to be in bed, young man,” said Lady Winston to her grandson, but her tone was warm and banished any worries that Ruth might have had about Joshua’s well-being. “Did you give the maid the slip again?” The older woman, with slow, shrewd movements, turned to Ruth. “I hope he hasn’t been a nuisance to you both?”

“Not at all,” she answered. “I found him in the orangery and thought I could get him upstairs without too much trouble.”

“And you are?”

“Miss Osbourne.” She curtseyed, before turning to introduce Isaac, but Lady Winston got there first.

“Then you must be Albert Pembroke! I have already heard all about you; I know your mother.” Lady Winston, eyes crinkling, held out her hand and Isaac pressed his lips to her glove. “What a handsome couple you make. I can already tell you’re quite suited to one another.”

“No, he’s not…” Ruth trailed off, a stray thread of thought caught on the idea. If only he was, if only he could step into Albert’s place. A man who was everything she hadn’t known she wanted.

“I am her brother,” said Isaac. “And we couldn’t let the child wander around outside alone.”

“Then I am most grateful,” said Lady Winston, though her smile diminished, eyes darting between the two. She dismissed herself from their chat with a polite nod, before addressing her grandson once more and leading him away. “Time to get you back into bed now, isn’t it, Josh?”

The woman’s voice grew fainter. Ruth leant upon the wall, attempting to rope back her calm demeanour, chest rising and falling. God, what had she risked by indulging in such activities? Isaac stood idly beside the bannister, facing her in the quiet. When he almost cracked a laugh, she shot him a dark look. Whatever humour he’d found, she would not share it.

Not after all she’d done, all he’d helped her do.

“You owe me a dance, Miss Osbourne.”

“Dance?” Ruth’s compliant lips failed to drip the usual assuring words they were known for. All she had been told about propriety, doing as she was asked, and acting as a lady should was instantly forgotten. Those carefully laid foundations crumbled in minutes when faced by him. No one else had ever riled her like this. “You failed, Mr Roscoe.” With calm movements, she pulled herself to full height and went downstairs, spine straight and voice coolly quiet. “The boy was spotted and we were discovered, and by Lady Winston, no less.” She did not pause. She did not face him. She would not let him in. “I won’t waste any more time on this foolishness.”

What would her uncle think?

Deep thuds on the wood followed her where Isaac matched her steps. “You cannot mean to refuse me?” There was no anger in the question, Isaac’s mouth ajar, tone baffled.

“You speak as though it’s never happened to you before.”

“It hasn’t.”

It was exhilarating for Ruth, to talk freely, to leave all those self-conscious cares elsewhere. For once, in such a long, long time, she felt like herself – like she knew herself in this impossibly large city.

And she couldn’t let it happen again or else she feared she’d do something dreadful. Because she did want to accept his offer, she did long to dance. But it was not to be. She was engaged to another.

“Then consider this a first,” said Ruth curtly, even though he dogged her movements all the way to the ballroom. Were the other guests looking her way? Did they know what she’d done? Did they know what she truly longed for? No, there was nothing to know, she was certain of it. Ruth still felt guilty, as though there was a black stone in her belly, burning through her gut. She sought out familiar faces, wanting to explain and yet not wanting to give herself away at all. “I am positive that Miss Griswell would be glad to accept a dance on my behalf.”

The redhead, barely a metre away, turned upon hearing her name.

“I wouldn’t be too sure,” Ruth heard Isaac mutter, but the distraction was enough to allow her to escape.

The piggish eyes of her future husband were boring into her neck. His face was even pinker than usual, eyes watering and thin hair slicked across his scalp.

“There you are!” Albert grasped her arm with his small hands. “Where have you been? My foot is sore and there aren’t enough seats in here.”

Ruth’s reply was too immediate, too hasty, for she was still ablaze from her earlier encounter, even if she was – despite all that had taken place – smiling. “And what do you want me to do about it?”

It was the wrong response and Albert’s cheeks flushed redder. He did not like being displeased – she knew that. Even as a young boy, he had always wanted his own way, always demanded to be revered. Ruth had played along under her uncle’s watchful eyes, as a young woman ought to. It was what she would do now – and for the rest of her life.

“Forgive me, it’s all been a little too much this evening.” The pat she gave his hand was awkward and uncomfortable, lacking the affection she had hoped to imbue it with. “I think the heat is getting to me.”

And so is Isaac Roscoe.

Albert ignored her excuses and did not even pretend to show concern. “I want a chair. That Griswell chap forbade me from asking a woman to move. He said it was bad form to make a lady stand, so you’ll ask one of them for me, won’t you?”

It was not a question. Fragile pride reminded Ruth that she had at least been able to refuse one man that night – the only real rebellion she had ever made. The one and only time she’d said “no” instead of rushing to please another at the expense of her own happiness.

A realisation came to her: where Isaac had asked, Albert had ordered.

She could not recall the last time anyone had ever given her a choice.

***

The door to Ruth’s bedroom creaked open and light, familiar footsteps slid along the floorboards. Ruth shifted towards the bed’s other side and made way for her friend, both too wide awake to sleep. The ball had ended hours ago, but their droopy eyelids and the open ears of their chaperones had kept their tongues quiet on the journey home. Now, alone and together in the Griswell abode, the two young women could talk in private.

“Are you cross with me?” Lottie held up her arm, the sheet tented between them, faces barely discernible in the gloom.

Ruth shook her head, a rustle upon her pillow.

Lottie’s words were stilted and considered, slow to leave her lips. “I know I have not been kind to you lately, I suppose it’s because I’ll miss you.”

“Only suppose?”

Lottie made a huffing sound, nostrils flaring. “Look, I – I – I don’t like people leaving and I cannot be like you; I cannot be so unmoved by everything.”

“You think I am unmoved?”

“You cope with it all so easily.”

“Do I?”

“Yes,” said Lottie sharply. “It’s you that everyone at the academy loved, you they went to when something went wrong.”

“Only when they didn’t want Miss Lamont to find out.”

“Well, no one ever asked for my views, for my help. It’s always you. It’s not fair.”

It was all the apology Ruth would get and so she edged closer to Lottie, a gesture of forgiveness, hearing the other girl’s breathing fall more evenly. “I will miss you too.”

Ever since Lottie’s mother had died when she was eleven, she had been unbearably clingy. Ruth had lost her mother at the early age of five – her father too – to a bad fever. Whereas grief had hardened Ruth and forced her to ignore her emotions for fear of ever hurting so deeply again, it had made Lottie more vulnerable. But they’d known, since they were girls, that they’d always have each other. They were like sisters, even if they bickered or Ruth withdrew into herself – as she was prone to do – or counties separated them. When Ruth’s engagement to Albert had been confirmed, Lottie had been the only one at the academy who hadn’t been happy for her. Because marriage would pull them apart.

“Do you love Albert?” The question was one Ruth had asked herself. To hear it voiced by another gave weight to all the doubts she had collected, nursed and fed in the night-time hours when sleep stayed far away.

“I hardly know him.”

“Do you think you will love him?”

Ruth pulled in a deep breath. “I hope so.”

“Even if he won’t protect you from snakes?”

“If that’s the case, then let’s hope there are always Isaac Roscoes milling around,” said Ruth drily.

“Yes, please,” laughed Lottie, stifling the noise against the blankets. “Though I doubt he mills anywhere, he swaggers.”

“Honestly, Lottie.”

“You can’t deny he’s charming!”

“Men like that are dangerous.” Ruth bunched up one hand, the same Isaac had held, a fist under her pillow as though there were a secret within it.

“Maybe I want danger,” joked Lottie, red hair inky in the darkness as she turned to address the ceiling. “You can keep your safe, happy life and I will be wife to a renegade. Even if he is rude enough to leave a woman mid-dance, I shall forgive him. He’s very easy to forgive.”

“Quiet,” hushed Ruth, pulling the covers back over their heads. “Good looks cannot make up for a man’s faults.” An odd, hot feeling crawled up behind her stomach, a little like jealousy.

“Ugliness doesn’t ensure virtue either,” said Lottie pointedly. They both knew to whom she referred. Ruth could still hear her husband-to-be’s whiny, dire tones in her ear.

“Lottie,” whispered Ruth. “Am I marrying a toad?”

“No, he looked far more like a pig in that waistcoat this evening.”

Another laughing fit grasped them both, petering out as the harsh truth set in. The future had seemed bright and white and idyllic when they were younger. They had waited for ever to grow up and now that they were women, the reality they faced was far harsher and seeded with uncertainty. Their talk ended, silence settled upon them like a second quilt, and the pair curled up together in the sheets for warmth.

“I hope you will be happy,” said Lottie, a well-meaning mumble. “Real happiness, not the pretence you put on to please everyone else. I hate when you do that.”

“Me too,” replied Ruth. “Me too.”

***

It does not happen often, that moment, when you find yourself left with the last tendrils of a dream that you can steer in any direction you wish. Ruth felt sleep slipping away and she held on, pushed through and found herself back in the orangery. The little boy, Joshua, had gone missing again – or had he? No, it wasn’t he that Ruth was looking for. It was another. The glass room was still and dark, the air sickly sweet. A shadow, lost behind large, sweeping leaves, solidified. A man, and not the man she should have sought out.

That infuriating smile, a quiet voice for only her. “You still owe me a dance, Miss Osbourne.”

Ruth’s breath caught in her throat. His hand took hers and she let him, unable to speak, to refuse. And didn’t their hands fit so well together, as though they had been made to hold one another’s? Isaac Roscoe. Every movement he made, she moved with, though there was no music. Nothing but a light breeze that stirred the canopy above, and him – always him – invading her senses, her mind, her soul. Those eyes, such dark, endless eyes, opened into hers. When had they gotten so close? If they were still dancing, it was not a dance she recognised. Her hands on his shoulders, fingers in the softer hair at the nape of his neck. He held her waist and there was a tentative pull at the ties on her dress, a promise that brought with it a sinful need, a cruel lust.

“Isaac,” she hummed, for he was not ‘Mr Roscoe’ now. He was not a stranger here. He was everything Ruth wanted him to be – and nothing like the man she was engaged to.

A rough scratch of stubble brushed her cheek, contrasting with the soft, warm words spoken against her lips that she couldn’t catch.

Daylight broke her eyes open and chased away those fragile moments. Lottie was still fast asleep beside her. A new day had come. Panic flared up in her chest, but it was needless. No one knew, no one would guess, no one would reveal all that had taken place within the crucible of her own skull. It was her secret.

Ruth was resolved, then, to never see Mr Roscoe again. Not only because she was frightened of what she might do – of all she might lose if she did – but because the real man would never match up to the fantasy.

She had Albert, didn’t she? That would be enough; it had to be enough.

There is no other choice.

Her uncle expected it, her financial situation depended on it, and she must do as she was bid. What had her mother told her?

Never be a burden, my darling, never be a burden, never be a burden…

“Ruthie,” muttered Lottie upon waking, her voice a thistle-scratch as it left her throat. “Are you crying?”

“A bad dream, that’s all,” she lied, for once allowing her friend to comfort her, to hold her and stroke her hair. The only bad part of the dream was that it had ended and brought her sharply back to the real world and all its bitter disappointments.

***

The opera was packed. Ruth knew barely anyone and no one she didn’t know cared to know her. It had been the same all week, with social events, dinners and mindless appointments. Lottie was in her element, catching up with those she’d only seen in the short breaks from school: her father’s friends, distant relatives, past acquaintances. Her laughter rang out like a clear bell and she had easily forgotten Ruth. It was not a malicious act; it never was. Lottie was always so invested in the moment that there was nothing beyond it. No one else existed but herself and the people within her direct eyeline. Ruth was used to it and if the alternative was constant, banal chatter, she was happier to sit by herself and take in as many sights as possible.

The air was close and lay upon them all like a clammy, second skin. This was the last performance until winter, when the aristocracy would clear London in favour of their country homes away from the slums that had already eroded half the decent corners of the city.

“It’s the hottest July I have ever known,” said Albert for the fifth time that evening from their private box.

No one paid much attention to the goings-on upon the stage. There was a constant background hum of conversation. People stopped by to visit and chat. Ruth sat near strangers whose talk she could not follow. They laughed at jokes she did not understand and mocked people she did not know. They wrote her off as a simple, artless creature.

“I can’t hear,” she told Lottie, when her friend had deigned to return to her side.

“No one ever can and it’s not like anyone even speaks Italian,” said Lottie loudly, for her companions to laugh at – and laugh they did. A few insipid women threw sympathetic looks Ruth’s way, as one would toss pennies to a beggar on the street.

Ruth sat back in her chair, defeated. Her dress was a poor shade that did not suit her and made her look ill: another borrowed garment, for Lottie refused to let her go out in her own ‘plain’ clothes. It was lifeless and thick, exactly how these people viewed her, and there was nothing she could do to change it. Ruth had not argued over the matter. She rarely did – it wouldn’t be proper. Even so, her gloved hands were tight upon her lap and her lips were pressed together, thin and bloodless.

A creak, a rustle and Mr Griswell’s muttered words soon found her ear, an uncomfortable, ticklish hiss against her neck.

“I recommend a walk, Miss Osbourne,” he said quietly. “Rather than risk losing your temper like the other night.”

Ruth quickly sought out Albert, who was engrossed in a conversation with some retired colonel, their large stomachs heaving with laughter.

“He told you?” Although she had snapped at him while at Lady Winston’s ball, she had thought little of it, had never anticipated he would latch on to the comment or repeat it to another.

“And how is your brother, Miss Osbourne?”

“I don’t have a…” Ruth trailed off. Brother. That man Isaac Roscoe had told Lady Winston they were siblings. Had the news spread so quickly? What must Albert think? If Griswell knew, then this surely spelt trouble, for the man was hardly a gossip – as self-absorbed in his own doings as his daughter.

“Yes, I – I should think a walk would…yes,” announced Ruth, shaking her head when Lottie looked set to go with her. “I – I shan’t be long.”

The musty hallway was scattered with idle bodies filtering from the coffee room. Ruth steadied herself against a panelled wall, her fingers lined up against her collarbone, as though she could press all the disjointed pieces of herself back together. There were too many people packed into the corridor, passing by, talking loudly. Though not a single one glanced her way, she found no solace, no quiet. A woman tried to push a half-dead flower into her hands in exchange for money and Ruth could only shake her head, stomach churning with all the fears and concerns she wrestled with. It felt as though she had been bottling herself up for years, burying shards of worry – and now she was fit to bursting.

“Come on, love, in here,” said a soft voice, a hand in hers.

The pressure on her fingers was gentle, yet firm, guiding her into an empty opera box. God, she was a fool, making an idiot of herself again. There was no way she could survive here, with its viper-quick tongues, conversations that moved too fast for her to understand – all packed together with Albert’s constant whiny and belittling remarks. They would be married soon and this would be her life and there was nothing and no one who could ever save her from it.

I can’t do this.

She wanted to turn back time and go back to the academy. She wanted her cold, barren room, her books and the faces she knew, the girlish chatter that was easy to follow. Real people, who held real concerns, who did not feed on gossip and other people’s misery.

She missed the country, the clean soot-free air, the sun. When had she last glimpsed the sun between those tall, blackened buildings?

God, she hated London. And it surely hated her.

“It will be all right, Miss Osbourne.”

“No, it won’t.”

There was a hand on her back, soothing, as she struggled to calm herself. Whenever she tried to push back the tide of emotions, the foam slipped over her fingers, across her arms, dragging her under. It was humiliating, ridiculous – she was ridiculous – for it was as though her body had forgotten how to breathe and no inhalation was ever enough.

“Stay with me, that’s it, I’ve got you.”

Ruth knew that voice.

At last, when she was able, she looked through her damp eyelashes to the individual sat beside her.

Isaac Roscoe.

“You,” she croaked. “I can’t be here with you.”


Chapter Four (#u2298a1a0-39da-5566-b992-cc1155e9bc21)

Isaac

She wasn’t meant to cry. Griswell had given him instructions, hired a private box at the opera, told him to get the girl alone and do what must be done. But Isaac hadn’t anticipated this.

“What happened?”

“I shouldn’t be here.” Her face was blotchy, hands shaky, eyes puffy. Every breath seemed to escape her and panic her more. Isaac had seen men fall into the same state when overwhelmed by the sea, their vicious commanders, or the horrors that came with war. If he had a stiff drink, he’d have given it to her. It helped, he’d found. And if anything, he could use a drink.

It had never been like this before.

The women he’d brought down had always been spoilt, ambitious, money-grabbing creatures whose virtue needed testing. Or they were idiotic, simple-minded girls who needed crossing in love. (It helped to build character.) They all fell to him, forgot their better instincts, ruined themselves. Isaac merely provided the opportunity and he enjoyed it. The game, the chase, the danger.

When it came to Ruth Osbourne, the situation was not to his liking. She was a good person. He wasn’t used to those. He hadn’t even been sure they existed. It didn’t change anything. He couldn’t let it. He needed the money.

And she would recover, surely? It wasn’t as though she was ugly, aside from her ridiculous clothes. In some lights, she was rather pleasing to the eye. Yes, she had few connections and her uncle was an odd, unattached fellow, but someone else would intervene on her behalf. Soon she’d be someone else’s problem, not his.

“It will pass. Steady your breathing,” said Isaac gently, a hand on her shoulder, thumb moving in gentle circles. “You do not want anyone to see you like this, trust me.”

At last she stilled, chin against her chest.

“It seems you are fated to be here whenever I am at my worst,” she croaked. “And I fear I’ve been terribly rude to you, when all you’ve ever done is help me.”

Ruth tried to meet his gaze and he avoided it, staring out across the audience members below, lined up in the cheaper seats, engrossed in their own conversations.

“Forgive me,” said Ruth, her knee resting against his, and he wanted to get up, to put a distance between them and warn her against him. “I have been caught up in this horrible city, its talk, the rumours.” She shook her head, wisps of her hair falling down from their fixings, framing her face, inviting him to brush them back, to touch her. “I almost forgot myself.”

“An easy thing to do in these parts,” said Isaac listlessly. He’d never felt more like a wolf, a predator, a monster. What was it about her that made him want to be a better man? A man he’d left behind long ago.

“It will all get better. I shall get better at it, after I am married,” she continued, rationalising with herself. “I know I can make myself happy, if I try hard enough.”

Isaac released an amused grunt, though he held no good humour. “You cannot truly believe that?”

“I have to,” she told him, “otherwise I’d never go through with it.”

Christ.

This was his way in, a chance to give her another option, to pretend he was the answer to her prayers, here to vanquish her troubles and remind her of what true chivalry was.

But, as before, the words wouldn’t come.

And she beat him to it.

“You’re a good man, Mr Roscoe.”

Her gloved hand rested atop his, a contact he instantly drew away from, finally catching her eye.

“I cannot do this,” he said, half to himself, half to her. “We need to get you away from here, back to your friends.”

Away from me, before I do something I regret.

“Yes, of course,” agreed Ruth, and Isaac was sure he hadn’t imagined the disappointment in her voice. If he kissed her now, would she let him? God, he was definitely going to hell for this.

Well, this and a lot of other things.

“Follow me.” Isaac didn’t give Ruth time to think, to comprehend, as he moved to the door and checked the corridor. It seemed to be their habit, to skulk around in one another’s company.

“Be quick and be quiet,” he said.

They were not quick enough, for when they entered the darkened route, a figure peeled itself from the shadows. Isaac pulled Ruth into an alcove seconds before Griswell strolled by, lingered outside their vacated box and found it empty. The slimy git swore under his breath and kept on walking. He was looking for them and he knew what he wanted to find.

“Whose opera box were we in?”

“Mine,” said Isaac.

“Then why is he…”

“Quiet.”

Suspicion latched on to her words. “What’s going on?”

“We are getting you back to where you belong and then we will never cross paths again,” he said. “And whatever you do, Miss Osbourne, do not trust Griswell.”

They did not speak further, not until Isaac returned her to the others without incident. If she wanted to say farewell, he didn’t let her. He didn’t trust himself not to do the wrong thing. In all his years, he had never thought himself a moral man, but he hoped he wasn’t a complete bastard, at least not today.

“Will I ever see you again?”

Isaac’s steps halted on the floorboards, head down, back to her. In his mind’s eye he was already far from these London streets, in another city, another country, another continent.

“Not if you’re lucky,” he replied over his shoulder, feeling his guilt lessen with every step that took him from the girl and everything he might have done. “Goodbye, Miss Osbourne.”


Chapter Five (#ulink_cc05931a-7e86-543f-b171-253491235cd8)

Ruth

“A toast,” announced Griswell. “To the happy couple.”

The merchant had returned to the opera box shortly after Ruth and she did not miss the cryptic look he gave her, nor the annoyed flicker on his beak-like face. Roscoe’s warning was still in her ears, the warmth of his hands still on her skin, bringing an unsettled knot to her stomach. It was over, whatever it had been. Weakness – every human was prone to it, even she. This had been her one slip-up, the stumble before the rest of her life began. Mrs Pembroke. She knew who she was meant to be. Who everyone expected her to be.

The evening passed by without event, until the moment when a glass was positioned in Ruth’s hand. Although she’d had wine before, it had always been little sips, a drink in moderation, for her uncle disapproved. Not due to religious reasons, but due to the price. Alcohol was expensive and mishaps caused by intoxication even more so, both to a man’s pockets and his character.

Albert spotted her hesitation and gave her a meaningful look. The evening at the opera had gone poorly. Ruth knew she had been inattentive and lacking in enthusiasm. Her husband-to-be had noticed. To not drink would be to further insult him. Even Lottie shot Ruth a severe glance. Did they sense her reluctance? Ruth could not help but think on what her uncle might say at her conduct, at how she jeopardised all their futures.

Don’t be a burden, her mother had said. Don’t be a burden, my darling.

The wine had a queer, familiar taste.

Another toast, fuzzed words, Griswell’s piercing eyes.

Ruth put the glass to her lips again, until the entertainment before them was a distorted blur. The costumes, at first enchanting, now seemed like twisted, mocking devils. The floor sloped, her seat tipped, distant singers split in half, two bodies with mirror movements.

“A little air is all she needs.”

The glass was wrenched from her hand, barely touched, a few mere mouthfuls gone.

Griswell’s voice, she heard her name, a clicking tongue followed by Albert’s wet words, thick fingers, and Lottie’s fan inches from her face.

Cobblestones.

There shouldn’t be cobblestones in a theatre.

The air was sharper, a sudden coldness. They were outside.

Movement – a carriage – brought a half-formed question, perched on her lips, clumsy. Her chaperone didn’t answer.

“That’s right, don’t fight it,” she heard Griswell say. “Sleep. It will make this all the easier for you – for both of us.”


Chapter Six (#ulink_cc05931a-7e86-543f-b171-253491235cd8)

Isaac

Isaac wasn’t drunk, more’s the pity, but he was getting there. Port added a welcome numbness to his movements, until his joints were liquid and his head swam. It wasn’t enough. He was still painfully in the present. London grime was thick on his skin. The gin bars and brothels on Drury Lane were packed in the humid evening. The noise – like a locust’s hum – filtered up through the floorboards to his rented room. He missed the clear Cornish air and the old, rundown house his father had left to him – the only thing he’d left. It had to be a ruin by now. Isaac hadn’t seen it in years, but he needed a place to lie low and that would do. Tonight hadn’t gone as planned. The merchant had been meant to catch him with Ruth, in a compromising position – or something that could have been misconstrued as such. But he couldn’t do it, not to her. He’d take Griswell’s money and flee, revisit the haunted place he’d not set eyes on since he went off to sea.

A knock rattled the door.

“There’s a gentleman to see you, sir,” said the kitchen boy, a grubby, reedy child who probably wouldn’t live to see the year’s end.

Isaac didn’t answer. It was either someone he owed money to, a cuckolded husband, or an irate gambler who’d bet too much money on him and lost it over the last fight he’d thrown.

“Sir?” Another insistent knock. “Look, see I told ya, he’s not in.”

“Roscoe, open the damned door.” Griswell’s instruction was sharp. “It’s time to fulfil your end of the bargain.”

Isaac eyed the window. It was too great a drop onto the street below. No way out, nowhere to run. And he was so good at running. It was all he’d known for a long time.

The kitchen boy spoke again. “That lady going to be all right, sir? She’s all pale-lookin’. Want me to send for someone?”

Lady. Isaac stood, braced over the wash-table, with water dripping into the basin. No. A loping stumble and he was at the door, sliding back the lock and dragging it open with a stiff creak. The kitchen boy’s eyes – sunken with poverty – were wide and round as he looked from Griswell to Isaac to the third person; a half-conscious woman, propped up on the merchant’s arm like a scarecrow.

“Miss Osbourne?”

The girl didn’t answer and Griswell forced himself into their room, pulling the lifeless woman in with him, to the ragged cot in the corner.

“What did you do?” Isaac was beside her, pushing her hair back from her bloodless face, finding her unresponsive.

“Laudanum,” said Griswell.

“You could’ve killed her.” She was breathing. He could feel her chest rise and fall, though it was a shallow movement. She’d live, she’d live.

“It was a calculated risk I had to take.”

“We need a doctor – anyone, someone.”

“No.” There was no concern on Griswell’s part, as he stood, unruffled, over the young woman. He turned to the kitchen boy, dropped a few coins into his expectant palm, and told him there’d be more if he kept quiet, before dismissing him. No one had seen them enter. The merchant had made sure of that – Griswell’s own reputation would be fine. Isaac was known to be a cad. This would not affect him in the least. The girl, however, was ruined. Even if Isaac managed to get her out and back across the city, it was all in Griswell’s hands – the puppetmaster, who had set the scene and controlled the outcome.

Isaac shook his head, a hand to his mouth. “I didn’t – I didn’t agree to this.”

“So long as you take my money, you’ll agree to whatever I want.”

“You cannot leave her here, they’ll all think—”

“Yes,” confirmed Griswell. “They will.”

“The deal is off.” Isaac pushed himself to his feet. He was broad, tall and strong. The merchant was an old, sallow man. There was no competition between them and Isaac enjoyed the sudden fear in his eyes. “Take her home, to where she belongs. I will not let you compromise her like this.”

Griswell flinched, but his tone remained level. “Don’t say you’ve grown soft, Roscoe?”

“I want no part in this.”

“If you’d done as I asked, these drastic measures could have been avoided.” The merchant looked over to where the sleeping girl lay, boredom etched into his features. “And stop posturing. There’s no need for violence; let’s not get the authorities involved. No one will care much for the girl’s fate, but strike a gentleman and there shall certainly be consequences.”

“You will pay for this.”

“I already have: I paid you.”

Isaac clenched his fists around empty air. A quick jab to the throat and Griswell would be on the floor, eyes bulging, clawing for air. But as impulsive as Isaac was, he wasn’t a simpleton. Hurting him wouldn’t help the matter.

Although, he thought, it would make me feel a lot better.

“The discovery will be made in the morning, when she’s had time to wake up. I’d advise you to leave this place early, Roscoe, and to make sure you’re seen, so that the wrong conclusions can be made by the right people.”

They’d assume it was a secret meeting, an affair, two lovers who could keep apart no longer. Because they didn’t know Ruth; they weren’t to know she was a perfect, bland and dowdy housewife. No, not a housewife, not yet, and now she never would be. Poor fool.

“She doesn’t deserve this.”

“Don’t tell me you like the girl?” The merchant paused in the doorway, with a pitying expression. “Oh, it’s more than that, I see.” A callous, mocking laugh almost tipped Isaac over the edge and had him forget common sense, the deal, his money. “You two do make a fine pair, Roscoe.”

In the slim seconds before a fight is to take place, there’s a calm rage, a quiet anger. Isaac felt it now. “If it’s to be like this, then give me what you promised or you will not leave this room intact.”

Griswell was too clever to be within hitting range. He took a hasty step backwards, one hand reaching out to ensure the door was where he’d left it. “What’s owed to you will be paid once my daughter is wed to Pembroke and no sooner.”

“I didn’t agree to that.”

To any of this, to that lost girl lying a short distance away.

“What choice do you have?”

None.

And he’d gone too far to back out now.

***

Only when the sky grew pale, with the colour running away at the edges, did Ruth stir. Isaac hadn’t slept. He kept his back to the door, legs splayed across the uneven floorboards, having listened to the downstairs sounds reach their drunken crescendo, before petering out in the early morning hours.

There was a groggy noise – a strangled, startled sound – and Ruth dragged herself up – too quickly, it seemed, for her fingers folded around the cot’s sides for support. Her bleary gaze finally settled on Isaac and he did not shy from it, though shame rankled in his guts.

Isaac didn’t move. “I couldn’t leave without making sure you were…” Again, as seemed to be the pattern around her, his usual charisma drained away. What was he meant to say after all that had taken place?

“You?” She was not yet fully lucid, though her gaze spun around the room wildly. “What?”

“Griswell brought you here last night. He arranged it all, to make it look as if…as if we…” Isaac trailed off, slowly getting to his feet, body knotted with dull aches. “He wants his own daughter married to that buffoon, but I didn’t think that he would…that it would come to this…”

Would she scream, shriek, throw things? He wouldn’t blame her; he wouldn’t stop her either. Let her punish him. He could take a hit; he could take a thousand.

“No.” Ruth bent forwards, still in her frumpy gown, hands pressed to her face. Silence found root and Isaac wouldn’t break it, not until she was ready. After a few minutes, Ruth spoke. “I will explain this to my uncle; he will believe me,” she said hurriedly into her palms, staring at them as though they didn’t belong to her. “If you tell him what you know, then—”

“The damage is done, love,” replied Isaac softly. “The word will be across London by now, if Griswell is as efficient as I suspect he is.”

“I am not your love,” she snarled. “I am supposed to be Mrs Pembroke.” Even as she said this to herself, the doubt seemed thick on her tongue and he could only watch her face crumple, as realisation set in.

And yet she didn’t cry.

He waited for it, but the tears never came.

“I have some money. I can leave it with you,” said Isaac gently. “I’ve paid for the room until the week’s end.”

“Get out,” she whispered, her words steel and ice and stone.

“Let me at least—”

“You have done enough, sir,” she told him, eyes rimmed red. “Trust me on that.”

Gone was that cautious, awkward creature – the one he’d met barely a few nights ago. This woman knew she was an outcast, soon to be abandoned by society, lost, damaged goods, unless Pembroke still wanted her. No. Isaac knew men like Pembroke. He knew he’d never take her on now.

He could see the thoughts moving behind her eyes, the plans, the mental process, the letters she would surely write and the solutions she would seek.

She was a practical woman, yes, she would be fine – he needn’t worry – this wasn’t his fault. Women like her were survivors, weren’t they? Like he’d had to be.

Isaac moved automatically and without thinking. He grabbed his meagre possessions, all stowed in a satchel across his shoulder. The morning sun was already on the thin, poorly made windows, mottled with grit. He had never been here for the end result, to witness what happened afterwards to those whose fortunes he’d sabotaged. It hadn’t ever been like this before; the others had been different. They’d deserved it – or he’d told himself that to soothe what little conscience he had left.

“Mr Roscoe.” She said his name like a curse, a promise. It forced him to halt in the doorway. He would hear her; he owed her that much. “I never thought I had it in me to hate anyone,” said Ruth coldly, as she pulled herself up onto her feet, hardly strong enough to stand. “Not until this very day, this moment.”

Isaac nodded, his back to her, unwilling to face his sins. He was set on forgetting her, and all he had done, as soon as he stepped from the room and left that rotten city – a city capable of corrupting even the best of men. But fate had a different plan.


Part Two (#ulink_3a9c6f47-a0b7-516a-967d-7eece0519164)

Chapter One (#ulink_29b95943-4007-5c14-a37e-eaa36cdba2eb)

Isaac

A wild swing caught Isaac across his jaw. The smack thudded through his skull, head snapping back. That would hurt tomorrow. But tomorrow was a world away, unreachable, intangible. All that he felt now was the copper tang on his tongue, the ringing in his ears, the aches and bruises darkening his ribs. His opponent was as bare-chested as he was, a brute twice his bulk, with a face not even a mother could love. Well, unless she was blind, deaf and dumb.

The Oak, they called him, thick as a tree – in body and mind. Though he was slow, he made up for it in strength. One good blow and it would be all over. Everyone knew what the Oak could do and everyone remembered the men he’d killed. And no one would bet against him on that mild, drizzly, August afternoon in Brighton. Isaac was as good as dead.

Knuckles split, Isaac grinned, a red sheen across his teeth.

He’d never felt more alive.

“Come on then,” he beckoned. “Is that it?”

There was no fear, no thought to the end result, nothing, only that moment – the fight, the thrill, the adrenaline in his system – the money waiting when he won. Because he would win this one, not like the others when he’d been paid to throw it, to fall. That would be suicide, to lose a fight with a man this size. He wasn’t that desperate, not yet.

Soon enough Isaac would have enough funds to buy back his father’s lands and make them profitable again, instead of the wasted, ruined, overgrown and tangled mass they were now. The name Roscoe would be restored to its rightful place, if he fought hard, if he worked for it, if he bled for it.

And he wouldn’t need anyone’s help or charity in order to do it.

The Oak lumbered forwards. Isaac jabbed, his fist meeting a hard jaw that didn’t mark. There was nothing, no effect, not even a flinch. The answering blow pummelled his own cheek with such ferocity that his sight briefly failed, as though it were snowing indoors. It all went dark. He was on the dusty floor. There was sawdust strewn beneath him – good for soaking up blood, piss, bile and whatever was beaten from the other men who’d tried their luck in the pit. It stank and stuck to his chin, mixing with saliva and too much red.

Moving was a battle; his entire body hurt. At least he still had all his teeth. For now. The Oak was playing with him. The smile offered – mainly gum, for that’s all that was left – told him that much.

The spectators roared, spat, snarled. It was a mix – rich and poor – all gamblers eager to make a win. One of them was a man Isaac recognised, who stood out amongst the rest, looking ill at ease and disapproving. He knew that man. It was his great-aunt’s ‘helper’ for lack of a better word.

Another heavy punch came his way, but Isaac was fast. He craned back, slipping on the gritty floor and barely holding his footing. He’d served for years at sea and developed a good balance, amongst other things. The Oak, on the other hand, had overstretched, gone too far, stumbled. It gave Isaac a brief advantage. A smack to the kidneys and a kick behind his knee forced the Oak down – and thankfully – sent his head into the wood panelling that fenced the boxers in. There was sickening CRUNCH, a crash of splinters, and then nothing.

Gone, unconscious, immobile.

A lucky turn for Isaac. One that kept him safe, from the Oak at least, for the crowd were not too happy with the outcome. They had wanted a more gruesome result.

Hisses, shouts and curse words were thrown at Isaac’s raw back, but no one stopped him leaving the ring, while the Oak dribbled onto the floor. As he’d anticipated, the familiar face – one from his past – followed, all the way out into the corridor, to the narrow lane between buildings; an extension of both the bar next door and the illegal boxing venue. Broken crates were lined up in the alley, an old dog prowled the leavings and two men were slumped nearby, playing a foreign game with battered wooden tiles.

Isaac tested his lip with his tongue and hissed at the sharp pain. “What do you want, Sebastian?”

“I have been sent to find you by your great-aunt.”

“You found me. Is that all?”

“It never is.”

“I know,” said Isaac grimly, chest rising and falling heavily, sweat leaving his hair in dark, clumped spikes across his forehead. “What does the old hag want now?”

An annoyed twitch had the wrinkles deepen around Sebastian’s mouth. “Lady Mawes has received concerning news about your conduct.”

“I am not the only high-born man to fight.”

It’s all he’d done this past month, seeking out guts and glory in the grottiest south-easterly towns. Moving from place to place, making a name for himself, attempting to forget what he was running from. It was living, or it would be until his luck ran out.

“Not this,” said Sebastian, voice as flat and drab as his clothing. “I refer to your other recent unsavoury activity.”

“Which one?” Isaac grinned a lewd, vulgar grin. “You will have to be a little more specific.”

“You know to what I refer.”

It had been almost a month since Isaac had parted ways with Miss Osbourne. News, he knew, travelled fast throughout London, although he had not expected it to reach the countryside and his home for a long while yet.

Sebastian was humourless and looked like a vulture with his black attire, thin white hair and scrawny neck. “Where’s the woman?” He asked in such a way that indicated he already knew the answer – and knew that Isaac did not.

“How should I know?” And why should I care? If he sounded petulant, it’s because he was. All the other women from his past he’d easily forgotten. Not her. It didn’t matter how much he drank or how many brawls he started, the pain and the liquor did nothing to drive away the image of her and those sharp last words. God, and that look upon her face. It haunted him. Reminding him of all he’d done and all he’d take back, if only he could…

Isaac pushed himself away from the wall and went directly towards the bar. No one stood in his way, though a few unhappy mutters were cast in his direction. There’d be a scuffle later, when the others were drunk enough to be brave and had forgotten the power Isaac held in his fists. More fool them.

“She’s your responsibility, as far as your great-aunt is concerned.”

“Mine?” He gestured to the barman, took a table and ignored the constant stares hurled his way.

“Yes,” said Sebastian, following his every step. The man had always been around since Isaac was a boy, managing the Roscoe affairs – like family, only the relationship was never stated. What Isaac’s aunt wanted done, Sebastian would do. He was stern, calm and seemed to have been old for ever – or at least since Isaac was young – and to have him here brought those childhood memories racing back.

They were not welcome ones.

“We received word from a banker, a Mr Osbourne, about the entire sorry affair involving his niece.”

“Why is this my problem?”

“Because she’s to be your wife.”

Isaac snorted, a broken laugh into the drink that had been set down before him. “Are you mad?”

There was only silence as a response, for Sebastian rarely repeated himself and never made jokes.

The table was sticky under Isaac’s elbows. He didn’t care; he was already filthy. “Is this old Lady Mawes’s command?”

“Naturally.”

“I knew she would succumb to her delusions eventually.” Ones about family and loyalty and kinship. “Here is the proof her sanity is finally gone.”

“Do you think this is the first misdemeanour that has met her ears?” Sebastian kept his voice low, as if Isaac’s reputation wasn’t already tarnished enough, as if everyone in their immediate surroundings and in nearby towns didn’t know the kind of man he was. “We have had to clean up after you for years, with tearful women sending letters, turning up on our doorstep and telling tales about your conduct.” The older man’s frown was levelled at Isaac’s appearance: shirtless, dirty, scraped and cut. No way for a gentleman to present himself, no way for a decent man to behave.

“You have?” Now that was a picture. He could only imagine his great-aunt’s face, her fury, as gossip spread and Isaac was firmly established as a rogue, a rake, a scoundrel.

“The family name is under threat due to your actions.”

“And this is my punishment?”

“This is your duty, Isaac,” persisted Sebastian.

And Isaac knew, with utmost certainty, that the man was right – not that it changed anything.

“Whatever match my great-aunt is thinking on making, the Osbourne girl is better off without me.”

Isn’t everyone?

The woman had suffered enough without pledging her life to him – and Isaac had vowed never to marry. He had seen, first-hand, what such a union could do when it was broken. It was better to have a different body to warm his bed each night. Less risk, less pain. Love was for fools and love created fools. He had lost too much in his life to ever lose his heart as well.

And, as far as everyone knew, he had no heart.

“She’ll be destitute without you, cut off entirely – as will you.”

“What?” The beer held Isaac’s focus no longer as his eyes snapped upwards and onto Sebastian’s.

“There will be no more funds, no financial support, unless you marry the poor wretch.”

“Fine,” he shot back. “I can survive on my own.”

Better to be alone – it’s safer that way.

“The woman you wronged cannot.”

“She wants nothing to do with me and for good reason.”

“It does not matter what she wants. The wedding has already been arranged a week from now, and I have been assured that Miss Osbourne will co-operate.”

Surprise slackened Isaac’s features and smoothed away the hard lines. “She will?”

It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t change anything, he reminded himself, though he struggled to believe it.

“What choice does she have? She’s alone, her betrothed has found another, her uncle has disowned her and she’s been shunned by all London society. And, more’s the pity, her last hopes rest on you.”

“Then she is doomed.” And he’d doomed her. He’d done this. Ruth. Guilt had hollowed out his chest and filled the cavity with lead. The girl would co-operate? That could mean anything. It doesn’t mean she’s forgiven me. “If I don’t agree to this marriage, I will be destitute?”





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