The Complete Regency Surrender Collection

‘You lied to her.’

‘I did not. I said your family could not be trusted. I said I was frightened for her,’ the man said, gathering what nerve he could, and spilling a torrent of words. ‘It is clearly the truth. Your own actions prove that you do not care for her. Nor does she understand her place. She is getting above herself by running the shop at all. She needs the aid of a strong husband to protect and advise her, or it will all end in ruin.’

He had thought such a thing himself, two weeks ago. But he’d not been thinking of Pratchet as a font of wisdom.

‘Aid from you?’ He snorted. ‘For your help, she might have been hanged as a thief.’

‘You would not have let it come to that,’ Pratchet said, still sounding surprisingly confident. ‘If she was dead, you’d not have got what you truly wanted from her.’

That had been true, of course. But he had never considered that their affair would leave her vulnerable to a loveless marriage with this worm. ‘So you spread rumours about her?’

‘Her sister deserved to know the truth.’ The man raised his chin, as if Margot’s humiliation had been a righteous act and not despicable.

But it proved that what she’d said last night was true. All around her had known of their bargain and berated her with it until she could neither eat nor sleep. This man deserved whipping. Or at least he would have, if so much of what had happened had not been the result of Stephen’s own unchecked pride.

But some punishment was definitely in order and it must suit the criminal. Stephen smiled. ‘Since you are fond of truth telling, my agent, Smith, must hear some as well. I will explain that Margot is not at fault. It was you.’

‘You would not dare,’ Pratchet said, ruffling his feathers like a cockerel who did not know he was a capon. ‘Your brother is equally guilty.’

‘My brother is Larchmont’s son. And you?’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Are no one.’ Then he smiled with satisfaction at the thought of Pratchet squirming on the dock. It would likely not come to that. The man would run like a rabbit the moment he turned his back. But he would be seeking employment without reference and lie down at night in fear that the law might take him before dawn.

It was very similar to the ruined reputation and perpetual fear he had sought for Margot. In Stephen’s mind, it seemed quite appropriate. He turned and walked away, to show that the interview was at an end, calling over his shoulder, ‘Until we meet again, Mr...Ratchet.’

As he left the room, he heard the beginning of correction. But the goldsmith got as far as ‘Pra...’ before he realised that if the powerful, and likely vengeful Fanworth could not remember his name, it was probably for the best.

He turned back to give the man a final glare and exited the shop with a slam of the door that was almost as violent as his entrance had been.

* * *

Arthur had rooms in a hotel on the Circus. It was there that Stephen went next. He entered as he had at the jewellery shop, with much noise and no words. He pushed past the valet, going directly to where Arthur sat, nursing his usual morning hangover. Then, he grabbed his brother by the lapels and lifted him out of the chair, until his feet dangled, barely touching the floor. ‘Explain.’

Arthur laughed with much more confidence than Pratchet had been able to manage. ‘I suppose this is about the rubies.’

‘You suppose?’ Stephen punctuated the words with a little shake.

Arthur did his best, in his constrained position, to shrug. ‘I needed money. Gambling debts, old boy. I could hardly ask his Grace. And I knew Mother would cry if she was forced to defend me, yet again. Better that she weep for her lost necklace than for her useless son.’

‘You could have come to me,’ Stephen reminded him. It would not have been the first time that he’d needed to rescue his younger brother from his own folly.

‘Perhaps I should have,’ Arthur admitted. ‘Poor little Pratchet did not pay nearly so much as I’d hoped to get.’

‘Then why take them there?’

‘Two birds, Fanworth.’ Arthur smiled. ‘I was not the only one who needed rescuing. You were far too involved with the de Bryun woman. Something had to be done, before Larchmont got wind. I knew if Mother’s rubies turned up missing, sooner or later, you would go to her, seeking a replacement.’

‘Really.’ Arthur had approved of the idea when Stephen had suggested it. Since his younger brother’s judgement was notoriously bad, he should have seen it as an ill omen.

‘I thought you’d recognise the stones from the first. But you had them reset, ready to give back to Mother.’ Arthur laughed again. ‘It really is rather amusing, when you think about it.’

‘It. Is. Not.’

‘But it has given you a reason to put Margot de Bryun in her proper place, on her back and in your bed. I assume, after a week with her, your lust-addled mind is clearing and you are no longer talking nonsense about making her a member of the family.’

At this, Stephen released his brother’s coat, letting him drop to the floor. It was a relief to see Arthur waver on his feet, for a moment, then remain standing. What Stephen intended would hardly have been sporting had he collapsed.

He punched his brother, once, hard enough to break his aristocratic nose, and turned and left. It proved, yet again, that one did not need words, when one had actions.

Chapter Eight

When Margot finally woke, it was to daylight streaming through the curtains of the room and an aching head. There had been wine. Too much wine. And too little food, although it was not as if he hadn’t offered.

Fanworth.

She sat up, gathering the covers about her for modesty. She was alone in the room save for a breakfast tray, set for one, and growing cold beside the bed.

She glanced around again to be absolutely sure that there was no servant lurking about, ready to help her. Then she climbed out of bed to get her clothes, grabbing a piece of burned toast as she did so. She did not remember lying with him on the previous evening. But then, she did not remember much of anything, other than the wine. Had he truly left her untouched? And if so, why? Perhaps she had done something to render herself repellent to him. Dear lord, she hoped she had not been sick. That would be even more embarrassing than waking naked in a strange bed.

But his disgust and her humiliation might be the easiest way out of the situation. If he had already tired of her, she could go home and sin no more, and pretend that none of this had ever happened. Assuming, of course, that he did not call down the law upon her because of the necklace.

But what should have been a relief left her vaguely sad. Was what he had felt for her really so shallow that it could be satisfied in a single night? It put paid to the fantasies she’d had that her dear Mr Standish would confess his title and his love, and offer some deep and lasting connection.

She’d have had to refuse, of course. Such a match would have been unworkable for both of them. But still, she could live a lifetime alone, sustained on an offer and perhaps a few chaste kisses...

Passionate kisses, she corrected, rewriting the fantasy to include experience. Or perhaps the thing that had actually occurred between them. To have been loved once and well, as he had done the previous week, would be a bittersweet memory to balance a lifetime as a spinster. It would have been even better if he had been the honourable man she had fallen in love with and not a base villain who must be laughing at her naïveté.

She dressed hurriedly and downed the chocolate that had gone cold in the pot waiting for her to wake. The wine-induced headache eased somewhat with the food and a splash of cold water from the basin. Now, she must rush to the shop, for the clock on the mantel showed half past ten. Her arrival in yesterday’s gown would be a fresh embarrassment. It was far too late to sneak back to her rooms before the business opened for the day. But the sleep had done her good. In spite of the humiliation, she was better rested than at any time since she’d discovered the truth about the rubies.

She reached the door to the hall, only to find it locked. She cursed once, softly, in French, then she rang for a servant. And rang again when the footman who came refused to allow her to pass without the master’s permission.

The second summons brought the same housekeeper she had met on her first visit. Mrs Sims stared at her with a knowing glance that informed her she was no better than she should be, if she was on the wrong side of a man’s door in the middle of the morning. A single, disapproving nod added that it was exactly what she has suspected would happen when Margot had turned up on the kitchen doorstep. After this protracted, silent judgement, she said, ‘Lord Fanworth told me nothing about what to do with you, miss, other than to feed you. Which I did.’

‘Thank you for that,’ Margot said, attempting a friendly smile that had no effect on the scowling servant. ‘It was delicious.’

By the surprised look on the housekeeper’s face, Margot suspected that the tray had been served cold as a message from the kitchen.

‘Now that breakfast is over, I must be going,’ she said, giving another encouraging smile.

‘Lord Fanworth said nothing about that, miss,’ said Mrs Sims, not moving from the doorway. Though she had wished to bar entrance on the first visit, for the second, Mrs Sims meant to guard the exit.

‘Is Lord Fanworth in the habit of imprisoning women in his bedchambers against their will?’ She’d meant it to sound sarcastic. But given the circumstances, it was a legitimate question.

The footman and the housekeeper looked at each other for a moment, trying to decide if an answer was expected. Then Mrs Sims said, ‘It will take some time before the carriage can be prepared.’

‘Then I shall walk,’ Margot announced and pushed past them into the hall.

‘I will summon a maid to accompany you,’ Mrs Simms said with a sigh that implied that would take almost as long as the carriage. Clearly, she was stalling until Lord Fanworth could return.

‘A maid will not be necessary,’ Margot said and headed towards the servants’ stairs.

The housekeeper cleaned her throat. ‘The door is this way, miss.’ Apparently paying the wages of sin involved exiting through the front door in broad daylight.

‘Very well, then.’ Margot straightened her bonnet and walked, head held high, down the stairs, out the front door and into the street. Her willingness to walk alone probably cemented her impropriety in the eyes of the housekeeper. But in Margot’s opinion, it would be worse to be seen with a member of Fanworth’s staff than to walk alone. She had no wish to add to the rumours already spreading about her improper relationship with the marquess.

Once she was on her way, she walked quickly to discourage conversation, should she meet someone she knew. If someone saw her walking on the wrong side of the street and noticed her attire was not immaculately starched perfection, there was little that could be said in argument.

* * *

Once she arrived at the building that housed her shop, she had hoped to slip up the side stairs to her rooms, largely unnoticed. It should have been easy for the main salon was already crowded with customers.

But at the first sight of her, Jasper seized her hand and pulled her to the back room. ‘Miss de Bryun, we were terribly worried about you. You were not here to unlock the door. And so much has occurred...’

‘Calm yourself.’ She detached his hand from her arm and glanced around the room. ‘Where is Mr Pratchet? He should be helping in the main room, with the shop as busy as this.’

‘That is the problem, miss. Mr Pratchet is gone.’

For a moment, all she felt was relief. Then she remembered the trouble it was likely to cause. ‘Where did he go?’ she said, puzzled. It was too early for a trip to the bank. And she could think of no other reason he might leave his post.

‘We have no idea,’ Jasper said. ‘He did not say. But I do not think he is coming back. After the marquess spoke to him, he took his tools and—’

‘The marquess was here?’ she said, both surprised and annoyed. ‘What did he want?’

Jasper looked even more nervous at this. ‘He did not say, either. He asked after you, of course.’

‘Or course,’ she said drily.

‘When he was told you were not here, he went into the workroom and spoke to Mr Pratchet, in private.’

‘Do not pretend that none of you was eavesdropping,’ she said in frustration. She had told the staff never to gossip about clients. But it would be most annoying if they took this instance, above all others, to follow a rule that they broke with regularity.

‘He barely spoke,’ Jasper admitted. ‘And when he did, it was too quiet to hear. But he seemed angry. He nearly set the workbench on fire. The minute he left, Mr Pratchet gathered his tools and fled.’

What had she said the previous evening, to bring about such a visit? Perhaps it had been her mention of the man’s offer that had set him off. The marquess might have taken exception to it and decided to dispense with a rival. It was madness. Was he really so possessive as to allow her no male friends? She had not really intended to wed Pratchet. Nothing short of total catastrophe would convince her to marry a man who was so shamelessly scheming for her hand.

Perhaps he was angry that Pratchet had revealed his part in the deception. If so, she was not sure she minded that he had faced the wrath of the marquess. Why should all the punishment for this situation fall on her shoulders? The loss of a goldsmith would be an inconvenience. But she’d have fired him herself, eventually, just to stop the proposals. The more she thought of it, the better she felt that he was gone.

‘I think I understand what has happened,’ she said, with a sigh. ‘You are right. We will not be seeing Mr Pratchet again. Which means we are without a goldsmith.’ She pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to focus her thoughts. ‘We will manage as best we can, today. If someone comes, seeking repairs, we will send them to Mr Fairweather in Bristol. Tomorrow, I shall put the ad back in the London papers to replace Mr Pratchet.’

‘Very good, miss.’

‘I will check the workbench to see what he has done. Hopefully, Mrs Harkness will not come for her necklace. I did not think he had finished mending it yesterday.’

Jasper looked nervous for a moment. ‘Miss Ross dealt with that this morning, miss.’

‘Did she now?’ Margot glanced around the room to see the youngest of the shop girls peering at her from the back room.

With a twitch of her skirt and a bowed head, Miss Ross stepped forward. ‘It was only a single weak link, Miss de Bryun. And I have watched Mr Pratchet work, when the shop was not busy. A twist of the pliers, boric acid to prevent discolouration, a bit of flux, a bit of polish...’ She gave another curtsy. ‘I was very careful not to heat the rest of the chain.’

‘It sounds as if you learned well,’ Margot said, doubtfully. ‘But I would still have preferred that you had waited until I returned, so I could see the finished work before it left the shop.’

‘I sized a ring, as well,’ the girl said shyly. ‘It is still here.’

‘Show it me.’ Margot felt a strange thrill, half-apprehension, half-excitement. Could the recurring problem of overreaching goldsmiths be solved as easily as this?

The girl retreated into the back and returned with a plain gold band. ‘It was only half a size,’ she said modestly. ‘And up is easier than down. But really, down is nothing more than fixing a very big chain link.’

Margot took the ring and slipped it on to the sizing tool, noting the perfect roundness and the tidy way it rested, just on the size that the client had wished. Then she took up a jeweller’s loupe, examining each fraction of the curve for imperfection or weakness. When she looked up again, she smiled. ‘You do nice work, Miss Ross. Very tidy. I am sure, if this is a sample, that the chain was fine as well. Are there other repairs that you feel capable of attempting?’

They brought out the list and examined each item. The girl felt confident with all but two of the current requests.

‘Perhaps we can find something similar in the shop that you might use to practise those skills,’ Margot suggested. ‘We could break an existing piece and let you mend it.’

‘Ruin good work?’ the girl said, shocked.

‘They are my pieces. There is no reason we cannot do as we wish with them,’ Margot said reasonably. ‘If it means that I do not have to place an ad for goldsmith, it is worth the risk.’ Even better if it meant that she would not have to put up with the inconvenience of a gentleman developing a penchant for her, or her shop.

‘From now on, I wish you to spend as much time as possible at the workbench, attempting these repairs in order of difficulty. If that goes well, we can discuss wax casting.’

The girl’s eyes lit up. ‘I watched him at that, as well. He sometimes let me work the little bellows and pour moulds. It would be ever so exciting.’

‘Very good, then.’ Margot thought for a moment. ‘And it is hardly fair for me to employ you at the rate of a junior clerk if you are taking on more work. As of this moment, you will see a rise in salary to reflect your new duties.’

The girl’s eyes were as round as the ring in her hand. ‘Thank you, miss.’

She felt a ripple of jealousy throughout the room. It was hardly warranted. Other than Jasper, her staff had done little more than gossip and panic. ‘As for the rest,’ she said, loud enough to be heard, ‘we must see how we do without Mr Pratchet to help with the customers. It is quite possible that there might be more for all, if one less person is employed here.’

There was an awed whispering amongst the other clerks. And for the first time in a week it was not about Miss de Bryun’s recent strange behaviour.

* * *

All went well, for the rest of the day, except for one incident.

The shop was near to closing and the room quiet. The two well-dressed ladies who were her final customers had refused her help more than once. Yet they continued to glance in her direction as they pretended to stare down into a case of diamond ear bobs.

Margot moved closer to them, hoping that they would be encouraged to either make a purchase or leave. It was near to eight o’clock and despite the good night’s sleep she’d got, she was eager to return to her own rooms.

Before they realised she was near, she caught two dire words of their whispered conversation.

‘Fanworth’s mistress.’

Chapter Nine

‘A gentleman to see you, my lord.’

Stephen looked up from the writing desk in his private sitting room and waited for the footman to explain himself.

‘Lord William Felkirk,’ the man supplied.

‘I will be there shortly.’ He had been expecting such a visit since the last time he’d seen Margot de Bryun.

She deserved an apology, of course. Once she had forgiven him, he could make the offer he’d intended from the first. She’d been an innocent dupe in the matter of the necklace and would never have been involved at all, had he not taken an interest in her. That had been the thing to draw his brother’s negative attention. Then, Stephen had made everything worse by jumping to conclusions. But how could he ever set things right if she refused to so much as look him in the eye?

Conversation had been so easy between them, just a fortnight ago. She’d looked up and smiled each time he passed by the shop, as if she’d been searching each face that passed by her window, hoping to see him. In turn, he had been able to talk for hours without having to plot out each sentence to avoid embarrassment.

Now, when he paused each day in his walk past her shop, she gave him a Medusa stare, as if she would strike him dead should he cross the threshold. In response, his tongue felt like leather in his mouth. Even if he could have managed speech, when they had their agreement, he had given his word not to return to the shop. He could not very well hold private words of apology up on a card from the other side of the front window.

It was some consolation to see that when she was angry, her colour was slightly improved. But he missed the carefree happiness that had drawn him to her in the first place. He must find a way to return it to her, if only to put things back the way he’d found them before he had entered her shop and ruined her life.

Since he could not manage to speak to her, he’d thought a letter might do. He attempted one on several occasions, his left hand smudging and crabbing the letters, forming them even worse than usual. Carefully phrased sentences, which spoke of ‘mistakes’ and ‘misunderstandings’ were feeble and inadequate for the situation at hand. After hours of painstaking composition, he’d managed a worthy attempt. He’d taken full responsibility for what had happened. He offered marriage if she would have it. At the very least, he would give her so much money that she might close the shop and move to a place where no one had ever heard of her, or her association with him.

It was returned unopened.

Apparently, she feared another request for a tryst and had decided that their association was at an end. He could not blame her. By now, even he had heard the rumours that the Marquess of Fanworth had taken up with the jeweller. When he entered an assembly room, pushed his way through a rout, or attended a musicale, ladies whispered about it and gentlemen congratulated him on his excellent taste.

He glared at all of them until they went silent. But as soon as he was out of earshot, the conversation began again. Avoiding her did not stop the gossip. But going to her would only make it worse.

Something must be done. This visit from Felkirk came as a relief. She might choose to shun Stephen. It was wise to do so, he had earned her scorn. But in her brother-in-law, Stephen would have an intermediary who could not be ignored.

‘Felkirk,’ he greeted the man with his most formal bow, silently thanking God that it had not been the Duke of Buh-Buh-Belston he’d needed to greet. The man come to deal with him was the duke’s brother. In precedence, he was beneath Stephen and owed him respect. But his demeanour was of a disapproving schoolmaster, about to administer a whipping.

Felkirk took the chair he offered, but refused refreshment with a look that said he would rather sup from a pig’s trough than share a drink with the person he’d come to visit. ‘I understand that you have entered into a relationship with Miss Margot de Bryun?’

‘If I had, I would not speak of it,’ Stephen replied, narrowing his eyes to seem equally disapproving.

‘The lady in question is my wife’s sister.’

‘I know.’ When he’d imagined a union between them, he’d hung much on this relationship. The older sister had married well. If Margot was also elevated, would it really come as such a surprise?

‘Our connection is not widely known,’ Felkirk admitted. ‘That has less to do with any reticence on the part of my family than it does with the single-minded independence of Miss de Bryun. Margot did not wish to trade on the family name to make her success.’

‘She would not have to,’ he replied with no hesitation. ‘Her work is the finest I have seen in England.’

By the shocked look on Felkirk’s face, a two-sentence reply from the notoriously silent Fanworth must have seemed like a flood of words. That it came in praise of a woman he refused to acknowledge was even more interesting.

Felkirk gave a brief nod. ‘I will inform her sister of the fact. It will be a great comfort to her. But other matters are not.’ He gave Stephen a searching look, allowing him to draw his own conclusions.

When Stephen did not immediately answer, Felkirk continued. ‘My wife and her sister are very close. They are similar in appearance as well.’

‘Then you are fortunate to have a married a lovely woman,’ Stephen said, again surprising the man again with his honesty.

‘I am aware of that. But I am also aware of the sort of attention such beauty can draw when one appears to be alone and unprotected—’

‘Her looks are not Margot’s only virtue,’ Stephen interrupted, feeling suddenly eloquent when presented with his favourite subject. ‘She is an intelligent young woman with an excellent sense of humour.’

If Felkirk had been surprised before, now he looked positively shocked by this quick admission. ‘Since we can agree on her many excellent qualities, you must also understand how troubling it is to hear that she is entering into a liaison not likely to end in marriage.’

‘I fail to see how it can end any other way,’ Stephen said. Then he fixed Felkirk with a look that implied he was the one to put a dishonourable intent on their rather unorthodox courtship.

‘You mean to...’ It was like watching air leak from a billowing sail. Felkirk had not been prepared to win so easily.

‘Marry her,’ Stephen finished.

Felkirk responded to this with stunned silence.

The man expected him to explain himself. Not bloody likely, since any attempt to describe the current circumstances would end in a stammering mess. Stephen continued to stare, waiting for the man to speak.

He saw Felkirk’s eyes narrowing again, as he tried to decide what to make of this sudden and complete victory. ‘Margot would not tell us the reason that she went to you.’

‘Nor will I,’ Stephen replied and continued to stare at him.

‘A marriage is necessary, of course, and the sooner the better. The rumours flow faster than the water at the pump room.’ Felkirk stated the obvious, but in a doubtful tone as though suddenly unsure of his mission.

‘A special licence then. I will set off for London immediately.’

‘Immediately,’ Felkirk repeated. ‘Without speaking to the lady you are to marry?’

Stephen sighed. Perhaps, with some other girl, the matter could be easily settled between gentlemen. But his Margot was not the sort to let her future be decided by others. ‘I suppose I shall have to.’

‘You do not wish to speak to her?’ Felkirk was clearly offended.

‘She will not speak to me,’ Stephen clarified.

‘Despite the circumstances, I will not force her to wed you, if she does not wish to,’ Felkirk said.

‘She wishes it,’ Stephen said. ‘She is not yet aware of the fact. But she wants to marry.’

‘Then, how...?’

It was an excellent, if unfinished question. And then a plan occurred to him. ‘You must offer her an urgent reason to wed,’ Stephen said with a smile. ‘For example, if there were threat of a...’ He took a deep breath and forced the word out. ‘A duel...’

‘You wish me to call you out over this?’ Felkirk said with an incredulous snort.

‘If you would be so kind,’ Stephen said, relaxing.

‘I had hoped it would not come to that.’

‘It is not for my sake,’ Stephen reminded him. ‘It is for hers.’

‘But suppose she wishes me to fight you?’

‘If I know Margot,’ Stephen said, surprised by his own confidence, ‘she will not. She would think it foolish.’ His Margot was far too sensible to demand that men fight for her honour.

‘Then what good can it do?’ Felkirk asked.

‘Your wife will not take it so lightly. Suppose I am not the one injured?’

Felkirk gave him a speculative look. ‘Think you can best me, do you?’

Actually, he did. Fencing had been an excellent way to channel the rage he felt at his impediment. Those who had seen him with a blade deemed him a master. But now, he shrugged. ‘For the sake of argument, you must make her think I might. Though it may appear so, Margot will not risk the happiness of her sister to see me suffer.’ If such a strong-willed creature as his Margot had wanted to see him bleed, she’d want to stab him herself. Since he was as yet unmarked, he had hope.

Stephen favoured his future in-law with an expression that was positively benign. ‘Surely, accepting my name and title is not too much of a hardship, if it assures your safety.’

Felkirk held up a hand, as if to stem the rising tide of confusing arguments. ‘Am I to understand you? You are willing to marry my sister-in-law, if she would accept you?’

If he could not explain the whole story to Felkirk, he could at least give the man one small bit of truth. ‘It would make me the happiest man in England to take Margot de Bryun as my wife.’ He spoke slowly, to add clarity as well as gravitas. And he was relieved that there was not a tremor or a slur over the name of his beloved.

There was another significant pause before Felkirk said, ‘Will your family say the same?’

In such moments, there was no point in giving ground. ‘I assume you mean Larchmont. If you ask the question, you know the answer.’

‘Your father is notorious for his strong opinions,’ Felkirk said, as diplomatically as possible.

‘His opinions do not concern me,’ Stephen replied. ‘I would be more interested to know the opinion of your family. Since you are married to the woman’s sister, I assume I will be welcome in your house. And your brother married a cit’s daughter.’

‘The circumstances in both cases were unusual,’ Felkirk said, but did not elaborate.

‘In this case, they are not. I wish to marry Margot for love. The rest is immaterial.’

‘Other than her unwillingness to see or to speak to you, of course,’ Felkirk added. ‘Or to tell any of us what is the matter so that we might know whether we do greater harm than good by yoking her to a man she despises.’

She had loved him once. That he had managed to ruin that...

Idiot. Dullard.

And that was his father speaking again. He would stand squarely against such a marriage—that was all the more reason to press onwards. ‘I have no wish to make her unhappy by forcing this union. I simply wish for her to realise that she will be happy, should she marry me.’