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The Arrangement. Lyn Stone
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“What if she refuses? We only have two months left to convince her, and so far she hasn’t given me a speck of encouragement,” Randall complained. “She won’t marry me.”
“Don’t you worry about it, my boy. A little laudanum in her wine will do the trick. I’ve got the parson in my pocket already. Old Tim Notchworthy’s not above a hefty bribe. We’ll have this marriage sewn up right and tight in a few days. All we need do is keep her groggy afterwards. Ain’t that unusual for women these days to fall slave to the opiates.”
Kathryn heard the clink of glasses. Good God, they planned to drug her, concoct a sham of a marriage and take over her inheritance? Her own uncle, for heaven’s sake!
Outrage overcame her shock, but, fortunately, not her prudence. Confronting them with their heinous knavery could be dangerous. With a quick shake of fury, she crept back upstairs to her room and stuffed a few clothes in a small carpetbag. Obviously, Uncle Rupert hadn’t heard her come home this evening. If she hurried, she could be away again before he knew she had ever returned. But where could she go that he or Randall wouldn’t find her and drag her back to complete their plans?
She had no close friends living near London, and no funds with which to travel far. Tearing open her reticule, Kathryn counted her money. The pittance Uncle gave her for fripperies wouldn’t hire fare to the next county. Taking Thomas and the carriage back out would draw attention. She would have to ride. With an angry sigh, she tore off her day dress and donned her sturdy blue riding habit.
With all the stealth of a practiced thief, Kathryn stole down the servants’ stairs and made a dash for the stables. Thomas was nowhere about, thank God. Not that he’d ever tell, but Uncle might dismiss him if he thought they had conspired in her getaway. Her stout little mare whinnied a greeting.
“You’re about to become a racehorse, Mabel,” Kathryn said as she struggled with the sidesaddle. “And God help me, you’d better go the distance!”
A plan began to gel as she threaded Mabel through the back streets at a steady clip. She would call in a favor, or resort to blackmail, if necessary, but Jonathan Chadwick was going to be her savior, one way or another. He was the only one she knew with a great place to hide. If no one had discovered Pip in all this time, no one would be able to find her, either.
Jon exited the lane onto the main road, carefully keeping Imp to a walk. Wouldn’t do to arrive at the Turkingtons’ affair covered with road dust and sweat. As it was, he would probably smell of horse, but there was no help for it. He hadn’t been able to scratch up enough to hire the coach this time. Perhaps his smell would keep the female leeches at a distance. He resisted the urge to wipe his forehead. Already the powder was beading up there and threatening to run down his face in rivulets.
A rider approached and stiffened in the saddle as he watched. The woman sped to a canter, and he recognized her, even at a distance. Kathryn Wainwright.
“Chadwick?” she called, reining to a halt several lengths away. “Thank God it’s you. I need your help!”
He dismounted and strode over to assist her down. She pushed herself away from him and brushed tousled blond ringlets out of her eyes with the back of her hand. He wondered if she knew how fetching she looked in her disarray.
“If it isn’t Miss Wainwright! To what do I owe the pleasure?” Jon inclined his head in a mocking bow.
She drew in an unsteady breath and looked at her feet. Even in the fading light of sundown, he noticed the fierce blush on her cheeks. “I really need your help.”
“So you’ve said. My wish is your command, of course, but I’m in rather a hurry. An engagement, you see.” He took her hand and felt it trembling. “Come now, speak up. I haven’t got all night.”
Her hand turned palm up to grasp his in a death grip. “Let me hide in your house, sir! Please!” She rushed on before he could think what to say. “If you will, I won’t write a word about you. Ever. My oath on it. Just let me stay for two months. I can look after Pip for you, cook, clean, whatever. Please say I may!” Her other hand joined the first and worked frantically over the stretch of his ostrich-skin gloves. “I will pay you, too. Soon I’ll have lots of money and I’ll pay you well.”
Jon looked down into the wide, teary eyes. They darkened to near black. Deep, rich chocolate. Her brow furrowed and her lips trembled as she waited for his response.
While nothing in the world would have pleased him more than holing up in his house with this spicy little morsel, Jon knew he couldn’t allow himself that. How could he explain Pip’s absence? Even if he could concoct an explanation, Grandy wouldn’t keep her mouth shut. She’d give away the whole ruse, and Kathryn would have the story of his life. So would all of London. “That’s not such a good idea, Miss Wainwright.”
Her face crumpled. Two giant tears trickled down her cheeks and dripped off her chin before she got herself in hand. He led her over to a large boulder just off the road and settled himself beside her. “Now then, why don’t you tell me what’s prompted this unseemly suggestion of yours?”
Kathryn cleared her throat. She drew her hands away from his and smoothed them over her corseted waist. “My uncle plans to marry me off to his wretch of a partner. They want my inheritance, and I don’t mean to let them have it.”
“Inheritance?” Jon hoped his greed didn’t show. Not greed, he reminded himself. It was need that prompted his interest. Need, and his healthy sense of self-preservation. “They cannot make you wed if you refuse to.”
“Yes! Yes, they can! I overhead them planning to drug me and bribe some minister to perform the deed. Oh, please, Mr. Chadwick, you have to help me!” Her breath shuddered out, and he feared she was about to begin weeping in earnest.
“Your own uncle is party to this scheme? It must take a frightful amount of money to inspire that sort of thing,” Jon said, probing none too tactfully.
She didn’t seem to notice his lack of subtlety. “One hundred sixty thousand pounds!”
Jon’s mouth dropped open. “Good Lord! I’ll marry you myself!”
Her wits seemed linked to her anger. At least they both returned to her at the same time. “Ha! What makes you think I’d let you get your long-fingered paws on my money, when I just ran away to prevent such a thing?” She stood up and paced furiously back and forth in front of him, twisting her fingers and shaking her head.
He hadn’t really believed she would entertain his half-baked proposal, but perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to push a little further when the time was right. For now, he would be the helpful friend. “Well, then, it seems to me you should simply take your fortune and make yourself scarce,” he suggested amiably.
“No, I can’t do that,” she declared. “Father left it in trust to me, and I can’t touch it until I’m twenty-five. He didn’t trust me to manage it until I’d passed my youth. Not even then, if you want the truth. He thought I needed a husband, of course.”
Jon smiled. He wanted to jump up and down. “Then take a husband you can manage, sweetheart. I promise I’ll be the soul of cooperation. You call the tune, and I’ll play it. What say?”
She stopped pacing abruptly and faced him. A light came on in her eyes, turning them almost amber. An unsteady little laugh escaped, and she clapped her hands. “Genius! I knew you were a genius, Jon Chadwick!”
“So you’re proposing to me now? I accept!” He laughed, too, amazed at how easily he had solved both their problems.
“Dream away, Chadwick,” she said smoothly, and raised that square little chin of hers. “You’re going to arrange a marriage for me, all right, but not with yourself. I’m going to marry