The Fox: in his Henhouse (The Dubious Mates #1)

Chapter 39

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

“ F ather.” Wells took the Duke’s hand in his own. “It is good to see you, Your Grace.” He looked down at him, more than a little alarmed by his shrunken state. This was not the man he remembered from even six months ago.

“Roland.” The Duke smiled, gripping Wells’s hand weakly. “You’ve come home, son.” He did not let go the hand.

Wells was surprised by such affection and worried the Duke was indeed not long for this world. “I am in London for a license, father, a marriage license, but I do not intend to stay long.”

“Oh?” His interest was piqued. “And who’s the lucky lady?” He tried to laugh but it came out a little choked. “Your mother wear you down, did she?” He regained his voice.

Wells found himself smiling. “She did, or rather, the lady in question wore out my heart.”

His father searched his eyes. “You’re in love with the girl? Who is she?”

“Charles Merrinan, sir.” Wells waited for a reaction.

“By God, the eldest Merrinan daughter! Is she as beautiful as her mother was? I would have given my eyeteeth for that strawberry-haired vixen, but she had her heart set on Benedict Merrinan. Never mind I’d a title and wealth and he had neither . . .” His voice faded with his memories.

“And here I thought you married Mother for love, sir.”

“Ha!” The Duke struggled a moment for breath. “Respect, boy. I married your mother for respect. One hell of a woman, but I can’t say I loved her, no.”

It was the most his father had ever said on the topic of marriage.

It was also no surprise.

The Duke continued his questioning. “And Benedict Merrinan? Give you his blessing, did he?”

“In a fashion, yes.” Wells chose not to elaborate.

“Good then.” The Duke closed his eyes a moment, for rest or from pain it was hard to tell.

“Father . . .”

“Hmm?”

“Did you love again—after marrying Maman ?”

“Oh, I suppose I loved several,” he admitted. “One in particular I kept for close to ten years. She and your mother got along rather well.”

“And Maman was not jealous of her? Or of others?”

“You thinking already to take a mistress once you marry, son?”

“No.” Wells’s retort was quick. “I simply fear Charles is currently less than enamored of my suit, sir.”

“Vex her much, did you?” His father chuckled. “If she’s anything like her mother, the girl’s got a temper. A temper and a mouth and a way of bewitching a man that’s nigh unholy.”

Wells nodded his agreement. “I worry she won’t come round, sir, title and wealth be damned.”

“Does she love another?”

“I don’t believe there is another, no,” he answered honestly.

“Then she’ll come round. If Benedict Merrinan hadn’t gotten to Adelaide Enright first, I swear I’d have had a chance with her, I would.”

Wells smiled to himself, imagining his father head over heels for Charles’s mother. “You sly devil you, sir. I can’t say I’ve ever thought of you in such light, old man.”

“You’re not the only handsome duke in London, boy,” his father teased, and then began to cough in earnest.

“Father, should I call for someone?”

“No, no.” He hacked bright spots into a handkerchief, then fell back heavily upon the pillows. “Water is all . . . Hell, pour me a whiskey instead.”

Wells went to fetch a glass from the sideboard.

His father took the drink with trembling hand. “Now, I want to hear of your progress on the Abbey and of Merrinan’s daughter. I assume you met her there, in Cumberland?”

Wells nicked his head.

“It’s good she’s of the land. Your mother forced me back to London, you know, or I’d have stayed forever. Bloody fine country it is. You’re wise to restore Almsdale, son. Lay claim to the Duchy once more. Give up the London townhouse once your mother dies. Waste of upkeep, I say.”

“You’ve read my mind, Father.”

“Fine, yes.” He appeared lost in thought. “And Roland . . .”

“Sir?”

“You’ve done me proud, boy, despite the horseshit she lays on you.” He was, of course, referring to his Duchess. “Proud of you for captaining a ship, for taking on the Abbey.” He closed his eyes. “Marry Charles Merrinan, son. She’ll make you a fine duchess.”

And Wells decided right then he’d tax his father no more with talk. Instead he sat with him in silence until the Duke fell deep asleep. He promised himself he’d sit with the old man again tomorrow and tell him about the work on the Abbey’s south wall.

It was enough to know his father lived and breathed and shockingly, seemed to care.

Though Charles had been in London well over two weeks, she could not grow used to the city. Not only did it stink—worse than Fergus ever had—it was a callous town, its inhabitants surly. The inn was a den of noise at night, with crashing brawls and even louder laughter that rudely kept her awake. And her first day at LeBrecht’s had been anything but easy. In fact, it had been humiliating.

The shop had two separate entrances, one for the Mesdames and one for the Messieurs , and she, of course, was relegated to working the Messieurs side. She was not alone either, for there was a steady stream of pretty girls who occupied this half of the store and worked alongside her, using the back room to model items for the gentlemen all purporting to be making purchases for their ‘sisters’ or ‘wives.’

Charles had yet to indulge a single gentleman by modeling undergarments for him, and her pay was a clear reflection of this, for Madame compensated primarily on commission, which meant Charles earned very little for her time. At this rate she’d either need to find a different job, different lodgings, or come to terms with showing more skin than she’d like.

One gentleman in particular called almost daily on her, intent on purchasing a pair of burgundy stockings and ribbons for his presumed wife and insisting Charles model the ensemble for him. He claimed he could not possibly make such purchase without being assured how the stockings would look on his wife’s long legs, legs which were apparently of just her own length and shape, or so he claimed. Charles had held out for days, but by his fourth visit she was worn down. His purchase would mean coin enough for her to eat dinner again, and she was hungry like she used to be, like the day their last two hens had been stolen by that fox.

She gave in.

“ Mademoiselle , they are exquisite.” The impeccably dressed gentleman looked upon her ankles with his own form of hunger.

“ Très bien, monsieur .” She pasted on a smile. “Shall I box them up for you?” She knew her voice was overeager.

“Not yet, miss.” His eyes met hers. “I should like to see the ribbons, too, of course.”

Charles nearly wept that it had come to this, as she grudgingly raised her skirt so he might gaze upon the bright, neat bow tied just above her knee, the shape of her calf on full display, a hint of bare thigh just beyond reach. He extended his hand to touch when for sheer instinct she slapped him away.

He recoiled at once, his face amused, while her own, no doubt, seethed.

“You are angry with me, chérie ,” he drawled.

“You have taken liberties, sir,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Gentlemen are allowed certain liberties at LeBrecht’s , dear Charlotte.” His lips curled. “If you wish to earn more here you’ll need to be a bit more accommodating to Madame ’s clients .” He’d said the last word in French while his ice blue eyes, more determined than ever, met hers. “Allow me to touch, chérie , and I shall buy two pairs.”

With an inward wrenching of her soul Charles turned away, unable to look at him a moment longer, then lifted her skirts once more, subjecting herself to a lengthy and unnerving exploration of her legs by a man whose every finger stroke made her shudder.

Wells asked Li again. “And you are certain it is she?” He no longer cared that the proprietress of LeBrecht’s saw his desperation.

“I am certain.”

“And she’s let no man?—?”

Li sharply met his gaze. “She is remarkably averse to the many propositions she’s received, Wells. I am astounded she’s held out so long.”

“And she looks otherwise well to you? She is not . . . ?” He held back. He knew he was too eager. Much too eager.

“She grows thinner by the day but appears otherwise in good health.”

“Thinner by the day?” He was incensed. “Do you pay her so little, Li, that she does not eat?”

“She earns on commission.” His friend appeared wholly unperturbed. “It is not my fault she will not induce more gentlemen to make more purchases.”

Wells knew Li was a businesswoman first, but this was too much. He reached for his purse. “For God’s sake, woman, if you won’t pay her, at least bloody feed her.”

But she refused his money, gently pushing it away. “My lord.” She placed her hand over his. “You must make her suffer some, if you wish to make her yours.”

Had he not known Li better he would have backhanded her.

“I know women like your Charlotte.” She looked almost wistful. “You must break her a little first, make her realize she needs you. Otherwise she will run from you again.”

Wells knew Li spoke from experience. She’d been proud once too—and also nearly broken; he knew what hell she’d suffered. It was why he’d risked life and crew to save her, why his men had threatened mutiny. Perhaps . . .

“My lord?” Li prompted.

“I need another two days.” His thoughts raced.

“Very well,” she replied. “But Wells?—”

“Yes?” His mind was a jumble of emotion.

“I cannot keep her forever. She will soon bolt, if she does not first capitulate.”

“Two days, Li, that’s all I need.” He was firm. “And ensure that she damn well eats.”

“As you wish.” She bowed, her skirts sweeping her away.

Charles laid the timepiece by her ear upon the threadbare pillow, listening to its steady beat. It soothed her to fall asleep to the rhythmic ticking and helped drown out the obnoxious noises of the inn. She ought to sell this pocket watch, she knew, for it would buy her time to find a different position, one which did not require her to pawn her body to men. She shivered to recall the tall gentleman’s hands upon her legs, hands which had felt nothing like his lordship’s. There’d been no warmth in ‘Redstocking’s’ icy touch—for that is what she’d dubbed him—no spark of awareness. Instead, she’d felt revulsion.

Yet she could not bear to sell the timepiece either. It was all she had left of Roland Wellesley. Her fingers felt for the indent of the musket ball, there where it had spared his father, the Duke’s, life. Wells should never have given her such a gift, but because he had, she felt responsible for it, wishing to return it to his family someday. Perhaps she’d give it to his son or daughter far in the future when all would be forgiven and forgotten. When she might return to Cumberland and make a life for herself on her terms, no one else’s.

Charles drifted into an uneasy slumber to imagine all she must endure yet here in London before she might escape its awful clutches once again.