Firelight
Page 3“I’ve seen him,” hissed Margaret. “Late one night on the way home from the theater. He walked along Piccadilly as if he had every right to do so. I swear I nearly swooned from fright!”
“You poor dear. What has the world come to when men such as he are permitted to roam the streets?”
Miranda had never heard such censorious drivel.
“My dear, he is aristocracy,” said Margaret, “and as rich as Croesus. Who would dare question him? I heard he has sent at least four men to hospital for simply looking at him in the wrong light.”
The conveyance came flush with the shop window. Miranda caught a glimpse of the black top hat and cloak of a coachman, a black coach with a white shield upon its door.
“Heavens, he looked at me…” Jane shuddered, and with a moan, her eyes rolled up in her head.
“Jane!” Her friend tried to grab her as the woman began to topple.
“Here! Here!” The clerk jumped up, running to catch the hare-brained woman.
There was something to say for flighty females. Miranda acted, slipping the necklace into her skirt pocket as she rushed to aid, accidentally brushing several necklaces off the counter in her haste. “Oh my,” she exclaimed, frantically trying to gather the jewels and succeeding in making a muck of it. Ropes of gold and gems fell to the floor, a hopeless muddle.
The clerk wavered between assisting her and struggling to help the matron on the floor. Perfect.
“What a mess I have made!” Miranda pressed a shaking hand to her brow. “I am sorry. And you have your hands full!”
She reached the door, her heart pounding. It pounded every time. Every time.
“Wait, Miss!” The clerk buckled, his hand outstretched as if he would pull her back.
Hand twitching on the doorknob, she shot the clerk a regretful smile. “Good-bye. I am sorry.”
His words were drowned out by the bell.
Outside, the coach in question was gone, swallowed up by street traffic and drifting fog. Only now did the gaping pedestrians begin moving on. Unsettled murmurs rippled along the streets before being drowned out by the usual clatter and clang of hacks, omnibuses, and coaches rattling along the cobbled road. Miranda decided she did not want to know what the unfortunate Lord Archer looked like. She had experienced enough horrors in her meager lifetime.
The slight weight in her pocket felt like a ton as she made her way home. Miranda’s steps stuttered to a stop as she saw the sleek, black double-brougham stretched out like a coffin in the front portico of the house. Thick whorls of yellow-green evening fog rose from the cobbled drive, ghosting over the coach’s large spoke wheels and coiling like snakes round the spindly legs of the matched black Friesians that stood placidly waiting.
Dread plucked at her insides. Long gone were the days when their drive filled with endless lines of landaus, barouches, and phaetons as nobility and gentry alike called upon father to purchase his wares.
The coach drew near, and the form of a figure, no more than a broad black outline of shoulders and the glimpse of an arm, appeared behind the window glass. As the coach pulled away, a finger of ice slid along Miranda’s spine, for someone was staring back.
“I shall not!”
Her shout bounded off the bare stone walls of the dark, cramped kitchen. High and rather thready, nothing like Miranda’s normal voice. She struggled to tone it down.
Her father moved around the battered wooden table that stood between them. His small brown eyes flashed. “You most certainly shall!” He slammed his fist to the table. “My word is law here!”
“Bosh.” She slammed her wooden spoon down as well, sending a splatter of mutton stew across the pudding. “Your control over me ended the day you sold Daisy off to the highest bidder.”
The wrinkled mask of his face went pale as Irish linen. “You dare!” His hand rose to strike but held, hovering in the air and shaking, when she did not flinch.
“Please try it,” she said quietly. Her eyes held his as the air about her began to coalesce, heating and stirring with an almost expectant agitation. “I beg of you.”
Father’s hand quivered then slowly lowered. “I’m sure you do, daughter.” Spittle slicked the corners of his shaking lips. “See me writhe and burn.”
Miranda shifted, heat and pain mingling within her belly, a surge that wanted out.
“Always calling upon the fire to protect you.” He took a step closer, his eyes burning into her. “Never mind the price.”
Like a flame in a draft, the heat snuffed, and with it, her father’s confidence seemed to swell.
“The worst of it is that I do this for you,” he coaxed, leaning in. “You’re not a lass anymore. Not for years. Did you think to live here forever with me?”
“No, I—” Her mouth snapped shut. She had not given the future much thought but simply lived from day to day. Surviving. No point exchanging the hell one knew for the hell one did not.
“I think you must believe so. You’ve scared off every lad that’s come this way ever since that fool Martin…” He swallowed down his words aware, for once, that even he might have gone too far. But he rallied quickly, and his bushy brows formed a white V. “It cannot have escaped your notice that this is the finest meal we’ve had in months.” His weathered hand swept over the meager meal of mutton stew and simple brown bread pudding that Miranda was preparing. “Who do you think provided the money for this meal?”
“I thought perhaps you’d sold the wool—”
His dry cackle cut the air. “With the price of wool being as low as it is, and the debts I owe, we’d be lucky to dine on fish-head stew. My creditors will take the house before the year is out,” he said quietly. “And you will have no home to come to.”
A home? She almost laughed. She hadn’t a true home in years. Not since her sisters had left.
“Oh, stop!” Miranda snapped. “You paint a very grim picture, indeed. And one that’s hung over my head for years.”
“Bloody hell!” The pudding crashed to the floor in a mess of brown scum and broken crockery. “You owe me, Miranda!” Rage colored him red as he pointed at her. “If it weren’t for that fire, I’d have half my fortune! By God, you destroyed my bloody warehouse!”
“Years I have paid penance for my mistake!” she shouted. “Still, it is not enough. Well, I am done with it.” Her hand slashed the air as if the motion could somehow sever their conversation. “You cannot make me do this!”
Father’s thin lip curled into a sneer. “Aye, I cannot,” he agreed with sudden calmness. “The agreement states you must go willingly, or it is void.” He took a step closer, pressing up against the wooden table, and pointed with a trembling finger. “But I’ll tell you this: Should you refuse, you’ll no longer live here.”
Her throat closed, red-hot pain forming a large lump there. The lack of a home was one thing. The lack of proper shelter was another beast entirely. “You cannot seriously…” She swallowed.
The yellowed whites of his eyes flashed in the lamplight. “I’m done with you. I would not have kept you as long as I have if I weren’t waiting for this moment. So you’ve had a disappointment with Martin. I’m glad for it! I was a fool to even consider it. Some promises are too dangerous…” He swallowed audibly. “Your bags are packed, either way,” he snapped.
So it had come to this. Miranda’s lower lip quivered before she bit down hard. There was little love lost between them. But he was her father, and he was prepared to toss her to the wolves. Pain radiated across her chest, seeping into her bones.
Father’s eyes were flat. Dead. She knew that look. His decision was made. Even so, she could not but try.
“I cannot believe you would—”
“You will marry Lord Archer!” he shouted out, his temper breaking like glass. “Devil take it, the man is one of the richest nobles in the kingdom. I cannot believe your stupidity for even refusing. Of all the bleeding stubborn—”
“But why?” A wretched sob escaped before she could swallow it down. Hateful that she should be weak before him.
He stopped short and blinked at her. “Why what?”
“Why does he want me?” She wiped a hand over her mouth. “I am nobody. I’ve never heard of the man before today. How can he know me?”
Father’s expression froze for a long moment before he broke into an incredulous laugh. “I may be a failed man, Miranda Rose. But I have one jewel left in my coffers.” He came round the table, his expression almost fond. She backed away from him, bumping up against the worktable. Father stopped but the satisfaction in his smile remained.
“Lord Archer has wealth, power, and land. A man such as that need not look to nobility for a bride. Overbreeding has left their rank chinless and small-eyed. You, my dear, are a diamond in a sea of cut glass.” A familiar gleam lit Father’s eyes, the glint of a transaction well played. “The finest feather for his cap.”
For a moment, she saw red. “I will go to Poppy or Daisy.”
A terrible silence fell between them, and her father’s confident expression withered. He went pale as cream. “They won’t want you. Never have.”
Father raised his hands in disgust. “He has paid handsomely for the right to you, Miranda. If you plan to forfeit the agreement, then I am leaving.” He straightened his tattered waistcoat and smoothed his disheveled hair. “I suggest you do the same. Believe me when I say that Lord Archer does not take kindly to being cheated.”
“Oh, I believe you.” Something told her his being cheated by Father had put her into this mess in the first place.
They stared at each other for a long minute, her finger tapping an idle rhythm against the counter while her father waited in stony silence. She ought to hate this Lord Archer for buying her like a commodity. Save he’d only done the same as nearly every gentleman in England did. Marriage was a business. Any sensible girl knew this. It was only when they had come down in the world that she’d started to hope she might marry for love.
The stew bubbled brown and thick in the pot next to her, making her stomach growl. She missed having steady meals, a life free of theft and guilt. A wash of shame hit her so suddenly that she sucked in a pained breath. Lord Archer had entered into an agreement in good faith. Only to become another man her father would cheat, and she’d be a part of it.
No more. She would not become like Father. She could live a life of honor and walk with her head held up from now on.
Faced with the choice of living on the streets or doing the honorable thing, her decision was rather easy. Unfortunately, that did not stop her stomach from turning over as she forced the words from her mouth.
“All right.” The vision of the silly shop matron in a swoon flashed in her mind, and a moment of pure terror wracked her body. She swallowed hard. “All right. I will do it.”
He gaped at her, unbelieving. When she simply stared back, a smile pulled at his mouth. “Very good.” Satisfied, Father grabbed a thick slice of bread off the counter. “On the morrow, then.”
Her head snapped back. “What!”
He half-turned, his mouth already full. “He insists upon marrying you tomorrow,” he said around the bread. “Everything has been arranged. Lord Archer has already acquired a special license so there is no impediment or need to wait.”
The fire beneath the burners flared high for an instant. Her life had been bought, sold, and arranged quite neatly. Bloody men.
Her father tore off another hunk with his teeth and turned to go.
“Stop!” Miranda reached deep into her pocket and pulled out her spoils. “Take it!” The pearl choker slammed to the table. “And treasure it well, for it is the last thing I shall ever steal for you. We are more than even now, Father. After this, we are finished.”
Chapter Two
Getting married was a happy dream that had filled Miranda’s girlhood thoughts and promptly left as she grew older. She well knew the face that looked back from the mirror each morning. She was not foolish enough to pretend that she was without beauty. Vanity may be a sin but so was lying. She was fair of face and form, though she knew many a girl who looked better.
However, as a woman without fortune or title, she received few offers of marriage. The most consistent offers came in the form of teasing shouts from market vendors when she walked to Covent Garden each Saturday morning. How then, she thought as Daisy pinned white roses in her hair the following morning, had it come to this?
Perhaps it was a dream. The woman in the mirror didn’t look at all like her. She was too pale. Her pink gown, one of many provided by Lord Archer’s money, ruffled and frothed around her like a confectionary. Miranda turned away with disdain. It was the image of an innocent and a maiden. She was neither. And yet he had come for her. Why?