A Debt Paid In Marriage

* * *

An hour later, Justin swung at Philip, who ducked and came up behind him. The skin over Philip’s bruised knuckles smarted as he curled his fingers into a tighter fist.

‘Not like you to be so sloppy.’ Justin danced around the ring out of Philip’s reach. ‘What’s gnawing at you?’

A bolt of pain raced along Philip’s arm as he jabbed at Justin and missed. They’d been sparring for over half an hour and neither the exertion nor the sweat trickling down the sides of his face had snuffed out the faint spark smouldering in the back of Philip’s mind, the spark ignited by Laura’s hand. The spark he feared was distracting him from noticing a potential mistake. ‘Nothing.’

‘You mean nothing as in your soon-to-be wife?’ They circled one another, fists raised. The sounds of other men fighting nearby and the pugilists calling out orders to them rang through the high-ceilinged hall. Though not as elegant or well fitted as Gentleman Joe Jackson’s establishment, the lessons here were for men like Philip and Justin who needed their skills to defend themselves, not simply dance around their opponents for show. ‘You know, if you have needs, I could arrange something less taxing than a wife.’

Justin stepped in to make a hit, but Philip side-stepped out of the way. ‘My needs have no bearing on the situation.’

His needs had nearly risen up in the hallway outside Thomas’s room to embarrass him and quite possibly her.

‘Liar.’ Justin circled Philip, whose raw knuckles itched to knock the smug grin off his friend’s face. ‘She’s the most attractive woman yet to appear on your doorstep, demanding her assets.’

Philip swung, his fist brushing Justin’s arm as he turned out of the way. ‘She wasn’t on my step, she was in my bedroom.’

‘And she will be again, many times with the way you’ve arranged it,’ Justin taunted, as unguarded with his words as Philip was guarded with his thoughts. ‘I still can’t believe you’re doing this.’

‘Why?’ Philip jabbed at Justin. ‘My son needs a mother, my sister a chaperon and my house a proper steward.’

The tally sheet he’d compiled on Miss Townsend rushed back to him. What was he failing to see? Why was he doubting himself?

‘You think it’ll be so simple, but mark my words, it won’t.’ Justin swung at him, but Philip didn’t turn fast enough and his shoulder burned from the hit. ‘It never is where women are concerned.’

Philip shook out his arm, the pain dull compared to his concern. Justin was right, it wasn’t so simple, nothing in life ever was. He’d loved Arabella and she’d loved him. They’d courted and married and she’d fallen pregnant with his child. Simple. The complications had begun with her pains. Then everything had turned into a nightmare.

‘We’ve sparred enough today.’ Philip snatched a towel from the hook on the wall and scraped the coarse linen over his face. It wasn’t too late to end the venture. He could send Miss Townsend to the safety of Halcyon House or provide her with a few pounds to start another draper business.

He ran the towel over the back of his neck, studying the mix of footprints in the sand on the floor. He couldn’t send her away any more than he could leave Thomas to cry in his bed. He’d seen her lodgings, heard Mr Townsend’s nasty words. He knew what waited for her beyond the protection of his home and name. He’d made her an offer and she’d accepted the terms of the deal. This would not become the first time he reneged on a contract.

His determination failed to erase his unease. ‘What if I’m wrong about Miss Townsend, the way I was with the silversmith I loaned money to all those years ago?’

‘Oh, you’re wrong. But not in the way you think.’ Justin rocked back on his heels and Philip nearly struck him in the gut. ‘You think you can keep Miss Townsend in your house, share her bed and still remain the aloof man of business?’

A bachelor with a taste for numerous women wasn’t a man to look to for marital advice, no matter how deep their friendship. ‘She understands the terms of our arrangement.’

‘Perhaps, but you don’t.’ He smacked Philip on the arm. ‘Now come and get cleaned up. You have tomorrow to face. Tonight, I have a very pleasurable venture of my own to see to.’

Justin turned and made for the dressing rooms.

Philip wrapped the towel behind his neck and gripped both ends. Justin was mistaken if he thought there was more to this contract than convenience. Miss Townsend was as practical as Philip, if not a little rash. She understood their arrangement. Or did she?

The idea Justin might be right about Miss Townsend wanting more nagged. He wasn’t stone enough not to feel something for her. She was too determined and strong not to admire. In many ways she reminded him of himself, still struggling to find her feet after a reeling loss. As his wife, she deserved his respect and he would give it. He refused to surrender his heart. Doing so was not a part of their bargain.

He strode to the dressing room, flinging the damp towel at the boy attendant near the door.

He’d made the mistake of writing his emotions into a marriage contract once before and had been made to regret it. He wouldn’t do it again.

Chapter Four (#ulink_2b7db947-6282-5537-b434-c6c758340ce3)

The steady chirping of birds broke through the haze of Laura’s fading dream. First one warbled, then another, until a chorus seemed to sit outside her window. Over the sharp tweets, Laura strained to hear the bell and her father’s voice through the floorboards as he greeted customers in the shop below her room. The only thing she heard was the click of the bedroom-door handle and the soft swish of shoes over the carpet. Laura snuggled deeper into the thick pillow, knowing it was her mother coming to chide her for sleeping late. She clutched the clean sheet up around her chin, trying to snatch a few more precious seconds of rest.

‘Miss Townsend, are you awake?’ Mrs Palmer asked.

Laura sat up, sweet memories of her old room, of her father alive and her mother well vanishing along with the feeling of warmth and love. The loss burned a hole through her chest.

‘Yes, I am.’

A fire crackled in the grate. Laura wondered how she’d managed to sleep through the maid coming in to light it. Perhaps it was the fact she’d slept at all which had allowed her to remain so soundly in her dreams. In Seven Dials, with all the noise from the other tenants and Uncle Robert’s drunken mutterings, it’d always been so difficult to sleep. ‘I’m sorry I’m still in bed. I should be up.’

‘You have nothing to be sorry about.’ Mrs Palmer laid a simple blue-cotton dress across the foot of the bed. ‘Mr Rathbone had Mrs Fairley, Miss Jane’s modiste, send this over. I’m to tell you, you have an appointment with Mrs Fairley at her shop this afternoon. She has a few other dresses from an unpaid order and will alter them to tide you over until a new wardrobe can be made.’

New dresses. Excitement crowded in beneath Laura’s lingering sense of loss. The idea of wearing a dress which wasn’t practically threadbare proved as irresistible as waking in a clean bed with no sign of rats having traipsed across the floor during the night. Laura picked up the sleeve of the dress and examined the fine stitching. ‘I’ve never had a modiste make my dresses. Mother always did it.’

‘You’ll like Mrs Fairley. She does good work and is quite nice, too. Came to Mr Rathbone about two years ago seeking a loan to improve her business and has done quite well for herself since. Mr Rathbone prides himself on patronising those he helps who make a go of things instead of wasting the money.’

Laura didn’t have to ask what happened to those who wasted Philip’s money. She already knew.

She laid the sleeve of the dress down, running her hand over the length of it to press it flat. The dress was sewn from a sturdy but soft cotton, Indian most likely, more utilitarian than silk, but with a few ribbons or the right bonnet it would suit as well for an afternoon at home as it would for attending a small tea. A fond smile tugged at her lips. She could practically hear her father’s words in her own thoughts, see the fabric from the bolt draped over his arm as he explained the weave and quality to a prospective lady buyer. Laura’s hands stilled and the smile faded. That was all gone now. A visit from the modiste would be the closest she’d ever come to experiencing it again.

‘Is something wrong, miss?’ Mrs Palmer pressed.

‘I’m all right, only a little overwhelmed.’ Truth be told, her head was still spinning from everything and it was all she could do to focus. How she would make it through the myriad other, sure to be surprising things which might happen this week, she didn’t know. However, if the most troubling thing facing her today was the shock of a new dress, then she really had no troubles at all. After all, she’d dealt with worse problems during the past year, much worse.

Mrs Palmer slid Laura’s old black dress from the top of the chair where Laura had draped it last night. If Mrs Palmer was concerned about the tatty dress staining the fine silk upholstery, she didn’t reveal it. Her face was all kindness and concern, reminding Laura of the baker’s wife who used to give her leftover biscuits from time to time until her husband had found out and put a stop to it.

‘I know it all must seem so strange, Mr Rathbone making up his mind so quick about you, but I assure you, Miss Townsend, you couldn’t have asked for a better man.’

It seemed Mrs Palmer was as enamoured of Mr Rathbone as Laura’s mother. If only she could be so certain about her decision. However, it was a comfort to see the older woman so eager for Laura to like Mr Rathbone as much as she obviously did. It was better than her trying to secretly warn her off him.

Mrs Palmer’s ruddy smile returned to her full cheeks. ‘Here’s me gabbing with the day getting away from us both. There’s breakfast waiting for you in the dining room when you’re ready. I’ll send Mary up to help you dress.’

‘I can manage.’

‘I don’t doubt you can, but Mr Rathbone wants her to assist you. If you need anything, you be sure to let me know.’

Mrs Palmer dipped a curtsy then left as quietly as she’d entered, the nearly frayed edge of Laura’s old dress fluttering behind her and almost catching in the closing door. The dress would probably be tossed in the kitchen fire the moment she reached it. Laura was glad to see it go. It was an ugly reminder of how much she and her mother had lost during the past year.

What would the next year bring? She still couldn’t say.

Laura flung back the covers and slipped out of bed, determined not to complain or worry, but to face whatever was coming with optimism. At least her uncle had fallen in debt to a young, handsome moneylender and not to one of the many crooked, gap-toothed men she’d seen haunting the rookery in search of payment. It was the only thing of value he’d ever done for her.

A soft knock at the door was followed by the entrance of a young woman with a snub nose and brown hair peeking out from beneath a white cap. ‘I’m Mary. I’m here to dress you.’

The girl said little as she helped Laura dress, lacing Laura’s worn stays over the crisp white chemise. Holding still so the maid could work gave Laura the chance to take her first real look at the room. It was smaller than Mr Rathbone’s, but well appointed with solid, simple pieces of furniture. She wondered if they’d been made by one of the upholsterers who used to frequent the shop. She studied the faint white line running through the flowing silk of the bed curtains, thinking it a familiar pattern, when the image of another room suddenly came to mind.

She wondered how many more mornings she’d wake up here before she found herself in Mr Rathbone’s bed.