Stolen Love (2 page)

I write to inform you we expect to be in London within the fortnight. My husband has found us a house to let on Tavistock Square. It is not far from you, so we shall be able to see each other quite often, I think. Would you be kind enough to send us your recommendations about servants etcetera? It would be a comfort to know they came from so reliable a source. We are so very much looking forward to seeing you again!

Beth has just now seen that I am writing to you and has given me strict instructions to tell you good evening (it is evening as I write), and I am also to tell you she wishes to hear you are well. She is home from school now, and Mr. Willard insists on bringing her to London with Amelia. Your "dear little Elizabeth," as you persist in calling her, is, I fear, somewhat awkward. However, it is not
absolutely
impossible to think London Society may cure her of some part of it.

We have a new curate here in Dartford, and I daresay he might do very well for Beth; he is not yet 50 years, or so I imagine. But, alas, this past Sunday I happened to perceive he looked quite often in the direction of our seats. No doubt he has his heart set on Amelia, but
she
cannot marry a curate! Someone more noble than he awaits my Amelia. Dearest Winifred, if you know of some clerk, a gentleman, of course, of your acquaintance who would do for Beth, might not the two of us contrive for them to meet? It would be a good thing if she were to find a husband. She has no fortune from her father, the poor thing, though I do not think my husband would let her go with nothing—he loves her too dearly for that.

Just as soon as we arrive and are settled, my dear Winifred, we shall call on you. I long to see you again! I remain—

Your Greatest Friend,

Mrs. Havoc Willard, and

Your own Mary

«
^
»

"M
ama!" The boy tugged on his mother's skirt. He was six years old, with a pinched expression and eyes that seemed unnaturally large. He was more than a trifle dirty, but his shabby clothes were neat. He wore trousers made from an old coat that had once belonged to his father. "Mama!"

"What is it, Johnny? I'm trying to get your sister settled!" She squinted down at the boy and with her free hand reached to wipe at a smudge of dirt on his face. "Really, can't you even try to keep clean?" she asked, sounding as though she knew he could not.

"Here." Johnny thrust something into her hand and retreated to the far side of the room to stare into the empty fireplace.

She looked at the paper only briefly before letting it fall to the table. Another bill she could not afford to pay was the least of her worries. The infant in her arms coughed, a soft hacking sound that brought a crease to her forehead.

"Mama?" Johnny turned from his position at the fireplace to look at his mother.

"What is it?" She blinked eyes red from long evenings spent bending over the piecework that earned her three shillings an item.

"The man said give it to you and tell you it's not no bill."

The woman looked at the packet before reaching for it. She could read just well enough to recognize her name written on the outside. Her first thought was it must be from her husband. She had not seen him since shortly after telling him of the impending birth of the child she now held in one arm. Judging by the quality of the paper, he'd done well for himself. It would be heaven to be able to afford such paper as this! She rose, tucking it into a pocket of her skirt, and put the baby down on the bed. The door was always shut against the noise and stench of St. Giles, but now she opened it, leaning back to keep it from closing. She took the letter from her pocket and tore the paper, standing at a peculiar angle in order to see in what light managed to penetrate the alley.

"Johnny!" she gasped. She clutched five crisp one-hundred-pound notes in her reddened hands. "Where did you get this? Who gave this to you?"

"I told you, Mama. A gentleman gave it to me. He said, 'Are you Mrs. Dwight's boy?' and I said, 'Yes, sir, I am, sir,' and he said, 'Then give this to your mother, it's not no bill.' And I did." He bit his lower lip, anxiously watching her rapidly blinking eyes as she stared at her hands.

She shut the door and sat down on the chair. "Come here, Johnny." She held out her arms, and when he came to her, she gave a hiccuping sob.

"Mama, don't cry."

Mrs. Dwight wiped her eyes and carefully re-wrapped the letter and money before putting it back into the pocket of her skirt. "Come with me." She put a careworn shawl around her shoulders, picked up the infant, and waited for her son to take her hand before going out into the narrow alleys of St. Giles. She walked rapidly, keeping her eyes fixed on the ground until she reached the police station on George Street. She stood outside for several uncertain moments before finally starting up the stairs.

"May I help you?" The words were kind, but the voice was not.

"I don't know, sir." She clutched her infant.

"Have you come to report a crime, then?"

"I don't know, sir."

"I suggest you come back when you're certain," the officer said.

"Please, sir, is there somewhere I can show you something?"

The officer's eyes narrowed. "And what might that be?"

Mrs. Dwight took out the packet and let go of Johnny's hand long enough to extract the letter. "This." She held it out. "I think it's from my husband, and I need to know if I can keep it." She waited until he looked up from the page. "There was money with it," she said, "but if it was stolen, I want no part of it!"

"How much money?" He regarded her intently.

"A fortune, sir," the woman whispered.

The officer looked at her, the child in her arms, the boy by her side shifting on nervous feet. "When did you last see your husband?"

"Last was over a year ago, and not a word since."

He shook his head. "Ma'am, this isn't from your husband." His fingers smoothed the expensive paper. "The letter says you are to keep the money, spend it however you like."

She took the paper back. "Who? Who is it from?" she asked.

"He wishes to remain anonymous, ma'am. But if you want my advice, you take that money and move as far away from St. Giles as you can get."

«
^
»

"
Bon soir, Monsieur Villines
!" The clerk at the Hôtel des Fleurs smiled as Nicholas approached the desk.

"
Bon soir, Jean-Marc. Comment vas-tu ce soir
?" Nicholas's French was flawless, and that, combined with his tendency to overtip, made him Jean-Marc's favorite Englishman.

"
Ça va bien, "
he said, handing over the key to Nicholas's suite along with a letter that had arrived earlier in the day. Jean-Marc had arranged to work past his usual time in order to deliver the letter personally. Mr. Villines tipped extra when he had a letter from this woman. He was not disappointed: five francs this time.

The first thing Nicholas did when he reached his rooms and had given Mr. Chester his coat was sit down and read the letter. It had taken nearly six weeks to reach him. He'd been traveling for almost that long, and the letter had been sent first to Rome, then Naples and
Pompeii before finally arriving in Paris. He smiled while he read, then sat back and read the letter again. "Elizabeth is in London," he said, taking the glass of brandy from the salver Mr. Chester presented to him.

"With Mrs. Villines, sir?" asked Mr. Chester, meaning Nicholas's aunt Winifred.

"No. The Willards are staying in London for the season, it seems."

The friendship between the Willards and the Villineses was long-standing, Mary Willard and Winifred Villines having gone to school together. The Willards had only one child, Amelia, who had been an immensely pretty girl the last time Nicholas had seen her some three or four years ago. No doubt the Willards were in London to find her a husband. Elizabeth Willard was their niece. Though her father was alive, he'd sent her off to live with his brother soon after she was born and had, so far as anyone knew, made no effort to see her since.

Though Nicholas was almost seven years older than Elizabeth, the difference in their ages had not prevented them from becoming friends. When he first met the Willards the year after his mother's death, he and Elizabeth had been constant companions during the summers and holidays the families spent together. He had a special fondness for Elizabeth. She was fearless (unlike her cousin) and clever (very unlike her cousin), hardly like a girl at all, as it seemed to him then. It was flattering how she adored him, and even when he was too old to play games with her, he would still take her on his knee to tell her stories and to do the magic tricks she begged him to perform for her. Mrs.
Willard had discouraged Elizabeth's tomboyish streak while Nicholas had done his best to encourage it because he could not bear to think of her simpering about like Amelia.

When he moved to Cambridge to attend university, he continued his subversion of her via the post. He had become committed to saving Elizabeth from her aunt after he took her to an afternoon concert for her thirteenth birthday. The orchestra had performed a selection of Haydn and van Beethoven. Elizabeth had sat very quietly through the Haydn, never moving her gloved hands from her lap. The van Beethoven was last, and it touched her as the Haydn had not. He had known it would because he'd felt the same way the first time he'd heard it. She had grasped his hand and not let go until the last movement was over. That afternoon had convinced him Elizabeth was different. The two of them were alike, he thought, a little apart, a little lonely, perhaps. It was comforting to think there was at least one other person even a little like him.

Although his letters to her never mentioned his difficulties after the death of his father, not long after his move to Pycham Street he'd received a letter from her enclosing a five-pound note—more than half her allowance for the year, he later found out. Her letter did not explain the money; there was no need to, so much between them went unspoken. And, damn it all, it had come in handy.

Now Nicholas wondered if she had changed much since the last time he'd seen her. Elizabeth was now twenty—he had sent her an edition of Voltaire's letters for her birthday this past May—but he would always think of her as the thirteen-year-old he had introduced to van Beethoven.

Nicholas read the letter a third time before folding it carefully and placing it in an inside pocket of his waistcoat.

"We will be returning to London on Friday, Chester," he said.

«
^
»

A
t forty-nine Havoc Willard was still a handsome man. His brown hair was just beginning to go silver at the temples, and in his gray eyes was reflected the quiet demeanor that had so often caused his business partners to have confidence in schemes that might not have succeeded had they been attempted by another man. He was the middle son of eleven children and one of only two boys to survive into adulthood. Being the eldest son, Havoc inherited his father's business, which he had turned into one of the richest, if not strictly the largest, trading houses in London. Havoc was a lucky man, and he was wise enough to appreciate the fact.

At present he was waiting for his wife, daughter, and niece to arrive from Dartford. He firmly believed that London was the place to bring one's daughter to get her married. Not that he worried a great deal about her making a good marriage. It was his niece who worried him. Havoc sometimes thought she was more like a daughter to him than his own. Elizabeth tended to be a little too solemn; even as a child she had been grave, but she had a quick mind and sound judgment. Mrs. Willard called her stubborn, and though Havoc had to agree, he admired her for it. Stubborn she was, but it was a subdued obstinacy, rarely seen by strangers, and disconcerting to those who expected a shy young girl to be easily led. She was also thoughtful and kind, which was a surprise to no one because it was in keeping with her looks.

In the interest of fairness, Havoc had sent both girls away to school when they were sixteen despite his private conviction that Elizabeth was much too intelligent for a girl's school. Now they were back and ready to be found husbands. He was not sure Miss Langford's School had benefited either of them. Elizabeth's mind was already superior and not in much need of improvement, and Amelia simply did not care to know anything much over what might be necessary to attract a man. Amelia, who had been beautiful her whole life, now had a taste for ruinously expensive gowns, while Elizabeth, who had gone through a painfully long awkward stage, was as unassuming and artless as ever.

The contrast between the two girls could not be greater. Amelia was light-hearted, always smiling and laughing at the simplest of jokes, if a man told them. She played the piano with skill and feeling, sang with a pure voice that delighted the ear, and she could read French with an impeccable accent. She was spoiled, of course, but it was a part of her charm. One would be hard-pressed not to think Amelia deserved to be spoiled. Amelia could easily fascinate a man, a good deal of the reason for it being her unshakable belief that she was fascinating. With such beauty as was hers, and a fortune to be had from her father, there was no doubt that she would marry well.

Elizabeth did not have the sublime attraction of a fortune. Havoc prayed that in all of London there would be at least one man capable of seeing his niece for the prize she was. To that man he would gladly give a fortune—if that was what it took—to secure the match. In his most private moments Havoc wondered if he did not love Elizabeth better than Amelia. The suspicion that it was true tortured him, and he had always indulged Amelia's many whims to atone for it.

The sound of a carriage outside interrupted Havoc's thoughts, and soon the unmistakable sound of Amelia's laughter could be heard. He sighed, put out his cigar, and rose to his feet when he heard Mr. Poyne, the butler, pulling open the front door.