Chapter Two

A wife!" "Jesus Christ," Chris snarled. "Keep your damned voice down. If I had wanted everyone in the fucking city to know, I'd have taken out an advertisement." He paused to sling the burlap sack in his hand over his shoulder, adding reflectively, "In fact, perhaps that's how I ought to go about it after all." "You can't order up a wife from an advertisement," Rafe said. "What would you even say?" "Hell, I don't know." Chris grabbed his glass of whisky with his free hand, turning toward the stairs. "Something like, ‘Infamous ne'er-do-well seeks well-born bride,'" he said snidely. "‘Face and figure unimportant. Preference will be given to any woman who knows how to hold her tongue.'" Rafe issued a scathing snort as he started up the stairs after Chris. "You'd be lucky not to be shot on sight." "Wouldn't be the first time." He'd been shot, stabbed—and more recently, just a few months past, had his knee crushed. But no one had succeeded in killing him outright. Yet. "Can't abide a prolific talker," he said. "I'd prefer a woman easy to ignore." "Ignore?" Rafe uttered the word as if it were senseless, something anathema to him. "Why do you want a wife, if only to ignore the poor woman?" "Keep up, won't you? You'd think you were the one with the bad knee." Chris threw back the last of his whisky and left the glass upon the flat newel post on the banister at the top of the stairs. One of his staff would be along sooner or later to collect it. "I don't want one," he said. But a man had to have one eventually, especially a man in his position. Money opened only so many doors. Respectability was a currency he'd never cultivated. Life had been so much simpler when he'd been his own man, answerable to no one. But his actions no longer reflected solely upon him, and he owed it to Emma to be the sort of brother she could be proud of. He might never erase the stains of his humble origins, the stink of the sewers in which he'd spent the bulk of his younger years—but a proper wife would open more doors than he could jam the toe of his boot through on his own. "It's the way all this is done, isn't it?" he asked as he cast open the doors leading to the balcony overlooking the garden below. "I haven't got the bloody time or the inclination to be bothered with the shite your sort thinks is important." Damned paper-hanging patterns and dinner menus; the tedious, monotonous underpinnings that went along with a grand house and a great deal of money. "Thought I'd marry a woman to sort it for me." Someone suitably desperate. She'd have to be, to take him. "There's more to marriage than that," Rafe said as he followed Chris out onto the balcony. "Not for me, there ain't." Chris slung down the sack, dropped it at his feet, and thrust his hand inside to retrieve an orange. "Isn't," Rafe corrected absently. "What the devil are you doing with a sack of oranges?" "Orangery's lousy with ‘em," Chris said. In fact, he'd selected this particular house because it had had one. In his younger days, when he hadn't had so much as a brass farthing, he'd seen street sellers hawking them. Had imagined the taste of the vivid fruit, bright as the sun. Had stolen more than a few, and gobbled down the sweet, tart flesh. It hadn't been nearly as satisfying as he'd imagined, but it had represented the sort of life he'd longed to have. One of luxury and excess; the indulgence of such fruits even in winter. So he'd insisted upon the damned orangery, and now they were the bane of his existence, the overabundance of them. Mostly he sent them on to Emma's; a treat for the children. But on Tuesdays— "Here," he said, tossing the orange to Rafe and selecting a new one for himself. "Tuesdays are at-home days." "I beg your pardon?" "Thought I'd have a bit of fun. Just wait." He nodded toward the house on the right, the garden separated from his by a high stone wall. A wall that would have, had they been one floor lower, thoroughly obstructed their view. But the view from the balcony was perfect, and they could clearly see down into the garden of the adjacent house, where a stone path meandered through a few hedges, through a wash of striated pink and white roses in full bloom. And it was Tuesday . Chris braced himself upon the banister and waited. Already the breeze tossed flickers of distant voices in his direction, wafting to his ears in indistinct snatches of sound. "Whose house is that?" Rafe asked, his gaze sharpening as he stared in the direction from whence the voices had come. "Shh," Chris chided. "They'll hear you." The breeze shivered through the trees, the rustling of leaves deafening the voices for a few moments. A flash of pastel blue caught his eye past the bobbing white and pink roses, a sliver of skirt proceeding down the path toward the wall. At last a woman came into view in the company of a gentleman, and Rafe drew in a surprised breath. "Is that Phoebe?" Rafe asked, pitching his voice low. "Good Lord. I had no idea you were living next door to the Toogoods." "They moved in perhaps a month ago," Chris said. "Heard the servants giving fervent thanks they'd not have quite so many rooms to clean going forward." Probably the family had not known who, exactly, their new neighbor had been, or they'd have had second thoughts. "Well, with seven of their children married and out of the house, I suspect they don't require quite so many bedchambers any longer. The lease on a house the size of their former abode must have been monstrous." "Seven children?" Chris echoed incredulously. " Seven ?" "Eight, all told. Seven daughters, one son. Phoebe's the last of them left unmarried." Chris made a disdainful sound at the back of his throat. "Of course," he said. "Your sort has got to produce a son, after all. Even if it requires seven girls to get to a boy." Rafe snickered. "In fact, Laurence is their firstborn. The seven sisters followed." Good God . Chris nodded his head to indicate the woman in the garden. Phoebe. "Which is she?" he asked. "I'm not certain," Rafe said. "Second, perhaps third. Probably she's been through at least as many Seasons as Diana. Never quite took." Chris had known the woman was one of Emma's intimates, but she'd been the daughter of a good family, and so he had never paid much attention to her. He'd recognized her, of course, on the first afternoon he'd seen her walking in the garden. His sister's little blond friend, the one who'd been at her wedding. The one whose enormous family—though he had not, at the time, known exactly how enormous—had all come together to help save him and Rafe from the threat of hanging some months ago. Absently, he rubbed his aching knee. "Who's the bloke she's with?" he asked. Rafe squinted. "Statham, I believe," he said. Statham. The name had a certain vague familiarity to it, though Chris couldn't quite place it. "He's made it known he's looking for a wife this Season," Rafe added. Well, that wouldn't do. For reasons unknowable, it had become quite clear in the past few weeks that the poor woman suffered her male callers with no small amount of exasperation. She did not want to marry any of them, and that—that made the two of them kindred spirits. He fisted the orange in his hand. Phoebe had learned by now what to do with unwanted suitors, and she did not disappoint. She paused near the wall, positioning herself carefully, to all appearances at least pretending to listen to the gentleman who prattled on as if he could hold a conversation entirely on his own. "I've got four children," he was saying. "And they are in desperate need of a mother, Miss Toogood. Of course I naturally thought of you. Even if you've no children of your own, surely you have no small amount of experience with them." "Thank you, my lord," she said, and Christ, even Chris could hear the dry, annoyed inflection to the words. "However, I do not believe we would suit." "Nonsense. I'll call on you tomorrow. Bring the children with me. You'll get on famously, I'm certain of it." Chris wrenched his arm back and flung the orange with all of his might. It smacked Statham dead center at the back of his head, bounced off, and rolled beneath a convenient bush. "Ouch! What the devil?" Statham rubbed at the back of his head. "Your turn," Chris said, nodding to the orange Rafe held still in his hand. With a longsuffering sigh, Rafe waited until Statham had turned his head once again, then hurled it off the balcony and over the wall. Another dead-center hit, and Statham squawked as if he'd been shot. Chris bent to retrieve another orange. Even at this distance, he could see Phoebe's shoulders shake with mirth, her gloved hand coming up to cover her mouth. This time they'd not been lucky enough for the foliage to conceal the evidence of their misdeeds; the orange bounced and came to rest just behind Statham, and the man stooped to scoop it up. He turned, his gaze drifting up, and up, to where Chris and Rafe stood on the balcony. "Afternoon, Statham," Chris called, holding up another orange. "She don't want you. Next time perhaps you'll listen when a lady talks." A flush of fury singed Statham's cheeks. "What business is it of yours?" the man snarled. Chris let another orange fly, and Statham yelped as it hit him in the groin, his hands jerking to shield his privates. "My business," Chris said, "is anything I choose to make it. And I've got a whole sack of oranges up here with me I don't mind going to waste. So get you gone." Wisely, Statham chose to pick a different battle than this—he turned so abruptly that Phoebe was forced to leap from his path as the man stalked back toward the house. Hopefully never to return. In the distance, there was the pronounced slam of a door, and Phoebe's shoulders sank in relief. With one hand she offered an appreciative little wave, and then turned to make her own way inside. "Throwing oranges is a bit beneath you, is it not?" Rafe asked. Chris shrugged. "Could've had him tossed in the Thames," he said. "Oranges are somewhat more palatable than murder," Rafe acknowledged, with a faintly sarcastic inflection. "Am I to understand that this is not the first time you've assaulted gentlemen with citrus fruits?" "Only on Tuesdays," Chris said shortly, retrieving the sack at his feet and thrusting it in Rafe's direction. "Her at-home days." The first one had been perhaps three days after the family had moved in. It hadn't been a conscious choice, really. It was just that the man who had come to call upon her had imagined a woman of her years must be so desperate to snag a husband that he'd placed his hands upon her. Gentlemen of the Ton almost universally thought themselves a cut above; better than those of the lower classes strictly by virtue of the station to which they had been born. Of unimpeachable honor, regardless of their actions. But evil men lurked within all echelons of society. Some were simply better at masking their natures than others, some given to wielding their position against accusation of impropriety. Chris had never been what anyone might, even by generous terms, consider honorable . But there were lows to which even he would not have stooped—or ignored in another. If he'd been in a different position, he might have shot the blighter. But he'd been upon his balcony with only a sack of oranges to hand, and one used the tools at one's disposal. A few well-aimed volleys had sent the man fleeing. Still Phoebe had waited there in the garden until after the man had gone. Thank you , she had said, with such a depth of feeling. And then she'd blinked, stared, recognized him at last. You're Emma's brother, are you not? Yes. Yes, he was. The bastard half-brother. The criminal. The damned social liability. It hadn't been the only time they had spoken, though he found himself loath to admit as much to Rafe. Their private chats would hardly have met with public approval, had they been common knowledge. "Just how many gentlemen have you run off in a month?" Rafe asked, as he slung the sack of oranges over his shoulder. "A few," Chris said absently. Though by the way Phoebe's shoulders had slumped as she'd made her way back to the house, he could hazard a guess that it hadn't been quite enough. Perhaps one of these nights, he'd inquire further.

∞∞∞

Chris' third scalding-hot bath of the day had failed to erase the smell of the Thames. There was yet a lingering scent that seemed to come and go, and by the barely-masked sour expressions he'd glimpsed in the faces of his servants, Chris suspected that he had grown somewhat accustomed to the stench and that it was a good deal worse yet than he had hoped. Still, there were more important things to which to attend—namely, the search for a wife, since Rafe had been no help at all. Worse than no help, in fact. The damned disloyal bastard had laughed in the end. Chris slung on his banyan and belted it at the waist, determined to put the last hour or so that remained before nightfall to good use. "Brooks," he bellowed as he cast himself into the chair at his desk, rubbing at his aching knee as he collapsed there. "Bring me the goddamned papers!" His desk had been straightened by some enterprising member of the staff—which was a right pain in the arse, as he'd had everything exactly where he had meant it to be. Muttering invectives beneath his breath, he began rooting through drawers until at last he located the newspapers he'd left strewn across his desk, once again neatly folded and ironed until the worst of the creases he had gouged into them had been removed. "There is a bell pull." The bland statement was accompanied by the slap of papers hitting the desk as Brooks appeared before him. The most recent of those which had been delivered, Chris supposed. "Don't see why you insist upon reading those gossip pieces anyway." "They're useful." Chris muttered something uncomplimentary beneath his breath as he unfolded the latest paper. He scanned the lines upon the page absently, but it was largely the usual drivel. Mrs. G—R— was caught with so-and-so on a secluded terrace. Lord N— was refused credit at such-and-such a shop, suggesting his bills had not been paid in some time. Lady M— had a falling out with an intimate acquaintance in an appallingly public manner. Miss P—T— was seen out of doors without a bonnet, and it was a wonder that she had not acquired a hideous case of freckles as a result of her indelicacy. Hold a moment. P—T—? No. It couldn't be. It was the way of such scandal rags to couch their accusations in veiled terms, so that they could not be found libelous. Of course, everyone who was anyone knew who it was that had caught the sharp edge of the writer's pen anyway, but without a name put to a charge, it was all quite deniable. Unfortunately, Chris was not anyone , and so such charges frequently escaped him. That was the thing about the Ton . It was so very insular, so protective of its participants. But P—T— . Surely not. Not her . And yet he was certain he'd read it before. He fanned pages of various papers out before him, searching anew. Miss P.T. trod upon the toes of Lord S. no fewer than three times during the single dance they shared—and a good deal more, if the poor man's grimaces were any indication. Miss P—T— danced not at all, claiming a torn slipper ribbon—and yet her slipper seemed sturdy enough for a walk with her closest companion, Lady W. One wonders if she invented the excuse simply to avoid a dance with Lord N! Lady W. Could the writer have meant Diana, Lady Weatherford? Miss P.T. was overcome with a fit of the vapors twice Saturday last at a ball hosted by Lady K. Luckily, the unfortunate woman's dear mama came equipped with a vinaigrette. The woman was either the most dramatic woman on God's green earth, or she was rebelling strenuously against the strictures of the marriage mart, Chris deduced. Another scan of the pages revealed yet more gossip. Miss P—T— was overheard extolling the virtues of pigeons to an uninterested Mr. L—G—. Mamas, it is this Author's advice that you train your daughters better than to be ardent admirers of vermin and pests, lest they drive away any and all potential suitors. Pigeons. Pigeons? Chris swiped one hand over his mouth, stifling the laugh that had risen in his throat. And another: Miss P.T. was seen—and heard—at the theatre on Wednesday in her family's box, snoring audibly straight through Hamlet's soliloquy. A chortle escaped between his fingers. "Brooks," Chris said. "I need you to find me the column with the writer who isn't afraid to name names. Any of them; all of them." He shoved a pile of papers toward Brooks, who rolled his eyes heavenward in aggravation, and began his own perusal of those left upon the desk. Somewhere amongst these pages was her damned name. Respectable enough to continue to merit invitations, with a name and family that were known to the Ton , but who had made herself just scandalous enough to be a cautionary tale. A woman who was always Miss and never Mrs. A woman whose exploits garnered exasperation, but not scorn. A woman who— The title of the article in his hands caught his eye. Too Bad for Toogood! And there it was: Miss Phoebe Toogood. "Never mind," he said. "I've got it." It was her. And she wasn't merely too good . She was bloody perfect.