Chapter 2

G wendolyn tried to make her voice breezy as they exited Mr. Reynolds’ office. “There’s no need for me to go back to London with you. I plan on making Frogcroft Cottage my home. I may as well start tonight.”

She didn’t much care for the way Joseph chuckled.

She soldiered on. “I know you’re eager to return to Town for that card game. I won’t detain you. I can very easily walk the distance.”

Joseph’s voice was rich with irony as he said, “Now, Gwen, what kind of brother would I be if I allowed my maiden sister to live alone and unprotected?”

“Maiden sister.” She gave an awkward little laugh. “Spinster sister, more like. We both know I’m firmly on the shelf.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” Joseph’s voice was like a medicine whose veneer of sweetness couldn’t quite mask the foul taste beneath. “I have a feeling you’re going to attract all manner of suitors.”

“I don’t want any suitors.” Her voice trembled. It was true. No man had shown her a sniff of interest these past six years. Why would she consider someone who only crawled out of the woodwork now that she was in possession of a fortune?

“It’s not your choice, is it?” Joseph asked. “As your guardian, I have a responsibility to see you properly settled.”

“You’ll only be my guardian for four more months,” Gwendolyn noted. It was true. She would come into her majority on her twenty-fifth birthday in November. “And you can’t force me to marry.”

“No,” Joseph agreed amiably, but then his expression darkened, for all that he was smiling. “But there are things I can do to make you change your mind.”

Gwen hadn’t liked his tone then. And she certainly did not like what he did to her once they arrived back in London.

He started by locking her in her room.

On the third day, Joseph deigned to pay her a visit. “I’ve arranged a match for you, Gwen. You’re to marry my old chum Maurice Simpkins.”

Gwendolyn shuddered. She already knew Maurice Simpkins far better than she would prefer. He was amongst the worst of her brother’s friends, which was really saying something. He had mocked her relentlessly during her childhood. Even worse, once, when one of her father’s hunting hounds had delivered a litter of puppies, she caught him torturing the runt of the litter. She had informed the coachman, Mr. Caraway, who had upbraided him. Maurice had suspected that she was the one who had snitched on him, and his bullying had grown even worse.

“I absolutely will not be marrying Maurice Simpkins,” she said hotly.

Joseph smiled, but not in a nice way. “We’ll see.”

After that, Gwendolyn was given water but no food. By the time Joseph returned two days later to see if she’d changed her mind, her head was pounding and her hands were trembling.

“Shall I have Maurice secure a marriage license?” Joseph asked conversationally.

“You’re a monster,” Gwendolyn told him, voice shaking.

Joseph shrugged, not troubled in the slightest by his sister’s distress. “We’ll give it a few more days, then.”

She tried bargaining with him. First, she offered him half of the investments left to her by Aunt Agatha. Then, after a week had passed, all the investments. The farm would generate enough in rent to support her in a frugal sort of way. All she really wanted was a quiet life in her great-aunt’s cottage.

“No,” Joseph said, seeming to enjoy her increasing desperation. “You see, I’m going to get the investments regardless. But this way, my friend Maurice will get the farm and cottage. That’s the agreement we’ve reached.”

“You can’t do this!” Gwendolyn said, voice breaking. “As my guardian, you have an obligation to look after my best interests. I will take you to court, and I will win.”

“You probably would,” Joseph acknowledged, unperturbed. A malicious grin crossed his face. “If you survive long enough to take me to court, that is. That is the question you ought to consider.”

He didn’t come back for another four days. Gwendolyn had always had a robust sort of figure. But after a full week without a bite to eat, her dresses were beginning to sag around her.

She wanted to hold out. She wanted to hold out so badly . The life Aunt Agatha had intended for her shimmered like a dream on the horizon. Four months. She was just four months from reaching her majority and getting out from under her brother’s thumb.

But she couldn’t go four months without food. That cottage would do her no good if she were dead.

And so, on the twelfth day, when her brother returned, she informed him tearfully that she would marry Maurice Simpkins.

She hadn’t given up, not entirely. Given the extreme cruelty of withholding food, she thought she could sue her brother and new husband after the fact, could prove that she had been forced to marry under duress, and had been deprived of her rightful property.

Finding the funds to pay a barrister was one problem. The fact that her new husband would be within his legal rights if he chose to beat her into submission was another.

But she would not lose hope. She would cross those bridges as she came to them.

Gwendolyn’s wedding took place the next day. It was not what you would call an elegant affair. The bridegroom had bloodshot eyes and smelled like a gin house. Gwendolyn had to loop her arm through his to help him remain upright.

But her brother must have paid off the vicar because he performed the ceremony without blinking.

There was no wedding breakfast on account of the groom’s extreme drunkenness. Gwendolyn didn’t mind. She hadn’t been permitted to invite any of her friends to the wedding, and frankly, she wouldn’t have wanted them to witness her in such a low moment. Once they arrived back at her brother’s town house, Joseph sent her upstairs with her inebriated husband to consummate the marriage.

Maurice promptly collapsed face down on Gwendolyn’s bed and started to snore.

Gwendolyn was not precisely disappointed by this development. She wasn’t particularly eager to sleep with Maurice Simpkins, especially when he smelled like a distillery.

Still, she didn’t much enjoy the state of anxious anticipation she was forced to endure for the next eight hours. She attempted to pass the time sitting at the table by the window with a book but found she was too anxious to focus on the words.

Finally, he woke with a yawn. If he was surprised to find himself in an unfamiliar room, he gave no sign of it.

Gwendolyn steeled herself. “Good evening, Mr. Simpkins.” She gestured toward the washbasin. “Shall I have a footman bring warm water so you can?—”

Ignoring her, Maurice stumbled off the bed and crossed the room to the chamber-pot. Gwendolyn squealed as he opened the falls of his trousers without the slightest sign of embarrassment and took out his limp member.

Gwen spun to face the window but not before she noticed that he had a large mole just below the rounded tip of his penis. She felt her cheeks burning. This was not the sort of intimate knowledge she had ever wished to have about Maurice Simpkins.

Much to her horror, he began to relieve himself, with her right there in the room! It went on and on, which she supposed made sense. He smelled as if he’d imbibed a gallon of gin.

When he finally finished, she cleared her throat. “As I was saying, I would be most happy to have the servants bring warm water so you can make yourself comforta?—”

She abandoned the sentence halfway through as she heard the click of the door opening. He strode out into the corridor without giving her the slightest acknowledgement. “Brocklesby!” he shouted from the corridor. “Where are you? Let’s go out and celebrate!”

Gwendolyn slumped back in her chair. She was tempted to just leave, to go to Frogcroft Cottage. With any luck, it would take her husband, who had given every sign that he was heading out to restore himself to a state of complete and total inebriation, days, or even weeks, to notice she was missing.

She doubted her brother would allow her to escape, however. And so she requested a supper tray be brought to her room, managing to eat only because she was still recovering from her week of deprivation. After requesting fresh linens for the bed, she changed into her night rail and settled into a fitful sleep.

She was awakened by a rapping on her bedroom door. Coming slowly awake, she saw that light was just starting to break behind the drawn curtains.

Her maid slipped inside the room. “What is it, Mariah?” Gwendolyn asked.

Mariah threw the curtains open and hurried over to the bed. “It’s yer husband, Miss Gwendolyn.”

An involuntary shudder went through her as she clutched the counterpane to her chest. “Is he on his way up?” Gwen asked, voice full of dread.

Mariah’s eyes were bright. “I can safely say he’s not! The whole house is abuzz with it. Last night, he was out drinking with yer brother. Apparently, he had a few too many?—”

Gwendolyn gave a humorless laugh. “What a surprise.”

“—and he took a tumble out of his highflyer and broke his neck, he did.”

Gwendolyn froze, not trusting her own ears. “He what ?”

Mariah seized her hands. “He’s dead, miss! Yer a widow!”

“A widow!” Gwendolyn couldn’t believe it. As a widow, she would have her independence. She could leave her brother’s house and live on her own.

“There’s more,” Mariah said. She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Yer brother is furious . Apparently, he and Mr. Simpkins didn’t sign the paperwork transferring most of yer money over to him, as they’d agreed. The solicitor wouldn’t allow it on account of Mr. Simpkins being insensible with drink. It was such a rushed-up affair, there was no marriage contract, and no will, either. Which means?—”

Gwendolyn gasped. “Which means Joseph can’t take it!” If Maurice had indeed died intestate, then Gwendolyn, as his widow, would be entitled to half of his estate. The rest would go to his closest male relative, whoever that might be.

Maurice was his parents’ fifth son, so she doubted he had any significant assets other than those she had brought to their marriage. But she could live out the rest of her life quite comfortably on half of what Aunt Agatha had left her.

The important thing was getting away from Joseph.

She grabbed Mariah’s hands and squeezed. “I’ll be able to live on my own, as an independent widow!”

“You think so, do you?”

Gwendolyn and Mariah’s eyes snapped to the doorway, where Joseph stood with his upper lip curled into a scowl.

“You may think you’ve won. You haven’t! You’ll be marrying another one of my friends. Donald McCullough has agreed to the same division of assets as Simpkins. You’ll marry him tomorrow.”

“I will not!” Gwendolyn snapped. Donald McCullough was every bit as bad as Maurice. Possibly worse. “How will you even find a priest willing to marry a woman who was widowed yesterday ?”

Joseph recoiled, obviously not having considered this detail. Although a man was free to marry as soon as he became a widower, a woman was expected to wait a decent interval after her husband’s death so that, if she should find herself in the family way, there was no question about the paternity of a potential heir.

Joseph recovered quickly. “We’ll have the first marriage annulled. It wasn’t as if it was consummated.”

Mariah crossed her arms. “How would you know? They were alone in this very room for hours after the ceremony! I would assume it has been consummated.”

Gwendolyn’s heart squeezed. Her brother could be dangerous in a temper, so Mariah’s kind gesture in sticking up for her was not without risk.

But the truth was, the marriage hadn’t been consummated. Perhaps Joseph didn’t know, unless Maurice had told him. If Maurice even remembered. Then there was the fact that Gwendolyn was fairly certain that failure to consummate a marriage was not, in fact, legal grounds to have it annulled.

Not that Joseph was likely to give her leave to take a pleasant stroll down to the Inns of Court to seek a legal opinion on the matter. And even if it was illegal, she knew without a shred of doubt that Joseph would bribe the judge and force the annulment through if he possibly could.

Joseph’s smile was malicious. “Well, we’ll just have to see, won’t we? I’ll arrange for a physician to come by tomorrow, to see if your maidenhead is still intact. I have several friends who are doctors, as you know.” He spun on his heel, casting a triumphant look over his shoulder. “Don’t worry, Gwen. I’m sure the exam won’t be too painful.”

The door closed with a sharp click, leaving Gwendolyn and Mariah alone.

Mariah squeezed her hand. “Did Mr. Simpkins sleep with you?”

Gwendolyn shook her head sadly. “Not in the sense you mean. I’m still a maiden.” Her voice broke as she added, “I do appreciate you defending me.”

Mariah’s gaze was fierce. “Don’t you worry, Miss Gwendolyn,” she said, patting Gwen’s hand. “I’ll take care of it.”

Gwendolyn made a bleak sound. “Take care of it? How?”

Mariah was already halfway across the room. “I have an idea. That is… I know just who to ask. Get up, get dressed, and keep yer cloak handy. You’ll need something to hide yer face. I’ll give you the signal as soon as everything is in place.”

Gwendolyn squinted in confusion. “I’m sure Joseph won’t allow that. I’m sure he’ll keep me locked in my room and?—”

She found herself talking to a closed door. Mariah had slipped into the corridor.

Gwendolyn lay back against the pillows, wondering what twist fate would throw at her next.