Wedding Matilda (Redcakes Book 6) (22 page)

He recognized Gawain’s rasp and the slattern’s rude tone. The argument continued for a couple of minutes before Alexander’s Scottish burr joined the argument. Ewan pressed up against the back door, trying to hear better. Without thinking much about it, he tried the doorknob. It turned easily in his hand.

He pushed gently at the door. It moved inward. He crept in, careful to keep out of the thin trail of light from a lantern glowing on a table. Visibility was just good enough for him to see the room was indeed stone floored, as Matilda had said.

He leaned his ear against the only door. It must lead to the parlor. He could hear nothing. Had all the adults in the house moved to the front door?

As he stealthily turned the knob and pressed the door open, inch by inch, he heard more raised voices, including a male one joining the argument. But him? He was in. The parlor was empty, though a glass oil lamp glowed above the dark fireplace. Now what should he do? From the babies’ cries, he assumed all the children were upstairs. The only staircase he knew about was in the front of the house, where all the commotion was.

The house was not that small, though. Could there be servants’ stairs in the kitchen? He slid along the wall, searching for a door that didn’t lead into the front hall. There.

He opened that door and found it led to a corridor. The front of it blazed with light, and he could see people, the open door. Directly ahead of him was another door. He needed to make his way across the three feet of empty space without any of them seeing him. Thankfully, Sir Gawain was arguing passionately, keeping everyone’s attention.

Ewan all but jumped the hall and turned the knob. Locked! He flattened himself against the wall and moved toward the back of the house, searching for another door. His questing hands found a knob. This one turned.
Saints be praised
. He found himself on a back staircase. It smelled strongly of onions.

Creeping up the stairs as swiftly as he could manage without making noise, he made and discarded plans. Could he get Barker’s support? What would happen if a man approached one of the Redcakes’ carriages in the dark? Would they hurt Jacob before he was able to identify himself? But he was getting ahead of the game.

He reached the top of the staircase. The door was already open. If the layout matched below, there must be space for four rooms on this level. Jacob was unlikely to be in the top left room, where the woman had been with the babies. He’d be too visible.

He went left and opened the door of the rear left bedroom. Pitch black; he could see nothing. His ears strained for sounds of breathing. Leaving the door open, he crossed the hall to the room behind the staircase. Also pitch black, but when he stopped breathing in order to hear better, he did hear quick, childlike breaths.

Wishing he had a match, wishing for windows, he crept through the room, toward the source of the breathing. His legs met a wooden structure, a bed. He fumbled around until he felt a small warm body that felt too large to be an infant’s. He tucked the sleeping child against himself and went into the hall. There; he had just enough light to see a thick dark thatch of hair, a hint of Matilda’s stubborn chin. Surely this was Jacob. He’d only seen a portrait, but chances were excellent that this was him.

He went down the steps, hesitating on the bottom stair. The voices of arguing people seemed closer to him than before. Had Sir Gawain and Dougal Alexander entered the house? He had to pray no one was paying attention behind themselves. Quickly, his heart racing at double-speed, he crossed the hall and went through the parlor into the stone-floored room without stopping or glancing behind. He sped up in the garden.

“Open the gate!” he cried in a hoarse whisper.

A moment later, he heard the slats creaking as Barker opened it. He went through with the child as soon as there were a few inches.

“Close it again!” he ordered. “Give us time to get away.”

“That him?”

“I hope so. I did the best I could. Which carriage?”

Barker held up a lit cigarette and peered down at the child, then shrugged. “The one to the left has Sir Bartley in it. Not sure about the other.”

Ewan went left, followed by Barker. The door of the carriage opened. Sir Bartley held up a lantern. His mouth dropped open when he saw who Ewan held.

“How?” Sir Bartley asked.

“Sheer dumb luck, sir,” Ewan said.

“You have my eternal gratitude, son,” said his onetime employer, feathering his hand over the boy’s hair as if not quite believing he was here. “Come in.”

He slapped the outside of the carriage as soon as Ewan was inside and it started to move. Thanks to the lanterns, Ewan could see the boy more closely. His tension was relieved considerably when he saw the lad was undeniably brown-haired, with the ruddy complexion of his grandfather. He’d rescued Jacob; he was finally certain.

“My grandson,” Lady Redcake said, wiping tears away. “How can we ever thank you?”

Ewan realized he was panting from the shock of the past few minutes. Holding the sleeping child as tenderly as he would hold the boy’s mother, he was silent at first, but when they went in a direction he didn’t expect, he finally spoke.

“Aren’t we returning to Matilda’s home?”

“No, we have a plan. Carriage to Swindon, then the train. We’re taking Jacob straight to Redcake Manor in Sussex. Can’t stay in London with Wyld on the loose. We’ll leave you there, though, so you can get on with your business.” Sir Bartley stared at the boy.

“I don’t understand. What about Matilda?” He’d wanted to place Jacob in her arms.

“Securing Jacob is the first thing,” Sir Bartley said. “We all agreed. Everyone will figure it out soon enough. But in London, please ring Bristol and let Mrs. Miller know for sure at the house. She can get word to everyone at the baby mill.”

“It’s two hours to Swindon,” he protested.

“We have a hamper,” Lady Redcake said. “Is Jacob drugged, do you think? Should we try to wake him?”

“It’s a bit early for him to be asleep,” Ewan agreed. “But he’s breathing well enough.” He didn’t want the boy to wake until he was far away.

“May I hold him?” Lady Redcake asked.

Ewan’s first instinct was to refuse, but he stood, crouching, and passed the heavy, limp boy over. “I wish I’d chosen the carriage with Matilda, to be honest.”

“I understand,” Sir Bartley said. “But she’s in one of the carriages blocking the street. It never occurred to us to have you plot a rearguard action.”

“Purely an accident,” Ewan said. “I never thought the door would be unlocked. In the end, rescuing Jacob was almost easy.” If you discounted what the past two weeks had been like for all of them. And until the boy was reunited with his mother, it didn’t feel like their nightmare would be over.

S
hadrach Norwich shook his head almost sadly on Friday morning. “My dear Mr. Hales, you knew this would find its way into the newspapers.”

“Not so quickly.” Ewan’s mouth twisted as he reviewed the tabloid article about the kidnapping of the “Redcake heir.” “Besides, Mr. Norwich, surely you can see that I have no regrets.”

“Yet you attempted to go to the Douglas Industries office yesterday morning, as if Lord Fitzwalter was still willing to employ you.”

“At the time, I assumed he was. I did not entirely shirk my duties to the business.”

“No, you fired a respected manager and accused an entire warehouse of kidnapping a child.” Norwich raised his bushy eyebrows.

“Albert Pigge is a fool, and I’m not wrong in saying there was a connection between the child and the warehouse in Bristol. We found the child in a house two blocks away. The tenant of the house is the estranged wife of one of the warehouse foremen.”

“Mr. Hales, I really don’t care. And certainly the earl does not.”

Ewan’s hands tightened on the wooden armrests of his chair. He’d received a note at his office that morning, requiring his hasty attendance on the solicitor. Anger had been simmering through him ever since Jacob had left his arms, gone into his grandmother’s safekeeping. He’d watched the sleeping boy all through the long carriage ride, then on the train to London. There, he’d been left behind. It seemed Sir Bartley had no further use for him. So he’d gone to St. James’s Square to request that Pounds, the family butler, telephone the Bristol house, then returned to his solitary room in London. Empty arms, angry heart. He’d had no word from Matilda. She’d likely been in transit from Bristol to Polegate in Sussex much of yesterday. Once she had Jacob in sight, would he even matter to her? Would she reject his love once and for all?

The door of Norwich’s chamber opened with violence, the handle bouncing off the dented plaster wall behind it. The earl strode in, followed by a bearded man in a funeral suit and perfectly shined shoes.

Fitzwalter’s color appeared off, his skin sagging on his jawline. Exhaustion? Fear?

Ewan soon realized it was outrage.

“You, sir, are a liar.” The earl pointed a shaking finger at Ewan. “I will not have this. No, sir. You will be struck from the family.”

“You cannot do that,” Ewan said, reaching for calm. “I am your heir.”

“That’s what you think,” the earl spat. “Not much evidence to show your legitimacy. I can tie this up in court for years and the title can go elsewhere.”

“You wouldn’t dare. The situation is too well-known.”

“It is not. We have been in contact for less than a month. You can go back into the obscurity in which I found you and continue to play your little games with the Redcakes.”

“They are talking about me in the clubs, sir. It is not for me to point out your unscrupulous dealings,” Ewan said. “Though they must be evident in your businesses, my lord. But no one of high rank will accept your mistreatment of your heir.”

The earl sneered. “Do not think to play games with me, Mr. Hales. I assure you, you are out of your league, and your mind, if you think to best me. Mr. Norwich, you have your orders.”

Ewan watched in disbelief as the earl stood. A cough racked the bent frame, then he steadied himself, though his face had gone pale.

The earl, an expression of absolute disdain on his face, unsteadily stalked out of the office, followed by the other man, who slammed the door behind himself. A pile of books wavered at the top of one bookcase and fell. Dust rose when they landed.

Norwich was wiping his eyes with a handkerchief when Ewan swiveled back around. “Oh, dear.” He pulled a sheaf of papers toward himself on the desk.

“Now what?”

“I can offer you three hundred a year,” Norwich said, licking his finger and flipping through the papers. “You will have nothing to do with the family or the businesses.”

“Can he really disinherit me?”

“What proof do you have? Parish registers can be lost. Documents can be burned. Memories can be bribed into forgetfulness.”

“He’d really go that far?”

“You have led a powerful man on a merry chase these past weeks. And insulted him besides. An earl going to the extreme of kidnapping the bastard grandchild of Sir Bartley Redcake? Come, sir; it’s laughable.”

“I never said he knew about it,” Ewan protested. “But I’m certain people in his organization are involved.”

“Nonetheless, you’ve insulted his honor one too many times.”

“Honor,” Ewan muttered.

Norwich cleared his throat. “Well. If I were you, sir, I’d tour the Continent or the colonies or such for three or four years. Live simply and the money will hold out.”

“I’m going to marry Matilda Redcake.”

“I see no faster way to guarantee the disappearance of evidence of your lineage,” Norwich said. “May I be frank?”

“Please.” Ewan leaned forward.

“An earldom is worth a dozen Matilda Redcakes. You are a young man. Come back in four years. Get some polish in Italy. Learn to paint or something. You’ll have your pick of the year’s debutantes in, what, 1894, and the Redcake hoyden will be long forgotten.”

“I can’t forget her,” Ewan said. Could she forget him?

“Then by all means marry quietly and live invisibly,” Norwich said. “I am not without sympathy for the plight of a young man, and I do realize you have known the Redcakes for a very long time. I will not claim your affection is a passing thing.”

“Thank you for that.”

Norwich nodded. He cleared his throat, then opened his drawer and pulled out his brown bottle and a ledger. Taking a pen, he wrote out a draft and handed it to Ewan. “Your first quarter’s income. I assume you didn’t leave anything of value in your office?”

 

Spring had a more intense scent here in Sussex. Matilda sat in her parents’ garden behind Redcake Manor, watching Jacob run across the sprightly green lawn, chasing Sir Barks. The boy laughed heartily, his short legs spinning, all troubles quite forgotten. He’d stayed close yesterday and slept in her bed the previous night, but now, in bright sunshine and soft breeze, all his cares seemed forgotten. Once again he was the cherished child of the house. She watched his brown ringlets bounce from a combination of breeze and movement. His hair had grown too long, but he hated to have it cut and she would do nothing to trouble him now.

Her sister Alys had telephoned, a couple of weeks out of childbed now, and suggested she bring Jacob to Hatbrook Farm. Equally free of London and Bristol kidnappers, she would have access to nursery maids and Jacob’s beloved, slightly younger cousin, Lady Mary Ellen. Matilda wanted her father, though, more than she wanted nursemaids. How silly to be twenty-four, and a mother, and think her father was still her safe haven.

Yet he’d brought her son home to her.

 

Later that night, she lay in bed, Jacob beside her, breathing in little snorts. Afraid he was coming down with a cold, she’d refused to leave him in the nursery. Her mother had looked at her with sympathy and not argued. A strange expression had come over her father’s face as he wished her good night and left the room. Even now, she could see him through her open curtains, a dim shape in the garden, a lantern at his feet. She wondered what thoughts had him in thrall.

Her mother had gone to bed. Gawain was still in Bristol, dealing with the police who were coordinating with London to search for Wyld and Augustus Hulk, though Ann had returned to her son in Battersea. Dougal Alexander had probably reached Edinburgh by now. Mrs. Miller had told her she and Daisy would be busy giving the house a thorough cleaning after so many houseguests, but she’d told her housekeeper to give Daisy a night off and money for a new dress, so she could have a nice evening with Mr. Barker, who’d been promised such. She’d told Mrs. Miller to take some time for herself, as much as she needed, after the cleaning was completed, and of course both women could attend Izabela’s funeral, if her mother had one.

Her parents had separated from Ewan in London. She hadn’t heard from him. Had he asked the earl’s forgiveness and gone back to work? Surely he had access to a telephone. Or maybe he had written her a letter. She’d see it soon enough if he had.

The next morning, she sat in the breakfast room with Jacob and her mother. She had not been able to push her fiancé to the back of her thoughts. “When you left Ewan in London, was it his choice?”

“No, dear, but it seemed for the best. I’m hoping he could help the police there find those two horrible men who were involved,” her mother said.

“So he’s busy with the police, then?”

“I expect so, dear. Have you attempted to communicate with him?”

“I don’t know how. I know where he lives, but all I could do is write him a letter.”

“No telephone?”

“I don’t really know where he is employed, and of course he could not have one at his room. He doesn’t have much money, you know. He lives very neatly, but just in one room.”

“You’ve been there?”

Matilda nodded sheepishly. “We were engaged, Mother.”

“
Are
engaged,” her mother corrected. “Nothing has changed, dear.”

“But he’s in London and I can’t go there, not with Wyld and Hulk still on the loose. We still don’t know the full story.”

“Write him a letter. Ask him to telephone. He can use the telephone at Redcake’s.”

“I suppose you are right. I just thought he’d make an effort to contact me.”

Her mother reached across the table and took her hand as Jacob snatched up a spoon from his porridge and spilled droplets of mush on Lady Redcake’s sleeve. She chuckled affectionately and took the spoon away. “This is the man who risked his life to save your son, Matilda. He loves you. Don’t risk his feelings now.”

“I have felt myself so unequal to love,” she admitted.

“Now Jacob is home and you are nothing but love. You are full to bursting with it,” her mother said. “Save some of that overflow of emotion for your soon-to-be husband.”

Did she love him? She needed to see him through eyes not glazed by terror, a heart not still confused by her agreement to marry Theodore Bliven. She had to go to London, but how could she leave Jacob?

Her father entered the room, his eyes looking red-rimmed and tired. He stood upright, however. She thought he had lost a fair amount of his paunch these last couple of weeks. None of them had been eating much. Her stays had been much easier to tighten.

“Papa, I don’t think I can go back to Bristol,” she said.

“Not until we get to the bottom of our troubles,” he said readily enough.

“You should give Ewan the position,” she said.

“Pishposh, he’ll be living wherever you are. Greggory can do it. He’s been watching you, and he grew up around the factories. He’ll be fine.”

“But Ewan—”

“Needs to make his own way, Matilda,” her father said. “Presumably under the iron fist of Lord Fitzwalter, but he does need to learn the family business.”

“It’s not a possibility. Not if he marries me. The earl made that clear.”

“Everything can be mended in a family,” her mother interjected as she dabbed at her flowing sleeves with a damp rag. “It just needs time.”

“I don’t think the earl sees Ewan as family, not precisely,” Matilda said.

“He will come to love Ewan, just as we have,” her mother said.

Her mother’s placid tone held such assurance that Matilda was startled. “We have?”

“Of course. He’s been in our employ for years. We’ve watched him become a man. I’m very happy he’s to be my new son,” her mother said. “London isn’t far, and you owe him a duty, Matilda. Take the train up there for a day, as soon as you’ve made contact, and see him. Sort out your wedding date. Do you think you’ll want to be married from here?”

I don’t know what I want. I have to go to London.
Matilda stared blankly at her mother.

“Don’t panic,” her father said. “Be grateful you have the opportunity to be a bride. And to an honest and intelligent man.”

“A handsome man, too,” her mother said with a twinkle.

“I’m not ungrateful,” she protested, blushing. “Am I good enough for him, Papa? A future earl. So brave. He sacrificed so much for me.” She put her head in her hands. He’d given her everything and what had she done? Made love with him a couple of times, and she hadn’t even sacrificed her virginity for that. He was a better person than her. She didn’t deserve him.

“He loves you,” her father said. “That is good enough for him, and it ought to be good enough for you.”

“Why?” she whispered.

“You have to ask him that.”

She stood, tucking her hands under Jacob’s legs as he wrapped his chubby arms around her neck and squeezed. “I’ll telephone Lord Judah at Redcake’s and ask him to send one of the deliverymen to Ewan’s home with a note. Maybe he will come in tomorrow and telephone me so we can speak.”

Her father nodded. “That would be an excellent idea. I know he needed to speak with the earl, but he’s had yesterday and today to do that. Now he can turn his thoughts to matrimony.”

 

While she continued to wait on Jacob, attending to all his needs, even his bath, which she had avoided in the past due to the damp mess of the procedure, her thoughts were consumed by Ewan. She reviewed their physical encounters, the pleasure of them. Without meaning to, she compared them to her experience with Theodore Bliven and found there was nothing to say. She and Ewan had been heat and light, passion and pleasure. Being with Theodore had been a terrible, unpleasant mistake with ruinous consequences. She hadn’t even worried with Ewan. He made her feel safe. He attracted her physically. She respected him, appreciated his stubbornness. These were all good things, important things.

Did she like him? The thought struck her as she cut tiny bites of egg for her son on Friday evening. Had he ever made her laugh? Long for his company? She enjoyed sparring with him, but that involved a certain degree of lust. Those pomaded, glossy curls, so tightly contained for so long, now disturbed by this new habit of tunneling his hands through his hair, made her face hot when she saw them. That was still lust, not liking, but she thought her regard was more than just lust. Yes, she liked him, wanted to be in his presence.