A Necessary Deception Page 2

  Mary tightened her grip on the rough wood of the door jamb. She craved tenderness after the rough handling of the last three years, and wanted to believe once more in the happiness of marriage as she had when her father had been alive. But it wasn’t possible. She was no longer a naive young woman but one who’d been betrayed by both her mother and Paul. She wasn’t sure she could trust or love anyone again, not even Charles.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Charles sat back, smiling as his son fingered the wooden horse.

  My son. Charles tapped the knotty wood table in amazement. His father had made him a similar toy when he was a boy and he’d cherished it. His sister, who was married now and in Kent with a house of her own, kept it for him. He’d always thought he’d one day make toys like it for his own child. He hadn’t expected it to be today.

  He curled his fingers beneath his hand, determined to have a place in the boy and Mary’s life. He’d missed too much time with them already and he wasn’t about to lose more by letting her misguided independence stop him.

  “Mama says you were fighting in Spain,” John said, drawing Charles’ attention back to his son.

  “I was.” Charles began to tell him something of his experience when the pub door opened and a man sauntered in with the cold autumn breeze. He wore a dirty hat pushed down over his eyes and took in the place with a covetous gleam that set Charles on edge. Then he turned his attention to Charles who didn’t flinch from his hard scrutiny. Beside him, John shrunk back on the bench, the horse clasped tight to his chest.

  “Who’s that?” Charles asked as the stout man bore down on them. The fear in the boy’s round eyes made Charles furious.

  “Mr. Pratt,” John’s small voice trembled. “Mama gives him money but he always yells and says she owes him more.”

  “Not today he won’t.” Charles rose and placed himself between John and the man built like a bale of hay and just as ugly. “What’s your business here?”

  Mr. Pratt studied him with two squinty eyes above a whiskered and greasy face. “So it’s true, you’re back from the dead. Good, you can pay me what her stepfather didn’t or I’ll summon the bailiff and take it. I’d like to own a pub.”

  Charles planted his fists on his hips. “How much is owed?”

  Mr. Pratt rubbed his chin as if deciding how much he could squeeze out of him. “One hundred pounds.”

  “That’s not what she told me,” Charles bluffed. Mary hadn’t told him the amount, but he’d defended more than one young and gullible officer from men like these who extended small loans then inflated the amount without proof. They used force to get what they wanted, which as in this case, wasn't always money.

  Mr. Pratt’s squinty eyes opened wide and Charles knew he had him but the man remained determined. “Here’s all the proof I need.”

  Mr. Pratt swung his walking stick at Charles who caught the man’s beefy arm and twisted it until the stick clattered to the floor. He punched him in the gut, doubling him over. Then he grabbed him by the scruff with one hand and scooped up the walking stick with the other. He dragged the wheezing oaf to the door, kicked it open and tossed Mr. Pratt into the street. “Don’t come back until you have proof of the terms of the loan and how much is really owed.”

  He broke the walking stick over his knee and chucked it in the mud beside him, not flinching at the hate the ugly lout spat at him. Charles stepped back into the pub, stopping just as the door swung shut behind him to discover Mary watching from beside the bar. She held John close, her arms crossed protectively over the boy who beamed at having seen a ghost defeated. His mother’s wide eyes revealed her astonishment.

  “Thank you,” she mouthed before retreating with their son into the back room.

  Charles didn’t want her thanks. He wanted her faith in him and their future life together. It was clear Mary needed him. He knew from experience this wouldn’t be the last of Mr. Pratt. Even if the man thought twice about using force to intimidate anyone here into providing payment, he wasn’t going to simply forget the debt. He’d be back and in search of his money and Charles would have to find a way to pay him.

  CHAPTER SIX

  "Your news is certainly more interesting than mine." Major Aaron Wilson raised a tankard to Charles. His friend from Spain had arrived with details of their new posting in London, preventing Charles from speaking with Mary about Mr. Pratt.

  Charles stood behind the bar serving the few patrons free enough in the middle of the day to waste coin on beer. He hadn't waited to be asked but had set to work where Mr. Ogden had said he was needed. The activity cleared his mind, allowing him to plot and plan even if nothing had come of it yet.

  “A major's commission is available," Aaron announced. "With it, you can stay in London, but Lord Beckwith needs the money for it right away. Many are clamoring for the rank and he can’t put them off for long.”

  "Selling my captain’s commission will raise most of it but I'll still be two hundred pounds short.”

  Down the bar, a slim man hunched over a tankard listened with too much interest. A hard look from Charles warned him to mind his own business.

  “Without it, you’ll either be ordered back to Spain or forced to sell out?” Aaron reminded.

  Charles tapped the bar. Selling out would mean earning the money for Mary and ending his career. He’d need his rank if Mary continued to refuse him.

  "Any chance Mrs. Beven will lend you the difference?” Aaron hazarded over the rim of his tankard.

  The slim man tossed a coin on the counter and left.

  "Not likely. The pub hasn't a pound to spare.” He picked up the thruppence and flipped it in the air before catching it in his fist. “I could try my luck at the gaming tables. I've won money before to buy my way up the ranks, I could do it again."

  Aaron set down his ale. "Or you could lose what little you have.”

  Charles rubbed the stamped face of the thruppence between his thumb and forefinger. Aaron was right. Gambling for his future was risky. It might have worked for him in the past but there was no guarantee he’d win what he needed now. However, with few other prospects open to him, it was almost the only option which remained. “Then let’s hope my luck holds."

  He turned to toss the money in the till when his eyes caught Mary’s. She watched him, like the thin man had, from the far end of the bar. He wasn’t sure how much she’d heard but he sensed it was enough. Suspicion darkened her flashing eyes as she hustled away, her cloak flaring out behind her as she fled.

  “Excuse me.” Charles left his friend to follow her into the semi-dark hallway near the back door. He caught her by the arm, stopping her from darting into the alley behind the pub. “Mary, wait.”

  She whirled to face him, as stunned as he was by the softness of her flesh against his fingertips. For a moment they stood there, linked by his sure grip and the potent memory of a stolen first kiss in this hallway three years ago. He shifted closer and her red lips parted, tempting him now as they had back then. He lowered his head, eager to taste again the woman who’d so enthralled him. She raised her face to his, drawing up to meet him, her breasts light against his chest through the fabric of her dress, surrendering to him and the bond they’d once shared.

  Then all of a sudden she jerked her arm out of his hand. “Let go of me.”

  The urgency of the present smashed all recollection of the past, and he stepped back, bumping into the plaster wall behind him. “Why didn’t you tell me how much you owed Mr. Pratt?”

  "Because I almost have enough to pay him, and then the Marquis will be out of danger."

  "But you don't have it all and you won't anytime soon, will you?"

  The nervous dart of her gaze told him he was right. She was about to lose the pub and everything she'd fought for. "You don't have it either, so what can you do?"

  “Find another way to provide for John and our futures.”

  “By gambling?” She snatched a reticule off a peg beside the door, along with an old sword
hanging beside it. She gripped the weathered sheath tight as she faced him. “Paul tried to solve his problems with the cards and all it ever did was make them and ours even worse. I won’t risk mine or my son’s future on the whims of a gambler.”

  She made for the door but he stepped between her and it. “He’s my son too, and I have a say in his future as much as you do.”

  Fear flitted across her face before she narrowed her eyes at him in challenge. “Don’t think you can take him from me.”

  “I never said I would.” He eased his shoulders, not wanting to frighten her or set them at odds. Somehow he must convince her to trust him and work with him for John’s sake. “I also want what’s best for him, and you.”

  The heat in her eyes cooled but it didn’t fade completely. “The pub is what’s best for him. Now, get out of my way, I have an errand to run.”

  He didn’t move, hesitant to let her go. He could guess where she was going and knew it wouldn’t accomplish what she hoped. Still, he must allow her to try. Then, when she failed, she might at last admit she needed his help. He shifted to the side, leaving the way to the door clear. She swept past him and into the bright street beyond, the cloak snapping at her heels.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Can’t you give me more?” Mary pleaded with Mr. Green, the owner of the pawn shop where most of her parents’ valuables now resided. They’d been sold by Paul when he’d exercised his legal right to her mother’s property after they’d married. The two items Mary held were all that were left of value, and they only remained because Mary had hidden them from her stepfather.

  “Gold rings is the first thing people sell when they fall on hard times.” Mr. Green set down the ring on the glass case and waved to the ample selection beneath it.

  “And the sword?” Mary fingered the cracked leather sheath. It’d been her grandfather’s, captured by him while he’d served with the Marquis of Granby in the Seven Year’s War. He’d been so proud of what he’d done in battle, he’d told the story to her and anyone who’d listen many times. Selling the sword would hurt almost as much as learning Charles was a gambler, and less trustworthy than she’d believed after his dealing with Mr. Pratt. However, losing the Marquis, and with it John’s legacy, would be worse than parting with the items.

  “They’re the second thing men sell, especially old soldiers.” He waved to the collection of sabers hanging on the far wall. “Ten pounds for both and not a shilling more.”

  With a heavy heart, she pushed the sword towards him, her fingers lingering on the engraved and gilded hilt before she removed her hands. “All right.”

  She left the pawn shop with the precious bill tucked inside her bodice, close to her skin. It wasn’t the fifty pounds she needed, but maybe it would be enough to convince Mr. Pratt to give her more time to raise the rest just as her small payments had done before.

  Not likely after the way Charles insulted him. She stopped in the street, hands balled at her sides, ignoring the people stepping around her as they hurried to and from the shops. She wanted to curse Charles, to storm back to the pub and rail at him for making matters worse but she couldn’t. She was glad he’d struck Mr. Pratt. The ugly man deserved it for all the times he’d trod over her and everyone at the pub in his demands for money.

  She unclenched her hands and with slower steps made her way back to the Marquis, as amazed as she was baffled by Charles. He hadn’t hesitated in defending her, and like his treatment of John, he hadn’t done it because she was watching. He hadn’t seen her come in from the taproom. He’d done it because he’d wanted to, because he cared.

  Maybe Aunt Emily is right about him. No, he’s a gambler and gamblers can’t be trusted. He might have been gallant today, but it didn’t mean the hunger for the cards wouldn’t eventually turn him against her or make him steal their earnings the way Paul used to do to keep playing. Even if he didn’t, marrying him and ending her lie would mean surrendering legal control of the pub and John to him. He could sell the Marquis to pay off her debts or buy his next commission. With the war still raging, he could be forced back to Spain and die for real. Without the Marquis, she couldn’t take care of John and Aunt Emily, and then she’d be forced to wed again like her mother had done.

  She pushed back her slumped shoulders as the clutter of London gave way to the fields of Hampstead Heath. The situation wasn’t hopeless. There was still a little time for her to think of something, even if all she could contemplate on the walk home was Charles.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Are you in, Captain Beven?” Captain Percy asked Charles from across the card table in the large game room of the Army Service Club.

  “Not this hand, fellows.” Charles tossed down his cards, scooped up his money, and with some relief quit the gaming room. He started down the hall, the coins in his pocket heavy with metal and guilt. If he hadn’t been dealt a queen in the last hand, he’d have walked out of the officer’s club with significantly less than he’d entered with. Thankfully, the club kept the stakes low, making men work through many hands to either win or lose a decent amount. It kept those who couldn’t afford it from tossing away a great deal of blunt on a reckless hand or two. It also frustrated those who wished to fling it away in smaller amounts over many hours. Charles had possessed the patience and will to endure a number of hands to win what he needed but bad luck had been just as willing to sit beside him.

  “Win big, Captain Beven?” Captain Mercer hailed him from across the billiards table as Charles passed the narrow room off the main hall. It was empty except for a wall of books no one read and the table where Captain Mercer’s billiard balls were spread across the slate.

  “Not this evening.” Charles strode in to join his friend, stepping into the pool of light cast by the single lamp hanging over the table. Outside, the sun had set. It would be a dark, cold walk back to the pub.

  “I’ll play you, maybe you can beat me,” Captain Mercer offered. He was ten years older than Charles’ twenty eight with thinning dark hair above a narrow face.

  Charles held up his hands. “Billiards isn’t my game.”

  He leveled his cue stick at Charles. “Because you’re too honest for it. It’s why you’re one of the few men most officers around here, including myself, will play at card. Even when you’re down you don’t cheat.”

  At least someone thinks well of me. He’d done nothing to earn Mary’s distrust and yet she’d painted him with the same brush as her odious stepfather. It ate at his gut like cheap wine, especially since she was right. He was a gambler, but unlike others he didn’t have a passion for play. It was, like his having sold the captured horses in Talavera and the seized wine near Madrid, a way to raise money to purchase his way up the ranks. Being the son of a baker had left him without the resources of the higher born officers. An ability to count fast and anticipate the next card in the deck had given him the only advantage he’d ever possessed. Sadly, as tonight had proven, it wasn’t an infallible one.

  “So, what are you doing here? I thought you were going to capture the publican’s daughter?” Captain Mercer rubbed chalk on the end of his cue stick then blew off the dust.

  “There are some impediments to our union.” One of which was her infuriating stubbornness. Even if he’d won enough tonight to save the Marquis and buy his commission, there was no guarantee Mary would accept his assistance or him.

  “Are we going to pass the hat for you like we did for Major Wilson?” Captain Mercer laughed.

  Charles smiled. “The men are generous with ten pounds for a common license, but not fifty.”

  Captain Mercer let out a long whistle. “No, they aren’t. Now come and play, we won’t gamble. It’ll take your mind off your troubles.”

  Charles selected a cue stick from the stand and lost shot after shot as thoughts of Mary continued to distract him. He hadn’t been bluffing when he’d said he wanted a say in John’s life. It was the problem of gaining it which still plagued him. If he pressed the issue of th
e pretend marriage, he could assert his privilege as the boy’s father, but it would drive a wedge between him and Mary, one he could never overcome.

  Perhaps I should let her go like she wants. He could reside in London and she could pretend he was in Spain. They’d live in their different spheres and no one would be the wiser, except he’d know he’d left her and his son. He couldn’t do it.

  Charles lined up a shot and sank it with a crack of the stick against the cue ball. He wouldn’t give up here anymore than he had in Spain when his cold and starving men had begged him to surrender to the French. He’d believed then he could get them home as he believed now he could win Mary. Let her be headstrong, he could be equally so in return and convince the loving and happy woman who’d once cared for him to return again.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Evening fell and the crowd in the pub increased, leaving Mary little time to consider anything except serving beer and collecting coins. Thankfully, Charles had gone to London, removing the distraction of his presence. She still didn’t know what to do about him or their situation, and chatting with her regular patrons, all of whom congratulated her on the return of her husband, didn’t make the situation any easier.

  Charles didn’t come back until late into the night. He walked in as she was ushering out the last of the drinking men. Dust dulled the shoulders of his red coat and the sweat of walking dampened the brown hair at his temples. He’d pushed it back, revealing the strong forehead, straight nose and hard jaw which had caught her notice the first night he’d come here to drink. She longed to approach him like she used to, eyes lowered to wink at him from beneath her lashes, the heady potency of his answering grin making her heart flutter as he imagined exactly what she was suggesting with her coquettish smiles.