Chapter Twenty

When Worlds Collide

The sun had begun to lower when Wycliff carried the sleeping Christopher out of his carriage. The boy snored like a mill saw but had a tight grip about Wycliff’s neck.

Between this pressure and all the yelling and laughing he’d done, his throat was sore. His voice would be very hoarse if he was lucky enough to still have one.

Freeing his neck, he shifted the boy. Christopher was good and pure. He must take after his mother completely.

Wycliff stuck his free hand inside his carriage and clasped Ruth’s. “Let me help you.”

“Yes. I wonder if we have an audience looking out of Mama’s parlor.”

He half turned and saw lights burning in the front room of the Croome townhouse. “Well, they’ll be pleased. I have returned you two at a respectable hour.”

Ruth nodded and came close to his side.

She’d been silent in the carriage, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable quiet. It felt like the peace of old comfortable friends.

The little boy yawned, his cap falling. Wycliff stooped, and he felt Ruth jerk a little.

“Just getting this.” He handed her the knit bonnet then put his hand on her waist and headed to the entry. “You think he had fun?”

“Yes. You’ve been so good to him and me.”

Christopher fit with them. Wycliff had thought it would make a difference, not knowing if the boy was his flesh. It didn’t. All the feelings—the protectiveness, the wariness, and the pride he associated with his own father, bubbled. It grew more and more for Christopher.

Her fingers tangled in the strings of her bonnet. A few curls dropped about her darkening cheeks. “Did you say something?”

“Maybe. My thoughts might be too loud, unlike what’s left of my voice.”

“Your voice is not so bad. Not when you get used to it.”

He adjusted the boy and then took the first step of the entry. “Christopher is amazing. If I can teach him to fish, he will make a fine Baron of Wycliff.”

“That’s my son, but he’s only your heir until you marry, my lord, and have a son. We know you shall marry. Peers must.”

He stopped on the third step and waited for her to join him. “I’ll not comment, Ruth. I remember being tossed out the last time I shared my direct opinion.”

She smiled then her expression sharpened. “I’m surprised that every eligible daughter in Mayfair hasn’t been paraded before you at Blaren House. The marriage-making-mamas must be slacking off in their duties.”

How could she be serious? He offered a soft laugh, one that wouldn’t startle Christopher. “Fortunately, the sjambok eviction has put them off.”

The door to the house opened. The butler, Clancy, had a frowning look. Every time he’d seen the man, he possessed a cheeky grin. Now he looked mournful.

“What’s wrong, Clancy?” Ruth asked as she handed him her bonnet and gloves.

Mrs. Fitterwall came from the hall. “Clancy, don’t be upsetting Mrs. Wilky. There’s nothing she can do about it.”

Ruth looked down as if this was some unspoken dig, but Wycliff had that sense, that sensation crawling up his spine, that this was about him. “Why not let Mrs. Wilky decide? She knows her own mind.”

“Yes, I do. Mrs. Fitterwall, put Chris to bed first.”

The woman blanched as if she’d just heard Ruth’s voice for the first time.

The housekeeper complied without a complaint. “Yes, ma’am.”

Clancy fumbled with the buttons on his livery. “Mrs. Johnson’s in the parlor with your mother.” His voice became lower and lower as if he spoke in secret. “She’s in an awful state. She’s been asking for you, ma’am.”

Ruth ran to the parlor, and Wycliff chased behind her.

When she opened the door, Mrs. Johnson was red faced, prostrate and crying on the sofa.

Mrs. Croome was there in her lace mobcap, seemingly unbothered. She’d even knitted. What type of dire situation was this?

Mrs. Johnson wiped her eyes on a very wrinkled handkerchief, something that had been twisted up tight. His cynical spirit thought it purposeful for dramatic effect.

The woman lifted from the sofa and came to Ruth, taking both of her hands. “You are here with him. You have to help. Make him help me.”

“Me…him?” Ruth’s tone wasn’t quite questioning. It sounded suspicious. That was his girl.

“Talk to my daughter, Mrs. Johnson. Lord Wycliff, why don’t I see you out and let these two have a conversation.”

His sense about things like cheaters, scandalmongers, and bad tailors nudged him. “Ma’am, I want to stay. I need—”

“He’s the one. Mrs. Wilky, use your influence. Make him help.”

Ruth folded her arms. “Make Lord Wycliff help what? What are you talking about?”

“Look at me,” the hysterical woman said. “You know me. Madame Talease’s brothel. We shared a room. I tended to you when you came. You have to remember me.”

Ruth’s blinked a few times. “I don’t know you. Why are you lying?” She looked toward Wycliff’s direction and then back toward her mother. “I was at Madame Talease’s, but I don’t know you.”

Mrs. Johnson wiped at her eyes. “Maybe not directly. Your face was bandaged, your fever was high. I thought maybe you would know me. I hoped you would recognize me. I was good to you.”

Ruth balled her fingers.

The room felt on fire as if the rage coming from her fists heated the air. She stepped closer to Mrs. Johnson. “You’ve been to this house many times over the past six months. Why is it important to announce this today and in front of my company?”

“Because your cousin is ruining my husband. We’ll lose everything.”

Ruth tweaked her spectacles. “You are here to blackmail me. My mother, everyone here knows that I was at Madame Talease’s, sold to the woman after the vicious attack that killed my husband.”

“No, Mrs. Wilky, no blackmail, but a favor. The baron is ruining my husband. He’s doing it. You can get him to stop.”

Wycliff half leaned on the fireplace, not denying or confirming anything. His business would never involve Ruth. His worlds, his finance dealings, and his personal affairs would never again mix.

Mrs. Croome, who surely understood from all of Mr. Croome’s dealings, sat silent, sipping her tea.

Ruth gripped the couch’s high back. “Mrs. Johnson, I don’t know how to help. Lord Wycliff is here. Appeal to him yourself.”

Mrs. Johnson balled the handkerchief into her palm. “I might have something that I can give you, my lord. I have a book.”

He had a feeling this was the missing ledger, but he’d let this woman expose her duplicity. “I’m sure the Croomes have plenty of novels. Probably one or two editions of the Good Book for meditation. I have poems.”

“But this belonged to your cousin, my lord, Adam Wilky, her late husband.”

So, Milly from the bawdy house had the second set of ledgers, the ones that told of Mr. Johnson’s dirty dealings. Was that how Milly done come up—extortion? “Where did you get these books you believe to be Adam Wilky’s?”

“From Ruth’s trunk.” The woman laced her fingers together and bowed her head. “I took it from the brothel.”

Ruth’s face was unreadable for a second, but then her frown pinched tight. Something was about to burst.

“You were here when my trunk came. You said nothing.”

“I didn’t want to expose myself if you didn’t remember, but when you were dumped at the brothel, I cared for you. I thought there would be jewels in your trunk. I’d never seen such an elegant negress. I found the ledger hidden in the lining. I read it. Your husband identified things that Mr. Johnson didn’t want known.”

Wycliff’s insides churned. He started to loosen his cravat. “You used the information to force Mr. Johnson to marry you. Why give up a document that proved his guilt?”

“It helped him come up to snuff, but I’m good to Mr. Johnson. He’s happy. I’ll give you the pages that indict Soulden Wilkinson. He’s horrible.”

Ruth shook her fists. “I don’t care for this nonsense about how you schemed for a criminal husband. Why are you here now?”

“That Wilkinson name or most of the name on that torn piece of registry. Those people keep Mr. Johnson up at night. He thinks Soulden Wilkinson will kill him. Your cousin, Lord Wycliff, is now the head of the family. He can help. He can get my husband’s shipments moving. Mr. Johnson’s talking bankruptcy.”

“So, Milly done come down? Or was about to.” Wycliff covered his mouth and took a step back when Ruth glared at him.

“No jokes, Wycliff.” Her voice was stern, powerful, more than feisty.

She pointed a finger at him before turning back to Mrs. Johnson. “Why didn’t you say something before? You know the jokes I’ve suffered. You laughed with the circle of knitters, women who didn’t believe I had a husband. Couldn’t you tell I needed a friend, a true friend?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to admit my past as one of Madame’s girls, either.”

“Or that you are a thief?” Ruth’s tone was icy calm, too calm. “I think you need to leave.”

Mrs. Johnson came to her. “I know I’ve done wrong. But you know what it’s like to be desperate. And you are a mother. My baby needs to know his father as he is, not a shell of a man who’s lost everything.”

She put Ruth’s palm on her stomach. “Feel my baby’s kick. Help this child.”

Rubbing her temples, Ruth turned to him. “I don’t know how to ask you this.”

“Don’t.” Wycliff kept his words low. It was all he could muster. “This is not your fight. Keep your big heart safe and nowhere near this disagreement.”

Mrs. Johnson stepped to him. “Please, for my baby. I can’t go back to where I came from, and I love Mr. Johnson. I have to save him. Please ease the credit on him, Lord Wycliff. Let his shipments sail.”

Johnson was as guilty as Uncle Soulden, but maybe he’d try to live right for this child to come.

Wycliff groaned but decided to offer an olive branch. “Tell Johnson to use Captain Steward. He found the money to keep his ship moving. I’m financing him.”

“The captain was killed today on the docks. Someone started gossip that he cheated the payroll. His men rose up against him. He’s dead.”

Wycliff held back the choice words he wished to utter, the language he’d use on the docks. This was injustice, so wrongful, the murder of Steward. Nothing on his tongue was appropriate for these women.

“The captain was a good man. He had the money for his crew. I eased credit to him. He should not have been killed.”

“He was murdered.” Ruth’s words cut through his gut. She was right.

This was his uncle’s hand. A message—anyone associated with Wycliff, left unprotected, would die. Soulden the blackguard was wounded, but the dog wasn’t done.

Mrs. Johnson lifted her hands to Wycliff. “Ease the credit to Mr. Johnson. Only Wilkinson’s ships can save my husband now.”

Wycliff turned away, fingered the garniture vases above the fireplace, fragile porcelain, easily broken with a shove or a careless hand. “Your husband can’t be saved, not by me. Captain Steward was the only way, and he’s gone. I’ll see to his wife and family.”

The dark-haired beauty began to cry. “You’ll not help? Lord Wycliff, please. Ruth?”

Uncle needed to be put down like a mangy animal before he touched anything else of Wycliff’s. “Your husband knows who is responsible for Steward’s death. I suggest you and Mr. Johnson be very careful.”

The woman wept harder and sputtered words that didn’t sound like a lady, but old Milly-from-the-bawdy house. “Please work on him, Ruth.”

Mrs. Croome set down her empty cup and took Mrs. Johnson’s hand. “You must go. Leave the men’s business to them. It’s the best way.”

The sobbing woman took Mrs. Croome’s arm and left the room.

When the door shut, Wycliff prepared himself to hear Ruth try to change his mind and her disappointment when he refused. There was no changing on this, even for her.

Yet, Ruth said nothing.

Her silence made it harder to breathe. “Say something.”

She rubbed her temples. “It’s true? And Mr. Johnson knows you are destroying his business?”

“Yes. And I’m destroying Soulden Wilkinson. He led the evil that hurt you and Adam.”

“Adam’s uncle? Why does everything come back to him?”

“Ruth, I’ve asked nothing of your business at the brothel. Don’t ask of my business. It’s the only way to protect you.”

“What?”

“Adam failed by involving you. He should’ve finished bringing his uncle and Johnson to justice before taking you as his wife. He thought he could have everything, instead he made you a casualty in his war. You deserve peace, not a war.”

“Does that mean I won’t see you again until you’ve won? I definitely won’t see you, if you lose.”

“You want to see me again, Ruth?”

She sat on the back of the sofa. “Is that all you heard?”

“That’s all I needed to hear. I’ve kept my business separate from you and will continue to do so. You won’t see that side of me. You’ll have Wycliff the man of peace, not the one enforcing judgement.”

She took off her spectacles and set them in her palm. “But peace and war are both you?”

He moved to her, stroking her jaw. She wasn’t fragile. She was strong like bone china and had been tested enough. “We’re good together. I need to see you tomorrow.”

“You want to pretend that Mrs. Johnson wasn’t here. That one of your business associates isn’t dead.”

“Nothing changes by acknowledging this treachery. Captain Steward was a good man who became embroiled with men who don’t play fair. These fiends thrive on weakness. I’m not weak, Ruth. I’m not going to stop living because of their threats. I’ll enjoy every moment. I know everything can change in an hour.”

“I’m to accept that there is one side of you I’ll never see. Have I no choice in this matter?”

He bit at his lip. “I accept you, Ruth. Everything. Even your desire for a friend, a platonic friendship.”

Firm in his decision, he moved to the door. “It was a good day. Send me a note if you want to go for a walk tomorrow.”

Wycliff marched out the door, grabbed up his hat and dashed out the entry.

“Wait.”

Ruth had chased after him. She was at the top step and then bounced down another two to join him. “Don’t go.”

Outside. She’d come outside for him. The lady wrapped her arms about his sore neck. “I accept you, too. Just as you are.”

Then she grabbed him by the collar and pressed her mouth to his.

Her hands were tight, pulling at his shirt, her fingers a mere inch above the scars burned into his throat.

Wild—with her hands tugging on his collar, his coat—her kisses deepened.

How is this a platonic friendship?

He should push away. He should think of what she wanted, what she’d said she needed. “Ruth, wait—”

She purred. Her nails sank into his shoulders.

Control. None. The puffer was stuck in the puddin’. Ruth, as the old saying went, made the love thick. It was rather easy for him to get stuck in it. Four years, and he burned the same.

And he needed her, more than ever.

Wycliff dropped his hat and took her into his arms. So warm, so passionate, so Ruth, his Ruth. She was the only person to have him on edge, make him think he’d lost all, then spin him like a drunken top. “Oh, woman.”

This seaman drowned, drowned in her fire, tasting and teasing, until he could stand no more.

“Break with the barrister. I beg of you, Ruth. Don’t torture my soul wondering if I have a chance.”

“I can’t go on with Mr. Marks and feel like this. But I’m not ready to be won. There’s so much to discuss.”

If her affection remained white hot, there wouldn’t be much discussion. “So, you’ll break with Marks?”

“Yes. You do have nice lips, better than his.”

Wasn’t quite what he wanted to hear, but he’d take anything that meant she wouldn’t consider another man. “Well, there is that.”

Caressing her back, he held her, hoping his heart would slow, but when did fire make anything slow? “Tomorrow, Ruth. A walk. Be ready for me.”

“Yes.”

He waited until she’d slipped back into the house.

But he stood there, hoping she’d come back or even look for him out the parlor window.

A quick gaze to the upper level and he saw Ruth waving at him.

Four years, so many days and hours apart, and he was still as much in love with her as ever.

Small steps, Wycliff. Ruth wasn’t where he was…yet.

After picking up his things, he fanned his face and climbed into his carriage.

Time to finish his enemies and make Ruth love him so much that silly things like a name wouldn’t matter and a big thing like trusting him completely wouldn’t be so hard.