She swallowed down an epithet, but kept walking, refusing to believe that any part of him was like her, that he might know her or see inside her.
Logan watched her flee, aggravated with himself. What was he doing needling her? He all but admitted that he cared nothing for Libba. Not a smart move on his part. What if she persuaded Libba of that fact?
He dragged a hand over his face and stared blindly out at the night. She brought out the worst in him. He couldn’t explain it. She wasn’t doing anything he wasn’t doing—simply looking for the best match possible—but she stirred feelings inside him, made him unaccountably angry . . . made him feel.
He shook his head, reaching for the cool calm of indifference. Nothing had changed. She had her agenda. He had his. They’d both marry people they felt nothing for.
Chapter Seven
The following morning Cleo set out on a walk through the park.
Berthe accompanied her. Rather silly considering all the solitary walks Cleo had taken in her life. But that was all in the past—as Jack had reminded her the first time she tried to step outside unaccompanied.
Country bred, Berthe did not mind her brisk pace—or the early hour. A still, windless air draped the park—as if the world had not yet woken, and Cleo could almost pretend she wasn’t in the bustling city at all.
Berthe puffed beside her, the cheeks in her narrow, angular face flushed a ruddy red in the chill morning. “A mite fast today, aren’t you, miss?”
Cleo nodded to a nearby bench. “Feel free to have a seat.”
She shook her head. “Just pondering your need for such haste. No more than that.”
Cleo smiled. Berthe had come to read her well. There was an undeniable parallel between Cleo’s moods and her urge for brisk walks.
They continued on, the only sound their rasping breaths. An occasional rider streaked along a bridle path, reveling in the freedom of the park in the early-morning hour.
The path wound, cutting into a heavy cluster of trees. A twig snapped behind them and Cleo glanced over her shoulder. Leaves scuttled across the path, but nothing else moved. Shrugging, she faced forward again . . . only to stop and glance behind them again several moments later, an uneasy feeling sweeping over her.
Berthe followed her gaze. “What?”
Cleo shook her head. “Nothing. Just . . .”
“What?”
“Nothing.” Turning about, she moved two strides before a shadow fell across their path.
Cleo gasped. Berthe yelped and took a hasty step in front of Cleo.
With a sinking sensation, Cleo gazed at the man in front of them and placed a hand on Berthe’s arm. “Don’t be alarmed.”
The maid glanced back and forth between Cleo and the stranger.
“He’s my stepfather,” Cleo explained, staring sullenly at Roger. His face appeared more bloated and dissipated than she remembered, and she could guess that he’d been spending some of Jack’s money on a healthy portion of gin.
“Your stepfather?” She looked him up and down, clearly unimpressed. “Don’t you know how to make a proper call? It doesn’t include sneaking up on a lady and giving her a fright—I don’t care if she is your stepdaughter!”
His lip curled. “Mind yer affairs and step away while I have a word with my daughter.”
Berthe straightened with an indignant huff of breath.
“Stepdaughter,” Cleo interjected even as she nodded to Berthe, indicating for her to give them a moment.
Frowning, Berthe moved off the path—out of hearing range but not out of sight. The maid’s gaze never left Roger, and Cleo had no doubt that Berthe would attack at the slightest behest.
His gaze crawled over her like a slow-moving serpent. “Aren’t you the fine-looking lady? Looks like you’ve landed yourself in quite the cozy little nest.”
Cleo crossed her arms and cut straight to the point. “What do you want?” She knew he wasn’t interested in idle chatter. If he was here, it was because he needed something from her . . . and the fact that he hadn’t gone directly to the house told her he wanted to stay clear of Jack.
His red-rimmed eyes didn’t blink at her bald question. “Money.”
She blinked and cocked her head to the side. “Jack’s man gave you plenty when he—”
“You didn’t expect that to last, did you? That was almost a year ago.”
“It’s gone? That was enough to last two years.”
He shrugged. “What can I say? My standard of living has significantly increased.” He tugged on the lapels of his coat. “I’m a gentleman now.”
She didn’t even acknowledge the absurdity of that comment. “What did you do with the money?”
He stared at her, thin lipped. Crossing his thick arms across his chest, he asked, “Does it matter? It’s gone.”
She supposed it didn’t matter. She sighed. “I’ll go to Jack and—”
“I already done that. Months ago.”
He’d gone to Jack? He’d run through the money months ago?
Roger continued, “The tight-fisted bastard offered me a paltry sum to come only every fortnight. An allowance, he called it. Treats me like a bleeding child.”
“It’s better than nothing. He owes you nothing,” Cleo sharply reminded.
“I married his whore.” Roger thrust his face close to snarl. “Raised his brat.”
She took a bracing breath.
“I want more.” He pounded his chest. “I deserve it.”
She shook her head, wondering in what twisted reality he resided if he thought he deserved anything. “I can’t make him give you more.”
Roger stepped closer, the wool of his coat brushing her. “You forget about your family, Cleo? Your sisters and brothers?” His gaze narrowed. “Bess asks for you still. You remember her?”
Cleo’s throat tightened. She nodded. “Of course I remember her.”
“Because it’s been hard these last months. Little Bess is so frail.” He shrugged. “It’s been cold . . . and coal isn’t cheap.”
Her gloved fingers curled and uncurled in anger. He’d had more than enough money for coal . . . and food, and clothes. Cleo cursed herself. She should have known this would happen—that Roger would hoard the money for his own vices while her mother and siblings suffered.
She suddenly doubted whether her mother and the children saw a penny of it. Of course her mother wouldn’t have wanted to complain to Cleo. Her mother never complained. She just endured.
“I’m close to marrying.” She held up a hand in supplication. “I can give you money of my own then. You won’t have to go through Jack.”
He looked her over appraisingly. “Found yourself a ripe pigeon, have you? Are you certain he’ll give you free rein of his purse?”
She nodded. “Yes. But I’ll require a promise from you in exchange.”
A guarded look came over his face. “And what would that be?”
“I get the children. And Mama, too.”
He scratched his bristly jaw, obviously considering her words. “And what will I get?”
“Money. Freedom. You won’t have a brood of children beneath your feet. You can live the life of a gentleman . . . go off and spend your money however you please—“
“I can do that anyway—and keep my kin.”
“No. You can’t.” She sucked in a breath. “You won’t get a penny from me unless you agree to these terms.”
His eyes narrowed. “The boys. Adam and Conrad. They’re getting older. They can be useful—”
“I want them. All of them.”
“That’s going to cost you.”
Loathing curled in the pit of her belly. “What kind of man negotiates the sale of his children?”
He shrugged. “What can I say? I’m an entrepreneur.”
“I’ll pay whatever yo
u ask. But I get all of them. Or I walk. That’s the arrangement.” She held her breath tight inside her chest, hoping he’d believe her bluff—that she’d walk away from her family. No matter the situation, she’d never do that—could never turn her back on them.
He studied her, clearly contemplating her offer, weighing if there was any disadvantage to him.
“Very well,” he finally relented. “You can have the children. They’re naught but trouble, anyway. But I keep your mother.”
A protest surged hotly to her lips. “No!” Her mother would not live much longer if she remained with him. Of this she was certain. “I’ll pay you.”
“You can’t pay me enough for her.” He thrust his face close. Spittle flew from his lips. “She’s my wife. I keep her.”
Gazing into his eyes, she knew he would never relent on this point. Her shoulders slumped in defeat. “Very well.”
He smiled suddenly. “I’m glad we had this talk.” Shivering in the morning chill, he flipped up the collar of his coat.
Glaring at him, she marveled that she could ever despise anyone so much.
Squinting out at the tree-shrouded horizon, he murmured mildly, “Best be quick and get yourself to the altar. Don’t know how long the little ones can fare without proper care. Life can be so . . . taxing.” He glanced back at her, an eyebrow winging high. “As you well know.”
With that parting comment ringing ominously in her ears, he drifted off down the path.
The next afternoon Marguerite surprised Cleo with a visit. Even if Cleo hadn’t grown fond of her half sister in the last year, she would have been delighted to see her for the distraction alone. She’d suffered a restless night, her encounter with her stepfather replaying through her mind, filling her with a gnawing sense of urgency. She must do something and soon. She might not be able to save her mother, but she could still save the children.
Deciding an outing would do her some good, Cleo suggested they visit her favorite place, a bookshop she had discovered shortly after arriving in Town.
The bell chimed over the door as they entered the shop. Cleo inhaled, loving the musty, leathery aroma. Mr. Schumacher greeted them warmly, coming around his wide oak counter.
“Ladies! So good to see you again. Anything I can help you with today?”
“Just browsing, Mr. Schumacher,” she replied, untying her bonnet’s ribbons beneath her chin.
Marguerite did the same, smoothing a hand over the top of her raven-dark hair.
“Well, you always manage to find something with no assistance from me. Enjoy! Let me know if you need anything.” Beaming, he gestured widely with his hands, welcoming them to peruse the towering shelves stuffed haphazardly with books. Cleo was certain they were organized in some order and fashion that Mr. Schumacher alone understood. Patrons, however, were hopeless to understand what that pattern might be.
Marguerite trailed behind her, evidently content to let Cleo browse the many books. Cleo pulled out one title and then slid it back in its home, strolling along and running her fingers over spines.
“See anything you like?”
“Not yet.” She looked over her shoulder with a smile. “But I will.”
“Of that I have no doubt. You read more than any soul I’ve ever known.”
“Books were such a rarity growing up. The only thing I ever read with any regularity was Mama’s Bible. Or sheet music. When I practiced the pianoforte at the rectory, the vicar would sometimes let me read from his collection of books.” She smiled at the memory. “The reverend was a good man, but his reading preferences were different from my own. He didn’t own a single novel.”
She selected a battered novel by Mrs. Radcliffe and tucked it beneath her arm.
Marguerite arched a dark eyebrow. “I’d hazard to say he would not have approved of that one.”
She laughed. “Most assuredly.”
Cleo exclaimed with delight as she found a thin volume of poems. Thumbing through it, she saw that it was all melodramatic rubbish. The best kind. Pleased, she hugged the book close.
“I’ll be back. I want to see if there are any books of children’s rhymes. My friend Fallon enjoys reading to her daughter.” Marguerite moved down the aisle.
Cleo continued to browse as Marguerite moved off. Surrounded by so many books, she could forget the world around her . . . especially so close to the chance of escaping into other worlds. Better worlds.
“Good morning, Miss Hadley.”
As the familiar Scottish voice ribboned its way through her, she questioned her sanity and whether she had conjured the words from memory. Surely he couldn’t be here of all places. Not in the one place in this city she considered hers.
Inhaling a bracing breath, she turned. Her ears had not deceived her. Her skin heated as she recalled their last encounter and his intimation that they were alike.
“Lord McKinney,” she murmured, pleased at the flatness of her voice. “What are you doing here?” Blunt to the point of rudeness perhaps, but she didn’t really care. After their last exchange, she needed to keep things aloof.
“It’s a bookshop. I’m looking for a book.” His gray eyes narrowed. “What? You don’t think I’m following you, do you?”
She lifted her chin. “Of course not.”
He nodded slowly, those gray eyes of his watching her closely as if he really believed she thought that.
She waved at the books. “You don’t strike me as much of a reader.”
“I don’t know whether to be offended or complimented.”
She frowned, wondering how he could have read a compliment in that.
He elaborated, “You either think me a dullard uninterested in books . . .”
“Or?” she prompted at his pause.
“Well, that you think of me at all to form any opinion is quite gratifying.”
She exhaled. “I assure you I don’t think of you.” Pulling her books close, she moved to walk past him. He stepped directly in her path, blocking her way. He stood so close she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze.
“Liar.” He breathed the word more than he actually said it. Her heart stuttered inside her chest.
“Now who’s laboring under delusions of grandeur?”
The flat line of his mouth curved ever so slightly. “It’s fair to say I’ve thought of you perhaps . . .” he tilted his head as though searching, “once. Oh, very well. Twice.”
She snorted. “Well, not me.”
He shrugged one broad shoulder. “I suppose I’m not such an enigma.” His gaze dropped from her face, eyeing the modest cut of her dress as if it were anything but modest. The flesh of her chest warmed beneath his perusal.
“I couldn’t say. Now if you’ll let me pass.”
Instead of obliging, he plucked the books from her hands. She protested and tried to reclaim the books, but he held them out of her reach, reading their covers.
“Poetry,” he mused, scanning the volume. He looked at her second selection. “Ah. And Mrs. Radcliffe.” He made a clucking sound. “I would never have suspected it of you.”
Her lips pursed as she fought back the urge to demand what he meant by that.
“Oh, you look like you’re sucking lemons. Go ahead, Miss Hadley. Ask before you explode. You know you want to.”
She shook her head, loathing that he should read her so clearly. “I have nothing to ask you.”
“You’re a stubborn chit.” He waved the books before her. “Very well. I’ll go ahead and enlighten you. This is not the reading material I would have credited as your preference.”
“And why is that?” she snapped.
“So . . . emotional. Romantic and fanciful.” He scanned her face as though committing her every feature to memory. “These are the books a young girl reads . . . a dreamer.” His words fanned her cheek in a warm breath. “Not so
meone who would commit herself to a doddering old man—”
“Enough,” she bit out. “I’ll not bear your scorn. Especially as you’re no different from me.”
His dark eyebrow winged high. “Oh, now we’re alike, are we?”
She closed her eyes. She hadn’t meant to admit that. Opening her eyes, she confessed, “Very well. We’re both great pretenders, fooling poor souls into thinking we care about them when we have our own agendas. Is that not so?”
A muscle feathered across his jaw and she surmised that her words hit a nerve. A surge of satisfaction wound through her.
“You opened my eyes to that,” she added.
He didn’t answer, simply continued to stare at her as if perhaps he didn’t know her quite so well after all.
This time he did not stop her as she swept past him. At the end of the aisle, she spotted her sister watching her avidly, her bright gaze rife with questions as it drifted from her to Lord McKinney.
“Who is that?”
Cleo looked over her shoulder where he stood, still watching her. “No one,” she murmured.
“He’s not looking at you as no one would,” Marguerite remarked.
No, he wasn’t. He was looking after her like he wished to strangle her. At least she thought that was what his intense expression meant. She was not entirely sure.
Overcome with the need to hasten away, she took her sister’s arm. “Come, let us go.”
Satisfied that she had put him in his place, she fell into step beside Marguerite.
“I’m not sure you should look so smug,” Marguerite interrupted her thoughts. “He’s staring daggers at you right now.”
A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed he had moved to the end of the aisle to watch her retreat. “Of course he is.” She shrugged. “We loathe each other.”
Marguerite arched a slim eyebrow. “Indeed, do you now?” Her lips twitched.
“What’s so amusing?” she asked as they descended the short steps that led to the front of the shop.
“Loathing is such strong sentiment.”
Cleo frowned. She was right of course. Strong sentiment shouldn’t be applied to a man she had characterized as no one only moments before. “Perhaps loathing is too strong a word then. He irks me,” she corrected.