Unclaimed (Turner 2)

Pruwett-Davies reached out and snatched his spectacles back. He fitted them on his nose primly. “Jest?” He sounded affronted. “I’ve spent the last year of my life building the MCB from the ground up, without any help from you, I might add.”

“I know what you were like.”

“I know what I was like, too.” He hid his face in his hands. “I’ll thank you not to remind me. I was an irresponsible ass.” He let out a great sigh, and his shoulders slumped.

Mark felt a short-lived twinge of sympathy.

“I meant it,” Pruwett-Davies mumbled into his hands. “When I said you saved me. I’ll admit that I bought your book because I intended to laugh at it. But after the first chapter, I wasn’t laughing. You made me feel so ashamed—so ashamed to call myself a man, when I was basically worthless. I had nothing to do but spend my allowance. For months after I read it, I tried to devote myself to good works, just as you suggested. But nobody who did good wanted anything to do with me. It turns out I had made too many jokes.” Pruwett uncovered his face and straightened his shoulders. “So I took my mother’s maiden name and combined it with a Christian name from the Bible. I put a notice in the paper, too—the new name is legal, not merely a ruse. Peter Davies had nothing to do but to make a mockery of his life. But Jedidiah Pruwett—now he had a purpose. You gave me that purpose, but I’m not going to let you take it away. If this is a joke, I won’t be the butt of it.”

“I don’t want to make you one,” Mark responded. “But I don’t wish you to take out your…your excess zeal on anyone else.”

Pruwett readjusted his glasses carefully. “Perhaps the MCB has become too…too excessive. But what else am I to do with my time?”

Mark sat and laid a hand on the man’s shoulder. He’d not wanted to find himself in sympathy with the man. The MCB had made Mark’s life miserable. Peter Davies had been an annoyance. Yet he could not help but feel pity for the fellow.

“You know,” Mark said, “you did some very good work. How many members does the MCB have?”

“Several thousand.”

“And you…you wrote the bylaws, and arranged the meetings. You handled the details of printing the cards and the pamphlets, and arranging for all the different organizations. That’s quite a bit of responsibility.”

Pruwett nodded, hardly mollified. “I also organized the small group sessions, the entire system of reporting, really. Those help keep a man on track. I’d like to think that I’ve made a difference. I only wanted to have a chance, sir, and since nobody was giving me one, I had to make my own.”

Mark cocked his head and looked at the man, as an idea—a glorious idea, a wicked idea—insinuated itself into his head.

“Pruwett,” Mark said, “do you have a particular passion for chastity, or do you just want to spend your time doing something good?”

“I—sir—that is…” Pruwett put his hands in his lap. “Sir, I tried to get involved with something else. Anything else. Truly, I did. But nobody had any need of me.”

Mark smiled wolfishly. “Oh, Mr. Pruwett,” he said. “Believe you me—I have need of you. England has need of you. There is someone I should very much like you to meet, and he has a calling for you.”

BY THE TIME Jessica had gone back to her flat for the evening, Margaret had assured her that they’d announce the betrothal and perform the wedding ceremony in the next few days. Her head was spinning.

She’d never imagined that there could be so many good people in the world. She’d never believed they might be willing to help her. Even fate, cruel as it was, could not possibly take all of this bounty from her. She sat in her chair and let herself believe in not just warmth, but kindness, happiness…love.

A knock sounded at the door.

She ran to it eagerly. But when she opened it, it was not Mark come to see her that evening. It was Nigel Parret. Her first thought was that he’d come to congratulate her—and, of course, to inveigle an invitation to her wedding, so he could beat out his competitors. But no—even though every paper, Parret’s included, had discussed the special license Mark had obtained, her name had not yet been announced. And all similarly happy thoughts vanished as soon as she set eyes on his grim expression.

He handed her a letter. “This came to me. The writer thought that, as I’d published your story, I would know your direction.”

The envelope had been opened. She glanced at him suspiciously, and he shrugged. “Can you blame me?” he asked.

Her name was scrawled on the front. No, not her name—Jess Farleigh.

That name seemed like a dark, cold shadow. She scanned the text.

Jess—

No doubt you’re feeling quite proud of yourself right now. You defrauded me. If that license he obtained means what I think it means, you still managed to seduce Turner. You seem to think you can marry him and simply take your place in society at his side.

But I know who you are and what you’ve done. If you marry Sir Mark, I’ll make both your lives a misery. I hear the Duchess of Parford is increasing, too. I wonder how she’ll like you when she realizes her child will be shunned for your sake?

You’re never going to marry him. But if you’ll denounce him—if you’ll write an account saying that he accosted me in the park because he was fighting over a whore—I’ll at least agree not to prosecute you for fraudulently taking my money. I’ll meet you tomorrow morning at five sharp in Harford Square. Bring Sir Mark’s ring. I’ll need it.

By the time Jessica reached the end of the first page, her hands were trembling. By the time she finished the letter, she was plunged into cold again.

“It’s rough,” Parret was saying. “But—at least I won’t be the one printing the story. You can trust in that.”

“That’s kind of you.” Her words emerged as a dull whisper.

“Humph.” Parret shifted uneasily. “The duke would likely sue me for defamation of character. There’s no profit in that.”

Jessica smiled wanly. “You do a lovely imitation of a greedy man, Parret. But could you…could you please leave me?”

He set one hand briefly on her shoulder, in scant comfort. And then he left.

The door shut behind him, and Jessica collapsed against it.

Nothing had changed; she’d only been reminded how little had altered.

There was something about surviving. She felt a constant fear, a pressing worry. Her muscles never truly relaxed. Her belly always felt a little sour. These things had been her stalwart companions for seven years.

She had hoped—just today, she had led herself to believe—that she’d left all that behind. But no. She could still taste fear.

Mark was good, better than anything she’d imagined. So good that he scared her. How could she have forgotten? Good never lasted in her life. Instead, she brought its opposite with her. He wasn’t going to save her; she was going to destroy him.

By the time Mark came to her door, she had worked herself into a near panic. She would have fled, if only she knew how to flee her own desires.

He smiled, and she felt warmth. He took her hands, and she felt safe. And it was all an illusion—an illusion that she’d allowed herself to believe, because she was so desperate for comfort from any quarter.

He smiled at her. “I have good news,” he said cheerily. “I’ve found a new Commissioner of the Poor Laws. Neither Weston

nor I are suitable for the position. But it turns out, there is a fellow who has a passion for good works and a good amount of administrative experience. He even has some measure of popularity. I needed only to broach the idea and perform the introduction. After we marry in three days, I’ll have no reason whatsoever to stay in London.”

“Marry,” she said wildly. “Three days?”

“How many times must I say it? There’s no need to worry. Nobody is going to hurt you.”

No. She was going to hurt him. She was going to hurt his family. She was going to be the wedge that Weston used to break apart their lovely little group.