Lyn Stone - The Arrangement

In the beginning, she had reveled in the chance to knock some entertainer off his golden perch. If only she hadn’t done the exposé on Thackery Osgood six months ago, she wouldn’t be in this mess. The wretch had ruined three young singers fresh off the farm. Three in a row! Those poor girls hadn’t had a clue what the lecherous old sot was up to when he offered them parts in his musicale. Promises of fame and riches had turned to shame and degradation within days of their respective arrivals. Luckily—or maybe not so luckily, given her present predicament—Kathryn had virtually stumbled on one of the unfortunates, a vicar’s daughter, trying to throw herself into the Thames. Osgood’s admirers had nearly lynched him from the theater marquee after Kathryn’s column revealing what he had done appeared. She couldn’t regret having a hand in that. Hanging was too good for the bastard.

Then there had been Theodosia Lark. Lark, indeed! Sang more like a goose with a bad throat, Kathryn thought. The woman had abandoned her own children, infant twins, on the steps of a local orphanage just so that she could resume her career unencumbered. Lark’s return to the stage had lasted only until the next edition of About Town. The pathos Kathryn injected into the piece about the babies had inspired their subsequent adoption by a wealthy merchant’s family. Now the singing doxy had neither career nor motherhood to worry about. Public outrage had forced her retirement.

Other scandals had followed, dutifully penned by her alter ego, K. M. Wainwright. Kathryn knew that targeting entertainers had everything to do with her own mother’s profession. Maria Soliana’s operatic career flourished even today, but Italy’s darling had better not dare a return to London. Father had never quite recovered from his wife’s abandonment. Kathryn had adjusted to being motherless, but it had left her bitter. How could any mother put her career before her own child? No, Kathryn didn’t regret dashing Theodosia Lark’s career. Not for a moment.

Kathryn knew there were good and talented people in the business, but most of them were self-centered and uncaring. What began as a small crusade against the worst evils of the stage had simply gotten out of hand. She thought perhaps she had run out of truly ignominious individuals. Uncle Rupert would have to find himself another writer with a grudge. Hers had spent itself, at least for the present.

He could threaten all he liked, but Kathryn didn’t really believe her own uncle would set her out on the street without a farthing. And if he still intended to thrust her into a marriage with that pompous Randall Nelson, he could jolly well think again.

With her shoulders squared and her mouth firmly set, Kathryn went down the stairs to confront him with her resignation.

When she stopped on the first floor landing to brush out the wrinkles in her skirt and bolster her flagging courage, Randall’s voice drifted up from the open door of Uncle Rupert’s study. His words were indistinct, but his tone sounded angry. The fact that he was here wasn’t out of the ordinary. He owned a part interest in the paper and he and Uncle Rupert had been friends for years, despite the difference in their ages. This was no ordinary conversation between chums, however. Kathryn had been a reporter just long enough to heed her instincts. Quietly she descended just far enough downstairs to overhear without being seen.

“You ought to keep a tighter rein on her, Rupert,” Randall said. “I don’t like the idea of her haring off about town unescorted. Her reputation’s already in shreds since you let it be known she’s the one doing those columns in the paper.”

Rupert laughed; it was a nasty sound. “Hey, you can’t blame me for taking full advantage of her talents, now can you? She’s good at what she does—subscriptions have doubled! And you won’t mind all that talk when you get your hands on her inheritance, will you? Not every day a man comes into a fortune like that Eighty thousand pounds can sugarcoat the foulest little pill, can’t it?”

“Eighty thousand? But that’s only half! You said a sixty-forty split in my favor, Rupert.”

Kathryn grasped the stair rail. Her knees wobbled so violently she thought she would collapse right there, in a heap. One hundred and sixty thousand pounds! Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined her father had accrued so much in his lifetime! Ten or fifteen thousand at most, she had figured. She was a bloody heiress! She could live forever on that amount Like a queen! Drawing in a shaky breath, she made herself listen further.

“What if she refuses? We only have two months left to convince her, and so far she hasn’t given me a speck of encouragement,” Randall complained. “She won’t marry me.”

“Don’t you worry about it, my boy. A little laudanum in her wine will do the trick. I’ve got the parson in my pocket already. Old Tim Notchworthy’s not above a hefty bribe. We’ll have this marriage sewn up right and tight in a few days. All we need do is keep her groggy afterwards. Ain’t that unusual for women these days to fall slave to the opiates.”

Kathryn heard the clink of glasses. Good God, they planned to drug her, concoct a sham of a marriage and take over her inheritance? Her own uncle, for heaven’s sake!

Outrage overcame her shock, but, fortunately, not her prudence. Confronting them with their heinous knavery could be dangerous. With a quick shake of fury, she crept back upstairs to her room and stuffed a few clothes in a small carpetbag. Obviously, Uncle Rupert hadn’t heard her come home this evening. If she hurried, she could be away again before he knew she had ever returned. But where could she go that he or Randall wouldn’t find her and drag her back to complete their plans?

She had no close friends living near London, and no funds with which to travel far. Tearing open her reticule, Kathryn counted her money. The pittance Uncle gave her for fripperies wouldn’t hire fare to the next county. Taking Thomas and the carriage back out would draw attention. She would have to ride. With an angry sigh, she tore off her day dress and donned her sturdy blue riding habit.

With all the stealth of a practiced thief, Kathryn stole down the servants’ stairs and made a dash for the stables. Thomas was nowhere about, thank God. Not that he’d ever tell, but Uncle might dismiss him if he thought they had conspired in her getaway. Her stout little mare whinnied a greeting.

“You’re about to become a racehorse, Mabel,” Kathryn said as she struggled with the sidesaddle. “And God help me, you’d better go the distance!”

A plan began to gel as she threaded Mabel through the back streets at a steady clip. She would call in a favor, or resort to blackmail, if necessary, but Jonathan Chadwick was going to be her savior, one way or another. He was the only one she knew with a great place to hide. If no one had discovered Pip in all this time, no one would be able to find her, either.

Jon exited the lane onto the main road, carefully keeping Imp to a walk. Wouldn’t do to arrive at the Turkingtons’ affair covered with road dust and sweat. As it was, he would probably smell of horse, but there was no help for it. He hadn’t been able to scratch up enough to hire the coach this time. Perhaps his smell would keep the female leeches at a distance. He resisted the urge to wipe his forehead. Already the powder was beading up there and threatening to run down his face in rivulets.

A rider approached and stiffened in the saddle as he watched. The woman sped to a canter, and he recognized her, even at a distance. Kathryn Wainwright.

“Chadwick?” she called, reining to a halt several lengths away. “Thank God it’s you. I need your help!”

He dismounted and strode over to assist her down. She pushed herself away from him and brushed tousled blond ringlets out of her eyes with the back of her hand. He wondered if she knew how fetching she looked in her disarray.