Yes, I used to be much braver. Somehow, I felt like that girl again, with Wycliff. “The whip is a sjambok. If you hadn’t gone with me to Blaren House, you wouldn’t know about it at all.”
“But he still wants you. It doesn’t seem decent, and if you get carried away, he’ll leave you a fallen woman. Then a respectable man like Mr. Marks won’t come near you.”
I raised my head, anger blooming and filling my empty chest. “You don’t think I am smart enough to avoid a compromise? You think I don’t know how to handle Wycliff?”
“Honestly, no. If one part of your story is true, then the rest is true. I know why you chose Mr. Marks. He is the safer, passionless choice. Wycliff is fire. I don’t want you to be burned.”
What if I want to be burned a little? What if I, the dormant tigress, want to be a little singed? Maybe Wycliff could take away all the horrible memories and I could lie in his arms unafraid. Maybe he could make me forget the bad. He reminded me so much of Adam, the good parts— kissed soft like him, so attentive like him. But the man had to be smarter to keep me and Chris safe.
Was I folding Wycliff into Adam or Adam into Wycliff?
That was wrong, yet I couldn’t help it. I wanted the best of both of them.
Ester held on to me. “Ruth, do take care.”
“I need more time to sort things through. And I want the baron to be a part of Chris’s life. Chris is a Wilkinson. He should never lose that connection.”
“Ruth, I’m saying what’s on my mind, like we used to do. I have to look out for you.”
She started taking down one of my braids. “I will make this even. And don’t worry. Papa and Bex are talking to Wycliff as soon as he arrives. They’ll figure out his game. We’re not letting anyone take advantage of you.”
I closed my eyes so Ester couldn’t see the fear those words wrought: Papa and Bex talking to Wycliff.
This couldn’t be good.
Wycliff had better not be dishonest. The ramifications would hurt not only me but my beautiful son. The tigress in me would come out and rid my life of anything that could hurt my Chris.
…
Wycliff sat in his carriage outside of Nineteen Fournier.
He didn’t know what to say. His throat felt so dry, almost stripped of words. “Lawden, are you sure?”
His man, his trusted advocate, nodded his head. “Yes, my lord. I’m sorry.”
Folding the flexible end of his sjambok betwixt his fingers, Wycliff cleared his throat. “She was one of Madame Talease’s girls.”
It made sense. The madam who specialized in exotics, as they called Blackamoor and mulatto women, would have had his Ruth. He’d checked with Talease to see if Cicely had been intercepted but had never received word.
“We’ve been checking for my sister at the bawdy houses in town. I should’ve been asking more questions. I made a joke about Ruth and her sister being Talease’s bed wenches. How awful I am.”
He punched at the low tufted ceiling, a jet-colored silk roof that matched the onyx seating. This was a crisp, orderly place for the madness in his head.
No one could begrudge Ruth for doing what she had to survive, work for Madame Talease. Living, eating, a roof over one’s head was everything. Talease didn’t force her girls. She was known for that.
“My lord, you need to get in there.”
“In a moment. You rarely shock me, Lawden.”
This bit of news explained Ruth’s alleged frigid nature, her aversion to a full marriage. Talease’s girls were highly sought after, well cared for, often kept as courtesans for rich men.
“My lord, your toy for the child.” Lawden handed him the frog puppet.
Christopher. The sweet boy.
Wycliff shook the toy and watched its limbs move. “Nice.”
He’d thought he’d be able to look at the boy and know his flesh and blood. With Ruth as one of Talease’s girls, he’d never know.
