Lessons from a Scandalous Bride (Forgotten Princesses #2)(14)

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.”