The Wedding of Molly O'Flaherty Read online

  “You remember, the day before last, when you said to tell you if Mr. Cunningham asked to speak with me alone?”

  My chest squeezed again, with anger this time. I kept my voice even as I answered. “Yes, I remember.”

  “Yesterday evening he invited Father and me over for supper at his house. We went…and after the meal, when the ladies were retiring to the parlor, he caught me in the hallway.”

  I tamped down the urge to fly out of my seat and start throwing things, but the strain showed in my voice when I asked, “Did he touch you?”

  She shook her head vehemently. “No, Miss O’Flaherty. I kept myself a respectable distance away from him at all times.”

  “I hate that you feel it’s your job to maintain that respectful distance,” I said. “Please continue.”

  She looked down at her gloves, her cheeks blushing a sweet shade of red. Shame colored her words when she spoke again. “He said that he enjoyed my company very much and wanted to see more of me while I stayed here in London. I said something about how Father and I would be happy to accept any invitations he might offer, but then he interrupted and said, ‘I think you understand that I am not talking about your father.’

  “I felt sick with his words, because I knew then that you had been right. I made my excuses and left, and then I found Father and told him I was ill and that I needed to return to the hotel.” She took a deep breath, and I breathed my own quiet sigh of relief. She’d kept her wits about her and escaped unscathed. Thank God.

  I put my hand over hers. “You did the right thing, Miss van der Sant. And you also did the right thing coming to me. I’ll make sure Cunningham can’t bother you again.”

  “Excuse me, Miss O’Flaherty, but I’m not finished,” Birgit said in a soft voice. “Because he found me this morning. Father had meetings early, and so I took breakfast with my hired chaperone in the hotel dining room. She saw acquaintances across the room and went over to say hello…and once she did, Mr. Cunningham sat down at my table.” Her chin trembled. “He said he’d been waiting for me.”

  I peered into her soft gray eyes, mosaics of fear and shame and the hidden iron kernel of strength every teenage girl carries with her. “What did he say to you, Birgit?”

  The use of her Christian name seemed to comfort her a little. “He said that he wanted…me.” The shakiness with which she pronounced me made it very clear that she understood Cunningham’s meaning. “And he said that he was going to have me. And that if I tried to stop him, he would tell my father I’d been behaving loosely in London with several young men, and he would see to it that not only would I lose Father’s love, but that I would lose any chance of making a good match.” She swallowed.

  “Mother Mary,” I whispered. I had thought there was no level of depravity that Cunningham could sink to that would surprise me…but here I was, surprised. I shouldn’t have been—with both Birgit and me, he had used our love of our fathers as leverage.

  “He named a time and a place. I—” She broke off, fumbling in her small lace bag, fishing out a card with an address scrawled on the back. I recognized that address: The Hedgehog, his gentlemen’s club. I took the card and studied it, and then she admitted in a quiet voice. “I managed to escape my chaperone and come here to you.”

  “It’s going to be okay,” I assured her. “We will make sure that you stay safe.”

  A shine of tears in her eyes. “But I couldn’t help it. I agreed to meet him.”

  “Oh, Birgit,” I said.

  “How can I say no, Miss O’Flaherty? When if I don’t do as he asks, he will tell all those terrible lies to Father?”

  Even though I already suspected the answer, I had to be sure. “And would your father believe him? Over your own word and what he knows to be true of your character?”

  “Father is a good man,” she said slowly. “And he loves me. But like many good men, he is quick to believe the worst about others.”

  We sat for a few moments without speaking, her words lingering in the air as I turned the card over in my fingers, the card stock scratching gently at my skin. I wanted to tell Birgit that she must not go, under any circumstances. That whatever else she had to endure, however hard it was to prove her innocence to her father, that everything would be so much better if she refused Mr. Cunningham outright. That even if she didn’t have the belief and trust of those around her, she could still cling to the certainty that she’d done nothing wrong. Because that was the genius of Cunningham’s manipulations—he made you feel complicit in his depravity. It didn’t matter how cerebrally and intellectually I knew that I had been just a girl, that I had been innocent, that the way he’d forced my body to respond did not negate the horror of what he’d done. Because as soon as I would repeat those thoughts to myself, as soon as I would comfort myself with the knowledge that he was the monster and that nothing I’d done made him any less so, then I would move on with my day and my thoughts would gradually drift to other matters, and soon enough, those ugly whispers in my mind would resurface again. It was an un-winnable battle.

  I wanted to spare Birgit that.

  But I couldn’t ignore the very real threat Cunningham had laid before her. His actions would have real consequences, consequences that could ruin Birgit’s life. And even if, miraculously, her Puritanical father believed her over the word of another businessman, Cunningham could still undermine her chances for a good marriage.

  “We must tell your father about this plot, you and me together,” I said. “Before anything else transpires. We have Cunningham’s card, and I will tell your father my own story. That should be enough to cast doubt on his character.”

  Birgit was already shaking her head. “He will dismiss it as a story. My father is a good man, Miss O’Flaherty, but when it comes to matters of the carnal…” She paused and blushed at the word carnal. There was no way I was allowing her to endure Cunningham’s touch. It had nearly broken me—as sensual and sturdy as my soul was. It would shred this delicate flower. She forced herself onward. “When it comes to those matters, Father can be quite…traditional. He feels that women are the weaker sex on many levels, especially when it comes to things like lying. And he abhors deceit.”

  “So he would not consider this sufficient proof of wrongdoing on Cunningham’s part?” I held up the card. “He would assume you were lying simply because you are female and because he cannot imagine a fellow businessman capable of such horror?”

  She nodded. “He couldn’t imagine it…unless there was strong proof.”

  I handed her the card back, things finally fitting together for me. There was a reason I had run O’Flaherty Shipping successfully for this many years. I was talented at thinking outside the box, and I wasn’t afraid to be ruthless. “Then we force your father to confront the strongest proof we can offer.”

  “But…” Her gray eyes swept up to mine, searching. “Even if we were somehow able to contrive such proof, Cunningham’s behavior would enrage Father. And even if you were involved in bringing the truth to light, he would still associate the moral taint with you. He would refuse to negotiate with your business any further. You can’t make such a sacrifice, not when it involves your company.”

  I had been about to speak, but I stopped before the words came out. I had not thought of that particular consequence, and it was a serious one. O’Flaherty Shipping needed van der Sant and his ships, much more than he needed ours. Without this partnership, we would encounter a shrinking customer base and an ever faster-shrinking profit margin.

  But perhaps O’Flaherty Shipping could manage. My father and I had run this business the way we felt was fair and just—with decent wages and honest practices, and I would not sabotage that principle now, especially not when an innocent girl was at risk. And there was the not-insignificant fact that I would be doing incredible injury to Cunningham’s reputation. That was perhaps enough salve to soothe whatever loss my company took as a result.

  I put a hand on Birgit’s shoulder. “If it pro
tects you from that man, then it is truly no sacrifice. Give me this afternoon to plan and consult with some allies, and by tonight, we will have this figured out.”

  For the first time since our interview had started, she dared a smile. It was small and tremulous and hesitant, but it was definitely a smile. “Do you really think so?”

  I squeezed her shoulder as hundreds of possible scenarios ran through my mind—scenarios that ended with Cunningham shamed or even arrested, scenarios that ended with my company faltering despite all I had done to save it. But one look at the frail blond sitting beside me confirmed what I knew deep inside—there was only one decision I could make, as a woman who finally had enough power to protect other women.

  “Yes, Birgit. I’m going to help you. You’ll see.”

  “We should have done this a decade ago,” Julian said, tossing his pen onto the table. I set my own pen down, flexing my cramped hand. We’d been signing papers for what felt like hours, long enough that George was now asleep on a blanket on the floor while Ivy sprawled nearby reading a book.

  “I disagree,” I said, reaching for a glass of water and wishing it were gin. “I think Molly would have murdered us for interfering with her company.”

  “You’re probably right,” Julian conceded. His green eyes swept over the table with their seemingly endless stacks of paper. “Do you think—is it enough, I mean? And are we in time to make a difference?”

  “I think anything before she’s actually married is in time,” I replied with a tired smile. “But will it be enough? I don’t know. Honestly, it depends on what she believes.”

  “I hope she believes it’s enough,” Julian said. “For her sake, and for the sake of my new holdings in O’Flaherty Shipping.”

  Me too, I added silently. Out loud, I said, “Thank you, Jules. I wouldn’t have been able to do this if it weren’t for you.”

  He shrugged. “I’ve got more money than I know what to do with. I would have bought shares in Molly’s company in a heartbeat if I’d known what kind of danger she was in. I’m just glad you found enough people willing to part with their own shares.”

  It had been tricky. About a month ago, after I’d come to London and grasped exactly how precarious Molly’s situation was, I’d visited my solicitors and set into motion a plan to quietly buy as many shares of O’Flaherty Shipping as possible. Of course, it would look suspicious if one person was snatching up any and all shares that shareholders were willing to sell, so Julian had agreed to help me. Together, we’d managed to carve out almost twenty percent of the shares—which, added with Molly’s shares, gave the three of us forty percent of the company. Not enough to dictate decisions, but maybe enough for the company to survive if the other members of the board made good on their threat to leave.

  And then Julian and I had decided not to stop there. Using our old European connections, we discovered a Dutch shipping company that was looking for significant investors to grow its global fleet, and consequently, with a hefty sum and a few signatures, Julian and I were now among the chief shareholders in Van Der Sant Shipping, and we could gift those shares to Molly at any point.

  Now, Molly’s former board members would no longer be able to weight the scales quite so much in their favor; between Molly, Julian and me, we now had millions of pounds secured in the business, a metaphorical safety net for Molly should her company crumble and fall.

  I still hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

  I still hoped she would marry me.

  I set down my glass and then stretched myself along the floor next to George, curling my body around his chubby snoozing one, tracing one of his out-flung arms with my hand.

  Julian watched me with amusement. “Miss Thomas’s children?”

  I nodded, not looking away from George. He was such a perfect little replica of his parents, with Ivy’s darker coloring and black hair and already showing signs of Julian’s distinctive eyes and mouth. Would Molly and I have a child that was so obviously ours? With red hair and blue eyes and my grin and her freckles?

  The thought was too painful to entertain for long.

  “After Charlotte has the baby, they’re thinking of coming home to Coke Manor for a while,” I said, trying to cheer myself up. I loved my nieces and nephews dearly, and I’d always been close to my brother Thomas and his wife. Thomas and I had grown up with parents who loved us and loved each other and who’d made sure to remind us of those things frequently. So now, as an adult, I naturally craved the happy vitality of family life. When I was a younger man, I’d made something akin to a family in Europe with Julian and Molly and the Baron, but nothing could replace the connection I felt with my blood relatives. The longing I felt to be with them again.

  That longing was especially strong, given that I would still be alone and unmarried when I rejoined them.

  “How long until our work here is official?” Julian asked, changing the subject back to our new investments.

  “I believe our signatures were the last ones required. My solicitor told me I should have confirmation of receipt of shares in two days.”

  “We should wait to tell her,” Julian said. “Until things are completely final.”

  I opened my mouth to argue. I’d wanted to tell her tonight. I’d wanted to whisper it into her ear as we made love with Hugh’s blasted contract burning merrily in a fireplace next to us. But I couldn’t dispute Julian’s suggestion, because of the damage that could be done to Molly’s fragile sense of hope if the deal fell through somehow.

  Besides, it was only two days, right?

  “Yes,” I agreed finally. “We will keep it a secret from her until we have confirmation.”

  I didn’t mention that Molly’s engagement party was also in two days. It wasn’t her wedding, so in a practical sense, it was no impediment to my plan. But in an emotional sense, I couldn’t bear the idea of her in front of London, celebrating her upcoming nuptials to another man. Couldn’t bear the idea of Hugh clinging to her, of them dancing, of them standing at the door and accepting the effusive congratulations of fashionable acquaintances and near-strangers.

  Molly belonged to me. The only thing remaining was to prove it.

  The Hedgehog hadn’t changed in the sixteen years since I’d been here. There was the great room, fronted by tall windows and studded with one massive fireplace. There was the dining room with its leather chairs and small tables and globed lamps.

  And then there were the rooms upstairs.

  Large beds. Maroon curtains. Warm fires.

  White sheets. Scarlet sins.

  Mr. Cunningham did not always use his favorite club for his assignations, but he used it frequently enough that he had a room of his own set aside. I walked through it now, the manager of the club trailing quietly behind me. He was not happy about any of this—the knowledge of what Mr. Cunningham planned to do or my plan to stop it. But he owed something to the Baron somehow—a debt or a favor—and so he had not actively resisted my decisions about his club tonight.

  “Does he bring girls back here often?” I asked, placing my hand on the silk coverlet of the bed. I’d meant to run my hands along the silk casually, possessively, as if to reassure myself that I wasn’t scared of this club and I wasn’t scared of the place Cunningham slept. But my hand froze the moment it touched the silk, a hundred terrible memories burning through my chest, memories of blood and pain and the feeling of Mr. Cunningham’s weight pressing me into the mattress…

  The manager stood close to the door, and if my face betrayed any terror or hopelessness or anger, he politely ignored it. “He often…entertains here,” the manager said in response to my earlier question. “But nothing like you have described to me. They always appear to be at least one and twenty, or more.”

  I believed it. This afternoon, I’d called on the Baron, laying the problem of Birgit before him to ask his advice. And then he’d confessed to me that he was no stranger to Cunningham’s proclivities, and how, as a result of the Baron’s intervention, C
unningham now had to frequent brothels across the Channel to indulge in the services he liked best. So it didn’t surprise me that he stayed discreet here in England.

  But if he normally kept to less deviant expressions of his desires, then why this pursuit of Birgit? Why now?

  Was it some sort of reverse trap? I’d considered that several times today, but I couldn’t see how he would risk revealing such a seamy part of his character and still hope to withdraw from the trap with his reputation unscathed. No, he was exposing himself with the belief that he was doing so safely, something that revealed how comfortable and complacent he’d grown.

  How soft.

  I thanked the manager for his time and paid him the promised amount for his silence and for his unusual accommodations tonight. I would undoubtedly be bringing his club undue attention and scandal, and for that I felt bad, but the Baron and I had agreed that this was the only way. This was the clearest path forward; it would be painful and perhaps shameful at points, but in the end, Birgit would be safe and Mr. van der Sant would be convinced both of her virtue and of Cunningham’s depravity.

  In fact, the Baron would be here tonight to help me from backstage, as it were, to oversee that the club and all of the players moved according to our design. He told me that he’d long felt responsible for Cunningham and saw tonight as a chance to atone, and frankly I welcomed the help. It felt nice not to be alone.

  And, since the Baron had also confessed that he’d known about the connection between Hugh and Cunningham for years, I had the feeling the Baron was eager to make things up to me, which was a kind intention, even if it was unnecessary. His silence on the knowledge wouldn’t have changed things one way or the other, but I understood and appreciated the impulse to atone.

  I went downstairs to the dining room, looking for the Baron and ignoring the stares of the gentlemen lounging insouciantly around their tables. The blue-gray haze of cigar smoke couldn’t disguise how very female I was, and typically only one sort of female frequented the interior of such establishments. And even then, she was expected to stay within the private boundaries of the club—the upstairs with its bedrooms and implications of sin. She was not welcome in the dining room.