The Lion and the Mouse: A Steampunk Romance Read online

  The Lion and the Mouse

  Jenny Schwartz

  When a man weds a heiress, she’s not meant to steal away as soon as his back is turned. Colin Truitt is outraged, and a bit ashamed. He’s gotten everything out of this marriage—to keep his company, Dirigible Journeys, and defeat his enemy. All Anthea got was him. Ashamed or not, he’s determined to recapture his bride. But once he has her, how does a former war-pilot woo a most intriguing mouse? And what happens when an old enemy reappears to threaten everything?

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Want More?

  Chapter One

  “I now pronounce you man and wife.” Reverend Thorpe nodded to the verger, who hurried to press the brass button set in the wall of the bell tower. There was a clank-clank whirr, then the bells of St Aelred rang out in triumph. “You may kiss your bride.”

  Colin Truitt stooped to do just that, and stopped as if shot.

  Oh lord. The skinny, dull female standing beside him was crying. Silently.

  He lifted a gloved finger and caught a single tear on its tip.

  The woman—his wife—gave a strangled sob and wiped the other tears with her gloved hands. Brown eyes swimming in tears and despair looked away from him.

  “Never you worry, sir.” The verger was back and cheerfully helpful. “The womenfolk are often overcome by their good fortune.”

  Reverend Thorpe glared and the verger retreated. “I’ll need you both to sign the register.” He cast a worried glance at the new Mrs. Truitt’s bowed head. The pink roses on her silly spring bonnet quivered.

  Colin put a hand under her elbow and felt the jolt that went through her.

  She moved with sudden speed to the register.

  Anything to get away from him. He noted it with an unwelcome shaft of guilt.

  “Colin Truitt, Esq.” He signed with characteristic boldness. He hadn’t given any thought to Anthea Farleigh as a person before this. She was simply his means to hold onto Dirigible Journeys.

  Triumph flooded his body, clenching his hand around the pen. He’d beaten Lord Looster. The well-maintained fleet of Farleigh Dirigibles would enable him to counter Looster’s expansion of Higher Class Travel. That slimy snob had tried to shut him down, using the Old Boys’ Club to prevent him buying the dirigibles he needed. None of the engineering works—funded by Looster’s elite mates—would sell to him.

  Well, he’d found a way around them—or the way had found him.

  Crowding forward as one of the witnesses was Anthea’s uncle and guardian, George Farleigh. He smelled strongly of peppermint and exuded an oily satisfaction.

  Colin turned away in disgust. The man had sold his niece for a handful of silver. It hadn’t previously occurred to Colin to question how she felt about that. A queasy sensation twisted in his gut.

  Never mind. It was done, and he could reassure her later. A few trinkets, some compliments—though what compliments you gave a watery mouse, he didn’t know.

  He passed the pen to his bride.

  Her hand shook and her steadying breath seemed to cut through the silence of the empty church.

  This was no fashionable wedding. Their only other witness was Colin’s second-in-command, Peter Helms.

  George Farleigh snatched the pen out of his niece’s hand as soon as she’d signed, and set his own florid signature to the paper. He grunted as he straightened, corsets creaking.

  Peter stepped forward and signed.

  The deed was done. Dirigible Journeys was safe. Colin lifted his watch to check the time. If luncheon was set back an hour or two, he could visit his lawyers and start the proceedings to transfer his wife’s ownership of Farleigh Dirigibles from her trustees’ control to his own.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked abruptly.

  She shook her head.

  “Very well. I’ll see you home and then—you are packed?”

  “Of course she is, Truitt. I ordered the maids to see to it myself. All her fripperies went to your house hours ago. I’ve kept my side of the bargain.” The hint was brazen as George Farleigh pushed forward.

  Colin glanced beyond the man to the High Church altar. Daffodils were massed like sunshine in its gleaming brass vases. “Outside.” Pragmatic as he was, this business oughtn’t to be conducted in a church. It made a mockery of the solemn vows he’d just exchanged.

  He tried to shake off the sense of sacrilege as he strode down the aisle. He was a practical man, a man of this age of invention and speed. Hearts and flowers were for romantic poets, idiots that they were.

  “I hope you’ll be happy.” Reverend Thorpe sounded distinctly uncertain as he shook hands at the door. The brisk wind whipped his robes and caught the open door, slamming it shut behind the verger, who muttered and sucked at his fingers.

  “Thank you, Reverend,” Anthea responded in the low voice that had so surprised Colin in the church. He’d expected it to be wispy or shrill. But perhaps nerves had husked it into an illusion of controlled strength as she said her vows.

  She descended the few steps to the carriage. Peter leapt forward to assist her, and Colin took the chance to shove the bank draft at George Farleigh.

  The fat slug literally licked his lips as he examined it. His mustard-colored velvet waistcoat strained across his stomach. “Prompt payment. Much appreciated, Truitt. I’ll enjoy the bridal luncheon. Raise a toast to your happiness.”

  “You’re not invited,” Colin said bluntly.

  “How now!”

  His loud protest attracted Anthea’s attention. She looked around from beside the carriage. There was no expression in her face. From within the travesty of bridal trappings—the beribboned bonnet, the pink and ruffled gown, the pearl earrings—her face peeked out, pale and pinched.

  Colin left old Farleigh spluttering on the steps and bounded down them, all the triumph in him itching for release.

  She shrank back and he cursed silently her fear and his own thoughtlessness. From her perspective, he was a large and terrifying stranger. It would be no recommendation that her disgusting uncle had chosen him as her bridegroom.

  He tried to gentle his voice, but he was accustomed to the roar of steam engines and the raking winds of air travel. All he managed was a growl. “Your uncle won’t be joining us for luncheon.”

  She nodded and accepted Peter’s assistance to climb into the carriage.

  Colin scowled at his friend, who scowled back. Peter hadn’t approved of George Farleigh or his proposition. Then again, Peter hadn’t ever scrabbled in the dirt for crusts. He didn’t share Colin’s driving determination to hold onto everything he’d achieved. Peter was happy to live his comfortably middle class life, married to a childhood sweetheart, with one son and another babe on the way.

  “Take a hansom, Pete. I’ll meet you back at the house.” Colin slammed the carriage door behind himself and the conveyance rolled into motion. The clip-clop of the matched pair of horses quickened into a trot. Up in the air, he liked the latest devices. But here, on the ground, he preferred the comfort of old-fashioned technology. A man didn’t have to worry about their maintenance, just employ a good coachman. There was less risk of sabotage, too.

  His bride extracted a crisp, white handkerchief from her reticule and blew her nose.

  He fidgeted. Charming the ladies wasn’t his thing—besid
es, he was haunted by the unfamiliar notion that he owed her an apology. He tapped his knee in an irritable rhythm. Just because he’d bought her…

  “My house has been bachelor quarters for a long time. You’ll want to make changes. Perhaps a new house.”

  She tucked the handkerchief away and clutched her reticule with tense fingers.

  “Or we can live in your father’s house, if you prefer. Farleigh Mansion.” It went against the grain with him to use yet more of her inheritance, but the least he could do was offer the mouse familiarity if that would reassure her.

  “No. Thank you. Father didn’t buy the house. Uncle George did on his death.”

  He searched the flat statement for a hint of emotion, of resentment, and found none. “Then we’ll buy a new house. You must tell me what you want.” He tried to think what women liked. “We’ll make sure it has a large sewing room.”

  Her hands released their death clutch on the bag. Apparently in shock, to judge by her wide eyes.

  He stooped and picked up the reticule from the floor of the carriage. “Or if there’s anything else you’d like?” He pushed the reticule at her.

  “A sewing room?” She accepted the reticule without seeming to notice. “A sewing room. At least you didn’t mention nurseries.”

  He collapsed back against the seat, as winded as if she’d landed a wily blow. Children! His eyes flickered sideways, taking in her skinny figure gift-wrapped in pink.

  “I don’t think…” He inserted a finger in his collar and tugged. It resisted a moment, then the top button and tie knot gave way. The button popped onto the floor. He ignored it. Even with an open collar, he was finding it hard to breathe.

  “Nurseries,” he choked.

  She retreated from him, pressing into the far edge of the carriage seat. “A sewing room will be fine.”

  He stared at her, fighting through cascading realization of what he’d done. He hadn’t thought what being a husband entailed. He certainly hadn’t considered being a father. But if he wanted children, they would have to be with this mouse. He wasn’t fathering bastards.

  He’d have to bed her. Hell, she expected it. Hence her shrinking and tears.

  “I’d love a sewing room,” she said with loud and unconvincing emphasis.

  He followed her terrified gaze.

  She was staring at his naked throat.

  Hastily, he yanked the tie tight, nearly strangling himself. Damn woman. Did she really think he was going to ravish her on the way back from church?

  “Look, there are some things we need to—” he began. The carriage stopped. It shifted as the coachman leapt down. “Damn. Sorry. We’re home.”

  She barely touched his hand as he helped her out of the carriage. It annoyed him considerably that she’d rather risk her fool neck on the muddy steps than accept his help. After all, she’d accepted Peter’s help willingly enough.

  He slammed the carriage door shut with a bang and swung around, bumping into her. Automatically he gripped her shoulders, steadying them both, while he looked for the reason she’d frozen in place. The scent of rosewater filled his nostrils.

  “Well, heck.” His staff—all nine of them—had lined up to receive their new mistress. Even the tweeny was there, and all in their best clothes.

  Jones, the butler, headed the parade, but his wife, the housekeeper and cook, was right behind him. The coachman stood to one side, taking control of the horses from the young stable boy. Two maids giggled together, while the dour Mr. Fitzgerald and his son, Ian, held their caps in their work-grimed hands.

  In the face of all this avid curiosity—and well-meant greeting—his new bride seemed to find him the lesser threat. She wasn’t even trying to break away from his hold. If anything, she nestled into him.

  A rare sense of protectiveness tightened his hands. “Don’t you lot have work to do?”

  Anthea gasped and jerked out of his hold.

  His staff, accustomed to his lack of couth, merely blinked at the rough tone. Mrs. Jones bustled forward. “As if we wouldn’t be here to welcome your new bride.” She smiled encouragingly at Anthea. “I’m Mrs. Jones and this is my husband, Robert.”

  Jones took over the introductions and Anthea managed to murmur something suitable. At least embarrassment had put some color in her pale cheeks. He grimaced, though, at his bad luck in being saddled with a shy bride. A woman with some pep in her would have been far easier to reach a settlement with.

  “Luncheon will be served in two shakes of a lamb’s tail,” Mrs. Jones said.

  “Put it back. Two hours.”

  “I don’t need that long to get settled,” Anthea said tentatively. “If I could just freshen up?”

  “I need that long to deal with the lawyers.”

  The color in her face drained away. “Of course.”

  Mrs. Jones’s eyes shot fire at him.

  He shrugged. Business was business. It paid all their wages. It was the reason for this damn-fool marriage. “I’ll be back at one thirty.”

  At that opportune moment, Peter drove up in the hansom. His narrow face peered out the window.

  “No. Don’t get out,” Colin told him. “I’ll want you at the lawyers.” He nipped into the hansom, but not before he heard Mrs. Jones’s disapproving comment.

  “Well, I never. Call that a wedding?”

  Chapter Two

  “No, I don’t call it a wedding,” Anthea Farleigh—no, Truitt!—said under her breath. It was more like being condemned to hell, but having the sentence delayed.

  She shivered as she looked beyond the gathered servants to the tall, narrow townhouse Colin Truitt called home. Ugh. Its stonework was as gray as the clouds, as gray as her mood. The jonquils and bluebells flowering in the squashed front garden bed failed to cheer her.

  “Come along in,” Mrs. Jones said. “It’s a nasty wind out here, for all that it’s spring. You’ll be wanting to tidy up.”

  Anthea allowed herself to be hustled into the house and up carpeted stairs to an overheated bedroom. She eyed the large bed, then very cautiously walked to the window. It wouldn’t do for her nervous stomach to disgrace her. She cracked the window open and inhaled deeply.

  “I thought you’d like a warm room.” Mrs. Jones sounded offended. The fire crackling in the hearth at least showed evidence of a welcome.

  “Thank you. Most thoughtful.” Anthea tried to pacify the woman without looking away from the window. All she could see were rooftops and clouds, chimneys and smoke. It was as if they were closing in on her. They would tumble down like a child’s building blocks and she’d be smothered.

  “There you are, Nellie. About time. Hot water, Mrs. Truitt.”

  The expectant silence reminded Anthea that she was Mrs. Truitt. “Isn’t there a bathroom?”

  “Mr. Truitt isn’t one to concern himself with modern conveniences.”

  Anthea did turn around then. “But he runs a dirigible service?”

  “He’s not one who likes fuss and change, not on the home-front. Run along, Nellie.” Mrs. Jones shooed the maid out. “If I’m speaking out of turn, Mrs. Truitt, you’ll have to forgive me, but you don’t look like you know Mr. Truitt and heaven knows he can be a difficult man to work for. Brusque, Mr. Jones calls him.”

  Anthea hugged her arms around herself. The ridiculous pink concoction her uncle had insisted she wear for the nonsense of a wedding, lacked warmth. April’s showers, as Chaucer said. And she had been the shower-iest of all. Her darned over-active tear ducts. Any emotional strain and she leaked like a rusted bucket.

  “There, I said you’d be feeling cold. Never knew a bride who wore a sensible dress.” Mrs. Jones banged the window closed. “Now, you just sit here by the fire.”

  She was an overpowering woman. Anthea found herself sitting obediently in a large armchair that swallowed her whole. Cabbage roses in virulent red and purple patterned its fabric. “About Mr. Truitt…?” She couldn’t force the word “husband” from her lips.

  “He
’s a good man.” Mrs. Jones smoothed her starched, white apron. “Fair. Pays a generous wage.”

  Anthea decided bleakly that he’d probably make her a generous allowance—from her father’s money. It was more than her uncle had been prepared to do. She’d had to earn her own money, not simply for herself, but for all the people who relied on her.

  “The only thing is,” Mrs. Jones’s rapid speech slowed. “Mr. Truitt doesn’t like to be crossed. If he thinks someone’s cheated him, he doesn’t forgive and he doesn’t forget. You don’t look the troublesome sort, Mrs. Truitt. But it’s best a new wife knows her husband’s nature. If you make him mad, he has the devil’s own temper, and that’s a fact.”

  The housekeeper whisked herself out of the room, leaving Anthea to contemplate the fire and the warning. She dug her fingers into the arms of the chair.

  It all became too much. At the church she’d been trapped. Too timid to fight her uncle, too intimidated by the tall man intent on wedding her. But now she’d reached that point of fear where even a miserable coward can act: that frozen place at the extremity of fear.

  She contemplated her future and it stretched out like an Arctic wilderness, endlessly obliterating. She couldn’t live her life in terror of a tyrant. Her uncle had been selfish and greedy, but his very self-absorption allowed her a measure of freedom.

  “I can’t.” Her breath hiccupped. “I just can’t.” She stood with the stiffness of a wind-up doll and crossed to the wardrobe. The door of the oak cupboard resisted a moment, then swung open as she put some muscle into the second pull.

  Her familiar clothes hung inside, faintly scented with camphor. Her nose wrinkled as she selected a travelling gown. If she’d been staying, she’d have had the mothballs removed. As it was, she simply laid the gown on the bed and reached up to unbutton her gown.

  But her uncle had selected her wedding dress and it had required a maid to fasten it. Anthea wasn’t calling a maid to help her out of it. She found her manicure set in a drawer of the dressing table and set about cutting herself free of the pink monstrosity. Once started, the satin ripped easily. She stepped free of it and pulled on the travelling gown. It, at least, fastened easily.