The Improper Wife Read Online Free PDF Page A

did not seem any other explanation. There could not be two John Graysons in the 13th regiment, otherwise, surely this man would have known.
    “Where shall we deliver you, Miss . . . ah . . . Smith,” he asked.
    She tried to pull away from him. “Nowhere.” Her voice broke. “I have nowhere to go.” All hope that she’d not killed her husband had now been dashed.
    Dear God, what would happen to her now? To her son?
    “You have nowhere to go?” the real Captain Grayson repeated.
    His words jolted her back. “I . . . I was unable to pay my charges at the inn. I cannot return there. Not even for my portmanteau.”
    She’d fled the inn that morning, running on slippery cobbles while the innkeeper’s wife bellowed curses at her fleeing back. Her flight had most likely brought on her labor.
    “Surely you have family.”
    She shook her head. “There is no one.” She’d always been an unwanted encumbrance to her uncle, not welcome in his house even when a child. How many holidays and summers had she spent at school when the other girls had gone home? Could she throw herself upon the mercy of the headmistress of her boarding school? Not after the relentless lectures of the shame of fallen women.
    “Bloody hell.” The captain’s grip tightened on her arm.
    Lady Caufield’s head popped through the doorway. “Gray, really. Do not speak so. It is not fitting. Hurry, please. The coachman waits.”
    “She bloody well has no place to go,” he snapped.
    Lady Caufield gave the captain a disapproving glare, but turned on Maggie a melting look of sympathy. “Oh, you poor darling! Well, there is nothing else for it. You and the child must come home with me.”
    Maggie’s lips trembled at the unexpected kindness.
    Captain Grayson propelled her out of the apartments to the street below. His arm felt secure around her. And determined.
    They reached the pavement. “Tell me the name of the inn,” he said, his breath warm against her ear as he spoke.
    “The inn?”
    “Where you stayed.”
    She blinked into his face, which looked no less piratelike. “The Wanderer in Chelsea, but—”
    He ignored her.
    Lady Caufield waved them on to the coach. She thrust the baby into the captain’s hands so the footman could assist her into the coach. The footman wrinkled his nose as he assisted Maggie next. Lady Caufield reached for the infant. The captain hesitated a moment before lifting the baby into her arms.
    “Call upon us soon, Gray,” Lady Caufield said.
    Maggie looked out the window as the coach pulled away. Captain Grayson stood on the pavement, hands on his hips. He remained there until the coach turned the corner and she could no longer see him.
    That evening, Gray sat at the back table of the dark, musty tavern around the corner from his lodgings. The smell of smoke mixed with the sour stench of unwashed bodies, hops, and roasting meat, but the brandy was tolerable and the oyster stew quite tasty. Besides, the rumble of voices and laughter softened into a hum that shut out his thoughts. Gray poured another glass, downed the liquid, and stared into the haze.
    A gentleman entered, his immaculate evening dress a contrast to the soot-stained, brown-coated men who were there to drink their gin and ale. The gentleman looked about the room and hesitantly wound his way through the crowd, skipping aside to avoid collision with the unwashed bodies.
    He spied Gray and hurried to his table, a grin spreading over his face.
    “Thank God, Gray. I’ve been searching for you in every establishment on the street.”
    “Harry.”
    Gray’s cousin, a kind-eyed, fair-haired man in his early thirties, eyed the chair across from Gray with dismay. He pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket and spread it on the seat before sitting down.
    “Do you want a drink?” Gray signaled to the serving girl.
    Harry’s eyebrows rose. “Is it safe?”
    Gray gave a dry laugh. “Hasn’t killed me yet.”
    The serving girl leaned over and favored him