The Girl with the Pearl Pin

by Lynne Connolly

  He’d left a message for his grandmother, which Miss Childers had promised to deliver, telling her he was gone unexpectedly out of town. Although usually he went out of town to visit a mistress, or to attend a sporting event, so his grandmother would accept the message. But his errand was different this time. This time was serious.

  The afternoon wore on. They could expect dusk to fall at around half past seven or eight o’clock, but Leo had no intention of stopping. They must have made good time in the carriage. If they continued at this pace, he and Linton could expect to catch up with them before they arrived at Phoebe’s home village.

  As far as Leo was concerned, the time depended whether he would let Callow live or not. If he’d forced Phoebe into marriage, he would die. If not, Leo would let him go. Probably not without fisticuffs, because Leo badly wanted to hit him.

  He could not give up. He would not.

  * * * *

  Phoebe’s attempts at being sick did not work. She couldn’t do it. But as Marcus lunged for her, his intent obvious, the world spun around them and a sickening sense of inevitability filled her mind.

  Plenty of people died in carriage accidents, but at this moment, she didn’t care. That kind of end might be the easy way out for her. She was ruined, she had lost the man she wanted above all others, and her life dragged before her in a series of miserable events.

  Sounds of crunching wood and metal, and the higher-pitched noise of shattering glass crashed around her as she threw her arms up to protect her head.

  The carriage lurched to one side, throwing her against the end of the vehicle, driving a few prickly splinters into her exposed skin. Screaming might not help, but she felt the impulse down to her soul and threw herself into her cry. If this was the last sound she made, she would make it worthwhile.

  Cries from the driver and footmen, and curses from her traveling companion, added to the cacophony. The coach creaked and groaned as it settled into its new position, threatening to collapse around them. Phoebe found herself lying in an undignified heap against the door of the carriage, which was now the new floor.

  Strangely, now it had happened, she didn’t want to die.

  A heavy weight lay on her leg. The weight moved, so instead of her leg, Marcus was pressing on her stomach. He levered himself off her using his elbows, clambering on the back of the seat. “Are you all right?”

  “I don’t know.” Cautiously she moved, shifted her weight, starting with her feet, rotating them to see if anything hurt. Working slowly, she moved her limbs. She’d bruise for sure, but nothing indicated broken bones. And she wasn’t bleeding much, only a few cuts and scratches. Starting at her toes, she tweaked every part of her body, bit by bit. So far, so good.

  Marcus shook off the debris scattered over his body, scattering bits of wood everywhere. “Damn, I liked this coat,” he muttered at the sound of ripping fabric. “New this season.”

  Paying Phoebe little heed, he climbed up the coach to the door at the top, using the seats as steps.

  “Oh, leave me here. I’ll be fine,” she commented, injecting as much sarcasm as she could into her tone.

  “I’ll get you out,” he said, as someone from the outside wrenched open the door, letting in a flood of cool air. Marcus hauled himself up.

  “You got to get out of here, sir,” a footman called. “We’re on the edge of the ditch, and it’s a deep one. If this carriage falls into it, you could get killed.”

  Oh good. Just what she wanted to hear. A lugubrious fatality took hold of her.

  Her fashionable straw hat had broken, and the top half of the broad brim flapped over her face. She shoved it aside impatiently and caught her hand on a spur of shattered wood. “Ouch!”

  Ruefully she sucked at the gash. Not serious, but she’d gained a few more splinters and it stung, adding to the myriad small aches and pains she’d suffered. But she wasn’t badly hurt. It just felt that way.

  Maybe they’d forget her. Marcus had never been the most attentive of men, his concentration mainly on himself. Perhaps, especially if he found he was hurt, he’d forget to have her rescued. If she stayed here, very still, she could scramble out when the commotion outside had stopped and find help. Because this inn was so close to her home they rarely stopped here, there was a chance the proprietors wouldn’t know her or recognize her in her present bedraggled state. Maybe she could walk home or find a farm where she could hire a horse.

  If the carriage didn’t tumble into the ditch before she escaped.

  Since she’d been shopping with her mother, she had a few guineas in her pocket, enough to get her on the stage back to London, or to hire a room somewhere else for the night. She had a chance to get away. Otherwise her future was looking bleak, and since nobody was here to help her, she had to help herself. And control that damned stammer, lest somebody recognize her through it.

  A heavy thump sounded on the side of the coach, which was now its roof, and a broad masculine face appeared above, blocking out what little light there was. “Here we are, missus! Your husband asked us to get you. Said you weren’t badly hurt.”

  “N-no, I-I’m not.” So much for controlling the stammer. If only it responded to her command!

  “I’ve got a sturdy rope here, and I’ve made a loop in one end. If you can catch hold, we’ll haul you up.”

  She had little choice. Only then did the implications of that one word hit her. Husband?

  Her exit from the wrecked carriage was not graceful. She paused to untie the tapes of her shattered hoops so she could climb out of them. The cane had split, the resultant sharp edges threatening to pierce her skin. They were of no use now. After catching the rope, Phoebe scrambled up. She couldn’t arrange her skirts or smooth them down to hide her modesty, because there wasn’t room, so she had to step and trip and hear the fabric tearing as she worked her way out.

  At the top, two men, evidently ostlers or other workers at the inn, pulled her out, by dint of one man tucking his beefy hands under her armpits and the other grabbing what he could and dragging up the remains of her clothes behind her.

  Sitting on the top of the coach, Phoebe went to pull off her broken straw hat, but then paused. The way the front flapped down over the side of her face might help to disguise her. After all, she was not far from home now, and someone might recognize her.

  “Come on, missus. Your husband has bespoken a room for you. We can look after you there.”

  That blackguard Marcus Callow had used the accident to his advantage before she could. At least she still had her pocket strung around her waist firmly, even if she’d lost a lot of the gown she’d been wearing. “I’ll need a change of clothes.”

  She’d have to go along with the husband masquerade for now. As long as Marcus had not used his real name. Then she’d deny him. Lord, what a tangle!

  The men lifted her down onto solid ground, and Phoebe surveyed the carriage, noting that her supposition had been correct. It had lost a wheel. The rest of the vehicle was in a sorry state. Perhaps Marcus would have to pay for its repair. That was a bright thought that sustained her as she limped the half mile to the inn.

  Phoebe mustered all the rude words she knew and said them deep inside. He would not turn her into a hoyden. So now everybody in this place would think they were married, and because they were so close to home, word could spread. Sir Marcus Callow arriving with a new wife would not go unremarked. When she had clean clothes, she fully intended to take to the road and go somewhere else. There had to be another inn, and she could call herself a widow, or a farmer’s wife or any damned thing. Because as sure as her name was Phoebe North, she wasn’t going to fall in with Marcus’s plans.

  Pausing at the side of the road, behind the improvised shelter of a large oak tree, Phoebe tore away at her gown until she could walk without tripping up. Without her hoops, a lot of the fabric trailed on the ground. Her fashionable hi
gh-heeled town shoes were no help either, but they were all she had.

  The inn was substantial, its whitewashed walls standing foursquare to the road. Not one her family customarily used, fortunately, so with any luck she would not be recognized. Although it wasn’t a cold day by any means, Phoebe shivered. Her ordeal was catching up with her. Ideally she’d want food, warmth, and sleep, but she was some way away from that yet.

  The landlady fussed over her and took her straight up to the best bedroom. “Your husband has ordered the best for you, my lady. I have put some fresh clothes up there for you. Nothing as good as your own, of course, but you might be glad of them.”

  Should she deny Marcus now? Tell this woman she’d been abducted? Not yet, because if she could get away without fuss, that would be better. A shame this inn was isolated, although she’d caught a glimpse of a few rooftops not too far away. If she could make herself decent, she might still have a chance to escape.

  The landlady opened the door and ushered her inside but didn’t enter with her. The squat, old-fashioned four-poster was turned down, crisp linen sheets invitingly on display. The room also held a desk and chair, and a washstand stood just behind her.

  Marcus sat in a tin bath in front of the fire, and he was stark naked. Turning his head, he gave her a beaming smile. “They’ll bring more hot water up for you.”

  Her first reaction was to turn and run. But she needed the clothes she saw on the other side of the room. She edged to the far side of the bed, glaring at him.

  Now they were alone, she could let rip. “How c-could you d-do this, M-Marcus? What on earth m-made you think I would w-want this?”

  His smile faded, and his mouth took on a mulish pout as he leaned his arms on the white towels draping the tub. “You will, Phoebe. This is right. We were always meant for each other, you know that.”

  “I know n-no such th-thing.”

  “Maybe this will change your mind.”

  With what Phoebe regarded as a distinctly sinister smile, Marcus pushed up, the muscles cording on his neck. Unashamedly, disgustingly naked, he stood up and stepped out of the bath. He didn’t even try to reach for a towel, although there were plenty available. Instead, he put his hands on his hips. “Not so sorry now, eh?”

  Phoebe’s blood boiled as, after one appalled glance, she kept her attention firmly on his face. “You’re not the first naked man I’ve ever seen.” Although very nearly the first. A brief glimpse of one of her brothers darting into his bedroom one night, and an equally brief sight of a farm worker disporting himself with his sweetheart was all. And neither of them had flaunted his…masculinity so blatantly. On both previous occasions Phoebe had averted her eyes and made her departure as fast as she could. This time she didn’t have that option. She couldn’t go anywhere like this; she needed the clothes draped out of her reach.

  She emerged from behind the bed, firmed her jaw and headed for the clothes. She would not look.

  Marcus lunged for her, and before she could escape, he wrapped his arms around her. “Let’s start our married life now, dear Phoebe. We will be married tomorrow, so I will not dishonor you.” He kissed the side of her neck, a wet kiss that left snail-slime on her skin.

  She couldn’t move.

  Chapter 16

  Leo’s spirits rose when Linton headed toward him after another scouting expedition, though he had to wait until the footman had looped around him and drawn his horse up on his other side. They had to coast this stretch of road carefully, as it was riddled with cracks and holes, far too risky to go fast. They were getting closer to the village Phoebe called home, about fifteen miles away now.

  “I’m sure we’ve found them,” Linton said as soon as he got within speaking distance. “A carriage lost a wheel. It’s around the next bend. Two people were inside, the man claiming they were married, but one of the ostlers at the next inn told me they were no more married than he was. He said she cringed when he referred to him as her husband.”

  Leo closed his eyes for a second, trying hard to control his reaction to the information. He had to keep a clear head now. “Did they describe the couple?”

  “A big brute of a man, and a dark-haired woman with a gown much the worse for wear.” He paused. “Her speech was halting.”

  Leo’s heart missed a beat. “We have them.” While he would have preferred to storm the inn and slash Callow from neck to groin, he was realistic enough to know he wouldn’t get far. Not, at least, until he was in the room with him. “I will claim to be pursuing the man who made off with my wife. I’ll use my family name, Cavendish, rather than my title, to avoid notice.”

  Linton touched his forehead, then pulled his hat down firmly. “I’m your attendant then, sir. I didn’t tell anyone our business.”

  “I warn you that if he has hurt her in any way, I will challenge him. If you would rather not become involved, I understand.”

  “I welcome it,” was Linton’s growled response.

  “Nevertheless, I will not hold you to anything from now on, because I intend to get Miss North back at any cost. Do you understand? At any cost.”

  Linton nodded. “Any man who snatches a woman off the street deserves what he gets. I am at your command, sir.”

  Leo would ensure he received a fat bonus, whatever happened next. This man was rock-solid loyal, and he appreciated that. “You may return to London if you wish, or I’ll pay for you to rack up for the night anywhere you choose.”

  “Then I’ll stay at the Hare and Hounds, sir.”

  “Let’s get at it, then.”

  Taking the two miles to the inn at a leisurely pace proved difficult, but if he kicked his horse into a gallop, he would likely arrive at the Hare and Hounds with a broken leg. The road was very poor here.

  Around a bend, they came upon a scene of activity. A carriage lay on its side, straddling the ditch running alongside the road. Its precarious position sent bile into Leo’s mouth. Another inch or two and it would have tipped right into the deep furrow.

  A broken wheel lay a short distance from the vehicle, testament to the reason for the fall. Three men busied themselves clearing the road, and one loaded a piece of luggage into the cart standing nearby.

  Leo felt sick. She could have been pierced with shards of glass, stabbed with a sharp piece of wood, fallen and broken her head. He slowed his horse. “What happened here?”

  One of the men straightened, a piece of broken axle in his hand. “Nasty do, sir. Two job horses, spooked, but the coachmen stopped them before they dragged the carriage up the road. A man and a woman. Husband and wife. Not happy.” He winked. “Not sure about the right of it. Both in a mess, Lord love ’em. But they walked to the inn, so they came off all right, bar a few cuts and bruises.”

  Leo let out the first breath since he’d seen the damage.

  His imagination tortured him with visions of Phoebe abused and hurt, unable to speak because of her distress. He would kill Callow if he’d touched a hair of her head. His sweet Phoebe was only just discovering her inner core of steel. If Callow had damaged her burgeoning confidence, he’d kill him. Hell, he’d kill the man anyway.

  An orange sky lit their way to the inn, heralding impending sunset. The fields ahead, lushly green, were beautiful in their extravagant colors. Cresting a gentle slope, they looked down into the valley below. Such an idyllic scene hiding so much potential unhappiness.

  A village, a mere scattering of houses lit by glows from the kitchen fires, lay at a short distance from the inn. At this distance the tranquility would have provided an excellent scene for a painter, but people moved, small figures turning a still life into a place where people lived and had their being. Many of the occupants would not cross their parish lines in their lifetimes, and visiting the nearest substantial town would be the greatest excitement they knew.

  Focusing his thoughts, he scanned the scene before he concentrate
d on the building ahead.

  An inn with yellowed, whitewashed rough walls stood foursquare to the road. A yard separated it from another building, probably the stables, so this was a staging post, where horses were kept for wealthy owners, and carriages and hacks were held for hire. This close to London, business would be brisk. At least it appeared respectable. A few people went about their business, and as he watched, someone entered the taproom at the front. A straggling line of houses and cottages stretched down the road, enough to receive the designation of village.

  As he rode into the yard, an ostler ran up to take the horse from him. Leaving Linton to deal with the niceties, Leo strode into the taproom.

  The stench of beer assaulted his nostrils, mingled with the scent of baking. His stomach rumbled, but he ignored it. He’d thrust the contents of his town coat into the pockets of the borrowed one, and now he drew out a handful of coins and let them clink in his palm. They would have to be earned.

  Glancing around, he met the stares of curious locals and fellow travelers. Touching his hat, he turned to the innkeeper, who bustled up, a relatively clean white apron wrapped around his considerable frame. “A word, if you will,” he suggested softly, but with unmistakable command. “I am looking for my runaway wife.”

  * * * *

  A judicious application of guineas persuaded the landlord of the necessity of discretion, and the urgency of Leo’s situation. He indicated the room where he’d shown the couple. The sound of steps told him the faithful Linton wasn’t far behind.

  Leo needed no more. Taking the bare wooden stairs three at a time, he raced up to the next floor, where the best bedroom was situated. Not bothering to knock, he lifted the latch and shoved, nearly stumbling when it gave way at once.

  Leo took in the scene at a glance. A naked Callow lay on the floor, blood seeping from a wound on his head. Not much blood, but it didn’t take much of a blow to kill a man. Leo should not be so happy at that potentiality, but he would not deny his reaction. The stench of cheap brandy filled the room.