Crispin smiled patiently. “You are a fortunate man. Now if I may . . . where would I find Miss Jacinda this morning?”
While he would have liked nothing more than to report her actions to her uncle, he didn’t know her well enough to be certain she wouldn’t reveal what she’d read in the letter.
“Oh, not here.” The viscount shook his head as if the fact were obvious. “She left about”—he mused over the clock on the mantel—“an hour ago. Gone on an important quest. She possesses no lack of gumption. Yes, indeed.”
Crispin withdrew his brass pocket watch and noted that the mantel clock was twenty-three minutes slow. “When do you expect her return?”
“Not for days, to be sure. ’Tis a long way to Sussex.”
Crispin closed the watch with a startled snap. He was certain he hadn’t heard correctly. “Sussex?”
“Yes, sir. In fact, that niece of mine was in such a rush to depart that she didn’t want to wait for the mail coach leaving Piccadilly this evening. Instead, she and a maid hired a stagecoach. I imagine they’ll make good time—no more than a day.”
No. It had to be a coincidence.
His pulse ran riot, drumming hard against the side of his throat as he tried to think of another reason for her sudden journey toward the county where his own estate resided. “Have you family there?”
The viscount shook his head. “All we have is each other. And we each do what we can to honor their mother’s memory. You see . . .”
The ringing in his ears returned and Crispin was no longer able to hear Eggleston as he continued. Besides, he already knew the reason she’d gone.
Because of the letter.
“Oddly enough,” Crispin said remotely as he walked to the office door, “I, too, am off to Sussex.”
“Capital!” Eggleston clapped his hands together, the paper and pen forgotten. “Perhaps Your Grace will even cross paths with my niece. After all, she is on an important matter of . . . Well, I shouldn’t say until she returns. But I’ve no doubt she’ll come back, brimming with the best of news.”
“If I do happen to encounter your niece, I will be certain to pass along your wishes for her hasty return.” And Crispin intended to send her back to London as quickly as possible, even if he had to stuff her inside a trunk and drive her back himself.
Part 2
Chapter 5
“Surprizes are foolish things. The pleasure is not enhanced and the inconvenience is often considerable.”
Jane Austen, Emma
“Beg pardon, Yer Grace.”
Crispin jolted upright on the carriage bench, then instantly regretted the sudden movement as a sharp pain pierced the side of his neck. Cringing, he asked, “Have we arrived at another inn, Jones?”
Still half-asleep, he hunched forward on the crushed burgundy velvet seat and scrubbed a hand over his face, feeling a full day’s growth of whiskers scrape his palm. They’d been driving hard, checking every inn along the way for most of yesterday and all night, in search of Jacinda Bourne’s coach. He wondered what village they were in this time.
“Din’t warnt to wake you, sir,” his driver said, his gravelly West Sussex burr thicker than usual. “So I asked the keeper meself.”
“Good man,” Crispin said with a wealth of gratitude. Squinting against the orange light of early morning, he focused on the travel-worn man standing on the road outside the carriage.
Jones’s dark button eyes were puffy around the edges and the lower portion of his face was enshrouded in stubble as black as chimney soot. Beneath a dusty garrick, his lean frame teetered with drunken exhaustion, causing an errant leaf to fall from the brim of his battered hat. “En says there hasn’t been no customers fer a week, and no women a ’tall fer mar than a momf.”
Crispin frowned at that. Damn. He’d had a feeling from the start that he’d left London too late. Unfortunately, Aunt Hortense had stopped him before he could depart.
“As I have already stated, my wedding gift to you comes with conditions. One of which is that you reside here until we have found an appropriate bride for you,” she’d said, her voice hitching higher along with her stubborn Montague chin.
The sight of those cold steel-gray eyes had him gritting his teeth. “Understood. I have every intention of honoring our bargain, just as soon as I return from a brief errand.”
For four years, he’d received hardly a word from his aunt and then suddenly, two months ago, a letter had arrived. Without preamble, salutation, or inquiry into his health, she’d stated that a man of his age should marry. And then, she’d dangled a shiny, £4,000 lure in front of him.
He could not afford to resist it.
“Make certain of it, then. You spent too many years as a reckless ne’er-do-well, cutting a swathe of wickedness through the streets of London, and you cannot amend that reputation by becoming a recluse. It is your duty to marry and uphold the integrity of the dukedom, just as my brother did before his untimely death.”
Crispin had bit down on his unpleasant retort, not requiring the reminder—either of his obligation to marry or his own culpability in his father’s death. Yet the latter would always be a black stain between them.
So without another word, he’d turned to leave.
“Perhaps I should come with you,” she’d said, halting him in his tracks.
The last thing he needed was to worry about the possibility of having two uninvited women at Rydstrom Hall. His response had been a firm, unequivocal, and even ducal “No,” and he’d left without further argument.
Now, withdrawing his pocket watch, Crispin discovered that it was even later than he thought—nearly eight o’clock in the morning. Yesterday’s efforts at dissuading his aunt had used up valuable time. Miss Bourne had already left a few hours ahead of him, and they still hadn’t caught up with her. “How many more inns are there to go?”
“Narn, sir. We be in Whitcrest now, an’ Rydstrom Hall be just up the hill.”
With a start, Crispin lurched forward, peering in the direction of Jones’s pointed finger, to the salt-bleached gray stone monstrosity near the cliff’s edge. He closed his eyes, half in homecoming and half in despair.
This was the only home he’d ever known, but also the residence of his living nightmares.
Breathing in, he knew he should have recognized the familiar sharp, briny scent in the air sooner. He remembered hating the odor of the sea, ranting at his father that he wanted no part of living here in a crumbling heap.
When he’d entered university, he’d wanted to live like his friends whom he stayed with during holidays, traveling to exotic places, living in the finest houses, and enjoying the affections of soft, perfumed women swathed in silks who’d treated him like a king.
Father had accused him of turning into a stranger before his very eyes and allowing enticements of hedonism too great of an influence over him. And of course, Crispin had denied it to the very core of his being, prepared to continue on his path.
Then in one fell swoop that all changed. He went from being a wild, recalcitrant young man determined to slough off the responsibilities expected of a duke’s heir to a man whose sole identity revolved around the duties demanded of the title. And there were times when he felt as if he’d aged four lifetimes in the past four years.
Yet, thinking of the letter he’d neglected to burn, he admitted that he was no better at shouldering responsibility than he’d been in the past. He still had to worry about Miss Bourne and to stop her from finding Sybil before it was too late.
“Did we miss an inn along the way?” he asked Jones and received a weary headshake.
Curious. Crispin was nearly convinced that Miss Bourne would have been on this direct path to his estate. Unless . . . she’d already managed to squirrel her way into his home before he had the chance to warn Mr. Fellows and Mrs. Hemple not to allow her admittance.
A shudder rolled through him.
“You’re a fine, solid man,” he said to Jones, grateful for the driver�
��s unswerving loyalty and hoping that his efforts weren’t all for naught. “It’s time to drive home so you can rest a long while. I’ll ask Fellows to send a few pails of hot water to the stables, and you can have a nice long soak.”
Jones’s grin looked tipsy, his shoulders slumping as if he were already imagining the soaking tub. “Aye, sir.”
And in a moment they were off, the team digging in for the final climb, the carriage jerking with each rut, rock, and sharp turn along the narrow, winding path.
Crispin was still shocked that he hadn’t found Miss Bourne and was beginning to have a small kernel of doubt on the purpose of her visit to Sussex. Could it be that he’d made more of the letter than need be and there was an innocent explanation?
Innocent? He nearly laughed aloud at the thought. She would be the last person he’d ever suspect of possessing a pair of angel’s wings. Well . . . unless she’d stolen into heaven and plucked them from an unsuspecting angel all by herself.
Hadn’t he already underestimated her once? Only a fool would do so again.
Now only one question remained—where was Miss Bourne?
* * *
A shriek awoke her. The piercing sound burrowed through her temple and directly into the pulsing center mass of her brain.
Do be quiet, would you? she thought, too tired to form the words.
All she wanted to do was sleep. Unfortunately, she was lying prone on the worst bed imaginable. Hard and lumpy, it dug into her rib cage and pressed painfully against her cheek and temple. Clearly, she needed to turn over.
Yet when she shifted, her entire body seized, stiffening as if she’d been stitched together with frozen limbs that had yet to thaw. A sudden shiver wracked her body, her teeth chattering. She tasted salt and something coppery. The harsh flavor coated her tongue, making her gag and cough. She winced at the rawness of her throat, feeling as if tiny pebbles lined the tender flesh all the way to her lungs.
Ugh. She was definitely going back to sleep until she felt better.
Then another shriek closed in, followed in quick succession by a high chirruping voice. “Thank the two magpies, she’s alive!”
The exclamation barely rose above the heavy whooshing sound of the wind, the low growl echoing inside her ears. Yet, it made resting impossible, all the same.
Curiosity overtook her, sweeping through in a fierce rush of prickles down her spine, too urgent to be ignored. The phrase She’s alive aroused a plethora of questions. Who was the supposedly near-dead-but-not-quite woman? And why was that person so near to this uncomfortable bed in this loud chamber?
Even without having the answers, she was far too alert to consider dozing off again.
When she opened her eyes to investigate, however, something dark and wet blocked her vision. Blinking several times did not help. And lifting a hand to her face to clear the impediment away took a great deal more effort than it should have. Her shoulder, arm, and elbow seemed weighed down by some unseen force.
Struggling, she managed to take hold of the dark mass. Yet after a painful tug, a wince, and a startled groan, she discovered that it was her own hair.
A frown puckered the flesh of her brow, and she stared at the deep reddish-brown strands. Strangely, they seemed foreign to her. New. And she watched in perplexed fascination as a thick hank curled over her gloved fingers.
Gloves? Now that was another oddity. Why was she wearing leather gloves in bed? More important, why were they wet?
She couldn’t think of an answer.
Though, perhaps she needed more sleep, after all. Even now, her heavy lids were drifting closed . . .
“Mr. Lemon, we must fetch the parson, or mayhap the doctor,” the chirruping voice interrupted, sounding closer now. “Mr. Craig may do as well. He’s just over the rise, unloading his fishing smack. Ack, but he is such a curmudgeon. True. True. Mrs. Lassater has seen her fair share of injuries, but do we wish to bother her when she is up to her elbows in the village laundry? Though you are likely correct, my good sir. Yes, indeed. We should be happy if any of them were here with us and this purr creature.”
The woman’s words tumbled out with such rapidity, and edged with such an indistinct drawl, that it was difficult to keep track of them all. Still, it seemed clear that there was a purr—or rather poor—creature somewhere.
So why was she, herself, lying in bed with all this excitement around her?
That stabbing pain at her temple made it impossible to concentrate on the answer. And attempting to sit up, brought more difficulties. Not only was her body stiff and sore, but she quickly realized that her gloves weren’t the only things wet. In fact, she was drenched from head to toe, her garments clinging to her limbs and hindering her movements. She shuddered again, biting her lip. This time she tasted more of that coppery flavor and realized that it was blood.
“No, no, my dear bedraggled mermaid. I’m sure you shouldn’t move. By the look of you, I’d say you took quite a spill, and believe you me . . .”
All concentration halted on the word mermaid. Everything was frightfully puzzling. To whom was this woman speaking?
Yet before she could ask, she felt a slight pressure on her arm.
She turned her head slowly, mindful of the sharp pain in the side of her neck, and watched as an ungloved hand curled over her sleeve, warmth penetrating the thick burgundy wool. The fingers were spindly, with discolored, uneven nails and a dark mole near the base of the thumb.
Then, lifting her gaze, she saw that the mole had a large twin or perhaps a parent, given its circumference. It rested on the cheek of the narrow face peering back at her from beneath a tattered black bonnet.
It was an unfamiliar face. The woman’s skin was like vellum, pale and faintly creased, clinging to high cheekbones and a thin blade of a nose. Wind buffeted the fraying ends of the black ribbon tied in a knot beneath the blur of her rapidly moving lips and a shapely chin. And if it wasn’t for the mole, it was easy to imagine that she might have been quite pretty in her bloom.
“. . . Mr. Lemon and I have seen our share of curiosities wash up,” the woman continued, only now with a face to go with the voice. “We come here a-mornings anywhen the tide is low. Why, you should see my collection of green and brown bottle glass. Smooth as river rocks, they are . . .”
Tide?
Glancing away from the woman, she stared down at the uncomfortable surface beneath her and discovered it was not a bed at all, but a huge gray rock. It was hard but smooth, the bumps and pits worn down to silken, rounded edges. Still, it made a terrible mattress.
Forcing herself to sit upright, she clenched her teeth through the pain and took note of her surroundings by degree. Patches of wet, gray sand. A mixture of glossy stones in various earthy shades. A narrow strip of beach. A streak of bubbly white foam inching into her line of sight. Then her focus expanded to the roar of white-capped waves, rolling closer in long barrel-sized loops. They crashed over other large rocks like hers that resided further out into the endless expanse of water that could only have been . . . the sea.
What was she doing here, sleeping on a rock?
That headache stabbed harder this time, making her eyes sting and turn bleary. Unable to concentrate, she knew that the only person who might be able to answer this question was the woman with the mole.
“Are we ac—” Her raspy words stopped as she clutched her throat, the lining feeling shredded.
“Acquainted?” mole-woman helpfully supplied.
Nodding in response seemed safer than trying to speak again.
In answer, mole-woman shook her head. “I shouldn’t ought to think so, unless you are the sister of Mrs. Matthews. She is expected anywhen now. But by the look of you, I shouldn’t suppose so. I met her once, a Miss Anson from Shropshire. But she was fair-haired. And I’m sure any kin of the Matthews’ shouldn’t ought to have clothes as fine as yours.”
Halting the endless blur of words, mole-woman straightened, pressing vellum-skinned hands down the front
of her high-necked black dress as if she were trying to look her best. Yet the ruffled collar and cuffs were frayed beyond mending.
Glancing down at her own soggy clothes, she compared the style and stitching, quickly concluding that she was not dressed like mole-woman. Her heavy burgundy redingote was more elaborate, with a double row of fawn-colored cloth buttons, embroidered cuffs and layered embellishments along the hem, above the tips of her black ankle boots. While she didn’t know what it meant, she knew her garment was different.
“Indeed,” mole-woman said in awe, her admiring gaze tracing the scalloped design on the cuff of the redingote’s sleeve. “Yours is some of the finest embroidery I’ve seen since Whitcrest had a duchess in Rydstrom Hall. You must be an important lady. In fact, I’d hazard a guess that you must be a guest of . . .”
An important lady, hmm? On her rock, she sat up straighter and made every attempt to conceal her discomfort. Her efforts were for naught, however. Pain tunneled through her, beginning at her head and stiffly tumbling down each vertebra. Light-headed, she leaned forward, her hands securely on the rock for support.
“. . . Everyone in the village is talking about the rumors that His Grace plans to marry.” Mole-woman stopped on a gasp. “And here I am, yammering on while we have a veritable duchess in our midst. Isn’t that right, Mr. Lemon?”
As mole-woman spoke, a small white dog appeared from behind her skirts. He was shorthaired, wide-legged, and sported black markings around his nose and mouth that made it appear as if he were smiling in greeting. He offered a gruff woof and something of a nod before he lifted a foreleg and pawed a bit of sand from his snout.
“I hope you will forgive us. We usually have far better manners. In fact, my very own father was a schoolmaster for a time. He even tutored the late duke and—Oh dear, I’m doing it again, aren’t I? Well, I’ll just say that I am Miss Elmira Beels, your ladyship,” she said with an awkward curtsy, accompanied by the slurping sound of her shoes sinking into the sand. “And what am I to call you?”
How to Forget a Duke Page 5
