Jo Beverley - [Malloren 01]

by My Lady Notorious

  Verity’s revealing face told him he was close to the truth. But what truth?

  “It’s the best we can do,” said Charles sharply. “Do you think her looks are changed enough?”

  Verity’s hair had been darkened by grease rather than dye, and it straggled out of the front of her cap. The change was remarkable.

  “It will do, I think,” he said. “If we come face-to-face with someone who knows Verity well, it won’t work, but the main danger surely is that bills have been posted, and the authorities alerted. They’ll be looking for a young blond lady with a child. I’m darker, and must look considerably older as a woman than my true twenty-four. What? Thirty-odd?”

  Verity nodded and smiled. “We’ll do it, won’t we?”

  He smiled back at her as if she were one of his raw recruits needing encouragement before the first battle. “Assuredly we will.”

  Spontaneously she held out her hands. When he took them she kissed him lightly on the lips. “Thank you. I’m so glad we found you.”

  “Captured him,” corrected Charles sharply.

  Cyn turned to his glowering damsel. He grasped her by the shoulders, and before she could react, kissed her as Verity had kissed him. She jerked back and scrubbed at her lips.

  “My dear sir,” said Cyn, tremulously, which was easy since he was fighting laughter, “a thousand apologies. I became carried away by my part!”

  “Get carried away like that again,” snapped his damsel, “and I’ll gut you.” She picked up a portmanteau and stalked off toward the coach.

  By noon, Cyn had decided this adventure was a dead bore. Where was the challenge? Where were the dangers? Where were the dragons for him to fight?

  All he was experiencing was the familiar swaying motion of the coach, the chill of a sharp November day, and the discomfort of his disguise. His legs felt smothered in skirts, the wool stuffing itched, and the coarse strings of the cap were fretting his skin. He’d thought a stiff stock around his neck was bad enough, but this was undoubtedly worse.

  He’d removed the hat as soon as they were in the coach, but felt he had to keep the cap on in case a passing traveler looked inside the carriage. They’d already decided that to pull the curtains would make them look suspicious. Now he untied the strings of the cap and let them hang.

  “Why the deuce,” he asked, “would anyone make a cap out of such coarse calico?” Despite his irritation he spoke softly for the baby slept.

  “For durability,” said Charles unsympathetically. “After a score or so washings it will soften up.”

  “It would be better, surely, to buy the cloth already softened.”

  “But more expensive.”

  Curiosity stirred in Cyn again. “Where did these caps come from?”

  “We just had them lying around,” she said evasively, then smiled without warmth. “I’m sorry we had nothing more suitable for your delicate skin, milord.”

  “Why not?”

  She flashed a sharp look at him. “Why should we have expensive folderols?”

  Cyn glanced at Verity, who looked anxious. “Because you and your sister are gently bred. Your clothes, sir, though somewhat old-fashioned, have come from a modish tailor. So, if there are female garments, I would expect them to be of high quality.”

  Charles’ color betrayed agitation, but she answered calmly. “Verity fled in disguise, and I certainly don’t wear caps.”

  Cyn persisted. “Then where did these come from?”

  Her jaw tightened. “Nana and I were making them for the Magdalene in Shaftesbury.”

  It was a plausible explanation, though Cyn doubted it. He relaxed back and fanned himself with his bonnet. “How charitable,” he murmured. “Especially on your part, sir.”

  She bit her lip.

  It was Verity who stepped into the breach. “He’s claiming more credit than he’s due. I’m sure all he did was to cut out the cloth.”

  The coach swung into an inn yard, and the conversation was abandoned with Cyn little the wiser.

  The change was slow since Hoskins had no one to blow for a new team or help the ostlers. Though they were still on Cyn’s prearranged route, he had decided not to use the teams of Rothgar’s horses which awaited, and he’d told Hoskins to avoid the inns where he would be known.

  As far as Cyn knew, Rothgar was in London, not at the Abbey, but once he learned of his brother’s disappearance, Cyn suspected he would institute a search. No need to leave a blazing trail. He had no desire to be ‘rescued’ by the marquess a second time.

  Now, however, they had to hire post horses at each stage, with postilions to care for them. Hoskins grumbled that the teams were mere cart horses.

  In short, nobody was happy with the state of affairs.

  Cyn casually scrutinized the inn yard for posters, or overattentive observers. Nothing. Perhaps there was no hunt at all. Chances seemed excellent of them reaching Maidenhead in two days without incident.

  How dull.

  Then he saw Verity’s pallid face. At every stop, and whenever a horseman passed them on the road, she tensed with fear. The sooner she reached her Nathaniel, the better.

  As they pulled out, the baby woke and began to cry. Within moments the complaint grew from a whimper to a howl—an amazingly piercing sound for one so small. Verity’s face turned rosy as she put him to her breast under a shawl. Cyn politely looked away, though there was nothing to see. He found the mental image of a baby at the breast fascinating, however, and the effect was heightened by the soft slurping noises the baby made.

  He wondered what it would be like to watch the mother of his child feed the babe, what it would be like to suck on nipples which produced milk. He slid a look at Charles.

  He blinked, amazed at himself. Children? Marriage? Such things had no part in his life. Married life and soldiering didn’t mesh. As the veterans said, ‘When a soldier puts his cap on, he should know his family’s covered.’

  Anyway, if he had any thoughts of marriage, he’d be mad to consider his damsel-in-distress. She showed few womanly attributes. But Lord, it would be fine to have a wife with her kind of courage . . .

  The slurping stopped and the baby again set up a screech. Verity hushed and gabbled and patted the child on the back. He kicked and screamed, red-faced and furious. Verity was almost as red. Cyn stared out the window, as if unaware of the racket, but wishing he could put his hands over his ears.

  The screams lowered slightly in volume, and he glanced back. Charles had the baby now and was holding William with more confidence than anyone would expect of a young man. The baby had quieted to an occasional whine which might even be a prelude to sleep. They all sighed with relief.

  William had obviously just needed a moment to catch his breath. He suddenly thrust his legs out and screamed even louder, as if in terrible pain. Cyn couldn’t imagine what the problem was, but began to worry that the babe would expire in front of him. Children died from minor problems all the time.

  Verity, however, looked embarrassed rather than terrified.

  The noise went on and on. Charles jiggled the babe and looked every bit as alarmed as Cyn. Verity took the babe back and tried to put him to the breast again, but little William rejected it furiously. She sat him up, lay him down, put him to her shoulder.

  Cyn decided that being confined in a coach with a screaming baby was a very effective form of torture. He’d give away national secrets to stop the racket.

  Verity looked close to tears. “Oh, I’m sorry. It must be gas, but I can’t seem to do anything . . .”

  Though he knew nothing about babies, Cyn knew a lot about horses, dogs, and raw recruits, and he thought that at the moment Verity was doing more harm than good. “Oh, give him to me,” he said, rather more sharply than he intended.

  She hesitated, but he took the howling babe anyway. He was surprised by the squirming strength of the tiny mite, and because he’d taken hold of more blanket than babe, he almost dropped him. Quite by accident, William ended u
p face-down on Cyn’s knee with a thump. The child gave a burp, spit up on Cyn’s skirt, and was quiet.

  All three of them looked at the baby, expecting the ear-splitting noise to start again. Quiet reigned and William didn’t even seem to object to his position. Cyn turned him cautiously. The child was a perfect little cherub, and even seemed to smile with gratitude as he drifted off to sleep.

  Verity leaned forward to dab at Cyn’s skirt with a rag, apologizing again. “I was fretting him,” she said. “I’m sure that’s why he had the gripe. He’s normally such a good baby.” She sat up again. “I’m so scared . . .”

  Charles covered her hand. “Don’t be, love. See, here we are close to Salisbury already, and no sign of pursuit. We have wound ourselves up into a stew over nothing.”

  “Oh, I do hope so.”

  “We’ll stop soon for a luncheon.” Charles looked a challenge at Cyn, but when he made no objection she asked more moderately, “Do you think we’ll make Basingstoke tonight, my lord?”

  “Not without a great push,” Cyn said. “The road is none too good and I see no reason to hurry.”

  The sisters exchanged glances. “Where then?”

  “The road between Andover and Basingstoke is very bleak, not to be traveled after dark. There’s a White Hart at Worting and another at Whitchurch. Both good places. I suggest we see how far we can reasonably go.”

  “How is it you know this road so well?” Charles asked suspiciously.

  “I traveled it not many days ago. There’s not a great deal for a lonely traveler to do but follow the map.” He pulled one out of a pocket by his seat and handed it to her.

  She studied it, finding Salisbury. “Did you travel from Rothgar Abbey?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where exactly is it?”

  “Not far from Farnham.”

  “So at Basingstoke we’ll be off your route?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will we reach Maidenhead tomorrow?” Verity asked.

  “That depends on the roads. I suggest we go north at Basingstoke to join the Bath road at Reading, then we’ll be on a toll road. It should be better than this.”

  They seemed disinclined to argue, which surprised him. Was Charles mellowing at last?

  Peace after Bedlam would mellow anyone.

  He looked down at the baby, surprised by how pleasant it felt to hold the sleeping mite. He’d seen plenty of Hilda’s daughter but never, as a mere male, been entrusted with her. The soft, pliant weight, the steady rise and fall of breathing, the dreaming sucking motions of the full lips all charmed him.

  And this wasn’t a perfect child. He had a rash on his cheek, perhaps from his tear-dampened blanket. Verity had changed him once today, but a sour smell rose from him. Cyn didn’t know who the father was, but he suspected the child would never make his fortune with his face.

  All the same, sweetly, trustingly asleep, the baby caught his heart and made him think again of children of his own . . .

  “Halt!”

  The summons caught them all unawares. Charles put a hand toward the pistol-holster. Verity reached for her child.

  Cyn held on to the babe. “Look innocent, damn you.” This clearly was no attempt at robbery, and could only be a military patrol. The door was sharply opened. Cyn turned toward it with a look of astonishment. “Please!” he said in a whisper. “The babe is sleeping.”

  The young officer looked abashed, and then his eyes sharpened. Cyn had no doubt he was on the lookout for a mother and child.

  An added complication was that Cyn knew Lieutenant Toby Berrisford very well indeed.

  Chapter 6

  “My apologies, ma’am,” said Toby quietly, going red. It was an affliction that went with his pale skin and red hair, but Cyn knew he never let it interfere with his duty. “I am ordered to keep an eye out for a young mother with a two-month-old child. I must ask your identity.”

  “I’m Sarah Inchcliff,” said Cyn amenably. “Mrs. Richard Inchcliff of Goole, Yorkshire. I confess, sir, that it is true my babe is only a little over two months old, but I’m flattered you think me young.” He gave Toby a teasing smile. “I’ll not see thirty again and this is my sixth. Why do you seek such a pair?”

  Toby frowned at Cyn but more in puzzlement than suspicion. “The young woman’s wits have been turned by the death of her husband, and she has run away with her child. It is feared she will do him some harm.”

  Verity made a little sound. “Yes,” said Cyn quickly, “horrible, isn’t it? But if she is so deranged, would she be traveling in a private coach?”

  “She might be befriended by some misguided person, ma’am, and that person could then be in danger. Who knows what a madwoman might do?” He was still frowning. “Forgive me, ma’am, but are we acquainted?”

  Cyn faced Toby blandly. “I don’t think so, Lieutenant, but I am told I bear a strong resemblance to my cousins. My maiden name was Malloren.”

  His face cleared. “That’s it! You have quite the look of Lord Cyn, you know.”

  “I’m flattered,” said Cyn, adding naughtily, “He’s quite excessively handsome.”

  “Isn’t he just?” said Toby with a grin. “And a devil with the ladies. There’s not a one can resist him. Well, Mrs. Inchcliff, apologies for interrupting your journey. If you should come across the poor wretch, put her in the care of the local magistrate. The child’s guardian and the woman’s father are both in the area, and will care for them.”

  Lieutenant Berrisford then slammed the door and William set up a squawk. Cyn saw his friend turn red as he made quickly for his horse. Cyn gave the baby to Verity, and as the carriage rolled by he waved his fingers coyly at the soldiers.

  Verity put the baby to the breast again, her eyes wide with fear. “Father and Henry both hereabouts! Dear heaven.”

  “Those soldiers suspected nothing,” Charles reassured her.

  “But what if we meet with Father or Henry at an inn? We mustn’t stop anywhere!”

  “We have to stop,” said Cyn with deliberate, authoritative calm. “For one thing, Hoskins cannot drive all day without a halt. For another, we all need food and rest. I will look after you. Besides, if you fret, you’ll upset William again.” He held her eyes until she relaxed a little, then smiled at her. She smiled tremulously back and returned her attention to the child.

  Cyn considered Charles, who looked distinctly strange. It must be because of Toby’s words about Lord Cyn’s effect on women. He wondered if they were doing his cause with his damsel good or harm. “I wish I’d been able to ask Toby where your pursuers have made their headquarters.”

  “You do know him, then?” Charles asked.

  “Very well, but we haven’t met for three years. Don’t worry. He won’t twig it. I really do have a cousin called Sarah Inchcliff who lives near Goole.”

  She nodded, and resumed her frowning contemplation of the passing scenery.

  By great good fortune the exhausted baby dropped off to sleep again. Cyn looked around for something to do, and saw the neat pile of news-sheets. These were the ones Mrs. Crupley had wrapped around their purchases. Nana had frugally saved them and sent them along in case they came in use.

  He picked them up and smoothed them out. “A wondrous miscellany. Three sheets of the Gazette, two of the Morning Post—all different dates—and a sheet of the Grub Street Journal. I doubt there’s any news of interest, but have you heard of the latest amusement? One reads the lines across the page to see what nonsense can be made. Just occasionally it throws up a treasure. Let’s take a sheet each.”

  He became aware as he passed over the papers that Charles was strung as tight as a bow. What could be alarming her now? She took her paper, one of the Morning Post sheets, and looked first at the date. Then she relaxed. “Lud,” she said, “these are ancient. This is from ’59.”

  So, thought Cyn, there could be something revealing in a more recent news-sheet. Something about Verity, or about his damsel herself?

  Cyn s
canned his paper. “Here’s one. It goes across from the obituaries to the news from Gloucestershire. ‘She was a virtuous lady well known as . . . the best milker the shire has ever seen.” ’

  Charles said, “I don’t believe it!” When shown the line she gave him the victory and set about a careful study of her own sheet.

  “I have one,” said Verity. “Look at this. It goes across three columns. ‘Wentworth the highwayman . . . having conceived a strong affection . . . has increased the population.” ’

  “More than likely,” said Cyn with a grin. “That Wentworth had a procession of weeping women following him to the gallows.”

  “I have one,” said Charles. “ ‘An infant of three years . . . has piratically seized a merchant vessel’ . . . If I cheat and go down two lines I can add . . . ‘by judicious use of sal volatile!” ’

  “The navy should learn that trick,” said Cyn, enjoying her relaxed amusement. He could make a life’s work out of making his damsel smile . . .

  ’Struth, but a wiser man would leave the coach at the next stop and take to the woods before total insanity overwhelmed him.

  Soon they entered Salisbury with its famous tall spire. “We should stop here if it’s safe,” Cyn said. “I confess, however, that if I were to make my headquarters in this area, I would choose Salisbury. It’s admirably central, and anyone traveling from the Shaftesbury area to London or Maidenhead would be bound to pass through. We had best make inquiries first.”

  Hoskins had pulled into the Black Horse, a busy posting inn, but not the one where the Malloren horses were waiting. Cyn called up that they might be stopping, then leaned out to attract the attention of an ostler. A shilling caught the wiry man’s eye. “Yes, your ladyship?”

  “The Black Horse seems very busy today,” Cyn said. “Will we be able to have a private parlor?”

  “This ain’t busy for the Horse, milady,” he said boastfully. “There’ll be private rooms to be had, never fear.” He reached for the coin, but Cyn withheld it.