by Anne Stuart
Page 23
Author: Anne Stuart
And fat lot that would have done, she thought, staring into the fire as she awaited her own carriage. Lucien de Malheur didn’t strike her as the kind of man who accepted refusal any more than Miranda was the kind who meekly did as she was bid. They would have a fiery marriage. Full of adventure, Jane thought dismally. She had Mr. Bothwell.
She availed herself of her crumpled handkerchief, dabbing her eyes and her nose. It and she were in fairly bedraggled condition by now, and the thought of climbing into another carriage was her personal idea of hell. She loved to travel, but she definitely preferred a more leisurely pace, and this time she’d simply be heading back home. She had watched as the earl’s carriage pulled away, and slow tears began to slide down her cheeks. When next she saw Miranda she’d be a married woman, while Jane had little doubt that Mr. Bothwell would take one look at the huge diamond on her finger and promptly renounce her. Perhaps she’d be ruined. Miranda’s house on Half Moon Street would be vacant—she could take up residence there and become eccentric.
Or so she could only hope. In truth, she wasn’t sure she wanted to get the diamond off her hand. Once she did so, and disposed of it, then Mr. Bothwell would have every right to kiss her with his hard, dry mouth. He could continue to criticize her dress and her behavior, and even if he gave her children he would doubtless be the kind of man with strong opinions on child-rearing, ones that were ridiculous and the opposite of her own.
Two extremes stood before her: the life of an outcast or the life of Mrs. George Bothwell. It was little wonder the diamond wouldn’t come off.
She brought her handkerchief up to her eyes again, not sure if she was crying for herself or for Miranda as she disappeared on her strange bride trip. All she knew was that she hurt, inside, and her tears, instead of abating, were flowing more freely, and her disgusting handkerchief was useless against the flow….
A snowy-white handkerchief appeared in her blurred vision, and she took it gratefully, wiping her streaming eyes and blowing her nose before looking up at her savior. And for a moment she froze.
It was one of the earl’s servants—she could recognize the deep black livery. Though, he was quite tall for someone who worked with horses. Most people preferred their grooms to be small but strong, keeping the burden on the horses light. This man must weigh fourteen stone at the least.
Before he could say anything he stepped back into the shadows, replaced by the plump, cozy figure of a woman dressed in neat black clothes with a dark blue shawl around her shoulders. “Miss Pagett, I’m Mrs. Grudge. The Earl of Rochdale has hired me to escort you home. I promise Jacobs and I will take good care of you while we’re on the road. ”
Jane wanted to crane her head around, to look at the man who’d given her the handkerchief, but he was gone, and she tried to school her reaction. “Who was that?” she found herself asking, when she should have been much more polite.
But Mrs. Grudge clearly didn’t live up to her unfriendly name. She smiled at her. “That? Oh, that’s Jacobs, our driver. He’s one of the grooms. Quite the likely lad, isn’t he? All the servant girls are mad for him, of course. I believe he’s married to Cook’s daughter, but that doesn’t keep him from looking about, if you know what I mean. ”
“Yes,” Jane said in a hollow voice, thoroughly appalled. What was wrong with her? She’d barely had a glance at him and yet she’d felt this instinctive leap inside her, an odd sense of recognition. As if she’d recognize some womanizing servant of a man like the Scorpion.
“We only just arrived, miss,” the older lady continued, “and the horses need a rest. I’ve ordered you a good breakfast. I gather you’ve been sick, and I promise you we’ll take our time getting back. ”
“We’re not that far from London, are we? I think I would prefer to return as soon as possible. ”
“Bless you, miss, we’re up near the Lake District, a good two and a half days away from London. ”
“We’ve only been gone overnight!” she protested.
“His lordship travels very fast, with the best horses. We’ll be needing to be a bit more careful. But not to worry, miss. Jacobs took your note to your parents himself and they were unalarmed. You needn’t fret if it takes us a few days to get back. ”
And if she didn’t eat anything for those days the ring was bound to come off. That was what she wanted, wasn’t it?
No, it wasn’t. She wanted rashers of bacon and coddled eggs and toast and butter, she wanted thick cream and strawberry jam, she wanted hot chocolate and biscuits to nibble on.
And she wasn’t in the mood to face her fiancé, who doubtless would be less likely to accept her absence than her indulgent parents. Her parents knew their daughter and trusted her intelligence. Mr. Bothwell seemed to think she had only half a brain and needed to be led around like a prize calf, lest she get lost.
She yanked at the ring again, but her knuckle was getting red and swollen, so she let it be.
“Oh, what a pretty ring! May I see it?”
It was a surprisingly impertinent question from little more than a servant, but Jane would have been more than happy to have given her the damned thing. “It won’t come off. I don’t suppose you have any remedy for that, do you?”
“Duck grease!” the woman said triumphantly. “I’ll go ask the kitchen …”
“Tried it,” Jane said flatly. “Also soap, butter, hot compresses, cold compresses, yanking, pulling. It won’t come off. ”
There was a speculative expression in Mrs. Grudge’s eyes. “We’ll see about that, miss. In the meantime, what can I get you for breakfast? The cook’s just made up a fresh batch of muffins, and there’s the usual—bacon and eggs, beefsteak and fried sausage and tripe. ”
“Just dry toast and tea, thank you,” she said, ignoring the lovely smells wafting from what was probably the taproom.
“That’s not enough to keep a mouse alive!”
“I’ll be fine. Please see to it, Mrs. Grudge. ” She could feel the tears welling up again, and she dabbed the wicked groom’s handkerchief to her eyes.
It wasn’t until Mrs. Grudge had left that she stopped to look at the cloth in her hand. It was of a finer weave than a servant usually carried, and she expected to see Lucien’s initials in one corner. Instead the man had his own initials there—J. D. Except that his last name was Jacobs. He must have stolen it from someone.
What a bold, wicked man, she thought dismally. Why had she suddenly become attracted to the saucy, totally inappropriate ones? Like the jewel thief who’d effectively married her with this damned ring. And now the cook’s womanizing son-in-law.
She shook her head. The sooner she was back home, the ring safely stowed, or tossed, or whatever seemed the best fate for something of such intrinsic value and inestimable trouble, the better she’d be. Mr. Bothwell was a good man, and she was lucky to have attracted him. Maybe he reserved real kisses for the marriage bed, and he would put all thought of jewel thieves out of her wayward mind.
She could only hope.
12
When Miranda awoke it was bright daylight and she was blessedly alone. Lucien hadn’t rejoined the carriage after the last change. They had driven on into what appeared to be a dark, mountainous landscape, and she racked her brain, trying to remember what she knew of England’s geography. They hadn’t traveled far enough to reach Scotland, but these might be the fells of Yorkshire, or the brooding mountains of Northern Wales. She knew for certain they had headed north; to the south there was only the sea. She wished she could reason how far they’d traveled, but Lucien’s coach moved so smoothly, so swiftly, that she really had no idea.
The sun was out only fitfully, peeping from behind dark, ominous clouds. The Scorpion had ordered the weather to fit with his evil plans. And the question was, exactly how evil was this man? What was he capable of?
He’d forced her to come with him. Brandon had warned her he was ca
pable of evil things, and she hadn’t believed him. He’d threatened to kill her brother in cold blood, and she had no choice but to believe him. She couldn’t risk Brandon’s life on the chance that Lucien was merely bluffing. And in truth, she didn’t think he was. He was determined to gain revenge for his sister’s death, of that there was no doubt.
But what was he planning for her? Not rape, not murder, not a vicious beating. His brutal plan was to marry her. Hardly the stuff of epic villainy.
No, he was no Richard the Third, no matter how much he wished to be. And he had her pegged right. She was a woman who’d dress in men’s clothes and take off into the forest to find her future. She wasn’t one to curl up in the corner of the carriage and weep.
Though she was ready to weep from sheer achiness. Her family tended to travel at a more leisurely pace, with lengthy stops for meals and walks to work out the kinks in one’s muscles, and they tended to spend the night at a comfortable inn or with friends along the way, rather than risk the danger of driving in the dark. Right now Miranda felt as if she’d been locked inside a box for days, and every muscle, every joint hurt.
The last of the sun disappeared, and a soft mist enveloped the coach, making the intimidating landscape even gloomier. There was a basket of food on the opposite bench, something she’d steadfastly ignored, but hunger finally got the best of her, and she opened it, discovering fresh bread and cheese, a tart of dried apples, and even a bottle of wine.
She devoured everything, washing it down with the wine. It was much more than she usually drank, and she knew she was probably a bit tipsy, but it would help her sleep during this interminable journey and—
The coach came to a stop again, and she sighed. This time she was going to leave the carriage whether he liked it or not. Assuming she could walk without wobbling.
The door opened, and Lucien stood there in the light rain, looking none the worse for it. “We’ve arrived,” he said. “Welcome to your new home. ”
He would have expected anger and despair. She could play this game as well, and the last thing she intended to do was what he expected. She gave him a dazzling smile, taking his hand, and his ironic expression faltered for a moment. “How delightful. I’m afraid I drank a bit too much wine—I didn’t realize we were so close to our destination. ” She managed to climb down the steps well enough with the support of his arm, and she looked up at the grim edifice that was to be her home. And wished she’d had a second bottle of wine.
