Esme lay in bed, rigid as stone, daring herself to rise and commit to her plan to save both her father and her fiancé. She’d danced each new selection at the ball, most often with Giles, but with other gentlemen who attended. At midnight, she’d made her excuses to Giles and her parents with a bravado she did not feel. “A bride must have her rest!”
In the hall, she heard a few guests titter as they found their way to their rooms. The ormolu clock on her mantel struck three bells before she ventured from her blankets and looked out her garden window that faced the veranda of the ballroom. Faint candlelight flickered on the pebbled walk. The moon above shone in a haze through the clouds. The stars were obscured as they had been for weeks now.
She scurried about to gather her doeskin trousers, her linen shirt and thick woolen waistcoat. “Socks. Boots.” She ran a hand over her pelisses hanging in the wardrobe and chose a thick Scottish wool riding jacket, once her father’s, that she’d had cut down. She’d loved how she felt in male clothing, strong, resilient. Tonight, she’d summon the male swagger she’d often used when she had gone with her father on his expeditions.
And what else?
She stood in the middle of her dressing room. Ah, yes.
“Chemisette. Nightrail.” She counted off each as she stuffed them into her tiny leather valise. Then she grabbed up her silver necessaire with hair combs, tooth powder and brush. “Money!”
She dare not forget that. She went to her jewelry box and counted out money she’d saved here and there. Pounds and a few coins. Ten pounds. Two farthings and a crown. Enough. Certainly, if indeed she needed any at all.
She was a good horsewomen and Admiral was not only swift, but used to her romps at odd hours. She checked her looks in the mirror. No time for vanity. Only utility.
She ran her hand along the soft nap of her coat. In the dark of night, she might appear to be a dapper young man. A merchant perhaps. With her hair, pinned to a fare-thee-well to her scalp, she snatched up their groom’s old felt cap and shoved her hair inside. By dawn, she might make it to her Great Aunt Elizabeth’s little house along the River Dun. No need to stop. But she’d oft traveled that post road and recalled an inn or two where she might take a room if she tired or Admiral did.
She sucked in a breath and fought her fears.
Never had she ridden at night. In the dead of the night. Alone.
She shook off another twitch of trepidation.
And screwed up her courage. She would ride tonight. An adventure she would always be able to tell…no one about. Not a daughter. Or a son. Or Giles. Never Giles.
Her heart wrenched that he’d hate her. But she’d save him. Save him.
Papa, however, would howl.
Mama would scream.
No matter!
She stuffed her pounds into a pocket inside the valise.
What if it rains?
It won’t.
But the weather’s been cold.
And if it rains…
I’ll find an inn.
Because…now it was the time to leave.
Waiting longer posed threats of discovery.
She stuffed her knit shawl into the bag. Glanced around her bedroom. What else?
What else does a woman need when she’s running from the altar?
She sagged.
Oh. Heaven help her. She ran her shaking fingers over her quivering mouth. She needed hope that Giles could forgive her, forget her.
He would. Must.
She secured her superfine red scarf around her neck and grabbed her sleek leather riding gloves.
She paused, bidding adieu to her room, her first little doll and wooden doll’s house, her delightful collection of novels, her charming wedding gown. Her old self.
With one midnight ride, Young Esme—obedient to her mother, honorable to her father, ever hopeful of acceptance by her friends, in love with one magnificent man—was gone.
Here was born the new Esme.
She planned to admire her.
And if not, well…ten pounds did not pave the way to heaven, did it?
Boldness was a useful trait. She’d find all she required. She must.
Time to go.
’Twas then one more item came to mind. She snapped her fingers at what else she required for this midnight journey.
She snatched up her valise and tiptoed down the hall to the servants’ back stairs. Down to Papa’s gun room.
“Milord. Milord!”
Giles opened one eye to his valet, Lymon, who jostled his shoulder. Early morning sun limned the walls of his bedroom which meant the man had parted the drapes. That was an act he always forbade before he had finished his coffee.
“Wake up, sir.” The furrows in Lymon’s handsome young brow indicated the world had recently suffered an earthquake of shattering proportions.
“Done.” Giles pushed up on one elbow and swiped a hand down his face. “What’s wrong?”
His coachman, Jarvis, hovered like a frail ghost near the valet. Behind them both stood Giles’s tiger Henry who fidgeted like a sad little monkey.
“Sir! You must get up.”
“Tell me.”
“Weeellll, sir…”
Henry rolled his eyes.
Jarvis poked Lymon in the ribs. “God’s nightshirt! Say it.”
“She’s gone.”
“Who…?”
But before the word was out of his mouth—coffee or no—Giles knew precisely who.
Why run, Esme?
He squeezed his eyes shut. Hard. Then flung off his covers and swung his naked body around, feet to the carpet.
“What? Exactly what happened?” He sought presence of mind as he glanced at each of his three servants in turn. “Any one of you may answer now rather than later.”
“Miss Harvey—”
Giles did not wait for more. He grabbed his gold silk banyan from the foot of the bed and yanked it on as he strode through his sitting room. “Does Courtland know?”
“He does.”
“When did she leave?”
No one answered.
He spun.
They halted—one, two, three—chins tucked to their necks. “When?”
“Ce matin, monsieur.” Henry said, sheepish to reveal it. The boy was never reticent about anything.
“When precisely this morning, Henry?”
The boy shook his head.
Lymon piped up. “The maid says she saw your lady abed at one o’clock.”
So any time thereafter she could have left. Giles focused on his tiger who scuffed the floor with one shoe. Jarvis and the boy had slept with the other grooms and coachmen in the carriage house. Esme could have gone anywhere on foot. But then the boy was shamefaced. So then. “Did she take a horse or a gig?”
“A horse.”
“Didn’t you hear her?” Giles glanced from coachman to groom to tiger.
The boy squinted. He had better hearing than a pack of wolves.
The other two were silent.
“I see,” Giles noted how bleary the child’s eyes appeared. If Henry had been in his cups, so had the others been. “You drank wine last night, eh?”
“Oui, Monsieur le Marquis.” Henry drifted into French and titles often for comfort.
“English, boy. English.” Giles pulled tight his sash. “Where’s Courtland?”
Lymon was quick to respond. “In Miss Harvey’s rooms.”
Giles stepped into the empty hall. No guests were up yet. He cursed silently, releasing his burgeoning fears not at all. So where was she? Gone for a ride. Simply out. Relieving her own tensions. Or she’d gone and something had happened to her. Unlikely, given her abilities as a horsewoman but then…we have to consider it all, don’t we?
“What time is it?” he asked anyone who had an idea as he marched toward the family wing.
“Twenty past seven, my lord.” Lymon moderated his voice lest other guests hear them through the walls.
He whirled on his men. “Who discovered
she was gone?”
“Miss Harvey’s maid.” That from Lymon.
“Who notified you?”
Lymon looked as if he’d been kicked by a mule. “The maid rang for the butler, who awakened Lord Courtland. Who then ordered the butler to wake us to see if we were still here and if you were.”
Giles scowled.
Jarvis shrugged his shoulders. “In case you and she—”
“Yes, yes. I know. In case we had run away to get married. That,” Giles said through his teeth, “is the most asinine assumption I’ve heard yet. Why would we—?”
Oh, what did it matter? He flapped his arms to his sides. Esme was gone. And gone without him. Esme loved him. Why would she flee? The reason hit him like a hammer. The agreements, of course. The damned agreements.
“Where is Lady Courtland?” He heard no wailing so perhaps that lady had already died from shock.
“In her rooms.”
Giles arched two brows, angry he had to drag this out of his men word-for-word. “Has she been told?”
All three shook their heads.
Was that a blessing or a curse? Soon to know. Soon to know.
“What does the maid know about where she’s gone?”
Lemon winced. “Nothing.”
“Where is she?”
“With Courtland,” Lymon said.
For this disaster, the poor girl would most likely find herself tossed to the street this morning.
The four of them had gained the circular axis at the top of the stairs. All suites were many yards away. Few would hear them. “What did she say? Does she know where her mistress is?”
“No idea, sir,” Lymon said, breathless.
The family butler jogged up the stairs. “My lord Northington! A word!”
Giles peered over the bannister at him as he gained the landing. “What is it?”
The man gasped for breath. “A caller. For you.”
“Who?” Giles asked him then spied the top of the head of the man standing in the lower foyer. “Chesters?”
The man craned his neck to see him. He was weary and wind-blown, his cheeks chafed from the wind. He must have ridden all night. “Aye, my lord!”
“News?” Giles gripped the marble tightly.
“Yes, sir. Agreement, sir!” He held aloft a sheaf of papers and rattled them.
“Marvelous.” But his father’s recognition that he’d had to agree to the settlements was too late to save Giles’s marriage. For that, Giles would hasten his father’s departure to Hell at his first convenience.
To the butler, Giles gave orders for a hot breakfast for his solicitor. “And brandy. A room and a hot bath. I will see him in half an hour. He’s to rest.”
The butler returned to the foyer.
Giles eyed Jarvis and gathered his wits. “Drinking, I understand. It is a house party for all. But Jarvis, you know better than to lose your wits completely. Henry…what can I say? You are too young to drink to blot your mind. And what of the Courtland grooms? What do they say? Did they hear her or see her?”
Jarvis winced. “Miss Harvey is an expert horsewoman, sir. She saddled her own mount.”
“A good one, I imagine,” he said to himself.
“Oui, Monsieur le Marquis,” Henry told him. “Her father’s best stallion.”
Giles cast up his hands. “Of course,” he said and continued on his way to the chaos that greeted him inside Esme’s sitting room.
“Northington.” Lord Courtland paused mid-stride before Esme’s fireplace. He wore his own turquoise banyan belted over a crimson night shirt. Upon his feet he wore matching felt slippers with toes so pointed, he resembled a fairy king. His grey hair stood out in shocks. His eyes were rimmed a fiery red. His hands lax at his sides, he fisted and unfisted them like a bare-knuckle boxer at the fray. “We are undone.”
Giles had no words of comfort for him. Instead he examined the young maid who cowered in the far corner. “What do you know? What did your lady say to you? You saw her last night after the ball?”
The girl had shed a few tears, and her cheeks were lined with the tracks. “I did, milord. I undressed her. The clock neared one. She wanted to go to bed early, she said. She hurried me along and sent me off to the party in the servants’ hall.”
So here was another person who had enjoyed the festivities and now was clueless as to the whereabouts of the bride. My bride. My love.
Giles stared at her. “What did she say to you?”
“Not much, sir. Just that she wished to be rested for today.”
Rested for her ride. “What else?”
“She talked of you, sir.”
He had not the heart to hear it.
“She said you were the most honorable man she’d ever known, save for her father.”
Giles could not breathe.
“She…she wanted to make you proud of her today.”
“Proud.” That confounded him. How or why would putting shame on herself make him or her father proud of her? Her pride tangled up with her abandonment of him. If she loved him—and he had always believed she did—then he did not understand that logic at all.
He ran a hand over his mouth. “She dismissed you at what time?”
“Within minutes after I came to help her.”
“Did she ask you for anything?”
“No, sir.” The girl shook her head.
“In the stables, they say she took her father’s stallion.”
The girl nodded and wiped her nose with a small wadded up handkerchief. “She often rides him.”
“You did not see her leave the house?”
“No, sir. I was downstairs in the hall.”
“Did you examine the room? Has she taken anything with her?”
“Her valise. Her small one.”
“And inside? What?”
Jane bit her lip. “Comb. Brush. Night gown. Slippers.”
“Gown? Corset?”
“No, sir. No, sir.”
“And what is she wearing? Have you noted what’s missing in her dressing room?”
“Aye, sir. Nothing but her man’s clothes.”
Giles shot a glance at Courtland. What the hell? “And that consists of what?”
The girl explained, giving descriptions of color, fabric and texture. Courtland did not appear shocked by the descriptions. So then, normal was it that his darling rode out as a man?
Giles had quite a bit to learn about the lady he loved. “Well, then,” he asked her father, “where would she go?”
“My hunting box near Marlborough.”
In the middle of the night? Christ, my darling. You are quite mad.
“Or to her Great Aunt Elizabeth on the Dun.”
“Why go to her aunt?”
“She loves her. They are renegades of the mind. Together, you see, they’ve always amused themselves creating stories of women who are bold.”
Giles snorted. “How old is Aunt Elizabeth?” he asked but didn’t know why it mattered.
“Eighty-two.”
So his darling had an old, old friend who encouraged Esme with her wild nature. “They wove adventures together did they?”
“Elizabeth was a bluestocking, rich, spoiled, funny and dear,” said her beleaguered father.
Giles shook his head. He did know one thing very clearly. To save Esme’s reputation, Giles had to find her quickly and learning her rationale was vital to speed.
“What are all of you talking about?” Lady Courtland appeared on the threshold. Her brown eyes round with suspicion, her hair so like Esme’s, a rich brown kissed by gold, flowing in abandon over her shoulders. She wore a dressing gown of jade and yellow Chinese flowers as frantic as her expression. Then she stepped inside. “And why are you here in Esme’s rooms? What is amiss?”
Her husband could not summon more than a look of utter loss. “My dear, Alice…”
She gawked at the five men, each in turn, then considered the sobbing maid. “Noooo,” she groaned. “She would not do this.
Would not!”
She shot toward Esme’s bedroom.
Lord Courtland reached out to restrain her.
But she dodged him and ran into the bedroom. After crashing about, she emerged blindly stumbling toward the hall like a woman long dead. Then she slowly turned to stare back at her husband. “She’s gone, isn’t she, Howard?”
“Yes, my darling.”
It was then she muttered a bit about “madness in the family” and fainted dead away.
Chapter 9
The rumble and scrape of heavy wooden crates and barrels in the gathering room below roused Esme from her dreams of running, chased by a tall rather handsome black bear. She glanced at her spare accommodations and squinted at the harsh sunlight darting through the bare window glass.
’Twas then she blinked and came full awake.
The Drunken Crab Inn. Of course.
Their finest room behind the front stairs.
The clatter below of Watts, the owner, and his wife Ida who made good stew but better beer.
How long had she slept? Noon or past? She’d forgotten her timepiece. But she wouldn’t criticize her lack. She’d made it safely through the night to Aunt Elizabeth’s. Too late to catch the lady before she, her companion and her groom had left for Bath for the summer months. But soon enough to arrive at the door of the Crab before day-break and catch the eye of Master Watts. The man knew her well. Two years ago she and her father had sought him out and his accommodations when Papa’s horse went lame and they needed the farrier who lived down the lane.
She shuddered to think what might have befallen her if Admiral had suffered the same afflictions. But he had not. And she had continued on her journey to the Crab when Aunt Elizabeth’s gardener gave her news of their departure. “Quick, it was. Yesterday, they left.”
So much for sanctuary with her aunt.
Esme’s stomach growled and she accepted the calls of nature, then washed and dressed. Her mannish attire would stir a few odd looks from other travelers, but she could not take much concern. William and Ida Watts knew who she was but would not tell the full of her pedigree. They hadn’t years ago when her father and she asked for discretion. She doubted the owners would break that practice now. She pulled on her trousers, tucked in her linen shirt, then found her boots and tugged them on. She considered her frilly little loaded pistol within reach of the bed on the old table. She’d not need it for breakfast. What she did need was a new idea of where to go.
Miss Harvey's Horribly Lovable Fiancé: Four Weddings and a Frolic Page 8
