by Lynn Kerstan
He found it under a pillow, within easy reach as always, and passed it to her. “Take care. That’s a Khyber knife, and it’s extremely sharp. May I ask what you mean to do with it?”
“I’ve washed the blood from your trousers, sir, and now I shall cut away the shredded material and sew on a patch.”
“Will you indeed?” He chuckled. “What would Lady Swann say, could she observe her precious Miss Ryder stitching away at my unmentionables?”
She cast him a provocative grin. “I expect she’d be vastly disappointed that I had nothing to do with removing them.”
He broke out laughing. “I am shocked, Miss Ryder. Shocked!”
“No, Lord Fallon, you are foxed. And you’ll be glad enough of your mended trousers when we return to the inn, although I should love to see the Wilkens’s faces if you arrived wearing that sheet.”
“I might as well wear it back to London. When she hears of this, Lady Swann will blast the tale through every drawing room in the empire.”
“You mean to tell her, then?” Jane carefully sliced away a section of buckskin and tossed it into the fire. “I certainly do not.”
“No? Did she not send you to me for the express purpose of dredging up more Fallon scandals? This would certainly qualify, don’t you think? But I presume your silence is meant to spare your own reputation, which is perfectly understandable.”
He saw her shoulders square as she looked for a tense moment at the knife in her hand. Then, with a small sigh, she went back to cutting away bits of torn buckskin. “It would be, I suppose, had I a reputation to preserve. But my activities are of no significance to anyone, which is one advantage of being poor and obscure. That serves your own purposes as well, for the beau monde will not remark what you have done in company with a nobody.”
She was perfectly right, of course. He could, without fear of reproach, seduce a score of lady’s companions and servants. But it angered him to hear her speak of herself in such a way, as if she were of less value than a hothouse aristocrat. Indeed, the proper young Englishwomen he met in Calcutta and Bombay hadn’t a cupful of wits among the lot of them, although he had scarcely given them a chance to prove otherwise. Bored with polite drawing-room conversation, he invariably bolted at the first opportunity.
“I do apologize for landing you in this fix,” he said, “especially as it will have been for naught. You have seen there is nothing of value to be found at Wolvercote, nothing to interest Lady Swann or convince her to strike my family from her book. I am surprised she set you to this task, when she must know that the Fallons would not trouble to record their sorry history.”
“You did warn me,” she reminded him.
“Even so, I alone am responsible for what has occurred. Should you be faced with unpleasant consequences as a result, I trust you will allow me to be of assistance.”
“Oh, you’ve been a great help so far, my lord.”
He was beginning to loathe the way she had of skewering him in that have-another-watercress-sandwich tone of voice. Jane Ryder wielded her stiletto tongue like a Medici assassin. And she was directly on target, for he had used her badly.
“I nearly killed the both of us,” he said stonily. “We should never have set out for Wolvercote so late in the day, or left it again when the storm blew up.”
“Who is to say? Not that you asked my opinion, to be sure.”
“Because I am used to a solitary life,” he said after a moment. “I have the habit of taking rash decisions and plunging ahead with only myself to consider. I did not mean to slight you.”
“I know.” Smiling, she handed him the knife. “Our small adventure will soon pass, with neither of us the worse for it. But how will a man of your nature settle in London, I wonder, with all of Society watching your every move?”
“Quite easily, Miss Ryder. I have made up my mind to become the very model of a refined aristocrat, the same way I determined to amass a fortune in India. I did the one, and I can do the other, even if Lady Swann chooses to pillory my family in her book. Failure is out of the question.”
He stowed the knife under a pillow, cringing as he realized what he’d just said. A jackass brayed to better advantage.
Unfazed, Jane Ryder was leaning toward the firelight, attempting to thread a needle. “I expect Lady Swann finds you far more interesting than your family, sir. The Fallon scandals are general knowledge, but almost nothing is known of the heir who ran off to India and returned a nabob. You still have bargaining power, I believe. She may well cut the Fallons from Scandalbroth, or suppress the book entirely, if you permit her to tell your story to the world.”
“Gossipy old shabrag that she is!” He took one last drink of brandy and set the bottle on the floor. Already his head was swimming, and most of his body felt numb. On the whole, he thought, numb was a far sight better than the alternative. “Lady Swann can go hang for all I care, Miss Ryder, but I am certainly in your debt. I’ve risked your life, endangered your reputation, and spoilt your Christmas. Will it help if I send you back to Lady Swann with an accounting of my years in India?”
“Not in the least. Eudo . . . Lady Swann will always stand my friend, I assure you. But if you wish to win her over on your own behalf, you can best help yourself by approaching her directly. She is exceptionally partial to handsome young men.”
Jane Ryder thought him handsome? He found that offhanded compliment inordinately pleasing. “I’ve no objection if Lady Swann becomes the first to hear what will soon be common knowledge. But I’d much rather talk to you, Miss Ryder, if you care to listen.”
“As you wish.” She was fitting what looked like a folded napkin over the hole in his breeches. “But I should warn you that I remember everything I hear or read. If you chance to say something I ought not tell Lady Swann, make sure you let me know.”
Chapter 9
JANE BEGAN TO think Lord Fallon had drifted off to sleep. He was silent for a long time, and when she looked over at him, his eyes were closed.
Swallowing her disappointment, she dug her needle through the thick layers of napkin and buckskin. It was better that he sleep, of course, although she longed to hear of his adventures in India. What an interesting life he must have led.
Then he sat up, punched at the pillows, and reclined again with his bare arms crossed behind his head. “When I was fourteen,” he said, “I ran away from home. More exactly, I was rusticated from Winchester and decided not to return home. The life of a seafaring man sounded vastly more exciting than anything else I could imagine, so I headed out for Portsmouth and talked my way onto a ship.”
“Truly? The captain hired a boy of fourteen years without question?”
“Questions are rarely asked on a small-time trader like the Petrel, where half the crew is on the run from creditors or the constables. We sailed between England and the West Indies for a time and then trolled the Mediterranean for several years. Eventually we took on a cargo bound for Madras, and when we docked, I jumped ship. There were fortunes to be made in India, or so I’d heard, although no one explained exactly how that was to be accomplished. I spent a long time wandering around, scrabbling for food and shelter and learning to speak Hindi and Arabic.”
“That sounds perfectly awful,” she said, transfixed. “But rather exciting, too.”
“It was certainly that. The ladies I met very much later in Calcutta asked why I had failed to settle peacefully into one of the British enclaves. Gentlemen, even scruffy ones without two rupees to scratch together, were always welcome to shuffle papers for the East India Company. But I lack the temperament for a desk job, and clerks pocket wages, not fortunes. In any event, I celebrated my twentieth birthday in Madras by stealing a horse from a merchant who had let me sleep in his stable, and off I went.”
“Shall I assume that particular detail is not for Lady Swann’s ears?”
&nb
sp; “You be the judge, Miss Ryder. I was desperate, and he was wealthy. Years later I did send payment, but I cannot be certain he received it or knew what it was for.” He gave her a disarming smile. “I neither confessed my crime nor signed my name.”
“I expect that was wise,” she said, altogether in sympathy with his decision. No stranger to desperation herself, she had filched more than one cheese pie from unwary street peddlers, putting money in church poor boxes when she came into funds again.
“If you are disconcerted that I stole a horse,” he said, “you will not wish to hear what I was up to the next few years.”
“Oh, but I do!” She nodded vigorously. “Believe me, sir, I would never sit judgment on you. I haven’t the right.”
“Is that because you are concealing a peccadillo or two of your own, Miss Ryder?” He sat straighter against the pillows. “It occurs to me I am wasting a valuable opportunity here, relating my rather disreputable life story while you sit like a Buddha, revealing nothing of yourself. From here on out, I believe we should take turns, my stories in exchange for yours.”
“Rubbish!” She drove the needle straight through buckskin and napkin, directly into her thumb. “Ouch! See what you made me do!” She sucked on her thumb, glaring at him.
“Not so easy, is it?” He glared right back. “I feel like a damn fool talking about myself and see no reason you should be let off the hook. I want to know all about you, Jane Ryder. We trade confidences, or I am done with my tale, which means you’ll never know what happened when I was made a slave by an elderly maharaja and presented to his young wife as a gift.” He waggled an eyebrow. “Your turn.”
“Don’t be absurd.” She made a great pretense of sewing, although her stitches rarely found their mark. “My life story is tedious from beginning to end, sir. It would bore you to hear it, and I’ve no wish to revisit what is best forgot.”
“If I failed to please the maharani,” he continued blithely, “my throat would be slit by the chief eunuch of the harem. But if I did please her, the maharaja would disembowel me with his own shamshir.”
She swiveled on her chair to look at him. He was grinning, the fiend, confident that he had her full attention. “Well, my lord, you obviously escaped intact. I suppose you stole another horse.”
“I might have done, if not for the chains and the guards at every possible exit from the palace. But I’ll tell you nothing more until you give over a few nuggets about yourself. I’m a tough negotiator, Miss Ryder. I acquired my fortune making deals with men who could snuff me out with a wave of their hands. You may as well give in. Where were you born? Tell me about your family.”
“Please understand, Lord Fallon, that I cannot oblige you. Since the day we met, Lady Swann has attempted to pry from me the same information you are demanding. It has become something of a game between us. Do you see? It would be unfair to tell you what I will not tell her.”
“I don’t see why,” he retorted. “For one thing, she won’t know. And since you expect me to speak frankly, why can you not do the same?”
For a hundred million reasons, she thought, casting about for one he would accept. At bottom, though, it was her pride. Only her damnable pride prevented her from speaking of herself, even to Eudora.
She dropped her sewing onto her lap, gazing through the fire into her past. Before she knew it, she was speaking. And once she began, it wasn’t so hard after all.
“My father, if he still lives, is a baronet with four other children born to his wife.” She looked over at Fallon. “I was not.”
He made a dismissive gesture.
She returned her gaze to the hearth. “Mama worked as a chambermaid until it became obvious she was carrying his child. He never pretended otherwise, which he might have done. Instead, he settled her in a cottage at the farthest edge of his estate and saw to it we were provided for. There was a small village nearby, but none of the children would play with me. It was a long time before I understood why. I soon grew accustomed to solitude, though.”
When had solitude become loneliness? she wondered of a sudden. Loneliness had crept up on her before she knew it was there. Until this very moment she had not recognized it, or the emptiness where her heart ought to be. She had become too adept at pushing away her feelings because they got in the way of daily survival.
By now, surely it was Fallon’s turn to speak. But when he said nothing, she plunged ahead, finding unexpected relief in sharing her experiences with him.
“Later,” she said, “Father allowed me to join his legitimate daughters for lessons with the governess. I must have done well, because she passed me on to the tutor who was instructing the boys in Latin, Greek, and mathematics. Naturally I came and went through the servants’ door, by Lady Ryder’s order. I must have been a great embarrassment to her. When the boys went off to school, my formal education ceased. And not long after, when my mother died, I was sent to act as companion to an elderly woman in Newcastle. I expect my father paid her to take me in.”
She realized that her hands had begun to shake. “So you see, Lord Fallon, there is precious little of interest to speak of.”
“On the contrary. How did you come from Northumberland to London? Above all, how in blazes did you wind up with a poison-tongued old bird like Eudora Swann?”
“I must concentrate on your trousers, sir. Pray tell me about India while I work.”
“Unless I am very much mistaken, Miss Ryder, you are a prodigiously stubborn woman.”
“I cannot deny it, sir.” She measured a new length of thread. “You are very much mistaken.”
With a hoot of laughter, he tossed a pillow in her direction. It sailed past harmlessly. “Oh, very well, you maddening creature. But I shall save my most provocative stories until you are more forthcoming with your own.”
As he related one engrossing tale after another, she finished mending his breeches and then sat quietly with her hands folded, taking care not to distract him. It seemed to her that he’d spent most of his time getting into trouble and getting himself out again, and she wondered when he’d found a few spare hours to gather his considerable fortune.
Eventually his voice grew drowsy, and when he stopped in the middle of a sentence, she glanced over to see him smothering a yawn.
“I believe it is time we settle in for the night,” she said, bringing him an armload of blankets and the discarded pillow. “How can I make you more comfortable?”
He flushed. “I—that is—perhaps a few moments of privacy.”
“Oh. Certainly. I put up a screen and . . . the rest, in the small room behind that door. It will be cold in there. Do you require assistance, my lord?”
“I hardly think so.” He swung his long legs to the floor and draped a blanket over his shoulders. “You sleep here on the couch, Miss Ryder. I’ll use the truckle bed.”
“Nonsense. You are far too large, sir. You would not fit.”
With a shrug, he limped across the room while she arranged his patched breeches near the hearth to dry, lined the scratchy rope bed with sheets, and went off to bank the kitchen fire.
She would have to sleep in her long-sleeved woolen dress, Jane supposed, envying Fallon his toga. What would he think if she made herself equally comfortable for the night? He probably assumed her to be a trifle fast, if not worse, because she lived with Eudora and assisted with the writing of her scandalous book.
Not that his opinion of her virtue mattered in the slightest. Lord Fallon could not be attracted to the likes of Jane Ryder, and was in no condition to follow through if he were. All the same, she decided that one half-naked person in the room would be quite sufficient.
By the time she returned to the parlor, he was stretched out on the Grecian couch under a mound of blankets, fast asleep. Careful not to look at him too closely, she added wood to the fire, pulled the truckle bed c
loser to the hearth, and curled snugly inside.
The arduous day had worn her to a nub, but her mind swam with visions of the stories Fallon had told her. She twisted and turned in the narrow rope bed, imagining the bright colors and exotic scents of India and a young man riding off on his stolen horse to make his fortune.
Even as she willed herself to fall asleep, she felt more alert and fidgety than ever before in her life. All her senses had sprung alive. She smelled the burning oakwood and the faint odor of roasted potatoes. Gusts of wind whistled over the chimneys and shook the windows. The house creaked and sometimes moaned eerily, as if ghosts were walking the stairs and passageways. The fire rustled like aspen leaves in an autumn wind. She could hear ashes sifting through the grate and the low drone of Fallon’s even breathing.
At some point she must have dozed off, because when she came awake with a start, the parlor had gone cold. She clambered out of the truckle bed to build up the dying fire.
When flames were licking at a stack of chair legs, she added the last two logs and knelt back on her heels, watching sparks shoot up the chimney. Outside, the wind shrieked, buffeting the walls and window glass like fists. The storm had got worse, she thought, hoping it was more wind than snow. Otherwise, they could be mired here for days.
She removed the few pins that had not fallen loose in the truckle bed and combed out her hair with her fingers, wondering if she minded very much if they were stranded awhile longer. Lord Fallon would be emphatically displeased, to be sure. He was not a man to suffer being prisoner to the weather with forbearance.
She looked over at him, unable to see his face over the pile of covers at his neck. She could only make out a thatch of dark tousled hair on the pillow and the fingers of one hand curled over the edge of the down coverlet.
For a restless man, he slept like the dead. She gazed at him for a long time, rather surprised that he never once moved. But then, he had drunk nearly half a bottle of brandy and been clobbered on the head besides. This might be a good time to check the bandage on his leg, she thought. Unconscious, Lord Fallon was not so much a threat to her peace of mind—what little remained of it. Most had fled hours ago, or perhaps before that. It had begun to slip away the first time she saw him.
