“Stayed at the Green Lion in the City, and he left today.”
The obvious suspicion entered Colin’s head. His gorge rose, but if Fallow had taken Sylvie, it was far better than any of the other possibilities he could think of and definitely worth investigating.
“At what time?” Colin asked. “Did he take the stage? The mail? Or a private coach?”
“I dunno, guv. I asked, like you said. They said they didn’t know, but likely they didn’t want to bother with the likes of me.”
“Perhaps that’s why your friend Al is so set on bettering himself,” Colin said. “It’s unfair, I know, but people have their prejudices.” He thumped on the roof and shouted the new destination to the jarvey.
“Their what, guv?”
“Prejudices. Judging people without knowing what they’re really like. Fortunately, the Green Lion isn’t far out of our way.”
Colin ordered Bob to stay with the hack and entered the inn. Judging by the inhabitants of the taproom, the Green Lion’s patrons were mostly lawyers and merchants. Upon catching sight of Colin, whose clothing proclaimed his relative affluence compared to the rest of his customers, the burly landlord came forward, bowing and scraping. “How may I help you, sir?”
“I’m looking for a friend of mine who is staying here. His name is Martin Fallow.”
“Aye, he was, sir, but he left today.”
“Tsk,” Colin said. “I thought he meant to remain until tomorrow—in fact, I could have sworn he did. Did he say where he was going? Leave a forwarding address, perhaps?”
“Not that I recall, sir.” When Colin put his hand in his pocket, obviously fingering a coin, he called the tapster over.
Colin repeated his question. The tapster, a lanky fellow but for his belly, rubbed his chin. “Can’t say as he did, sir.”
“Did he catch the stage? The mail?”
“I dunno, sir. He left in a hack, so there’s no telling.”
“Come to think of it,” the landlord said, “he asked about hiring a coach. I sent him to Finbury’s. It’s just down the road.”
“Excellent,” Colin said. “Perhaps they can tell me where he went. I expect I’ll catch up with him, but it’s a pity he didn’t leave me a message.”
The tapster brightened. “He did leave a letter, sir. Gave me a shilling to deliver it tomorrow.”
The tapster went away to fetch the missive, and Colin proffered a coin to the waiting landlord. “You’ve been most helpful,” he said.
The tapster returned. “Here it be, sir.”
The landlord peered at the letter. “It’s addressed to a Mrs. Black, it is, at the Bellowing Bull in Grub St. Not a respectable address, if I say so myself.”
Colin thought fast. “Damnation, the gall of that fellow. I thought he was my friend.” Before anyone could protest, he grabbed the letter. “Mrs. Black is under my protection.” The instant he said the words, he regretted them. It was an unforgivable insult to speak of her that way.
Nevertheless, needs must. He ripped open the seal and scanned the letter. “How dare he attempt to steal her from me? By God, he’ll pay for this.”
He tossed a coin at the tapster, thanked them both, and stormed out.
Bob, who’d been eavesdropping just outside the door, trotted up beside him. “Mrs. B really is your fancy woman, then. Just like we thought.”
“No, she’s not. I lied. It was the easiest way to get this letter.” Once again, Colin directed the jarvey to the Bellowing Bull. He climbed into the hack. “Get in, and if you value your life, don’t say a word against her.”
“Mum’s the word, sir, and begging your pardon.” But the light of a lamp outside revealed a knowing smirk on Bob’s face.
Bridget sank onto a bench outside the Bellowing Bull. She and Al had searched another hour, and then Jed had joined in, but to no avail. Sylvie and Mary Joan were gone. She recited prayers under her breath, learned from both her Church of England mother and her Catholic father. One faint hope burned in her brain, but there was no way of proving that without going home to Lancashire, and meanwhile what if Sylvie was lost in London?
Oh, please. Oh, please.
“Come now, Miss Bridgy. It’s late. We’ll ask around in the morning. Surely someone will have seen them.” Jed took Bridget’s arm. “You need your rest.”
How could she possibly rest? She was so tired she could hardly stand, but she couldn’t sleep for worry and fear. What if . . .
A hackney coach rattled to a halt before the inn, the horses blowing and snuffling. The door opened and Bob leapt out. He would have let down the steps, but Colin Warren jumped out after him.
Bridget rose, unsteady with exhaustion. “Oh, Colin, what am I to do?”
He came straight to her, arms outstretched. She flung herself into his arms, shaking against his chest. “It’s all right, love,” he said. “It’s going to be all right.”
Tears that she’d held back all night swarmed up, choking her. “We’ve looked everywhere. We can’t find her.”
“We will find her, I swear.”
“My only hope is that Martin took her, but—”
His arms loosened. He stood back slightly. “What do you mean, your only hope? You want that rat to have Sylvie?”
“At least he wouldn’t hurt her,” Bridget sobbed. “At least with him she’d be safe.”
“She is with him, damn his eyes,” Colin said. “He stole my daughter, and for that I will make him pay.”
“She’s with Martin? T-truly?” Her heart pattered feebly in her breast. She didn’t believe him; it was too wonderful to be true. “H-how do you know?”
“He wrote a damned letter. Come, let’s go indoors.” He took her by the hand and she stumbled after him into the inn. “Bring some tea upstairs for Mrs. Black and a heavy-wet for me.”
“You shouldn’t come upstairs,” Bridget said. “It’s not proper.”
“We have to talk, and I don’t intend to do it with a pack of fools listening in. I’ll pay the boys and be right up.” He lit a candle and handed it to her.
She didn’t have the energy to protest. Once in her bedchamber, she stood, wavering. She should repack their things. She would have to leave early to follow Martin. To get Sylvie back.
She was packing Sylvie’s valise when Colin entered. He took a folded paper from his pocket. “He wrote to you?” she asked.
Colin snorted. “Not likely. That would be inviting certain death. He wrote to you.” He opened the letter, spread it on the writing table, and plunked her onto the chair. He pulled the other chair over to sit next to her. “He assumes I’ve lost interest. Ha! Not a chance of that.”
“He’s taken her to Ireland,” Bridget breathed. “How did you get this?” She turned it over to see her name and direction on it. “Why didn’t it come here?”
“He arranged for the tapster at the inn where he stayed to deliver it to you tomorrow—giving him plenty of head start.” Colin explained that he’d set Bob the task of finding out whether Martin was still in town, and that his first thought on hearing that Sylvie and Mary Joan had disappeared was that Martin had taken them. “It made perfect sense. He wouldn’t steal Sylvie without the nursemaid, because otherwise he would have to take care of the child himself. He knew the silly chit would do anything he said.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Didn’t you see how the maid looked at him the other day? She worships the ground he walks on.”
No, Bridget had been too caught up in her own fears to notice anything else. “She did seem rather taken with him when he arrived in our village, but so did all the other young girls . . . Why, that little traitor! I’ll bet that’s how Martin knew where I was.”
Jed came with the tea and porter. She thanked him, as much for not sending
Millie as for the tea itself. She poured a cup and thought it through. “He knows how stubborn I am. He suspected I would flee rather than marry him, so he arranged with her to keep him informed of where I was and what I was doing.” She dropped the tiny lump of sugar Millie had provided into her tea. “That explains her frequent trips to the apothecary. I thought she had a tendre for the lad who works there, but I think she flirted with him in exchange for sending and receiving messages.”
“She did have a bit of a come-hither look,” Colin said.
“That certainly explains why today she suddenly wanted to go for a walk,” Bridget said bitterly. “She promised Sylvie a special treat and brought her straight to a rendezvous with Martin. A special treat indeed.”
“I’ll special treat him.” Colin peered at the letter. “Who is the Aunty Maureen he’s taken her to?”
“His great-aunt. A cousin of my grandmother who lives in County Cork. I’ve only met her once, but she’s a respectable lady.” Tomorrow, Bridget decided, she would get up and pursue them. If she left very early, if she reached Bristol soon enough . . .
A wave of exhaustion rolled over her. She didn’t want to think about all that now. She couldn’t think at all—except to be utterly grateful.
“Colin, I can’t thank you enough.” She’d believed him a useless fribble, and yet he thought of everything and took prompt, intelligent action.
He shrugged. “I wanted to set your mind at ease. It was sheer luck that Bob found the right inn and we got ahold of your letter, but you would have received it tomorrow.”
When it was too late to catch them, but she didn’t have the energy to protest. All she knew was that Sylvie had the best father in existence. She stood and began to look about her. “I’d better finish packing. I’ll leave for Bristol at dawn. With luck, I’ll get her before they cross to Ireland.”
What the devil was wrong with this woman? She was indeed stubborn and independent to a fault. “You’re not going after her alone.” Colin stood as well. “Even if you find them, do you think he’ll let you have her? You need me to come along.”
Tears glimmered in her eyes. “Yes, you’re right. I do.”
“Dash it all, Bridget, I’m not that bad, am I?”
“No, you’re wonderful, and I’m so grateful, but I hate to be beholden.”
“You’re not beholden. She’s my daughter, too.” He took a last swallow of ale. “Finished your tea? Then let’s get you to bed.”
Her eyes widened. Christ, did she think he was about to take advantage of her, here and now? What did she think he was?
Oh, hell, she probably wasn’t thinking at all.
“Don’t be a fool, Bridget. You’re exhausted, and I intend to make sure you get some sleep. You can pack in the morning while I arrange for transport.”
He turned her around, unbuttoned her gown, and made short work of her laces. In two minutes she was stripped down to her shift. He bundled her into the bed. Then he sat on the bench and tugged off his boots.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I don’t sleep in my boots.”
“You can’t stay here,” she murmured.
He blew out the candle, lay beside her on top of the covers, fully clothed, and put an arm around her. “It’s the only way to make sure you get a good sleep.”
She sighed. “It’s improper.”
“Better improper than dead from exhaustion. You’d be making a mess of packing if I hadn’t forced you into bed.”
She chuckled weakly. “Thank you, Colin.”
He tightened his arm. He knew an urge to kiss her goodnight, but controlled it. That was too close to intimacy for safety, and Bridget deserved better.
After a moment, he remembered something. “You did this for me once. Held me in my sleep…didn’t you?” He paused, as the recollection filled him. “The night you brought me here, I half woke, knowing there was a woman in my bed. It was you.”
“You were cold and injured, and I was so afraid for you. I held you all night.”
“Thank you, Bridget,” he said.
Chapter 7
Bridget woke well before dawn, abruptly and with a rush of agony at the memory: Sylvie was gone.
So was Colin Warren. She lit a candle, gave herself a brisk wash in the cold water at the washstand, and began swiftly to pack her belongings, Sylvie’s, and with some reluctance, Mary Joan’s. If she managed—when she managed to get Sylvie back, she would send Mary Joan home to Lancashire, but that was as far as she was prepared to go for the little traitor, and only for the sake of the girl’s mother, who was a decent woman.
Another realization hit her. Mary Joan’s distress at the docks, her question about writing home, had not been for her mother, but because of Martin Fallow. She’d gone happily off to Ireland with him without a second thought for anyone.
“That devious little bitch.” She hoped Mary Joan wouldn’t end up in his bed and then with child. There’d been no evidence that he’d tried to seduce anyone in their little village—he hadn’t even hired the lightskirt at the tavern. She knew from gossip in Ireland that he often had a mistress. If he’d misbehaved in her village, she would have heard about it. His sober good behavior had been part of his charade.
He didn’t really try to seduce me, Bridget thought suddenly. His attempts to kiss her had been controlled and gentlemanlike. Since he’d been trying to convince her to marry him, seduction should have been his weapon of choice. In yet another way, his behavior made no sense.
She loaded her pistol and stowed it in her knitting bag—a pistol ready to hand was a necessity on long journeys—and trudged downstairs with the first of the valises. Jed was already awake.
“Let me take care of those, Miss Bridgy. I’ve got bread and cheese and coffee for you in the kitchen. Mr. Warren said he’d return at dawn, so you’ve not much time.”
“Thank you, Jed.”
“I like your Mr. Warren,” he said. “A straight shooter if ever I’ve seen one.”
‘He’s not my Mr. Warren, but yes, he’s proving himself to be far better than his rakish reputation led one to believe.” At Jed’s frown, she said, “If you’re thinking he bedded me last night, he didn’t. He simply made me go to sleep rather than pack and exhaust myself with worry.”
“No, what I meant was, he’s a good man, and you should marry him.”
What an absurd idea. She’d never thought of marrying Colin—or anyone else for that matter. She’d loved Johnny, but Johnny was gone, and she didn’t expect to fall in love again.
She wished Jed hadn’t put it into words, for it made her see, with sudden, unexpected clarity, that she liked Colin far too much.
Which was completely irrelevant. “He doesn’t want to marry me. He feels responsible for Sylvie, that’s all. And I don’t need a husband.”
Jed scowled. “You’d be happier with one. You shouldn’t have to manage everything on your own.”
She’d done just fine until Martin had come along—well, apart from missing being bedded. But she’d been reasonably happy. Seeing Colin again, getting to know him a little, had made the sensual longing more acute, but she wasn’t prepared to become his mistress. That wouldn’t be good for her or for Sylvie. “I don’t think he’s the marrying kind.”
“Every man is the marrying kind when he finds the right woman. Now, go eat.” He disappeared up the stairs.
Bridget supposed she was hungry—she’d hardly eaten at supper—so she forced down a slice of bread and some hard cheese. Jed might be right, but she couldn’t imagine Colin wanting to marry anyone. She had to recover Sylvie and pick up her life where she’d left off.
She’d barely swallowed half a cup of coffee when a hackney drew up outside. “Load her bags, Jed,” came Colin’s cheerful voice. A rush of relief and hope suffus
ed her.
Curse it, she didn’t want to count on him. She didn’t want his mere presence to comfort her so. She stood, finished the coffee, and hurried into the coffee room.
“There you are,” Colin said. “Into the hack. Fletcher is arranging for a coach.”
“In a minute. I have to pay Jed first.” She dug in her reticule.
“Already taken care of.” Colin waved her toward the door.
“Colin, that’s not right! It’s my shot, and I have to pay it.”
“You can repay me later, if you must.” He herded her out the door. “Next you’ll be demanding to pay the postilions.”
Dismay washed through her as she climbed into the hackney. The postilions, the inns, the passage to Ireland if they didn’t reach Bristol in time . . .
Amusement crossed his face as he settled himself beside her. “Don’t worry, I won’t let you pay. This is my quest as much as yours.”
Jed put up the steps and closed the door. “Write to me, Miss Bridgy. I’ll worry till I hear you and Miss Sylvie are together again and well.”
“I will,” she said, tears rising unbidden. “Thank you so much, Jed.” She waved until she could see him no longer.
“Listen, Bridget . . .”
She wiped away the tears and turned to Colin. The amusement in his eyes was gone, replaced by a grave expression. “I don’t think we should go to Ireland just yet.”
“What?” She swallowed. “Why not?”
“Because I’ve been thinking about it, and I don’t see any reason to believe that letter. He hasn’t exactly been truthful so far. I think Fallow is sending us on a wild goose chase.”
The Rake's Irish Lady (Scandalous Kisses Book 2) Page 12
