by Gina Conkle
He reached for the heavy strap draped over her arm. “You were going to attach this?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
They turned together toward the coach. He hefted the stiff leather, glancing sidelong at her. Women of his acquaintance wouldn’t know a coach brace from a roller bolt. The strap in hand was shorter, a temporary solution until the conveyance reached the inn. Standard braces looped around the front axle to the rear axle, one on each side of the coach. Those wide straps absorbed bumps and jolts between the coach body and wheel frame.
What kind of woman knew about coaches and pistols?
Women fascinated him the way works of art mesmerized the beholder. Similar features painted the fair sex the same, but uniqueness and strength of mind captured his attention as much as silken skin and pretty eyes. Lavish black embroidery trimmed her cloak, but closer inspection of her gloves showed split seams. He’d wager those gloves hid callouses, and by the fullness of her cheek, she had to be young.
Marcus knelt by the front wheel and wrapped the new brace around the axle. “A woman of unusual skills, yet I don’t know your name. Considering the circumstances, I hope I don’t have to wait for a proper introduction.”
She stooped to the ground, frowning oddly at him. She set down the blunderbuss and ducked her head and shoulders to retrieve the larger, broken brace in the dirt.
“Oh, we’ve already met, milord.” Her voice floated from under the coach. “Two years past. At Golden Goose on Tavistock near Haymarket. It’s what I wanted to talk with you about.”
He froze. The Golden Goose?
“We’ve already met.” He glanced up at the coach windows, but noisy wind and their position on the ground saved them from being overheard.
“The way you looked at me a moment ago, I thought you’d recognized me,” she said, sitting upright, wiping dust off her hands.
He slid the brace for even placement on the axle. Their roadside conversation…it was a confidence she was about to share, not a kiss.
“You’re an actress, then.”
“Certainly not. I worked behind the scenes. Costumes and cleanup.” She handed over the torn leather. “And all-around fixer of broken things.”
Tetchy, wasn’t she? He took the proffered brace, grinning at her strong distinction between actress and laborer. His mystery woman assumed he believed her to be a light-skirt.
She’d be right.
The moon lit dark eyes and comely features. Her nose and cheeks were pretty, if noses could be counted as such. But her mouth snared him, a singular clue to her character. She sat back on her heels, close-lipped and quiet. The flat line of her mouth told him she was sparing with her smiles. Her seriousness intrigued him, and seeing her now, he’d put his mystery woman at nineteen or twenty years old.
He looped the shorter leather around the axle. “How did you come to know about coaches?”
“We traveled, summer fairs and such, before settling at the Golden Goose.”
Punishing wind stung his cheeks, a reminder to move fast and find his bed. Sitting this close, her visage skimmed the edge of recall, among other images of nights on Tavistock Street—none of them pretty.
There was no use putting a fine veneer on the Goose. The tavern-cum-theater offered coarse entertainment. Men jostled for seats on benches lining the straw-covered floor. Soldiers, sailors, and wharfmen with coin to spare guzzled weak ale alongside London’s highborn sons. Bawdy plays like The Wench from Wales fed their appetites for near-naked women. Most men tarried afterward in hopes of meeting an actress.
Once or twice, Marcus had done the same. Or three or four times. He never counted.
He knotted the brace, dust kicking up around them. She did say she’d worked behind the scenes. Now she was traveling north with proper-looking middle-class matrons. He doubled the knot and yanked hard, at a loss for words, yet his mysterious traveler sat calmly in the dirt, her legs folded under her skirts.
“I can tell you have some recollection…of the Golden Goose at least,” she said above the wind. “But you don’t remember me, do you?”
He leaned closer, all the better to hear her. “I beg pardon, miss. I can’t recall your name.”
“Genevieve Turner, milord.” She brushed unbound hair off her face, offering him a better view. “Ours was a hasty introduction before you went off with an actress.”
He flinched. Off with an actress. The bald words described his escapades. Working the brace, his boot-covered knees pushed on unforgiving ground. Anyone who stepped inside the Golden Goose was no stranger to London’s midnight antics, especially Miss Turner, who lived them.
Yet, he couldn’t look her in the eye.
One red-gloved hand flattened on the coach near his head. “I’m…I’m coming north for a housekeeper’s post in Cornhill-on-Tweed. For a better life.”
He looked up from the brace. Standing moments ago off the road, her features weren’t clear when the wind pushed back her hood. Nightfall had made sure of that. Sitting by the coach, she faced the moonlight. Faint freckles dotted her small nose. Thick, blunt lashes fringed dark, imploring eyes. Secrets hid in those depths.
Flirtation aside, he liked talking with her, and there was the very male impulse to offer protection to a young woman alone.
He grabbed the axle and tested the first knot. “I’m wintering near Cornhill-on-Tweed. My cottage needs a housekeeper.”
She laughed without humor. “Oh no. A post in your household wouldn’t be good for the likes of me.”
“Why not?”
“Because I already have a position with a Mr. Beckworth and family. A family, milord.”
She was going to work for Samuel Beckworth? His friend’s proximity to Pallinsburn had been the single reason this northern exile was palatable. Resting his forearm on his knees, he absorbed another fact, the telling brightness in Miss Turner’s voice when she said family.
He let go of the axle. “You’re taking a position with my good fr—”
“Ah, looks like yer about done.” The coachman’s lamplight intruded. The old man bent low, his weathered features scrunching with inspection. “Good enough to get us to Lowick. These tired bones of mine need a rest. Been a long night, but my thanks for your help, milord.”
The coachman hooked his lantern on the front panel, the light catching Miss Turner’s golden tresses flying free. Marcus pushed off the ground, about to offer his hand, but she scrambled to her feet and grabbed the blunderbuss before he could help her. He wiped road dust from his hands, following her under the brim of his hat. This accidental interlude was coming to a close. Less than an hour ago, he didn’t want to stop. Now, he didn’t want this stop to end.
“You’ll want this.” Miss Turner handed the pistol to the driver.
The coachman set it on his footboard. “If ye’d be so kind, milord, to see Miss Abbott finds her seat, we can be on our way.”
Marcus’s swiping hands stilled. Miss Abbott?
Miss Turner spun around and set one finger to her lips, her eyes saucer big.
“Of course,” he called back. “I’d be happy to help Miss Abbott.”
The driver hoisted himself up to his seat. Miss Turner darted for the coach door, but Marcus took quick steps backward, his hand covering the latch. He had no hold on her. Why the deception?
“Miss Abbott, is it?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
“For now.” She averted her eyes. “I wanted to explain, but I wasn’t sure if…if…”
“If you could trust me.”
Her solemn stare pinned him. “Yes.”
Fresh gusts brushed the bottom of his redingote against her. Miss Turner’s mouth flattened, and a need surged, the want to soften those lips with smiles and laughter.
Giving a light flourish, he laid his hand over his heart. “You wound me. ‘Honor’ is my
middle name.”
“Honor?” Doubt threaded her quiet voice.
“Lord Marcus Honor Bowles. Trustworthy as a vicar.”
A single feminine brow rose. “A vicar?”
He chuckled, the sound a dry rasp. “Vicar’s a bit of a stretch for me. Would you accept choirboy? I was one for a short time until I got the boot.”
A tiny spark lit her eyes. “I shall remember that if I need a song or comfort and wisdom, milord.”
Resting a shoulder against the coach, he grimaced good-naturedly. “I’m short on song and wisdom these days.”
“But you excel at giving comfort.” Her lips twitched. “Especially to women.”
The small victory warmed him. He’d won a partial smile, but the glimmer quickly faded.
“Before I left London, friends mentioned your upset at the Cocoa Tree…that you were coming north for the winter to spare your family any more scandal.” Her shoulders slumped. “When I saw you come riding, I feared you’d recognize me. You’re the only person in Cornhill who could connect me to the Golden Goose.”
He stiffened at the mention of the Cocoa Tree. The broadsheets had trumpeted news of his debacle at the gambling establishment. He’d lost badly at a game of cards, upending the table after too much to drink. Most of London knew about his embarrassing exit from the Cocoa Tree. Few knew the family turmoil that followed. He’d return to London in due time, but he didn’t want trouble camping at Samuel’s door.
“How did you get your housekeeper’s position?”
“The Sauveterre sisters helped me.” Miss Turner paused, giving him a pointed look. “I believe you’re acquainted with them.”
He ignored her arch tone, another concern coming to light. Miss Turner had sought the Birchin Lane mantua-makers known for helping women in need.
“Then we have mutual friends in the Sauveterres.” He leaned close. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”
She grabbed his arm. “That doesn’t matter. Promise me—”
“Are ye ready there?” the driver bellowed from his perch.
“Another moment, Mr. McGreevy,” she yelled before lowering her voice. “Do I have your word? You’ll keep quiet about my name and the Golden Goose?”
One of the matrons knocked thrice on the window near their heads. The older woman glared through the glass, her brows a stern slash.
“What are you running away from?” Marcus asked.
“Lord Bowles. Please.”
Her hand twisted his sleeve. The desperate plea, her anguish…both added up to a woman in a bad place. Conceding to her request would make him complicit, but now was not the time to dig for whatever hardship chased Miss Turner. She needed assurances more than he needed information.
“Of course. You have my word.”
She let go of him and turned to the door. From the side of her hood, she whispered, “Thank you, milord. Your concern is…kind, but it’s better to say I’m running to someone.”
With those enigmatic words, she put her hand over his and pulled the latch. He released his hold, and Miss Turner hurried into the unlit interior. Her firm step bespoke a woman used to fending for herself. To survive the Golden Goose, she had to possess a multitude of skills, the likes of which someone born to comfort couldn’t understand.
Through the windows, he spied her red-cloaked form settling in. She faced forward as if she wouldn’t give him another thought.
Walking backward, he shouted, “Drive on.”
Mr. McGreevy snapped the reins, and the coach rumbled onward, leaving a dirty nimbus in its wake. Feet planted wide on uneven terrain, Marcus waited until the tottering coach disappeared.
He was alone again.
Bone-tired, he reached inside his redingote for his flask. A gentleman could lose himself at midnight, the velvet hour teasing the best and worst from a man. Just one nip was all he needed, a splash to cure the dryness in his throat. He gripped the metal ready to give in, but Khan nudged his elbow. The four-legged creature could be a chiding friend.
His hand slipped free to scratch behind the horse’s ear. “You know me too well, old boy.”
Petting his horse, he breathed easier, and the craving slipped away. He put one booted foot in the stirrup and mounted the gray. The half-moon’s light washed over Devil’s Causeway, yet the road sign for Lowick village called to him. No, she called to him. Their brief midnight meeting had given him a taste of something better, and he wished for more. He wanted to help pretty Miss Turner. Smiling at the empty road, he was certain she didn’t want help from him.
Was curiosity about the red-cloaked woman more alluring than her comeliness?
Women were a pleasant diversion, stirred parts as nature intended, but of late none interested him. Not until tonight. He welcomed the renewed spark Miss Turner lit. Cornhill-on-Tweed could hold amusements after all.
“Looks like you and I have a social call to make,” he said, patting Khan’s neck. “Very soon.”
By Miss Turner’s vague telling, he wasn’t sure what puzzled him more.
What she ran from. Or who she ran to.
Two
Three days later…
Genevieve punched bread dough, the lumpy mass squishing between her fingers. These rustics didn’t know how good they had it. Peace and quiet came at a price in London, an indulgence she could never afford. Squabbles wafted through walls. Bed ropes creaked from partners racing to a lusty finish. A girl grew up fast living above the Golden Goose.
The price of her new venture stretched across the table: her housekeeper’s apron.
She picked up the plain white piece and pinned it to her russet bodice. It was time she got in the habit of donning the apron upon rising. It’s what a proper housekeeper would do.
Despite growing up among actresses, she’d never once taken a turn on the stage. For her new life to succeed, she’d have to play a housekeeper’s role exceedingly well. That meant putting on her apron before cooking. Men were another kettle of fish too. Flirtation with a man above her station no longer fit. Even that harmless bit three nights ago on the empty road with Lord Marcus Bowles had been unwise.
Rules were different here. She’d best abide by them.
She plopped in a chair and rubbed her forehead. With the Beckworths gone for the next few hours, the cottage was hers—
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Except for the bothersome person pounding on the cottage door.
Her eyes opened. That someone banged again, hard enough to jangle the iron latch. She wound her way through the small dining room to the entry hall and cracked open the front door. Peter Dutton held out the post, his blue eyes filled with cheer.
Her hand slid through the opening to accept the delivery. “Good morning, Mr. Dutton.”
“Miss Abbott. Good morning.” He doffed his hat. “And how are you finding your new position?”
She fished for coins from the entry table and gave him a cursory smile. “The same as yesterday, thank you.”
As the newest unmarried female in Cornhill-on-Tweed, she was fodder for the curious. Yesterday, she’d made the mistake of inviting Mr. Dutton inside, where he dawdled overlong.
She absently dropped payment into his outstretched palm. As she fanned the letters, one missive caught her eye, the elegant lines looping just so. Elise Sauveterre had written to her? Genevieve’s thumb pinched a new crease on the foolscap.
For Elise to write this soon…
A brown leather shoe scraped the front step. “Miss Abbott, I wonder if…”
She pressed the letters to her chest and peered at Peter Dutton through the slivered opening. “Good day to you, sir. Godspeed with your deliveries.”
Head bent, she nudged the door shut with her hip. She dropped the other letters on the table and tore open Elise’s missive. Words swarmed like insects scattered over fallen fruit. H
er brows knit together. She needed to say the words aloud…to hear them. A glance at the quiet cottage assured her of what she already knew. No one was here to witness her private struggle. She could stumble over the syllables, and none would be the wiser.
Her mouth opened for a deep breath, and slowly she sounded out the words.
Dear Genevieve,
Our shop had a visitor the day you left—Herr Avo Thade.
An icy shiver touched her spine. “Avo.”
His soulless black eyes haunted her. Why was the Frisian looking for her? Of all men, he should be glad to see her gone.
Unless…
Sifting through the words, another name leaped off the page. Reinhard Wolf. She swallowed hard, her back flattening against the door. The walls closed in as though he’d cornered her again, his broad-shouldered presence overpowering her. Besieging her. Until she said yes. Eyes squeezed shut, she couldn’t block him out. Reinhard loomed large, steely in his determination.
She crumpled the letter, coaxing herself to calmness. England was a big place to search for one woman. Surely he’d give up. To know his plans, she’d have to soldier on through Elise’s letter.
He asked many questions regarding your whereabouts. I must warn you—
Thump! Thump! Thump!
She sprang away from the door. Mr. Dutton. This time she’d send him on his way with a firm word. She yanked the door wide open, blinking at bright sunlight and an even brighter man.
Her breath caught. “Lord Bowles.”
“Miss Turner, how nice to see you again.” His greeting alone could be a proposition, the way his voice caressed her name.
She stood mutely, the floor uncertain beneath her feet. Behind him the Beckworth geese waddled through the yard, their orange beaks poking the ground. The rogue had followed her?
Her mind spinning, she blurted, “What are you doing?”
Hazel eyes glinted beneath his black tricorn hat. “I’m standing on your doorstep. Will you let me in?”
“No.” She stuffed the crumpled letter in her pocket. “Mr. Beckworth and his brothers aren’t here. They have business in Learmouth village.”
