by Isobel Carr
A soft whine and an ear-splitting hiss alerted Livy to the presence of the earl’s hound. The pack stayed at Holinshed, but her father rarely left Hastings behind with the rest. Hastings was as much pet as working dog. The giant, rough-coated deerhound came trotting up from the back of the garden, looking entirely pleased with himself. No doubt he’d scared the cat out of one of her lives.
He wormed his way into the arbor, making the bower of jasmine shake, and dropped his head into Livy’s lap. He dragged his damp whiskers across her skirts and stared up at her with large, brown eyes. Livy ran a hand down his back and gave the dog several hearty thumps.
The comtesse didn’t seem like the kind of woman who’d like life at Holinshed. It was all muddy dogs, ancient plumbing, and constant maintenance of the old castle walls. The only parties they ever gave were the balls that accompanied the annual stag hunts, where the guests were as likely as not to arrive muddied to the brow and windblown from the hunt.
And Hastings and the pack were constantly underfoot, even though they had their own quarters in one of the abandoned towers. The maids were forever complaining about the dirt the dogs tracked in. Her father had finally hired a scrub woman whose only job was to clean up in the pack’s wake.
It was an elegant, if unusual, solution, and so very like her father. He always said the pack had been there before he was born and would be there when he was gone. They were a fixture, every bit as important to him as the deer park and the library.
What would Devere’s sister make of Holinshed? Her life up until now had been court politics and dancing attendance upon a queen. She’d said so herself. And if the comtesse hadn’t spelled out which of the gentlemen in her stories had been her lovers, it was well known that some of them—many of them—had been. There was a certain softening about her eyes when she spoke of the French queen’s favorite, Axel von Fersen, for example, that told its own story.
How would Devere’s sister feel about swapping that for nightly discussions of the latest translation of Virgil and taking tea with the vicar’s wife? It was impossible to even imagine her in such a setting. It was even more impossible imagining her father being made happy by the kind of life that the comtesse de Corbeville relished.
Worse still, how would the comtesse react when she found out that Livy had no intention of marrying her brother, but instead meant to stay on at Holinshed? It would be untenable for them both.
Selfish. Ungrateful. She was a horrible daughter to even think of putting her own desires above her father’s. Livy blinked back tears and rose from the bench, snapping her fingers to bring Hastings to heel.
The giant hound whined softly and licked her hand. Livy scratched his head absently, her mind racing in three directions at once. If Henry was right, if the comtesse was what her father wanted, she’d have to return to her grandmother’s house and be content to visit Holinshed only as a guest.
CHAPTER 19
The door of The Red Lion opened to reveal a slip of a girl clutching a red stuff cloak tightly about herself. The doorman moved to eject her, and her wail of protest cut through every conversation in the room. Any man who hadn’t already been watching the drama unfold, while silently praying he wasn’t the man she was about to accuse of some un-Christian act of barbarity, had his attention dragged to the door whether he wanted to become involved or not.
“You can’t be here, miss,” the club’s doorman said, as Roland shot to his feet.
“It’s all right,” Marcus Reeves said, releasing the room from the grip of silent, stupefied horror. “Leave her be.”
Roland stepped past the men playing whist near the door and took Miss Bence-Jones by the elbow. She left the hood of her cloak firmly in place as he steered her back out onto the street. She was shaking so hard she could barely stand. He caught the first hint of a sob and cursed under his breath. They should have acted sooner. Should have taken her away instead of merely delivering Blakely’s letters.
Reeves, with whom Roland had been drinking and discussing plans for the upcoming Epsom Derby, hurried after them, both their coats and hats in his arms. “Get her away,” he said, nodding toward the dilapidated coaches waiting at the hackney stand just down the street, “while they all still think she’s some girl you’ve led to ruin and nothing more.”
Roland half led, half carried Miss Bence-Jones to the nearest hackney coach and bundled her inside while Reeves spoke a quick word to the driver. His friend jumped in behind them and shut the door with a hollow snap. As the coach began to move, the girl took a deep, shuddering breath.
“Dry your eyes,” Reeves said, shoving his handkerchief into her hand. Roland glared at him. Bullying her wouldn’t help things.
“What direction did you give the coachman?” Roland asked.
“None,” Reeves said with an exasperated sigh. “I simply told him to drive until we told him different. By the sly wink he gave me, I assume he thinks we’re two drunks sharing a whore.”
Miss Bence-Jones finished drying her eyes and pushed back the hood of her cloak. Even in the dim interior of the coach, her swollen eye and split lip were impossible to miss. Reeves sat up straighter as he studied her, his expression hardening.
“Your brother,” Roland said, “or your would-be suitor?” The urge to do likewise to the guilty party shot through him with a strength that almost frightened him.
“My brother,” the girl said. She twisted Reeves’s handkerchief in her hands, her head bowed. “He found John’s letters. I should have burnt them, I know,” she added bitterly, “but I couldn’t bring myself to do so. They were all I had.”
“And what are we to do with you now?” Reeves’s question cut through the air, making the poor girl flinch. Roland shook his head at him. Though he knew his friend well enough to know his anger was directed at her brother and not at Miss Bence-Jones, she didn’t.
The girl swallowed audibly. “You said you’d help me. I’ll be of age in couple of months. And when I am, there’s nothing my brother can do to stop me marrying Blakely.”
“As well your brother knows.” Roland dragged his fingers over his scalp, pushing roughly through his hair, trying to force a plan to rise from the depths of his brain.
“Christopher said as much tonight when he confronted me about the letters. He said perhaps I’d look upon his friend’s offer more kindly when I’d been bedded and ruined. When John would no longer want me.”
“And you told him to go to the devil.” Reeves’s statement was accompanied by a chuckle that clearly implied admiration.
The girl flicked her glance over him. “Not in those words, but yes. That’s what earned me this.” She gestured to her swollen eye. “And then he locked me in my room and left the house. I assume he intended to return with his friend and secure my consent to the match one way or another.”
Her tone was surprisingly matter of fact. Roland’s previous acquaintance with Miss Bence-Jones would have led him to believe hysterics would be a more likely response.
“Escape out the window?” he said. “Or did your maid smuggle you out?”
“My maid is the one who gave my letters to Christopher.” Fury, pure and simple, vibrated through every word. “But you have to be a fool not to have a key to your own room. Once I knew my brother was gone, I slipped out through the yard and ran to the one place I knew I might find John’s friends.”
“So we need to hide you away until you come of age?” Roland mulled over the options in his head.
“We could send her to Blakely’s family,” Reeves said. “They must have a stake in this, seeing as the settlements were already drawn up and signed.”
Roland shook his head. “I thought of that weeks ago. His mother has gone to Spa for her health, escorted by both Blakely’s brother and his wife. There’s only the youngest at home, and I can’t see a boy of fourteen holding off Sir Christopher should he come looking for her. Sadly, it would be easier to transport her to Blakely in Paris.” Roland glanced at Reeves, hoping his friend wo
uld have some grand scheme in mind. “Though pointless until she’s of age.”
“And equally pointless if we can’t locate an English clergyman to marry them—not the easiest thing to do in France—for you know a priest isn’t going to officiate at a wedding between two English Protestants.”
Roland nodded again. Trust Reeves to have moved on to future hurdles when the question at hand was what the hell to do with her now. Tonight. She was hurt, penniless, a runaway without anything but the clothes on her back, and her brother would undoubtedly be looking for her at every inn and hotel in London.
They needed someplace quiet, someplace no one would come looking, and that no one was likely to connect in any way with Miss Bence-Jones. Roland suddenly smiled. “We can take her to Lord Leonidas’s house. He and Lady Leonidas are in the country. The house is shut up, but the servants are still in residence, and no one would think to look for her there.”
Lord Leonidas’s housekeeper, Mrs. Draper, looked somewhat shocked when she opened the door to Roland’s incessant pounding. She was wearing an ugly flannel wrapper and an enormous, floppy nightcap over her grizzled hair. She was also armed with a poker.
“Mr. Devere?” She lowered the poker. “His lordship’s not in Town.”
“I know, Mrs. Draper, and I hate to impose, but it’s something of an emergency.” He stepped aside and pushed Miss Bence-Jones past the still-blinking housekeeper and into the hall. He thought she might just eject them, but then her expression changed as she took in Miss Bence-Jones’s injuries.
“I can see that, sir.”
Reeves cleared his throat from behind him to urge him inside. “Don’t want to be seen dawdling on the steps of a closed house. Defeats the purpose.”
The housekeeper ran a jaundiced eye over them all. “If we’re aiming for secrecy, you’d best go back to his lordship’s study,” she said, waving them toward the corridor that led directly to the back of the house. “Everything’s under Holland covers at the moment, but don’t mind that.”
Roland made his way carefully through the dark house. He knew this one almost as well as he knew his parents’ house. Lord knew he’d spent enough time here over the past couple of years. The library was a good choice. Its windows were on the backside of the house so no one would be alerted to their presence when they lit a candle.
The door swung inward with the softest of creaks. Where he was used to carpet, there was only a smooth expanse of wood. Miss Bence-Jones stepped past him and stopped in the middle of the room looking lost. Reeves threw himself down into one of the ghostly, cloth-covered chairs before the cold fireplace.
Mrs. Draper appeared with a lit candle, and the light flickered, flowing eerily over the people and furniture in the otherwise dark room. She set the candlestick on the mantel and then her hands fluttered down over her dressing gown. She stared at him expectantly.
“I’ll write to Lord Leonidas in the morning, Mrs. Draper,” Roland said. “But I assure you, he’d want to help under the circumstances.”
The housekeeper’s mouth pursed. “I’m afraid to ask just what those circumstances might be, but so long as I won’t have the constabulary breaking down the door, I’ll wait to hear from Lord or Lady Leonidas before disagreeing with you, Mr. Devere.”
“Miss Bence-Jones’s family would have no earthly reason to look for her here. If she stays inside and away from the windows, I think we can consider her, and the house, safe. Just pretend she’s not here, at least as far as such a pretense is practicable.”
“The less I know, the better, sir,” Mrs. Draper said. “For now, you can leave the lady in my hands. Come along, my dear.” The housekeeper retrieved the candlestick and motioned toward the door. “We’d best get a compress on that eye.”
Roland nodded reassuringly when the girl looked to him for confirmation. “Go along. Reeves or I will be back tomorrow to check on you.”
With an uncertain glance, Miss Bence-Jones nodded and allowed the housekeeper to escort her out of the library. The room plunged back into darkness. Roland forced himself to relax, to ignore the urge inside to find something, someone, to pound on.
Reeves let out a low whistle. “That’s a good night’s work,” he said as he stood. He yanked his coat down and smoothed the lapels. “And I for one think we deserve to get stinking drunk.”
CHAPTER 20
The shore slid past with surprising speed. The last vestige of London had disappeared some time ago, giving way to verdant fields, stands of ancient oaks, and immense willow trees that trailed their branches into the water. Livy sipped her wine and watched as a large heron took flight from among the reeds. Laughter from under the canopy drew her attention, and Livy sucked in a sharp breath, remembering with vivid clarity her recent trip aboard this same shallop.
Her father was ensconced beneath the flapping canvas with Lord Moubray and the comtesse. Today, chairs had been provided, along with a small table upon which her father and Devere’s sister were playing cards.
Devere leaned in, his breath a warm caress on her skin. The scent of sandalwood pushed away the slightly briny air of the Thames. “Do you think your father is prepared to lose his phaeton?”
“His phaeton?” Livy glanced quickly at the trio under the canopy. Lord Moubray looked to have nodded off, his chin sunk deep into the lacy frill of his cravat, while her father and the comtesse appeared oblivious to anything but the game and each other.
“He just bet it against Margo’s promise to attend a house party at Holinshed.”
Devere was still standing close, too close, his hip firm against her own. The hollow ache of desire flooded through her. She’d been reliving the sensation of Devere’s wicked hands under her skirts whenever she had a moment’s peace. And not because she wanted to; she simply couldn’t seem to stop herself.
“Does your sister want a phaeton?” Livy said, forcing herself to resist the urge to sway into him, to press closer, to replace the warmth of the sun with the warmth of his skin.
Devere’s smile widened into a grin and she felt her knees go weak. “She won the Earl of Sudbury’s pair of matched bays at silver loo of all things, and knowing Margo, I’m sure she’d love a phaeton to hitch them to, rather than the somewhat staid whiskey she has the use of now.”
“Surely someone in your family has a sporting vehicle suitable for such a pair?”
He shook his head. “I can’t afford such a luxury, my brother Frocester has no interest in anything so dashing, and father will be damned before any woman, even his daughter—maybe especially his daughter—is seen driving his curricle.”
“Look,” Livy said, pointing toward shore. “An otter. I can’t remember the last time I saw one.”
“You should spend more time on the water,” Devere said, his voice soft and low, as though he too were remembering their recent trip. Livy felt her face flush and kept her head turned firmly toward the shore.
The otter slipped out of sight with a splash, and Livy sighed. Devere squeezed her arm, and she tipped her head back to rest on his shoulder, letting herself pretend for a moment that he was something other than a rogue who’d sent her a rude and impertinent letter with no goal other than aggrandizing himself by climbing into her bed.
“We’re almost there,” Devere said. “Just around this next bend the river narrows, and then you’ll see Croughton as it was meant to be seen.”
The house wasn’t at all what she expected. She’d been picturing a half-timbered Tudor manse. The kind of thing one of Henry VIII’s advisors might have retreated to when he fell out of favor with the volatile king. Instead, Croughton Abbey was a Baroque palace of pale yellow stone that shone in the bright afternoon light as if lit from within.
“Cromwell pulled the original house down around the ears of the fourth earl and burnt the remains,” Devere said. “When the monarchy was restored, his widow rebuilt on the very same spot, but on a much grander scale.”
“A woman to be reckoned with, eh?”
“All th
e best ones are.”
Olivia smiled as the compliment sank in, a faint, rosy blush coloring her cheeks. Roland felt the full strength of it cut right through him. She smiled often, but rarely at him, or more to the point, rarely with such perfect ease.
If both their fathers weren’t a few feet away, he’d have stolen a kiss. As it was, he had to content himself with the more subtle delights of shoulders and hips brushing as he pointed out the sights.
“The bank has been left wild for the swans, but after that low stone fence, you enter the formal gardens, which continue up to the house.”
“And that?” Livy pointed to a giant green dome in the distance.
“The yew arbor. Perfect for the adventures of derring-do—”
“Or hiding from one’s tutor,” Margo said from under the canopy.
“Or governess, as I remember.” Roland grinned at the memories of the hours he and his siblings had spent inside their private forest.
“I taught you all the best hiding spots,” his sister said.
“That she did,” Roland said to Olivia. “The yew arbor, the dovecote, the hayloft.”
“The attics,” Margo said with a laugh. “The dairy. The ice house.”
“Holy terrors, were you?” Olivia said, eyeing him as though she knew every fit and start of his childhood.
“I’d say no, but lightning might strike me down.”
Olivia raised one hand to lift the hair from her neck, sighing as the breeze blew across her damp skin. “I was fond of The Raven Tower for hiding when I was small.”
“Holinshed sounds positively medieval.”
She tipped her head back so she could look up at him over her shoulder. “You have no idea. There’s even a dungeon.”
“That’s been a wine cellar for the last hundred years or more,” Lord Arlington said as he studied his cards.
