She let out a bored sigh. "You're probably right. But come by for me in your coach at two and take me to the theater. Cleopatra is playing at His Highness's and I'm dying to show off my new gown."
She pulled her hand away and regretfully, he let go. Suddenly he felt twenty years younger. "Your servant, madame." He nodded, amused by her forwardness. "I shall arrive promptly."
"Well, I'd best go inside before my father realizes I'm missing and begins to bellow. He's trying desperately to protect my virginity until he can get a decent proposal." With a flip of her curls, Mary Mummford sashayed off the balcony and back into the light of her father's ballroom.
Percival did not escort her, but rather stood back in the shadows and watched the sway of her hips as she walked. His instincts told him to back off; the young woman could be nothing but trouble. But it was too late. His heart and his cock already ached for her.
Meg slipped her feet into her slippers and then stood and spun on the balls of her feet. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been this excited. She couldn't remember that she'd ever been this excited. Kincaid was taking her out to an ordinary for supper and cards.
"Going like that, love?" Kincaid looked up from where he sat on the edge of a chair, rolling up his stockings.
Meg pranced before him. "You don't care for my attire, sir?" She was dressed in a sheer linen and lace ribboned smock with full sleeves and skirts. Over the smock she wore a short boned busk that lifted her breasts high and cinched in her waist. "Everyone else in this home traipses about in their underclothing. I thought I should like to try the same."
She was laughing as he caught her hand and stood, his stockings in place. "While you're most attractive in this, madame," he kissed the swell between her high breasts, "I fear you might grow cold in the winter chill." He winked. "Take my advice tonight and go with the gown, as well."
Still laughing, Meg spun out of his arms, dancing her way to the bed where she'd laid out the latest gown Kincaid had brought her from the seconds shop in Houndstitch. The gown was probably not as fine as the ones Philip had had made for her in the years they were together. The Randall brothers would have nothing but the best; only the finest china on their dining table, the best horses in their stable, the most exquisite art in their gallery. Meg had fit somewhere in between the horses and the artwork. She was always dressed in the latest fashion, with jewels from the Rutledge coffer.
Even though the pearl-gray satin gown with a mulberry petticoat was not the finest she'd ever worn, it made her feel good each time it fell over her shoulders. It made her feel good because, though it was given used, it was given out of love.
"Need some help there?" Kincaid crossed the room, his high-heeled shoes making a sound on the wooden floor as he walked. "I really think you need your own maid, Meg. I'm not good at this women's business." He held the gown over her head as she wiggled into it.
"No maid," she protested as her head popped through the neckline and she smoothed the satin over her abdomen. "I told you, no maid."
"I can afford one, darling." He turned her in his arms and began to work the buttons up the back. "My winnings have been good at the tables."
She held her breath as he buttoned the gown at her waist. "I need my life simple at the present, Kincaid. Please, just let me make my own choices right now."
He was silent for a moment as he finished with the buttons. Then he kissed the back of her neck and turned her in his arms again so that they were facing each other. His gaze searched hers, for understanding, no doubt.
"All right," he conceded after a moment. "If it's that important to you, though I don't see how a lady's maid—"
"The maid is not the point, Kincaid." She pressed her lips together. "It's the fact that I want to make the choice myself. Not have you make it for me."
He let go of her, raising his hands in surrender. "Fair enough." He walked to the clothes press to retrieve his blonde periwig.
She walked to the full-length mirror she'd borrowed from Saity. "You're not angry with me, are you?"
"No." He dropped the periwig over his pinned hair. "I only wish you would help me understand. I'm trying damned hard, Meg."
She smiled. He was trying. "I know you are." She went to him and lifted up on her toes to kiss his mouth. "That's why I love you." She adjusted the periwig, tucking a stray lock of dark hair beneath it.
"That's why you'll stay with me? Marry me and bear my heirs?"
She laughed, refusing to be drawn into this conversation tonight. Nothing was going to spoil her evening out. She'd not allow it. "That's why I won't clunk you over the head while you slumber, take your gold cheat, and be gone in the morning."
"My cheat is it? Where have you been picking up our local cant?"
She lifted her shoulders delicately. "A lady must amuse herself when her gentleman is traipsing about town without her."
Kincaid slipped into his mulberry coat and was fully dressed. "Ready?"
She grabbed her cloak and muff and the mask off the bed. "Ready."
He put his arm around her, blowing out the last candle as he led her out the door. "Ah, Meg, you're such a tearing beauty. I don't know what I did to deserve you."
She stopped in the hallway, allowing him to tie her cloak beneath her chin. "Is that why you're attracted to me, Kincaid?" she asked, suddenly serious. "For my appearance? My face?"
"Oh, sweetheart." He raised the hood of the cloak to cover her tumbling dark curls. "I appreciate your beauty but I love you for what's in here." He tapped her left breast lightly. "And here." He touched her temple.
"Good answer." She was smiling. "The only answer."
He swept his hand across his brow. "Phew. That was close."
She elbowed him, chuckling, then took his arm and allowed him to escort her down the stairs.
Arm in arm, Meg and Kincaid cut through the public room of Mother Godwin's House for Girls. It was already beginning to fill with patrons. In the front hallway Meg spotted Monti waiting for them.
She nearly burst into laughter with one look at the absurd costume he'd chosen tonight.
Monti swept off his cocked hat with the pink feather and bowed deeply from his waist. "Madame, you are most magnificent tonight."
She curtsied playfully. "Why thank you, sir, and you are most handsome."
Together the three stepped outside. While Kincaid signaled for the coach he'd hired for the night, Meg took in great gulps of the night air. It was a clear, cool night, the first week of March. The street smelled of greasy cookshops and lye soap used by the laundresses of Ram Alley, but for Meg it was the smell of freedom. Her fear of the Earl of Rutledge had kept her inside too long.
The coach rolled up and the three climbed inside. "So just where are we going?" Meg asked, taking a seat beside Monti so that she could look at Kincaid as they rolled down the street.
"An ordinary on Drury Lane near his Highness's Theater. It's quite popular with the gallants. A place to stop and sup after the play. I believe Cleopatra is playing currently. I could take you one day if you like."
"Perhaps." She studied Kincaid's face. He looked so different in the blond periwig that she wasn't certain she'd have recognized him herself if she'd met him on the street. "And who might I ask, are we supposed to be?"
"Be?"
She kittenishly kicked him with the toe of her slipper. "You know what I mean. This," she indicated with her gloved hand, "is not Captain Scarlet. And that," she hooked her thumb, still trying not to laugh and offend their mutual friend, "is certainly not the Monti I know."
Monti was dressed in a velvet coat and breeches of a hideous lime green, with a pink vest and hose and a pink feather in his cap. His periwig was dyed an eggplant red, which clashed greatly with the pink and green of his costume.
"Oh, that is Montigue Kern. He's quite well known about Londontown for his taste in clothing."
Monti was chuckling with Kincaid as if it were a joke between them. "But I . . . ," Kincaid went on. "I am know
n as James Kincaid. Rejected son of a country Viscount. Once a student at Middle Temple. When I could no longer tolerate the political injustice of Old Noll, I left England."
"His father sent him packing," Monti offered in an aside.
Kincaid frowned, but Monti went on with his story. "James sailed with privateers preying on Parliament's shipping. I served in the Spanish Army against France and England and gambled my way through Europe. When my king returned to the throne, so did James, though no longer a boy."
Kincaid made light of his description, but there was an underlying seriousness to his tone. A bitterness she couldn't help but detect. "And is that true, Kincaid?"
He looked away, the laughter gone from his handsome face. "A good bit of it."
"I found him in a whorehouse in France," Monti said, "if you'll pardon my bluntness."
It was Meg's turn to laugh. "Really, Monti. Surely you don't think I'd be offended by your use of the word. I live in a whorehouse."
"Touché." Monti grinned at her as he often did, obviously infatuated. "Anyway, that was where we met, in a bed with Miss Lori Darling."
"You were sharing her?" Meg's eyes widened with a mixture of disgust and fascination. She knew such perversions took place but surely Kincaid hadn't participated in such depravity.
"Have no fear, sweet." Kincaid took her hand, patting it. The shadows she had seen on his face only a moment before were gone and he was his jovial self again. "We didn't share the lady as I was so inebriated I had passed out and quite missed the festivities."
"I dragged him home with me as he had no place to sleep but the tart's bed."
"And we've been together ever since, haven't we, Monti?"
"So let me get this straight." She fiddled with the velvet of her muff. "The two of you are highwaymen part of the time, gambling fops the remainder?"
Kincaid looked at his friend with amusement. "I suppose so."
Meg sighed, glancing out the window, watching the city houses made of flimsy lath and plaster construction pass by, her tone light. "Thieves and impersonators. Why could I have not fallen in with a pair of a better ilk?"
Kincaid leaned forward, catching her chin with his gloved hand and kissing her mouth. "Because we were meant for each other, my love."
She frowned.
"It's quite true," Monti explained. " 'Twas in the stars, I assure you. Were you to consult an astrologer as all sensible ladies and gentlemen do, he could give proof of that which you see merely as a coincidence, my dear."
Kincaid rolled his eyes. He thought little of Monti's beliefs in astrology, although it was all the mode at court these days.
The coach halted and Monti jumped out to help her down. "I'm nervous," Meg said over her shoulder as she put her mask in place.
"Don't be." Kincaid, behind her, squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. "Tonight we'll just sup, play a few hands of cards, and go home. Nothing is expected of you but to enjoy yourself."
On the ground she turned to face him. "There's no chance we can be caught?"
"Monti says the pardons are all but secured. We're old gossip by now, my love." He offered his arm. "Now let's go sample the fare. Mistress Neaman makes a superior tart of marrow bone."
Inside the ordinary of the Fish and Bone, Mistress Neaman, proprietor, escorted Meg and her two gentlemen to a discreet table at the far side of the room, near the kitchen door. After a few minutes of talk and a glass of strong Alicante, Kincaid persuaded Meg to remove her mask and enjoy the outing.
Mistress Neaman's cooking was indeed superior. She served the marrowbone tart she was so well known for, along with roast snipe and carbonados. There was rye bread and sweet butter, mashed turnips with onions, and cups of wine. For dessert she served comfits and marzipan.
After the supper dishes were cleared and more wine was poured, two young fops, half drunk, joined them for a game of ombre. The two young men were quite pleasant, flirting with her, laughing and joking with Monti and Kincaid. Meg sat back, warm from the wine and Kincaid's company, content to watch the men play.
The more time she spent with Kincaid, the more she realized how difficult it would be to leave him when the time came. His offer to marry her and for them to run away to some far-off place was becoming more appealing each day. Why couldn't they both leave their identities behind and start a new life. Meg had always thought she would like to see the American colonies. Why couldn't they go there?
Meg watched Kincaid as he scooped up a handful of coins he'd just won. He was indeed charming, this alter ego of his. Everyone seemed to know James Kincaid and enjoy his company. It seemed hard to believe that one man could be two in the same city, but it seemed that Kincaid had indeed pulled it off.
Kincaid piled his coins before him and waited for the cards to be dealt again. "Enjoying yourself, sweet?" he whispered, slipping his hand beneath the table to take hers.
She smiled. "I am," she answered in the same hushed tones. "But I must admit I'm growing anxious to return home."
"Tired?"
Her gaze met his. "No."
He broke into a grin, scooping up his coins. "Gentlemen, it's been a fine evening, but I fear we must part company."
"Hang it, James," the one called Carter complained. "You've beaten me again and now you give me no time to redeem myself?"
"I apologize, my friends, but the hour is late and Mrs. Drummond is tired and desires the comfort of her chamber." He rose from the bench to help Meg with her cloak. "But I assure you we shall meet again soon."
"Well, do bring the lovely Mrs. Drummond when you come again, as we much prefer her company to yours," Carter replied, standing haltingly to bow.
Meg turned away with laughter, lifting her vizard to cover her face. It was then that she spotted the Earl of Rutledge.
Twelve
Meg's first reaction was one of terror. As she clutched her mask to her face, she could do nothing but stare at the Earl of Rutledge. He was with a young woman with dark hair. She was laughing lightheartedly as he led her to a table at the other end of the room.
Once Meg realized Percival hadn't seen her, that he couldn't recognize her concealed by the mask, her fear slowly dissolved to anger.
As cruel as Philip had been, Percival had always been crueler. It was he who had insisted that there would be nothing but perfection in the Randall ancestral home. It was he who had driven his younger brother Philip to murder his deformed son. In Meg's eyes, Percival was as much a murderer as Philip.
Meg stood where she was, frozen, as Kincaid made his farewells. Seeing Percival brought back a sudden flood of memories that she had been able to staunch for weeks. Suddenly her breasts ached for her dead newborn. Suddenly her heart ached for the child who had grown into a woman in that horrible house surrounded by treasures and opulence. She ached for her own pain.
"Ready, love?"
Meg barely heard Kincaid's warm voice in her ear. She couldn't drag her eyes off Rutledge. He was laughing with the young woman who looked no more than sixteen or seventeen. He was playing the gallant she had seen him play so many times in the high dining room at Rutledge Castle. The poor woman didn't realize what a monster he was.
At some point Meg had assumed she would regret killing Philip. At some point in her life she was certain that she would come to the conclusion that she should have let Philip murder her and be done. But as she stared at Percival's ugly face, watching him in gay conversation with the unsuspecting woman, the only regret she felt was that she had not taken his life, as well, God save her soul.
"Meg?"
Meg blinked. "I . . . I'm ready." Kincaid took her arm and led her through the public room, now bursting at the seams with ladies and gentlemen just come from the playhouse or elsewhere, seeking supper and the company of other noblemen and women.
"Meg, are you all right?"
She glanced at Rutledge one last time. Kincaid didn't seem to notice him. "Fine. I'm fine." She knew she was trembling. Seeing Rutledge. Remembering the son she suckled only
once. It made her angry. It made her determined. The Randall brothers had no right to take from her what they took. They robbed her of her childhood. Of her innocence. They robbed her of her confidence and self-esteem. Both the bastards deserved to burn in hell.
Meg tightened her grip on Kincaid's arm. Seeing Percival made her recognize how lucky she was to have Kincaid. Percival Randall, the Earl of Rutledge, wasn't fit to wipe Kincaid's dung-covered boots, highwayman or not.
As Kincaid assisted Meg into the carriage, she realized for the first time that Monti wasn't with them. "Where's Monti?"
"Found a lady friend." He slid onto the seat across from her, closing the carriage door. "Didn't you notice?"
"I . . ." She stared at her gloved hands. "I was distracted." She was silent for a moment as the coach rolled off. Then she looked up at Kincaid. She could barely see his face in the semi-darkness. "Kincaid, were you serious when you said we could go away together. Far away, I mean."
His gaze met hers. "Entirely."
She slid from her seat across the rocking coach to his, taking his hand. All she could think of were her years of unhappiness, of fear, of hopeless desperation. "Then let's do it." She nodded her head decisively. "Tonight. Let's leave England. Let's go to America. I don't care what I have to do. I'll wash dishes in a tavern. I'll sweep someone's floor. Please, let's just go far from this place."
"Meg?" He pushed back her hood so that the yellow light from the oil lamp shone on her face. "What brought this on so suddenly? Did you see someone you knew?"
She glanced down at her lap. It was hard for her to lie. "No. No it's just that . . ." She looked into his eyes again. "Tonight was so wonderful, just being with you. I . . . I think we could have a good life together, you and I."
"I told you I would marry you, Meg." He kissed her gloved hand that smelled of oiled leather. This was the moment he had been waiting weeks for. "And I mean it. I can call a parson tonight if only you'll have—"
Meg covered his lips with her fingers. "No marriage," she said softly. "I've tasted that bitter tea. But love. Happiness? Freedom?" She traced his lips with her fingertips. "We could have that, you and I, couldn't we?" Before he could speak, she covered his mouth with hers.
The Highwayman and The Lady (Hidden Identity) Page 13
