The whole purpose of her flight was to never see Rory again, she reminded herself. She was bad for him, her vision told her clearly. She could see no other explanation for that stranger she saw behind his eyes sometimes when he looked at her. She would make him do wicked things, and he would destroy her. She could interpret that much of her vision. She couldn’t let that happen.
That thought put a brisk pace in her step until she reached a milliner’s shop window on the main thoroughfare and hesitated. Rory had said she looked no better than a char girl in this gown. It would really be better if she could look more like a Lady Alyson Hampton, but dressmakers took time. A new hat would be quick and easy, but one glance down at her faded skirt warned that any intelligent shopkeeper would think she had stolen her coins.
She would have to quit her daydreaming, as Rory called it, and get on with it. She had already made up her mind that the first place to go was to a solicitor’s. Mr. Farnley had been extremely helpful; surely she could find some gentleman in Charleston who would be the same.
With that thought in mind she passed up the shop windows and began scanning the wooden signs and discreet brass plaques on brick walls to determine which ones might be solicitors. It wasn’t quite as easy as she thought it would be. There were taverns aplenty, shoemakers, clothiers, dry-goods merchants, and blacksmiths, but she trudged up and down dusty streets in a sun that grew rapidly hotter without finding any trace of anything resembling the impressive edifices of Farnley and Farnley.
Carriages bearing ladies in beautiful silks and parasols rolled by. Wagonloads of straw and farm products rattled past. Rough seamen in baggy breeches and elegant gentlemen in long frock coats and all the levels in between brushed past or stared after her, but she dared question none of them. She could scarcely tell them whom she was looking for when she didn’t know herself.
At last she escaped the crowded street of shops and entered a quiet side street of brick town houses. The shutters were pulled closed on many of the elegant windows on the south side, and Alyson imagined the rooms inside to be dark and cool against the sun. Her throat was parched, her feet ached, and she felt filthy and disheveled. Perhaps she ought to just apply for the position of servant and learn more about the city before searching further.
It was then that she saw the sign in the lower window of one of the older structures: “Harold B. Lattimer, Attorney-at-Law.” Would that be the same thing as a solicitor? Mr. Farnley knew the law. He could write wills and things. Perhaps this Mr. Lattimer could do the same.
Alyson gazed up at the brick town house with its facade of evenly spaced Georgian windows, matching lintels and pediments. It looked respectable, weathered, and well-cared-for. What better way to judge the occupant?
Having approved of the office, Alyson gave no thought to the occupant’s approval of her. She knew who she was and where she was going, and although she was arriving in a slightly bedraggled state, she had very good reason for doing so.
A male clerk standing at a tall desk with an open ledger glanced up at her in surprise when she entered. He gaped openly at her unfashionable mop of black curls and faded clothes and said nothing.
Since there was no one else about that he could be staring at, Alyson self-consciously brushed down her woolen skirt and checked her fichu to make certain nothing had become disarranged, then met the gawping stranger’s gaze directly. “I have come to see Mr. Lattimer,” she announced.
The youth closed his mouth and ran ink-stained fingers up under his tilted wig. Prodded by the slight lift of her eyebrow, he stumbled into his usual inquiry. “May I ask who’s calling?”
“Lady Alyson Hampton, if you please. It’s quite important. Is he in?”
He looked at her as if she were barmy and took the excuse she offered. “No, my lady, he’s not in right now. Do you wish to make an appointment?”
“I’m afraid I don’t have time for that, I need to see him now. Do you know when he will return?” Alyson was growing restless. Rory would know of her escape by now. She did not know for certain, but she suspected he would be combing the city for her. She daren’t leave the safety of this house until she had some guarantee of protection.
The youth stuttered. “Anytime, I suppose, but he’s busy. If you would . . .”
Without listening to whatever senseless suggestion he might make, Alyson picked up her hopelessly heavy skirt and advanced toward the door leading into the rest of the house. She would not be thrown out into the street by a mere clerk. “Thank you. I will make myself at home until Mr. Lattimer arrives. If you would, a glass of water—if you have nothing better—would be refreshing.”
She uttered this last as she pushed open the door and sailed into the hall. To her right was obviously a library of sorts. To her left, a gentleman in powdered wig and old-fashioned full-bottomed frock coat was just stepping from an office, hat in hand. Alyson heard the clerk’s protesting “Mr. Lattimer!” behind her, and she frowned. The boy had lied.
The gentleman glanced up in surprise. Alyson blushed, abruptly aware of her hair flying loose like a child’s. But she lifted her patched and faded skirts as if they were satin, revealing a petticoat of expensive quality. Mimicking Rory’s elegant aunt, she dipped a curtsy with grace and hauteur.
“Is there something I might do for you, Miss . . . ?” He looked inquiringly over her shoulder to the nervous lad behind her.
Alyson supplied the name the slow-witted youth did not. “Lady Alyson Hampton. Mr. Lattimer, I assume?”
“Yes, of course, my lady.” With a courtly gesture he indicated the way into his office.
Alyson made herself comfortable in a leather chair by a window overlooking the street. She sat primly with her hands crossed in her lap as if they were clad in expensive mittens and waited for him to take a seat.
“Now, my lady, how might I help you?”
“I have been abducted and brought here against my will, Mr. Lattimer. I would like you to send a letter to my solicitor in London at once informing him of my whereabouts and that I am quite well. He will need to draw on my funds and send me a bank draft sufficient for a comfortable return journey when it is safe to make one. If at all possible, I would also have him look into pressing charges against my cousin, the Earl of Cranville, because while he walks the streets, I am not safe.”
A man who deals with the public learns early how to separate the wheat from the chaff. He began his interrogation just as Mr. Farnley would have. “Your solicitor’s name, Lady Alyson?”
Alyson approved of the question. “The senior Farnley, of Farnley and Farnley, Chancery Lane, London.”
He jotted down the information, then took another stab at disconcerting her. “I should think the Earl of Cranville to be a trifle old to be your cousin, Lady Alyson. We belonged to the same club when I was attending Oxford, and he was considerably older than myself.”
“You knew my grandfather? That is wonderful. Then you will understand my situation.” Alyson sat forward eagerly in her chair. “You will help me, won’t you? It is terrifying to be in a strange place where I know no one. And I am so afraid my cousin will try to prove I’m dead and steal my money, and then where would I be? And I cannot return until I know he cannot harm me again.”
Glancing at her strange costume, he made one more attempt. “You do realize that your request will take a considerable amount of time and money?”
“If you intend to charge me an exorbitant amount, you will have to collect it from Mr. Farnley, for I must replenish my wardrobe and find somewhere to stay until I have a reply.” Pulling out the gold coin she had placed in her pocket for just this purpose, Alyson set it on the desk. “Will this be sufficient to begin the process?”
Genuine coins of the realm were such a rare commodity that Lattimer seemed to be resisting the urge to pick it up and test it with his teeth. “I could try a murder case on an advance less than this, Lady Alyson. I shall have that letter out on the next ship, in the packet of a personal friend of mine. Now, I
will need to know more of your story so Mr. Farnley may begin filing charges, but first, why don’t I take you to meet my wife and daughter? I think you will be much more comfortable once you have had a chance to rest from your ordeal.”
Proud of her accomplishment, Alyson sailed out of the office on the arm of Mr. Howard Lattimer, attorney-at- law. Let Maclean try to find her now.
***
Maclean was trying to do just that. Returning to his ship loaded down with packages full of all the feminine finery he could acquire at a moment’s notice, he found the Sea Witch strangely quiet. He had not given any of his men permission to go ashore. There was the small matter of a hold full of illegal brandy that had to be disposed of first. He had paid the necessary bribes, and the wagons would be arriving shortly. Where in hell was his crew?
Stalking through the empty ship, Rory entered his cabin in a fury edged with panic. Dougall waited for him, a sorry Dougall with bloodshot eyes and loosened jabot and an entire bottle of Scotch nearly emptied before him. Rory glanced around, and finding no Alyson hiding behind the curtains, felt his panic grow. He dropped the packages on the bunk and grabbed his first mate by the collar.
“Where is she, Dougall?”
“I dinna know. It’s all my fault. I wrote my resignation. It’s right there.” He hiccuped and pointed to a sodden note on the table. He didn’t even try to free himself from Rory’s stranglehold. “She just disappeared. I have no idea . . . The men are searching for her. Maybe she just got lost.”
Rory flung his friend back in the chair with disgust. “How, Dougall? How did she just disappear? Did she take wings and fly? Did a hole open up in the deck and swallow her? How? Dammit, man, tell me!”
“She wanted to buy you buttons.” Dougall’s words slurred as he carefully recited his story. “I was right there with her. I dinna think it’d hurt. She’s in love with you, you know, and she wanted to make you happy, and she was going to buy you buttons and a blotter.” Remembering that odd piece of information, Dougall threw a nervous look to the captain’s desk. The blotter was perfectly intact.
“Buttons? Blotter?” Rory stared at him with incredulity. What did love have to do with buttons and a blotter? Was Alyson’s madness contagious?
Dougall tried to maintain a semblance of dignity as Rory flung him back in his chair. “That’s what she said. So I took her up the street and waited while she picked them out. Only I looked away for a minute, and she was gone. I dinna know how, Maclean, honest, I dinna!”
Rory knew how—the same way she had done it several times before. She just picked up those dainty little feet and walked away, right into a pot of trouble, every time. He was going to wring her neck when he found her this time.
“I’m not accepting your resignation, Dougall. You’re under arrest until I have time to hang you. Now, come along and show me where you lost her.”
He didn’t know what had sent her flying this time, but this was the last time he would pull her pretty little neck out of trouble. Damned if he wouldn’t have the brat branded and manacled when he caught up with her.
10
Three days later, Rory hadn’t found a whisper of Alyson’s whereabouts. His men had tracked through every brothel, tavern, and inn in town. Alyson was too distinctive not to be noticed, but no one had seen her.
That left only alternatives Rory couldn’t bring himself to consider. It wasn’t possible for Cranville to have followed her here. There was no reason for anyone else to murder her on her first day in town. But unless she were dead and buried, he could think of no other way she could have disappeared totally.
He had even checked and found all the other ships on the river that day. The ones still in dock reported no sign of her. The ones that had sailed were fishing vessels that would soon return. He had to have missed something, but he couldn’t imagine what.
He didn’t know why her disappearance was destroying him. She had caused more consternation, confusion, frustration, and downright terror than any one person had ever inflicted upon him, except one, maybe, and that one was his mortal enemy. He ought to be glad she had walked out of his life. Why, then, did he feel the skies were dark and the sun didn’t rise, when it was May in Charleston and a cloud never crossed the sky?
He was almost glad, instead of angry, when he finally stopped to call on Lord Kerry and his wife Katherine, and his associate’s young daughter Margaret greeted him with her news. She was on the way to tea with a real English lady just over from London, she informed him proudly.
It didn’t take a long stretch of the imagination to guess who the lady might be, and a great sense of relief swept over Rory, before anger replaced it. For once, unexpectedly, she had landed on her feet. As Margaret chattered on, he began to relish the thought of Alyson’s expression should he appear.
Learning that Kerry was still at their plantation and Katherine had gone to visit her stepdaughter, Rory invited himself as Margaret’s escort. The eighteen-year-old’s green eyes turned up to him in adoring wonder, but Rory’s mind was on a certain pair of mist-colored eyes, and he paid no heed to any other. Offering his arm, he stepped into the bright heat of a Charleston street with one of that town’s most eligible young ladies, but his thoughts were solely on revenge.
***
Seated in the small but elegant Lattimer parlor, garbed in a white and rose-flowered dimity the mantua-maker had just completed, Alyson listened to her companion’s conversation with a half-smile. Jane Lattimer was a year or two older than she, older than the usual marriageable age for this society, she had ascertained from several mother-daughter conversations. But the strong-willed Jane had rejected what few suitors she had acquired, and Alyson was beginning to understand why she had so few. Her opinions on every subject were strident, her scorn of the vast majority of the male populace did not go unvoiced, and although at heart she was a very kindly person, her demeanor gave no such impression.
So it was with great surprise that Alyson observed a softening change in Jane’s expression as she gazed out the front window in expectation of Miss Sutherland’s arrival. Alyson had looked forward to meeting more of this society now that she was appropriately attired, but she had been of the opinion that today’s guest was female. The look on Jane’s face was not that of a young woman anticipating the arrival of her best friend. Excitement trembled through the older girl’s hands as she dropped the draperies and hurriedly seated herself on the vacant sofa behind the tea tray.
Still, Alyson had no warning when Captain Rory Maclean walked through the parlor door. He was accompanied by the loveliest, daintiest blond she had ever had the misfortune to see, but Alyson could focus only on Rory and his rage. Her heart stopped beating and didn’t resume again until she met Rory’s cold gaze; then it began to pound.
“Captain Maclean, how good of you to call!” Jane gushed effusively, leading her guests to their seats, neglecting introductions as she attempted to part Margaret from her escort in order to place the captain on the sofa beside herself.
Since the tea tray indicated their hostess’s seat, and there was no other sofa in the room, Margaret reluctantly relinquished her prize to take a chair beside Alyson. Rory, despite Jane’s admonitions, remained standing. His gaze scarcely left Alyson. As Jane attempted to introduce him to her guest, he waved her aside.
“Lady Alyson and I have already met, haven’t we, Alys?” The insinuation in his voice and the use of her familiar name was plain. The company looked shocked and extremely curious.
Alyson had learned a bit about society in his aunt’s home. She employed her lessons now and gazed at him vaguely and took a sip of tea. “Oh, yes, I arrived on the good captain’s ship. We are old friends. Rory, do please seat yourself before you give Miss Lattimer a crimp in her neck.”
That pronouncement neatly took the poison out of his words, and Jane and Margaret looked relieved, if not still a good deal curious.
Alyson felt his gaze as a physical presence lingering on her hair, caressing her throat, bo
ldly touching her bosom. She had never been so uncomfortable in her life, and it took all her capacity for control to keep from squirming in her chair. She answered questions politely without knowing what she said. She sipped at tea and nibbled at sandwiches without knowing what passed her lips.
Rory was the first to react to Jane’s increasingly sharp remarks.
Upon entering, he had decided Alyson looked too damned beautiful to strangle. He should have known better than to try to fluster her. The only times he had ever seen her perturbed were times when she had reason to believe no one would see her. Remembering how she had cursed him and sworn she would follow him to hell if he died, Rory studied her placid countenance. He wanted explanations.
He was aware that on past visits Jane Lattimer had welcomed his presence, but he was more interested in business with her father. Alyson had distracted him, but he still had business to complete. If Jane’s remarks were for his benefit, he would put an end to them, but not without snagging Alyson in his net.
Retrieving his hat, Rory bowed to his hostess. “I trust you ladies will forgive me if I depart so soon. To be surrounded by all this loveliness after weeks at sea has left me dazed, and I have forgotten an appointment. My ship will be in port a few days more. Is there any chance I can induce your lovely selves and your parents to join me for a small supper party at the inn where I stay?”
Rory noticed Alyson’s grimace. He had to hide his amusement. His little lady did not believe him for an instant, and rightly so. He had no appointment, stayed at no inn, and knew the proud parents of these young ladies would never consent to their visiting a sailors’ tavern.
“Oh, Captain Maclean, I am certain my mother would be delighted if you could come to dinner this evening. You may ask my father then about your party.” Jane rose and boldly laid her hand upon Rory’s coat sleeve.
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