by Lyn Stone
He had to know one way or the other, but how? If she were guilty, she would only lie about it. If she were innocent, would he know the truth by observing how she behaved? There was only one possible way to find out the truth. He would have to see her, question her, see how she responded and judge from that.
Jack turned his mount and headed back to Town. She would be at Hobson’s now, for she had nowhere else to go.
* * *
“What do you mean, she’s gone?” Jack demanded.
Hobson, red-eyed from weeping and jumpy as a cat, backed away from Jack’s upraised fist. “She left me in the library, waiting for her to pack. After an hour or so, I sent someone to find her. Her maid gave me the note meant for you.”
“Give it to me!” Jack demanded, holding out his hand.
Hobson did so and, after Jack finished reading the short message, he continued. “A gardener finally admitted seeing her ride away across the field. Astride a horse. With a travel bag.”
“Was there no search?” Jack asked, too worried now to retain his fury. “Where could she have gone?”
Hobson wiped his eyes. “Of course I searched! Everyone did! She was nowhere in the village. Nowhere in the surrounding homes. No one had seen her there.”
Jack thought. “She has to be in the area. She could not have gotten far with no funds.”
“She had seventy-five pounds. I gave it to her, guilt money to pay her servants. She was furious at me when I told her the truth. I just wanted her to forgive me.”
“Fool! She could buy passage with that much!” Jack hurried back to his horse. “She’s going back to Spain. It’s the only place she knows.”
Hobson followed him out and grasped the stirrup. “Please let me come with you. This is all my fault. I told her you intended to prosecute us for fraud. I made her afraid.” He had tears in his eyes as he looked up at Jack. “She was so angry with me. I fear I’ve lost my girl forever.”
Jack looked down at the man and found it hard to hate him. It was so obvious he loved his daughter and worried about her.
Running made Laurel look guilty, but Jack thought she might have run anyway, out of fear or anger. Perhaps both. Or neither. He simply did not know, but he certainly intended to find out.
“Stay here, Hobson. She might calm down and reconsider, come to London and ask your direction. You are her father, after all.”
“Not by her lights. But you will find her, won’t you? You won’t hold her responsible for what I’ve done? Please!”
Jack shook his head as he mounted his horse. “I’ll bring her back.”
* * *
Laurel looked out across the waves as the coast of England grew distant. She had boarded a packet in London under the name of Laura Smythe. It was bound for Calais, just across the English Channel. From there she intended to travel by coach down the coast to Bayonne. That was near enough to the Spanish border that residents would speak both languages. While her Spanish was flawless, her French would improve.
She planned to find employment as a governess or perhaps a private tutor. Her newly composed letters of reference were false, of necessity, but it was doubtful anyone would check them. Circumstance had forced her to the fraudulence, and she resented Jack’s threat that had made her into what he accused her of being.
Why should she cavil at misrepresenting herself now, since she had been misrepresented all her life? And if she were checked upon and called to account, she would simply disappear and begin again.
Heartsore and cynical, Laurel suffered the short voyage with staunch resolution. Never again would she depend on anyone else for her well-being. She would be a self-supporting woman with no strings attached, no roots to bind her anywhere.
Nothing to bind her other than the unrequited love she would always feel for her husband. No matter that their marriage would be dissolved, declared invalid since she had wed him under someone else’s name, her love for Jack was all too real and too deep to disregard.
She missed him already and knew she would for the duration of her life. But she felt betrayed by him, too, and not a little angry. Why couldn’t he have given her the benefit of the doubt or at least provided her the chance to argue her case to him personally before deciding to have her brought up on charges of fraud?
Jack certainly had faults she had never recognized before. She knew of his ready temper, but he had only exhibited that when he had good cause. Now she knew how judgmental he could be, how obviously vengeful. And, she now recalled, he had sometimes proved overbearing and not a little condescending. Especially about her accounting ability. He obviously resented that her education had been superior to his, though she had never given it much thought until now. Yes, he had his faults. She would dwell on those and perhaps learn to love him a little less.
As for Hobson, she had grown up with the fact that her father cared very little for her, whoever he might be. In her mind, he had been an unknown figure until Jack had told her she was daughter to an earl. That her father turned out to be only a solicitor made scant difference, all things considered.
She had consigned all the love she had stored away to her husband, and now found that she had misplaced it. Jack no longer loved her, but believed her a charlatan.
Laurel pushed away from the deck railing and marched to the other end of the ship to watch for the shoreline of France.
A new beginning was her only alternative. She refused to stay in England and be punished when she had done nothing wrong at all but trust too freely the men in her life.
When she arrived in Calais, there were also passengers disembarking from other ships. Laurel spied an older, well-dressed lady who appeared to be all alone on the dock and frustrated by the lack of anyone to assist her with her portmanteau.
The woman strode this way and that, circling her baggage as she hailed several men who passed her by without a word or notice. Obviously there were no gentlemen around who cared a whit about a female traveling alone.
Laurel shifted her own satchel and walked over to help. “Ma’am, may I offer a hand?”
“Thank God! Here,” she said, shoving the heavy bag toward Laurel. “Let me carry the lighter one for you. I can do that much. Who are you, girl?”
“Laura Smythe,” Laurel replied and forced a smile. She had chosen the commonplace name of Smythe and would use Laura because it was similar to what she had always been called. The diminutive woman looked pleasant enough, and vastly relieved to see a friendly face. She was fifty years old or thereabout, a pleasingly plump and grandmotherly sort. Laurel lifted the portmanteau with some effort. “May I know who you are, ma’am?”
“Cornelia Grierson is who. I’m for Paris, where my daughter’s living. Wed a Frenchy, she did, but a nice-enough bloke for all that, though he’s given me no grandchildren as yet. I have hopes, however. So I keep returning to Paris, expecting happy news. You?”
Laurel thought perhaps it would be easier to find work if she knew someone, especially someone who owed her a favor. She considered revising her plan. The older lady needed company, at least as far as her daughter’s home.
“Paris also,” Laurel declared. “Shall we travel together, ma’am?”
She could lose herself in Paris.
Chapter Seventeen
Mrs. Grierson talked nonstop as Laurel arranged their passage on a coach bound for Paris. The widow never slowed her biographical discourse even on the crowded journey, so that everyone squeezed into their coach knew her entire life’s story by the time they reached their destination.
The Boulangerie Nicot on Rue Monge was a good-size, three-storied establishment. As they approached the entrance, Mrs. Grierson told Laurel that its two levels above the shop consisted of living quarters for the family, though at present there were only her daughter and son-in-law in residence.
“Generations of the Nicots owned the place long before the war,” she said. “Severely regulated by the guilds then, don’t you know! Had to emigrate when the rabble ruled Paris, but
its back in the family now, free and clear!”
Laurel opened the door for her. “How fortunate he was able to recover—”
“Yes, yes! Ah, that enticing aroma!” Mrs. Grierson exclaimed, inhaling and closing her eyes to enjoy it as soon as they entered. “There is nothing like the glorious smell of Parisian bread!”
“Mama!” a sweet voice cried. A short, pretty brunette swept around the counter and embraced Mrs. Grierson. “You are back again! Louis, Maman est ici!”
Due to the woman’s constant one-sided dialogue on the way to Paris, Laurel felt she already knew Mrs. Grierson’s daughter and son-in-law almost as well as the occupants of her own home back in England. Well, what had been her home temporarily.
Fortunately, the Maman was made welcome and saw to it that Laurel received a proper reception, as well. Mrs. Grierson laughingly introduced Laurel as her new little minder.
They both were assigned their own rooms, which were quite charming, though modestly fitted out. Laurel could not help comparing the economical furnishings of the baker’s home to the grandeur of Elderidge House.
She had not lived in that place quite long enough to lose her awe of its opulence, nor had she been away from the convent long enough to forget what true austerity was. At any rate, she felt quite comfortable in the Nicot home for the time being.
The young couple ran a bustling business that was surely proving profitable, judging by the number of customers. She admired their industry and liked them as people, too.
Margaret was as pretty as Louis was handsome and their natures seemed so in tune, she envied them for it. She also thought their kind tolerance of Mrs. Grierson’s continual flow of advice and admonishments amazing.
The woman did remember to thank Laurel now and again for her company and help during their first two days there, though there was no mention of payment for those self-appointed duties. However, theirs was not an official connection.
Laurel knew she needed to travel on or find work. On the second morning, she came down to the shop to fetch Mrs. Grierson’s breakfast. When she mentioned leaving Paris, Louis Nicot offered Laurel work in his kitchens.
“I must decline your kind offer, sir, as I have no experience in cookery and would do your business more harm than help,” Laurel said. “However, might I impose on you to place an advert for me as a lady’s companion? At my expense, of course,” she added.
Her request had the desired result. “You wish to leave Maman Grierson?” he asked immediately. “Why?”
Laurel smiled sweetly. “I must earn my living, you see, and your mother-in-law is merely a new friend whom I was pleased to help along the way.”
“We must come to some arrangement then,” he offered eagerly. “That is, if you are willing to travel as her attendant. I think she might enjoy Italy next.”
Laurel laughed, understanding perfectly. “As you thought she would enjoy England?”
“Exactement! Marguerite and I strongly encourage our dear Maman to become a woman of the world. What do you say, Mrs. Smythe?”
Laurel hesitated. “Has she had other companions? Surely you have not sent her off alone on her travels.”
He frowned at that. “She was accompanied, of course. Unfortunately, she always returns here alone, except for this time. But you get on well with her, do you not?”
Laurel nodded. “Shall we discuss it with her then?”
He quickly summoned Mrs. Grierson for her approval, and the widow hired Laurel immediately, apparently delighted to extend their association indefinitely.
A trip to Italy seemed just the thing to provide needed distraction, so Laurel encouraged Nicot’s idea when he presented it. So long as Mrs. Grierson was never encouraged to travel to England again, Laurel intended to remain in her employ and keep the man’s garrulous mother-in-law out of his hair.
In fact, she was as eager to be away as Mrs. Grierson. The Nicots’ constant expressions of their enchantment with each other, the frequent touching and private smiles, reminded Laurel too much of her own happy times with Jack. She sorely missed him and feared she always would.
* * *
Jack grew even more obsessed with finding Laurel. It had taken him two days to locate the mare she left behind at a posting station thirty miles away. That indicated Laurel had gone by mail coach. Crowded as those usually were with passengers, no driver he questioned recalled a small woman in a gray dress and bonnet.
Jack had gone so far as forgiving Hobson enough to enlist his help. After all, the man might know the way Laurel’s mind worked better than anyone, having visited her in Spain when she was younger.
She was more familiar with Plymouth than any other place, so they had begun there. Jack questioned Hobson thoroughly about any interests she had expressed during those visits at the convent.
“She wanted to know everything about the world outside,” Hobson said as they shared beer at a public establishment in Plymouth. “She asked about no place in particular that I can recall. You don’t think she returned to Spain, after all?”
Jack beckoned the barmaid and ordered more beer, then realized he had more than enough if he was to keep his head clear. “I’ve pored over the passenger lists for every ship leaving port here. No Laurel Worth or Laurel Hobson was in evidence. Is there another name she might have used?”
Hobson pondered the question, then held up a finger. “Did you take note of any similar names in case the spelling is wrong?”
“Of course, as well as any other names she might have borrowed from those people she’s met since coming to England. What of her fellow students at the convent or maybe the nuns?”
“Can’t recall any of them, it’s been so long.” Hobson sipped idly as he frowned in thought. “Perhaps she did not go by ship to Spain. She could have traveled overland to Wales or Scotland.”
“No, I believe she would stick to things familiar to her.” But had she? Jack thought for a moment. “Perhaps I’ve counted too heavily on that assumption.” A sudden thought had him pounding his fist to his forehead. “Economy!” He grabbed Hobson’s arm. “Laurel’s zealous about frugality!”
He slapped his hand on the table. “She would not have wasted coin to come all the way to Plymouth when London was closer! She shipped out of London!” He jumped up, tossed some coppers on the table and left.
Hobson followed, bumping into Jack’s back as he halted outside. “We’ll hire horses,” Jack announced. “A coach is too slow.”
“The mail coach got us here fast enough. Besides, I don’t ride,” Hobson admitted with a groan.
“Then go as you will.” Jack left him there and headed for the nearest stable. Half an hour later, he was riding hard for the next posting inn on the way to London, intent on changing to a fresh mount every ten miles until he reached the London docks.
He had to find her, and he needed to do so quickly. Laurel hadn’t enough experience out in the world to manage for long by herself. Urgency stole his appetite and all ability to rest along the way.
“I’m coming for you,” he whispered into the wind as he rode. “Please keep safe.”
* * *
The shipping offices had provided no hope thus far as he bribed the clerk in the last of them. Save for this small company’s records, Jack had examined every list of passengers leaving London, names kept for the purpose of identifying those who might be lost if the ships did not make their next port.
He shuddered at the thought that Laurel might be lost at sea under another name and he might never know her fate. It was then his finger traced over the name Laura. He stopped, his breath caught in his throat. This was the closest thing to her name that he had found in all his searching. Laura...Smythe. A most common name, one she might have chosen for lack of any other, one that might not be easily traced.
“Here!” He motioned to the clerk. “Do you recall this person? A comely young woman, slender, dressed in gray?”
The old clerk adjusted his spectacles and peered down at the name above
Jack’s fingertip. “Mebbe,” he grunted.
Jack reached into his pocket and plunked down a crown.
“Young, fair-haired,” the clerk said immediately, pocketing the coin as he nodded. “Argued the cost was too dear. Said it weren’t that far to Calais.”
Jack grinned and tossed down another coin. “God bless your greedy hide, sir! Have you a vessel bound for France today?”
“The Michaela Rose, sails around two o’clock. Shall I book ye?”
“Aye, do it. Passage for two.” He quickly paid the man and rushed to Mayfair.
He immediately went to Neville, thinking only briefly of how much he had always hated imposing on friends. Laurel had to be found and Neville knew France inside and out. Jack knew only the ports and those, none too well, having avoided them during the war.
His dislike of asking for help ceased to matter. He would move heaven and earth to find her, hopefully before she came to any harm.
Jack didn’t even wait to be announced when the butler opened the Morleigh’s door to him, but rushed past the servant and found Neville lounging in the library with a book and cigar. “Laurel’s gone to France. Come and help me search? I am so damned worried, Neville.”
“She’s left you? I can’t believe it!” Neville exclaimed. “I’ll come, of course. You’d never get past the docks with your abominable French. Come explain what’s happened whilst I pack a few things.”
Jack followed Neville up the stairs, relating only the salient facts as they went. “She knows so little of the world outside. What if she falls in with the wrong sort? She hasn’t much blunt and is dressed like a damned servant! Any man might think she’s fair game, y’know?”
“Calm down,” Neville advised. “Apoplexy won’t help matters. Give me time to tell Miranda where we’re going and why. Look in the wardrobe there and get one of my pistols and ammunition. Then go and collect as much coin as you can carry inconspicuously and I’ll bring what I have on hand. We’ll need it for bribes once we get there. What time do we sail?”
