by Anita Mills
“You cannot do this. I will not …”
He bent to retrieve his copy of the Iliad. “Here—’twill give you something to read until I return.” For a brief moment his eyes met hers and locked with them. “Make no mistake about it, Miss Ashley—you are my responsibility now.”
8
Caroline looked up as Patrick entered the private breakfast room. Bathed, shaved, and attired casually in a soft white cotton shirt, buff-colored pantaloons, and impeccably polished black Hessians, he looked more like a man about to go shooting than a guest at an inn. His dark red hair had been merely brushed rather than arranged, giving him an almost boyish appearance. The faint but pleasant odor of Hungary water floated across the table as he sat down.
“May I join you, Miss Ashley?”
“It would appear you already have, my lord.”
“Patrick,” he corrected with a smile that lit the beautiful hazel eyes. “As I am but lately come into the title, I find myself looking around for someone else when I am addressed as ‘my lord.’ ” Before she could draw back, he reached across the table and clasped her hand. “Come—can we not cry friends, my dear? I would not be forever at daggers drawn with you over something neither of us can help.”
She dropped her eyes self-consciously to where his fingers held hers and was much struck by both the warmth and the reassuring strength of them. As if aware of her thoughts, he gave her hand a quick squeeze but did not release it. Involuntarily she glanced up again. He was watching her intently. The thought crossed her mind that a mortal man ought not to have eyes like that. Finally she managed a smile and nodded. “I ripped up at you like the veriest harridan, didn’t I? The more I think on it now that my head has cleared, the more likely it seems that Mr. Bascombe’s brain cooked up this entire situation. You were so kind when I was ill, and yet I was out of reason cross.”
“Nonsense. You had a devil of a head, my dear—I should not have quarreled with you.”
“Well,” she admitted, “I am willing to cry friends if you will not persist in the ridiculous notion that we should wed. Upon reflection, I do not believe the situation is irretrievable. I daresay I can contrive to come about if I can but get back to England.” Catching his expression of patent skepticism, she added, “I mean, if you will but advance me the money for passage, I shall go back and apply to Miss Richards.”
“No, it won’t fadge, my dear.” He released her. hand and leaned back. “Come—am I that difficult to take?”
“No,” she admitted frankly, “but we should not suit. Were it not for …” She groped for the right words.
“My shocking reputation?” he supplied.
“I was about to say that we are of different natures, sir. You see,” she explained slowly, “in spite of my straitened circumstances, I have always harbored the insane notion that I should like to be loved and cherished by the man I marry. I … I cannot … I will not accept anything less.” A wry smile formed at the corners of her mouth. “Foolish of me to cling to such nonsense, isn’t it? For every rational thought tells me ’twill never happen. After all, it isn’t like any gentlemen dangle after a penniless female whose father killed himself. But let us speak no more of such things, sir.” Abruptly she reached for her reticule and drew out the slim, worn, leather-covered volume. “Here—I enjoyed it very much, particularly your marginal notes.”
He took the book with a sigh. “You know, Miss Ashley, I once was a dreamer also. I loved stories of bold adventure and wars. I still do, but now I know the difference between the romance and the reality of life. When I was sent down from Oxford for one of my innumerable pranks, Uncle Vernon bought me my colors. One taste of Boney was enough to disabuse me of the glory of it.”
“You fought the French? I thought—”
“You thought I merely killed my fellow Englishmen,” he finished dryly. “Alas, my military career was short and not particularly distinguished, my dear. I took a wound three months into the campaign and was sent home to effect a complete recovery. Considering the losses we sustained, I count myself fortunate.”
“I’m sorry. I did not know.”
“My point, Miss Ashley, is that life is not like one’s dreams. We do not get what we wish for. I’d like to tell you that you have a chance to get what you want, but you do not. Under the circumstances, you’d best settle for me.”
“My lord—”
“Patrick.”
They were interrupted by a serving maid bearing the breakfast tray. Reluctantly Caroline abandoned what could only lead to another quarrel with the viscount. Unfolding her napkin to lay it in her lap, she dipped her spoon to stir the cup of steaming chocolate placed in front of her.
“It would be advisable if you do not go out at all while we are here, my dear,” he continued when they were alone again. “While we are far from London, this is a frequented port, and I have already observed other English staying in this inn. I do not think I have to tell you it would not do for them to discover your presence, particularly since I mean to give out that we eloped from Aunt Lenore’s to my hunting box in Berkshire. If she brings up Bertie’s letter, I’ll say he was party to the elopement.”
“Where is Mr. Bascombe?” she asked uncomfortably.
“I sent him to inquire of an English divine rumored to be traveling with a Mrs. Wanstead and her son. Monsieur Crespin, our innkeeper, tells me they left for Paris yesterday, but I have hopes of Bertie’s catching them. Mrs. Wanstead, it seems, is an invalid and travels quite slowly.”
“Oh.”
“Would you care for some sausages?” He pushed a plate toward her.
“No, thank you. I rarely have more than toast or a sweet bun in the morning.”
“You aren’t one of those females who never eat a morsel, are you?”
“Not at all.”
He began cutting up the food on his plate. “Well, I would not have you fainting on me. Rumor has it that ’tis the fashion to starve to improve the female form, but you are quite thin enough. Here …” He slathered jam on a slice of bread and passed it across to her. “I do not like to eat alone.”
Conversation ebbed for several minutes as they ate. Finally he wiped his mouth with his napkin. “I told Madame Crespin that your bags were lost in passage, and she is attempting to procure some dresses for you. When we return to England, I’ll take you to Madame Cecile’s for a fitting.”
“My lord, I cannot accept clothing from you.”
“Is it so very difficult to say ‘Patrick’?” he asked as he ignored her refusal. “Pat-rick—’tis a simple Scottish name I got from my grandfather on m’mother’s side. Try it.”
“Very well. Patrick, I cannot accept clothing from you.”
“I believe it’s expected to clothe one’s wife,” he continued, unperturbed. “And it does not appear that you will be coming to me with much of a trousseau, after all. Besides,” he added with a smile, “I should like to see you in decent gowns. I’ve been looking at you, and I’ve a notion that you are far prettier than I suspected at first. Take your hair, for instance—you’ve got it parted and braided and you still look nice. Who knows—with it cropped and curled, you might look even better.”
“Of all the stubborn, pigheaded people—” She caught herself and managed in a more conciliatory tone, “My … Patrick, I cannot … I will not marry you—not so much because of your reputation, but rather because it is unnecessary.”
He rose from the table to stare for a moment out into the busy innyard. Turning back around to face her, he told her quietly, “Whether you choose to believe it or not, Caroline, I never killed anyone I did not have to. If that makes me repulsive in your eyes, I am sorry for it.”
“Please, Patrick—”
“I never cared much what anybody thought. I knew what I’d done, and I accepted the responsibility for my actions. I’ve killed three men in duels, Miss Ashley, and all with good reason. Twice I was acquitted and once no charges were brought. I don’t
know if that makes any difference to you or not—I don’t even know what you’ve heard of me—but that is the truth.” He moved to stand over her. “And in spite of all you may have heard, I am not without honor.”
“Patrick!” Bertie burst in the door. “Your pardon, Miss Ashley.” Turning back to Patrick, Bertie announced breathlessly, “I found him for you, and he’ll do it. He won’t come back, but they ain’t gone but ten miles.”
“You found the Wanstead party?”
“Uh-huh. Told ’em you was eloping with Miss Ashley—long-standing passion, and all that.”
“Bertie, your heretofore undiscovered powers of invention amaze me,” Patrick approved.
“I won’t … I won’t do it—’tis folly,” Caroline insisted stubbornly.
Neither man paid any attention to her flat refusal. Bertie described his meeting with the Wanstead chaplain and laid out the agreed plans. “Well, Miss Ashley”—Patrick nodded to her—“you are about to be abducted again, it would seem. As soon as I locate Madame Crespin and get you a decent wedding dress, we’ll set out after the Wansteads. Bertie will see to the hiring of a carriage, since I had to leave mine at Dover. Then, once he has supported us through this ordeal, he can part company. In the meantime, you will prepare to leave this afternoon.”
Once his plans were set, Patrick escorted her back to her small chamber. At the door, he stopped and chucked her under the chin. “Buck up, my dear. I mean to take good care of you, I swear.”
For a time after he left, she sat staring absently into space while contemplating what to do. She had been responsible for herself since the age of fifteen—she had faced her unpleasant lot in life and made the decisions that enabled her to survive in a world where money and position were everything. She could take a certain pride that she’d earned her bread rather than hung on someone else’s sleeve. Of course, there’d been no sleeve to hang on, she reminded herself, so the choice had not been entirely her own. Now she could not go back to the Canfields—Lady Lenore would see to that. And it was not certain that Miss Richards would take her back if it were known she’d traveled to France in the company of Albert Bascombe. That she had not gone willingly would have no bearing on the matter—compromised was compromised, regardless of how it came about. The only honorable outcome would be a marriage to Bascombe, and the very thought sent a shudder of distaste through her. After all, who could wish to be married to a fool, no matter how rich or how amiable that fool might be. She could just see herself trying to discuss anything of import with him. Unless he was speaking of Patrick Danvers, he had next to nothing to say. Patrick Danvers—aye, there was the rub.
Despite Danvers’ reputation, she could not deny an attraction to him. Certainly she would be hard put to find a more handsome man, and she had to own that there was more to him than looks. After all, she could scarce imagine any buck of the ton holding her over a basin as he had done. No, there was something about him—something she could not quite fathom—that puzzled her. There was no question that he’d earned the reputation he had—he’d admitted as much; and yet … yet there was a gentleness, a humanity about him that she found surprising. After all, how many people would tolerate an Albert Bascombe, no matter how devoted Bascombe proved to be? Yet Patrick Danvers seemed to count him a responsibility. A responsibility. And now he would count her a responsibility too. Well, she did not want to be anyone’s responsibility—not now, not ever. When she married—if she married—she wanted to be her husband’s lasting passion rather than his burden.
Her thoughts turned to his first proposal, the bloodless bargain he’d offered—his name for an heir. She’d been astounded and offended by the preposterous offer. Now he merely offered his name and his protection for nothing. Somehow, it was no comfort to know that he would not expect any intimacy between them. No, not even on those terms would she marry him.
Resolutely she reached for her reticule and drew out her purse to count its pitiful contents. It was not much, but perhaps it would pay her fare somewhere until she could find employment. She squared her shoulders and stiffened her resolve. The sooner she acted, the better it would be for her peace of mind. She would simply slip out while Lord Westover and Mr. Bascombe were gone, and she would book passage back to England before they found her.
That decided, she threw on her pelisse and tied her chip-straw hat under her chin before cautiously making her way downstairs. The taproom and entry were empty except for servants cleaning and setting up for nuncheon. It was an easy thing to slip past them and out into the bustling innyard. A large black carriage blocked her view of the street as its owner haggled with the ostlers over stable fees. It was obvious to Caroline that the gentleman was in a hurry, for he finally flung several coins on the ground. Shouting his desire to reach Paris quickly, he brushed past his waiting coachman. When he stepped out of the way, Caroline was dismayed to see Patrick Danvers returning. Almost without thinking, she caught up to the carriage door and burst out, “Would you be so kind as to take me up, sir? My … my great-aunt lies very ill some few miles down this road and I must get to her,” she invented rapidly.
Apparently her French was sufficient, for the gentleman inside reached a hand to help her up. She settled against the squabs in time to see Lord Westover carry a box into the inn she’d left. The carriage lurched forward as the driver cracked his whip. Caroline leaned her head back and closed her eyes for a moment. She had removed herself from Patrick Danvers’ insistent protection.
9
Patrick collided with Bascombe on his way out and exploded, “Bertie, she’s bolted!”
“Bolted? I say, Pat, she ain’t! No—can’t have.” His friend was positive. “I mean, she ain’t got nowhere to go!”
“Nonetheless, she’s gone—fled without a trace.”
There was a disappointment in Patrick’s voice that gave Bertie pause. “Thought you was marryin’ her because you was obliged to, Pat. Seems to me that she’s saving us a lot of trouble, if you was to ask me.” He caught the wrath that flashed in Patrick’s eyes and drew back defensively. “Look, if she don’t want you and she don’t want me, I don’t see what we can do about it.”
“Let me remind you, Bertie, that you brought her here—you are responsible if anything happens to her.”
“Me? Patrick, it was a mistake! Thought you wanted her—I did! Now, if it ain’t like that and she’s gone, I say good riddance. You wasn’t the one that had to listen to her coming over.”
“I’ve got to find her.”
“Why? If she’s run away, seems to me we ain’t got any obligation.”
“Call it a matter of honor—I cannot have her out there somewhere, alone and unprotected, in a foreign country.”
“A man’d think you was wantin’ to marry her, Patrick.”
“Maybe I do.”
“For Charlie’s wager.” Bertie nodded.
“No. We’re wasting time. You go down to the wharves and ask about today’s packets to England. I’m going to ask the ostlers if they saw anything.”
“Monsieur! Monsieur le vicomte!” Crespin called out to them. “She left with DeVere!” Panting, the fat balding man caught up. “Jean saw her leave with DeVere.”
“DeVere?”
“A pig—a foul pig!”
“What does he mean?” Bertie asked when he couldn’t follow the Frenchman’s words.
“How did they leave?” Patrick demanded grimly of the landlord.
“Jean says they left for Paris in Monsieur DeVere’s carriage but a few minutes ago.”
“Paris?” Bertie howled at the only word he recognized. “Why the devil would she do that? Pat, it’s all a hum! Ten to one, she’s booked passage back.”
“With what? I doubt she has any money,” Patrick retorted.
“Pat, if she prefers DeVere, I don’t see—” For an instant, Bertie thought he was about to be struck. He recoiled defensively. “But if you are determined—”
“I am. Which
coach did you hire?”
“That one, but …” Bertie’s sentence died on his lips. Westover was already halfway across the innyard. “Patrick! Patrick! You ain’t even got your coat! What the devil d’you think you can do? Oh, all right!” Bertie threw up his hands in disgust and took off at an undignified lope after him. “Patrick! Patrick! I say, you ain’t driving, are you?” he yelled.
“The devil I’m not!” Patrick called down from the box.
“Oh, lud!” Bertie groaned. Catching sight of the astonished driver and coachman, he shook his head. “Better ride inside or else hang on, I can tell you.” Muttering, he heaved his slender body up into the hired carriage. When they climbed up on the box with his lordship, Bascombe just shook his head. “Fools.” Resigned to what could only be a wild ride, Bertie barely had time to settle in and get a firm grip on the pulls before the carriage took off. As the team of horses lunged forward, he held on for dear life. Patrick drove to an inch, he knew, but this was no road to Newmarket.
More than a mile ahead of them, Caroline was having her own doubts. A closer inspection of her traveling host proved to be somewhat unsettling. For several minutes, he’d stared speculatively at her with small deep-set eyes that she mistrusted. Finally she’d feigned sleep to escape his close scrutiny. To her horror, she felt him slide across to sit beside her. When his hand slid up the sleeve of her worn pelisse, her eyes flew open. He’d removed his coat and neckcloth.
“You will not find me ungenerous, mademoiselle.”
Somehow, his words rang differently than Patrick Danvers’ had. She stiffened like a stone statue and stared studiously out the carriage window, hoping that aloofness would be sufficient rebuff. It wasn’t. A nasty little laugh assailed her ears as he moved closer.
