by Lavinia Kent
“I am sorry,” he said after a moment, drawing her from her thoughts. “I do have a sometimes difficult relationship with the duke. We do not always want the same things.”
“And I would imagine the duke mostly wins.”
Mark laughed at her words, a bit of his usual lightheartedness returning. “I would say the duke always wins.”
“That’s too bad. He should listen to you more often. I find you quite sensible.”
“I am not sure he would agree with you. Can I tell you a secret?” He leaned toward her.
She stopped breathing as she stared into his dark eyes. His breath brushed along her cheek. “Anything,” she whispered.
“It’s why I like being with you. I don’t have to think about the duke when I am here.” His eyes dropped to her lips.
She was not going to lick them. She was not. “That’s why your mood shifted when I mentioned him.”
He looked back up to her eyes. “Yes, I don’t want the duke to have anything to do with our meetings.”
“If that’s what you want.” Was he going to kiss her? It felt like the moment. Should she lean in closer? No, it had been only a day. She couldn’t want his kiss yet, could she?
He stepped back suddenly and strode to the center of the yard, looking up at the windows. He scowled as if he’d seen something unpleasant. “I will need to go back in soon. The duke will be missed.”
Isabella wasn’t sure that made any sense, but she didn’t wish to talk about the duke anymore. She pushed herself off the stairs and dusted the back of her skirt. One nice thing about the dull gray Mrs. Wattington demanded that she wear was that she could sit where she wished and not worry about dirt. She grinned to herself as she imagined sitting on the coarse wood steps in a delicate silk ball gown. She’d have left half of it behind trapped by splinters.
“Something amuses you.” Mr. Smythe stepped back toward her.
“I was just thinking how quickly life can change.”
“It certainly can.”
“It makes it hard to know what to wish for. All the things I wanted when I was younger seem so silly now.”
“You make it sound like you’re an old hag. You can’t be more than twenty.”
“Twenty-one actually, but I feel much older.”
“Yes, you are quite ancient.”
She took a step nearer to him. “Sometimes I do feel it. There are so many things I wanted that I imagine I’ll never have now. I think giving up dreams makes one old.”
“That’s much too serious a thought for such a moonlit night.”
She reached out, hesitated, and then, unable to stop herself, unable to control her desire to touch him, traced a finger down his cheek. “Yes, I know, but somehow you seem to be the only one I can talk to. I’ve known you less than two days, probably spent less than four hours together in your company, and yet I feel I can tell you anything.”
“As if you’d have deep, dark secrets to tell.”
If only he knew. Isabella let her hand drop. In a matter of days they’d be in London, back to the scene of her crime. She wasn’t sure if the man in the blue coat she’d seen today was the same one she’d seen at the beginning of her trip, but her gut told her that he was. If that was true she had to leave, and soon. If only she knew how. If she continued to London she might be able to blend into the crowds and disappear, seek new employment.
She swallowed and tilted her head back to stare up at the stars. “You’d be surprised. We all have secrets. Don’t you?”
He was quiet and she wasn’t sure he was going to answer. He pulled in a lungful of air. “Yes, I would have to say I do.”
“It would be easier if we didn’t. If we could just be who we are in this minute.”
The next night Isabella peered about the stable yard nervously. It was too early for Mr. Smythe to be here. If he followed the pattern of the last two nights, he would probably not appear until full dark. Unfortunately she might not be able to get away from her duties then.
She glanced about the still-busy stable. It was amazing how similar they all looked. Normally she found comfort in a crowd. With people about she just felt safer. Today, however, her nerves had the best of her. It wasn’t just the blue-coated man. There was something else wrong and she couldn’t quite put a finger on it.
She edged back from the bustle and took a seat on a bench, wishing there was one against the wall where nobody could get behind her. Despite how brief their actual acquaintance was, waiting for Mr. Smythe felt like a natural piece of her life—a very pleasant piece.
Only not today. Today she wanted to be upstairs with Joey. He’d fallen asleep the minute they arrived and the other maids had required only minor bribes to watch him for a bit. She’d snuck down the stairs eagerly, avoiding Mrs. Wattington’s room and . . . and then the feeling had overtaken her.
Something was not right.
This was something different than her normal unease, a slow creep of dread deep in her stomach.
She shook her head to clear it. The cause of her feeling didn’t really matter. In fact the feeling didn’t really matter. She should leave before her troubles found her. Leave Joey—and Mr. Smythe.
It was going to be harder than all the other leavings had been.
And there had been a lot of other leavings.
A cry came from the other side of the yard. Her head jerked up to see a groom yelling at a stable boy as a horse stomped down on his foot.
Somehow she had to get away and head in a new direction. Standing up, she began to pace. Her mind ran in circles without finding an answer. If she’d been a man she could have slung a bag over her shoulder and hiked down the road seeking a place to sleep in return for a strong back. Unfortunately it was not a strong back men were after when they offered a woman a place to sleep.
There was only one easy way for a woman to make her way in this world, and that life held no appeal.
But what other choices were there? If she left her position here she’d have no character reference, and without a reference—
She swallowed at the thought. No, she was not that desperate.
She could write to Lady Smythe-Burke. Surely the lady would help her out again. But would it be in time?
“Miss Masters?”
Her head jerked up at the voice—and the name it spoke. It came from the door of the inn, came from behind her.
She turned slowly.
He was there, the deep blue of his coat marked by a week of travel.
She tried to find her voice. It stuck deep in the recesses of her throat. Her lips formed words and she sucked her stomach in hard, forcing air out. “Are you looking for someone? I haven’t seen another woman here.”
He stared hard at her, small dark eyes glinting against pale skin. “No, I think I’ve found just who I am looking for.”
“The Duke of Hargrove requests your company for dinner, Your Grace.” Divers stood across from Mark and glared.
A man’s valet was not supposed to glare at him contemptuously no matter what he was wearing. “What on earth is he doing here? His estates are on the other side of the country.” Mark glanced out the window at the dirty stable yard.
“I imagine he is traveling to the coronation as well, Your Grace. I could not say why exactly he is on this road,” Divers answered.
Mark hadn’t really meant it as question. He was well aware of why the other duke was here. Half of England was traveling to London. Hargrove had probably been visiting with someone before heading to Town. The question had really been Why now? Why, when he was about to go down and meet Miss Smith? He’d actually borrowed a coat from Douglas for the meeting. It was a little loose about the body, but it should have helped prevent Isabella wondering about his station in life. It was not a coat to have dinner with another duke.
“May I help you change?” Divers’s lips were firmly pressed together.
Mark nodded and within minutes he was brushed and smoothed and dressed in black silk.
&n
bsp; Miss Smith was correct. His cravat was so tight and high that he couldn’t see his feet. And he wasn’t even going to think about trying to move his shoulders in the jacket. He glanced at the window one more time. Miss Smith would probably be waiting for him.
He wished for a moment that he could pull off the coat and go to her. Instead he turned and headed for the door. He would see what favor Hargrove desired.
“He’s not coming.”
Isabella jerked around and stared up at the man who’d come through the inn door, her nails biting into her palm. She couldn’t remember ever seeing him before, but he was clearly addressing her.
She should have gone in long before, but she’d stood frozen ever since the blue-coated man had addressed her. She could only hope the other maids would forgive her.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she answered the new man, backing against the wall. Why hadn’t she done that before? Blue Coat had seemed ready to grab her before another coach had pulled into the yard. He’d disappeared in the milling crowd before she could decide what to do. Could he have sent this man to take her? He certainly looked strong enough. He was not young, probably approaching fifty, but he had a broad, capable look about him. A deep scar marked one cheek.
She should have run, or gone to hide, but still she stood motionless. Unsure if she was safer here in plain sight than she would be retreating to the quiet corridors of the inn’s upper floors.
“The man you’re waiting for.” The man spoke again, waking her from her shock. “Strattington is having dinner with the Duke of Hargrove. He’s not coming.”
Isabella let the remarks sink in slowly. He was not here to apprehend her, not with Blue Coat. He was with Mr. Smythe. “The duke is having a meal with Hargrove and Mr. Smythe’s presence is required?”
“Yes.” The man was certainly not verbose.
Isabella did not move away from the wall. The thought of entering the inn still chilled her. Blue Coat might be waiting to catch her in private—there would be fewer questions if no one saw her taken.
She was safer here.
And now all she wanted was a few minutes with Mr. Smythe, a few minutes of make-believe in the midst of everything else, a few moments of pretending to be safe. “Did he ask you to tell me?” she asked.
“No.”
“Then . . . ?” If Mr. Smythe wasn’t coming she should leave. She glanced nervously toward the door.
The man sighed and sat down on the steps. “He probably wouldn’t want me talking to you but—Mr. Smythe—was busy and I couldn’t just leave you waiting.” He glanced about the yard. “This is not a good place for a woman at night.”
It almost sounded a veiled threat, but somehow she knew his words were just what he said. The tension in her shoulders eased. She would be safe while he was with her. It was not the same as it was with Mr. Smythe, but it was something. “Do you work for the duke like Mr. Smythe?”
He opened his mouth, looked at her, and then closed it. She didn’t understand why it should be a difficult question.
“I am employed by the duke, yes,” he answered after a moment.
That should not have been so hard to answer. What about the duke had his employees grasping for words? “And the duke required Mr. Smythe’s presence this evening?”
The man suddenly smiled, his scar creasing his cheek. “Yes, Strattington required Mr. Smythe’s presence. He most often does.”
“Oh.” There was not much else to say. “I guess I should go in, then.” She hoped her fears did not sound in her voice.
The man nodded. Isabella began to head up the stairs back into the inn when he spoke again. “Let me walk you up.” He stood and held out his arm. “You make him happy, you know. You probably shouldn’t, but you do. I know it’s only been a couple of days, but he is different. He needs more happiness. He has a difficult time with—the duke. They are too closely related.”
She paused, then with only the slightest worry took his arm and let him lead her to the door. Nobody would come close to her if she was with him. “If you are to walk me up you must tell me your name. I feel at quite the disadvantage.” She moved close to him, hoping he would not see anything odd as she hid behind him, trying to avoid being seen. Her fingers tightened about his arm. She could not help wishing it was Mr. Smythe’s.
He looked down at her, his eyes kind, but questioning. “Just call me Douglas. It’s what His Grace does.”
Had three hours really passed? Mark wished he’d simply ignored duty and ignored Hargrove’s invitation. Hargrove was not an uninteresting man, but he was a long-winded one. Mark cared about Parliament and fully intended to take his seat, but Hargrove’s endless discussion of petty minutiae was wearing him down. He smiled and tried to ask an intelligent question about the agricultural horse tax. Hargrove grabbed on to it and began to expound again.
Miss Smith would be gone by now. She never stayed long and he doubted she’d waited more than fifteen minutes when he had not appeared. The brightest spot in his day, the only moments when he felt himself, and they were past before they could begin.
Hargrove was still answering his question and Mark could no longer even remember what it was. Had he actually asked about timber duties? What else could he say? Something about the coronation, perhaps? He noticed that any mention of it brought out opinion. Was the king spending too much? Would Queen Caroline dare to come? What would be served for dinner that night?
The last question brought as much discussion as any other.
“You seem to have drifted off. Strattington? Am I going on a little long? My mother always said I could talk from now until Judgment Day and not grow tired,” Hargrove said with surprising perception, wiping his mouth with a lace-edged handkerchief.
“No, of course not. I am merely trying to consider what you have said in light of my new responsibilities.” He rested his head upon his hand.
“Is that your father’s ring?” Hargrove stared at the large ruby upon his finger. “It’s rumored to be one of the clearest rubies ever mined.”
“Yes.”
“I remember when your father brought it back from India. I think the king offered him a title in return for it, but he would not sell.”
“I’ve always believed that to be only rumor. My father loved the king, as did my uncle. If the king had asked for the ring I am sure that one of them would have gifted it to him.”
“It must be difficult taking over from such a great man as your uncle. He was so perfect in fulfilling all that was expected of him. He set us all an excellent example. I know your cousin William admired his father greatly.”
“Did you know William? I must admit I had not seen him for several years before his death.”
“We were—were close. I was only a few years ahead of him at school. We had been the best of friends since then. His death was a great tragedy.”
“Yes, it was. I certainly never expected to inherit.” Mark hoped that was not saying too much.
“Life is strange. And you got his valet, too. Excellent man, Divers. I tried to steal him once.” Hargrove seemed to give himself a little shake. He dabbed his mouth again. “Now tell me about your journey. Has anything eventful happened? Have you met anyone interesting?”
Mark had the feeling that Hargrove was asking about something specific, but he could not imagine what. And he was not about to mention Miss Smith, though she was the only interesting person he’d met since becoming a duke.
He glanced at the clock, wishing he could turn back its hands. He would not see her tonight—not unless he snuck into her room. The thought held a certain appeal.
Chapter 6
Isabella sat on the back stairs of the inn, tapping her boots against the step below her. This was the first inn without a view to the stable yard and she hoped Mr. Smythe would find her. She shouldn’t be out at all, but she didn’t want to even think about not seeing him for another night.
Blue Coat had stayed hidden today and she hadn’t once had th
at chill on the back of her neck that made her feel watched. It was the only reason she hadn’t fled, but it didn’t make her feel any safer. It almost seemed more dangerous now that she didn’t know where Mr. Blue Coat was, if he was still following her.
Had he returned to London? Was she actually safe for now? She tried to pretend that she was—it was easier than giving in to her fears. She wrapped her arms tight about herself in the gesture of a young child.
When she’d fled from London after Foxworthy’s death she’d had a list of possible employers from Lady Smythe-Burke, a wonderful recommendation for Miss Isabella Smith, and a small purse of coin. Now she had an even smaller purse of coin and that was all. Mrs. Wattington would never give her a reference if she fled with no notice.
Did she need to leave? Perhaps Blue Coat had decided that she wasn’t Isabella Masters.
No. Not a chance. He knew just who she was.
She squeezed her hands tight and tried to think about her situation, forced herself to consider the actual possibilities.
The blue-coated man might be working for her brother, Masters. If that was the case, the outcome would not be pleasant, but it would not be as dire as . . . Her mind could not complete the thought. Her brother no longer had power over her. He might still force her home, but despite everything she doubted he’d imprison her in his home. They might have disagreed those last couple months before she ran—he might have been ready to force her to wed Foxworthy—but deep in her heart she believed he’d only done what he thought he had to. If only she knew what else he might believe he had to do. What if he felt obligated to bring in the law?
And what if Blue Coat was not working for her brother? She wrapped her arms tight about her body as a chill took her.
