by Carla Kelly
“Gerald Broussard,” he exclaimed. His voice was melodious and rich, and there was just the faintest hint of the French in the pleasant way he swallowed his r’s.
“Katherine Billings,” she said faintly, quite taken with his casual perfection.
His smile widened across his generous mouth. He winked at her, and before she could protest such flippant manners, he bowed again.
“ ‘Good morrow, Kate, for that’s your name, I hear,’ ” he quoted, still grasping her hand.
In spite of her sudden shyness around such an overpowering man, she laughed and tugged at her memory.
“ ‘Well have you heard, but something hard of hearing; they call me Katherine, that do talk of me.’ ” She wriggled out of his hold. “And besides, Mr. Broussard, it is afternoon, and not morning.”
But Broussard was not to be sidestepped by her practicality. “ ‘You lie, in faith,’ ” he continued, “ ‘for you are call’d plain Kate, and bonny Kate, and sometimes Kate the curst.’ ” He paused, winking his dark eye at her again, and Katherine, charmed, could not help but notice his improbably long eyelashes. “And so on and so on,” he concluded. “You’ve come not a moment too soon, Miss Billings; may I truly call you Kate? Now, where is your luggage?”
“You may call me Miss Billings,” she said firmly and pointed to her roped trunk inside the door of the tavern.
“Very well,” he agreed. “Whatever you wish.” He put the trunk in the back of the gig and handed her up to the seat. He joined her there, spoke to the horse in French, and they started off at a spanking pace.
“How far is it?” she asked when they were on the road.
“Not far,” he offered. “We’re between Wickfield and Pontefract.”
“Don’t you mean Wakefield?”
He shook his head, and she wondered all over again if she had misunderstood Mrs. Leavitt last week in London. She glanced at Broussard’s elegant profile. Oh, surely not. Obviously the gregarious Mr. Broussard had been sent to collect her.
He laughed then and slapped a lazy rein on the horse’s back. “Master Malcolm is positively salivating to see you,” he said with a grin in her direction.
Katherine sucked in her breath and felt her face glow hot and cold by turns. “Whatever do you mean?” she asked faintly, clutching the seat and resisting the urge to leap from the gig. She should have listened to the milkmaid.
“Oh, he’ll rant and rave, but you’ll soon be happy to dance to his tune.”
Katherine gulped. “Maybe you had better turn this gig around, Mr. Broussard.”
“Gerald, s’il vous plaît. Don’t get stage fright yet! He may have some rackety ways, but we all perform our best under Master Malcolm.”
“You, too?” she exclaimed, half starting up in the seat. “Good God!”
“Yes, of course! Do sit down, Miss Billings, before you frighten Talleyrand.” He looked at her more carefully. “I suppose you are concerned because of your age, but I am sure you will do, Miss Billings. I must admit that Master Malcolm usually likes his females older and with some experience. He says he does not like to teach them everything.”
Katherine shuddered. She grasped the reins that Broussard held so loosely and stopped the horse in the road. “Take me back or I shall scream,” she commanded.
Broussard stared at her and reclaimed the reins. “Surely you have sufficient experience to know that this will not be a painful event, Miss Billings. Where is your esprit de corps?”
Katherine slapped Broussard across his generous mouth and took back the reins. “You must be out of your mind to think that I would ever agree to any such thing from Master Malcolm Leavitt!” she exclaimed as she tried to turn the horse around.
Broussard stared at her, his hand to his mouth. As she watched in amazement, he started to laugh. With an exclamation learned from long years of travel abroad, Katherine leaped from the gig and tugged at her trunk.
Broussard was beside her in a moment. He started to put a hand on her shoulder, but the look she gave him stopped him in midmotion.
“Miss Billings, I fear I have made a mistake.”
“So has Mr. Leavitt, if he thinks I am a … a straw damsel, sir!”
Broussard leaned against the gig as she struggled with her trunk. “And who is this Monsieur Leavitt you keep speaking of?”
“Why, your employer, sir,” she sputtered.
Broussard held up his hand. “Mais non! Perhaps you and I should introduce ourselves again, and we will see where we have gone wrong.” He held out his hand again, which she refused to touch. “I am Gerald Broussard, third actor of Malcolm Bladesworth’s Traveling Company. And you are the actress he engaged from Bath?”
Katherine’s eyes opened wider. “I am no such thing! I am a governess from London, engaged by the Leavitt family of Leavitt Hall near Wakefield.”
“But that is yet another thirty miles. This is Wickfield. Oh, dear. I think I see our contretemps.”
Katherine let go of her trunk. “But I thought … I asked if it was Wakefield … but of course the rain was coming down so hard I could not perfectly hear. Oh, dear, indeed, Mr. Broussard.”
Broussard’s mouth was swollen at one corner and bleeding slightly, so he merely twinkled his eyes at her. “And when you and I traded those lines from Taming of the Shrew, well, I was certain you were the one I was set to fetch. Tell me, was there not another woman on the mail coach?”
Katherine shook her head. “No, sir. At least, not an actress. Oh, dear,” she said again and started to laugh. “I have been informed by a woman who got off earlier that Mr. Leavitt was a noted … well, she called him a lecher.”
Broussard slapped his forehead. “… who likes his females to have some experience. Ah, this is rich! I shall have to use this in a play someday! My most sincere apologies, Miss Billings. Do forgive me for frightening you. I meant no harm.”
It was easy to be charitable to Gerald Broussard. She smiled at him. “Forgiven, of course, sir. This was a mistake.” She leaned against the gig, too. “I suppose I should ask you to take me back to Wickfield. Perhaps I can continue on to Wakefield.” She hated herself for sounding so doubtful. There wasn’t any point in eliciting the sympathy of this kind person who could not help her.
He crossed his arms and looked sideways at her. “But surely you do not wish to go to Leavitt Hall, not after what you have told me.”
“No, I do not,” she agreed, “but I do not have any choice, really.”
“Alone in the world?” he asked gently, after a moment of silence.
She nodded.
“I, too.” He was silent another moment. He cleared his throat and without looking at her said, “We still need an actress, Miss Billings.”
“Oh, I could not!”
“You’d rather go to Wakefield?”
It was a quiet question that brought tears to her eyes. She would not look at Broussard. “Of course not, sir,” she said just as quietly.
Again he was silent for a moment. Then quietly, “Miss Billings, I fear you are at what we call point non plus. And let me assure that you Malcolm Bladesworth may be a tyrant, but he is not a bad man. Far from it. What will it be, Miss Billings?”
Katherine thought a moment more. “I seem to have no choice, do I?” she murmured.
“Not today, at least.” He was standing in front of her then, his hands on her shoulders. “Come with me! We have a performance of Taming of the Shrew tonight that needs a ‘lusty widow.’ Perhaps things will look different in the morning. Please, Miss Billings.”
She couldn’t look him in the eyes. “That’s a small part, isn’t it?” she said after a moment’s reflection.
“Yes. You’ll be on stage for several scenes though, hanging about Hortensio, and that last scene is important.” He took his hands off her shoulders. “But you know the lines, I think.”
She nodded. “I know the play well. But Mr. Broussard, I am a clergyman’s daughter! Whatever will people think?”
He lo
oked around him at the deserted road. “What, are you well-known in Wickfield?”
Katherine laughed, in spite of her misery. “I know no one here, you scoundrel! And yes, I will do it. But only for this night.”
Chapter 3
Henry Tewksbury-Hampton strolled back to his house on Half Moon Street with a meditative air. The day was warming, and he appreciated the little breeze that carried summer winds. It was a welcome change from the damp and chill of winter, especially that chill that had been gathering around his heart for so many years. How odd, he thought to himself. My solicitor engages in plain speaking, and I am immeasurably reassured. He laughed to himself. “Perhaps I will take your advice, Abner, and marry and breed. Heaven knows I ought to, and it might be fun.”
The thought was pleasantly erotic. He strolled a little farther and sat down on a bench by a stream that crossed the bridle path, slightly out of breath by then, and irritated with himself. “It is only, sir, that I want my wife and the mother of my children to be my idea, and not what my family thinks proper. I suppose I am stubborn.”
So I am, he thought. I only hope that I know my own mind when I see that special face—he looked down ruefully at his plentiful girth—and that she will look beyond my currently excessive avoirdupois. That can change, too, even as my faulty character. He laughed again. However, I cannot do much about my thinning hair. She’ll have to love a balding man.
He ambled farther into the park at a sedate pace, observing the gardener setting out begonias, and children scampering about the bridle path, a trial to nursemaids who wanted to chat. Marry and breed, he thought to himself again—an excellent prescription for the megrims.
Still smiling to himself, he arrived at Half Moon Street to be met by his valet. The smile vanished. He handed his hat and cane to Wilding.
“My lord, did we forget our appointment with our sister, Lady Clingwell? She is pacing about in your sitting room, and none too pleased, I might add,” Wilding chided, his scolding indulgent.
I can’t face that worrywart, he thought. Putting his finger to his lips, he took the stairs two at a time, Wilding right behind him.
“But, my lord! ’Tis your own sister!”
“If my mother can be trusted. I have had my doubts for years,” said Lord Grayson serenely as he took his old campaigning saddlebags from the dressing room. He dusted them off with his bedspread while Wilding squeaked and wrung his hands.
“My lord, whatever are we doing?”
“I am going to Yorkshire as planned, Wilding,” he replied, taking two of his well-pressed shirts from the bureau and cramming them in the saddlebags, along with a handful of neckcloths he wadded as Wilding squeaked again, sat down on the bed, and fanned himself. His smallclothes and toilet articles went in the other bag. While his valet took everything out and tried to refold it more neatly, Henry changed into his riding clothes, pausing only to let Wilding help him with his boots.
“Surely we cannot mean to ride all the way to D’Urst Hall!” Wilding exclaimed, his voice weaker now, more subdued.
“I, Wilding, not we,” Lord Grayson said firmly as he settled his hat on his head. “I will eventually get there to Pinky’s, but I am not putting a schedule on myself. Besides, I have a small errand for my solicitor.”
“I am to follow with the rest of your baggage?” Wilding asked.
“You may pack me some clothes, Wilding, if you please. The usual.” He was silent a moment, as if considering the matter. He put his gloved hand on his valet’s shoulder and gave it a gentle shake. “Let that be your last official duty in this household.”
“Wh … what?” quavered the valet, reduced by this sudden turn of events to blancmange. His knees smote together almost audibly.
“I have left a tidy severance for you with Abner Sheffield, plus a glowing recommendation, Wilding,” he explained, looking his valet in the eye and feeling not a twinge of regret. “I think it is time we took ourselves off to the Registry Office, after all.”
Wilding stared at his master. “After all these years, my lord?”
“Yes, after all these interminable years. You will have no trouble engaging another position, I am sure, Wilding. I left you a character reference that should take care of that. Good day to you.” Lord Grayson slung the saddlebags over his broad shoulder, took another look around his room, then closed the door quietly behind him. He took the backstair to the main floor to avoid any danger of his sister. Keene, his butler, waited below.
“Keene, I am off to Pinky D’Urst’s Yorkshire estate. You may direct my mail there. I should arrive in two weeks.”
Keene did not even blink an eye. “My lord, Yorkshire is not in the polar reaches. Two weeks?”
“Yes. I intend to take my time.”
“Very well, sir. You intend to travel on horseback such a distance?” Again, not a muscle twitched in Keene’s face.
“Yes.” Lord Grayson laughed, but not loud enough for his sister’s hearing. “I expect I will be eating my dinner off several mantelpieces. But this is my intention. Keene, you may now remove that mulish look from your face and take my knocker from the front door.”
Keene struggled to maintain his composure. “And what am I to tell Lady Clingwell?”
“Only that you are in entire ignorance of my whereabouts. I doubt anyone else will be curious.” He held out his hand, and the butler shook it. “Put the staff on holiday pay, Keene. And Keene, I recommend Brighton to you. It will put some color back in your cheeks. Good day to you.”
Lord Grayson strolled to the stables, engaged his favorite mount, and was soon riding out of London.
He did not travel far that first day, just far enough into the country to put London well behind him. At the inn he passed up what looked like a feast from the Satyricon and dined on chicken breast, bread with no butter, and water. He was awake half the night, staring at the ceiling and resolving never again to keep the irregular habits of London, with late rising, endless evenings in clubs, and bedtime when the sun was coming out. “I will regulate my habits until I go to bed at dark with the barnyard fowl and rise with the larks,” he resolved, even as his stomach rumbled.
The next day was more of a trial. By noon his ample backside was on fire, and the muscles inside his thighs hurt as they had not in years. Not since that first week of hard riding in Spain had his nether regions endured such punishment. See here, Henry, you are not leaping over hedges or cramming yourself against the pommel to escape the Frenchies, he thought as he gritted his teeth and posted sedately onward. Lord, am I this out of shape?
By the third evening, after his virtuous dinner of chicken and bread eaten standing up, he had no trouble falling to sleep as soon as he settled his long frame into the comfortable bed. His dreams were of beautiful women, and he woke refreshed finally.
Riding was still a purgatory, but he rode slowly, enjoying the beauty of the English countryside in early summer. His thoughts naturally traveled to Spain, which he had left eight years ago, sliding down a rope from a prison wall and into a week of gut-wrenching fear that finally ended with a plunge into the sea and a long swim to a British man-o-war looking for him across the bar on a high tide. He thought of his former comrades, living and dead, and was grateful, despite his current pain and empty stomach, to be alive.
The end of the week found him close to Wakefield and much too near the end of his journey. “Bolt, it is not that I do not like Pinky D’Urst,” he told his horse as they meandered along. “Indeed, I love him like a brother, but he will be too solicitous, and his wife keeps much too good a table. Pinky can wait another week.”
And there was Pinky’s sister to consider. Florence D’Urst was not a bad-looking woman, if one discounted a rather sharp nose and chin that threatened to meet someday, and eyes set too close together. He knew, even though no one had told him, that the D’Ursts and the Graysons were anxious for him to marry Florence. “No,” he told Bolt, who only tossed his head. “I won’t do it. Why should I have to wake up every mor
ning of the world to find that face sharing my pillow? Why should I be forced to make love with my eyes closed?”
He thought then about the woman he was looking for. “She must know her own mind and not agree to everything I say, even if I am a marquess and too rich for my own good. After all, since when did a title and a fortune qualify one to be omniscient? I would like her to be pretty, of course, but that is not a prerequisite.” He smiled to himself, thinking of Spanish women he had bedded to his great enjoyment and theirs, too. “She should love me ferociously. That would be sufficient.”
He idled along in pleasant reflection, close to whistling. After another sparse luncheon, he traveled sleepily into a warm afternoon. It would be a simple matter to find a tree to rest under for a few minutes, and if the minutes stretched into hours, what did it matter?
He was about to decide to look in earnest for a shady spot when he opened his half-closed eyes to see a man standing on the empty road in front of him. He peered more closely, more wide awake now. The man, caped and masked, appeared to be pointing a pistol at him. How bizarre, he thought, as sleep still crowded his brain. It appears I am to be assaulted. He reined in Bolt and rested his leg across the pommel of the saddle, surprisingly at charity with the road agent.
The man came closer. “Stand and deliver,” he said gruffly, waving the pistol about.
The voice sounded vaguely familiar to Henry, but he could think of no road agents among his acquaintance. He watched, frowning as the man thrust his pistol closer. The pistol wagged about as though the hand that held it shook.
“Sir, is this your first robbery?” Henry asked pleasantly. “I would be most obliged if you would not wave that pistol about in such a fashion. Those things have a habit of going off, you know.”
The words were scarcely out of his mouth when the man fired. In rapid sequence Henry saw the flash, smelled the acrid odor of powder, and felt a slap on the side of his head. With a groan he slid to the ground, the reins falling from his hands. He struggled to remain conscious, watching as his riding coat turned red.
