by Jane Feather
Rupert was handing his cloak to Griffin when Octavia came down the stairs. “We have a problem with Frank,” she said without preamble.
“Another one?” He raised his eyebrows wearily.
“He is a thief, my lord,” Griffin declared with succinct satisfaction, smoothing his lordship’s cloak as it hung over his arm.
Rupert grimaced at Octavia, who shrugged and preceded him into the library.
Rupert closed the door behind him. “So what’s he stolen?”
“Things from the servants. And today he was in the process of making off with two teaspoons from the silver when Griffin caught him.”
“It poses us with a somewhat interesting dilemma. Do we take the moral high ground, or the pragmatic low ground?”
“The latter,” Octavia said without hesitation. “Always assuming he comes back. It wouldn’t surprise me if we’ve seen the last of him.”
“Probably,” Rupert agreed. “I imagine he’ll be too frightened to come back.”
“I suppose it was foolish to hope that we could give him a different life,” Octavia said. “The mud of the stews doesn’t release its grip too easily.”
Rupert heard her bitterness, but he could find no sugar with which to sweeten the pill. They had both lived the realities of the city’s underbelly.
“Wednesday,” Octavia announced with sudden briskness. “I will meet up with Wyndham at two o’clock in a hackney. We should reach the heath by three. It’ll be broad daylight. Won’t that be dangerous?”
“You’ll instruct the coachman to take a different route across the heath. A less frequented road toward Wildcroft. We’ll take our chance there.”
“And after the robbery, where will you go?”
“To the cottage until the hue and cry has died down. You will play the hysterical victim of a highwayman for the benefit of the jarvey and Wyndham and return to town to lay evidence with the Bow Street Runners. You will, of course, be somewhat hazy in your details as a result of the shock.”
“Of course.”
And then what?
But Octavia knew the answer to that, so the question remained unposed. They would go their separate ways, and this sojourn in purgatory would be mercifully ended. She began to rearrange a vase of yellow roses.
“Octavia?”
“Yes?” She didn’t look up from her task.
Can’t you forgive me?
The words hovered on his lips, cried out to be spoken, but he couldn’t say them. He didn’t know how to ask for forgiveness. He’d been hardened over too many years of living a life dictated by the wrongs others had done him. He was a man to whom apologies were owed, not a man who owed his own. A man who had been hurt, and if he caused hurt to others, it was as a result of the hurt that had been done him. But he didn’t know how to explain that, not in the face of Octavia’s closed expression, the cool distance in the tawny eyes. And not in the face of his own haunting shame that he’d stooped to such a detestable deception … that he’d callously twisted such a courageous and candid spirit as indifferently as he would bend a pipe cleaner.
Octavia looked up from the roses, waiting for him to say what he had to say. He wanted to seize her in his arms, crush the anger and resentment from her body with the strength and warmth of his embrace. Press his lips to hers and take the bitterness from them with the sweetness of his kiss. He wanted to take her body with his own, plunge deep within her and exorcise the gall and wormwood of betrayal.
But she stood there behind an invisible wall that he didn’t know how to scale or to tear down.
“Never mind,” he said, shaking his head. “It wasn’t important.”
“Oh.” She dropped her head, and he missed the flash of disappointment that crossed her eyes. “I have to meet with Cook to discuss the menu for tomorrow’s dinner party,” she said, going to the door. “You haven’t forgotten that we’re dining this afternoon with the Monforts.”
“No, I haven’t forgotten. But I have time to visit the Royal Oak first. I need to discuss arrangements for Wednesday with Ben.” He moved to open the door for her.
As she passed him, he inhaled her delicate fragrance of orange flower water and lavender soap, and a wash of nostalgia swamped him. He allowed his hand to brush against her bare forearm, and for a second she paused. She glanced up at him, and the haunting unhappiness in her eyes tore at him.
“Ah, sweeting,” he said softly, but the shutters immediately went up again. She drew herself aside as she slipped through the door, and he closed it quietly behind her.
Octavia stood for a minute in the hall, struggling for composure. How she yearned for him to take her in his arms, override her misery and her stubborn inability to forgive. She needed him to explain, to express his deep regret. She knew what she wanted, and yet it had to come from Rupert.
In the past he’d been so good at sweeping her along on the tide of his own plans and enthusiasms. So good at discounting her protests and her resentments. And now, when it mattered more than anything that he should do so, he simply stood back and accepted her withdrawal.
Desolately, she made her way to the stairs.
Rupert set off for Putney as soon as Octavia had left him. All he wanted now was for the business to be done. Then they could go their separate ways, and he would no longer be tormented by what might have been.
The front door of the Royal Oak stood open to the afternoon sun, and the taproom was busy as Rupert entered it. Bessie was behind the bar, drawing ale with her customary morose efficiency. Ben was sitting beside the empty hearth, engaged in idle chat with his cronies, blue pipe smoke circling above them.
Tabitha, carrying a laden tray of tankards to the bar, saw the new arrival first. “’Ere’s Lord Nick.”
A chorus of greetings rose on the hazy air. “Eh, Nick, come and sit yerself down.” Ben rose from the settle and pulled a chair over to the hearth.
“What’ll ye drink, Nick?” Bessie took down a pewter tankard from a shelf behind the bar and polished it on her apron.
“A pint of ale if you please, Bessie.” Rupert flicked aside the skirts of his cloak as he took the chair, letting his riding crop rest across his knees.
He glanced around the crowded room and was pleased to see that there was no sign of Morris. For all Ben’s confidence in the man, Rupert was not entirely convinced of Morris’s reliability. He knew how easily the informer could be bought.
“Ye’ve not brought miss with you this time,” Tab observed, dropping a curtsy as she handed him a foaming tankard.
“Not this time,” Rupert agreed placidly. He took a deep draft of ale and wiped the foam from his upper Hp with the back of his hand. “That’s good. I’ve a thirst on me powerful enough to drain an ocean.”
“Aye, it’s ’ot out there,” one of the smokers said comfortably. “I ’eard that Lord George ’as called a meetin’ fer next week. St. George’s Field or some such place.”
“An’ then a march on Parliament,” one of his fellows declared knowledgeably. “You goin’ along?”
“I might,” the other said as comfortably as before. “Then agin, I might not.”
Ben raised an eyebrow at Lord Nick and gestured with his head to the door. Rupert nodded and drained his tankard.
The two got up and left the taproom as the arguments for and against Lord George Gordon’s rabble-rousing activities grew heated.
They made their way by mute consent into the stable-yard.
“You’ve a new stable lad,” Rupert commented, leaning his shoulders against the warm red brick of the wall and closing his eyes for a second as the sun beat down on his eyelids.
“Aye. Freddy’s pa needed ’is ’elp in the fields fer the summer. So young Bobbie there is takin’ ’is place.”
Rupert opened his eyes and languidly regarded the lad grooming a shire horse in the shade. Then he pushed himself off the wall. “Let’s walk a bit.”
Ben followed him out of the yard and into the lane beyond. They strolled slowly in
the shadow of the wall.
“Y’are plannin’ to take to the road fer this personal business?”
“Wednesday,” Rupert said. “But on the Wildcroft road. It’s less populated.”
Ben nodded, bending to pluck a grass stem from the roadside. He sucked reflectively.
“There’s a goodly stretch of that road that runs through trees. That’d be as good as anywhere.”
“I know where you mean. I’ll need more time than usual, since this operation requires stripping my quarry to his small clothes.” Rupert’s lazy smile was far from pleasant.
“Ye’ll need someone to watch yer back,” Ben declared. “I’d best come along … watch the road while y’are doin’ your business.”
“No, Ben. I’ll not involve you more than usual. Have the cottage ready. That’s all that’s necessary.” The drawl had vanished from Rupert’s voice.
“What ’arm would an extra lookout do?” Ben was reluctant to yield.
“No, Ben. I work alone.”
Ben glowered. “An’ what of miss? Ye work with ’er.”
Rupert was silent for a minute. Then he said, “Be that as it may, old friend, I’ll not risk your safety. You’ve too many people dependent upon you. What would happen to the Royal Oak if you found yourself swinging from Tyburn Tree?”
Ben grunted and didn’t look any happier but he shrugged his acceptance. “What time Wednesday?”
“Midafternoon, or thereabouts. I’ll stop in here first.”
“Right y’are. I’ll ’ave yer pistols primed. Ye want Lucifer?”
“No, I’ll take Peter for this.”
“That’s something, I suppose,” Ben said grudgingly.
Rupert merely smiled and punched him lightly on the shoulder before they turned to walk back along the lane beneath the wall, reentering the stable yard where the new lad was whistling between his teeth as he lovingly combed the shire’s thick mane.
“Ye’ll come in fer a bit of dinner?” Ben invited. “Bessie ’11 be expectin’ ye.”
“No, I have to get back, thanks. Tell Bessie I’ll be up Wednesday night, once the coast is clear. She can feed me to her heart’s content then.”
Ben smiled a little grimly and called to the stable lad. “Bobbie, fetch the gentleman’s ’orse?”
Bobbie left the shire and went into the stable, returning in a few minutes with Lucifer. “’Ere y’are sir.”
“Thanks, lad.” Rupert tossed him a sixpence as he mounted. Than he leaned down to clasp Ben’s hand in a firm grip. “Until later, old friend.”
“Aye. And ’ave a care.” Ben waited until Lord Nick and Lucifer had trotted out of the yard then he turned and went back to the inn.
The lad stood for a minute, tapping the sixpence against his teeth. Then he ran back to the shire horse, hurriedly returned him to the stable, and five minutes later was weaving his way through the somnolent streets of Putney. It was clear from his expression and his speed that his errand was an important one.
Chapter 20
“You are quite clear in your mind what you have to do?” Rupert was standing at the window in Octavia’s bedchamber, his hands resting on the sill behind him. His expression was impassive, his eyes veiled so that Octavia could read nothing in them.
“Yes, I’m quite clear.” She hitched herself farther up against her pillows and took a sip of her hot chocolate. Rupert hadn’t been in her bedchamber for two weeks and she felt uncomfortable, almost embarrassed, to be sitting up in bed in her nightgown while he stood there, immaculately clad in a suit of bronze silk, his hair unpowdered and tied back with a matching silk ribbon.
“Are you going to the king’s levee?”
“I shall put in an appearance,” he replied. “Let it be known that I’m going out of town for a day or two.”
“Will you be at the Royal Oak?” she asked tentatively, lifting the small silver pot and pouring another dark, fragrant stream of chocolate into her cup. She didn’t really want a refill, but it gave her something to do with her hands.
“No. Once I have the ring, there will be other arrangements to make. People I must see.”
Like the family lawyers and old Doctor Hargreaves, who’d brought him and Philip into the world. When Cullum Wyndham announced himself to his twin, he intended to leave nothing to chance. Philip would have no room to maneuver. No choice but to accept the fait accompli.
“You won’t need me here, then? Once you have the ring, I mean. There will be nothing further for me to do?” Her cup clinked in the saucer, and chocolate slurped over the delicate gold rim onto the pristine-white tray cloth beneath.
“If you wish to leave after this afternoon, of course that’s for you to decide,” he said with a completely credible dispassion. “But you must let me know how to get in touch with you. I will have things to return to you … things that belong to you.”
“Yes,” she agreed in a wooden little voice. “I suppose you’ve nearly completed your side of the contract.”
“A couple of weeks more and I will have done.” He pushed himself away from the window. “Where will you go when you leave here?”
“I don’t know.” Octavia picked at a hangnail on her index finger. “I haven’t decided as yet.”
“How will you explain things to your father?”
She shrugged, her creamy rounded shoulders lifting beneath the delicate fabric of her nightgown. His eyes sought and found the dark crown of her nipples veiled in gossamer. Her hair fell forward, shielding her face from his view.
Deliberately, he stepped to the bedside. Leaning over, he caught her face and lifted it, brushing aside her hair with his free hand. She looked startled and dreadfully vulnerable as she met his gaze. But she said nothing. Made no move either to free herself or to respond to his touch.
“Good-bye, Octavia.” He lowered his head and kissed her mouth. The heady scent of her filled his nostrils, the taste of her lips, her skin, flooded his memory, stimulated his nerve endings, sending a rush of blood to his head that made him dizzy. But still she made no move, her lips lifeless and unresponsive beneath his.
He drew back, straightening slowly. “Good-bye, Octavia.”
His hand fell from her face and he turned away from the golden eyes, the pale, beautiful countenance of his madonna.
“God go with you,” she said, but so quietly he didn’t hear as he opened the door and left the room.
Tears splashed onto the tray on her knees, fell into the shallow cup, salting the chocolate, and Octavia simply sat there, allowing the tears to flow.
Finally, she pushed the tray aside, flung off the covers, and stood up. It was over and done with. She had one last part to play, and she would play it to the hilt. Rupert would be taking all the danger, but he wouldn’t find his partner lacking in support.
At two o’clock a hackney drew up outside Wyndham House. The Earl of Wyndham came down the steps immediately. He climbed into the carriage, slamming the door behind him. The heavy leather curtains were pulled down across the window apertures, and to any casual observer he had stepped into an empty vehicle.
“Good afternoon, my lord.” Octavia spoke softly from a shadowy corner.
Philip didn’t speak, merely seized her hands and pulled her across the narrow space, crushing her against him, his mouth battening on hers, pressing her lips hurtfully against her teeth.
“So eager, sir,” Octavia gasped with a little laugh when he finally released her.
“You drive me to madness, woman,” he rasped, leaning back against the squabs, regarding her through narrowed eyes. “For two pins I’d take you here and now.” The gray slits glittered at her in the dimness, and his mouth was a thin curve that reminded Octavia of a hawk.
“That might invite interruption, my lord,” she said lightly, moistening her swollen lips. “For all that we’re shielded from prying eyes.”
Philip smiled and folded his arms. “I’ll restrain myself, madam, for the moment. But I promise that you will learn this afternoon wha
t it is to be truly possessed.”
Octavia controlled her shudder and the spurt of contemptuous rage, hoping that the dimness would conceal the involuntary curl of her hp. “I hope you will be pleased with the arrangements I’ve made, my lord.”
“Where is this house?”
“A small village called Wildcroft on the edge of Putney Heath.”
Philip frowned. “That seems a long way to go for an afternoon.”
“That depends on the afternoon, I would have said.” She smiled suggestively. “I venture to think, sir, that you will find this one worth the journey.”
He laughed. “And you, my lady. And you.”
“That goes without saying, sir.”
Somehow she managed to keep up this anticipatory banter as the hackney took them across Westminster Bridge and through the small villages on the south bank. At one point she drew aside the leather curtain and looked out. They were passing through Wandsworth. Putney was the next village. She let the curtain fall again. Would it be better to be unaware and in darkness when the attack came? Or ready and waiting for it?
The dim light at least allowed her to conceal her expression. And she was sure she couldn’t keep her countenance completely clear of the dread and excitement that now surged through her veins, making her feel sick. Perspiration trickled down her rib cage and gathered between her breasts.
Suddenly, Philip leaned forward and raised the curtain, fastening it to the hook on the ceiling. “It’s airless in here. We’re in no danger from prying eyes in this godforsaken wilderness.” He mopped his own damp brow with a handkerchief.
So much for the shadows. Octavia dabbed at her breasts with the lace edge of her fichu and turned her face to the window, hoping thus to conceal her expression even as she took the benefit of the light breeze.
The horses were pulling up the hill toward Putney Heath. The coachman suddenly leaned down from his box, shouting toward the window. “The Wildcroft road, is it, lady?”
“That’s right.” Octavia stuck her head out of the window. “I’ll direct you to the house when we reach the village.”
