Not possible. She likely imagined it. ‘I am so sorry, Mrs Falkner, but Mr Garge’s neck was broken by the fall. It would have been instant.’
She stared at him, then turned her face away, clearly confused. And why would she not be after such a bang to the noggin. ‘Is there nothing we can do for him?’
‘No.’ He kept his voice matter-of-fact. He did not want her going into a fit of hysterics after she’d been so stoic. She would not like him to see her in such a state any more than he would like to watch her fall apart.
She started to rise, swayed and put a hand to her head. Her face blanched.
He gently pushed her down. ‘Sit.’ He pressed her head to her knees with his forearm at the back of her neck, a beautiful vulnerable nape that begged a man’s touch. He forced himself to look away and gaze off into the distance until her breathing evened out.
She took a deep shuddering breath. ‘I am better now. Thank you.’
He released her immediately. He did not want her thinking he had anything untoward on his mind, because it would be easy to fall into such a trap with a woman as lovely as this one. ‘He wouldn’t have felt a thing,’ he said. It was what they always told themselves in the aftermath of battle, though, given his own experience, he doubted it was ever true. ‘There was nothing anyone could have done.’
She buried her face in her hands. ‘What on earth am I to tell his wife?’
He grimaced. It was something he had always hated, but at least he’d only been required to write a letter. He’d never had to face anyone’s widow with the bad news, though he’d met plenty of them since returning to England. Made a point of it. And they were grateful, most of them, when they should have taken him to task for not caring for their men better than he had.
‘What happened?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know. The coach bounced so hard it must have hit a rut in the road and then I was thrown against the door. I don’t remember much after that.’
With a coachman as competent as Tonbridge’s driving a team as steady as this one, it was hard to imagine Garge running foul of a rut. ‘Did you see anything unusual?’
She frowned. ‘What sort of thing?’
Clearly his conversation with the innkeeper had his senses on high alert. ‘I wondered if something might have distracted Garge. Made him make a mistake?’
She frowned. ‘I heard a crack. The whip. I assumed he was trying to make up some time after the slow going in the valley.’
Ice ran through his veins. A shot? He bit back a curse, not wanting to scare her. He needed to look at the carriage. And the coachman. He rose and stared around him. ‘Well, there is no moving the carriage with that broken wheel. We must find you some shelter.’ He’d also have to notify the local authority about the death. ‘Our best course is to hope someone travels along this road, sooner rather than later.’ Once he knew she was safe, he’d come back before the local coroner arrived and see if his suspicions were borne out by evidence.
She touched a hand to her temple. ‘Yes. Of course. That is best.’ She looked hopefully up and down the road.
He couldn’t believe her calmness. Most women in her place would be fainting all over the place and calling for their hartshorn. Not his sisters, though, he realised, suddenly missing them like the blazes, when he’d done his best to ignore them for years. She was like the women who had followed the drum with their husbands. One of the kind made of sterner stuff. The kind a man could admire as well as lust after. Curse his wayward thoughts.
‘Sit here and don’t move while I see to the horses.’
She stiffened and he realised he’d phrased it as an order. ‘If you don’t mind?’
Her posture relaxed. She nodded, trickles of rain coursing down her face.
‘I don’t suppose you have an umbrella in the coach?’
She shook her head, her eyes sad.
Blast, he needed to get her out of the rain before she caught some sort of ague. As soon as he was sure the horses would not make a dash for it, he would sit her back in the carriage.
And then he heard the sound of wheels on the road and the clop of hooves. For a change it seemed luck was on his side.
Rescue was at hand.
* * *
Sitting by the hearth in a tiny parlour of the small inn at a crossroads some two miles from the accident, Caro could not seem to get warm no matter how close she sat to the blazing logs. They had been lucky the carter had agreed to bring her to the closest inn while Mr Read stayed with the horses. The Crossed Keys, situated high on the moorland, was the only hostelry for miles. The carter had then gone off with the innkeeper to fetch the local constable.
In her mind’s eye, she kept seeing poor Mr Garge, lying on his back on the rock-strewn ground. Kept thinking of his wife. She had no doubt that Tonbridge would offer the woman some sort of aid, but that wasn’t the point. They were a devoted couple and now the woman would be alone. Caro knew the pain of losing everyone you loved. Even blessed as she was with Thomas, it had taken years before the agony of that loss had eased to a dull ache she rarely noticed.
The innkeeper’s wife, Mrs Lane, bustled in with a tray. ‘Here you go, ma’am. This will warm you from the inside out. I’ve taken the liberty of adding a tot of brandy. Put some heart into you, you look that pale.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Lane, but I do not drink strong spirits.’
‘It’s medicinal,’ the woman said and folded her arms across her ample bosom. ‘Ye’ll drink it like a good lass. One swallow. I’d do no less for one of me own.’
A will of iron shone in the other woman’s eyes, but there was kindness there, too. How kind would she be if she knew the truth of Caro’s past? But that was neither here nor there in this situation. She picked up the goblet and sniffed. The pungent fumes hit the back of her throat and made her eyes water. ‘I don’t think—’
‘The trick is to drink it down quick, lass. The longer you dally, the worse it will get.’
Like the rest of the unpleasant things in life. Heaving a sigh, Caro closed her eyes, tipped the glass and swallowed. Her throat seized at the burn. She choked and coughed and gasped while Mrs Lane banged her on the back—until she caught her breath and was able to ward her off.
‘I’m fine,’ she managed.
‘Aye, well, you will be. Now drink your tea and we’ll await for the menfolk to return. Meanwhile I’ve a supper to cook.’ She marched out.
Her husband, who was also the local undertaker, had sent his potboy for the local coroner. The Lanes were indeed practical folk.
Caro poured her tea and sipped to take the taste of the brandy away. She had to admit she did feel better. And warmer. A whole lot warmer. A welcome numbness stole over her. She leaned back against the plump cushion.
* * *
A sound jerked her fully awake. She opened her eyes to find Mr Read staring down at her with an odd look on his face.
She sat up, her cheeks flushing hot. ‘Oh,’ she gasped. ‘I must have fallen asleep. I beg your pardon.’ She glanced at the clock. Goodness. She had slept for more than an hour. The landlady had taken her tray away and she hadn’t heard a thing. ‘Is everything all right?’
Such a stupid question from the look on his face. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to break free of the fog of sleep.
He grimaced. ‘I hate to do this, but the coroner is requesting a word. About the accident.’
The last word had an odd emphasis, but when she looked at his face, there was nothing to see but a kindly concern. ‘Yes. Of course. If it is required.’
‘I’ll fetch him.’ He made a small gesture with his hand and let it fall. ‘You might want to take a peek in the mirror. Your cap...’ His words trailed off, but there was heat in his eyes she did not understand. He turned away smartly. ‘I’ll fetch him up.’
T
he moment he closed the door, she leaped to her feet and stared at her reflection in the mirror above the mantel. Heavens, her cap was askew and tendrils of hair were hanging in strings around her face. Mr Read must think her a slattern to be drinking and sleeping in such a state. Cheeks pink with embarrassment, her stomach dipping in shame, she quickly tidied herself barely moments before she heard the tread of heavy steps on the stairs followed by a sharp knock.
‘Come.’
Mr Read ushered in a heavyset gentleman who appeared to be in his sixties with wind-roughened cheeks and a beak of a nose above a grizzled beard.
‘Mrs Falkner, may I introduce Sir Reginald Walcombe. Sir Reginald, this is the lady of whom I spoke.’
Sir Reginald bowed, with a creaking of corset. ‘Ma’am.’
‘Please, gentlemen, be seated,’ she said.
Sir Reginald sat, pulled out an enormous white linen handkerchief and mopped his brow. ‘Stairs, ma’am,’ he wheezed apologetically.
Behind him, amusement twinkled in Mr Read’s eyes for such a brief moment she almost might have imagined it. Almost. But it was such a warming and comforting thing, she knew she had not. Indeed, she had a tiny bit of trouble repressing a smile. ‘May I call for the tea tray, Sir Reginald?’
‘No, thank’ee kindly. I had a shot of Lane’s best down below.’
For some reason, Mr Read remained standing. His expression was blank, but he seemed to be watching her intently.
‘Now, ma’am, I know thee’s had a shock, but tell me, if you will, in your own words, what happened.’
She relayed the same information to him as she had told to Mr Read, whose gaze became more intense.
When she got to the part about Garge looking in on her, Sir Reginald frowned. ‘You saw him, ma’am?’
‘No. It took me a moment or two to come to my senses, but the door was open, as Mr Read will confirm.’
‘It was,’ Mr Read said.
Sir Reginald’s bushy brows drew down in a way that would frighten small children and miscreants. ‘He spoke then? Said something to ʼee?’
‘No. The door opened. Nothing else.’
‘Ah, probably the latch gave way. Coach is badly damaged.’ He shook his head. ‘Bad business all around.’ With a laboured grunt, Sir Reginald pushed to his feet with hands braced on the chair arms. ‘A terrible accident, then. And not the first time on that bend. I’ll bid you good day, ma’am.’
‘I will see you out, sir,’ Mr Read said. ‘I will return in a moment, Mrs Falkner.’
Something in the way he looked at her gave her pause. Was there something he wasn’t saying?
Heart beating fast, she awaited his return.
* * *
A good fifteen minutes passed and still no sign of him. She got up and looked out of the window. There was no sign of any conveyance, but the windows of the rooms below cast their light out into the courtyard.
Finally, a light knock sounded at the door. She hadn’t heard anyone mounting the stairs. ‘Who is it?’
‘Read,’ came the low rumble of his voice.
‘Come in.’
He entered with a frown on his face.
‘Is something wrong?’
‘I took the liberty of asking for dinner to be served in here and booking you room for the night. I had your valise and purchases taken upstairs.’
Her stomach pitched. ‘I cannot be away all night. Tommy will worry.’ He was a clever little boy. It had not taken him long to realise that most children had two parents as well as extended families. He knew his father had died and had become terrified she would die, too, leaving him completely alone.
Mr Read’s expression darkened as if her anxiety was his fault, but he gave her no chance to explain. ‘We have no choice,’ he bit out tersely. ‘It is too late to set out tonight. Sir Reginald has promised to send over his carriage for our use in the morning, but he needed it to return home. Lane’s cart is required for funeral purposes.’ His voice was harshly matter-of-fact.
They were stranded. She took a deep breath. ‘I see. Well then, there really is no alternative.’
‘Mrs Lane will show you up to your chamber to freshen up. Dinner is to be served in here in an hour.’ He hesitated and went on in a voice devoid of all expression. ‘If you don’t care for company this evening, I am more than happy to take my meal in the kitchen.’
Despite the flatness of his tone, and an apparent lack of concern about her decision one way or the other, she sensed an underlying tension. As if he expected her to consign him to dine with the servants. He must think her rude indeed. ‘After today’s events I would be grateful for your company, Mr Read. And I wish to hear more of Sir Reginald’s opinion with regard to the accident.’
His expression lightened, very slightly. He bowed. ‘It will be my pleasure. I will let Mrs Lane know you are ready to go up.’
His pleasure. Now, why had that word sent shivers skating down her back?
* * *
Waiting in the parlour for her return, Blade cursed himself for his weakness, for wanting to spend time in her company. He should not have even thought of having dinner with her, let alone suggesting it in a manner that made it impossible for her to say no. So typical of him, Charlie would say. He’d spent too many years on the strut honing his seductive skills to leave them at the door when in decent company. Too bad. He made no pretence of being more than the guttersnipe he’d been born, the reason why some of the more daring ladies liked him in their beds. A taste of excitement and danger. A bit of rough, one had called him to his face.
Not this one, though. This one was a respectable lady who would not have given him the time of day if he wasn’t Charlie’s friend. And nor should she.
He still didn’t know what to make of her assertion that Garge, or someone, had opened the door, and it was that someone who was worrying him. Who had opened the carriage door and looked in? Why would anyone do that and not render assistance?
Old Sir Reginald had seen it as female megrims, but that was too out of character for Mrs Falkner. Could someone have come across the accident, thought to rob the carriage and been deterred by the sound of him coming along the road? Or could it be something more sinister, such as someone hoping to cause Tonbridge harm? Someone who had been surprised by the presence of a woman in his carriage and taken off. Or was it simply a case of the door latch letting go as the carriage twisted and settled on its broken axle as Sir Reginald thought? Blade might have thought so, too, if not for the one unaccounted-for boot print in the mud beside the carriage door.
Nevertheless, whichever it was, Mrs Falkner had been lucky she wasn’t more seriously hurt.
Fortunately, like Sir Reginald, she seemed to have no suspicion that it might be anything other than an accident. And since he did not want her frightened out of her wits any more than she had been already, he planned to leave it that way. He still couldn’t quite believe she hadn’t simply taken to her bed after such a scare.
His unruly mind wandered back to the scene of her drowsing in the chair when he had come to warn her of Sir Reginald’s imminent arrival. Asleep, her face relaxed, she had looked younger, prettier, more like the girl he had been smitten with that long-ago spring. A memory she clearly did not want to acknowledge any more than he did. She was the daughter of a vicar and he was the bastard son of a prostitute who’d kicked him out at the age of ten. ‘I don’t need you hanging around. You are just another mouth for me to feed.’ The pain of those words stabbed him behind the breastbone. Less sharp than when spoken, but still there. While he hadn’t thought so at the time, he’d been fortunate his father had agreed to recognise him as his son or he’d likely have died on the streets of London. Or been hanged for a criminal.
He heard her soft tread on the stairs outside the parlour and opened the door.
She looked start
led. ‘How did you know it was me?’
‘By your step.’ He led her to the chair by the hearth. The table was set, but the food had not yet appeared.
He stood at ease, wrist crossed over his forearm behind him. A trick he’d perfected to make the missing hand less noticeable.
‘Please, Mr Read,’ she said sharply. ‘Be seated, before I get a crick in my neck.’
He was tempted to resist what was clearly an order. That had always been his trouble. Rebelling at stupid orders. She suffered from a similar affliction, he recalled, and he wanted to smile.
Her expression carved in stone, her hands folded in her lap, she waited for him to do as she bid.
He picked up the poker, raked around in the fire for a moment or two as a sop to his pride, before he sat in the chair recently occupied by Sir Reginald. ‘Why do you pretend we did not meet before?’
Hell, why had that been blurted out of his mouth? Why the devil did it matter?
Her lush lips parted. Her eyes widened in shock before her gaze lowered to her clasped fingers. ‘You gave no sign of remembering me either,’ she said in a low voice.
At seventeen, and a newly minted ensign, he’d thought her akin to an angel. He’d been far too tongue-tied seeing how pretty she was, how very different from the women he’d known when living with his mother, or those in his adoptive parents’ house, to do more than stutter a greeting.
She was also the reason for his first reprimand. He’d gone for Carothers’s throat when he’d called her a round-heeled wench in the officers’ mess the morning after the local assembly, where they’d been invited to make up the numbers of gentlemen. For that, he’d received a tongue-lashing from his commanding officer and a black mark on his record. Only his father’s name had kept him from being thrown out of the regiment.
‘It was a long time ago,’ he said. Too long ago for it to be of any relevance.
‘Yes.’ She raised her gaze to meet his, clearly glad to put the recollection behind her. ‘Much has occurred since then.’
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