Too Dangerous For a Lady

by Jo Beverley

  And then there’d been that kiss. Far more of a kiss than she’d dreamed of six years ago, but proof that the situation wasn’t a fairy tale at all. He was real. Their connection was real. Their earthy passion was desperately real.

  She couldn’t, wouldn’t, do anything about that, but the thought of him tied uncomfortably to a chair wouldn’t let her sleep. When the clock tolled eleven, she gave up. She put the button back in the pocket and slid out of the far side of the bed to put on her slippers and brown woolen robe. She hesitated then, but she was more covered, neck to toe, than in most of her daytime clothes, and it was dark. The fire must have gone out and only moonlight lit the room.

  As she fumbled her way toward the back of the chair, he said, “What?” perhaps alarmed.

  “I’m going to untie you,” she murmured, kneeling behind him to undo his hands.

  “Is that wise?”

  She unpicked the first knot. “You won’t hurt us.”

  “You can’t be sure of that.”

  “Are you going to scold me? If so, I’ll leave you as you are.”

  “Then I should.”

  “Oh, be quiet. A pest on these knots. Why did I tie so many?”

  He didn’t respond and she lost patience. She found her sewing kit and used the small scissors to hack at the stocking until it fell free.

  She went round to the front, but rubbing his wrists, he said, “I’ll do the legs. I have no other pair.”

  “Are you truly penniless?”

  “Not quite, but I’m not sure where my luggage is.”

  As he bent to work at the knots on his left ankle, she perched on the nearby chair, despite the cold, tucking her hands up the sleeves of her robe. The boys were sound asleep and the bed-curtains drawn. A little more quiet conversation should be safe, and she needed to know how he’d come to such a state.

  “Can’t you tell me what’s going on?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “You did fight in the war?”

  “Of course.”

  “At Waterloo?”

  “No.”

  “Your regiment was sent to North America?”

  “I sold out in 1814.” One stocking was done. He started on the other. “Why aren’t you married?”

  “Is it an offense?”

  “I’m merely surprised. The pretty daughter of a marquess.”

  “Flattery, but thank you. I’ve had offers, but none that suited me.”

  He glanced up. “You prefer being a governess?”

  “They’re my nephews. My sister and brother-in-law are next door with the baby.”

  “No nursemaid?”

  “No room for one in the coach.”

  “Only one coach?”

  There was nothing for it. “Didn’t you know we’re the Poor Merryhews?”

  He unfastened the last knot and stood to stretch his legs and arms, tall and so handsomely built. His shoulders were broader now. “How can a marquess be poor?” he asked.

  “The same way as with any other impoverished peer. Unproductive land, bad management, indulgence, a gamester or two along the way.”

  “Marquesses should have been able to marry a fortune every generation.”

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? It’s not as if they romantically married for love. They simply drifted into the easiest option.”

  He sat down again opposite her, nothing but shadows with the window behind him. “I’m surprised some ambitious heiresses didn’t present the easy option.”

  “Northumberland.”

  “Why is that important?”

  “Carsheld Castle is in Northumberland and rich heiresses seem to favor the south. That was part of the reason for our move to Hampshire.” Here they were again, in easy conversation, even about personal matters, perhaps more intimate because of darkness and the late hour.

  He began to pull on his stockings. “I was wondering about that.”

  “Mother lost patience with the crumbling discomfort of Carsheld and insisted on the move, but she also hoped that in the south my brother Jermyn would tempt a fortune. It almost worked. He was betrothed to twenty thousand pounds when he died from eating bad shellfish.”

  “Careless of him. No other brothers?”

  “Roger, but he was already dead.” She hadn’t grieved deeply over Jermyn, who’d been selfish and stupid, but her heart still ached for Roger, who’d burned brightly and deserved the name Merryhew.

  He looked at her. “Ah yes, you mentioned him.”

  “You remember?”

  “Deceased heroes were significant to me then. Still are,” he added.

  “You must have lost many friends.”

  He didn’t respond to that. Of course not. “Is there a new marquess, or has the title died?”

  “There’s a new one, though they had to hunt up and down the family tree for him. Porteous Merryhew, who before his elevation was some sort of official in the Public Accounts Office. I know it’s horrid to sneer at that.”

  “He must rejoice to be a marquess, even a poor one.”

  “I’m sure he did, but he’s become a rich one, damn him.”

  “Lady Hermione!” he protested, laughter in his voice.

  She had to smile. “I’ve frightened off some suitors with my bold tongue.” Then she heard what she’d said. “I didn’t mean . . .”

  “Of course not.”

  “Absolutely not.” But that was too definite. “I mean that Cousin Porteous has found coal on the Northumberland estate. If only Father had thought to look.”

  “Ah, no wonder you cursed him. If your father had grown rich that way, the money wouldn’t have been entailed and you and your sister would have inherited his wealth.”

  “It’s maddening to think about. I try not to, but Polly can’t help it.”

  He stretched out his long legs. “Polly?”

  “My sister, Apollonia.”

  “No one ever shortened your name?”

  “To what? Hermy?”

  “Minnie,” he teased. “The new marquess doesn’t share his good fortune with his family?”

  “Why should he? We’re strangers. So you see, I have only a tiny portion to tempt the gentlemen.”

  “Thus you live with your sister and she uses you as a servant.”

  “Heavens, no. I live with her, but we do have the normal complement of servants.”

  “But travel in one carriage and stay at a cheap inn?”

  She shook her head. “My turn for questions. Where is your home?”

  “London as much as anywhere at the moment.”

  His family came from Berkshire, she remembered. Perhaps he’d been disowned. “You’ll return there tomorrow?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “With your ill-gotten gains.”

  “Yes.”

  “Aren’t you at all contrite?”

  “Not a bit of it.”

  “You should be.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.”

  She desperately wanted him not to be a thief, not to be poor, not to be any of the things he so clearly was. “An impoverished gentleman has many ways to make his fortune, so why turn to crime?”

  “What profession would you prescribe for me?”

  She couldn’t resist the whimsy and cocked her head in thought. “Not the church, I think, and you’re too old to join the navy.”

  “Not a promising path anyway in peacetime.”

  “The law?” she suggested.

  “Too much book work.”

  “Diplomacy?”

  “Too much wandering.”

  “Not trade, then. I have it. You must become a Bow Street Runner and put your wicked ways to good account.”

  He chuckled. “Perhaps I should. It’s a shame ladies have so
few ways of earning their keep. I’m sure you could turn your hand to any profession.”

  She shook her head. “Too much book work or wandering.”

  “Trade?”

  “I’m not at all enterprising or adventurous.”

  “Perhaps you don’t know yourself. Remember how you ventured onto that terrace with me, ripe for adventure.”

  “That was different.” Thank heaven dim light would hide any blush.

  “I wonder. Was your mother very cross?”

  “No. She understood. I miss her.”

  “When did she die?”

  “Four years ago.”

  “My condolences.”

  “Thank you. Are your parents still alive?”

  “No,” he said, but his tone was odd and she remembered some things he’d said six years ago. His mother had been French and had been caught up in the violence of the revolution there. She’d been of a nervous disposition, but she’d been deeply loved.

  “What is it?” she asked, and, without thinking, leaned to touch his hand.

  He turned his hand to take hers, rubbing her fingers with his thumb. The warm connection rippled up her arm. “My father died in 1814 and my mother a year later. But she’d not been fully alive for a long time. Perhaps as long as I’ve known her.”

  “Because of her experiences in France?”

  “You remember. She saw a brother murdered by a mob, and she and her mother only just escaped with their lives. Her father sent them to safety in England, but later he, another brother, and many relatives perished on the guillotine.”

  She tightened her hold. “How horrible. It’s scarcely believable that such things happened just across the Channel and not that long ago. How could people become so cruel?”

  “Cruelty seems to lurk like a plague. It takes only a fissure in the social order to release the poison.”

  “It could never happen here.”

  “I pray not.” He looked down at their joined hands. “She could seem fairly normal when I was young, though we all knew she could be upset by crowds or any hint of violence. She stayed close to home and everyone shielded her from disturbance. That sufficed until my father died. I was away in the army, but when I came home, I heard the story. Despite seeing his body, she insisted he’d been guillotined and hid away for fear of the same fate. She became terrified of strangers, especially men. Then, perhaps a blessing, she slid back into her youth, when her world was tranquil and her family and friends were still alive. Early in the marriage my father had some rooms done over in the French style and after his death she lived entirely in them, with two French servants, and responded only to her maiden name. In that world I didn’t exist. I became a stranger to her.”

  All she could do was squeeze his hand.

  “It’s cold. You should go to bed.”

  She rose but lingered. “You’ll feel the cold, too.”

  “I’ve known worse.” Then he drew her into his arms. “That interrupted kiss,” he said, and put his lips gently to hers.

  It was, she supposed, exactly the sort of kiss he’d have claimed from a seventeen-year-old at her first ball—slight, but sweet beyond bearing. When it ended, she rested her head on his shoulder, wishing hopelessly for everything to be different. How cruel it was that she’d found him again only to have him snatched away by poverty.

  Great-uncle Peake.

  If he was rich and dying, and if he truly intended to leave his money to her and Polly, perhaps the fairy tale might become real after all. She didn’t dare to believe that, but she’d keep the possibility in her heart.

  She wanted to stay in his arms all night, but she moved away. She was tempted to share her hope, but she was still sane enough to realize that he might not feel as she did about their connection and their future.

  She returned to bed and took off her robe just before climbing in. Then, impulsively, she returned and gave it to him.

  “Something to keep you warm,” she said, and fled in her nightgown into the concealment of the curtained bed.

  Chapter 6

  Hermione was woken by Roger pulling at her sleeve, “Miony? Miony?” That was his version of her name. “I’m hungry.”

  It was morning, for some light was coming through a chink in the bed-curtains. Perhaps it was late, for there seemed to be a bustle from the innyard. Time to get up and on their way.

  Then she remembered Thayne. Billy was waking up, yawning and rubbing his eyes. The children mustn’t see him!

  “Yes, it’s morning, loves, and we’ll have breakfast soon. Stay under the covers, though, both of you, while I make up the fire so you don’t get a chill.”

  She tucked them up again and slipped out through the curtains on the side away from the fireplace. The chair was empty except for her robe draped over it. She hurried to put it on, looking around the room. He wasn’t there. He’d left, and without a proper farewell.

  He’d left before they’d had chance for more speech, and she’d failed to get any means of contacting him. How stupid. She could be a rich heiress soon and not be able to let him know. What if he was caught and put on trial? Or caught and murdered? Or escaped, only to steal again?

  “Miony?”

  She pulled her wits together and realized that the room wasn’t as cold as it should be. A small fire burned in the hearth. There’d been little coal, so he must have left recently, but she couldn’t pursue him, especially in her nightgown. The scanty fire wouldn’t last long, so they should dress quickly.

  “Come on out, loves. I’ll ring for washing water and then we’ll have breakfast.”

  The adjoining door rattled and Polly shouted, “Hermione? Why is this locked? Open it!” The shriek seemed an overreaction even for Polly, but Hermione rushed to lift the bar, preparing an explanation.

  She didn’t need it. Polly dashed in, clearly scrambled into her clothing. “You’re up. Thank heavens! We must leave immediately!”

  “What? Why?”

  The boys ran to hug their mother’s legs, but Polly only patted their heads. “Why are you just standing there? Our lives are in danger. A mob is gathering. They’re being inflamed by speeches. We have to leave, immediately!”

  Hermione scooped up little Roger. “Polly, love, you’re frightening the children. A protest gathering won’t affect us.”

  “It’s a mob. You know what mobs are like. They break windows. They set fire to buildings. They steal weapons with intent to kill! William’s gone to prepare the coach. Get dressed. Get the boys dressed. Be quick, be quick!”

  She dashed back into her own room. Hermione wanted to protest, but once Polly ran on her wilder emotions, there was no reasoning with her.

  “Who’s going to kill us?” Billy asked, eyes huge. Roger had his thumb in his mouth, which he did only when anxious.

  Hermione knelt to gather them both into a hug. “No one’s going to hurt you, loves. But sometimes people become a little wild when they gather in a big group, so we’re going to leave and be out of their way. Let’s get dressed. You start for yourself, Billy, while I help Roger.”

  Hermione was still gathering the boys’ clothing when Polly dashed back in, hair somewhat tidy and bonnet in place. “Why aren’t you ready? Really, Hermione! I’ll dress Roger.” She picked up the lad and his clothes and carried them into the other room, where baby Henrietta was beginning to wail.

  Hermione smiled for Billy and turned his stocking so it would go on properly.

  “If we’re not in danger,” Billy asked, “why are we in a rush?” He was a clever and observant little boy.

  “We could become in danger if we stay, but we’re leaving, so we’re in no danger at all.”

  He let her do his other stocking. “What’s a mob?”

  “A lot of people gathered together.”

  “Like at church?”

  “No. In t
he open air, and getting overexcited.”

  “Like at the fair and the greasy pig contest?”

  He was clever, observant, and persistent. “A bit like that. You know how sometimes people start to argue and fight?”

  He nodded, apparently satisfied. “I want my breakfast.”

  So did Hermione, but she said, “We’ll halt as soon as we can. Let’s get your shoes on.” She brushed his hair, put his jacket in his hand, and shooed him next door to his mother.

  She closed the door with a sigh of relief and took off her robe, but then she wondered whether Thayne could be hiding somewhere. “Thayne?” she asked softly, but of course there was no response. She had to hope he was far away and safe.

  From the next room her sister cried, “Where are you, Hermione? Hurry!”

  “Coming!”

  Her traveling corset was light and front-fastening, and her gown crossed over at the front with side ties, so she could manage quickly and without help. Once she was ready, she stuffed items of clothing into the valise, then hunted around for anything she might have missed. Satisfied, she joined her sister.

  She, Polly, and the children made their way along the corridor and downstairs to a crowded entrance hall. They struggled in the crush even though the flow was all in one direction. It seemed everyone was fleeing, so perhaps Polly’s reaction hadn’t been overblown.

  “The mob is planning to march to London,” a man said as he pushed by them in the hall. “Carrying petitions.”

  “Carrying petitions!” Polly gasped, as if he’d said, “Carrying guns.”

  “Then it’s good we’re going west, not south,” Hermione soothed. “Once on our way, we’ll be out of all danger.”

  “Pray God you’re right. Come, come.” Polly rushed toward the innyard, carrying the baby.

  “Polly!” Hermione protested to her back. She was left with two children and a valise.

  She looked around for a servant, but it was hopeless. She saw a flash of black, red, and green stripes and thought it was Thayne, but it wasn’t a neckcloth—it was a bunch of ribbons on a lady’s black hat. The colors must be a fashion, like tartan. The middle-aged woman caught her staring and stared back in an almost threatening way. This panic was affecting everyone.