by Jo Beverley
When afternoon rain drove him back to the inn, he had no distraction from his thoughts. Marriage required a home. Even when his duties were over, what home could he offer?
Faringay had never been idyllic despite his parents’ devotion to each other. From his earliest memories he’d been warned to be quiet and avoid all alarms, and to never “disturb your lady mother, young sir.” Only now did he wonder whether one of his father’s motives in creating the French Wing at Faringay had been to relieve his son from having to be quiet and avoid all alarms in the rest of the house. Perhaps, and then two years later he’d been sent off to school.
When he’d returned for holidays, he’d rarely seen his mother, but he’d noticed how Faringay Hall was deteriorating. Perhaps his father simply hadn’t cared, but more likely he feared that workmen and noise would set his fragile wife into a mania of terror. Mark had witnessed those fits only twice, but he’d never forget them. She’d been plunged back into the riotous attack she’d suffered, seeing violence and death all around and sure it came for her.
He’d joined the army to make sure the French wouldn’t invade Britain, but he’d welcomed release from the obligation to spend occasional times at Faringay Hall. Was his private war against revolution yet another way to avoid the place? It held extra shadows now because of his mother’s suicide two years ago. He knew that his being there wouldn’t have helped—quite the contrary—but that didn’t save him from guilt.
He had a duty to Faringay, however, and if he took a wife, she would want a home.
Take Hermione there? She’d had enough of loss and privation. He wanted better for her, and he couldn’t marry as long as there was work to do. He had only to remember his mother to know why it was important.
He went down to the taproom in the evening, hoping the amorous footman would come down to flirt with Jilly and let slip a mention of Hermione. He was in luck, or so he thought until he overheard what the man had to say.
George arrived late and in a gloomy mood, complaining of a trip over to Liverpool in the rain to visit a lawyer and a bank. “Taking the old man away, she is. That’ll be the end of a cushy job.”
“You mean he’ll die?” Jilly asked, handing him a tankard of ale.
“Don’t know one way or t’other on that, me Jilly, but he won’t come back. We’ll all be dismissed.”
“That’s a shame, then.”
Mark had become familiar enough at the inn to ask a question. “Where’s Mr. Peake going? Bath, perhaps?”
“London. Wouldn’t mind going to London, but they’re only taking Mr. Peake’s man and one of the maids for the lady.”
London. What madness was this? Hadn’t he made it clear that the people who might hurt her were there? Ignoring Jilly’s amused eye, Mark asked, “When do they leave?”
“Likely be tomorrow, sir. The old man’s bought a coach.”
“Hired, you mean.”
“Damned if I do, sir. Bought.”
“That’ll cost a pretty penny,” Jilly said.
“Aye, but we’ve always reckoned he’s warm. Come back from t’Orient with chests of rubies, they say. Not that I’ve seen any.”
“Pity,” said Jilly, sidling up against him. “I wouldn’t mind a ruby.”
They settled to flirting and Mark went up to his room to stand glaring at Riverview House. How could the stubborn woman not grasp how dangerous London would be for her?
He knew which room was hers. Her curtains were drawn, but light shone through a chink. He left the inn and made his way up the dark lane without a lantern, going on memory of the lay of the land, grateful that the rain had stopped. He easily climbed the gate and there was enough moon to show the gray stone paths of the garden, which took him to the house. On the ground floor open curtains showed a bedroom where an old man in a nightcap slept propped up in a bed. Old Mr. Peake, who was going to get Hermione killed if Mark couldn’t talk sense into her.
All seemed quiet, and George’s arrival at the inn showed that the day’s work was done. Some of the servants would be in bed. Any others would be taking their ease in the servants’ hall or the kitchen. Presumably a back door was still open, but he’d be detected immediately. He first tried the obvious, but the front door was locked. The windows were closed for the night and the house was inconveniently clear of helpful trellises or climbing plants that could support a man.
There had to be a way.
He worked his way around, checking for other entrances, and came to a patch of grassy garden and glass doors. They were locked, but in a far less substantial way. He wasn’t skilled with locks, but three years ago, in preparation for his mission, he’d taken instruction and acquired some tools. They’d do for this one.
After a little fumbling, the lock turned and he entered a silent, dark room. Moonlight suggested the position of furniture, so he took off his boots and left them by the closed door, then made his way carefully out into the entrance hall. It was equally dark, but he could hear a mumble of conversation from the back of the house. That presented no danger to him. His target was upstairs. He climbed the stairs, taking his bearings. Hermione’s room should be to his right. When he arrived at what he thought was her door, he turned the knob and entered.
The room was firelit, as her room at the inn had been, but the bed-curtains were drawn fully back. She wasn’t here, but her nightgown was draped over a rack near the fire, as it had been at the King’s Head. Such a promise of domestic pleasures. He liked the propriety of nightgown and nightshirt, warming by the fire. It spoke of settled domesticity and a comfortable home.
He realized he could smell her as well. Whatever perfume or toilet water she used was light and subtle, but he knew it, and the underlying essence that was her. He touched her nightgown. . . .
But then he put aside folly and left the room. Where else might she be? If she was passing time with the servants, he was sunk, but he doubted she was. She wasn’t haughty, but the servants wouldn’t be comfortable with a marquess’s daughter sitting in the kitchen with them, so she wouldn’t do it. She’d be sensitive to such things.
Drawing room or library? A library was probably on the ground floor and there’d been no candle there, ready for her use. The drawing room should be up here, so he went in search of it. He opened doors as he had that night at the King’s Head, but with much less risk. No one was hunting him tonight and Hermione was the only guest.
He found two other bedrooms, both unused, and then the drawing room. It was a large corner room set with two sofas, a number of chairs with upholstered seats, and some small tables. A large, screened fire burned in the hearth and Hermione sat in a green gown on a gold-striped sofa, reading a book by the light of a modern reflecting lamp set behind her. She seemed haloed like a saint, but a startled one.
He stepped in and closed the door behind him.
She put the book aside and rose, but with a semblance of calm. “At least I’m not in my bedroom this time. Who’s hunting you now, Thayne?”
Despite the calm, she’d flushed with color and he hoped it wasn’t all anger. She wore a small flowered pin in her thick mahogany hair and everything about her delighted him. He’d come here to berate her but realized he was smiling. He made himself sober. “No one, but you’re a mad fool.”
Instead of protesting, she grimaced. “London.”
“London,” he agreed. “What possesses you?”
She raised her chin. “Necessity. Why are you even here? Your necessity was to leave.”
“So that’s why you thought you could get away with this.”
“I’m not getting away with anything. You do not command me, sir.”
“I wish I did.”
“I’m sure you do. Stop looming over me. If you intend to stay, sit.” She sat back down, hands neatly in her lap.
Keeping a stern face was almost impossible, but he managed as he took a cha
ir facing her. By God, this must be love. A damnable, insane ecstasy simply to be in her presence, despite folly and danger.
She frowned. “Are you all right?” Then, alarmed, she asked, “Is that Boothroyd here?”
“No,” he quickly assured her. “There’s no new threat. Unless you go to London, that is.”
“I must. There’s someone there who might have a cure for Great-uncle Edgar. I can’t put my safety ahead of his life.” Her resolution was infuriating, but such honor was part of why he adored her.
“What cure?” he asked.
“It’s complicated, but we hope to find a particular doctor there. I won’t be deterred.”
“Very well. I must go to London tomorrow, and this time it’s certain. I’ll find him for you.”
“Why?”
“To keep you safe.”
Why it should stun her, he couldn’t understand, but she became less prickly. “It’s not just a matter of the medicine, Thayne. Edgar wants to go to London. He’s not been there for fifty years and there are things he wants to see. It will do him good to get away from here.”
“Zeus! Then I’ll take him. I’ll take him and find the doctor, and even make sure he takes his medicine. And you can return safely to your sister.”
“No,” she said, her square chin infuriatingly resolute. “And don’t glare at me like that. I will be perfectly safe.”
“Safe? You’re a complete idiot.”
“Am I, indeed? No,” she said, raising a commanding hand, “listen to me. I’m not a simpleton and have given this considerable thought. First, London is a very large city. The chance of my encountering the Frenchwoman or the brute’s brother is remote, especially as they won’t be looking for me there. You admit they might possibly come looking for me here.”
“Which is exactly why you must return to Yorkshire.”
“Where they also might know to look for me. Can you deny that?” Before he could attempt to, she swept on. “More to the point, those people wouldn’t recognize me if they passed me on Bond Street.”
“You’re planning a disguise? Perhaps there’s some sense—”
“I don’t need one. The first brute saw me, but the Frenchwoman didn’t, and his brother’s never been near me. You see? I’ll be safer in London than here or at Selby Hall.”
He opened his mouth and shut it again.
“Unwilling to admit I’m right?”
“I’m seeking the flaw in your argument.”
She waited, like a cat watching a cornered mouse.
“You are a damnable woman.”
“You mean I’m right.”
He laughed. “Yes, I mean you’re right. I’m not convinced you’ll be safer in London than here, but your points are valid.”
“Grudging, sir, grudging.”
“Don’t count it against me that I want your safety.”
“I don’t. But what of yours? May I command you not to take risks?”
“Would you want to?”
Her eyes slid away for a moment and he waited, breath shallow. Finally, she looked up at him. “Yes.”
He crossed to sit by her on the sofa. “So we can talk more quietly,” he said, but that wasn’t the reason, and they both knew it. Her brows rose, but she smiled. The damnable woman was ready to be kissed.
Chapter 24
“A sensible lady would fend off an amorous gentleman,” he pointed out.
“Are there no times when a gentleman needs to fend off an amorous lady?”
“Are you determined to score points in every round?”
“I’ve always been competitive, and I like to win.” She leaned forward and kissed him. It was a decorous kiss, but dangerous as lips lingered against lips. He drew her closer, but her hand on his chest stopped him and then gently pushed him away.
“Well fended,” he said. “Are any servants likely to come up here without being summoned?”
“No, and they won’t expect to be summoned. My maid left washing water an hour ago and put it by the fire to keep warm. I can get into and out of my simple clothing by myself.”
With some women that would be an invitation and his line would be, “All the same, allow me to assist. . . .”
He might have said it if she’d not continued, “It’s time that you tell me how you sank to thievery, my friend.”
My friend. He wanted to be far more than a friend, but she was fending wisely. He shifted back so there was clear space between them, deciding what to say. She still thought him a thief and she worried. If he told her the truth, she’d worry more, but she wouldn’t be fobbed off with nothings.
“Is it because of your mother?” she asked.
Witch to put her finger on it. He should leave before she guessed all of it, but this could be the last time he’d ever sit and talk to this woman, this friend, this enchantress. Perhaps she was a potion—an irresistible one, especially when close and by firelight, or moonlight, or in a garden by bright light of day.
“How she was harmed by the French Revolution,” she probed. “How she lost her wits and didn’t know you?”
As he feared. He could give her part of the truth and he wanted to. He took her hand, stroking her fingers with his thumb. “Yes. I do what I do for her sake.” He spun out the story in his head. “I can only steal from the French, you see.” No wonder she looked puzzled. “The French drove my mother mad, so I can steal from them with a clear conscience.”
She probably thought him half-mad, and she’d be right for the wrong reasons. If it squashed any growing tenderness, he must be pleased.
“Not all the French were Jacobins,” she pointed out gently.
“I know my feelings aren’t reasonable, but I can’t help them. If I meet a French person who’s over forty, I can’t help wondering if they were Jacobins. If they took part in the mobs and terror, if they slaughtered innocents simply for their birth. I was obliged to spend some time in Paris in 1814 and I looked at everyone of that age and wondered if they’d cheered as people’s heads fell into the guillotine basket. As the heads of my uncle and cousins and my parents’ friends fell into the basket. I wanted all such people sent to the guillotine in turn.”
Too much of the truth. He’d tightened his grip on her hand. Instead of protesting, she matched that hold. “It was a madness, Thayne. They are probably normal people now and ashamed of what they did.”
“That doesn’t make them innocent.”
“No, but such hatred could destroy you. You could hang if caught for theft.”
This felt like a confessional. His mother had retained her Roman faith and when he was young, she’d insisted on him being trained to it and taking its sacraments. It had been one of many performances he’d enacted to keep his mother sane. At the same time his father had taught him Protestant ways, making the papist ones seem like playacting or a game. Once he went away to school, he’d left the papist ways behind him.
His mother had never commented. Either she’d forgotten or she was sane enough to see how it must be in a country where Papists were still burdened with many restrictions.
Now, in this new, golden confessional, he told what truth he could. “The thievery is recent. My feelings led me to being a soldier, to fighting to ensure that the French would not trample Europe or invade Britain.”
“You weren’t alone in that. If Napoleon had invaded, I would have taken up arms, for he brought misery everywhere he went. But we’re at peace with France now, Thayne. The battles are over.”
“My mother’s cause remains.” He escaped for the moment by putting more wood on the fire. “No one burns wood in London anymore. I like the way it crackles, and the smell of it.” As he replaced the screen, he said, “It reminds me of campfires. Good times and bad.”
Light dimmed, and he turned to see she’d extinguished the lamp. It removed her halo, but now she was
warmly lit by the flaming fire. She held out a hand, inviting him back. He shouldn’t respond, but he turned down the two small lamps burning on the mantelpiece, took that welcoming hand, and sat down again beside her.
“Mention of the army makes me think of my brother Roger,” she said. “What would he be now if he’d survived?”
“Marquess of Carsheld?”
She smiled. “True, but what if Jermyn had lived? Would Roger have stayed in the army? If not, what? And what would the army have done to him?”
“The army didn’t create my problems.”
She leaned toward him, and he took her into his arms. Her head nestled on his shoulder, her pinned-up hair tickling his chin. He remembered it escaping pins in the inn and was tempted to set it free. Too dangerous by far.
“But you were so young,” she said. “You’re not close to old now.”
He blew at that hair. “Hoary with age after becoming tangled with you.”
His joke was rewarded by a chuckle and she turned up to him. “Then you’d better kiss me before you crumble to dust.”
They’d known so few kisses and this was a new one. She offered understanding and comfort, but it instantly grew into more. He tried to draw back, but she held on tightly.
“Give up your criminal life, Thayne.”
Delilah’s kiss? “I can’t.”
“And I can’t bear to think that you might hang. There must be other ways to earn money. Become a Bow Street Runner.”
He sipped at her lips, smiling. “No one’s tried to cosset me before.”
“Cosset?”
“You’d wrap me in flannel and keep me by the hearth if you could.”
“You want to do the same to me.”
“I admit it, but that’s the natural order.”
“Not in my heart. I can’t bear the thought of you in danger.”
