But if his body had led him down this thorny path, at least his brain had retained enough sense to end it quickly enough that there were no long-term repercussions. God, he was a cad. She was alone and unprotected, likely for the first time in her life. She’d had too much to drink and likely regretted the memory of their actions now—a notion he understood all too well. So he couldn’t take advantage, no matter how much he wanted to.
No matter how much she wanted to.
Not that she appeared to want to at the moment.
His gaze lingered on her long, lovely neck, the skin above her serpentine pendant red and angry-looking. “How is your rash today?” he asked, though he could see, plain as day, that it was worse, not better. She continued staring down at the pages of her book, though her fingers drifted tellingly toward her collar. “Did you find a salve for it?” he pressed.
“There is no need.” But despite her words, she began to scratch.
Would she not even admit such a basic need? Christ, but she was a tough little thing, stubborn to the point of exhaustion. Cursing beneath his breath, he rapped on the roof of the coach until it began to slow. That finally had her eyes lifting from the pages of whatever she found so fascinating. She shut the book’s cover. “What are you doing?”
“Ensuring you don’t sit there for the remaining two hours in agony.”
“I am fine,” she protested as the coach rocked slowly to a stop. “I don’t need help, and I certainly don’t need it from you.”
“Is everything all right?” the coachman called down.
Thomas opened the window on his side and leaned out. “Miss Westmore needs to stop at the chemist’s shop in Marston,” he called up to the driver. “Could we make a detour?”
She opened the window on her side of the coach. “We do not need to stop at Marston. Carry on, if you please. We have already endured a late start, and I would like to reach Lizard Bay before nightfall.” She pulled her head back inside and glared at him, her fingers clenching over the spine of the book. “If this is some tactic to delay our arrival, it won’t work.”
Thomas shook his head. Christ, she was as stubborn as her aunt had been. When she deigned to look at him, her chin always seemed to be pointing up. “You do realize we’ll arrive too late for a proper visit to Heathmore tonight, don’t you? I will be more than happy to show you the property in the morning.”
She opened her book again. “Your assistance won’t be necessary.”
He gritted his teeth as the carriage began to pick up speed. “Do you even know how to get there?”
“I am sure I can find it.”
“The property is two miles from town, and is not easy to find.” In fact, he’d only discovered the path by accident, stumbling across it during a long, hard walk. Miss E had enjoyed her solitude.
Her eyes flickered toward him. “Does it lie east or west of town, Lord Branston?”
“I thought we had agreed you would call me Thomas.”
She ignored his entreaty. “I know it isn’t north, that way lies the ocean. It can’t be south either, as I vividly remember the view of the water from the cottage’s front door. That means it is either east or west. Which direction do I need to walk from town?”
He glanced down at her boots, which, while halfway sensible, were still of the exquisitely crafted London-street variety. Her yellow wool skirts dragged the filthy floor of the coach, and looked as though they were waiting to tangle about her feet and toss her over the side of a cliff at the slightest provocation. “I don’t think I ought to tell you.” He shook his head. “You shouldn’t attempt it without a guide. As I said, I can show you.”
She looked back down at her book. “I will find someone else in Lizard Bay to help me.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it,” he muttered beneath his breath.
Her heated blue gaze flicked back. “What is that supposed to mean?”
He exhaled. “The citizens of Lizard Bay are none too fond of Heathmore Cottage at present. They’ll not be keen to help you.” He thought of how scared young Danny was of the moaning wind. How he’d had trouble finding anyone to manage the repairs on the roof. No, she’d not find a warm reception for her inquiries.
But she’d find that out soon enough on her own.
“Is it because you have poisoned their judgment against me before I’ve even arrived? That they want you to have the property instead of me?” Her voice wobbled. “That’s hardly playing fair, Lord Branston. And I can promise you won’t be successful.”
Thomas sighed. Damn, but she was mulish. He didn’t suspect the residents of Lizard Bay cared overmuch who owned Heathmore Cottage, so long as they didn’t have to set foot on the property. “I just think you are being hasty,” he told her. “You’ve not yet even seen the place.”
“I will tonight.”
He shook his head. “You can’t stay there tonight.” Perhaps, when the new roof was finished, she might have a fighting chance. But right now at least half the structure was open to the overhead elements. All she needed was a good storm and she’d be washed off the edge of the cliff. “It is uninhabitable in its present form.”
“Oh yes, the rats.” She rolled her eyes. “Please, spare me the boring details. I’ve heard them all already. You’ll find I don’t scare away that easy. And I refuse to give up my inheritance without a fight, especially to a man who would stoop to such means.” She turned, fuming, to her window, holding the book up to her nose.
Stoop? Means? What on earth was she talking about?
The fact he had traveled all the way to London to give her a better offer?
Or the fact that last night he had taken wrongful advantage, swooping in for a kiss that he should have first begged permission to take?
The answer might be muddled, but her dismissal was clear. There would be no more questions, no more conversation. Following her example, Thomas turned to his window. But he knew she was there, simmering on the opposite seat. As obstinate as she was, he couldn’t help but admire her spirit. But spirit alone wasn’t going to save Heathmore, nor make it livable either. She was either naive to the point of stupidity, or she believed he was lying about the cottage’s poor condition.
And for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why either should be the case.
LUCY STEPPED DOWN from the coach into the waning light of evening, her feet grateful to finally be touching Cornwall soil.
And by soil, she did mean soil.
There were no cobblestone streets to speak of in Lizard Bay. No streets, really, beyond the one on which she was standing.
Well. She clearly wasn’t in London anymore.
But as the crisp salt air off the coast filled her lungs, the initial confusion she felt faded. Overhead, against a darkening sky, a trio of gulls somersaulted on the breeze coming in from the ocean, and she felt nearly the same sense of exuberance. She had done it. Survived an eight hour coach ride with Lord Branston, in spite of her lingering anger. She was here.
Well, nearly here. There was still the matter of sorting out where Heathmore Cottage actually lay relative to the town.
But surely there was someone here who might help her. After all, her aunt had lived here for over forty years. The diary’s pages were full of tales of people Aunt E had known. She must have had friends here, people who cared enough about her to mail a package for her after she had died. Lucy knew she just needed to sort out friend from foe and ask for their help.
Behind her, she could hear Lord Branston’s voice as he conversed with the coachman, thanking the man for a pleasant ride. She tried to ignore the evidence of his civility. It didn’t matter if he was kind to strangers and bought apples on trains. It mattered little whether he remembered to say please and thank you. He wanted Heathmore and was willing to flirt his way to success. That made him the foe in this small drama.
Through the gathering twilight a sea of curious faces started to crowd in around her. It looked as though the entire town was coming out to meet her, sp
illing out of weathered doors, pressing close. Word seemed to have traveled quickly. Young and old, tattered and well-kempt, their voices melded into a rough-edged dialect she had trouble understanding. They didn’t appear to know quite what to do with a visitor.
Well, she knew what to do with them. Her mother’s incessant nagging about manners had been good for at least something by way of theatrics. She gave them a deep, perfectly executed curtsy, the one she had been practicing her entire life.
An awed hush fell over the crowd.
She straightened, willing her heart to stop thumping so loudly. “Good evening,” she said. “Might someone please point me in the direction of Heathmore Cottage?”
The whispers started.
“It’s her.”
“No it couldn’t be. She’s dead.”
“She’s the spitting image.”
Before Lucy could speak, a quartet of gangly boys tumbled to the forefront of the crowd. The setting sun reflected off their dirty faces, and she counted at least a dozen missing teeth between them. “Gor,” the tallest of them said. “She looks just like old Miss E, don’t she?”
“No, she don’t,” another protested, reaching out a grimy finger to touch her skirts, leaving a smear of dirt behind. “She’s got blond hair, not gray.”
“Well, maybe Miss E when she was younger, then.”
Lucy jumped as her skirts moved. She extracted a filthy hand from her dress pocket. “Excuse me, but I believe a handshake is a more customary form of greeting.” The lad’s eyes widened, and he twisted out of her grip and darted back to the safety of the pack.
“She even sounds like Miss E,” the tallest said in awe.
They all peered up at her, their eyes wide. “It’s her ghost,” the youngest whispered. “She’s come back for her lost love, just like I told you.”
Lucy felt her lips start to twitch. Ghost? Lost love?
What on earth where they talking about? No matter. She knew how to deal with naughty young boys. She’d been raised with Geoffrey, after all.
So she stepped forward, flapping her hands and filling her lungs. “Boo!”
As though shot from a cannon, they scattered, shrieking into the twilight. The crowd shifted, too, murmurs rising. Lord Branston’s bemused voice floated over her shoulder. “Well, I’m afraid that’s not going to help your cause.”
Lucy turned around. “What do you mean?”
He was standing on the runner of the mail coach, getting her bag down from where it had been lashed to the top. “The boys are usually quite helpful when there’s a bit of money in it.” He jumped down from the runner, a puff of dust rising up from where his feet connected with the road. “But now you’ve just gone and scared off the only souls in town besides myself who might have been convinced to show you the way to Heathmore.”
She wanted to ignore him but knew it was a battle she was bound to lose, given how her entire body seemed to stretch in awareness whenever he was near. Worse, his words sparked a deeper worry. She reached a hand in her pocket, suddenly suspicious.
Wilson’s gold sovereigns—her fallback to return to London—had gone missing.
She turned back to the milling crowd, her heart twisting in mild panic. “Who has charge of those boys?” she demanded. The thought of being stranded in Lizard Bay with no money made her throat feel tight. “One of them has picked my pocket.”
A gray-haired woman stepped forward, wringing her hands. “Oh, please don’t pay them any mind. They’re just the Tanner lot, our local pack of orphans.”
“Well, why aren’t they confined in an orphanage?” Lucy demanded, confused by the explanation. In London, orphans were secured away in locked buildings, for their own protection and the protection of those they might harass.
“Lizard Bay isn’t a large enough town to have a proper orphanage.” Lord Branston’s voice tapped against her ears, and then he emerged beside her in the settling gloom, setting her bag down in the dust of the street. “The Tanner boys’ mother died when the youngest, Danny, was born, and their father was a local fisherman who died at sea just last August. Since then, I’m afraid they’ve had the run of the town.”
Lucy pulled her hand from her empty pocket. Her heart squeezed tight. Good heavens, the oldest boy couldn’t have been more than eleven. “But . . . where do they live?”
“Here and about.” He nodded toward the gray-haired woman who had stepped forward in their defense. “This is Mrs. Wilkins. She sees to their care and feeding most days.” He gestured toward Lucy. “Mrs. Wilkins, may I present Miss Lucy Westmore. Of London.”
“Miss L,” Lucy interjected, miffed that he had taken her introduction out of her own hands. “If you please.”
Branston raised his voice to the crowd as though presenting a prize horse at auction. “She’s Miss E’s niece. Not her ghost.” He hesitated, and then his gaze slid hot against her skin. “I can promise you, she’s a real enough woman.”
Lucy’s cheeks heated, remembering how he had kissed her.
He would know, wouldn’t he?
As murmurs once again swept the crowd, the gray-haired woman who’d spoken for the boys stepped forward. “Oh, Miss L, we are so happy you have come. You’re the spitting image of your aunt, you know.” Mrs. Wilkins smiled, stretching wrinkled skin. “Gave us all a fright, stepping down from the coach like that. We’d thought it was her ghost, come back to life.” She stepped closer, her hands smoothing over the front on her apron. “I run the boardinghouse in town. I reckon you’ll be wanting a room for the night?”
Lucy shook her head. “Er . . . no. Thank you.” She was more than a little bothered by the notion of being offered a bed while the orphans were left to roam the streets. “But if I might ask, where do the boys sleep?”
“Here and about,” Lord Branston said again, breaking in by way of an answer. “Oftentimes they bed down in the anteroom of the church.”
Lucy frowned. “Why does no one look after them?” Her mind was already racing with all the ways she might be able to help. “I would be happy to write to the curators of the St. James Orphanage. These boys should be sent to London, where someone would see to their well-being and their education. ’Tis pitiless to leave them to fend for themselves.”
“Oh, miss, please don’t do such a thing,” Mrs. Wilkins gasped.
Branston just shook his head slowly.
“What is wrong with my idea?” she said, turning on him.
“You can’t take them away from the only town they’ve ever known.” He lifted his hand in the direction they had scurried, the closing darkness making it anyone’s guess where they had gone. “They were born here. They know every soul in town. Trust me, Lizard Bay looks after its own.”
“They don’t seem looked after to me,” she retorted. “Their faces are dirty, their grammar is deplorable, and they picked my pocket the moment I stepped off the coach. I could take care of them far better than the town has.” She clenched her fists. “I could.”
He stared at her, and that was when Lucy realized she ought to stop talking. It was a vulnerability to give him this insight into her nature. A peek behind the curtain, as Aunt E would say. And he’d already proven himself willing to exploit other vulnerabilities.
But instead of scoffing at her—or worse, dismissing her—his jaw softened. “It’s a kind offer, Miss L, but we have laws in Lizard Bay about these things. Your aunt personally saw to it the boys were well-cared-for, before her passing. She even paid their school fees.” He nodded at her in what might have been grudging approval. “You might think about fulfilling that role yourself, now that you’re here.”
The anger coiling inside her collapsed. Bugger it all, he could show the most disconcerting kindness at times. Did his voice have to be so compelling? So inviting? But she couldn’t let herself believe it. Couldn’t let herself trust it. He had kissed her, after all, to further his own hand. She felt safer when she was sparring with him.
“You mean if I stay, don’t you?” she po
inted out. “I still have to see Heathmore and determine if I wish to sell it or not, and as you’ve told me so incessantly, it’s nothing but a pile of tumbling-down stones and rat droppings.” She picked up her bag and looked down the darkening street. “Now, can anyone here tell me whether I head east or west?”
Once again a murmur ran through the crowd.
Lucy bit her lip. This was proving rather harder than she’d expected. “Surely someone here knows the direction,” she called out. If she wasn’t mistaken, several townspeople turned around and hurried away. “Will no one help me?” she asked, turning in a helpless circle until her gaze landed finally—regrettably—on Lord Branston. “What is the matter with everyone?”
He pulled a hand through his hair. “As I said during the coach ride, they are none too fond of the place, especially at night. Besides, it’s too late to safely visit Heathmore today. A good night’s sleep and a clear head will be the least you need to get you there. For tonight I’d suggest you go with Mrs. Wilkins.”
Lucy dug in her heels, and not only because thanks to the loss of her sovereigns she could scarcely afford another night in a rented bed. “I really must insist—”
“You’ve eschewed my offer of help, and that’s within your rights,” he interrupted. “But Mrs. Wilkins has offered her help, and I’d suggest you take it. She’s a living to make, and visitors to Lizard Bay are scarce at present. Moreover, you are exhausted and I can tell the rash on your neck is bedeviling you a good bit.” His voice softened, and she felt an almost instinctive melting in her spine. “So why don’t you put that charitable spirit to good use and purchase a room for the night?”
Lucy lifted her chin, trying to hold her glare through the shadows. No matter her bravado, she didn’t exactly relish the thought of stumbling off through the darkening night. Save the light from a few oil lanterns spilling through the windows that fronted Lizard Bay’s only street, the night was threatening in earnest now. It almost made her miss London’s gaslit streets.
Almost, but not quite.
It was then she realized it was so dark she could no longer see the color of Lord Branston’s eyes. She knew they were hazel, of course, having wasted far too many hours yesterday staring up into them—a fact she’d made sure to remedy during the coach ride today.
The Spinster's Guide to Scandalous Behavior Page 12
