by Kelly Bowen
“It’s the same with those of my profession in London,” Miss Whitlow said. “My former profession. We never disparage each other, never judge one another in public. Why bother, when polite society delights endlessly in treating us ill?”
Lucille cleared her throat and stared at a point beyond Miss Whitlow’s left shoulder.
“Shall we be on our way?” Michael offered his arm, and Miss Whitlow took it.
Murphy was not on hand to see his guests off, which in any other hostelry would have been rank neglect. As Michael held the door for the ladies, the serving maid rushed forth from the common with a closed basket.
“From the missus. She says safe journey.”
Lucille took the basket as the girl scampered back to the kitchen.
Michael handed the women into his coach, which boasted heated bricks and velvet upholstery, then climbed in and confronted a dilemma. Lucille had taken the backward-facing seat, while Miss Whitlow sat on the forward-facing bench.
A gentleman did not presume, but neither did he willingly sit next to a maid glaring daggers at him. Michael was on the point of taking the place beside Lucille anyway, when insight came to his aid.
To eschew the place beside Miss Whitlow would be to judge her, and for Miss Whitlow to sit on the backward-facing seat with her maid would have been to assume the status of a servant.
What complicated terrain she inhabited, and how tired she must be of never putting a foot wrong on perpetually boggy ground.
“May I?” Michael asked, gesturing to the place beside the lady.
“Of course.” She twitched her skirts and cloak aside, and Michael took his seat. At two thumps of his fist on the coach roof, the coach moved off.
The vehicle was warm and the road reasonably free of traffic. One of the advantages of winter travel was a lack of mud, or less mud than during any other season, and thus the horses could keep up a decent pace. Michael’s objective was simply to learn where Miss Whitlow would spend the night, so that he could steal a certain object from her, one she might not even value very highly.
He considered asking to purchase the book, but coin carried the potential to insult a former courtesan, particularly one whose decision to depart from propriety had made her wealthy.
Fortunately, Miss Whitlow had failed to notice that the trunks lashed atop Michael’s coach were her own.
A soft snore from the opposite bench sounded in rhythm with the horses’ hoof beats.
“Poor Lucille is worn out,” Miss Whitlow said softly. “She does two things when we travel any distance. Swill hot tea at every opportunity and nap.”
“What of the highwaymen?” Michael asked. “Who guards you from them?”
“I guard myself.”
Michael mentally translated the words into Latin, because they had the ring of a battle cry. “My barony needs a motto. That might do.”
“Better if your family can say, ‘We guard each other,’” Miss Whitlow replied. “My grandmother certainly tried to guard me.”
Where were her father and brothers when she had needed guarding? “My grandmother was the fiercest woman in County Mayo, excepting perhaps my great-grandmother. Grannie lived to be ninety-two, and not even the earl upon whose land her cottage sat would have gainsaid her. You put me in mind of her.”
The coach hit a rut, disturbing the rhythm of Lucille’s snores and tossing Miss Whitlow against Michael’s shoulder.
“In mind of her, how?”
“She was independent without being needlessly stubborn, and she judged people on their merits, not their trappings. Could quote Scripture by the hour, but also knew poems I doubt have been written down. You and she could have discussed books until the sun came up.”
Michael’s recitation purposely mentioned no aspect of Miss Whitlow’s appearance, though Gran had been ginger-haired in her younger days.
“My grandmother was rumored to be part Rom,” Miss Whitlow said. “My father denied it, which only makes me think it more likely to be true.”
For a woman who’d been self-supporting for nearly a decade, Miss Whitlow mentioned her father rather a lot. Josiah Whitlow lived in Oxfordshire, not five miles from Michael’s property, which was what had given Beltram the idea of sending Michael after the damned book in the first place.
Three months ago, Beltram had invited himself to tea with Henrietta and had seen the tome tucked among some risqué volumes of poetry in her sitting room. With any luck, she’d tossed Beltram’s scribblings into the fire when dissolving her household.
“Was your grandmother a lover of books?” Michael asked.
“She was passionate about literature, in part because she taught herself to read after she’d married. She stole out of bed and puzzled over her son’s school books, then got the housekeeper to help her. She loved telling me that story.”
“I learned by puzzling over my younger brother’s books too, then an uncle whose fortunes had improved stepped in and off to public school I went.”
Public school had been awful for an Irish upstart with no academic foundation, but Michael had guzzled knowledge like a drover downs ale at the end of a long summer march.
Miss Whitlow studied the snow intensifying beyond the window. “Will you tell me the same lie all titled men tell about public school, and claim you loved it?”
Titled men probably told her worse lies than that. “I learned a lot, and also came to value information in addition to learning. Did you know that James Merton, heir to the Victor family earldom, wet his bed until he was fourteen?”
“Wet his—? Really?” She purely delighted in this tidbit, and who wouldn’t? Merton was a handsome, wealthy, horse’s arse who fancied himself an arbiter of fashion.
With a glance over at Lucille, Miss Whitlow leaned closer. “He’s also afraid of mice. Screams like a banshee at the sight of one and has been known to climb a bedpost if he thinks one is under the—oh dear.”
She sat up as straight as she could in a moving coach. “I should not have said that. Not to you, but his mistress told me that herself, and I have no reason… I should not have said such a thing. I do apologize. You must never repeat it, or a woman I consider a friend could lose her livelihood.”
Mary Mother of Sorrows, what an impossible life. “I will tell no one, but Henrietta, you have retired, and any who hold the occasional humorous reminiscence against you are fools. What sort of man calls himself a woman’s protector, then shins up the bedpost at the sight of a wee mouse?”
“He had other shortcomings, so to speak. Gracious,”—she put a gloved hand to her lips as if she’d hiccupped in church—“that didn’t come out right.”
“One suspected this about Merton,” Michael said. “I hope your friend was well compensated for the trials she endured in his company.”
“She recounts an amusing tale about him,” Miss Whitlow said, her posture relaxing, “but one doesn’t joke about disclosing a man’s foibles. His friends might make sport of him, his family might ridicule him in public, but a mistress must be loyal, no matter the brevity of the contract.”
Not a relationship, a contract.
“So you’d never publish your memoirs?” The question was far from casual.
“Of course not. A naughty auntie might eventually fade from society’s view, but not if she memorializes her fall from grace for all the world to read.”
“Doubtless, half the House of Lords would be relieved at your conclusion.”
Perhaps if Michael conveyed her assurances to Beltram, the viscount might release Michael from the obligation to plunder her luggage in search of a single, stupid book.
“Not half the Lords,” she said quietly. “A grand total of six men. We are in the middle of some serious weather.”
Six? Only six men in a decade of debauchery? Heathgate had occasionally had six partners in the course of twenty-four hours. Michael considered himself a good, formerly Catholic boy, and even he had enjoyed some notably adventurous house parties.
“I detest serious weather,” he said. “The going will be difficult, and the coach will soon acquire a chill. We’d best break out the lap robes now.”
Miss Whitlow arranged a soft wool blanket over her maid, then allowed Michael to tuck a blanket over their knees. The progress of the coach slowed, and before Michael could think up another conversational gambit, Miss Whitlow had become a warm weight against his side.
His scintillating company had put the lady to sleep. Within five minutes, her head was on his shoulder, and Michael was more or less alone with his conscience in the middle of a gathering snowstorm.
Chapter Three
Henrietta resisted my lures for weeks—weeks spent cozening her into a parody of friendship. I admired her quiet nature. I begged to sketch her hands—as if a housemaid’s hands deserved that honor. I consulted her on my choice of cravat pin and other weighty matters. Never was a mouse stalked with more patience than I stalked Henrietta Whitlow’s virtue, and all the while, she was honestly unaware of her peril, such was my skill as a romantic thespian. When I recall my dedication to the task, I truly do marvel at my own tenacity, for once upon a time, Henrietta Whitlow was that bastion of English respectability, the good girl…
In Henrietta’s experience, men truly comfortable with their rank and fortune were good company. They neither suffered fools nor put on airs, and the best of them operated under an ethic of noblesse oblige. Most were well educated and well informed about the greater world, and thus made interesting conversationalists.
Henrietta had known she was at risk for foolishness with the last man whom she’d granted an arrangement, because His Grace’s conversation, his wealth, his grasp of politic affairs, and his generosity hadn’t appealed to her half so much as his tacit friendship.
Noah, Duke of Anselm, had truly been a protector, deflecting any disrespect to Henrietta with a lift of his eyebrow. He’d escorted her everywhere with the punctilious courtesy of a suitor, rather than the casual disdain of a lord with his fancy piece.
When he’d informed her that he was embarking on the hunt for a duchess, Henrietta had wished him well and sent him on his way with as much relief as regret. By way of a wedding gift, she’d informed him that his greatest amatory asset was…
His ears.
In the course of their arrangement, Anselm had lingered over breakfast with her, chatting about the news of the day rather than rushing off at first light. He’d never expected her to take him straight from the foyer to the bedroom, as some of his predecessors had, and he’d always approached lovemaking as a conversation. Behind the bedroom door, the taciturn, difficult duke had been affectionate, relaxed, and devilishly patient.
Not quite garrulous, but a good listener. A very, very good listener.
Michael Brenner’s willingness to listen eclipsed even the duke’s. He never watched Henrietta as if he were waiting for the moment when he could turn the topic to intimacies, and his gaze never strayed even playfully to places a gentleman ought not to look.
Henrietta had lapsed into tired silence mostly because further acquaintance with the baron could go nowhere. She was mulling over that sad fact—also mentally rehearsing Christmas carols with her nephews, Dicken and Zander—when the coach came to a smooth halt.
“That was a fast twelve miles,” she said, struggling to sound more awake than she felt.
“Wait a bit,” the baron said. “Your hair has tangled with my buttons.”
Henrietta was obliged to remain close enough to his lordship to appreciate the soft wool of his cloak beneath her cheek and the scent of lavender clinging to his skin. He extricated her hair from the offending button, and she could sit up.
Lucille stirred as well. “I’ll just be having a nice, hot cup of—oh, I must have caught a few winks. Beg your pardon, ma’am. My lord.”
“Let’s stretch our legs.” Anything so Henrietta could put some distance between herself and the man upon whom she’d nearly fallen asleep. She’d shared her bed with a half-dozen partners, which meant she was ruined past all redemption, and yet she was embarrassed to have presumed on the baron’s person.
The most highly paid courtesan in London, embarrassed by a catnap.
The baron handed them down from the coach amid steadily falling snow. The coachman clambered off the box, and Lucille disappeared around the side of the inn, doubtless in search of the jakes.
“Please see to accommodations for the ladies, Logan, and a fresh team, unless you’re not inclined to press on.”
“A bit of snow needn’t stop us, my lord,” Logan said. “Though you’ll be wanting more bricks heated, and we’ll have to unload the lady’s trunks.”
“What are my trunks doing on your coach?” Henrietta asked, counting a half-dozen traveling cases lashed to the roof and boot of the baron’s conveyance. “I thought you understood that a valise would be sufficient for my needs.” The idea that he’d made free with her possessions or countermanded her orders sat uneasily.
“I gave no order to transfer your belongings,” the baron said as his coachman stomped up the steps into the inn. “Perhaps your coachman tried to anticipate your needs. We can unload your bags easily enough and have them sent up to your rooms.”
Now that the moment to part was upon her, Henrietta didn’t want to lose sight of his lordship. He’d behaved toward her as a gentleman behaved toward a lady, nothing more, and yet his consideration had solved many problems.
“I suppose this is farewell, then,” she said.
“If you’re biding in Oxfordshire, our paths might well cross again.” He’d eschewed a hat, and snow dusted auburn locks that brushed the collar of his cape.
“I generally stay at the Duck and Goose in Amblebank.” Henrietta’s own father refused to grant her the use of a bedroom, though his manor house boasted eight. She refused to impose on her brothers lest their hospitality to her cause difficulties with Papa.
The baron reached into the coach and produced Henrietta’s scarf. “I have the great good fortune to dwell at Inglemere, due east of Amblebank by about five miles. I’d welcome a call from you or your family.”
Welcome a call.
His lordship spoke a platitude, but in the past ten years, no one had offered Henrietta that courtesy. She was not welcome to call on old friends and neighbors. They didn’t judge her for having wealthy protectors in London, but her own family refused to openly welcome her, and the neighborhood took its cue from that behavior.
If only Papa weren’t so stubborn, and if only Henrietta weren’t even more stubborn than he.
The grooms led the team around to the carriage yard, where fresh horses would be put to. Abruptly, Henrietta was alone with a man who tempted her to second thoughts and if onlys.
If only she’d met him rather than Beltram when she’d gone in search of employment all those years ago.
If only she’d realized sooner what Beltram had been about.
If only her father had written back to her, even once.
Such thoughts went well with the bitter breeze and the bleak landscape. The falling snow created a hush to complement the white blanketing the steps, bushes, pine roping and the wreath on the inn’s door.
The baron studied that wreath as if it bore a Latin inscription. “Will you slap me if I take a small liberty, Miss Whitlow?”
Henrietta wanted to take a liberty or two with him, which came as no little surprise. “Is it a liberty when you ask permission?”
He looped her scarf about her neck and treated her to a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Excellent point. We’ll call it a gesture of thanks for making the miles pass more agreeably.”
He bent close and brushed his lips over hers. In that instant, Henrietta regretted her decision to retire from the courtesan’s profession. To earn even a semblance of acceptance from any polite quarter, she’d been prepared to give up all kisses, all affection, and certainly all pleasures of the flesh.
She’d thought the absence of masculine attention would be
a relief, and she’d been wrong.
The baron tendered a kiss as respectful as it was surprising. His lips were warm, his hand cradling Henrietta’s jaw gentle. He didn’t handle her, he caressed, albeit fleetingly.
He’d be a devastatingly tender lover, and that realization was more sobering than all the arctic breezes in England.
“I’ll wish you a Happy Christmas,” Henrietta said, stepping away, “and thank you for your many kindnesses.”
The door to the inn banged open, and Lucille trudged back around the side of the building. Now—now—the chill wind penetrated Henrietta’s cloak, and a damnable urge to cry threatened. The baron made matters worse by tucking the ends of Henrietta’s scarf about her neck.
“The pleasure was mine, Miss Whitlow. If I can ever be of assistance, you need only send to me at Inglemere, and anything I can do…”
Henrietta’s heart was breaking, and over a chance encounter that ought never have happened.
“Godspeed, my lord.”
He took out his gloves and pulled them on, and the coach returned from the carriage yard, minus Henrietta’s trunks. This team was all gray, their coats already damp and curling from the falling snow.
“Begging your lordship’s pardon,” said his coachman, who’d emerged from the inn. “I don’t think the ladies will want to bide here. There’s rooms aplenty, because there’s illness in the house. Half the staff is down with influenza, and the innkeeper said the cook was among those afflicted. Shall I have the lady’s trunks loaded back onto the coach?”
“Henrietta?” Not Miss Whitlow, and his lordship’s familiarity was that of a friend.
Henrietta’s relief beggared description. “Lucille catches every illness, and as tired as she is, she’ll be afflicted by this time tomorrow if we stay here.”
“And then you might well succumb yourself. The next inn is but twelve miles distant, and surely there, you should have better luck.”
