by Mary Brendan
She darted a quick look at the stranger. She guessed him to be about the same age as Luke Wolfson, but he was very fair rather than dark like the mercenary. He’d remained dour-faced and silent for the duration of a very strained homeward journey. She’d begged him to allow her to return in the way she’d arrived, with just Pip driving her. In that way she could have slipped in to Thornley Heights discreetly, in the same way she’d slipped out. But Rockleigh would not hear of it and had ridden at the side of the trap, right the way up to the vast front steps before hammering on the front door and bringing the footman running.
‘Go to your room,’ the duke snapped at Joan, wanting to deal with this matter in private. ‘Why are you up so early, anyway? It can’t be much past nine of the clock.’
Drew Rockleigh glanced at the girl, wondering if she was going to answer that one. She lowered her nervous eyes beneath the sardonic enquiry in his stare. ‘Your daughter is not up early, Your Grace, she’s not yet sought her bed. Last night she paid me a visit in the hope of finding Luke Wolfson, because she has an urgent message to give to my friend. More than that I cannot say...it is a secret, you see.’
Joan winced beneath the sarcasm she heard in Rockleigh’s voice, but she kept quiet and tightened her fingers together behind her back until the knuckles showed ivory.
The duke remained facing his unwelcome visitor with a ferocious expression, as though he still believed him a raving lunatic. Then, after a full minute of unblinking deliberation, he very stiffly turned to his daughter, his eyebrows slowly elevating.
Joan hung her head, then with a shuddering sigh gave an imperceptible nod.
‘Go to your room.’
Joan recognised that whispered tone of voice only too well; her father was enraged and she defied him again at her peril. ‘Papa...please listen—’ she began.
The duke had his open hand knocked aside in mid-air before it could make contact with his daughter’s cheek.
‘You may chastise her, if you will, later,’ Rockleigh said, lowering his arm. ‘First, I have more to say and would ask you to listen so I might get about my business without further delay.’
Joan, ashen-faced from her father’s attempt to slap her, turned tail and, gripping her skirts, rushed to the stairs and disappeared up them.
The Duke of Thornley stalked to a nearby doorway, leaving his visitor standing alone on the marble flags. Before entering the room he turned, announced regally, ‘I owe you my apologies and my thanks, it seems, sir. Do come in so we can become acquainted...there is much to discuss.’ He flung open the door to the small library and stomped inside.
* * *
Maude knew she’d need to choose the time of her departure carefully. Her husband had been watching her again, and she hoped it was not because he’d guessed her intentions. Maude was under no illusion that Cecil Ratcliff would try to stop her leaving him because he loved or desired her. She aroused no sweet emotion in her husband, and never had, despite his ardent protestations when wooing her. She knew it all for lies now.
But, crafty as Ratcliff was, he couldn’t disguise some aspects of his character. He was an arrogant fellow who put much store in his status and keeping up appearances. He would not want the neighbours, or the gentlemen he classed as his peers, to gossip behind his back that his wife had run out on him. Cecil would always want the upper hand and Maude suspected that he was ruminating on when to leave her. Of course, he would not do so while there were still things of value in the house that he might sell off to fund his roistering.
A small canvas was on the drawing-room wall that Maude had hoped had escaped his eye being muted in colour. But she’d noticed him in front of it the other day, fingering his chin, and her heart had sunk.
Having heard the crash of the front door, Maude trotted to the window that overlooked the street. Concealed by the curtain, she peeped from behind it as Cecil swaggered off along the pavement, hat at a jaunty angle, swinging her late husband’s silver-topped cane as though for all the world it was his. And of course it was. Everything Anthony had owned was now Cecil Ratcliff’s to do with as he would.
Seeing him flourishing her dear Anthony’s favourite walking stick hurt Maude more than anything and she twitched the velvet back in place and made a snap decision.
At this time of the day Cecil would be going to his club and often didn’t return till dinnertime. Maude knew she might have up to six hours’ grace before he again was home to harry her with his snide remarks. Hurrying to the bed, she pulled out the packing case beneath it. She’d already told Rose they were taking a trip and to be prepared to leave at a moment’s notice. She’d also told the maid, unnecessarily, to keep her lips sealed on the plan. Maude hadn’t elaborated because she hadn’t needed to. Rose had eyes and ears and had given her mistress a knowing smile and a nod. The maid hated Cecil, too, no doubt because he’d treated her as a slave rather than a paid employee ever since he’d arrived.
Maude took some scissors from the dressing table then, perching on the mattress, drew a pillow towards her. Carefully she snipped the threads she’d put in a few days ago and withdrew her folded bank notes from where she’d secreted them inside the linen cover. She beamed, raising her winnings to her lips to kiss them in gratitude. After selling her few remaining items of jewellery she’d done a fine job of turning five pounds into fifty at Almack’s faro table. It wasn’t the small fortune she’d hoped for, but it would have to suffice because she could stand not another single day beneath the same roof as her husband.
She and Rose would travel to Devon to find her daughter. Once she’d begged for forgiveness from Fiona for subjecting her to Cecil’s Ratcliff’s odious presence, they would turn their thoughts to their uncertain futures. But Maude knew she must remain optimistic. Fate might yet smile on them. Something would turn up...and in case it did not, she was going to fetch the small oil painting from the drawing room and wedge it into her portmanteau. Even if it were not as valuable as she hoped, it might cover the cost of a week’s board and lodging for them all.
* * *
Fiona realised that the brunette must have been watching for her lover’s return. Barely had Luke dismounted in the stable yard of the King and Tinker when a voluptuous young woman hurtled out of the low sloping doorway and straight at him.
Without uttering a word Luke removed Becky’s clinging hands and turned to Fiona to help her down from the chestnut mare. But his features were so tensely set that his mistress—and Fiona, too—could not but be aware of his latent anger, if unsure of its cause.
‘Where have you been, Luke? Thank goodness you’re back at last...’ Becky rattled off with a winning smile, twirling a dark ringlet about a finger. When Luke continued to ignore her she flounced about to narrow her eyes on the woman with him.
Fiona had winced on hearing Wolfson’s mistress quiz him over his absence using similar words to those she’d fired at him hours before when he’d returned from his hunting trip.
Planting her hands on her hips in a combatant manner, Becky demanded, ‘And who is she?’, while grabbing Luke’s forearm in a way that seemed to Fiona both punishing and possessive.
The fact that his mistress had disobeyed him and returned to Devon to hound him rather than travel home with her dignity intact had stoked more than rage in Luke. He’d made it clear to Becky he didn’t want or need her company, yet still she clung on determinedly. He realised that the fire had gone out of his anger and his lust for her, and disgust and pity had taken the place of those emotions.
Behind Becky was someone else Luke would rather not have encountered at this precise moment, leaning on the whitewashed wall of the inn. Rockleigh’s face displayed mild amusement as he watched the scene, but Luke knew his friend well enough: Drew was here to exact a promise, not to be humoured. Disentangling himself from Becky’s renewed clutch, he ignored both his friend and his mistress and turned to
Fiona.
‘I’ll get you a room in the inn,’ he stated quietly.
‘There’s no need, sir,’ Fiona responded coolly. ‘If there is a coach setting off west, at any time at all of the day or night, I wish to be on it.’
Luke watched her tigerish eyes flit past him to settle on Becky before skittering away. He knew there was no point in making introductions, or excuses; Collins had already done the damage on that score. At the time, Luke hadn’t cared what was said. Now he did. He cared greatly that Fiona Chapman thought him a lecherous reprobate who dragged a woman with him on his travels to warm his bed.
‘Surely you’ll want some privacy to freshen up?’ he suggested in a voice only she could hear, while fighting the urge to lift her again onto the horse and ride off with her into the unknown. And damn the lot of them. From Rockleigh’s stance, he could see that the man had grown impatient waiting to resolve matters and was itching for a fight. And his mistress appeared to be similarly boiling with resentment.
The time spent with Miss Fiona Chapman might have been short and fraught with danger for them both, but it had been rather wonderful, Luke realised. And he didn’t want it to end yet. Inwardly he mocked himself for confusing lust with something finer. The reason he wanted to keep Fiona’s company was because the desire he felt for her remained unquenched. It was even now a weighty throb in his pelvis.
And it would stay that way, until Becky, or one of her ilk, soothed it for him. Fiona would avoid him like the plague now she’d met his mistress and he would do the decent thing and allow her to.
The idea of a wash and a rest on a proper bed was so tempting that Fiona was on the point of agreeing to take a room; then she remembered she had no money and she’d be damned before asking him to settle any bill other than that of her coach fare. ‘I’m very well as I am, thank you,’ she said, forcing a lightness into her tone that she was far from feeling. But she wouldn’t have him think for a moment that the sight of his paramour bothered her.
Again Fiona’s eyes were involuntarily drawn to the brunette. Despite a sullen droop to her full lips she was very attractive...and young. Fiona guessed that Luke Wolfson’s mistress was at least five years her junior and for some reason that hurt more than feeling dishevelled and ugly in comparison. With small movements she brushed down her crumpled skirts, then attempted to twist her tangled fawn locks into a neat bun at her nape. She knew she must look a fright after her ordeal, but refused to feel apologetic or ashamed about it.
‘I believe your friends are awaiting your attention, sir,’ she remarked briskly. ‘You need not think that I expect a long farewell between us. Thank you for the service you provided... I am glad it is over. If you will purchase my seat on a coach from your payment, I would be most grateful. Goodbye, Mr Wolfson.’ She extended a hand and shook his fingers firmly before immediately turning away. She had seen the sardonic set to his mouth as she dismissed him from duty, and despite the hammering in her chest, and the weakness in her legs, she was pleased to be able to steadily walk away from him.
Thankfully she could approach the saloon bar of the King and Tinker without passing the young woman watching her with eyes brimming with suspicion and dislike. No doubt Luke would soon soothe the pretty brunette’s sulks over a possible rival by saying Miss Chapman had been a client who’d unexpectedly landed in his path and that his fee for the mission had been a gold locket. He might give the necklace to her!
That awful thought shocked Fiona like a dousing with icy water, provoking a physical pain to twist in her gut. But aware of being still under observation she tilted up her chin and drew her cloak about her in instinctive protection. Her twenty-first birthday present from her parents had saved her from the Collins gang so it had been worth parting with such a precious gift, she impressed upon herself. Head high, she entered the low, thatched building determined to find the innkeeper and quiz him over the time of the next coach heading to Dartmouth.
While negotiating a warren of narrow corridors Fiona forced herself to forget the people outside and concentrate on mundane matters. She remembered that she must discover the whereabouts of her packing case. On the last occasion she’d seen the battered leather trunk it was being transferred with the other luggage from the damaged coach to the replacement Toby Williams had driven from the Fallow Buck.
In one of their less challenging conversations Wolfson had told her that the vehicle and remaining passengers had journeyed on, with his help, to the Pig and Whistle following the hold up and her abduction. Toby Williams had been distracted by his nephew’s bullet wound that dreadful night, but Fiona hoped that the driver had had the good sense to leave her belongings at the Pig and Whistle for collection. She had nothing but the clothes she stood up in and on arriving at her destination must suffer the ignominy of requesting an advance on her wages. She could only hope that her employer would be sympathetic and hand over a few shilling for incidentals she might require.
A fellow of ample girth and bald of pate with a food-spotted apron hanging below his big belly suddenly rounded a corner, almost colliding with Fiona.
‘Well, now, madam, what can I do for you?’ He backed off a pace, looking surprised to see her wandering alone. ‘Stanley Robley, patron of this establishment at your service, you see.’ He followed up his introduction with a jaunty bow and a tobacco-stained beam.
‘I am Miss Chapman, sir, and wonder if you can tell me when the next coach is leaving for Dartmouth? I shall need to stop at the Pig and Whistle en route.’
‘One doo in tomorrow morning, but might be full, you see.’ He sucked his teeth pessimistically. ‘Most of ’em are—coachmen don’t like empty seats, you see.’
‘Yes...I see...Mr Robley,’ Fiona concurred, feeling her spirits sink. In her agitated state it had escaped her mind that it could be a long wait for a vehicle to turn up with spare room on it. ‘I am overdue in taking up my employment, so would be very grateful if you could secure me the very first available place, sir. Outside will do.’
Stanley Robley tapped the side of his nose while his other hand snaked out, palm up.
Fiona realised he was expecting her to either give him an inducement for the favour she’d asked, or the cost of her fare, or perhaps both. Whichever it was she had nothing to hand over.
‘Mr Wolfson is...umm...an acquaintance and he will settle with you.’ Her voice had been level, but she couldn’t prevent embarrassment colouring her cheeks. Her blush increased when she saw the landlord’s goggling eyes slyly gleaming.
‘Well... Of course I know that fine fellow and, being the soul of discretion, miss, never would repeat what you said.’ He dipped his shiny head to whisper close to Fiona’s ear. ‘Specially not to his other girl. Hellcat she is!’ he hissed. ‘Nearly had my daughter’s eye out with her claws and all my Sally was doing was serving Mr Wolfson his dinner, you see.’
‘Mr Wolfson and I are just...’ Fiona’s indignant response faded away. The landlord’s insinuation that she was another of Wolfson’s paramours was not so far off the mark. How much of a hypocrite was she prepared to be? she taunted herself. She might try to block the memory of her shameful wantonness from her mind, but she couldn’t lie to herself. Had Luke Wolfson not let her go when he did, she would have willingly let him take her virginity...just as he’d known she would. He’d made Jeremiah Collins cackle when bragging he could make any woman want him...and Collins had offered to buy her back when Wolfson had done with her. And to her utter humiliation it seemed he had done with her, without even bothering to complete the deed. He obviously preferred his jade to the buttoned-up spinster after all.
Mr Robley broke into Fiona’s reflection. ‘You and Mr Wolfson are...?’ he probed, giving her a salacious wink to reassure her any answer would be safe with him.
‘Mr Wolfson and I are simply business associates,’ Fiona burst out, then cleared her throat.
Again Mr Robley’
s fat forefinger patted his nose and he endorsed his trustworthiness with a slow nod. ‘’Course...’ he whispered. ‘Doing business... I understand, you see...’
Exasperated by his attitude, Fiona turned away. ‘Is there a room where I might wait till the coach arrives?’
Again a pudgy palm wove towards her.
‘Is there somewhere free to sit down?’ Fiona sighed.
‘Till morning?’ Mr Robley queried with a squint of astonishment.
‘Yes...’ Fiona said faintly. She’d not contemplated the discomfort of having nowhere to rest her head overnight.
Mr Robley gave Fiona’s arm a paternalistic pat. ‘He’s been a generous sort so I ’spect he’ll stump up for a room and dinner for you as well t’other one. Don’t you fret, I’ll speak to him, about it, miss, you see—’
‘You will not!’ The idea that the landlord would demand Luke pay for her to be fed and watered as well as his mistress was mortifying. Fiona was coming to know Mr Robley and reckoned the landlord might want a tidy profit from her board and lodging before eventually ‘finding’ her a seat on a coach, days hence.
As she could think of nothing further to say Fiona gave the landlord a nod, then retraced her footsteps outside and was relieved to see that Luke and his companions had disappeared. Aimlessly she wandered about the side of the building that led to a large kitchen garden. Several paths criss-crossed beds filled with vegetables and herbs, and bathed in morning sun was a wooden bench set against a mellow brick wall. She walked towards it and sat down. The golden glow on her face was pleasantly warm and Fiona was glad that at least the weather was in her favour. To keep out of the landlord’s speculative sight she’d spend as much time as possible waiting outside for the coach to take her on to the Pig and Whistle. She gazed over the sunlit fields, thinking that she had missed much peace and natural beauty by living in the metropolis for twenty-five years. The signs of spring buds breaking open on the trees and the fresh verdant landscape lifted her spirits, despite the problems besetting her. Her fingertips skimmed the low bushes beside her and she breathed in the scent of rosemary and sage, then picked some purple-tinted leaves to chew on.
