Jennifer Wilde

by Marietta Love Me

  "I'm perfectly prepared to pay whatever it costs."

  He eyed my black and white taffeta gown, the red velvet gloves, the elaborate hat, and his whole manner changed. A look of calculating greed glowed in his eyes as he studied me, clearly wondering just how much he could take me for. Putting on an official mien, he opened a ledger and asked me where I wanted to go in a 'ole bloody coach all by myself. I gave him the name of the village, and he ran his finger down a list on the page in front of him.

  "Six 'ours it'd take you. You leave at eight o'clock in the morning, it'd get you there around two in th' afternoon. Six 'ours goin', six 'ours gettin' back to London, that's a 'ole day for coach an' driver. Cost you plenty." He ran his linger down another list and then consulted a schedule. "The driver'd probably want extra, drivin' all that way with just one passenger,"

  "I'll gladly pay the extrii fee."

  "In a 'urry to get there, ain't you?"

  "Is a coach available?" I asked sharply.

  "Let's see—mmmmmm, Ogilvy's free, but we don't want 'im—" He continued to study the schedule, his face growing more and more crestfallen. "Damn!" he finally exclaimed. "Ogilvy's th' only one! It 'ud 'afta be 'im, wouldn't it, an' all th' other chaps eager as I am to make a bit of— Maybe I can talk 'im into—" He scowled and pushed the schedule aside. "You wait right 'ere."

  He stepped out into the yard. He planned to charge me an exorbitant fee, I could see that. The fact that I was female and expensively dressed made me an easy mark. It didn't matter. I merely wanted to be done with it. Hearing loud, angry voices outside, I stepped to the door. The clerk was arguing vehemently with a tall, muscular man wearing polished brown boots and dusty brown livery, a heavy black cape falling from his massive shoulders,

  "I told you, Arbutt," the man thundered, "I ain't 'avin' any parta your crooked dealin's. I 'ave my pride. I 'ave my 'onesty."

  "But she's rollin' in money. She's in a 'urry, too. We could charge 'er at least—"

  The clerk turned and saw me standing in the doorway. All the air seemed to go out of him. He sighed and shook his head, returning wearily to the office with the driver behind him.

  " 'Ere's Ogilvy 'imself," the clerk announced, "just in from Oxford. 'E's free tomorrow, all right, says 'e'll be glad to drive you."

  Ogilvy nodded politely. In his late twenties, he had thick, unruly blond hair, rough-hewn, ruggedly attractive features and sky-blue eyes that were surprisingly gentle. He gave me a bashful smile, and I smiled back, liking him immediately.

  "I'll be glad to take you, ma'am," he said in a gentle voice, "an' there won't be no extra charge, either."

  The clerk snorted, plainly disgusted. Ogilvy gave him a fierce look. The two of them had obviously tangled before.

  "I'd like to pay in advance," I said.

  "Might be a good idea," Ogilvy agreed, eyeing the clerk.

  The cleric told me what it would cost, and I gave him the money. He took it begrudgingly, put it away and made an entry in the ledger, all under the stern eye of the strapping driver.

  "Goin' all that way, it'd be best if we left early," Ogilvy informed me. "Where shall I pick you up?"

  "I'm staying at the White Hart Inn. Do you know where it is?"

  Ogilvy nodded. "I'll be there shortly before eight in the mornin', 'elp you with your trunks an' things. Don't you worry none, ma'am. You're goin' to be in good 'ands."

  "I have the feeling I will be," I replied, "Thank you, Ogilvy. I'll see you tomorrow."

  The clerk snorted again as I left the office. I felt certain he and Ogilvy were going to start arguing again as soon as I was out of the way. As I crossed the busy yard and passed under the brick archway, I felt an enormous relief. It was done now. All the arrangements had been made, without Jeremy's help. Tomorrow, I thought, tomorrow I would be away from this noisy, alien city. Tomorrow I would be on my way to Hawkehouse. After all this time, I would finally be reunited with the man I loved.

  The flood of joy I should have experienced at that thought failed to sweep over me. Curious. My heart should be dancing. There should be silent music inside, and I should feet a glorious, heady elation. Later. It would come later, when I was actually on my way. The constant strain of these past weeks with Jeremy had left me depleted, incapable of feeling anything but a bewildering combination of anxiety and aggravation and something strangely akin to guilt. Why had he insisted on accompanying me? Why had I ever allowed it? Why hadn't I told him to go straight to hell? I had, as a matter of fact, on more than one occasion, but it hadn't helped at all.

  Ignoring the beggars, snubbing the hawkers, I made my way back to the White Hart and went up to my rooms. The door to Jeremy's bedroom stood open, and as I passed I could see Tibby, the tiny, energetic maid, making up his bed, humming as she did so. So he hadn't returned yet. It was almost four o'clock as I stepped into my sitting room. Sunlight streamed in through the opened windows, making brilliant pools on the polished hardwood floor, reflecting in the glass of the framed hunting prints that hung on the walls. Removing my hat, setting it on a table, I moved over to one of the windows and peered out.

  Tower Bridge reared up in the distance, silhouetted against an indigo sky, and the glorious dome of St. Paul's was visible far to my left. From this vantage point, London was a breathtaking panorama of majestic buildings, brown and rust, pale tan and gray marble, of wavering, leafy green trees and slanting, sooty rooftops and quaintly tilling chimneys. The festering slums were not visible, the filth and squalor concealed. Across the way, beyond Oxford Street, the park was a sanctuary of calm, trees clustered on green lawns, ponds sparkling a silvery blue in the sunlight, people strolling leisurely along the winding pathways.

  Why did I feel so out of place? Why did I feel like a foreigner in an alien land? This was my homeland, the country of my birth, and yet... and yet something seemed to be pulling me, calling me, an inexplicable force originating from that vast, sprawling country across the sea. I thought of New Orleans and of the ruggedly beautiful countryside of Texas that had impressed me far more than I had realized at the time. I thought of Em and Randolph in their lovely hacienda, and I remembered the night sky so full of stars, dazzling, flashing, flickering stars so brilliant, so bright, I remembered the night all the stars in the sky seemed to explode inside me. . . , No, no, I wouldn't think of that. I mustn't. I must harden myself, banish that memory entirely.

  Leaving the window, I moved briskly into the bedroom and began to repack my trunks and the small bags, laying out the clothes I would travel in tomorrow. I was merely killing time. I realized that. It was much too early to go down to the taproom for dinner, and I had nothing to read. I refolded the last chemise, closed the last bag. Footsteps rang out, moving down the hallway. Jeremy? I went into the sitting room and waited for the knock at my door, but the footsteps moved on down the hall. I told myself I was relieved. I tried to believe it. I didn't want to see him. We had nothing more to say to one another. Restless, growing more so by the minute, I put my hat back on and left the inn, heading for the park.

  I had to harden myself against him. I realized that. I had to harden myself against the memories and those feelings that came upon me when I least expected them. I was fond of him, I couldn't deny that. He was infuriating and thoroughly exasperating, moody, mercurial, flippant one moment, grave

  the next, and one never knew what to expect, but yes, I was fond of him, but I loved Derek. Pausing on the pavement as the traffic rumbled up and down Oxford Street, I frowned, damning Jeremy anew. There was no reason at all why I should feel guilty. I hadn't asked him to come along. I had protested vehemently and at length. He had insisted.... I had to put it out of my mind. Seeing a momentary break in the traffic, I hurried across the street, paused for a moment to catch my breath and then entered the park.

  It was lovely indeed. The trees cast long shadows on the lawns, limbs leafy overhead, and as I moved deeper into the park the jangling noises of London grew muted, a background to the rustle of leaves, the pl
easant warble of birds. Neatly dressed little boys played with toy sailboats at one of the ponds while their governesses sat on a bench nearby, gossiping quietly and clicking their knitting needles as they kept watch over their charges. Ladies in beautiful gowns walked arm in arm with men in top hats and elegant frock coats, nodding as they passed acquaintances. The air was fragrant with the scent of grass and rich soil, and flowers grew in colorful profusion, adding their own perfume. An atmosphere of serenity prevailed, something I badly needed.

  I strolled slowly, pausing now and then to admire a bed of flowers, to lean against a tree trunk, to watch a little boy racing over a lawn with kite string in hand, the kite waving overhead like a gigantic red butterfly with wings outspread. People stared as I moved under the trees, past the fountains, the women critically examining my black and white striped taffeta gown with its red velvet waist hugger and matching gloves, the men displaying another kind of interest altogether. Lucille had done herself proud, I reflected, for the gown and the hat with its red velvet bow and sweeping black and white plumes were as fashionable as anything I had seen in London.

  An hour and a half must have passed before I finally decided to' start back. The shadows were beginning to lengthen, gradually changing from deep gray to violet-blue, and the sunlight sifting through the tree limbs was thinner, no longer so bright. It would soon be twilight, I thought, passing the pond where the little boys had been playing. I would have a light dinner in the taproom, and then I would go to bed. Perhaps I could sleep tonight, I hadn't been, not recently. Sleep had evaded me, and the nights had been long, full of restless tossing and turning, full of memories I managed to avoid during the day.

  The cries and clattering noises grew more pronounced as I neared the Oxford Street entrance. A tall, rather hefty middle-aged man was just coming into the park, looking disgruntled and disoriented. He wore no hat, and his hair was badly powdered, a dull pewter-gray with black showing through. Although his clothes were well cut, they had a worn, rubbed look, just this side of shabby, the purple waistcoat soiled, the charcoal breeches and frock coat decidedly shiny. Puffing slightly as he moved up the pathway toward me, he had all the earmarks of a gentleman who had fallen on hard times, and as he drew nearer I suspected the reason why. He reeked of alcohol, tobacco, and sweat as well. I looked away, moving toward the entrance. The man mumbled something to himself and then looked up, noticing me for the first time.

  He stopped. His flushed cheeks grew pale. He stared at me as though I were a ghost.

  "Marietta?"

  I was startled, rather alarmed as well. The man knew my name, yet I had never seen him before in my life. He was blocking my way now, standing there with an incredulous look in his eyes, I stared at him with a cool, haughty gaze, prepared to cry out if necessary. People were passing back and forth on Oxford Street only a few yards behind him. Although the man looked much too besotted to present any serious threat, I wished Jeremy were beside me.

  "Is it really you?" he asked in a shaky voice. "Is it really Marietta, or am I seeing things?"

  I looked at that fleshy, once handsome face, and recognition slowly came. It seemed altogether too incredible to believe that I should have accidentally encountered him on my first day in London, yet Lord Robert Mallory was actually standing there before me. It was one of those improbable coincidences that fate presents us far too frequently, and Lord Robert seemed far more bewildered and upset than I. My initial alarm had evaporated, and I gazed at him with a surprising indifference. I had every reason in the world to hate him. This man had raped me and branded me a thief, hiding an emerald necklace in my bag and watching with a sardonic smile as the Bow Street runners took me away. He was directly responsible for all the misfortunes that followed, yet I could summon no emotion whatsoever. He shook his head, frowning, befuddled.

  "It is you," he said. "I'm not imagining it."

  "Please step aside, Lord Robert."

  "I knew it. I knew it. Those eyes, that hair—there's never been hair like that, like copper fire. Marietta—Marietta—I've never forgotten you."

  There was a whining note in his voice as he spoke these last words. I remembered the handsome, arrogant lord who had stalked through the rooms of the house on Montagu Square like some magnificent, predatory panther, and it was hard to associate that man with this stout, puffy-faced creature who reeked of port. He was still in his early forties, I calculated, yet he looked much older. The past seven years hadn't been kind to Lord Robert Mallory.

  "Agatha left me," he said, as though reading my mind. "She took Robbie and Doreen and moved to the country. Agatha—she, she controls the money. Marietta. She always did."

  "I seem to recall that."

  "She sends me a pittance each month, expects me to live at Montagu Square on next to nothing. I can't even keep servants. They refuse to stay. There's no one. All my friends have deserted me."

  He shook his head, as though unable to comprehend such a thing. There was a nervous twitch at the corner of his mouth.

  "There were gambling debts," he continued, "a lot of them, and I couldn't pay my bill at the club and—" He hesitated, looking at me with bloodshot eyes full of entreaty. "It could have been so good for us, Marietta."

  You poor fool, I thought. You poor, deluded fool.

  "I often thought of you, wondered what happened. I—I didn't want to do it Marietta. I didn't want to plant those emeralds in your bag , It was Agatha. She made me. She said if I didn't go along with her she'd tighten the purse strings, stop paying my bills."

  "I see."

  "I felt bad about it," he whined. "I wanted you so."

  The last time he had seen me I had been in chains, wearing rags, a felon convicted of theft and sentenced to fourteen years of indentured servitude. Besotted with liquor, afloat on a sea of sell' pity, he didn't seem to find it at all unusual that I was back in London, that I was dressed in splendor Lady Agatha could never have matched, nor had he shown the least hit of curiosity. Lord Robert had never been concerned with other people. They existed merely to serve him, to satisfy his various needs and appetites. He hadn't changed at all in that respect. He was still totally immersed in his own world, a world that had crumbled all around him, and he couldn't see beyond it.

  "It isn't too late for us," he said,

  My God. My God. Was he that far gone? Was he that great a fool?

  "We could start over, Marietta. If only you'd forgive me, we—"

  "Forgive you?" I said. "I should thank you. Lord Robert. Because of you I met the man I love. Because of you I'm an extremely wealthy woman."

  The words didn't seem to register. "Come back with me," he pleaded. "Come back to Montagu Square."

  "Goodbye, Lord Robert," I said.

  "Goodbye? You don't mean—"

  "I'm in rather a hurry."

  His dark eyes were full of pain, full of entreaty. "You can't leave me. I have no one. I'm all alone. I have no money—"

  He seemed on the verge of tears, eyes welling, the corners of his mouth beginning to quiver. I looked at this pathetic ruin of a man with stale powder on his hair, run-down garments on his bloated body, and I should have felt a sense of ironic justice. I should have felt great satisfaction at how the tables had turned, but I didn't. Reaching into my reticule, I pulled out all the money inside and thrust the folded bills into his hand. Then I walked briskly toward the entrance. He called my name, the word an anguished plea, I moved on without looking back, leaving him with the private demons that would soon complete their destruction.

  By the time I reached the White Hart I had already put the encounter out of my mind. Lord Robert Mallory belonged to the distant past, and I was concerned with the future now ...and with the immediate present. Had Jeremy returned? Would he be in the taproom when I went down to dine? Tibby was in my bedroom when I entered, turning down the bedclothes and laying out a sheer, pale golden nightgown she had taken from one of the bags. She gave me a cocky, merry grin and told me she'd bring me a bedwarmer be
fore I retired.

  "Gets nippy, it does," she said. "Your feet'd be like ice without a 'ot brick wrapped up in flannel. I'll just slip it under th' covers in case you're still dinin'."

  "Tibby, has the gentleman I arrived with come back yet?"

  "You mean that 'andsome, saucy fellow with th' blue eyes? No, he 'asn't. I was in 'is room just a few minutes ago, makin' everything cozy. Know what 'e told me this mornin'? 'E told me I was so tiny 'e'd like to put me in 'is pocket and take me 'ome with 'im. Such cheek! Will you be wantin' anything else, miss?"

  "I don't think so, Tibby. Thank you."

  Grinning again, a charming creature not a full five feet tall, she bustled out, scurried through the sitting room and closed the door noisily behind her. I removed my hat and gloves, ran my fingers through my hair, and, a few minutes later, went down to the taproom to dine. It was cozy and pleasant with framed prints on the paneled walls, candles glowing, small bowls of flowers on all the tables. Heavenly aromas wafted in from the kitchen. There were few diners, for it was still a bit early, and I received special attention. I was quite hungry, but when my roast beef and Yorkshire pudding arrived I ate very little of it and turned down the raspberry treacle. My appetite had vanished. I kept looking toward the door, afraid he might wander in, dreading it.

  I was just leaving the taproom when I saw him entering the lobby, moving in that long, bouncy stride. I stepped back in the doorway, praying he wouldn't see me. His rich brown hair was windblown, attractively tumbled, and his cheeks had a healthy flush as though he had been walking briskly. He was wearing pearl-gray breeches and coat, a dashing maroon and white striped satin waistcoat, a sky-blue neckcloth. His coat flapped loosely, tail swinging as he strode to the stairwell and moved up, disappearing from sight. I waited several moments before following. His door was closed as I passed down the hall, and I heaved a sigh of relief as I reached my sitting room.