Sadly, of course, she did not. Her golden guineas—Lord Raven was shockingly extravagant with her pin money—were all safe in her reticule at home. There was nothing, now, to placate the growing mob of dirty-faced brats other than courage and cool resourcefulness. She doubled her hands into fists, turned, a little, so they stopped dead in their tracks, waved her fists threateningly in the air, and hoped for a miracle. None occurred, of course, so she took advantage of their first surprise by darting off the paving and into the road.
She stumbled, a little, for she could not help looking back as she made her move, and was sent sprawling headlong into the street. The crowd would have followed her but for the crunching of wheels against cobbles and the urgent whinnying of horses but a fraction above her head. Then there was the thud of metal and a splintering of glass before Primrose could look up and take full measure of what she had done. A gentleman dismounted—she could tell that from the sleek lines of his coat and the gleam of hessians on cobbles—before she was hauled up from the ground in an unceremonious tug that left her gasping. She gasped all the more when she realized that her tormentor was Lord Rochester, and that he had her in a steely grip by the scruff of her neck.
“What is the meaning of this, whelp! I could have run you over under my wheels! You are not hurt, I take it?”
Primrose shook her head, but her throat was too dry to talk. The crowd was larger, now, but she no longer worried about the street urchins. There was a man behind Rochester who looked angrier even than my lord. “Beggin’ yer pardon, yer honor! The varmint shall be made to pay. My cart collided with your chaise when it halted and just look at the damage! A right whipping he shall have, pleasin’ yer honor and that I vouch for!” He glared at Primrose, who stiffened under his gaze. “You shall not stand for a week when I have done, you careless whelp! Why, the veriest simpleton knows to stand clear of traffic. I shall have your hide, me lad, you see if I don’t!”
Lord Rochester glanced impatiently at the crowd and at the boy before him. He was shivering in his scanty clothes and though my lord’s fury was unabated, he had it in his heart to be merciful. There was something in the boy’s bearing that spoke of pride. Mindful of the time, he froze the gentleman’s bluster with a simple stare.
“Your gig collided into mine. I believe it is I who must demand compensation in this matter.”
The man glowered. “Pleasin’ yer honor, if yer had not stopped for this varmint I would not have collided into your rig! See, my windows are smashed and the axle ...”
“Confound your axle. Will a sovereign fix your axle?” The man’s eyes grew cunning. “Then there are the windows . . .”
“Two sovereigns, then, and I will hear nothing more about the matter.” The marquis withdrew the promised coins and handed them over without a thought.
“My lord, the boy needs to be punished. I will see to his whipping . . .”
“Lord, man, have I not said there is an end to it?” My lord’s customarily mild tones took on an edge.
When the man still seemed undecided, not used to being bested, but unaccustomed to traffic with the gentry, my lord waved his hand irritably.
“If it soothes your nerves I will see to the boy’s punishment. I believe he will not again err in this matter.” Rochester’s tone was suddenly grim enough for Primrose to take fright. She moved a little under his firm grip, but was crushed to find that his fingers tightened, silently, at the gesture.
The man hovered on the brink of indecision. He handled his coins and eyed the marquis assessingly. Despite a careless demeanor, my lord had the boy in a vicelike grip and his sinewy muscles were not disguised by the absurdly tight fit of his cloth. It was just possible, he supposed, that the gentleman could give a beating that matched the one Josiah Hadley had meant to mete out. Indeed, it might go worse for the boy, for my lord had chipped his paintwork besides losing two sovereign into the bargain.
There was no doubt, Josiah thought, about the strength of his jaw or the meaning behind the tight ridges across the expanse of his chest. They spoke of a masculine power that boded ill for a boy about to take a thrashing. The man nodded briskly, cast a last, disdainful glance at the varmint, and turned an inquiring eye again, on Rochester.
“Go! You have my word on it.”
Josiah Hadley pocketed his coins and waved away the throng of onlookers. His pride was satisfied, for there was something in my lord’s bearing that made him take him at his word. He unhitched his team and set about moving the cart off the road. Primrose was inclined to take her chances and run, for she did not quite like the firm set of my lord’s chin or the unrelenting grip he had of her collar. His fingers brushed against her neck and felt warm, and unbearably masculine. She wondered if he would carry out his threat and thought, with horror, that he just might. She flexed her body, slightly, but it was as if my lord had a second sense. His grip tightened though his tone remained neutral as he ordered her into the chaise.
Miss Chartley was about to argue but she caught sight of her tormentors in the distance and thought the better of it. Without a word she climbed up the boards into the familiar barouche—painted, as she saw by day, a bright royal blue.
The doors closed almost before she was achingly aware of his form against the squabs. He hardly glanced at her as he called an order out to his coachman and consulted his fob.
“Hurry, man! We cannot afford any further delays.” The coachman nodded and soon the well-sprung chaise was away from the hustle of Burlington Street. Primrose closed her eyes and thought furiously. Rochester obviously had given her no second thought. If he’d recognized her, he would surely have held her more tenderly, would not have suffered her to fear for her very life, though in truth he had probably saved just that. If she revealed herself to him now, in all her town grime, he might take her in disgust, for she was very far from the belle of Almack’s. She was caught now, in even more of a compromising position than she had then. Then climbing into the marquis’s chaise had been an unwitting mistake. This exploit was willful folly.
She bit her lip and held her peace, praying the good marquis was too caught up in his errand to take much note of a street urchin.
He was, for even now they were turning into my Lord Barrymore’s street at a spanking pace. Rochester addressed her sternly, and the set of his chin sent a brief shiver down Primrose’s spine that was not altogether fear.
“Stay here, whelp! I shall deal with you shortly. And be very sure that if you escape it will be at your peril.”
Primrose nodded, eyelashes downcast, for she did not think she could look Rochester boldly in the face when she was so enmeshed in deceit. Besides, though it had been dark when they had last encountered each other, there was still a chance he might recognize her.
He nodded, a brief glimmer of light behind his alert, dark eyes, then he descended the chaise with an instruction to his coachman. Primrose thought it was an age that she waited. She told herself sternly that nothing else mattered but that Lily was safe. She was on the shelf anyway; it was Lily’s reputation that must be preserved at all costs.
Part of her—a little part—smiled at how impetuously Rochester had responded to her summons. She could not have asked more of him were it her own self that had needed saving.
His face, when he returned, was bleak, and his tone curt as he ordered the horses to commence to a posting station not twelve miles from the city. Primrose gasped, for she had not anticipated this, and she must surely be ruined if ever she survived the ordeal. She bit her lip and endeavored not to capture his attention. My lord spoke quickly to his coachman and she strained to hear the conversation.
“The servants within swear my lord Barrymore was not provisioned for a trip to Gretna.”
“The cur, for it was then not marriage on his mind, but a villainy far greater. Did they say where he might be headed?”
“Dorchester? Then onward, for there is no time to spare.”
Primrose could not hear further, for the wind caught her a
t a disadvantage. My lord must have had a better idea of what he was at, though, for he nodded briskly and ordered that all speed be made to a certain posting station some twelve miles northeast of the city. Primrose clenched her fingers tightly as orders swirled above her head.
“Be swift, mind, and have a care to the horses. It shall not do us any good if they are winded and it is a few hours still till nightfall.”
A few hours. Surely Barrymore would not be so dishonorable as to ruin Lily in broad daylight? But if he were pressed for funds, he might be driven by desperation. Primrose shivered. How could she have so blithely judged him to be of good character? Rochester was right. She was not suited to be a chaperone. It was her laxity that had permitted Barrymore to take Lily up in his chaise. If she had denied him, Lily would even now be nibbling on marzipan at Raven Place and contemplating Daisy’s romance with youthful sighs. She looked out the window and was hardly aware of a tear that rolled out of her slate gray eyes, dampening the muddy shirt points that Rochester had so recently laid hands upon.
My lord, lost in his own thoughts, did not notice either. When she sniffed, however, he found himself regarding the ill-favored varmint with mild interest.
“Do not weep. Though you shall undoubtedly be punished, as I have promised, it shall not go as ill with you as had master Hadley had the mastery of you.”
Primrose startled. She had not thought to address him this trip. Indeed, she dared not, for if she spoke he would know at once that her speech was not lowly enough to be that of a street child. So she folded her arms and glared at him defiantly, an act that had my lord Rochester’s lips twitching, for in truth he could sympathize with the errant lad. Time enough he had been up to mischief and awaiting discipline from my lord Hereford, the marquis before him.
Then his attention was arrested by the glint of copper. There was something of the shade that pleased him, for it reminded him of that other copper-curled person, for whom nothing but the sanctity of wedlock would wholly satisfy his desires. Even the slender wrists and the high bones of the cheek were like, but of course, other subtle differences were too innumerable to mention.
My lord sighed at his fanciful nature and stared out the window. He thought he heard a similar sigh from the other seat and smiled. Mayhap the lad was glad he had other matters to occupy his attention. He would teach him that he was a hard master, not easily disobeyed, then turn him over to the stable hands. Doubtless he could earn his keep in some way. There were always hay bales to be fetched and carried and stables that needed sweeping. Better that, surely, than a life of crime that would doubtless be his lot if he was set down on the streets again.
Primrose eyed him cautiously, then dropped her hands demurely in her lap. Not the stance of a youth but then she was not practiced at subterfuge. My lord eyed her, puzzled. The lad had slender wrists, lily white as though they had not seen the seedier side of the docks or the coal mines or the slums. He seized one, caught by a sudden strange fancy. The shock in the lad’s eyes were mirrored only by his own, for in that touch there was something indefinable, something between them that was more than man or master.
The youth flushed a little and jerked his hand away. My lord ignored the gesture, for he was most perturbed, caught up in some fanciful delusion that he would doubtless chuckle about on the morrow. “By the saints,” he thought, “I am likelier drunker than I thought.” The marquis, having partaken only of a few light brews, was harsh on himself.
The child drew his beaver down over the curls, but shivered, all the same. Rochester threw him a blanket, which was received with a grateful smile, but again no words. The smile was enough, however, to send the gentleman’s pulses racing quite extraordinarily. It was direct and echoed in the eyes, albeit fleetingly. My lord could not mistake the whisper of a smile through dark, copper-toned lashes. They curled long and luxuriously across the lids and even under the beaver’s brim they were too exquisite to carelessly ignore. He drew in his breath.
By God, if he knew no better he would think . . . but no! The lad had none of the delectable curves that had been such a sore temptation to him in the lamplit chaise at Almack’s. Even now, he could recall Primrose’s dark velvet gown, cut low enough to tantalize, yet more modest, he had to regret, than some of the other confections that were being worn that year. No, he’d had just chance enough to glimpse soft rounded curves cupped by velvet and laced in by slivers of organdy. Smooth, and soft to the touch he would guess, though even he had not dared presume that far. The child was hugging the blanket to him so he could not compare, but really, such comparisons were absurd; he would have noticed from the outset. Or would he have?
Doubt suddenly overcame Gareth. The urchin was wearing a jerkin, after all. Perhaps, even now, beneath the thick green wool those heavenly curves were struggling against the cramped shirt he had so ruthlessly tugged at. My lord felt a tightening about his elegant satin breeches that was really quite perverse, but the thought intruded upon his consciousness too forcibly to be ignored.
He regarded Primrose intently from beneath hooded lashes. What could she be playing at, he wondered. If it was Primrose facing him with impunity from under the brim of that far-fetched beaver, she would have much to reckon with, for the fright she had given him. God, the thought that she even now could be wed or bedded with Barrymore made his fists clench quite wretchedly.
If she had put him through that shocking misery, then still had the unmitigated gall to masquerade as a street urchin and place her life—not to mention reputation—in the veriest danger, she would have a lot to answer for. They were ten miles, still, he judged, from the inn.
Time enough to have the horses turned round if this was all a prank. Time enough, if it was not, to discover the truth at all events. God knew, he needed his mind to be occupied whilst there was this moment of forced inaction. Though the carriage was moving onward quite steadily, Gareth felt hamstrung by the enforced wait. He might as well occupy himself to some purpose.
He leaned forward, suddenly, ostensibly to check the catches on the carriage doors. As he did so, he was assailed by a scent memorably sweet and shockingly provocative to his senses. Musk and jasmine . . . he had his answer.
Eighteen
“You shall not get away with this!” Lily sobbed in impotent anger.
Sir Rory smiled gently, but his blue eyes were slits and granite hard. “Oh, but I shall, my little passion flower.”
Lily did not answer, so he continued. “It is true that the last time I attempted this, I was ill-prepared. Fortunately, I am not so puffed up in my own conceit that I do not learn from my mistakes. See, I have not brought, this time, some lame, low-stepping nag. I have a chaise and pair, now, a very different thing, I am certain you will agree.”
He eyed her scowl complacently and patted her leg. Lily felt her skin crawl beneath the gay, brightly rosetted morning gown, but she chose not to squirm. She may have been young and foolish, but she had learned a little, at least, of dignity and bearing. It would be unbecoming to squirm, besides being pleasing, no doubt, to her captor.
It was at the tip of her tongue to tell him triumphantly that all was in vain, for she was wed already. The thought made her mouth curve, a little, in secret triumph. She fingered the gold band but newly placed upon her finger and frowned. If her tormentor were to notice, it might not go well with her, for she would lose the advantage of surprise. Also, if he knew she were wed and the ransom lost to him one way, he might choose the other, more despicable way. He may ransom her body to Raven and despoil it himself. The thought made her shudder. Surely he could not be so vile! But yes, she thought he could.
All his innuendoes about her being good and becoming his wife started to make horrible sense. With great courage and infinite regret, she pried the ring from her finger whilst he stared at the dust clouds and let it drop, silently, behind the squabs. She could have wept, then, for it was like tearing herself asunder from Barrymore. Without the warm weight of comfort on her finger, she was subtly
more vulnerable. She turned her head and looked silently out of the other window. She could not see a thing, for the horses were cantering so swiftly upon the country road that the dust was prodigious. She only hoped they were ditched.
In a different chaise altogether, two horses had slowed, at Lord Rochester’s command, to a mere trot. Primrose looked up in surprise. “Why are we slowing, sir? Your mission is urgent.” In truth, if he was uncertain before, he was certain now! The baggage had forgotten to be silent and so her feminine, delightful, and quite impeccable tones were revealed to him in all their glory. My lord had never been so thankful or so genuinely angry at one and the same time.
“Come here.” His tones were soft, but his eyes were uncompromising and Primrose felt a sudden clutch of fear in her heart Had he recognized her? Had he taken her in sudden disgust? She peeped at him, desperate to divine his intentions. My lord gave nothing away but merely beckoned to her. She went rigid and as silent as the grave. If he had not recognized her, she must take very good care not to let such a stupid slip occur again. In deep Cockney tones that made my lord smile despite his very real anger, she begged him to continue on his way.
My lord regarded her, for a moment, then called to the horses to stop. They allowed a country gig to pass, then instantly slowed at a clearing.
“What am I to do with you, lad?”
His voice was quiet, but Primrose felt a wealth of hidden meaning behind the tones that she could not begin to untangle. She caught at his last word, then, and breathed a sigh of relief. Lad! So he had not pierced her flimsy disguise, then. She shrugged her shoulders inquiringly and bit her lip. It would not do to imperiously command my lord to return to his mission. Nothing could possibly be more hazardous to her masquerade. She must wait, servilely, for him to say his piece and hope that he made up speed thereafter.
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