He settled the familiar folds over her shoulders, and Vangie smiled her gratitude.
“Thank you.”
Lifting a warm scone, she bit into it with relish. “Mmm, scrumptious.”
Closing her eyes, she took another blissful bite. Several crumbs from the pastry stuck to her mouth. She traced her lips with her tongue, licking them clean. Hearing a strange sound, she opened her eyes. Had Ian groaned?
Looking abashed, he patted his stomach and said, “My stomach’s protesting in hunger too.”
His was the oddest hunger pang she’d ever heard.
He took the chair opposite hers, then filled his plate.
“We’ll reach Somersfield this afternoon.”
Something in his tone gave her pause. Vangie searched his face. Wasn’t he pleased to be returning to Somersfield? Or perhaps explaining her presence to his family had caused the coolness in his voice.
Three hours later, Vangie’s childhood home, Biddlethorpe Hall, loomed before the coach. Its familiar golden-honey facade stirred complex emotions she’d rather leave unexamined. She pressed her lips into a thin line the moment the house appeared on the horizon.
The house was an oversized stone cottage, boasting five bedrooms. Four chimneys crowned with terra-cotta stacks stood at attention atop the roof. An uneven ivy hedge blanketed a stone fence framing the lawn. A curving flagstone footpath led the way through an open gate to an arched wooden entrance.
She’d loved the Caruthers’s ancestral home and grounds when her father was the baronet. Since his death, and Great Uncle Percival had assumed the baronetcy, the house held little happiness for her and had ceased to truly be her home. Drawing in a slow, deep breath, Vangie carefully schooled her features.
Dragging her gaze from Biddlethorpe, she briefly met Ian’s eyes, before shifting hers away. She clutched her hands in her lap, bunching her washed-out skirt.
“I’ve but a few items to collect, Ian. You needn’t trouble yourself with alighting. I’m sure my aunt and uncle won’t object if you remain in the coach.”
Please, don’t ask why.
She didn’t want him to know. And she wasn’t lying either. Aunt Eugenia and Uncle Percival were so miserly they begrudged their guests a spot of tea and a biscuit.
A frown puckered Ian’s brow, the movement emphasizing the sharp angles of his striking face. Did he see through her ruse? “You’re sure?”
Nodding her head Vangie reassured him, a mite more enthusiastically than necessary, “Oh, yes, I’m sure.”
She breathed a sigh of relief. She’d been certain he’d object to remaining in the carriage. It simply wasn’t done, even if one wasn’t expected. She was loath to do anything to disrupt the amiable disposition he’d adopted.
Studying him beneath her lashes, she concluded he was relaxed, not the least disgruntled by her ill-mannered suggestion. Noticing her perusal, Ian’s lips tilted slowly, sensually upward, a clear invitation in his eyes.
Flustered, Vangie blushed, swiftly averting her gaze. Blister it. He was the only person capable of causing her to blush with such regularity. Bother it all, the man unsettled her. A simple smile or an innocent look from him and she was all aquiver.
Silly goosecap.
He’d been all polite concern and solicitousness since last night. He’d even climbed into the coach-and-four directly behind her this morning. She couldn’t keep the look of astonishment off her face when he angled his tall form comfortably in the seat opposite her.
Malcolm had seen to the interior of the coach. No evidence of last night’s unfortunate event was detectable. The leather gleamed from a thorough cleansing and retained a vague, not disagreeable, oily-citrusy smell.
Grinning at her consternation, Ian had placed his forefinger under her chin, pushing her parted mouth closed. Her teeth settled together with a sharp click.
Chuckling he said, “Surprised you, did I?”
Vangie grinned in return, making no attempt to hide her happiness. He had joined her in the coach, and she was thrilled. It seems their misadventure with the highwaymen yestereve had wrought some benefits after all. Mayhap he harbored a morsel of tenderness for her.
Please, let it be so.
The carriage slowly rolled to a stop. Anxiety gripped her. She purposefully, relaxed her tense muscles and cast a glance at Ian. He smiled at her. Yes, last night and this morning did indeed give her cause to be optimistic. Now, to get through the ordeal of informing Aunt Eugenia and Uncle Percival of her marriage, gathering her sparse belongings, and leaving her childhood home. Forever.
She could do this. In and out in ten, mayhap fifteen minutes, at most. Knowing Ian would be waiting in the coach gave her courage.
He reached to open the trap door in the roof. “Gifford, please assist her ladyship from the coach.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“I’ll be but a few minutes, no more than fifteen at most.” She, laid her hand on his arm, searching his eyes. “You don’t mind waiting?”
Ian covered Vangie’s hand with his. She was reluctant to introduce him to her relatives. Why? Was she ashamed of him, their forced marriage, and the necessity of having to explain the hasty nuptials? Or was it something else?
He lowered his gaze to her hands. Earlier she had clasped them together so tightly he could see the white tips of her fingers. Though married less than a week, he knew her well enough to know she clenched her hands when distraught.
Curious, and not a little intrigued, Ian angled his head. Vangie was obviously apprehensive. Why? He looked past her, taking in the attractive house and grounds. Not ostentatiously affluent but still well-kept, and certainly not poverty stricken as he’d been led to believe.
“Your aunt and uncle won’t be offended if I don’t come in?”
“Oh, no.” Vangie shook her head. “They aren’t expecting me home just yet, and. . .” Her shoulders slumped, and she looked uncomfortable. “Ian,” she paused, “I’m sorry, but they don’t like unexpected guests to call.”
“Won’t they be curious whose coach this is?”
“No. They’ll assume it belongs to Uncle Gideon. He has several.”
Something was amiss. Squeezing her hand, Ian shook his head. “Go along then. I don’t mind.”
She sent him a grateful smile, which only increased his determination to know exactly what was afoot.
Gifford opened the door, then helped Vangie down the small step. Ian watched her make her way to the cottage, stopping when a black-haired bantling called to her. A brilliant smile illuminated her face. She obviously knew the child and held him in great affection. She bent and embraced the boy, wrapping her arms around his thin body and hugging him tight to her.
She likes children.
The thought pleased Ian enormously. His pulse quickened when he considered precisely what was necessary to get her with child. He allowed himself the luxury of a few moments of erotic daydreaming to further explore his musings.
Vangie and the urchin spoke briefly. The child withdrew something from his vest pocket and passed it to her. With a wave, the boy trotted off, his bare feet kicking up small poufs of dust in his wake.
She watched him for a few moments. Was that sadness on her face? Were her shoulders drooping? Ian scooted forward, his gaze traveling between her and the child. It settled on the thing she held.
What was it? A note? From whom? A man?
Stop it, old chap.
Vangie flipped the item over, studying it for a moment, before opening her reticule, then tucking it inside. Cinching the strings tight, she looped the reticule around her wrist and turned in the direction of the cottage.
She squared her shoulders, as if preparing to do battle, and marched onward, through the open gate. Instead of entering through the front door, she skirted the
house, disappearing around the corner. Why was she using the rear entrance?
There was only one way to find out.
Follow her.
Chapter 18
Stepping from the carriage, Ian gave directions to the drivers, then followed Vangie. Without a qualm or a hint of repentance, he opened the back door, letting himself into a deserted kitchen. Fresh baked bread and pies were cooling on a table, and something savory simmered atop the iron cookstove. He sniffed in appreciation as he pushed the door closed.
He cocked his head, listening. Following the sound of voices, he strode the length of one corridor then turned down another. The voices became louder. Taking care to tread silently, he glanced into the rooms he passed. High quality, if somewhat older, furnishings graced each of them.
Why was Vangie dressed in rags then?
Ah, here they were. He walked along the wall until he stood outside the entrance. The room’s door stood open giving him an almost unobstructed view of the interior. Dressed in the latest fashion with ruby earrings sparkling in her earlobes, a hatchet-faced woman sat in an armchair, berating Vangie.
“What, did they send you packing? I must say, I thought it would be sooner. I told you, the haute ton wouldn’t tolerate a gypsy tainting their drawing rooms and assemblies.”
Her face distorted by a sneer, she waved her hand at Vangie, like she was shooing a smelly beggar from her presence.
“Well, get changed. You’ve weeks’ worth of chores to catch up on.”
The shrew pointed to a glistening window. “You can start with the windows, inside and out, then polish the silver. Frieda hasn’t had the time, poor dear. Your gadding about London left her with your workload too. It was most inconsiderate of you.”
“Aunt Eugenia. . .”
A masculine voice interjected. “You’ll give us none of your jaw, Evangeline. I suppose you’ve returned empty-handed once more. No clothes, fallalls, jewels . . . coin?”
The uncle? Ian edged a few inches closer. The rail-thin hog grubber was lounging in the settee, picking at a pasty of some kind. Greedy scrounger.
“I’m sorry, Uncle Percival, I’ve brought nothing of value back with me.”
Ian smirked. Except a husband.
Glaring daggers at Vangie, the aunt curled her mouth into a pout. “Surely you could have solicited Gideon for some funds. After all, he’s your legal guardian. He has such well-padded pockets, while we must make do with the bare necessities.”
Ian’s gaze roamed the well-appointed drawing room. Bare necessities? Hardly.
The aunt huffed out an exaggerated sigh before continuing with her fustian monologue. “We’ve been burdened with your care for over thirteen years.”
Tapping her long nails on the chair’s arm, Lady Caruthers continued to complain. “The pittance your parents left in trust for you is long gone—”
“There was a trust? For me?” Vangie stared at her aunt in astonishment.
She ignored Vangie’s question. “The dolts made no provision for your care, and the work you do around here barely compensates for your food.”
“Some days I eat but one meal,” Vangie protested. “And there have been days, I’ve not eaten at all, except for fruit or vegetables I’ve scavenged from the garden.”
Sending Vangie another pained expression her aunt said, “What of your painting and crochet work? Have you any ready to sell? The funds for your time-wasting hobbies don’t appear out of thin air, gel.”
The pained expression on Vangie’s face deepened. “The Stapleton’s have gifted me with the supplies for those, as you well know.”
Ian glowered. Bloody harridan. Was the woman completely void of decency? Vangie had endured this for over a decade?
Standing, Lady Caruthers sliced a haughty glance to her fusty husband, gingerly licking a blob of clotted cream off his bony finger. He grimaced in distaste.
“Percival, do pay attention,” she snapped, her piercing voice grating like pointed claws along Ian’s nerves.
Ducking his head, Sir Percival whined, “Of course, my dove,” before daring one last, defiant slurp of his finger.
Henpecked.
Ian twisted his mouth, then scowled. And a bloody lecher. Behind his wife’s back he ogled Vangie. She was his niece for God’s sake, the perverse old podger.
Was Vangie aware? She remained poised, but her face was wan and fraught with tension. She sliced a swift look at her uncle, then immediately glanced away. She shuddered. She knew. Had the reprobate dared touch her? Ian clenched his hands against the urge to throttle him.
She met her aunt’s glare straight on. “I’m sorry to have been an encumbrance to you for so many years, Aunt Eugenia.”
Ian detected a sharp shred of sarcasm lacing Vangie’s words.
She heaved what he determined to be a resigned sigh. “I do have several pieces of crocheted work completed and some cups and plates painted as well.”
“You do?” Greed lit her ladyship’s face. “Where are they?”
“In my room.” Vangie turned to leave, but her aunt’s words stopped her before she’d taken a step.
“Oh, well, as for those, er. . .” Lady Caruthers hedged before plowing on, “they’ve been sold.”
Vangie whirled around, disbelief etched on her beautiful face. “You went into my chamber and took my belongings . . . and sold them—again?”
Again? They’d done this before? Indignation rose in him, simmering dangerously near the surface, testing his self-control.
Sir Percival lurched to his feet, rage contorting his face. “You don’t have any belongings except for those our Christian charity permits you.”
He advanced until he was but inches from her.
Though quaking, Vangie stood her ground. Unflinching, she looked him straight in the eye. “Did you sell my mother’s china?”
Silence greeted her question.
Sucking in a great draught of air, she whispered. “How could you? Those four cups were all I’d left of her.”
She tilted her chin proudly. “You had no right.”
“Hold your tongue, you insolent chit.” He raised his hand.
The cur would dare to slap her? She threw her arm upward to ward off her uncle’s blow. So, this wasn’t the first time he’d struck her.
By God, it would be the last. Ian stormed into the room.
Sir Percival froze. His pig eyes grew huge, and his gaunt face reddened to crimson. No sound emerged from his flapping mouth. Lady Caruthers seemed petrified too, rooted to the floor, staring bug-eyed at Ian.
“That’s outside of enough!”
His eyes skewered Sir Percival and dared her ladyship to utter so much as a peep. “If you lay a hand on my wife, it will be the last thing you ever do. I promise you.”
“Your wife?” Lady Caruthers said in a strangled voice. Her gaze darted between Vangie and him, astonishment causing her beady rodent eyes to bulge.
“Wife?” squawked Sir Percival. A sly glint entered his calculating gaze.
Lowering her arm, Vangie retreated until she bumped into Ian. He wrapped an arm around her and spoke quietly into her ear. “Vangie, go gather whatever you need. You’ll not be returning here—ever.”
After one sharp nod, she edged around him. Then lifting her dress, she tore from the room.
Vangie glanced up from packing as Ian bent to enter the attic chamber. It didn’t surprise her he’d found his way there. She raised her chin, refusing to be ashamed of her modest room. The roof slanted downward on both sides, and only in the middle could one stand upright. A single pane, curtainless window at one end of the room allowed a trickle of light inside.
“Aunt and Uncle?”
“Are graciously keeping Gifford and Malcolm entertained.”
She raised her brows. “Meaning?”
Ian’s gaze roamed the room, before meeting hers. “Meaning, I’ve bought them off and threatened them with legal action if they so much as mention your name again.”
He shook his head. “What was your father thinking, appointing them to be your guardians? They spent your trust fund.”
“Pardon?” She snapped her up head. “They aren’t my guardians. Uncle Gideon and Father’s Romani mother are . . . were.”
Vangie was married now. She no longer had any guardians.
Ian’s smile was apologetic. “They altered the documents then—to gain access to your funds.”
Anger surged through her. Blasted rotters. She would be well rid of them. Sucking in a calming breath, she went about her room, gathering her possessions, scarce though they were. From the corner of her eye, she watched Ian explore the rustic chamber. She cast a loving gaze around it. She’d miss this room, despite its austerity.
A narrow cot, covered with a faded quilt stitched by her mother’s hands, was nestled under one eve. That she wouldn’t leave behind. She’d turned a wooden crate sideways to form a nightstand. A neat pile of books were stacked within. Pegs protruding from the opposite wall held no more than a half dozen garments.
One was her brightly colored, multi-layered padma. The full skirt swirled round her ankles like a vibrant, pulsating rainbow when she danced. Beside the padma was an embroidered, full-sleeved, blue blouse with an extraordinary embellished vest draped atop it. Puri Daj had sewn them both.
“Vangie, did you draw these?”
Glancing up from tucking a book into one of the crates, she nodded. He was studying one of her sketches of Roma children tacked to the rafters.
“Yes. I do draw a bit, but I much prefer to paint. Aunt Eugenia insisted I sell anything I painted, though.”
The Viscount's Vow (A Regency Romance) Page 15
