The Wicked Waif

by Lancaster, Mary

  Blackshaw blinked. “You do?”

  “I do. Thank you, sir.” Since they were now passing the drawing door, she took the opportunity to excuse herself and dash in the direction of the cloakroom. There, she hid behind the rail of cloaks and sat on the end of the shoe ledge to shake out her reticule which contained her father’s watch, a handkerchief, and a folded-up note. According to the clock, it still lacked five minutes until the carriage would be waiting.

  So, she should hide in here for five minutes and then set her plan in motion.

  *

  Dove searched for Tillie with some anxiety. He had been looking forward to spending some time with her at the party, talking, and dancing with her—mostly to enjoy her company, but also to discover, if he could, whether she still wished to marry him. And if she did, how she wished to proceed. A dying man was not the sort of husband most girls dreamed of, but he had known from the beginning that Tillie was far from being most girls. On the other hand, she had seemed nervous and changeable of late, being distant or even avoiding him one moment, and the next, nursing him as if his life was all that mattered to her.

  He had been biding his time as she danced with Sylvester Gaunt and had already begun to extricate himself from his current conversation in order to go to her when he had seen Felicity Lawrence with her.

  That had rung definite alarm bells for him, bells which had, in fact, been pealing furiously since she’d mentioned her regret at ending their engagement. Felicity, he remembered, had been a manipulative and selfish child, inclined to temper and determined to get her own way. In adulthood, sheer beauty and a new gentleness of character had won his heart, but now he remembered that their engagement had come about quickly—of necessity since his leave had been limited and he needed to return to the Peninsula.

  But now that he no longer looked at her through the misty lens of desire and a boyish love closer to infatuation, he understood her character had not changed so very much. It had merely been polished slightly by an adult’s appreciation of reality. And he did not like her seeking out Tillie.

  Nor did he like the way Tillie had bolted away from him. Felicity had clearly said something to upset her, something malicious, and that, he would not forgive. When she did not immediately return to the drawing room, he cornered Blackshaw.

  “What did Miss Dawlish say to you?” he demanded.

  Blackshaw scratched his head. “I’m not quite sure. I believe she was thanking me for turning on her cousin, or for helping to preserve you. It was hard to tell. She seemed more eager to be gone.”

  “Where did she go?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Kate Grant and Catherine Gaunt were both in the drawing room. As far as Dove knew, she had no other particular friends in Blackhaven. He glanced in the other rooms opened up for the party, including one where some girls were showing off their accomplishment—or lack of it—on the pianoforte. But there was no sign of Tillie. Crossing the hall, he came across Mrs. Winslow at the top of the stairs talking to a tall, distinguished old gentleman in evening dress and someone who looked like a man of business, very out-of-place in the current company.

  “Forgive the interruption, ma’am,” he said to his hostess. “Mrs. Grant is looking for Miss Dawlish. Perhaps you have seen her?”

  The tall, old gentleman stared at him from beneath glowering brows.

  “Why, no,” Mrs. Winslow said, worriedly. “Truth be told, we’re looking for her, too.”

  Dove frowned. “Is something wrong?”

  “Oh, I’m sure not,” Mrs. Winslow said. “I’ll just have a quick look in the cloakroom…”

  As she walked across the hall and into the room being used for ladies’ cloaks, Dove turned aside with a quick nod to the two men and made to go downstairs.

  A maid on her way up the staircase stopped beside him and said breathlessly. “Major Doverton, sir.” And when he glanced at her, she pushed a folded paper into his hand and ran on.

  Dove blinked after her, already unfolding the paper. Impatiently, he glanced at it and read: If you wish to see Matilda Dawlish again, come immediately. A carriage awaits you on the path from the stables.

  Dove didn’t hesitate. Crumpling the paper in his fist, he bolted down the stairs in three strides and under the open-mouthed gaze of a footman, threw open the front door and ran outside. At full tilt, he rounded the side of the house onto the stable path. It was well lit for the evening’s comings and goings, and he was in time to see a female in a red cloak leap up the steps of the carriage facing him. A coachman huddled inside an overcoat and muffler sat on the box, his whip raised.

  Dove sprinted to the carriage, arriving just as it began to move. He hurled himself inside, knocking his injured arm and all but fell onto the seat as the coach sped up. With an exclamation of distress, someone reached past from the opposite seat and slammed the door.

  “Oh, no,” Tillie’s voice cried. “Your poor arm!”

  Yes, it was undoubtedly Tillie, frowning with concern in the flickering light from the coach lanterns.

  “Let me see,” she demanded, throwing herself beside him with a bump and reaching for his arm.

  “It’s fine,” Dove said, staring at her. “Believe me, it’s so well padded you could poke it with sticks and I wouldn’t feel a thing. What the devil is going on, Tillie?”

  Reluctantly, it seemed, she released his arm and met his gaze with what looked like very conscious courage. A funny little smile curved her lips. Her eyes glittered with defiance as she tilted her chin.

  “I’m abducting you,” she said clearly.

  He stilled. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m abducting you,” she repeated.

  He couldn’t help it. He laughed.

  “I’m serious!” she said furiously. “I sent the note to you. I arranged with James to hire the coach and to drive it!”

  That sobered him. An involuntary frown dragged down his brows. “James?” he repeated. “The Grants’ footman?”

  She nodded with an air of triumph.

  “Well, I’m not sure how to break the news,” Dove said, leaning forward to peer out the window, “but whoever is driving this carriage—at break-neck speed if you haven’t noticed—it is certainly not James.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Tillie stared at him. “Not James?” she repeated stupidly. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean the man is huddled into his coat with a muffler almost up to his eyes, but his hair is grey and he looks to me to be roughly twice James’s age, besides being decidedly smaller.”

  “But…but that’s impossible. I even called him by name as I got in.”

  “Didn’t you look at him?”

  “No! I just got in as fast as I could. I needed you to follow me and not have to be manhandled inside, because of your wound, and…and, no, I didn’t look. I just assumed.” She gazed at him, uncomprehending. “But if it isn’t James, why on earth is he driving us? Shouldn’t he be waiting for someone else?”

  “One would think so,” Dove murmured. Reaching up, he rapped loudly and peremptorily on the coach ceiling. Nothing happened. The horses didn’t slow, merely took a corner at such high speed that Tillie fell against Dove before she could prevent it.

  “Either he can’t control the horses,” Tillie said shakily. “Or he is deliberately abducting both of us. I don’t know which frightens me more.”

  “Frightened?” Dove grinned at her. “Not you. I wonder where they’re going with us.”

  His careless curiosity had its effect on her. She peered out of the window. They were travelling far too fast to jump out without severe injury. “It’s certainly not the north road, is it?”

  He glanced at her over his shoulder. Catching the lantern light, his eyes glittered. “The north road? Were you planning to abduct me to Gretna Green?”

  She flushed, nodding, and he sat back on the seat beside her. “I’m very flattered,” he assured her. “Only…why?”

  “To be sure.”
/>
  “Of what?” He actually sounded baffled. “Of me?”

  “Yes,” She lifted her chin. “I know I’m beneath you in birth, but I also know I can make you happy. I didn’t want to push you into marrying me, but it seemed to be the only way. I almost gave up the idea as silly, but I can’t let you fall into marriage with her.”

  “With whom?” he demanded.

  “Lady Lawrence.”

  He blinked. “I have no intention of marrying Lady Lawrence.”

  “I had the feeling she was lying,” Tillie said, gratified for an instant. “But if she had her claws into you—and she has—I knew she would find a way.”

  “So, you came up with abducting me?” The laughter was back in his voice.

  “Catherine came up with it. It was how Lord Sylvester persuaded her to notice him. Or something.”

  His shoulders shook—with more laughter, she could only assume with some wrath—until he took her hand in his. “For future reference, my sweet, modelling your behavior on Sylvester Gaunt, or indeed on any member of his family, is not very proper.”

  “I know,” she said miserably. “But I don’t care about convention, and I was desperate.”

  His hand tightened. “For what?”

  “For you,” she whispered.

  She couldn’t look at him. In any case, silly tears were blinding her. His hand touched her chin, turning her face up to his. His eyes searched, then slowly, his frown smoothed out and he bent his head.

  His mouth closed on hers, and she gasped. Released, the tears gushed down her face, splashing on her cheeks, his hand, their lips. But his kiss was firm and possessive and tender, and it seemed to melt every bone in her body. She forgot where she was in the sheer wonder of his kiss.

  “Did I not say that I loved you, little waif?” he whispered against her lips. “Why would you imagine I would then marry another woman?”

  “Because you do not need to marry me.”

  He drew back, staring down at her. The frown was back. “You thought…after everything, that I would take you as my mistress?”

  Beginning to see the truth, she smiled and nodded.

  “Would you have done it?” he asked unexpectedly. She let out a choke of mingled laughter and outrage, and he dragged her across his chest and kissed her again, a little more roughly, a little more deeply. “Well? Would you?”

  “I would do anything for you, Dove, I—” The rest was lost in his mouth as he kissed her again with great thoroughness. She lost her train of thought, forgot even where they were, until, with an obvious effort, he drew back.

  An unsteady breath of laughter shook him. “I’m glad we have finally reached this understanding. You will marry me, Tillie Dawlish, and not at the border. But first, we have to establish where we’re going and how to get back to Henrit before you are ruined.”

  “You seem to take abduction very lightly,” she observed.

  “I learned from you.” He looked out of the window. “We’re coming into Whalen… Interesting.”

  “Why, what is in Whalen?”

  “A deeper water harbor than in Blackhaven,” he said thoughtfully. “Among other things.”

  Tillie caught her galloping breath. “Could it be Captain Smith? Making sure you don’t find out any more about him?”

  “Perhaps,” Dove said, as though unconvinced. “Though it was noticeable the carriage moved forward as soon as you were inside. It didn’t exactly wait for me.”

  “I thought it was James misjudging, because he was nervous.”

  “So he should have been,” Dove said, delving beneath the seats. “I don’t know what he was thinking of, or how you persuaded him—”

  “What are you looking for?” she interrupted.

  “Something to use as a weapon. Look in the pockets.”

  Tillie obeyed, searching the pockets at the corners of the carriage, but she discovered no useful pistols. Nor did Dove appear to find anything weapon-like. “Don’t you have something with you?” Tillie asked in frustration.

  “It’s not customary to go to a civilized party armed to the teeth,” he observed.

  “That was my other worry,” she confided. “I didn’t want you to hurt James either.”

  “Well, when we get out of this mess, he’ll have to have a dashed good reason to prevent it.”

  “I told him it was a prank,” she said anxiously. “A joke that you would laugh about. I assured him no harm would be done. I think he assumed we were going to marry anyway.”

  “Well, at least he got something right.” Dove sat back, flexing his arms and fingers. The carriage was slowing. “It will have to be the old-fashioned way. When he opens the door, I’ll rush him. You jump out the other side and run.”

  “But Dove, your arm—”

  “It will have to do.” He grinned. “Hopefully, I’ll only need one hand.”

  Anxiously, she peered out the window. Lights from the harbor, and from a large ship, reflected on the sea.

  “You might be right,” Dove said, “about Captain Smith.”

  “Dove,” she said urgently as the carriage slowed to a halt. “Please don’t be hurt…”

  She caught the end of his smile as he reached for the door.

  But their abductors were prepared, and someone else opened it first. Dove flew at him, and too late, Tillie saw that their opponent was armed. Dove, fortunately, must have been aware, for the pistol was knocked into the air in a flying arc.

  Relieved, Tillie yanked open her own door—and came face to face with another armed man who, however, was a little more circumspect, standing well back. She paused.

  “Out,” he said levelling the pistol at her. “Round to the other side. Quickly.”

  She needed no second urging, for she knew she could not fight him and she needed to know that Dove was safe.

  In fact, he was rolling on the ground with his attacker, while the coachman lumbered down to join in.

  “Enough!” ordered an impatient voice—and one Tillie recognized. Captain Smith had come round from the horses’ heads. His command halted the coachman, but there was little the other man could do when Dove had him locked on the ground, his fist raised threateningly. “Major,” Smith said sharply. “We have your companion in custody.”

  At once, Dove’s fist unclenched. He released his man and stood up slowly. Tillie couldn’t see if had reopened his wound.

  “Don’t aim at her,” he said. “I’ll be good.”

  “Then be so obliging as to follow me on board,” Smith said, with a curt nod to his underlings.

  Tillie all but tripped over her feet in her urgency to get to Dove. “Are you hurt?” she demanded.

  “Devil a bit,” he said cheerfully. “Which is interesting.”

  “Is it?” she asked, inclined to be outraged. “Dove, are you enjoying this?”

  “I might be,” he admitted. “If it weren’t for someone pointing a pistol at you.”

  Side by side, they followed Smith up the gangway. Tillie touched Dove’s fingers for comfort, and they immediately curled around hers—large, warm, and reassuring. But as soon as they were on deck, the captain began issuing orders for the gangway to be pulled up and the ship to get under way.

  “You can’t do this!” Tillie exclaimed. “You can’t take us abroad!”

  “I apologize for the inconvenience,” Smith said with something approaching sincerity. “It is not my choice.”

  “One last task for my uncle?” Tillie guessed with contempt. “Are you to throw me overboard?”

  “I am not an assassin,” Captain Smith snapped. “Follow me to the cabin, if you please.”

  “There’s nothing to gain by throwing me overboard,” Tillie allowed. “They wouldn’t get the fortune in any case.”

  “I believe your uncle means to meet us in Ireland,” Smith said, opening the door to the cabin.

  “Looks like they still want to marry you to Luke,” Dove observed.

  Reluctantly, Tillie walked into the cabin, hearti
ly glad of Dove behind her. The room’s sole current occupant turned from the table.

  “Ah, Miss Dawlish,” Captain Alban greeted her. “And Major Doverton, too. What an unexpected pleasure.”

  Tillie glared at him. To think they had relied on his help. “You, sir, are a traitor!” she cried.

  Alban did not appear to be put out. “It depends on your point of view,” he said. He had, apparently, been pouring brandy. He pushed one glass across the table to Smith and lifted his own. “To partnership,” he said mildly and drank.

  Smith took a mouthful, more dutifully that anything else. “I still don’t see why you needed to come with us,” he said pettishly. “I manage much better alone.”

  “Well, there is the example of The Phoenix to dispute that,” Alban argued. “I prefer to keep my eye on my investments. And do we still sail to Sweden after Ireland?”

  Smith hesitated. “No,” he said. “Not necessarily. If all our cargo unloads at Larne.” He took another nervous drink. “Plans change.”

  “According to whose whims?” Dove asked with a hint of contempt. “The Dawlishes?”

  “Sadly, yes,” Smith snapped. “They are aware of information that could do harm to myself and my family.”

  “Indeed,” Alban said, clinking his glass against Smith’s in an encouraging kind of way. “Your family’s health, Captain.”

  “And your family’s, sir?” Tillie said furiously to Alban. “Do you not have a wife and child?”

  “I do, and a second on the way,” Alban replied without shame. He raised his glass again. “To my family’s health.”

  Tillie curled her lip as they both drank. “They would be ashamed of you. Sir, do we need to stand here and watch the pair of you become intoxicated?”

  “Why not?” said Alban. “It might amuse you. But, do please sit. Forgive my manners.”

  He held a chair for her, and as she sat with as much dignity as she could muster, she looked anxiously at Dove for signs of bleeding or weakness. But he, as upright as usual, was gazing at Smith, who was, somewhat owlishly, staring at Tillie.

  Dove said, “Are you quite well, Captain Smith?”