by Louise Allen
Her wine glass was empty and both the bottles were nearer Ivo’s side of the table. Jane pointed this out.
‘You have had quite enough to drink.’
‘Two glasses only.’
‘Three and that is doubtless two too many.’
Perhaps it would not be as easy as she had thought, getting her own way with Lord Kendall. Jane reached for the bottle and he moved it out of reach, his expression suddenly reminding her that he had been an officer and was used to being obeyed.
‘You, my lord, are no f...fun.’ Although perhaps he was right after all, her tongue had almost got in a tangle and it was a most improper thing to say, mumbled or otherwise.
‘I am delighted that you think so, because that is absolutely the impression I wish to give, Miss Newnham. This entire expedition should not be amusing, entertaining or, in any way, fun. If we are fortunate it will be routine, dull and uneventful. If not, it has the potential for scandal, disaster and extreme embarrassment—’
He broke off as they were interrupted once again with more food—the promised apple pie. The open door admitted the noise and bustle of stagecoach passengers, the sound of the guard blowing his horn, impatient to be off, the cries of, ‘Here! Waiter!’
‘Close the door firmly, please,’ Ivo said to the maid as she carried out the remains of the main course. ‘You see—anyone could blunder in at any time. I must be mad. We should return you to your parents, not be planning to set out towards Bath.’
‘Absolutely not. Oh, bother, she has forgotten the cream.’ Jane looked round, then remembered that the bell was not functioning.
‘I should not have even contemplated going to Batheaston with you,’ Ivo said, ignoring the cream shortage completely. ‘I cannot imagine what I was thinking. I will take you back to your parents in London first thing tomorrow morning.’
‘No! I will not go and you cannot make me.’
‘I most certainly can.’ Ivo got to his feet and circled the table to her side.
He’s in pain, she realised, even as she pushed her chair back. Tired and in pain.
He was white under the tan his army life had given him and he could not quite hide the wince as he moved his arm incautiously. It was an effort to feel sympathetic with a large male looming over her, but she made the attempt.
‘Shall we sleep on it? In the morn—’
There was a sudden increase in noise behind her, the door swung open. ‘I quite forgot the cream, miss. We’re that busy—’
The maid broke off with a little shriek as Ivo moved and the door hit him square on the wounded shoulder. With a gasp he spun round under a shower of something white, thick and sticky.
‘Oh, lawks, miss.’
Chapter Four
‘Lawks’ struck Jane as somewhat inadequate under the circumstances. If Ivo had opened the wound up again infection could set in at the worst, or they would be delayed at the best. ‘Go and fetch hot water and cloths immediately—and close the door after you!’ She went to his side and found, to her relief, that he was muttering curses. If he could swear, then he couldn’t be in too much pain.
When she touched him, he straightened up and let go of his shoulder.
‘No, stay there, wait a moment before you try and move.’ She rested one hand on his unhurt shoulder, but it was shrugged off.
‘Don’t fuss, the stiches are intact. But after ten years fighting, I could swear I am more battered after less than a day in your company than I ever was on the battlefield, Jane.’
‘Of all the unfair—’ She broke off, conscious of the maid ineffectually dabbing at the spilled cream with her apron. ‘Please fetch some hot water and towels as I asked. That is making things worse, not better.’
‘What the devil is this mess?’ he demanded, mopping his face with his handkerchief.
‘Cream, I am sorry to say. Very thick cream in copious amounts. I only hope they have someone able to clean your coat. I fear you will have to wash your hair to get it all out.’
The maid came back with a bowl of steaming water and some cloths as Ivo struggled out of his coat. ‘Here.’ He thrust it at the flustered girl as Jane took the bowl. ‘Kindly do what you can to restore that.’ As she fled with it he turned, took the bowl, put it on the table and plunged his head into it, scrubbing at his hair and face. ‘This is the final straw,’ he said grimly as Jane handed him a cloth. ‘I am going to bed and so are you. You will lock the door and you will not emerge until I call you in the morning. Is that clear?’
‘Perfectly.’ She bit her lip as he took a final exasperated swipe at his dripping hair. ‘But might we eat the apple pie first?’ She tried an encouraging smile.
‘I find nothing amusing about this situation, Miss Newnham. If we are fortunate, I may be able to appear tomorrow morning as your escort looking merely as though I buy my clothes at a down-at-heel second-hand stall. If we are not, then you will be accompanied by someone closely resembling the local rat catcher. Neither are suitable escorts for a young lady, especially one who should not be drawing attention to herself, given the irregular nature of this enterprise.’
Jane managed to choke back the laughter. ‘Quite. Absolutely. I was not laughing at you. It was, um, hysteria, I think.’ Somehow she did not think that Ivo would appreciate the true explanation, that heroes in Melissa’s novels were not sent reeling by careless maids and showered with cream. One of her heroes would have avoided the door with a graceful swerve, typical of an accomplished fencer. Real life was clearly far removed from fiction.
The damp, battered, irritable man in front of her frowned, then blinked as the water on his lashes ran into his eyes. ‘Confound it, Jane. I can organise a baggage train, lead a cavalry charge and deal with an ambush by snipers—I do not appreciate being thwarted at every turn by a chit of a girl who appears to attract chaos like iron filings to a magnet.’
Chaos? Chit?
‘Might I remind you that I had nothing to do with your wounds? Perhaps you should retire to bed as you suggest if you find my company so tiresome.’
‘And miss this apple pie, Sister dear?’ He made his way, jaw set, back to his seat and waited while Jane, shaking her head, served pie—without cream. ‘And perhaps you should return to London,’ he added darkly.
‘I am going on to Batheaston, whatever you say. You can hardly make me go back by force and I am the one paying the postilion,’ she pointed out.
‘I could wish I had you under my command for twenty-four hours, Miss Newnham,’ Ivo said grimly. ‘But you are quite correct, you are not responsible for the pathetic state that I am in.’
‘Pathetic? What nonsense,’ she said briskly. ‘You were fighting back against ridiculous odds at the alehouse—and those louts were armed. And that door opening just then was a complete accident, anyone might have been struck by it. You are not going to make me feel sorry for you with such tactics, Ivo.’
* * *
‘Sorry for me?’ Ivo demanded, indignant. The little witch! And then he closed his mouth with a snap. It was true, he had been within inches of feeling very hard done by. Not that he would ever want Jane Newnham, or anyone else, to pity him.
Not that I haven’t got good reason for being in a foul temper, he thought.
He missed his regiment; he hurt all over, including in places he’d hardly been aware of before, even after battle; he had failed to carry out Charles’s dying wish; the girl he loved and had expected to marry had run off with a rakehell in preference to him and had ordered him to be beaten for objecting. On top of that, a new life he did not relish was waiting for him in Somerset and he had his hands full with an argumentative, awkward female.
So far, so bad. Now pull yourself together, Major, you have been in worse fixes. You’ve got food, shelter and no one is shooting at you. Yet.
For all he knew Jane’s father, armed with a shotgun, would be setting out from London when that sour-
faced maid returned.
‘If you have finished your dinner, I suggest we retire to our rooms as I proposed fifteen minutes ago,’ he said with what dignity he could muster in the face of Jane cheerfully scraping the last drop of apple sauce out of her bowl. She knew she had the upper hand—and the money tightly clenched in it. If she would not see reason then his duty was clear—he must escort her safely to her relative in Batheaston and do his best to discourage her from this insane scheme of earning her own living.
Goodness knew, he was grateful for her help back in Kensington, but if she went around helping complete strangers on an impulse like that, he shuddered to think who or what she might pick up next.
‘Very well, I confess to feeling quite weary. I cannot imagine why—I am usually wide awake after dinner,’ she admitted.
‘That,’ Ivo said grimly, ‘is the wine.’ Which was yet another thing to keep in mind on the journey. By the time they arrived he was going to be fully qualified to write a handbook: The Care and Safeguarding of Wilful Young Ladies. In two volumes, price three shillings each, to be had of any reputable stationers... The country must be full of fathers who would pay good money for that.
‘What are you smiling about?’ she asked as she got to her feet. ‘Not plotting to kidnap me and return me to my parents, I trust?’
‘No, I admit defeat on that head. I was merely recovering my sense of humour from the dark corner where it was cowering, whimpering.’
Jane laughed. ‘I must be a sad trial to you, Ivo. Never mind, the day after tomorrow you can be rid of me.’
‘A cause for cheerfulness indeed,’ he said, answering her smile as he held the door for her. ‘The rooms have keys, I believe. Please lock your door and wedge a chair under the handle as well.’
‘That seems a little dramatic,’ Jane protested as they reached the landing.
‘Humour me. I have no wish to have to leap out of bed in the small hours to rescue you from some drunken buck who has discovered by chance that every key in this place fits all the doors.’
He was still smiling at her wicked chuckle as he stripped off his clothes and climbed between the sheets to lay his throbbing head on the pillow.
* * *
Jane had a headache. To be more accurate, as she was informed by Ivo, she was suffering from a well-deserved hangover.
‘You are a novice drinker, no wonder it has affected you. I would advise one glass in future and plenty of water with it,’ he added with a marked lack of sympathy as they climbed into the post chaise at eight the next morning.
He was clearly stiff and sore to the point of gritted teeth and she had a thick enough head to resolve never to touch another drop of alcohol again, so they were silent for the first few miles as the coach travelled towards Brentford. She tried to find enthusiasm for the view of Kew Bridge, then closed her eyes in silent anguish as they were jolted over the town’s notoriously stony main street.
* * *
‘This is Hounslow,’ Ivo said, waking her from an uneasy doze some time later.
Jane roused herself to peer out of the window at the bustling street. ‘Is it the Heath next?’ She squinted at the road book, half expecting to see Here Be Highwaymen inscribed along the edges of the strip map in the manner of ancient charts with their dragons and strange sea monsters.
‘It is.’ Ivo was looking out on to Hounslow High Street as they rattled through without stopping, passing a London-bound stage drawn up outside the George Inn. ‘We will change horses at Colnbrook on the far side. You sound apprehensive—there are very few highwaymen to worry about nowadays.’
‘That is like saying that there are very few crocodiles in a stretch of river—it only takes one to eat you,’ Jane said. ‘And I do not believe any of those tales about gallant gentlemen of the road like Claude du Val offering to dance with the ladies he held up.’
‘I am sure all of them are nasty, dirty, uncivilised louts,’ Ivo agreed. ‘And I am equally certain that our postilion will be able to outdrive them, even if one did appear.’
‘A pity.’ Jane scrabbled in the depths of her reticule and produced the little muff pistol that was stretching the fabric. ‘I was rather hoping to try this out. I quite failed to disentangle it in Kensington in the heat of the moment, which was very remiss of me. It would surely have given those bullies pause when they saw it.’
‘Indeed. Is it loaded?’ Ivo said calmly. He sounded like a man attempting to talk someone down off a high ledge.
‘Of course it is. I think. But, naturally it is not cocked.’ She studied it, lower lip caught between her teeth. ‘At least, now I come to look at it, I am not certain.’
‘If you were to remove your finger from the trigger, turn it away from its current aim at the middle of my chest and hand it to me, I will check.’
She surrendered the little weapon into Ivo’s large hand where it looked even more like a toy.
‘Not cocked and unloaded, praise be to whatever guardian angel looks after rackety young women. Do you have powder and bullets for it?’
‘No.’
Rackety young women indeed! On consideration she rather liked the sound of it. It sounds positively dashing...
‘Then what was the point of bringing it?’
Ivo did not quite say, Foolish chit, but, judging by his expression, it was a near run thing.
‘It made you wary enough,’ she retorted. ‘I should have thought it would make a highwayman think twice about attacking me.’
‘Certainly it would. He would hesitate long enough to decide whether to club you over the head as a nuisance or break your wrist to make you drop it. Where the devil did you get such a thing?’
‘My Uncle Giles gave it to Mama one Christmas. I think it was a joke and she would not dream of using it, but I knew where it was and thought it might be useful. And do not roll your eyes at me! What was I supposed to do if we were waylaid? Have Billing glare at them?’
‘That would probably have been more effective, especially as you were unable to produce it in Kensington.’
That was unfortunately true. Perhaps a rackety lifestyle would not suit her after all.
‘And what will you do if we are waylaid, might I ask?’ she asked.
‘It is highly unlikely to occur. If someone did attempt it and the postilion was unable to outrun them, then I imagine there are slim pickings here.’
‘There is my jewellery in my dressing case and more than twenty pounds in my reticule. You might consider that slim pickings, but I do not.’
‘I agree, losing the money would be exceedingly inconvenient and I suggest that you hide fifteen pounds under one of the seat squabs immediately. But a young lady’s trinkets are hardly likely—’
‘Um...’
‘Um? Why does that fill me with foreboding? What have you stolen from your unfortunate parents?’
‘Nothing whatsoever.’ Jane was indignant. ‘The diamond parure and the pearl set are both mine, left to me by Great-Grandmama. I took them up to London because I wanted to have them valued. When I had asked Papa he said I should not worry my head about them and that, even you must agree, was an infuriating thing to say.’
‘Must I? And why should you need them valued?’
‘I was not certain, then,’ she admitted. ‘The idea of living independently and painting was just wishful thinking because I never expected that I would have the opportunity, not for years until Mama accepted that I was completely on the shelf and despaired of me. But now I know I want to sell the jewellery in order to set up my studio. It was only yesterday, talking to you, that I realised that going to Bath was the perfect opportunity to make what had been a daydream into reality.’
She rather thought she heard an ironic mutter of, ‘Despair? The very word.’
‘Anyway, it was only a dream and a plan for the future, but then here I am, being sent off to Batheaston—
which is right on the doorstep of Bath which must be an excellent place to obtain commissions, even if it is not the height of fashion any longer. Just think of all those moneyed people who retire there, all wanting elegant trifles to spend their money on.’
‘Have you considered precisely how you, an unknown female, are to attract the attention of these eager, wealthy clients?’
‘I thought about it last night.’ The details were somewhat cloudy this morning and she had to concentrate hard to present her plan concisely. ‘I intend to rent a very small shop in a select street and create a tasteful window display—just one portrait on an easel with artistic draperies and a notice—in gilt, I thought, in a flowing script—Portraits by X. Enquire within. And I will have my studio inside. I will have to have my new name decided before then, of course.’ She smiled at him, warmed by the happy vision. ‘All I need are one or two commissions to start with and then word of mouth will do the rest.’
Ivo did not smile back. ‘That is insanity.’
‘No, it is not. Why are you being so discouraging?’
‘Because you have no idea what it will cost for the rent, let alone the quantity of materials you will need. You could lose every penny you can raise from those gems and it is quite certain that you will lose your reputation. You must employ a maid to lend you countenance—which is more expense—and even then, you will be seen as little better than a...than an actress.’
‘And I know just what you mean by that! Why a lady employed in a respectable artistic career should be considered in the same light as a street walker, I cannot imagine.’
‘Because she cannot be thought to be supporting herself and it would therefore be concluded that she has a male protector,’ Ivo said.
‘But do consider, Ivo.’ She twisted round on the seat to face him and make her point more strongly. ‘There are so few female portraitists at work that the profession cannot have acquired the stigma that acting has. I would have thought that ladies might feel more comfortable sitting for a female artist and they must surely think one safer than a man if it is a picture of their daughters in question.’
