Was this what life with Lady Eleanor would be like? He regarded her as she sat opposite him, sea-green eyes lowered—not, he was sure, in modesty. Her hair, beginning to dry, spread in a tangled coppery cloak about her shoulders. Would she let him brush it for her? The thought sent a wave of warmth through him.
But they hadn’t a hairbrush between them. They shouldn’t be here at all, planning to at least begin the night in the same chamber. It was all her fault. She was impossible!
And anyway, she didn’t want him.
He had let himself become embroiled in this ridiculous quest for her precious horses. They should have gone straight to the nearest magistrate. Certainly he should not have let her join him in an escapade dangerous to both her reputation and possibly their lives. At the time, there had seemed to be no alternative, or rather, it had seemed quite natural.
It was
her
escapade, he reminded himself. Moreover, he doubted he could have stopped her, short of resorting to physical violence. She was impossible. He ought to thank heaven he had found out before tying himself to her for life.
In the meantime, the best he could do was to accept whatever this dream had to offer and take what enjoyment from it he might. The demands of reality would return all too soon.
Maera’s heavy head appeared on his knee and she gazed up at him with an appeal in her brown eyes.
“Water for my…” What had he called her? “…For my harpy hound,” he requested as Mrs Quick brought the tea. Lady Eleanor’s little snort was undoubtedly a suppressed giggle. Her eyes met his, bright with amusement. “And a bowl of scraps,” he added firmly.
Promising to see what she could find, the landlady departed.
“How fortunate that your harpy hound does not require a special diet,” said Lady Eleanor, pouring her tea.
“If she were too well fed,” he responded, “she’d lose interest in hunting harpies.”
“I daresay she would. Are they not reputed to be as foul-smelling as they are sharp-clawed? Poor Maera!”
“I felt she’d prefer a new profession to the ignominy of being chased out with a broom.”
“Certainly, although she’d not have stirred without my word. However, I did not appreciate your defending your dog before your wife! What precisely is a draggle-tail?”
“It is not a word a lady need know,” Ben said severely.
“I can guess, then.” Her delightful smile faded. “Lord Clifford, we must—”
“You must remember to address me as Benedict.” He hesitated. Only his sister used his nickname. Why did he feel impelled to offer it to this irrepressible woman who had rejected him? “Ben, if you prefer.”
“Ben will do nicely. Benedict is a splendid name to be saved for special occasions. My friends call me Nell.”
She accepted him as a friend? Inexplicably his heart lightened. “We cannot discuss our plans here, Nell,” he said quickly as the landlady returned with two dishes for the dog. “Later.”
In any other female, he’d have assumed her acquiescence to be the result of feminine submissiveness. In Lady Eleanor—Nell—it could only mean that she understood and agreed. Fortunate indeed that her understanding was quick; otherwise, no less resolute than stubborn, she would argue until convinced.
He would always know her opinion—except that there was to be no always. The most he had to hope for was occasional meetings as friends.
“I’ll have the bed done in a jiffy, madam,” said Mrs Quick, “and then you can lie down till dinner’s ready, with a compress for your poor face. More ale, sir?”
“Thank you, no, but it’s excellent.”
“The men walks over from miles about for a sup of our ale,” she said, beaming, and once again bustled away.
“She
cannot
be in league with that dreadful man,” Nell exclaimed. “All right, not another word on that subject. Juliet says you often go up to Town to speak in Parliament. My father and Bertie never bothered. Tell me about it.”
By the time Mrs Quick came to fetch her, he had discovered that, at least on the subject of chimney-sweeps and the Corn Laws, her political opinions coincided exactly with his.
“Maera needs to go out,” she said, rising. “Would you mind… That is, perhaps you could take her into the yard, Ben.”
“Oh madam, that would never do,” Mrs Quick protested at once. “There’s the chickens back there.”
“Mae—” Nell began indignantly.
“Maera is far too well trained to chase chickens,” Ben broke in, “but I can take her into the lane if you prefer.”
“If you please, sir. She’s a big creetur, and chase or no, I’d be afeard they’d be scared out of laying. This way, if you please, madam.”
As the women departed through the far door, Maera watched, ears pricked, puzzled. Since Ben had claimed the dog as his, Nell had been able to say neither “come” nor “stay.” A proper clunch he’d look now if his valuable, perfectly trained harpy hound refused to go out with him.
“Well,” he said to her, “are you going to make a fool of me?”
She gazed up at him hopefully. The white tip of her tail quivered.
“Come.” He started towards the door. Maera hesitated, glanced sadly back at the door where her mistress had disappeared, and followed.
Her relief when they returned to the Candlestick was not flattering. She was overjoyed when Nell came down for dinner, her hair combed, her face less painful if no less red.
They ate in the corner of a room now filling with weary, thirsty farmhands, most of whom scarce spared a glance for the strangers. After dinner, Ben was in a quandary. Even in the present outrageous circumstances, he couldn’t bring himself to suggest that they retire to their shared bedchamber.
Lingering over gooseberry tart, Nell seemed equally reluctant to make so indelicate a proposal, but at last she sighed and said, “We must make plans. I’ll go up. Do you mind taking Maera out again?”
Perhaps they could claim Maera as a chaperon, Ben thought wildly ten minutes later as he climbed the narrow stair, the big dog padding at his heels. Whatever Nell said, her reputation was liable to end up—like her petticoat—in shreds. Honour would force him to marry her.
Somehow the prospect no longer appalled him.
She was sitting on the bed, her knees clasped in her arms. Her face brightened as he entered—but not in welcome for him. “Oh, I was afraid you’d leave her downstairs. Thank you.”
Though she sat on top of the patchwork coverlet, Nell was swathed in a voluminous white cambric nightgown. It was not an enticing garment, but Ben couldn’t help staring. Was her lack of propriety more profound than he had supposed? Was she not merely unconventional but unchaste? Despite his shocked dismay, his loins stirred. Was she inviting him…?
A blush intensified the scarlet of her sunburn. “Mrs Quick insisted on lending me a nightrail. I put it on over my clothes lest she should come back to see if I needed anything more. She won’t come now. I’ll take it off.”
Fully dressed beneath she might be, but he studied the low, sloped ceiling as she knelt up on the bed to disrobe. In the tiny chamber, bed, clothes press, and washstand took up all but a small strip of floor, most of which Maera occupied.
“Mrs Quick did not query our lack of baggage?” he asked in a strangled voice.
“No. I believe she is too flustered by our presence and dare not ask any questions for fear of arousing our curiosity. She or her husband must have spoken to Nimble Jack by now. There, that’s better.” With the removal of the suggestive attire, she appeared to have regained her
sang-froid.
“There is no chair. You will have to sit on the bed while we make our plans.”
Ben perched perforce at the foot of the bed, leaning back against one of the posts. They agreed to sneak down to the stables as soon as all was quiet, lead out the horses—by now they were both convinced the chestnuts were there—and make off at once. Retribution for Nimble Jack could wait.
That decision led to talk of the Law, thence to the plight of the poor, to Parliament, to London’s music and theatre, to literature and philosophy. More often than not, their opinions coincided, but even when they argued, Ben was constantly conscious of the candlelight on her hair, the alluring swell of her breasts, the glimpse of a neat ankle when she shifted.
If this were madness, who would choose sanity?
The sound of voices below gradually died. Footsteps sounded on the stairs; a latch clicked. The old timbers of the house creaked and groaned, settling for the night. Maera slept the sleep of the just, raising her head once to stare at the door, then drifting back to foot-twitching dreams of rabbits—or perhaps of harpies. The passionate song of a nightingale drifted through the narrow casement, open to the warm night.
“Was it Beethoven you were playing that day?” Ben said abruptly.
She did not need to ask which day. “Yes. The
Appasssionata
sonata.”
“You had not played any of his works in the evenings.”
“Phyllis said you would…prefer more decorous music.” She studied her hands as if she had never seen them before. “I let her persuade me to deceive you shamelessly, to make you believe I am the soul of demure conformity.”
“But why? Why did you accept my offer?”
“To escape from her. I have had other offers, you know, quite a few over the years, but never a suitor worth leaving my father for. Then he died and Bertie married Phyllis. You must not suppose she is a bad person, or intentionally cruel, yet
anything
seemed preferable to staying at Brantwood.”
“Anything!” The word burst out from the pain within. His parents had not cared for him enough to stay at home. Lady Eleanor Lacey, a spinster at her last prayers, desperate to escape, did not want him. He had striven to make himself utterly unexceptionable and thought he had succeeded. He had deluded himself. What was wrong with him?
That question he could not ask. Nell was looking at him with concern, about to speak. “You should have told me you wanted a fashionable wedding,” he said harshly. “I’d not have refused.”
“But I didn’t! Phyllis insisted on inviting all the nobility she could think of with the slightest connection to either family. As many as will fit into St Mary’s, at least. I assumed she had consulted you.”
“No. I begin to see why you are eager to leave.”
“I should not have involved you in my difficulties. I didn’t really mind hurting your pride, and I didn’t believe you had any feelings to be hurt.”
“A gentleman does not display his feelings.”
“A perfect gentleman,” she said thoughtfully. Recalling Juliet’s tales of her parents’ notorious peculiarities, she fell silent. The silence of their surroundings closed in around them. Nell bit her lip. “A perfect gentleman—nonetheless, you must not feel obliged to help me rescue Vesta and Vulcan.”
“Having come thus far, I’d not miss the adventure for the world.” Ben reached out to take her hand and she gripped hard, the stone of the ring digging into his palm. “Nervous?”
“A little. Shall we go now?”
“I’ll just take my boots off. They’d make a noise on the stair. I had best carry them down.”
Struggling to remove Hoby’s once-glossy creations without the aid of his valet, he watched with a tender smile as she tidied her hair in the tiny mirror on the washstand. Unconventional, eccentric even, but no less feminine for that! She picked up her gloves, he took his and his hat and, squeezing past the now-alert dog, he reached for the door-latch.
“Locked!”
“It can’t be! Your hands are full, let me try.” She tugged in vain. “We’ll have to go through the window. There’s an outbuilding roof just below. I saw it earlier. I was trying to see the yard and stables but it cuts off the view.” They turned as one to contemplate the tiny window. Nell groaned. “You cannot possibly fit through that. Your shoulders are far too broad. I’ll have to get the horses and go for help.”
“Not alone!” he protested, but she slipped past him, slithered out, and dropped from sight. Maera, surprised but game, bounded after her.
He stuck his head out. By hazy moonlight he saw both of them slide down a thatch slope and disappear again. A soft call reached his ears: “We’re down!”
The rash, intrepid little widgeon! He had to go after her, had to squeeze through that window if it killed him. He stripped off his coat, stuffing her necklace into the pocket of his riding breeches.
He made it. He tore both shirt and waistcoat, and wrenched his left shoulder, but he made it. A moment later he strode in his stockings across the muddy yard after the dark figures of woman and dog.
* * * *
Maera headed straight for the far end of the long, low stable building. Nell followed. She didn’t dare look back, for if she did she might turn and run, might try to regain the cosy nest and the reassurance of Ben’s masculine strength.
With a low whine, Maera scratched at the next to last Dutch door. Instantly it swung open. A man stood silhouetted against lamp-light, a burly man, with an object in his hand that glinted evilly.
“Ah, ‘tis the gentry mort come a-visiting, eh?” said Nimble Jack. “I seen you from the hayloft. Tell that bloody brute to stay, and come in, missy, come in.” He reached out and grabbed her wrist.
“Stay, Maera!” Nell said sharply to the snarling dog.
The highwayman pulled her towards him, into an empty loosebox. In the stalls on either side were two black horses. One put his head over the partition and whickered a soft greeting. The other pricked her ears forward.
“Vulcan? Vesta? You have
dyed
them!” cried Nell.
“Aye, and they won’t be the only ones what’s died, missy,” he said regretfully. “I can’t let you go. I c’d run for it, but you’d turn Madge in. She’s me sister. She been good to me and never asked no questions, and—”
A flash of white shirtsleeves passed Nell. Ben’s fist caught Nimble Jack on the chin. The highwayman staggered backwards, dropping his pistol, but Ben clutched his shoulder with a moan. His left arm hung limp.
Jack recovered his balance and rushed in. Ben blocked a hefty fist with his right arm, then Jack’s second punch met his eye and it was his turn to stagger back, through the doorway. Tripping over Maera, he landed flat on his back in the mud.