Anita Mills (12 page)

“But it concerns me!”

“No, it does not. Go back and lie down, my dear, for you need your rest if we are to press on to your aunt’s on the morrow.” Turning back to the discharged driver, he continued, “You may ride the black horse in the shed, but I am afraid that I cannot accommodate you with either saddle or bridle. When you reach London, you will be pleased to return the animal to my establishment there.”

“But—yer lor’ship—” Leach appealed desperately. “ ’Tis days to Lunnon!” Turning toward Ellen, he sought support. “My lady—”

“You will be pleased to address me, Mr. Leach,” Trent cut in sharply. “It is decided, and I shall brook no interference.”

Ellen looked from the white-faced driver to the cold face of the marquess and realized that Trent’s mind was set. Apparently, Leach came to the same realization, for he suddenly lost his pallor. Impotent rage sent a flush of color to his face as he snarled at her, “Turned off fer a bit o’ muslin—yer can’t do thet to ol’ Leach—naw, yer can’t! Tell yer summat, Miss Fancy Piece—yer ain’t seen th’ last o’ Leach, yer ain’t.”

“Leach!” Trent’s voice was like a knife, and his blue eyes blazed as he released the chair back and stepped toward the driver with raised hand. He swayed slightly, sending Ellen, Dobbs, and Crawfurd forward all at once while Leach backed away.

“Alex, please—you’ll have a backset!” Ellen cried out as she slid a supporting arm around his waist. “You cannot fault Mr. Leach for thinking what anyone would think under the circumstances.”

But Trent was not in the mood to be mollified. In spite of breathing heavily from the sudden move, he managed to grit out a warning sufficient to chill Leach’s anger. “Understand this—if you so much as utter her name to anyone, Mr. Leach, you are a dead man. D’you understand me?” he demanded. “Speak of this at all and there’s not a place in England to hide you.”

“My lord—” Crawfurd laid a placating hand on Trent’s arm only to be shaken off.

“Do
you understand me?” Trent repeated.

The driver refused to meet his eyes but muttered, “Aye—ol’ Leach unnerstands all right—been turned off fer ’er.”

“I’d do what he says,” Crawfurd interposed hastily. “If I was you, I’d leave while I still had a whole skin.”

Dobbs, not wanting to chance further demonstration of the famed Deveraux temper, grasped Leach firmly by the elbow and propelled him out the door and into the small yard. “ ’Ere now—’tis empty in th’ loft yer are if yer mean ter cross ’im. Best leave it—I kin tell yer ’e means it.”

“Naw—’e’d niver catch up wi’ me.”

“Dunno ’bout thet—yer can’t be sure. Besides, she ain’t what yer was thinking—she’s a lady.”

Inside, Crawfurd had reached the same conclusion. As he helped his master back to his bed, he unbent to soothe Ellen. “Do not be worrying over Leach, ma’am—I can assure you he’s no loss to any of us.” Leach’s abrupt departure had brought home quite plainly that Trent regarded this girl differently from the others. Besides, Dobbs had maintained all along that she was different, and sometimes it paid one to listen to the lowly coachman. By the time he’d tucked the marquess up for a nap, Crawfurd had convinced himself that Ellen Marling was no high-flyer, after all. As a result, he came out determined to treat her with the deference reserved for true Quality.

When Trent arose, somewhat revived from the rest, he and Ellen dined alone in the small cottage while Dobbs and Crawfurd shared the Bratchers’ table. Her spirits lowered by the impending departure, Ellen was unusually quiet and withdrawn into her own thoughts. Mistaking the reason, Trent finally leaned over and squeezed her hand across the table. “Do not be worrying about what Leach said, my dear—he’ll not tell the story.”

“I don’t know—he certainly took a dislike to me,” she sighed.

The return of the servants precluded any further discussion of the departed driver. As Crawfurd condescended to remove the dishes and covers from the table, Ellen was startled to hear Trent suggest that they all amuse themselves with a game or two of silver loo or whist. She looked up to meet his rueful smile. Dobbs and Crawfurd exchanged confused looks, but Trent shook his head to remind them that they would have to play something suitable for the lady.

“Perhaps we could teach her faro, my lord,” Crawfurd suggested almost timidly. “I am no hand at all at whist.”

“Aye. Who’s to know?” Dobbs brightened. “None o’ us’ll tell.”

“And I do not mind learning in the least, my lord,” she told Trent with a wicked gleam in her eye. “I’ll wager I could learn it quite quickly if I put my mind to it.”

“We could let her try,” Crawfurd urged hopefully. “I daresay she will find it more amusing than whist, and I certainly would never say a word to anyone.”

“Well …”

“You could let me try—and if I cannot master it, we can then play whist,” she argued.

“I have the distinct feeling that you will master it,” Trent murmured in capitulation.

She tried to cover that she had been playing the game with his lordship by asking a variety of idiotish questions while the rules were being explained. And for the first few hands, she made some rather foolish stands. Finally, Trent nodded to Crawfurd.

“Fetch my purse, and we’ll make this more interesting. I shall stake all of you and we will play it the way the game is intended. Crawfurd, you will be the house.”

They played for about an hour and totaled their money. The big winner was the marquess, who managed to nearly beggar the two servants, and the surprise was Ellen, who was the smallest loser. Even Crawfurd conceded in good grace, “You are uncommonly sharp for a female, ma’am.”

Trent rested his head on his elbows. “I am sorry to end this, but I find myself quite tired. Perhaps we can continue this on the morrow.” He tried to rise and the effort made him shake.

“You have overdone it, my lord,” Ellen chided as she lunged to catch him. “Dobbs!”

Between them, they were able to support him until he steadied himself. “I am as weak as an infant,” he muttered in disgust. “Leave me be a minute and I can make it on my own. Crawfurd, if you will but let me lean a little, I think I should like to retire.”

“Aye, my lord.”

Both servants managed to help him back to his room while Ellen cleared the cards off the table and soaked the dishes from the supper. Her spirits were unusually low, given the fact that they had been rescued at last, and she felt an urge to cry. She ought to be glad that help had arrived, she chided herself, for now they could press on to Yorkshire as soon as his lordship mended. But somehow she already missed the close, easy relationship she had established with Trent in those days they had been alone together. It almost seemed as if the arrival of help had changed everything yet again.

The next three days passed swiftly, and Trent gained strength. His fever no longer came up even at night and his cough was improving. He decided almost abruptly that he was able to withstand the rigors of a carriage ride, and he ordered everything packed. It was an easy task for Ellen, who had only the Mantini’s ruined dress and the few ill-fitting garments Mrs. Bratcher had given her. She folded everything she was not wearing and sighed. In clothes like those, she would not even get past the servants into her aunt’s house. No butler worth his salt would let a young female whose ankles showed in the front door.

Trent confronted his valet as he came out of his chamber, still tying his neckcloth with careless but expert hands. “Where is she? About to set out, do you think?”

“Packing, milord, but she’s naught to wear. You cannot take her to her relatives dressed like a milkmaid, sir.”

“I know. We’ll have to procure some things for her in York itself before we try to beard her aunt, I suppose.” He stopped a moment as though suddenly struck with an awful thought. “Make sure that she does not lay by a few jars of pork jelly for my health.”

“Pork jelly, sir? Never heard of it!”

“Be thankful that you have not. Just the same, be on the watch, and consign any you find to the trash heap.”

Thus charged, the valet caught Dobbs as he was putting the last of the boxes onto the coach. He pointed to the food hamper and told the coachey, “Make sure there is no pork jelly in that—his lordship’s orders.”

“Pork jelly? Ugh!”

“Yes, well, I have gathered his lordship is not especially fond of it, either.”

“I hope them starchy relatives o’ ’ers don’t turn up their noses at ’er,” Dobbs confided to Crawfurd as he strapped the final box on top. “She ain’t in th’ common way fer a lady, but ’er’s a good un.”

“I admit that I thought her like the rest.” Crawfurd nodded. “But she isn’t. Now I would not say her name in the same breath with any of the others. I don’t know how or where he found her, but I wish he would keep her.”

“ ’E can’t—she’s Brockhaven’s, yer fergit.” Dobbs straightened up and surveyed the top of the carriage. “All right and tight,” he decided as he checked the straps. “Eh, we ain’t got no driver.”

“Do not look at me. I am cow-handed when it comes to driving. And do not be complaining to his lordship, either. He’s wild enough to take the reins himself and he’s just up from his sickbed.”

“I dunno what’s ter do.”

“I expect you will drive. With a little good fortune, you might even get promoted.”

“Lud!”

“Y
OU CANNOT BE
serious, my lord,” Crawfurd sputtered indignantly. “I am a gentleman’s gentleman—not a lady’s maid! What would I know of such things?”

The carriage was stopped in front of a dressmaker’s shop in the city of York. A sign in the window indicated, “A large selection of the latest stuffs, twills, satins, and bombazines executed in the French style.” A card below proclaimed further, “A good variety of pelisses, dresses, millinery, flowers, and feathers of adornment.”

The marquess gave him a decidedly pained look. “Have I ever imposed on you before, Crawfurd?”

“Frequently. But I simply cannot do this.”

“Do you remember Leach?”

“Alex, do not tease Mr. Crawfurd.
I
shall choose my own gown, thank you.” Ellen reached for the door handle and started to twist it before Trent caught her arm.

“Goose! Would you have everyone see you like this? No, I did not think you would,” he noted smugly as a flush crept into her cheeks. “Just so. We cannot take you to Augusta Sandbridge’s dressed like a gypsy beggar, but we cannot openly take you shopping either.”

“And how am I to fit her, I ask?” Crawfurd continued to protest. “I have no experience in such things. Would you have me go in and say as nice as you please, ‘I should like a lady’s gown and whatever else ’tis necessary, but I am not precisely sure as to the size’? They should laugh me out of the place, my lord.”

“Oh, very well!” Trent snapped irritably as he owned the truth of the aggrieved valet’s complaint. “I suppose I shall have to see to it myself.”

Dobbs swung down and opened the carriage door with a flourish. “And would yer ’ave us walk th’ horses, yer lor’ship?”

“No. I shan’t be long.”

“Ellen wished she could have seen the expression of the modiste’s and shopgirl’s faces when the Marquess of Trent swept in and demanded a complete toilette for a lady of fashion on the instant. She was denied the treat, however, and he returned some twenty minutes later trailed by a manservant carrying two boxes. Trent took them and thrust them into the coach in front of him. “There—that should take care of everything, I believe,” he told her as he settled in across from her. “I have instructed Dobbs to seek a secluded lane where you may change.”

“I cannot dress in the open, Alex,” she told him flatly.

“Well, you certainly cannot dress in her drive either, can you?” he responded reasonably. “Crawfurd and I will get out while you dress. You will find everything you require in those boxes, I even thought of a hairbrush.”

“But there is not room. I cannot even stand to straighten my skirt, much less twist to do my buttons in such a narrow place.”

“Do you have a better notion, my dear?”

“No,” she admitted reluctantly, “but I shall feel the veriest fool.”

“It is a simple gown, Ellie, and should not require much help. And when you are done, Crawfurd will help you with your hair.”

The carriage rolled to a halt a short distance out of town, and Trent looked out the window before nodding. “Aye, this appears deserted enough for our purposes, I think. Come on, Crawfurd, let us step down and give her some privacy.”

“I should not think of doing otherwise,” the valet muttered. “But I take leave to tell you, sir, that I have not the least experience with female hair.”

“I should think it all to be the same,” Trent shot back as he jumped down.

“Alex—”

“Ellie, I have not come the length of England, faced highwaymen and robbers for you, fought off pneumonia, and stolen poor Chudleigh blind just so you can turn missish on me in the last instant. You will open that box and get into that dress, if you please.”

“But ’tis broad daylight.”

“Alas, I have no control over the sun, else I should put it out for you. Now, do you change your clothes or do I change them for you?” He flashed her a wicked grin and added, “I could, you know.”

She waited until she was certain that they were out of sight before even untying the cord on the biggest box and lifting out a simple pink muslin dress of very demure cut, a creation more suited to a schoolgirl than a runaway bride, and a chemise, white silk stockings, and beribboned garters. With a wary eye on the window, she stripped out of Maggie Bratcher’s homely gown and worn-out underclothing. Fishing deeper in the box, she found the pink silk pantalettes and the zona, and her face flamed to think he’d selected such things for her. Hastily, she threw everything on and was surprised to find that it all fit.

The other box yielded toilet articles—hairbrush, comb, mirror, and pink flowers for her hair—as well as soft pink kid slippers. It was there that he’d erred, for the shoes were so long they would have to be tied on. But that was of little consequence, she decided.

“Dressed, Ellie? Let me help you down and straighten out your gown for you.” Before she could answer, he’d opened the coach door.

“Much good it would do me if I weren’t!” she retorted sharply.

Grinning, he reached to circle her waist with his hands and lift her out. Setting her on the ground, he twitched the narrow skirt in place and straightened the high-banded waist under her bosom before she could protest. Turning her around, he deftly did the small satin-covered buttons while calling out to Crawfurd, “Come tie the sash, will you?”

“I? I’ve never tied a bow like that in my life.”

“Neither have I,” Trent admitted, “but between us we’ll have to.”

Somehow, they managed to get it into a semblance of order. Trent stood back and surveyed her with amusement. “None would mark you for a married lady, Ellen. You look like you cannot be a day above fifteen. Crawfurd, throw out that rag she was wearing, if you please, and dispose of the empty boxes. I would not have the fortune she is wearing crushed.”

“Fortune? Alex—”

“Aye. You are wearing the only hundred-pound muslin I ever heard of, my dear, and I had a devil of a time getting it, I can tell you. ’Twas being made for a Miss Fenton, and the dressmaker made me ransom the damned thing.”

“But you shouldn’t have! Alex, I have to repay you and I never—”

“Nonsense. ’Tis a parting gift to a rare lady who saved my life.” He stared at her for a moment with an unusual warmth in his blue eyes and then he turned away abruptly. “Crawfurd, do something with her hair.”

“Really, my lord”—Ellen shook her head—“I shall just brush it and wear it down. ’Twill be all of a piece with this dress.”

Everyone in the coach was strangely silent the rest of the way to Greenfield, the Sandbridge estate, each apparently given over to his own thoughts. Trent stared determinedly out the window while Ellen studied him for the last time. His hat was pushed back and a black curl fell rakishly forward as his face was profiled against the pane. A heavy sigh escaped her and she had to look away. It was time to say good-bye to a man she’d grown to respect in spite of his awful reputation, a man she truly liked—nay, loved, she had to admit to herself in these waning moments with him. No doubt, once he returned to London, she’d hear more of his amatory exploits, but she had to own that he’d been exceedingly kind and good to her, expecting absolutely nothing in return. She’d had that rare chance to look beneath the rakehell and see the man. What did Trent really think of her? she wondered. Would he have treated her differently had she not been Brockhaven’s bride?

“Something amiss?” he asked gently as he became aware of her downcast mien.

“I don’t know. I shall miss you, my lord, although I expect you will be heartily glad to wash your hands of me. I was thinking that I very likely will never see you again.”

“Ellen …” He reached to take her hands in his, and his face was uncharacteristically sober. “Once you get to your aunt’s, knowing me will be nothing to your credit, I am afraid. I am not fit company for a lady like you.” He waited for her to look up and meet his eyes before continuing, “But if you ever have need of me, I will give you my direction and you can send word to me. Word of a Deveraux, I’ll not stand by and let anyone send you back to Brockhaven.”

A lump formed in her throat that threatened to suffocate her. “I—I cannot thank you enough for all you have done for me, my lord,” she choked out. “And I thank you, but—oh, dear friend—I shall miss you!”

The carriage was already slowing as it entered the long, tree-lined drive, and the huge house loomed ahead of them. Crawfurd cleared his throat to hide his own sadness at the parting. As far as he could see, Ellen Marling had been nothing but a good influence on Alexander Deveraux.

“Your aunt keeps a large house,” Trent observed to break the gloom that was descending over them.

“Yes, and there is but Aunt Augusta and Lady Leffingwell to share it. You will like Aunt Gussie, but I fear you will find Lady Lavinia a sore trial.”

“No, I won’t,” he told her as he released her hands, “for I cannot stay. Besides,” he added lightly, “entertaining elderly females is not just in my style. Once you are safely delivered, I mean to leave.”

When Dobbs finally opened the door, Trent gave her a wry smile and handed her down. Following her, he leaned to whisper, “Buck up, Ellie—after what you have been through, ’twill be easy.”

He stepped up and banged the knocker loudly. She hung back, afraid of what her aunt would say when she saw her. He turned and caught her elbow and held it for reassurance. It seemed like an age before an elderly retainer finally opened the double doors.

“Be pleased to inform Lady Sandbridge that the Marquess of Trent awaits her,” Trent ordered imperiously.

“Madam is not at home, my lord.”

“Very well, we’ll wait, but be so good to send some sherry ’round to the library—and some ratafia for the lady. By the by, where
is
the library?” Trent walked in with the authority of a man rarely denied anything.

“I am afraid Lady Sandbridge is in London, my lord—gone to visit the Marlings. And Lady Lavinia has gone with her.”

Ellen sank into a reception chair in the hallway and covered her face with her hands to prevent Trent’s seeing her cry. Her shoulders shook noiselessly and her whole body seemed to go limp with despair.

“A devil of a coil, my dear,” he soothed as he bent over her and clasped her shoulder. Seldom moved by feminine wiles or bouts of tears, he was touched that she would still try to control herself in the face of the devastating news. She gulped and nodded.

The butler stared at her in fascination. “Is she all right, sir?”

“Of course she is all right. She is merely overset that we have missed Lady Sandbridge. Come, my dear.”

“But—”

“Would you be wishful of leaving your card, my lord? I cannot tell when she might return, but I collect it will be several weeks.”

“No. My sister and I were just in the neighborhood.”

“Ah, then perhaps you will see her in London.”

“Perhaps.”

They took their leave and Trent held her arm tightly as they stepped back outside. “Careful, Ellie—just hold together a little longer and then you can turn into a watering pot with my blessing.”

“I am together,” came the muffled reply, “but I need to think what I am to do now. I cannot go back and throw myself on Papa’s mercy—I cannot!”

“Ellie,” he murmured softly as he slid his hand down to hold hers, “I am tired of running all over the countryside. I have been ill and I have no wish to face Sir Basil either. We are going to my home in Berkshire.”

Mortified, she looked at the ground. “I cannot go home with you.”

“We are going home,” he repeated. “My house is your house.”

“I cannot live with you.” She pulled back awkwardly and looked up through wet lashes. “I’ve no claim to you, my lord, and besides, think of the scandal.”

“We’ve been together for weeks, anyway, Ellen, so what difference will a few more weeks or months make now?”

“But you do not understand! It was all right because we were coming here. It was the means to an end. There was no impropriety between us, and we both knew it was just until I got here. No one had to know about it except Aunt Gussie.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to make the best of it. I’m taking you to the Meadows.”

“But think what people will say—think of the scandal!”

“Look, Ellie, there are worse things—you said so yourself. You do not want to return to Brockhaven, do you?”

“No, but this isn’t a
carte blanche
offer, is it?”

“Lud, no! Ellie, a man does not take a mistress home with him.”

“But—”

“We are going home,” he repeated firmly, “and I will do my damnedest to see you are not hurt by any of this. Come on, you’ll like the Meadows and you’ll like my brother Gerry.”