Anita Mills (7 page)

“We cannot just leave! My lord—think of it, I pray you! How’s it to look if we run?” she demanded.

“Do you—want to sign an affidavit?” he countered. “Only crime I can attest to—abduction by you.” Beads of either perspiration or rain shone on his brow. “Too much to explain.”

“But the bill—someone must pay the shot,” she protested.

“Told ’em we were robbed,” he reminded her. “Send it to ’em later. Promise.”

“Can’t find ’er, my lord,” Jem announced, opening the door. “Ain’t with th’ magistrate, and ain’t—” He stopped, seeing Kitty. “Oh—yer found.” He wiped the rain from his face. “Near thing—was afeard he meant ter ask me, but he was feedin’ ’is face. Said he’ll speak ter Smith first. Well, none’s the harm t’day. Where d’ye mean t’ take ’im, Miss Kitty?”

The baron’s hazel eyes were on hers. “Yes—where now, Miss Gordon?”

He was rumpled, his bloody shirt open over the bandages, his face in desperate need of a shave. The thought came to mind that he looked more like a ruffian than like Baron Haverhill. Then she looked down again at her soiled, torn gown. And no explanation she could think of would suffice, she was sure of it. Indeed, by light of day, the whole affair seemed too preposterous for repeating.

“Well,” she sighed, exhaling fully, “I shall have to take you home, I suppose.”

“To London?” One of his eyebrows rose.

“No—to my aunt’s house, though what she will say, I cannot imagine. I hope, when she comes to understand why I have done it, she will not cut the connection entirely.”

Jem looked from her to the baron, shaking his head. “Take yer there, I will, but I ain’t stayin’. Yer can tell ’er I give m’ notice ere she turns me off.” He backed out of the doorway and closed it. “Ain’t stayin’ here neither,” he acknowledged, climbing onto the box.

She clasped her hands in her lap and stared downward. “I can only hope you will be persuaded to do the right thing were Jess is concerned, my lord. Then ’twill not have been entirely for naught.”

“Miss Gordon, I do not—” His words came to an abrupt end as the carriage lurched violently forward, throwing him back against the leather-covered seat. He went white, biting his lip against the pain.

“Are you all right, sir?” she asked anxiously.

“No. Be damned fortunate if I don’t bleed some more,” he gasped. “Got a devil of a head and a hole in my shoulder—of course I am not all right!”

“No, of course not.”

She looked even younger and smaller as she sat, her head down, and he felt goaded. “No Cheltenham tragedies, please—’tis I who am injured,” he muttered. “Only thing worse that ever happened to me was the ball in my leg.”

“Dr. Burke said you must have nearly lost it.”

“He was right.” He closed his eyes and swallowed. “Damned thirsty.”

“You drank all the rum last night.”

“I know.”

There seemed to be nothing else to say to him, nothing to the point, anyway. Sighing again, she turned to look out the window into the dreary day. If she had it to do all over again, she would have asked Rollo to write him. It would not have been impossible, she supposed. She could have flattered her young cousin by reminding him that he was the head of the house, after all.

“No,” he said suddenly. “The leg was not the worst of it. ’Twas the suffering and dying of the others.”

“I beg your pardon?” She looked up, seeing a very different pain in his eyes, a pain that made them seem almost green. They were, she realized, quite the most beautiful eyes she’d ever seen. “ ’Twas as Burke thought—you have been in the war?”

“I have been to hell, Miss Gordon.” His mouth compressed into an almost bitter line. “The fire, the brimstone, the smell—all of it. There are no terrors left for me.”

And in that moment, her heart went out to him. “How awful for you,” she whispered, swallowing the ache that rose in her throat.

“It makes what passes for fashionable life utterly frivolous.”

“Yes.” She sighed heavily. “I would that Rollo knew it, but he is only sorry the war ended ere he was old enough to go.”

“Rollo?”

“Roland, actually—my cousin, Roland Merriman.”

“The young fool.”

“Does it pain you very much—the leg, I mean?” she asked him.

“Only when it rains—I have said it until it does not bear repeating, you know, but ’tis the truth.” He looked at the drizzle that streaked the carriage windows. “ ’Twould be a jest if the infernal rain ever stopped.”

“I am sorry for it.”

He leaned forward, and his eyes seemed to warm. “I like it much better, Miss Gordon, when you show your spirits. I’ve had a surfeit of sympathy—’tis company I need.”

“I am not an entertaining sort of female, I fear. My conversation always seems to be of the wrong sort for fashion over here.”

“But you are, Miss Gordon—you are,” he said quite definitely.

She’d been wrong—his eyes were gold. “Spanish coin, sir, but at this point in my existence, I shall take it.”

I
T WAS HIS WEAKNESS
, she supposed, but the baron slept much of the remainder of the trip, leaving Kitty to worry about her reception at home. If they disowned her, it would make leaving easier, she told herself. She could return to America unencumbered. No, ’twas not the truth—for despite her homesickness, she had to own that her aunt and cousins had been more than kind to her. She looked across to where Haverhill’s head rested in the corner between the seat back and the side panel of the coach. If only a way could be found to keep the matter hushed—then they could forgive her ere she left.

A wheel hit a deep, water-covered rut, and for a moment, she thought they would turn over. Above, she could hear Jem swear at the horses. The carriage teetered, then righted itself to continue on the road.

Haverhill’s head snapped back as the wheel found the pavement again, and he came reluctantly awake. Passing a hand over the stubble of his face, he sat up. His other hand touched the bandage as though to make certain it was still in place.

“The road is in sad need of repair,” she observed.

“If you believe that, you ought to try the Spanish ones.”

“Does your head still pain you?”

“Only when I think, so probably not overmuch. ’Tis the thirst that plagues me.”

“You ought to have brought some water.”

“As I recall the matter, there did not appear to be any time.

I could not know that while my stomach grumbled, Old ’Swell was feeding you.”

“I collect you know him then?”

“A passing acquaintance at best, but I think he would have remembered me,” he answered in modest understatement. “Where are we, by the by?”

She looked out the window. “Not above another two or three miles from Rose Farm, I should think.”

“Rose Farm?”

She nodded. “An ancestor of Aunt Isabella’s husband named the place for his wife—’twas in the seventeenth century, I think. He bought it from a Catholic who went to Maryland, or so the story is told.”

It occurred to him then that he knew next to nothing about the girl across from him. Nothing except that she had been born in America. “Your family over here is of the gentry?”

“Yes.”

“Have you been here long?”

“No.” Realizing how uncivil she must sound, she unbent to explain, “I came but last year, delayed by the troubled situation between England and the United States. My papa had died the year before, you see, and although it was his express wish that I come to live with my relatives, ’twas not practical until the hostilities ended.”

“And they have not discovered a husband for you yet? My dear, over here a twenty-year-old female is quite on the shelf.”

“So I have found,” she noted dryly. “But I cannot say they have not put themselves to the task. Had I not been so long in the tooth, I should have been dragged to London for the Season.”

He shook his head sympathetically. “I have never understood it myself. I find it unfathomable that a man of the world, after sampling most of life’s pleasures, should think it desirable to wed an empty-headed widgeon whose experience is limited almost entirely to the schoolroom.”

His gaze traveled lazily over her. “I have always liked a lady old enough to share interesting thoughts.”

“No doubt,” she muttered, recalling how he’d abandoned Jess.

“Didn’t mean to put you up in the boughs, Miss Gordon, I assure you. So—they have been throwing you at the gentlemen’s heads, have they?”

“Only one. Actually, there are not many eligible partis in our neighborhood, for which I suppose I must be thankful. Lord Sturbridge is quite enough.”

“Your swain?”

“If Aunt Bella has her way, he is.” She considered confessing about Jess and Charles, then thought better of it. Too much depended on what he did with Jess, and she’d not betray her cousin. “I expect that the whole of Sussex, with the exception of Sturbridge’s mama, expects the announcement momentarily.”

“His mother objects?”

“Oh, no. She is quite careful of what she says of me. Clever of her, really. No, I am brown, and my manners she pronounces unconventional but not unpleasing.”

“Brown?” He lifted his eyebrow. “I should rather call you fair myself.”

“It is her way of reminding him that I am not English, my lord. We Americans are thought to have consorted overmuch with the Indians, I suppose.”

“And so she deals in half the truth, eh?” He tried to straighten his tired body, and was instantly sorry for it. The pain that shot through his shoulder was like fire. “Damn!” he muttered.

“If nothing else goes wrong, how long will it take for you to heal?” she asked curiously.

“What difference does it make?” he asked through teeth clenched against the pain.

“I should like to know you have survived ere I go back to my home—to the United States.”

“Good of you.” He clasped his shoulder and held it tightly.

“Especially since I should not be in this case were it not for you.”

“I said I was sorry for it—and you said you disliked sympathy,” she reminded him.

“There is sympathy—and there is sympathy, Miss Gordon.”

“And there are riddles, sir.”

“Needle-witted also, I see.” Then, noting that she still waited for an answer, he relented. “With food and rest, I ought to mend enough to ride within a couple of weeks, I should suppose. Naught’s broken, after all. Now, if I take a fever …” He let his voice drift.

“But you will not,” she was positive. “I mean, we had the doctor.”

“Optimistic, too,” he murmured. “You’ve got more faith in the surgeons than I.” He shifted his weight, moving his leg, and he blenched anew. “Would’ve taken m’leg, if I’d let ’em. Had to hold ’em off with my pistol.”

At that moment, the wheel dropped into another rut, throwing them against the sides. There was the crack of shattering wood, then nothing—the coach just seemed to settle at an angle. Kitty righted herself to open the door.

“Damme if the wheel ain’t broke, Miss Kitty,” Jem explained. “Throwed me off’n the box.” To show her, he lifted a muddy sleeve.

“It cannot be!”

“If it ain’t, then my name ain’t Jeremy Miller!” he retorted. He looked past her to the baron, who leaned back, one hand on his shoulder, the other on his thigh. Haverhill was deathly pale. “We done it now, miss—what’s ter do?”

She looked around her, gaining her bearings. In the distance, she recognized the monolithic Blackstone Hall of the Trevors. Her gaze dropped to the torn, bloodstained dress that now clung indecently to her.

“I do not suppose you would seek out Lord Sturbridge, would you?” she asked hopefully.

The coachman’s eyes followed hers. “And tell ’im what?” he fairly howled. “How we’s abducted a swell, and ain’t nuthin’ been right since? I was leavin’ ye ere we got ter the gate ter Rose Farm, ye know. They ain’t clappin’ me up, I’ll be bound!”

“If you would but get word to Lord Sturbridge—’twould be all I’d ask,” she promised.

He wavered. “Un-uh. Miss Kitty, we—” The appeal in her blue eyes was unmistakable. “Ye goin’ ter visit me in jail?” When she said nothing, he exhaled and nodded. “If he ain’t ter home, I ain’t comin’ back.” Shrugging his shoulders helplessly, he started off.

Yet another wave of guilt washed over her. “Jem—” She waited for him to turn back to her. “Jem, I don’t mean for this to touch you, you know. I intend to tell everyone the fault was mine—that you attempted to dissuade me even—and I am sure they will believe me.” When he said nothing, she added, “They will think it all of a piece, don’t you see? I have not gone on as I ought since I arrived here.”

“But I oughter have knowned better,” he answered glumly. “And so’s the mistress ter say.”

As he walked down the narrow country lane, she felt sorry for him. Life as a stableman was not easy, and whilst she had been inside the carriage, he’d been soaked above. And now she had more than likely cost him his position at Rose Hill. She turned back to where the coach sat atilt, and her already low spirits plummeted. That it was not her aunt’s only conveyance was little consolation, for Isabella could not wish to go everywhere in the cabriolet, particularly not since there would not be room for the family in it. The carriage would be but one more item on a list growing ever longer, more fuel for the peal her aunt would ring over her.

Dispirited, she climbed back into the coach to tend to the baron. “Are you all right?” she asked anxiously.

“No.”

“Your shoulder—’tis not bleeding again, is it?”

“No.” There was a whiteness about his mouth, and his hand gripped his thigh as though he would strangle the pain there, but his eyes still betrayed the barest hint of humor. “Tell me, Miss Gordon—would you lie upon it again if it were?”

“I beg your pardon—” She felt an involuntary rush of embarrassment as her face went hot. “Oh—but you are not supposed to recall that, sir.”

“I could scarce forget.” Despite the condition of her gown, despite the bedraggled appearance of damp hair that flattened against her face, she was still more fetching than most, and he relented. “I possibly owe you my life for it,” he added quietly. “I have seen men bleed to death from wounds that weren’t supposed to take them.”

“I did nothing that anyone I know would not have done, my lord,” she protested feebly, disconcerted by the sudden warmth in his eyes. Once again, they seemed to be gold.

“You must have a remarkable set of acquaintances then, my dear.”

She stared out the window toward the misty shadow in the distance, wondering what Sturbridge would say when Jem apprised him of what they had done. “Let us hope so,” she said, her voice low. “I suppose,” she mused, more to herself than to him, “that I must be thankful for my competence at least. ‘Twill repair this and pay my passage to America.”

He could see her swallow, and he had a fair notion that she was far more upset than she would admit. “What will you do there?” he asked quietly.

She turned sober eyes on him. “I have hopes that my father’s partners will welcome me back. We had a shipping business, you see, and I am accounted a fair hand with the figures. While Papa lived, I assisted with the books.”

“And yet you came here, where a female cannot pretend to such skill.”

“ ’Twas Papa’s wish,” she said simply.

“Why?”

‘I don’t know—my English heritage, I suppose. Despite the war, despite the need to keep his politics to himself, I think Papa never forgot he was born here. And—” She looked again to the window. “And he wanted me to marry well—better than the sort of gentlemen in his business. He was a younger son, you see, but I was his only issue. He said he made his fortune that I would not have to.”

“And you dislike this Sturbridge fellow?”

“Oh—no. No, ’tis not that precisely.”

He waited for her to enlighten her as to why she did not just take his lordship, but she said nothing. “His title must weigh with you surely.”

“As he has not actually offered, I should not discuss it,” she answered, evading the question. “ ’Twould be improper to deny what has not been asked.”

The rub must be her suitor’s mother, he decided. And yet the thought crossed his mind that perhaps she cared more for Lord Sturbridge than she wished to admit. And surely, mother or no, his lordship could not be blind to Kitty Gordon’s loveliness. Despite his resolve to drop the matter, he could not quite resist wanting to know.

“Why do you dismiss this Sturbridge? Is it the Old Tartar?”

Her eyes widened at his directness, and then she blinked. “Let us just say there are two important impediments to the match.” A slow, rueful smile curved her mouth. “Really, my lord, I should expect such impertinence from myself, but from an English gentleman?”

“I suppose I ought to know a set-down when I get one, eh?” he conceded, grinning. “Very well, Miss Gordon, I shall pry no more. Where are we now, by the by? This Rose Farm must surely be closer than when last I asked.”

“We are awaiting Lord Sturbridge, I hope.”

Somehow he thought perhaps that explained her agitation and her forlorn countenance more than any consideration for the coach. “I see,” he said softly.

“No, you don’t,” she retorted peevishly. “What he is to think of this, I don’t know. But just now, I shall have to consider him my only ally.”

They had not long to wait. Within the space of a quarter hour, the viscount appeared, alone, driving a tilbury with its leather top pulled up against the mist. Jack followed Kitty’s apprehensive gaze, hoping to see a slender fop, a frippery fellow like so many of the
ton.
But as the equippage barreled into view, he was dismayed to discover that not only did Sturbridge drive to an inch, but he was also quite an amiable-looking gentleman. In fact, although Jack was not overgiven to appraising the looks of his fellow man, he could recognize this one as being rather handsome.

“Miss Gordon, I came as soon as your coachman explained!” Lord Sturbridge called out, jumping down.

Kitty took a deep breath, mumbled a quick prayer, then twisted the door handle, hoping to be able to speak before he saw the baron. But the viscount pulled the door from her hand and peered inside. The first thing he saw was her wet, bloody dress, its skirt torn past her knees.

“Egad! Miss Gordon—Kitty! Whatever—?”

Owing to the tilt of the carriage, when she leaned forward, Kitty quite literally fell into his arms. He staggered slightly, then righted both of them, steadying her. His arm went around her protectively, a gesture not lost on Jack, who watched with interest.

“I say—are you all right, Kitty?” His eyes went from her to the man still in the coach. “What the devil—did he do this to you?” he demanded.

She gulped air, then before her courage deserted her, blurted out baldly, “It’s Haverhill, Charles—and he has been shot. I abducted him in London.”

At first, her words went past him. “If he has—Haverhill!” Then, as her meaning sank in, he groaned. “You shot Haverhill, Kitty?”

“Of course not! I shot one highwayman, and the other shot him. There is but one ball in a pistol at a time, you see,” she added, as though that must explain everything. “Oh, Charles—we have had the worst time of it!”