The flag of Le Duc fluttered pompously in the breeze. The duke lolled back in his seat and smiled. If he guessed it right, the sprigs were as green as could be. Doing “the grand tour” or some such thing. No doubt he hadn't eaten for a while. By the looks of the younger, he could do with some fattening up. Perhaps that was why he'd stared so urgently through the window.
The duo seemed locked now in hot debate. The nobleman stoked the fire somewhat absentmindedly, then came to a sudden decision. Picking up his silver-topped cane, he threw his greatcoat around his shoulders and stepped back into the polished foyer. The innkeeper scurried toward him, a servile expression etched on his features. Bowing low, he inquired whether there was ought at all that His Grace required. The duke shook his head languidly and smiled that brilliant smile that made him so adored among servants and peers. The housekeeper, just passing, vowed she'd never seen the like. The serving girls were already close to a swoon whenever he passed their way.
The cold hit him like a knife as he opened the double oak door. Nimbly he took the stairs while shaking the greatcoat on. Where was the pair? Damnation, after leaving the warmth of the embers, he'd jolly well seek them out and demand their company! Bureaucracy being what it was, the warrant would be at least a half hour yet in coming. That was, if the dock officials bestirred themselves. The duke had a nasty suspicion that the letter of the law would in all likelihood not take much precedent over afternoon luncheon. More like two hours before anything of importance could be achieved.
He rounded the corner. The pair was heading in the direction of the King's Arms, a small posting station not too far out of the town. Miles called to them. Was it his imagination, or did they quicken their step? Now genuinely intrigued, he broke into a run and caught up with them.
“Rupert!”
“Your Grace!” The young scamp always called him that when he felt he might be in trouble.
“What in God's name are you doing here?” Miles's voice was grim, taking in the travel-soiled clothes and staring at the lad next to him with a piercing gaze that left the youth awkwardly hopping on first one foot, then the next.
“Miles, listen! I ... uh, we ... uh ...”
“Yes?”
“This is Mr. Marshall.”
“Indeed.”
Miles gave the lad in bottle green breeches a sweeping stare before making him a bow. In somewhat more civil tones, he suggested they repair back to the Dorcester, where there would be time enough for explanation.
In silence the trio returned, the younger casting imploring looks in the latter's direction. If the duke noticed this at all, he seemed sublimely indifferent.
The footman at Le Duc Du Barry raised his eyes somewhat at the rather unprepossessing appearance of the pair. Had they not been in the company of so prestigious a nobleman as the eighth duke of Wyndham, baron of the Isles, and an earl to boot, it is doubtful whether they would have acquired entrance. As it was, the innkeeper looked askance when the duke called for a hot luncheon and a new bottle of burgundy, long laid down.
The duke raised his quizzing glass. “What are you waiting for, my good man?” The tone was languid, but a hint of steel was to be detected behind the penetrating eyes. The innkeeper responded at once. There was no fathoming the ways of the gentry, but he knew where his bread was buttered. With a servile bow he began shouting orders to the kitchens and hurried off with a slight shake of his head and a smiling backward glance at the willful duke.
FIFTEEN
Rupert looked decidedly sheepish as he entered the parlor on the heels of his good friend Mr. Marshall. The duke closed the door behind him with a sharp click, then turned to face his ward.
“I assume you have an explanation of some kind?” He turned to Cassandra. “Forgive me, Mr. Marshall, I do not generally air family matters in company, but I must confess to a certain curiosity. You will forgive me if I proceed to satisfy that interest?”
Cassandra nodded dumbly. She had stopped dead in amazement when she'd first caught sight of Miles through the rippled glass of the hotel. Here, it seemed, was the answer to her prayers. It puzzled her that Rupert had not demonstrated the same degree of enthusiasm. It had taken a great deal of urgent whisperings, not to mention a firm grip on her arm, to prevent her from flying headlong into the private parlor and pouring forth all her hopes and fears.
In the few moments Rupert had, he'd reminded her in no uncertain terms about their agreement. Miles was never to suspect that she had accompanied him on the perilous voyage across the sea. He'd broken the trust the duke had invested in him and should His Grace ever find out, he shuddered to reflect on the consequences.
If Miss Beaumaris found his reasoning somewhat melodramatic, she had to agree that for the sake of her own reputation and peace of mind it would be better that St. John remain in ignorance. A niggling adjoinder to this was the fact that she herself had agreed to remain incognito. For Rupert's sake, she was honor-bound to stick to that pledge.
The viscount convinced her that her disguise was not to be trusted under the shrewd scrutiny of his uncle. For safety's sake he'd leave her at the King's Arms before backtracking to the Duc du Barry. There he would find the duke and apprise him of Stanford's tale. There was no need at all for Miles to know that the viscount had been accompanied.
The logic made sense to Cassandra, who had sensibly ceased struggling and in return extracted a promise that Rupert would waste no time in speaking to his guardian. The plan had seemed admirable until they'd been confronted by the man himself. Now the pair were forced to brazen it out and hope to God the duke had enough else to think of than to pay too close attention to a slight young man of indeterminate age and rank.
“Miles! I came to warn you!”
The duke removed his greatcoat and seated himself, indicating the two men to do the same. A slight smile gleamed in his dark eyes as he gazed at the disheveled pair, but he remained silent.
Rupert, seizing his chance, rushed headlong into the tale. Before he knew it, the story of his flightâwith a few minor modificationsâhad tumbled from his lips. When he'd done, the duke remained speechless. It fascinated Cassandra that in the light of what had just been disclosed, he remained so unutterably still.
Rupert began to feel uncomfortable, especially as his guardian had become intricately absorbed in removing an invisible particle of dust from his gleaming white shirt ruffles. As the miscreant well knew from past misdemeanors, this was not a good sign. The duke rarely raised his voice when angered. Instead, he became deathly quiet, and the nerve of his left cheek twitched in a manner that was barely detectable to the uninitiated. The nerve was twitching now.
Miles stood up. “Thank you for your concern, Rupert. And yours, Mr. Marshall.” He bowed in Cassandra's direction.
Rupert heaved a sigh of relief. Perhaps he'd been wrong about that nerve.
The duke's gloved hands moved behind his back. “There is one thing, however!”
Rupert's heart sank. “Yes?”
“It's the small question of Miss Beaumaris. Forgive me if I'm obtuse, but I thought I'd commended her to your care? Your exclusive care?” The duke rapped out the words.
Viscount Lyndale looked extremely uncomfortable. So, for that matter, did the young Mr. Marshall, who was now seeing fit to kick at the heels of his topboots in a manner most unbecoming to a gentleman of breeding.
“You did, Miles!” Rupert's face brightened. “And I can assure you she's safe! Never better, in fact! Sends you her good wishes. Really.” The viscount coughed.
In other circumstances Cassandra would have burst into a peal of laughter over the mull he was making of his story. As it was, she lowered her lashes and felt awfully small. If the duke were to discover the truth, all that inner anger would be directed at her. The thought made her squirm. She tilted her head proudly. What cared she what the duke thought? And why wasn't he doing anything? There was simply no time to waste!
“Your Grace.”
The duke turned to her in surprise. “Yes, Mr. Marshall?”
Rupert stared daggers at her. Cassandra decided to ignore it. “Can you not set out at once for the hospital? By all accounts there is a lot at stake!”
The duke raked Cassandra up and down. Slowly, deliberately, he flicked open his snuffbox and took a somewhat large pinch. For an instant, the aroma drifted across the room.
“Would you care to enlighten me on just what the viscount has been saying?”
Cassandra colored up. The duke could really offer a set down if he so chose. “Well, it's just ...”
Rupert interposed. “Leave us ... Andrew.” The name just popped randomly into his head. “Wait for us in the foyer. We shan't be a moment!”
Cassandra was doubtful. She'd never been alone in the foyer of an inn before. Then again, she'd never before donned breeches and hat. She was about to drop a curtsy when she remembered herself. With a casual swagger, she made for the door.
“One moment, if you please.” The duke stopped her mid-step.
“You will repair to my private chamber. It is much warmer there, and I'd prefer not to arouse curiosity.” Cassandra drew in her breath. Things were not moving the way she'd planned. Rupert gave an audible gasp.
“Sir ...” The duke scowled. One look at his face and Cassandra quavered. A bell tinkled. Before she knew what she was about, a footman had entered and been instructed to lead the way. Without another murmur, she left the room.
The duke's chamber was sumptuous in the extreme. The room smelled of leather and oak and had long, heavy drapes that blocked out the sunlight. A fire was crackling at the hearth and the bed looked temptingly inviting, its covers turned back so that the sheets remained well aired. A snowy cravat was carelessly flung on the pillow and beside it, a sapphire kerchief that looked vaguely familiar. The rain had ceased it's sputtering, and Cassandra pulled back the curtains to let in some of the fading morning light.
If she closed her eyes and stood on the great mahogany desk, she could just make out the dock and its moorings. Helplessly, she counted the vessels in port. Too numerous by far! How the duke ever intended to locate Harrington's sloop was a mystery. She felt a stab of impatience overwhelm her. If anything were to happen to Frances, she'd never forgive herself. Not now. Now that she knew he was alive. Sighing, she let the drapes drop back.
As she did so, she started in shock. The green and black of the raven and eagle! She drew back the velvet and squinted out for a closer look. No, she was not mistaken. Her eyesight, as always, had served her true. The Surrey family sloop was sandwiched between the earl of Hampstead's yacht and the crimson pennant of the Deloras dynasty. Cassandra may not immediately have recalled these crests. Her own, however, was most certainly familiar.
There was no time to be wasted. Taking the stairs two at a time, she had just an instant to straighten her hat before being ushered once more into the private parlor. What an annoyance! The duke and Rupert had quite vanished. The quiet scent of His Grace's snuff was the only indication that he'd ever graced the room with his presence.
Cassandra thought quickly. No use wondering where they might have been headed. The sloop was ashore for the present but could well set sail at any time. If her brother was onboard, it would be the worse for him. She came to a decision. Climbing the stairs once more, she entered the duke's chamber, withdrew a wafer from the drawers of the great desk, and scribbled a note.
She slipped out as unobtrusively as she had come in. When she was well past the stables she broke into a run. Faster and faster until, out of breath, she reached her destination. Instinct warned her to hang back. She'd been right. Two swarthy men appeared on deck. She felt goose bumps down her arms. If Frances had tangled with them, there was little hope. To her surprise, they appeared about to disembark. A third, more wily looking fellow, appeared behind them. They exchanged words that bore structural resemblance to English yet remained unintelligible to Cassandra.
What relief when all three nimbly jumped to shore. They spared not a glance for a weak-looking sprig in bottle green breeches. The man they called Jake appeared to be absorbed in an account of the antics of a local bawdy house. Cassandra could not be certain. The three appeared to be sauntering off in the direction of an ale house, and the resourceful Miss Beaumaris seized her moment.
Blessing the Lord for her pantaloons, she hoisted herself on deck with the aid of a rope that hung dangling from the side. Her heart beat so audibly that she could hear little else. A traitorous voice kept murmuring that there might yet be more danger lurking on board. Perhaps even Harrington. She quelled the voice and shuddered.
She had just had time to tiptoe to the aft when the boat tilted once more, indicative of someone embarking. The heavy thud of a seaman's boot confirmed those fears. Diving under some old sacking, she held her breath. Jake. The man Jake was back!
He was indeed. Cassandra gasped as she peeped out from under the pungent sacks. He was talking and by the sound of things, not to himself. Someone was beneath the burlap.
“All's well, me hearty!” The great man gave a chuckle. “Ye'll pardon me if I don't untie yer, won't yer now?”
Silence. “All right, have it yer way then. I'm not a bloke what insists on talkin', yer ken. Just a few more hours, I reckon. The wind be to the west. When it lets up a mort, we'll be off.”
Frances groaned. His body was too worn to exert itself in any way. In a few hours he'd be lying on an ocean bed. Perhaps it was a fate more appealing than the one in which he currently found himself.
Jake loosened the bonds slightly and allowed a rush of fresh air to flow into the sack. Patting his victim in an absurd parody of comradeship, he announced that he “be getting a morsel to eat.” Frances retched. In disgust the seaman stepped aside and moved to the front. The earl rolled back in despair.
Cassandra crawled under the sacking and reached the victim on the other side. “Frances! Frances is that you?”
Beaumaris closed his eyes. He must be in heaven. He could have sworn he'd heard his sister's voice. Why did it sound so urgent? Why was it hushed and insistent? Angels should be restful, at peace. Cassandra prodded the burlap.
“Frances!”
Frances started. This was no angel! For that matter, this was no heaven! “Cassandra?”
“Yes, it is I. Cassandra.” Huge tears welled up, then fell unbidden onto the hard wood deck. “Just hold on and I'll untie you, Frances. You hang in there, you'll be all right, I swear!”
Gritting her teeth, she set her mind to unknotting the ropes that twined the sacking. It was tough, and she was forced to use her teeth. Resolutely ignoring the foul taste of the moorings, she doggedly worked until the last twine loosened. Frances, granted new hope and life, found strength to help her.
His wrists ceased to feel pain as he wriggled doggedly to loosen the last remaining bond. He had so many questions they tumbled from his mouth two at a time until Cassandra hushed him, her voice a low whisper. Her heart raced uncontrollably. At last, when it seemed as though it would never happen, the last knot came unstuck. The fresh, cool air enveloped Frances's senses as the sack was unceremoniously pulled over his head.
The change revived him. He breathed deeply, his bloodshot eyes becoming much more focused as he took in Cassandra, dirty, disheveled, and boylike. He opened his arms, and she hugged him, tears streaming now unchecked. Then the fear again. Fear and a hint of panic. How were they to get off the wretched boat? Frances was clearly too weak to be diving out to sea, or, more difficult still, creeping past the likes of Jake. It was a dilemma. Of that there was no doubt.
More and more Cassandra found herself wishing she had not rushed off so precipitously. If only she had waited, the duke would have organized something. He was so dependable, so sure in everything he did. If only she had listened to Rupert, trusted in His Grace's ability. Perhaps he'd find the note. If so, what then? No, she must not pin her hopes on so passive a plan. Strategy! That was what she ought to have! No good. It didn't matter how much she chided herself, the fear remained.
Frances's arms encircled her. Despite his weakness he was strong, a real anchor. She looked up at him and love shone bright in her eyes. He was family. The only family she had now. His fingers tightened. His lips were so dry and parched. If only she'd thought to bring a flask! But then, she'd had no idea of the terrible condition she was to find him in.