Dilemma in Yellow Silk (10 page)

“Is there a portrait?” She would love to see a portrait of the woman who had borne her.

“There doesn’t have to be. I just have to look at you.”

Viola’s head reeled. Cold seeped through her bones, although the day was fine. She didn’t even have a cloak. For goodness’ sake, she was out in public without a hat. “I’m bareheaded in public,” she said dully.

“I have money. We’ll buy what we need in Scarborough.”

“My father bought the house for his retirement, but also as a house he could bring me to if he needed. Few people know it is ours.” She was operating by rote now, too many new pieces of information revolving around her head for her to make sense of any of it. She left it to settle and concentrated on what she knew. “We don’t have servants there, just someone who looks in once a month to make sure mice haven’t eaten it or people haven’t broken in.”

“We may stay there for a while, if it is safe, and then return to Haxby. But you must stay in the main house once we return, so you may be guarded properly.”

“Guarded?” she echoed in alarm, her voice rising.

“Until we discover who knows about you. Then we can ascertain how they found out. The Dankworths are the best outcome. They want to control you.”

“And the Pretender’s people want to kill me.” That still had not sunk in. “Who in their right mind would kill a person for who she is?”

“Madmen,” he snapped. “Fanatics. People who do not think in terms of people, but of causes and rights.”

Weariness swept over her in a great wave, but she dared not sleep. She might tumble from this precarious vehicle. Despite the suspension, the comfort and the modernity of it, she could not feel happy sitting here. She clutched the armrest while Marcus bowled his horses along at a considerable pace. But they were still ten miles from their destination.

Her throat was parched, her stomach rumbled, but she would not stop until they had arrived at the Scarborough house. It was unlikely to have fresh food, but she could find something—salt beef, bacon, some provisions—that would do. An inn lay close to the house. She could go there—or rather, Marcus could, and buy food. “Do you intend for us to stay in the house unchaperoned? Without servants, even?”

“For a day or two, certainly. My valet will follow. I can trust his loyalty. To be safe, I did not tell him I was taking you to the house. He probably assumes I found a doxy, or a lover who does not want to be identified.”

“Is that usual with you?” She hated to think of him with other women. Even though she had no claim on him, she did not want him with anyone else.

“No,” he said calmly. “I do not make a habit of taking strange women to houses belonging to another person.” He flicked a glance at her. “And in case you are wondering, yes, at times I have had a woman in keeping. I have needs, after all. But not one at the moment. And when I marry, I intend to make every effort to cleave to my wife.”

“What if she detests…marital relations?”

“She does not,” he said firmly.

What little she knew of the act of procreating a child was learned from Marcus. At least, the practical side. She had looked at books, but either the marquess did not approve of the more scurrilous works circulating in society or he hid them well, because she had never found anything that went into any detail. From her own tentative explorations, she knew a little about her own body, but not much about males. Except, thanks to the statues his lordship brought back from Italy, what they looked like naked.

“You said ‘she does not,’ not ‘she will not.’ Do you have anyone in mind?” she dared to ask.

“Yes.”

After that one word, he fell silent, leaving her to speculate. The only words she spoke to him after that were to direct him to the house.

Scarborough spread out before them in the distance. The town sloped down toward the sea, which made its presence apparent by the brisk breezes that whipped past their cheeks and disordered Viola’s hair. Impatiently, she shoved a strand behind her ear. “I really need to find a hat,” she muttered.

He glanced at her. “I daresay we will find one.”

Climbing down from the carriage, he tossed the reins over a nearby overhanging branch and came around to help her down. When he grasped her waist, she put her hands on his shoulders, his muscles flexing as he swung her to the ground. He did not linger, but released her as if she’d scalded him.

Before they left the carriage, he retrieved their bags. “We might as well take them in.” He tossed the reins back in the vehicle. “As long as the horses are not disturbed, they’ll be fine for five minutes. I want to ensure we’re safe before we settle in.”

The house, a tidy one of a similar size to the one on the Haxby estate, appeared closed up. The shutters were firmly bolted over the windows and the door was fastened tightly shut.

“Do you have a key?” he asked mildly.

“We keep a spare,” she said.

For years, they had kept a key under a hollowed-out stone near the ash tree at the front of the house. With relief, she found it, although ingress was the least of their troubles. A small window at the back of the house led into the cook’s pantry. In extremis, they could have broken it and slid in that way.

She unlocked the back door, a sense of relief filling her. She was safe. And once he had fetched the servants, Marcus could leave her and she would no longer be perturbed by his presence. Absence, she felt sure, would ease their connection. He had shown little sign of the passion he’d demonstrated the other day. That kiss was likely an aberration, something to pass to the annals of time.

It healed, they said. Time, that was.

The house smelled of disuse. No scents of burning wood from the kitchen fire drifted up to the main house, and no potpourri or burning lozenges sweetened the atmosphere. A touch of damp, too—she would have to investigate, but a house by the sea could expect some of that.

The banister on the wooden staircase bore a thin film of dust, but the floor was relatively clean. Viola determined to question the cleaner, who had obviously been skimping in her work.

A sound broke the silence. The whicker of a horse, but not from the front, where they’d stationed the phaeton. From the back of the house.

Before she had properly registered the implications, Marcus spun around, grabbed her arms, and propelled her out.

A shot hammered into the doorframe just above his head, showering them in splinters. Leaving the bags where they fell, Marcus seized her hand and raced away. “The bushes—quickly!”

The hedges around the garden were overgrown, the bases spindly. Vaguely Viola registered that she should have visited earlier and supervised the work herself, but at the moment, gratitude flooded her. Somehow she dragged her body through the hedge, ignoring the tearing sound of fabric. Another shot landed far too close, thumping into the ground. Her gown protected her from the inevitable scraping, but it did not save itself.

Marcus followed, without hooped petticoats hampering him. “Get rid of the damned hoop!”

“If I do that my skirts will drag and I won’t be able to run. The gown is only ankle length as long as I have the hoops.”

“Can you run?”

She was already running. Across the fields, getting away, not knowing where, until his voice, urgent, came from behind her. “Towards the town!”

She didn’t need him to tell her twice.

Picking up her skirts, heedless of modesty and every consideration except saving their lives, she ran. The next hedge caused more of an obstacle, but she managed it. They found themselves on one of the streets leading into the town and eventually the harbor.

Where there were people. Where they couldn’t be shot at without the danger of someone else getting hurt. Where there were witnesses.

A few people strolled down the street, but they continued, hurtling down the street until she tumbled over.

Marcus bent to help her up, and caught by the fever of the chase, she burst into laughter. “Do I look as bad as you?”

His face was smudged with dirt, his coat pockets torn. “Worse,” he said. “But if we’re taken up as vagrants, at least our enemies can’t get to us in jail.”

She cast him a disbelieving look. “What do we do now?”

“I have a plan.” His eyes sparkled. How could he be excited at a time like this? But he was. Under the tension lay a reserve of challenge he was rising to.

She gave him a skeptical stare. “What plan?”

“I still have my purse. We will find somewhere that sells clothes and make ourselves respectable. Then we’ll make our way to the nearest coaching inn and make our plans. We must stay in the vicinity of other people. You understand why?”

She nodded. “So the people chasing us won’t shoot at us.”

Their pursuers were nowhere in sight. Either they had retreated, or they had lost their quarry. Viola doubted it. The men were probably following.

“Take my hand.”

“What?” That kind of intimacy, particularly in public, startled her.

“They may try to separate us. The shots might not have been for you, but for me. Then they will have you to themselves.”

Realization dawned. “If they are Northwich’s men, they want me but not you? What if they’re from the Pretender?”

“Then they will want both of us dead. Nobody to tell tales.”

Loath to argue, she took his proffered hand. He closed his fingers around her and led her farther down, into the town. With her hand in his, Viola had an absurd sense of safety.

Scarborough had grown in popularity since it had developed a spa where the fashionable of Yorkshire could gather. As well as the successful business of fishing and trade, it had drawn the local gentry, and people from farther afield, in droves. Today, a fine day in June, it was busy.

But knowing the town, Viola kept away from the more affluent parts, including the round classically designed spa building and pump room. While they wanted witnesses, they could do without gossip.

In a street populated by the respectable poor, they found what they were looking for—a shop, hung about with a variety of objects, including hooped petticoats and discarded clothes next to odd chairs and sticks of furniture. “How much do you have?” she asked him.

“About twenty guineas.” A veritable fortune, a year’s wages to many of the people moving around here. “Buy what you need to appear respectable.”

“Are we returning to the house?”

“We’ll talk about that in a while,” was all the answer she received. “Get what you need.”

He’d lost all pretense at politeness, but she could not blame him.

After touring the packed premises twice, she found what she needed. A riding habit. It needed no hoops, and it was the right length for her to walk in without tripping. True, it was in a particularly unappealing shade of olive green, but at this stage she was only pleased to find it clean and relatively fresh. Perhaps the original owner realized her mistake when she saw the color made up. To go with it, she chose a shirt and stock, and then picked up two shifts and two pairs of sturdy woolen stockings. A male-style cocked hat turned up, and a pair of gloves would at least have an appearance of respectability. In this get-up, she would look completely different to the way she had looked in the phaeton.

He appeared wearing a dark brown coat so old-fashioned and ill-fitting she nearly burst into laughter. Fresh breeches and hose, too, but he’d kept his shoes and his waistcoat. A new hat, much like hers, crowned his head.

Then she noticed his wig. He’d found a bob-wig, like the ones older men wore, and men who didn’t want to concern themselves with the more elaborate queued kind. It made him look very different—older, less…noticeable. She hated it. He’d tucked all his natural hair underneath.

“That will get hot,” she said.

“It will, but it serves its purpose.”

He had lost the sparkle, and his mien appeared more like his public personality. She hated that, too.

Once he’d paid the ludicrously small amount the dealer wanted—she should shop second-hand more often—he led the way outside, into the brilliant sunshine. Only then did she notice that he’d added a worn leather bag to their purchases.

“What is that for?”

“We’re buying some necessities. We might have to go from here.”

She frowned. “What?”

“Do you know the main coaching inn here?”

That made sense. A coaching inn was where they would hear the best gossip and where people congregated all day. She took him to the Globe, by the docks, an inn that attracted the coaching trade and passengers from the ships.

The large building bustled with life. As they approached, a huge vehicle swept past them and through the arch into the inn, leaving only inches to spare. Viola stepped back, glad it hadn’t rained for a few days, otherwise her new outfit would have been spattered with mud.

Marcus led the way into the main part of the inn. People rushed past, intent on some business known only to them. Ostlers hurried through to the yard outside, and the passengers from the stage coach raced into the main room, intent on getting food.

“We have a way out,” Marcus said, deep satisfaction coloring his tones.

“What?”

Grabbing her hand, he towed her to the desk where a tattered waybill was tacked to the wall. A man stood by it, watching and counting the passengers. “Sir?”

Before she could protest, he’d bought them tickets to London. Bewildered, she watched precious coins leaving his hand.

Despite the safety of the crowded inn, she needed private conversation with him. She tugged him aside as soon as he’d stowed the tickets in his pocket. “We were lucky to get two inside seats,” he said.

“What?”

The cacophony around them increased as servers hurried through from the kitchens, plates of steaming food piled on large trays. He tugged her aside, to a relatively quiet corner. “We do not have to travel all the way,” he said, “But this gives us the choice. Normally I’d apply for passage on one of the ships in harbor, but the coach is leaving in half an hour. Besides, we don’t have enough money for the ship. We have gained a march on our pursuers.” He glanced at the way bill. “It goes through Lincoln and Huntingdon. It will take four or five days in this weather, and it finishes in Ludgate Hill.”