Heroes cared for more than appearance. They cared
about the heart.
The young mother shifted a bony hip, nudging
Diantha’s against the portly gentleman to her left. Intent upon his journal, he
seemed not to notice. She gave him a quick glance and released a little breath
of disappointment.
Too old. A hero ready to defend a lady from the
likes of highwaymen must be in the prime of his manhood. Otherwise he might not
be able to wield a sword or pistol with sufficient vigor if necessary. This man
had gray whiskers.
The carriage jolted. The baby bawled. The mother
sobbed quietly.
“May I hold her? My sister is grown now and I miss
cradling a babe in my arms.” In truth, Faith had been a fidgety infant. But
Diantha suspected God would forgive the fib. “Then you might have a nap before
we come to the next stop.”
“Oh, miss, I couldn’t—”
“Of course you could. I will keep her quite safe
while you rest.” She tucked her arms around the infant and drew it close. Her
traveling bag propped upon her lap made an excellent cushion, and she had more
bosom than the babe’s mother against which it could cuddle. The mother tucked
the blanket around it.
“Thank you, miss. You’re an angel.”
“Not at all.” That was the plain truth, of
course.
She rocked the infant, liking its warm, heavy
weight, and shifted her gaze across to the passenger whose knees nearly knocked
with hers.
Not
a man. Not more
than thirteen and, by the look of his blackened fingertips and sallow
complexion, a mine worker.
His cheeks flushed with two perfectly round red
spots. He tugged on his cap. “Mum.”
She smiled, and the flush spread down his rather
dirty neck.
He would not do, of course. Boys could not be
trusted with noble missions, even boys who went into holes in the earth every
day to dig up metals for everyone else and so should be accounted heroes of a
sort, if the world were quite fair about it.
That left only the man sleeping in the corner, the
passenger who at the last stop had taken Annie’s spot inside the coach.
The hem of his black topcoat dripped rain onto the
floor around his shining black boots. His arms were crossed over his chest and a
fine black silk hat dipped low over his brow. He was not a small man, rather
tall and broad-shouldered, but seemed to fill the space he inhabited without
undue discommodity to his fellow passengers. She could see only his hands,
ungloved, and the lower half of his face.
Large, long-fingered, elegant hands, and a firm,
clean-shaven jaw and nicely shaped mouth.
She blinked.
She slouched, dipped her head a bit, and peered
beneath his hat brim.
Her breath caught.
She sat straight up. Beneath the soft weight of the
crying swaddle, her heart pattered. She drew a steadying breath. Then another.
She stole a second glance at him, longer this time.
Then she knew. In her deepest heart her final
niggling doubts scattered and she knew she was meant to find her mother.
Her plan would not only work in theory. She had
wished for a gentleman to assist her on her mission, and God or Providence or
whoever it was that granted wishes to hopeful damsels was providing her with
such a man. For if anyone could fill the role of a hero, she was certain it was
this gentleman.
He was, after all, already hers.
A
girl
was staring at him.
It did not surprise Wyn, accustomed enough as he
was to this sort of attention and not typically disturbed by it. But he’d had
rather too much of it of late, although the females at the orgy he’d just left
hadn’t particularly resembled the girl in the coach’s facing seat who now peered
at him from the bluest set of wide eyes he had ever seen. Very, very blue eyes
with big irises, like polished lapis lazuli, surrounded by long, dark lashes and
surmounted by arched brows. Familiar eyes.
Unfamiliar girl, though. Even if he weren’t half
under the wagon he would remember this taking thing if he had encountered her
before. The tilt of her delicate jaw, purse of her berry lips, and rampant rich
chestnut curls peeking out from her bonnet were too pretty to forget. And, drunk
or sober, Wyn never forgot anything, even girls who were not pretty like this
one. Or men. Or villages. Or tree stumps. Or anything else. It was what made him
so good at his work for the past ten years.
Her brows arched higher. “Are you finally awake,
then?” she said, and he remembered her. Voices he also never forgot, especially
not this voice, fresh and clear. “I thought you would never wake up,” she
continued without apparently requiring a response. “You know, I barely
recognized you. You look absolutely terrible.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” he managed, without slurring of
course. He would not mention that the lack of recognition had been mutual
because she would certainly guess the reason for it.
Rule
#4: Never bruise a lady’s feelings
. A girl didn’t make the sort of
transformation in appearance that Miss Lucas had over the course of two years
without a great deal of effort and the generous hand of Nature combined, and
without being perfectly aware of the transformation herself.
Miss Lucas was not a doxy like the girls he’d
gladly left behind yesterday. She was a gently bred female, the young stepsister
of a lady he liked quite a lot who was married to a man who had helped him
through the worst night of his life.
He rubbed thumb and forefinger into the corners of
his eyes at the bridge of his nose, and looked anew.
A gently bred female . . . with a babe in
her arms.
He glanced to either side of her. Neither the man
to her left nor the woman to her right could remotely be considered husband or
maid to this stepdaughter of a baron and sister to a baronet, never mind Wyn’s
slightly foggy vision. He craned his neck to his left. Neither of his seatmates
suited either.
“I am traveling alone,” she supplied helpfully.
“Annie abandoned me for a strapping farm lad at the last stop. He was quite
handsome, really, so I don’t blame her. But she might have stayed until I found
a replacement.” She leaned forward and whispered, “I am
not
comfortable traveling alone, you see.” She glanced meaningfully
to the burly tradesman sharing his seat then sat back again. “But now that you
are here, I am no longer alone.” She smiled and a pair of dents formed in the
soft cream of her cheeks.
Wyn blinked, momentarily clearing the fog. He
recalled those dimples of the girl he’d met at the estate of the Earl of Savege
in Devon. He did not, however, recall being unable to look away from them. But
the previous posting house had only stocked gin, and the fruit of the juniper
tended to muddle his senses.
Finally her words penetrated the Blue Ruin.
“Alone?” He directed his gaze at the squalling
infant. It was a wonder he’d slept so profoundly. “The child’s father remains at
home?”
The dimples deepened. “I suppose he may. But I
don’t know actually, and cannot ask since her mother is sleeping and I haven’t
the heart to waken her.” She lowered her voice. “Frankly, I am wildly curious. I
cannot imagine taking to the road with an infant without assistance of some
sort. Although . . .” Her brows lowered. “I mustn’t throw stones,
being bereft of assistance myself. Until now.” Her berry lips flashed into a
smile again and her vibrant gaze flickered up and down his person.
“At your service, ma’am.” In the cramped quarters,
in lieu of bowing, he tipped his hat.
Her smile brightened.
The fireball in his stomach danced an impatient
jig. In present company he could not ask her meaning. He could not inquire of
her direction, her intention, her program, or who exactly Annie was. He could
not even speak her name. And he hoped dearly for her sake that she did not
choose to provide him with any of this information voluntarily while sharing the
coach with four strangers. But at the next posting house he would take her aside
and learn what he must. Then he would return her to her family.
It was clear that Miss Lucas had run away from
home. Fortunately for her, he was something of a specialist at returning runaway
girls.
The
specialist in the crown’s hire, the
member of the Falcon Club—a small, secret organization dedicated to returning
lost persons of distinction to their homes—with a special knack for corralling
girls exactly like this one. Spoiled, willful, naïve, confident of their charms.
Girls who could wrap people around their fingers through the sheer, mesmerizing
force of their smiles.
She returned her attention to the babe in her arms.
Wyn closed his eyes, sinking again into the gin lethargy, but discontent grated
at him now. The filly must take second place to the girl. The Duke of Yarmouth
must wait.
But there was no rush. No one would suspect
anything amiss if he delayed. This assignment was obviously meant as a prelude
to his mandatory retirement, a silent message that the crown no longer required
his services. A final reprimand. The head agent of the Falcon Club, Viscount
Colin Gray, had warned him: their director was concerned. Gray thought it was
because of the brandy. Wyn knew the truth. The director had not trusted him for
five years, and it hadn’t anything to do with brandy.
Now he would return Miss Lucas home, then the horse
to its master, and his current existence would end in a blaze of ignominy. He
folded his arms over his chest. The infant wailed. The coach bumped. Forgetful
sleep came slowly.
M
r. Yale awoke again only as the coach entered the posting inn’s yard. He was the first to go out into the rain.
Diantha needed an enormous tea, a vigorous stretch, and then a good stroll. Her arms and shoulders ached fiercely from holding the babe.
Its mother pressed her hand. “Miss, you saved me today. You’ll be in my prayers tonight.”
“You would have done the same for me, I suspect.” She smiled and upon wobbly knees pushed herself toward the door.
Standing by the step in the lowering light of the rainy evening, Mr. Yale offered his hand. It was perfectly silly that a tingle zigzagged about her stomach. But since she had only thrice in her life encountered a man who caused those sorts of tingles, and all three times they were him, it wasn’t to be wondered at. A true hero was bound to have that sort of effect upon a lady.
She placed her gloved fingers on his palm and came down the two steps to the drive awash in puddles, then looked up at him.
More tingles.
“Madam,” he said quietly as she drew the hood of her cloak over her hair, “while I beg pardon for asking it of you, I hope you will accompany me now to the stable briefly while I see to my cattle.” He gestured to a pair of horses tied to the rear of the coach. “In the absence of Annie, perhaps you will see the wisdom of not entering the inn without suitable escort.” His gaze flickered to the coach’s door where Mr. Sausage Fingers loomed.
“I do, sir. And I shan’t mind accompanying you to the stable in the least.”
“Excellent.” He bowed, and now his gray eyes seemed to sparkle.
Really, his eyes were
silvery
. Black-haired and square-jawed, he was ridiculously handsome, even rather lean-cheeked as he was now. But from the first time she had seen him at a wedding at Savege Park, she had liked his silver eyes most of all. They rested upon a girl as though her every word and desire were his first concern, as though, in fact, he wished to read her mind to discover her desires rather than require her to make even the slightest effort to express them in words.
He’d done that the night of that wedding. He had read her thoughts and rescued her. He had been her hero.
He untethered the horses from the rear of the coach and drew them toward the archway leading behind the inn. A ragged little dog stood in the rain outside the stable door, watching as they passed inside.
“Look at that poor thing, all skin and bones, and favoring its forepaw. I think it is injured.” She craned her neck but the stable hand pulled the door shut.
“Only a mongrel, miss.”
“Someone ought to feed it. It’s starving.”
Mr. Yale cast her a curious glance, then turned to his task. He did not relinquish the horses into the hands of the stable hand, but saw to them himself then returned to her at the door.
“Thank you for your patience, Miss Lucas. How do you do?” He bowed so beautifully, as though he were encountering her in an elegant drawing room.
She curtsied. “Well, sir. Especially now.”
“Have you luggage aboard the coach?”
“A traveling trunk and bandbox. Why?”
“Then our first order of business must be to retrieve it.”
“Oh, I don’t think that is necessary. The coach is bound to leave again shortly. It is only a dinner break and to change out the horses, I think.”
“You will no doubt wish to dine?” He came forward and gestured her toward the door into the inn.
“I will. I am famished! I never quite realized how traveling the public coach encourages the appetite.”
“Didn’t you?”
“Oh, no. I hadn’t planned on being so hungry at all, or I would have instructed Annie to pack a cold dinner before we left Brennon Manor.” She walked before him through the door into warm air scented with roast and ale. The taprooms meandered over several attached chambers, all wood paneling and cozy crackling fires, a mix of farmers and villagers and the people from the coach clustered about the bar and at tables. Her stomach rumbled.
Mr. Yale took her cloak then pulled out for her a chair at a small table. A man wearing a starched apron appeared.
“What can I serve you, sir?”
“The lady will have whatever she desires, and I shall have a pint, an empty glass, and a bottle of Hennessy.”
“Miss?”
“Whatever is best tonight, thank you.” She smiled. “It smells wonderful!”
“My wife’s roast and pudding, miss. Finest in the village.”
“Well it isn’t a very large village,” she whispered when he’d left, “but no doubt I shall enjoy it. I could eat a horse at present. Not one of yours, of course. What beautiful animals you have, Mr. Yale!”
“Thank you, Miss Lucas.” He did not sit. “I will return in a moment.” He looked at her quite directly. “If you will remain at this table while I am gone, that would be best.”
“I am so hungry, the farthest I would go is the kitchen.”
He bowed and disappeared out the rear door again. She glanced at the bar where Mr. Sausage Fingers was again staring at her, then out the window at the rain.
By the time Mr. Yale returned, her food had arrived, and his drinks.
“Aren’t you eating?”
“Not at this time.” He poured from the bottle into a glass and drank the contents in one swallow. “But please do enjoy your dinner.” He lifted his ale glass.
“Thank you.” She tucked in. “It tastes even better than it smells. I barely ate a bite the entire fortnight I was at Brennon Manor, I was so excited about my journey.”
“May I be so bold, Miss Lucas, as to inquire how you come to be traveling alone?”
“Teresa’s maid Annie deserted me. We thought she would be terribly clever to have along, but we never expected her to decamp so swiftly, or frankly at all.”
“I see. Teresa . . . ?”
“Finch-Freeworth. We attended the Bailey Academy for Young Ladies together for three years when my stepfather sent me there after the dismissal of my fourth governess. Miss Yarley, Head Mistress of the Bailey Academy, however, was splendid, so I never gave her trouble. Good heavens, this pudding is simply divine. Is the food at all posting inns so delicious?”
“Not all. As your stepfather’s estate is in Devonshire, I am to understand Miss Finch-Freeworth’s home, Brennon Manor, is in the North and that you have recently left there,” he said without even a pause, which she liked. The night he’d rescued her at Savege Park he had also understood the entire situation with very little explanation.
“I departed quite early this morning.”
“And what—” He paused. “Miss Lucas, pray forgive me for continuing to press you for details.”
“Of course. Whyever not?”
He smiled slightly, the barest hint of amusement tilting up his mouth at one side. On the three occasions that he had visited Savege Park, her stepsister Serena’s home, Diantha had seen him smile like that at her other stepsister, Viola, as well as at a veritable goddess, Lady Constance Read, a Scottish heiress with whom he seemed to be particular friends. But never at her, not even when he rescued her that night. Now that smile did strange things to her insides, somewhat pleasant and a bit alarming.
Warm
things.
“As I can imagine your stepfather would under normal circumstances send his carriage for you, what did he and Miss Finch-Freeworth’s parents have to say of your journey undertaken by public coach?”
“Oh, they proved no hindrance. My stepfather does not know. As for Teresa’s parents, Lady Finch-Freeworth is a soft woman without backbone and Sir Terrence couldn’t care less what the females in his house do. I don’t think he’s ever noticed me, in fact.”
His eyes took on a warm light that made her throat oddly tight. “I admit myself skeptical of that.”
“But it’s true. When we produced the letter from my stepfather, neither he nor Lady Finch-Freeworth blinked an eyelash. I did remarkably good work forging my stepfather’s signature. I have a particular talent with a pen and wax, so it was quite satisfying, really.”
“I daresay.”
“What are you drinking?”
“Brandy. What, then, is your direction, Miss Lucas?”
“I’ve never seen a gentleman drink so much brandy in so few minutes, not since my father died. But my stepfather rarely drinks spirits and of course I don’t know many other gentlemen, except my sisters’ husbands and I suppose the curate, and naturally Mr. H. But that will change after I find my mother, go to town next month, and am introduced into society.”
He set down his glass and said nothing but only looked at her with those silver eyes, carefully, it seemed. She felt studied, but not harshly. She felt
looked at
. Truly looked at. Not for her spots and fat, which she had sported in profusion until eighteen months ago, and not for her eyes, which her mother had insisted were her only fine feature. Mr. Yale seemed to look at something else. Her
insides
.
He finally said, “Who is Mr. H?”
“My future. At least that is the plan.”
“I see. Then you are attempting to escape a betrothal?”
“Not at all. I will be as glad to end up with Mr. H as anybody. Or, well, perhaps not anybody. But you must know what I mean.”
His slight smile came again, followed by the warmth in her midsection.
“Possibly,” he only said.
The door banged open and a boy called out, “Shrewsbury Coach boarding!”
“Oh!” Diantha swiped a napkin across her mouth. “We should hurry, Mr. Yale. You must retrieve your hor—”
“Miss Lucas, do remain and finish your dinner.” He did not move.
“But the coach is leaving.” She stood. “There isn’t time to—”
He rose to his feet and there was something shockingly intimate in the glimmer of his eyes as he looked down at her that rooted the soles of her practical traveling boots to the floor. He spoke quietly.
“Miss Lucas, it is not advisable for a lady to travel by night on a public coach, with or without escort.” His stance was so purposeful now, entirely unlike the unobtrusive man on the coach. She felt his command of the situation very oddly inside her, as she had felt his studying gaze.
“By which you mean Mr. Sausage Fingers may pose a threat to me.”
“By which I mean that if you are wise you will not board another coach until the morning and instead enjoy a comfortable night’s sleep here at this respectable inn.”
She seemed to consider this, her brow furrowing delicately. Once more her gaze flickered up and down him, as a man might inspect a horse for purchase, and her berry lips twisted in that partial purse which was not unbecoming—rather the opposite, enhancing the bow and puffing out her lower lip.
“You cannot convince me that you would be unable to best him in a fight.” She glanced at his shoulders, then his hands.
“The question is not whether I would be able to, Miss Lucas, but whether I would wish to place myself in the position of being required to.”
“I see.” Her gaze seemed fixed on his right hand, and a slight flush rose in her cheeks. “What have you done with your gloves, Mr. Yale?”
“I was obliged to discard them earlier today.” A hedonist at the party had stubbed a burning cheroot into the palm of one of the gloves. Wyn particularly disliked that stain. “Will you sit?” He gestured to her dinner.
“I suppose I am tired and would appreciate a rest.” Her brow unpleated and she turned her blue eyes upon him. “Will we hire rooms, then? I have never done so myself.”
“It will be my greatest honor.” He bowed.
She smiled, the dimples dipping her cheeks anew. Then her eyes widened. “Oh! My luggage!”
“I have taken the liberty of having it moved to a private chamber for you already.”
“When you went out?” She blinked. “I may forgive you for not asking my permission to do so. Eventually. But I think you must have some experience traveling.”
“Some.” On several continents.
“So I will trust you about the folly of taking the coach at night.” Her look grew sober. “But I do wish to get on with my quest as swiftly as possible.” She sat, waited for him to do the same, and took up her fork again. “I haven’t much time. I was only expected to be at Brennon Manor for four weeks, and two are already used up.”
“Quest? Then, no scorned suitor to be avoided?”
She screwed up her brows, a look that suggested his question had lowered her opinion of his intelligence. “I already told you I am not running away from anybody. Rather, toward.”
“Toward whom?”
“My mother.” She peered at him closely. “Do you know about my mother?”
“Only that she does not reside in your stepfather’s home and is no longer in society.” And that she’d had something shadowy to do with a treasonous lord’s hasty exile to the Continent years earlier. But that had been Leam’s business, and at the time Wyn had his own demons to battle and little time to pursue his friends’ interests.
Miss Lucas swallowed a mouthful of roast, her throat working above the unexceptionably modest neckline of her gown. It was a movement so mundane yet so enticingly feminine that he removed his attention from the sight to the bottle by his hand. The jittering thirst in his blood had relaxed with the first glass and disappeared entirely with the second. He poured a third. He never resorted to carrying a flask, but the last hour of the coach’s swaying and rocking had driven his edginess unendurably high.
“She left four years ago, mere days before my fifteenth birthday.” She took a sip of tea. “It had something to do with my elder sisters and my brother, Tracy, but I don’t know precisely what, and everybody was glad to have her gone. She was not a nice person, if you will take my word for it.”
“I shall, if you wish it.”
She met his gaze for a moment, the lapis shining. “In any case, my stepfather never speaks of her now, nor does anyone else. It is as though she simply vanished into air.”
“Remarkable,” he murmured.
“
Isn’t
it?”
It would be, perhaps, if his own history did not bear out the believability of such a thing. In over fourteen years, since the sudden death of his mother, Wyn had not seen or corresponded with his father and brothers.
“But I know she has not.” Miss Lucas cut into her roast with greater force now. “When she first left, I asked after her. Papa—my stepfather—said she went off to live with relatives in the North.” Her thick lashes darted up. “She has not. Or at least if she did then, she is no longer there. You see, several months ago I broke into my father’s writing desk.”