If the Viscount Falls (8 page)

“Is there anything more you can tell me about Mrs. Patch?” he asked, clearly determined to avoid talking about Archer. “Other than the fact that she lives in Stonebow Lane?”

“How did you even know
that
?”

“Her address was on the letter.”

“Oh. Right.” One more thing she'd forgotten about him—his ability to memorize written and spoken words with ease.

“I wonder why a knight's daughter would live in such cramped lodgings in town, rather than out here in one of these manor houses.”

She gazed about her and got a start. Faith, they were nearly to York, and she hadn't even noticed. The ancient Roman walls loomed up ahead as they drove toward Walmgate Bar. Within a mile or so, they'd be inside the old city. How had the time passed so quickly?

“I believe Nancy said that her aunt married beneath her.”
Which you wouldn't let
me
do.

He went rigid beside her. “Ah. That does happen.”

Unless you're Dom the Almighty.
“The marriage seems to have turned out well enough.” Jane would goad him into revealing the truth of what he'd done, no matter what it took. “Nancy said Mrs. Patch misses her late husband dreadfully and refuses to decamp from York, though she could easily live with my uncle. Apparently, she doesn't miss her life as a knight's daughter.”

“Oh? And exactly how far beneath herself
did
she marry?”

Jane colored as she dredged that little detail from her memory. “Her late husband was an architect, I believe.”

“So, not a gentleman of leisure but still in a profession respectable enough that Nancy felt no compunction about visiting her.” He smirked as he navigated the phaeton expertly through the narrow streets of York. “There are levels of marrying beneath one, after all.”

Oh, she could just smack his face for that. After all these years, that he could still be so certain of the wisdom of the course he'd set them upon . . . “Yes, just as there are levels of being in love. Some people's love for each other transcends all obstacles.
Some
people's love does not.”

His smug expression vanished. “And some people do not understand the meaning of the word.”

“Really? I thought love was about enduring any sacrifice to be with the object of one's affection.”

He drove through an archway and reined in the horses. “Here we are. The Elephant and Castle.”

So he was avoiding the subject. Again.

As grooms scurried to seize the reins, Dom jumped out and came around to help her down. When he took her gloved hand, her breath caught in her throat. Because the yearning that flashed over his face as she stepped down was so raw and untamed that it made her want to leap into his arms.

Drat the man. That wouldn't do, not at all. She was engaged to another, for pity's sake! Never again would
she put her heart in the care of Dominick Manton. He'd already proved he didn't want it badly enough to keep it.

She resisted the urge to snatch her hand free and thus betray her agitation. Instead she slid it nonchalantly from his grip. “Do we have time to eat something?” She flashed him an airy smile. “I'm positively famished.”

He stared at her a long moment, his expression cooling to remoteness once more. “I'm not hungry myself, but you could eat while I question the innkeeper. Then we'll walk over to Mrs. Patch's.”

“An excellent plan.” And she would visit the retiring room as well. After a long ride from the coast to Winborough, and then on from there to here, she desperately needed to freshen up.

Half an hour later, they left the inn and headed ­toward Stonebow Lane. As they approached a puddle, he laid his hand against the small of her back to steer her around it, and her stomach flipped over.

Stupid, traitorous stomach, performing acrobatics for the likes of Dom Manton. Why couldn't it do that with Edwin? He, at least,
wanted
to marry her.

But sadly, Edwin didn't have smoldering eyes the exotic color of the finest jade. Or hair cropped unfashionably short, which only emphasized the carved masculine lines of his face. Or a body that looked so amazing in blue superfine it made a grown woman want to weep.

She would
not
weep over Dom's body, curse it! “What did you find out from the innkeeper?”

He dropped his hand from her back. “Not much. But I didn't expect to learn anything about this particular trip of Nancy's, anyway. If she took the mail coach, she would have stopped at Ringrose's Inn, not here. Still, I'd hoped he might at least reveal something about her prior visits.”

“And did he?”

“Sadly, no. As the coachman told you, he dropped her off at her great-aunt's house and picked her up there, too. The innkeeper had never even met Nancy. Nor had he heard any local gossip about her.”

Jane tipped up her chin. “Of course not. I told you she wasn't doing anything wrong.”

“If you don't mind, I'll reserve judgment until I speak with Mrs. Patch and the ostlers at Ringrose's Inn. With any luck, one of them will know if Nancy is still in York, and where she went from here if she's not. The ostlers may even be able to tell me if anyone met her when she disembarked.”

“Fine,” she said, annoyed that he persisted in his conviction that Nancy had come here to run off with a man. “And what happens when you can find no evidence of her collusion with some mysterious lover? What then?”

“Then I'll institute a full investigation.” He glanced at her. “I'm no more eager than you to see something awful happen to Nancy. One way or another, I'll make sure she's safe before I return to Rathmoor Park, I promise you.”

“Thank you.”

He had better keep his promise. Because if he didn't,
she would be forced to search the countryside on her own. And even her accommodating fiancé might take umbrage at that.

♦ ♦ ♦

D
OM DIDN
'
T KNOW
what he'd been expecting when they'd entered Mrs. Patch's, but this tiny, fearful female clutching three small spaniels to her bosom wasn't it. She wasn't as old as he would have thought—she couldn't be more than sixty-five—but she looked as if a stiff wind might blow her over.

It did explain why they'd had such a difficult time getting in to see the woman. Oh, the maidservant had been perfectly happy to admit Jane, but had insisted that Dom must stay outside. Only after Jane threatened to leave without telling Mrs. Patch anything about the missing Nancy did the maid agree to let Dom inside, too.

Now, standing in a brightly lit drawing room littered with an assortment of ragged leather balls and torn socks, he felt distinctly out of place. Especially when, as he stepped forward, Mrs. Patch squeaked loudly enough to send one of her dogs into loud barks. For God's sake, did the woman think he meant to murder her?

“Sh, sh, Rogue, I won't let anyone hurt you.” She struggled to rise, no small feat when she had her arms full of spaniels.

Rogue?
She named a dog Rogue, yet jumped when Dom cleared his throat? Good God.

Jane cast him a glance that said,
I told you so,
reminding him of why she'd insisted on joining him. Then she performed the necessary introductions.

Although Mrs. Patch said, sotto voce, that she was pleased to meet them both, she wouldn't look at him, preferring instead to smile timidly at Jane. “I'm so delighted to have you here at last, Miss Vernon. Nancy has told me what a wonderful lady you are.”

“She's very fond of you as well, ma'am.”

Jane's words were so gentle it made something twist in his gut. When was the last time she'd spoken gently to
him
? No, he wouldn't think of that. He refused to be like those writhing, whimpering dogs struggling to escape Mrs. Patch's grip—a slave to his instincts. He had spent years banishing Jane from his heart. If he let her inside even an inch, he would be lost.

Jane stepped toward Mrs. Patch. “I take it you've heard nothing more about Nancy?”

“Oh no, my dear, or I would have said at once.” Mrs. Patch looked genuinely anxious. “You're certain she came
here
?”

He began to wonder how this nervous creature could perpetrate any sort of deception. Which meant that Nancy couldn't have met a lover here. Or while shopping with Mrs. Patch. Something wasn't right.

“Your niece spoke of you specifically in her letter,” Dom interjected, determined to make the woman acknowledge him.

She acknowledged him, all right, shooting him a
frantic look, which so alarmed her dogs that Rogue broke free and jumped out of her arms.

With his tiny feet skittering wildly on the polished wooden floor, the spaniel dashed up to Dom and barked repeatedly.

“Rogue!” Mrs. Patch cried. “Come back here at once!”

“It's fine.” Dom knelt to hold his hand out to the little rascal. “Good afternoon, Rogue. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

As Rogue sniffed him, Dom very carefully reached into his pocket with his free hand and pulled out a packet of ham. He'd bought it at the inn after Jane had warned him about Mrs. Patch's fanatical love for her dogs, and now he was thankful he had, for Rogue sat back on his haunches with a drooling doggy smile.

Dom suppressed a grin. Ah, if only people could be so easy to bribe. He glanced at Mrs. Patch. “Does the little scoundrel like ham?”

For the first time since he'd entered, she actually looked him in the eye, but she still didn't speak to him. Instead, she bobbed her head.

“Here you go, lad,” he said and laid a small piece in front of the fellow.

The other dogs barked their displeasure at being left out, and Mrs. Patch released them. After they ran over to greet him with wagging tails and imploring looks, he gave them each a bit of ham, then ventured to pet the one who seemed most eager to make his acquaintance, a capering little lass with a winsome pair of eyes.

“What's her name?” he asked.

For a moment, he thought Mrs. Patch might not answer, but then she ventured, “That one's Nell. And the other female's name is Braganza.”

He burst into laughter. When Jane looked bewildered, he explained, “They're King Charles spaniels, so named because Charles II had several. He called his favorite one Rogue.”

Jane broke into a grin. “Oh, right! So the others are named after his mistress, Nell Gwyn, and his queen, Catherine of Braganza.”

Slanting a glance at Mrs. Patch, Dom told Nell, “Your owner is a very droll woman, my dear. As was your namesake.”

“She was also a shameless flirt,” Mrs. Patch said in an arch tone. “Just like my Nell, who can clearly be bought for a bit of ham.”

“Or who recognizes that she has naught to fear from me,” Dom answered, meeting Mrs. Patch's gaze head-on. “Dogs know when someone means them harm. I mean none to anyone.”

Mrs. Patch reddened. “And yet my Nancy has gone missing while in your care.”

He frowned at her. The woman dared to
accuse
him?

“Mrs. Patch,” Jane said hastily, “Nancy was with me until the day she left, an hour after I attempted to return to London. At that point, his lordship was visiting his family in Winborough. He didn't even know Nancy was gone until I informed him.”

“And I assure you,” Dom said tersely, “I would have
no reason to harm your great-niece. None whatsoever.”

“Even if she—” The woman halted, then glanced at Jane.

Something passed between the two women that he was
not
meant to see. It only confirmed his impression that Jane was keeping secrets from him, secrets that Mrs. Patch was apparently privy to. And that infuriated him.

He rose to face the woman with a grim expression. “Even if she what?”

Mrs. Patch's eyes went wide. “In truth, it's nothing. Nothing, I assure you!”

“Forgive me, madam,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest, “but if you're hiding something about my sister-­in-law, I expect you to tell me at once.”

“Hiding something? Oh, dear, oh, dear . . .” Mrs. Patch's hands fluttered at her chest, and she collapsed onto the settee, alarming him with her sudden quick breathing. “Heavens . . . my cordial. I need my cordial!”

Her maid produced a bottle and poured some in a glass for her. Dom suppressed a curse. He'd pushed the woman too hard.

Sparing a dire glance for him, Jane took the glass from the servant and hurried to sit beside the widow. Mrs. Patch seized it gratefully and sipped it.

Jane patted the woman's hand. “It's all right, madam. His lordship is just concerned and impatient to find out what happened to Nancy, that's all. He didn't mean to upset you.”

“Indeed I did not.” Dom deliberately loosened his stance and looked apologetic. He would get nothing out of Mrs. Patch if the woman jumped every time he asked a probing question. “Do forgive me, Mrs. Patch.”

He was generally much better at questioning people, at reading what would upset them or make them reveal their secrets. But this situation had thrown him entirely off-kilter.

For one thing, even though he'd seen the like before, he'd somehow failed to grasp that Mrs. Patch was a particular kind of recluse. Once, during an investigation, he'd met a woman who panicked at every upset and was loath to leave the comforts of her home.

The other woman hadn't been so afraid of him, however. And clearly Mrs. Patch
was
afraid of him. No doubt she'd heard some of the gossip concerning his final confrontation with George.

Somehow he must put her at ease. Although Jane was already doing a decent job at it.

Jane. She's the other reason you're off-kilter.

He stiffened. No, he refused to accept that. Jane meant nothing to him anymore. Or at least she shouldn't, not with her fiancé waiting in the wings.