Kate Moore (2 page)

2

Susannah Lacy kept her mittened hands folded and her eyes respectfully lowered, grateful that she had put on her bonnet and pelisse before Uncle John had sent for her. She watched a little puff of her own breath rise and drift away on a current of cold air. At least there would be rugs in the chaise. And, in London, Lady Lacy would overheat all the rooms of her house. Uncle John often complained that his estranged wife was guilty of just such extravagances.
No fires before nine, no fires after nine
was the rule in Baron Lacy’s Berkshire seat, even here in the library where her uncle was frequently at work on estate matters as early as seven.

She heard the scratch of his pen stop and felt his gaze on her. Her glance shifted briefly to the folds of her dove-gray kerseymere skirts and the intricate swirls of the crimson Turkey carpet underfoot.

“Now miss,” Uncle John began. Susannah did not look up. “You will wear your cap at all times.”

“Yes, Uncle John.” A needless reminder. When had she been tempted to remove her cap?

“Any vanity of person or dress ill becomes a woman in your position.”

“Yes, Uncle John.” Susannah tried to picture herself in silks and diamonds, flaunting her beauty before the
ton
, and failed. Skinny and brown, with dark hair and eyes, an overwide mouth, and no bosom to speak of, in a ballroom she would hardly draw the notice of her fellow chaperones.

“You will remember your duty to your charge and your indebtedness to this house.”

“Yes, Uncle John.”

“You will remember who sheltered you in your hour of disgrace and who has provided your support for ten years with no other return for my charity than such small services as you have been able to render this house.”

“Yes, Uncle John.”

She would be more grateful if Uncle John congratulated himself less often for the charitable impulse that had led him to take in his ruined niece as an unpaid governness to his children.

She heard him rise and come around the large desk that dominated the dark room. He stopped in front of her, and that was her cue to look up. Uncle John was a spare man and not overly tall, and though she was not tall herself, not as tall as her cousin, Juliet, Uncle preferred to have Susannah seated looking up at him rather than standing and meeting his gaze.

“I do not scruple to tell you, miss, that chaperoning Miss Lacy will be a difficult task. Your charge will be reluctant to heed your advice, as the young inevitably are reluctant to hear sense. And her mama . . .” Here Uncle John paused to control his temper as he always did when he spoke of his estranged wife. “. . . her mama will want to indulge the girl’s every whim and encourage dangerous romantic notions. London itself induces folly in all but the most prudent of natures.” He frowned. “You have the list of Miss Lacy’s eligible suitors?”

“Yes, Uncle John,” Susannah began counting. She rarely escaped an interview with her uncle before a dozen
Yes, Uncle Johns.

“The three gentlemen I have approved will call upon you. I have asked Lady Lacy to prepare a list of suitors she favors for Juliet as well. Get those names to Drummond and Drummond immediately. I want the fortune hunters and fribbles eliminated as quickly as possible.”

“Yes, Uncle John.” Susannah was surprised that he had thought to ask his wife’s opinion at all, but, of course, he did not intend to consider any men Lady Lacy thought fit for her daughter. “And, if my cousin, if Miss Lacy, finds some young man not on the list to her liking?”

“See that she does not. Submit all her callers’ names to Drummond and Drummond at once. They will know how to expose the mercenary motives of prospective suitors.”

“Yes, Uncle John.”

He looked sharply at her as if he suspected her of irony. “No doubt some would say that sending you to oversee Miss Lacy’s come-out is the height of folly, but I think not. I think you know the frailty of woman so well and have paid so dearly for your own sins that you must be the most vigilant guard of Miss Lacy’s reputation and the most ready to insure that she fixes the attention of a man of rank, fortune, and steady character.”

Susannah took a deep breath. “We do have an agreement, Uncle, and I will fulfill my end of the bargain. Have you written up the terms as I requested?”

Uncle John said nothing to her. His icy blue eyes, pursed lips, and rigid stance answered Susannah’s boldness. He turned and reached for a paper on his desk, which he held out to her for her inspection. The document promised that Susannah Lacy, also known as Mrs. Susannah Bowen, would upon the day of Miss Juliet Lacy’s marriage to a suitable
parti
receive one thousand pounds and title to Shady Lane Cottage, Wincanton, Somerset. Susannah noted with relief that in witness thereof Mr. Kilvert, the vicar, had signed his name. “Thank you, Uncle John,” she said.

He waved away her thanks with an impatient hand. “It is all very well to make provision for your success, niece, but mind you, I make no provision for failure. Should Miss Lacy’s reputation suffer in any way, should her mother’s influence lead her astray, should you succumb a second time to the weakness of your own nature, there will be no refuge for you here. And do not imagine that either of your brothers will be willing or able to take you in.”

Susannah bit her tongue and dropped her gaze. It would be senseless to make the rebellious reply she was longing to make. Whatever the difficulties of chaperoning her lovely young cousin through a season, at least in London she would be spared Uncle’s priggishness.

A knock sounded at the library door. “Papa,” came a sweet voice from the other side, “may I come in?”

The door opened even before Baron Lacy gave his consent, and a young woman in a celestial-blue cloak and matching bonnet entered. Juliet Lacy favored her mother in appearance. She was taller and fairer than her cousin and endowed with a magnificent bosom. Titian curls framed an oval face. Blue eyes passed curiously over Susannah as they had more and more often of late.

To Uncle John’s credit he had never once mentioned Susannah’s disgrace to his children. To her charges she was their widowed cousin, Mrs. Bowen. But Juliet, admitted at eighteen to adult gatherings, showed a new consciousness of what had not been said about Susannah. With the instinctive sense of the young for any weakness in those placed over them, Juliet had begun asking questions about Susannah’s past.

“Am I interrupting?” Juliet asked now, with another sidelong glance at her cousin.

Susannah rose and smoothed her skirts.

“Not at all,” said the baron. “I was just giving your cousin some instructions about your suitors, miss.”

Juliet frowned, her sweet mouth contracting in a pout. “How tiresome for you, cousin.”

“Entirely necessary,” said the baron. “Your cousin is to see that you remember what you’re about, my girl. Your mother will have you dancing ’til dawn and haring off to one rout after another, but see that you pay attention to the gentlemen that count.”

“Oh, Papa, trust me, I’ll have my pick of the best, I know it.”

Susannah lowered her eyes lest they give away her opinion of that bit of conceit.

“Now, Papa, it’s raining, and the horses are standing. Coachman says we must be off. Do let us go,” Juliet pleaded.

Her papa’s face softened, and he took his daughter’s arm and led her out. Susannah followed, firmly closing the library door.

***

“Susannah,” said Juliet, breaking a silence that had lasted since luncheon, since Susannah had refused to allow her charge to observe a mill in progress across from the inn where their horses were being changed. “Do you think this is Hounslow Heath?”

Susannah pulled her hands from under the lap rug, rubbed a clear spot in the condensation on the glass, and peered into the gloom beyond the carriage windows. Though the rain had stopped, clouds still covered the sky, bringing an early dusk. The carriage lamps threw a moving patch of light across the road, illuminating little more than the ruts of other coaches. “I can hardly see a thing,” Susannah confessed, “some gorse, I suppose, and a copse or two. It could be.”

“Don’t you think that’s famous?” inquired Juliet. “To be passing such a notorious spot on such a dark, forbidding evening?” She gave a little shiver. “What if we should meet a highwayman?”

“I trust Coachman and Tim Dachet will know what to do,” said Susannah. “Tim Dachet’s pistol will discourage any villains from thievery.”

“I swear, Susannah Bowen, you were never young,” Juliet complained.

“Possibly not,” Susannah replied, as if it were not the most profound lie. She tucked her hands back under the warm rug.

“
Possibly not, nevertheless, I trust so
—you don’t even argue properly, Susannah. How am I to endure the season in your company? You’ll spoil everything, I know it.”

Susannah pressed her hands together. If she wished to have any success in managing her charge, she must be patient. “What exactly will I spoil, Juliet?” she asked.

“Everything . . . my reputation for fashion. How can I be seen with you? You are always in brown or gray. You never have the least neckline, always a ruff or a tuck, no jewels, and those hideous caps.”

“Then you may be certain that the eyes of all the gentlemen we meet will be on you,” Susannah replied, refusing to be drawn.

“Hah, and what will these gentlemen say to me with you sober as a funeral hovering near? No one will flirt or laugh.”

“Neverthe—”

Coachman called out some imprecation, and the coach rocked with a sudden slowing of the team. Susannah braced herself, and Juliet grabbed for the strap, turning first to one window, then the other in a plainly futile effort to penetrate the darkness.

“Do you think we are being held up?” Juliet asked.

“Apparently, and I don’t think it’s the least romantic,” said Susannah. She could not be seriously alarmed. Tim Dachet was a stout fellow, and he had protected them all day, even in the crowds of unruly gentlemen about the mill.

Abruptly the coach halted. They could hear the gruff voice of Coachman, and before the carriage had stopped swaying, Juliet pushed open the door and poked her head out into the night.

“Juliet, don’t,” Susannah cried.

“Juliet, do,” said a male voice.

And Juliet did, pushing the steps down with her foot, and descending from the vehicle in a rustle of skirts.

“‘Arise fair sun and kill the envious moon . . .’” said the stranger, in a deep, rich voice that an actor might envy.

“Fair sun?” Juliet asked.

Susannah laughed in spite of herself. Apparently they’d been stopped by a highwayman as romantic as her young cousin. With a sigh Susannah threw off the lap rug and stepped out into the raw evening after her cousin. She looked up at the highwayman, who was staring at Juliet. “Your lines are wasted on the young lady, sir, as she was wont to rebel against memorizing in the schoolroom.”

“Oh,” said Juliet to the stranger, “you’re quoting. What is it?”

“
Romeo and Juliet
, of course.” The highwayman sounded a bit surprised and younger than Susannah had first thought.

Susannah could just make him out now, a cliché in a great coat, mask, and tricorn hat, sitting astride a fine black horse. She could not see a weapon in the dark, but that did not mean he was unarmed. She turned to their protectors and saw only Uncle John’s old coachman.

“Coachman?” she called. “Where’s Tim?”

“Fool Tim Dachet’s gone and fallen off the box,” came the reply.

“Where? How shall we find him?”

“About a hundred yards back, ma’am,” the stranger told her. “Actually, I assisted him a bit in the fall. I dinna’ wish to have him fire that great pistol of his. He landed in the gorse, and I suspect he’ll catch up to us in a moment. So I must beg a boon of you while I can, ladies.”

“A boon, sir?” Susannah replied. “After such a rude interruption of our journey, after knocking our protector off the box? A boon would be appropriate had you rescued us rather than inconvenienced us.”

“My apologies for any inconvenience, of course, but haven’t I rescued you? Have you not been rolling along dull as a Sunday sermon since Staines, hoping for an adventure, which I have been so kind as to provide?”

“Oh yes, however did you guess?” asked Juliet. “We have been wishing for an adventure all day, but I have no boon to give you.”

“I can think of a fair one—a kiss.”

Susannah gasped. The clouds parted slightly and a bright moon outlined the figure of the man on horseback and the girl staring up at him in open admiration. And suddenly Susannah saw the true danger of the situation, for she remembered being just as young and foolish as her charge. “Juliet, no,” she ordered.

“Don’t be stuffy, Susannah,” said Juliet. “It’s just a kiss, and I am not afraid. It’s an adventure, after all.” She stepped up to the stranger, and the highwayman leaned down. Susannah could think only of putting an end to this dangerous association at once. She strode forward, raising a hand high to slap the rump of the young man’s horse. But the highwayman guessed her intent and drew back, urging his stallion into a quick side step.

He laughed, and told Juliet, “You are well guarded, my lady.”

The sound of approaching hooves made them all turn.

This would end it, Susannah thought. The company of other travelers would dispel the romantic aura that seemed to have caught both Juliet and the stranger. Susannah called out at once, “Halloo, help, a highwayman!”

The hooves pounded closer, and the masked young man, after only the briefest hesitation, said, “Adieu, my lady Juliet,” whirled his horse, and galloped into the copse.

Two men also in greatcoats and tricorns rode up immediately, but when they halted at the Lacy carriage, Susannah felt her relief give way to cold fear. The newcomers reeked of ale.

“What have we here, Dick?” said one rider to the other, over the blowing of their lathered horses. “Sport or goods?”

“Looks like sport to me, George,” said the second rider.

Susannah decided to ignore the implications of this exchange. She had often surprised her charges into good behavior simply by stating with conviction her expectation that they meant to be good. “Gentlemen,” she said, “as you can see, our coach has been waylaid. We would be grateful for your assistance and would be happy to repay your kindness when we reach London.”